perfect stranger

Perfect Stranger

Why do we use the term 'perfect stranger'? The one I'm thinking of was not so perfect. In fact, for years I have blamed this person for a major turning point in my life and this is my story. .
I was going to school and living in an off-campus apartment. I was old enough to take care of myself but still very naive about men, relationships and what a few drinks can do to one's better judgement. Ben was a blind date. He was studying for the ministry (of all things) and had just come back from his yearlong vicarage in California. He didn't know any girls in town so his brother gave him my phone number. It happens all the time, right? Well, he sounded nice enough over the phone, we met and when he opened the door to my place that first night, I was smitten. Tall, with dark, curly hair that framed a tan face. Nice smile. Clever opening banter. Hey, this could be THE ONE, I thought. We started dating regularly, so no, this is not the stranger you will eventually hear about.
To cut to the chase, I got pregnant. The night was balmy, we went to a jazz club in down town St. Louis, the music and drinks went to my head, we came back to my place and that's where it happened. I never planned it that way. The daughter of a Lutheran teacher with the son of a Lutheran pastor--only innocence could prevail. Wrong, that's exactly why it did happen. I was on the virginal wagon, it could never happen to me, I wouldn't let any sweet-talking guy knock me up. But, bam! There it was. And all I had to show for it was a red stain on my sheets which would take me a whole jug of Tide to get out. The sad part was, there was no joy in it. All that grunting and sweating and he was out of the apartment like lightning.
Of course, it only takes one time. I waited, Ben waited, no period came. I had even considered breaking off the relationship since I didn't feel comfortable with what had happened and how Ben had responded. But then, with the realization of a pregnancy, I panicked. Raise a child out of wedlock, no job, no income, no support, in a strange city? We've got to get married, I said, and Ben, after what seemed like endless consideration, finally agreed. The tough part was calling my parents. "Guess what? I've met the man of my dreams and we want to get married--soon!" I didn't have the nerve to mention the circumstances, only that we'd like a wedding before the year was out. My folks were floored, but the Lutheran in them softened the blow. What better life for their only daughter than to marry into a religious family and be married to a pastor. They would plan the wedding and try to cope with the mysterious urgency.
The expected nuptials took place in August and the following March our daughter was born. Then a second surprise occurred--Ben got a Fulbright to study in Germany. He was ecstatic, just what he wanted. A chance to study abroad. Maybe not with a family in tow, but we thought it could all work out. We were young, full of hope and optimism. We were both smart, successful students with our whole lives ahead of us. We would live the '60s American-bohemian dream in a small, quaint apartment in Europe. I would get a job in a library to help make ends meet and Ben would write his doctorate on Paul Tillich. In our minds, it could be bliss, maybe not so pure, but bliss nevertheless. Our baby was only seven months old when we sailed. I was 24 and the first German word I learned was "durchfal"--diarrhea--because she suffered with it throughout our passage across the ocean.
Now came the kicker. After four years and no thesis completed, Ben decided he could work better if I and our four-year-old went back to the states and lived with my parents. He would finish his work and return to us in the next few months. By this time, I was pregnant with our second child and flew with our daughter to St. Louis to await his return from Germany. Again, my parents met the challenge and took us into their home. But Ben didn't return as expected and one year later, after we had just celebrated his son's first birthday, the son he had never seen, I received a letter. He had had difficulty writing his thesis in German, had hired a woman translator, and, you guessed it, had fallen in love. Anyway, he had always felt trapped in our marriage, he wrote, and he wanted a divorce. True, the Other Woman was a stranger, but still, not the one I have in mind.
So much for the American dream. The arch had just been built in St. Louis. On my worst days, I contemplated jumping from it. On my best days, I was in denial. How could he do this to me and the two kids--just up and leave us? Surely he would get over this infatuation and come back to us. He would get a teaching job in a small university town in the US, we would raise our little son and daughter, and life would be beautiful again. I told no one about the letter and Ben's devastating proposal, probably hoping that would make it go away. Crumpling the blue sheet of airmail paper wet with tears, I disposed of it. I don't remember if I responded. What would I have said? Have a nice new life? I'll mail photos? Send lots of money?
