The Last Innocent Hour

by Margot Abbott

  We walked slowly, without speaking, down toward the village. The silence between us grew until I couldn’t bear it any longer.

  “It’s a nice evening,” I said, trying to break the silence.

  He grunted, ambling along, hands in his trouser pockets, his coattails bouncing along behind him. His hair had come unglued from whatever it was he had stuck it down with and was reverting to its usual style, parted slightly to one side, hanging in his face. He didn’t look at me once the entire walk.

  The main street of Lake Sebastian was strung with Japanese paper lanterns and looked magical. In front of the Boating Club, a dance platform had been set up and a small band was already playing. Refreshment tables were set up in the Boating Club and people were carrying glasses of beer and cider. Christian asked me if I wanted anything and I shook my head. He finally looked at me.

  “Come on,” he said, “let’s go talk for a while. Okay?” I nodded and he led us down to the lake, where the club’s small fleet of rowboats was beached. We walked out to the end of the short dock. There was a built-in bench, but I was reluctant to sit on it for fear of snagging my chiffon dress.

  “You want a cigarette?” asked Christian, offering me one from a battered pack.

  “Sure,” I said, reaching for one. I didn’t smoke, although some girls at school did, in secret, of course. “I mustn’t get caught,” I said, shielding the flame of his match with my hand, trying not to touch him.

  “Nobody’s going to see us here,” he said, “and so what if they do?” My cigarette lit, he turned away from me, to face the dark lake. A breeze touched us from the lake and I shivered.

  “Cold?” he said. “Want to go back?” He flipped his cigarette into the lake.

  “Oh, no,” I exclaimed, throwing my cigarette after his, glad to be rid of it.

  “Here,” he said, taking off his jacket.

  “No,” I protested, “I’m fine.”

  “Shut up,” he said, and swung the jacket around my shoulders. Then he pushed me gently down onto the bench. “Have a seat. There. Better?”

  I nodded, wondering where he had learned to do these things, not looking up at him as he stood with his hands on my shoulders. Things were changing too quickly between us; time was flying by too fast. He let go of me and moved back to the railing. Now I could look at him.

  “I’ve been thinking about your brother,” he said.

  “Eddie? Why Eddie?” I had told Christian about a letter my father had recently received from my brother, in which he announced that he wanted to attend Annapolis after he graduated next June.

  “He already knows what he means to do with his life. I’ve been trying to decide what I should do and I’ve been thinking about the navy. But it is so difficult here, with the restrictions. If my grades are good enough and if I can get someone to sponsor me, I might be able to get in.” He stood leaning against the railing, one foot crossed over the other, his arms folded. He looked tall and slim and older than his fourteen years.

  The Treaty of Versailles had restricted the number of prospective naval officers Germany could train when it ruled on the other aspects of the country’s military forces.

  “Has Eddie planned to do this for a long time?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” I answered. “He doesn’t write much, and when I saw him in New York he didn’t mention it.”

  “Perhaps I will try anyway.”

  “But I thought you didn’t want a military career.”

  “The navy’s different, and besides,” he continued in a bitter voice, “what else am I good for?”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Christian, you’re the most—well, I think you can do anything. You’re smart. You know you are. That’s what I think.”

  “Perhaps,” he said, falling silent. I turned my head to stare out at the lake, missing it already, missing him.

  “It’s been fun here this year,” he said in an emotionless voice.

  “Yes,” I answered. He was silent for a long time. I continued to study the water.

  “I wonder what will happen next year,” he said in the same strange voice.

  “We’ll be back,” I answered. There was more silence. “Christian—”

  “I’d like—” he said at the same time. We laughed and he gestured. “Go ahead.”

  “No,” I said. “You first.”

  “No, I insist,” he said, “you’re the lady.” That stopped me cold. I returned to my study of the lake. “What is it?” he asked. I shook my head. “Come on, Sally, now what?” He flung his arms out from his body, then slapped them along his sides, the white of his dress shirt flashing through the growing darkness. “What did I say?”

