The Art of the Kiss

by Holly Schindler

  She opened her mouth to add as much, but she was already too late. Her father—all 6’4”, three hundred and twenty brawny pounds of him—was pushing through the door, and he was slapping Michael’s shoulder and inviting him to pile right into his truck and join the two of them.

  Of course he would do that. It was her dad’s way. Everyone was always invited. The mailman drank lemonade on their porch every summer, the neighbors slept on their couch when their own bathroom flooded, and Sharon’s college friends had always kept toothbrushes in their medicine cabinet.

  They still kept toothbrushes in the medicine cabinet, in case they happened to be passing through town—on a business trip, maybe. They still had a place to stay, should they ever need it.

  She felt a bubble of hope float higher inside her. Maybe a trip with her father wasn’t something Michael had in mind.

  But he smiled, nodding in quick agreement.

  And so, picnic basket secured in the truck bed, the three of them crowded onto the bench seat. The men chatted while Sharon did a quick prayer (or hundred) for rain.

  As soon as they hit the park, Sharon shoved the picnic basket at her father, saying, “Gotta see about getting some good crowd shots before it gets too dark.”

  That was all it took. She was off then, maneuvering through the happy-to-be-outside, celebrating bodies—adults swallowing giant plastic forkfuls of potato salad, kids chasing each other, dogs barking, babies wailing, one girl twirling, showing off the streamers she’d tied to the ends of her braids.

  She’d officially ditched Michael. She should have known it would be so easy. Should have suspected her dad would hook him into listening to another one of his long-winded stories, this one about the time a five-year-old Sharon had mistaken hot sauce for ketchup when dressing up her own Fourth of July hot dog. “Doesn’t like the stuff to this day!” she heard his distant voice bellow for what had to have been the ten thousandth time.

  Now she really could get to work.

  She scanned the crowd as she pulled the Nikon from its case, wondering where to start. Hard to get her head wrapped around this scene. It was just so different from the nightlife photos she’d been taking at Murio’s lately.

  She hoisted the strap she’d attached to the camera case over her shoulder, trying to decide what feeling she wanted to highlight in this scene—what she wanted her shots to depict here in the daylight. Wholesomeness? Family life? Happiness. Or contentment, at least. Funny—the bar scene was all about searching for everything you felt your life was lacking. It was about filling those aching holes. But a Fourth of July picnic was about sitting back and enjoying what you did have—family, friends, laughter, time. Lots and lots of time. Fourth of Julys felt as if the day had been lengthened to accommodate the festivities.

  Sharon started walking, weaving through a sea of blankets and shade trees and Tupperware containers, the billowing smoke from camping grills, women in sun-blocking hats, men in plaid Bermuda shorts. As she moved, she became aware someone was following along behind her. A pretty tall someone, judging by the size of the shadow in the grass. Moving every single time Sharon moved.

  She didn’t know who it was, only that it clearly wasn’t Michael. He would have said something—he wouldn’t have simply trailed her. He was too chatty for that.

  Was this guy really following, or was Sharon being unusually paranoid? Had Michael’s appearance at her father’s door made her prickly and distrustful when there was no need to be? As a test, she turned sharply, toward one of the food vendors set up for the folks with no picnic baskets—and the folks who wanted another frozen lemonade to go along with their mother’s special German potato salad.

  The shadow followed.

  Sharon slipped into a long line at the concession stand.

  So did he.

  She ached to run, but was afraid of looking unreasonably suspicious—that kind of thing, she knew, could come across as accusatory. Besides, her dad had taught her long ago not to run from a stray dog. Dogs raced after you, caught you, and attacked.

  Anybody who trailed along after a woman in the middle of Fourth of July picnic was exactly that—a real dog. And, unfortunately, a brave one.

  Better to wait and let whatever was going on play itself out.

  She stayed in line, slowly snaking toward the ordering window. Her eyes scanned the menu posted on a sandwich board. Bypassing the corn dogs and lemonade, she asked for a single slice of watermelon instead.

