Original Love

by J. J. Murray

  “Instead of drawing another dreary still life of vases and plastic fruit,” Mr. Nearing continued, “we will be drawing real life, such as it is, in Hecksher Park.”

  Bundled up, sketchbooks in hand, the class took a short walk to Hecksher Park, home to pavilions, ducks, a band shell, and a motionless green pond.

  “Not exactly Walden Pond is it?” Mr. Nearing said as they gathered in the pavilion.

  “Why can’t we use watercolors?” Ebony asked him.

  “In time, in time, Miss Ebony.” He smiled. “This bitter March wind would freeze your work. Better to sketch now what you will highlight tomorrow in a warm room.”

  “My fingers are too tired to sketch, Peter,” she whispered as they wandered down a path to a bench. “I must have taken a million notes today.”

  They sat on opposite ends of the bench, dappled sunlight floating over them. “What are you going to draw?” Peter whispered.

  “None-yun,” she said, using her word for “none of your business.”

  Peter looked out at the pond. Few ducks parted the scum on the pond, and they’d be too far away to sketch properly. The pavilion looked interesting with its boulders for walls and circular roof, but it, too, was too far away to capture all its details. He glanced to his right…and found his subject.

  He drew her from her Adidas up, pausing at her slender ankles to leave a patch of dark skin above her footie socks, giving her jeans sharp creases, shrinking her navy blue coat to give her a more womanly appearance—

  His hands oozed again. He caught his breath. I’m drawing Ebony’s breasts under a coat! He quickly added her willowy neck and sharp jaw, then hid her hands inside her coat pockets. He had just begun lightly outlining her lips, brown then tan then red, when Mr. Nearing announced, “Time to go, people!”

  He looked at Ebony. “You finished?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  He shut his sketchbook and stood. “I’m not.”

  She stood and stretched her back. “You draw too slow. You’re supposed to let it flow.”

  “I draw carefully.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Wish you would write as carefully.” She stepped toward him. “I drew the bridge over the pond. What’d you draw?”

  “I’ll show you when I’m finished.”

  She pawed Peter for his sketchbook. “Let me see it.”

  Peter sighed and opened to his drawing of Ebony. “I only got up to your lips.”

  Mr. Nearing motioned for them to come to the pavilion, and the two began to walk, Peter dreaming of Ebony’s lips, Ebony studying herself on the page.

  “Where’s my face?”

  It’s in my heart and I couldn’t get it out, he wanted to say. “I wanted to save the best for last.” He heard her sigh. “Besides, you drew that self-portrait for me in your note, and you might have said that I copied it.”

  “I wouldn’t have said that.”

  “What if I made you too dark? You’d be mad.”

  “I am dark, Peter. Black is beautiful.”

  Peter nodded.

  “What you noddin’ for, Peter? You ain’t black.”

  They had reached the pavilion. “I nodded cuz…cuz you’re beautiful.”

  Ebony didn’t say another word during Mr. Nearing’s critique session in the shade of the pavilion—“Oh, not another drawing of the bridge!”—during the walk back to Simpson, during the noisy wait for the bus, or during the noisier bus ride home. Peter thought he had said something wrong.

  “You okay?” he whispered.

  She nodded, reaching over to squeeze his hand. “Thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “For what you said.”

  “What’d I say?”

  “Shh.”

  He looked up and saw a few kids watching them, their eyes drawn to Ebony’s hand holding his. He squeezed, she returned the squeeze, and when she tried to remove it from his grasp, he held on. I’m holding hands with a girl for the first time, he thought, and I am not letting go. He smiled and laughed, crossing his eyes at a freckle-faced eighth grade girl until she turned away. He looked back at Ebony, but she wasn’t looking at him. She was looking straight ahead, the broadest smile on her face.

  Once the other kids scattered from the bus stop, Peter followed Ebony to the side of her house. He looked down at his hand and saw his hand still holding hers.

