September 23, 1972

Dear Jane,

I love you, I really do. But I don’t think we can make this work. Long-distance relationships never last. If you hadn’t changed your mind about going to Boston University, maybe we could make a go of it. But I’ll be too busy with my music, and you don’t even have a driver’s license. So this is goodbye. Have a good life.

Bob

***

“He’s got to be kidding. Have a good life? After eighteen months of ‘I love you, you are my soul mate, I never want to be without you’…bah!” I burst into tears, and the soggy offending letter dropped to the floor. My roommate Maggie tried to comfort me with a hug and an indignant, “You’re better off without him.”

I looked at her with red-rimmed eyes. “Thanks. Maggie. I appreciate you trying to make me feel better. But it doesn’t help. What I need is to wallow in self-pity until it kills me. Then, rise from my deathbed to shout, ‘You jerk! I hope your piano strings break in the middle of your debut concert at Radio City Music Hall!’ Dear Jane indeed.”

Maggie’s expression changed from concern to abject terror—understandable since we met only a couple of weeks ago. She couldn’t know that, as a theater major minoring in music—I play the cello…that’s how I met the jerk—I tend to be overly dramatic. Usually. Most of the time. Anyway, she tentatively asked, “Isn’t your name Janice?”

“Yeah. Janice Jean Jenkins. How’s that for a fine example of alliteration? Apparently, I went around calling myself ‘Jane’ in kindergarten, convinced that I, not Dick, was the hero of Fun With Dick and Jane. Unfortunately, or conveniently if you’re Bob, the name stuck.”

Maggie smiled. “Are you going to be alright?”

“I’ll survive. I thought it was for real, you know? We had so much in common. It was perfect—he would tickle the ivories; I would pizzicato my way to fame. We would make beautiful music together. Ahhh…how could I have been so obtuse?”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself, Jane," Maggie soothed. “How did you guys meet?”

“Well. How much time do you want to waste? I can be extremely long-winded, especially when my emotions are playing basketball in my head—slam dunk, layup, slam dunk….I don’t know whether to crawl under the covers or smash my fist through the wall.”

“I have no place to be.” Maggie hugged a pillow to her chest and leaned back on the couch. “I adore how-we-met stories."

***

“Okay, then.” It was the summer of ‘71. I was sixteen—never been kissed. Maggie raised her eyebrows. “Too sappy?” I asked.

Laughing, she shook her head. “I love it. Go on.”

Cina—pronounced “Cheena”—was my best friend, fellow ice cream enthusiast, and one of the most talented violinists I’ve ever heard. She also played the piano, which was instrumental—see what I did there?—in causing my current crisis. But I digress.

I paused, remembering Cina’s role in my introduction to Bob. Taking a sip of water, I continued.

At the end of our junior year, Cina and I were both encouraged to attend music camp at the Amherst Summer Music Center in Maine. Her parents immediately signed her up for the two-week session in August. She begged me to go with her, and I begged my parents to agree. However, I had a problem. Her parents were rich; mine were not. We weren’t destitute, but the $350 fee did not go over well with my folks. I cried, they refused. I threw tantrums, and they asked if I was sixteen or three. I locked myself in my room for days—well, hours. They wouldn’t budge. Finally, I called my grandparents. Success—although I was grounded for two days for going behind my parents’ backs. Undaunted, I packed my bags, rosined my bow, and hitched a ride with Cina’s dad to Raymond, Maine, on the shores of Crescent Lake.

We were assigned to a four-girl cabin called The Robin’s Nest. Our cabin mates were already settled in, leaving us to occupy the bunks on the east side of the building. Which was fine, if you didn’t mind rising at 5 a.m., awakened by piercing sunlight and the cries of loons gliding swiftly over the lake in search of breakfast. The other two girls were Barbara, the violinist, and Sandy, the viola player, who were friends who had attended camp the previous year. Barbara gave off a definite hippy vibe, with her tie-dyed tee and shorts cut up to her—well, you get the idea. She was super friendly and offered to give us a tour of the grounds. With her nose buried in a book, Sandy’s long, poker-straight ash blond hair veiled her face, making me think of Cousin Itt. I could understand her just fine, though, as she greeted us with a cheery “hello”. Soon after Cina and I finished arguing over who got the top bunk—she did—and unpacked our things, Barbara informed us that dinner was in five minutes. It was quite a hike up the hill, so we had to hurry.

***

“Are you asleep yet?” What time is it anyway?”

Checking her watch, Maggie said, “It’s only four o’clock, but I'm getting kinda hungry. Let’s eat, and then you can continue your saga. You haven’t even gotten to the good part yet!”

“Maggie, there is no ‘good part’. I just got dumped, remember?”

“It must have been good at the time,” she pointed out. “It’s all about perspective.”

I thought about Maggie’s comment all through dinner. She’s right. Maybe I should try to look at this from a different angle. Hmm….

Stomachs full, Maggie and I trudged back to the dorm. Seated cross-legged on her bed, she gave me her undivided attention.

