P. S. I Love You

by Barbara Conklin

  I knew Paul was right. I finished my sandwich in silence.

  “Let’s go out to the observation porch,” Paul said. “Don’t forget your sweater.”

  We stepped out the side door to one of the observation terraces. “At night it must be a romantic sight,” I said wistfully, hoping to recapture the feelings and emotions we had shared before.

  “We’ll come up here again sometime at night,” Paul told me. “The only way I could get away from my mom this time was to promise her I would stay just a few hours.”

  “Aren’t you feeling well?” I asked. Paul looked so well it was hard to imagine him ill at all.

  “We have an old-fashioned doctor,” Paul told me, pulling his jacket closer around him. “They believe anything he tells them — they trust him completely. Now he says I have to have a certain amount of rest and they accept that, no matter how I feel about it. No matter how I feel. Boy, I’ll be so glad to get away to school.”

  We headed inside again. This time Paul steered me into the gift shop on the lower level. “I want you to have a souvenir,” he said, taking me by the hand.

  The gift shop was brightly lit with thousands of souvenir items. I touched one and then another and Paul just smiled at my confusion. Finally he put his hand up on a top shelf and pulled out a strip, a bumper sticker with black bold letters against bright yellow.

  “P. S. I Love You,” it read.

  “Palm Springs, I love you — it’s a popular bumper sticker,” he told me. “But I want you to hang it somewhere in your room when you get home so that you’llremember this place and our day here.”

  He paid the girl at the counter and then handed the bag to me. “Thanks, Paul,” I told him, knowing exactly where I would put it.

  “Let’s go out and look down at the city one more time,” he said.

  We stepped out on the terrace and peered down. Far below us lay the desert with its pale brown sand and prickly cactus. I could almost see the heat below. A silver airplane shot through the sky.

  “Paul, do you draw, too?” I asked him then. “That was nice of you to give Kim all that art stuff. I think something will come of it.”

  “I fool around a little with it,” Paul told me. “But what I’m really into, really serious about is architecture. I suppose drawing would go hand in hand with that. My mother loves art, all kinds of artwork, and she kinda wished it on me by buying me all the material years ago. She’s thrilled I’m into architecture now.”

  “Then you draw buildings and houses — ”

  “I’m going to buildbuildings. Big ones. I like drawing and sketching houses too, but I think my thing will be skyscrapers for offices. Maybe someday if I get to be very good, I might even attempt some kind of a cathedral.”

  He took one look at his watch and frowned. “But all that will have to wait,” he said. “Right now we’ve got to head for all those ants down there.”

  Again we climbed into the tram, but this time I wasn’t scared. The little cable car left the platform, sliding softly on the huge cables. A little dip, and we were gliding down toward the upward bound car. I sighed heavily. I really didn’t want this day to end, but I didn’t want Paul to battle with his mother either.

  “She doesn’t like me, does she?” I whispered to Paul, making sure the people around us couldn’t hear.

  “Who?” Paul asked. Then, not waiting for my answer, he continued. “Of course she does. It’s just that she’s worried about me. That old doctor has her a nervous wreck most of the time. He didn’t have to ruin my whole summer like this. The operation could have waited for one of my school breaks. I’m convinced of it.”

  We were gliding into the Valley Station. I wasn’t going to say it out loud. I was only planning on thinking it, but it just came out. “But, Paul… if you hadn’t stayed on this summer, we might never have met.”

  He turned and smiled down at me, squeezing my hand as the tram came to a full stop. “That proves that sometimes good things come out of bad,” he said.

  “So you’re going to be a writer,” Paul said, as we got into the car to leave. “I did read parts of the book you gave me, but what kind of writing will youdo?”

  “Just like that,” I told him.

  We headed down the hill that would put us in Palm Springs again.

  He turned to me looking serious. “Not like that.”

  “What?”

  “I’d rather see you do something — something more real.” He drove very slowly, as if he didn’t want to hurry home.

