“Why don’t you ask him yourself?” she said as he walked up.
I felt a flash of embarrassment—not wanting my interest in him revealed prematurely—but went ahead with my question, noting that I hadn’t seen him around before. He shared that he lived in town and was a volunteer for the Red Cross. He then walked closer to the table and, looking straight into my eyes with his own robin-egg blues, asked me how I was doing. I nodded that I was fine and noticed the unexpected tinge of excitement his interest brought—something I hadn’t experienced in quite a while. Maybe it was his gentleness, or what appeared to be a fundamental goodness, or just the appearance of greater maturity than in all the other guys I had met in college—something made me want to know more. I asked how he was holding up, and he shared that he had been there most of the day and was ready for a break.
A nurse motioned him toward other tables; she needed help with a guy who had passed out. With a smile and a nod, he said, “Need to go. Come find me before you leave.”
As I settled into the rhythm of squeezing and relaxing my hand to keep the blood flowing, I closed my eyes, and images of this handsome new guy floated in front of me; I allowed myself to enjoy the pleasure of meeting someone I liked. The flicker I felt was not the white-hot flame that engulfed me when I met Charlie, but a softer sensation, like embers glowing in the dark.
About fifteen minutes later the nurse came back, pulled the needle out of my arm, and asked how I felt. Once I was seated upright, she invited me to stay in that position a little longer before getting down. I scanned the room for Mike but didn’t see him; Carla had left a few minutes earlier. Carefully sliding myself off the table, I stood for a minute to make sure I wouldn’t collapse and discovered I was fine. Well, that wasn’t bad at all, I thought, as I turned toward the exit, looking once more around the room for Mike. I guessed he had left before I was finished. Disappointed, I checked the time and noticed it was 7:00 p.m. Since I needed to study for a test anyway, I picked up my jacket at the door and left the cafeteria.
As I crossed the threshold on my way out, I was surprised to find Carla, Norma, and Mike, all sitting in the makeshift waiting area. Though I tried not to reveal my delight, I couldn’t help but smile. “You made it,” they said in unison, standing up and cheering and inviting me to join them for pizza. We walked together down the hall, Mike lingering alongside me as I struggled with my jacket; he reached over to help me put it on. Standing next to him, I realized how tall he was and how good it felt to be attracted to someone again. Even if it wasn’t like it had been with Charlie, it inspired hope that perhaps I could find another man I wanted and maybe even fall in love.
We went to Bruno’s, a favorite spot in town, and ordered two large pizzas with the works. I couldn’t believe how hungry I was—not just for the food, but also for the attention of a good-looking guy who seemed to like me. We sat kitty-corner and spent much of the time stealing glances at each other when Carla or Norma were talking. I noticed how beautiful and soft his eyes were when he spoke and how passionate he was about helping people. He loved basketball, and his eyes lit up when he talked about coaching a group of young kids at the local Catholic school—another nonpaying job. He was at ease with women, not needing to take up all the space with his accomplishments but able to show interest in others. My attraction to him grew over the time we spent together eating and laughing. I hoped he felt the same way.
It seemed that might be the case when at the end of the evening, he walked with us back to the dorm. Carla and Norma, sensing our desire to be alone, went in while Mike and I stood in the lobby immersed in the initial awkwardness that comes when you notice you are drawn to someone and hope they are drawn to you, but neither of you is really sure about the other’s feelings. He broke the tension by inviting me out to picnic with him the following weekend.
I noticed his eyes glancing around the room as he posed the question, as though he didn’t want to look directly at me, for fear I would say no. While my first glimpse of him at the blood drive showed him confident and unflappable, he now looked reticent. I waited to answer until his eyes met mine and responded with an enthusiastic, “Yes, I would love to.”
He moved closer and extended his arms out to hug me goodbye. Leaning into his substantial frame, I felt the wool of his jacket press up against my face. The roughness of it was comforting in a way. He said he would come around 4:00 p.m. on Saturday, and then he asked me for my last name.
