Two hours came too soon. We ate lunch at a small seaside fish-and-chip restaurant. Reese and I had fish sandwiches made with poppy seed buns. Father talked about the weather, one of his favorite subjects. Reese and I laughed just looking at each other. Brad stared at us, keeping his thoughts secret. I pointed to a seed stuck to Reese’s face.
“What?” he asked.
“You have a seed on your face.” Reese looked slightly embarrassed.
“I’m germinating,” he said, then broke into a snigger. The laugh was contagious. I played what he had just said back in my mind. Germinating. I laughed harder.
“Thanks for lunch,” Reese told my dad.
“No problem. Nice to see you again.” We had to go. Reese and I hugged in front of his cement-block pigsty. I counted my blessings for having had lunch with three of the dearest people in the world. On the way home, I was already writing mental letters to Megan about the trip. And missing Reese.
* * *
The weeks between my East Coast vacation and Reese’s return dragged on forever. His letters came less frequently, about every two weeks. I cut back writing too. Every other day, a fifty percent reduction. We never called. A thirty-minute phone conversation set me back four hours take-home pay. I wrote most of my letters on ‘Missing You’ cards I bought half-price from my new job at Hallmark. And most of my letters politely hounded (almost begged) him to write more often. The mailbox reflex was alive and well in my psyche. An anticipatory rush excited my heart each day at mail call. Instant disappointment leapt in when there was nothing from Reese. The reflex was uncontrollable. I had tried to reel it in.
First semester of my tertiary education at Rock Valley College, affectionately known as ‘Mulford High,’ was well under way when Reese came home at the end of September. On a cool, crisp, clear day, the phone rang.
“Hi, Camryn. I’m home.” Reese spoke on the other end, nearly singing the word ‘home.’
“You are?” I excitedly asked the rhetorical question while jumping up and down like a kindergartener. “Come over.”
Reese hesitated. “I’ll have to see if I can borrow my mom’s car. Mine might fall apart.” Reese had a used blue Camaro his mother gave him for graduation. He was excited about showing it off, but I had to go there to see it.
“Go ask her.” I knew she’d say yes. An hour later Reese stood at my doorstep, apple cider donuts from Edwards Apple Orchard in hand. My favorite.
“Donuts!” My inner five-year-old burst through again. I gave him a big hug, no apprehension this time. And he hugged me back. He was home; we were together. We went to the movies just like old times that night. Reese took me to see Top Gun, his ninth time seeing it, my first.
Jo and my dad’s move from Harvard created obstacles to our being able to see each other often. Reese couldn’t always borrow his family car. With Father’s limited work schedule, he and Jo shared one vehicle, graciously letting me use the second car for work, school, and play, but I still couldn’t afford to commute between Rockford and Harvard as often as I wanted. I asked Sarah if I could stay overnights in Harvard at her house, but my spending the majority of the time with Reese made that inconvenient on many levels.
“Reese, um, could I ask you something?” He looked at me attentively. “Sarah isn’t too thrilled with me staying at her house when I’m spending all my time with you. Could I stay here instead?” I rushed the last words, slightly embarrassed at being so bold as to invite myself overnight, let alone overnight at a boy’s house. My Australian experience opened my mind to the possibility that such things could happen here as I’d seen it done there. Reese’s blue eyes rested on me for a moment, then he got up from the table, disappearing around the corner for a few.
He came back.
“My mom says you can stay in the guest room downstairs,” he said, squeezing my hand. I sat on his lap at the kitchen table, leaning into him.
“Thank you,” I whispered. By this time, it was a comfortable norm for us to hug, hold hands, snuggle. We weren’t whole if we weren’t touching.
Second base was just around the corner. We cuddled up on the reclining love seat one evening. Reese’s parents passed through the living room several times, seeing us entwined. I was self-conscious about it, feeling like they’d scold us any second, but Reese wasn’t concerned. His mom prepared dinner in the kitchen, preoccupied. The right seat, where Reese sat, reclined just enough to be comfortable, but not flat. I sat in the middle, nearly on top of his lap. He cradled me in his right arm as I leaned on and across him. Complete contentment washed over me as I watched him watching the TV. I studied his eyes, the curve of his nose, his barely noticeable razor stubble, the lines on his lips. Three years prior, I had sworn to myself that I would never kiss anyone with whom I wasn’t in love. The thought that I could not be happier than with Reese simmered within. I was in love. Reese looked at me looking at him. I leaned in closer, feeling the warmth of his breath, then an inexplicable force pulled my lips to his. I gave him two soft kisses, then promptly buried my blushing face in his chest. He must have been smiling because he held me tight and said, “I love you.”
