Our First Love

by Anthony Lamarr

  Nigel was still in bed; probably on purpose. So, I had to give the seven envelopes to the mail carrier when he came by. Vernon used to come by around ten-thirty. Since it was drizzling outside and Billy wasn’t as used to the route as Vernon was, I figured he’d be a little late. I started to wake Nigel and let him give Billy the letters, but I didn’t want to bother him. It took a Herculean effort for him to sign the cover letters.

  Our mailbox was on the wall to the right of the front door. It’s too small to put the envelopes inside, but even if it wasn’t, I still would have to open the door which would be a problem. I sat by the window and waited for Billy, who would stop at Professor Childers’ curbside mailbox before stopping here.

  What if there’s no mail for us today? my conscience reminded me.

  I hadn’t thought about that. If there was no mail, Billy wouldn’t have to stop. I saw the mail truck pull up to Professor Childers’ mailbox and stop. I thought about waking Nigel as I watched Billy put two envelopes in the mailbox. He pulled away slowly, moving closer to our house.

  “Please stop here,” I pleaded, my face pressed against the window. “Please stop. Please.”

  The mail truck turned in our driveway.

  “Thank you.”

  Billy saw me in the window and waved as he got out the truck. I held up the manila envelopes so he could see them. Billy acknowledged with a nod and walked toward the front door. I inhaled and held my breath as I walked over to the door. Unlocking the door wasn’t that hard, but turning the doorknob was a colossal task. Billy knocked on the door. I tried to turn the knob, but I couldn’t. I tried again and the knob turned. The seal broke and the world poured in through a crack too thin for light to pass through.

  I was freezing, drowning, dying. I fell against the door, slamming it shut.

  “Are you all right?” Billy asked from the other side of the door. He waited for an answer, but my lips were frozen stiff. “Tell you what,” he said. “Let’s do this the way Vernon did it.”

  I couldn’t answer. I was thawing. Shivering. Breathing air again.

  “Did you hear me?” Billy asked.

  “The table by the door,” I responded and placed the envelopes on the table. I hurried to my bedroom and slammed the door behind me.

  I heard Billy yell, “I’m coming in.” A few seconds later, he yelled as he left, “I’m closing the door behind me. See you tomorrow.” I heard the front door close.

  * * *

  Professor Anthony Childers, a chain-smoking, nonconforming Brit, taught international relations at Florida State University. Sometimes, mostly when he’s a little tipsy and longing to hear a voice other than his own, he stopped Nigel in the driveway to chat about news and politics. Nigel would stand there and listen, steadily nodding in agreement, and listen some more. After thirty minutes or so, I’d tap on the window and beckon for Nigel or pretend he had an important call by waving the phone in the air. Professor Childers and Nigel hadn’t hung out in over a month. I guess that’s why the professor spent the afternoon standing in his driveway waving at motorists speeding by on Circle Drive.

  * * *

  I’m surrounded by boundless and untouchable shores that arose outside the windows, doors, and walls of 207 Circle Drive.

  * * *

  I hated not being able to share the few memories that I did have with Nigel, especially the ones of Mom and Dad. He’s already told me the reason he won’t acknowledge reading my blog. Although the blogs were about conjectured memories, they were still mostly about Mom and Dad. What I recalled about Mom and Dad weren’t real memories, but I felt deep down that they couldn’t all be things I made up. Sometimes, what I remembered was a smile, laughter, or a touch. And sometimes, it’s the feeling there was really a Mom and Dad and not hazy images of the faces in the portraits hanging on our walls. If I could really share my thoughts with Nigel, he could fill in the blanks. I didn’t know why Nigel hid from his memories of Mom and Dad. The last time I heard him mention Mom or Dad was eleven years ago when he told me I was alive and they were dead. He never said how they died, and I never asked. I still didn’t know what happened to Mom and Dad or to me because I was too afraid to ask.

  * * *

  A long time ago, before this life, before I evolved, I left footprints in the sands of the world outside.

  * * *

  My brother was essential to my existence. Without him, and without memories of my own, who would I be? Who? Nigel gave me a past and a future. His life was my life. He and I were…me.

  * * *

  We are each other’s barber. One day, while Nigel was giving me an edge, he asked me if I dreamed when I was asleep, and if so, was I inside this house in my dreams. I didn’t know what made him ask, but his tone begged for confirmation. So I told him, “Of course, I dream. Doesn’t everybody? And no, I’m not hanging out inside this house.” Then I pointed out the window. “I’m out there.” I think it gave Nigel solace with the knowledge that I get to live a life outside these walls even if it’s only in my dreams. I loved my brother too much to tell him the truth. Fear dwelled inside my dreams. I hated my fear.

  * * *

  I knew why whales beached themselves. They were irresistibly drawn to the shore by inborn memories and abetting dreams of whales that once trudged across dry land.

  AUTUMN

  CHAPTER 7

  She was his first. And she was there when time stopped.

