Coming out of the cold and into South Station, I waded into the crowd, darting through streams of homebound commuters. Like well bundled ants, lines of workers poured past each other in a tangle of meandering columns. Faces tucked into collars to protect against the cold, each commuter seemed to follow the preceding ant as he or she cut a path through rush hour. The pace was fast, like time-lapsed photography; a PBS narrative sounded in my head, “…focused only on the ant directly in from of him and his innate desire to return home after a long day’s toil, the worker ant blocks out the world around him as he climbs over and past those ants around him…” At over 200 pounds I was a large ant and I pushed forward, politely excusing myself as I cut off fellow ants from their marching comrades on my way to the Redline.
A crowd of tourists and their pile of mismatched luggage blocked my path to the subway and I cut through a field of occupied Au Bon Pan coffee tables. As I scooted through the resting ants and their Au Bon Pan coffees, a set of eyes began to follow me through the crowd. Those were not the eyes of an ant. As the other ants blended into the background an audience of one flashed a broad smile, her blue eyes crinkling. She was familiar. I slowed to take her in.
Like grainy images from a director’s cut, memories flickered before me; driving over the George Washington to the city with the B-52’s vibrating a smoked filled car, dancing on the speakers at Studio 54, drinking through the night at Harriman State park, cutting school to drink in the woods, lounging on the beach in NJ and letting her cry on my shoulder after she and her boyfriend of four years broke up. It was Steph, 15 or 20 years removed.
As I approached, she burst out laughing, “Oh my god. Beasley Kinkade. It is you. Look at you. You’re so business-like. I can’t believe this. Oh. My. God.” We stopped and hugged, causing swirls of chaos as plodding ants redirected around us. We caught up and lost track of time. She missed her train to the suburbs and I had to take a cab from Davis Square to avoid being late to my daily collection of Gee at daycare. We parted with smiles and plans to see each other soon.
I made it to daycare on time, achieving my goal of not being the last parent to arrive. As was the case every day Gee and I enjoyed our walk home from daycare. We held hands. As we made our way past the final four blocks home I explained how I bumped into an old friend and we were going to visit her and her two little girls soon.
Following our usual routine home (for Gee is a girl of routines), we stopped and plucked a few remaining leaves from a neighbor’s bushes. When weather was warm we were treated to honeysuckles hanging over the fence. Now we snapped off a few leaves. I fielded Gee’s questions about Steph’s little girls and Steph’s age, explaining my old friend is not really old, “I just knew her a long time ago.” I continued to hold her tiny hand, covered in a red mitten with a reindeer knitted across the back, as we jabbered away and made our way home.
Over the next week Steph and I exchanged emails as we honed in on a date to get our families together. Philipa, Steph’s closest friend and the girl I crushed over for two years in high school, was planning to visit Steph in the near future. We agreed to a visit during an afternoon coinciding with Philipa’s visit. After over nearly 20 years I would see Philipa.
When it comes to telling stories and sharing past tales my family follows the concept of the statute of limitations. Like a memory, culpability fades over time. Some stories require a waiting period of 10 years, some 20 and the most egregious over 30 years. My children, Gee and DJ, had heard the lighter fare associated with 5 or 10 year stories. Not satisfied, they probed for juicier behavioral breaches from my past. As we prepared to pile into the car Gee asked what I most regretted doing as a teenager. Expecting a story about school mischief or a melee at home Gee and DJ pooh-poohed my response. “Well, though I did get in some trouble, the worst thing I did was not telling people how much I really liked them. Being too scared to tell them just how much they meant to me.” As I responded I thought of my parents and a small circle of friends, Philipa among them.
Gee nodded as she digested this little tidbit. DJ broke the silence, “Boring! Tell us about throwing food at school, about fighting with food.”
The ride to Steph’s took less than an hour. Coming off the highway, we made our way down a final hill, mounds of wind sculpted snow flowed away from us. With no traffic in sight my mind wandered and I thought of Philipa sitting on my lap 20 years ago. During my South Station conversation with Steph I had asked about, Philipa, putting a bow on Steph’s update with a simple summary, “I had such a crush on her.” Steph had informed me Philipa was healthy, happy and married with a daughter. Her husband worked all the time, traveling as a consultant. She worked on Wall Street in a bank’s marketing department. “They seem happy.”
We found Steph’s house without problem and made our way up the front path. Part of a larger development her yellow house was prim and proper. It was clearly a source of pride. DJ ran up the shoveled walkway demanding to ring the bell. Not finding it right away, he groped around the handle for the bell and, seeing Gee approach to steal his thunder, turned to pound on the door. The door swung open and Steph bent down to face DJ. “Like father like son,” she smiled, tussling his hair. We exchanged hugs. Catching my glances, Steph guided me forward. “Philipa’s in the kitchen with her daughter, Cindy. Go say hi. Liz, let’s get these kids introduced.”