  “You gotta be real quiet, Peter, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  They glided through a large white kitchen full of cupboards and closets, down a short hallway, through a living room with orange shag carpeting and a Christmas tree, down a longer hallway that had framed pictures of Ebony and Ebony’s family on the walls, the heavy scent of cigarette smoke in the air, to a closed door. Ebony eased open the door, and seconds later, Peter stood in a girl’s room for the first time in his life.

  While Ebony closed the curtains and turned on a little radio, Peter drank in the room. There was no place to sit except her bed; her desk chair was full of sketchbooks. Several bookcases held paperbacks of every sort, size, and color, many half-opened and resting in little mounds around the room. He smiled at posters of butterflies and horses, sunsets and mountains, kittens and puppies, and—

  Is that her underwear on the floor?

  “It’s a little messy,” she said. She sat on the bed and patted the space beside her. “Take your coat off and stay a while.”

  That is her underwear on the floor! And it’s green? He felt a stirring in his Levi’s. Not now!

  “Huh?”

  “Sit with me, Peter.”

  Oh, JesusJesusJesus. He took off his coat but kept it close to his groin.

  “Throw your coat anywhere.”

  He tossed his coat in the direction of Ebony’s underwear, but he missed it by a foot. He slipped his hands into his pockets, but that only made the bulge grow bigger. He turned to admire her record collection, KC and the Sunshine Band the first of a thick stack.

  “So, what do you think?”

  He glanced and saw her underwear again. “Um, you have a lot of records and books.”

  “Don’t you?”

  “No.”

  “No books?”

  “I mean, yes, I have books. But no records.”

  “Why?”

  The Captain thinks the Devil lives in them. And I bet the Devil left that underwear there, too! “I don’t have a record player.”

  “You should get one.”

  “Yeah.”

  He stared at her nightstand and saw several books: The Slave Dancer, Roots, and Soul on Ice. He pointed at them. “Are you reading all those at once?”

  “Yeah. I just finished Slaughterhouse Five. You really ought to read it.”

  “Yeah.” He felt his heart trying to beat out of his chest. “You, uh, you have a nice room.”

  “Thank you, but what do you think about me, here, in this room, with you, here, in this room, alone, here, in this room?”

  I think, here, in this room, that I have a large erection. “I think…I ought to be getting home. The Captain—”

  She grabbed his arm and yanked him down beside her, the bed bowing a little. “He can wait. I have something to tell you as well as show you, and if you laugh, I’ll knock your block off. Promise you won’t laugh?”

  “I won’t.” Pleasepleaseplease go away, he commanded himself, but his pants were still tightening.

  She took his hand. “I had a dream about you last night. I dream about you all the time, but last night’s dream was really outta-sight.”

  “Aren’t all dreams outta-sight?”

  “Ha ha funny, now don’t interrupt. In my dream, you were much taller than me, and we were on the beach somewhere warm, and I was wearing a long shell necklace and a silky orange-and-purple dress, so you know it was a dream. You wore this teal blue shirt and tan shorts, and your hair made you look kind of like Elvis, and there we were standing on some beach while waves splashed our feet and the sun went down—or up, who knows?—and you know w
hat you said to me?”

  Pleasepleaseplease go away, not now! “What did I say?”

  “You said that I had pretty feet.”

  “I did?” Why would I say that? Ooh, that’s better. Go on back down now.

  “Except that you’ve never seen my feet, Peter, I mean, how would you know? And that’s what I want to show you.” She took off her Adidas and rolled off her socks, wriggling her toes in the air. “Are they really pretty?”

  They were small and perfectly rounded, little pearl chips for toenails. “Yes.”

  “What’s pretty about them? My toes look like Tootsie Rolls.”

  They did look like Tootsie Rolls. “I like Tootsie Rolls.”

  She squeezed his hand. “Let’s see yours.”

  “Huh?”

  She slid off the bed and grabbed one of Peter’s feet. “I wanna see your feet!”

  Peter pulled his foot away, Ebony lunged, and several delicious wrestling moves later, he was on top of her on her bed, her hands clasped behind his neck.

