I rest the book across my knees and click off the little clip-on book lamp. Moonlight seeps through the shutters to light the room in a silent glow. From my station on the chair next to mom’s bed I lean forward to look at the clock; almost eleven. Like the little boy still running somewhere through the fields in the world of mom’s memories, I rub my eyes. To no one in particular I whisper, “I’m sleepy.” I begin to tick off the steps and logistics for tomorrow. If I’m to make my 10:00AM meeting in Boston I have to be up by five to beat morning traffic on the Tappan Zee Bridge. It’s late. I should go to bed.
Like every Thursday – or Friday depending on how mom felt and how my work schedule shaped up – my day started in Somerville, Massachusetts. After delivering Gee and DJ to school in neighboring Cambridge I’m on the Pike by 8AM, stopping at the second rest stop to grab a Dunkin Donuts coffee and then hitting the road in earnest as I make my way to NJ for lunch with mom. Four hours to NJ and four or five hours back depending on traffic. Lunch is about 30-45 minutes. Almost always it’s a single day trip and I am back in time to join the kids for dinner. Though a slog, I don’t mind these round trips.
More often than not I drive the four hours to NJ in silence; letting my mind wander about and filling the space that might otherwise be occupied by the radio or an MC900 Foot Jesus CD. The silence allows me to figure out why I’m mad or resentful or stressed. At silence’s suggestion I start with simple emotions and work my way back to the raw materials feeding the emotion. I probe and investigate veins of thought much like an octopus might probe a seam within a reef. My mind tentatively squeezes past sharp edges of newly apparent crevices and wriggles a bit deeper into the dark.
The crevices are dark and silent but the car’s methodical hum assures me nothing in those crevices can hurt me. On the ride my friend, silence, pats my hand when appropriate.
Today, as I drive forward, thinking about how many lunches mom and I have left, I am unaware that today’s lunch is to be among our very last together. Crossing the line into New Jersey silence feels the need to pat my hand. Not knowing the future yet I wonder why she does so.
During our lunches mom and I take turns speaking. After her requisite inquiry about Gee and DJ I share a thought or problem or perhaps something I previously considered a secret. Sometimes she gasps and sometimes she just smiles. Then I place my hands in my lap, one on top of the other, and listen as mom pours out her heart, tilting it towards me like a pitcher of warm milk. She shakes free stubborn drops clinging to the surface of a nearly empty container.
Wanting the last words mom hears from me to match the last words I shared with my father I end each of our conversations the same way, “I love you.” Now, years later I end my conversations with Gee and DJ the exact same way so someday, when I do not return home, these will be the last words they hear from me.
And of course, in addition to not knowing this was to be one of my last lunch dates with mom I don’t yet know that I’ll be up tonight, from about one to three changing the sheets on mom’s bed, running a wash and reassuring her, “No, no. Shhhh. Shhhh. There’s nothing to be embarrassed about, mom. You know, this is no big deal. No big deal. I mean, come on, just think about all the times you helped me with, you know. You, you just go rest across the hall in the guest room for a little bit and I’ll set up your bed for you. Come on, let’s get you back to sleep now. Here, hold my hand.”
I had been forewarned. Before this week’s trip to Jersey my brother, KJ, had tried to shed light on what to expect when staying with mom. He was a man of carefully selected emotional words and shared the heads up in his own muted way. Staying nearly every evening tending to mom after the nurse left for the day he knew what to expect.
Last Sunday I had called KJ and, during our conversation, explained I could cover for him for an evening this week. He listened and then let out a long deep breath, advising me, “Just get to bed early, dude. And, before you get to bed have some extra sheets for mom’s bed, and some towels, ready.” I didn’t respond. He continued, “You know, you may need them. You can get ‘em from the linen closet, you know, at the end of the hall, and have them out just in case.”
“Ah, OK, but, just in case of, of what?”
There was silence for a moment before he answered. “Cause, mom, well, she um, she gets up and needs help with the bathroom sometimes. It’s dark and, ah, she wants to do everything herself. She’s independent to the end, ya know? Even if… even if sometimes, ya know, she can’t make it herself.” He slowed his speaking and measured his words, “And, it’s uh, it’s not easy. It’s not so easy.”
This conversation is not what I expected and I’m confused. “Jesus, I didn’t know about any of this, KJ. How bad? How bad is it?” My heart sinks, slipping into a crevice and nicking itself on a sharp edge, “Jesus H. Christ.”
On the other end of the line I could hear him swallow. He didn’t respond so I continued, “Well, ah, how much help does she need?”
“Brother, let’s just say there’s some stuff I wished I’d never seen, OK? Just be ready to do whatever you can to help her. And don’t let her feel bad or embarrassed or anything, OK? Don’t get pissed off or anything. Just be ready to be the parent.”
Just be ready to be the parent. Lost in thought I nod but, of course, he doesn’t see me do so.
I hang up and ask my companion silence, “My god, how did he never complain? Not once. How did he not ask for some goddamn help?” Silence does not respond.
Silence stands idly by as additional unknowns emerge.
