Willie’s bare cheeks are glowing by the time he walks into the Oleander Center.
“Mr. Randolph!” says Janice, at the receptionist desk. “You shaved your beard!” There’s an older nurse working with charts behind the desk; she turns sharply and gives Janice a severe look.
Willie stops and smiles a good morning at the nurse, says to Janice, “How kind of you to notice! It’s a big change for me.”
The nurse relaxes. “Well, it looks very nice, Mr. Randolph.”
“How’s Miranda this morning?” he asks.
She shrugs. “Happy,” she says.
Miranda, once the queen of the sassy, biting retort, once a woman buffeted by any emotion but mildness, is always happy these days.
Willie makes his way back through the shining maze of hallways. He greets most of the staff by name; they have become friends,—some are almost like family. Willie has been visiting the Oleander Center for two years.
“She’s in the music room, Mr. Randolph!” says a dark-haired nurse in brightly patterned scrubs.
“Thanks, Sandy,” says Willie.
Miranda is in her chair by the floor-to-ceiling picture windows. Her wispy white hair is pulled back in a bun. She wears a long-sleeved white t-shirt and yoga pants: dancer’s clothes. She has not danced in many years now, but her feet reveal her vocation. Even in the stretchy terrycloth institutional slippers, they are the broadened, overworked feet of one who taught and plied a dancer’s craft, for a living, and with passion.
A small group of residents is clustered on the other side of the room with a young aide he’s never seen before. He waves to the group; hands flutter back at him, and the aide breaks away to come and say hello.
“Your mother is having a good morning, Mr. Randolph,” she says, cheerfully.
“Not my mother,” Willie corrects, but gently. “My wife.”
The young aide turns a deep pink.
“Well,” she says. “Assuming just made an ass of me, didn’t it?”
Willie smiles. “An understandable mistake,” he says.
It is. Willie is 65. Miranda is 87.
They met when he transferred to Calamette University; he’d finished his two year degree at a commuter college in his hometown. He couldn’t wait to test out life in the dorms. It was 1967. Anything was possible, and most of the possibilities were happening on college campuses.
By the luck of a draw, Willie (who’d been plain ‘Bill’ at home–he was re-inventing himself) had a dorm room to himself. The pleasant roommate with whom he was intended to share space was there for about four hours, and then he and his stuff disappeared.
Gone back home, someone told him. Something about a girl.
Willie supposed a new roommate would be assigned, but, apparently, there was no pressing need for the space. He was the sole lord of two single beds and two built in desks.
He liked it, the room to himself, but it slowed down his social entry. And Willie was not a bluff, hail-fellow-well-met, kind of guy. He made friends, but slowly; always, as people got to know him, Willie found himself firmly woven in to the fabric of whatever culture he was part of.
But it took time. He was lonely that first week, listening to the thuds and thumps and bass undercurrent of the established social life in the dorm.
So he spent a lot of time with his books at the campus center cafeteria. He refilled his coffee mug endlessly, diving into his advanced history texts. This was the payoff, academically, for those two years of required courses: now he was in the meat of his program, in the courses he was dying to take. His parents were pushing him to decide: was this pre-law? Or was he planning on teaching?
Willie ignored the need to choose. For now, he was submerged in the study of history.
The cafeteria had a huge banquette, built into a circular half wall. It rimmed the room. Small, two-seater tables flanked the banquette every three feet or so; a medley of chairs scattered around them, swelling into the traditional table arrangements. By day three, Willie had his regular spot–on the banquette, just past the bustle of people grabbing noshes. He was close enough to easily refill his mug, far enough away that the crash and mutter of the cafeteria was pleasant background noise for his reading.
Miranda entered his life before he’d been there a week. One afternoon, Willie vaguely registered a tight passel of faculty marching into the cafeteria–slumming, apparently; there was a Rathskeller on campus for the graduate students and college faculty. They were debating something, though he never did find out what it was–campus politics, Viet Nam war, civil rights, women’s movement– it could easily have been any one of those, or maybe just a disagreement over whether homemade sangria was de rigeur. Whatever, a tall, regal woman, tight-fitting tank top, flowing cotton skirt, broke away from the group with a dancer’s flourish. She swirled and turned and posed, one shoulder arc-ed toward the ceiling, her other arm, almost touching the floor, palm up toward the group. They stared at her for a moment. Then one of the undergrads began to clap, and that was sporadically taken up by people at a few surrounding tables.
