My Memories of Liz

The first great love of my life, and I’ve only had two, was a woman in San Angelo, Texas named Liz Marquis. She was going by the name of Liz Honea when I first met her, and that was the name she took back after her brief marriage to that smooth-talking self-indulgent viper, Roger. I met her in the same way I met one of my oldest and best friends, Mike Breen, through our work on a play at the San Angelo Civic Theatre, “Dial M for Murder.” I played a British detective; Mike played a would-be murderer who was himself killed; Liz was nominally part of the crew, but mainly she was just hanging out. When we first met, she told me how much she enjoyed my performance in another play, “Night Watch,” in which I played an over the top gay gossip columnist in a performance that would just not be acceptable today. Naturally that endeared her to me, and we struck up a friendship. She thought I was hilarious; as a result, I thought she was wise and insightful.  That friendship and endearment later developed into my full-fledged infatuation with her, an infatuation that later developed into a deep, true love. She was my first true love; I think she loved me back.

Hardly a week has passed since she died in 1981 that I have not thought about her. She was a plain woman, and tall for her sex. She was not beautiful. She was five or six years older than I and her body had started to spread out just enough to be soft and full and…sexy. Sometimes I feel guilty thinking about how I loved her. Feeling guilty is my default setting, of course, but it seems somehow disloyal to Carol to be carrying a torch after all these years. To be clear: Carol is the woman I married, and she is the universe to me; “I am quite contented nowadays to have joined my life with [hers].” But I can’t help it: every time I think of Liz, which, as I’ve said, is often, my old passion and, let’s be honest, lust comes back to me as strong or even stronger than when we parted in 1979.

I really can’t say why I fell in love with her or why I stayed in love with her through thick and thin. She was never “my girl” in the sense that we shared romance—romance always seemed tantalizingly just out of reach. We never had sex although God knows I wanted to—we came awfully close a time or two. She was a failed human being in many ways, or maybe just the victim of a lifetime of bad luck. She was married and divorced three times. She was poor as a church mouse. She was self-effacing and humble to a fault—somewhere along the line virtually all of her self-confidence had been beaten out of her. She was a sucker for a certain sort of sweet-talkin’ confidence man, slender and oh-so-charming (Which, I guess, is one major reason that we never went to bed.  Being fat has prevented me from so many sexual liaisons. Not only has it made me unattractive to women, it has put my self-esteem in the gutter along with Liz’s. In fact, my guess is that I never would have landed Carol if I hadn’t lost a lot of weight in the Fall-Winter of 1979-80. On the other hand, my involuntary near-celibacy kept me safe from sexually transmitted diseases and paternity claims. It’s an ill wind…) But she was smart and funny, and she liked me—really liked me. She loved me after her fashion, and I think that despite my size she would have eventually married me, which was my heartfelt desire, had things turned out differently, i.e., if Carol hadn’t come along or Liz hadn’t died.

We spent a lot of time together. Much of the time we were alone together at her mother’s lake house, but mostly we were together with the members of our ka-tet (see Stephen King’s Dark Tower books). Before her ill-fated marriage to the rank and evil son-of-a-bitch Roger and ill-fated sojourn to California, we were both a part of a group-of-five that consisted of folks who had the Civic Theatre in common: me, Liz, Roger (whom I liked before I discovered what a pathological narcissist he was), Mike Breen who was my best friend and who remains one of my two best friends (and, to his credit, was the first among us to see through his Roger's  “mellow” new-age persona), and a woman whose name I can’t remember (Diane? Diana?), who was a sergeant in the Air Force and Roger’s girlfriend before he grew tired of her and decided to prey on the vulnerable Liz instead.

1977 was a magical year for me, right up until I moved to Oregon to live with Mike there. The five of us did virtually everything together. We were together constantly, usually smoking vast quantities of Mexican dirt weed (Back then, you had to smoke a lot if you wanted to get high.) and listening to music—usually on the sound system, but sometimes Mike—a gifted singer/songwriter/guitar player) would sing for us some of the songs he had written and some covers (Liz and I both were taken with his rendition of Paul Simon’s “Duncan.”). I was living with Mike at the time (sharing a house, that is, lest ye get the wrong impression) at a place we dubbed “Baxter’s” after the Jefferson Airplane album. You know that Fleetwood Mac album that sold so many copies back then? “Rumors?” (That was the one that in retrospect was nothing more than a formulaic collection of ten three-minute tunes strung together, each designed for maximum commercial appeal. It seemed as if each song was only included after extensive focus-group testing.) It was the virtual soundtrack of my year. I still enjoy listening to that album, hackneyed and trite though it may be. 

