Stranger at the Door. Laura Abbot
throat convulsed as I pictured the motherless boy emotionally abandoned by his father.
“I was angry. At God. At my mother. And especially at my father. If it hadn’t been for Lloyd, I don’t know what I’d have done.”
“Lloyd?”
“My brother. Four years younger than me. I, uh, kinda took care of him. For sure, nobody else did.”
Nothing in my experience had prepared me to imagine a ten-year-old burdened by such adult responsibilities.
“I’m sorry,” was the best I could muster.
“Hell.” He gathered me close, his blue eyes fastened on mine. “Maybe you’re my reward. In that case, it was worth every minute.”
Sam had touched my heart in a way I hadn’t thought possible. From that moment I understood Grandmama’s advice in a whole new way. By passion, she had meant so much more than physical attraction. She’d meant the mysterious, inexplicable connection that binds two people together despite their differences.
There were two Sams I came to know that weekend in Atlanta. The self-assured young man doing what he loved—flying planes—and the vulnerable little boy whose devotion to his brother tugged at my heartstrings.
How could I not love them both?
Breckenridge, Colorado
IT’S TIME TO PUT down the journal for the night. Indulging in memories, I’m surprised to realize it’s past my bedtime. Clouds are gathering, and when I close the deck door off the bedroom, I smell hints of winter in the crisp air. Almost without thinking, I pull one of Sam’s faded chamois shirts from the closet, cloaking myself in the softness of the fabric, his familiar scent bringing him close. Sam. I can’t wrap my mind around his unfaithfulness or his out-of-hand rejection of his son. But, despite everything, I miss him.
In bed, Orville nestles beside me, purring contentedly, and my thoughts drift as I feel my eyes close. A shrill ringing drags me back to full consciousness. Groggy, I glance at the clock: 1:10 a.m. I grab the phone. “Hello?”
“It’s me, Iz.”
“Sam, are you all right?”
“I knew I’d wake you. But—” and here I sense his internal struggle “—I needed to hear your voice.”
Irritation and relief war within me. He could’ve stayed home and listened to anything I might have said. Or maybe that was the problem—he would’ve heard more than he was ready to handle.
“Sam, I don’t know what to say. Unless you’re ready to talk about all of this.”
“I can’t.”
So here we are again. Sam stonewalling, not willing to share his emotions. I clutch the phone and sink back against the pillow. No words come to me.
“I shouldn’t have called. It’s late.”
“It’s okay.” Then in a halfhearted attempt to lighten the mood, I say, “What’s a wife for, anyway?”
Silence hums through the phone line.
I gather my courage. “Have you decided what you’re going to do?”
He waits a beat. “It’s not that easy.”
I want to scream across the miles. Instead I swallow my hurt and disappointment.
“Izzy…I’m so sorry. I don’t deserve you.”
My baser nature tends to agree with him, but that’s the part of me that fails to understand Sam is my world.
“The girls?”
I’m not up for casual conversation. “Both okay.”
“And you? How are you really?”
I bite my lip in irritation. “How do you think?”
“I’m sorry,” he says again.
In any marriage, there are the inevitable regrets, some more damaging than others. “I suppose you are,” is the best I can offer.
I’m only now aware of how much has been left unsaid between us through the years. It had become a habit to skate over the surface of our relationship rather than tend to the brittle hairline cracks.
“I’ll let you go now,” he says wearily. “But I couldn’t sleep without telling you one thing. No matter what, Izzy, I love you. I always have.” His voice breaks. “I always will.”
The phone goes dead before I can respond. Truthfully, I’m relieved. I wouldn’t have known what to say, but Sam’s final words remind me why I’m still here. Why I’m willing to wait for him.
Springbranch, Louisiana
1961
THE MORNING CAME FOR me to take the bus from Springbranch to join Sam in Tucson where he’d been assigned for advanced flight training. Mother fixed a big breakfast, slamming about the kitchen, banging pots and pans in thin-lipped disapproval. I was too young, then, to read hurt rather than anger in her jerky movements, too self-absorbed to put myself in her place and understand her worry. I don’t recall what, if anything, we said to one another, only that our communication was hopelessly strained.
I do, however, remember what my father said. Before he drove me to the bus station, he invited me into his study. Taking his customary place behind the desk, he gestured me to the armchair at his side. Before speaking, he removed his spectacles, cleaned the lenses with a crisply ironed white handkerchief and settled them back on his nose. “We don’t know your Sam,” he began. “Or his people. And that is upsetting to your mother.”
I waited, mute with the dread of disappointing him.
“But that’s not so important for me, because I do know you. You are kind and would not willingly inflict hurt. I have strived to teach you the importance of being true to yourself.” He looked intently at me. “Does this young man complete you?”
I managed a teary smile. “Yes, Daddy.”
“Love.” He said the word as if it were an enigma. “I believe it’s the most important thing in life.”
An overwhelming sadness crept over me. Had he ever known love in his own life?
In an apparent non sequitur, he continued. “How baffled Mr. Barrett must’ve been by the romance between his invalid daughter Elizabeth and the poet Robert Browning.” My father smiled wistfully. “But see how that turned out.”
He reached in a desk drawer and pulled out a small leather-bound volume. “May this gift be a constant reminder of the beauty and power of love.”
I took the book into my hands, caressing the soft brown leather as I read the title. Sonnets from the Portuguese. Elizabeth Barrett Browning.
“‘How do I love thee? Let me count the ways,’” my father began.
I joined him, a solemn promise passing between us. “‘I love thee to the depth and breadth and height my soul can reach…and, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death.’”
My father nodded in satisfaction. “I’m proud of you, Isabel, and wish you much happiness.”
My wonderful, quiet, unassuming father, unlike my mother, could let me go.
Davis-Monthan Air Force Base, Tucson, Arizona
Fall 1961
NAIVE? IDEALISTIC? BESOTTED? I was all of that the day I stepped off the bus and into the arms of my handsome, young husband and buried myself in his suntanned arms. Ever after, I’ve always found home in Sam’s sheltering embrace. That morning Sam had only enough time before reporting back to base to settle me in our one-bedroom, unair-conditioned apartment. And to make love to me in a brief, ecstatic reunion. Afterward, rolling onto his back, he pulled me close and whispered, “Until I met you,