  “That’s real,” I told him, feeling annoyed that he hadn’t agreed with my taste. “It’s just that the setting is centuries ago. It’s supposed to be very romantic.”

  “But why don’t you write about the things you know about? Then maybe after you get a little practice you can go on to those kind of stories — if you still want to, that is.”

  “Oh, Paul,” I said and gave out with a sigh. “You sound just like Mrs. Peterson, my lit teacher. Coming from her, I can understand; she’s so stuffy. But coming from you…well, I’m disappointed.”

  “What’s wrong? Aren’t the 1980s romantic enough for you?”

  “Oh, never mind, you don’t understand,” I told him bitterly. “Anyhow, what are we arguing about? Maybe I won’t be good enough to write about anything.”

  “Have you ever submitted anything?”

  “Yes,” I confessed. “About three or four poems to a couple of the magazines. I also sent in a short Gothic piece about a girl hiding in her rich uncle’s old castle. I’d thought it was pretty good — until the rejection slip came. ”

  “And what do you know about a girl hiding in her rich uncle’s castle?” Paul asked, grinning wickedly.

  I must have looked as hurt as I felt because Paul looked over once or twice until he realized why I was quiet.

  “I’m sorry,” Paul said tenderly, reaching over and touching my hand. “But I want you to do me a favor. When you get back home, start looking around at the people you live with, your friends and other people you meet. Study them and make a list of their traits, the things they might do in certain situations. Then start making little stories, incidents out of that.”

  I looked at him, still feeling a little hurt. Then my curiosity took over. “What do you know about this? Who told you that this is the way?”

  “My dad,” he answered.

  “Oh.” I couldn’t argue with that, I thought.

  After a few moments, I said, “Paul, it really scares me. I mean, I’ve read so many of the stories about getting published, and they say that even if you’re very, very good, your chances of getting into print are so small. They say — ”

  “Do you believe you’re good? That someday you will be good enough?” Paul asked. “I mean, do you really believe you are a writer?”

  I took a deep breath. “Yes,” I told him. “I really believe that someday I will be good enough to be published.” I hadn’t ever been so confident but somehow now I felt the certainty very deeply.

  We were part of the ant colony in Palm Springs again.

  “That’s what it takes,” he said. “There’s a gift shop here in Palm Springs. The owner, a lady with absolutely no experience, filled it with rattan furniture and odd pieces from Hong Kong and India. Everyone thought she’d go under. At that time, rattan wasn’t in style. Even my father thought she wouldn’t make it. But the lady had faith in herself, and in her first few months of business she sold everything in stock. She told Dad later that she hadn’t known she might go under. She had always loved rattan objects and didn’t realize that for a while they were out of fashion. It’s just like the bumblebee principle.”

  “What is that?” I asked, puzzled. “I’ve never heard of that.”

  “It has something to do with aerodynamics. An engineer can look at a bumblebee, analyze the wingspan and amount of lift obtained from the wing, calculate the body weight that has to be supported by the wing — and after making all the computations will come up with the conclu
sion that the bumblebee can’t possibly fly. But the bumblebee doesn’t know this and it flies anyway!”

  I laughed. “That’s amazing. So you think that the lady in the rattan shop succeeded because she had so much faith in herself. But how does that apply to me?”

  “If you have faith in your writing, you will in all probability find your books in a book shop someday.”

  “But a lot of writers have faith in themselves and never see their dreams come true.”

  “Mariah, I’m not going to guarantee your stuff will be published if you just have faith in yourself. I’m just saying that withoutthat faith there isn’t a chance in the world.”

  We were approaching the Abbotts’ back gate and before Paul switched off the ignition I stole another glance at him. At least from today on, I could write about a passionate kiss with all the authority I’d ever need.

  Chapter 16

  That night Jim came over to play backgammon with Kim. They sat in the kitchen, as my mother was making apple dumplings.

  “Did you ever have a wife?” Kim asked out of the clear sky.

  My mother gave her a dirty look that went right over her curly red hair. That’s another funny thing about Kim. Dirty looks don’t seem to bother her at all like they do me, but then there are a lot of years between six and sixteen.

