SUDDENLY, ROURKE CAN'T FORGET | Episode 3

... in which several conversations with a man in Omaha, and an invitation to meet, cause Rourke to arrange to travel there...

Jul 19, 2024

III

Alan Douglas did not respond for several days, but just when Rourke had convinced himself that he had caused offense by being too candid and forward-leaning in his e-mail, a reply from Omaha dropped into his in-box. Rourke read it, with some trepidation.

Omaha
January 25
Dear Mr. Rourke:
I welcome and appreciate your generous response to my inquiry.
I don't think a video conference is the best next step, but why don't we arrange to talk on the 'phone? You may call me next week on Thursday, between 10:00 AM and noon CST, and we can go from there.
Regards,
Alan Douglas

Rourke sat back in his computer chair, and stifled the urge to go pour some whiskey. He also stifled the urge to cry. Ten days was a long time to wait.

Connie was back in her office downtown, and the day spread out before him; he felt aimless but also restless. Rourke decided to make a list of the questions he had for Alan, and would choose three or four to ask during their 'phone call. That task took more than an hour, but when completed, Rourke felt a weight lift from his spirit.

He napped, but did not dream.

*****

The appointed Thursday came at last, and Rourke waited until about a quarter after ten to ring Alan's number in Omaha. A voice came after the third ring:

"Hello? This is Al," the gruff voice said.

"Alan, Padraig Rourke calling, from Virginia... how are you this fine day -- wait, I hope it's fine in Omaha..."

Alan laughed. "No, it's not great here today; cold, raw, and looks like it'll snow again before sundown."

"So very sorry, Alan. But I'm happy at last to hear your voice, and I have some questions for you, if you'd oblige me. I'd also recommend that we don't overdo it today, maybe keep it a short call, with the hope of more in the near future?"

"Yes, that's a sensible approach," Alan replied. "Go ahead and ask your questions."

"O.K.," Rourke said, "Did Franny play the piano?"

"Yes, extremely well. In that, she took after Katherine, her mother. I bought her a spinet about a year after we got married."

"Did she play for you? And what did she play?"

"Never specifically for me, I think, although she knew I enjoyed hearing her play. I don't know much about music, especially classical music, but I think she was fond of Chopin's Nocturnes."

Rourke let out an audible sigh. "She gave me a recording of the Nocturnes as a birthday gift in 1975, but I never got the chance to hear her play them, or anything else. I have always wondered about that. Did she stay with it up to and including her last illness?"

"Yes, pretty much. During some hectic family periods, she wouldn't play as often as she did normally, but she played -- at least for a few minutes-- even right before we took her to the hospital."

"That makes me happy, Alan, although I can't exactly explain why."

"Did Franny draw, or paint?" Rourke went on. “She was always drawing cute things on matchbooks, paper napkins, and letters and notes. But I'm asking mostly because, the first time I saw her after I came back to Omaha, she asked me:

"'Well, did you like it?"'
"And I replied, 'Did I like what?'"
"'The wedding gift I sent to you in Chicago.'"
"'Franny... I don't know what you mean... I never got anything from you other than your superb letters --and poems-- once I got to Chicago.'"

"She looked crestfallen, and said that she'd spent a couple of months painting a portrait of me, not excessively large, but not small, either. And she sent it parcel post to the address I'd given her in Chicago. At that time, I wasn't sure I'd return to Omaha -- still hoping for law school acceptances from some other schools -- so that's why I gave her my father-in-law's address. I held her hands, looked into her sad eyes, and thanked her for it anyway, even though I'd never seen it. She said she'd ask the Post Office to trace it, but I never heard about it again. So, I've always wondered, Alan..."

Alan said softly, "How terribly sad." Then, with a stronger, more even tone: "Yes, Franny painted occasionally, normally flowers and landscapes, once in a while one of our sons. But she never painted me, at least as far as I know. And she was a master doodler -- her funny 'Kilroy Was Here' type big-nose-over-the-wall drawings used to crack me up!"

Rourke smiled, then went on: "This next question is probably difficult, and you may tell me to fuck right off and refuse to answer it: Was Franny bipolar? And if so, was she being treated with, say, lithium carbonate? I hasten to add that a reliable mutual woman friend told me so a couple of months after I met Franny, but Franny never raised it, and neither did I. It's just... something else... that I always wondered about. Sometimes she seemed down a bit, but I thought not depressed -- hell, I shouldn't even talk about this; I didn't know from schizophrenia or clinical depression or anything like that at the time, and still don't know much, so I should not be trying to diagnose her at this late date. But was she?" Rourke was certain he sounded like he was pleading for an answer.

Alan Douglas was silent for more than a minute. Then suddenly, "Yes, damn it, Mr. Rourke, she suffered from bipolar disorder, and was prescribed lithium off and on over the years."

