Winning the City Redux

by Theodore Weesner

  SHALIMAR FANTASY BATH OIL

  Purchase in hand, in a tiny frosted bag as silver as the gift-wrapping, Dale returns along the street to the US Coney Island, to sit at an empty counter with a view of the street and within reach of a jukebox console where he can deposit coins if he likes. No music is playing in the diner just then with its scant half-dozen customers, solitary men, sitting over coffee, newspapers, staring away. On the wide street through the window, taxis and cars, trucks and buses are rolling by in both directions.

  SHALIMAR FANTASY BATH OIL

  Reaching to turn hard plastic pages offering song titles, Dale settles on three selections and makes his move of secretively feeding a coin and pressing letters and numbers. Three for a quarter. Looking to the street as his requests reach the bubbling technicolor mother ship against the rear wall, he wonders if the first song will be his decoy, or the one he wishes most in his heart to hear (something the kids at Walt Whitman would scorn) for the charge, like electricity, he knows it will raise in him.

  A lighted city bus passing out on the street appears to be entirely empty at that late evening hour. From on high, from the lighted red and yellow mother ship, there comes a clicking, a black 45 rpm settling into place, and Marty Robbins commencing to lament for the lonely customers, none of whom, Dale knows, would object or fail to understand:

  A white sport coat . . .

  And a pink carnation . . .

  Is his response any different from his father’s to I Fall to Pieces or Cold, Cold Heart Dale wonders as he sits gazing through a faint film coating his eyes. How apart is he from hillbilly life or the life of Little Missouri? Miss Furbish rescued him, and no matter her being old enough to be his mother, he knows all at once how enamored of her he is, and will be, on giving her a present.

  A white sport coat . . .

  He wonders if he’s in love with Miss Furbish? Is he? How else to put it?

  CHAPTER 15

  AT DAWN DALE MAKES HIS WAY TO SCHOOL WITH THE silver-wrapped gift in his gym bag, where it seems to him to be burning through the blue canvas. Hoping it won’t be tainted by smells of crusted socks or moldy towels, his plan is to arrive, remove the glittering little sack, deposit his bag in his gym locker, and have Miss Furbish to himself long enough, in homeroom, to make a presentation unseen by any other students.

  No such luck.

  He’s early but not early enough, as not only Zona Kaplan but another all-A apple-polisher, Gordon Sinclair, are at their desks, fingers and noses in their books, ears ever attentive. Noses attentive, too. For as Dale swings into his seat with the gift inside his jacket, Zona smirks around at him and says, “Are you wearing men’s cologne?”

  “Hey . . . don’t I always?” Dale can’t help snickering at the acute talent of Zona’s pretty nose, and adds, “You must be smelling your own bosom.”

  It’s the most daring thing he’s ever said to a girl, and the glance he receives from trim Zona, whose breasts have only begun to say hello, is—in the hay it appears to make with her—not unlike his earlier ‘immature’ charge. Rough and tough and hard to bluff, can’t get enough of that wonderful stuff! At the same time he knows he’ll have to find another occasion during which to present his gift, and he slips out and down the hall, to lock it once more inside his smelly gym locker.

  Returned to homeroom, scanning his loose-leaf notebook in the ‘preview exercise’ Miss Furbish taught them to follow every morning, Dale’s peripheral gaze remains on his Natalie Wood just then writing the day’s Word Power Challenge on the board. He reads the line of her side as she reaches to write, as well as a delicacy in the wrist wielding the chalk. As true as it may be that hormones gallop in adolescent boys, he remains confused over regarding Miss Furbish as what, a mother? a big sister? a friend? Or what she is: an adored teacher on whom he is developing a bewildering crush?

  # # #

  DURING LUNCH HOUR, hurrying to homeroom with his gym bag in hand, Dale discovers yet again that Miss Furbish has left the room. Having no idea where she goes for lunch, he realizes that he remains ignorant of her first name, despite this being his third year in junior high. All along she has been Miss Furbish, and that alone. He’s ignorant, too, of there having been, or being, any men in her life. A woman so trim and lovely would attract men, he allows (so far as he can imagine such activities among grownups) while she is to him now as she was in the beginning: an ever-prepared and attractive teacher whose affections and loyalties were directed to her students.

