The Clamshell, Roxbury Connecticut, 1963

On the day that he broke her heart, Sandra Beston went to The Pearl, a local watering hole she had frequented more and more in the months during their demise. She wasn't certain what exactly the gravitational pull was toward such a confined and somewhat depressing venue, but she went each and every night, saddled up to the bar, and ordered The Mad Hatter, a house specialty that she was unfamiliar with until the night they met.

It was a Tuesday and Sandra had tired of the Classic Rock that flooded the juke box for the majority of the evening, so she pressed D58 in hopes of hearing Sam Cooke and his Twistin' the Night Away. She was a melancholy girl, full of seemingly infinite sadness and sorrow, but as a child, her father put this song on after Sunday dinner and they would dance until they were out of breath. Everything disappeared during these sessions, thoughts of life alone, of when her father might die, of the homework she hadn't yet done for Monday's class. But Sam Cooke made everything better.

"Sam was a special man. With a special voice. He was some kind of contributor." Her dad had often said these words to her when he tucked her in.

Out of the corner of his eye that Tuesday, Jake Lampington saw her burst out of her seat, trying to convince all her girlfriends to dance with her. Some of them reluctantly agreed but none would take her by the hand and let go of the day's worries the way her father had. He was enchanted by her and the fact that Sam Cooke was a rebellion of sorts to her--at least to the other bar patrons who had clearly wanted to hear Billy Squier croon about his kind of lover. Something came over Jake in that moment. He was compelled to hold her hand and assure her that someone existed solely to make her smile. So that's exactly what he did.

There were no pleasantries exchanged. He grabbed her hand and cut right into the mess she had made with her girlfriends. It was in that gesture that they couldn't take their eyes or hands off of each other and somehow, she was certain that she could do this for the rest of her life.

It wasn't long after that her greatest fear had been realized. Her father died of a heart attack while she was on the fifth mile of an after school jog. A teacher had been waiting at the end of the route to get her and tell her the news. She didn't want to go home. She didn't want to go to the hospital. She only wanted to go to him. To both of them.

Jake took her to the funeral home and while she hugged his lifeless body, he stood by and watched, saying nothing to comfort or make the moment any less painful. When Sandra turned around, he too, seemed lifeless.

"He was a special man, my dad. With a special voice. He was some kind of contributor," she said to Jake. He could only nod in response. This was the first and last time he wanted to see a dead body. And with that, he left.

That was the last time she saw him.

Months later, while dancing around her bedroom for the first time in awhile, she thought herself ready to hear Sam once again. But this time, she put on Chain Gang and she decided this would be hers and hers alone.

Jake sat outside her home, in his car, watching her half smile, watching her try to grin through the pain, but he would always drive away. He did this every night, oblivious to her haunting of the Pearl and her perennial residency on those bar stools, drinking her Mad Hatter and watching the wooden door open, letting only the cold air in and out.

Maybe we just want to forgive ourselves, she thought. And they wondered all the while.