A Curious Affair

by Melanie Jackson

  —Edgar Allan Poe

  After Tyler left and I’d had my second dinner, I wandered the house, turning lights on and off, straightening chairs that didn’t need adjusting, and generally feeling restless. I passed the refrigerator as I paced through the kitchen and noticed the school pictures of my niece and nephew—a year out of date, but at least I finally had them up.

  Cal and I never had children. It wasn’t even an option for us, and we’d had no regrets about this, not even at the end. And I had none now, because I knew I wasn’t fit to have the molding of a child. What chance would the kid have with no dad and a mom who heard cats talking to her? No, it was best we’d never had any children. Still, there were days when I felt very alone, and that time was eddying by me and I had no way to mark its passage. Unlike my neighbors, I celebrated no graduations or birthdays or anniversaries except the one marking Cal’s death, and that I would just as soon not remember.

  Feeling a bit melancholic, I wandered into Cal’s office, a room that I was half-heartedly converting into a spare bedroom—for whom, I couldn’t say. I didn’t want anyone to visit me. The job was taking forever because the cartons seemed intolerably heavy as I carried them from closet to desk, where I still expected to find Cal at work. It was probably the weight of history, the past—mine and Cal’s—refusing to pass quietly into the long night of storage that led to the Salvation Army and then total oblivion.

  I was standing on the median of the highway of life. Cal’s memory was in one lane and Tyler in another, and I was balancing on a barbed wire fence between them.

  “I need a sign, Cal. Tell me what you would do.” I spoke to an empty room and, of course, no one answered.

  Being at loose ends and wanting to keep the encroaching depression at bay, I opened another box and began going through the papers. This one was boring: copies of old tax returns. But in the bottom I found a treasure. It was a photocopy of the first story that Cal ever published. It was called “The Kiss.”

  Cal and I are—were—what you would call omnivorous readers. And we were the same in our writing. We did it all except novels, and I would have done those if there was better money in it. Cal’s tastes were even more eclectic than mine, and one of the things he loved was romantic comedy. “The Kiss” was his first, and I thought best, attempt. The magazine he had sold it to had agreed with me and published it in their Valentine’s Day issue six years ago.

  I laughed softly as I pulled the yellowed pages from the box.

  What is that? Atherton asked. He had followed me around silently, a sympathetic shadow as I paced the house.

  “A story. Shall I read it to you?” I asked impulsively. “It’s very good. My late husband wrote it.”

  Yes, please. Atherton hopped up on the desk and made himself comfortable among the piles and boxes. I’ve noticed that cats have a natural capacity for looking at-home almost anywhere.

  “Okay. It’s called ‘The Kiss’ and it’s loosely based on his childhood when he was growing up in a huge city called Los Angeles.” I pulled out Cal’s old beanbag chair, now sadly deflated, and propped myself up against the wall.

  I began reading aloud. My voice spoke the words, but my ears heard Cal talking in his familiar gentle voice. My heart began to ease.

  “The Kiss”

  My name is Steve Merriman and I’m eleven years old. I go to Darby Avenue Elementary School where I’m in the sixth grade. Today, March 11th, 1969, after school, I have to kiss a girl.

  Now, you may be asking yourself how a guy can get himself in such a pickle that he’s got to kiss a girl. In the movies I’ve seen and heard about, it happens all the time. It usually happens because of a confusing but funny string of events, and afterward the boy and girl are happy about it. The reason I have to kiss a girl is simple, and I’m not happy about it at all.

  It all began today during recess. The sixth-grade guys were playing dodgeball on a sea of black asphalt the teachers call the playground. I haven’t mentioned yet that I live in Los Angeles, in the San Fernando Valley, and that the only grass at my school grows out in front of the principal’s office. You get in trouble if you step on that grass. So, instead of playing on grass, we have to play on black asphalt painted all over with lines to make boundaries for games like two square, four square, kick ball, tetherball, and my favorite game, dodgeball. The playground also has hopscotch squares painted on it, but only girls play hopscotch, and when they do they like to draw their own squares with chalk they take from the classroom. The sea of asphalt, painted lines, and chalk lines stretch for miles in all directions—at least it seems that way, right up to the bungalows the principal keeps moving onto the playground to handle the new kids that show up every week. It’s funny to think that as the school grows the playground shrinks.

