LITMIR.BIZ

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On a dirt road, kind of out of the way. A few miles from town.” Great. If he is a serial killer, I’ll make a terrific victim; the lonely college teacher, living up in the hills! Oh, Lord, what am I doing?

      But I pressed on.

      “I’m not familiar with the roads around here. In fact, they scare me to death. And my sense of direction is pretty lousy. But I’ll do my best with directions and hope you can find me.”

      “What time?”

      “How about 8:00 or 8:30?”

      “See you then.”

      Of course it was unwise, even dangerous, to have invited a complete stranger to my isolated home. But an impulsive current had overtaken me. I craved some male attention because, frankly, I no longer felt desirable. After all, my husband had flat-out rejected me. But as soon as I hung up the phone, I was tempted to call the stranger back and cancel. However, I was lonely, and didn’t want to spend the evening alone, feeling sorry for myself. So emotions trumped reason, as they often did back then. Months later, Terry admitted, “You know after you called it crossed my mind that I might get lucky and score that night. Your invitation was mighty seductive.” He grinned and patted my arm. I blushed.

      I had two hours before his arrival. I ran water for a hot bath and soaked in bubbles. Then I powdered my skin, curled my hair, polished my nails, dressed and undressed. And re-dressed. Like a frazzled designer before a fashion show, I rifled through my meager wardrobe. Too baggy, wrong color, too formal, too flimsy, too hippie, too dowdy, too flashy. (Too tight wasn’t a problem, as I was down to ninety pounds from my normal weight of 125, probably from the stress of the impending divorce.) I finally settled on a turquoise turtleneck, bell-bottomed jeans, plain gold hoop earrings, a gold bangle bracelet, beige socks, and tan sandals. After dressing, I pirouetted in front of a full-length mirror like a debutante. Not bad, I thought. The jeans fit snugly, but not too tight, and the nipples of my small breasts were visible beneath my shirt, but not brazenly. (This was during my—and seemingly the entire country’s young, female population’s—braless phase.) Understated, casual, “appropriate for the occasion,” as my mother used to say.

      As I carefully applied my powder, blush, a dab of mascara, and lip gloss, I felt like a fourteen-year-old on her first date. My first date? Irish Teddy Riley. We went to a movie in Flushing. Exodus with Sal Mineo? Or was it Ben Hur with Charlton Heston? Teddy from Brooklyn with his blond hair, blue eyes, and pug nose. After high school, he joined the army and was stationed at Fort Dix, New Jersey, for basic training. I started dating his best friend, Bobby. We wrote a few times, lost touch. Years later, my cousin Cosmo told me Teddy was a fireman, married, with a child. First date, first kiss, first love, you never forget them.

      And now my first date in eighteen years.

      Just before eight o’clock, I put a bottle of wine on to chill, built a fire, and fiddled with a stubborn curl as I checked and rechecked my image in a mirror.

      8:30. The Texan didn’t show.

      9:00, 9:15, 9:30. Still no Texan.

      I stared at the fire and cursed my impulsivity. I might have been dumped, but I’d never been stood up. Then again it might not be such a bad thing. After all, this guy could be a thug, a psycho, or a deranged vigilante like Travis Bickle in Taxi Driver. My embarrassment was tinged with relief. Maybe I’d been “asking for trouble,” as my mother often warned me. These days, I’d kill one of my nieces for even contemplating such a move. But back then, I paced before the kitchen window, scanning the road for an approaching car. Seated briefly, I flipped through old magazines. Standing again, I poked resignedly at the dying fire . . . and then . . . .

      A knock.

      At 10:00 p.m. A smile. An apology.

      “Hi. Sorry I’m so late. I really mean it. I got completely turned around in these hills and couldn’t find my way back to the main road. Couldn’t even find a house so that I could call you on the phone. No offense, but you live way out of nowhere. Look, I know it’s late and I can leave right now. I’m really sorry about all of this.”

      “Well, I’d just about given up on you. Come on in, it’s freezing out there.”

      Psychologists who study such things report that people feel positive or negative within seconds of a first encounter with a stranger. The reaction is visceral, immediate and, most times, permanent. My first impression was favorable: short guy, curly brown hair in need of a cut, kind amber eyes framed with wire-rimmed glasses, small hands, stubby fingers. He looked like a young Richard Dreyfuss without the nervous edge. Cuddly like a stuffed bear from my son Matt’s animal kingdom. He wore faded blue jeans, scuffed white sneakers, a denim shirt, and a brown-and-beige checkered lumber jacket. His voice was gentle, without the trace of a Southern accent. A definite plus, for this Yankee. I detected a faint smell of Old Spice, which reminded me of my father. Another plus.

      The Texan carried a six pack of Bud and a small paper bag.

      We stood in the dim hallway and searched for words to wrap around those first awkward moments.

      “Cold night.”

      “Yes, some frost. Didn’t expect it so early.”

      “Nice place, but pretty far out.”

      “Yes, I got lost when I came to look at it to rent.”

      “You have a son? What’s his name?”

      “Matt. He’s five, just started kindergarten. Great kid. I’ll show you his picture.”

      He followed me to the kitchen and placed the beer and the bag on top of the worn Formica counter.

      “Would you like a glass of wine or a beer?”

      “Wine’s fine, thanks.”

      As I poured two glasses from a half gallon of Gallo, he leaned against the counter and handed me the paper bag. “Here, this is for you.”

      “Oh, how nice. What a surprise,” I bubbled. “I love surprises. Should I open it now?”

      “Sure, go ahead.”

       Why did I ask him whether or not to open the bag? He must think I’m an idiot. Stop acting like a fourteen-year-old at a junior-high dance. What’s in this bag anyway? Pot? I hope not!

      I closed my eyes and warily slid my right hand into the bottom of the bag, cupped an object the size of a small stone, and fingered its smooth surface.

      “I’m not sure. It feels small, and rounded, and kind of silky.”

      “Why don’t you sneak a look?”

      I opened the top of the bag, reached down, and grabbed a handful of . . . chestnuts.

      “Thought you might like these. You said you were going to build a fire. You know ‘chestnuts roasting on an open fire,’ Nat King Cole?”

      Curious gift, I thought. Not a bottle of wine, or a box of chocolates, or a pot of mums. Chestnuts. This guy’s thoughtful. And clever.

      He hooked me right in with those nuts.

      For the next five hours, we sipped wine and outlined the surface of our lives, our conversation as seamless as the river that flowed through this mountain valley. We spoke of our childhoods, his in a suburb of Dallas, mine in a suburb of New York City. He spoke fondly of his undergraduate days at Austin College in Sherman, Texas.

      “I graduated in 1971, in the middle of the war . . .”

      “Oh. Vietnam . . .”

       What was there to say about that terrible conflict?

      “Um-hmm. I was about to be drafted. In fact, I was number five in the lottery.”

      I grimaced.

      “You were in Vietnam?”

      “No, no. Rather than go over there as cannon fodder,

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