What a Kiss Can Do

by Kathy Johncox

  Chapter Seven

  Spring Fever

  The winter slogged on for another few weeks, thanks to the groundhog, and it seemed I trudged everywhere. I often have thought I suffer from seasonal affective disorder, as my moods, normally affable by my own evaluation, probably do swing. This is difficult for everyone, especially those with whom I am in romantic relationships, because they invariably think they did something to cause my 1) emotional withdrawal, 2) physical withdrawal, 3) crying or 4) disappearing sense of humor. I try to warn people but they don’t get it. I didn’t have time to warn Fergie. It just came upon me sometime around the Ides of March, which, of course is when Caesar was killed by his two best friends, so there is some precedent for caution. Many professionals and friends have suggested medication but I don’t want to go there, having seen Boss on small pink pills that elevate her mood to frightening levels of euphoria while relegating the rest of us into one of Dante’s nine levels of Hell.

  So as I trudge physically through snow and other winter muck, I also trudge through my foggy mental state. It always passes, but not without casualties, it seems.

  Perhaps it was to Fergie’s advantage that he tried to understand me. Derek, on the other hand, was bewildered. The dinner Derek and I had a few nights after Caroline’s party was really fine. The food had been good, but forgettable; however, the excellent conversation I remember in almost every detail.

  So, once again I had had to make up a story for Fergie, as I was sure he’d have way too much to say about my going out with Derek, even for a friendly dinner. Derek had picked me up and this time I noticed the adaptive gas and brake pedals he had for driving, so his legs could reach the pedals. There seemed to be an adapter on the rearview mirror as well, bringing it down some and it occurred to me this all was an added cost to the already expensive car.

  We were at a restaurant of my choice this time, a place where writers and other artists hung out, some of the people from the nearby college, a few people with published essays and fiction, some with a book for sale. It was a place where I always felt relaxed and hoped Derek would, too. The décor in the restaurant had a library theme, and we were seated near a bookcase at a table with a banker’s lamp on it, one of those green glass ones that make people look insipid or spooky, take your pick.

  We ordered salmon and vegetables and got into a long conversation about which anti-oxidants and omega whatever was supposed to be good for you this week.

  “I eat quite healthily,” Derek said. “No use in tempting fate.”

  “I eat quickly,” I said. “On the run.”

  “Because you have to?”

  I thought for a minute. And no, it wasn’t because I had to. It was my style. Always multi-tasking and moving to the next thing with the previous thing not quite finished. I said as much.

  “You know, you can change your style,” Derek said.

  “If you want to,” I said.

  “Why wouldn’t you? Unless you are one of those who thrive on chaos.”

  “I might be one of those people.”

  “Those people, I have found, may be interesting but they are not happy.”

  “Really. What makes you the expert?”

  “Much therapy,” he said.

  “Really.”

  “You’re surprised?

  “Most people I know who are in therapy have issues, and well, you seem so confident.”

  “And I wouldn’t have issues?” He was obviously ignoring the confidence part.

  “Let’s just say that you don’t act like you do.” I said. And that was a lie, I realized.

  “Let’s talk about something less controversial,” I said. “Issues are controversial.”

  “Yes, I suppose.”

  I continued. “I read this article the other day about mistletoe, and the thrust of the story was not a holiday thing but the plant in general. It was fascinating. You know there’s mistletoe lore in Europe. Something about the Norse gods and the Druids using it for healing.”

  “It’s also a sexual symbol,” Derek said. “Certain primitive marriage rites depended on access to the plant. Mistletoe’s a parasite, you know. That’s my anthropology minor in college talking.”

  “The article also said that it is the February birthday flower and is symbolic of difficulties. What else do you know?”

  “Well, on twelfth night holiday, mistletoe was burned, lest all the boys and girls who had kissed under it never would marry. There’s also something about it typifying a pledge of atonement, good will and reconciliation. And oh yes, it had phallic powers as well. It was used as an aphrodisiac and a protection against witches.” He laughed.

  “Well, that was more than I ever wanted to know,” I said.

  “It’s just lore passed down, that’s all,” Derek said. “You don’t believe everything.”

  But for me, this was food for thought. And for me, with my mood swings, I swung back to the past and Mrs. Clark, and I teared up. A sign of weakness. I pretended I had something in my eye.

  “You’re crying,” Derek said.

  I shook my head. “Something in my eye.”

  Derek looked dubious. “Want my handkerchief?”

  “It’s better,” I said, shaking my head. “Thanks, though. I’ll just go to the ladies’ room.”

  Derek looked unconvinced.

  “Did I say something?” he asked when I returned.

  “I’m fine,” I said.

  “That’s not an answer.”

  “I’m fine,” I repeated. “Now can we order more wine?”

  “Of course,” he said and as he caught the waiter’s attention, I searched my mind for a change of subject.

  “What were you and Scott talking about at Caroline’s party?” I asked. “That Sweet’s Corners thing?”

  Derek looked like he was considering saying something, then decided against it.

  “Ah, yes,” he said. “You know, someone out there saw something.”

  “Really. Something like what?”