  “I did,” Jim said, stirring his coffee. “I did indeed.”

  Kim was winning the round. “Let’s double,” she said to Jim. He agreed reluctantly.

  My mother had finished plopping the dumplings into the baking pan and now was sliding them into the oven. “Don’t you think you’re getting a little personal, young lady?” she said to Kim, giving her another sharp look.

  I’d been sitting at the opposite end of the table, doing my nails. I perked up my ears, listening to the rest of the conversation.

  Jim raised his hand. “No, no. This here little girl’s just merely interested in an old man’s life,” he protested. “Let the child be. I’ll satisfy her curiosity.”

  Dropping the backgammon dice, the old man turned to Kim and began. “We lived out in the old backhouse, my Maryanne and me. I did the same things I’m doin’ now and she was the maid. She was as pretty as a picture, my Maryanne, and much younger than me.”

  The apple dumplings began to fill the air with a delicious cinnamon and nutmeg smell. He went on.

  “It was sad; the whole thing was so sad. Maryanne and me — we wanted children so bad, but nothin’ ever happened. We talked some about adoptin’ them, but we never went over to the agency to start the paperwork. Maryanne tried to drag me there a couple of times, but I just put it off. Then one day Maryanne left me. She went off with a man who used to help in the yard. She didn’t even say goodbye.…”

  “Oh,” I said, feeling sorry for him. “But why didn’t you go after her, fight for her?”

  Jim laughed. “That’s what I should have done,” he said. “He left her a short while later and then Maryanne went to live with her sister in Kentucky. She was too ashamed to come back. Her sister wrote to me and begged me to come to Kentucky and get her.”

  “Why didn’t you?” Kim asked, sneaking a peek in the glass oven door. My mother had stopped scrubbing the counter and had pulled over a chair and sat down.

  “I couldn’t,” Jim said, shaking his head. “I couldn’t because I had this thin’ in me I called pride.Oh, it was there all right. I was a very proud man. Then one day I went to one of my old buddy’s funeral. I’d thought he was really old so I was surprised when I looked at the funeral announcement and found out that he was only one year older than me. That got me to thinkin’. I decided to go after Maryanne.”

  “And did you? Did she come back here?” Kim asked.

  We all stopped breathing, waiting for his answer. It was so quiet; the only sound in the kitchen was the clock over the stove. I knew in my mind what Maryanne must have looked like. She had long black hair and she’d braided it and made a pretty bun high on top of her head. She’d had a beautiful face and figure. She had really loved Jim, but she somehow had been a little confused in what she really wanted — maybe the fact that she couldn’t have children caused her to make the wrong decision. I looked up at Jim and waited for his answer.

  “I got a vacation from the Abbotts and headed for Kentucky,” he said, his eyes clouding over. “I went on the Greyhound bus. I hadn’t told anyone so no one was waitin’ for me at the terminal.”

  “Then I hitched a ride out to Maryanne’s sister’s place. God, what a forsaken, run-down place it was! I knocked at the door and there was Maryanne’s sister, Sally, standing there, just a-lookin’ at me like I was the devil himself. All of a sudden, she was beatin’ on me, her little skinny fists all over my head! And she was screamin’ at the same time. ‘Why now?’ she was screamin’ at the top of her lungs. ‘Why now?’

  “I grabbed her fists and untangled her arms and sat her right down on the old boards of the porch. She started to cry and I could hardly make her out. It was a little while before I could understand that my Maryanne had died just three days before. I’d arrived on the afternoon of her funeral. She’d gotten pneumonia. Sally told me that she didn’t seem to want to live.” Jim bowed his head. “It’s a shame,” he said softly. “Time is so awfully short for us humans. We have no right to play God with it. If I had just stood still and listened to God, I’d have gone after her as soon as Sally had told me that she wanted me back. Seems a shame — and a terrible waste.”