In addition to not knowing I was to be up helping mom this evening and in addition to not yet knowing of my brother’s repeated acts of stoic grace I also don’t know that tomorrow, after my return home, I’ll call mom as is my habit following a visit only to discover she will not recall today’s lunch date, asking me in a whisper passed from New Jersey to Boston, “Oh, Beasley, when will I see you again? Come down for tea, will you? Maybe, maybe for lunch? Can you come today?”
As she speaks I look up to the ceiling, “Sure, mom, sure. I’ll be down next week, OK?”
Her question taps her remaining strength. I listen to her raspy breathing over the phone. It sounds like the sounds fine grains of sand make as they hurtle over each other following a turn of the hourglass.
“Mom?” Silence has joined our call. “I love you, mom. I love you.” Click.
I stand very still for a moment listening to sand pass through that invisible hourglass, an hourglass hidden deep within a crevice. I hear nothing else. Then, without thinking, I wind up and smash the plastic phone against the wall, breaking both the handle and the cradle. It happens in just a moment and, as always, I am shocked at what I’ve done. I stare at the damage, my chest heaving.
Silence returns but I push her away, “Oh, what the hell.” I jerk the cord from the wall, pulling screws from 100 year old plaster, and slam the broken handle to the floor, sending Rifka the cat scurrying for cover under the kitchen breakfast table. Surveying the shattered silence I stand quietly wondering if I’ve woken the kids.
I hear nothing. Silence returns and without words takes my hand.
That is tomorrow, though, and that has yet to happen. Now I am still at mom’s deathly quiet house in New Jersey and have yet to change her sheets, travel home, think long and hard about my brother’s personal acts of heroism, make my 10AM meeting, call mom, discover she doesn’t recall my visit, smash my fourth kitchen phone of the year and replace it following a silent drive to Target. Now I simply have to prep for my departure tomorrow morning.
There isn’t much to do. I need some joe in the morning to get me rolling. Mom doesn’t have much of an appetite anymore and there isn’t much in the fridge nowadays. When I opened it earlier this afternoon a crisp white light greeted me. She just doesn’t eat that much anymore.
Living nearby KJ or my sister Caitlin visit every day. They shop once or twice a week sprinkling mom’s fridge with a few soft foods. KJ and Caitlin carry the load. During my rides to New Jersey I have determined that, compared to their efforts, I am a pretender. That said, among the soft foods and easily digestible items they purchase for mom, cream for my coffee is absent. I should grab some now as I’ll need it tomorrow at 5AM.
I lean towards mom and in my softest whisper ask, “Hey, mom, you awake? Did you fall asleep on me?” In bed with the covers up to her chin her eyes remain closed. Day and night no longer cleave her day; they are blended into one long unit of remaining life. The light – any light – hurts her eyes and her eyes are shut as a rule. Moving forward like a hegemonic demon cancer has staked claim on the back of her eyes. She looks tiny. She wears a red silk scarf over her hairless head. Little wisps of white hair poke out from under her scarf, declaring the presence of life much like a weathered flag left on an abandoned field of battle. She had given up on the wig six months ago with a confident, if tired, declaration, “I’m me with or without hair.”
With the greatest of effort she nods. Then like a slow rusted crane her arm swings mechanically from under the covers, lurching to a stop at the edge of the bed. I reach out and grab her hand. It reminds me of my daughter’s little hand; fragile and expecting to be held. There is a difference, though, as the hand I now squeeze ever so gently wears the glove of age, fashioned with delicate tissue paper skin, jutting knuckles and a red string of small circular scars representing five years of needle marks. I watch her lips purse in effort as she squeezes back, squeezing with all her strength. Her effort musters a shadow falling across my fingers; a shadow of her previous strength.
“Mom, I’m gonna run up town to get some cream for coffee in the morning. Can I get you anything?” Eyes closed, she moves her head back and forth.
“OK. How ‘bout I drape a wash cloth across your forehead? Would that feel better?”
She moves her head up and down.
“Warm?” Again, she moves her head. Gently, I place her hand down on the bed next to her sinking body. Every day she sinks a little deeper, like a graceful sea creature unable to return to the surface, sinking towards a crevice formed between the boundaries of her bed and a place I have never seen. She floats slowly, gracefully, to a place cloaked in darkness. As she wafts away from the light she reaches out. She drifts down slowly towards undisturbed silt without complaint telling me at one point, “No matter how dark it gets, Beasley, I’m not afraid. Not one bit. Because, well, soon I’ll be with your father.”
Leaving her room, I catch my breath and rub my eyes. I stop in the hallway and return to her door sticking my head back into her room to whisper, “I love you.” She doesn’t move. I make my way past the stairs leading up to my old bedroom before turning left into the bathroom at the end of the hall. In the bathroom my bare feet seem to stick to the floor’s latticework of black and white tiles. The tiles are cool on my feet.
Grabbing a white washcloth from the cabinet next to the sink I turn on the water and wait for it to turn warm. How many times had I woken on a chilly morning and warmed my hands at this sink? How many bloody noses had mom plugged up here? And how often, as a little 13 or 14 year old, did I cry looking in the mirror as pimples set up camp across my face? Now I cry like a grown-up. Silently. No movement, no change in expression; tears just exit my eyes and roll down my cheeks. I’m good at crying like this.