  I started to cry. I could not believe it myself, nor could I forgive myself. After all these years of being his friend, of making him forget I was a girl, I was crying.

  “Sally!” He moved to sit next to me on the bench. He didn’t touch me. I pulled my legs up in front of me, under his jacket, and turned so that my back faced him.

  “What did I do?” He sounded so worried that I had to say something.

  “Nothing, Christian, not really . . . I’m sorry. It’s just . . . oh, I don’t know. I guess I don’t want to be a lady.”

  “What?” he said absolutely confused.

  “Everything tonight . . . this summer . . . is so different,” I stammered. “We’ve got so old,” I wailed, my voice sailing out into the night air on the last word. That was bad enough, but then he made it worse. He laughed.

  “You’re an insensitive toad, Christian Robert Mayr,” I said, with all the dignity I could muster.

  “I know,” he said, sounding smug. “Do you have a handkerchief?”

  “You know I don’t,” I said.

  “Well, don’t wipe your nose on my jacket; here, take this.” He nudged me and I turned far enough to take the handkerchief from him.

  “Thank you,” I said frostily.

  “You are welcome,” he said. We had been speaking English, and now he switched to German.

  “I’m sorry, honestly I am.” He sighed. “Everything is so confused, like you said. My whole life, my family. Do you realize I am the only son my father has left? Do you suppose that is an easy thing to bear?

  “I’ll tell you, Sally, when I became ill, after Kurt was killed, I knew my father wished I would die.”

  “Christian, no.”

  “He wouldn’t come to see me. My mother said she kept him away so that he would not become ill, but I could see in her eyes that she was lying. He . . . Thomas . . . was his favorite, the oldest son, the hero. I think Kurt and I both knew that. And when Thomas died . . . my father changed. I was very young, but I could feel it. He changed toward Kurt and me, especially after the war ended. My father said something, once, I remember him standing in the downstairs hall. Then he was silent. But I think he blamed us for living, and now I feel he blames me for being left.

  “He disagreed with Kurt, but Kurt was sure and strong and could make my father laugh, even though he’d made him angry. I don’t make him laugh or angry or anything. I’m not smart like Marta, or brave like Thomas. Nothing.” He fell silent. I sat next to him silently, not knowing what I could say.

  I touched his shoulder. “My father is the same. Ever since my mother died, he’s hated me. It’s the same, Christian.”

  He nodded. “This has been a good time, with you here, this summer. I hope you believe that. Do you?”

  “Yes. Oh, yes.”

  “So, I thought we might write each other more often. I have many friends at school, but I can’t talk to them as I talk to you.”

  “Oh,” I said, turning to face him, sliding my feet back to the ground, “I know just what you mean. I feel the same. No one understands the way you do.”

  “Then you will write me?” he said eagerly.

  “Of course, I will, you idiot,” I said, “and will you write me?”

  “I promise,” he said. He reached a hand out toward my head and I, thinkin
g he was going to cuff me or grab my neck as he sometimes did, flinched. But his arm came up around me and the hand I had been retreating from gently took hold of my face. We stared for a long moment at each other, then slowly he lowered his face to mine and kissed me.

  “Do you want to dance?” he asked me after the kiss ended.

  I raised my head and heard the sound of the band, an accordion, a violin, some sort of brass, float over to us from the dance floor. “Oh, yes,” I answered, and gave him back his jacket.

  There was a crowd on the dance floor, townspeople and summer visitors of all ages and dressed in all manner of finery, from evening dresses to dirndls. Christian led me into the crush, then turned and held up his left hand. I put my right hand into his, put my other hand on his shoulder, feeling the smooth fabric of his dinner jacket. He put his hand carefully around my waist.

  He drew me close to him. He was not a good dancer yet, but then, neither was I. It didn’t matter. There were so many other couples that all we could really do was move in our own space.