  Miss Furbish as, like, a girl? Sitting in homeroom sneaking glances, Dale imagines kissing her neck as he believes by now that she came close to kissing his. Kissing her lips. Unbuttoning the silken blouse covering her trim breasts. At the same time he finds it hard to imagine her . . . doing what, dancing with some man or holding hands like a girl? She may be a girl, but above all she remains on a higher plane, in Dale’s mind, as an adored teacher.

  # # #

  NOR DOES THE end of the day offer itself as a time to present his gift. Needing to scramble to the locker room to change for practice, he finds too many students and other teachers in the flow about her room and has no choice but to go on his way. A daring thought that seizes him when it comes to mind: After practice, after dark, carrying his bag, climbing the stairs to her apartment landing and tapping on her door.

  Would she object? Tell him to present his business at school? Or might she smile, accept the gift, say thank you so much? Maybe ask him in? No, she wouldn’t do that, he’s sure, still she might thank him again the next day in homeroom, if only by way of a private smile. What more could he ask than a smile just for him?

  Rough and tough and hard to bluff? Right. Him and James Dean.

  Occurring to Dale as well—as a motherless child, a virgin, a growing boy who has never danced with a girl (has never learned how)—is how little he knows of anything having to do with the opposite sex. Like, do girls like doing it? Does it feel as sensational to them as he knows it will to him? The prospect of doing it with a girl is so exciting it’s next to impossible to even think about without there occurring a growth near his leg like a branch wanting to sprout.

  What he wouldn’t give to do it with Miss Furbish, he thinks.

  Wow.

  CHAPTER 16

  DARK AND COOL EVENING AIR. DEW ON A WOODEN HANDRAIL. Under skylight lingering above, Dale makes his way up the shadowed stairway to the third-floor landing where—as much as he wants to peek into her lighted kitchen—he restrains himself. Pausing, more terrified than he had anticipated, he unzips his gym bag—the zipper seems as loud all of a sudden as an airplane, removes the silver bag holding the frosted package, and places his gym bag on the landing. On anxious breaths, he moves to the door, hesitates, then uses his knuckles quickly, before losing his nerve: knuk-knuk-knuk.

  Nothing.

  Still nothing, as he waits.

  He tries again: knuk-knuk-knuk.

  There comes movement, a silent shadow and the shadow holding, pausing. An uncertain voice: “Who is it?”

  “Dale Wheeler,” Dale gets out.

  Another pause. Then Miss Furbish says, “Dale, what is it you want?”

  “I have something to give you. A present.”

  “You have what?”

  “I have a present I want to give you.”

  Momentarily the door unlocks, opens several inches, and there in the vertical space is a slice of Miss Furbish, not looking pleased. “Dale, this is not appropriate . . . you shouldn’t be coming here,” she says.

  “It’s just a small gift.” He raises the silver package. Confused and disappointed by her disapproval, not knowing what to say, he offers nothing beyond a hopeful expression.

  As she opens the glass storm door several more inches, there exudes an aroma of the warmth of her life, joining her disapproval. “You shouldn’t be giving me gifts, certainly not here and at this time,” she says.

  He extends the small frosted package, doesn’t know what else to do.

  “Wh
at is it?”

  “Just a small present. To thank you for the other day.”

  “Dale, I’m your teacher . . . you don’t need to be giving me presents. When I help you . . . I’m only doing my job.”

  “Well . . . what you did meant a lot to me.”

  “What is this present?”

  “Well . . . it’s Shalimar Fantasy Bath Oil. That’s all.”

  As she is helpless against a spurt of laughter, so is he, as his eyes film over.

  “I hope you’re joking,” she says.

  He stands smiling, blinking, confused.

  “I shouldn’t have said that. You didn’t have to do this . . . you shouldn’t have,” she adds.

