Those Several Summers: . . . that led to difficult decisions

By Jackie Davis Martin

Embark on a captivating journey across America in 'Those Several Summers,' where scenic landscapes and cultural experiences set the backdrop for a woman in her 40s torn between desire for change and fear of risk. This gripping narrative takes you from enchanting sites in Oregon and Canada to the familiar setting of southern New Jersey, exploring the complexities of family relationships, love, and choices.

At the heart of the story is a compelling dilemma: the protagonist must choose between a summer romance that ignites in Portland and a rekindled connection with the man she left behind in New Jersey. Money further complicates the decision as she weighs financial security against emotional security.

With each passing summer, from 1985 to 1987, the protagonist grapples with life-altering decisions. Should she continue in the house where she raised her now-college-aged children and maintain her secure yet exhausting job, or should she take the risk of traveling across the country to start anew in picturesque San Francisco? Can she muster the courage to seize this opportunity, even if it means scraping by for a while? What is it she truly wants?

'Those Several Summers' is a riveting exploration of the human spirit, love, and the pursuit of self-discovery. Join the narrator as she navigates the joys and anguishes of these life-altering choices, questioning her capacity for change and the true nature of love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Apr 22, 2024
• ISBN: 9798350944150

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.

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Those Several Summers . . . that led to difficult decisions

©Jackie Davis Martin

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Print ISBN: 979-8-35094-414-3

eBook ISBN: 979-8-35094-415-0

Our doubts are traitors

And make us lose the good we oft might win

By fearing to attempt.

William Shakespeare: Measure for Measure 1.4.86

I was a-trembling because I’d got to decide forever betwixt two things, and I knowed it.

Mark Twain: Adventures of Huckleberry Finn

There is no correct decision waiting to be made.

Ellen Langer: The Mindful Body

Contents

The Summer of 1984

Portland, Oregon

1 At Harrington’s, Friday, June 29

2 The Greek Festival, July 1

3 Cannon Beach, July 5

4 Life Before Portland

5 The Green World

6 Ashland and Elsewhere

7 Nearing Seminar’s End

Two More Weeks

8 Not Alaska, But-

9 Last Days

10 In Flight, August 18

Cherry Hill, New Jersey

11 Home Again

12 The Affair

13 The New Doug

14 The Old Me

15 Torn

Tension

16 Ringing Phones

17 Riddles

18 The Ticket

New Old Doubts

19 Christmas, 1984

20 Us Again 139

21 Forward and Reverse

Moving In, Moving On

22 Arrival

23 Oliver! and More

24 Intrusions

The Summer of 1985

Shifts

25 Home

26 Gone and Back Again

27 December Reflections

28 Preparations

The Summer of 1986

One Goodbye

29 The Chaos of July

30 Garage Sale

31 Walking Away, August 1, 1986

Crossing the Country

32 Advent of Adventure

33 Some Surprises

34 Final Days

Adjustments and Discoveries

35 Arriving in San Francisco

36 Coping

37 Vacillations

The Summer Of 1987

San Francisco, California

38 Opportunities and Agonies

39 The Letter

40 Finale

Two Photos: Early and Late

Epilogue: What Became of Everyone in This Story?

About The Author

The Summer of 1984

Portland, Oregon

At Harrington’s, Friday, June 29

I’d taken a bus from the Reed campus and headed to downtown Portland. As I walked to the museum, the Harrington’s sign surprised me. The book I’d bought in Powell’s, Being Single in Portland, had a section about places to meet people, Harrington’s being one of them. I was far from home and lining up things to do to keep me entertained for whenever our seminar wasn’t meeting. I’d noted Harrington’s as a place to eventually check out, but when I saw the sign at street level, I thought I’d take a look right then.

Halfway down the wrought iron staircase that led to the underground restaurant, I hesitated. I could see a man in a brown leather jacket sitting at one end of the long bar, drinking a beer. He looked to be in his forties, as I was. I liked his moustache, his glasses, his seeming pensiveness. Would it be too absurd to take a seat near him, maybe talk to him?

