Winter 1953 marked the beginning of Ruth Warneke’s second semester at the University of Washington, where she resided in the women’s residence at Leary Hall, a gracefully aging Tudor Gothic on campus, its western façade festooned with ivy, just as Ruth had often dreamed of since freshman year of high school, just as she’d dreamed of one day living in Paris. As the daughter of a mill worker from Shelton, Washington, a rugged outpost of five thousand souls, mired in the muddy backwaters of the Hood Canal, a lumber town with very little to offer a high school valedictorian with bohemian aspirations, Ruth was in love with campus life at UW and doubly enamored with the metropolis of Seattle, its teeming sidewalks and bridges, its architecture, its plunging hills and valleys, its lakes and sounds, and its thousand vistas. Perhaps it wasn’t Paris, but it was close to ideal. Ruth was all but living her dream at eighteen.
Content between her studies and her leisurely pursuits of journaling, reading, and secretly writing poetry, along with daily exploring new urban wonders, the museums and shops and cafés, Ruth was not lacking occupation. Surrounded by women her own age, enough of them like-minded to buffer her from homesickness, Ruth did not find herself lacking in companionship, either, and had little interest in courting romance. She’d mostly managed to avoid it through high school, so why start now? Boys and men seemed a distraction with their constant need for validation. While half her housemates at Leary were actively profiling marital candidates, Ruth was unencumbered by any such expectation. There were cheaper ways to find a husband than a college education, anyway. She came to UW to elevate her mind, not her marital prospects.
It was her housemate, the effervescent Mandy Baterman, the daughter of an entertainment attorney from Loma Linda, California, who had already planned her entire life out by seventeen, who coerced Ruth into a blind date with a junior named Abe Winter, as a double with her and her fiancé, Fred Sullivan.
“He’s a great guy,” Mandy assured Ruth. “Fred played lacrosse with him.”
“Lacrosse, huh? What’s he studying?”
“Business administration, I think.”
“Oh, boy,” said Ruth. “He sounds amazing.”
“Don’t be such a damper, Ruth. You never know, maybe you’ll like him.”
“If he’s so great, why doesn’t he have a girl already?”
“Good question,” said Mandy. “Maybe he hasn’t met the right one.”
Convening that Saturday at the bustling student union, the four of them ordered sodas and French-fried potatoes in the commons. As it happened, Abe was quite handsome, something Ruth had not expected; clean-shaven and athletic, lean musculature dressing a long frame, a strong chin, and lively brown eyes. He wore a bow tie, which was a bit of a turnoff; still, she was willing to give him a chance for Mandy’s sake more than anything else.
But Ruth immediately found Abe’s cockiness off-putting.
“Liberal arts?” he said thirty seconds into their conversation. “What are you gonna do with that when you grow up? Why not something useful like nursing?”
“Or home economics?” said Ruth.
“Sure,” said Abe, her sarcasm lost on him.
“And what’s so noble about business administration?” said Ruth.
“Well, to begin with, it’s applicable to anything,” he said.
“So are the liberal arts,” she said.
“If you say so,” said Abe.
It was apparent at once that they were not made for each other. Their worldviews were hardly compatible. The idea of strolling the hallowed halls of the Henry Art Gallery or sipping café au lait at a coffeehouse with Abe was inconceivable. Worse, within minutes, Ruth had surmised that Abe was a Republican, what with his talk of economic prosperity and limiting big government spending: It couldn’t have been clearer if he’d tattooed “I Like Ike” on his big, dumb forehead. Knowing that her father would approve of this only made the distinction worse.
A half hour into their date, Abe already had two strikes against him when you accounted for the bow tie.
“What do you think?” said Mandy in the women’s lavatory. “He’s a catch, right?”
“I suppose if you like smug,” said Ruth.
“He’s just confident,” said Mandy, powdering her face.
“Yeah, but why?” said Ruth.
“Confidence is good, right? Would you prefer milquetoast?” said Mandy. “And besides, maybe he’s just nervous. You never know, Ruthie, give him a break.”
