Cheri and Me

Bill knew exactly when his relationship with Cheri began. It was at 3:45 p.m. October 12, 1998 – that was the date stamp on the e-mail. There were pages of e-mails that he could check because she had saved every one. “Hi,” it said. “Saw your blurb on line and thought we might chat.” Simple enough – yet, the beginning of an adventure that who knew where it would take Bill. He thought it was planned in a way. In fact, he knew it was pre-planned, or just outlined in a way that might be considered fore-ordained. Not predestined, because fore-ordination allows for agency. That is, we have choices that lead to consequences – not consequences of our own choosing, but consequences nonetheless. While we are free to make choices, we are not free to choose the results of those choices. The chat turned into a nearly six-month-long long-distance preliminary dialogue of getting to know Cheri. He recalled a movie in which a character said, “The people some people marry” in a wistful way. Bill, too, marveled at that. We never know . . . until we know. For some that knowledge accumulates over a lifetime. For others, they think they know instantly, whether they do or not. Is that really possible? Later, an e-mail arrived. “I love you,” Cheri wrote. “What?” he thought. “How can you say that? We haven’t even met. You don’t even know anything about me?” Bill thought of writing back and chastising her when the subject had not been broached. He merely typed “Why?” It wasn’t thirty minutes later that a “You’ve Got Mail” notice appeared on his screen. He knew by then that she had just come home from work and was waiting. Her job was an odd-houred one in neighboring Salt Lake City. And, being single, she had told him earlier her work schedule, and, of course, he reciprocated; their e-mailings were fractured. The e-mail read “Because I love you – that’s why!” The telephone rang. It was his cell phone, and it was Cheri. Bill hesitated. Then he pressed the green button and said, “Hello.” It was Cheri. “Good morning, my darling. How are you?” Bill recognized her voice before he realized the implication of the e-mail she had sent. “Did you get my e-mail?” she asked. “No,” Bill lied. “You should read it,” she said. “I’ll let you read it first – then we’ll talk.” “Why don’t you just tell me what it says?” he asked. “Read it, then we’ll talk. I’ve got to go to bed. Sweet dreams,” she clicked off. “Hm-m,” Bill mused. He had written e-mails to several women through the online service he had used. It was church-related and claims were made that were supposed to be true, but could any service guarantee that members would tell the truth? For that matter, could their membership be verified by the service? He did not think of fraud or misrepresentation, but one never knew. He’d have to check. “But love doesn’t need a background check, does it?” he thought. Cheri had taken the “chat” to a different level. “Why would she lie about love?” Bill posed this question to himself. Here he was, a single, professional man, of an age when men were physically unimpressive and not in the best shape financially. He had a small apartment in a small Southern city in Tennessee. She had been recently divorced, apparently had a decent job, and a home in Utah – and no children. She had not mentioned anything that would have led him to believe she was not what she said she was. She had even sent him an L.D.S. church program, with her name listed as organist. That was important to him. He wanted a relationship with a worthy “Mormon” woman. He thought she was. “Could a good man marry a good woman and expect to have a good relationship – without knowing a lot about her?” Where did that thought come from? Love could come later. Especially not having met physically face to face. It was a modern dilemma – or was it? Bill had read a lot of history, especially of the United States of America. He loved the Westward Movement, not because it envisioned cowboys and Indians. He did like reading Louis L’Amour stories, but he loved the clash of personalities and the drama of strangers meeting strangers in strange surroundings. He recalled reading about a lot of “mail order” brides that went west to marry men they had not seen before. He thought things couldn’t get any stranger than two opposites e-mailing each other and one declaring her love for the other without having met hims. Oh, they had exchanged photographs and had exchanged biographies, but now long-distance telephone calls. This could get expensive! Imagine talking at length every day. The telephone rang again at 3:35 p.m. the same day. It was Cheri. “Well?” she asked. “Well what” Bill replied. “Did you read what I e-mailed you?” “Yes,” he said rather matter-of-factly. “Well?” Cheri asked again. “That’s a deep subject,” Bill toyed with her. “Oh, you . . .” she sounded frustrated. “I love you, too,” he said. He meant it in the same way he said to people at church. The phrase was used in testimony meeting when people said “I love all of you” – the Christian greeting between people who have a common belief and share what others called “Agape.” Cheri was thrilled. The cat was out of the bag and six months of fishing for that line was over.