  Nigel wasn’t sure of the duration, but he was certain time stopped the night he spent with her. He felt the earth when it wobbled and ceased spinning. He watched as the past, present, and future embraced each other with overt skepticism. No one would believe him if he tried to explain how time stood still, so he never told anyone about the night he drank too many Kamikazes during a homecoming weekend party at his fraternity house and bedded a beautiful woman who drank almost as many. There were large chunks missing from his recollection of that night. He remembered dancing on the frat house lawn and bumping into her as she gyrated to the infectious beat of songstress Billie Lawrence’s “Happiness.” But he didn’t remember reaching for her hand, then following her up the stairs. He recalled pointing to his room and her opening the door, but he didn’t remember her unbuckling his belt, taking off his pants, or the awe-struck look on his face when he saw her naked. The moment he gave himself to her was unforgettable. Even now, fourteen years later, he still shuddered when the unsolicited memory of that night forced him to feel the dizzying sensation of sempiternity he felt inside her. He remembered very little after that moment, and he never tried to fill in the blanks. The only thing he carried with him from that night was an absolute certainty that it was possible to stop time.

  Nigel was in his third year at Howard University the night time staggered. He joined the Chi Alpha fraternity and moved into the frat house during his sophomore year. Nigel was twenty-one and still a virgin. Until that night, he managed to avoid the smorgasbord of sexual entrees dropped in his lap during the salacious house parties by telling his brothers he was in love with and faithful to his high school sweetheart. Some of the brothers became doubtful about this girlfriend at home who never called and whom he never called, but none pressed the issue.

  Two of Nigel’s frat brothers saw her tiptoe out of his bedroom half-dressed early the next morning. They tried to peep inside at Nigel, but she closed the door before they could, which, as it turned out, was a good thing. If they had seen Nigel, the bewildered look of a drowning man just below the water’s whitecaps would become part of their own catalog of unbidden memories.

  They teased Nigel during lunch, but Nigel told them nothing happened between him and the girl. He said they sat up and talked the entire night. The brothers were nearly convinced until one of them asked, “What’s her name?”

  And Nigel answered truthfully, “I didn’t ask.”

  He spent the rest of the day and the next few weeks wondering why he didn’t ask her name or why didn’t she tell him. The questions piled up. Why did
n’t either one of them say a word the next morning before she got dressed and rushed out the door? Did he say or do something he shouldn’t have that night? Was he…you know… okay? He knew size wasn’t the problem because he was more than endowed. But, was he doing it right? Did she sense that it was his first time? Was she startled? Frightened? Amazed when time stopped?

  Nigel saw her three times after that night. The first time was two weeks later in the campus bookstore. He was at the register buying a copy of The Associated Press Stylebook when she walked in. Their eyes met briefly but neither made an attempt at acknowledgment. She walked by the register—close enough to touch him—and continued to the back of the store. Nigel paid for his handbook and walked out of the store. The next time he saw her, he was leaving campus for a weekend trip home. He was waiting at a stoplight when she walked across the street. She turned and glanced at him as she passed in front of his Corolla. Once again, their eyes met before Nigel drove off and she disappeared in the mass of students scrambling to class. It was a year later, when their paths crossed again. He was on campus transferring his records to Richmond University, which was only twelve miles from the hospital where Caleb lay in a coma. After leaving the registrar’s office, Nigel stopped by the frat house to see his Chi Alpha brothers. One of the brothers was introducing him to the fraternity’s new pledges when he saw her playing pool in the den with two other young women. That time, he pretended not to see her, and she returned the favor. After that day, she became another indiscernible face in a graveyard of people he once knew.

  It had been twelve years since he’d last seen her, but at four o’clock this morning, she opened the door without knocking, walked in, kicked off her glass-heel slingbacks, crawled over Nigel to get to her side of the bed, then snatched the pillow from under his head and started hogging the covers. She wasn’t an unexpected or unwelcome guest though. She was there because Nigel summoned her. Later that morning, on the second Monday in October, Nigel would begin a new life as an assistant professor of journalism and he was terrified. He was not ready to start living again. He needed more time. Or—which he considered more probable—for time to desist and suspend itself again.

  She was here—inside 207 Circle Drive—because she was there the night time stopped in its tracks. She was his first.

  CHAPTER 8 NIGEL

  Listen to my story. Then listen to Caleb’s story. It will not be the same old story of two brothers sharing one life, because this time the plot will change as we live it. And how this telling ends is not entirely up to me.

  This is our story.

  This will be our life.

  * * *

  For almost everyone I knew, starting a new job was an uplifting experience, but for me, it was a tense, unsettling time. Having to learn and perform new and different tasks wasn’t part of my dilemma. I was a fast learner and I was confident in my skills and ability. The real problem with my new job was all the new characters, different settings, and unforeseen plot twists that would be brought into our story. Everything about our life was about to change. Everything. Except for the way we lived it.