The dancer laughed, shook herself back into lay-person’s posture, wiggled a hand in the air, and walked away from her colleagues to disappear into the food service area.
Willie went back to his book.
In a moment she towered over him, tray shading his light. He looked up, startled, from deep reading.
“You’re an anomaly, young man,” she said. “I’ve seen you here four days in a row. There was a catfight the first day, a tray disaster the second, and a streaker on the third. You never looked up.” She put her tray down on the small table adjacent to his. “I want to know what you’re reading that’s so compelling.”
And that was how Miranda Quincey met Willie Randolph.
Their courtship was rich and textured; they circled around physical love, the difference in ages both compelling and offsetting. Their reluctance and restraint seemed, in the late sixties, downright counter-cultural. But after weeks of intense talk, which moved from the cafeteria to a local bar, and finally to Miranda’s trendy loft-style apartment, they gave in.
For Willie, who was vastly inexperienced, it was life-changing. (He suspected that for Miranda, who was vastly experienced, the sex was more of a comfort.)
He shakes himself out of the reverie, smiles at the aide, and goes to sit with his wife. He steels himself for what he knows will come: the pleasant, vacant look of an old lady who has no idea who he is. The dementia took its time moving in, creeping so slowly they could almost tell themselves nothing had changed from day to day. But its spread, though slow, was inexorable. It was like, Willie thought, a wine stain on a linen tablecloth, lazily sending fronds into new territory, the ruby stain seeping, seeping, until the tablecloth was completely compromised. No good for its former use. That was Miranda’s mind–the dementia seeped into all the nooks and crannies; he could picture it, dark, bubbling, almost–making her vulnerable mind completely unlike the brilliant tool it had once been.
Willie pulls a dining table chair in front of Miranda’s chair and sits; he puts out his hands to draw in each of hers. But she surprises him. There is a flash in her eyes, and Miranda, who has become completely non-verbal, says, with clear, great effort, “Woo.”
Willie’s tears, which seem always ready these days, well. “Yes, baby,” he says. “It’s me. It’s Willie.”
She reaches one hand up to lightly graze his cheek. Her eyes cloud. “Gaw?”
“Yes,” he whispers, leaning in to catch every second of awareness. “My beard is gone. I’ve shaved.”
But in the time he took to answer, she is gone too; that tiny glimmer of Miranda is snuffed. He realizes, Willie does, that that may be the last time he ever truly talks to her. Miranda has advanced stage four cancer. When she still had her wits about her, she’d been very clear what she wanted should this circumstance occur. No extra measures. Plenty of pain alleviation. But no chemo, no radiation.
At his last weekly meeting, the doctor confided that the disease was racing through her system, like, he said, she was encouraging it to hurry up.
Well, of course she was, thought Willie; wherever Miranda’s conscious mind existed, she did not want her body stuck in this in-between hell.
He sits with the gentle shell, the happy, vacant old lady who still smiles at taped classical music, for two hours. Then Sandy comes to wheel her off to what lunch she can ingest and a rest in her crib-like bed. Willie stands and stretches and makes his way out.
He has an appointment, and then he’ll stop and see Victoria, their daughter. Victoria, who was born when he was 21: there are fewer years between Willie and his daughter than separate Willie and his wife.
They had had to be careful; the college had rules about faculty dating students, although of course the rules had been made for older men preying on pretty coeds. They’d kept the secret pretty well, he thought; he told elaborate stories to his dorm-mates about where he went on the weekends and every Wednesday night, weaving in just enough of the truth to be convincing. It was an older woman, he told them, someone local.
“OLDER older?” asked Skip, his pot-head next-door neighbor. “Like, not like OLD older, right?’
“Old enough,” said Willie, “for the French to think she’s sexy.”
His friends sighed. Anything French reeked of musky sex. They admired Willie for his glamorous mystery woman. His time apart from Miranda was spent studying; he was becoming known–unjustly, he realized; anyone could immerse himself in his books–as the resident genius. The other guys treated him with something like awe.
That was the first year: he went home for an abbreviated Christmas break, told his parents he had a mid-mester project and returned to spend a decadent two weeks wrapped up in Miranda.
