Evening Tears

 It was a dark, star-filled night in January. I was ensnared in the semi-upscale catacombs of a city that is never quiet. My exact position I did not know; for the streets ran together a bit and my mind was troubled.  It had been a weary, breathless week, one where I have only maintained my sanity by a thin haze of hard fought for restless sleep.

I was once again making my way through the blocks of well to-do-homes—glimpses into the bright front rooms revealed families sitting down to dinner, couples fighting, old people sitting alone wistful in the night.

 I moved like a shadow-quiet and steady.  I could feel the crisp night air on my face and while I felt completely alone… I was not unnerved by it.

I walked by a small bungalow, built in the 30’s and with a great deal of charm still left in her stucco walls.  I peered into the gently lit rooms and saw a woman, older with long silver hair, sitting incredibly still.  She was impeccability dressed and elegant. I was about to turn away when I saw the tears streaming down her once beautiful face.  I was so taken aback I stopped in my path and just watched her from the anonymous safety of the sidewalk under the trees for a minute.   It was such a personal moment of grief I was taken aback and I could not stop thinking about what would make this lovely older lady feel such passionate pain. 

Even after I retreated to the safety of my own little nook and put on my own warm lights and settled into my routine, I could not get the silver-haired woman out of my mind.  I wondered was it a lover, a child, a parent that she longer for?  Was she alone or in pain?  I became fixated on what her life had been like to bring her to that point of raw emotion. 

The next night after parking my car and beginning my journey to my own nest, I once again traveled the same path.  I felt almost anxious as I neared the silver-haired lady’s tidy bungalow.  Just as before, I saw her seated with her hands in her lap.  She was so still except for the tears that streamed down her cheeks.  It was so painful to see the anguish on her face.  I had to tear myself away from her window and head home.  My heart was troubled to say the least. 

I decided I needed to see if I could talk to her or see her during the day and decided to walk by her house in the daylight.  At about 11am, I made my way to her house.  There she was in the front yard tending her roses in her garden.  I realized that she must have been in her 80’s-but she was remarkably preserved and still had a twinkle in her eye.  I complimented her on her garden and her smile lit up the block.

I made my way down the block, but decided I was going to stop and see her everyday.  I don’t know what it was-I just felt like I had to get to know her.  So, I began to cultivate a small friendship with her.  I soon learned her name was Sally and she had once been an actress—“a million years ago” as she proclaimed with a wave of her hand. 

She seemed to like my small visits and they slowly became a bit longer.  After a few weeks she even invited me into her home.  Inside was a time capsule of old Hollywood.  She showed me pictures of the 70 movies she had made and all of the framed and faded news clippings.  I realized with each visit how fragile she was, yet I also saw a core of strength.  Though I really wanted to ask her why she cried every evening dressed in her best clothes I did not say a thing.   She spoke of her now deceased husband kindly and of her two daughters, who lived far away and who seemed to be more of afterthought to her.

Several more weeks passed and we chatted every day.  I learned she loved Lillys and Channel #5 perfume and she always wore Revlon Red lipstick.  She had a lilt to her laugh and she always sent me home with fresh flowers from her garden.  One day out of the blue she asked me to sit with her.  She took my hands in her hands-so paper thin.  My heart leapt as I knew something was coming. 

Looking into her tired wide eyes, I watched as they filled with tears. 

“I must tell someone before I go.”  She said softly.

My mind raced, I did not like her train of thought.  I tried to say something about her not going anywhere, but she would not hear me. 

“Have you ever been in love dear?” 

I struggled to get out a “yes” but before I could she went on.

“I met him in 1949. He was so dashing!” She looked like a young girl as she described him.

I foolishly asked if he was her husband and she just laughed.

“oh no dear he was my lover.”  She went on.

“He was my lover dear, my true love…he worked in the animation department at the studio.” 

I could only say “oh.” 

“It did not last long, but I guess you could say it lasted a lifetime.”

I could not help but ask her what happened to him. 

“Oh, I was young and foolish and broke it off and after I did I was too afraid to tell him that I made a mistake.”

I looked at her.  “Did you ever tell him how you felt?”

“Oh no I was too afraid he would not forgive me.”

“But you still loved him?”

“Oh yes, all these years…in fact every night at 7:40 I think of him-it was the time that I last saw him.”

“Maybe he is still alive?” I ventured…”Maybe we could find him.” 

Her eyes darted nervously and she seemed to be thinking she never should have told this young stranger her secret.

“No, no he would never want to see me after what I did.” She was panicked now. 

“I need to take a nap dear.” She said and I was soon on the sidewalk outside of her house.

I felt like I needed to know who he was and began to research from the clues that she had given me.  It did not take too long to find out that his name was Morris and that he still lived in the Westside.  He had never married and had an apartment on Santa Monica Blvd.  I went to talk to him.  I knocked on the door of the vintage apartment.  Curved walls and a fallen and decayed Hollywood glamour still clung to the old complex.  Morris opened the door.  His once bright green eyes were now tired and red rimmed.  His dark lustrous hair as Sally had described was now mostly gone.  But one could imagine that he had been a charmer in his day. 

He was welcoming to me and soon told me he was 91 and had been living in this same apartment since 1943.  I asked him a few questions and feigned interest in the apartment for rent in the small complex.  Behind him, in his apartment I could see a framed picture of a young woman on his desk-a woman who could have been Sally in her heyday. 

I was torn.  Here were these two people separated by fifty years and yet still so together.  What to do?  I could not wait to get back to Sally and let her know that he was close and that he still had her picture on his desk. 

When I went back around to Sally’s tidy bungalow there were unfamiliar cars in the driveway.  A middle-aged woman greeted me at the door.  It was clear she found my presence to be an invasion.  I briefly explained who I was and how I was a friend of Sally’s.  She just looked at me coldly. 

“Mother died last night.”  Was all she said and she closed the door.

I felt like my heart was breaking.  I could not believe that she was gone and that she never got to know.  All those tears, all that loss and it was for nothing- a lifetime of pain that could have been avoided. 

As I walked back to my own apartment in the middle of the noisy world of LA, I realized that I did not want to ever regret anything.  I went home and at 7:40 tears rolled down my cheeks for Sally and Morris… tears to fall for the last time.