The evening of the dinner, I picked up Mrs. Brown’s daughter in my Catalina. At the party hall, we enjoyed dinner and conversation with the other guests. Afterward, there was dancing to several slow songs as well as more upbeat tunes. I watched while everyone did the twist and a few other popular dances. Peggy Sood had taught me the twist, but that was years ago, and I did not feel comfortable attempting it in front of Mrs. Brown’s daughter and a bunch of strangers.
At the end of the night, we drove back to Franklin, stopping at my apartment on the way so she could see the furniture her mother helped pick out. I offered her a cup of hot tea or coffee, and after a few minutes, I drove her home. Before entering her house, she gave me a light hug and a kiss on the cheek. As a courtesy, I wrote down her phone number, but I never called her.
Later, when talking to Mrs. Olsen, she said casually, “Oh, Maelie and I saw you and your date coming and going last night. Pretty girl. Didn’t stay very long, though.”
I sensed resentment in her tone, but with other things on my mind, I didn’t think much about it.
When I’d worked at the UT Hospital the previous spring, Mr. McFarland and Professor Buchan often talked about a big national convention for the Hospital Management Systems Society (HMSS) that was to take place in Tampa, Florida. They came back with many stories about the good times they’d had. I hoped one day I could go to the convention too.
When I started my job at Vanderbilt University Hospital, I became a member of the HMSS. In May 1969, the HMSS held its convention in Houston, Texas. The hospital administration encouraged me to go and paid for my travel expenses. The convention lasted five days and five nights. One night, the society held a formal dinner with a keynote speaker, and every other night, Professor Buchan and I wined and dined at a different restaurant. My favorite was Trader Vic’s, where we sat in a tropical island atmosphere and drank mai tais. The trip was a continuous party for five days.
When the convention ended, I was sad to go. I flew back to Nashville, and Maelie picked me up at the airport. I swaggered to the gate, a straw Texas cowboy hat hanging at the back of my neck and a small glass flask in my hand. I wasn’t drunk, but I was still in high spirits from the excitement of the trip, and I spoke loudly and with more enthusiasm than usual. Maelie looked at me with a shocked expression. I was not the same Kris, and she stared at me as if I had sprouted two heads. She drove me back to the apartment in silence, not even asking about my trip.
While refusing to let Maelie bring down my spirits, I focused on doing well in my satellite course. On the last day of class in June, I reminded the professor that I had taken his class in order to improve my GPA. “Yes, I understand,” he said in the same tone as always, not giving me any clue whether I would pass or not. In the end, I received an A in the course.
In July, I met an Indian at the mall named Mr. Talele. He lived in Columbia, Tennessee, thirty-five miles west of Franklin, and he taught physics at Columbia State Community College. He was taking a break from his PhD program at the University of Wisconsin in Madison to teach and earn more money. Before parting, he invited me to a party at his apartment. At the party, Mr. Talele served moderately spiced Indian dishes so everyone could taste them. Because it was so late, he let me sleep at his apartment, and the next morning, he told me that an astronaut was attempting to land on the moon.
We settled in front of the TV and watched until late in the afternoon as the rocket circled the moon and finally landed at approximately 4:17 p.m. “The Eagle has landed,” the man reporting from the Houston airbase announced. Six hours later, Neil Armstrong emerged from the Apollo 11 to take his first step onto the moon. The announcer stated, “That’s one small step for a man, one giant leap for mankind.” The date was July 20, 1969, a historic and joyous time in history, because an American was the first to land on the moon, a great victory over their Cold War enemy, the USSR.
One day, Mrs. Olsen called. “Maelie isn’t feeling well,” she said. “Can you come talk to her, Kris? She has been in bed the whole week.”
“What is the problem?” I asked. “Has she seen a doctor?”
“She is just down, a little depressed, that’s all.”
When I entered Maelie’s bedroom, she was propped up on some pillows and looked like she hadn’t left the bed for days. She smiled at me weakly. I noticed her face was pale, and her thick, wavy hair was a mess.
“How are you doing?” I asked as I sat on the edge of the bed.
“I’ve been better,” she said in a soft voice. “How was work?”
I told her about my project, and how it was going, but as I talked, Maelie looked at me tearfully. “I love you, Kris,” she said softly.
I stared at her, completely taken aback. She loved me? Knowing she had been in bed for almost a week and hoping to cheer her up, all I could say was, “I love you too.” Besides, my American friends told me that if a
