“No. Not until you calm down and stop hitting me, Hannah. Now.” There was a note of warning in his tone, so I complied. He then put his arms around me and gently drew me close. He leaned down close to my ear and said, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. It was just a joke. I’m here and I’m not going anywhere, all right?” His voice was deep and soft and it soothed and comforted me. It always would, until the day he died. Any time he called to me, spoke to me, his voice caressed my ears.
I cringe with shame now to admit to behaving so childishly, but I was barely more than a child then. I hadn’t yet even had my 20th birthday. It was at that moment that I realized that I was in love with John and knew that I would be torn apart if I ever lost him. I was experiencing emotions I never felt before and I didn’t really know to deal with them.
A couple of weeks later, we had a free Saturday afternoon so we decided to go for pizza. A favorite place then among Performing Arts students was Salvatore’s, a couple of blocks from Central Park. After we ate, I wanted to go to the park and take a few pictures of us to show my family when I went home for Thanksgiving. We found a bench and sat down while we figured out the best place to take them. John suggested a few places. While he talked, I found myself looking at his lips and imagined myself kissing them. He noticed me looking at him and said, “What is it? Do I have some sauce on my face or something?” He kept wiping his face and mouth with his fingers. The look on his face was so priceless I wish now I had thought to pull out my camera and take his picture right there and then. I finally broke into laughter and exasperated, he said, “Well, what?”
I couldn’t think of a plausible lie, so I just admitted, “For the last few minutes, I’ve been imagining myself … kissing you.”
A sly smile slowly crossed his face. “You mean like this?” he said as he leaned in and kissed me, so sweet and gentle. “Or maybe like this?” He kissed me again, this time deeper and longer. My hand slowly moved up until my fingers entwined themselves in his curly hair. It was a good thing I was sitting, because my knees would surely have given way had I been standing.
A few minutes later, a couple with a stroller passed by us and on impulse, I grabbed my camera and ran after them and asked them to take pictures of John and me right there on that bench. It was a memory I wanted to keep.
After that, John and I took every chance we could to steal away somewhere alone to kiss and neck. I loved it. I wanted to experience even more intimacy with him, to feel his hands on me, to do things with him that I’d never wanted to do with anyone before. I’d never been with a man though, and there was a good deal of apprehension mixed in with all that desire.
John wanted me to spend Thanksgiving with him and his family. It would be the first Thanksgiving I wouldn’t be spending with my own family, but I promised them I’d be home for Christmas, especially since my father had a movie opening then, a holiday comedy. So, on Wednesday, the day before Thanksgiving, John and I headed for Washington. We squeezed ourselves onto a Greyhound bus among all the other holiday travelers who seemed to be as excited as we were. I had never been to Washington before and I was looking forward to some sightseeing.
When I met John’s father, Robert Eaton, I knew immediately where John had gotten his open hearted, outgoing personality. Mr. Eaton had red hair and dark brown eyes that twinkled. When I met his mother, Louise, I saw where he had gotten his beauty. She had bright blue eyes, soft brown curly hair and the same full shapely mouth. I remember thinking later that God had brought these two people together for a reason – almost as if to say, “See what I can do, what I can create.”
I also knew immediately when we arrived that John was the pride and joy of his family. All of their eyes lit up when they caught sight of him there at the bus station. They all hugged and kissed him, even his Dad. I couldn’t help but feel a pang of envy. My own Dad was a loving father to my brother and me and he was especially good to me, encouraging me in my music, even over my mother’s objections. He even got me my first job as a session musician when I was all of 11 years old. But life with my mother was … shall we say … difficult … and I always envied my friends who didn’t have to be afraid of their mothers. Mr. Eaton walked over to me and threw an arm around my shoulder. “So, this is our piano player! You and I are going to have a little jam session, young lady. Johnny has told us a lot about you, winning three piano youth competitions and even making two recordings -- impressive. We’re happy to have you with us.”