Ben finally did return, but four years later, the divorce was complete. I got a job not far from my parents, rented a small apartment for me and the children, and tried to start over. Reluctantly, I went back into the dating scene--singles dances at church, a few blind dates set up by friends, parties at work. I didn't really like it.
That's when I met Gary. He was just back from Vietnam and still felt awkward about meeting people. As his eyes darted back and forth, I thought he seemed to be looking around for the enemy. He was the roommate of my best friend's fiance, so we double dated frequently. We didn't have a whole lot in common, but I was lonely, he was lonely. For a while, it was enough to keep us together. Then, I got restless. Surely there was someone out there who was more compatible, someone who liked kids and could accept a ready-made family--a teacher, maybe, or an artist or a writer. Gary actually talked about returning to Vietnam. Amazingly, he said he felt more at home there. He knew what was expected of him and he did it well. And here I was, against the war, and, had I been free to do it, a potential protester. I broke it off. Gary was hurt. He said he thought we both needed each other. Dejected, he went back to college in his hometown and my life stayed relatively the same.
The same, that is, until summer came, along with vacation time. I decided to drive out to Iowa with my children to visit relatives on the farm. This would be fun for them. My parents would go too, following in another car. A road trip, just like "Easy Rider"! Ah, I could already smell the wheat fields, the hay-filled barns, hear the squeals of pigs, the whinnies of horses, the churning of combines. It would be rejuvenating. Exactly what we all needed.
But there was a slight hitch. My dad had a former student friend he wanted to stop and see. He lived halfway and it would give us a short break from driving. I was agreeable. It made sense. Plans were made to meet him at a restaurant and have dinner together. We even shared a bottle of wine and laughed about former times in my dad's classroom. Then the friend invited us to stop and see his home, meet his wife and children. Again, we thought it would be interesting and we weren't that far from our destination. We could still make it by nightfall. I was to follow behind his red truck in my car as my dad, taking my son with him, trailed behind me.
We took what seemed like back roads--dusty, bumpy, gravel paths through unfamiliar territory. I squinted to keep sight of the bouncing truck ahead and gripped the wheel. Then he did something unexpected. He passed the car ahead of him. I couldn't see the red truck any longer. How would I find my way to his house? I had to keep up with him! I'd have to pass, too. Dust was billowing up around us, but I floored the gas pedal and pulled out into the other lane just as another car came toward me. I remember thinking, right before the crash, that maybe with luck I could squeeze through. But then I opened my eyes to hear my mother at the car window saying my name over and over. The steering wheel felt hard against my cheek. A strange pillow, I thought, and why had I been sleeping? I raised my head to answer. Small bits of windshield glass were stuck to my face and one dropped into my lap. Next to me, my daughter was crying, a red gash on her forehead. Sirens wailed, lights flashed. Voices seemed to come from everywhere, "Try opening the door! Get the girl out! Pull harder!"
I had done this. I had tried to pass when I should have just waited. I could have killed us both. In fact, I should have died from the impact. It would have served me right. I must be a terrible driver. No, the young man in the red truck was the terrible driver! Why had he chosen to pass when he knew I was trying to follow him? I couldn't remember his name but now I hated him. And I hated the driver of the on-coming car. It was all his fault. Couldn't he have swerved off the country road to avoid me? He was a perfect stranger and he came into my life out of nowhere.
Leaving the local emergency room, I marveled that we had escaped serious injury. Scrapes and cuts, but no broken bones even. Still, I felt rotten about my poor judgement on the road. I was a failure at keeping things together, a weak mother who endangered her children, a woman who reacted poorly under pressure, a dittsy divorcee. I wanted to hide from my relatives. I couldn't handle living alone. I needed a man, a good driver, to take care of things, to keep us safe. When we got to the Iowa farm the next day, I sat down at the big, oak dining table to write a letter. "Dear Gary," it began.
Janis Boldenow Aug. 2008