Before you read Ned’s story, ya’ll really need to take a gander (or a gosling) at how nicely Mule writer Bob Thomas justifies our consideration of the story. It is Mule worthy in its eloquence. “Hey, Bob.” :

Miss MacEwan,
I have been informed that a story was submitted by one Ned O’Donnell for inclusion in the Mule. With a reference to me as the person who introduced him to this wonderful publication.
I have never personally met Ned O’Donnell, I know him only through his correspondence with me.
Over a period a years He has become a good friend to me, as I have, hopefully, to him. We’ve shared celebrations and saddness with each other. We talk of our families, jobs, desires and love of all things Southern. And particularly our love of writing. . . and of course, reading!

Actually, he first contacted me about a story I had written about boot leg whisky. . . he seemed to have an inordinate amount of interest in the subject, so I assumed he was an agent of the Federal guv’ment and exercised all due caution, as we all do here in the South when dealing with Yankees. However, as time passed I realized that he was truly interested in the subject and I shared with him my ‘limited’ knowledge.

Since then he has read a few of the stories I’ve written and he always praises my skills as a writer. It is, I’m sure, a tactic used by Yankees to gain our trust, but I have played along with it, and have complimented him on his efforts also…(As you know, we Southerners have learned long ago to be wary of any words of encouragement spoken with a ‘funny accent’!) I suspect that he does not have the ability to pronounce words like “Car”, “Harvard”, “Yard” or “Cuba” properly. Actually, I have avoided calling him, for fear of not being able to understand him!

Anyway, I’m writing to let you know that he’s “O.K.” Not to be totally trusted, but O.K. as a possible contributor to ‘The Mule’. I think his spellin’ is a little ‘too good’, but most won’t notice it. And his punctuation and grammar are quite obviously “Yankee”, but some will assume that’s because he was educated up North. (You can tell that he’s ‘trying’ when he uses “Evenin’ and “Ma’am”.

Just by comparing his work to mine, you can see that he’s not well versed in the Southern s’language. And punctuation and grammar?. . .well obviously he actually uses it! Huh! Yankee through and through! But, otherwise a nice feller’. It’s O.K. with me if you want to print his stuff. . . If you get complaints, just tell them to call me and I’ll explain. Also, if you have to mention that I ’spoke up’ for him, please list it under “Acts of Kindness towards a Northern Aggressor”
Bob Thomas

And Now The Essay-

I need to tell you this…
Then…

So, I went to Providence College with this girl who sat beside me in quite a few classes it seems. You know, her last name began with an ‘N’ as does mine and, in typical Catholic school tradition, we were seated alphabetically. I liked her. She was attractive, she was sweet, and she had her own business and that’s how she was getting through school. She came from one of Federal Hill’s very good Italian families and she worked hard, this kid. If she wasn’t in class, she was off faster than a lightning flash to work. I admired her character and her entrepreneurial zeal. While I never had a whole lot of interaction with her, I remember her well enough. She confided in me once that another woman had stolen her boyfriend. And I remember not having the chutzpah or the brains to say to her then what was running through my heart, “Well, you’re better off without him, because he couldn’t be too smart and he’s a fool to leave you. If I had the privilege of being your boyfriend, not even death could tear me away from you.”

All my life I have wanted to tell her that. I still do. And, it wouldn’t matter to me if she weighed 250 pounds and had lost every dram of beauty she ever had. I still want to tell her what I just told you that I wish to God I’d told her then.
I remember asking if I could borrow her notebook for our senior law class because I had been off on a grad school interview at Yale. Now, I could’ve asked twenty other people in the class for the notes. I didn’t need the fucking things anyway, but it was a chance to hold something of hers, to take some time to look through the pages and glean something of her soul. She gave me the notebook. That evening, in the quiet of my room with the light of a single lamp my only companion, I slowly paged through it. You know what was there? Only notes. Neatly written, laid out perfectly. No doodles, no scrawls, no idle chitchat, just notes.

I don’t think she came to graduation. Her picture is not in our Yearbook, although her name and address as having graduated are. So, that part of our life, little interaction as there was, concluded.

