Fingerprints! Boy, lucky thing he’d worn his mother’s gloves. It just showed it paid to be careful. There was no way they could trace that letter to him. Unless they grilled the friendly postman he’d given it to. Would the postman remember him? Upon cross-examination, would he knit his brow and say, “Well, there was this kind of weird-looking kid who told me he didn’t want her to know who sent the letter. Kind of a criminal type he was, now that I think about it.”
Would that happen? No. Impossible. He had a forgettable face, didn’t he? Besides, what crime had he committed? None.
A big white car pulled up and Sophie and her pals got in. She didn’t even say good-bye.
Chapter 15
Traveling on foot, he took the long way around to Patrick’s. He didn’t want to get where he was going any sooner than he could help. He was a bundle of nerves, as a direct result of this morning’s meeting with Sophie, as well as the prospect of escorting Melissa to the tea dance at St. Raymond’s.
“What on earth happened to you?” his mother had inquired when he’d arrived home from church. “You look as if you’d been through the mill.”
He told her of Father McDuff’s sermon about the cloistered nun, said he’d run into some girls he knew, neither of which explained his appearance, which was that of someone who’d just had an unforgettable experience. An epiphany.
His mother had insisted he wear his church clothes to the dance—shirt, tie, even matching socks. He left his glasses in his bureau, deciding they’d only gild the lily. He walked at a snail’s pace, giving the neighbors a treat. So, Sophie had received his letter, and thought it was grabby! Once he really got into it, this writing of love letters would turn out to be a cinch. He felt it in his bones. With a little practice, he would hit his stride, like a highly trained athlete who knows how to pace himself, or herself, who knows how to breathe properly so there would always be breath for the task ahead. Knows all the tricks that add up to winning. Coming in first.
For that was what he had in mind—coming in first with Sophie. The first hurdle had been passed. Three cheers for the mailman. That mailman was a veritable Cupid. Just for the price of a postage stamp, he, Timothy J. Owen, was starting a whole new phase of his heretofore dull and dreary life. The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, by T. S. Eliot, first read by him at age thirteen, had made an indelible impression. From then on, he thought of himself as J. Timothy Owen, a name to conjure with. That little old stamp tucked up there in the corner of the envelope had started a chain of events that could lead almost anywhere. It was awesome, what one stamp could do, could lead to. Romance, adventure, intrigue. It was enough to make the mind boggle, thinking about the power of a stamp, of a mailman to bring about a radical change in someone’s existence. He vowed that if he got out of this tea dance alive, he’d give the mailman a tip at Christmas to thank him for the superior job he’d done.
But, even taking the long way, he got where he was going eventually. As he turned the corner that led to Patrick’s street, he saw a figure on the sidewalk, eyes shaded, scanning the horizon. It was Melissa, on the lookout. He waved and the figure scooted out of sight. All was serene as he pulled into the front yard. He thought he saw the curtains move. Melissa was watching. He knocked on the door very softly. Maybe she wouldn’t hear his knock and he could go home and claim he’d been there but they’d all gone somewhere else.
The door flew open.
“Hello, Tim,” Melissa said, blushing. She was resplendent in a shocking-pink sweater and black leather jacket with three earrings in each ear. Wild. Her eyelids were decidedly lavender. Patrick’s mother would lower the boom on that eyeshadow, he figured.
“Come on in.” He followed Melissa inside and thought she seemed unsteady on her feet. She wore stockings and heels. That was it. She had to get her sea legs before she could walk on those heels.
Solemnly they sat down, he on the couch, Melissa on a chair across the room. “My mother will be right down,” Melissa said. “She’s taking us.”
“I know,” he said. He glanced around surreptitiously, expecting Patrick to pounce out at him.
“Where’s Patrick?” he asked at last. “We could shoot a little pool while we’re waiting.”
“Patrick’s gone to my aunt and uncle’s for Sunday dinner,” Melissa announced, lips tucked into a shadow of her former mouth.
“Oh.” So Patrick had been shanghaied, sent to the bush leagues, and was even at this moment scarfing down prime ribs au jus and Yorkshire pudding. Poor Patrick.
