P. S. I Love You

by Barbara Conklin

  That night I wrote in my notebook: “When we stand together, my head just comes up to his shoulders. He has nice hands. When he helped me climb his rock, he held his hand out to me and I took it. It felt warm and strong and I had the funny feeling that as long as I held onto his hand, I would never fall.”

  Chapter 13

  They brought Paul home on Friday afternoon. He had been in the hospital five days. Not two like he’d said.

  I couldn’t stand it any longer! “I’m calling the house,” I told my mother. “Just to see how it went!”

  She gave a long sigh and then said, “Okay. I don’t see why not. Better to call and be insulted by Mrs. Strobe than have Paul think we don’t care about him.”

  I was delighted when Paul answered the phone himself. He sounded great, like the Paul I knew. “Hey,” he shouted through the phone, “everything went terrific! No problem. I’ve got my arm in a sling like I told you I would, but nothing really hurts.”

  I felt like jumping up and down and shouting it out to the world. Paul was okay! He was really okay! He didn’t have cancer after all!

  “I want you to come over for a while,” he went on. “Let’s see… I’m supposed to take a quick nap and then… how about around seven tonight?”

  A chill circled my neck and my face grew hot at the same time. He was asking me to come over, not Jean. Maybe he’d seen enough

  of Jean while he was in the hospital. Maybe he was just asking me to anger his mother. I didn’t care what the reason; I was going.

  I brushed my hair until it had to shine or fall out. I chose my blue silk blouse and my dark blue pants with the gold belt, and after checking the full-length mirror in my bedroom, I pulled them off and put on the salmon-colored blouse and the dark brown pants. Then after I’d yanked them off, I settled on my brown and orange check shirt and a clean pair of jeans. Slowly I descended the staircase, but when I was halfway down, I ran back and changed into my blue outfit again.

  All of this activity left me all sweaty, and if my mother hadn’t stopped me and told me it was getting late, I probably would have undressed and showered again.

  “You must go bearing gifts,” my mother said, handing me the chocolate cake she had baked after my phone call to Paul. I could see its lemon frosting through the plastic container.

  “Um-m,” I said. “Mom, thank you, thanks so much for your trouble.” And then, “Wait a minute,” I told her, handing back the cake. I raced back up the stairs toward my stack of books. Quickly I selected one. I wanted to tell Paul about my writing, the kind of writing I wanted to do, and to understand this, I felt he should read one of these books.

  There was one that described a big whaling ship in detail. That was the one where an English lord drags off one of the slave girls. He

  could skip that part if he didn’t like it, but he’d love the whaling part. I tucked it under my arm and then racing down the stairs I grabbed the cake from my mother. “I’m on my way,” I yelled to her, heading for the door.

  “Thank God,” my mother said, and her dimples showed when she smiled.

  Mrs. Strobe came to the front door herself, responding to the elaborate sound of chimes and then more chimes. I stood back, surprised — I had pushed the button only once. I’d never heard such a doorbell.

  She stood there, looking very stately, but with a surprised look in her faded blue eyes. “Yes-s?” she said, ending the word with a question mark.

  “Paul — Paul invited me over,” I stuttered sheepishly, thrusting the cake in her face. Mrs. Strobe’s eyes grew wider and she appeared to be backing away from me.

  “Oh-h?” she said, her voice sliding to a higher key.

  Then from behind the half-opened door, Mr. Strobe appeared. “Welcome, welcome, Mariah! Good to see you again,” he said in a loud, booming voice.

  I lowered the cake that I had held out in front of me and he quickly stepped around his wife and took it.

  “What a wonderful surprise!” he boomed.

  “Didn’t Paul tell you I was coming?” I stammered. “I guess I thought he would have told you.”

  Mr. Strobe laughed and placed the cake on

  a glass-topped table in the entrance hall. He held out his hands and took mine. “We had no idea, but we’re so happy to see you. It must mean that Paul is feeling better.”

  Paul entered the hall then, and I shuddered. He looked so pale and thin! Since I had seen him last, he must have dropped at least four or five pounds. He smiled a broad smile, though, and his blue eyes shone as he held out his hand to me. It closed over mine, and even in front of his mother and father he would not let it go.

