The Boots My Mother Gave Me

by Brooklyn James

  “I can leave them here,” I said. I didn’t want any issues over the boots.

  “And look, we found your old albums.” Kat pointed to the records in the box. Apparently, he was in a tolerable mood, as Kat and Mom remained chatty and upbeat in his company.

  “I can leave them here, too.”

  “There’s some good stuff in there. I don’t listen to them anymore. You take them,” he said. “What about your tires? I noticed the tread’s getting a little bald.”

  “Yeah, I’m headed back to Benny’s. I’ve got a spare set ready to go.”

  “Do you believe she graduates tomorrow, John? Tomorrow night at seven,” Mom reminded him. “Seems like only yesterday we carried you home from the hospital.”

  “Okay, that’s my cue to leave,” I said, pulling Kat into me, hugging her. “Want to go help me change my tires?”

  She held her perfectly self-manicured hands in the air. “Honestly, do these look like the hands of a girl who would change a tire?”

  First Time For Everything

  Friday, June 6, 1997, graduation day. My time had come. A perfect Pennsylvania morning, fresh dew sparkling off the grass, the smell of summer in the air, a cool fifty degrees and rising, as the sun showed its beautiful face over Benny’s Automotive.

  Three cars waited in the parking lot, mechanically sound and ready for their owners to pick them up. I pulled number four into the bay and hurried down under into the pit, removing the seal from the oil pan. A quick oil change and lube, finished in no time. My hair in low pigtails, a few dirt smudges marked my coveralls, matching the ones on my face. I moved in time to the rhythm of Long Cool Woman by The Hollies as it blasted out of the garage radio, tuned to the classic rock station. The music stopped abruptly. I heard Benny call to me, his tone filled with urgency.

  “Harley?”

  I fled up the stairs leading to the bay, taking them two at a time. “What is it Benny?” My thoughts immediately went to Kat and Mom.

  “It’s the Johnson boy,” he said. “They took his dad to the hospital. The missus just heard it on the scanner.”

  “What happened?”

  “He had a heart attack. You better get over there. The boy’s going to need someone.”

  “I only have one more order to fill. I’ll come back and finish it up.” I made my way to Charlene.

  Benny followed, shoving a fifty-dollar bill in my hand. “Get some fuel and buy the kid some lunch or something. No need for you to come back, you stay with him. I’ll finish up here.”

  I hugged him tightly, kissing him on the cheek before closing myself in Charlene, fully testing the prowess of her 454-cubic inches as I hastily made my way to St. Mary’s emergency room, an hour away, the closest hospital to Georgia.

  Upon my entry, and a strange look from a passerby, I realized I still wore my coveralls. Self-conscious only for a moment, my mind returned to my mission at hand, Jeremiah. I visually searched the emergency room as I neared the reception desk. Maybe I had the wrong hospital. Trust me, no one overlooked Jeremiah. He stood out in a crowd.

  “Can I help you?” I heard a friendly voice inquire from the desk.

  “I don’t know if I’m at the right place.”

  “Where are you supposed to be, honey?”

  “St. Mary’s ER.”

  “Last time I checked, we were St. Mary’s ER,” she said with a smile. “Who are you looking for?”

  “Jeremiah Johnson. His dad, Doug Johnson, EMS brought him in.” Her facial expression quickly altered, her smile disappearing. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

  With reservation, she continued, “Are you family?”

  “You could say that. What’s going on? Is he here? Can’t you just take me to him?”

  The receptionist looked over her shoulder to a nurse standing behind her who overheard our conversation. The nurse reluctantly gave her a nod and motioned toward a room in the back.

  “He’s not talking to anyone,” she said, leading the way, her arm around my shoulder.

  She opened the door to the small, sterile, white-walled room with harsh fluorescent lighting, and there he was, my Miah. He sat on the floor, long muscular frame and back to the wall, his wavy black hair peeking out from under his crossed arms, hiding his head hanging between his knees. Without intending to, his name escaped my lips in a whisper, “Miah.”

  He raised his head, the anguish showing in his face. I thought I would die seeing him like this. I stepped into the room, my knees buckling beneath me. My legs crossed one into the other until I sat in front of him. I wanted to take his pain. I heard the door close behind me. We were alone, Jeremiah Johnson and me, as we had found ourselves so many times in our young lives.