  Still holding the silver package, Dale says, “Aren’t you going to take it?”

  “I’m not sure. I’m trying to sort this out.”

  All the same she is smiling. “What kind of bath oil did you say?”

  “Shalimar Fantasy.”

  Having trouble containing herself, she averts her eyes, raises a hand to her mouth. “I’m sorry,” she says.

  “I guess it is funny. But that isn’t why I did it.”

  “I know . . . I know that.”

  “I did it because . . . I wanted to thank you for being nice to me when I lost it.”

  “Sorry for laughing. It’s just . . . it’s an intimate gift. Too intimate, really, for a student to be giving to a teacher. I appreciate your thoughtfulness, really . . . but when I helped you I was only doing my job as your teacher.”

  “I just like you . . . ” Dale tells her. “A lot,” he adds, feeling better. “Like love,” he says.

  There are Miss Furbish’s eyes. Then her words: “Dale, listen, I believe I know what you’re saying, and feeling. Still it isn’t appropriate for you to be doing what you’re doing. I don’t think I can accept your very thoughtful gift.”

  “You can’t?”

  “I know you don’t have a mother at home. I understand that you’re a lonely young boy . . . with your father working second shift. But what you’re feeling, I think, is loneliness.”

  “I think it’s more than that,” he tries to have her know.

  “I think I know what it is.”

  “I’ve thought about it a lot.”

  “Love . . . ” she starts, as if putting a Word Power Challenge on the board, before—on widening the door—she adds, “Come in for just one minute. So the entire neighborhood will not be monitoring my definition of love. Then you are going straight on your way. And taking your gift with you.” Her added words come in a half-whisper, as if someone is in fact listening.

  Within the warm space, door closed behind him, swept over by the temperature and aroma, there is Miss Furbish, stepping in on having closed the door, and Dale believe he loves her more than ever. “You can’t accept it?” he asks again, offering the package.

  “Dale, no, I can’t accept it,” she says. “It’s sweet of you. I’m sure I’d enjoy it. But it isn’t right for a teacher to accept a gift like this from a student. It’s too personal. What I would like you to do, is take it back to where you bought it, have your money returned, and understand that your thoughtfulness has been communicated, and appreciated.”

  Looking at her, Dale is at a loss for what to say.

  “You like me as your teacher . . . that pleases me a great deal,” she adds. “But it isn’t anything more than that. I know very well that we’ve done like and love on the board . . . I know you understand what I’m saying.”

  “I know what I feel.”

  “No matter what you may think you’re feeling . . . love is a more comprehensive emotion and has to be shared to exist. Has to be reciprocated or is merely an attraction that we call infatuation . . . which we’ve also examined on the board.”

  Looking to her eyes and face, withstanding an urge to embrace her smaller form, collapsing within to a degree, Dale utters, “When I lost it . . . when you pressed my shoulder . . . I realized you were a human being just like anyone else who has dreams, and feelings.”

  “Pressed what?”

  “Well, my shoulder. You pressed my shoulder. You cried a little.”

  Staring with eyes aghast, blushing as he has never seen her even hint at blushing, she appears either caught in a lie or falsely charged, is speechless, angered or, alas, maybe converted in a way by the strength of his argument.

  “That isn’t fair,” she says.

  “It’s true, though. How could I not like, care for you?”

  “I can’t believe you’re saying these things. Of course I care for you. It’s my job.”

  “No one’s ever touched me . . . I can’t tell you how much I liked it. I loved it.”

  Taking a breath, setting her jaw, taking on a task that any confrontational fourteen-year-old might present in class, Miss Furbish says to him directly, “Dale, you sit down here! You are going to listen to me! I am not going to stand for this.”

  CHAPTER 17

  DOING AS HE IS TOLD, DALE SENSES INTELLECTUAL INFERIORITY while sensing physical superiority over the small woman. He harbors some mental strength, knows, in his daring boldness, what he knows as a team leader, no matter her experience and intelligence. She more than anyone has taught him to know what he knows. So it is that adolescence has him sort of smiling at the creature who cares for him, as he cares for her, even—with a pointed finger—as she begins instructing, “I am not for one second going to have you believing what you’ve said! Or have you speaking to me in such a way . . . and don’t you smirk at me!”