I warm the washcloth in the water, minding the temperature to ensure it’s not too hot. Squeezing out the required amount of water I lean over, resting my head on the mirror. I open the washcloth, spanning it across the sink. A tear falls onto the washcloth joining the ranks of tap water. Folding the cloth I return to mom’s room where I open the moist washcloth and rest it across her forehead. Softly I pull it down a bit so it covers her eyes as well.
Startled, she reaches out. I grab her index finger and pull it up to my lips, resting a kiss on the tip of her finger. She smiles as best she can. “I’ll be right back, mom. I love you.”
I make my way downstairs, put on my sneakers and quietly close the door behind me. I drive three blocks alongside silence towards the town’s only open convenience store.
During the ride I hear nothing.
I pull into the space directly in front of the store’s front door and jump out. I hustle as I’m pretty certain the store closes as eleven.
I enter as the clerk is sweeping the floor towards the rear of the store. Her back is facing me and she looks up to a circular mirror mounted in the back corner to make sure I’m not about to rob her.
She continues to sweep and, without turning around, warns me, “You just made it. I’m closing in two minutes.”
I waive an OK and make my way to the dairy case. In the mirror she watches me watch her as I walk up the aisle. She’s short with skinny hips. I can’t help but look at her ass. She sports tight low cut blue jeans with a horizontal rip just under the left cheek. She has an athlete’s ass. She’s wearing a worn midriff Metallica concert shirt which leaves her lower back exposed. Like the cream I am about to purchase her skin is light. The top of her red underwear peaks out at me from the low slung jeans, crossing a straight spine firmly tucked between a pair of strong back muscles.
I smile at this living work of art before grabbing the cream. I check the expiration date and clear my throat, “Um, excuse me, should I just meet you at the counter?”
She wheels on her heal to face me. Like drapes, her shirt hangs softly from two small breasts forming a slight canopy and causing a soft shadow to shift across her exposed stomach. Her flat muscular stomach peeks from under her shirt. Her brown eyes are coy.
I know this woman…
With one hand on her broom she cocks her hip to the left and pushes a strand of soft black hair from her face, “It is you. My god! Beasley Kinkade. I knew it was you. I knew it!”
I have no idea whether she is trying to look sexy or if this is just her natural state.
I know her… I know her… I look her up and down, groping for her name. She shifts her weight and I watch the shadow pirouette across her stomach. I remember. Stephanie.
My eyes narrow, “Stephanie?”
She beams and lets her broom fall against a shelf of cereal boxes and crackers. Captain Crunch tumbles backward. Without hesitation she scoots forward like a skipping school girl and hugs me tight, placing her head on its previous resting spot on my chest, “Oh my gosh, Beasley.” She leans up and rubs her forehead against my neck before pulling away to look at me. Her hair is soft.
As she steps back her ivory soap-like scent drifts up, enveloping me in memory.
Over 20 years ago, following my senior year in high school, Stephanie and I had met not three blocks from here, at Main Street Park. Packaged in a five foot tall tightly coiled body she had just finished her junior year. Prior to her senior year her parents had divorced and she had convinced her mom to let her stay out late during summer evenings.
“Mom, come on, it’s summer, alright? I mean, what’s gonna happen to me if I just hang out in town or at Main Street? Jesus, I mean, like I’ll just be in town. And it’s like, where else am I gonna go, huh? Come on, I won’t go anywhere else. Please mom, don’t wreck this for me too.”
Guilt ridden, her mom capitulated. So Stephanie hung out, slipped in with the partying crowd, and met me. I guess that’s what can happen when a teenager just hangs out in town.
My first conversation with Stephanie, or Steph as she called herself, occurred on a June evening at Main Street Park. With no real hangouts available in our small town we took to meeting, and sometimes staying, at the park at Main Street. Some nights I left town from Main Street to drive into the city to drink. Some nights, when money was tight or I couldn’t muster coconspirators I hung out at Main Street park.
On the evening Steph and I met pockets of kids milled about, congregating around benches or hiding behind overgrown bushes to drink or light up. When the police cruised by we scattered like slow motion cockroaches only to return to the park minutes later. As the evening of my first conversation with Steph wound down the summer air cooled. With an uneventful night coming to a close my group of friends began to break up. Accelerating the process a police car cruised by dispersing the remaining loiterers.
Not yet wanting to head home, I turned towards a bench occupied by three girls. From a distance I didn’t recognize any of them. Not knowing them didn’t bother me as they’d either ignore me or I’d know them soon enough. Steph was seated in the center of the three girls on the bench. As I made my way towards them she eyed me, pulling at her cigarette and flipping long black bangs from her eyes. Tracing her gaze the other girls stopped talking and turned towards me. I introduced myself, “Hey.”
“Hey,” Steph responded. “Hey,” the other two chimed in.
“Hi, I’m Beasley. Cops are pretty annoying tonight, huh?” They nodded. Steph nodded more slowly than the others. She wore a Grateful Dead shirt and a short skirt, highlighting her milky smooth legs. She crossed her legs, slowly bobbing one Ked up and down. Her foot pointed towards me as it bobbed. Her calf muscles were bigger than mine. “Man,” I thought, “this girl is hot.” Catching myself I wondered if I said it out loud.