  Another thing worth mentioning about the playground is that in the 110-plus degree heat of summer, you can see waves of heat being pumped out of the asphalt, making the school buildings, monkey bars, and surrounding houses shimmy like they’re doing the hula. The asphalt becomes so hot that it melts the patches laid down over the cracks in winter, making pools of hot, sticky tar that’ll sure ruin a new pair of Keds in a hurry. Take my word for it.

  Anyway, I was about to tell you how this kissing thing got started. Like I already mentioned, I’m in the sixth grade, am what’s called an upperclassman, but what I haven’t mentioned is that I’m the biggest kid in the sixth grade and that all the other guys in school look up to me as their leader. Being a leader can be tough, and one good way to keep being a leader is to win at dodgeball. It was looking like my team was going to win again today, and I was slinging the ball really hard to make sure that’s what happened, when something else happened instead.

  It all began with a try at splitting Jimmy Pazooli’s lip with a shot to the chops. My red rubber menace had some heat on it. Jimmy was a wisecracker, and it was time to remind him why it was best to direct his wisecrackery toward kids other than yours truly. I launched the ball using my catapult-sling technique—borrowed, with some important improvements, from a stupid game called cricket—and to my satisfaction saw that my aim was dead-on. Unfortunately, Jimmy was looking straight at me. He was prepared, and he was squirrely—and by that I mean quick. As the red sphere of death went whistling toward his kisser, he managed to drop to all fours. He was in time to have his hair parted by the passing shock wave and to avoid more serious damage. Maureen Keller wasn’t so lucky. She was glancing my way, and therefore must have clearly seen the dreaded orb speeding toward her face, but she was not prepared and was definitely not squirrely. Her reaction to the ball could best be described as tortoise-y.

  What happened next, happened quick. Only later was I able to replay it in my mind in slow motion to fully appreciate the magnitude of the disaster. The rubber ball hit Maureen high on the head, just above the left eye. The speed behind it made the ball seem to deflate on impact, turning it into a wide sheet of rubber that slapped down and wrapped itself around her head and ears like a mask. The mask then flew from her face as the ball’s energy was converted into a sharp backward snap of Maureen’s head, followed by her body when her head could go no farther. She went down like a felled tree, and would have received even more abuse from the asphalt if she hadn’t been lucky enough to fall backward into the arms of Katie Wilcox, who fell on Cathy Spenser, and so on. A line of girls went down like dominos, receiving little harm beyond black asphalt smudges on their dresses and butts. Except Maureen. After the shock wore off, which also happened pretty quick, she started to wail.

  I ran fast to Maureen’s side, not just to help, but to shut her up, and here’s why. As I already mentioned, I’m the biggest kid in the school, and in response to past accidents, I had already been warned by Principal Drake to take it easy with the smaller kids. Based on many past conversations, I knew the principal would believe me when I told him that hitting Maureen was an accident, but what about my intended target, Jimmy? Principal Drake was no dummy, and I had no interest i
n finding out whether rumors of a spanking machine hidden in a back office were true.

  “Maureen, I’m really sorry,” I solemnly offered. “Are you okay?” I slipped on my earnestly concerned face.

  By this time, the domino girls were beginning to set themselves upright and take notice of the stains on their clothes. It was obvious that things were about to go from bad to worse when their voices joined in a piercing chorus of whining.

  “My dress,” said Cathy Spenser. “You completely ruined my Sunday dress!”

  Her dress was pretty badly smeared, owing to the fact that Cathy had been at the back of the conga line and most likely bounced and slid the most when she hit the ground. Of course, my first thought was to point out that it served her right for playing dress-up for school. Fortunately, this probable troublemaker stayed buried in my mouth as additional voices sang out.