A heavy silence fell. Into it he spoke.
“So, Melissa, what’re you up to this summer?”
Melissa cleared her throat and inched to the edge of her chair.
“I’m writing a novel,” she said in a little breathless voice. “I’m entering it in a contest for hitherto unpublished authors under the age of twenty-one. The first prize is a thousand dollars advance against publication, and after they publish your novel, you get royalties, which means they pay you a certain amount for each copy that’s sold.” She had obviously memorized every word. “Plus, my novel has to be between thirty-five and fifty thousand words.”
“That’s a lot of words,” he said after a bit.
“I’ve had a couple of poems published in our class paper,” Melissa confessed, “but I don’t think they count. Anyway …” She eyed him defiantly. “I’m not going to mention them.”
“Good plan,” he said. “What’s it about?”
“My novel?” She eyed him, and he was tempted to say, “Wasn’t that what we were talking about?” and did not.
“Well, it’s about this sixteen-year-old girl who has a terrible fight with her mother, so she runs away from home and hitches a ride with this guy. He is a real hunk with blond hair and a really good build, and he looks like a preppy, but it turns out he’s into hard drugs and he plays in a rock band and everything.”
Melissa stopped. He knew he should say something so he said, “Sounds good. What happens?”
“I have to work out that part, the rest of it,” Melissa said. “I’ve got several ideas but I have to work it out.”
Patrick’s mother came in and he leaped to his feet with such alacrity he almost knocked her over.
“You both look so nice,” she said. “Could you give me a hand, Tim? I have a lot of cupcakes and sandwiches to put in the car. I’m the refreshments chairwoman and, without me, they don’t eat. Why don’t you stay put, Missy? Tim and I can manage.” Melissa ducked behind the comics and he and Mrs. Scanlon went to the kitchen to get the supplies. He followed her into the garage, loaded with boxes.
“Tim, you’re a darling.” Mrs. Scanlon surveyed the packing job. “She would’ve been so crushed if you’d turned her down. I thank you for your kindness.” Mrs. Scanlon leaned over and kissed his cheek.
He took it in stride. “That’s OK,” he said. Sir Lancelot on the prowl, that was him.
All three of them sat in the front seat. He was willing to sit in back, but Mrs. Scanlon said there was plenty of room. He and Melissa sat rigid, arms at sides, careful not to touch each other, as Mrs. Scanlon drove them to the tea dance.
The parking lot at St. Raymond’s was filled with eighth graders, all dressed up and running in circles like crazies. As he helped Mrs. Scanlon unload the goodies and carry them inside, he felt very old. In eighth grade, he remembered, it had been possible to be turned on by the thought of plenty of cupcakes, egg-salad sandwiches, and punch. Extraordinary, but true. It was only with the pressure of added years and experience that one realized food wasn’t everything in life.
“Hey, Tim O.!” He knew immediately that mocking voice. No one else called him Tim O.
Tony Montaldo approached with both arms held high like a politician seeking votes. “Never thought I’d see an old geezer like you at St. Raymond’s eighth-grade bash.” Tony’s teeth gleamed in a malicious smile.
Tim scarcely raised his head from the task of stacking the tall piles of boxes before taking them in
side. Now he knew for sure this was going to be a bummer. Tony Montaldo was the icing on the cake.
“These are the times that try men’s souls. Tyranny, like hell, is not easily conquered.” Thomas Paine, a supremely eloquent man, spoke to him again. His soul was being sorely tried, and Tony Montaldo was the tyrant.
Melissa, meanwhile, talked animatedly to a group of girls who stole looks in his direction every so often and when he caught them looking at him they turned back into their circle, their voices rising shrilly as they undoubtedly discussed world affairs, waiting for the festivities to commence.
“I only came for the grub,” Tony bragged. “My sister’s at St. Raymond’s, and she said the grub was going to be good so I decided to come and eat.”
“I guess that about does it,” Patrick’s mother said, looking at her watch. “It’s almost four, Tim.” She smiled at him encouragingly and he thought she knew how he was feeling. He followed her into St. Raymond’s, with Melissa and her coterie of buddies bringing up the rear.
