Sweet Memories

by LaVyrle Spencer

  Beneath the table his calf found hers and rubbed it reassuringly. He closed his ankles around one of hers and stopped the hand that had been pushing her fork in circles. She looked up at him.

  “I’m sorry.”

  She laid her hand atop his. “Don’t be. Something quite wonderful came about because of it.” Wonder showed in her face. “Daddy. Would you believe he finally stood up to mother?”

  “Willard?” Brian asked in surprise.

  “Willard,” she confirmed, still with the amazed expression on her face. “He shouted ‘Margaret, that’s enough’ and ... and ...” Theresa had great difficulty not smirking. “And hauled her off to the bedroom, slammed the door, and the next time I saw them she was calling him Will, and the two of them were cooing like mourning doves. That was the end of Mother’s resistance.”

  Brian dropped his fork with a clatter, threw his hands in the air and praised, “Hallelujah!”

  They were still chuckling about it when they returned to the mall. They continued their stroll past The Classic Jewelers, stock-brokerage houses, Straus Drugs and so to the far north end where they discovered the Fargo Theater with its vintage art deco marquee announcing that Charlie Chaplin was playing tonight in The Bank.

  “Do you like the silent movies?” Brian asked hopefully.

  “Love ’em.” She grinned up at him.

  “Whaddya say, should we give old Charlie a try tonight?”

  “Oh, I’d love to.”

  “It’s a date.” He squeezed her hand, then led her across the street and they started back along the “Minnesota” side of the mall, reading the town names, peering in store windows. In one called Mr. T’s, a bridal gown was displayed. Without realizing it, Theresa’s feet stopped moving, and she stared at the mannequin. The sight of the white gown and veil, symbols of purity, brought to mind the coming night, the choice she had to make. She thought about other men she might meet in her life, the one she might possibly marry, and what he would think if she did not come to him as a virgin. But she found it impossible to imagine herself being intimate with any man but Brian.

  While Theresa gazed at the bridal gown, two young men passed along the sidewalk. Brian watched their eyes assess her breasts—blatantly, neither of them trying to disguise their fascination. Their heads swiveled, gazes lingering as they drew alongside, then passed her. When they moved on, one of them must have made a lewd comment, for he did a little hip-swinging jive step while patting his thighs, then his companion laughed.

  Brian was at first angry. Then he found himself assessing her breasts as a stranger would, and found, to his chagrin, that he was slightly embarrassed. Guilt followed immediately. He fought to submerge it, studying the back of Theresa’s head as she gazed up innocently at the window display. But as they moved on up the mall, he was conscious of the eyes of each man they met. Without exception, they all dropped to Theresa’s breasts, and Brian’s discomfort grew.

  Scanlon, you’re a hypocrite. The thought was distinctly nettlesome, so he hooked an arm around Theresa’s neck, settled her against his hip as they ambled back to the car, and when they reached it, he gave her a tender kiss of apology. Her hands rested on his chest. When she opened her eyes they held a dreamy expression, and he felt small and unworthy for a moment, realizing how hurt she’d be if she suspected he’d been embarrassed over her generous endowment. He traced the outline of her lips with a single finger and said softly, “What do you say we get away from people for a while?”

  “I thought you’d never ask.”

  He smiled, kissed her nose, settled her inside, then started the engine. They crossed the river into Moorhead, drove out onto the blacktop highway heading east, then left it behind to wander the back roads between green woods, brown fields and blue ponds where ducks and blackbirds nested. Spring was burgeoning all around them. They felt it in the renewed warmth of the sun, smelled it in the damp earth, heard it as the sound of wildlife lifted through the air.