  “Oh, I think you broke my backside, you stupid idiot!” Wendy Barns accused. Wendy Barns had a huge backside, which I doubt could be broken by a fall from an airplane. “You big jerk, you hurt Maureen!” Paula Sinclair bellowed, punching me in the shoulder—didn’t hurt. And then came the real killer. “I’m telling!” Katie Wilcox threatened, hands on hips and turning to seek out the recess lady.

  Holy smoke, I thought. I had to do something and quick. Having no time to think, I blurted out the first thing that came to mind, hoping to buy time.

  “Maureen, I’m really, really sorry.” This time I doubled the “really” part to show that I meant it. “I didn’t try to hit you. It was an accident. Please don’t tell!” I added in short bursts. Getting no response, I decided to go for broke. “I’ll do anything to make it up to you. Anything—just name it!” I pleaded.

  I really didn’t expect this last-gasp effort to work, the previous concerned look and apologies having done no good. So, I was surprised when I heard Maureen stop crying. I guess the domino girls were surprised too, since the threats and attacks stopped and all eyes turned to Maureen—except Katie’s, of course, which were instead turned my way, along with a look that said, “Now you’re going to get it, you big creep!” Katie is just that kind of girl.

  Maureen looked up from her lap. Although her eyes still pooled with tears, they were no longer filled with pain and anger. Instead, they hinted at confusion and a touch of curiosity in response to my offer. I wasn’t sure that I didn’t prefer the pain and anger. She brushed her hair out of the way and I could clearly see an ugly red bruise forming over a large portion of her face. She seemed to be mulling over her options, her eyes staring straight through me; then I guess she made up her mind, since she broke her stare and dropped her gaze back to her lap.

  “You can kiss me,” she offered timidly.

  I blinked hard, then swallowed harder.

  “What did you just say?” I asked, sure that I’d heard what she said but equally sure that I couldn’t have actually heard what she just said.

  “You can kiss me,” she repeated, this time with confidence, returning her gaze to my eyes. I noticed that all confusion was now gone from her face, replaced by a look of stubborn determination. I found myself missing the confused curiosity.

  At first, I didn’t know what to say. After some thought, I still didn’t know what to say. Being this close to her, what she’d just said, and the creepy look she kept giving me, all combined to make me feel antsy. It didn’t help that the other girls started whispering and giggling, then turning their heads back and forth between the two of us like picnickers watching an egg toss and hoping for someone to get yolk on their face.

  “If you really, really mean it, that you’ll do anything, then today after school you can meet me behind the bungalows and kiss me,” she said, restating her terms in greater detail and keeping me pinned on the tines of a wicked glare. I had to admit that it was pretty clever, throwing that repeated “really” thing back in my face.

  Sometimes it’s tough being a leader. For one thing, you need to know when to try new things and when to pass. Like the time John Patterson offered me a shiny, ripe, black olive picked fresh from the tree in his front yard. I didn’t know that olives straight off the tree taste worse than dog poop. It just seemed like John was a little too eager to offer me a treat, being my brother Andrew’s best friend and all. So I passed. After seeing Ricky Sayer’s reaction when he finally gave in and chomped that shiny, black olive between his molars, I’d say I dodged a bullet that day. The only good part was that Mrs. Patterson saw Ricky gagging in her front yard and asked John what he had done. She boxed his ears good when he told her, and then took Ricky and me into her house for a cookie and a glass of milk. I still don’t think this made it worth doing—Ricky didn’t look like he was really enjoying that cookie a whole lot. And his tongue was black for a week. Anyway, I always say that you should never let a guy see you cry and never, ever let him see you puke—at least not if you want to be a leader.

  “If that’s what you want, then fine,” I said flatly. “I’ll meet you behind the bungalows right after school.”

  I remained crouching beside Maureen, returning her glare. Then I realized what I’d just said. I felt my stomach begin to cramp up and sweat begin to form on my forehead. I thought I was going to heave but we continued to glare at each other instead. I was sure that this stare-down would soon end with me passing out in front of everyone from the terror I felt punching me in the gut. Then Maureen up and ended it for me.

  “Fine,” she said, smiling and bouncing to her feet as if nothing had happened. She then turned and walked away across the playground, the rest of the girls following like a gaggle of geese, but looking back over their shoulders to blow me kisses.

