By Dirk de Jong.
After a quick bachelor-type dinner of canned soup and a sandwich, Anton picked up his phone. He had – on the advice of one of his friends – half-heartedly subscribed to a dating app for seniors.
“I damn sure don’t want to go kayaking,” Anton muttered to himself, as he scrolled through the recommended matches. He also did not want to learn tai chi, or travel to far-flung places he was no longer interested in visiting. Shit, he was too old for that. Finally, as he was about to give up on the whole enterprise, one profile caught his attention: I don’t like to talk much about myself via this medium. Instead, I want people to learn about me through human interaction. Suffice it to say that I am not perfect, that I have been through the ups and downs of life, and that I am still hopeful to connect on a meaningful and intimate level if you give me time.
Something about that entry portrayed a degree of vulnerability to Anton, a vulnerability he appreciated and related to. A single picture complemented the brief profile. It showed a woman with gray hair, tied in a ponytail. Her eyes seemed to look right into Anton’s. Her look was intense, somewhat sad, but also inquisitive. The only other information he gleaned from the post was her name, Brigitte, her age, 64, and the fact that – like he – she lived in Vermont. For the first time during his six weeks of app membership Anton felt the urge to respond. Hi Brigitte. I understand your sentiments. This dating app sucks. Most of the matches recommended to me are women who like to kayak. I don’t like to kayak. I do like coffee, and I hope you do too. If so (or even if you don’t), let’s meet up this weekend and talk. My name is Anton. I live in southern Vermont but can meet you anywhere. You name the place.
Brigitte messaged him back about 50 minutes later: Hi Anton. Saturday at one. Half Moon Cafe, Middlebury.
***
Brigitte was sitting at a table in a corner of the outdoor terrace. She was a little taller than he had expected her to be, maybe 5’8”. She had jeans on that were ripped at the knees. She wore a ponytail. Her fingernails were short and painted black. She smiled as Anton walked up to her.
“Hi,” said Anton. “Nice to meet you.”
“Likewise,” responded Brigitte.
They politely shook hands.
“Hey, I see they have Turkish coffee here,” said Anton. “How are you with that?”
“Sounds good. Bring it on.”
Anton ordered two Turkish coffees and adjusted the sun umbrella so he could make eye contact without having to squint.
“I liked how you responded to my profile,” said Brigitte. “Oh, and I do like kayaking, once in a while.’”
“I am sure there is more to you than that,” replied Anton. “I just started learning to play the harmonica. Fun, but not as easy as I was hoping. Do you like music?”
“I used to sing… took lessons for a while.”
They both sipped their coffee. Anton waited for Brigitte to continue, but she remained silent.
“What made you go on a dating app?” Anton asked.
Brigitte hesitated briefly.
“Loneliness, probably. I am fine by myself, but I do get lonely at times. How about you?”
“I feel pretty content living alone,” Anton started his response. “But rural Vermont can make you feel lonely sometimes. Fortunately, I still have work, and I see my kids pretty regularly. Do you have kids?”
Brigitte flinched. “I did,” she said.
“Oh… I am sorry,” replied Anton. “Really sorry…”
They were quiet for a minute or so. Brigitte took another sip of her coffee, then grabbed her handbag and got up.
“Thanks for coming out to meet me. I got to go.”
Somewhat stunned, Anton watched her cross the street to go to her car, an older Ford Focus. Then he threw a twenty-dollar bill on the table and rushed after her. She rolled down the car window and looked at him with her eyebrows raised. Anton took one of his business cards out of his wallet and scribbled his cell phone number on it. “Here. Text or call if you want to meet again.”
She took the card and placed it in the glove compartment. “Thanks.” Then she rolled the window back up and drove off.
***
That Monday Anton ran into Sophia, one of his colleagues in the political science department of the college where he worked, and someone he often confided in.
“How was your weekend?” she asked.
“Well, I went on a date,” replied Anton.
Sophia looked surprised. “Wow, judging by your dating app adventures so far, I didn’t think you were ready for that yet. How was it?”
“It was weird. I liked this woman’s profile online. We met at a cafe in Middlebury. We had Turkish coffee and a little bit of conversation. Then she got up, apologized, and left. I did have a chance to give her my cellphone number at least.”
“What made her leave so suddenly?” Sophia asked.
“I don’t know. When I asked if she had kids, she said that she did, like in the past tense. She seemed upset. I told her I was sorry. It’s strange, but I really would like to see her again.”
