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twenty-nine f

Moving On

J ack and I filed for divorce. I continued to call the stone cottage home, though it was nothing more than a place to store my things. Jack and I were cordial to one another, but it was obvious we were both moving on with our lives.

I paid our bills two months ahead to give Jack a chance to get on his feet. Was I acting out of compassion or guilt? I wasn’t sure.

The day our divorce was finalized, we sat on the sofa staring at the deer head over the fireplace.

“I’m sorry it didn’t work out,” I said.

“Water under the bridge,” Jack replied.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s nicer than saying shit happens,” he said.

“That’s what you thought of our marriage?” I asked.

“It wasn’t meant to be. That’s all.”

“What’re you going to do now?”

“Once you’re gone, my girlfriend’s gonna move in.” Jack shot me a glance from the corner of his eye.

“Your what ?”

“You weren’t the only one cheating in this relationship. You think I didn’t know about you and Mike?”

Truthfully, I didn’t care.

“I’ll be gone by the weekend,” I said.

w

I left everything except my personal belongings with Jack and moved into Mike’s Trenton apartment. I picked up three night and two afternoon shifts so I’d be able to spend more evenings with Mike. The more time we spent together, the closer we became. I’d finally found my soulmate.

“I’m ready for a change,” Mike said, after we’d been living together for a month.

“Are you tired of me already?” I was half-joking, half-serious.

“Of you, doll? Never. How’d ya like to move to Florida?”

When I was twelve years old, my family took a trip to Miami. I fell in love with Florida’s climate, the striking blue skies, and the ocean. I promised myself I’d move south when I grew up. My wish became buried under lies, hate, drugs, and alcohol. I’d been afraid to dream about a better life until today.

“I’m game.”

“Thought so. Buddy o’ mine said I could find work in the boatyards around Fort Lauderdale,” Mike said.

The lease on Mike’s apartment expired in November 1976. Mike sold everything except his stereo equipment. I sold my beloved Mustang to another dancer. We agreed to be on the road right after Thanksgiving.

On Friday, November 26, we said goodbye to Trenton, then climbed into the front seat of Mike’s Trans Am. Mike packed a supply of amphetamines, hoping we could drive the twelve-hundred miles nonstop. By the time we arrived in Maryland, we were wired. It was all we could do to keep a soft foot on the gas pedal.

I’d taken speed when I dragged at work but never more than one pill at a time.

“How long can we go like this?” I asked Mike.

“Two days max,” he said. “I got some quaaludes for when we wanna come down.”

“I hate downers,” I said.

“Sometimes you gotta give nature a helping hand.”

Mike knew a helluva lot more about pharmaceuticals than I did. I decided to listen to his advice.

When we reached Richmond, Virginia, I saw signs for Virginia Beach. Thirteen years had passed since my honeymoon, the trip that forever changed my life. I grew silent and stared out the window.

“Why so quiet, doll?” Mike asked.

Mike knew I’d been in an abusive marriage but, other than telling him about my children, I’d never shared the details.

“Tom and I spent our honeymoon in Virginia Beach.” I kept my face turned to the window, not wanting my tears to dampen our spirits.

“Wanna talk about it?” Mike asked.

“Bad memories. I promised myself I’d leave them back in New Jersey.”

Most guys would have pulled off at the next exit and would have let me share my story. Not Mike. He lit a cigarette and blasted the local Top 40 radio station.

I should have taken his actions as a warning sign. But I was on the rebound, in love, and confident I’d found my Mr. Wonderful.

We’d been on the road about twelve hours when we neared Charlotte.

“Whadda ya think, Ava? Wanna take a break?” Mike asked.

The two of us were buzzed with nothing in our stomachs except coffee. My head hurt and my hands trembled. North Carolina held too many bad memories, but we needed a break. Quaaludes called to me.

We checked into the first motel we found, watched TV until the downers took effect, and slept until the next morning.

My kids were closer than they’d been in ages. The mother in me wanted to call, to beg Tom to let me visit. But I remembered how Tom had convinced me I was worthless as a parent and my children wanted nothing to do with me. Family had shown me nothing but betrayal. I told myself I’d be better off staying away.

We took turns driving the remaining seven hundred miles to Fort Lauderdale without the aid of amphetamines. We found a decent motel, then bought a newspaper, and a chilled bottle of champagne.

“To us.” Mike toasted our arrival.

“To our new life. Wish we had some blow,” I said.

“Your wish is my command.” Mike surprised me with an Altoids tin full of cocaine.

“We could’ve been busted, Mike.”

“But we weren’t, so let’s celebrate.”

And we did celebrate—all night long.

The next morning, Mike set out to find a job. I scanned the want ads for rental apartments with an ocean view. Prices were outrageous, but I did find several places south of the city near the water that fit our budget.

“Got me a coupla interviews lined up,” Mike said later that day. “Betcha I get a gig by tomorrow. Let’s check out some apartments.”

I loved Mike’s confidence. He thought nothing of signing a lease without having secured a job.

We chose a one-bedroom furnished apartment on the fourth floor of a high-rise overlooking the Intracoastal Waterway. It wasn’t the nicest or the cheapest, but it was a month-to-month rental, and we could move in right away.

“This place is only temporary,” Mike said. “Once I start makin’ the big bucks, we’ll live like kings and queens.”

The next day he found a job at one of Fort Lauderdale’s upscale boatyards. Mike didn’t wait for things to happen. He made things happen.

“I’ll be workin’ on yachts and some fishin’ boats,” he said. “I’ll be top mechanic before ya know it.”

I believed him. Not only was Mike a fine mechanic, but he also had excellent people skills. He could strike up a conversation with anybody, tell a few jokes, and win them over to his way of thinking—nothing like Jack, the introvert. I chased away an image of my exhusband staring at the deer head over the fireplace.

“I’ll check out some of the dance clubs in the area. I’m sure I can get work. I packed my best costumes,” I said.

“The only dude who’s gonna see you in them costumes is me. Time you took a break and enjoyed life.”