But for once, I didn’t want to sit down. So when the music stopped, and I felt his arm slide around my waist, I leaned back and let him support my weight. He noticed something was wrong—I could see the concern in his eyes—but he didn’t say anything. He just held me up. When the music started again, he pushed me into a two-step.
“I have to sit down,” I said reluctantly, after four songs.
He escorted me to the table and sat across from me. Trudy and Faith, my protective friends, peppered him with questions. I was in a fog, unable to catch my breath, and his answers seemed to float away on the music, leaving only his good-natured smile. When the earth started to spin, I reached for my water glass, missed, and knocked it across the table. He reached over and scooped it up, found a rag and wiped down the table. We danced a few more songs, I’m not sure how many, because I only remember the music winding down and the crowd beginning to disperse.
“I’m gonna take off,” he said. He grabbed my hand and kissed it. “It was a pleasure meeting you.”
I was still thanking him for a lovely evening when I realized he had come around the table and was kissing me on the cheek. That normally would have put me off, a stranger being so forward, but my only thought as he disappeared into the crowd was, Well, that was nice.
“What was his name?” I asked my friends when we were outside and the cool March air had cleared my head. “Was it Paul?”
“For goodness’ sakes, Vicki,” Trudy said. “His name was Glenn.”
I may not have remembered his name, but there was something about this Glenn fellow I just couldn’t forget. Something that lifted my spirits, that made me think of him whenever my mind started to wander. Something that made the feel of his hands spring to mind at the strangest times.
That something was his eyes. It may sound strange, but when I looked into Glenn Albertson’s eyes that night at Storm’n Norman’s, I thought of Dewey. When I pulled Dewey out of the library book drop, wrapped him in a blanket, and held him against my chest, he was ice cold. His paws were literally frozen, and he barely had a pulse. He didn’t know me, but he lifted his head and looked into my eyes with affection. I looked into his eyes and saw openness and trust.
I knew Glenn was a gentleman, because he never pushed me or tried to dance too close. I knew he was a thoughtful man, because of the way he supported me between songs. I knew he was a kind man, because of the way he spoke to my friends. But there was something else in his eyes. There was the calmness of the old soul, and an honest affection. Like Dewey, he wasn’t just looking at me, he was seeing me. And he was letting me see him. Not just the kindness, but what lurked behind it: the fear and hurt, but also a deep sense of contentment and pride.
Dewey sent him, I thought, when I saw those eyes. It was just a moment, a sudden flash, before I realized it was merely a matter of similarity—they were alike, Dewey and Glenn. But the thought stuck with me. Dewey sent him. I knew it wasn’t possible, but love is so wrapped up and complicated, so heartfelt and illogical, what can we really ever know for sure?
I knew one thing for sure: I wanted to see him again. So I called Norman’s wife, Jeanette. “I met a fellow named Glenn at your place last week,” I told her. “Tall with a beard, nice smile, good dancer.”
“I know him,” Jeanette said.
“Is he a good guy or a bad guy?”
“Oh, he’s a good guy,” Jeanette said, getting excited. “A really good guy.” I didn’t know Glenn had been helping out at the dance hall for years. I didn’t know he had been friends with Jeanette and Norman since high school. At that point, I didn’t know much about him at all, only that he was the most open and attentive man I’d ever met.
“I can set this up,” Jeanette said, getting excited. “I used to do this all the time in high school. I’m really good at it. I can call him if you want.”
A few hours later, Glenn called me. We talked for a half an hour, then longer a few nights later. Pretty soon, we were talking every night, then two or three times a day. We talked about everything—our work, our cats (although I never mentioned the book), even the biggies: politics and religion. When it was time for the next Storm’n Norman dance, we were both eager to see each other again. Just for the dancing, I told myself, he’s such a good dancer. But my nervous energy as Trudy, Faith, and I took the long drive to Waterbury, Nebraska, told me that wasn’t true. There were so many butterflies in my stomach, I could have lifted right out of the car.