The gym smelled the way he remembered it smelling. You couldn’t do much to change that smell, one of good old-fashioned sweat. No matter how old you got to be, how much water had gone over the dam or under the bridge, gyms smelled like gyms. In a way, it was reassuring. If, in yet another reincarnation, he or Patrick came back to St. Raymond’s gym, say in the twenty-first century, they’d know immediately where they were.
One of the mothers was messing with the stereo. He couldn’t stand it when mothers messed with stuff like stereos. They always loused it up. The music blasted suddenly, mowing everything in its path. It was that singer with the frizzy hair and dangly earrings. He didn’t think much of her but he was in the minority. A lot of the girls here today had frizzy hair and dangly earrings, in an obvious attempt to resemble the singer, whose name escaped him. He thought they looked like woodland creatures, peering out from behind the underbrush of their hair. On the other hand, he himself was no slouch in the bangs department. Protective instincts, he figured. Everybody needs something to hide behind.
Melissa, who had been standing by the refreshment table, came to stand next to him. He tensed, waiting for the music, wondering what he’d do when it began. Someone turned down the sound. The mothers looked relieved. They didn’t understand the louder the better.
“All right! Kids! Please! Quiet!” The mother shouting at them was obviously the head honcho. She clapped her hands together for order, and went on clapping long after silence had fallen.
“Our first dance is going to be a change-partners dance.” The mother smiled around at them as if she’d just said something witty. “When the music stops, I want all of you to change partners with the couple nearest you. That way we’ll all get to know one another, and we’re going to make this the best tea dance ever at St. Raymond’s!” Like Liszt, she dealt in exclamation points.
He tightened his stomach muscles, as if for a blow, and grasped Melissa firmly as she put her hand on his shoulder tentatively, as if testing it for doneness. Gingerly, they clasped hands and moved their feet. Melissa kept looking down.
“Keep moving,” he whispered fiercely. “And look at me. It doesn’t do any good to look at your feet.”
In a moment of panic, his muscles locked, and he thought wildly, I’m paralyzed. Then Melissa backed away and he followed her. Once started, he found if he kept a firm grip on her, and he didn’t look down, he was all right. It was like being on the top of the Empire State Building. If he didn’t look down, he was all right.
For a split second, she raised her head and he saw the terrified expression on her face and felt better. She was in worse shape than he was. His mother had read a book called I’m Dancing as Fast as I Can, which perfectly described the way he felt. He was dancing as fast as he could.
“Relax,” he said. “Nobody’s going to shoot you.”
She gave a nervous little laugh. “I always have to go to the bathroom when I’m nervous,” she said. Then, realizing what she’d said, a stricken look replaced the terrified one.
“Me, too,” he said, and they both laughed.
The music stopped. Melissa’s hand dropped from his shoulder. They were supposed to change partners. A big girl in a fussy dress caught his eye. She was alone and trying to look as if she didn’t care. He would rescue her from her plight, a gallant thing to do, he thought. He strode toward her and a long leg came from out of nowhere and tripped him. He sprawled flat on his face on the floor of St. Raymond’s gym.
“Sorry about that, Tim O.” Tony Montaldo grinned down at him. “Didn’t see you in time.” Tony helped him up, brushed him off, and whispered in his ear, “Figured you needed an excuse to get out of dancing with another fat broad. You go from one fat one to another, eh, Tim O.?”
That did it. Tim took a long breath, drew back, and punched Tony in the face. Right in between Tony’s mouth and nose. It was a most satisfying feeling, almost as good as hitting a golf ball just right. He stood back and watched the blood drip from Tony’s nose. With any luck at all, he might’ve loosened a couple of Tony’s beautiful teeth, too.
“Fight! Fight!” voices shouted excitedly. Nothing like a good fight to liven up a tea dance.
“What on earth is going on here?” The head-honcho mother steamed up, scarlet with indignation. Tony didn’t try to hit back—he was too busy plugging up his nose. “This is a social occasion, boys. I expect you to behave like gentlemen.”