Men were not allowed on the dormitory floors, so they had to check in at the desk and ask the receptionist to call up to our rooms to let us know someone was there. I told him my name was Anderson and that I would meet him in the lobby. I waved goodbye, climbed the steps with a newfound buoyancy, and replayed moments of our night together as I closed my eyes to go to sleep.
Mike arrived right on time. He was dressed in a plaid shirt with a button-down collar and light blue seersucker pants with brown penny loafers and no socks. Ever since seeing Charlie’s tasseled loafers, I noticed what shoes other men wore. I took much greater care in dressing this time: my best cotton khaki slacks, a white short-sleeved shirt, my favorite lime green windbreaker. As we exited the dorm, Mike headed me toward a large gray truck parked out front. He turned to me and, a bit sheepishly, said, “I couldn’t get my dad’s car because my brother Steve had it, so we have to take the milk truck.”
Within a few seconds I had learned that he still lived at home, didn’t have a car, and had some responsibilities delivering milk to customers in our pre-7-Eleven convenience-store world. Inside the truck, the driver’s beat-up leather seat was held together with gray duct tape, and an upside-down milk crate served as the passenger’s seat. Mike noticed my shock and reassured me it was really quite comfortable once you got the hang of which way to move when the truck turned. The windows were large, and I feared hurtling through one every time I rocked forward, grabbing only at air as I tried to brace myself. Mike gestured toward a metal handle attached to the side of the truck just behind the door, and I grabbed for it just in time on a sudden turn. After repeated starts and stops lurching about, I got the feel of this amusement-park ride minus the seatbelt, track, and safety gear.
We reached Milham Park, and, after finding a spot large enough for the truck, Mike hopped out and went around to the passenger side to let me out. He offered his hand as though he were Lancelot and I were Guinevere dismounting from a horse. Opening the large doors on the back of the truck, he took out a picnic basket the size of a large beer cooler and a huge red-and-black plaid blanket. Inside the basket was the oft-advertised special of Kentucky Fried Chicken, coleslaw, mashed potatoes, and biscuits along with a six-pack of Coca-Cola.
The park was over sixty acres, and we walked past many suitable spots until we reached a favorite of his near the silvery creek that wound its way through the whole park. He spread out the blanket and invited me to sit while he presented the food with a ceremonious flare as though we were dining in an expensive restaurant and he was the waiter. We talked for hours about our lives, our families, and our dreams. At age twenty-one, he was the oldest of eight children; the youngest was three. His father supported the family as a contract milk deliverer for Borden’s. His mother took care of the kids and the household. Basketball was Mike’s passion, and he dreamed of coaching one day. He was attending the local community college for the time being and was teaching fundamentals of the sport to kids at the local Catholic school. On Saturday afternoons, he refereed basketball games and often took care of his younger siblings so his parents could have a night out.
After eating, we walked around the park and fed the ducks that lingered on either side of the stone bridge, fighting over leftovers that fell from above. Smells of hot dogs and hamburgers sizzling on outdoor grills surrounded us, and a warm breeze rustled the leaves of the oaks and maples as we meandered toward an enormous white pine that captured my attention. With little effort I cajoled Mike into climbing it with me. The limbs were like a staircase, and I easily bea
t him halfway up the tree before we stopped. I loved climbing trees and had since I was a kid, scaling up the easy ones at O’Shea Park. Trees were one place I could escape from my adolescent worries about being a lesbian and imagine a future where I would be secure in the love of someone, have no financial worries, and be freed from my incessant fears of a punitive God.
