“Since when do girls make sense?” I had to admit he had a point there. “Girls aren’t supposed to make sense. Remember Hecker’s Rule of Romance #1: Women should be obscene and not heard.”
“I thought Rule #1 was ‘Never tell the truth.’ And I thought Groucho said that.”
“OK, so there’s two rules numbered one. Forget the numbers! Just trust me; I’ve seen it happen lots of times. You play hard-to-get and it’ll drive her crazy.”
Well, that only seemed fair. After all, she had been unwittingly driving me crazy for months. For the next three weeks I remained cool and aloof. By the end of the month even C. J. had to admit it wasn’t working. Neither of us realized that from outward appearances there was little difference between playing hard-to-get and being scared into inaction by the fear of rejection.
C. J. fell back on plan B. “Write her a song,” he suggested as we were returning from the mall in Beaumont where we had picked up an eight-track of Neil Young’s “Harvest.” “That’ll do it.” While I had been playing hard-to-get, he had been teaching me to play guitar. I had almost reached the point where I could change chords without inadvertently changing the time signature of the song. “I’ve never seen a girl yet who could resist a love song written especially for her. They tend to throw themselves on the floor in abject submission to your every whim.”
I never thought to ask C. J. how many girls had flung themselves at his feet upon hearing a song written for them. Instead, I was petrified at the thought of addressing the matter so directly. This approach seemed to smack too much of the danger of rejection.
“Right. How subtle is playing a song to her?” I grabbed the dash as we rounded a curve thirty miles per hour faster than recommended by the Department of Public Safety. “I might as well just walk up in the hall and kiss her between classes.”
“Hey, there’s an approach I hadn’t considered!” He squinted at the reflectors. “It just might work.”
“Don’t be ridiculous! I can’t just walk up out of the blue and kiss Becky in the hall.”
“What? No. Of course not!” He looked at me like I’d suggested we turn off Neil Young and listen to Perry Como instead. The silver fleck in his eye glinted in the dark as he appraised me by the dashboard light. “You couldn’t pull it off, being a PK and all. Isn’t there a talent show next week?”
“Yeah.”
“You could write Becky a song and play it at the talent show.”
“Right! I might as well write her a valentine and read it over the P.A. during announcements!” I cupped my hands around my mouth. “The FHA is having a bake sale. The girls will be selling hot buns in the hall during lunch. Let’s all get behind our girls and give them our support. And now this announcement from Mark Cloud. Dear Becky Tuttle: I am hopelessly in love with you and will wither away if you don’t reciprocate. Please respond by carrier pigeon within the hour.”
“Well, you don’t have to make it that blunt! You don’t even have to use her name.”
“Then how will she know it’s for her?”
“You can do something like . . .” He ejected the tape and cleared his throat.
She might have braces and short brown hair
She could have a harelip for all I care; she’s mine
People don’t you see what she’s doing to me
Hanging around this town looking up and down for her
She won’t have braces all her life
But even if she does I’ve found me a wife; she’s mine . . .
I pushed the tape back in and turned it up. “That’s OK. I’ll come up with my own.”
I spent the rest of the weekend struggling over a song. By Sunday night I had come up with something I thought was a proper blend of candor and subtlety. It went something like this.
There’s something in you that I like
And I think you know it
There’s something about you I like
And I think I show it
Your eyes or your hair? I couldn’t swear
Maybe it’s your personality
The way that you stay when everyone else goes away
The way that you set me free
I’m not quite sure how but I think you know by now
That I’d like to tell you how I feel
The feeling is so real and it’s one that I can’t conceal
And it’s mine and nobody can steal it
I love you and I think you know it
I love you and I think I show it
I played it for C. J. the next day. He sat in silence for a long time and then cleared his throat.
“Well. Hmm. Yes, that certainly will work. Yup.”
I looked at him uncertainly. “Do you think it’s too corny?”
