After we’d passed the Annapolis exits, I wanted to roll down the windows and look for the bridge, but all I could see was night.
“It’s dark!” I said.
“Duh!” said Patrick. “What did you expect?”
I guess I’d never been over the Bay Bridge at night that I could remember, but when at last we spotted those high towers holding up the long span, the lights illuminating the miles of cable, the limo slowed and we heard the intercom come on and the driver ask, “You want me to cross?”
“Yeah. Go across and find a place to turn around. Then we’ll head back,” Patrick told him, but he kept the sliding window open now so he and the driver could talk.
We rolled down the rear windows so we could stick our heads out both sides of the limo. Even though we couldn’t see the water, we could sense the salty air. It was after midnight, and there were only a couple of cars at the tollbooth. Usually the traffic was going east on one span, west on the other. But on this weekend night, two lanes of one bridge and one lane of the other were all heading toward the ocean. The bridge we were crossing had lanes going both ways.
I grabbed Patrick’s hand. “This is the farthest we’ve ever gone together, Patrick. I mean, in the same car. Both at the same time.”
He smiled. “So, what do you want? A souvenir or something?”
“Yes, I wish we could.”
I crawled over on Patrick’s lap so we were both leaning out the same window, the wind blowing in our faces. Patrick said the bridge was almost four and a half miles long. We figured when we got to the very center that we were probably higher than we’d ever been before, since we’d never been on a plane together.
“So this is a first,” I said.
Finally, when we reached the other side, the driver pulled into a restaurant parking lot to turn around.
“Patrick,” I said, “when we get to the top going back, I want to get out and take our picture.”
“You can’t stop on the bridge,” he said.
“What if you blew a tire or something? You’d have to be able to stop.”
“Not for a picture, though.”
“So what would they do? Arrest us? It would only take half a minute.”
He laughed. “You’re crazy.”
“Please?”
He had a low conversation with the driver, but I could only hear his voice, not the driver’s. Finally Patrick settled back beside me. “He says he’s going to wait until there are no cars coming in the opposite lane, then he’ll pull out and head back across. He’ll slow down and stop just long enough for us to get out and will move on very slowly, but we’ll have to take a picture in about five seconds and run to catch up. If we dawdle, we’ll have to walk back and he’ll wait for us at the other end, at which point they’ll probably arrest us.”
I didn’t know if the man was kidding or not, but this was about the most exciting thing I’d ever done.
“Okay!” I said, and immediately took off my sling-backs and pulled on my sneakers.
There were few cars heading away from the ocean at twelve thirty on an early Saturday morning. When there were no cars at all coming as far as we could see, the driver pulled out and crossed over into the return lane.
“There aren’t any sidewalks on the bridge,” Patrick murmured, studying the span out the window. “If we had to walk back, we’d be right on the roadway. We have to ride back.”
“Get my camera out, Patrick,” I said.
When we reached the top of the span, the limo slowed and stopped. Patrick jumped out first, helped me out, closed the door, and we climbed over the low wall and moved to the cable railing, laughing wildly.
“Ready,” Patrick said, holding my cell phone out in front of us. It flashed.
“Take another one,” I begged, as the wind blew my hair in my face and I could see only a reflection of the moon on the water.
The limo was slowly moving away. Another flash.
“One more?” I cried. “Please!”
“Alice, we have to go!”
“Just one more?” I pleaded.
“You crazy person!” Patrick said, but he held out my cell phone once again, and the moment it flashed, we scrambled over the parapet again, my skirts billowing out above my knees, and went racing along the grid surface to the limo, which barely stopped as we climbed in and closed the door, shrieking like maniacs.
We were trying to see our pictures in the backseat, but the driver told us to fasten our seat belts, so we did, and it wasn’t long before we started down the long incline where, we saw with pounding hearts, that a patrol car waited, an officer standing outside it.
There was no tollbooth at the bottom of the return span, but the driver slowed anyway and obeyed when the officer motioned him over.
“Oh, man,” said Patrick.
“You’ll bail me out?” the driver said sardonically.
A car behind had caught up with us, the passengers rubber-necking as they passed to see what we had done. The officer walked over.
“You are aware that only emergency stopping is allowed on the bridge?” he asked. They must have had motion detectors or cameras along the span, I decided.
“Yes,” the driver said, “but I wanted to make it special for the young couple here on their prom night. I wouldn’t have tried if there had been cars behind us.”
“Sorry. No dispensation for being the only car on the road or for prom nights,” the officer said. “License, please?”
The driver presented his credentials.
Patrick spoke up. “I’m the one who asked him to stop. If there’s a fine or anything, I’ll pay it.”
The officer didn’t answer for a moment. Still checking the driver’s ID, he said, “I’ll get to you next.”
He did. He moved to the back window and asked us to get out of the car. We obeyed. I was still wearing my sneakers and almost tripped over my dress till Patrick caught me.
“It’s my fault!” I cried. “It was all my idea, and I just wanted a picture before Patrick goes to Spain, and it will be a year before—”
Patrick squeezed my arm and I shut up.