“He’s wearing a bow tie, Mand.”
“Oh, you’re such a sorehead. Don’t be so quick to judge. Have a good time for once in your life. Or would you rather be in the dorm reading Charles Baudelaire or something?”
“As a matter of fact, yes,” said Ruth. “Roethke, even.”
“Whoever that is,” said Mandy. “Just see how it goes. And play nice, Ruthie.”
If only boys were as easy to talk to as Mandy, if only Ruth could let her guard down with men like she could with her girlfriends.
The two couples left the student union and proceeded to the Hub, a hive of activity on a Saturday evening, humming with possibility, with laughter and shouting, the rolling thunder of bowling balls, the sudden clash and clamor of pins, Patti Page’s “I Went to Your Wedding” barely perceptible over the public address system, just loud enough to prompt an eye roll from Ruth. The Hub was not entirely what Ruth had imagined in the way of sophistication when she was accepted at UW, not exactly high culture, but it was hard to resist for its pure jubilance and youthful spirit.
Fred went after sodas, while Abe rented the shoes, leaving Ruth and Mandy to wait amidst the throng.
“Don’t give up on him because he can’t quote Shakespeare, Ruthie,” said Mandy.
“He couldn’t quote Howdy Doody.”
“You’re insufferable,” Mandy said.
“You’re right,” said Ruth. “I apologize. Maybe I’m the nervous one.”
“Fred left me his flask,” said Mandy. “Maybe you want a nip in the girls’ room; it might loosen you up.”
“You mean lower my standards?” said Ruth.
“Ugh, you’re impossible,” said Mandy. “Don’t ruin this for Fred and I.”
“You mean ‘Fred and me.’ Me is the object of the verb.”
“And stop correcting my grammar.”
Mandy was right, of course. Ruth needed to accept people on their own terms and stop projecting her romantic expectations on the world at large. She resolved herself to be open to Abe and whatever he might have to offer.
Perhaps the Hub was an unfortunate place to begin. For, despite his athletic build, Abe quickly proved to be a hopeless bowler, awkward in his approach and reckless in his delivery. Twice within the first three frames, he crossed the foul line. His off-balance recovery after every launch made it look as though he were bowling on ice. He couldn’t find the pocket to save his life. When he did manage to hit the headpin, he was left with a nasty split more often than not.
Ruth was a little rusty but not too bad. For all the little town of Shelton may have lacked in high culture, it had not lacked a bowling alley, which was nothing less than the cultural nervous system of the town, outside of the churches. For three years, Ruth had bowled league on Sundays after worship. Friday nights had little else to offer in Shelton that didn’t require alcohol or parking on road ends. Thus, it was no surprise that she was out-bowling Abe handily, a fact she may have been relishing a bit too demonstratively for Abe’s taste, because the latter was clearly agitated by the seventh frame. When she tried to offer him advice—measure your approach, follow through on your delivery, quit throwing it so darn hard—Abe was less than gracious in accepting her input, impatient to restore his pride in the second round, an objective he failed to accomplish, for when it was over, he had bowled a 91 to Ruth’s 126.
It was bad enough losing to a girl, but the way she kept rubbing it in was downright rude, though she seemed to think she was being cute, a brand of hubris that bespoke what Abe suspected was an indulgent upbringing. Flustered by his dreadful performance, and increasingly annoyed at Ruth’s chiding antics, Abe still could not resist a powerful attraction to her beauty, which seemed effortless. How had Fred failed to mention it? The arresting blue eyes. The high cheekbones. The generous figure and graceful carriage. In two-plus years at the U, unable to attract a partner on his own, Abe had conceded to at least a half dozen blind dates at the behest of his fraternity brothers, and all of the dates had either possessed “great personalities” or were “really fun,” “super smart,” or “very talented,” but none of them looked even remotely like Ruth Warneke, whose beauty was worthy of the silver screen.