I looked back at John, walking behind us and mouthed, “Johnny?” He gave me a dirty look. I made a note to myself to tease him about it later.
I knew absolutely nothing about cooking, but I did what I could to help Mrs. Eaton and John’s sister Alicia, prepare and clear up the Thanksgiving meal. It gave me a chance to get to know them. Mrs. Eaton was an English teacher before marrying and, like my own mother and most women of their generation, traded her career for a family. She had never given up her love of literature however, and she talked to me about her favorite authors and genres and asked me what mine were. I had to admit that aside from what was required for my classes, I hadn’t much time for reading. Later in life, I would remember her saying that a good read had a special pleasure all its own and finally explore it for myself.
Alicia was a freshman at Georgetown, studying to be a teacher like her mother. She had the same brown curly hair that John had, but instead of blue eyes, she had inherited their father’s brown ones. I felt a little bad about her having to share her room with me, but she didn’t seem to mind.
After dinner, Mr. Eaton wanted to have that jam session. He had a drum set in the family room. Against an adjacent wall was a piano. “None of us here really has much aptitude for piano, so since the kids took lessons, it hasn’t been played much, except when the other Dukes, the Dukes of Rhythm that is, come here for rehearsal. Maybe you can give it a good workout.”
At John’s suggestion, I had brought the sheet music for the few jazz pieces I knew then, a couple of Vince Guaraldi’s. We played Cast Your Fate to the Wind and Linus and Lucy that everyone knows from the Peanuts TV specials. I also had with me Louis Moreau Gottschalk’s Le Banjo, which I had recorded some years previously. It was and remains still, one of my favorites. We jokingly speculated as to why the composer had written a piano piece called ‘Banjo’ and wondered if anyone had ever thought to compose a piece for violin entitled ‘Tuba’ or perhaps a piece for the oboe titled ‘Cello.’ We kids came up with more, even sillier combinations until we had probably gone through the entire orchestra. I laughed even more imagining myself presenting these ideas in my composition class to prim, humorless Professor Meredith.
Alicia loved the Linus and Lucy piece and asked me to teach it to her. I isolated a section that is played on the upper octaves of the piano and taught it to her. She was a remarkably quick study and had it down after only a few times. I then had her play it while I played the parts on the lower octaves. Mr. Eaton of course, was on the drums and together we sounded quite good. Mrs. Eaton and John were our appreciative audience.
The next day, Friday, John and Alicia took me to see the Washington Monument. Alicia wanted to climb all 898 steps to the top, but John and I vetoed that idea. Just the idea of it tired me. We also went to the Lincoln Memorial and the Jefferson Memorial; quite the whirlwind tour. On Saturday night we all went to see Mr. Eaton and his Dukes of Rhythm play at the Rainbow Club, one of their favorite venues and from where they recorded a live album two years previously. The Rainbow was located in Anacostia, what was then a rather blighted area of the city. The fences around the yards were broken or collapsed in many places. The buildings themselves looked as if they had, over time, all faded to the same tired grey color. Litter was freely strewn along the sidewalks. As we arrived, I noticed several men hanging around outside apparently working on an old wreck of a car. They watched us pull up to the curb, which made me a little nervous, but as we got out of the car to go into the club, one of them called to Mr. Eaton, “The Dukes playin’ t
onight, eh Bob?”
“We are, Ray,” answered Mr. Eaton. “Why don’t you come in and listen?”
“Love to, but if I don’t get this old bucket of bolts running soon, my old lady will fry my ass.” They both laughed as Ray and his friends turned their attention back to the open hood of the car.
I’d never been to a jazz club before, and I was going to take it all in. The dark smoky atmosphere and flashing florescent lights inside were certainly a world away from the studios and mostly classical performance venues I’d played in. The Dukes’ playing made me want to get up and dance, but I was too self-conscious and kept my seat.
On Sunday, John and I again boarded the Greyhound for our return to New York. All day, I watched out the windows as a storm brewed and threatened the entire Atlantic seaboard.
