A tale of forbidden endearment, one that is brimming with a fondness for an unexpected connection…
by: Sarah Padgett
Looking back, Louis Sr. was a fixture in the periphery of my childhood, no more remarkable in my young mind than the regular rhythm of the mail delivery or the quiet presence of the cleaning lady. I recall him in brief, commonplace moments — a head in the church pew, a voice talking sports with my father. It’s strange to think now how insignificant he seemed then, considering the unexpected connection we forged more than a decade later at my parent’s high school reunion.
If baby boomers loved anything, it was 70s nostalgia. My parents, like Louis Sr. and many others from their University High class, had stayed close over the years, their friendships punctuated by Labor Day parties and houseboat BBQs. Consequently, when their Class of 1971 reunion rolled around, my boredom outweighed my reluctance, and I went with them.
The air before the reunion buzzed with my mom and her friends dissecting the latest marital casualties. It seemed a predictable pattern by this stage of their lives — the midlife upheaval often involving a resurrected romance. But one piece of gossip cut through the general murmur: Louis Sr.’s marriage was ending, his wife already finding solace with some figure from her past. His attendance was a bold move, I thought, seeing him across the room later that night, a lone figure while his estranged wife was conspicuously absent. The social landscape of their class, I imagined, was likely a minefield of unspoken allegiances.
He glanced at me and did a double take. My first thought was that it was his son Louis Jr. — the same striking eye shape and those familiar cheekbones. But this was his father, leaner and tanned. When his gaze locked onto mine, there was something in it, a silent intensity that resonated and drew me closer without conscious thought
With a polite wave, I walked over. There was a flicker in his eyes as he watched me, a familiar tilt of his head that sparked a recognition within me. That look…he was seeing echoes of my mother in my features, a version of her repackaged and repurposed. Maybe he’d even had a crush on her back in high school, a possibility that drifted through my thoughts, though I couldn’t be certain. Allowing myself to revel in it I gave him a moment to drink me in. As we spoke the lines of tension around his eyes softened, and a genuine smile finally broke through, accompanied by a newfound attentiveness. I sensed the familiar sting of his post-divorce animosity, but there was also a weariness, a sadness that seemed to coexist with it. A couple of times he stopped and shook his head as if I were some kind of mirage that would spontaneously evaporate before his eyes. The way he swooned into me was intoxicating. Suddenly I knew the power I possessed in that moment and didn’t intend to waste it.
The details were hazy — did I agree? Did he ask? — but I followed him to that familiar house, the same one Louis Jr. was raised in. Nestled in a quiet subdivision, it was a mere five minutes from my own beginnings, my parents’ place.
Most nights we spent together were pitch black. I learned to navigate from the front door to his bedroom like a bat. He extinguished the lights, carefully crafting the impression of a silent, sleeping home, a necessary deception to keep our trysts safe. The cool water of the only lit space, the pool, became our haven as we listened to my curated playlists of bands like The Hollies, The Rolling Stones, and The Animals that left him wistful. He said he’d be smitten with just me swimming in his pool, but the moment I saw him at the reunion my body ached at the possibility we could fit together like puzzle pieces. Louis Sr. never did get in to swim, he just sat on the side of the pool, watching me with both anticipation and fear that I could still at any moment fade away. His posture, the jeans he wore, and the way he looked at me are all seared into my memory. Those late summer nights we would quietly saunter to his bed in the dark after I was done swimming. He would worship me with a virility so strong I feared the experience would be the one I would compare to every subsequent encounter thereafter.
To know someone saw such beauty in me was treacherous territory, I was too young to hold on to it. I should have savored it more, I should have loved him completely, I should have done a lot of things. The reckless beauty I showed him was deliberate, knowing I would leave him with only the echo of its brilliance. I harbor no regret over our time together and I hope he doesn’t either. I saw my purpose as this bright burning thing that would kickstart his broken heart into functioning again. This was how it was all supposed to unfold, with me fading away, barreling to my next chaotic chapter. It was all a twilight arrangement aching in its fading light.
Sarah Padgett was courtside to the beauty and absurdities of everyday life during the early 2000s, compelling her to document her weird, wonderful, and wistful adventures as a testament to a changing American landscape.
