Chapter 2

“After so many years of hearing ‘we’re just friends,’ I offered a gentle nudge. ‘Fall in love already, will you, damn it!’”

That had earned me a laugh from Abby and Major’s friends and family.

“They did. And I treasure them both, too. To you, Hermione and Ron…Abby and Major…Here’s to a hundred happy years as man and wife.”

Sadly, they never made it to the altar.

* * * *

“The wedding’s off, Sal.”

“Come on, Maj. It’s just pre-wedding jitters. We’ll go back to my place, smoke a little shisha…”

“No. It’s none of that. Abby…she agrees. We’re just not…” Pacing in a small circle, he tugged at his hair. It would soon be shorter than mine, and the restaurant floor would be littered with mounds of reddish chestnut. “Getting married was a dumb idea from the start.”

“Why are you leaving, though? Abby’s parents aren’t running you out of town, are they?”

“No.”

“Then don’t go. Don’t leave me, too, Major.”

* * * *

One of the first things I’d asked, before I’d first called Major Ron, was about his real name. “Let me guess…your parents are in the military?”

“Naw. Music teachers,” he’d told me with a brace face smile. “I’m Major Chord Gannon.”

Knowing nothing about music, I hadn’t really gotten it at the time. When I’d first heard him tell the story to our study group in college, that was when it clicked.

“Family lore claims my parents walked together down to the nursery the night I was born. It had been a banner few days for newborns. The room was packed. A nurse went in, my mom tells, and when she opened the door, this harmonious chorus of baby cries rang out, loud enough to nearly knock them over. ‘The notes weren’t dissonant, son,’ my dad says. ‘The tone wasn’t…minor.’ Dad always smiles at that part.” Major’s had grown wider as well. “‘I looked to your mother.’” He deepened his voice when imitating his dad. “And we said it in unison…Major…’ And that’s what they decided to call me.”

Major had played in the marching band and he’d sung in the choir in high school and college. I’d seen him on stage eight years in a row, in musicals I couldn’t name if someone paid me, since theater wasn’t really my thing. Oklahoma—that was one I remembered because Major made me watch Hugh Jackman on PBS playing the same part he was. I’d watch Hugh Jackman in anything. No way would I ever get up on a stage, but Major never missed a production, in fall or spring, not until the last one.

I’d stood by his side as he’d sung at his parents’ funeral a couple of weeks into our senior year at SUNY Albany. Major had dropped out the show that semester. I’d really been looking forward to listening to him perform something cheesy and romantic—a happier tune—months later at his wedding. I honestly couldn’t recall hearing him sing at all in between, not even to the radio.

* * * *

“I love Abby,” Major said again. “And she loves me. This isn’t a unilateral decision. We’ve been thinking about it a long time. It was probably kind of cowardly to let things go as far as they did, especially on…on my part.” He took a breath. “I have to go.”

“Where? For how long?” I grabbed a hold of him. “You haven’t said.”

“I don’t know. That’s part of it.”

“Part of what?” I asked.

“I’ve never been out of this state. How can I settle down for the rest of my life with Abby when I haven’t even lived with myself yet?”

“I get it.” I really didn’t.

“I have some money. I have my education. I…I don’t even know where I’m going to eventually end up.”

“Wait. This is temporary, right? You’re coming back, aren’t you?”

“Maybe. Probably. We’ll keep in touch, Sal. Social media and all that.” Major put a hand on each of my shoulders. Music was still playing in the background—Barry Manilow—just the melody, though, a piano recording of “Mandy,” another throwback. “I’ll miss you as much as Abby.”

“Then don’t go.” For a moment, I thought I might throw myself on the floor, grab him by the ankles, and blubber all over his shiny dress shoes. I’d never been averse to making a scene if I had to. A testimonial flashback, funny at the time, bittersweet now, came to me then.

* * * *

“Mr. McKensie, your eyes should be on your own exam.” Our tenth grade Geometry teacher had always fancied himself as stuffy and no-nonsense as that guy from The Paper Chase.