I was constantly following after Liz and thought I was in love with her that summer (it wasn’t until the next year that I learned to truly love her), but she only had eyes—sexual eyes, anyway—for fuckin’ Roger. He could be a seductive bastard. The fact that she wasn’t very modest and had a casual attitude about how much skin she showed, practically never wearing a brassiere, only fueled my horniness. I did a lot of jacking off back then, and most of it was while I was thinking about her. Even now she sometimes comes up in my fantasies. But it wasn’t just her appearance that made her seductive to me. As I have mentioned, her appearance was plain—no one except someone who was—or thought he was—in love with her would have called her beautiful. She had lived a hard life, and it was starting to show. (Having said that, I do want to emphasize that she was not unattractive by any means.) She never seemed preoccupied with her appearance, the way so many of us seem to be. She used little or no makeup. She wore her hair in a practical short cut, and she always dressed as though she had come straight from Goodwill, but tastefully. She seemed unconcerned about her appearance and seemed to have no qualms about appearing in public in her bathing suit. No, it was not her looks, per se, that won my heart, though she had a dazzling smile: it was the way she carried herself with her soft aura of sensuality and affect of vulnerability (I was to learned that she didn’t just appear vulnerable—she really was vulnerable). And, despite the chaos that was her life, she always seemed centered, an act, of course. And she always made me feel like the most important person in the world when she was with me (Was that an act?). She was kind and generous. She was the world to me.

She wasn’t afraid of intimacy and touching me. She was very sensual—not overtly sexual (not with me, anyway)—but we kissed each other frequently and held each other in our arms. Full body hugs were routine, and sometimes we would just sit across from each other and explore each other’s face, gently outlining our lips, chin, jawline, forehead. How I craved her touch!

She loved sitting in the candle light, listening to music. At night, we would switch from “Rumors” to an album by a band I’ll bet you never heard of but that we loved: American Flyer. I loved that album. Years later I found a CD of it: I treasure it and listen to it , growing melancholy, every now and then. Or maybe we’d listen to that Eagles album that contained “Lyin’ Eyes.”

She married that devious Fritz Perls-loving bastard Roger and moved with him to California, not very long before I pulled up stakes and went to live with Mike in Oregon. After a couple of months of sponging off Mike’s kind and generous parents, I decided I couldn’t hack it and moved back home, tail between my legs. I got a job on the night shift at the San Angelo Center (for the adult mentally retarded) and proceeded to mark time, waiting, I suppose, to grow up.

But in the Late Fall or early Winter, word somehow came to me that Liz was back from California—without the sociopath. I called my friend Carol Price, whom Liz adored, and asked her if it was true what I had heard and, if so, if she thought Liz would want to see me. Carol replied that it was true and that Liz had told her that she would love to see me. I called her that very day, and we got together.

Between that day and the day I left San Angelo to attend law school in Austin, we spent at least some time together almost every day. It was during that period I realized that what had been mere infatuation on my part had evolved to mature love, and, on reflection, I believe she came to love me, too. There is nothing—nothing—that feels as fine as loving and being loved in return. I know that I was the most constant friend she ever had. Nobody—not her mother, not her father, not any of her husbands—gave her the kind of unconditional love and support that I gave her. Well, maybe her children.

It was unconditional--really, unconditional--love that I offered her, and it was unconditional love and support that she needed. There were things I longed for, but I never asked anything of her.  She was emotionally worn out and frail. I like to think that’s why I didn’t press her, but it was probably because I was a coward. I'm certainly not made of the stuff of nobility. As I said, she returned from California a broken woman. Liz would never speak of it, but I learned from Carol Price that the Beast Roger had physically beaten her. I learned, too, that Liz had become pregnant and lost the baby. Carol didn’t know for sure, but from comments Liz made, Carol believed she lost the baby as the result of Roger’s battery.