  “Not sure reporters should know these things.” He smiled.

  “Bring it,” I said. I leaned back in my chair with my wine glass.

  “Some lights, some wind, some cornstalks bent over. Enough to get Scott to report it as whatever level comes before a real unidentified flying object sighting.”

  “Any witnesses?”

  “Just the report of green lights from people driving out that way,” said Derek.

  “Makes you think, doesn’t it? I love the idea of life out there.” I gestured up with a whirling swirl of my hand. “Just think, mothers, fathers, children, leaders, accountants, maybe even lawyers and reporters and writers, with different languages, in different shapes and forms, all out there, living life in their own ways, trying to connect with us for reasons we don’t know and can’t even guess at.”

  “My, we can wax eloquent, can’t we?” Derek said, smiling. “It makes a good story, doesn’t it? I’ve had the same thoughts, only I spend time wondering why this and why that. Sometimes, if something particularly bad happens in the world, I wonder why they ever would seek us out. On a good day, I hope they are watching how great the human spirit can be.”

  “Could be a good story, the differing views people might have about life from other planets,” I said.

  “Anyway, I’m not sure you should rile up the neighborhood at this point.”

  “Not my style. I’ll wait for more facts,” I offered.

  “That’s twice now you’ve talked about your style. Is having a style important to you?”

  “I never really thought about it, but maybe it is, counselor.”

  He frowned. “I’m sorry. Was that grilling? I normally save that for the third date. I must feel very comfortable with you.”

  “And I with you, because I’m going to answer that. Even though the objection was sustained.”

  He smiled and leaned forward. Even in the green light, he did not look insipid.

  “I believe people develop a certa
in way that they see themselves and with which they are comfortable,” I said. “It helps life in the day-to-day to have something to anchor on, to revert to when life makes you doubt yourself. If you call that style, then I have it and it must be important to me,” I said.

  “Must be?”

  “Okay, well, is.”

  “If you’re like me, you use everything you have to get what you want,” Derek said.

  “Like you how?”

  “Look at me. What do you see?” He sat back and held open his arms.

  Here was a question I shouldn’t have asked taking me to a place to which I was not ready to go. It wasn’t within my comfort zone to directly comment on anyone’s differences, be they skin color, disability or size. I was quite sure he was testing. All I knew was I didn’t want to screw this up.

  “A very intelligent, attractive man.”

  “Ha. You actually can’t see the intelligent part though, can you?

  “Not really. But the way you act, behave, engage, lets people know it’s there.”

  “Yes, but if I don’t get a chance to act, behave, engage, what am I?

  “A short man.”

  He snorted. “Short men are Paul Newman at 5’8” or Napoleon at 5’6” or whatever. I am 4 feet 8 inches and actually tall for my kind.”

  “And your kind is…”

  “Oh, no. I asked you first.”

  “So you want me to say dwarf? Okay. I said it.”

  We were staring at each other intensely. I was angry at being provoked into saying something I wasn’t ready to say. I knew my cheeks were flushed, and I think my eyes were flashing. I noticed the waiter wasn’t coming anywhere near our table.

  “You’re quite compelling when you’re pissed off,” Derek said finally.

  “Glad you think so,” I said.

  “You know, I had to have you say the word so we could continue our friendship. Trust me. That word is always in the air. People sidestep it, somersault over it and sneak around it, but it hangs in the air. It is between me and everyone I deal with. Shop people, professional people, colleagues, even dentists for God’s sake, and especially between me and people I want to know better.”

  “Know better, why?”

  “For whatever reason.”

  The waiter came back with the wine bottle and Derek and I simultaneously shoved our glasses forward.

  “And now that I have said it?”

  “Can’t you feel the freedom? Now there is nothing we can’t talk about. It’s exhilarating actually.”

  Actually, I could think of a bunch of things I couldn’t talk about, but I decided that arguing any more this evening wouldn’t be a good thing. I also figured saying something noncommittal would be even worse, so I smiled and held up my glass in a toast.

  “To freedom and exhilaration,” I said.

  Derek excused himself for a moment and I sat back, staring at the fire. How could a word have such impact on a life? Or was it the word? Maybe it was more the condition. The adaptive gear in his car, washing dishes at the counter at home, getting a cola from a fast-food soda machine where you have to hold your cup up to the spigit, even using a urinal. But having gotten me to say the word, Derek was right. It felt, in a weird way, equalizing. Now I could see him not as a person who was a dwarf, but as a person. Derek the lawyer, the dinner companion, a friend, a man.

  We ordered dessert, and, at my suggestion, adjourned to the overstuffed chairs in the front window overlooking a park with white lights on the trees. The night was cold but clear. No more snow. Buds on the trees were trying to come out. I wouldn’t say spring was in the air yet, but it would come.

  Choosing the chairs was a mistake, I saw, because the chairs were deep and Derek’s legs were not long enough to actually fully bend over the front of his chair and they stuck straight out. He nodded at his legs and said “It’s a constant challenge. Just forget it.”

  “Done,” I said. “By the way, I’m having a great time.”

