Chapter 4

October 1995

Angela worked at a coffee shop just off campus on Ninth Street. In the fall of 1995, there wasn’t a Starbucks on every corner, and actually, coffee hadn’t yet become the drink of choice for everyone over the age of twelve. The shop was called the Coffee Bean and it was a bright, open space with spotless white walls and stainless-steel light fixtures. The round tables sat no more than four people and were made of polished teak, and the smell of coffee brewing mixed with the fragrances of homemade pastries baking in the kitchen.

What I liked best about the Coffee Bean was that it was never crowded. I sometimes liked to study there instead of the library, which could be almost too quiet. Without some ambient noise, I tended to distract myself enough to spend hours doodling in the margins of notebooks instead of studying in the library’s carrels. The coffee shop provided something like white noise—the gurgling of industrial pots, the light from floor-to-ceiling windows facing the street, the murmured laughter of the few other regulars.

I walked in one early Thursday in October and placed my order without really looking up at the person taking my order.

“So you’re not even going to say hi?” Angela handed me the paper cup and smiled.

I’d thought about Angela a lot since we met at the party, but I didn’t have much opportunity to talk to her on campus. My schedule was different than most people I knew because I liked early-morning classes that left most of my day free. Jason, and nearly everyone else I knew, only took eight or nine o’clock classes under duress, and I rarely saw familiar faces as I walked to my biology and calculus classes on weekday mornings. I always searched the sleepy faces looking for Angela’s, but I hadn’t seen her since the night we met.

Now, I took my coffee and tried to think of something clever to say.

“I didn’t see you.”

“I’m standing right here,” she teased.

“Uh.”

I only managed the one syllable and stood there with a dumb smile on my face. A girl with pink-framed glasses standing behind me finally cleared her throat. Angela shook her head at me in mock disappointment and took the girl’s order while I went to find my regular seat by the window.

I spent an hour that day pretending to work on a paper for my English class and sneaking glances at Angela when I thought she wasn’t looking. She was small, but she had an air of authority behind the counter, as if she was born to be in charge of this coffee shop at this moment. I watched as she mixed complicated drinks I’d never tasted—cappuccinos and lattes, with skim milk or two percent, with whipped cream or without. In between customers, she sipped from her own cup and read a paperback book. I strained to see the title: The Bridges of Madison County.

After an hour, I decided to stop the charade and try the library instead. The assignment was to write about a popular culture myth, and I still hadn’t picked a topic, even though the ten-page paper was due in a few days. I loved my math and science classes, but I was bored by English, and I didn’t need much to distract me from writing the paper. I needed to get away from Angela if I wanted to avoid staying up all night writing the night before it was due.

“What are you working on?” Angela appeared at my table, holding her place in her book with a finger, as I gathered up my things.

I thought maybe she was just being nice, talking to me because I was Jason’s roommate, or because I clearly hadn’t accomplished much in the time I sat in the shop. I didn’t care. I was happy to talk to her, even if she was motivated by pity.

“English.” I made a face, and she laughed.

“Come on, it can’t be that bad.”

I shrugged. “It’s so inexact, so much about interpretation. In calculus, there’s one right answer, and if you use logic, you can find it. In biology, the hypothesis leads to the theory, which leads to the law. Use logic, and you’ll find the answers eventually. In writing, there are no right answers. I hate it.”

I hadn’t meant to go on a rant, and I worried that she’d think I was a freak. But she just laughed again.

“I’m an English major, you know.”

I felt my cheeks heat up, and I knew she could see me blushing. It was one thing I hated about having pale skin. Most black people didn’t visibly blush, but it happened to me all the time.

“No offense,” I said weakly, then laughed at myself. “I’m sure that makes it better that I just ridiculed your major.”

She gave me a crooked grin. “Maybe I can help. What’s the assignment?” She sat down and I settled back into my chair. I explained the assignment.

“I mean, how can I narrow that down? I don’t really think about stuff like that,” I complained.

She held up the book she’d been reading. “Did you read this?”

I tried not to show my distaste. “Umm, that’s not exactly my kind of book. It’s a romance novel, right? They made a movie of it, Clint Eastwood is in it.”

“Not a romance novel in the sense that it’s a genre book,” she corrected me. “But it is a love story. It’s about a middle-aged woman who is remembering a hot fling she had with a photographer years ago. It was this singular moment of romance and sensuality in her life and the book is really all about the road not taken, missed chances, the ideal of romance. You know?”

