Our First Love

by Anthony Lamarr

  I was filled with envy. Perhaps, envy is what kept me from wondering why they were at my house Christmas morning waiting for me to unwrap the Christmas gifts Santa had brought me. Or, why they kept asking if I needed help opening my gifts.

  I spent an entire year anxiously waiting for the chance to do my own Christmas shopping which my mother and father opposed. However, by the time December rolled around again, I had managed to convince them I was now thirteen and too old to still be on Santa’s list. They reluctantly agreed. Two and a half weeks before Christmas, a private conference was called between the three of us. During this meeting, they asked me if I was absolutely sure I wanted to be removed from Santa’s list and I assured them I was. After our verbal agreement, they handed me a few crisp bills and said, “Merry Christmas.”

  Over the next few weeks, I wandered through nearly every store in town looking for the perfect gifts to give myself. I already knew how difficult it was shopping for someone else, but I soon learned that was a cakewalk compared to shopping for myself. For some strange reason, all the things I wanted for Christmas when my mom, dad, and Santa were doing the gift giving seemed far less appealing when I was the one handing over the cash.

  I was too old for toys, but a recordable cassette player wasn’t a toy, so I bought one from Wal-Mart. I purchased a pair of brown corduroy pants and a pair of jeans I wanted from Burdines. The two turtleneck shirts I bought from Crossroads matched the corduroys and jeans perfectly. And, I bought a pair of Air Nikes I’d been dying to have. After I was done with my shopping, I wrapped each one of my gifts to myself and placed them under the Christmas tree.

  Bright and early Christmas morning, while my brother, Nigel, a senior in high school, was enjoying the presents Santa had brought him, I lay in bed sulking. When my mother and father asked me what was wrong, I told them I didn’t know.

  I guess they knew what I didn’t.

  The presents I bought and gave myself may have been the worst Christmas gifts I ever received, but the gold bracelet, necklace, and sweaters Santa brought me even though I was too old to be on his list turned out to be the best.

  * * *

  As soon as I posted the Christmas blog, the comments started. One reader asked, “Did you apologize to Santa?” Another wrote, “I became too old for Santa’s list when I turned twelve. And, it was the worst Christmas I ever had.” And then came the one that touched me the most. “Thanks for sharing your memories. It sounds like you had the best parents in the world,” the anonymous writer wrote. I wished the memories really were mine.

  * * *

  On the nights leading up to Christmas Eve, we turned off the exterior and interior lights before we went to bed. On Christmas Eve, we let them burn all night. I couldn’t sleep, so I stayed up with the Christmas lights, hoping to see Santa deliver Nigel’s gift. His sleigh, a red and black flat-bed tow truck, stopped in front of the house at 6:30 and two of the jolly old elves’ helpers backed Nigel’s present into the driveway. Around 8:00, I was sitting by the window drinking a cup of hot chocolate, when Nigel walked in the living room and gestured toward the front door. He wanted to get the newspaper.

  “Merry Christmas,” I said and walked out of the living room.

  My congenial greeting surprised him. “What did you…?” he started to ask before my courteous greeting registered. “Merry Christmas,” he replied with a crooked smile.

  I went in my bedroom and closed the door. I stood with my ear pressed to the door and waited to hear the front door close. When I heard the door close, I flung my bedroom door open and ran into the living room. I needed to see Nigel’s reaction when he saw the white Lexus adorned with a big white bow.

  His foot stopped in mid-air as he stepped down to the second step. He turned and looked for me in the window.

  I pointed at the Lexus and yelled as loud as I could, “Merry Christmas!”

  Nigel’s feet didn’t touch the ground until he was standing next to the Lexus.

  “Is this really mine?”

  “Yes!” I yelled. “Get in and let me see how you’ll look driving it.”

