I lived with Jane Hall Blanchard for seven years, until she died at thirty-nine. Up until the time I fell for Sue Solie and married her, Jane was the love of my life.
The truth is, Jane totally saved me. She turned me around, turned my life around, changed my view of myself. I was basically this insecure knucklehead from upstate, and I didn’t really know how to behave in polite society, at least not in New York City society, not even while I was rising fast at J. Walter Thompson and writing novels on the side. Jane’s family had some money and some manners and, most important, confidence. And Jane was always so considerate, so human, never impatient with me.
Early on in our relationship, she asked me to go to a four-star French restaurant with her. Once we were seated, she could tell I was uncomfortable. It wasn’t hard to figure out. My body was as stiff as a mannequin in Macy’s window. I was extremely quiet and had trouble forcing a smile. I didn’t know much about French menus and I honestly didn’t know how to act in this very formal, upscale Manhattan eating place.
It was Jane’s favorite restaurant in New York, and she wanted to share it with me, but she was cool about my uneasiness. She had ordered some kind of French stew, her favorite dish there. Suddenly, she plopped her face down into the stew and came up with brown goop all over her nose, cheeks, and mouth. Then Jane said to me, “You need to know something, Jimmy. This is our place. This is our restaurant. We belong here.”
She didn’t say it loudly, and she didn’t lower her face into the plate in a way that would offend anyone around us. Her movie-worthy gesture was just for me.
This is our place. We belong. You belong. So chill out.
And Jane did it in such a kind way, with her usual humor. There was no implied criticism. That’s the kind of person she was.
A while later, I did a year in therapy. It was valuable as hell. I saw a terrific doctor, a great, smart guy to talk to, once a week. Ultimately, he became a friend. After I stopped seeing him as a doctor, we’d go out to lunch once or twice a month. He even paid half the time. Maybe 40 percent of the time.
He got me more in touch with myself. I had some anger issues and he helped me see that the anger mostly had to do with my father. He helped me understand that the way I was acting wasn’t really me, it was my father. I also realized I didn’t have to blame my father. My poor dad had his own tough issues and probably felt he was doing the best he could. The year of therapy helped me understand that I was, well, lovable—not because I was first in my class, not because I was successful as hell, but because I was me. Basically, a reasonably nice person who mostly tries to do the right thing.
And that was another thing about Jane. She loved me. I couldn’t help wondering, Why? But she did.
Early on in our relationship, we took it slow. Jane and I would get together after work. We’d go to a movie, go to a restaurant, or just do nothing. She did some home cooking. But every time she’d see me, she would totally light up. She’d wave both arms over her head. She’d call out my name. Even on a crowded New York street. She could be silly and get me to be silly and give her a big smile. I’m not one of the world’s best smilers, but Jane could get me smiling every time. That smile lasted for seven years.