He saw Melissa’s white face and felt bad. But, when he looked at Tony’s face, a great joy seized him. Whatever happened next, it would be worth it. Even if they strung him up by his thumbs, it would be worth it.
“Tim, why don’t you go out and get a breath of air? It’s all right. Things will settle down.” Mrs. Scanlon spoke softly. “Come back when you feel better.”
Hands in pockets to show he didn’t care, he sauntered out to the hall, as she’d suggested. What he really wanted to do was just split the whole scene. His feeling of exhilaration had subsided, and one of humiliation took its place. He bent down for a drink of water from the drinking fountain.
“Hello, Tim.” Sister Mary Teresa didn’t seem surprised to see him. She didn’t mention the brawl. Maybe she hadn’t seen it. “I thought I recognized you, though you’ve grown some. How are you? I hadn’t seen you around, so I thought perhaps you’d moved.”
“No, I’m still here, Sister.” She meant she hadn’t seen him at Mass. He only went when the spirit moved him. His father was Catholic, or had been until the divorce.
Without warning his voice trembled, and he bent to take another long drink to give himself time to recover. Sister Mary Teresa waited patiently for him to finish.
“You probably will be surprised to hear it, Sister,” he said, on impulse, “but lately I’ve been thinking about souls. Not only mine, but souls in general.”
Sister Mary Teresa nodded and waited for what he’d say next, her eyes bright with curiosity. Nothing had ever surprised her, he remembered now.
“Well, to tell the truth, I’ve been reading a book of famous love letters, and I noticed how frequently they talked about the soul back then, Sister, and that made me think of you.”
She laughed. “That’s interesting, Tim. I don’t think I’m usually associated with love letters.”
“Well, you taught us about souls. And I got to thinking. If I could see my soul, which I know I can’t, I wonder what it would look like. And I decided it might be like a laser beam. Sort of a darting light.” He paused, out of breath, and waited for her reaction. Two girls walked by, looked back at him, and whispered to each other.
She said nothing. “What do you think of that, Sister? Do you think that’s sacrilegious? I don’t mean it to be. I’m only trying to relate the soul to everyday life, trying to equate it with something. I mean, if you don’t have faith enough to believe in the soul, maybe you would have faith if you were able to liken it to something modern. Get it?”
“If it makes you feel better to do so, Tim, i
f it makes you think about God, well, I say go for it. I don’t think God would mind. He might even approve. How’s Patrick?”
“He’s fine. I brought his sister to the dance. She asked me, and I came anyway, even though I’m much too old for it. Her name’s Melissa.” He found talking to Sister Mary Teresa calming, so that he forgot for a minute his embarrassment and anger.
“Oh, I know Melissa. The Scanlons are a fine family. Well, Tim”—Sister Mary Teresa put out her hand—“it was very nice to see you after all this time. If you ever want to discuss souls again, come by. I’m always here, and I’d be glad to see you.” They shook hands and he watched her walk down the hall and disappear.
When he went back to the gym, Melissa was standing off to one side, looking somewhat forlorn. He walked toward her. When she saw him, she looked relieved. “I’m sorry, Melissa,” he said. “I couldn’t help myself. He tripped me.”
“Oh, I thought maybe you’d left—gone home, that is. You know?” She smiled. “It’s all right, Tim. He had it coming.”
The music started up and, as they moved out onto the gym floor, she peered up at him and said, “You look different without your glasses.”
This dancing routine was easier the second time around. He steered her confidently around the other dancers. “I don’t really need them,” he said. “They’re not prescription. I only wear them because they make me look like a scholar. I want people to think I’m an intellectual. They’re fake.” He’d never told anyone that before, not even Patrick, though he knew Patrick suspected.
“Oh,” said Melissa. “Well, anyway, you look nice without them. You look nice with them, too. I didn’t mean that.” She smiled self-consciously and tightened her grip on his hand. “I think this is the best dance ever. Are you having a good time, Tim?”
“It’s the best tea dance I’ve ever been to,” he said.
“Have you been to lots of tea dances before?”
“No,” he said, “this is my first one.”
The Love Letters of J. Timothy Owen Page 8