You gave away the things you loved, and one of them was me

When Jack called me just after New Year's to tell me he was cleaning house, both literally and metaphorically, I asked him where Beauty was.

"She's safe," he replied.

"What does that mean?" I asked. There was something in his voice I didn't like. Something that was saying, what's been going on is about more than just getting rid of my smelly old futon and sending all my clothes to Goodwill. It's a clean sweep, and you're looking at the business end of the broom.

"She's happier," Jack said, continuing to be irritatingly vague.

"Is she... is she there? I mean, is she with you?"

"No," he said.

If there's one thing I know with absolute certainty in this world, it's that Jack loves Beauty. It was inconceivable to me that he would get rid of her.

"Where is she, Jack?"

"She's out in the country. She's resting. She's earned it."

I was reminded of the story parents tell their very young children when a pet dies: "Rover went to live on a farm, where he'll have acres of meadow to play in."

It's been three months since that conversation.

Last week I was surprised to find a voice message from Jack on my home phone. The concern in his voice was clear. It seems he'd read this. Which was doubly surprising, since I was under the impression that he doesn't read my blog.

But in the fifteen years I've known him Jack has always been full of surprises, some of them quite wonderful, some not so much. Since I never know what to expect from him, I've learned not to expect anything. And so what tends to happen is that when I least expect it, he calls me.

We talked on the phone the other night and it was as though nothing, and yet everything, had happened. He told me about the new place he's moving into, and how Beauty'll have an indoor parking spot.

"You're driving Beauty again?" I asked, thankful that he was on the other end of a phone line, and couldn't see the expression on my face. I thought I might cry, not out of sadness but out of relief and, well, joy. Beauty was back, and she was okay.

"Well, yes, what else would I be driving?" he replied, not without a hint of irritation in his voice.

I expected nothing, but had considered all the possibilities: Beauty had been sold. Beauty had been destroyed. Beauty had been donated to a high school auto class for dissection. A newer, prettier BMW had taken Beauty's place.

"If you remember, last time we spoke you were driving a rental, and Beauty was grazing on a farm somewhere."

"Oh, yes. She was in storage."

"You told me she was on a farm, but okay, storage. So you didn't give her away, then."

"No. I guess I thought that if I put her where I couldn't see her, that I would be able to forget about her."

"Uh huh. And how'd that work out for you?"

And then something very unusual happened. Jack became tongue-tied. If you'd ever experienced the eloquence, the occasional outright pompousness, of his diction — think Frasier Crane — you'd understand exactly how rarely this man stumbles over his words.

So I asked again: "You realized you missed her?"

"No, no! No. Well, not exactly. I... I guess I went to check on her, you know, in case her car cover had blown off or something."

"Mmn hmn."

"And, well..."

"And now you're driving her again."

"I guess I realized I missed her."

He's the most intelligent, most interesting, and most irritating man I know. What I don't know is whether I should tell him I might be moving to California.