“Hannah,” John said suddenly just as I was about to doze off on his shoulder, “I’m thinking of forgetting about acting, going into something else.”
“Why? What brought this on?” I was fully awake now.
“I’m not sure I can make a go of it. I really love it, but I can’t just end up as another loser unemployed actor. I can’t let my parents down like that.”
“Did you parents say something to you to make you think this?”
“No, but…” He shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
I knew all too well about the occasional self-doubts artists have about their abilities. After a dozen rejections for parts or gigs, it’s hard to keep one’s self-confidence shored up. “Then stop,” I said. “When we arrived there Wednesday, the first thing I noticed is how proud of you they are. Plus, they’re paying big bucks for you to attend Performing Arts. They wouldn’t be doing that if they didn’t have faith in you.” I took his hand and held it as I resumed catching a quick nap on his shoulder.
By the time we arrived back in New York, an ice cold wind was blowing. We went first to John’s dorm room. Greg, his roommate, wasn’t expected back until later in the evening. For the entire holiday, we never had any time alone, so we were scarcely in the door before we were in each other’s arms. First our shoes and socks came off, then our sweaters and shirts. When I felt his hands at the waistband of my jeans, unsnapping them, I panicked and jumped up and away from him. I wanted him so badly, wanted so much to experience intimacy with him. That desire almost won out, but at the last minute, apprehension again got the upper hand.
He got up from the bed, came and stood in front of me, saying nothing, waiting for me to say something. I couldn’t hide my fear from him anymore. I had to admit it now, so I finally said, “I’m afraid, John. I’ve never done this before.”
“What? You’re a virgin? You’ve never made love before?” He ran his hands through his hair as he let this sink in.
“That’s right. I’m afraid of it hurting. I’ve heard that … that it hurts.”
“Yes, I’ve heard that too, but only the first time and then not too much,” he told me as he put his arms around me and we sat on the floor next to his bed, our backs against the side. We were freezing as we were both barefoot and bare from the waist up, so we pulled the bedspread down around ourselves as we sat there in silence. Finally, he said, “I don’t want to scare you or hurt you. I only want to be close to you, to make you happy.”
I couldn’t think of anything else to say, so I asked, “Why?”
He was incredulous. “Why? Don’t you know by now?” He reached over and caressed my cheek. “Because I love you.”
I was so moved by this, I wanted to cry and tell him that I loved him too. But, I’d always had trouble expressing my feelings openly, so I just moved closer to him and buried my face in his neck until I composed myself. “Will it change me? Will I still be the same person afterwards,” I wondered aloud.
“I can’t imagine love not changing a person – profoundly – but for the better.” He paused; I suppose to search for the right words. “When a caterpillar is inside the chrysalis and then comes out a butterfly, spreads its wings for the first time, it’s a big change, but isn’t that how it’s supposed to be?”
I was still looking into those big beautiful blue eyes of his when we heard footsteps in the hall and the jangle of keys at the door. Greg was back early! I grabbed my tops and shoes and dashed into the bathroom. John threw his shirt on just as Greg opened the door. As I came out of the bathroom, I heard John say, “I thought you weren’t coming back until 9 o’ clock.”
Greg surveyed me and then John’s disheveled bed. With a chuckle, he said, “Yes, I can see that.” I wanted nothing more at that moment than to hide under that bed. “I didn’t want to risk getting stranded in this storm, so I told Cindy I’d see her next weekend. Sorry, you two.” Cindy Thompson was Greg’s girlfriend who lived just over in Connecticut. He had planned to spend the evening with her after visiting his own family in Pittsburgh. Still flushed with embarrassment, I made an excuse to leave and John walked me to my dorm just as a freezing rain began falling.
