T R I C I A

It was in the Field Museum of Natural History that I first set eyes on her. We had agreed to meet at the entrance to the Egyptian exhibit, which was currently on display there. "Excuse me, Miss, but is your name Patricia K.?" I queried as I ambled up to an anxious-looking lady who bore a strong resemblance to the snapshot I had received in the mail months ago.

"Donald? Is that you?" she responded, her eyes suddenly animated.

"None other," I beamed.

There was a moment's hesitation as we stood gazing at each other, each of us drinking in the visual aspect of a person we had known for years, yet had never met face to face. The photo had been a good one, but it didn't do her justice. It hadn't captured the sparkle of her eyes, and the liveliness of her smile; nor had it shown those tiny "care" lines, that women seem to fret so much about, yet are the inevitable mark of maturity. Oddly, I had never given much thought to what she might look like; but now that she was standing before me, alive and radiant, I had no complaints whatsoever.

Then she stepped forward and reached out to me. I took her in my arms and gave her a hug that was brief, yet sincere.

Tricia and I had "met" electronically two years before, on a national computer dial-up network. I was at that time a widower, having lost my wife to cancer three years earlier. Being something of a computer enthusiast, I had recently become interested in the world of computer networking, in which hobbyists from across the country and around the world interact with each other via computer messages, simply by dialing into one of the major main-frame networks.

I had been in the "chat" mode of my favorite network for an hour or so one evening, when I chanced upon another system user, a lady, who was obviously distressed. She had just received the news that her closest friend was to be permanently transferred to a job in a country half-way around the world. And, as she pointed out, her mood was not improved by the nagging fact that she had turned forty only the month before. We "talked" for a couple of hours, using keyboard and video display as most people use a telephone receiver.

Tricia was a divorcee of about four years, well educated, and a career woman. She was also, as it turned out, like me, a trifle eccentric, and we were pleasantly astonished to find we had a striking number of interests in common. And so during the next several months we met regularly "on-line." She eventually recovered from the hurt of losing her former comrade, and we became good friends.

Unfortunately, circumstances precluded our meeting physically. The obstacle presented by the fact I lived and worked near Pittsburgh and she in Sacramento might not have been insurmountable, had not both of us had very demanding work schedules and previous commitments for precious summer vacation time. And so we contented ourselves with weekly keyboard "dates" via the computer network, supplemented by occasional long-distance calls, and letters via conventional "snail" mail.

And it came to pass during one of our regular electronic chats that I told her of my boss's intention to send me to Chicago for a couple of weeks in July on business. I had expected her to respond to this news in her usual calm manner. But instead of the anticipated casual questions and comments about my upcoming trip, I was barraged by a solid line of exclamation marks!

"What's wrong, Trish?" I typed. "Don't worry! It's only for two weeks, and I'll take my portable 'puter along so we can stay in touch."

After a seemingly interminable pause, her reply scrolled onto my screen, "Nothing wrong. Everything is RIGHT!"

"What the hell are you talking about?" I demanded.

Another pause. Then, "I'm supposed to fly to Chicago for a seminar the fourth week in July!"

Although at ten o'clock in the evening Tricia was bright and alert, three time zones away my brain wasn't functioning all that well at one in the morning. "I don't see what difference that makes," I returned, "since I'll be there the second and third weeks, but not the fourth."

"Don't you see, you idiot?" she shot back. "I'm supposed to fly to Chicago on Monday morning, but I'm going to tell my boss I need time off from work the Friday before my trip to take care of personal matters. What I won't tell her is that those 'personal matters' will entail little more than catching an early flight to O'Hare on Friday afternoon. We're going to have the weekend together!"

And so it was that two close friends, who had never seen each other until a few moments earlier, found themselves wandering through the tomb of Tutankhamen on a Saturday afternoon, talking with each other as if they had been acquainted all their lives.

"This may sound strange after just experiencing such a morbid display," I remarked as we exited the exhibit, "but I could use a bite to eat. I was so nervous about meeting you I skipped breakfast and lunch."

"You've got company, chum!" she grinned back. "I'm so hungry I could swallow a sphinx!"

The museum's cafeteria was crowded and noisy. People were waiting in line for the better part of an hour to buy diminutive, over-cooked hot-dogs and watered-down soft drinks. "This is atrocious!" she fumed, after a moment of sizing up the situation. "Don, do you have a car?"

I nodded. Residing only a day's drive from "the windy city," I had elected to chauffeur myself, rather than subject my person and luggage to the insult and injury inherent in the mechanics of being processed by a couple of airline terminals. It was a hot, humid day, so we kept the car windows closed and turned on the air conditioner. Tricia acted as navigator, directing me into the labyrinth of The Loop. She was obviously searching for something in particular.