We glowed at the dinner table that night. “You two look overly happy,” Reese’s father said in a monotone, then asked for more mashed potatoes.
* * *
Homecoming night we returned to our alma mater. At the football game, happy surprise appeared on faces of old classmates when they saw us still together, arm in arm.
“You should have seen him when you were gone,” Wendy Simpson said. “He looked like a lost puppy.” ‘Lost puppy’, ‘sad puppy’, ‘wasn’t himself’ were all themes repeated over and over again that night when acquaintances marveled that we had survived the months apart. Each time, we pulled each other closer, grateful it was over, pushing Reese’s imminent basic training and enlistment from our minds.
“You’re the Inspiration” played in the gymnasium at the Homecoming dance. Reese and I melted into one another in a slow dance sway. We revisited the soft kiss, then I found his tongue touching mine, a gentle exploring, a new closeness. Soft, warm, wet kisses making us hungry for more. The rest of the crowd faded away. Soul mate in my arms, our song playing, his hands on my hips—the place just lower than where mere friends hug, causing a wetness only I was aware of. It was my heaven, our heaven.
The next morning I woke downstairs in the guest bed, alone. As far as I could tell, no one else stirred, so I showered and dressed then went up to the kitchen. Mrs. Dahlgren sat reading the newspaper.
“He’ll sleep till noon if I let him,” she said. “Have a seat.” Mrs. Dahlgren and I got on well for the next two hours solving the world’s problems over coffee. Reese lumbered down from upstairs about ten o’clock, still half-asleep, his hair disheveled, shorts inside out. I noticed the curled dark hairs on his muscular thighs. Reese bent over and kissed my cheek on his way to the chair beside me. Helen poured him coffee.
“How long have you been up?” he asked me.
“Since eight.”
“That’s too early. Every day at boot camp they’ll make me get up before the birds. I’m sleeping in while I can.”
“Remember Mrs. Gavins from church?” I asked, switching the subject. “She’s in the hospital here in town. I’d like to go up and see her. She wrote to me a lot while I was away.”
“What’s wrong with her?” Reese asked.
“I’m not sure. You want to go with me?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Please?”
“No, I really don’t want to. I don’t know her that well.”
“I’ll need a ride,” I said with a melody playfully tinged with beg and guilt trip. Reese had come and gotten me that particular weekend—a rare occasion when Father and Jo needed both cars.
“Here,” Reese said, pushing the keys to his prized Camaro across the table, “take my car.” He said it so matter-of-fact, like it was no big deal. I was floored, and thrilled, and honored yet apprehensive. Letting someone else drive you
r car, in my sheltered upbringing, especially without you in it, was akin to sharing your spouse. It wasn’t allowed, approved of, or appropriate, according to Father’s unwritten rules. And it didn’t happen; at least that’s what my dad thought.
“Are you sure?” I asked, disbelieving.
“Of course. I’ll get cleaned up while you’re gone and when you get back, we can do some Christmas shopping.” This was too much! First he sends me off in his car and then he suggests, on his own accord, Christmas shopping. How much better could it get?
“Isn’t it a little early for Christmas shopping?” I hid my exploding elation.
“I won’t have a chance during boot camp. Gotta do it sometime.”
“I guess you do.” Reality grabbed hold for a second. I pushed it away. “Okay, then, I’ll see you in a few.” I picked up the keys, clutched my purse, and went on my way.
* * *
I walked into room 122, startled when I saw a bald person in bed.
“Hello, dear,” Mrs. Gavins called out in her grandmotherly voice. “Long time, no see. What a nice surprise. I wasn’t expecting visitors.” I gave her a hug. She reciprocated with frail IV-burdened arms. Mrs. Gavins was Victor’s grandmother, but I didn’t hold that against her. She was on my side.
