Stopgaps

By Jackie Davis Martin

Dana and Daniel meet in a bar in late 1982. Dana is 40, teaches high school English, coaches dance and drama; Daniel is 33, has a high-powered job involving resort planning, travels a lot. But, from that first meeting where they off-handedly quip about Hamlet, to the evening's continuation into dinner, the two have a physical and intellectual connection.
Dana, recently spurned by Frank, whom she's in love with, sees Daniel as a temporary stopgap for Frank. Daniel, although he pursues Dana, doesn't seem to want commitment either. Together they create a situation of suspicion and tension in their very real attraction to one another. Add to that the pressures of Dana's mother to settle down.
When Frank summons her back, months later, Dana is torn between the two men until Daniel's absence allows her to make Frank his stopgap. Ultimately, Dana has to figure out what she wants and why. Set in New Jersey and Pennsylvania, Stopgaps explores an era where women did not initiate dates, sex was without consequence, and cell phones had not been invented.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Mar 23, 2021
• ISBN: 9781098359065

Jackie Davis Martin

Jackie Davis Martin is a prolific author with a diverse body of work. Her third major book, "Those Several Summers," delves into the complexities of life and love. In 2012, she released the heartfelt memoir "Surviving Susan," a poignant exploration of loss. In May 2021, her novel "Stopgaps" captivated readers with its compelling narrative. Jackie's talent extends beyond books; her short stories and essays have graced the pages of anthologies like "Modern Shorts," "Love on the Road," and "Road Stories," as well as various print and online journals. Her literary prowess has earned her recognition, with fiction prizes from esteemed organizations such as New Millennium, On the Premises, and Press 53, among others. With a lifelong dedication to teaching, Jackie has imparted her knowledge of writing and literature at high schools in New Jersey and California, as well as at City College of San Francisco. When she's not writing or teaching, Jackie immerses herself in San Francisco's vibrant cultural scene. She's a regular attendee of the city's Ballet, Opera, Symphony, and Bay Area theater performances. Additionally, she actively engages with writing communities and groups, fostering a vibrant literary environment. Jackie's passion for storytelling and her commitment to the arts make her a captivating and influential figure in the literary world.

Book preview

cover.jpg

Dedicated to the memories of

Bruce. . . and Susan. . . and John

Stopgaps

Jackie Davis Martin

ISBN (Print Edition): 978-1-09835-905-8

ISBN (eBook Edition): 978-1-09835-906-5

© 2021. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Table of Contents

1 A Good Stopgap

2 Something Settled

3 Silences

4 The Weekend After

5 At Her Mother’s

6 Something New

7 Speaking Shakespeare

8 Playing Roles

9 Currents Gone Awry

10 Amendments

11 On the Fringes

12 Showtime Almost

13 And Showtime for Real

14 New Meaning

15 Her Words, Too

16 Changes

17 Disconnects

18 Cold and Snow

19 Almost Merry and Bright

20 Presents

21 A New Year

22 Free and Clear

23 Assumptions

24 Spinning

25 Accolades

26 No Betrayal

27 New Words

28 Spring Break

29 On Hold

30 Frank for Real

31 Back and Forth

32 The Foil

33 Nothing and Everything

34 New Non-Meaning

35 Plans

36 Survived Again

37 The Red Dress

38 He’d Call, He Said

39 Red Dress Reprise

40 Another Stopgap

41 Finale

42 Epilogue

1 A Good Stopgap

At first Dana thought the man was a mannequin, standing as he was near the hors d’oeuvres table at the Red Barn that Friday afternoon. He looked too polished to be real. Many professionals showed up at the Red Barn Bar and Restaurant on Singles Friday, but Dana had resisted; she did not want to be A Single. She’d been half of a couple for almost five years until Frank called it quits again. She’d been so distraught she hadn’t eaten properly for months, her black slacks loose today and gathered into a tight belt. When her friend Angela stopped by her classroom and urged her company at The Barn, Dana acquiesced, and had actually found its rustic interiors —timbered ceiling, wood floors, knotty-pine bar—to be both soothing and more isolating. Angela, looking around, spotted a group of people she knew who were sitting around a low table. They gestured her over and she waved back. They’re fun, she said, sliding from her stool. Let’s join them. Dana said thanks but no. She’d just finish her drink, maybe get a cracker or two, and head on home. The evening’s young, Angela said. Dana agreed, but slung her bag over her shoulder, picked up her glass to gesture a goodbye, and navigated her way through the growing crowd to the hors d’oeuvres table.