I ignored the other two and looked right at Stephanie, “You’re in high school, right?”
“Yup. Senior year. I’m Stephanie. You can call me Steph, though. And, well, I know who you are. You’re Beasley Kinkade. I know all about you.”
I crossed my arms, “You do, huh? How so?”
Her girlfriends squirmed as Steph blushed. Before she could continue her girlfriends blurted out their respective names. But I wasn’t listening to them. I was listening to Stephanie.
She offered me a Marlboro and I declined. “We were in study hall together. Third period, I think. Auditorium with Mr. Boyle last year. You were the one that ah, I mean wasn’t it you who rolled a piano off the stage?” I shrugged as she eyed me. “You’re kinda a crazy one, aren’t you, Mr. Beasley? And you have those wild parties at you house, right?” I shrugged before she continued, “Ya know, I went to one last year. I was at your house.”
“Yeah, which party?”
“Um, the toga party. Now that was crazy. Really crazy. I mean, it was like that movie, with everyone in togas. And like, I remember when I tried to, I had to pee, ya know, and I mean I went to open the bathroom door – the one in the basement where all the strobe lights were – and, well, then someone tried to pull the door shut from inside but I’m pretty strong and I really, really had to pee.” She stopped and cocked her arm, pulling her sleeve back, to make a muscle like Popeye. She watched my eyes as I smirked. She continued, “And, when I pulled the door open there were like four naked people in there. In your bathroom! I mean they were actually naked! In your bathroom! Man, that was so crazy. I got so wasted that night. I was like, I was grounded, for like, a month because of you.”
I vaguely remembered seeing her at the toga party. I didn’t know about the naked people, though. That was interesting.
“You mean you got grounded because of you, not me. You. And, ya know, you shouldn’t be watching people get naked unless they invite you to see them naked.” I smiled, “I mean, come on, seems kinda like a private thing, ya know? Am I right or what?”
She leaned forward, laughing silently. Then she leaned back against the bench, looked up and locked eyes with me, “Yeah, I know, Beasley, I know.” The four of us were silent together.
She broke the silence, “Are you going to college or something next year?”
“Yeah, I’m going up to Massachusetts. Hopefully to play hockey. So, yeah, this is my last summer in town.”
Expertly she flicked away her cigarette. We watched the orange trail arc into the grass before disappearing. She looked around and shivered, “Man, it’s like freezing tonight.”
I took off my denim and, after pulling my Cricket lighter from the pocket, handed it to her, “Here wear this. It’s warmer than it looks.”
She stood and stretched like a cat before slipping into my denim. She pulled the front around her and stuck her head inside the collar. “Smells good in here.”
Her two girlfriends squirmed again, having come to the conclusion that this was a two person conversation.
Steph and I chatted about school while her girlfriends groped for ways to join the back and forth with one of them finally asking, “Wait, what time is it?”
Steph pulled up my denim sleeve to look at her watch, “Oh shit, it’s almost midnight. I’m so screwed if I get home after twelve.” She stood up, looking panicked. “Shit.”
“Hey, it’s cool. I can give you a ride.” I nodded over my shoulder, “My car’s over there.”
“Really? A ride? That would be totally cool.”
I eyed her two friends, “How ‘bout you two? Can I give you a ride home? It’s getting kinda late, ya know.”
The three girls exchanged glances in silence, communicating in a language unrecognizable by my gender.
“No, we’re good,” said the girl on Stephanie’s right.
“OK, suite yourself. Stephanie, I mean Steph, you coming?”
She skipped up and surprised me, grabbing my arm. She rested her head on my shoulder. We walked to the car in silence.
Though I was a troublemaker, my parents had hammered the basics of manners into my head from an early age and as a result of such hammering I opened the passenger door for Stephanie, closing it as she settled into the front seat of my family station wagon.
I watched her watch me as I walked around the car to the driver’s side.
She stared at me as I settled in and turned the ignition. “Hey,” she asked, “can we listen to some music?”
“Sure,” I shrugged, “Pick out an eight track and stick it in.” I pointed to the new stereo crammed into the dashboard of my parents’ 1976 Impala station wagon. I backed out and started down Main Street. She slid towards me to grab a Van Halen tape, turning it over to inspect the song list before popping it into the stereo.
As David Lee Roth crooned she volunteered her address, “But can you drop me off down the block? Like, my mom will kill me if she sees a boy driving me home.”
We continued our conversation about school. I entertained her with a couple of stories involving me and my friends in study hall. She had heard of some of our activities.
She interrupted me, “Here. This is fine. You can stop here.”
I pulled over and shut off the car. I turned off the headlights.
“Thanks for letting me wear your jacket. That was pretty cool.”
She arched her back as she pulled off my jacket, causing her shirt to pull tight against her little teardrop breasts. She looked over at me, catching me check out her breasts.
She smiled and asked for help, “Hey, I’m stuck. I mean, like, I thought you were a gentleman or something. How ‘bout a little help here?”
