by Неизвестный
Bettie smiled. “I like him without ever meeting him, just for caring enough about you to push past that warning to be sure you were safe.”
“He said old Doc Turner, who practiced in the town near our farm, wasn’t so busy with patients that he was turning them away like the hospitals in St. Paul. I tried to tell Dad I was healing, that you’d nursed me back from the edge, but when I got out of bed and practically fell on my face after just a few steps — ” Carl shrugged. “I guess I can forgive him for not believing me.”
“You were still quite weak that day.”
He stared at her, struggling to believe what he saw and heard. “You remember that day.”
“I remember all the days of your illness. I’ve wondered hundreds of times whether you had a relapse, whether you lived or died.”
He grinned. “I lived, as you can see, though I’ve often wondered whether I would have made it if you hadn’t nursed me through it all.”
She shook her head. “I think it was luck or God that chose who lived and died from the Spanish flu.”
“I sent you letters, but they came back. I stopped at the boarding house months later. Mrs. Anderson said you’d come down with the flu the day I left, moved soon after, and didn’t leave a forwarding address. I felt rotten about giving you the flu, and not being there to help you through it.”
She looked down at her lap with the shy expression he remembered so well and brushed a hand across her pleated beige skirt. “My case of flu wasn’t nearly as bad as yours.”
“It probably was, but it’s just like you to say it wasn’t to spare me the guilt.” He shook his head in indulgent amusement.
His comment brought a sparkle to her eyes and a quick laugh. “You think you know me so well?”
He considered her question a moment. “I believe we came to know each other very well in those few long days and nights. You taught me everything.”
Her eyes widened in surprise and question.
He nodded. “You did, just by helping me when everyone else was too afraid to come near me. You taught me courage.” He wanted to add that she’d taught him unconditional love, but feared that would frighten her off. “I’d been wondering what to do with my life. Because of you, I realized it didn’t matter what I did, as long as I did it with courage, and showed kindness toward the people who showed up along the way.” He held up his long-ago injured hand. “In spite of the accident, my skills lay with my hands more than the department store work I was doing when we met, so I became a construction worker.”
“I’m glad you found work that made you happy. Like you, I was searching for my life’s purpose when you fell ill. I became a nurse — a real one.”
“Nurse Bettie. Perfect.”
“Yes, for the most part, it has seemed the perfect path for me.”
He was so intent on their conversation he didn’t hear the candy striper hustle over to them until she spoke. “It’s time for dinner. I’ll wheel you to the dining room, Miss Watts.”
Carl stood up, his mind reeling, as the perky young woman loosened the wheelchair’s brakes. She’d called Bettie “Miss Watts”, not Mrs. Anyone.
He walked alongside the wheelchair, his cane beating out its regular rhythm, as the three of them headed across the living area, the setting sun spreading color across the snow outside the ceiling-to-floor windows. They slowed as they neared the dining room, other residents joining them. The heartening smell of roast beef welcomed them all, but Carl’s thoughts were only on Bettie. He took advantage of the slower pace to reach down and take her hand in his.
She looked up, searched his gaze a moment, and smiled.
He gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “Bettie Watts, I searched for you for years. I never thought I’d see you again.”
Skipper and I by Ann La Farge
After raising four kids and enjoying a long and happy career in publishing, Ann La Farge moved to the Hudson Valley, where she works as a freelance editor and writes a weekly book column for a regional newspaper.
There really was a Skipper. We were, indeed, born on the same day, he lived across the street, and every morning I went to his house, tied his shoes for him, and we walked to school – first grade – hand in hand. Inseparable, we were indeed junior soulmates. But when my family and I returned home from a summer trip, there was a strange car in front of Skipper’s house. His family was gone. I never saw him again. The rest is pure fiction. Would I try to Google Skipper to try to find out what happened to him? Never. I prefer to keep my memories just the way they are.
“I don’t believe,” my mother said to me in the same tone she’d used when I was ten, twenty, and twenty-five, “that you’ve ever really been in love, Lucy.”
I thought about that. I know she’s upset that I broke up with David. She adored him. The problem is that I…didn’t. Not enough, anyway.
“You may be right,” I said. Two glasses of wine had mellowed me, and I love my mother, most of the time anyway. She ‘gets me’ like no one else ever has, except…. But. Once. A long time ago. “Remember Skipper?”
“Skipper who?”
“You don’t remember? Hint. I was six.”
“Six?” She looked at me funny, then she smiled. “Skipper. From across the street. Wasn’t he a little bit….” She stopped there.
I let that go. Time unfolded like a raggedy ribbon and I closed my eyes. Just for a moment, I was six again…..
We were born on the same day. We found that out, the first day of school. We were alphabetically close, too, so he sat right opposite me, in the next row, in our first grade classroom. Because his family was new in the neighborhood, and I lived across the street, I’d been given the job of picking him up and walking him to school — ‘just for the first few days.’
On that first day of school, with my mother (embarrassing!) watching from the front porch, I crossed the street and counted 2,3,4 houses and there was this boy sitting on the front porch with his shoes untied.
“Hurry UP,” I said. “We can’t be late….”