The mannequin man still stood at the end of the table, apart from others. He was tall, with a trim dark moustache, his eyes behind dark frames slightly squinted in surveillance of the crowd. Beneath an open tweed jacket he wore a pale blue sweater, white shirt and striped tie, as though he’d just come from an important meeting or maybe a photo shoot for a magazine. He had an air of aloofness, which for some reason annoyed Dana. A line from Hamlet, which she’d just been teaching, occurred to her, and when she got close, she delivered it in his direction almost as a challenge. Have you had quiet guard? she said. She figured he’d say What? if he said anything.

He smiled at her, his features softening. Not a mouse stirring, he said.

This took her by surprise. It was the next line in the play. Well, it’s not bitter cold, she said, playing the Hamlet game, or whatever. The whatever line was: and I am sick at heart. She couldn’t say the words. She turned away.

But I’m not sick at heart, he said, and she turned back. Who would expect to find Shakespeare at the Red Barn? he asked. She acknowledged the surprise was hers as well. He told her his name was Daniel and exclaimed Aha! when he saw that she too was drinking a Manhattan on the rocks. What else can you recite?

She shrugged. Lots, I guess. But most people don’t want to hear it.

Suit the action to the word? he said, quoting again.

More vice versa.

Maybe we shouldn’t consider vice when we’ve just met. His smiled over the rim of his glass.

He was an odd combination, she thought, of reserve and playfulness, and rather elegant to look at. He liked Shakespeare; he seemed to talk in quips; and although she felt there was a sort of crispness or artificiality to their banter, it entertained her.

A half hour later the man named Daniel glanced toward the hors d’oeuvres table, now with people clustered around it, and said, I have an idea. How about we drive across the river into Philly and have dinner—the Riverview—do you know it?

Frank lived in Philly, but it would be unlikely he’d be in that restaurant. Still, she wished Frank—who had rejected her—would see her with this handsome man, seemingly much younger than he, and be jealous. Dana said she thought she’d like that—she’d let her friend know. When asked, Angela strained her neck to check. That good looking guy? My friend Marielle went out with him once. She found him hard to talk to. Dana gestured a who knows? before joining Daniel, who was waiting at the door. He escorted her to his car several slots away from hers on the Red Barn lot.

It was a short drive from New Jersey to Philadelphia, although she felt strange in someone else’s car, its neutral gray interior, as though she had opted for a taxi. When she said as much, he agreed: It’s a company car, the latest ’83, and as dull as an old taxi. His company designed elaborate spaces—hotel lobbies and restaurants, resorts and so on. She said it sounded glamorous. Mmm, he hummed a mild growl. Maybe. It mostly involves traveling to sites and engineering figures. I travel a lot. He admired that she taught high school English. He too liked reading Shakespeare.

As they walked the cobblestone streets of old Philadelphia, Dana was conscious of the physical presence of a man other than Frank next to her, aware of the similar pace of hers and Daniel’s footsteps. He seemed to be familiar with the area, as was she. At Riverview they were seated at angles to each other, and he ordered wine. She liked his wide-set eyes behind the dark frames, the way he seemed to study what she had to say, and, watching him shrug off the tweed jacket, she found herself almost aching to touch his arm, the pale blue cashmere, to touch him. She fought down the sensation—one she’d reserved for Frank—this man, after all, was a stranger. But she reached over to place her hand on his sleeve.

Your sweater, she said. It’s lovely—so soft. Your arm, she wanted to say. Why do you affect me this way? His eyes went from her hand on his sweater to her face, inquiring. Thank you, he said. She withdrew and tried to smile. When he recommended the veal picante, she let him order for both of them. Frank always urged her to order first so she wouldn’t be influenced by his choice.