We were late because of Faith (being on Faith time, we call it), and there was a line at the ticket window. When the couples cleared, I saw him standing on the other side of the door, waiting for me. He was wearing a nice pair of black jeans and a tucked-in black button-down shirt, and I could tell just by the way he held himself that he had spent a few extra minutes getting ready for the night. Then I saw the red rose in his hand, and the butterflies vanished. I walked up and, without hesitation, kissed him on the cheek. I can’t remember what we said. I only remember dancing, because it was like we’d been doing it together all our lives. Somewhere in the middle of the night, when the band hit the opening chords of Ronnie Milsap’s “Lost in the 50s Tonight,” I remember looking into his eyes and seeing for the hundredth time the warmth—and an invitation. I’m open, they said. I’m here. I’m for you. I’m never going to hurt you.
“My favorite song,” Glenn said, as the band sang “shoo-bop, shoobe-bop, so real, so right.”
“Mine, too,” I said. Then I laid my head against his chest, just over his heart, and thought: I’m home.
If I had known then about his three marriages and five children? Well, I’ve got to admit, I still would have been interested in Glenn Albertson. Maybe if I’d known before the first dance, things might have been different. But after the second night? At that point, there was no turning back. Even as we got to know each other over the coming weeks, and even as his life unspooled before me, I never doubted his character. One divorce is a mistake. Three divorces? That’s when you stop pointing the finger at other people and start looking at yourself. But Glenn had done that work. That’s why, the more I found out about his life, the more extraordinary he became. I had met plenty of guys who were closed off, who ran from their emotions and couldn’t talk about much beyond sports. Glenn had gone through more than any of them, and yet he was willing to share that pain with me. He could lift me like a feather; he could take apart and repair my car; he could give me a wonderful massage and even cut my hair; he could give me a rose and a kiss and make me feel like the most beautiful woman in Iowa. But most important, he could be honest with me. He could show me his heart.
To ponder Glenn’s life, though, is to ignore the biggest obstacle to our relationship: I was dead serious about my single life. I had lived it for so long, I had no intention of leaving. As my old saying goes (or went): “I only want a man if I can hang him in my closet, like an old suit I can pull out when I want to dance.” And I meant it. At almost sixty years old, with more than thirty years happily single, I didn’t even want to contemplate bringing a man into my life. I had given the library and my daughter everything I had, and I felt pride and satisfaction in what I had accomplished. I was close to my family, especially my father, who needed me more than ever since my mother’s death. I had great friends I’d known for decades, and who I could count on for love, support, and a belly-busting laugh. I had my daughter. And grandchildren. I made shadow boxes and had planned fourteen weddings (and counting), from the flowers to the invitations to the first song. I was retired, but I still served on several statewide library boards, so I traveled regularly. I will always remember tumbling into a taxi cab in New Orleans after a night of drinking and dancing with professional friends. The driver, after a few minutes, turned to us and said, “I can’t believe you’re librarians. You’re having so much fun.”
Of course we had fun! Librarians aren’t ladies with bun hairdos who always say shush. We’re highly educated men and women who manage businesses. We fight censorship. W
e are early adopters of e-books and computer networks. We market, we educate, we create. Our jobs are challenging and complex, even more so with a cat on staff, and that’s why we love them so much.
I may not have been a working librarian anymore, and I may not have had Dewey anymore, but as long as I had my health, I was content. I had always packed as much living as I could into my days and appreciated my privacy at night. I could eat when I felt hungry, go to bed when I felt tired, and watch whatever I wanted on television. Why, oh why, would I want to risk all that for a man?
And yet, I was being swept away. And enjoying it! Sure, I tried to pull back a few times, to convince myself I didn’t need this kind of relationship, but that feeling never seemed to last more than an hour or two. Glenn would call (we were up to seven calls a day at one point), and I’d always give in. Not to his pressure, or even to his charm, but to his tenderness. To his understanding. To his obvious love. When I talked about Dewey, I knew he didn’t just listen. He asked questions. He understood. Some men would have been turned off by my love of a cat, but I always had the sense Glenn saw who I really was, and he liked what he saw.
