Yet still, he missed her. On Thursday of his first week at home, his mother retired early after a day of cooking and baking, all in preparation for the arrival of Charlie and his family on the following day. John sat at the kitchen table for some time, sketching off a faded photo of Buttons, the dachshund his father had brought home as a gift for Charlie’s ninth birthday. (His brother had tired of caring for the animal within the month, and primary responsibility for her upkeep had consequently fallen to John.) When his eyes began to burn, he moved to the study and browsed the books lined up there in neat, dusty rows.
Hours later, he laid in the same double bed he’d slept on as a child, surrounded by books that had failed to capture his attention. A glance at the clock revealed the extent of his insomnia: 2:12 AM. Gazing up at the ceiling, he did the math: it would only be twelve past eleven in California.
He rolled up out of bed and crept past his mother’s bedroom and back down the staircase. The phone in the hallway had a lengthy cord that allowed him to step around the corner and into the study with it; he shut the French doors carefully behind him and leaned with his back against the wall.
As the phone rang, he prayed he wouldn’t wake Meg’s parents. The last thing he wanted was for either of them to think poorly of him before he’d even had a chance to make a good first impression.
Thankfully, it was Meg who answered with a hushed hello.
“I didn’t wake you, did I?” he asked, unable to keep the smile from his face. Hearing her voice lifted an incredible weight from his shoulders, one he hadn’t even realized existed until it very quickly evaporated.
“I hoped it was you,” she replied. “And no, you didn’t wake me. I just got into bed.”
“You’re lying in bed right now?”
“I am, yes.”
Had her voice grown huskier, or was it just his imagination?
“What are you wearing?” he asked. He fought to keep his tone light, even though he felt strangled by the mere thought of her tangled in sheets that undoubtedly smelled as sweet as she did. He couldn’t be certain she still thought of him the way he thought of her.
“My nightgown,” she said.
John swallowed before dropping his voice an octave. “What about underneath your nightgown?” he countered.
“Nothing at all.” This time there was no mistaking the sultriness of her voice.
He shifted uncomfortably, crossing one ankle over the other. Clearing his throat he said, “There are plenty of directions I’d like to take this conversation, but I’d better not.”
“Why not?”
He chuckled as he slid a hand across the top of his head, shaking it in disbelief. “Because I’m not there, and you’re not here. I want to touch you, but I can’t.”
“I can touch myself though.” Her voice was so quiet as to be almost inaudible.
John felt the beginnings of an especially painful ache spreading from the base of his skull and wondered if it was possible for someone to have an aneurysm on the basis of unspent sexual frustration alone. “Yes,” he breathed. “You can.”
“I do sometimes, you know.”
He squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose. Envisioning her with her nightgown hiked up around her naked hips and her hand between her legs was nearly insufferable. “What do you think about when you touch yourself?” He sounded as if a noose had been tightened around his neck, compressing his windpipe.
“You,” she said without missing a beat. “In my mind, I replay all of the things we’ve done. Sometimes I add more to it.”
Dear God. “Like what?”
He heard her breath catch, and it brought a smile to his lips. “Come on, sweet Meg. You can’t get shy on me now.”
“Well. Instead of telling you, why don’t I just...show you? Next week, I mean.”
A quiet groan escaped him. “You’re killing me, sweetheart. Next week is an entire eternity away.”
She giggled. “It isn’t that long.”
“You have more faith than I do in my ability to last that long.” He took a deep, calming breath. “Fine,” he said. “Let’s talk about something else, then. What did you do today?”
She laughed lightly, whether at the desperation in his voice or the sudden turn in conversation he couldn’t be sure. “Tuesdays and Thursdays are my days to volunteer at the library. I spent the morning in Reference and then helped out with story hour in the afternoon.”
“Story hour?” he asked.
“For the grade school kids,” she explained. “Today we read Bread and Jam for Frances and Lonely Veronica.”
“Why is Veronica lonely?” he asked.