I reached over to tug at the sleeve, inadvertently yanking too hard and pulling her towards me. Ever so gently her head fell against my shoulder. My jacket slipped off behind her. She smelled beautiful.
In mock indignation she protested, “Hey!” She pulled back and looked up, facing me. Her glance darted between my eyes and my lips. Eyes. Lips. Eyes. Lips. I lowered the music and reached over to hold her chin between my thumb and index finger. She closed her eyes just as we kissed. She tasted of bubble gum and cigarettes. We kissed softly for a moment before I pulled back to look at her. Her hair had fallen across her face, cloaking her eyes. Light from the street lamp reflected off her lips. She really was beautiful. She opened her eyes and then surrendered, closing them again. We kissed.
Pulling at her upper lip, I stopped, “Go on, before you get in trouble. I’ll see you later this week at Main Street, OK?”
She nodded in slow motion. Then before I could get out to open the door she pecked me on the cheek with a final kiss, whispering, “Beasley Kinkade.” She jumped from the car and ran up the street.
We did see each other later that week and we continued to see each other on and off during the summer. When I wasn’t clubbing at bars in the city or out with my drinking age friends I’d meet Steph and take her to a movie, or we’d walk through the woods together or, when her mom and little sister were out, I’d park down the block from her house and spend the early part of an evening in her room. I got to know her in her room.
“Steph, you know I’m a bad influence on you, right? And that, after this summer, I’m going away to school? And that beautiful little virgins like you should probably not be hanging out with the likes of me.”
“I know all that, Beasley, I know. Beside, you’re not so bad. Except for when you don’t call me or go out with your friends to bars and stuff and leave me behind you’re actually pretty nice inside.” She looked me up and down, “Pretty damn nice.”
“Just be careful, that’s all I’m saying. Not everyone is as nice as they look. And, well, you’re only a virgin once, ya know. Don’t waste it.”
She rolled her eyes, “You sound like my mother, I mean, come on.”
I scratched my head, “Jeeze, you mean I sound like my mother.”
I thought of my mom’s warning to me, doled out not long after my 16th birthday. She and dad sat me down in their room on the chair next to the bed. Ever the facilitator, mom had said she and dad had something important to talk about. Dad stood still, arms crossed. His head looked like it was ready to explode. Nervously, his right hand reached upwards to pluck at his lower lip as mom began the conversation, “Beasley, you are, well, you’re old enough to start thinking about sex now and your dad and I want you to know you can ask us anything you want or need to know about, you know sex, OK?”
My jaw dropped. When they said they wanted to talk I thought I was busted for something like stealing or smoking or drinking. This I did not expect. This, I smugly assumed, I did not need. I mean, I had started having sex earlier this school year so the horse was out of the barn by the time I was 16.
My face burned. I’m sure dad looked at me and thought, “His head is ready to explode.”
I took a breath as I weighed the option of blowing their minds by letting them know they were late to the party and that I really enjoyed sex. I looked at mom. Her eyes pleaded for dialogue. I looked at dad. His expression prayed for silence.
I opted for the most convenient route, “Um, I’m good. Um, thanks, I guess. Can I go now?”
“Nothing?” mom asked, “Nothing? There’s nothing you want to know?”
I just wanted this conversation to end. I shook my head back and forth.
Dad chimed in, “Well, uh, then, good enough. And you know, if you have questions you can just ask us. Me or your mom. Just ask us.”
I nodded, “Uh-huh, I know now, dad.”
Satisfied, he turned and left the room. I wanted to get the hell out of here and started to get up from the chair.
Mom watched dad leave then glared at me, “Beasley, not so fast. Sit down.” She eyed me. “I didn’t just fall off the god dam turnip truck so sit down and listen to me.”
I returned my butt to the chair and stared at her. I rested my hands on my knees. What did she know?
She stepped forward, reached down and gently grabbed my right hand from my knee, “Are you listening to me?”
I nodded as she pulled my hand towards her. The mood changed as she adjusted her fingers to wrap them around my index finger. Ever so slightly she bent my finger backwards, just to the point that it was about to hurt but didn’t yet hurt but you know it’s gonna hurt, “Beasley, I know you’re going out with girls and, I want you to promise me something, OK? Promise me you’ll be careful, OK?”
She stared into my eyes. “Promise me.”
“Mom, I mean, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m fine. Just let me go, OK?”
Ever so slightly she bent my index finger backwards, “Beasley, someday you or some girl are gonna want to go all the way and you’re gonna know it’s not right and you’re gonna have to say no, OK? If it doesn’t feel right you’re gonna have to say no, OK?”
“Mom, will you just give it a rest, I…”
She picked up speed and bent my finger back hard, forcing me to yank it away from her grip, “Jesus, mom, what’s your problem?”
I rubbed my finger as she leaned in even closer, her eyes inches from mine, “Beasley, you may be a teenager but you’re still my baby and I want to protect you. And if you think a broken finger would hurt, just think what a broken life would feel like. Huh? So just remember, don’t break your life or some poor girl’s life just for one night’s worth of fun, OK?”
“OK. Jeeze, mom. Can I go now?”
Jarring me back to our conversation, Steph shoved me, “Your mother? What do ya mean you sound like your mother?”