“So, I hear you are seeing that Dahlgren boy,” she said as I settled into the guest chair. Gossip flourished, even in the cardiac ward. “He’s a nice boy,” she said as she felt of her head.
“He’s wonderful,” I said, watching Mrs. Gavins strain to paw around in her bedside drawer. She pulled out a gray mop.
“I feel naked without my hair on,” she whispered as if sharing a secret. Mrs. Gavins adjusted the wig. “I can’t visit with you naked, now, can I?” I smiled, still stunned with the knowledge that Mrs. Gavins had no hair.
“How are you doing?” I asked.
“They say it’s the old ticker. Enough about me. You are just radiant. You’re in love, aren’t you?” I blushed and smiled. “I knew it! I can see you are off the market. I would have liked you for a granddaughter-in-law, but you are still dear to me.” She held my hand in hers, patting it with each word. “Victor really missed out when he let you go. He knew he wasn’t ready for a girlfriend. He tried to not hurt you,” she said, offering an unasked for explanation and unnecessary apology. Mrs. Gavins laid her head back on the pillow and closed her eyes as she trailed off in a whisper, then continued with her eyes still shut. “Mr. Gavins always made me feel special through the years, even to this day. It’s the only kind to have.” She dozed off. I sat watch over her bedside not knowing if I should get up and leave. She moved slightly, pushing her wig cockeyed and out of place. Her chin relaxed and her mouth dropped open. I stood. “Thanks for coming, dear.” Mrs. Gavins woke momentarily, lifting her arm. I took her cool, timeworn hand and gave a gentle squeeze. “I need my rest,” she said in a barely audible rasp, then nodded off again.
* * *
We savored our few weekends together. I cleared my work schedule, spent free time with Reese and our friends, brought and did my homework at Reese’s while he either watched basketball with his dad or shot hoops, then I left early Monday morning and drove forty-five minutes straight to class. My evening shift at Hallmark made visiting Reese at his house impractical during the week. Often, he surprised me at work, sometimes dropping in with Kurt, sometimes by himself. One night he stopped by alone and hung out while I closed. Friends waiting in the store during closeout were against the rules, but I wasn’t concerned. I trusted him as I trusted myself.
“So this is where all the cards came from,” Reese said, helping me straighten up.
“Some nights I only do fifty dollars’ worth of business. When it’s really dead, I have a lot of time to read cards.” I counted the drawer and prepared the deposit. “Already have a stockpile waiting for your next absence.” I looked up and grinned.
Reese served as my bodyguard while I walked to the bank, dropped the locked zippered bag into the night deposit, and went on to my car. “Follow me home?” I said. “You can leave your car at my house and we can catch a movie.”
We watched a double feature, the last showing of Short Circuit and Mannequin, the theater to ourselves. Reese rested his hand on my thigh throughout the film, rubbing his fingers in gentle circular motion caresses, causing an excited, pulsing super lube nearby. During halftime we stood, relieving our numb butts. Reese bent to kiss me, a kiss that lasted through the intermission. I perched atop the back of the seat in front of me then wrapped my legs around him, our lips locked. We came up for air when the lights went out and the second movie rolled. “I’m going to miss you so much,” I said. We locked arms and held tight hands. That night was the first time we talked about being apart again.
At one o’clock in the morning, we stood on my front porch. “Why don’t you spend the night? I can make up a bed on the couch for you,” I said, not wanting him to go.
“No, I can’t. Really.” Reese sounded sincere, but disappointed too.
“Well just come in then, for a few minutes.” We entered, careful not to wake the parents, and settled down on the living room floor, the lamp on dim. “I’m tired,” I said, setting my head on a pillow. “And cold.”
Reese grabbed the throw to cover us, tucking it in, then touched my lips with his, lingering there, which turned the heat way up. His hand traveled to my waist, making a return trip under my shirt, against my bare skin. The same carnal pulses I felt during the Homecoming dance pulsed harder.
“I love you,” I said, consumed. I wanted to be with him forever.