  What had just happened? Was she faking it? Did I really just say what I know I’d just said? Did I just get conned?

  I was very confused and feeling very shaky. What a guy needs at a time like this is his friends to stand by him, to tell him everything is okay, and most important of all, help him figure out how to get out of the mess he’d just gotten himself into. Apparently sensing my need, the guys gathered around me and a raucous discussion was soon underway.

  “Geez,” my best friend Stanley Becker said to open things. “I mean, just geez.” Admittedly, this was not the most brilliant contribution, but his statement did manage to convey a proper degree of concern and certainly summarized my thoughts. Most of the guys showed that Stanley spoke for them too by nodding, patting me on the back, and then bursting into laughter.

  I was still stunned by what had just happened and by the fact that Maureen wanted to kiss me, especially after I’d hit her in the face with a scorcher. I knew she liked me but, as Stanley would say, geez! I think I first impressed Maureen by not getting involved when others started calling her Murine—that being the name of drops parents put in their eyes the day after bridge night, or just about any other night they stay up late and the kids are sent to the back rooms of the house. I mean, I agree that Maureen is a funny-sounding name, but I didn’t see it as a big put-down getting tagged with the brand name of an eyedrop. After all, it isn’t like they were calling her More Butt, or The Marine. Now, those are names you can have some fun with.

  Anyway, after the others saw that I wasn’t laughing, they seemed to get bored and laid off. I think Maureen saw that I was the reason they stopped, and that may be the reason she wanted to give me something now. To say thanks. But a kiss? Why not a Matchbox car or a neat marble she found on the way to school? Anything but a kiss.

  “Steve, you can’t do it,” said Jimmy Satz, looking at me like I had just been condemned to the gas chamber. I returned a look that showed that I fully agreed, but threw my hands out to show that I didn’t know how to avoid it, not wanting to be a welcher. I did the mime act because I couldn’t speak yet. Jimmy acknowledged my dilemma with a nod, then got an excited look on his face and blurted, “Maybe you can kiss her but be wearing wax lips. I got a pair last Halloween.”

  It seemed to me that Jimmy was onto something with this advice. After all,
using wax lips to kiss a girl made sense the way that a drop drill makes sense. Drop drills are something teachers make us practice once a week just in case the Reds decide to drop the big one on us. They involve dropping onto all fours, crawling under your desk, and throwing your arms over your head to protect yourself—and doing it all as quick as possible. And the teachers always holler at the kids about keeping their backs to the windows so flying glass doesn’t get poked into their faces and eyes. Now, I view drop drills as a good thing; after all, if the Reds are in such a hurry to bomb my school, then I want to be ready for them. But I’ve always wondered how good a wooden desk could really be at protecting you from an explosion strong enough to knock all the windows out in your school. Heck, the Pattersons, who live three houses down from us, built a concrete and cinder block bomb shelter in their side yard to protect them from the big one. What chance did I have hunched under a flimsy, wooden desk? And besides, wouldn’t there be other bad stuff going on if the commies did try to bomb our school? It seems to me that handing out guns might be a better way to protect ourselves from attack than learning how to climb under our desks fast. Anyway, the point is that I was willing to hear Jimmy out, but with what my dad calls reservations.

  “Okay, Jimmy, I like your idea,” I responded.

  “Aw nuts,” Jimmy interrupted before I had time to urge him on. “I think I ate my wax lips last week,” he explained. I was crushed by the news. After a short exchange, round-table fashion, I found that no one else had a pair of wax lips and that this was the only plan that made any kind of sense that anyone could think of to avoid kissing Maureen. I hung my head in defeat and despair.

  “You’re gonna get cooties,” said Henry Barnes, staring up at me with eyes that always looked too big for his head but now looked like they might pop right out. Henry is a second-grader, so technically he shouldn’t speak directly to me. Instead, he should have given his two cents to someone in the third grade, maybe fourth, to be considered and then forwarded if it made sense. However, realizing that this breach of command structure probably had more to do with concern for my wellbeing than a need to challenge tradition, I decided not to give him a wedgie on the spot.