  “I bet you’re good at Twister,” she said.

  “I’m not allowed to play it.”

  “Too bad.” She sighed. “You gonna kiss me, Peter? You know you want to.”

  Every pore in Peter’s body opened, the floodgates of every sweat gland and every other gland breaking free, waves of delectable pressure again assaulting his zipper. Ebony closed her eyes and pursed her lips.

  Oh geezgeezgeez, I know I have banana and PBJ breath and my lips are chapped and I’m on top of a girl and my pants are about to explode—

  Ebony’s eyes popped open. “You need directions? My lips are down here.”

  “Ebony, I—” He couldn’t finish, and he couldn’t tell her why. He wasn’t afraid of kissing her. He was afraid of what might explode if he did.

  “Come here, come on, Peter, no one’s looking.”

  “But I—”

  “I’ll help you. Close your eyes.”

  I don’t want to miss this! “Can’t I keep them open?”

  “Sure. I’ll keep mine open, too.”

  He stared into her eyes, and she started giggling. “What’s so funny?”

  “You look so serious. It’s just a kiss.” Her eyes softened. “Isn’t it?”

  He dropped his head and touched his lips to hers gently, feeling the softness, tasting the sweetness of Ebony. He pulled back and saw a new set of ebony eyes, eyes that seemed to say “wow.”

  “That wasn’t just a kiss,” she whispered, then she pushed him off her and stood. “You gotta go. Mama will be home soon.”

  “Yeah.”

  She turned away. “You know I’m gonna see your crusty toes one day.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Um, I’ll, uh, I’ll walk you out.”

  “Sure.”

  She stepped to the door and seemed to freeze. “We’ll have to do this again soon.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  She turned and hugged him, her breath soft in his ear, her body melting into his, her hips grinding slightly into his—

  Oh…dear…Je-SUS!

  He pulled back. “I gotta go.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  He looked down at his zipper without meaning to. “I just gotta go.”

  “Did you just—Oh my God!” She covered her mouth with a cupped hand.

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry!”

  “Did you…did you really?”

  Peter nodded, the warmth seeping deeper into his underwear, his knees weakening. “I didn’t mean to, I swear I didn’t!”

  “I made you do that?”

  Peter nodded. “Please, I really gotta go.”

  “Wow,” she said. “What did it feel like?”

  Like my insides coming outside! “Can I tell you later?”

  “Does it hurt?”

  “No.”

  “So it felt good.”

  Peter nodded. “It felt better than good.”

  She smiled and toed the carpet. “That ever happen to you before?”

  Not with anyone else in the room! “No.”

  “Cool.”

  The warmth dissipated, leaving him with a sticky cold spot. “I really have to go.”

  She stepped close to him. “Kiss me first.”

  “That’s what started it all in the first place!”

  Ebony stepped back. “That thing isn’t going to go off again, is it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She slipped her arms around his waist. “I’ll take my chances. Kiss me.”

  His lips met hers for a brief second. “See you tomorrow.”

  “I’ll walk you out.” She opened the door. “Oh, you’re forgetting your coat.”

  “Oh.” He threw on his coat and looked down at the spreading wet spot on his corduroys.

  “Is that—”

  “Yes.” Blood rushed into his face.

  “All that came out?”

  “Can I go now?”

  Ebony sighed. “Yes.”

  She led him through the long hall, through the living room, through the short hall, through the kitchen, and to the side porch. Once outside, the wet spot grew increasingly colder against his leg.

  “Um, you better hold your books over that, huh?”

  Peter nodded.

  “Bye, Peter.”

  The cold spread down his legs and into his soul as he ran home, his books smacking against his groin. He threw open the front door and raced upstairs, slamming his bedroom door behind him and peeling off his pants and underwear.

  “That you, Pete?” the Captain yelled.

  He’s at the bottom of the stairs! Jesus, please make him walk slow!