I’d met men this way before. I would appear self-contained, but glance their way and make eye contact, maybe strike up a conversation. A social hour at Harrington’s promised to be a place that would promote such a scene, although it was only three o’clock, too early. Still, the interesting-looking man was alone, and I debated. Should I continue down the curving staircase and take a seat near him? Or find the Portland Art Museum? I started back up the stairs—then stopped, looked down again.

The man in the leather jacket seemed tall—a feature I found appealing. I’d order something simple, perhaps talk, perhaps not, and be on my way. I knew no one here in Portland. My seminar didn’t meet on Fridays, which was what today was, so I’d spent the morning alone, studying Henry IV, taking a walk around campus, and now, heading to the museum.

On the staircase I debated: down-up, stay-go, which one?

Oh well, what difference did it make to talk to that man who was alone? I was already here, wasn’t I? I descended the curving steps, pulled out a stool two seats away from him. He turned to me when I did that, and I smiled slightly. He nodded his head in acknowledgment, smiled slightly also, and turned back to his beer. His height was apparent in the way his legs extended out from the barstool, his back broad beneath the brown leather of his jacket. I ordered a club soda and took out a pack of cigarettes from a carton that my rather uncommitted boyfriend back home, Doug, had given me as a send-off gift. I left matches in my purse. Do you have a light? I asked the man.

He turned toward me, pulling a lighter out of his pocket, and looked pleased to have been asked. His eyebrows matched his moustache; his hair, although thinning, needed a trim. I was dressed up for a city museum visit: a black linen suit, bone-colored pumps. The man extended his arm gracefully toward me and lit my cigarette, shaking out one of his own to join me before tucking the lighter back in his pocket. The smoke drifted upward. On the sound system a piano played softly; it sounded like Gershwin. Biding My Time, I said.

He laughed. I guess I am, too. Right now.

Was he deliberately playing with the pun? I gestured toward the loudspeaker. I meant the music, that song. I’m on my way to the art museum.

He listened briefly to the music, studying me. It’s a great museum, he said. A few blocks from here. His eyebrows lifted a bit in inquiry.

I must have seemed different—a woman alone in the afternoon going to a museum and stopping in a bar to order a club soda. I admitted to him I was new to Portland; it looked to be a beautiful city. Do you know the Michael Graves building? I asked. I read about it on the plane, in the plane’s magazine.

The man turned fully toward me; he had to move the middle stool a bit to make room for his legs. He lived in Portland and knew all about the building, as well as the planned statue of Portlandia that would eventually adorn it. He’d been a city planner for ten years before he quit to open his own business—long story—but it had failed. I heard the words live in Portland and city planner and was thrilled, feeling that I’d walked into an information source—something to share with my seminar fellows in getting to know them.

The man said he was once again looking for a real job and selling cars in the meantime. His wide shoulders shrugged an apology, and he paused a moment. What are you doing here, all the way from—?

New Jersey, I filled in. I’m studying Shakespeare. At Reed.

The word Shakespeare sometimes caused strangers to pull back, but he seemed pleased with that information. That’s great. Reed’s a great school. Is there a summer program?

I was still absorbing the candor of his admission of failure and felt, absurdly, that I was now boasting. But I explained. Yes, there was a program, a National Endowment for the Humanities, for a six weeks’ study. It’s for high school teachers—we apply for it. I mean, I teach high school English, Shakespeare. I shrugged, took a sip of my club soda. He was still turned toward me, seemingly with interest. I arrived two days late, I continued. Long story there, too—and found out our seminar doesn’t meet on Fridays. I think the others probably already made arrangements for today.

I didn’t tell him I was the only participant who had asked for the one available studio apartment and so been granted it. Several had opted for the communal dorm; a few brought families and rented houses. Since I’d been a single mother of teenagers for years, I loved the idea of my own place. When a cab took me from the airport to the apartment, I was so happy to be there that, even though it was three in the morning, I poured a glass of whiskey from a bottle of Canadian Club that Doug had also given me. Actually, Doug had suggested he might visit me in Portland, and so I’d also accommodated that possibility, remote as it seemed.