  They discovered the lush wilds of the Buffalo River where it surged under a culvert beneath their gravel road. Brian pulled to the side, turned off the engine and invited, “Let’s walk.” She slipped her hand into his with a glad heart, letting him lead her down the steep bank to the dappled woods, where they picked their way aimlessly along the surging spring-swelled waters that rumbled southward. The river sang to them. The tangled roots of a long-fallen tree stood silver in their path. Brian led the way along the massive trunk to a spot where he could mount it, then reached down and helped Theresa up beside him. He walked the weathered trunk to its highest point, with her right behind him. Now the river flowed at their feet. A fish leaped. A trio of sparrows darted from the underbrush to the tangled roots of their tree. From far away a crow scolded. Everything smelled fecund, growing, renewed. From behind, Theresa lightly rested her hands on Brian’s hips. He remained as before, unmoving, imbibing, gathering sweet memories. His hands covered hers, drew them firmly around his belt, and his arms covered hers while she pressed her cheek and breasts against his firm, warm back. A blue jay carped from a loblolly pine, and the sun shimmered on the forest floor through the partially sprouted leaves of the surrounding trees. Against Brian’s back Theresa’s heart thrummed steadily. His palms rubbed her arms, which were warm with gathered sunshine.

  “Ahh ...” he sighed, tilted his head back, said no more.

  She kissed the center of his back. It was enough.

  In time they moved on through the gold-and-green afternoon. As they ambled, they caught up on the past three months. Brian had stories about Jeff and air-force rigors, the band, the music they’d been working on. Theresa had anecdotes about life with a teenage sister, incidents from school, plans for spring concerts.

  But none of it mattered. Only being together had meaning for them.

  They found a nest with three speckled eggs, built in the reeds where the river backwashed and bent. They turned back as the afternoon waned and hunger imposed its demands. They kissed in a basswood grove, then climbed the pebbled bank again and settled into the car for the ride back to town. At their doors in the motel Brian said, “I’ll pick you up at your place in half an hour.” A quick kiss and they parted.

  Chapter Eleven

  THE KNOCK AT HER DOOR announced a freshly showered and shaved Brian dressed in tight tan jeans, an open-collared shirt of pale tan-blue-white plaid, and a lightweight sport coat the color of an almond shell. She took one look and felt her mouth watering.

  “Wow,” she breathed.

  He smiled guilelessly, looking down at himself and said, “Oh yeah?” Then he closed the door, eased his hips back against it, crossed his arms and grinned. “Come over here and say that, Brubaker.”

  She felt herself blushing, but swung away teasingly. “I’m not one of your groupies, Scanlon.”

  She was securing the latch of a trim gold bracelet when his strong hands closed over her wrists, dragging them around his neck. His eyes, ardent and determined, blazed into hers. “God, there are times when I wish you were.” His mouth was warm, open and moist as it marauded hers. He swirled his tongue around her freshly applied lipstick, then delved brashly inside to stroke her teeth until they opened at his command. His tongue probed rhythmically in and out of her mouth, suggesting what was on his mind. He tasted of freshly brushed teeth and smelled like chrysanthemums and sage—not flowery, but spicy clean. He pulled back suddenly, leaving no question about the price he was paying for control. His stormy eyes sought and held hers. Then the storm cleared, he relaxed. His thumbs, still at her wrists, stroked lightly. Now it was his turn to declare breathily, “Wow.”

  Theresa’s heart proved what a healthy, red-blooded twenty-five-year-old virgin she was. She was certain he could see it lifting the bodice of her blouse. She whispered thickly, “Let’s go see what Charlie’s up to.”

  At the Fargo Theater they were treated to a sensational performance by a local member of the American Theater Organ Society on an immense and wondrous pipe organ that rose out
of the floor on a pneumatic lift. They sat in the balcony, because it was a dying species they’d have few more chances to experience. Theresa learned how readily Brian laughed at slapstick. While the organist tickled out an accompaniment, Charlie Chaplin duckwalked down a city street in his oversize shoes and baggy pants, went three times around a revolving door, then spent arduous moments whirling the dials of an imposing-looking vault. Brian snickered, slunk low in his seat. The vault door swung open and the lovable Charlie disappeared inside to return with his precious deposit: a scrub pail, mop and janitor’s uniform. Brian rolled his head backward and hooted with full throat while Theresa’s heart warmed more to the man beside her than to the one on the screen.

  The organ created a musical echo of Charlie’s misfortunes in leaving flowers for the black-eyed Edna Purviance, only to have the damsel believe they were a gift from the bank clerk named Charlie. When skulduggery started, the organ rumbled dramatically, creating vibrations through the theater seats. Beside her, Brian slumped low in his seat, trembling melodramatically, tossing his popcorn in the air when the heroine was tied and gagged, stamping and cheering when Chaplin came to her rescue, boo-hooing when the poor unfortunate bank custodian was left awakening from a dream, petting the rags of his floor mop instead of the waves of the damsel’s head.