  “I’m not . . . I’m smiling. Smirk and smile,” he dares to add, smiling all the more.

  He’s nailed her again, and on her own turf. Nor can she deny it, unable as she is to withhold a half-smile of her own. There is something magical to Dale in what is happening, in what she is saying, in how he can’t help smiling.

  Steeling her face, Miss Furbish appears to be containing a titter of her own. Struggling against letting go, she blurts added laughter. Remarks, “Okay, I am human! I have not laughed like this in some time! But I am not easy—and you are going to listen to me, young man, you can believe that!”

  “I’m sorry . . . I didn’t mean—”

  “Oh it’s not your fault. You’ve caught me at my own game . . . that’s what is funny.”

  “I nailed you twice,” Dale dares to say.

  “Stop it!” she tells him.

  “Pressing my shoulder . . . was one,” he adds through tears of confused love and joy.

  “Not another word, ever! about my pressing your shoulder! You are my pupil! Teachers do not press pupils’ shoulders!”

  Unable not to continue smiling, Dale says, “You did mine. Even if it was . . . in the heat of passion.”

  She explodes with laughter, while saying, “Enough! Listen, do not take advantage of me! You know very well that I was only trying to help you regain control of yourself.”

  “I don’t mean to take advantage. It’s just that it feels good to tease you.”

  “It doesn’t feel good to me. It feels humiliating.”

  “Isn’t it okay that I like you . . . that I want to give you a present for being nice to me when I lost it?”

  Miss Furbish pauses, speaks evenly. “Dale . . . I like you a lot . . . but we cannot be having this conversation.”

  “In class, you say to always know the truth, to always say the truth.”

  “Please . . . no more of what I say in class.”

  “I know the truth . . . but I don’t know if I should say it.”

  “I believe you already have.”

  “I like you. Like I would a girlfriend. That’s the truth.”

  “Enough girlfriend talk! That needs to end right now! Certainly I like you, have always liked you. As a student! Smirk and Smile, that was clever, I must admit. I know very well that I told you, early on, that you could think on your feet . . . and I meant it. Also, that I wanted you to recognize the truth and speak the truth! I meant that, too. But not in the way
you’re trying to turn the tables on me! Not one more word about love or girlfriends or anything else! Now or ever! Not as blackmail! I cannot believe I’m having this conversation with a student in my kitchen!”

  Dale returns her indulgent, if kind, smile. He is appreciating her willingness not to browbeat him like a teacher—which has never been her style in any case—but to treat him more like a grownup. “I can’t help teasing you,” he says.

  “Dale, what you’re doing—is crossing a line! Do you understand ‘crossing a line’? I cannot accept that gift! I am not going to accept that gift! It’s too personal, too intimate as a gift from a ninth-grader! It’s inappropriate! You are going to erase from your mind and your feelings all that you’ve said. I’m ‘human,’ that’s true. But when I tried to comfort you, even if I did press your shoulder, you know very well that it was in my role as a teacher and as one who cares for you as a pupil! To be candid, Dale, I felt profoundly sympathetic to your lonely status of not having a mother, of having a father who works second shift . . . of how shattered you were over the unfair exclusion from that team you had been made to suffer. I understood that your dream—a legitimate dream, to my mind—had been trampled! It broke my heart, as it was breaking yours, and I felt compelled to offer comfort to you as a pupil and as a friend. But that is all it was!”

  Miss Furbish pauses while, oddly, the strength of the emotion of rejection she is recalling brings another gloss to Dale’s eyes.

  “You were traumatized,” she has him know. “You still are. I know very well, believe me, how hard it is to get over something like that.”

  “I’m doing okay,” Dale tries to tell her, trying all at once, face down, not to have her see the gloss coating his eyes.