Capture the Wind for Me

by Brandilyn Collins

  With mounting vehemence, I related once again everything that had happened, hoping to goodness this would be the last time I had to tell it. Mrs. B hung on every word, spilling tut-tuts and you-don’t-says and mercies.

  “And the main thing is,” I concluded, “Greg is a strong Christian. Do you know that his parents are so strict that his mama’s traveled everywhere with him up till now? He’s tryin’ to live the Christian life while people all around him aren’t, including the other guys in his band. I mean, it takes a lot to stand up for Christ like that. It’s just not fair for people to think bad of him, Mrs. B. People should know the truth!”

  I huffed forward, grabbed a cookie, and bit into it. Not until I chewed my second bite did I think I may have gone too far with the last sentence. I’d practically invited her outright to tell the town, when she hardly needed my invitation.

  Then another thought occurred to me, out of the blue. Surely Mrs. B had known all along who Greg was, being so close to both Miss Jessie and the Matthews family. Goodness sake, she’d been Mrs. Matthews’ closest friend for years, despite the difference in their ages. Yet apparently she hadn’t said a thing to the townsfolk. I stopped chewing, studying Mrs. B with newfound respect. This woman could keep her mouth shut when it really mattered.

  On second thought, it was a good thing I’d given her leave to repeat my words.

  “Oh, my.” Mrs. B laid bent fingers against her cheek. “What a wonderful boy that Greg is. First comin’ to your daddy’s help like he did, then standin’ up for you. Not to mention the town of Bradleyville. If that boy were here right now, I’d just kiss him.” She raised her shoulders and gave me a sly wink, as if to say I must know how that felt. That was a bit of bait I would not take.

  “Yes, he is,” I agreed. “Just think of how long that bruise is goin’ to last on his face.”

  Mrs. B wagged her head, marveling anew. “What a blessed chil’.”

  By the time I got home, swimming in self-satisfaction, I could practically hear the Bradleyville phone lines burning with Mrs. B’s “blessed chil’” declarations.

  Now came the worst of all. I still had to face Daddy.

  chapter 36

  Supper over and the dishes done, Daddy informed me we needed to talk. No kidding. He’d hardly said one sentence to me at the table, his perfunctory response to my welcome-home hug betraying the enduring sting of my words. He sat me down upon the bed in his room, taking Mama’s old sitting chair in the corner for himself. His turf, not mine. His choice of location could not be by accident.

  “I want you to know I called the Albertsville Journal today,” he began, his tone stilted and cold. “Threatened a lawsuit if they didn’t retract that girl’s statements. I imagine they’ll embark on a bit more accurate reporting for their Friday edition.”

  He eyed me, jaw set, signaling his embarrassment at having to stoop to such a lowly task. I said nothing.

  “I also talked to Celia and to Greg today.”

  I widened my eyes, feigning surprise.

  “Greg told me what happened, and his story substantiates yours. It was a manly thing for him to do, comin’ to see me before he left.”

  My head nodded. I slid one hand over the other and pressed, waiting. “You have anything to say to me, Jackie?” His voice implied that if I didn’t, I’d better rethink the situation.

  “Yes. That I’m so very sorry for everything,” I managed, hardly able to look him in the eye. “You don’t know how sorry I am. I wish . . . I wish I could take it all back. Especially what I said this morning.”

  He rested an elbow on the chair, placing fingers against his lips. Clearly, my apologies would take some time to sink in. We sat in silence, my gaze on the floor as I felt his eyes on me.

  Suddenly, he exhaled in pure frustration. “I don’t know how to do this any better than you do,” he declared almost defensively. “No matter what I try, in the end I’m just a dad. I know you need your mama. I know it’s awkward, tryin’ to work this all out, tryin’ to talk to me about boys.”

  My chest tightened at the weight in his tone, as if he’d failed me somehow. For the first time I realized that part of his irritation was directed at himself. And I saw no fairness in that. “It’s not you, Daddy, it’s me. I did things without thinking. It won’t happen again.”

  “No, it certainly won’t.”