“Forget it. Where were we? Oh yeah, I think you were about to kiss me, Miss Stephanie.”
She kissed me. And, though she had rolled her eyes at my initial comment Steph and I were always careful. We made our way to her room on a number of occasions, finding plenty to do while, each time, minding the boundary we’d discussed on that evening in June. She is a girl I do not wish to break.
Tonight, in the convenience store in town my heart begins to beat a bit faster as I recall our last evening in her room.
It was towards the end of our summer together. Steph’s mom was at the movies enjoying Raiders of the Lost Ark with her little sister. I crept to the back door of her parentless house and knocked on the door. Letting me in Steph took my hand and rushed me upstairs to her bedroom, closing the door behind us.
The room was the embodiment of Steph, straddling the border between teenager and adult. Stuffed animals and Tiger Beat posters filled empty spaces. There was a bong purchased from Spencer Gifts hidden behind a pile of shoes under her bed. Clothes – many of which included very sexy lace bras – were scatted all over the floor and shelves. Along with bras and clothes, a line of gymnastics trophies, ribbons and medals spanned a top shelf over a built-in desk area. The desk and the shelves were painted white. Two well-worn Barbie dolls observed us from an overflowing bookshelf. An ashtray was stowed under a shirt next to her window allowing Steph to sneak a smoke while her mom slept. Steph’s mom was a smoker and the smell permeated the house. A music box with a ballerina inside rested on top of her dresser.
When I first visited the room, I opened the top of the music box. The ballerina sprang to attention. I whispered to the ballerina, “You’re free now.” She did not respond so I twisted the handle to the point of resistance and let go. The tinkling of music filled the room around us. I expected a tinny clinking sound but the music was actually nice.
During the summer, I became friends with the little ballerina. Steph and I wound her up over and over again. We measured our progress by that music box and, over time, we fell into the habit of taking stock of our situation whenever the ballerina stopped dancing. When she came to a standstill Steph and I stopped what we were doing, separated and took inventory of the clothing we wore. It was our little game.
This evening she closed the door and jumped on her bed, pushing clothing to the floor. I took off my jacket, removed my boots and crawled up next to her. We began to kiss when, without warning, she jumped up, “Wait, the ballerina! I like when she dances when I’m with you.”
I feigned surprise, “You do?”
She blushed, “Yeah, and, well, then when I’m not with you and you’re out at some bar with a bunch of older girls your age doing who knows what I, well, I play the music box so I can think of us, you know, together.”
I leaned over and kissed her on the nose, “You’re so cute.” She rubbed her nose before we returned to each other. We continued to kiss and, after a long dance the ballerina stopped. I rolled away from Steph to take inventory, “Pants, no shirt and one sock. Hey what’d you do with my sock?”
She gave me an exaggerated shrug then inventoried her remaining clothing, “Tee-shirt, Fredrick’s of Hollywood panties and, do these count? Two leg warmers.”
This was before Flashdance. Steph and a few of her gymnasts friends were the only people I knew wearing leg warmers. “I don’t know what the hell those things are. Are they even clothes? They look like the bottom of someone’s pants, like frigg’n cut-off pants legs. So if they’re pants they count! If they’re not pants, they don’t. Hey, wait a minute; I know. How’s this? If it’s in the Sears catalog then it counts, OK? So there. Those things do not count.”
She placed both hands against my chest and pushed me away, “Well, silly, then my underwear doesn’t count!” She rolled over to show me her lace covered rear end. “These you don’t buy from Sears.”
Now I blushed. I turned away to address the ballerina, “Jeeze, she’s good-looking and smart! That’s a hard combo to beat, Miss Ballerina.”
Steph continued pushing me, rolling me over onto my back, “Let me wind her up. My poor little ballerina needs to dance some more.”
Steph released the key and the ballerina danced, filling the room with her music. We continued to repeat the cycle and after a longer than you’d expect performance the ballerina grew tired. Her pace slowed and her metallic notes clinked to a meandering pace before coming to rest. We separated.
“One sock,” I volunteered.
“Two leg warmers.”
We laughed out loud and then took stock of each other. I rolled closer and kissed her with a score of little kisses across her upper lip. I stopped and grabbed her muscular little shoulders, holding her at arm’s length.
“Look at you, Steph. Man, you really are totally, totally beautiful. You are my flawless little virgin.”
Playfully she ran her finger down my nose and then stretched her legs taunt, forming a point with her toes as she placed her right foot just over her left. She threw her arms over her head, pushing her hands against her bed’s pink and white headboard. Her stretch revealed a body of interconnected muscles running from thighs, over her stomach and chest to her strong little neck. Two beautiful Hershey Kiss breasts were stretched out over her chest muscles while the blackness of the smallest of landing strips stood out against her cream colored skin.
Her muscles blended together to create sloping valleys of shadows across her body. Ever so gently I glided the back of my hand across her stomach. I turned my hand over to roll my fingers across her flat tummy. Her skin was like a bowl of milk warmed in sunlight. My fingers seemed to break the surface of her skin as I traced the edges of her stomach muscles. “Your body is totally amazing, Steph. Totally amazing.”
“Gymnastics,” she volunteered.
