First Kiss

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.