  The way his emotions teetered, seeking which side to blame. I didn’t know where he’d land next. “Please,” I added, “you do believe me, I mean, that nothin’ bad happened? When Greg and I were in the car? Nothing bad happened.”

  “Yes, I believe you.”

  I could say no more, remembering again my horrible words that morning. My very insistence on what I hadn’t done strayed too close to what he had when he was my age. No matter that years had passed since then. I knew Daddy was putting himself in the shoes of a teenager, remembering how easy a “fall from grace” could be.

  “Jackie,” he ventured wearily, as though he’d read my mind, “it’s time we talked about this.”

  I sat very still, suspended in the awkwardness, wanting to know and not wanting it. Surely this subject proved more difficult for Daddy than my explanations of my innocent actions with Greg.

  Daddy turned his head, focusing out the window. I heard a car door slam in the driveway next door. The Bellinghams must have company. Maybe Miss Jessie. “I don’t need to belabor the details,” Daddy said. “Apparently you heard enough when you eavesdropped on my conversation with Katherine.” He threw me a sharp glance. “What I want you to understand is that things can happen very quickly sometimes. That’s why I want you to be so careful. In a moment of weakness I made a choice that betrayed not only myself but your mama. As soon as I’d done it, I was horrified, but it was too late.”

  I swallowed hard, thinking, I know this, I know it already, but it’s not what matters. I could now accept the fact that anybody, even my daddy, could make a wrong choice. What mattered was far, far more important. And if I didn’t voice it now, I never would.

  “Daddy,” I said, “the thing is, you didn’t love Mama. She loved you so much and you were goin’ out with her, but you were only pretending. You loved somebody else.”

  Daddy’s head drooped. He closed his eyes as if to block out the cutting truth of the words. I envisioned Mama at my age, in love with him as I was with Greg, and imagined what I would feel. She must have been cut to the very core.

  “I was datin’ her, yes,” Daddy replied, clearly ashamed that we would have to discuss this. “But I never told her I loved her. Not until I really did. Not until I realized that she was what I’d needed all along. I was eighteen then, Jackie, not much older than you. And I never looked back. You know that. You know I loved your mama. With all my heart.”

  Yes, I did. And I also knew that this is what Mama had chosen to dwell upon as she and I talked about dating. Not the mistakes and hurt along the way, but the outcome.

  “Growin’ up can be so hard, Jackie,” Daddy offered gently. “There’s no such thing as a perfect romance.”

  My eyes darted to his face. How did he know how I’d dwelt upon that phrase, perfect romance? Only Mama would have known that. In quick succession, then, the months since Mama’s death unraveled, reweaving a scene of her lying on this very bed, sick, talking to Daddy about all he might face in raising me alone. Suddenly, I saw his side of the tapestry, the tugs and knots underneath, the ungrateful side presenting only challenge.

  “Daddy,” I blurted, “I’m so sorry for what I said to you. Really, I am.” He smiled tightly. “I know, Jackie. Let’s just leave that be, now, okay?” He studied my face. “Is there anything else you need to ask?”

  I shook my head.

  “Sure? It’s best we put this business behind us once and for all.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Okay.” He rubbed the back of his neck, as if massaging away the aching topic. “Now. It’s time for you to talk to me about Greg. I want to know what you�
�re feelin’ about him. You came in cryin’ last night, like his leavin’ was really hard on you.”

  My hand nearly drifted to the ring beneath my blouse. I laced my fingers. “It is.”

  “The way Greg talked today, I got the impression that the feelings between you two are runnin’ pretty deep. It wasn’t anything he said, really. It was more the intensity of his voice as he tried to take all the blame.”

  “He loves me, Daddy. And I love him.” There. I’d said it, no taking it back.

  “Love him? You’ve known him for less than a week!”

  “Yeah, but look at everything we went through together,” I retorted. “I got to talk to him a lot. And I saw the way he acted in hard situations and the way he treated me. The way he treated us.”

  Briefly, Daddy’s eyes closed. He focused out the window once more, on something distant and unknown, disappointment flattening his expression. “How things do repeat.”