“Well,” replied Sophia, “since you are both a little weird, that may happen yet.” She winked in encouragement. “Gotta go. Political theory class is calling.”
As he was cleaning up in the kitchen, later that night, Anton was notified of a text from Brigitte: Sorry about leaving abruptly. I would like to see you again. Anton’s heartbeat seemed to quicken a little and he felt his face grow warmer. What was it? He was 72 and didn’t even know this woman. Yet he was eager to reply. How about lunch at the Black Tulip in Rutland, Saturday at noon, he texted back. Looking forward to seeing you again.
***
They arrived at about the same time. Anton was getting out of his car just when Brigitte drove into the parking lot. This time she wore a long skirt with what looked to Anton like an Indian motif. He walked over to her. “That’s a beautiful skirt,” he exclaimed.
Brigitte smiled and did a little mock curtsy in acknowledgement of the compliment. “Nice to see you again.”
They sat inside this time, near a window that offered a spectacular view of the mountains in the distance.
“I want to apologize again for my rude behavior last time,” began Brigitte.
“Thanks, but not necessary,” replied Anton. “It made you more interesting. I really wanted to meet again and learn more about you. I can start by telling you a little about myself.
Brigitte looked relieved. “Yes, please do.”
“Well, I am divorced… have been for about eight years now. I have two kids. And I teach at Mountain College. I live by myself, except when my youngest son is home from school.”
Anton paused. “Your turn to lift the veil a little bit.”
“Okay, but just a little. I also live by myself. I rent an apartment in White River Junction. It comes with a small studio. I am a painter, acrylics mostly. Landscapes, portraits, some abstract stuff. I exhibit and sell at fairs in the New England area… also through a gallery in Burlington. I am an introvert. I don’t care much for a lot of social stimulation. Do I sound boring to you?”
“Not at all. I usually gravitate toward people with rich inner lives.”
Birgitte was quiet. It looked like she was thinking about something, or almost as if she was dissociating from the moment. Then she looked up. “Sorry Anton, but I have to go.”
Before he could respond, she was already at the door, then disappeared into the bright sunlight. This time Anton did not follow her.
“Can I talk to you for a minute?” Sophia caught up with Anton in the hallway after both had been teaching class. “Let’s go in my office,” she said. She closed the door behind them and looked at Anton. “There is a rumor going around about your new friend. They say you are dating a ‘baby killer’.”
Anton seemed confused. “What?”
“Felix, that guy from the visual arts department, saw you and your friend out on the town. Apparently, he knows that she is a somewhat successful painter. He says that she was convicted many years ago of negligence in the death of an infant. Word is that she was out working as a stripper while her boyfriend shook their baby, causing a fatal brain injury. I guess both did time for that.”
Anton was stunned. Sophia stayed silent for a minute, while Anton was trying to focus on what he had just been told. Then she touched his arm. “I am sorry. I wanted to be the one to break it to you. I felt you should know.”
“Yes…yes…of course. Thank you,” stammered Anton. “And where was this supposed to have happened?”
“In Albany, New York, I believe. Yes, that makes sense, Felix went to the university there. He probably heard about it then.” Sophia looked at him earnestly. “Hey, let me know if you want to talk more.”
After the brief conversation with Sophia, Anton went straight home. At his desk, he opened his laptop and searched the database of the Albany Sentinel. There it was, dated June 3, 1980: Mother convicted of involuntary manslaughter in death of infant, screamed the headline. The account was pretty much as Sophia had summarized it for him. And it was her name: Brigitte McClure. She would have been 21 at that time.
Anton laid down on his bed, attempting to process what he had learned about Brigitte. Eventually, he fell into a fitful sleep.
He awoke as it was getting dark outside. He got up, went over to his desk and composed a brief email to Felix: Leave Brigitte McClure alone. We all have made mistakes – they shouldn’t define us. You don’t have permission to retraumatize someone who never did anything to you. So lay off, or I will initiate a complaint with Human Resources.
Mere minutes later, Anton was notified that a new message had arrived in his mailbox. It was from Felix. It read: Kevin O’Connell was my stepbrother. He was in a relationship with Brigitte when she got pregnant. He never knew if it was really his baby. The baby was a handful, and he was the one who took care of him most of the time. He lost his cool once and the baby died as a result. Kevin received fifteen years behind bars for second degree murder. He overdosed two years after he got out. Damn right: We all make mistakes. His was to get involved with Brigitte.
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