The officer turned on his flashlight and checked the backseat to be sure there was no one else inside. No beer bottles on the floor.
“ID?” he asked.
Patrick fished around in his pocket. “I left everything back at the Stedmeisters’,” he murmured to me. And then, to the policeman, “This is all I brought with me,” and handed the officer a credit card. “It’s my dad’s.”
“Stay here, please,” the officer said, and went back to his car. He slid in, and we could see him calling in the numbers on his radio. He waited. We waited.
“Patrick, I feel horrible! I got you into this,” I said. “Do you think we’ll go to jail on our prom night?”
“I’ll ask if we can share a cell,” Patrick said, but he wasn’t smiling.
“There’s going to be a heck of an extra charge for this,” the driver complained.
“I know. It’s okay,” Patrick told him.
“Not if I lose my license,” the driver said.
I was feeling worse by the minute. The old impulsive me again. I just don’t think!
Finally the officer got out of his patrol car and walked over. He handed the credit card back to Patrick.
“Okay,” he said. “Move on. But don’t try this again. Not in this high-security age.”
“Thank you,” said Patrick. “We won’t.”
“Thank you so much!” I burbled. “We really didn’t mean to cause any trouble. I just—”
“Get in the car, Alice,” Patrick muttered, steering me through the open door.
The officer didn’t answer. He waited till another car went by and walked back to his patrol car. Then we were moving forward, on the road again.
“No tickets? No fines?” the driver asked over the intercom. “You guys must have a guardian angel or something.”
“Or something,” said Patrick. “Maybe it’s just
this crazy lady I’m with.”
“This has been the most amazing night!” I said. “I was sure he was going to arrest us. He didn’t fine us or anything. Why?”
“All I can figure is that it was Dad’s credit card I gave him. Dad said I could use his this weekend. Maybe it was diplomatic immunity or something.”
“But I thought your dad retired from the State Department?”
“He did. But I’m sure his history is all in his records.”
“Wow, Patrick!” I said.
“Roger that!” said the driver from up front, and we laughed as Patrick closed the little glass window again and the intercom clicked off.
We checked out the photos Patrick had taken and laughed at the camera angle of the first one. We were on a slant, and the left side of my face was missing, Patrick’s eyes were wide and goofy. The second photo got us both in, my hair tossing in the wind, me smiling a little too broadly, Patrick striking a moody movie-star look. In the last photo I’m looking away from the camera at the receding limo and Patrick’s chin was cut off.
“The second one’s best, Patrick,” I said. “Look at you!”
“Look at your hair.” He laughed.
“We’re like that couple at the prow of the Titanic.”
“Except for your grin.”
“That’s a smile, Patrick.”
“Whatever it is, I’ll take it,” he said.
The lights of the bridge had disappeared far behind us and the dark of the trees closed in. And then we were in each other’s arms again.
The driver cut through D.C. on the way back, and we had almost every street to ourselves. He drove us by the Jefferson and Lincoln Memorials, all lit up. Past the reflecting pool, where tourists walked when cherry trees were in bloom, around the Washington Monument. It was like we were the only ones in Washington. Like all the lights were on just for us, celebrating my eighteenth birthday.
Finally we were on our way home again. Patrick asked the driver to take the scenic route—the slow lane along Beach Drive. We didn’t see any of the rest. Patrick and I were entwined together on the backseat, caressing each other and kissing the parts we couldn’t see.
“Patrick,” I whispered, “when we’re together again, I want it to be for a week, at least. I want seven days and seven nights. I can’t stand wanting you so much and never having time for more than a taste.”
His lips were buried against my neck. “If you only knew how much I’ve wanted you… .”
When the limo pulled up to my house, the driver turned off the engine and sat, unseen, in his seat up front while we gave our good-night kisses. At last, when we heard him open the door and get out, we knew we had reached the end of our magical evening.
“I love you,” Patrick said.
“I love you,” I whispered back.
28
BY THE HOUR?
Pamela invited us over the following night so we could relive the prom in slow motion, dissecting every incident, commenting on every dress, reflecting on every couple, every expression, each word… . Her dad and his fiancée were out for the evening, so we had the place to ourselves.
Liz and Pamela and Gwen, of course, wanted to know what happened after Patrick and I left the prom, and Pamela’s ears were like antennas, practically vibrating, wanting to know all the passionate details.
“Well,” I said, “Patrick and I went farther than we’ve ever gone before.”
“You … ?” Liz said, eyes huge.
“Together,” I added.
“Meaning?” said Pamela.
I told them about the limo ride to the Bay Bridge and how we stopped and got out and how a policeman was waiting at the other end. Everyone loved hearing about it, but Pamela was getting impatient.
“Meanwhile, back in the limo … ,” she prompted.
“We were about as close as we could get,” I said, skirting the question.
Liz studied me. “No waves crashing? No earth moving? No violins?”
I sighed. “Not in the way you’re thinking.”
“And don’t expect it either,” Gwen said. “It’ll be a while before you get violins.”
“What about you and Austin?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” she said. “Eight years is a long time for me to be in school, and who knows where he’ll get a job? We’re just enjoying what we have. But guess who I saw at the prom?”