Frank! She glanced around the room several times, but Frank was not there. Just imagining his being there induced her stomach to collapse into her chair. He’d done this before. There had been two experiments—his word for the occasions when he wanted to see other women and didn’t want to feel guilty. He’d direct her to date others (too he would add), so they could test the truth of their love. She could see his truth and balked at his suggestion. But this early October evening she’d succumbed to go to the Red Barn, and now, in the Riverview with Daniel, she could see the possibility of another person lessening the rejection she’d felt.

But thoughts of Frank made Daniel appear young to her. I’m forty, she blurted out. Or will be in two months.

He narrowed his eyes and set down his wine glass. You’re telling me this because . . ?

I don’t know. I thought you should know, she said. You seem young. But old, she added, because it was true. He had an old and studied reserve about him.

Aha! he said. Double-speak. And a question in disguise. I’m thirty-three.

She felt herself blush, as though she’d been prying.

Isn’t it good we got that settled? he said, pouring more wine.

She pretended to smile, liking his assurance. She felt old and dowdy in the purple blouse she’d worn to school, her too-big black slacks, her pumps. He was so together-looking and she was so in pieces, but possibly he didn’t see that. She was also shapely, lithe, really. In her bathroom mirror she’d admired her figure, trying to ignore her face, which often took her by surprise with its hurt eyes and turned-down mouth.

They talked of music—he liked Miles, he liked Mussorgsky, Vivaldi; he was knowledgeable—and she was engaged with his words.

He squeezed her hand after he paid the bill, asking her if she wanted to go back to New Jersey for her car, or go to a club? She seemed to like music, he said, and he knew a place for great jazz. At first she opted to return, nervous that the Red Barn ticketed cars after a certain hour but realized that was unlikely. So she joined him to listen to Latin jazz, where it was impossible to try to talk, but over their cognacs he’d glance her way from time to time and nod his head in affirmation, of her or the music, she wasn’t sure.

Much later, in the dark empty lot of the Red Barn and with the help of his dashboard’s light, she wrote her phone number on a matchbook picked up from the jazz bar, and he got out to escort her to her car. He leaned down to bestow a kiss goodnight, brief and perfunctory, and she reached up and wrapped her arms around his shoulders, pulling him closer. He kissed her again, lingering this time. When the embrace broke, she felt a palpable embarrassment. She was embarrassed that he would see how needy she was, and embarrassed that a betrayal of the love she claimed for Frank had come so easily.

I’ve got to go, she said, standing there a moment before she thought to reach for her keys.

He told her he’d enjoyed the evening. He said he’d call, and walked around his car to the driver’s seat. He waited while she started her car and followed her out of the parking lot drive, turning the opposite way as they reached the road.

And she drove home. Her heart was not as heavy as it had been when she arrived at the Red Barn with Angela—what was it—eight hours ago? But she was confused. She missed Frank terribly and felt humiliated that she’d enjoyed such a superficial evening with this stranger, this man named Daniel, and yet she wanted him to call. If he gave her the chance, he might ease her loneliness. He would make a good stopgap for Frank.

2 Something Settled

She flipped the school calendar on her dresser to the new month, October—already 1982 was disappearing, even though its time had dragged since June. Calendar squares had been notated with various ways she’d sought to Wait It Out.

Last evening—October 1st, she realized, a new month!—had been different. She’d wanted to be with the man, Daniel. On her calendar she made a mark designating an uptick in mood. By Saturday evening, though, the good feeling had dissipated, and by Sunday she was back to her old despair. Daniel said he would call. She’d assumed, from his seeming enthusiasm of several nights before, that it would be immediately.

She didn’t want to date others, and yet she’d done in times before what she did last night: she’d gone to a bar where it was easy for a man to come up and talk to her. Once she went to a man’s apartment, to his bedroom. She’d been impressed with his talk of abstract art, of Pollock and de Kooning and pigments and gesso, impressed as well with his loft studio, one he had as a real artist; she thought that a romanticized setting of canvases and paint splatters would aid her in moving on with the experiment. What was sex? You just took off your clothes and got in bed and you knew the routine. That’s what she thought. But instead, she had a mild breakdown. When she took off her clothes, she began to cry. She sat on the edge of the man’s bed surrounded by canvases of blues and purples and jagged lines, like edges of skyscrapers, the Philadelphia views visible through high loft windows, and, frozen in place, she’d cried. How could she walk out just then? How could she stay? She could not do this; she could not date others, sleep with others, on command. There was no experiment; there was only heartbreak. I can’t, she’d sobbed. I’m in love with someone else.