By then he realized very clearly she was not perfect. She could be waspish and stingy; she wanted, always, to be the center of attention. Her wit was acerbic; and sometimes, it was plain mean. She didn’t hesitate to vent it on people–salesclerks, wait staff, Willie–who didn’t meet her expectations.
Her expectations were high.
But Willie was distracted, immersed in his books; he was happy to worship her if she was happy to give him free rein for his studies. She didn’t think he was perfect either, but she did, she said, think he was delicious.
She called him ‘BT’, for Boy Toy.
He did NOT call her his ‘old lady.’
He had a perfect 4.0 his junior year, and by summer, Miranda was pregnant. He took her home to meet his family. They were appalled.
His sister Katie: Okay, screw her, but don’t MARRY her!
His mother: Are you NUTS? She’s four years younger than I am.
His father offered to send him to a college on the other side of the country, a fresh start–somewhere ‘that woman’ would never find him.
Willie laughed. He loved his college. He loved Miranda. And while an instructor couldn’t date a student, there was no reason she couldn’t be married to one. In fact, he said, if he was married to Miranda, he could attend school free.
It’s a hell of a way to get a free education, muttered his mother, and his sister added darkly, You know it will never last.
Five years later, as they crashed into their early fifties, Willie’s parents announced they were splitting up. Each remarried; each of the new marriages floundered, too. Both died alone, in nursing homes.
Katie married her high school sweetheart in a fairy tale wedding. They lasted seven years.
Willie and Miranda drove to Pennsylvania, got married in the parlor of a JP’s home, with the justice’s wife and son as witnesses. They ate their wedding supper at a McDonald’s. Pregnant Miranda lost it on the way home.
Just as well, she said, we didn’t pay for anything fancy.
Willie got a part-time job at the local newspaper; she took a sabbatical year. They settled into the loft apartment. Willie studied and worked; Miranda exercised and bloomed. They stayed in town and had a lovely Christmas in their nesting cocoon.
Victoria was born early in March.
From the first she was a sturdy, placid baby. Willie expected a mini-Miranda; but Vic was not that. She looked in fact, like his father, built sort of like a barrel. Solid, even, dependable.
Miranda surprised him. There was no disappointment that the baby–clearly their one and only baby–was not a dancing swan. Miranda accepted Victoria just as she was. No, it was more than that: she loved Victoria for whom she was, loved every second of the unfolding of her personality. There was never any jealousy between the two women; there was no traumatic teenaged mother-daughter conflict. Victoria always knew clearly what she wanted; in high school she told them that, while she would go to college, she wanted to do a cosmetology course at the career center instead of the traditional college prep. She did; she excelled.
She went to the local college, free: Miranda taught there just long enough for Vic to graduate. Victoria got an early childhood teaching degree, uninterested in working, like her mother did, with college students , or with the middle-schoolers her father enjoyed so much. She got a job at a day care, married a nice guy named Charley, moved away, and wound up doing hair at a salon. Charley was killed when Vic was 32. They never had kids. Vic moved back to town, got a job in a store that sold women’s wigs and hairpieces–their most reliable clients were drag queens–and soon moved into a manager’s position.
She had friends, a cozy apartment; she went to church (which was more than Willie and Miranda had ever done) and taught Sunday school; she volunteered at the library. She had a rich life, and the fact that it might not have been one that Willie and Miranda picked for her did not diminish it.
Willie, who’d started teaching right after graduation, was able to take an early retirement not too long after Miranda left the college. They did it all–they went to Paris; they saw Broadway shows. He took her picture as she danced at the lip of the Grand Canyon. She took his picture as he peed into it. They ran a 10K together. They rode the train through the Canadian Rockies.
Willie went bald. He grew a beard. He never tried to look more youthful. He was never, not once, tempted to stray.
When Miranda, in her late seventies, showed clear signs of failing, Willie was glad they’d had that time, glad Victoria was near.
Inch by relentless inch, he lost his wife.
Today, he gets in the car–a little two-seater they’d bought ten years ago, so they could feel the wind in their hair in the summer–and drives twenty miles to the city, to a shop that sells toupees and hairpieces. They have his hairpiece waiting for him. He goes in for the final fitting.
He is sitting in front of a mirror, seeing himself clean shaven and with hair on top of his head for the first time in 20 years. The toupee is not outrageous; it’s an ordinary, older middle-aged man’s haircut, peppered with gray. It looks as if he’s grown it. The woman who fits him is silent for a long moment. Finally she says, “It’s perfect. You look ten years younger.”
