It Happened on Maple Street

And he wanted to know something else.

“What happened to you?”

I’d come out from under my desk and was lounging back in my chair. I straightened at the question, my chest tightening.

We’d been talking about the old days. College. Our time together.

“What do you mean?”

“You changed. Why?”

“I’m thirty years older! Of course I’ve changed. Life happened.” TTQ came naturally to my rescue with a lighthearted tone.

“Not now. Then. When I came to see you the summer of 1980. You were different.”

I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t. Everything was careening out of control. Sliding back under my desk, I willed my strength, my calm and confident resolve to find its way front and center.

“What happened is all I’m asking.”

I was too raw. He was too new.

“That’s not something I talk about. Ever. So, what’s this thing you called a carryin?”

He was having a carryin at work the next day.

“Uh uh. What happened?”

“Tim, I’m not kidding. I don’t talk about it. Period.”

“Then we might as well hang up right now.”

He didn’t mean that. “You’re being ridiculous!”

“I’m being serious. I mean it.”

“Why?”

“Because if you’re going to keep secrets, this doesn’t work for me. I can’t go back, or forward for that matter, if we aren’t going to be completely open and honest with each other. If you were anyone else, okay, maybe, but not you. Not me and you.”

My eyes filled with tears again. “You’re asking the impossible.”

“I don’t think so.”

“You have no idea.”

“What’s so hard about opening your mouth and speaking?”

“I open my mouth and no words come out.”

“I don’t buy that. Just say what’s on your mind.”

How could I get him to understand?

“On that topic, my mind goes blank. I open my mouth and all thoughts flee. I notice the carpet. A smudge on the windows . . .”

“Tara, what happened?”

“Tim, I swear, if I could talk about it I would. But I can’t. I never have. Not to anyone. Ever.”