  Nigel opened the door. The key was on the seat. He held the key up so I could see it before he sat down in the driver’s seat. The Lexus fit him like a tailored glove. He loved it. But as I watched Nigel, I couldn’t forget something he’d said the night before. He called me Lil’ Daddy. The name Lil’ Daddy felt familiar. I wasn’t sure who called me Lil’ Daddy, but someone did. And not any old someone. People I knew. People who knew me. They called me Lil’ Daddy.

  Lil’ Daddy.

  Lil’ Daddy.

  Lil’ Daddy.

  I was Lil’ Daddy.

  * * *

  I started reclaiming our house the first day of the New Year. Nigel salvaged the yard. I evicted the Christmas tree this morning and Nigel dragged it outside. He said he was going to have it picked up for recycling. I packed the inside lights and decorations, then stacked the boxes in the closets. The Christmas cards from Uncle Walter and Aunt Girlie, Lillian, Professor Childers, the Hendersons, the Alexanders, and Richard Aman have been interred in the folder we kept for holiday memorabilia, and the folder was back in the file cabinet in the den. I installed the journalism department’s cable box on the television. I pushed Dad’s recliner back by the front window before I dusted the blades of the ceiling fan.

  * * *

  Lil’ Daddy.

  Lil’ Daddy.

  Lil’ Daddy.

  CHAPTER 14

  Nigel decided that it was time they met again. Seven months ago, their paths crossed when they offered consolation to a grieving stranger. She reached out to the stranger because she felt the depth of the woman’s grief. Nigel was roused to help because he knew something about the wounded woman that no one else at Barney’s burial knew. Nigel guessed—because he had seen the news clipping—that the woman was Frances Pelt, and he knew Frances was mourning the loss of the man she loved and betrayed.

  Their first meeting lasted a few short minutes—the time it took Nigel to convince Frances that she was not the one being buried, and for Nigel and her to walk Frances outside the gates of Springhill Cemetery.

  “Thanks for helping out,” Nigel said to her.

  “Just doing my part,” she replied. “God bless.”

  Those were her last words as she walked away.

  There was nothing noteworthy about this first chance-upon, but afterward, Nigel couldn’t stop thinking about her. During the day, he replayed his sole memory of her. Over and over, he watched her walk out of his life. And on the rare restful night, he dreamed about a life he shared with her: a life lived with two young sons in a house next to Flatley Creek. And somewhere in between, on the waning cusps of dusk and dawn, he fell in love without ever knowing her name. A little over a month ago, he saw her at a faculty luncheon. Within a week, Nigel knew her name and her office and home phone numbers. He became a patron of her favorite restaurants. He knew she worked out at Lester’s Gym on Tuesdays and Thursdays. He even knew that she lived in the third house on the right on Pine Bluff Road. He was well acquainted with her from a distance, but he was ready to move in closer. Ready to touch her… feel her…and love her.

  Nigel’s mind was made up. They were going to meet and it wouldn’t be by chance.

  The sun, while bedridden with the flu, called in sick today as the dawn’s chilly overcast put in overtime. It was the first day of classes and the Hill should have been teeming with students. Apparently, most chose to stay inside and forgo classes and runny noses. By mid-afternoon, twilight’s early arrival triggered the outdoor lighting sensors across campus. That’s when the temperature plunged.

  Nigel, wearing an unbuttoned hornet-green corduroy blazer over a beige turtleneck sweater, didn’t mind the gnawing cold as he walked across campus to the School of Business and Industry’s parking lot west. There’s a faculty parking lot outside the School of Journalism, but he parked in SBI-West to set his plan in motion. Nigel was trying to unlock his car, wh
en he looked up and saw Karen. His Lexus was parked next to her silver Pathfinder. She pressed the unlock button on her keychain, then glanced over at Nigel and smiled. He smiled back. After trying for nearly fifteen minutes to unlock the door, Nigel conveniently remembered that all he had to do was press the unlock button on the keychain in his hand. He opened the door to get in the car, but then he stopped and looked over at Karen. She felt him staring. She put on her seatbelt, cranked the Pathfinder before turning on the heater. When she looked up, he was waving to get her attention. So, she let the window down.

