Ever After - William Wharton

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some dishes and cutlery – so much for my bachelor life. I’ve let the spare-ribs simmer for three hours, basting them with my ersatz barbecue sauce. I’ve set the little table. Wills is as excited about having spare-ribs as Bert is. I haven’t done any real cooking in quite a while.

      Both Wills and Bert eat with such gusto that my hokey barbecue sauce is spread all over the kitchen. No cook can ever complain when people dig in like that, and I don’t.

      For me, Bert looks part grizzly bear, yet, strangely enough, it’s attractive. He’s physical, is deeply into sports; likes beer, chasing women, horsing around with the boys. He’s exactly the kind of man I’ve spent most of my life trying to avoid. I also recognize in him some of the things in my dad which drove me up a wall. I wonder what Mom would think of him: dismiss him probably as one of the unwashed peasants. But I admit his very simplicity gets to me. I know I’ll need to watch myself.

      For Wills, Bert is just some other kid to play with. Bert actually listens to him ramble on, and shows him about ten different silly things you can do with a knife, fork, and spoon, including drumming. They start drumming on the table, the glasses, the dishes, anything they can touch, while Bert sings or hums, ‘When the Saints Come Marching In.’ That’s how a lot of the sauce is spread all over the place.

      In self-defense, I move over to the kitchen and begin taking things off the table. But all the time my eyes are glued on Bert and he knows it. He’s acting up. He knows when I look at his massive forearms or the hair squeezing up over his T-shirt. That’s right, he’s wearing a T-shirt at the table, a dirty, sweaty T-shirt. After all, he’s just moved a refrigerator. I’m giggling, thinking to myself: what would it be like, making love to a grizzly bear?

      I have the answer that night. After Wills is in bed, we begin chatting. He tells me about his home town in Oregon, a place called Falls City. His best friends are still his high-school buddies, especially the ones he played basketball with. He’s thirty-two, a year older than I am and has never been married, says he has no intention of getting married, at least not for a long time yet.

      He makes simple moves, the kind adolescent boys make, and I don’t resist. It’s been months since I’ve had a chance to be with a man.

      He doesn’t so much make love, as cuddle, and hold, wrap himself around me, all in slow motion, like one of those underwater love scenes. His hands are strong and gentle. He never hurries, doesn’t seem nervous at all. It’s as if making love is the most natural thing in the world, and all men and women who aren’t making love just then, at that moment, are really missing something. It’s a bit like making love with a real animal, maybe not a grizzly bear or a gorilla, but a powerful male. I don’t think I’ve felt so safe and comfortable with any man in my life.

      He giggles a lot. He hardly talks when we’re loving, but makes all kinds of quiet purring, growling, contented noises. We fall asleep after about two hours of fore-, center-, and after-play.

      In the morning, he’s up before I am, sitting in the little alcove-kitchen with Wills, playing cards; actually he’s performing card tricks while they both eat cornflakes raw – I mean dry. He’s made some coffee. Soon as he realizes I’m awake, he calls out to me.

      ‘Cuppa Java?’

      I nod. I’m still in bed. I wonder what Wills is thinking. I’ve always tried to keep the men in my life away from Wills because he still loves Danny so, and I don’t want to make him feel things are as bad between us as they really are.

      Bert ambles over to the kitchen stove and pours me a cup. He’s wearing a pair of boxer shorts. He doesn’t even have shoes on. He has wide feet that won’t sink in any mud, and a tattoo on his left ankle. He smiles down at me.

      ‘Hope you don’t mind my staying over. Little Wilzer was up and moving about before either of us, so I just slithered out of bed and joined him. I don’t think he’s noticed much.’

      This he says in what passes as a whisper for him. As I get to know Bert, I learn his idea of a whisper can be heard at fifty meters. But Wills is concentrating on the cards, trying to build a card house to match the one Bert’s made on the table.

      I sit up and drink the coffee. It’s been a long time since anyone’s brought me coffee in bed. My hair is a mess. I’m sure my make-up is smeared all over my face, but I know Bert doesn’t mind too much. He leans over and gives me a quick, light kiss. I’m astounded again at how such a big, seemingly clumsy man can be so gentle. He straightens up.

      ‘Well, I’d better get back to my place. My landlady watches me like a hawk. We don’t want to start any rumors before we even begin teaching. Old Lister, our beloved headmaster, would blow his crispy, blond top.’

      That’s how it starts. I expect him to move over to the next available woman but it doesn’t happen that way at all. We begin to go out a little even before school officially starts, just to the local Gasthauses, usually with Wills. I have a hard time keeping from calling him Wilzer myself. That gives some idea of the quiet power of Bert’s personality.

      Bert invites me to his place. I go, after Wills is asleep; the lady downstairs said she’d listen for him. I meet him at the Dampher Steg, my favorite place, a little gazebo near the docks for the local cruising boat. It’s a wonderful spot to wait for someone, with the swans and ducks and the sun setting over the lake.

      But, as the weeks go by, I rarely have to wait because Bert is usually there before me. He always has something special, a piece of German chocolate, or some wild flowers he’s picked, or a particularly beautiful stone he’s found by the side of the lake and shined up for me. He’s always whittling something, such as two links in a chain, or a heart with our names on it. It’s like a high-school romance, but so much more powerful because we’re older, old enough not to expect too much and to take it as it comes.

      He’s there, waiting for me, and we go to his place. He puts his finger to his lips and makes a big deal about sneaking up the back staircase. The landlady was adamant that he was to bring no women to his room. The Germans can be awfully uptight, especially the older ones. Bert says he almost didn’t take the place because of this ‘no women’ business but couldn’t find anything better in his price range.

      It’s a real nest, like a bear’s cave or fox’s warren, one big room with a bed nestled under an eave. In fact, everything is tucked under an eave one way or another. But it’s cozy. He makes me a cup of coffee and pours a bit of brandy in it. Usually, I don’t drink alcohol, but this is special. He’s so proud of himself I just can’t say no, so I sip slowly and try getting it down without choking. Mom and I both have this problem of choking on anything spicy or strong.

      Bert and I naturally grab onto each other and then drop into that bed where a person can scarcely sit up. I’m beginning to feel I could be falling in love with this creature of a man. This doesn’t fit my plans at all. I want some time, at least two years, to prove myself as a teacher and establish my independence.

      We aren’t even halfway through the first semester when Bert gives up his place and moves in with me. I don’t fight it. He makes me feel valued, not just precious, but intrinsically valued, in a way that no one, not even my own parents, who I know love me dearly, ever could.

      We have become the ‘romance’ of the school. Bert’s very overt in his affections, taking my hand when we walk, or throwing one of his monster arms over my shoulders. We have a little coffee-clatch of elementary-school teachers who meet at lunch every day and he joins us. At first, a few object, but they quickly accept him. I keep catching him gazing at me.

      And the change in Wills is remarkable. He’s always hated school. Now he drives there with Bert and me. Bert chatters along about his math, asking him what parts are hard, and showing him the magic, secret ways he has to lick different kinds of arithmetic, as if they’re fighting off some multi-armed dragon. Bert, who isn’t, himself, much of a reader, can also light a fire under Wills, just by reading to him. He’ll go along, then at critical parts ask questions about what’s happened or what Wills thinks is going to happen. He’ll sometimes act as if he’s stuck and ask Wills to sound out a word. What a fine first-grade

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