  “Thanks for coming,” he said, looking straight at me. “I was dying of boredom. We can play backgammon or maybe just sit and listen to some of my tapes.”

  Mrs. Strobe led us into a gigantic formal living room. Everything was done in Oriental style — vases, mahogany tables in all sizes, display cabinets with statues inside them, Japanese dolls. I had never seen anything so beautiful. Then we walked down three thickly carpeted stairs into what seemed like a massive garden room. It was still inside the house, but it was like an outside garden with a glass ceiling. Huge plants stood everywhere and aquariums filled with beautifully colored fish lined the walls.

  “This is our orchid room,” Mrs. Strobe said proudly, pointing out hundreds of orchids in different colors. If I could have picked out one flower for Mrs. Strobe, it would have been the orchid. They’re both so proper, so cold, so snobbish, and rich.

  In one corner stood a stone fireplace, the

  largest I’d ever seen. On its mantle were many pictures, most of them of Paul. The photos were lined up from when he was an infant to where he was right now. I loved them. Mrs. Strobe smiled at my approval.

  From out of nowhere, Nellie, the maid, appeared. Mr. Strobe instructed her to serve the cake, which was still in the vestibule. In a few minutes she returned, carrying the cake on a lovely silver-trimmed tray.

  She offered coffee or tea and we all chose coffee. There were real linen napkins on the tray bound in silver rings, and the fork I picked up almost blinded me with its shine. I could appreciate Nellie's good work on that silver.

  We were all seated on rattan furniture, Mr. Strobe on a comfortable armchair and Paul and I on a love seat. Mrs. Strobe sat back on a wide-backed “Queen” chair and somehow the conversation turned to the Indian reservations.

  Mr. Strobe talked for some time about the history of the Indians and the community of Palm Springs. He told me about a man named Judge John Guthrie McCallum, a San Francisco attorney, and how the man had come to the area way back in 1884. The judge had first learned of the place from an Indian guide and an interpreter. Bill Pablo. At the time they were living in San Bernardino, where they had moved in the hope of saving their son’s life.

  “What was wrong with their son?” I asked.

  “During the typhoid epidemic in 1879, John, his son, became ill,” Mr. Strobe went on. “It seemed the wise thing to do to move to a dry, hot climate and so that is how Judge McCallum became the first white resident to make Palm Springs his home.”

  “The library downtown is named after somebody,” I said, hoping I didn’t sound too stupid. “Why didn’t they name it after him?”

  “A good observation,” Mr. Strobe answered. “After McCallum moved here, he persuaded an eccentric Scotsman named Welwood Murray to move here, too. He and his lovely wife started up the very first hotel — The Palm Springs Hotel. Later the library was named in his memory”

  “And you know what he did?” Paul added, laughing, “He hired an Indian, dressed him in an Arab costume, and had him meet the trains at Seven Palms on camelback. There he handed out pamphlets on Palm Valley and The Palm Springs Hotel.”

  “There’s such a fascinating history here,” Mr. Strobe added.

  “I’d like to take Mariah up on the tram,” Paul said to his mother.

  Mrs. Strobe hadn’t said a word since I came in. She quickly turned
to her son, her coffee cup in midair. “Paul, you must not go running around. You’ve just had that operation and I promised the doctors — ”

  “Of course,” I interrupted her. Then I turned to Paul beside me. “You’ve got to listen to her. She knows best.” I had read the concern for Paul in Mrs. Strobe’s eyes. She seemed to be trying to tell me something. My interruption caused her to sit back on her chair, but I relaxed when I read a “thank you” in her troubled eyes.

  “But I feel great,” Paul protested, getting up and taking great strides around the room. “The summer is flying by. Pretty soon it’ll all be over and before you know, it’ll be time for me to leave. Mariah will be going back home and — ”

  It was Mrs. Strobe’s turn to interrupt. “You really must forgive my son,” she said, looking directly at me. “Although the operation went well, it’ll take time for him to regain his strength. His future health may depend on it.”