She rolled towards me, touching her breasts against my chest. She was warm; like that bowl of milk. She reached up and with her middle finger slowly pushed my long brown hair from the side of my face, “Bease?” she continued.
“Yeah?”
“I’m ready.”
“Ready? Ready for what, Steph? Ready to wind up the ballerina?”
“Ready for you to be my first.”
She blushed and looked down at my chest before continuing. She squeezed my upper arms and spoke slowly, softly, “I want you to be my first, Beasley. I want to make love to you, with you, I mean.”
I felt her fingers shaking against my arms, “Now, Beasley. Right now.” Ever so slightly her body began to shake. Swimming out of her depth, she was nervous; really nervous.
I looked away from her eyes and, starting down at her feet, followed the curves of her body, drinking it in before finally letting my eyes return to hers. I didn’t say anything. I kissed her on the lips.
She fidgeted, then looked down at my naked body, “And, uh, from the looks of things down there it looks like you’re pretty ready too I’d say!” I blushed again.
“Be with me, Bease.”
I want to. She is so hot; so very, very hot. I think of our previous conversation. I think of an even earlier conversation. My mind floats. I consider that I’m having plenty of sex with other girls this summer so I don’t need sex with Stephanie. She is a girl I do not wish to break. And, I don’t have a rubber.
I roll my hand up her body and, with my arm coming to rest across her breasts, begin to stroke her hair just behind her left ear.
“Steph, think about it. Once we do this you can’t take it back. This is a big deal.”
Her eyes grow a bit narrower. “Don’t you think I know that? I’ve been thinking about this all summer. I mean, please, I want it to be you. You, Beasley. Someone like you.”
Someone like me.
“Steph, it shouldn’t be someone like me. It should be someone you’re in love with. You know, with someone that loves you. I mean, like, in less than a month I’m goin’ away to school and, well, you know, I may never see you again.”
She rolled onto her back and crossed her arms across her little breasts.
Her face and neck grew red, “Don’t you think I know you’re going away? That’s why I wanna do it now. I’m not stupid, ya know. And, besides, like, I’ve thought about this so I want it to be you. I mean, I already told…” She caught herself.
“Told who?”
“Oh, forget it, just forget I even frigg’n mentioned it.” She stared up at the ceiling. She struggled to hold back tears.
The ballerina watched in silence.
“Stephanie, like, I don’t even have a rubber. I didn’t even bring one to your house ‘cause, like, you said you wanted to stay a virgin. So I don’t even have one with me. And, like, we need a rubber you know.”
Seeking to compose herself she pushed back anger, or maybe embarrassment. She reached for me. Her voiced waivered, “No. No we don’t. Just slip inside me. Just for a moment. You know, you can just pull out. Please. I want it to be you. Nothing will happen; I mean, nothing bad will happen.”
“No, Steph. This is a big deal and, well, this should be with someone you love. Not with someone like me.”
Her face grew even redder, “Why are you being such an asshole? I mean, don’t you want to be with me?” I nod but it’s not enough. She pushes me away. “Well, then fuck you, Beasley. Just go fuck yourself then. You can go now. Go back to your college girls and your bar sluts in New York and your sluts at Seaside; yeah I heard about that one too.”
Naked, she rolls over, turning her back to me. She begins to cry.
I dress in silence. Before leaving I place my hand on her shoulder, “Steph, this is a once in a life time thing. This should be special. With someone you love.”
The ballerina looks from Steph to me and back to Steph.
“Yeah, well, I do love you. There, happy? It would of been special. To me it would of been special, Beasley. To me! Just go. Please. Just leave me alone.”
The ballerina looked towards the door.
I left and when I turn to pay for the cream at the convenience store she is standing there.
After she rubbed against my neck she patted my stomach, “Hey put on a couple of pounds, there Bease didn’t we? I don’t remember that little tummy!”
I rub the back of my head and offer Stephanie my two cents, “Well, I guess I got older, you know? Besides, though; my belly’s not that big. Is it?” I rub my stomach and smile at Steph. She smiles back and then squints as she makes a little space between her thumb and index finger.
“You though, Stephanie. Man, you look beautiful. Like a teenager. I mean, you really are, you know, still unbelievably beautiful. What’s it been, 20 years? And, I mean, do you even age or what? You look great.”
She cocks her hip to the side and crosses her arms. They slip under her breasts supporting them like trophies displayed on her top shelf. “Yeah, well I saw you checking out my ass in the mirror, there.” She turned like her ballerina, twisting her rear end towards me. “See? Still working out, ya know. Even after 20 years.”
I raise my eyebrows, “I can see that Steph. Um, anyway, how ‘re you doing?”
“Me? Oh, I’m good. It’s all good. Got divorced not too long ago and I live in Fair Lawn now. Just up the road. I work at a law firm during the day. I have to dress nice there. I do this at night ‘cause I’m saving for a house, ya know?”
Before I could answer, she continued, “And you, mister fancy pants. I hear things are pretty good for you up in Boston or wherever you are. You stayed up there, huh? And, you have kids, right?”
