Peter Shianna
Chapter Two
From: Cari Lang carefreecari@gmail.com
Fri., June 15, 2012, 3:10 p.m.
Subject: You
Hi Jason,
Thanks for replying to my email. So nice to hear from you after so many years. Will write more later, but am leaving in a few minutes for a jazz weekend in Kansas City with my friend Rhonda, who plays in the symphony with me. Guess you could say we’re having a fling with our new love, jazz. (Some might say slumming?)
The guy I told you about when your mother died wasn’t so sweet after all. He left my life shortly after you did. Utter devastation for a while, but know what? I’ve really acclimated to the single life and believe I’ll stay that way. Problem is, I’m not programmed for celibacy. No way. (What’s a girl to do?) Speaking of which, did you hear that Father Ed and a certain Sister Alphonsa from Augustine High hooked up and took off? Quite a long time ago, actually. Never heard of the nun, but I must admit it surprised me to hear you left the priesthood. Never thought you would. I’m happy you’ve found fulfillment in your prison ministry (right word?) as a brother of some sort. You weren’t altogether clear on any of that. Anyway, so glad I found you. Isn’t the Internet a miracle?
Let’s keep in touch. Love and miss you.
Cari
Although his elation over receiving a second email from Cari trumped more complicated emotions, he hadn’t yet replied. He seldom used email these days, but that wasn’t his sole reason for not replying. He had reservations about renewing a relationship, even a long distance one, with a woman he still loved, or thought he did, a woman who had lived a life so different from his. Their worlds couldn’t be more dissimilar. Yet…. He fondled the violin medallion she’d given him.
His reply to her first email, telling her he was no longer a priest, that he was now a secular brother teaching prisoners, that he felt fulfilled and so on, had been terse, a product of mixed feelings that committed to no further correspondence, though he wanted to hear from her again with a fearful longing that verged on desperation.
How had she found him, and why? The last time they’d met, five years ago, she had rejected him in no uncertain terms for the same reason feeding his present doubts. Their lives traveled in different orbits far removed from when they lived next door to each other as teenagers. He was still a priest when she sent him packing on that icy winter day in Minneapolis five years ago, but the sting of her rejection remained. He had watched her walk away until she disappeared from view around the bend of a frozen lagoon in a Minneapolis park. He had professed his love and told her he wanted to leave the priesthood to be with her, and now she was gone, and he would probably never see her again. Although the memory of that day was still painful, he had never told her she wasn’t the only reason he could no longer continue being a priest.
Common courtesy had dictated that he respond to her first email, but in truth his curiosity had run roughshod over his reservations. Would her once delightful irreverence continue to make him laugh, even when circumstances conspired to sadden or depress or anger him? Had maturity polished her inherent good sense? Was she still beautiful? An image of her blond hair brushing her shoulders flooded his mind.
As much as he tried to disown the last question as shallow and irrelevant, he dwelled on it. Her beauty mattered to him a great deal. Oh, she wasn’t physically perfect, but to him she was lovelier than anyone else he’d ever met. At forty-one—a year older than he—she undoubtedly had arrived at an age when women possess a certain blossoming of beauty that is as magical and fragile as it is undefinable.
He turned to his laptop and typed.
To: Cari Lang carefreecari@gmail.com
Mon., June18, 2012, 6:12 a.m.
Subject: Your email
Cari,
I can’t tell you how delighted I was to receive your second email. My apologies for the delay in getting back, but as happy as your message made me, it also came as quite a shock and I’ve had to gather my wits. I love the “carefreecari” part of your email address and hope the connotation of happiness is accurate.
You do sound happy playing in the orchestra, to say nothing of your “slumming” with jazz. You came through so clearly in the email. I heard your voice and saw your face in every word. They inundated me with wonderful memories. Except, of course, my memory of your walking away that day in the park.
No, I hadn’t heard about Father Ed and Sister Alphonsa getting together. Surprising, but I wish them happiness and peace. Life has a way of taking strange twists and turns, doesn’t it?
I have to leave shortly for a breakfast presentation to the local Odd Fellows Club. I hope to hear from you again. Maybe we could get together over lunch. I’d like that.
Jason
He leaned back from the laptop and read what he had written. It sounded a little stiff, even stuffy. He hesitated. How familiar or formal should he be after all this time? He clicked send.