  “Yeah!” He rifled his top drawer for another pair of underwear, slipping them on.

  “What you doing home so late?”

  He’s coming up the stairs! “Uh,” he said, struggling into another pair of tan corduroys, “the bus broke down and I had to walk.” He kicked his soiled underwear and pants under his bed just as the Captain opened his door and walked in. “Hello, Captain, how was your day?”

  The Captain eyed Peter from head to toe, sniffing the air. “You been smoking, Pete?”

  “No.”

  “I smell cigarettes, Pete. Don’t lie to me.”

  “I wasn’t smoking. Some other kids were, on the bus, but not me.” Please, God, help him believe my lie!

  “Let me smell your breath.”

  Oh, Jesus, can he smell Ebony on me, too? Do kisses have an odor? Can he smell what else happened? Please let my breath be banana and PBJ!

  Peter breathed into the Captain’s face.

  The Captain squinted. “Hmm. You brush your teeth today?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Hmmph.” He scratched at his crew cut. “I don’t want you hanging around with anyone who smokes. They’re cowards who think that they’ll live forever, and they’ll only get you into trouble. And don’t you ever let me catch you smoking, Pete. Those cancer sticks will kill you.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “And if you ever do smoke, I’ll know. A little birdie or two will tell me.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Chow will be ready at eight bells. Don’t be late.”

  “I won’t be, sir.”

  After the Captain left, Peter sat on his bed. I didn’t know that I could do that! I mean, I did know I could do that, but the way it happened! That felt so good, but…have I sinned? I wasn’t thinking any carnal thoughts, was I? Maybe I was.

  He prayed to God and thanked Him for helping him trick the Captain. He also prayed for forgiveness for what happened in Ebony’s room. But next time, I’m wearing darker corduroys and two pairs of underwear.

  My first kiss, my “first time,” my first series of successful bald-faced lies…

  My first and best love, my original love. Why did I ever leave her?

  Instantly depressed, I save my work and log on to AOL, wasting the rest of the evening looking—just looking—for anything remotely interesting
and uplifting online. I watch a group of cartoon lemmings pitching themselves off a cliff, a group of rednecks giving them scores. Who thinks up this stuff? And why am I watching it? The gerbil in the blender is kind of funny. I play several mind-numbing games of gin rummy with GiNcRaZy, another player somewhere in cyberspace with less of a life than mine, and even check the weekend weather report for Huntington.

  I have to get out of Cherry Grove. My mind is turning to tapioca. Cliff-diving lemmings, cursing gerbils, gin rummy with a GiNcRaZy novice, and future weather reports—this is what I’ve reduced myself to doing instead of writing the next chapter.

  Because I don’t want to write it.

  But I have so many promises to keep—

  Promises to Keep, by Peter Rudolph Underhill. Thank you, Robert Frost.

  At least I have a title now.

  At least I have that.

  I curl up on the couch, dreaming of green underwear, cold spots, and perfect pearl toes.

  7

  The phone wakes me at sunrise. Red sky at morning; sailors take warning. It’s going to be one of those days, I can feel it. I roll off the couch and stumble to the kitchen counter, fumbling for the phone and wiping the crust from my eyes. “Hello?”

  “Hey, Pete, how’s it going?”

  Henry. “Hey, Henry. What time is it?”

  “Six-thirty.”

  Awfully early for an editor to get to work, especially on a Friday. “Where are you?”

  “At the office.”

  And I’m in mine. Geez, I’ve got some cleaning up to do. Papers and file folders spoil the whiteness of Henry’s apartment. “What’s up?”

  “Well, I’ll be sitting here with little to do until a meeting with the managing editor at ten. How about sending me what you have of Whiter Shade so I can read it, maybe run an advance by her?”

  Money…for me? I pull the phone cord as far as it will reach, but I can’t get close enough to the laptop to turn it on. Henry needs a cordless phone. “Just a sec.” I lay the phone on the couch, rush to the table, and hit the power button on the laptop. I return to the phone.