"Stop here," she ordered suddenly.

"But there's no place to park," I protested.

"You don't have to, silly," she winked, as she stepped out of the car. "Just drive around the block, and pick me up."

As I glanced into the rear-view mirror before turning at the next traffic light, I glimpsed my pixie-like friend darting between two buildings and disappearing into the bowels of downtown Chicago.

The traffic signals in that city are very unfriendly — no, they're downright hostile! It must have taken me almost twenty minutes to drive around one block, and I was beginning to wonder seriously whether I would ever see Tricia again. As I anxiously waited for the light to change, so I could make my final turn onto the street where I had left her, I heard a rap on the window. My pixie had emerged from an obscure passageway with a picnic basket so big she had to use both hands to carry it. I popped the lock on the rear door, so she could dump the basket onto the back seat.

"What kept you?" she giggled as she slid into the front passenger seat and fastened her safety belt.

"Oh, I was just taking my time, looking at all the pretty women," I said, emphasizing the word "pretty."

Her response was a solid jab to my shoulder that would have sent us careening into oncoming traffic, had we not been stopped for yet another of those ubiquitous red lights.

"Now shut up and do as mamma says," she commanded. "Turn right at the next light, and again at the next one. Then drive straight for five blocks, and then turn left."

I shut up and did as mamma said. Miraculously, in just a few minutes we found ourselves on Lake Shore Drive, headed north. We were, I perceived, headed back toward the neighborhood of the Field Museum. We were almost there when she said, "Make a right here."

"Where are we going?" I asked.

"Into the lake," she answered dryly.

We were moving along what appeared to be a causeway, heading directly toward a domed building at the tip of a man-made peninsula that jutted perhaps a little less than half a mile into Lake Michigan. As we got nearer, I recognized the building.

"The Adler Planetarium?" I said. "Under ordinary circumstances I'd agree, but I'm famished!"

"Don't fret, love. I'm as starved as you are. We're not going into the planetarium; we're only going to borrow their nice lawn."

I spotted a vacant parking space and guided my Toyota into it.

We had staked our claim to a spot on the grassy bank overlooking the water. Though it had been oppressively warm in the city, the brisk north-easterly breeze from the lake made it significantly cooler here, so we had chosen a spot that was sunny, yet somewhat sheltered from the wind. We had spread the blanket that I kept in the trunk of my car, and set the basket and ourselves on it to anchor it. Both ravenously hungry, for a while we gave little thought to anything except gorging ourselves on the cold chicken, dark bread and several varieties of cheese Tricia had procured downtown.

After we had reduced the chicken to bones, she watched with exaggerated interest as I carved the cheese into bite-size chunks with my small pocket knife. "I see you're not the type of guy to brag about having the biggest blade in town," she teasingly remarked, a wry smile playing across her face.

"No, the blade might not be a prize-winner," I grinned, "but if used with a modicum of skill and finesse, it can be quite effective." Her lips parted as if to laugh, and I quickly stuffed a bit of Gouda between them. "Umm-humm!" she agreed. I grabbed a ripe piece of Vermont's finest for myself.

"Care for something to wash that down?" she asked presently, extracting a bottle of Chardonnay from the picnic basket.

"I hope you brought a corkscrew," I mumbled around the morsel of cheddar, as she handed me the bottle.

"Of course. And these," she returned, producing the required implement, and two long-stemmed glasses, from the basket. "I used to be a Cub Scout," she grinned. She studied my befogged expression for a moment, her bright eyes sparkling with merriment. "Den mother," she clarified, bursting into laughter at my puzzled stare.

And so, after we had transferred the edible contents of the basket to our stomachs, and had stuffed the wrappings back into the basket for later disposal, we lay there on the bank, enjoying the breeze and sipping the remainder of the wine. Someone farther down the slope was playing a radio, tuned to an "oldies" station. Trish and I talked about our childhood adventures, college days, and our lives as young marrieds and as parents. We laughed, we touched, we shed a few tears.

She told me how, after fifteen years, she and her husband had finally decided to end their strained marriage and go their separate ways; her compelling lifelong desire to pursue a career was fundamentally incompatible with the "simple housewife" role that her mate had wanted her to accept. And I told her about that gray October afternoon when my wife, a cigarette addict since the age of eighteen, had come home from a visit to her doctor, bearing the news about the deadly spot on the x-ray.

Tricia told me about her cat's decision to have her kittens in the clothes dryer. I reciprocated with the tale of my son's unnerving experience crossing a railroad trestle. We had already covered this territory before, by computer, but somehow it seemed fresh and new when shared face to face.