“Oh, no,” he answered too quickly. “It’s got a certain character about it. Very . . . original.”
I took his words at face value and entered the talent show. C. J. was also in the show, playing “Old Man” from the Neil Young tape we had bought the week before. He did a great job as usual and received a respectable amount of applause from a room full of George Jones fans.
The next thing I knew the emcee was announcing that Mark Cloud was going to perform an original song. I trembled my way out on the stage and set the music on the stand. I let my hair fall down over my eyes as a protective screen, buffering me from the intimidation of the audience, did a little last minute tuning, and then started playing. Just as I got out the first line, the paper slipped off the stand and into the orchestra pit. With a silent cry of despair I watched it flutter into the abyss. I squinted at the crowd through my hair and my mind went as blank as the music stand. I played the same chord for a few seconds and then started improvising.
And I think you know it because I show it
Is it your hair? I swear I don’t care
But she’s got a good personality
It’s how you stay out of the way
With the bare necessities
This feeling is real and I can’t conceal
How much you steal from my heart
Don’t you know that I got to go
And I’m through before I start
I jumped up and stumbled off stage to stunned silence, followed by a trickle of applause mixed with laughter and coughing.
At lunch I was informed that Thelma Perkins had interpreted my song as a secret confession of love for her. Thelma—sister of Jimbo; the sarcastic write-in for homecoming queen; the forged signatory on hundreds of practical-joke love letters; the one girl in the school who, like me, had yet to experience a date. In Fred, if you want to win awards at being ugly, you have to really be ugly. Merely homely girls need not apply. The years had done nothing to soften Thelma’s harsher features. She still had a face as wide and flat as Jimbo’s, teeth like a set of ivory dominoes yellowed with age, and short hair as stiff and coarse as a broom.
I was horrified beyond words to receive this bulletin, particularly as Becky was the one to bring the tidings from the uncharacteristically shy Thelma. Becky delivered Thelma’s professions of love with poorly concealed amusement and waited for my response with a smile that, for once, didn’t seem quite so angelic.
Attempting my utmost to wear the mask of indifference, I couldn’t help being reminded of John Alden delivering a similar message to Priscilla Mullens in behalf of the love-stricken but shy Miles Standish. As you no doubt remember (although it doesn’t matter if you don’t because I’m going to tell you now), the task was all the more difficult for John because he, too, was in love with Priscilla.
Like Priscilla I wanted to say, “Why don’t you speak for yourself, John?” but it would have only confused Becky for two reasons. One, she wasn’t harboring a hidden passion for me and, two, her name wasn’t John.
This development marked the end of C. J.’s career as advisor to the lovelorn. I returned to my daily routine of pining away for Becky while flunking typing.
The night of the homecoming dance I was home early. I had ple
nty of excuses for being there instead of the school dance. After all, wasn’t my dad the Baptist preacher? Where was I going to learn to dance? And if I did somehow clandestinely learn how to dance, why would I think I would be allowed to go to a dance? After all, we don’t dance, drink, or chew, or go with girls that do. But the main reason was that a guy who doesn’t have the nerve to tell a girl he likes her certainly isn’t going to have the nerve to ask her to a dance, particularly when he doesn’t even know how to dance. So, lay off, will ya? I was at home soon after we lost the football game, and that’s all I have to say about it.
I was sitting in the garage trying to figure out how to play “Honkytonk Woman” when an old F-150 pickup truck rolled to a stop in the driveway. I was in the middle of singing “She blew my nose” when Sonia climbed out. The words died, leaving the sound of the guitar amp buzzing loudly in the night. I almost didn’t recognize her. She wasn’t wearing any makeup, and she had a black eye that would have been visible even on Cassius Clay. A large bruise covered half of her forehead.
“I did it. I did it,” she said in a rush, running to me and handing me the truck keys and a set of cowboy boots. I had no idea what she had done and was too stunned to ask as I stood there, keys in one hand, boots in the other, and a beat-up pawnshop Silvertone hanging from my shoulder.