***
As the school term wound to a close, we students at Performing Arts, in addition to our academics, were preparing a public concert for Christmas in which all the divisions – Music, Dance and Drama – performed. John and I barely had time to even grab lunch together all the next week. The following weekend, Greg did go to visit Cindy as he had planned. John and I decided to go out to Coney Island on Saturday, straight after breakfast. We thought it would be interesting to see it during winter, when it was empty and all the rides deserted.
It was chilly but sunny that day, so we wandered around randomly on the beach. We watched the sea birds flying around and poking here and there on the beach, looking for food. I laughed when a couple of them got into a tug of war over the remains of a popcorn box. Finally they tore it in two and each bird flew off with his half. On the way back, we stopped for hamburgers because we were famished. I remember there was already Christmas music playing in the restaurant and that we talked about John coming home with me for Christmas. I just knew he and my Dad would hit it off and want to “talk shop” like I did with his Dad.
We got back to John’s dorm room as the sunlight was fading and the buildings were casting long shadows. I noticed at once the place had been cleaned to within an inch of its life. Not a single dirty sock was in sight. There was a bouquet of roses in a vase on a table and a number of candles scattered around the room. As I took off my coat, John lit these candles. Indicating the roses, he said, “They’re for you.” Roses in December! They smelled so wonderful. I wondered how many meals he had to skip to afford them. He then rummaged through his and Greg’s considerable collection of jazz and blues albums and pulled out Billy Paul’s 360 Degrees of Billy Paul. “I just bought this last week. How about this one?”
“Fine by me,” I told him. We began a slow dance to Me and Mrs. Jones and I relaxed in his arms. You could say that I lost my virginity to that song. It was, however, an innocence I was more than ready to let go of. It did hurt a little, but it was a growing pain, far outweighed by the joy of experiencing the intimacy with John that I had been longing for. He was as gentle and patient as was possible, I guess, for a young man in a state of ... excitement. I have that album on CD now. I play it whenever I want to remember – not just that day, but that whole time in my life. It was a time of learning and coming into my own as a person that I would never have had if I had remained living at home with my sheltering, overprotective parents.
The next couple of weeks were frenetic, what with final exams, the Christmas concert to rehearse and preparations for going home for the holidays. John and I were disappointed that we weren’t going to be together. His parents had insisted he be with them this year because relatives were visiting who hadn’t seen John since he was a small boy. My father had his movie opening and it had always been a family event to attend the premieres of his movies. We exchanged our home phone numbers and vowed to phone each other as often as we could over the holidays.
The Christmas concert was held on December 16th. My roommat
e, Mei-ping, was a flautist from Taiwan. She left for the airport straight from the concert to catch a late flight to Taipei. As John and I walked back to my dorm, it was snowing lightly and we could hear a group of carolers somewhere singing The Little Drummer Boy. Since I was leaving the next day, and John the day after that, we exchanged our gifts, but we promised to wait until Christmas to open them. I was hoping he would like the new billfold I bought him. I had noticed his old one was getting worn. I missed a couple of meals to afford it, but I wanted to give him the best I could. In all the commotion, no one noticed John stayed all night with me and didn’t leave at 10 p.m., as dorm rules strictly required of all opposite sex visitors.
I already missed John before I even boarded the plane to Los Angeles, but I focused as much as I could on how much I’d missed my family all term. When we landed, it was balmy and a little breezy, a far cry from cold, snowy New York. On December 20th, our whole family attended the premiere of Dad’s movie, Santa’s Ski Adventure. At dinner afterward, I showed everyone the pictures of John and me on the bench in Central Park plus some we had taken in one of those photo booths where you got four for a quarter. “Nice looking kid,” I remember my father saying. “You say he wants to be an actor, eh? Well, he won’t have any trouble – assuming he has some talent.”
“Oh, he does, Dad! You should have seen him as the Spirit of Christmas Present. He was wonderful. The audience loved him.”
I immediately regretted saying that because my younger brother, Danny rolled his eyes and said, “Uh-oh, Dad. I think somebody’s in l-o-o-o-v-e.” I shot him a warning look. I was still his big sister and I could still kick his ass.
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