  We danced silently for several dances. I remember I felt as if we were alone on a private dance floor, and that the fact that we were not lent a sense of security and excitement. Eventually, he put both of his arms around me and I did the same, laying my cheek against his shoulder, feeling protected and secure. I closed my eyes, trusting him to guide me, shutting out the other dancers, all of my senses concentrated on Christian.

  In the middle of a waltz, Christian bent his head and rubbed his cheek against my hair. “Let’s leave,” he said, his voice sleepy. “It’s getting late.”

  I didn’t want to leave, but he was right. We had to get home. We walked off down the street. We didn’t speak. At the fork in the path, Christian led us off toward the lake, instead of toward my gate. I didn’t protest, wanting to stay with him. I also felt a languid helplessness, as though the dancing and fancy clothes and my feelings toward him had all conspired to turn my brain to mush. I was very happy.

  On the path, he started into the woods, and I recognized the place where we turned off for the meadow. I stopped.

  “Come on,” he whispered, taking my hand, pulling me toward him. Then he kissed me, his lips brushing along the side of my face to my neck. I shivered and stepped back from him, not letting go of his hand. “Are you afraid of me?”

  “No.”

  He kissed my hand and put his arm around my waist. “Don’t you want to kiss me? I want to kiss you. I want you.”

  Wanting. He was talking about wanting me. I didn’t really understand about wanting. He noticed my hesitation and pressed his advantage.

  “You’re so pretty, Sally. You feel so good. Please, come with me.” His hand brushed my breast. I shivered and his hand came back. I backed away.

  “It’s late,” I said apologetically.

  He looked at his watch, holding it up to catch the light. “Just half past eleven.”

  “We have to be home at midnight.”

  “Yes.” He stood in front of me, not moving. “Sally?” I heard his feet shift in the leaves and grass of the forest floor. I shivered. “Are you scared?”

  “Yes.” I always had to be honest with him. “I’ll ruin my dress,” I added.

  He laughed nastily and dropped his hands from my arms. “You girls.” Then he disappeared, leaving me alone in the dark. I heard his footsteps on the ground and a rustle and then nothing.

  “Christian, where are you?” I called, but not too loudly. The forest was big and dark and I didn’t know who or what else might be in it.

  “Come here,” he whispered, taking my hand. I jumped, literally starting back from him. He laughed quietly. “It’s me. Shhh.”

  “Where . . .”

  “Shhh. Come on.” He led me down the path toward the meadow. We stopped at the edge. “There, can you see?” He pointed.

  The moon was full and bright and blue light and dark shadows covered the meadow. In the center, beyond the fallen log, two people, a man and a woman, were standing their arms around each other. The man had a shirt and trousers on; the woman was naked, her body gleaming in the moonlight. I backed up, bumping into Christian.

  “What are they doing?” I whispered in a panic.

  “What do you think, stupid?”

  I gasped. “We shouldn’t be watching.”

  “They can’t see us,” he said. “Don’t be afraid.”

  We stood next to each other, not touching, and watched the couple. Their arms still entwined, they slowly sank to their knees, the man’s hands lost in the darkness of the woman’s unbound hair. The woman pushed the man’s shirt off his shoulders. His bare skin glowed despite the dark.

  “Don’t you think they’d be uncomfortable?” I whispered, my embarrassment lost for a moment in my curiosity of the logistics. “Maybe they put something down first.”

  The couple were on the ground, the man on top of the woman, and although I couldn’t see all of them, the man’s naked back and the woman’s pale legs glowed in the moonlight. We were too far away to see anything more, but I found it a ritual too private to be witnessed, and I had to turn away. Christian came after me down the path. Perhaps he felt the same way, because he followed me without a word.

  I stopped at our gate and looked out at the lake. Parts of it glittered in the moonlight, and parts were as black as pitch. “Do you know . . . about that, all of that?” I blurted out.

  He had his hands in his trouser pockets. He shrugged without removing them. “Yeah, sure, I do.”