And, of course, he had an important cat in his life, too. I knew that because of how much he talked about Rusty. He was a smart cat, he told me. He knew his name. He would come when called. I would like him. He always snuggled with strangers, guaranteed. And he wasn’t just a shy house cat. Oh no. Rusty was quirky. He slept in a guitar case and ate nachos. He fought pit bulls but caught and released butterflies. Whenever Glenn yelled, “It’s time for a bath, Rusty,” he ran. Not away from the tub but toward it. Rusty loved water. Rusty would spread out in a bathtub full of water and luxuriate.
“You gotta see it,” Glenn said. “It’s something.”
I think that’s how he coaxed me to his house the first time, with the promise of meeting Rusty. I was still weak from my illness, and as soon as I sat down on Glenn’s sofa for a rest, Rusty came right up and started rubbing against my legs. Soon, he was in my lap. He was a massive boy, at least three times the weight of Dewey. But he was a teddy bear, too, just like Glenn. Meeting Rusty confirmed all my instincts about the man I was, dare I say it, beginning to love.
After getting the nod from Rusty, Glenn took me to meet his mom. She was in her eighties, still living in her own house, still mowing her own grass. It could have been awkward, I suppose, meeting my boyfriend’s beloved mother, except for one thing: She had followed Dewey’s life in the newspaper for years. So I told her stories about Dewey: how he climbed into the jacket of a disabled girl and made her smile; how he entertained the children left in the library “day care” by their working parents; how he rode the left shoulder (always the left!) of the homeless man who came to the library every day for the sole purpose of talking to our cat. She listened. She smiled. She offered me coffee and homemade cake. I could tell Dewey’s Magic was still at work, and it was working on both our hearts. How could I not love someone who loved Dewey? How could she not trust Dewey’s mom?
When spring finally arrived, Glenn drove me to Pierce, where he had spent his childhood summers. He showed me his grandmother’s old house, and the auto repair shop where he’d fallen in love with cars. We parked under the town’s one big tree, near the intersection where Glenn had run to watch the train blow its huge cloud of steam as it crossed downtown, and kissed. We drove to Storm’n Norman’s for a dance, and Glenn told Norman he was sorry, but he was too busy to bartend anymore. After dinner one night, he drove me to a big beautiful house in a suburban neighborhood.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“My first ex-wife and I used to live there,” he said. That was the one moment I was taken aback. The moment when I remembered, suddenly, that I didn’t want a serious relationship with a man, and I remembered why: because they were unpredictable and complicated.
But it only lasted for a second. Because I knew the man beside me. Maybe not every fact, maybe not every decision in his life, but I knew his heart, and I felt more comfortable with him than with any man I’d ever met. I was reading the last drafts of Dewey that spring, and I could feel the confidence I always felt when that cat was near me. I read for the twentieth time the last page of the book, where I talked about the lessons Dewey taught me.
Find your place. Be happy with what you have. Treat everyone well. Live a good life. It isn’t about material things; it’s about love. And you can never anticipate love.
I invited Glenn to Spencer for Memorial Day. For every date, he went to the florist and chose the healthiest and brightest rose in the store, just as he had on our first “date” at Storm’n Norman’s. I kept each one, drying them in my craft room for my curio boxes. This time, though, he arrived with two red roses. We were planning to visit my mother’s grave near the town of Hartley, Iowa, so I assumed the second rose was for her. Glenn said he wanted to make another stop first. He drove to the library and walked to the large window where Dewey’s grave was marked by a simple granite plaque. It was a cold December morning when, just as the sun rose, the assistant librarian and I had broken the frozen ground and laid Dewey’s ashes to rest.
“You are always with us,” I had said.
Glenn put the second red rose on Dewey’s grave. “I know how much he means to you,” he said, holding me tight.
I’m going to marry this man, I thought, and it didn’t surprise me at all.
