Bulleit Proof. Tom Bulleit

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СКАЧАТЬ luck. More than midway through this decade, I’d call the Eighties a bumpy ride, personally. I could use a bit of luck. We’ll see how this date goes.

      Yes, date.

      Feels strange even identifying this as such, but I guess that’s what it is. Forty-three years old, at the end of my marriage, and I’m on a date. Or about to be. When I think about it, if I am to be brutally honest, my marriage ended long ago. We’ve been separated now for some time, possibly close to two years, time having a way of simply disappearing when life dissolves into turmoil. I have stayed in the marriage because of Hollis, wanting at all costs to avoid disruption, determined to keep her in the home she’s known for almost her entire life, believing that children need security, stability, normalcy, even if the parents have lost that loving feeling and are flailing all around them.

      I surprised myself, calling Betsy, asking her out for a drink. I was even more surprised when she accepted. Of course, we’re not total strangers. Even though she’s quite a bit younger than I am, we’ve known each other for years. We’ve traveled in the same social circles and actually work in the same building, she on the first floor, where she works as a stockbroker, and I upstairs, on the top two floors, in our law office, so admittedly we don’t see each other that much. We have something beyond a nodding acquaintance, slightly. I’ll also admit that Betsy, or Elizabeth Callaway Brooks, related to Colonel Richard Callaway, a famed frontiersman, and being a descendent of Daniel Boone, is in every sense a purebred. In other words, she’s way out of my league.

      I start to second-guess this whole thing. I poke around with the silverware again, realizing that I’m feeling uncharacteristically nervous. I glance at my Rolex, now registering five minutes before our designated meeting time. I begin to fidget, wondering if she will actually show up and debating whether I have enough time to duck out for a smoke.

Then a rustling at the front door, some voices, low laughter, and a kind of warm wave vibrates through the room rolling toward me. I stand up, as if launched from an ejector seat. I see Betsy searching the room, the host pointing in my direction, and I wave, dumbly, suddenly feeling a momentary sense of panic, followed by my own voice echoing inside my head, “What the hell are you doing? What made you think this was a good idea? Make a run for it.”

      Before I know it, someone pulls a chair out for Betsy—it might even be me, but I’m so flustered I have no memory of making that gallant a move—and Betsy and I are sitting across from each other.

      “You’re right on time,” I say, a brilliant opening line.

      She laughs. “Don’t get used to that.”

      I laugh with her. And then we talk … and talk … and talk. We have what amounts to a four-hour drink. I don’t remember much of what we talk about, but I remember the conversation being serious and intense, at times bordering on grave. At certain moments during the conversation, I feel as if I’ve stepped away from the table and I’m observing us, and I am appalled.

      You don’t sound like you, Tom, I think. You sound so damn heavy, so serious.

      At the end of the night, with the staff at Dudley’s practically putting chairs on top of each other, five minutes away from closing up and kicking us out, I invite Betsy to come over to my house the next night.

      “I guess I’m inviting you out on a second date,” I say.

      I don’t know if I can do this, Betsy thinks. He’s so serious.

      “Sure,” Betsy says. “I’d love to come over.”

      The next night I answer the door wearing Dockers and my trusty turtleneck. Betsy arrives 15 minutes late, but when I see her, I don’t care. Her smile takes my breath away.

      We log another four hours, some of it with Hollis, most of it sitting across from each other at the dining room table and then moving to the couch. I don’t remember any of the exact conversation, but I remember the laughs. I remember Betsy laughing so hard she has to gasp for breath, tears streaming down her cheeks. And when the night ends, we make plans to see each other again. Soon. Maybe even the next night.

      I may be in love, I think. I may actually be in love. I hope she at least likes me.

      I have to plot my course carefully, Betsy thinks. Because I’m going to marry Tom Bulleit.

       * * *

Four months later, my divorce becomes final and I win custody of Hollis. To celebrate, Betsy and I plan a long weekend in Carmel, California, the first time we’ve gone away as a couple. One night, sitting at a table in a restaurant overlooking Pebble Beach Golf Course, Betsy reaches over and takes both my hands.

      “Tom, I’m only going to have the courage to ask you this once, so listen up.”

      “I’m all ears.”

      “Will you marry me?”

      “Wait.” I pause for a very long time. “Did you just propose?”

      She nods. She can’t seem to speak. Her eyes are wide and glistening.

      “Well, this is all wrong,” I say.

      “I know—”

      “You’re supposed to get down on your knees.”

      She laughs, loses it. And then she starts to cry.

      “Damn it,” I say. “I was going to ask you. Once again you’re way ahead of me.”

      “So, is that a yes?”

      “No. It’s a YES.”

      I practically shout it and then I—Mr. Order, Mr. Formality, Mr. Everything in Its Proper Place—get up from the table and take Betsy into my arms, announcing to the diners in the restaurant and to the heavens above one of the most breathtaking spots on earth, that, Yes, Elizabeth Callaway Brooks, I will marry you. Preferably as soon as possible.

      So begins the most thrilling adventure of my life.

       * * *

      We marry on my birthday, March 14, 1987. I don’t mind sharing my birthday and my wedding anniversary. Makes it unique, special. Plus, it gives me a better chance in my dotage of remembering at least one of these two events.

      “Better be your anniversary,” Betsy says.

      Not a Bulleit Point, but excellent advice—

      You can forget your birthday without consequence, but you will pay big time if you forget your wedding anniversary.

As my 44th birthday—and my wedding anniversary—approaches, I find myself withdrawing from social occasions, going to bed earlier than usual, and keeping more and more to myself. I feel myself shutting down, turning inward. I’m becoming reflective. One night, sitting together in our living room, nursing after-dinner drinks, enduring an unaccustomed minute or two of silence, Betsy says, “You’ve been very quiet lately, Tom.”

      “Hm? Oh, yes, I know, it’s this contract I’ve been dealing with today—”

      “I don’t mean today. You’ve been unusually quiet for months.”

      “Really?”

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