  And I was. I wasn’t worried or nervous. I hadn’t thought about work for hours, or Fergie. Or whether my stomach was poking out after all the food I just ate. Which it was.

  “Likewise. What world problem shall we solve now?” he said.

  “Let’s pretend there are none.”

  “Too much of a stretch.”

  I mentioned a book I was reading and we launched into a discussion of who we liked and didn’t like for authors. Then we talked politics. Then we looked around and realized that once again we were the only ones left in the restaurant, and the staff looked like they wanted us to leave.

  We walked to the car and he opened the door for me.

  “In the restaurant earlier. Your tears. It was something about the mistletoe, wasn’t it?” he said as he got in the car.

  “Someday, I’ll tell you about it.”

  “It’s painful, right?”

  “I’ll tell you another time.”

  Derek pulled the car up in front of my condo and started to get out.

  “You don’t need to see me in. I’m a big girl.”

  “See, now you wouldn’t have said that if the word were in the air.”

  “Yes, actually, I probably would have, and then regretted it.”

  “It’s only gentlemanly to see a lady safe to the door,” he said.

  “I know, but this is not Jane Austenland.”

  “Well, then,” he said and I leaned over and kissed his cheek.

  “Wonderful evening,” I said. “Thanks.”

  “We’ll do it again.”

  He waited until I had unlocked the door and then he drove away. I sat down in the living room in the dark and wondered many things, not the least of which was why I hadn’t invited him in.

  Chapter Eight

  Another World

  I woke up early on an April morning, birds singing, sun bright, and realized I had overslept for the third time this week. For me that means only one thing. I’m out of sorts. I crave sleep when I can’t figure something out. It’s like I have to recharge my fuel cells so that I can continue with life, make decisions, eat, laugh, look in my mirror and not snarl. “Out of sorts” sounds like something Jane Austen would say and I can get into that. Nineteenth century British novels always have fascinated me. They often featured a woman, sometimes it was even the heroine, who, in the beginning, coughed occasionally into a delicate lace-bordered hankie, then began to cough more often. Then she drank some clear liquid drug out of a bottle with a glass stopper, then died. Jane’s novels mirrored my life somewhat in that the women often are focused on one man but are tempted by another, and not until the end is it clear who is the better choice. Luckily for her characters, they learn something and usually choose wisely. Would that I were more like them.

  Well, I wasn’t consumptive like many of the nineteenth century ladies. I had no outward symptoms other than just feeling fatigued. I propped myself up on the three pillows I sleep with and looked around the room. I’d recently jazzed up the décor, got rid of the pink and purple flowered bedspread and accessories and exchanged them for the comforter set I had bought with a gift certificate from my sister. Her thinking, I know, was mostly because she figured that if there ever were going to be men in my bedroom, the purple and pink would have to go. I tried to tell her that the environs didn’t really matter a lot if two people were attracted to each other, but still, I now had a teal accent wall behind my bed with a taupey beige on the other walls. The bedspread was teal and gray, and for the first time in my life, I had sheets to match. I also had added coordinating candles, a bubbling water feature and dimmable lighting. It was my oasis and I was comfortable, so I just took a minute to stare out into space.

  I attributed my being out of sorts mostly to Fergie and Boss. Fergie and I had been seeing each other steadily now for about four months. And he was starting to expect things. That we would always do something on the weekends. That I liked him hanging around the office. That I liked him doing things for me. Picking up my dry cleaning.
Taking my car for an oil change. Now that’s getting too intimate. I wanted a boyfriend, not a valet.

  It was a pattern familiar to me in a way, because I had had several serious relationships that went nowhere, because the guy did something wrong. Fergie wasn’t wrong per se and he’d done nothing but smother me, and actually in a nice way.

  What bothered me was that my mother kept calling to ask how Fergie was. And my sister kept calling with innuendos about my sex life, none of her business, and everyone around us assumed Fergie and I were joined at the hip. Except Derek.

  Without saying it, he and I both knew we were stealing time together. I would meet him at the court house for coffee when I was on a story. He would meet me at the library in the reference section as I worked to put together information for my articles that Google couldn’t provide. But our talking was, I don’t want to say intimate because it implies something else, but we just could talk about anything, the things that pleased us, that shocked us, that disgusted us, that kept us awake at night. Like last week when we got on the subject of my height.

  I had been assigned to cover the opening of a new ice cream parlor that served those little balls of ice cream that melt into a glob in your mouth. It still was a little cold to go walking along the canal with ice cream, but the parlor was near Derek’s office and I’d called him, just to chat. He’d offered to join me for half an hour and I took him up on it, but only if I could buy.

  I paid for our treat and we walked down to the paved canal path. Derek looked up at me, squinting against the April sun, and took his first mouthful of ice cream. A few of the little vanilla balls fell off his tongue and onto the ground.

  “Whatever happened to the well-formed scoop of creamy ice cream in a sugar cone?” he said.

  “Come on. Go with the flow. It’s the 21st century. It’s ice cream on the edge. At least that’s what the ads say.” I watched sheepishly as a few of the mixed chocolate and vanilla balls fell out of my mouth and rolled onto my coat sleeve. He dusted them quickly off.