Glenn and I are now engaged, and I have never been happier. We are so sure of our love that we even bought a house together, a nice bungalow on the west side of Spencer. We figured we might as well go ahead and move in together, we’d be married soon, but it’s been two years, and we still aren’t married. I know that might strike a few people as immoral, even if we are a committed couple in our sixties, but I have my reasons. My first wedding, back in 1969, was just our immediate families and a few friends. My dress was a hand-me-down my mom had bought cheap when a local girl’s wedding fell through at the last minute. The reception was held at my husband’s favorite restaurant, and more than half the guests were related to him. It was my wedding, but I can honestly say that nothing about it was mine. I always felt cheated.
I don’t care if this is my second marriage; I’m not doing that again. This one is going to be special. I am going to personally plan every detail, from the flowers for the ceremony at the Catholic church in Milford to the color of the type on the invitations to the beautiful white dress I had always wanted to wear. Glenn will have to give up his black jeans for a tuxedo, and I’ll convince the Embers to play the reception, which we’d hold at Storm’n Norman’s Rock ‘n’ Roll Auditorium, of course, if it weren’t so far for everyone to drive.
Unfortunately, I’ve been too busy to plan the perfect day I’ve waited a lifetime to enjoy. The month we moved into our new house, Dewey, the book I wrote as a tribute to my best friend and favorite library cat, a book that healed my body and heart, was published. It went straight to the top of national bestseller lists and stayed there for more than six months. Sometimes, it feels as if I’ve spent every day since on the road, but don’t get me wrong; I’m not complaining. For the last two years, I’ve been doing the best thing in the world: talking about Dewey. My health is still precarious, and it always will be. I have to be careful not to overtax myself, and sometimes I have to cut appearances short, but I want to experience everything I possibly can. I want to see the world. I want to meet wonderful people who love Dewey as much as I do, even if they never met him. I want to talk about him and know that he is there—with me and for me. We are intertwined, Dewey and I, more than we’ve ever been.
Glenn doesn’t mind sharing me. I told him straight away, on our first date: “I’m a package deal. My friends and family come with me.” By the second date, he knew Dewey was part of the package, too—even though I didn’t tell him about the book until we were engaged. He not only understands that Dewey will always be a part of my life, he embraces it. If I ever doubt my man, all I have to do is see him with animals. When I
walk outside, the birds in our yard scatter. When Glenn walks outside, they stay where they are. In Florida, I once saw a squirrel eating cereal out of the palm of his hand.
That doesn’t mean everything about our new life is easy, especially for Glenn. He didn’t mind giving up his rental house, putting his 1953 Studebaker Commander into storage, and tooling around in his (much safer) Buick. But it was hard to leave the people he loved. He’d visited his mother almost every day since his father died almost twenty years before; now, with a two hour drive between them, he gets to see her only every few weeks. There was crying on both sides when he broke the news to Bobby, Ross, and the other disabled adults that he was leaving New Perspectives.
Moving away from his daughter Jenny, who was starting college in Sioux City, was especially difficult. Glenn has lost five children in his life; how can he not fear losing her, too? He knew Jenny and Rusty loved each other, and he knew he always wanted to maintain a presence in her life, so he made the ultimate sacrifice: He gave her Rusty. Now Glenn goes to her house every time he is in Sioux City, just to check on Rusty, he says. It is a transparent ploy, of course. Rusty is fine. Jenny already had two pets, but the big orange cat has them both trained. The dog is a wimp. Mama Kitty, an old blind cat, follows Rusty around the house as he meows. Old Rusty loves having animals he can take care of and boss around—and since Jenny is older now, he doesn’t even have to do his Butterball Exercises.
I knew Glenn missed Rusty. I could see it in his eyes whenever we left Jenny’s house. And I could hear it in his voice when he said, every few days, “You know, as soon as this Dewey stuff dies down, we should volunteer at the animal shelter.” I knew, in my heart, he wanted a cat of his own.