“Yes, a daughter, Gee and a son, DJ.” Their names pour from my mouth like a wave, filling the convenience store and drowning out the hum of the freezer units. She closes her eyes as my children’s’ names pass over her. Like bubbles left after the tide recedes the names linger. I continue, “Both wonderful and happy.”
“Nice. And are they with you, you know, here in Jersey?” She doesn’t wait for my answer. “Hey, wait, what are you doing here anyway?”
“Yeah, that, well my mom’s pretty sick so I’m here visiting her for the day. I go back tomorrow.”
She stretched her arms above her head, forcing me to work very hard to avoid dropping my eyes to look at her breasts. Her eyes stay settled on mine the whole time, measuring me.
“Bease, ya know I still remember that summer with you. Man, you were some piece of work; gentleman to the end. I mean, I was really, really crushing on you. You know that right?”
“I remember, Steph. And, you know, I really liked you too. I liked you a lot; more than you think, I would guess.”
She tilted her head down just a bit, “Well… you still owe me, Bease. You know you were basically the first boy – though unfortunately not the last – to break my poor little heart.” Theatrically, she covered her heart with both hands. “It took me a long time to start listening to that music box again. A long time. Hey, ya know, I’m off in…” She looked up at the clock, “Shit, I’m off now! Come out for a drink with me. I already swept up and just have to close the register. Then we can go to the Inn or up the road by my place. Come on. One drink.” She tilted her head, “Maybe two.”
“Aw, I can’t Steph. I have to be up by five tomorrow and off to Boston for a meeting. Don’t think I don’t want to, though.”
“Well, if you want to, than just say yes. Join me?”
I hold the cream up, “Can’t.”
She put on her coy face, “You know, Bease, if you’re nice to me we can find my music box and wind it up.”
“Can’t.”
“Why not?”
I hold up my hand to show Steph my ring finger, “Doing the in love with my wife and mother of my children thing.”
She placed her hands together in front of her in mock prayer, “Aw, how cute. Well, come on. I won’t tell if you won’t.”
I don’t answer.
“You know, Bease, just think, if you had said yes to me, you know in my room that night, well who knows? Maybe you’d be doing the ‘in love with your wife and mother of your children thing’ with me here in Jersey! Just think, if you’d just said yes that night we might of kept it going.”
Slowly she stretched out her arms to form the shape of a cross, palms facing me. “Huh? Imagine that!”
I do imagine that and I think about what might have happened if I’d stayed with Steph or if I’d gotten her pregnant and how life might have turned out. I think about Gee and DJ popping out of existence like fragile soap bubbles, for a moment captivating me as they whimsically float over a kitchen sink in Fair Lawn before disappearing into nothing more than a funny sense of déjà vu.
Though invisible to all but the might-have-been me the bursting of the bubbles in quick succession tears open a gaping crevice deep inside me, dropping me to the kitchen floor and, after rushing me to the hospital, Stephanie is greeted in the waiting room by a young doctor. He takes her hand and solemnly tells her the might-have-been me was felled by what could only have been a cataclysmic stroke, “I’m so very sorry, Ms. Kinkade. Whatever happened simply ripped open a hole deep inside his brain. I’m sure he felt nothing; just stopped existing. I’m sorry. He’s gone.”
I shiver before returning to Steph, asking, “Well, anyway, how much for the cream?”
Steph looks towards the door and sighs, “No charge for you, Beasley. No charge. I guess I’ll see you around, huh?”
I thank her for the cream and walk to the door. Before I leave, I turn to spy Steph taking her turn watching me, “Steph, just so you know, you really were, and I don’t know how you do it now, but you still are completely and utterly beautiful. I hope you realize that.”
She crosses her arms once more and smiles. She gets smaller as I walk away. I hop in the car and stare into the store before pressing the ignition. As I back out she’s obscured by a “Milk $1.99” sign in the store’s front window. After a moment she seems to vanish like a just-popped soap bubble. I smile as I do not fall victim to a stroke and collapse to the floor of the car.
I drive home with silence, thinking of Steph’s body and our summer together. I pull into the driveway, exit the car and unlock mom’s front door. Sneaking into the house as I’ve done hundreds of times in the past I cause the floor boards to creak. I make my way to the kitchen to prep the coffee maker for tomorrow. I deposit the cream in the lonely fridge before hushing my way upstairs, remembering without thinking which stairs make noise and which do not. At the top of the stairs I turn left to go to the bathroom. I take a nice long pee and put the seat and cover down to muzzle the sound of the flushing water.
Exiting the bathroom, I leave the light on and the door cracked so as to give me just enough light to make my way to mom’s room. The door is half way open and I step in, bending over to listen for mom’s breathing. Wisps of breath escape her body; short and shallow. Though it may just be the moonlight playing tricks on me she appears to have sunk a bit further into the bed. The washcloth has fallen to the floor. I bend to scoop it up. The warmth exhausted, the cloth is cold in my hand. Without thinking I squeeze the cloth tight, causing the last drops to fall to the floor as I lean over to kiss mom’s forehead.
I stand up and stare at her moon-shaded face peeking out from the covers, “Thank you, Mom. I love you.”
I back out of her room and quietly pull the door shut. Ever so gently silence takes my hand.