  “Here — here,” Mr. Strobe protested, putting up his hand to stop the discussion. “I’m sure Paul will do the right thing. Mariah didn’t come over here to listen to our babying Paul, Betty. Why don’t we leave them alone for a while?”

  Nellie came in and cleared the dishes. The Strobes excused themselves, Mr. Strobe mentioning that they wanted to see a television special and they would be in the den.

  “Come on, Mariah. I’ll beat you in backgammon,” Paul said, grabbing me by the hand.

  Paul’s bedroom was lined with books and stereo equipment. He put on some tapes and ushered me to a corner of the room that was reserved just for backgammon.

  When I saw it, I panicked. “It looks like you spend hours on the game,” I said. “And you expect me to be your opponent?”

  He laughed as he withdrew his pieces from the carefully stacked pile and handed me the reds. The music was soft, and his hands bumped

  into mine when we both reached for the dice at the same time. Without getting up, he leaned over the table and kissed my cheek, brushing my lips for an instant.

  “I’d thought I dreamed it,” he said, pulling away and smiling. “All the time in the hospital I’d thought I’d dreamed you up and that when I finally got home I would realize it. But you’re here and everything is going to be okay with me, too.” His eyes shone brightly.

  “Paul, don’t fight your mother,” I said. I meant it.

  “But we have so much to do!”

  “There’s plenty of time left, Paul. And even if I don’t get to go up on the tram, I can always come back. I can drive here, you know.”

  “But I’ll be up at Berkeley.”

  “There will be vacations.”

  He left his side of the board and came over to the leather chair where I sat. “You’ll save them for me? But what about this Rob?”

  I gasped, putting my hand over my mouth. Rob. I’d forgotten about him. “Oh, he was nothing,” I finally admitted. “Really nothing.”

  Paul looked hurt and confused. “Hey, you can’t just call a guy nothing.I mean, you spent a lot of time with him. You owe him an explanation, you know!”

  “Wait a minute, Paul,” I said, my anger and jealousy surfacing. “What about Jean? How can you sit here and kiss me and ask me to spend all my vacations with you? Are you just going to walk off and forget her?”

  We both looked at each other angrily. Our

  first real fight! And then after a long silence, Paul spoke. “Mariah, I want to tell you — ”

  “Wait,” I told him. “Look, I’m sorry, Paul, but I had to do it. I couldn’t let you think I wasn’t popular, that I’d never had a boyfriend, never even been kissed. I — I made Rob up.”

  I turned my head away in shame. A ripple of laughter escaped Paul’s mouth. Then he was roaring loudly, throwing his head back in great, thunderous peals of laughter.

  “What-t?” I said. “I know it’s funny. I know I made a fool out of myself, but I wish you wouldn’t enjoy it so much!” My anger and hurt were showing, but I didn’t care.

  He tried to talk through his laughter, but for a few seconds could not. And then, I could hear broken sentences, mingled with laughter again. “It’s — it’s just that — that Jean isn’t real either — I made her up for the same reason!”

  At first I felt furious. How could he have deceived me like that? Then I thought of my own deception and I began to laugh, too. Together we laughed up a storm, my stomach hurting from it. Then in an instant we stopped, and I was in Paul’s arms.

  He held me close to him and I could feel his heart beat rapidly. “Mariah,” he breathed into my hair. “No more games for us, Mariah. Let’s not play any more games with each other. No more lies. We don’t need them. I love you for just what you are — just you — and I think you love me in the same way.”

  “Oh, I do,” I hissed, hugging him close.

  He kissed me once more. “I’ll walk you home,” he said. “Whether my mother likes it or not.”

  I didn’t want him to overexert himself, but just as important — I didn’t really want to leave him.

  We walked slowly through the star-studded night. I wished the acre of land between his house and the Abbotts’ had been a mile.

  “I left you something in your bedroom,” I told him. “It’s a book — I want to write just like that. Maybe if you read it, at least scan it, you will get some idea.…”

  Paul stopped in his tracks. “I didn’t know you wanted to write. You never told me.”