As Liz and Steph stomped snow from boots and shepherded kids into a play room I made my way towards the kitchen. Entering quietly I found Philipa facing away from me, tending to her reflection in the black screen of a microwave. She was short and had to stand on her toes to catch the reflection of her whole face. Her black hair was shoulder length. She was pulling two curled strands down on each side of her face, slowly tipping her chin and gracefully sliding her face from side to side.
After a moment, Philipa’s daughter noticed me, pulling at her mom’s pant leg, “Mommy, there’s someone here.” Philipa turned towards me, easing off tip toes. Her body twisted slowly, displaying her still slim figure. Her stomach was flat. She wore hip hugging blue jeans and a white button down shirt. It was opened at the collar exposing her collarbones and upper chest. She was tan. She was beautiful. She was smiling.
The ticking of the clock slowed as we soaked each other in, then, quickly returned to pace as little Cindy broke the silence, “I’m Cindy. This is my mom, mommy.”
“Well, hello, Cindy. I thought that might be your mom there with you. Want to know how I knew that?” Cindy nodded. “Well, you’re both so beautiful, I figured you were either made from the same mold and therefore from the same family or you are both angels visiting here from heaven. Are you an angel, Cindy? Are you visiting me from heaven?”
“No, I’m a person and that’s my mom, silly!”
“Well, glad to meet you, Cindy. I’m Beasley and I knew your mom when she was just a teenager.” Cindy and I shook hands. Her hand was warm like a small piece of toast.
Steph yelled from the playroom, “Cindy, come meet your new friends, Gee and DJ.”
On queue, Cindy bolted from the kitchen hollering into the future, “Coming Aunt Steph. Hey, that man thought I was an angel…”
Philipa walked towards me and without a word we hugged. Her head fell to my chest. I squeezed her against me, lifting her off her feet as time returned to a crawl. She was light. She smelled like soap and shampoo.
The past surged through the breach.
Her toes reached for the floor as I set her down. We stepped back from each other. Our hands slipped into each others as we stood at arm’s length, each wearing a smirk. She wore eyeliner and her brown eyes looked rich, deep, like those of a harem girl caught in a mirage. Her lips were full. She wore lipstick that glistened. As she smiled I wondered what process over the last 20 years had created the worry lines on her forehead. I hoped she was happy.
The kitchen clocked clicked forward, louder than before.
“Philipa, I had such a crush on you in high school, you know that right?”
Her eyes crinkled as her smile broadened. “Oh, Beasley. Well I guess you should have done something about it then, huh? Besides, you were so crazy. You were out of control.”
I squeezed her hands and felt her rings against my fingers. I shrugged, “You kept saying what a great friend I was and I didn’t want to wreck it. Being friends, I mean.”
She stepped towards me, “Do you remember me sitting on your lap during one of those wild parties you threw in your parents’ basement?”
“Ah, yeah. That’s funny. I was just thinking of that night on the car ride here.”
I could hear my own words, delayed as if traveling across a distance; as if under water. I continued, “I remember it because I wanted to kiss you but I didn’t. I remember you hugged me and told me I was your best friend.”
She stepped towards me as the clock ticked again.
In slow motion, the French manicured nails of her right hand moved up to cup my cheek. Her fingers tips rested against my ear, sliding down towards my chin. I closed my eyes as she held my chin with her extended fingers. She arched upwards to kiss me gently on the lips.
It was so soft it felt like a whisper.
Ever so slowly time folded over upon itself. Like a piece of soft felt, it curled over as the fabric’s tiny fibers seemed to reach out for each other and then embrace, linking two distant edges.
I heard the rhythm of Adam Ant follow the next tick of the clock; the same song blaring through the speakers at my party that evening 20 years ago. It was dark, with black light posters stolen from Spencer’s Gift Shop floating next to us. I smelled the mix of smoke and sweat as partiers bobbed up and down to Ant Music. I smelled Philipa’s shampoo. I felt her warm body as she sat on my lap.
Her lips tasted of apple spice. Of candy. She pulled back gently and slid her face to the side, allowing our cheeks to barely touch, “You should have kissed me, Beasley. I would have said yes.”
I hugged her tight.
We untangled as I stepped back. We smiled as I squeezed her hand again. She squeezed back as the tick of the clock picked up the pace. “Well, let’s go meet this Liz, the girl that landed Beasley Kinkade. God help her. And let’s meet those children of yours, huh?”
Holding hands we left the kitchen as time slowly unfolded around us.