“She’s a hippopotamus, and she’s stuck at the top of a skyscraper.”
“Jesus, that’s tragic. I hope it has a happy ending.”
“It does,” Meg replied. He could hear the smile in her voice.
“Thank God. Don’t tell me how it ends, though, in case I ever get to read it myself.”
Again she softly laughed, and John closed his eyes and let his head rest against the wall behind him, soaking in the divine melody of it.
* * *
“Me next! Me next!” Teresa flapped her small, chubby arms enthusiastically as John returned a giggling Bonnie to the safety of the leaf-strewn ground. Laughing, he scooped her up and settled her on top of his shoulders.
“Ready?” he called.
“Ready!” she called back (although in truth it sounded more like “weady”).
John positioned himself at the foot of the colossal mound of leaves he’d raked just that morning and fell carefully backward, taking his squirming, shrieking niece down with him.
“Again!” she cried as she scrambled on all fours back toward the grass.
“Why don’t we go inside for a bit and give Uncle Jack a break?” called out a voice from behind them. They turned to find Linda shuffling toward them from the grass, clutching her sweater clad arms around her midsection in an effort to ward off the unseasonably frosty evening air.
“You’re not tired, are you?” asked Bonnie, whirling around to pin John with her scrutinizing gaze.
John chuckled. “You’d better do as your mom says. We can jump in the leaves more later.”
“That’s right,” Linda agreed. “And besides, Grandma made muffins - she just pulled them out of the oven.”
“Are they the chocolate chip kind?” Teresa wailed.
“Yes, baby, they’re chocolate chip.”
Both girls whooped with glee before sprinting off toward the house, John and the leaves all but forgotten. He laughed as he watched them go; a moment passed before he realized Linda’s gaze was trained on him. She was smiling with her eyes, but the expression didn’t quite reach her lips.
“You look cold,” he said.
Her breath fogged the air as it escaped her in a rushing huff of a laugh. “I’m always getting on my girls for not putting on their jackets before they go outside, and yet here I am misbehaving.”
He offered her his arm, and she huddled close, tucking her small, feminine forearm behind his elbow. “I always did think you’d make a wonderful father, you know,” Linda said.
John glanced down to find her gaze fixed straight ahead. She contritely dipped her head, evidently fearful that she’d overstepped her bounds. Years had passed since he first broke the news to his family that he and Catherine were unable to conceive a baby, and yet still they tiptoed around the subject, handling him like some fragile object. For many, many months he’d more or less scoffed at their too-cautious treatment of the situation. Recently, though, he’d come to mourn this loss in ways that were new and largely unexpected.
“Thank you,” he replied, his voice thickened with unforeseen emotion.
“My daughters are crazy about you,” said Linda. Laughing, she added, “I’m sure after we leave here, you’re all they’ll talk about for at least a couple of days.”
“I’m crazy about them, too. You and Charlie have done a great job
with them.”
“A great job with who?”
They glanced up at John’s brother, who had appeared on the side porch, wielding a pair of tongs and a platter of chicken cutlets.
“None of your business, nosy,” joked Linda. She let go of John’s arm to slip past her husband, raising onto her tiptoes to kiss his cheek before disappearing into the house.
“I’ve been tasked with throwing this chicken on the grill,” said Charlie. “Why don’t you grab yourself a cold one and come help?”
“I’ll be right there,” John agreed.
Inside, he squeezed Teresa’s shoulder and ruffled Bonnie’s hair as he passed them to pluck a beer from the refrigerator. Teresa’s face was already smeared with chocolate from the muffin she held in her pudgy hands.
“Take this out to your brother, will you, Jack?” asked his mother. She proffered a bowl of marinade with a brush, and John nodded his agreement.
Charlie was lifting the last of the chicken onto the metal grate when John walked back outside; he accepted the marinade with a passing nod. “So Mom tells me you’ve got a month of leave,” he said.
