i
There's a chill in the air this
morning that I haven't experienced since last fall, and I
subsequently thank the needle on the thermometer just outside my
bedroom window, cautioning me earlier in my mother's soft voice, put
on a toque – the long pants today – it's a cold one. Bursts
of moist, cloudy breath warm my cheeks, the only body part exposed to
the early morning ice grip.
I can, I have, I will. I can,
I have, I will. This is my morning chant; at least until I find
my rhythm, break into auto pilot. Like some technique from Norman
Vincent Peale's Power of Positive Thinking, it has become my running
mantra. I prefer to think of it, though, as more the victory cry of
Julius Caesar: vini, vidi, vici - I came, I saw, I conquered.
Julius Caesar has two feet solidly planted in history, his mark left
on every calendar month. Norman Vincent Peale, well, he wrote a book
or two – hardly the makings of a hero.
I marvel, as my feet hit the
pavement, how the sun rolls out of bed to greet me, all peackocky in
her showy pink and purple robes. I experience a tinge of vainglory
knowing I beat her to the punch. Lights are slowly beginning to
flicker in the kitchens and bedrooms of the houses I pass and the
traffic is making a steady exodus toward the city.
Across my path ambles a young
Golden Retriever, her jaw stretching wide into a yawn then snapping
shut. She shakes it off, a full body shake, hurling strings of
saliva from her lips. On the other end of her leash a middle-aged
man drags his sneakered feet across the sidewalk. They head toward
the green space of the high school baseball field, seeking a place to
discharge a bloated bladder.
The man's shoulders are drawn up,
his chin tucked into his chest, providing a windbreak. As if by
intuition his head swivels and we make eye contact. A single take,
a double take, holding the gaze longer than prudent in over-polite
society. My feet are still running and my neck sling-shots back.
They say that when you're drowning
your life flashes before your eyes, an entire lifetime relived in
mere moments. I know only seconds have passed after that initial
glance, but thirty years just fall away and my feet stop stubbornly
on the street refusing to go further, willing to risk an embarrassing
mistake.
“Dave?” I turn to see him
standing ankle deep in frost-bitten grass, his Retriever's hind leg a
ninety degree angle to a signpost.
“Yeah.” A smile slowly creeps
across his face. He approaches timidly, giving Goldy a tug on the
leash. “Brenda?”
His hands push forcefully into the
pockets of his coat, causing his shoulders to slouch forward, making
him look older. He rocks gently back and forth on the balls of
his feet, determined to keep eye contact. “How've you been?”
I grin. He's lost his nerve. His Casanova charm is out of practice.
ii
I blinked hard, attempting to
suppress the wash of humiliation that had been my morning, watching
impatiently for the familiar yellow 1970 Ford LTD whose rusted
fenders, today, would be a welcome sight rather than a reminder of my
parsimonious heritage. The knot in my gut tightened and I pressed
closer to the door, closer to invisibility. My rescuer was taking
too long. I wanted to be a child again, please God, if this is what
womanhood meant. I wondered how this day could get any worse.
“Hey.”
And then I knew. My shoulders
stiffened, hands moving gingerly to the jacket wrapped around my
waist, worn today like a backwards apron, casually, like I had no
better place to put it.
“Hey, you.” I turned as he
approached, watching him warily, hoping he'd mind his distance.
“You okay?” He was
good-looking. Not athletic. I didn't go for that kind. Rather
short in his high-top sneakers but seemingly unaware of his
disadvantage in a platform-shoe world. I recognized him as the new
boy in grade 8 – an older boy – from the city.
I rubbed my mid-region. “Not
feeling well. My dad's picking me up.”
“Sorry.” He shuffled his feet
on the dirty black indoor-outdoor carpet then stepped closer. “I
see you in the hall sometimes. Wanted to tell you...you have really
blue eyes.”
“Thanks.” I discreetly
brushed a strand of dirty blond hair from my face, astounded at his
undeterred audacity.
“Maybe, when you're feeling
better...we could eat lunch together...on the picnic table.”
He pointed to a group of tables on
the lawn near the front of the school, chained like inmates to a
concrete pad.
“Sure.”
The awkwardness was broken by a
big yellow blimp with rusted fenders. It jerked to a halt near the
school's front door. My dad's fingers tapped out a silent rhythm on
the steering wheel as he waited.
“Gotta go.”
“Okay. See you
tomorrow...maybe.”
I made a break, swinging the door
open more vigorously than necessary. God, I hoped the stain hadn't
leaked through.
“Get better,” He called after
me, his voice cut off by the clunk of the slamming door.
A thick silence filled the car for
which I was thankful. I'm not feeling well would be an
understatement and any further query might have tipped me over the
emotional edge, causing any male within my vicinity to have a spike
on his guilt-ometer, wondering what he'd done. Mom may have warned
him, suggested it's a “woman thing.” She was the only one who
knew I'd been visited by “Aunt Flo” for the first time that
morning.
iii
“So you're living in town again.
How many years has it been?”