His tone was defiant, and crisp. Rourke feared that he'd hang up, and refuse further contact.

"I'm sorry, Alan... really, I am. I've always wondered, and had to get that question off my chest. I do very much appreciate how difficult it must be for you to discuss subjects like that. But may I continue with another question or two?"

"So long as they're not as sensitive as Franny's mental health, I guess so," Alan replied, sounding very tentative.

"Alan, you may decline to answer any of my questions at any time, but may I go on?" Alan grunted his assent, so Rourke continued with his curated questions.

He asked whether she had earned a master's in guidance from Columbia University while she was working in New York; no, Alan said, she took courses, but never finished, either there or after she returned to Omaha.

"Did she ever get the house with the white picket fence around it that she craved, at least ideally?' Rourke went on.

Alan Douglas's voice softened a bit, and he offered: "No, alas, we never did get her the picket fence. But I think she found more than comfortable the house that we made into a home."

"Alan, did you and Franny, and perhaps a 10-year old boy, travel to Asia in the summer of 1989? Were you, for example, flying from Hong Kong on Friday, June 30th, of that year?"

"How did you know about that?" Alan asked, sounding angry again. "Damnation, Padraig Rourke, how... " He composed himself. "Well, I don't recall exactly which day we departed from Hong Kong, but yes, we were on a long-planned trip across Asia, but we could only take one of our sons. Tell me how you knew that?"

"Alan, I saw you all in the departure lounge at the old Kai-tak Airport on that Friday morning. I was about to leave for Beijing, to take up a job in the U.S. Embassy there. I was in an extremely fragile emotional state that day, as I was leaping into the unknown, and my wife and family had been evacuated to the United States owing to the Tiananmen Square events of early June. I was missing them terribly. Then I spotted Franny, sitting a few rows ahead of me in the lounge. I went back and forth with myself about approaching her, and probably meeting you and the boy, and asking Franny to write me now and again while I was in Beijing, and beyond. I decided against it, Alan, because I didn't want to break down into a blubbering, emotional mess and embarrass Franny, you, the boy...and... and myself."

Rourke sighed audibly. "So I waited until my flight was called, walked down the aisle farthest away from where Franny was sitting, and headed down the hall into the jetway and the airplane. Alan, I regretted it almost immediately, and have regretted it ever since, over all these years."

"I had no idea, Mr. Rourke, none at all. Was that the last time you ever saw Franny?"

"Yes, Alan, it's etched in my memory, and I can't ever forget it. I don't really want to, I guess, but I'm not sure I could if I did want to." Rourke choked up on his last words, then apologized for being emotional.

"Mr. Rourke, no need to apologize. But I think we ought to end this conversation here. I'm not averse to having other telephone chats in due course, but that's all for today, at least for me."

"I understand, Alan. Unless you object, I'll put some other thoughts into an e-mail in the next few days, and perhaps we could talk again in a couple of weeks?"

"Let's not decide today, but in principle, we could do that. And you can write me any time," Alan said.

"Not goodbye, then, but farewell for the present," Rourke replied.

"Until later, then, Mr. Rourke." The line went dead.

*****

Rourke and Alan Douglas had three subsequent telephone conversations about 15 days apart. None lasted more than about 15 minutes. Rourke asked some more of his questions; he gently probed for information about Alan, and for details about his marriage to Franny.

So Rourke was astonished, and almost speechless, when during the third call, Alan suddenly asked, "Could we meet? I mean, in person? If you would come, I'd invite you to come here."

Rourke replied, "Alan, I'd be delighted to come! I don't travel so well any more, but to meet you I would summon my fading energies and come to Omaha. Perhaps we could begin with lunch at Maire's Pub in the Old Market?"

"That's a good idea, Mr. Rourke. But why there? Why that particular place?"

Rourke responded that he'd worked there for four and a half years, and had fond memories of the place, even though Maire Dempsey, the original owner, was long dead, and another family had been running the Pub for more than 45 years. He did not mention that he first met Franny Walsh there. Best to save that for later, Rourke thought.

Alan asked, "When could you travel?"

The two men volleyed days and dates back and forth for several more minutes, then agreed on the first Wednesday in April. Rourke recommended that they meet at Maire's Pub on 11th Street, just after the pub opened at 11:30 AM. Alan seemed satisfied with the choice. He wished Rourke a good afternoon and then rang off.

Rourke summoned Lewis, his resident AI, asking him to make airline reservations and book a hotel room downtown near the Old Market. Lewis reported satisfactory results within minutes.

Now he needed to tell Connie something; she probably would not want him to travel alone, but no way in the world that she could accompany him for this meeting and this set of conversations. Should I tell her the truth?, he wondered. Or concoct some kind of elaborate lie?

He pondered this dilemma until late the following morning.

END OF EPISODE 3 - New Episodes Every Friday

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