by Mick Foley
“He was killed in the battle of Antietam, the bloodiest day of the whole Civil War. It’s where I got my name. The North always referred to the battlefields according to the closest body of water, in this case Antietam Creek.” My voice was picking up steam. “The South used the names of the towns they fought near, which is why I am Antietam, and not Sharpsburg, Brown.” I then measured up Hanrahan, who now glared directly over me, looked up at his fuming face, and let my final words fly. “Look it up in your book—it’s called history. You. Dumb. Ignorant. Jerk!”
For just one single second, I owned that whole class. I heard quick sudden laughs, and I even heard cheers, undoubtedly from some who had just moments earlier been kissing some ass. Even the silence of Hanrahan’s goons was like the sweet sound of vengeance, and I savored its ring. And Terri Johnson, whose laugh had first paved the way for our friendship, laughed hardest of all. And then a sickening thud replaced all of those sounds, and I went down like a shot from a crushing blow to my cheek, delivered from the closest of ranges by the strongest of men.
“Andy,” Terri yelled, and she dove from her desk and cradled my head, which began streaming blood all over her hands. “Andy!”
The rest of the class just stared, even the football players, who seemed momentarily stunned by what had just transpired.
It was Hanrahan himself who broke the silence. “You little bastard, get out of this class. Take that redheaded bitch and get out of the class.” I looked up through my fast-closing eye, through the blood and the goofy glow that exists along that fine line between incoherence and consciousness. I briefly pictured Vinnie DelGratto as Hanrahan went to his knees, but it was Hanrahan’s voice that shook me out of my trance. “You son of a bitch, you get to your feet. You walk out of that door, and you don’t say a word!” Then he stood and admonished the class, “Not one of you will say a single word. Not a word. Understood? Because I run this school, and if I get a report that one of you, just one, saw a thing, I will personally guarantee that you will know pain. Got it?” The class did.
I staggered down the hall and outside, with only Terri’s arm and a good deal of guts to keep me up. “I’m okay, I’m okay,” I just kept repeating, as if sheer repetition would make me believe my own words. My eye was now swollen shut, and it throbbed with pain with each beat of my heart. Terri, I saw through my one decent eye, was streaked with blood; her white cashmere sweater had turned a soft pink. But the sight of her face in all its concern made me feel that my eye was an awfully small price to pay for all her attention.
“Andy,” she said, “I’m taking you home,” and we walked to her car, our two bodies as one. We stopped at her car and she opened the door. She helped me climb in, then it was out of the lot and down Broadhurst Road until the school’s visage was history, although the afternoon’s memories were still open and raw.
She weaved her way toward Elm, holding my hand between the shifting of gears. I watched her drive, a vision of loveliness with a look of concern. Like the thrill of victory and the agony of defeat all wrapped up in one beautiful package. And that thought made me wonder. If I could take it all back, would I? The whole lousy day. The wake-up, the report, the reading-out-loud, the punch. Would I take it all back? Not on your life. Not if it meant missing the chance to bond with my dad, to stick it to Hanrahan, and, most of all, not if it meant missing this drive. I looked once again at her ivory hand, the drying blood turning to rust, and then looked up to see her passing my street.
“Terri,” I said, “you just missed my house.”
“I know,” she replied, then she turned with a smile, let go of my hand, and shifted to fourth.
“But I thought that you were taking me home.”
“I am taking you home—my home.”
We pulled into her drive, to the estatelike manor with its lawn decked out in shrubs and bright vibrant mums of brilliant oranges and yellows. And pumpkins galore, all over the yard. I briefly thought of my father in all of his glory, and wondered if he thought the pumpkins were here just to screw with ol’ Tietam.
“Andy, one of these days I want you to meet my parents,” she said. “And one of these days, I want to meet your dad.”
“That would be awesome,” I said, although I instantly knew that “awesome” was probably not the best way of describing my feelings on the inevitable first meeting of Tietam and Terri.