“Okay, where was I?”

“Dinner,” Maggie prompted.

“Yes. Well.” The rustic dining hall had large, broad windows that provided a panoramic view of the lake. Nestled among the pines, it was big enough to allow everyone to eat at the same time. The Hall, along with the Lodge and the Playhouse, separated the boys’ and girls’ cabins, which likely gave parents some assurance that their children’s innocence would be preserved—a misguided notion if there ever was one.

“So when did you meet Bob?” asked Maggie.

“Don’t rush me. I warned you this would take a while.”

After a surprisingly good dinner of spaghetti and meatballs, faculty members divided us into teams according to our preferred instruments. Many kids played more than one, and could choose whichever one they wished to focus on while at camp. I, naturally, got to hang out with the cellists. But Cina, already a virtuoso on the violin, wanted to improve her piano playing. So when her name was called—incorrectly pronounced, of course—she joined the piano bunch. After the selection process was finished, each group followed its leader to a quiet spot among the trees. For an hour, Mr Miller, a cellist who had recently joined the Boston Symphony, walked my group through the rules, schedules, expected behaviors, and various other boring details of camp life. Afterwards, we were on our own until lights out—an unreasonable 9 p.m.

I made my way back to our cabin and found Cina changing into a burnt-orange turtleneck tucked into faded bell-bottom jeans. At my questioning look, she broke into a devilish grin. “Come on. We’re going down to the beach for the bonfire,” she said. “Grab a sweater. It’s chilly by the water.” Now, I’ve known this girl since fourth grade. And I knew how she felt about Mother Nature—the less time dealing with her, the better. So something or someone had lured her into braving the dark, gloomy forest and the wet, squishy sand. My guess? Boys. I followed Cina as she made a beeline for a tall, slightly goofy-looking boy who was walking toward us. His shaggy brown hair brushed his shoulders, and the fringe on his suede vest swayed in the wind. Congratulating myself for my insight, I whispered, “Really, Cina? It hasn’t even been a full day!” She laughed and pointed to another kid running to catch up to Shaggy. “I found one for you, too,” she cooed. My jaw dropped as I watched the model for the cover of my current romance novel saunter over to the three of us and say, “Hey. My name’s Bob. What’s happenin’?” I pushed my chin back to its rightful place and gave Cina a look that would stop a rabid dog dead in its tracks. Wishing I could disappear, I somehow managed to stifle my panic long enough to introduce myself to the swarthy, black-haired guy standing in front of me. It took me three tries to stutter, “Hi, I’m Janice—Jane. I go by Jane.”

***

Maggie winced as she stretched her cramped legs. “Why were you so upset with Cina? I haven’t known you long, but you certainly don’t seem the timid type.”

“I’m not. But I was never comfortable talking to guys, especially good-looking ones who oozed confidence. I was pissed in that moment because she knew this and still insisted on playing matchmaker whenever the opportunity arose.”

“Maybe she was trying to help. But I can see your point.” Making herself more comfortable, Maggie asked, “What happened next?”

Cina and her new friend left to join the crowd by the fire, leaving me alone with Bob. Silence stretched between us like a forgotten line from a Broadway play. Bob finally smiled. “So, Jane, is it? I’m a pianist. What instrument do you play?” “Cello,” I muttered. At his suggestion that we join the others, I relaxed, just a little. We traded basic information like where we were from, whether we had siblings, and which rock bands we liked. By the time we squeezed into a spot near Cina and Dave, formerly known as Shaggy, I felt like this might be different. Even now, I can’t explain what it was about Bob that slowly broke down the shield I’d built against the hurt and humiliation—real or imagined—that had always sabotaged my relationships with boys. But I didn’t question it—I embraced the warm, fuzzy feeling I had when I was with him.

Over the next two weeks, my days were filled with classes, practice, and performances. My free time revolved around Bob; him tipping our canoe on purpose, me throwing cole slaw at him, and both of us being chastised for “unacceptable behavior”, and road trips with Cina and Dave to the local ice cream stand, where Dave flirted with the girl behind the counter and received a punch in the gut for his efforts. We had fun, for sure. But there were also serious moments. Bob accompanied me as I played The Swan by Saint-Saëns, better than I ever had before. I was enraptured by Bob’s performance of Prelude No. 1 in C Major by Bach. And then there were the times we spent walking through the woods or lounging by the lake, talking about everything—all the intimate details that color a person’s life and make them who they are.

He told me how he felt about being adopted and having a sister who was miraculously conceived years later. I told him about my strained relationship with my mom—how I never seemed to please her. The closer we became, the more I worried that the end of camp meant the end of us. When I expressed my fears to him, he assured me that he would write and visit as often as he could. He loved me, he said, with a sincere look that I badly wanted to believe. Then Cina’s dad impatiently honked the horn, and with a kiss and a wave, Bob was a phantom, dissolving into the afternoon sunlight.