  When the film ended and they returned to the street, Brian performed a superb imitation of Chaplin, knees crooked outward, shoulders rolling with his peculiar gait while he scratched his head with stiff fingers and made a vain attempt to open the door of the wrong car. He gave a Chaplinesque flap of the hands, looked around, dismayed, sad-eyed.

  How easy it was for Theresa to gasp and clasp her hands before her, distraught at misfortune. She ran jerkily to her car, flung the door open, then stood on the pavement with eyes rolled heavenward in invitation.

  Charlie Scanlon duckwalked to her, shyly studied his feet, swept into a clumsy bow, then waved her inside. She interlaced her fingers, simpered, then got in.

  Brian made a swipe at the open door, missed, spun in a circle, missed again, spun another circle and finally connected with the difficult door and managed to slam it.

  When he climbed in beside her and squeezed the invisible bulb of a horn and made a flatulent-sounding “T-o-o-t” out the side of his mouth, they wilted with laughter. In time they grew too weak to continue. Then they looked at each other in silent discovery.

  They ate an Italian supper at a place chosen at random, reminiscing about old movies, but always thinking about the end of the evening ahead. Would it bring good night or good morning?

  Laughter was gone when they walked slowly, slowly down the hall to their doors. They stopped dead center between 106 and 108.

  “Can I come in?” he asked quietly at last.

  She met his searching eyes, feeling the awesome tugs of carnality and denial warping her heart. She remembered her mother’s words, the bridal gown in the window. She touched his chest lightly. “Will you understand how hard it is for me that I have to answer no?”

  His hands hung loosely at his sides. He sucked in a huge gulp of air, dropped his head down as his eyes closed, then braced both hands tiredly on his hips and studied the toes of his brown boots.

  She felt childish and unworthy. Tears began to burn her eyelids.

  He saw and pulled her close, resting his chin against her hair. Though his body rested only lightly against hers, she was close enough to know that her nearness and this compulsion they both controlled so closely had aroused him. “I’m sorry, sweets,” he whispered. “You’re right and I’m wrong. But that doesn’t make it any easier.”

  “Kiss me, Brian,” she begged.

  He took her head in both hands and tipped her face up for a deep, hungering kiss. But the pressure of his hands on her jaw and ears told of where he wanted those hands to be. And she clung to his wrists—the safest place—feeling beneath one thumb the surging rhythm of his pulse. They drew apart, troubled eyes clinging.

  “Good night,” he said raggedly.

  “Good night,” came her unsure reply.

  Neither of them slept well, they confessed over breakfast. The day lolled before them; its hours would be too short, no matter how they were spent. Yet when considered in the light of their denial, those same hours seemed infinite. They browsed through West Acres Shopping Center, ate lunch in a McDonald’s because their stomachs demanded filling, but neither of them cared the least about food. They roamed the green hills of Island Park and sat in its gazebo watching a group of children playing softball across the expanse of green grass. They had supper in the motel dining room, and afterward wandered into the casino where new laws allowed gambling with a two-dollar limit. But while Brian sat at a table playing blackjack, a man with sleek black hair, wearing an expensive silk suit, sidled up to Theresa, gave her a blatant visual assessment, slipped his hands to her hips and whispered in her ear, “You alone, baby?”

  It happened so fast Theresa hadn’t time to react until the cloying scent of his after-shave seemed to plug her nostrils, and his wandering hands registered their insult.

  Suddenly Brian interceded. “Get your hands off her, buddy,” he growled, jerking the man’s arm, spinning him away from Theresa, whose stunned eyes were wide and alarmed.

  The man’s eyes narrowed dangerously, then eased as lascivious speculation crossed his features. He pulled free of Brian’s hand, shrugged his shoulder to right the expensive suit jacket, and his eyes roved once over Theresa’s breasts. “Can’t say I blame you, fella. If those were mine for the night, I wouldn’t be too quick to share ’em either.”

  Theresa saw the muscles bunch in Brian’s jaw. His fists clenched.