He just looked at me. His hair was blond and tousled and his eyes were blue. He was kinda cute.
“Your shoes,” I said, pointing.
“I can’t.”
“You can’t tie your shoes?”
He shook his head.
I sat down beside him and began what would be a daily ritual all during the school year — except when he was wearing rubber boots. I tied his shoes — brown oxfords.
The second day, as we walked to school, he took my hand. At first I tried to take it back, but I knew he was scared about school — he hadn’t gone to kindergarten the way the rest of us had — so I let him hold my hand. A few days later, I found myself reaching for his hand as we walked to the corner where the Crossing Guard stood. While we waited for her to signal us to cross the street, I whispered to Skipper, “Remember what I said.”
“What?”
“About whispering. In school. No whispering. She’ll get mad.”
Skipper nodded. “All right,” he said. But he whispered, and we got a dirty look from the teacher.
# #
“Hello?” my mother said. “Earth to Lucy.”
I grinned at her. “You asked about love. Well….”
She smiled. Indulgently. But I was on a roll now. “Remember how we’d come running in to you, evenings after supper, when the ice cream truck came? And I’d ask ‘Can me and Skipper have a Popsicle?’”
“And I’d say ‘MAY Skipper and I …’”
“And I’d say it right, and you’d give me the nickel or dime and…”
I could see that my mother was getting a bit tired of this reminiscing. She was worried about my love life now, not when I was a little kid. But I wasn’t ready to give up. The memories — or the wine, or both — were making me feel tingly.
“And one day,” I began, reaching over and taking my mother’s hand, “we were walking home from school in the afternoon and he stopped me. He stood in front of me , his hands
behind his back. ‘Stand still,’ he said. And he kissed me. On the nose. ‘There,’ he said. And we walked on…”
“And that was love? And then nothing as good again over the next…” she counted, eyes closed, “twenty-three years?”
“That’s right,” I said. And, alas, it’s true. I don’t know why, but it’s true.
She patted my head, the way she did when I was six, and said, “Well, dear, you’ve got plenty of time.”
Yeah. Right.
After that, I went home, let Filomena out into the fenced-in yard, and sat down on the couch in my living room. I was in a funk. But Mother was right. I’m still young, and healthy, and not ugly. I have a good teaching job in this pleasant Massachusetts town, a nice house, good buddies, a gym where I swim early in the mornings, and my dog, Filomena.
Which reminds me, I forgot to remind my mother that she promised to take care of Filly while I’m away tomorrow…and tomorrow and tomorrow.
Somehow, I dread this conference. I’m not sure why. It’s within easy driving distance ( I’m one of the few people in the world who don’t mind driving in Boston, and there are three of us sharing) I love my subject — 11th and 12th grade history — and I don’t have to do any presentations this year. So why am I dreading it? Is it because I so dislike staying in hotels and eating in restaurants, or hotel dining rooms? My friends give me a hard time about this, but I’ve always felt this way, since I was a little girl and we went “out” to Sunday dinner and I squirmed and ….
Oh, well, everyone has some eccentricity, and that’s mine. That, and hating electronics. But I’m learning. I carry a cell phone in the car for emergencies. I heard the dog door bang, and Filly bounded up to me and jumped into my lap. I patted her and I swear she smiled at me as if to say, “Jerk. Everyone loves restaurants.”
# #
“So, Lawrence, old pal,“ Steve said. “Why are you looking so grim? Just because you have to make a speech? Or is it ….”
I had to tell someone, and Steve was it. We were sitting at the bar, nursing a beer. I have to stay good and sober because I’m making a speech this evening. I’ve pretty much memorized it. It’s about teaching English in high school, which is what I do. I’m pretty opinionated. I hate making kids diagram sentences and memorize lists of words. Fortunately, they pretty much let me do as I like in my high school. Boston is a great place to teach in. In which to teach.
I just plunged in. I need to get this off my chest. “Steve,” I said to my long-time buddy (we went to high school together, back in the day, whenever that was) “I’ve broken my engagement.”
Steve nearly dropped his beer. “Man, you’re lying. The lovely Alice?”
“Yes. Her. And yes, she is lovely. But…”
“BUT?”
I don’t know quite how to answer this one-word query. “She’s…she’s just not….”
“Hey, English teacher, what happened to articulate?” Steve asked. ‘She’s…she’s not….’”
“Yeah.”
“YEAH? That’s all you can say?”
“I’m trying. I want to tell you. Hell, I want to tell myself.”
“Have you told her?”
“Yes. It’s done. It’s over. She tried to give the ring back, but I told her to keep it. She took it off and put it on the table. Gently. She’s always…gentle.”
Steve sighed and cracked his knuckles, waiting for me to go on. So I do. “It was that trip we were going to take. Honeymoon. I hate that word. She was all excited about it, like she always is — Go, go go, do, do, do, that’s the lovely Alice. Then talk, talk talk about it. And she could see I was dreading it.”
“You’re such a stickin-the-mud, Lawrence,” Steve said,” You never want to go anywhere. The couch. A book…”
I smiled in spite of my lousy mood. “A drink. Some peanuts. An old movie on the telly…”
“Nobody says ‘telly’ anymore. You’re such a Luddite. I’m surprised you even manage to drive a car and use a computer.”
