The Sting Of An Unrecoverable Past - Why Divorced Men Always Go Back To First Loves And Wish They Hadn't

Bob Evans was recovering from a particularly bad divorce - fights over the house, the car, and the children, and couldn't believe how he could have married such a woman in the first place.  

Yes, he had been unfaithful, and yes he had not been the most attentive, solicitous husband, but that was no reason for her to fight World War II all over again. 

In any case, recriminations, anger, and thoughts of vendetta aside, Bob knew that he had to get on with his life, make a new one with another woman, a new home, and some measure of happiness. 

He had met Felicity while a student. The weekend trips always paid dividends, and he and Felicity had spent long hours in a cozy hotel room promising the world and a life together. 

They married soon after his graduation, two youngsters on their own in New York, finally unbridled from family, school, and prospective futures. They were sure of themselves and their love, and the rest would come in turn.  After all, what was the point of it all if not for a union of true love?

After a few years they both understood the measure of their mistake - they were totally unsuited for each other, but because of some unexpected stick-to-it principle, decided to make the best of a bad choice.  After all, how bad could the marriage of two attractive, intelligent people be?

Very bad it turned out, not exactly the Sturm und Drang of George and Martha in Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf, but close.  They fought, they cheated, they lied and deceived and finally realized that any more of this penury would lead to violence or disaster.  They divorced. 

Bob lost track of Felicity in his early good riddance days, and turned his attention to the next phase of his life - finding a more suitable, congenial, and compatible match.

There was Joan from Accounting, a lovely young thing from Chillicothe, cornflower blue eyes, farm-bred simplicity, and sexual need.  Bernice, server at La Fourchette, aspiring actress, poetess, and Tarot card reader; but her starred ceilings, incense, and scholar's rocks were too much.  

Martha, serious progressive, feminist, and activist strummed his strings for a few months, then left for Portland.

Then he thought of Marilyn, his first love which, like many adolescent infatuations had gotten lost in transition and circumstance.  Perhaps like him, she had entrapped herself in a bad marriage, was now divorced, alone, disconsolate, and was looking for a second love. 

'Why, Bobby', she said when she realized who was calling.  'How nice to hear from you'; but the squalling of an infant and the barking of a dog suggested otherwise.

‘What have you been up to? It’s been how long?', and with that he spieled his entree, stumbling over a few years to which she only said, 'How nice.  You must come over and meet Henry and the children'.  Door closed, the past cannot be recovered despite Gatsby’s ‘Of course it can, Old Sport'. 

Disconsolate, hurt by her indifference, and feeling sheepish at his clumsy attempt to reconnect with someone so long ago, he quickly demurred and went back to reassembling his life - ridding the house of 'hers', setting up a wet bar, getting rid of the sconces and Italianate drapes in the living room, and airing out her boudoir. 

What about Nancy Blythe, he thought?  Now, that was reaching far into the distant past, for his desire for Nancy had begun in the eighth grade when she sat by the open window by the hollyhocks and sweet honeysuckle which even by May had made their way up the wall beneath.

She always wore sleeveless blouses, and from where he sat, he could see heaven itself.  Nothing came of it, but the image - the open window, the breeze, the scent of lilacs, and the tempting, impossibly delicious breasts of Nancy Blythe - was indelible, painful, and permanent. 

'Who?', said Nancy when he finally reached her.

The connection went silent.  Had she rung off a crank caller? But after a moment, she got back on the line with an 'of course I remember you', and as chance would have it she worked in a law firm not far from his. 

When he walked into the bar, he expected to recognize her immediately - who could forget that blonde hair and that uniquely feminine charm?  He looked around and asked the maître d' if there was anyone waiting for him; and there she was, a doughy, impossibly middle-aged woman nursing a martini.  It couldn't be her, but had to be. 

Chit chat about Mrs. Thomas the English teacher, Mr. Leonard, the math teacher, Bobby Pelham the bully, cheering the team, Halloween, the Holly Ball, and Nantucket did nothing to collapse the years. 

One and done, he thought as he contacted Joyce Patterson, Vassar tough girl, hard bark but sweet on the inside occasional 'date' on his weekend excursions to Poughkeepsie.  She had been a keeper, and God only knows why he demurred when she suggested a long term relationship.

Joyce had gone off the rails somewhere between Poughkeepsie and Park Avenue and that somewhat unhinged, vacant quality came across loud and clear when he finally found her.  

Despite Gatsby's hopeful promise, Dylan Thomas was right. You can't go home anymore. The past is past and unrecoverable.

So, the long trek forward would have to begin. Courting and a silver tongue all over again. Bob wasn't sure he had the energy for it. Why didn't women simply fall into his lap? 

At last sighting, Bob had married again, this time to a complete unknown - a statistical match, given background, education, legacy, race, ethnicity, and simple aspirations - but as far as he was concerned, since Nancy Blythe was long gone, a fictive bit of memory, then anyone would do, someone to comfort, support, and take care of him.