I didn’t know, but I nodded anyway because she was so excited as she talked about the book.

“So you like it?”

When Angela really laughed with abandon, she had a way of throwing her head back, her mouth completely open, to let out a sharp cackle that made me laugh, even though I didn’t know what was so funny.

“No, I think it’s sentimental mush. This is what you should write about—the way popular culture portrays romance, the myth of finding your romantic or sexual match just through the workings of God, or fate. That’s the myth—love takes work, and it’s messy and it’s not always a handsome stranger who comes to the house and turns your world upside down.”

She took a deep breath, and, again, I was at a loss.

“So you don’t like it, then?” I smiled at her. She smacked me on the head with the closed book.

“Do you want to borrow the book or not?”

* * *

That night, I resisted the temptation to just go see the movie at the mall instead of reading the book. Usually, schoolwork came easy to me and I would never consider cheating. I even came up with a rationale to justify seeing the film: the assignment specified pop culture, and, clearly, movies are a part of popular culture.

But then I thought of Angela. She was reading the book, and I got the feeling that she wouldn’t take me as seriously if I watched the movie instead. She seemed like the kind of person who would always choose the book over the movie when given the chance. It was Thursday night and Jason was at yet another party, so I ordered a pizza and opened Angela’s copy of The Bridges of Madison County.

I expected to hate it, to feel as outraged as Angela did about the sexist implications of the romantic plot. But from the first pages, I found myself engrossed in the thin novel, which was written as if the narrator was telling a true story. I was a sucker for truth, since I felt that was one thing I had not gotten enough of from my father, and to be honest, my mother, either. In the first chapter, the narrator described himself as a mere vessel of a great story. He was giving voice to what would otherwise be silent, and that appealed to me. There had been so many times in my family where the truth was hidden, either deliberately or incidentally. My sister, Maren, would rather everyone get along, and I knew that my desire to confront our father had hurt her. But here, in this novel, was a man who saw what I saw.

And then there was Robert Kincaid, who sounded like just the kind of man I wished I could be. A traveling photographer, always on the move, his own boss, his own man. He was a man completely comfortable with himself, not at all self-conscious or filled with self-doubt. He knew his place in the world, and he embraced it with quiet dignity and rugged charm. I wanted to be Robert Kincaid.

The book was short, not even 200 pages, and when I looked up from the last page, four hours had passed and I had eaten the entire pizza. My mind drifted, and I could see myself as Robert Kincaid with Angela as my Francesca. We had a connection, at least from my perspective, but instead of spending just hours together, we would find a way to be together. We wouldn’t spend our lives regretting missed opportunities, imagining what might have been.

But my realistic side didn’t remain silent for long. I could barely talk to her, let alone ask her out. I wasn’t her type. I wasn’t like Jason, Mr. Popularity, who was always surrounded by people. I hardly knew anyone Jason hadn’t introduced me to, and when I had met Angela at that first party, she seemed just as comfortable in the crowd as he did. Here I was, Mr. Romantic, imagining something that wasn’t even remotely possible. The ringing of the telephone interrupted my reverie.

“How’s your paper coming?” It was Angela. I hadn’t even thought about the paper since I started reading the book, and now I felt dread come over me. The assignment was to demonstrate how popular culture perpetuates a myth. But I thought the romance between Robert and Francesca seemed real—they hadn’t ended up together. She stayed married to her husband, he went on with his career. They were in love, but love couldn’t change the reality of their lives.

I told all of this to Angela, and when I finished, there was a long silence. While I waited for her to respond, I regretted everything I had said. First of all, what kind of a guy likes this kind of novel? Second, I knew Angela hated the book, and I wanted her to like me. I was going over what I should have said when she finally spoke.

“You make a good argument, I guess, but don’t you think it’s old-fashioned? The wife finds passion and excitement, but gives it up to stay married to a boring guy? Her whole life was ruined.”

“Not ruined. She was a mother, remember, and she cared for her husband, too. So she made what seemed like the right choice. What’s old-fashioned about trying to do the right thing?”

“Okay. But what about the letter to her kids, the one at the end where she tells them all about Robert? Who does that?”

I was quiet for a moment, thinking about mothers and children.

“I wish I had a letter from my mother like that after she died. It wouldn’t matter what it said, as long as it was honest and from the heart.”