She remembers his being surprisingly kind and taking her home, unlike the man the time before who, when she’d shown up for nothing more than a tennis game and admitted up front that she was not going to get involved, that she was in love with someone else, said, Why don’t you leave right now, then? What’s the point?

Sunday she spent reading Hamlet and studying the script of You Can’t Take It With You, a play she was co-directing with another teacher, Gwen—an arrangement that was already causing friction when they disagreed on blocking choices. She nibbled too many pretzels. She didn’t want to be home or alone, where she’d have to over-compensate with school assignments, or TV, although she couldn’t get interested in current events or current shows. Every day, in vicious resolution, she practiced the jazz exercises she taught the high school girls once a week. Her real life had been the weekends in Frank’s settings: his apartment, first, then in the house she helped him renovate and decorate, or occasionally in his other house down the Jersey shore. She wished Frank were dead. Death would be easier to deal with because it wouldn’t involve rejection.

Frank’s most recent experiment was to last six months, from June to December, when he promised to get in touch again. Christmas, Dana. We’ll reconnect at Christmas—how’s that?

Did Daniel suspect he would be used? What was his last name? It had sounded like her own, Witman. Their names were alike; that was funny. But if she’d known his full name, what would she have done? She would not have called him.

By Thursday, giving up on waiting for the phone, she determined to visit Frank’s house in the city, the house that was meant to be hers, too. She had an espresso-maker he’d given her—or he’d bought for them. They’d been to Naples the year before last and had marveled at the Italian coffee. Why didn’t the states have something like it? Frank found an espresso maker, complete with a foaming attachment and, at his New Jersey shore house, they’d made cappuccinos in the mornings and watched the sun gleam on the bay. Frank had insisted she keep the machine while he turned over the place to renters. Tonight she’d knock on his door and say perhaps she’d misunderstood and he might want his espresso maker? It was an excuse, a flimsy one.

At 7 o’clock, already getting dark, she parked in the part of old town Philadelphia where he lived. His blue Sunbird was parked on the street in front of his house. That meant Frank was home—but she couldn’t be sure he’d be alone. She felt mildly insane as she walked past the window, hugging the heavy machine, the drapes (which she’d chosen) closed, and rapped on the door in the 2-1-3 rhythm that would let him know it was she. No one answered. Lights were on. She knocked again—and it was then she heard a woman’s voice: "Frank! There is someone there—I’ll get it. Dana backed against the wall: did she want to have another woman see her in such a situation? There was movement on the other side, and she heard Frank’s voice say, It’s probably some guy with a petition. Ignore it."

Stunned, Dana stepped away past the window, the coffeemaker now as heavy as a medicine ball. What if the woman opened the door? What would she say? Then it occurred to her that Frank knew who it was and was perhaps sparing her the humiliation. She skulked along the buildings’ edges—the homes wedged close against one another—to where she’d left her car, waiting until her eyes cleared before driving back home and stowing the espresso-maker in the rear of her garage.

The next day, Friday, Dana felt she couldn’t be more despondent, but she was. There’d been no call from the young man, and so now insult was added to injury. She’d escaped her pain of rejection for an hour here and there in her classes. She’d begun Othello, letting students listen to the new record; she’d made a game in another class of sentence diagramming, assisted student groups in forming posters for All Quiet on the Western Front. Between classes reality hit her hard. Angela, her also-single friend, who’d become a guidance counselor three years ago, stopped by Dana’s classroom before last period. Red Barn at 5 today?

Dana shook her head. Angela insisted; after all, there had been that good-looking guy last week, right? Always a chance. Dana said all right; she’d run home this time to freshen up.

When the phone rang, she thought with relief that Angela had changed her mind and she could, too.