  * * *

  I earned my bachelor’s degree in journalism and my master’s degree in mass communication from Richmond University within a year of Caleb coming home from the hospital. By then, we were already settled into an amnesic existence where nothing mattered but the moment we were living in. There was no past hanging over our shoulders like leaded duffle bags. No leash around our necks for time to wrench us toward a dubious future. We were reborn each day. I attended class and when I came home, I shared my day with Caleb. We studied together and we took turns completing class assignments. Caleb was happy with our life and I wanted things to stay that way. So I decided to stay in college and work toward a doctor of philosophy degree. Eighteen months later, I earned my Ph.D. in mass communication. That’s when Caleb persuaded me to get my first job. He liked our lives as students, but he wanted more. He said he was ready for us to grow up.

  “We can’t get stuck here,” he said. “It’s time for us to move on. There is a huge world out there, and we have to find our place in it.”

  A few weeks later, I was hired as a features writer for the Capitol Sentinel. Then we packed the ashen remnants of our world into a U-Haul and relocated to Tallahassee. There, our life started over.

  Our new job meant starting over again. We both knew this. We weren’t moving anywhere, but everything else about our life was going to change. The route we took to work. The people we worked with. The students we taught. The work we did. Our entire day; it was all about to change. Neither one of us expected the change to come easy because it didn’t when we moved here.

  * * *

  “Butterflies?”

  “Yeah, butterflies. You may not have been nervous, but I was nervous as hell about teaching our first class. And having to wait in the dark didn’t help any.”

  “Why was it dark?”

  “We couldn’t find the main light switch, so the only light in the lecture hall was the small light on the podium.”

  “How many students does the lecture hall seat?”

  “I’d guess about two-hundred.”

  “So, it’s about the size of Leigh Hall at Richmond?”

  “Yeah. Yeah. SJC’s lecture hall even looks a little bit like Leigh Hall.”

  Caleb stared at the ceiling as I described what little I could see in the lecture hall and the anxiety I felt waiting for our first class of students to enter. His eyes were doused by a shimmering light that infused him into the picture I’d sketched for him. As I recounted waiting on students, in his mind, he was standing beside me at the podium inside SJC’s lecture hall. We were both counting down the minutes. I was a nervous wreck. The smile on Caleb’s face made finding the light switch totally unnecessary.

  “Then…?”

  “The double doors at the back opened and four students walked in. I told them it was dark because I couldn’t find the light switch. One of the students walked down an exterior aisle to the front of the lecture hall and turned the lights on.”

  “A girl or guy?”

  “A guy. Kind of short. Dark complexion and long, nappy dreads. He sat in the middle of the second row with the three guys he came in with. One of the guys was white. He had that cool hipster look, so he fit right in. Didn’t seem a bit out of place.”

  “So the Hill is fairly integrated?”

  “I wouldn’t say integrated, but I saw quite a few white students on campus.”

  “Good,” Caleb said. “I like hearing that.”

  “Writing For Mass Communication is the name of the course we’ll be teaching. It’s an introductory writing class for sophomores and juniors pursuing degrees in journalism, public relations, or advertising. There are two classes with a combined total of 136 students—seventy-seven are registered for first period and fifty-nine for third period. Both classes meet on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays.”

  “I’ll bet half of the students didn’t show up today.”

  “Pay up. All but seven were there. A couple of the students said they received an email stating that everybody enrolled in the course would get an A for showing up today because the college couldn’t find a replacement for Professor Kapral, who took a medical leave to begin chemotherapy five weeks after the semester started.”

  Caleb reluctantly asked, “What type cancer…?”

  “Lung cancer. I had a brief meeting with him right before class. He doesn’t look sick, but I’m guessing it’s because the cancer was discovered at an early stage. He looks to be in his early fifties. Short. Stocky, with way too curly hair.”

  Caleb looked out the window. He wasn’t showing up for the meeting with Professor Kapral.

  I brought him back into our day by telling him, “Our office is on the third floor of the School of Journalism. It’s a little cramped and there isn’t much we can do to liven it up, except for hanging a few pictures on the wall.”

  Caleb stared at the ceiling
again. “A plant or two will help,” he suggested. “Artificial of course. A couple of large plants will set it off.”

  “That might work,” I responded.

  We spent the next hour sharing my day, eating dinner at seven o’clock while watching Wheel of Fortune and Jeopardy on TV. Caleb finished the dishes before he walked into the living room, sat in Dad’s recliner, and watched as I skipped from channel to channel.

  This was the story of our life. The plot, setting, and supporting characters were different, but the story read the same.

  * * *

  Finally. A hurricane—Florida’s only hit this year—made land close enough to Tallahassee to send locals scrambling for safer ground and shelter. Professor Childers packed a few belongings in his vintage yellow Volkswagen and skirted off yesterday. It was only a category two but that was good enough for me. The hurricane’s outer bands spanked Tallahassee for an entire day. Caleb hated bad weather so he turned his bedroom into a bunker, which meant I got to ride out the storm in Dad’s recliner.

  * * *

  Caleb and I were not alone today because hurricanes incarcerated thousands, even millions of people inside solitary havens like ours. Today, we were all evacuees of the inhospitable world outside our doors.

  * * *

  Florida Agricultural & Mechanical University, a historically black university, sat atop one of the highest hills in Tallahassee, so the locals referred to the campus as “the Hill.”