I hadn’t meant to get so serious. I fought back the debilitating sadness that always threatened to take over whenever I spent too much time thinking about my mother. I wouldn’t let myself do it. I couldn’t afford to let it take over, and I didn’t want pity, not even from Angela.

But all she said was, “Wow. I’m going to have to read it again. You’ve made me think of it in a whole new way. Are you sure you don’t want to be an English major?”

I laughed. “Please—I can’t even finish this one assignment, because now that I loved the book, I can’t figure out what to write about.”

“Maybe I can help. It’s the least I can do, since you seem to be worse off than you were this morning. Let’s meet for breakfast. Bring the book.” I could hear the smile in her voice. I wondered if she could tell that a large, goofy grin had just spread across mine.

* * *

After that night, Angela helped me with all my English papers. Once I got through the first one, I didn’t really need much help, which I think she knew. But I liked talking about books with her, developing paper ideas, arguing over writing styles. Sometimes I went to the Coffee Bean to work and Angela spent her breaks reading over my shoulder or offering suggestions on books I should read. Other times, we went to the library or sat on the quad when the weather was nice. We developed a true friendship, not based on the coincidence of rooming together, as it was with me and Jason. I liked him, but I always felt I had my guard up with him, although I couldn’t quite pinpoint why. But with Angela, I could be honest—at least, about books and writing. She was the only person who knew I’d never read Invisible Man, even though I was named after Ralph Ellison. She understood when I told her I couldn’t get through the first five pages of Beloved. She didn’t laugh when I admitted that Stephen King and John Grisham were more to my literary tastes.

I learned more about her as well. Angela Michaels wrote poetry and wanted to be a journalist. She was the editor of her high-school paper and she was from Chicago, like me. She wanted to pledge Delta and she played intramural tennis. She was funny, and even when her humor was biting, her smile took off the edge. I liked everything I knew about Angela, and if I could have, I would have spent every free moment with her.

But there were limits. Angela never invited me to her dorm room and I didn’t invite her to mine. I figured she only saw me as a friend and having me in her bedroom would just be weird. Jason was hardly ever in our suite, but I still never brought Angela there. I didn’t want her to think I was trying to pressure her into something more than our burgeoning friendship. I kept my crush under control, hidden and safe. Angela liked me, and that was enough.

* * *

Calvin on meeting his ex-wife:

When I met Vanessa, I couldn’t believe my luck. She was everything I had always wanted in a woman: smart, pretty, fun. I didn’t really think of her as a real person, a person with gifts and flaws just like anyone else. If I’m being honest, I didn’t even know women were real people—I was young, and women were still like alien beings to me. Growing up so sheltered by my mother and living in a town where all the women were either wives and mothers, or they were preparing to be wives and mothers, I had no idea that a woman could have facets that had nothing to do with me. Women were supposed to take care of men, I thought, and when I met Vanessa, I thought she was the perfect wife for me and mother for my future children.

I was young, you know, and I felt cooped up in Durham. It was the same people doing the same thing all the time, and I felt that if I didn’t get out, I’d end up just like everyone else. I took a bus to Chicago. I’d never been there, but I’d heard there were a lot of black writers there and I thought I could learn something. Most people were running off to New York back then, but something about Chicago called me.

It was late summer, so the weather was still nice. But as soon as I stepped off the bus, I noticed there were police cars everywhere and news cameras filming. There had been a murder near the station, and it was big news.

I’d never seen anything like this back in Durham, so I hung around the edges of the scene, watching the cameramen squat to get just the right angle, listening to the police bark orders at each other.

And then I noticed a pretty girl who was holding a pad and pen and pushing her way through the throngs of people to talk to the main cop. She was so petite and beautiful, I couldn’t believe the way she forced the cop to talk to her as she scribbled on her pad.

Something clicked inside me, and I suddenly had to know this lovely, tough, determined woman. I snuck underneath the police tape, went up to her and asked her out. Vanessa went out with me, but she didn’t like me at first. I had to wear her down slowly, but it wasn’t long before she fell in love, too.

Putting someone on a pedestal never works. Looking back, I can see that I was desperate to be loved. There was a hole in my life, and it threatened to suck me down into it. Vanessa, with her beauty and poise, would save me.

It was too much to ask of another person, and it’s a wonder we lasted long enough to have our two children, long enough to regret all the mistakes we made. The mistakes I made. I wish I had known then what I know now. The only person who could save me was me.

—From Save Me: A Memoir by Calvin Emory