  “Did you take me there . . . did you know they would be there?”

  “No. How would I? I don’t even know who they were.” He peered at me, trying to see my face in the shadows of the trees. “Are you upset?”

  “Yes. But not at you. Not angry. I . . . I don’t know. I’ve never . . .” I was having a very hard time talking about it with him. “I’ll never tell anyone,” I said.

  “Me neither.”

  “Christian, did you mean, when you said you wanted me, did you mean like that?”

  “No. Well, yes, I guess so. I don’t know.” There was a pause. “Have you ever . . . ?”

  “A lot of fellows I know have. Or claim that they have.”

  “With whom?”

  “Women. Or their family maids.”

  “Maids?” I imagined Christian kissing Herta and giggled. “That must be revolting.”

  “Yeah, I guess so.” Another long pause.

  “I don’t know anything,” I said passionately. “Nobody’s ever told me anything. Please tell me.”

  “Me?”

  “Please. You’re my best friend.”

  “Your mother is supposed to do that.”

  “I don’t have a mother.”

  “You’re a girl. Ask my mother. You should have a woman tell you.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s different for girls.”

  “Why?”

  “Oh, God, Sally, I don’t know.” He turned and walked away a few steps.

  “Who told you? Your father?”

  “Can you imagine that? No, Kurt told me. We used to talk about it when we were kids. He did it. Then he told me all about it.”

  “Who did he . . .”

  “A woman.”

  “A prostitute?” I said the word carefully, imagining scarlet lips and a huge purple velvet hat.

  “No. A girl. I met her once. I . . . but he got . . . but then he died.”

  “That’s sad. I wonder if she was . . . expecting.”

  “Sally! I thought you didn’t know anything about this.”

  “Well, I read books.” I tried to tuck up a lock of my hair. Then I noticed he was watching me and his expression froze my hand.

  “You’ve done it,” I said, “haven’t you? I can tell when you’re lying.”

  “Yes, once. I wish I hadn’t,” he said in a low voice, almost too softly for me to hear him. “I’d rather it had been with you.”

  “Oh.” It was all I could say. I swallowed, f
eeling slightly giddy. And elated. As well as embarrassed. He seemed to be waiting for an answer. “Thank you,” I said. “But I think I’m still too young. And I really think I ought to wait until I’m married.”

  “You wouldn’t, even if you loved someone?”

  “Well . . . if we were engaged . . . Or he was going off to war, or something like that. A separation.” Then I realized what I had said. Christian and I were going to be separated. He didn’t move and I sensed that he was, again, waiting. “Oh, Christian, I wish . . . I just can’t. I’m . . . Would you want to love a girl who had given herself to another?” I asked dramatically.

  “I guess not. You’re right.” He sounded convinced. And relieved.

  “I hope you’re not angry with me.”

  “Of course not.”

  “I’d better go in.”

  “Yes,” he said and turned to leave.

  “Christian,” I called. He stopped and I ran the few steps to him. I couldn’t tell him how I felt, my emotions were so roiled up. Instead, I put my arms around his neck and kissed him, feeling his body along mine as I stretched on my toes to reach his mouth. He didn’t hesitate, but put his arms around me, holding me tight, his mouth responding to mine. That kiss made me dizzy and when I let go of him, I almost tripped.

  “Careful,” he said, laughing in a low voice, his arms still around my waist.

  “I like you so much, Christian. I would rather . . . with you then anyone. Ever. It’s all so confusing.”

  “Too much change.”

  “Yeah.” I stood for a moment, my hand on his chest. I could feel his heart beating wildly and it amazed me that he felt as crazy as I did. I dropped my hand and walked away from him, turning back when I got through the gate. He was still standing there, looking after me, a shadow except for his white shirtfront and pale head, a stray moonbeam hitting and lighting his golden hair.

  I love you, I thought, although I didn’t speak the words. You’re beautiful and I’ll love you forever, I thought in German, and ran up the path to the house.

  FENCING