  “Didn’t we meet at Barney Aman’s…?” he asked.

  “I thought you looked familiar,” she answered before Nigel finished asking. “You’re a reporter for the Sentinel, right?”

  “I was.”

  “I saw the faculty decal on your tag. How long?”

  “I started during the middle of last semester.” Nigel thought he would be nervous talking to her but he wasn’t. The words flowed like he had rehearsed them. “I teach Writing for Mass Communication in the School of Journalism.”

  “So, you’re still a freshman,” she said. “Welcome aboard.”

  “Thank you,” he replied. His unfinished expression solicited, “…?”

  “I’m sorry,” she apologized. “I’m Karen Davis. I chair the marketing department in the School of Business and Industry.”

  Nigel walked over to Karen and extended his hand. “I’m Nigel Greene.”

  She reached out the window and shook his hand. “I really enjoyed your work for the Sentinel, so it’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

  “Meet you again,” he reminded her.

  Nigel studied her hand and took mental notes about its softness, how securely hers fit inside his, and how much he didn’t want to release her hand. Still, the moment he sensed her hand loosening its grip on his, he let go.

  She looked at her watch. “I’m running a little late, so…”

  Before she could finish her statement and before he knew he was speaking, Nigel asked, “What are you doing for lunch tomorrow?”

  Karen was caught off-guard. “I’m not sure.” She hesitated. “Call me at my office in the morning.” She put the gear in reverse. “I have a third-period class so call before ten.”

  “I’ll do that.” Nigel smiled and stepped back. “Miss Karen Davis in the School of Business, right?”

  “I don’t care about handles, but if you have to use one, it’s Dr. Karen Davis,” she corrected him before backing out of the space.

  “I’ll talk to you tomorrow,” Nigel shouted. He couldn’t have if he wanted to, so he didn’t try to harness the smile scurrying across his face as he got in his car and pulled out of the parking lot. Their second meeting had unfolded like he intended.

  Karen wasn’t oblivious though. She knew their second encounter wasn’t purely accidental. She saw through Nigel’s contrived coincidence. But there was no way she could have known that the next chapter of her life had already been written by this transparent suitor long before the spring semester began.

  CHAPTER 15 NIGEL

  A young lady sitting in the middle of the second row stood and announced, “I’m Toni Brown.” She pulled her auburn pin braids behind her ears, then continued, “I’m from Fernandina Beach, and I’m a junior advertising major.”

  “Thank you, Miss Brown,” I said as I walked around the lecture hall passing out the course syllabus.

  The guy sitting next to Toni stood. “My name’s Chris Yado. I’m a second-year pre-law major.” Chris sat down and turned the Rattlers baseball cap sideways on his head.

  “Thank you for removing your cap, Mr. Yado,” I said. An armada of caps landed on the desktops.

  The introductions continued.

  This was the first session of the semester and a little over half of the seventy-six students registered for the class showed up. I figured the bad weather was to blame for the low turnout. Anyway, my assignment for the day was to have the students introduce themselves to the class, and although they didn’t know it, introduce themselves to the course’s co-instructor, Caleb, who was observing from his podium at home.

  * * *

  Caleb was where I hoped he would be—sitting in Dad’s recliner, staring out the window, waiting for me. He smiled when I got out of the car, which meant he’d chilled with all the drama. Then he stood and walked toward his bedroom.

  The moment Caleb heard the front door close behind me, he opened his bedroom door, darted into the living room, and cheerfully asked, “How was our day?” Before I could answer, he pounced on the recliner and said, “It feels funny asking you that when I already know how most of our day went.”

  “So you like the new cable system?”

  “Love it, man.”

  “I thought you would.” Caleb’s eyes tracked my every movement as I put my briefcase down and sat on the sofa.

  Caleb looked out the window at the Lexus. “I bet we were wildin’ out on the Hill today.”

  “You know it.” I used the remote to turn the TV to the Weather Channel. “When I went to work this morning, the campus was almost deserted. But on the way home, heads were turning.”

