Even doing laundry was fun with P. Billy Howard photo
She was beautiful in a healthy, all American way, and fashionably dressed, and, it seemed to me, absolutely comfortable with who she was. She was smiling and warm and accepting and funny, so, so funny, always up for anything. She could be in smelly fishing clothes and, five minutes later, beautifully coiffed as if for a fancy ball. I never figured out how she did that. At moments I wondered if she had an identical twin.
We met in Atlanta when we were both in our 20s. She was dating a photographer Jeff worked with, and the four of us became pals. We were all newly in jobs that let us feel like adults but without the kinds of responsibilities—houses, kids—that would have made us real grown-ups. We rented beautiful apartments in old Atlanta. We had enough spending cash to regularly go out on the town, in a section of the city with lots of young people like us. This lasted for several years, until we more or less grew out of it. I’ve often wondered how those days and weeks slipped through our hands.
P. came to see us shortly after Jeff and I had moved to the Outer Banks. There was no question but that we would stay in touch. She completely charmed the rough-and-tumble fishermen in our tiny Hatteras Island village. They didn’t know what to make of her: a well dressed city gal who was nice and could chat them up. She went happily back to Atlanta, laughing and waving at us as she boarded the plane.
Home by ourselves again, Jeff and I looked at the photographs we’d taken. P. was incredibly photogenic; she knew how to shine through the camera’s lens. “Just think of how much you love the person taking the picture,” she’d told me, more than once. Great advice, but I’d also need to lose my self consciousness, of which she seemed to have zero. Yet behind the smiling persona, she was thoughtful and deeply spiritual. Much of our friendship was based on our conversations about God.
In time P. moved to the South Carolina to marry a man who shrimped with his brother for some of the year and also built and remodeled houses. We stayed in touch. Of course we did. But we didn’t see each other often. When Reid was about six, we visited P. and her husband and met her own three girls, two of whom were twins. Her life seemed a bit idyllic, cozy as she was on a tidal river with a shrimp boat docked out back. She was still quirky and fun, but solidly grown now. And Jeff and I were too.
We didn’t see each other again before our move to Maine. Twenty years had passed. There are any number of ways to lose people in this world: inattention, indecision, misinterpretation of each other’s actions. There was none of the latter in my and P’s friendship. We were just living far apart, and busy. We knew the bond between us was lasting. But even the strongest bonds can wither if not tended.
One day after we’d settled into our home here, P. got in touch. As we chatted on the phone, she said she wanted to come visit.
“Please come!” I said. And she did.
We talked and talked during the days she was here, about our lives, our kids, our husbands, our hopes. Sitting on our porch one afternoon, looking up the small hill to the little patch of white pines and sumacs in back, I thought about how we’d each matured and changed—how life had changed us. We’d lost a son. She’d lost a close woman friend—not to death, but to personal beliefs. The friend had come out. She’d married another woman. P’s subsequent decision to cut off ties with her had shocked us. I’d wanted to talk with her about it but didn’t quite know how. Sitting on the porch that afternoon, I decided it needed to be aired. “Why?” I asked. “You guys were so close.”
P. shrugged. “She’s gay. It’s against what God wants for us.”
“But it’s C.”
She looked at me, shrugged, and looked out toward the trees, her expression sad but resolute.
I sat staring into the chasm that suddenly yawned between us. Neither of us spoke. But it’s P.! my heart screamed.
Ever so carefully, I let out a breath. I sat for a few beats more. Then I leaned toward her. “Love you, P.”
She grabbed my hand and squeezed, hard.
We told ourselves we would keep in touch, and we did, a bit. There were some Christmas cards and occasional hellos here and there. I wonder now why we didn’t do more. We both truly meant to; I’m sure of it. It was my turn to visit her in South Carolina. When would be a good time? We batted around some dates but couldn’t settle on anything. The years slipped by.
One Sunday morning a few weeks ago, P. was on her way to church with one of her daughters and her two-year-old granddaughter. I imagine her busily getting ready, taking care of multiple tasks at once, watching the clock so as not to be late. I imagine her parking the car and hustling across the street to the church, staying within the marked crosswalk. I dearly hope she didn’t see the truck before it hit her.
Now when I talk to her, I know she hears me. There is no chasm between us; we dispensed with that while she was still in this world. I know for certain sure, as my mother used to say, that P. now knows more about God than I do.
Now when I talk to her, it’s with a sense of awe. You’re there, P., where we always knew you would be. Give Reid a hug from me, and my brother, and my parents—all my loved ones. And give me a nudge—please!—if you ever think there’s something I should know.