It’s the guy with the moustache and taxi-car. Daniel. He’d been away all week on business. Was there any chance she could go to the Philadelphia Orchestra tonight? A client had given him two tickets. Ormandy was guest conducting—did she like violins? They could have dinner first.

So sudden! How odd he chanced that she might be available. But she was and agreed, gave him her address. No point in being coy, although Angela would suggest otherwise—as she did when Dana called her: If it were me, Dana, I’d say ‘Sorry, I have other plans.’

When she opened her door, it took Dana a few minutes to recognize the man again. He looked young in spite of his height, his solidness. There was a reserve about him, though, a sort of stiff-backed confident posture that reassured her, and she followed him to his car, his own, a Datsun, wondering again what she was doing. He was far removed from Frank, who was solid and blonde and, above all, familiar to her—the scent of his skin, his hairline around his ears, the square shape of his hands. Who was this man she was getting in the car with? Daniel something. For one thing, she needed to know his last name.

You look great, he said. She wore a black skirt-suit and white ruffled blouse, as though she herself would be in the orchestra pit. He wore a vested suit—another reason he felt older to her. Because she felt not-real beside him, it seemed she and Daniel made up a mature Barbie and Ken, totally artificial. Well, let it be. Artificial was better than non-existent. She pictured Frank in bed with the woman whose voice she’d heard, pictured them tumbling about. It was enough incentive for her to say to Daniel: I like the way you look, too. Besides, he had reached for her hand and the grasp felt quite real

At the red light he released her hand and thereafter drove in silence. She listened to the silence, to the tires hum on the highway, and wondered whether to ask. You had a busy week? she said.

Yes, he said.

She joined him in silence, but it was uncomfortable. Roadsides were dark with early fall darkness. Mine wasn’t, particularly, she said. Tomorrow, though, I’m directing the school play—or co-directing, anyway—so things will be getting a little hectic.

Hmm-mm, he muttered in response. What did it mean—yes, I’m sympathetic? Or maybe, You’re talking, I’m acknowledging you said something.

It wasn’t until they were in the restaurant near the Academy of Music that Daniel smiled. He smiled at her through the mirror. They’d been seated at a small table to one side of the room at such an angle that they could see themselves in the mirrored wall opposite. She ordered a Manhattan, not as a reminder that her initial choice of a drink had coincidentally been his, so much as the need for something strong. She had been wondering through the next fifteen minutes of the silent ride whether she’d read him totally wrong. Her mild guilt over her physical longing, his earlier animated talk of music—those seemed to be attached to other beings.

He ordered a Manhattan, too. Well, it is good to see you, he said, pulling her back from the mirror. It takes a while for me to decompress.

I understand, she said, and almost laughed at herself. She was so decompressed she had to concentrate to sit up straight. The waiter set down the two sparkling glasses, the cherries bright and cheery floating on top of the cubes. She took a gulp of what amounted to straight whiskey, strong and cold and vibrating instantly through her blood, and looked about the room, again seeing them reflected opposite—pretty people, she thought. Even from here her hair was shiny, she was pleased to see, her bangs shiny. She didn’t look seven years older than he. She had to forget that.

What do you feel like having? he said, picking up his menu.

Another drink?

Aha! he said. He really did act old, different. I never ate here before. The client suggested its proximity to the concert hall. He looked at his watch. We really can’t linger, he added, and opened his menu, indicating she should do the same.

After they’d ordered, he leaned back and regarded her. You said something about a play. His voice expressed no interest, but she could see he was trying.

"You Can’t Take It With You," she said.

Oh. Maybe I should drink it here then? He lifted his glass to his lips.

She relaxed a bit. It’s cute. It has twelve characters.

High schoolers.

Yes. They’re the ones that go to high school.

He smiled. And you.

People like me, yes. We never leave.

An hour and a half later they sat side by side in the red velour seats of a lush auditorium. It’s Brahms, he said, opening his program. As she crossed her legs, she felt him glance at them and noted her own sleek stockings, her high arch in the patent pump, and, without thinking, she looped her arm through his and opened her own program. He pressed their arms together, approvingly, and there she was again—with that crazy sensation of desire.