But I bought a book about Portland yesterday, I continued to the man at the bar, that praised the Art Museum—and also mentioned Harrington’s. I saw that sign up there at the top of the stairs—

I saw you come down, the man said. You turned around and went up and came back down.

I blushed. I think I blushed. I bought a book on Shakespeare criticism, too, I said.

He laughed. I don’t even know why I’m here today. He said he got off work—the car lot—early and went to the Virginia Café, but for some reason didn’t like it and thought he’d try something different. I haven’t been here in Harrington’s in years, he said. His eyes behind the wire frames were direct.

We continued to talk, this man in the leather jacket and I, nursing those drinks along. Whatever we touched on we seemed to have in common. I was single—divorced a while back—with children in college; he was in the process of a divorce with one son who had just graduated from college, another son still there, and a third son living with his almost-ex wife.

The ambient sounds of people beginning to mill around alerted me to check my watch—it was after five o’clock. I think I’ve missed the museum, I said.

He agreed. Let’s get something to eat. Do you like jazz? There’s music and great pizza at the Jazz Quarry, around the corner.

That sounded like a good idea. Why not? What else was I doing?

When he stood, I saw his great—to me—height. Doug, whom I’d been dating, was tall to me at six feet. This man—I asked—was 6’4", a full foot taller than I. Together we ascended the staircase where I had initially vacillated into the street, the man I just met behind me.

His name—Bruce Martin—I asked that too—sounded made up, and I said as much. Of course, my own, Jackie Davis (the last name an acquired one), sounded equally false.

It’s not, he said matter of factly and didn’t question mine.

Still, I suspected he might be a sham; he was too agreeable, too bright, too altogether interesting to me, and oddly comforting in his size, his angles. He had a wart on his cheek, faintly disheveled hair, and, behind his glasses, clear hazel eyes. I couldn’t put him together.

At the end of the block he suddenly turned to me. Maybe you don’t want to do this, he said. I mean, I can pay my share, but I don’t have enough money to pay for both of us. I’m sorry.

I looked up at him. I’d never been told such a thing. It was 1984, and through my dating over the past nine years, I had not picked up a single tab. Either it was the standard of behavior then or I was fortunate. My last two relationships—spanning as they did the past six years—had spoiled me: always dinners out, performances, trips. But this man from Harrington’s was baldly admitting that he could not pay for two. I shrugged it off. Of course I’d pay my share.

He nodded but looked uncomfortable. Then he smiled and indicated the Jazz Quarry, a few doors ahead. As we entered, a small combo of middle-aged men was playing Sweet Georgia Brown, and I commented that the old sax player looked like an Elk. I loved that he laughed, getting my little joke. We took a table—rustic, as I recall—somewhat away from the music. The pizza was good; we drank wine; we continued our stories.

I revealed that there was someone in New Jersey I had been in love with and hoped to reconcile with. He listened, tracing an unlit cigarette around his lips, thoughtful. There was another man, too, I’d been dating for a while, I told him. I didn’t want this man, Bruce Martin, to think I was needy. I did not think I was.

Those were shaky relationships, I knew. And besides, why was I out and about to begin with? A question he no doubt posited to himself about me as he traced those lips—nicely shaped, I noted—and a question which, frankly, I didn’t want to answer. I’d suffered a big rejection before I met Doug from a man I’ll call Sam. With Sam I thought, after five years, I had a relationship that was fairly permanent. Emotionally I was still clinging to that doomed situation and thus was willing to accept Doug’s guardedness. Both of these men made more money than I did as a high school teacher; they didn’t have to support, in addition, two teenagers. By the time I met Doug, my son John was away at college and my daughter Susan, although at home, was attending a local community college. I was in grad school myself and rather free.

And yet. I still felt, contradictorily, both at the apex of my attractiveness and a self-conscious failure, approaching middle age and unsure if I could ever rely on any sort of relationship. I remember looking at all the beautiful people in the streets of Portland and thinking, why can’t I belong somewhere? What does it take?