“Just about,” John replied before taking a pull of his beer. “Twenty-two days, to be exact.”
“And you’re flying back to California next week?”
“That’s right.”
“Why?” his brother asked as he replaced the domed lid on the grill. “What’s in California? Besides sunshine and beaches, I mean.”
John weighed his words carefully before responding; he couldn’t decide how much he wanted to reveal. Finally opting for at least a part of the truth, he replied, “A girl.”
Charlie raised an eyebrow. “Oh I see.” He pursed his lips and rocked back on his heels. “Is it serious?”
John shrugged. “The way I feel about her is.” He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “I haven’t asked her to marry me or anything like that, though, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Are you planning to?”
“Planning to what?”
“Ask her,” said Charlie. “To marry you.”
“Oh. No. I’m not.”
“Why not?”
He shifted uneasily; this wasn’t the line of questioning he’d expected from his typically reticent brother. Idly he wondered whether their mother had put him up to it.
“Because, Charlie.” He softened his voice. “I’m going to Vietnam. As much as no one seems to want to talk about it, that’s what’s happening. I’m not going to tie her down when you know as well as I do that I might not come back.” Glancing away, he added, “She’s too young to be a widow.”
Charlie was struck momentarily silent. Finally: “Jesus, Jack. You can’t talk like that.”
John stroked his temples with his left thumb and forefinger. “Not you, too,” he murmured. His sigh was one of fatigue. “Can we go for one second without pretending like nothing could happen over there?” he asked gently.
Charlie nodded slowly. “OK,” he breathed. “All right, Jack. Let’s just say for the sake of argument that something does happen - God forbid. You think not being married is going to help this girl hurt any less?”
“At least it won’t be her responsibility,” John muttered. He cleared his throat and shook his head to empty his baleful thoughts. “Anyway, what gives?” he asked. “Is there a particular reason you feel so strongly about me proposing to a woman you’ve never even met?”
Charlie shrugged. “I’d just like to see you give it another shot, that’s all. I know things weren’t so hot between you and Catherine there at the end, but none of us has ever questioned that you’d make a wonderful husband to the right woman.”
John smiled; he clapped a hand on his brother’s shoulder, appreciating that, as usual, his heart was in the right place.
* * *
One week later, John hugged his mother and his sister, both of whom were quite obviously on the verge of hysteria. It helped him knowing they would be strong for each other in his absence.
Then he boarded his flight to LAX. He boarded his flight to Meg.
Chapter 12
Meg sat forward in her seat, smoothing the palms of her hands over her skirt as she watched Pan Am flight 1610 taxi toward the gate. She stood on impulse and strode over to the window. Pressing her hands to the glass, she wondered if John could see her through one of the small acrylic rectangles along the airplane’s smooth metallic flank.
The stewardess propped open the door, and moments later, passengers emptied from the belly of the aircraft and started to appear at the top of the gangway. Meg stood still, watching as several business types walked swiftly past, carrying their briefcases and their suit jackets.
She couldn’t be sure how many strangers filed past her, but it felt like plenty more than a hundred. The steady flux reduced to a trickle as the crowd thinned, and she became increasingly aware of the tightness that had gathered in her chest. What if he hadn’t made it?
An elderly man in a tweed coat emerged - a man with thinning hair and a spine that had curled with age like the corners of an old photo. Meg guessed he was at least eighty years old. She stretched onto her tiptoes to peer behind him and nearly toppled over when John appeared at his back.
Time stood still as she cataloged each of his features, one by one. From here he looked unchanged from the last time she’d seen him, save for the fact that his hair was now cropped close to his head: still impossibly, surreally handsome. He grinned down at the old man, and Meg felt the corners of her own mouth lift in witnessing it.
Only after a long moment of euphoric gawking did she notice the luggage. On one shoulder John wore an oversized duffle; in his opposite hand he carried an enormous leather suitcase. Meg jerked out of her reverie and moved toward him automatically, determined to lend a hand.