Willie, again, begins to cry.
Later, he drives to Vic’s shop. She is alone when he walks in; she turns to look, and then looks again, and she, too, begins to cry. It is, thinks Willie, a day for tears.
That afternoon, they visit Miranda together, and then they go out to dinner. He thinks about explaining to his undemanding daughter–but she doesn’t ask, doesn’t wail, “Why, Dad?” She simply says, “It’s just this, Dad: Mommy stopped, but we keep going.” They eat a comforting meal at Bob Evans; afterwards, Willie drops her off at her apartment. He squeezes her hand and she smiles at him.
Miranda dies a few weeks later, quietly, softly, just slipping from one realm into another. They have a memorial at Vic’s church; Willie is touched and gratified by the number of mourners–current friends, former students, Katie and her son, several of Vic’s flashier clientele (Miranda would have loved that)–who come to express their sympathies.
There’s a lovely sermon; people speak. Willie, though his legs feel leaden, gets up and shares a story he has written out about traveling with Miranda.
They were in a Chinese restaurant in a very pleasant Canadian city, he tells the assembly; it was a city with a major university and a lovely theater district. Miranda was drawn, of course, to places with theaters, and that’s where they found the restaurant. It was low-key, friendly, bustling; you ordered at the long counter, and carried your plates to a square table, seating up to four. The tables, Willie remembered, had inexpensive shiny red-and-white checkered tablecloths.
Miranda and Willie found a table, put their plates down, arranged the necessary gear one totes when traveling, and sat. Willie, who was starving, dove right in, but when he lifted his head, he noticed Miranda was staring at her plate, bemused.
Uh oh, he thought, and he paused with his fork in midair.
She looked up, but the glint in her eye was mischievous, not dismayed. She picked up her fork and started beating it on the table, rhythmically, not terribly loudly but very definitely. A couple of students at the very next table, pierced, inked, artsy types, turned to look.
“I’m eating Chinese,” Miranda sang in her husky contralto, softly: “Lo MEIN.”
The students grinned at the riff on Clapton’s “Cocaine.” It might have ended there had they not started slapping their hands on their table, in time to Miranda’s beat.
Miranda smiled–Ah! An audience!–and sang it louder:
There’s no rice
There’s no rice
There’s no rice
At first, four tables picked it up and sang it through; then the whole place just erupted into song. People stood up and threw in bad lyrics:
When you’re not sure how you feel
but you want a good meal…
When you’re almost flat broke
and you don’t want to choke
Everyone–even Willie–belted out the chorus.
The cooks and the servers beat time with metal spoons; Miranda got up and led a snake dance through the small restaurant. Someone from each table got up and joined her; the music swelled. Willie sat, shaking his head, admiring.
And then the song was over. Miranda, always the master of the graceful exit, hugged her fellow dancers, gave that funny dancer’s flourish, and skipped back to their table. A young girl with a leather equipment bag slung over her shoulder rushed over. She pulled a video camera from the bag and asked, breathlessly, “Can we do that again? I couldn’t get my camera going in time!”
Miranda smiled her glorious, on stage smile, and placed one hand on the young woman’s arm.
“Here’s something to remember, darling,” said Miranda, flushed with glory and in full wise-teacher mode. “Some things just can’t be scripted.”
That, Willie tells the crowd, is the line he’s having engraved on Miranda’s tombstone: Some things just can’t be scripted.
He sits down with relief; he has never been the performer in the family. As people exit the church, they shake his hand, hug him. One of the nurses from the Oleander, all teared up, thanks him for the story.
Finally, it is just Willie and Vic, left to pick up a few last things in the church hall–a triptych of photos, a thick stack of cards. They carry the stuff to Willie’s car; Vic uses her remote start to get hers going, warm it up.
They are exhausted, but wound tight. They meet at the diner and get coffee, cradling the mugs in their cold hands..
“Vic,” Willie says to his warrior daughter, “I don’t know who I am without her.”
She gazes at him, at his new look, the new shirt and pants he’d bought for the service, her loyal, hurting father suddenly morphed into an attractive, mysterious man. She knows what it means to re-invent a life, and she takes his hands in hers and squeezes.
“Daddy,” she says, though she hasn’t called him that in 42 years. “Daddy. It’s your time to find out.”