Bruce Martin, sitting across from me at the Jazz Quarry, knew what it was to be responsible for children, for income. He briefly summarized his failed business venture that resulted in an in-process divorce of a marriage dissolving anyway. He was now selling used cars just for some money. I can’t believe I’m talking to a used car salesman, I thought, amused and appalled. Obviously, this is a lark, a one-evening thing. I was already shaping up the evening into an anecdote that might amuse the other seminar members as I got to know them.

But, remembering the seminar and Reed, I was jolted. I looked at my watch: it was quarter to 9. I can’t miss the last bus! I said. I’ve got to go. I put down some bills—my share—on the table and stood up.

Again he looked uneasy, tentative, as though he wasn’t sure how what he had to say would be construed. I have a car, he ventured. It’s up the hill, in the garage under my apartment building. I can take you back to Reed.

I hesitated again. It was getting dark, and I’d have to find the bus stop. The man—Bruce—had been straight forward, easy to be with. I agreed.

These are the Park Blocks, he said as we walked up a park—on each side of which was a street, a sidewalk. The park featured sculptures, benches to sit on, even a rose garden, and, as its name announced, block after block of park bordered by sidewalks. The evening was warm and smelled of grass and roses, dusk now fading into night. I’d learned more of his life, too, on the way.

I considered: if he’d had twenty-five years of marriage and was now in the midst of divorce, he had to be older. He didn’t seem that old.

Unexpectedly, coincidentally, he asked me: How old are you? My age was an embarrassment to me. Dating the younger Doug had made me conscious of it. But what difference did it make at this odd occurrence? Forty-three, I said.

That’s great, he said, surprising me again. What was great about forty-three?

I started young, I said, by way of explanation.

I’m forty-four. I started young, too.

I’d already explained that I was here in Portland for six weeks and being paid for the seminar. I explained that I’d left my two kids—21 and 19—to their summer jobs, sharing my car, and living together. I’d never done that. I didn’t tell him that the man I’d been dating for eight months, Doug, suggested he’d come out to visit.

This is it. The man named Bruce stopped. We were standing in front of an apartment building much like others on those long blocks. I followed him to the underground garage, suddenly overcome by a sense of caution. What was I doing? The fact that I’d traveled 3,000 miles from home and arrived in the night straight from a faculty weekend in, of all places, the other Portland, in Maine, to arrive at the Reed apartment and drink at three in the morning, then to cross a strange campus a few hours later to meet strangers in a seminar room—seemed odd, even reckless. The reckless summer. But how reckless?

He indicated a small red Fiat, a charming little sports car in a garage space that was mildly claustrophobic, and as he moved to the driver’s door, I approached the passenger side. He stared at me across the top of the car, holding the door handle, looking nervous again. Do you want to come up for a cup of coffee? he said. I relaxed. His tone suggested he thought he was being ungracious to just get into a car in an underground garage. Or, as though he’d weighed an invitation against what might seem aggression. I said No, I’d just as soon get back to campus.

We drove into the night. Having been a planner, he knew all of Portland, and, since he’d tucked away the convertible’s odd roof, I could take in the buildings he enthusiastically pointed out as we drove through the city streets. Reed’s on the East side of town, he said, but before we cross the bridge, let me show you the view close to the river. He turned the wheel abruptly and the car seemed to plunge down a hill right toward the water. I held my breath. I knew it! I was heading into disaster—the man was a stranger, and how did I know what he had in mind? I watched that shimmering water come into view, the warm air streaming over my head, and thought this might be it.

He braked at a boat ramp. The river undulated calmly before us. He leaned back, sighed, looked at me. It’s beautiful, isn’t it, he said.

I exhaled deeply. Yes. What had I feared? That there must be a catch to the evening, that the ease with which we’d related to each other had to have a catch to it? It didn’t. It just was.

He—Bruce—it was difficult to assign him the name—drove me back to the Reed campus and pulled up in front of my house, a typical suburban brick house behind a sidewalk, a green lawn.

I can get out, I said. My apartment is around the back.

He leaned forward, cradling the steering wheel. You’re here for a while? I’d like to see you again. How would I get in touch with you?