I said, “Is your father home now?” and secretly thought, Oh please say no, oh please say no.
“Not today, no, both of them are at a meeting in Syracuse for the day.” She opened the door, grabbed my arm, and said, “That’s part of the reason that I brought you here now, big boy.”
Her house was immaculate, and seemed to ooze money. The kitchen was spotless. Gleaming white countertops and real marble floors. The luxurious living room stood in bold contrast to mine. A real Persian rug. The finest of furniture. And though I’m not a connoisseur of fine art, the paintings I knew must have cost a nice buck. Especially the black velvet Elvis that hung over the mantel. (Just kidding about that one.)
All of a sudden she became Florence Nightingale and cleaned up my wounds with sensitive hands, her mothering instincts clearly taking command. Next she went to the freezer and emptied two trays of ice cubes into a towel, which she put gently on my eye, telling me softly, “Just keep it there.” She declared me “all healed,” and then walked down the hall and emerged with a sweatshirt and a simple request. “Take that shirt off, Andy.”
Oh man, this was embarrassing. I wasn’t real big about changing in public, a fact that almost made me feel blessed that my hand exempted me from phys ed and those post-workout showers that allowed pecker-checkers to size up the competition. I thought of a Kinks song where Ray Davies looks in the mirror at his pigeon chest and has to put on his clothes because it makes him depressed. I didn’t really know what a pigeon chest was, but I was pretty sure I had one.
Thinking quickly, I said, “But it’s your dad’s shirt, won’t he miss it?”
She laughed, “It’s Winnie the Pooh. I got it three years ago for him, and he hasn’t worn it yet. Go ahead, put it on.”
I looked at Terri, who must have either read my mind or seen the fear written all over my face, and she said, “All right, all right, I’ll turn around. But one of these days you’re going to have to stop being so shy.” A pause, and then, “Come on, I’ll show you my room.”
“But won’t you be late for cheerleading practice?” I said. Yeah, thataway, Andy. Add to your league-leading average in the “bone-headed plays” category.
“No,” she said.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“How come?”
“Because I just quit.”
“You did . . .? When?”
“When I walked to the car with you, Andy.”
A sudden chill raced up my spine, and my legs nearly collapsed.
“You did that for me?”
“Yes, Andy, I did, for you and me both. That whole stupid team has given me nothing to cheer about. I’m just sorry I didn’t decide on it sooner.” She paused for a second, looking a bit sad, then looked up, gave a smile, and playfully said, “So my parents aren’t here, I have nowhere to go, I’m alone in my house with nothing to do . . . Andy . . . why don’t you . . . come to my room?”
Her room was a mixture of little-girl dreams and a teenager’s tastes, as if she’d gone to bed at five and woken up at seventeen, with no record of the years in between.
But the room’s centerpiece was the man in her life. No, not me, but Jesus himself, who was well represented throughout the whole Johnson house, but particularly here, where his presence was known in several ways. Not least of which was a cross over her bed, where it hung so the Savior was staring at me, as if to say, Don’t even think about it.
While I stared at the cross, Terri rummaged through her top dresser drawer and came out with a book that she handed to me.
“This is my diary, Andy. It’s got all of my t
houghts. I write things in here that I would never say in school, or even to my parents. No one’s ever seen it, except for you now. I want you to look at just this one page that I wrote as soon as I got home from the big dance. You remember that dance?”
“Not all that well. I wasn’t there long.”
“But I bet you could tell me all about Rambo, couldn’t you, Andy?” she said, and I put my head down and just shook it in shame.
“Andy?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m going to jump into the shower so I can clean off your blood—no offense—and while I’m in there, I want you to read what I wrote. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“But just that one page.”
“You got it.”
“I’ll be right out. Now ready, set, read.”
But I didn’t read then, at least not right away. Instead I thought of her saying “so I can clean off your blood” without even the slightest sign of revulsion. The shower turned on, and I heard her lightly step in and draw the curtain closed. I thought of that blood swirling around the drain—how absurd it was that Hanrahan’s hatred had yielded this special time. Then I looked at the diary.