  Once she’d exchanged her coins for a large pink slice, she raced away, her camera in one hand and the watermelon in the other, darting between a group of kids with water guns.

  He came too. Without bothering to order any food for himself. He couldn’t have ordered. He hadn’t had enough time.

  Sharon’s flushed face felt hotter even than one of the nearby bombarded-by-summer-sun chrome bumpers parked along the edge of the park. She scowled. Little did the strange man behind her know, she’d collected a few protective tricks while out photographing Fairyland after dark. Scare tactics. She swiveled, throwing the watermelon as hard as she could. It all happened so quickly, the man didn’t have a chance to dart out of the way, pretend he’d never been following her at all.

  “Ow,” he groaned as the watermelon rind struck his shoulder. “What gives, Sharon?”

  “Peter,” she sighed with relief.

  Of course. Peter.

  As a favor to her dad, he’d been traipsing after her lately, in a decidedly not-so-out-of-sight manner. Everywhere she went during her night shoots.

  He was a cop, after all. By day, anyway. The son of one of her dad’s old mechanic friends. It made her dad feel better to know someone was watching out for Sharon as she wandered among what he referred to, in an anxious kind of grumble, as “that dang bunch of barflies.”

  Even though he considered her tough. When it came right down to it, there was still a difference. Girl tough was never quite the same.

  At least, to hear the men in her life tell it.

  Even her father.

  “Peter, knock it off.”

  “It’s my job.”

  “No, actually—”

  “My unofficial job,” he corrected, nodding once toward the opposite side of the field. Toward Sharon’s dad, who sat alone on their blanket.

  Alone? That couldn’t be right. And yet, it was. Michael was no longer at her father’s side. Catching her eye, her dad raised a hand to wave.

  She waved back limply. And quickly began to scan the crowd. Where had Michael gone?

  She wasn’t sure, but suspected that he was probably standing close enough to watch her.

  Which was a little creepy, honestly.

  Peter was looking even more muscle-bound than usual, thanks to his somewhat slim-fitting baseball T-shirt featuring the name of his precinct’s team. It occurred to Sharon that she might be able to use him to her advantage. Maybe, if she leaned closer to him, Michael would get the wrong idea about the two of them and give up.

  Sharon didn’t have time for Michael. Not that he wasn’t kind of sweet. She didn’t have time for any man, frankly. She had other concerns, not the least of which included a floundering business that required near-constant CPR.

  Besides, Michael had already learned that though she was, in fact, moving forward, bit by bit, she was still not what anyone other than her father would have called impressive. She was no one with the accolades that meant she deserved to be looked up to. She was no one that commanded attention and respect. And yet, he was trailing after her anyway? That could only mean one thing: he thought she would easily give it up. What girl wouldn’t gladly choose a respectable marriage over a flailing photography career? Photography wasn’t for Sharon, anyway. She had the wrong length of hair and the wrong shape of hips. Wasn’t that it? Wasn’t photography a man’s game?

  Sharon didn’t think so. And she had neither the time nor the inclination to prove it to Michael.

  She needed to get rid of him, once and for all. She leaned
toward Peter, attempting to appear infatuated. No—absolutely absorbed.

  Peter squinted. “You look beat,” he observed.

  Not exactly the response she’d been hoping for.

  She wasn’t trying to win Peter over, either, but with his words hanging between them, she wondered: She’d been out the night before—did it show? Had her eyeliner smudged? Were her eyes bloodshot? Did her hair smell like an ashtray?

  If Peter hadn’t been aware that Sharon was into nightlife photo shoots, had he not known her and her father, would he have made all the same assumptions about her spending her nights in a bar?

  Woman of ill repute. She might have laughed when the archaic phrase popped into her head, had it not also been a real possibility.

  “You know what you need?” Peter asked.