There’s a phone, I announced. In my room. I’d been there only two nights, but of course I’d called my kids, given them the number of the phone there on the apartment desk. I would have to pay for my calls. Can you memorize? And I rattled off that number.

He watched as I walked around the brick house, and I waved into the dark. Well, I thought, inserting the key into the lovely little apartment: that was something, wasn’t it? I don’t think it sank in completely how much I had enjoyed myself.

There was a note under my apartment door. Alan, a man from Philadelphia and also in the seminar, had a brother who taught at Reed. The note asked if I would like to join him, the brother, and the brother’s wife, to drive to the Columbia River Gorge tomorrow, Saturday? He’d stop by in the morning and see.

Life was suddenly shaping up, wasn’t it? An engaging Friday with a stranger in Harrington’s, and now another date with a group to see the sights. I glanced at my row of Shakespeare books in the small rack I’d purchased at a garage sale that morning, surveyed my room with its sofa and bed and huge desk, and felt an enormous sense of smugness and pleasure. Who knew life could be such an adventure?

You went out with a stranger? Alan said Saturday morning. As though he were not. But he and I were both part of the same seminar, a family of sorts for the next six weeks. Walking to the brother’s house, he and I compared notes about our free Friday. You met him in town? He sounded vaguely jealous, which was odd. The brother—actually Alan’s twin, making things even odder—drove us to Columbia River Gorge for a picnic his wife had prepared. I remember the wife’s frosted hair, her sucking in her stomach, thin as she was, and smiling a lot. The brothers even had identical glass frames and haircuts, although they lived on opposite sides of the country. We had a cordial enough afternoon, though. I was dazzled by the magnificent river flowing well below our picnic area, the mountains in the background scalloped across the horizon. The great trees cast lacy patterns on that very green Oregon grass, and we sat high aloft the river, eating the cheeses and fruits and wine the couple had brought along.

Coming from Pittsburgh’s industrial steel town setting of my youth and the subsequent clean flatness of New Jersey, I was overwhelmed at the beauty and variety of our setting. And yet our conversation was the ordinary banter that would take place anywhere. Alan told them, laughing, about my date of the night before, a laughter with some pride behind it. That had been my second evening here, Alan pointed out.

I laughed too. The previous night I wandered into that garden right down the hill from the campus, I said, reframing what had been lonely restlessness that first evening into a sense of adventure. And talked to a man who lives in town. He said there was a Rose Garden in Portland. A famous one. I didn’t add it was some old guy; I wanted to keep up the image they were assigning me. It was truly a wonderful Rose Garden, they said. Alan got excited: perhaps we four could go together? There was pleasant, noncommittal agreement. We had the summer, didn’t we?

No sooner had I returned to my little apartment late in the afternoon than the man from Harrington’s called. Did I want to walk along the riverfront the next evening? He had to work during the day—Sunday—but there was a Greek festival going on that I might like. He could come and get me.

Yes, I said. Yes, I would like that. My reaction was mild, disguising the fact that I was quite thrilled that he wanted to see me again, that he had indeed memorized the phone number. I added that I was attending a Chamber Concert on the campus lawn that evening, Saturday. That summer series? he said. It’s supposed to be really good. I’ve heard about it.

I admitted I’d purchased the series while in New Jersey, fearing I’d be lonely so far from home. So I did have the six concerts lined up. I didn’t add that I’d also signed up, my first day on campus, for modern jazz dance lessons and for the same reason: the fear of not belonging.

The next morning, Sunday, I called my kids. Susan missed me and complained about John. John complained about Susan. The summer had only begun. I tried to assure them that they’d work it out, hoping that my assurance would ease my own anxiety.

Then I called Douglas, to let him know my phone number. Two hours a day, four days a week? he said. I’ve always wanted that kind of a job.

I had to admit it was heavenly. To justify this luxury, I spent the Sunday reading up on criticism and interpretations for Henry IV, Part 1, planning to be super-alert for the next morning’s seminar session. Then I showered and got ready for what I saw as