BEHOLD – A PALE FACED WOMAN
A Story of Love, Intrigue and Revenge

All my life, from adolescence to youth through maturity, and including old age, I was passionately attracted to quiet, reserved pale faced, sad eyed women.

I was intrigued with their hidden reserve and with their paleness.  Surely they harbor some private histories.

And being shy myself, I always thought that it would be easier for me to approach these women than loud, noisy, singing and dancing, and forward acting females.

Perhaps I was right, as I was more successful with this kind of woman.  Matter of fact, I married one, and we lived in harmony, love, and mutual respect for almost 50 years.

We maintained a certain special reserve for ourselves, although my wife, Bassya, wrote four books of explicit poetry, in which she poured out her heart with her inner visions of love, and with details of her private life.  She left some deep pain and disappointment out; yet hinted at, thus creating an area of mystery and shadow.

We gave each other space, remained lovers and friends until her sudden death.

I was devastated.  I considered this to be the end of my existence, and I began to dispose of my belongings.

But my friends, and I had many, intervened.  They kept me busy.  I was seldom alone.  They insisted that I keep on working (in a well established reputable furniture store where I was genuinely liked, and where I could express myself).

There were also a number of women that somehow appeared into my life.  Some were old acquaintances, some were new, and some pretended that they knew Bassya and came to console me.  I was often taken out to dinner and plays, some cooked for me, and some slept over in my bed.

As time went on, my life became automatic, almost programmed; without love, without attachment.  My work, my friends, and some good women, kept me afloat.  I was seldom alone.

I accepted most invitations for dinners, and I was not surprised when Cathy Brooks, a charming lady living in a nice flat in a good neighborhood, invited me over for a formal dinner.

When I arrived the place was packed with people.  Some I knew, some were married couples, and some were single men and women.

We were introduced.  The drinks were superb, and the hors d’oeuvres perfect, and there was a good friendly crowd.  Cathy was engaged to Fred Fox, a very close friend of mine.  I was glad to be there.

I noticed a middle aged couple holding onto their daughter as if to protect her by not letting her mix with the younger men.  She was pretty, shapely, dark haired and reserved.  She was also a little shy and pale faced.  I looked at her, smiled at her, but she turned her head away.  Still  I noticed that she was aware of my glances, but I was not able to make eye contact.  I had the thought that perhaps she was brought here for the express purpose of meeting me, but her parents did not like my looks, or my age, or my drinking tall scotches.

She held on to a glass of white wine, not only during the cocktail session, but I noticed that she held the same glass of wine all during the the rather excellent dinner.

Since I could not make a connection with her, I gave up, and instead paid attention to the others who were near me.

After coffee it was time to go home.  The dinner was held in the middle of the week and almost everyone worked.  I heard that this mysterious woman was also employed.  So as we started to leave, I made sure to say good night and shake hands with everyone.  To my great surprise, when I shook hands with this pale young lady, she slipped a small piece of paper into my palm.  It was a telephone number!

I did not sleep well that night.  The curiosity about this withdrawn woman, the protective stand of her parents, the mysterious glances, and the phone number were all too much.

I wanted to phone her right away, but good sense kept me waiting until the morning.  I knew that she worked – is this where I would find her?  Not being able to restrain myself, I rang at eight in the morning.  She answered immediately, as if she was expecting me.

She named a busy restaurant not far from my work place.  Yes, I got there a little early, but she was already there.

A scotch and water was already waiting for me (although I seldom drank at noon, and never when I was working).  She had a tall drink that I presumed was some soda.

We shook hands, clicked glasses – "To Life."

"First tell me about your parents,"  I ventured.

"I am married, but he abandoned me for another woman, and lives in a different city."

"So how come you are with his parents?"

I gulped down my drink, and when the waiter arrived, I ordered another scotch.

We ordered our food.  She ate sparsely, looking up at me with pale eyes.

She fascinated me.  This beautiful, reserved woman with her sad, pale face, and some hidden mystery.

I picked her up.  We drove to a very small and secluded French restaurant where I was sure we would not be seen.

When we were seated, she ordered a vodka martini – specified the brand and delicately savored it.

"Talk to me,"  I pleaded.

She took my hand and said:

"I am patiently waiting.  And what about you?" she finally asked.

I told her how devastated I was after my wife’s sudden death, and how some friends had come to my aid.  I explained that a few women had became the good caretakers of my loneliness, and how I now felt that I could go on living.  I told her about my commitment to again write and paint.

"Oh I would like to see your work," she whispered.

"Some other time," I promised. "I am tired tonight."

"Tonight," she pleaded. "I am tired too, but lonely, and I don’t want to go home alone."

We drove to my home.  She liked what she saw.  We had another drink, and she kissed me and begged me to let her sleep over. She did, and she was reserved and sweet. We fell asleep quickly.  It was a peaceful night.

We woke early, and had a cup of steaming coffee.  She wanted to get to her office, but first she wanted to stop at her place so that she could change her clothes.  She did so in a few minutes while I waited in my car.

I liked her speed and her tidiness.  We kissed, and promised to do it again soon.

A few hours later she phoned me.

I agreed.  She soon came over.  She said was very sorry to be a nuisance.  That night I came home late, as my friend Charles Gottfried and I had a leisurely dinner in an ordinary restaurant.  When I put the key in the lock the door did not open.  I tried again.  Did I have the wrong key?

She appeared from the shadows, opened the door with a smile, and gave me a new key.

She took my hand and led me upstairs where a lavish table with excellent food was waiting.  I told her that she had Chutzpa, but I liked her approach.  We ate, we drank, we made love, and from then on she was a resident in my home for three nights a week.  The rest of the time she was the abandoned daughter-in-law in the senior’s home, waiting for her husband’s return.

After a few weeks, she became very possessive.  I started to tire of the constant love - making, and her demands for complete fidelity.  She also started making changes to my home, and, and if she could, to me.  She moved the furniture and relocated my paintings on the walls.  I actually began to be afraid of her.  Even while she waited for her husband to return, she threatened me with castration should I be unfaithful to her.

I had to sneak out to see my friends; especially my female friends.  One day I changed the locks to my place.  She was furious – called me a cheating bastard.  I did not invite her in and she left in a huff.

I knew she was watching me.  I saw her hiding in the shadows, and once she came on in a threatening manner.  I considered calling the police and telling them she was a stalker.

A few months later I received a formal invitation from her in-laws for dinner.  The story was she had had a reconciliation with her husband.  He had abandoned his young lady and wanted to continue a normal life with his wife.  She forgave him, and they would be starting a brand new life upon his return.  Right after the dinner, they would embark on a new honeymoon journey on a long cruise.  Many people were invited to this event.  I had no intention of being a participant, and I was not.

I soon learned about the resultant dramatic event from the Foxes.  Everyone invited came (but me).  It started out to be a happy night.  The husband arrived, chastised, but she was late coming - something about having her hair done, and last minute shopping.

As the evening went on, and she was still a no show, telephone calls to her hairdresser revealed that she hadn't been there at all that day.  They waited and worried, and finally notified the police.

At last a telegram came.

I look back, and I am thankful for my good fortune and luck