  “It’s part of me you should know about,” I said seriously.

  “How long have you been writing?”

  “Well, right after my kindergarten teacher showed me how to put letters together it started. I mean, I wanted to, was anxious to get started, but I guess wanting to and actually doing it.… I’d say I’ve really been doing it for only about two years now.”

  “And what kind of books?”

  “The one I gave you is a Gothic. I’m pretty crazy about them.”

  We had reached the back gate of the Abbotts’ house. “I’ll tell you a secret,” Paul said. “If you promise you won’t tell anyone.”

  We headed for the gazebo. It was so romantic looking, with the full moon shining down on the two little steps. “I promise,” I told him as we made ourselves comfortable on the soft cushions.

  “My father writes,” he confessed. “He’s been writing fiction under a different name for about ten years now and his books are selling very well. But his biggest kicks are when he hears people talking about them in his shop. He’ll have long discussions with his customers about them, really enjoying their comments and criticisms. He knows they’re valid ones because the customers don’t know he’s the author.”

  I was fascinated. “How terrific!” I said. “That’s really great!”

  “Anyhow, Mariah, if you ever get anything written that you think he might like to check over, I’m sure I can get him to look at it and maybe give you a few pointers.”

  We sat in silence for a few minutes, breathing in the clean desert air, the sky a black velvet full of sequins of twinkling stars.

  And finally, “I know they’re just sitting there, waiting for me, Mariah,” he said, standing up. “I’ll be glad when that doctor hands me a clean bill of health so I can get on with living.”

  I stood up too and he encircled me in his arms. “I’ll talk to them about the tram. I’ll see what I can do.”

  My mouth met his in a sweet, velvet touch, like the softness of a butterfly I had once held in my hand a long time ago. But the butterfly’s tenderness had been short-lived — I had watched it die right there in my hand.

  A cloud slid in front of the moon and the night darkened as we parted.

  Chapter 14

  So it was with total surprise that my mother answered the phone just a few days later, to find Mrs. Strobe on the other end. My mother turned from the phone, holding her hand over the mouthpiece. “She says Paul can go up on the tram. She wants to know when it will be convenient for you to go.”

  I was just as sur
prised. “What’s wrong with tomorrow?” I asked, quickly recovering. “Tomorrow, before she changes her mind.”

  My mother handed me the phone. “I’m free tomorrow.” My voice cracked and trembled when I spoke.

  “Fine,” Mrs. Strobe said, but her voice sounded far away and cold. She quickly followed the one word with, “Goodbye,” and then, “I just wanted you to hear it directly from me that it is all right with us.”

  I thanked her and hung up.

  “Ahh,” my mother said, smiling. “Mrs. Strobe is at last letting Paul crawl out of the family nest. I think she may let him fly off on his own now.”

  Paul’s mother puzzled me. She seemed to love Paul so much, she was almost smothering him with it. My mother was so different. I knew

  every minute she loved me and Kim, but she never babied us.

  I remember when Kim had first started to walk. She would wrap her finger tightly around my mother’s, so fearful that my mother would let go. Mom didn’t like that and eventually came up with a great idea. She held a clothespin in her own fingers and let Kim hold onto that while she walked. Finally when my mother was confident that Kim was strong enough, she let go of the clothespin. Kim, unknowing, went jauntily along by herself, still thinking she was holding onto my mother’s finger. My mother had left her with something to hold onto until she had gained more confidence in herself. After a while Kim was sure of herself and she dropped the clothespin. She never had to crawl again.

  “Kim will want to go, too,” I told my mother. I’d always dragged my little sister everywhere but this time I wasn’t about to give in easily.

  My mother was sitting at the kitchen table where she’d been going over her books for her entrance exam. She looked up and smiled at me. “No, not this time,” she said, and I thought I’d die with happiness. “While you were at the Strobes’ that night, Judy’s mother called and she and Judy will be driving down here on Sunday. The three of us will be going to the tram then.”

  She got up slowly and poured me a cup of coffee. Placing it down in front of me, she said, “No, I’m sorry, but you’ll just have to go with Paul — alone.”