Jene Ray Barranco - Good Night, I Love You: A Widows Awakening from Pain to Purpose

S EPTEMBER 5, 1986. CRAIG, MY OLDER BROTHER, asked me to join him at Poets, a popular piano bar in Jackson, Mississippi. On the weekends, it was the place to go for the twenty- and thirty-something crowd. And actually, the forty- and fifty-something crowd as well, but they sat on the other side of the room on the red leather stools by the long wooden bar. The smoky mirror behind the bartenders revealed the revelry in the place. I had never been thereapparently I was one of the few eligible single women my age who had not. Craig took me there because, as he said, Youve got to hear this guy who can sing Sittin on the Dock of the Bay like nobodys business! Even better than Otis Redding himself!

I soon found out that this guy, an up-and-coming young architect by day and an equally talented R&B singer by night, was the most sought after bachelor in northeast Jackson and knew almost everyone in town. But I had never heard of him, and he had never heard of me.

At the last minute, my mom snapped a quick picture of Craig and me before we walked out the door. I was looking very eighties in my red, black, and white color-blocked cotton sweater, black pencil skirt, red short pumps, colored plastic earrings, and of course, the ever-popular four-inch-high bangs and too much eye makeup. Where were the fashion police in the eighties?

As we walked into Poets on the upper level, we saw This Guy behind the red wooden piano bar, standing tall above the crowd, crooning into the microphone with his eyes tightly shut. He was built like a linebacker, had long, naturally curly black hair, and wore an artsy pair of thin wire-rimmed glasses. Behind him stood a wall of stained glass and the members of the Andy Hardwick Trio, three exceptionally talented African American musicians accompanied by this handsome, Caucasian football player singing into the microphone as if he were in his own little world. I remember thinking how soulful he appeared while he sang with his eyes closed, holding the microphone tightly against his chin. He seemed oblivious to the crowd, which was elbow-to-elbow people talking and determined to see and be seen.

Not long after we arrived, the band took a break, and This Guy began making his way through the crowd. As he approached us, he said to Craig, Hey, how you doing?

It turned out they recognized one another from the Courthouse Racquet Club, where Craig was a manager and tennis pro. This Guy lifted weights there, but they had never actually met. So Craig introduced himself and then me.

This Guy turned to me and, while leaning in so that I could hear him, said, Im Michael, in the most peaceful and soothing voice I had ever heard come out of a mans mouth.

Im Jen, I said as I leaned toward his ear and added that I also worked at the racquet club, at the front desk. I was accustomed to repeating my name because many people have never heard it before, and that night was no different. He asked me to repeat it, which I did, then he said it for clarification. I had never heard my name pronounced so beautifully. (He even said the J with the correct French pronunciation.) It was as if the room fell quiet. The two of us, and the moment, seemed to be surrounded by a wall from another realm.

The band break was quickly over, and Michael made his way back to the microphone. After a few more songs, Craig and I decided to call it a night. As I stood on the upper level near the front door, I turned, looking Michaels way for one last glance. In a rare moment, he happened to have his eyes open and made eye contact with me while he was singing. He nodded with a smile, and I walked out the door.

For some reason, I wasnt surprised when he walked through the double glass doors of the racquet club the next morning. He was wearing a loose-fitting T-shirt that was cut into a tank top, which revealed that he truly was built like a linebacker. We talked for a moment about the previous evening at Poets, and then he went out to the pool. He was there not to exercise but to lie in the sun and catch up on his trade magazinesI saw a couple of Architectural Digests peeking out of the top of his leather satchel. But soon enough, he came back to the front desk for some juice, which he put on his tab. Then he kept coming back for more juice, and more juice, and more juice. Each time we talked a little more, a little more, and a little more. His voice sounded so peaceful and calm even though his mouth seemed stuck in a grin.

He forgot to close his tab.

After Michael left the club, I called my mom to tell her that I would not be coming straight home from work that night. I told her about my conversations with Michael and this feeling I had that he would come back and ask me out for dinner.

I was right.

He showed up right before closing and told me how terrible he felt for not paying earlier and that he wanted to settle up with me. He paid for the juice and chatted with me as I finished closing out the register. He walked with me outside and asked if I wanted to go grab a bite somewhere.

We went to McBs, a very casual and popular dive near the Ross Barnett Reservoir, Jacksons man-made lake. The reservoir had become a water-sport and fishing attraction. Customers could walk inside McBs with wet hair, swimsuit cover-ups, cut-off shorts, and flip-flops after having spent the day water-skiing or fishing. We found a table in this log cabinstyle joint and ordered some shrimp po boys and cold beer. We spent hours that night talking about our faith in God, our large families, our dreams, and even our mutual desire for children (not necessarily together, but just our personal dreams for them). Two weeks later we professed our love to one another, and four months later, on Christmas Eve, we were engaged. We married on September 5, 1987exactly one year after we met.