“That’s different. It’s for work. And I don’t have to stay in school overnight. You know how I hate hotels.”
“Alas, poor Alice,” Steve said. “Want another beer?”
“Nope. I’ve got to run through my speech once more before the hated banquet. Now there’s something I like to do — talk. I kind of look forward to it.”
Steve sighed. “Larry, I’m sorry for you. You’ve let a good one go. The lovely Alice….”
I stood , picked up my almost empty beer, raised the glass high, and said “To the lovely Alice.” And drained the glass.
I didn’t look forward to the dinner, though. Ugh. I looked at my watch. I had an hour or so to kill. I’d look at my notes once more, then spend half an hour reading to clear my mind. I had the new translation of Anna Karenina. Just thinking about that made me realize how happy I am.
It doesn’t take much.
# #
Filly nudged me, and I looked at the clock and realized it was time to feed her. And pack. And check with the girls about departure time tomorrow….
But I closed my eyes, ‘just for a moment,’ and continued that conversation with my mother. The one about Skipper…
First grade ended, and my family moved to our cottage on a lake in New Hampshire for the summer. I’d had my tonsils out right after school ended, and I couldn’t go swimming for a month. I just sat around, played with my cat, and read the books my mother brought from the local library every week. She bought me orange popsicles at the grocery store, but it wasn’t the same. I started looking forward to school. And Skipper. I missed him. I kind of hoped he hadn’t learned to tie his shoes.
But when we got home, and I looked across the street toward Skipper’s house, there was a different car out front. Skipper’s family had moved away.
I never saw him again.
“So much for my first love,” I said aloud, and Filomena gave a soft woof, the one that means, “Pat me.” So I did.
I don’t know what I’d do without my dog. And books.
# #
At the hated hotel, I dragged my feet getting ready for the banquet, but I finally got myself gussied up and headed for the cocktail hour. A drink would be nice. I found myself surrounded by people I knew, teachers from my school and other schools, people I’d met at conferences before. Pretty soon I was in mid-gab-fest and barely noticed that everyone was heading for their seats and looking toward the podium where the pre-dinner speaker stood. I was still chatting, so I missed the introduction. It was someone I didn’t know up there, a tall guy, blond hair, horn rimmed glasses . He was smiling.
The room hushed.
“I want to talk to you about teaching English,” the guy said. He had a funny, soft little stammer. It was appealing, somehow. “But not about curriculum,” he added. “You’ve all heard enough about that, so fight your battles elsewhere on that front. And then smile.”
There was something oddly familiar…oh, well. I listened, sipping the martini I’d brought to the table.
“I want to talk to you about reading,” he went on. “Fiction. Novels. If we’re going to have a nation of readers, high school is the last chance to reel ’em in. I’m going to tell you a story…and hope it sinks in.
“Last year, for assigned reading, we plowed through a couple of Shakespeare plays, some Wordsworth, (they hated Ozymandias), then took a little midstream break and read Edna Ferber’s So Big. Any of you read that? No? Raise your hand. Ooops, shy class.”
I didn’t raise my hand, but I remember my mother talking about that book, trying to get me to read it. She said it changed her life.
“Well, we read it, and it’s short, so we read it pretty quickly and they wrote their essays and we moved on to Man and Superman. The Shaw play, not the comic book. Then one day I was having a conference with one of my most reluctant readers. Big baseball player, hated reading and was proud of it, but he worked hard and I was about to raise his grade.
We started talking about the year’s rea
ding and all of a sudden he blushed and shuffled his feet. “You know that book So Big?” he asked. I nodded. “Well, I thought it was just another girl book but…there was a sex scene in it and I….”
“A what?” I skimmed the novel mentally. Of course there was no sex scene.
“Yes, there was,” he said. “You know, when they’re sitting at the kitchen table, and she’s teaching that farm guy to read….”
Our speaker looked up and paused. “I’m going to read that scene to you today,” he said.
I suddenly felt very warm, and it wasn’t because of what he was going to read. There was something about his voice…that little hitch…
“Here goes,” he said. “‘Selina was conscious that she was trying to control something. She was trying to keep her eyes away from something. She realized that she was trying not to look at his hands. She wanted, crazily, to touch them. She wanted to feel them about her throat. She wanted to put her lips on his hands — brush the backs of them, slowly, moistly, with her mouth, lingeringly. She was terribly frightened…. Selina kept her eyes resolutely on the book.’
“And that, my friends, is the ‘sex scene’ my student remembered. Vintage 1924. The scene that turned that kid into a reader of novels. As, I hope you agree…we all should be.”
He went on for a few more minutes, talking about teaching English, quoting a couple of lines from one of my favorite Billy Collins poems, but I couldn’t concentrate on his words. Something about him was disturbing me… making my heart race.
There was applause, and then I looked up and he was coming straight for my table.
“I beg your pardon,” he said, and he stopped beside my chair, his finger on a piece of paper, some kind of list, “Are you Lucinda….”
“Sk…sk…Skipper?”
“They call me Lawrence now. Lucy…Lucy…is it you?”