  Sharon tilted her head and offered what she believed to be an alluring closed-mouth smile. This was going to work. He’d offer her a drink. Maybe a bite to eat. Something that would seem decidedly couple-y, and send Mr. Short-Sleeved-Dress-Shirt-on-the-Fourth packing for good.

  (Really, she caught herself thinking. Who wears dress shirts to picnics? Talk about straitlaced.)

  “What’s that?” Sharon asked, leaning on one leg. Closer and closer to Peter.

  “You need to get married,” he barked, turned, and headed into the crowd without giving her a chance for a comeback.

  “Trouble in paradise?”

  Sharon jumped. Michael stood less than a foot away. Grinning. Holding a cup of lemonade toward her.

  Had he been there the whole time?

  “No paradise,” she admitted.

  “I guessed as much.”

  “Did you.”

  “Sure.”

  “You taking notes for one of your big assignments?” She pointed at the tiny notebook poking out of the top of his shirt pocket before accepting the lemonade with her free hand.

  As she waited for him to respond, she took a sip. It tasted so good. Surprisingly cool, a relief from the July heat, and more sweet than tart, just the way she liked it.

  He shrugged. “I don’t mind the lesser assignments. I don’t even think they’re lesser.”

  “You don’t.”

  “Life—contrary to what you hear on the nightly news—isn’t an unending stream of tragedies.”

  “And what is life, professor?” Why am I teasing? she asked herself. He’d get the wrong idea if she wasn’t careful.

  “Oh, laundry and dirty dishes.” He grinned again, but his tone indicated he wasn’t teasing back—he meant it. “Polishing your shoes,” he added. “Studying facts for a history test. And slowly, after a towering pile of days, a stack of calendars stretching up to the sky, you become a different person. Who you were meant to be all along. You’re a journalist—or a photographer—instead of a student. You’re driving a Chevy instead of pushing a toy car across your mother’s living room rug.”

  Sharon didn’t like the way his words resonated. She didn’t like the way her hands were sweating and her legs weakening—yuck. Like she was the doe-eyed girl in some corny pop song.

  She didn’t listen to pop songs. Too predictable. It was one of the reasons she liked jazz.

  But she certainly hadn’t expected Mr. Dress Shirt to say something so emotional, so sentimental. She’d largely ignored his fairy tale talk at Bleeker’s, chalking him up to being one of those all-business types. Now, his words were hitting her like the rhythm and tones of the songs she preferred. Sharon liked surprises. This one was even sweeter than the lemonade.

  She cleared her throat and observed, simply, “So you prefer human interest stories.”

  “The high school basketball team and the annual fall quilting bee. The piles of days that make people who they are.”

  “Interesting,” she murmured. She certainly didn’t want to appear intrigued. She was trying desperately to think of a way to untangle herself from him, but all she could come up with was waving at her father again, who had been joined by two of his retired buddies.

  “I like the way you can count on it,” Michael went on, his voice growing increasingly sincere. “The dewiness of June mornings, the way it sparkles in the soft sunlight. The way daffodils are always the first to bloom each spring—sometimes even before the snow’s stopped falling for good—and inevitably give way to tulips. The cool relief of the first autumn breeze that always arrives after a long scorching August, right on time, like a train sliding into a station.

  “Most of all, I like being part of it. I like knowing that soon, like every year, the mayor will partner with the current high school track star for the three-legged race, and everybody will eat their weight in watermelon, and the women of the First Baptist will sing every patriotic song known to man while the fireworks go off tonight. Odds are, they’ll sing ‘America the Beautiful’ three times.”

  Sharon liked what Michael said, despite her very best efforts not to. She reminded herself that she preferred things outside the norm, and Michael was talking about the opposite—about patterns and things you could count on to never change.

  Then again, a man talking like this was anything but normal. Wasn’t it? Peter surely never would have ever waxed poetic about the autumn breeze and daffodils. Neither would her dad, come to think of it. Before Sharon could stop herself, she found herself wanting another taste of Michael’s words. More, even, than she wanted the lemonade.