Sonia looked around distractedly and then seemed to realize all at once where she was. Her face crumpled from frenetic animation to hopeless despair, and she began to cry with such a piercing wail that I dropped the boots and keys. The garage door opened and Dad appeared. He took in the truck, the boots on the floor, and the weeping Sonia in an instant. He stepped into the garage in his stocking feet, something I had never seen him do, and guided her into the house by the shoulders.
I discarded the guitar, pocketed the keys, and took the boots to the truck. In the back I found a pile of shoes and boots, all evidently belonging to Parker. I threw the boots in with them and went into the house to see what was going on. Dad was in the wingback chair, leaning forward, elbows on his legs, hands clasped between his knees. Sonia was sitting in the middle of the couch on the edge of the seat, as if about to jump up and run off. Her orange dress was extremely short. There was barely enough of it available for her to sit on. She was in the process of giving a halting explanation, her shoulders shaking when she paused between phrases.
“He’s passed out. He’ll be out for a good while.” Mom walked in with a plastic bag of ice wrapped in a thin dishtowel. “Thanks,” Sonia said distractedly, and held the ice to her black eye gingerly.
“So, this isn’t the first time he’s done this?” Dad asked.
“No.” She suddenly stood up, dropping the ice and looking around like a hunted animal. “What will he do when he wakes up? What if he finds me here?” Then she noticed the bag of ice at her feet. “Oh, I’m sorry.” She crouched down to pick up the ice and wrap it in the towel again. She sat back down and pulled at her dress self-consciously, trying to cover at least some of her thighs. “I shouldn’t of come here.”
“Of course you should have come here,” Dad said. “The first thing we have to do is make sure you’re OK. Do you need to go to the hospital?”
“Oh, no.” She put the ice back up to her face. “It’s not that bad.”
“Good. Now, the next thing is, do you have a place to stay? You obviously can’t go back home. Can you go to your parent’s house?”
“My parents?” She seemed confused. “I don’t think so. They wouldn’t be any happier than him to find out I come here.”
“How about the Harmons’? You know them well, don’t you?”
At this suggestion Sonia became frantic. “Oh, no! I couldn’t go there!” She jumped up again, dropping the ice, and headed toward the door.
“Sonia,” Dad called as she rushed through the garage.
“Don’t worry.” I held up the keys. “She’s not going anywhere in that truck.”
Dad nodded at me, followed Sonia outside, and convinced her to come back in. She sat down on the arm of the couch, pulling at her skirt.
Dad stood next to her. “Sonia, I’m going to pray for you. You don’t have to do anything but just sit there.” He put his hand on her head. “Father,” he said in a quiet voice, “I ask you to surround Sonia with Your Holy Spirit, clear her mind of anxiety, and give her the peace that only comes from You.”
He took his hand off her head and smiled at her. “Why don’t you sit down in this chair?” he said, pointing to the wingback chair. She sat down in the chair; Dad sat on the couch.
“Have you talked to the Harmons since the wreck?” Dad asked. Sonia shook her head slowly, staring at him. Dad continued, “I have. You and Peggy grew up together, and they always thought of you as their fourth daughter.” Sonia nodded slowly, saying nothing. “They still do.”
Sonia never took her eyes from Dad. Tears welled up, coursing down her bruised face. Not wild, hysterical tears, but quiet, calm tears of some other kind. Pain? Sorrow? Relief? I wasn’t sure.
Dad stood and held the bag of ice out to Sonia. She took it.
“Why don’t you sit there and relax while I make a phone call.” Sonia nodded and Dad left the room. I stood there, still processing the transformation.
When he came back it had all been arranged. The Harmons picked up Sonia. Dad and I drove the F-150 to Fred Grocery and parked it on the side in plain view of the highway. Brown Watkins, the proprietor, agreed to hold the keys. We walked back home. I was a little curious.
“So, what happens when Parker wakes up?”