  Jim got up; his eyes a bit clouded. He was still thinking about Maryanne. “Have to go back now,” he said. “Tomorrow I have to cut the grass and maybe put in a few new bricks where they’re breakin’ up on the back paths.”

  He closed the screen door behind him and my mother got up to check the oven. “You girls finish watching the dumplings. They come out about eight-thirty. Mariah, cool them on the bread board, and be careful you don’t burn your mouth — they’ll be hot.”

  “Aren't you going to wait around for them?” I asked her.

  “No,” she said. “I’ve got a lot of mail to answer. I’ll eat mine in the morning.” And with that she gave us each a peck on the cheek and disappeared down the hall.

  Kim and I played three more games and then ate our dumplings in silence. Kim came out with it first.

  “I wish Mom would go and get Daddy back — before it’s too late,” she said wistfully, biting into the hot dumpling and then taking a sip of her cold milk.

  “I do, too,” I told my little sister. “But, Kim, it’s got to be her decision,” I said, remembering my conversation with Paul. Why, I wondered, does love get so complicated sometimes? Would it be that way for me, too?

  I cleared the table and went up to bed thinking about Jim and Mom and Dad and Paul.

  Chapter 17

  The morning after our tram trip, Paul called.

  “I have the flu,” he said, grumbling. “Or at least that’s what we think it is. Mom said it should last just a couple of days. Dad had it two weeks ago, so I guess it’s just going around. The only thing I can do is just stay in bed and drink a ton of juice.”

  I said all the things you’re supposed to say to someone with the flu, but I’m sure my disappointment showed in my voice.

  “I hope you don’t get it, too,” he said protectively. “Mariah, I’ll come over as soon as this bug leaves me.” His voice changed into a whisper then. “I love you, Mariah.” My heart did another somersault.

  He was waiting for me to say it back. How could this be? We’d known each other for such a terribly short time and yet somehow we both knew, reallyknew. “I love you, Paul,” I said and I felt a catch in my throat.

  For a moment I thought we’d been disconnected. “Don’t move from that spot,” Paul said at last in a commanding tone. “Don’t do anything to hurt yourself, don’t get sick, don’t leave town. Just wait for me to get better, Mariah.”

  I laughed nervously. “Okay, Paul,” I promised. “I’ll wait for you to get better.” His tone w
as disconcerting to me.

  We said our goodbyes. My depression deepened as I went through the day helping my mother with some baking, drilling her with exam questions from one of her books. The summer was flying by and now Paul would be sick for another few days. It wasn’t fair.

  “The world hasn’t come to an end,” my mother said, stacking the clean dishes in the cupboard.

  “Just about,” I told her, brushing the crumbs off the kitchen tablecloth. “Just about.”

  The mail from Elaine was coming in each week and I answered each one faithfully. She wrote that she was having a great summer, and that she had met a boy on the beach. Lucky, I thought. I’d lived there my whole life and I’d never managed to meet one.

  I started a journal which kept me busy, Kim and I fooled around in the pool for hours on end, and there was backgammon with Kim and Jim. But an entire week passed and still Paul was sick, so sick he couldn’t even get out of bed. At least he could phone.

  He called me every morning and every evening. We talked for about an hour until my mother started giving me dirty looks. Each time we spoke, his voice seemed to be getting weaker. I was getting more depressed every day. I had a

  feeling it was more than the flu that was keeping Paul in bed but he insisted I was wrong. He refused to have me worry about him.

  “It’s bad enough I’ve got a worry wart for a mother. I don’t want my girl turning into a nervous wreck on my account.”

  Several times I drove down to Welwood Murray Library, and spent a couple of hours just sitting and thinking. It was just a little library, nothing like the one I often visit in Huntington Beach, but it made me feel right at home the minute I walked through the door. I wondered again if I’d ever have a book of my own in that library.

  I walked over to the J’s, where the books were arranged by the names of the authors. I found where Johnson would go, and when no one was looking, I pushed the other books aside slightly, making a space for my book. I stepped back and looked again and I could almost see it there. Feeling somewhat better, I finally pulled myself together and headed home.