Dear Diary,
What a disaster this whole evening was. The Superdance was a Superdud, and I spent most of my time dodging the football team and wishing Andy was here.
Andy, oh my Andy. Such a nice boy, but such a pain in the neck. I had such high hopes for this night, but Andy went to see Rambo and then I chased him away. Right at the end, before he walked out the door, I thought he might kiss me, like I wanted him to, but he just turned away and walked out that door.
It made me so sad, and for a second I thought that maybe it would be best if we didn’t go out anymore, because he cannot deal with the attention I bring, and he cannot understand that I’m not a big deal. I’m just a girl that wants to be kissed. By him.
But now as I write, I’ve never been so sure about anything as I am about him. He just needs some help, and I’m willing to give it. I may be the only one who really knows how.
And I have a gift that I want to give Andy. I think that he’ll love it, but he won’t get it for free. He’ll have to give up something of his own. Something he’s had all of his life.
Until tomorrow,
Terri.
I read that last part three or four times, until I felt like Burt Ward’s Robin in the old Batman show, trying to figure out riddles that Frank Gorshin’s Riddler had left. Then I smiled and thought back to my third Halloween when Auntie M had walked Johnny and Rachel and me, for that one night doubling as Batman, Batgirl, and Robin. How she’d yelled “Pow!” and “Bam!” at each opened door while us kids showed off our batfighting skills. “Pow!” “Bam!” “Boom!”
What kind of gift could she give that I’d love? Anything, actually, as long as it was from her. But what could she possibly want in return? Something I’d had all of my life? That narrowed it down, because I didn’t have much. Except for old Nat, and surely . . . Oh no, that must be it, she wanted my Nat King Cole, and as much as I liked her, or loved her, I guess, that album was more than an album to me. It was . . .
The door slowly opened, and Terri appeared, her wet auburn locks framing her face. Gone was the blood along with her makeup. And she shone with a beauty so natural and clean that I surely knew if she asked me for Nat I’d give it up quick, with no questions asked.
And the shirt she wore. Just a white long-sleeved shirt, but man it looked good. Unbuttoned down so I could just barely see a hint of ripe cleavage.
She sat on the bed so her bare legs touched mine, which I wished right away were not covered with jeans.
“Did you read it?” she said, and pointed her finger to the last paragraph, the one with the riddle.
“Yes, yes I did.”
“And what did you think?”
“Um well, I’m not sure I get it.”
She then placed the finger a little bit up and said, “How ’bout this?”
“What?”
“Did you read it?”
“I did.”
“And what did you think?”
My eyes focused in on the words by her finger, and my heart nearly dropped when the words got through to my brain. I opened my mouth to speak, but those eleven words, and the thought required to analyze them and make some small sense, was almost too much for me. I couldn’t be asked to think and then speak at the same time. It was sensory overload. So when I opened my mouth, not a whole lot came out. Just “Uuughh, ughhhmuh.”
“Andy.”
“Uughh.”
“Andy.”
Her hand, which had been in the harmless upper-knee area, had just swept to the right, and was now bordering on dangerous inner-thigh territory.
“Yes.”
“Read it to me.”
“Read it?”
“Yes, read it to me . . . please.”
I took a deep breath. Hoped for some strength and read. “I’m just a girl that wants to be kissed. By him.”
“Andy?”
“Yes?”
“I am.”
“You are? . . . What?”
“Just a girl . . . that wants to be—”
And then I was kissing her. A magic moment in time. When my body just acted, paying no heed to my mind. A kiss of such sweetness. I had to do it again. And my lips met hers, and pressed firmly ahead, and I opened my mouth, just ever so slightly, and our tongues gently touched, and performed a small dance, until her tongue won out and entered my mouth. In an instant, I knew, all my practice had paid off. I had kissed Terri and I knew . . . I . . . Was . . . Good.