We must have talked for hours. When we finally decided to head back to the car, the sun had dipped behind the Chicago skyline. "Wait, Donald," she whispered, putting her hand on my shoulder and pointing westward to the fiery glare behind the silhouetted buildings. I put my arm around her shoulders, and she slipped hers around my waist, as we watched the fire gradually turn from orange to crimson, and then to purple. I squeezed her tenderly, and pecked her lightly on the forehead. She leaned her head against my shoulder. The dark towers were becoming speckled with artificial light, and bright Venus shone above them when we finally trudged back to where we had parked. "I'll drop you at your hotel," I said as we loaded the basket into the car.

"I'm not ready to go back to my room just yet," she objected. "After sitting for so long I need to move around a bit. What do you say we take a stroll on the beach first?" I needed no coaxing. Since neither of us had thought to bring a jacket or sweater for our outing, we decided to take the blanket along, in case it got chilly before we returned. Remembering our shared interest in classical music, I opened the trunk of the car and pulled out a portable radio. "We can have a little entertainment during our stroll." Tricia smiled and nodded her approval. As I switched it on, WFMT was playing the final bars of one of the Brandenburgs. When the announcer proclaimed that the next piece to be played was the Dumbarton Oaks Concerto, I cocked my head and asked, "Is 'Igor the Terrible' too violent for your tender, innocent ears?"

"Not at all!" she laughed. "A lot of people hate what they think of as Stravinsky's modernism, but I find him fascinating. Granted, most of his melodies aren't particularly hummable, but he was a true classicist in every other sense of the word."

And so, having locked the car, we made our leisurely way west along the causeway, back toward the city. Upon reaching the mainland, we ducked behind the aquarium and headed for Grant Park. Finally finding our way to the foot of the embankment, we kicked off our shoes and walked northward along the narrow, deserted strand at the water's edge. Though the breeze was moderately cool, its intensity had slackened considerably after sunset; and the sand still retained much of its daytime heat, so we were quite comfortable. I had turned the radio's volume down, preferring for the moment to listen to the gentle music of the lake as its waves caressed the shore. I took Tricia's hand in mine, and we walked in silence for some time.

Absorbed in our own thoughts, and in each other, we hadn't noticed the rising of the moon until we were about to turn back toward the car. When we finally did catch sight of her, Luna was almost ten degrees of arc above the eastern horizon, casting her reflection across the shimmering waters of the lake. "Let's sit down and watch it for a few minutes, Trish" I suggested. "I could use a little breather before walking back."

She was in complete agreement. So we located a spot where the breeze was only a whisper, spread our blanket, and sat down to watch the pale globe's majestic ascent into heaven's deep blue vault. As we rested, Tricia shivered slightly in the night air, and snuggled close to me. I turned up the radio volume a bit, and together we savored Rachmaninov's "Paganini Rhapsody."

As the final variation came to its whimsical conclusion, I found I was then no more eager to begin the trek back than I had been when we had first sat down. For some reason, sitting there quietly with Tricia, I found myself possessed by a soothing inner peace that I had not known for years — if ever. But I was concerned that Trish might be tiring of our moon-vigil. As I started to get to my feet I felt the touch of her hand on my arm. I looked toward her. She didn't speak, but something in her eyes told me that she too was feeling that same deep contentment that I was experiencing. Yes, we would stay a while longer!

There is something utterly spellbinding about the sight of the moon over water, when shared with someone special. Perhaps, had we wanted to, we could have broken the spell at that moment. But when, from the radio, the Prelude to "Tristan und Isolde" began to blend its own murmuring magic with that of moonlight and waves, we lay back and yielded helplessly, happily, to its overpowering enchantment.

Presently I forced my eyes away from the hypnotic lunar sphere. I propped myself up on one elbow, and looked over at Tricia. Her breast rose and fell with the rhythm of the waves, and in her eyes sparkled the reflection of Luna's serenity. I was drawn to that sparkle, and gazed deeply into those captivating orbs. And then I bent over her, my lips drawn to hers. For the first time I tasted the sweet wine of her kiss. Then she put her arms around my neck, drew me down to her, and we both drank deeply of that intoxicating elixir.

Our lovemaking was intense yet unhurried, a spontaneous union of two spirits that had lived, it seemed, for this one moment. On the radio, Wagner's "Love-Death" swelled passionately to its rapturous climax. Twice we climbed the peaks of ecstasy, and twice our souls melted and fused. And then we lay there in the moonlight, sighing, exhausted, clasped in each other's arms, drifting slowly into blissful slumber.

I am not awake yet, but in the air about me there is a coolness that is dragging my reluctant spirit toward consciousness. I do not know whether the images so fresh in my mind are real, or whether I have merely dreamed them in my own bed. All I know is that, if this is only a dream, I want to spend the rest of my life in it. When I awaken, I will die if there isn't sand between my toes.

=SAJ=