Learn to Say No

Thirty minutes outside Philadelphia --

My heart was pounding as I entered her driveway and drove the short distance to her house snuggled in among the trees.

It was dark as I parked my car and got out, wondering for the first time if I shouldn’t be here.

After all, it was a blind date.

I remember her saying in our first telephone "interview" that she lived in a country-style farmhouse. It had a two-car garage, sat in the center of a 2 ½ acre lot, she said, surrounded by approximately fifty other so-called suburbanites. Oh yes, affluent suburbanites, she said. I do remember that.

I can’t testify, however, to them all being affluent since I only met one and that was a couple on her left as you faced the house. I later learned he had good job so I guess they would be considered "affluent." I would later remember him shirtless, often in the springtime, manicuring his suburban estate atop his tractor mower.

Feeling the cold winds of mid-winter and not being able to contain myself any longer, I made my way to the front door to see what prize was awaiting me.

The two front door lights were on, so she was expecting me.

After a brief hesitation, I knocked. The door opened and there she was.

She was dressed in a V-neck, navy blue dress extending to just below the knees. She invited me in so I went in. I could see she was tall, nicely – shaped with dark brown hair resting just a few inches about her neck. She was everything my friend had described her to be and I was delighted, to say the least.

After a short exchange of hellos and self-imposed introductions, she took my coat, walked the length of the hallway, opened the closet door and hung it up.

She came back, took my hand and led me into the living room. There we sat and talked, beginning what was to be a long, exciting and intimate relationship - one that would excite us both over the next six- and-a-half years.

It would expose me for the first time to a person having acute alcoholism, and trying to help fight it without success.

It was a relationship that would force me to see my girlfriend become involved with another man, and watch her manipulate each of us independently of the other – like yo-yos on a string.

And it was a relationship which I tried a dozen times to end, only to find myself praying that the telephone would ring and she would invite me back.

But that was far in the future.

That first night, she asked me if I cared for something to drink. I said, "I’ll have what you have." With that, she got up and started for the kitchen. I said, "Let me help." Attempting to follow her, she suddenly stopped and said, "The kitchen is off limits."

I sat back down wondering why the kitchen was "off limits." I was later to learn why.

Waiting for her to return, I glanced around the living room. We were sitting in two identical occasional chairs, with yellow matching slipcovers. In between was a small round knee-high table used for coffee servings, ashtrays and holding a small flower vase.

In the center of the wall to the right was a huge fireplace. It looked as if it hadn’t been used recently, but was more for decoration and show. I later learned another fireplace just off the kitchen in the family room was where the "action" took place.

The mantel over the living room fireplace had one brass candlestick holder at each end. Occupying the corner next to the fireplace was a piano.

Salome, I learned via our introductions, was an accomplished pianist. She graduated from the Berklee School of Music and Performing Arts in Boston, and while there had given several recitals at the Berklee Performance Center.

I was impressed and told her so.

To the left of the piano was a green, large-leafed tree like plant approximately six feet tall. She said it required little water and didn’t grow much. I think it was probably root-bound and needed a larger pot. But I didn’t say anything.

A domestic oriental carpet showing some wear covered the floor, although it was not wall to wall.

As I continued to glance around the room, she suddenly appeared, carrying two glasses of wine on a tray. After offering me mine, she sat down and we started talking.

I found it difficult keeping my eyes off of her. She was, I thought, a beautiful woman.

As she sipped her wine, she pulled out a cigarette, lit it and offered one to me, which I refused.

Our conversation consisted mainly of our backgrounds. First me, talking about my work as an accountant. I soon found myself telling her about my marriage and subsequent divorce, and the difficult time I had coping with it. I told her it still bothered me. She didn’t mention her divorce, although I knew she had gone through one. Instead she talked at length about her two daughters, Faye and Priscilla, and her mother.

Glancing at my watch, I saw it approaching 10:30 PM. Looking at her, I got up and said, "I must leave." She said, "Why it’s still early." I told her of my early morning church commitment and this being Saturday I had to rehearse. I was an Episcopal Church chalice bearer and lay reader, and without some prior preparation, would be a "sitting duck." She seemed to understand.

She got up and got my coat. At the front door, we said good night, and I left.

Looking at the moon, while driving home, I wondered if I missed an opportunity by not kissing her, and thinking that maybe she wanted me to. Some expect it and some don’t, but as I drove on, I said to myself, "We’ll see, after all, it’s only the first date."

The next day, about noon, the phone rang. It was her. She wanted to see me again. We made dinner plans for the weekend. I once again was looking forward to seeing her.

That Sunday morning, I thought I read exceptionally well. Maybe it was because of my new-found "acquaintance." I even found myself saying a little prayer for her and as I took the sacrament from the priest-in-charge, and later the chalice filled with wine, making my way to the altar rail, stopping in front of each parishioner and saying, "The Blood of Christ, the Cup of Salvation."

Yes, after that, I knew I had performed exceptionally well.

The week began slow and uneventful, had it not been for the onrush of the tax season. It was my time of the year. Appointments, telephone ringing, deadlines to meet – an accountant’s dream. I was all set for it and had an excellent resource of clients.

Preparing tax returns was like doing a jigsaw puzzle. I couldn’t wait to get to the bottom line. Even my clients were amazed at the results and often slipped me a year-end bonus. I was good and they knew it.

Each morning, I would drive to my office in the Hall Building. Greet my secretary, sit behind my desk all day and work on a bunch of figures.

Some people would think it boring, but of course, they weren’t accountants. Besides, I enjoyed my work. It was helping people in