We shook our heads.
“Legs,” she said.
“Leo? The guy who—?” Liz began, and stopped.
The guy she’d had sex with way back when. The guy she finally broke up with when we were counselors together at camp. The guy who had been cheating on her all the while.
“Did you talk to him?” I asked.
“No. I’m not sure he even knew I was there. I was trying to see who invited him, but I couldn’t. He and Austin are so … It’s like they’re from different planets. I’m dancing with Austin, wondering what I ever saw in Legs. Just the fact that he liked me, I guess. I figured that he must think I was really special if he wanted to have sex with me.”
We all groaned at that, even the two of us who were still virgins.
Pamela told us how much fun she’d had with Jay, and Liz said she and Keeno were going out a few more times before we left for the cruise ship. But while they chattered on, I settled back against the cushions, remembering the way Patrick and I had said good-bye at the airport that morning. Mr. Stedmeister had driven him over to our place around noon so Patrick could have lunch with us and talk with Dad and Sylvia. Then Patrick and I got in Dad’s car, and Dad drove to Reagan National, then around and around the traffic circle while I walked with Patrick as far as the security gate.
What do you say when you know you won’t see someone for over a year? Call me? E-mail me? Think of me? Love me? All the above? All those promises… .
When we embraced for the last time, I felt as though if I held him tightly enough, he wouldn’t leave. Like I was imprinting him on my body. But finally he gently pulled away, squeezed my arm, then picked up his bag and went through security.
We waved for as long as we could see each other, Patrick heading down the long hall. Then another passenger came between us, and he disappeared.
I hadn’t wanted to talk on the way home. I’d looked around twice, thinking Patrick might possibly be running after our car. That he might have forgotten something—left something in it and I could see him one more time. But then we were turning onto the George Washington Parkway, Dad had the radio playing, and I just closed my eyes, drawing in my breath, trying to detect Patrick’s scent. But it was gone.
I was like a robot the following week, partly because there was so much to do before graduation and partly to keep from missing Patrick. I had a checklist of things I needed to complete for every class before finals, and I set myself on automatic. I put in eight hours at the Melody Inn on Saturday, catching up on the work I needed to do there, and Dad let me have his car afterward for a whole evening of errands if I’d take some insurance papers over to Lester while I was at it.
I picked up Sylvia’s dry cleaning, stopped at the shoe repair shop, returned a book to Silver Spring Library, bought some stuff at the drugstore that I’d need on the cruise, and by the time I got to Lester’s apartment around nine thirty, the evening had turned from cool to cold—typical, unreliable May weather.
He was waiting for me in the living room, watching an ESPN sports special that not even he seemed especially interested in.
“You’re on call tonight?” I said, giving him the insurance papers and throwing my jacket on a chair. “What are you eating?” I asked, looking at what appeared to be brownie crumbs on a saucer.
“Well, make yourself at home, why don’t you?” he said.
“I’m trying. I’ve been running errands all evening and I’m hungry.”
He motioned toward the kitchen. “Rubbermaid container,” he said.
I got a couple brownies, checked the milk to see if there was en
ough for me, and poured a small glass. Then I came out to sit beside him. “You going to miss me when I’m gone all summer?” I asked, savoring the first bite of chocolate.
“I’ll save some on food,” he said. “Though Andy will probably eat your share.”
I’d noticed her door was closed when I came in.
“Still in business, huh?”
“It’s a mystery. I’m doing all the checking I can, and things keep turning up. She evidently was a straight-A student when she was at the university. No evidence that she took part in any extracurricular stuff—no clubs or sororities—all nose to the grindstone. But she … and those students … just don’t add up somehow. I’ve got a call in to a friend in the finance office. He says there was a memo going around a month or so ago about an Andrea somebody or other, but he couldn’t remember what it said. He’s checking.”
“I almost wish I were staying home this summer. Alice, Girl Detective.”
“Naw. You’ll have a ball. Where does that cruise ship go, anyway?”
“Just around the bay. All the little towns and byways. Passengers explore some on rubber dinghies, and there are picnics and stuff. Sometimes we get to help at cookouts. I’m going to come back with a toned body like you wouldn’t believe.”
“You’re right, I don’t believe it.”
“Les,” I said, “if you were going to be separated from a girl you really, really liked—okay, loved—for a whole year, what would you do to make sure the … romance stayed alive?”
“Hmmm,” said Les. “Well, first I’d make sure we both tattooed the other’s name on our foreheads—”
“Les …”
“And we could each wear a tiny vial of the other’s blood around our necks.”
“Seriously …”
Lester turned the TV down so we could talk. “It’s easier to say what you shouldn’t do than what you should. You shouldn’t make each other promise anything—that you won’t see other people or fall in love with anyone else. You want Patrick to come back to you because he wants to, not because he said he would. And you don’t fill your letters and phone calls with woeful tales of how much you miss him or whine about how boring your life is without him. He doesn’t want to come back to that. Tell him about all the exciting things you’re doing, places you’re going, books you’re reading, people you’re meeting. He wants to come back to somebody interesting, not boring.”
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