A little later…

Once, after I got out of grad school and was working at the bank, I was walking from my car to the office and there were these three guys, tough looking guys well-dressed in business suits, and this girl, standing together talking. All are my age and dressed mainly in black. I mean, there was a lot of black, and with no church nearby, I don’t think it was because everyone was headed to a funeral. Well, the one guy is talking to - maybe more talking at - the other two, and using a stubby middle finger shaped like a Cohiba to reinforce his points. Standing somewhat apart and keenly interested in the conversation, though not engaged in it, is this woman, also wearing lots of black and not looking too happy - looking more concerned over its outcome. I come strutting along, you know, 6′ 7″ 230 pounds, Briggs custom made threads, lot of energy, my own aorta, and maybe 23 or 24 years old. I looked at the guy she was with. He was short, very rugged, smooth shaven, very white skin, wearing a hat and a raincoat - all black. She’s wearing a black raincoat, too. I recognize her. It’s ____! She points her pretty chin up at me in recognition but says nothing and does not smile. Her eyes are sad, sitting dark and liquid in her perfect almond-shaped face. Maybe they all did just come from a funeral? I doubted it. I looked right at her and then averted my eyes from her pretty and worried visage and continued my walk to work. Second time the cock crowed and I missed my chance to… to what? Give her a hug and a kiss on the cheek? That would have been a romantic victory. I also probably would’ve wound up in a pool of my own blood emblazoned across the front page of my soon-to-be-next employer’s newspaper.

I kick myself as hard about not saying anything to her then as I do about not telling her how I felt back in school. Maybe more so. I’ll tell you why. I think she was married to the guy doing all of the talking. I think she was afraid that he was going to get into a beef with the other two. I think she didn’t say anything to me out of either fear of him (he looked like the type who wouldn’t understand why his wife had a male friend) or to protect me from getting involved with their goings on. It’s so funny. The thing I remember the most about this little interchange was where she was standing relative to this guy and the look of concern and sadness on her face. I can recall it with crystal clarity. And the whole thing haunts me to this day. Because I would have loved to have kissed her and hugged her close, you know. And, if her husband was in trouble, I’d have loved to have evened up the sides no matter what he was into, just for her; just to do something to show her how much I cared. Back then, I was a big bastard. Not as big and powerful as I had been in college. Still, you would have been impressed.

I went to work wondering what had happened and agonized over why I hadn’t said hello to her. Was it the awful shyness that plagued me all of my adolescent life and well into adulthood, or did I read it right that she did not want me to acknowledge her for fear of becoming involved in whatever was going on? I’ll never know. But it haunts me, gnaws at me.

Between ‘a little later’ and now…

Nothing: haven’t seen or heard anything about her. Last year, I was thinking about her even more than I usually do. We took Joey up to LaSalle for the Freshman Open House and I saw, out of the corner of my eye, a woman with black hair walking quickly to catch up with her kid. She was the same height and lean build, same serious expression on her face - you know, all business. I thought it might have been her and spent some pleasant time musing over how great it would be for she and I to have our kids at LaSalle at the same time. Hopefully, I would have a ‘legitimate’ reason to see her, maybe even spend time with her, to no one’s detriment or hurt. Maybe she’d even fall in love with me as I had with her. So, we’d be pals, close pals, nothing more or less than that, and it would make me very happy.

Now…

I would never do anything to disparage my marriage or to hurt my wife or kid. Not ever. I have a good marriage and a great kid and I thank God for them every day. My wife and I have had some fine times and some tough times, a few tough to almost the breaking point. But we made it and I am certain we made it for a reason.
You know, I am 48 years old. I have a heart and a soul. And I have finally figured out how much fun you can have with a big job, top-shelf booze and epicurean food, a fast European car, great workouts and all the trappings of success. For a time, those things can satisfy you. But they can still leave you feeling unfulfilled. The fulfillment comes from God and love. It comes from helping other people, your spouse, your kid, you family, your friends. It comes from being honest and caring.

Lately, I have this burning desire to reconnect with people. That’s why I worked so hard on our Reunion. It’s why I do what I can at the school. It’s why I make myself available to others more than I ever did. It’s why I drop in on my kid’s hockey practices. It’s why my focus in life, for the first time ever, is more than my career. And, I think it’s also why I want to tell people how I truly feel and not chance leaving important things unsaid.

She has never left my mind or heart for more than 26 years. She was my first love; I had a crush on her. I still do. I’ve been thinking warm tender thoughts about this girl for three decades. And I will until the moment I die.