He's examining an apple, turning
it over in his hand before dropping it into the waiting produce bag.
“Thirty.” He shakes his head,
mulling over the enormity of the number in man years. “Town's
grown a lot since then. Other things haven't changed at all. Can
you believe that high school. Still the same as it was in 1976.
Only thing different are the teachers, most of whom were once our
classmates.”
We laugh in unison.
“How about you?” his voice
squeaks as he works a twist-tie noose around the rim of his bag of
apples.
I recognize that squeak for what I
once considered a sexy male puberty phenomenon. It's funny how the body changes so
drastically over the years but the voice remains the same, betraying
us while we hide behind middle-age bulges and greying hair.
“Got married, moved away,
started a family and moved back again. There's something to be said
about roots, you know? This is a great place to raise kids, I
guess.”
“Yeah.”
I squeeze a mango, then another,
finding one fit for my basket.
“Do you remember that time a
bunch of us petitioned Mulder to let us have a dance in the school
gym?”
We stop fondling fruit for the
moment and search the others face for recollection. His eyes are
smiling.
“I don't know how he did it. It
was against school policy for eons before that. We really broke
ground that day, didn't we?”
“Mm hm. Remember how mad those
girls were when we refused to play Bay City Rollers? I thought
they'd end up shutting the party down with their sissy-whining.”
“Oh God, yeah. Bay City Rollers.
Those girls were decked out in plaid scarves and caps like a bunch
of boy band groupies. Wow. That was crazy.”
Words wane as we both drift back
from 1970-ville to the present. I check my basket for evidence that
I've procured what I came for.
“I'll see you around, I guess.
Take care.”
He nods, giving me leave.
Rounding the aisle I hear his familiar voice raised over the grocery store fracas.
“Hey...who'd you marry, anyway?”
A warmth rises to my cheeks.
“Nobody you'd know.” It sounds rude and short in my ears. “From
out of town. I'll introduce you next time I see you.”
He smiles and gestures farewell.
iv
“Brenda...phone!”
I could tell by his voice that the
caller wasn't among the regulars. Tripping over my stuffed
crocodile, Eddie, I stumbled to the kitchen, shifting quickly from
ebullient to casual as I rounded the corner.
My brother was sashaying from foot
to foot, dodging my attempts at the receiver; a running back,
taunting his opponent with the ball. The receiver was tucked into
his armpit, his right hand over the mouthpiece.
“It's a boy,” he goaded, the
words slithering from his tongue like the serpent in the garden,
daring me to eat the apple of impropriety and risk my father's wrath.
“Give that to me!” I was
becoming increasingly impatient with his childish needling,
forcefully dislodging the receiver from his sweaty armpit. Jamming my
own hand over the mouthpiece I shewed him from the kitchen,
threatening him with fire-glazed eyes.
Stretching the cord to full
extended length I slunk down in the shadowy hallway, keeping my voice
low.
“Hello.”
“Hey, guess who. Remember me?”
How could I forget. I'd been home
for three days now, and thought of no one or nothing else.
“Yeah. Dave, right?” Coolly,
like he wasn't the only boy who'd ever called for me.
“Feeling better? You haven't
been in school.”
“Mm hm. Feeling better. I'll
be back tomorrow. Have I missed anything?”
“I hope you've missed me.”
Was he pompous or playful? He
certainly was forward for a small town boy. I rolled onto my
stomach, resting on my elbows with the phone glued seductively to one
cheek, my other ear tuned for my brother's movements. I could hear
the plink plink of the Atari game in the rec
room.
A flirtatious colloquy continued
for the better part of an hour, interrupted only occasionally by a
click from the party-line neighbours, checking for a free phone line.
I hoped to heaven that it wasn't Mrs. Derksen, neighbourhood snoop
and self-designated snitch. I could see her – cat eye glasses,
sphincter lips, reporting my misdeeds to my father, her hands on her
hips and a gleam in her eye. She was the embodiment of the corn
field scarecrow come to life, bristly and menacing.
As if on cue, my father's heavy footsteps
ascended the stairs and the front door sighed.
“I've got to go.” I brought
the conversation to an abrupt close. “I'll see you tomorrow.”
v
She's very attractive – his
wife. I long for a closer look but try not to get caught staring.
It somehow becomes important to me that the years won't have been as
kind to her face as they have been to her figure.
I can see them coming down the
block. I recognize the Retriever first and then Dave's casual gait.
She's got long blond hair that bounces ostentatiously when she walks.
She seems to be enjoying his company. I guess he did well.
“Obie.” I call my dog from
the front steps. Maybe I can get him to come inside before he sees
the Retriever; before I have to acknowledge them from the front yard
and make Dave awkwardly explain my connection to his past.
“A childhood fling, nothing
more,” he'd explain. “Then I found a real woman.”
“Obie!” I call more
compellingly, but it's too late. Obie drags his nose from the fire
hydrant, sniffs the air and makes a courageous dash for the
Retriever, three times his size. I'm forced to intervene lest my dog
become fixated with the new friend and follow him home.