  As her mind spun and she fought to latch onto something to say back, she became aware that in the distance, voices were crying out, “Watch out!” And, “Duck!”

  Who were they yelling at? Sharon glanced up as a wayward softball careened toward her, quickly growing larger as it also grew closer.

  Dangerously close.

  Her entire body tensed. She needed to move, but it was already too late.

  Just as it had been too late for Peter to avoid being splattered with her watermelon.

  The softball thunked against her camera, knocking it to the ground.

  Busted.

  ~Sharon~

  The stench of firecrackers grew stronger—harsh, gunpowdery—filling my nose. Making my eyes water.

  That’s how real that old scene was. I was smelling it. It was all so vibrant: the sunlight and the crowds and the scents. The details of that dusty old memory were back, popping like fireworks around me. I could feel the fresh horror all over again as I recalled the sight of my shattered camera. Everything I’d planned and hoped for had centered around that Nikon. Just as Heather had attached her dreams to her own camera. Two lives, two separate accidents—mirror images.

  Mirror, mirror, on the wall, I thought, Michael’s radio words coming back to me.

  Only, as I blinked myself fully into the present and the memories receded, the firecracker stench continued to grow stronger.

  What was that smell? Michael certainly hadn’t been shooting bottle rockets in our living room.

  I raced into the kitchen, finding it thick with smoke.

  ~Michael~

  “What happened?” Sharon yelled while I flapped a dishtowel against a blazing burner.

  “Grease fire—must have dripped when I basted the brisket.” My voice was a little more frantic than I wanted it to be.

  Sharon grabbed the baking soda, dumped it on the flame, and covered the burner with a nearby skillet lid.

  With the fire suffocated, we stared at each other, panting and relieved. A brief moment of intense fear, followed by the everything’s okay rush that arrives once danger has been eradicated, had semi-exhausted us both. Simultaneously, we wound up crumpling to the tile floor. Staring into each other’s eyes, we started to laugh.

  But our laughter dried up as quickly as it had begun.

  Memories hung in the air between us, as acrid as the lingering smoke. Now, staring at her, I was hearing the words I’d uttered on the radio.

  She had to have heard them too.

  Wasn’t she going to say something about it?

  While I was at it, was she going to men
tion giving away her camera? The one that had broken half a century ago?

  The one that I’d brought back from the dead?

  ~July 6, 1969~

  Some heroines simply do not sit around waiting to be rescued. Instead, they hit the Yellow Pages when disaster strikes.

  When Sharon plopped the phone book on the kitchen table during that Fourth of July weekend long ago, her father didn’t so much as glance up from his breakfast plate.

  She squinted at him. Didn’t he recognize a girl thwarting disaster?

  “What’re you looking up?” he asked, running a piece of toast through his egg yolks.

  “Camera shops.”

  He snorted. “It’s a holiday weekend. And Sunday. Dream on.”

  “Somebody’s got to be working in their shop. Playing catch-up on paperwork or putting up a new display while they’re not open. If I let it ring long enough, somebody’s got to answer.”

  “And if they don’t?”

  “I’ll just go down the street banging on doors. If I have to drive fifty miles, so be it.”

  “If it was so pressing, why didn’t you start yesterday?”

  “It was still a holiday weekend yesterday.” Sharon stuck her chin out defensively.

  “Think I’d wait a few days if I were you,” her father advised, slurping his coffee. Sharon noticed he was still wearing the white undershirt he’d slept in.

  “Wait for what? A miracle? If it was fixable, he would have brought it yesterday. Why’d I ever let him take it to begin with? What was I thinking? I was hoping I wouldn’t have to spend the next decade or so trying to pay off a new camera, that’s what. No way is Michael Minyard bringing that camera back in one piece. You didn’t see it as close up as I did. It was shattered.”