***

“Wow! Talk about a whirlwind romance.” Maggie’s look suggested that she wasn’t quite buying it. “Sounds like a fairy tale to me.”

“It felt like one,” I confided. “But I swear on my Nana’s grave that everything I’ve said is the truth—at least as far as I can remember. It wasn’t that long ago.”

“Okay, I believe you. You started your senior year in high school shortly after camp ended, I presume?”

“Yup.” Bob was as good as his word. I received his first letter by the end of September. He was chatty, writing mostly about school and music. In October, he said he had applied to Boston University for Early Decision, and suggested I do the same. My parents were not thrilled with the idea—they didn’t want me to go to college at all. My dad, especially, was worried about drugs and alcohol, and felt that there was less chance of something bad happening to me if I stayed home and got a job. I pleaded with them to at least let me apply, and finally, they gave in—as long as I applied to other schools as well. I visited Bob at his home in Needham, Massachusetts, over Thanksgiving, and he drove to Long Island during Christmas break. We were both notified of our acceptance to Boston University by the end of the year. We exchanged pseudo-love letters throughout the winter and spring. Everything was peachy.

Maggie interrupted me. “Pseudo-love letters? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I hate all that mushy stuff. I didn’t want to hear fancy, flowery words; I just wanted him to want to be with me, I guess. Anyway, as I was saying…”

I was disappointed that Bob couldn’t attend my graduation party, but I was determined to enjoy myself anyway. I was wearing white wide-leg pants, a red tee, and a teal-and-white checkered blazer—not that it matters to the story, but I felt like the grooviest chick around in that outfit. When Bob pulled into our driveway, I squealed so loudly that my deaf grandma covered her ears. I had no idea he was coming. We talked until I had to leave for my part-time job—yes, I was scheduled to work on the day of my party. We made plans. I would go to Needham a week before the semester started so we could have some time together before hitting the books. We imagined who our roommates might be and hoped they would be somewhat normal, but not too dull.

I showed Maggie the bracelet on my wrist: a silver ID bracelet engraved with my name on the front and “Love Bob 6-24-1972” on the back—Bob’s graduation gift to me.

“Remember these, Maggie? They were all the rage last year.”

“I remember.”

Not long after what felt like the happiest day of my life, everything changed. Having been accepted to Boston University, I fully expected to head to Boston in the fall. My parents had other ideas. One year at Boston University cost triple that of attending Potsdam College in upstate New York, which was my backup school. Mom delivered the arrow that pierced my heart. “We can’t afford to send you to Boston, dear. You have a choice. You can attend Potsdam, and we’ll contribute what we can. Or, you can get a job here at home.”

I tried everything an angsty drama queen could think of to convince them to change their minds. Nothing worked. My life was over. Dreams shattered. Plans exploded like an M80 on the Fourth of July. I spent the next several days moping, avoiding my parents, cursing the unfairness of it all. But I couldn’t milk my misery forever. Finally, I had to call Bob to deliver the devastating news.

***

To my surprise, he took it quite well. In fact, he couldn’t understand why I was so upset. “This doesn’t change anything,” he said. “Instead of Long Island, I’ll drive to Potsdam in the fall. Don’t worry. We’ll make it work.” And we did. The summer was fabulous. I spent a week with him in July, getting to know his parents and adorable younger sister. Because his home was so close to Boston, there were tons of things to see and do, and we took advantage of them all. Bob visited me every other weekend. My spirits were high, and, in my naive mind, my future looked bright.

Alas, our second summer of love, laughter, and quiet moments ended before we were ready to let it go. We were together the weekend before we both had to leave for orientation. Promises were made. I believed them. So I headed off to Potsdam, confident that our relationship would survive distance, new friends, and responsibilities.

***

Maggie sighed. “Did you hear from Bob at all after that weekend?”

“Once. He called to tell me his roommate was far-out, that he got drunk at the dorm welcome party, and that freshmen couldn’t have cars on campus. Really? He didn’t know that beforehand? I should have suspected then that something was up. But I was too wrapped up in the fantasy, so very happy that someone actually cared about me, with all my silly quirks and awkwardness. I lived for the dream.

“And then this appeared in my mailbox this morning,” I said, reaching for the drenched, discarded letter. What I held was an illegible sheet of paper torn in half. Funny. Somewhere between reliving my story and telling it, the pain has eased. I stared at the sodden mess for all of five seconds and then finished the job, tearing it into a million tiny pieces.

“Right on!” Maggie cheered, clapping her hands like a hungry seal. “How do you feel?”

“Great, actually. Free to explore new possibilities, with no expectations or strings attached—heh, I did it again,” I said with a smile.

“You tell a great story, Jane. It’s like it’s your destiny. You should write a book.”

“Hmm…what a novel idea.” Laughing to myself, I grabbed Maggie and walked out our door—smack dab into a cute guy carrying a violin case. I dropped Maggie’s hand, extended mine toward the boy, and said, “Hi. My name’s Jane. What’s yours?”