  Caleb pushed the leg rest out and reclined as we relived our day. “What did Dr. Alexander have to say?” He prepared to write himself into the rest of my day and make my day his.

  Locals on the 8s was on. “We’re in for a deep freeze tonight,” I told Caleb.

  “Whatever,” he responded. “Now, what did Dr. Alexander have to say about the new ride?”

  “He took a sick day, so he hasn’t seen it.”

  Since Dr. Alexander wasn’t part of our day, Caleb leaned forward in the recliner and began reflecting on our first classes of the semester.

  Last week I told Caleb that the reason for my peculiar behavior during the past month or so was because I wanted to keep him from finding out about the college’s new cable system before I gave him his Christmas present. I explained that I was part of the team responsible for installing the system, which meant I really was working most of the time. He bought it.

  That’s how our life got back to normal.

  * * *

  Karen and I met again today. I bumped into her in the School of Business and Industry’s faculty parking lot after work. After seven months of starving for the sound of her voice, I was famished. So I devoured every word she said. She was getting ready to leave when, before I knew it, I asked her to have lunch with me tomorrow. She hesitated but she didn’t say no. She told me to call her in the morning before ten. It’s almost midnight, so in about twelve hours, I’d be enjoying lunch with Dr. Davis. I meant, Karen. I forgot. No handles.

  * * *

  I opened the curtains and blinds in my bedroom for the first time in months. I stood at the window staring at the narrow creek behind our house. Outside, the night was too dark for eyes to foresee tomorrow. The air was too cold for faith to kindle mercy. And the world was still. Nothing moved.

  I was back again, standing on the banks of Flatley Creek fourteen years ago. The night was too dark to foresee tomorrow and the air was too cold for faith to kindle mercy. The world was still. Nothing moved. My feet were stuck in a fallen cloud. On one side of Flatley Creek, a trench, jagged and paneled with seared skid marks, jutted up the embankment to Stilman Road. On the side of Flatley Creek where I stood, there were two sets of footprints inscribed in the snow. The footprints started at the back door of our house and continued to the sleeted shoal of Flatley Creek. One set ended there; the set that belonged to me. The other set of footprints vanished behind the dam of shattered ice clogging the creek. An unnatural-looking pair of red water lilies illuminated the clearing in the creek. But upon closer inspection, the red lilies were the rear brake lights of a submerged car. My dad’s car.

  I was back in my bedroom, standing at the window, staring outside at the narrow creek behind our house. It was a little after 4 a.m. and I hadn’t slept a wink. It was going to be hard to sleep, but I figured I wou
ld spend most of the night worrying about lunch with Karen instead of reliving the last minutes of my erstwhile life.

  * * *

  I didn’t get the answer I wanted.

  “I’m sorry, but I can’t get away today,” Karen said. “I completely forgot about a report that I have to present to the dean and steering committee this afternoon. I have to work on it as soon as I get back from class.”

  No was what I heard, and I didn’t know how to respond because I hadn’t considered the possibility that she might say no.

  “Nigel? Are you still…?”

  “I’m here,” I promptly replied. “Sorry, I was kind of caught off guard when you said no,” I explained.

  “I didn’t say no. I said I couldn’t make it today.”

  She didn’t say no. What she said was not today. Reassured, I suggested, “Tell you what. I don’t want to keep you from your work, so I’ll give you a call this time tomorrow and we’ll go from there.”

  “That works for me,” Karen answered. “Thanks for understanding.”

  “Thank you for keeping the lines open.”

  “Well, I’ll talk with you tomorrow,” she said and waited for me to respond. I couldn’t say goodbye, so she did. Before I knew it, the phone went dead.

  I rambled on about something during my third period lecture, which ended twenty minutes early. I was halfway out the door when I informed the class, “That is it for today.” A few minutes later, I was placing an order at the Blue Moon coffee house near campus. At precisely 11:30, I knocked on her office door.