She withdrew her tongue and pressed her forehead to mine, until our eyelashes touched. Kept it that way, then jokingly said, “See, that wasn’t so bad,” and then, “Andy, lay down.”
She took hold of my hand and gently pushed on my chest, easing me down on her tiny soft bed. With a sweep of her arm, she scattered stuffed animals, until just she and I were finally alone.
She straddled my torso and leaned slowly down, so that her small hint of cleavage came springing to life. I caught just a glimpse as she lowered her lips and bathed my wounded eye with her kisses. The swelling was huge but it hurt not a bit, her soft tender kisses were life’s best medicine.
Then she pulled back her hair and kissed at my neck, her tongue gently darting as she made her way to the place where an ear had once been. My cringe was involuntary, slight but still there, and she read the thoughts of my body and put them at ease. “It’s all right now, Andy,” she whispered into that stub, then she kissed it so gently while I softly whimpered. And then she rose in a wet blur of auburn and a swell of soft cleavage.
“Terri,” I said, in a voice so soft it sounded distant.
“Yes, Andy Brown.”
“This is the best.”
“The best what, Andy Brown?”
“The best . . . day of my life.”
“Andy?”
“Yes.”
“It’s about to get better.”
And with that my eyes grew as, one at a time, button by button, the cloth slowly gave way. And then the shirt parted and I just about died. “Oh Jesus Christ.” It just burst forth from my lips, the words out of my mouth before I could think that maybe her room wasn’t the appropriate place for that particular expression.
But Terri just smiled, and she looked down at me, then looked at her cross and put her hand on my mouth.
“Shh, shh,” she whispered, then said, “I think it’s okay with him if it’s okay with you.”
“Are you sure?” I said, and she nodded her head.
“Andy, does this feel wrong to you?”
“No, to tell you the truth, it feels pretty good.”
“It feels good to me, too.” She paused, then said, “I want you to touch me.”
“Touch you, touch you where?”
She took hold of my hand and, guiding the way, made an arc for her breast. And then there was contact.
&nbs
p; “Oh Jesus Christ.” In a chemical reaction that seemed inconceivable, in a period of time that can only be described as instantaneous, my whole body shook. My voice made little gasps, and my face made expressions that I wouldn’t want to see on video for a million dollars. Like that (snap of the fingers) I was done. All that planning, all that practice, all down the drain.
I then took on that look that all of us get. That look that we get at the exact moment that great pleasure runs smack-dab into even greater humiliation.
I looked up at Terri, who was smiling at me. A real smile, too, not just an “I’d better smile so he doesn’t feel even worse” smile.
She reached down and kissed my eye, my nose, my forehead. “It’s okay, it’s okay,” she said.
“Are you sure?” I asked, my vulnerability at a peak that mankind may never come remotely close to again.
“No, it’s not okay,” she said. My heart sank. Then she laughed. “It’s better than okay. It means you really like me . . . don’t you?” Then, before I could answer, she told me, “Come here,” and with a wave of her finger brought me up from my back so I sat up on the bed. “Come here,” she said again, and she eased my face into her bare breasts, and she rocked me like a child and placed kisses on my head. And those breasts, which only moments earlier had induced such a spasm, suddenly became the safest place in the world.
She drove me home at ten-fifteen. After having treated me to dinner at Friendly’s and a showing of Pee-wee’s Big Adventure at the previously unthinkable Seven Valley Twelve. No one died in this movie, and even if it didn’t offer the emotional wallop of Rambo’s “love us as much as we love it” closer, it was nice to see a movie without the soft-drink residue of a previous generation sticking to my soles.
No, on that night, the stickiness was right where it belonged, in my underwear, which I would later wad up and put in my small box of keepsakes as a rather odd souvenir of the most horrifying five seconds of my romantic career.
There in the darkness of the Seven Valley Twelve, life seemed to be pretty good: an ice pack on my face, a huge shiner on my eye, a hand inside my own, a warmth in my heart, and a load in my shorts.