Abe knew he was blowing his chances with Ruth and was desperate to redeem himself. He was self-aware enough to know that he lacked charm with women, that he suffered from an apparent deficiency of the boyish playfulness and collegiate enthusiasm requisite for a young man of his station. As he emptied his bladder into the urinal, it occurred to Abe that he was born middle-aged, and no doubt Ruth could see it. More than hijinks or adventure, more than the call of youthful appetites, he yearned for routine and order and responsibility. He longed to settle down and root himself like an oak tree. Though barely of legal drinking age, Abe already aspired to be a husband and a father, a stolid presence in the lives of those who depended upon him, reliable, consistent, fair. He possessed all these potentialities, yet in his anxiety to perform, he projected only arrogance and insecurity. It was never like this with men, whom Abe had a facility for persuading.
“Relax,” said Fred, stationing himself in front of the adjacent urinal. “Don’t try to impress her.”
“She’s too smart for me,” said Abe.
“Nonsense. You just need to lighten up. And don’t talk about politics.”
“Yeah, I got that,” said Abe.
After the Hub, they all piled into Fred’s Dodge and drove downtown, where they parked on Mercer and bought tickets at the Uptown for The Bad and the Beautiful with Kirk Douglas. Abe didn’t dare put his arm around Ruth during the picture, let alone put his hand on her knee. But he couldn’t stop himself from sneaking sidelong glances at her, wondering at her thoughts as she watched the screen, her face bathed in the flickering light of the projector, her intelligent eyes penetrating the darkness of the theater, her resting face so considered, so thoughtful, and so unaware of his admiration. God, but he wanted to impress her. How he wished he were Kirk Douglas up on the screen, or even Dick Powell, so he could feel the force of her attentiveness.
The movie wasn’t bad, either. Abe had already formulated his remarks on the picture before the final frames played out and was almost as eager to share them as he was to hear Ruth’s opinion.
“So, what’d you think?” he asked her on the sidewalk as the four of them strode toward Fred’s car.
“I thought it was basically a soap opera, especially the Lana Turner section. One betrayal after the next. I ran out of sympathy about four minutes in.”
“That’s the point,” said Abe. “Shields epitomizes the Hollywood ethos of—”
“Please don’t,” said Ruth, cutting him off. “I really don’t need you to explain it to me. You solicited my opinion, and I provided it.”
Horrified by his misstep, Abe felt his face coloring, and he was sure this didn’t escape Ruth’s notice.
“I’m sorry if that came off as strident,” Ruth said. “But honest to goodness, if I had a dollar for every time a man tried to enlighten me.”
In the darkened car, the lights of the city blurring past, the young couples proceeded to Belltown for a late dinner at Bob Murray’s Dog House. The slogan claimed all roads led to the Dog House, and indeed they must have, for they waited twenty minutes for a table. The entirety of the back wall was adorned with a huge mural testifying to the conceit of the establishment, a road map leading to marital perdition, past redheads, blondes, and brunettes along the way, and terminating at the Dog House, that arguably not-so-unfortunate locale where all roads led for men incapable of monogamy.
“Poor men,” said Ruth. “Imagine cheating on your wife with your secretary and ending up in the doghouse. What an indignity. Almost as bad as changing a diaper.”
Abe had never known a woman to speak her mind so freely. He was thrilled by Ruth’s irreverence, even as it challenged his notions about feminine decorum.
“God, you’re right,” he said. “And they even make the dog cute, a pup who just can’t help himself. Poor little guy.”
“He’ll be okay. The sign above the doghouse door says welcome,” Ruth observed. “And somebody even left our furry philanderer a bone.”
When they were finally seated with their menus, everybody ordered boiled ham sandwiches, except for Ruth, who ordered the goose liver.
Conversationally, Abe began to hit his stride as the meal wore on, avoiding politics at all costs and only offering opinions or commentary when solicited. Mostly, he tried to be agreeable. He was in over his head when Ruth turned the subject to poetry or architecture, so he let her carry on, taking the dialogue in whatever direction compelled her. From Abe’s perspective, she had some flaky ideas about how the world worked, but she was quite funny, and unexpectedly erudite for a girl raised in the boondocks. This, too, spoke of an indulgent upbringing to Abe.
