The "Myra" character in a few of my dad's stories was the alter ego of my mother. But there are many facts of the character's life history that are changed within the story. And of course, romance was not something I ever saw between them, so I cannot vouch one way or the other for the historicity of the expressions here.
Myra is not always subtle. There is a particular aura about her when she is about to make an announcement I know I will not like. Now I do not mean to suggest that she takes on an unpleasant mien on these occasions. On the contrary, she is usually at her most charming and accommodating self, at which point, my radar signals danger.
There was, on this occasion, the martini glass frosted to perfection that she filled after brushing my cheek with a pre-emptory kiss; a bottle of Chianti wine sat prominently between two very long candles on the dining table; and the air was suspiciously redolent with her scent--a favorite of mine that I had given her last Christmas.
There are many things a man learns after seven years of marriage. One of these is proper demeanor--restraint, an iron will not to express surprise one way or the other, or body movement that can be stored material for future conjugal discussions. Men remember nothing in the inevitable jousts of marriage, but women remember everything. I asked no questions and simply waited for the inevitable. It came:
"Tempest is coming to spend Christmas with us," she said, casually, after sipping her wine with an unusual display of elegance.
For those of you of adult status, I need not record here the details of our further dialogue on the matter. Suffice it to say, for purposes of this story, that Myra retained her elegant social demeanor. I did not, but she won.
The next matter was a discussion of a proper gift for Tempest, and the little time left to shop for one. Christmas was just one day ahead.
I must say that I never did understand the relationship between Myra and Tempest. They were roommates at the University. This was a period of a natural succession of their childhood friendship, and their elementary and high school period of bonding.
Tempest was the maid of honor at our wedding. We had double dated before the wedding, and it was apparent that there was a kind of Damon and Pythias friendship between them.
The last time I saw Tempest was at my wedding. She was lovely, assured, and aggressive.
Certainly she demonstrated the last with her comment and subsequent action.
"Everyone wants to kiss the bride," she exclaimed loudly, "but I've decided to kiss the groom."
This she did, and I recall that it was efficiently done and slightly more than friendly.
Myra did not mention the event until perhaps three years later. I do not recall the words or the reason for the recollection. It seems, as Myra remembered it, that I had invited the act.
"Well," she said, " you certainly seemed to be enjoying it."
The distaff mind is a labyrinth best left unexplored.
I do not wish to be casual about my wife's relationships. Myra was adopted at birth. She an find, therefore, rejection in a glance.
Over the past seven years, there had been desultory responses from Tempest to the many letters Myra wrote. She could not understand the silence, the casual rejection.
"We were so close, like sisters. I don't understand," she confided to me, many times.
"But Myra," I would say, "She's been ministering to three husbands. This calls for full attention."
Myra did not care for my levity. She cried.
There was great joy when she received a call from the East Coast. She and Tempest were on the phone for several hours. I do not know the substance of this conversation, but it was a great catharsis. Myra was happy and reassured. She did not explain. I did not ask. Nor did she tell me that it was at this time the invitation for Christmas was engendered.
"Is she coming with one of her husbands," I asked.
"She's coming alone, wise guy, and we have no time to buy her a gift."
"Let's take her out for a fancy, dress-up dinner," I said.
Myra cried. There is no proper male response to tears.
"What about something of yours," I said, "a bottle of that French perfume. Perhaps that cameo with the silver neck chain I bought and you didn't like?"
"Great!" she exclaimed. "I have the original box and we can wrap it up for Christmas." She giggled like a delighted child.
Tempest got her gift and the fancy dinner. I must remark here that seven years and three husbands had little if any erosive effect on the allure she exuded at my wedding. The cameo was a perfect adjunct to her evening gown.
Myra said she still did not like it. "It was your idea," she reminded me quietly. There was no logic in the statement. At least to me.
I knew, however, that I would hear of the matter again, perhaps in a year or two.
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