As he sat on a hefty branch across from me, staring intently as though trying to figure me out, he seemed to appreciate my athletic ability and spontaneity. I talked about my love of sports, my dislike of dolls, and how challenges made me strive to be better. I entertained him with stories about my softball wounds and field hockey injuries. I shared that my independence had been fostered by a strong mother and a disabled father, who, when I was little, had been robbed of his depth perception and peripheral vision by accidental brain damage. Though I had a brother, we had never been close—each of us dealing with my father’s illness in our own way. In fact I had chosen to attend Western Michigan University in Kalamazoo because my brother was enrolled in Kalamazoo College down the road in hopes we might begin to develop a meaningful relationship now that we were both away from home. Mike was one of the few guys I had dated who seemed to really want to know more about me—one who was comfortable asking questions.
“What happened to your dad?
“I was four when my dad got sick,” I said as I sat on the limb across from him, my feet swinging back and forth beneath me. “It started with a sore throat. The doctor gave him sulfa, and he had an allergic reaction.” He nodded for me to go on. “That night, he started having a seizure and was rushed to the hospital. In order to stop the seizure, they gave him an experimental drug, which put him in a coma.”
“That must have been scary.” Mike’s face showed a degree of compassion I hadn’t seen in many men before and that made me feel comfortable sharing more of this story with him.
“Yeah! I was so young; I didn’t know what was going on, but I knew I wanted to go with him when they carried him away.”
“What did your mom do?”
“Fortunately she had a job as a secretary and spent all of her time going back and forth from work to the hospital.”
“Wow, nothing like that ever happened to me.” He was clearly stunned by my story and leaned toward me, hands holding firmly on to the branch as he listened attentively to every word.
“He was in a coma for a couple of weeks, and when he came out, he had lost his depth perception and his peripheral vision. As a result, he never worked again.”
“Man—how did your family make it?”
“My mom continued to support us, and my dad did as much as he could around the house.” I didn’t talk much about my dad’s illness because I didn’t want people to feel sorry for me, but, since he seemed interested, I shared more. “Things like that make you realize that you need to be strong enough to take care of yourself and of others.”
I wasn’t sure what he would say to that and was relieved when he replied, “I like independence in a girl.”
My self-reliance often turned guys off, as men were supposed to be the stronger force in any pairing in the sixties. But this guy seemed to enjoy my self-assured approach to life. I wanted to linger there, take in the scenery from this angle, watch the ducks grabbing for the crumbs that were tossed from the bridge, and enjoy Mike’s presence. I was happy. My experience with Charlie, though it ended badly, was reassurance that I was normal. And though I hadn’t been attracted to any guys since him, I was relieved that I hadn’t been attracted to any girls either. I really hoped Mike and I would go out again.
“Time to go,” he said, as the sun started to set. We made our way back down the tree and over to the parking lot where Mike’s truck was one of the last vehicles remaining. He held my hand as we walked across the grass, and I felt the roughness of his palm. He was someone who worked for a living, ran the milk route for his dad one day a week, moved crates filled with dairy products, changed the tires on his father’s car, and got blisters playing golf with his friends. While he was only slightly older than I, he seemed like he was thirty. Perhaps being the eldest made him seem so mature. It was a quality that made me feel secure. With a flood of siblings flowing behind him, I wondered if he had gotten much of a childhood himself.
The picnic was the first of many dates that spring, and Mike and I became an item, spending much of our free time together. In the evenings, he would come to the dorm, and we would study together in the cafeteria. On weekends we went out with some of his older friends, attending concerts and basketball games.
I encouraged him to finish his classes at the community college and attend Western in the fall to pursue a degree in physical education. He visited me at our home over the summer and charmed my mother completely, bringing her flowers and chocolates. His only failure in her eyes was that he was Catholic—a big problem for Baptists, though no one could explain exactly why. There was no need to worry, however, as we were far from discussing marriage.
chapter
5
over my head
Draper Hall was one of the oldest dorms at Western Michigan University. Through my freshman and sophomore years, it was a safe place for me, and in my junior year, I won a coveted position there as a residence hall assistant (RA). Mike knew how badly I wanted the position and sent me a dozen yellow roses when I got the news. I increasingly recognized what a special guy he was—the kind that older ladies would ask to carry their groceries or the Girl Scouts would target for a big purchase. It was clear he derived great pleasure from helping someone in need. On more than one occasion, my mother would say about him, “Now that’s a real gentleman, just like your father.”