  No, I wanted to say, this is not a repeat. Greg isn’t Danny and I’m not Celia. We’re us. Us. With our own lives and our own love, and we don’t need to live under the shadow of what went on before.

  “Jackie, please hear me, as hard as it is. Greg has gone on to a life that’s full of travel and lights and action. He’s moved on while you’ve stayed here. It will be much harder for him to . . . remember you as time passes. It’s always harder for the one who’s left behind.”

  “He won’t forget me,” I insisted. “He even gave me his ring. The one his own parents gave him.” I pulled out the chain, let the ring rest upon my blouse.

  Daddy inhaled slowly. “What’s it supposed to mean?”

  “That we love each other. And we won’t go out with anyone else.”

  Incredulity flicked across his face. “Until when, Jackie? It’s not like he’s just off on some vacation. He lives in Greece, for heaven’s sake.”

  “He’ll visit. Celia’s family is here. And . . .” My voice faltered. “There’s his concert in Lexington. At the end of August.”

  “I told you no concerts.”

  “Yeah, but you were mad at me then.”

  “Maybe I’m still mad at you.”

  “No, you’re not!” I pushed from the bed to plead before him in desperation. “You’re not mad at me anymore, you’re just scared! You’re scared I’m goin’ to be hurt, and that Greg will ditch me. But you don’t know him like I do. He won’t, Daddy, he won’t.”

  I grasped the ring, breathing hard, telling myself my insistence was for Daddy alone.

  He stood up, placed his hands on my shoulders. “Okay, Jackie, okay. I don’t doubt what you think you feel for each other.” He pulled away, running a hand through his hair. “I just . . . you’re right, I don’t want you to be hurt.”

  “Let Greg and me talk to each other, Daddy,” I pressed. “We just want to e-mail each other. And he’ll call when he can. If it doesn’t work out, well then, it won’t. But it’s not fair—you not lettin’ us talk just because you don’t believe it’ll last. You can’t tell us how we feel.”

  “Wait a minute, there’s plenty of other reasons, beginning and ending with the fact of who he is. And don’t forget the whole town is already talkin’. No way am I lettin’ you run around wearin’ that ring.”

  “I won’t wear it out, I’ll hide it!” Swiftly, I slipped it under my blouse. “And the talk won’t last, you’ll see. Next thing you know, the whole town’ll be lovin’ Greg, sayin’ how lucky we were to meet him. And everybody’ll be like all proud that the town can claim him. Bradleyville’s own star.”

  Daddy cracked a smile in sheer disbelief. He shook his head. “That would be some turn of events.”

  “Just wait, Daddy, you’ll see. It’ll happen.”

  His smile faded. “Don’t cost yourself good times here, Jackie. There are other boys, other dates.”

  “I don’t want any of them.”

  He nodded wearily, arguments spent. My daddy had been through enough when he was my age. He knew all too well the stubborn tenacity of a heart in love. “Okay,” he sighed. “I’m talked out for tonight. It’s been a long day.” He arched his back, gaze sliding to the clock at his bedside. “You probably have homework, and Clarissa needs to do her math.”

  “Will you let Greg e-mail and call me, Daddy?”

  “Yes, Jackie. Okay? Just . . . I don’t want people seein’ the ring.”

  “Oh, thank you!” I threw my arms around him unabashedly, as Clarissa might do. “Thank you, thank you!”

  He hugged me back, then gently pushed my arms away, telling me to go do my homework, and that was no suggestion. “Thank you again,” I whispered.

  As I left his bedroom, I glanced back and nearly stopped in my tracks. The apprehension on his face shot right through me—as if he thought the day might come when I wouldn’t be thanking him at all.

  chapter 37

  Over the next few days, thanks to the irrepressible Mrs. B, news began to filter around town about what really happened at Clayton’s Place, and the way Greg had defended me and Bradleyville. Greg was a Christian boy being maligned, Mrs. B said to anyone who’d listen—which was just about everybody in town—and folks would do better praying for him than talking about him. And let us not forget, people took up the talk, that Greg’s face had already been bruised from jumping to my daddy’s defense.