  “Don’t, Brian!” She stepped between the two men, facing Brian, gripping his arm in an effort to turn him away. “He’s not worth it,” she pleaded. His arm remained steeled. “Please!” she whispered.

  But Brian’s livid face scarcely registered if he’d heard. He moved with mechanical deliberation, reaching down without looking to grasp Theresa’s hand and remove it from his jacket. Then slowly, menacingly he clutched the man’s lapels, lifting until his toes scarcely touched the carpet.

  “You will apologize to the lady right now,” Brian ground out, “or your teeth will be biting your own ass, from the inside out.” Brian’s voice was chilling as he held the stranger aloft, nose to nose.

  “Okay, okay. Sorry, lady, I didn’t know—”

  Brian jerked him up another inch. Stitches popped on the expensive jacket. “You call that an apology, sucker? See if you can’t do better.”

  The man’s eyes were bugging. Sweat erupted on his sheeny forehead and beneath his lizard-like nose. “I ... I’m really sorry, m ... miss. I’d like to b ... buy you both a drink if you’d let me.”

  Brian slammed him back down to the floor, released his lapels distastefully while shoving the unpalatable intruder back until he stumbled against a table. “Pour your goddamn drinks in your pants, buddy. Maybe it’ll cool you off.” He turned. “Let’s get out of here, Theresa.” His fingers were like brands as he led her by an arm to the casino door, then out into the carpeted hall. She felt his hand trembling on her elbow and had to run to keep up with him. Wordlessly he turned down the hall to their rooms and was fishing in his trousers pocket for the key even before they reached their destination. When he leaned to insert the key into 108, there was no question of where he expected her to go. The door swung back and he found her hand, leading her inside. There followed a solid thud, then they were ensconced in a world of unbroken black. His arms closed convulsively around her, his body pressed close, sheltering, rocking her as he spoke gruffly against her hair. “I’m sorry, sweets, God, I’m so sorry.”

  “Brian, it’s all right.” But she was still shaken and vulnerable and, now that it was over, felt like crying. But his protection eradicated the sudden need for tears. His arms had strength she’d never suspected. They clamped her so hard her back hurt as he bent it in a bow.

  “Go
d, I wanted to kill him!” Brian’s fingers dug into her flesh, just below and behind her armpits, and she winced, lifting her hands instinctively to press against his chest.

  “Brian, it doesn’t matter ... please, you’re hurting me.”

  The pressure fell away. He jerked as if shot. “I’m sorry ... I’m sorry ... sorry ...” The voice was pained in the darkness, then his hands were gentle on her, finding her face in the inkiness, fingertips caressing her temples, then sliding into her hair as his mouth sought hers. “Theresa ... Theresa ...” he muttered, then circled her again with his arms. “I’d never hurt you, but I want you, you know that. God, I’m no better than him,” Brian finished miserably, then took her mouth with an abandon that sent tongues of fire licking down her stomach. His hands left her back and roamed up her sides, pressing hard, too hard, as if it were compulsion he was trying to fight. She clung, unwilling to stop him yet, blessing the darkness.

  His caress trailed down over her small waist, took measure of her hipbones, then traveled with uniform pressure down her buttocks, cupping them, pulling her up and inward against his tormented body. Along her sides his warm hands moved, compressing the swelling sides of her breasts until all else ceased to matter but that she know more of the treasured warmth of his palms upon them.

  In the dense blackness she felt herself swept off the floor. Her arms instinctively encircled Brian’s neck. In four steps he reached the bed and set her upon it, then joined her.

  “Brian, we should stop ... ” she whispered against his mouth.

  His tongue drove deep once more, then he softly nipped her lips. “We’ll stop whenever you say.” His kiss made dissent impossible, and then so did his touch. He covered her breasts with both wide palms, pressing down hard and flat and firm, for she lay with her torso precisely aligned with his. He found her hand in the dark, clamped his fingers over the back of it, carried it to his mouth and bit the outer edge, then turned its palm against her own breast. “Feel,” he whispered fiercely, rolling aside. The nipple was distended. Even through her bra and summer sweater she could feel it. “Let me touch it too.” Again he kissed her hand, then placed it on his ribs. “Let me teach you how good it can feel.”