discover this secret about each other.
There was something different about Maggie that impressed him. She didn't fear him. She wasn't in awe.
Yeah, that's it. Maggie and Mom. My mom wasn't afraid of me either, the tough guy thought now.
Then, as they had walked along the street, he saw a friend sitting at a table in Riordan's Saloon.
"Wait here," he told her.
"Why?"
"There's a guy I used to wrestle with in there. I'll be back in a minute."
Before she could say a word, he darted off, leaving her alone. There were two other buddies inthe bar, and Mark had few chances to drink at the Academy. One beer became two. But his queen was waiting, so he begged off on the third.
Twenty minutes after abandoning her, he returned.
"You're no gentleman," she seethed at him.
"What are you so upset about?"
"You left me here for almost half an hour! Take me back to the dance!"
He shook his head. "What?"
"Take me back."
She was really mad atme.
"Let's just walk a little bit more…" he suggested, offering his arm and a charming smile.
"Take me back," she insisted, looking him in the eye. Not backing off. Not a trace of fear.
Maybe that's when I fell in love with her.
He had smiled. He started talking. He changed the subject. He was not a dumb jock. He knew how to express his ideas. They talked as he walked her back to the car. He madeher laugh in the car. He told heroic stories, in humble ways, of heroic battles he had fought. The Notre Dame game, when he had played with a busted up knee, got to her.
"My daddy played hurt," she told him. "He was an officer and a gentleman."
Later, when their first daughter had been born, Maggie hadn't uttered a word or let out a scream during the delivery. After Sarah came out, she told him,"See, I'm a tough guy, too."
She had loved him, then. He gripped the steering wheel tightly. His house in the pleasant suburb of Montclair was miles away now. Where am I?
Nowhere, man. Hey, didn't the Beatles sing that? I hate the Beatles.
He saw a Catholic church. He pulled into the driveway, parked, and went up to the large wooden doors. They were locked. He walked around the back, got downon his knees at the wall closest to the tabernacle, which he saw through the stained glass, and began to pray.
What's going on, Jesus? I'm a failure as a husband. I'm losing my little girls. What's going on? I gave everything to her. I worked hard. I never cheated. All I want is some respect.
He wasn't at the end of his line, however. He was nowhere near tears. Mark Johnson really was a toughguy.
He went to bed that night with swirling memories of arguments with Maggie banging around his head. He shouted at her. She snapped at him. Bang bang bang. Like gunshots.
And so it goes: another marriage on the ropes. One of millions. For all our love of work and cars and sports and magazines and minivans and computers and custom floor coverings and politics and sex and anything-but-anything-but-God,we still go to bed at night with love and lack thereof on our lips and hearts and minds.
5
"Is Buzz your real name?" Donna asked as she looked around Buzz's apartment.
"No. It's a nickname. But if people use it all the time, it is kind of real, isn't it?"
Donna squinted in confusion. "Huh?"
"It's not a fake name," Buzz explained.
"You see Donna," Sam cut in. "I told you Buzz would confuse youright off the bat."
"Are you trying to be funny?" she asked, noticing that everything in the kitchen had a car motif. There was a giant collage of classic Thunderbirds, cut from magazine ads, on the wall adjacent to the table.
"No, I'm serious. Buzz is my nickname, and it's my real name. My baptized name is Gwynne. Can you believe it?"
"Gwen?" Sam asked.
"Gwynne," he repeated, emphasizing the i sound of the y.
"Pretty cruddy name if you ask me. Buzz is much better," Donna offered.
"Sure is," Buzz agreed, wiping his hands on his apron. He was in the middle of cooking a huge omelette on a large cast-iron skillet.
"So how did you