“He either calls somebody to give him a ride, or he walks barefoot in search of his truck. Either way, he’s bound to pass the grocery store.”
“And what happens when he finds out where Sonia is?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“There are two places in this world that Parker will never go. One is Peggy’s parents’ house.”
He didn’t have to tell me the other. The image of Mac, now in a wheelchair, was vivid in my mind. “So, is that the reason you picked the Harmons?”
He looked at me speculatively. “It’s one reason,” he said quietly.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN The next night was the first party at Mac’s house since the wreck. During his extended absence another couple had taken on the duties of the high school Sunday school class. They were better than Mac at the classroom part, actually making it interesting, something I thought was impossible. But Mac was irreplaceable as confidant to the confused.
When we arrived at the farm, Mac greeted us on the large porch that spanned three sides of the house. As I walked through the rooms, I was intrigued to see countertops lowered and ramps spanning the split levels between the sunken living room and the rest of the house. It was a little unnerving to see the pictures of Peggy and Kristen in their accustomed places. A few rectangles of the original wall color revealed that some pictures had been removed. I tried to remember what pictures had been there, but couldn’t place them. I looked around to see Mac watching me examine the gaps. Our eyes met for a brief but electrifying second, and then he wheeled away to the kitchen to direct the logistics of the cookout.
The unmistakable intensity of that look caused me to scan the room a second time. There were no pictures of Parker or Sonia anywhere. I seemed to recall some shots from fishing trips, vacations, even high school football shots. All gone. But my reflections were swallowed in all the activity of Frisbee, football and volleyball games, cooking, eating, and the languorous aftermath.
Somebody lit the bonfire and we sat around singing “Kumbaya” and “Pass It On.” Eventually the big group splintered into smaller conversations, and the singing disintegrated into Ralph trying to figure out the chords to “Stairway to Heaven” while Bubba tried to play “In-a-Gadda-Da-Vida” on a series of feed buckets, gas cans, and oil drums.
I sat on a telephone cable spool at the edge of the circle of light cast by the bonfire. Mac sat nearby, silently gazing into th
e ever-morphing shapes of the flames. We both chuckled as Ralph emitted an eerie laugh and Bubba joined him in screeching “Wipe Out.” We continued in silence as they attempted to cover the song on a cheap mail-order guitar and an assortment of farm implements.
Mac was the first to speak. “I hear tell Sonia has moved in with the Harmons.”
“Yeah.” I wasn’t surprised, even though the news was only twenty-four hours old. After all, he was close to his in-laws. Or were they former in-laws?
“I also hear she was beat up pretty bad.”
“Yeah, she had a black eye and some bruises.” We both continued to look into the fire.
Mac cleared his throat. “You know, I dated Sonia before I dated Peggy. I told her I loved her. I thought I was goin’ to marry her.”
Not only was this news to me, I couldn’t imagine why he was telling it to me. It was usually the other way around, us confiding the details of our lives to Mac. “No, I didn’t know that.”
“Yeah, but she dumped me and started datin’ . . . him.”
“Ah.” I didn’t know where this was going, but the role-reversal made me uncomfortable.
“Just before the Sadie Hawkins dance that year. Best thing that ever happened to me,” Mac said. We both sat in silence for a long time, then he turned his wheelchair and disappeared into the darkness toward the house.
On Sunday I asked Jolene about the dance. After Bubba’s debut as a fireman in drag, there was some question as to whether Jolene would survive long enough to go to the dance. Marianne loaned Jolene a dress and even ended up going with Bubba after all. It seems that Judy made so many jokes about him fighting the fire with a dress on that he broke the date. He asked Marianne, who accepted with surprising but gratifying enthusiasm. And, somehow, Bubba convinced Jolene to call a cease-fire for one date, so to everyone’s surprise, Turner was spared the trial-by-ordeal on his first date with Jolene.
Welcome to Fred (The Fred Books) Page 14