She felt the moment when he noticed her, even without looking. A tidal wave crashed over her like an electromagnetic pulse, subatomic particles colliding and coalescing to form shatterproof bonds that shrank as they cooled, pulling them closer together. In one fluid movement, John stooped to deposit the suitcase and swing the duffel onto the floor. He rushed forward, his arms outstretched, and she vaulted into them before wrapping her legs snugly around his waist.
They didn’t kiss - not at first. Kissing precluded looking, and looking was priority number one. Suddenly four and a half months had a way of seeming closer to four and a half years.
Eventually (likely only seconds later, but who can know for sure?), their lips met. They kept it chaste, still remotely aware of their surroundings, but even the limited duration was powerless to dampen the sweetness of it.
John helped Meg to her feet before reaching up to hold her face in his hands. “You have no idea how much I’ve missed you,” he whispered. “Words can’t express...”
Before she could respond, he turned and gestured to the man in the tweed coat, who was looking between the two of them with an appreciative grin. “Meg, I’d like you to meet Dr. William Durant. He’s a pathologist at UCLA’s medical school. I had the good fortune of being seated next to him on the flight from Houston.” He slid his hand to the small of her back before turning to the cherubic man beside him. “Will, this would be the delightful Margaret Lowry.”
“I’m so pleased to meet you,” he said in a quiet but dignified voice as he cupped Meg’s hands in his own. She bowed her head closer to better hear him. “It does this old man’s heart good to see young love reunited. Reminds me of my late wife, God rest her soul. Evelyn was her name - though I always called her Evie.”
“Nice meeting you as well,” said Meg with her kindest smile. John’s grip tightened around her waist, and she placed her hand over his.
“You’re every bit as beautiful as he said you’d be,” added Dr. Durant with a conspiratorial wink. Meg beamed up at John as he pulled her yet closer.
They walked through the crowded airport together, a mismatched trio. When they reached the outside curb, Dr. Durant waved at a bla
ck car as it pulled up next to the door. A uniformed driver climbed out from behind the wheel and took the big, leather suitcase from John. As he went to place it in the trunk, the professor turned to shake John’s hand and kiss the back of Meg’s. “Thank you for your help, son,” he said. “And thank you for your service.”
“I’m glad to have met you, Will. Take care.”
The old man touched his forehead, doffing an invisible cap, then sank into the dark leather interior of the car. It rolled away from the curb, and John took a step forward, positioning himself in front of Meg so he could look at her full-on. His giddiness was evident in the infectious smile that worked over his full lips and crinkled his bright eyes. Passersby might have found them strange, standing amid the bustle on such a crowded sidewalk, grinning stupidly at one another without exchanging words.
“Should we go?” asked Meg.
“Wherever you want,” he agreed.
Meg’s car was parked on the third level of the parking garage, a gleaming off-white with the top rolled down to reveal tan leather seats. She heard John’s footsteps cease behind her as she approached the car, and she cringed out of embarrassment. “What?” she asked a little defensively as she peered back at him.
“This is your car?” he asked, his eyebrows raised.
“Yes,” she replied.
“You have a Karmann Ghia?”
“So it would appear.”
He laughed once, incredulous. “Mind if I drive?”
“Be my guest,” she said, tossing him the keys.
* * *
The wind was a touch on the chilly side, but they drove the distance to Santa Monica with the top down anyway, while Buffalo Springfield and The Dells poured from the radio and the palm trees on Lincoln Boulevard waved their fronds at the passing traffic.
It was just after three when they pulled into the driveway at Meg’s house. Her father was at work still, of course, and Irene’s Thunderbird was absent as well.
Even after John cut the ignition, Meg remained in her seat for most of a minute. It was otherworldly, this feeling she had - there was no other word for it. Having him here, in the place where she’d grown up. She looked from him to the house and back again, trying to make the pieces fit together in her mind.
Seventh Wonder Page 17