“Hey.”
“Hey, you.” I reply.
“Your dog?”
“My daughter's, in theory. Mine
when he needs something.”
“This is my wife, Jeanie.
Jeanie, this is Brenda, an old...friend.”
“Nice to meet you.”
I accept her extended hand and for
a fleeting moment we make our subconscious assessments, as only women
do, noting measurements, general age and each others ability to stand
up to the tests of stress and time.
“Beautiful evening. Enjoy your
walk.” I make a stealthy, experienced swipe for Obie's collar,
collecting my dog and marching him back to the house.
“What do you think, Obie? Would
you rather have her for a mistress or me? Be honest now, this is
important.”
Obie gnaws at my thumb, squirms
out of my arms and sprints for the front door. Once inside, I stand
at the picture window and watch them continue down the street. The
Cleavers. There's a little part of me that would like to begrudge
him of that happiness. A little part that wishes he'd regret having
broken up with me – all those years ago. We were children. I'm
being ridiculous.
I think about the cryptic poem he
gave me just before he broke it off.
If you love something, set it
free.
If it comes back, it's yours.
If it doesn't, it never was.
vi
My
heart thrashed in my chest, either from peddling at break-neck speed
along rough gravel terrain or, more likely, the thought of Dave
waiting somewhere within the next mile road. I'd pushed my green
Sekine to its limits. Time was of the essence. I needed to be home
before sundown.
I saw a
bicycle on its side, just on the periphery, where grass met road. A
little lower into the ditch was a head, and then torso, and soon he
was standing and waving in the deep grassy weeds.
Catching a
swath of fresh stones, my front wheel swerved, nearly toppling me to
the ground. A close call but I regained traction, bringing the bike
to a stop beside his.
“Hi-ya
good-looking.” Dave met me and took my hand, leading me to a spot
in the grass, freshly trodden and awaiting the mysteries of young
love. It was our half-way point, beyond the reach of hovering parent
and annoying sibling.
The smell of
canola and clover filled my nostrils as we curled into the grass,
lying on our backs, hands behind our heads, watching the birds flit
from grain stalk to grain stalk. This was the first time we'd been
alone.
Time moved
swiftly while we talked into the clouds – disparaging teachers,
trading gossip: who likes whom. A red Ford pickup ambled past and we
ducked deeper into the weedy trenches, rubbing dust from our eyes as
it passed. Dave sat up and hoisted me to to a sitting position next
to him. He stared at our feet for a long time then turned to gaze
recklessly into my eyes.
“Can I kiss
you?”
A familiar
heat rose to my face. I nodded. He leaned in and we fumbled a
moment with the dynamics of head tilt and angles before his lips
reached mine and lingered there for a moment. Pulling away we opened
our eyes, unsure where it ranked on good, better, best.
“Have you
ever kissed anyone before?” His eyes searched mine, hoping he'd
broken an inexperienced mare.
“No. You?”
“Yeah.
Sure.”
I doubted his
expertise in the carnal pleasures but held my silence. He placed an
arm around my shoulder and pulled me closer. An orange orb sun
balanced precariously just above the horizon, like a tightrope walker
set ablaze. Inside me, the entire accompanying circus was performing
its best show ever. I shivered at the thrill.
In the
distance a dust ball gathered thick and heavy, growing closer,
outwitting us in our reverie. We dropped to our backs at the first
impending growl of a two-stroke engine, a giant steroid-hyped
bumblebee, advancing suddenly from the cloud of dust. A dirt bike
stopped near the abandoned bicycles; the engine cut out.
I peeked
cautiously over one shoulder. My brother glared back at me from the
seat of the dirt bike, tipped to one side balancing the weight of the
bike, rebuke on his face.
“Dad says
you're supposed to come home. Now.”
I sensed the
duplicity in his demeanour, the somber messenger in his stance, the
you are sooo busted intonation in his voice.
“How did he
know?” I sat up, incredulous.
“Old Abe
Wolfe drove by in his red pickup. Stopped at the house to tell Mom
and Dad he saw you here with a boy. I suggest you don't keep them
waiting.”
The circus
tent had collapsed and the revellers were gone home. My balloon was
deflating, popped by an old clown who'd likely never been kissed. Dave
stood and helped me to my feet, brushing incriminating grass blades
from my clothes.
“I'll see
you tomorrow,” he spoke gently, under his breath.
“Yeah. I only hope there'll be a tomorrow.”
vii
He's moved on,
so I've heard. Packed up his Leave-It-To-Beaver family and moved to
the city. He came back into my life long enough for me to remember;
for the past to be unearthed and a host of fossilized memories
dredged up, then walked away – again.
I don't mean
to suggest that I long for what might have been. I don't. Seeing
him again confirmed that. I'm happy, I've lived well and without
regret. But there's something about the past that appears more
romantic now than when it was the present. Something titillating
about a hazy memory come back to life in human – feel it, see it,
experience it – form. Something extraordinarily unforgettable
about the very first kiss.