At any rate, for nine months or so, Liz and I were best of friends. We had lunch together, dinner together, and went to the park together. We had long talks—some substantive, others frivolous. We took in a movie from time to time. We held hands a lot. We kissed—not makeout kisses, but serious for all that. The one thing we didn’t do together was have sex. I didn’t even try. I wonder if she thought that strange? But I just couldn’t bring myself to push the issue. Instead, we became soul mates. I wanted to marry her, but I never asked. I think she would have said yes, but maybe I’m just kidding myself. (I do that a lot.) I wanted to spend my life with her more than I had ever wanted anything. But then I went to law school; Liz and I didn’t drift apart, exactly, but we were no longer together. I met Carol and found that I could love another while still being love with Liz. I took Carol to meet her, kind of like taking her home to meet my parents. I was so happy when they hit it off.

Carol and I were married in March, 1981. We went home to San Angelo for Christmas, returning to Austin on December 26. On December 27, my mother called with the news that Liz was dead. I found out later that she died in a hotel room in Lubbock after being treated that day at the emergency room. I never found out what her illness was. Mother called because she had seen the funeral notice in the paper; it was too late to get to San Angelo for the funeral, but I drove to her mother’s ranch in Mertzon in the freezing weather to find her children, by themselves in a mobile home, calmly making their dinner. Little Rachal Honea told me that she was glad I had come because she knew there was “something special” between Liz and me and Liz had often spoken of me fondly. I stayed awhile in silence.  I could find no words to say. Then went out to my car. It was a half-hour or more before my tears dried enough for me to drive. I feel so disloyal to Carol, now, as I relate my feelings of sorrow, but a person gets only one first love, and I think Carol understands.

I wonder what would have become of us had I stayed in San Angelo and married Liz or if she had moved to Austin with me. Or if I had stayed and things had just continued as they were. Perhaps we would have been happy. I know we would have been happy for a while. I may be kidding myself, but I truly believe I gave her the happiest days she knew. But she was a sad woman, and I am essentially a sad man. My guess is that, in the end, our sadness would have won out and we would have parted. Our last real moment together came the night before I left for Austin as we stood outside and she kissed me more fiercely than I have ever been kissed. For a golden moment we were each other’s universe. I will never forget the taste of her mouth and the warmth of her body. I will never forget her kindness or her friendship. I will always feel her loss.

Twelve hours or so since I posted this,and now I'm sort of regretting it. Second guessing myself all over the place. What if our relationship, from her point of view, wasn't at all as I've described it? What if she thought I was ridiculous? What if she thought I was some sort of stalker or emotional leech and was just being nice to me? Shit. This always happens after I post something. Writer's remorse. I should be happy that no one ever reads this thing, except I know at least two people--good friends--have read it, because I sent it to them. I hope they.re not laughing up their sleeves at me.

Help Wanted

I need a prayer partner. I am not looking for a spiritual director. I may need a spiritual director, but the thought of being in any sort of hierarchical relationship, even one so benign as spiritual direction, leaves me cold. I do not want to sit at the feet of a mentor. I do not want to feel obligated to report back or turn in “homework” assignments. I don’t want to talk about spirituality—I do, really, but in another context—I want to do spirituality. I simply want a relationship with a person with whom I can meet—every week or more often if it should develop that way—as an equal partner and, keeping chit chat to a minimum, hold hands and just pray. I don’t want to be a student; I do not want to be a teacher; I just want to pray with another pilgrim. Aloud. Back and forth as moved by the Holy Spirit. I want a friend with whom I can experience God in a way that I never can alone.

Praying together, however, is such an intimate thing. It takes trust, and I don’t know of anyone who would trust me enough to share the experience of God. I have known a few such people—Shelley Wagener, my old pastor, and Amy Adams, my old friend, for example—but now, I just don’t know. I have a friend out in Texas with whom I would like to pray, but I don’t bring it up because I know that she is intensely private about her spirituality.

So I wander, breathlessly, experiencing God as I can, always trying to live in a state of grace. It is so hard.