At 4 a.m. I kissed Reese goodbye at the front door, just about the time nocturia had gotten Father out of bed. He gave us a disapproving look, then went about his business. We stole a last peck, then Reese was gone. I listened until I could no longer hear his car in the distance. Still euphoric over the night with Reese, I nearly bumped into Father at the bathroom door.
“Goodnight,” I said. Father just patted my shoulder in passing.
While I brushed my teeth and stared in the mirror wondering if anyone could tell by looks that the line of consummate innocence had been crossed, I noticed a few squares of blue toilet paper lying on the counter alongside a pen. The same pen Reese had asked for earlier. He had drawn a heart shape and written ‘I love you. See you tomorrow.’ on the squares. My heart soared, knowing how lucky I was to have found such a thoughtful, romantic beau.
* * *
“I’m sick of being the mother. That’s the worst part. It’s like I was the mother and she was the child. I didn’t have a mother . . . I just need someone stable.” I paused, wondering how to finish answering Mrs. Dahlgren’s question about my parents’ divorce. “It was a surprise when it happened. After thirty years, who’d have thought? They never talked and they never fought. Heck, they didn’t even tell each other how they voted. It was private. Overall, my parents’ divorce did me good: I grew up fast. I can take care of myself . . . I’d have never come to Harvard.” I looked at Reese, thankful. “I’m probably more independent than I would have been. I don’t think I would have gone to Australia . . .”
“I’m stable,” Reese said, massaging my shoulders as we talked, then turned toward his mother. “Mom, do you have any of that lotion?” Reese scratched at a rough patch of skin on his upper arm behind his elbow.
“Over there.” His mom pointed to the cupboard by the microwave. “Well, I was just wondering,” Helen said, wrapping up our conversation, returning to her dishes. “Come over tomorrow. We’re having an early birthday for Reese before he goes.”
Ryan drove in from Chicago for Reese’s goodbye and birthday dinner. Reese’s mom made his favorites from her Southern cooking repertoire—corn bread stuffing, sweet potatoes, deep-fried turkey. She served white cake with homemade buttercream frosting. Reese blew out all nineteen candles and made a wish while we sang “Happy Birthday.” Reese’s father didn’t sing; he just sat there. Reese took my hand in both of his under the table as the last f
lame disappeared.
“Ryan,” Reese’s dad said, striking up a conversation. “How’s the team this year?”
“Good. I think we’ll do real well. That is, if I can get out of this slump.”
“What slump?” Mr. Dahlgren asked.
“I’ve been a little tired, that’s all.”
“Too much late night carousing,” his mother accused with good reason.
“Oh, mom. I’ve been dating Ginny so long now; I’ve got to sow those wild oats before I settle down.”
My jaw dropped, horrified and repulsed. Reese turned red with embarrassment.
“That’s my boy. No sense tying yourself down too soon—or ever for that matter.” Mr. Dahlgren lifted his beer mug to Ryan’s for a toast. “I taped your last exhibition game,” he said to Ryan, slapping him on the shoulder. “Let’s watch ball.” Reese’s dad and Ryan disappeared into the living room.
“Reese, honey, would you help me clear the table?” Mrs. Dahlgren looked at him. They both knew Mr. Dahlgren would never pitch in.
“Sure mom.” The three of us cleaned up after dinner, visiting with friendly chatter.
“I’ll leave you two alone,” Mrs. Dahlgren said, leaving Reese with the last few pots and pans. She climbed the stairs, calling it a night.
“I’m sorry about dinner,” Reese told me as he finished washing the dishes.
“It’s okay.”
“No, it’s not okay,” Reese said, more stern than I’d ever seen him before. “I’m so ashamed of them sometimes, especially Dad. You’ll never have to worry about that.” I wasn’t sure, exactly, what it was that I’d never have to worry about, but felt assured despite never asking for clarification.
I sat on Reese’s lap holding him in my arms, my head on his shoulder. Amongst the grocery list, calendar, church bulletin and miscellaneous notes posted on the fridge, was a blonde little boy in a Cub Scout uniform holding a pine sapling. The tree had grown to be twice as tall as Reese since he planted it in the front yard during third grade.
We kissed as if he was not off to basic training, but to war.
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