  Then Friday’s edition of the Albertsville Journal carried a version of the events decidedly different from its first. The article even included quotes from two of Charlotte’s friends who had been present, saying how polite Greg had been and that Charlotte had made a pest of herself and was “jealous.” I must admit my gut twisted with vindication when I read that article. Particularly as I saw that one of those friends had been Sam, Charlotte’s date.

  Of course, some would not come around in their judgment of Greg, including my grandma Westerdahl. To her, secular music on the radio was a sin, and that was all there was to it.

  “What do people like that think?” I complained to Katherine one evening as we cleared the supper table. “That you have to be a preacher to be a Christian? That you have to live in Bradleyville? Surely there are people all over the country, in all kinds of jobs, who are also Christians.”

  “That’s true, Jackie,” Daddy put in, “but some folks, like your grandparents, feel that certain kinds of entertainment aren’t good. God gives each of us a different conscience, you know. If your grandmother believes that certain music is wrong, then you have to respect that—for her. Doesn’t mean you have to agree.”

  “Well, she shouldn’t judge, though.” I clattered plates into a stack. “She might think pop music and dancin’ is wrong, but she shouldn’t judge Greg because of her own conscience.”

  “Maybe not, but you just be sure you’re not judgin’ her.”

  “Oh, my, that awful music!” Katherine flipped back her hands in mocking sarcasm.

  “Hey, hold it.” Daddy shot her a look. “It is Jackie’s grandmother we’re talking about.”

  “I know, Bobby,” Katherine sighed, “but you have to admit, sometimes Bradleyville acts like it’s in the nineteenth century. That kind of narrow-mindedness is one of the things that can really tick me off about this town.”

  Daddy set a dirty plate and glass on the counter. The way he eyed Katherine told me she’d hit on some nerve. “This town,” he informed her, “happens to be my home.”

  Katherine flicked her gaze toward the ceiling but said no more. I looked from her to Daddy, feeling as though a curtain had just been pulled back on their relationship. What was this behind-the-scenes tension?

  Well, Katherine was right, I told myself. Bradleyville folks sometimes did seem narrow-minded, even though both Daddy and Mama had told me the town had come a long way since they were teenagers. All in all, for the time being, I would still need to wear blouses that hid Greg’s ring around my neck.

  Greg and I e-mailed back and forth once or twice a day. And he’d call me after school if he could catch a minute from
all his work. Of course I told him of the news circulating Bradleyville. And he detailed for me his schedule, the hours spent in practice, both in singing and choreography. How he and the group worked on their breathing, exhaling slowly and steadily to keep a scrap of paper against the wall, seeing who could manage it the longest. Demetri usually won.

  He repeated his friends’ tales of how they’d spent their time off—mostly partying with all the girls they could find and drinking. Remember to pray for them, he asked, and for me, too. I read my Bible and pray every day, but I am alone in this. I want courage to tell others about God.

  I did pray for him. Many times a day.

  Friday afternoon, the beginning of Memorial Day weekend, I received an e-mail from Derek. Wincing with guilt that I’d forgotten him, I opened it.

  Hey. You were going to write me, remember? So where are you? I’m at work now. Should be fixing a glitch on a software program so I better go.

  —Derek

  P.S. Notice my socks the rest of the week? Same color.

  I couldn’t help but smile. Derek really was nice. I could not admit, however, that deep down, I knew his socks now matched for my sake. That thought would have been too searing, exposing my blithe attitude toward him as a knife that could cut. And it would have saddened me. Derek had always been so Derek, not caring how others viewed him. Who was I to dampen that independent spirit?

  I wrote him back, wanting only to amend my thoughtlessness. But the impersonal screen seemed to loosen my tongue.

  Derek,

  Sorry, I meant to write. But I’m sure you know this has been a hard week for me. I’m not used to being talked about all over town. Finally things are better.

  What are you doing this holiday weekend? Working, I guess. Me, too, except that my work is watching my brother and sister, and cleaning house and all. Gets pretty boring, I can tell you, especially in the summer. Wish I could have a job like you.

  Guess I’ll see you in church on Sunday. And maybe at the town picnic on Memorial Day? I’ll keep writing if you will.

  —Jackie