When my mom and I pulled up to the dorm that fall, Mike met us at the car, yanked open the door, leaned in, and gave me a kiss. The smell of English Leather filled the space as I rubbed my hand over the back of his head, appreciating that he’d grown out his blond buzz cut for me. Whether it was acquiescing to my preferred hair style for him, wearing a particular piece of clothing I liked, or forfeiting a night at a basketball game to attend a concert with me, he did it all with a buoyant good nature, eager to make me happy.
“Really, Carol,” he said laughing, as he started to unload all my junk stuffed in the car—suitcases, throw rugs, waste-paper baskets, a stereo, table lamps, and racks of hang-up clothes draped in plastic—“Are you sure you brought enough?” He threw his arms around me and held me close. I leaned into him and enjoyed how calming it was to rest my head on his chest. We stood apart and held hands—eyes locked—savoring the moment. This would be the year we found out where things would go.
I ran ahead, got the key to my room, and learned that orientation for the staff would start later that evening. Once I got all the info, I returned to the car, kissed my mother on the cheek, and said a quick goodbye. Mike made repeated trips to my room, taking two boxes at a time up the four flights of stairs. Moving-in day was the only time guys were allowed on the floor. As an RA, I had a simple suite of two rooms: one room for sleeping, the other for studying. The whole space, even the furniture, smelled musty after being closed up for the summer, so I opened both windows and let the fresh air in. I was grateful my mother had helped me shop for bright orange and yellow throw rugs that brought much-needed color to the space.
Setting down the last box, Mike lifted me into the air. “I’m really proud of you,” he said.
I was proud, too. Here I was at nineteen, with a fabulous guy, a great new job, and my tuition paid for. My life felt ideal. I started Western in a two-year secretarial course with career aspirations of being a receptionist. All resources for college in my family were focused on my older brother’s chance to attend a great school, and it wasn’t until the June I was about to graduate from high school that explorations began regarding my options. I had assumed college was for people like him who came out of the womb reciting their ABC’s and knew from elementary school they wanted to be analytical chemists or physics professors.
I had abandoned the secretarial program for a four-year degree as a sophomore so I could join a sorority, and while I still didn’t know what I wanted to be, there was more time to figure it out. I was also happy and relieved that Mike and I were getting more serious, leading me to believe marriage could be a possibility if things continued. He was crazy about me and often said so. And it felt especially wonderful that my new job as an RA would provide financial relief. I’d had to pay for college with my summer jobs, since my parents could only provide minor support. This appointment would now leave me some spending money. After he left, I sat down on the couch and imagined sitting with students as they brought me their problems and I dispensed the wisdom acquired over almost two decades of life.
As the new freshmen arrived a few days later, I sat in my room and waited. Bright colored posters with my name and room number hung in the hall so they could easily find me. Soon there was a tentative knock on my door, and a young girl with streaked blond hair and intense blue eyes peeked her head in. Her face was bright with rosy cheeks, and warmth spilled out of her like heat from an old wood stove. I liked her immediately. She introduced herself as Nicky and asked if I could help with her room key. I obliged and tailed her down the hall, taking notice of a cockiness in her step, how her jeans hung loosely on her hips and that her navy V-neck sweater looked like it was borrowed from a much larger person. Rather than shoes, she wore boots with cracked mud around the edges, the laces trailing on the floor as she walked—definitely a girl who wasn’t afraid to get dirty. Though she wore no makeup, she was striking without it.
I asked if her sweater belonged to her boyfriend. She replied that it was her father’s and that she’d wanted to bring a little bit of him with her. I could understand that and assumed she had a special relationship with her dad, just as I did.
You Can't Buy Love Like That Page 5