“How do you know all this stuff?” he asked her.
“Believe me,” she said, “there’s a lot I don’t know about. I’m just faking it most of the time.”
Abe was charmed by this display of candor. If only he could wow her with some expertise of his own. But he knew the fundamental principles of accounting and finance were unlikely to impress Ruth Warneke, that she’d have little interest in organizational structure or fiscal design, that she didn’t give a whit about lacrosse, and he was no good, anyway. If only she could see his winning qualities: his punctuality, his hygiene, his willingness to be persuaded, to compromise, to show up.
While Abe was loath to share his opinions, Ruth suffered from no such inhibition. During the course of her goose liver sandwich, she espoused her views on everything from civil rights, to forestry, to foreign policy, to social spending, much of it amounting to so much pseudocommunist malarky as far as Abe was concerned. It seemed that poets, or at least those poetically inclined, suffered from such unreasonable optimism that in ceaselessly investigating the world on a cellular level, they completely missed some of the bigger, less convenient realities of human nature and governance. While it was hard to fault them for their noble delusions, there was a certain recklessness to their laissez-faire idealism that was often problematic when faced with, well, real life. Moreover, the idealist rarely footed the bill, practically speaking. But Abe would gladly have picked up the tab for Ruth’s naivety, and listened to her goofy ideas, so long as he could be around her. He didn’t want the evening to end, and Fred was one step ahead of him.
“Where should we go next?” he said.
“What about the Blue Moon on Forty-Fifth,” said Mandy.
“Isn’t that place crawling with subversives?” said Abe, instantly regretting it.
“Oh, for Pete’s sake, are you serious?” said Ruth. “You sound like McCarthy.”
Having fallen flat on his face again with the remark, Abe had the wherewithal to recover this time. “I was joking,” he said. “Geez.”
“You and Ruth aren’t old enough to get into the Blue Moon without getting lucky,” said Fred.
“I’ll bet we could get lucky,” said Mandy.
“I should probably call it a night,” said Ruth. “I’m going to church tomorrow.”
“Church?” said Fred.
“Since when?” said Mandy.
“You say it like it’s weird,” said Ruth.
“I just didn’t know you were a church girl,” Mandy said.
“I’m not what you would call ‘devout,’ ” said Ruth. “I guess I just miss it, is all. There’s something so calming about the routine of it, so peaceful.”
Oh, Ruth Warneke! Endlessly surprising, the opposite of Abe in almost every way, and yet, he was helpless to resist her magnetism. He’d never been a churchgoer, never paid much mind to religion, which seemed to present one impractical notion after another.
“I’ll go with you,” he blurted. “That is, I mean…not that you invited me or anything, I just…”
“Thanks,” said Ruth. “But I like to go alone.”
Abe could have easily given up hope at that point. Ruth had basically slammed the door in his face, and yet, he was still compelled to come knocking again and again until she granted him entrance.
“Well, I guess that’s a wrap for tonight, then,” said Fred.
“Let me get the check,” said Abe.
“Is it a national holiday?” said Fred.
“Quit it,” said Abe, reaching for his billfold.
Fred drove the girls back to Leary and parked at the curb. Abe and Ruth sat awkwardly in the back of the idling Dodge as Fred and Mandy locked lips in a prolonged farewell. How badly Abe wanted to extend some token of his affection to Ruth. A kiss seemed out of the question, but perhaps he might set his hand atop hers. Before he could summon the nerve to make any such move, however, Ruth, having grown impatient with Fred and Mandy’s vulgar display in the front seat, excused herself abruptly.
“Well, it was nice meeting you,” she said to Abe. “Night, Fred, night, Mandy.”
And then Ruth closed the door, leaving Abe alone with the amorous couple, still fused at the lips, paying Abe no notice at all, as he watched her walk away into the night.