  “He’s gone, Harley-girl. My dad’s gone. He left me,” he said, his eyes overflowing with tears. He hid his face from me, burying it against his knees. What a surreal feeling for him. I had experienced a few deaths to this point in my life, but they always seemed some kind of dream. You never want to believe someone is gone from you, forever. I heard a muffled sob escape his throat as his lungs forcefully filled with air, causing my own tears to fall heavily, uninhibited, with blatant disregard for my almond. I gently stroked his hair, wishing for some light bulb moment, an answer.

  “I’m so sorry,” the words came. Couldn’t I come up with something more comforting than, I’m sorry? That’s not going to bring his father back. But I was sorry. Isn’t that what we say when someone loses a loved one? What do you say when a boy loses his father? “I don’t know what to do. I’ll do anything. Just tell me what to do, love.”

  He raised his head slowly, purposefully, as if it weighed a hundred pounds. I reached for his face, wiping his tears away. He let his legs slide out to the length of the floor, removing the wall between us, as he pulled at the waistline of my coveralls, inching me closer to him.

  “Give me a minute to get myself together and you can take me home.” With that statement came the realization home would never be the same. He bit his bottom lip and sucked in air, quickly hiding his face in my chest. I held him to me. I wanted to tell him everything would be okay, but I didn’t want to lie to him. How do you recover from the death of a parent? He already lost his mother, years ago. She walked out on him and his dad. I wondered if she knew. Did he want her to know? Did he need her?

  “Do you need me to get ahold of anyone for you?”

  He wiped his face harshly with his hands, fully reading my insinuation. “No,” he said adamantly.

  His otherwise supple lips looked raw, chapped. I reached into my pocket, pulled out my cherry lip balm, and traced his lips in their entirety. He smiled faintly, putting his hand around the back of my neck, gently pulling me to him. He rested his forehead against mine. “Stay with me, Harley-girl. I don’t want to be alone.”

  We left the hospital, making a short pass by his house to retrieve his cap and gown for graduation, along with an overnight bag. Without his father in the house, he had no desire to stay. Every room, every picture hanging on the wall, every ambient sound the house made, only reminded him his dad was gone.

  He never said, “I can’t believe it,” or asked, “Why is this happening to me?” He took everything straight on. Jeremiah never ran from anything. He wanted to go to graduation. He said his dad would want him to go, to make him proud. He carried on. God, I admired him.

  Later that evening, after graduation, we retired to my apartment. We skipped the after parties, neither of us in a particularly social frame of mind. Entering my place only reminded us of my departure. I had boxes and bags piled in the corner, packed and ready to go.

  Jeremiah looked around, anxiously running his fingers through his hair. “You’re really doing this. You’re leaving tomorrow.”

  “Yeah,” I said, dropping my keys on the kitchen counter. Opening the fridge, I pulled out a carton of milk, placing it beside Mom’s chocolate cake with peanut butter frosting on the kitchen table.

  “Do you know how many bet
s there are that you won’t make it? Two or three months, tops. ‘She’ll come home,’ they say.” He took a seat on the sofa, staring off into the corner of boxes.

  “Which way did you bet?” I asked, carefully placing one candle at each end of the cake.

  “I’m the one taking all the bets.” His face lit up. “They don’t know you like I do. In three months, I’m going to be cashing in.” He joined me at the kitchen table. “I kind of wish they were right. Least that way I know I’d see you again.”

  “I’ll come back to visit. Besides, if we’re meant to see each other again...”

  “We’ll see each other,” he finished my sentence, mockingly. “Ya know, everything’s not up to the universe, Harley. Sometimes shit happens.”

  “I didn’t mean you weren’t meant to see him again,” I spoke apologetically.

  “I know that’s not what you meant. Just hit me wrong.” He cleared his throat. “Ironic, isn’t it? My dad would have loved to be there tonight, at graduation. And your dad, he slipped in and out the back so fast, you never would’ve known he was there.”

  “I didn’t know, not until Mom told me afterward.” I poured each of us a glass of milk. “I would have loved to see your dad sitting out in the audience. He would’ve been so proud of you.”

  “Proud of us,” Jeremiah corrected. “He thought you were the coolest little girl. Remember that time we were out in the side field playing football? It rained so hard the day before...”

  “The ground was so muddy, we were smothered in it, up to our eyeballs,” I said, the memory flickering back to me. “He was in the garage, changing the oil in his car.”

  “Yep, he was about to jack it up, so he could fit under it to drain the oil pan, and you took off for the garage to help. ‘You don’t have to jack it up, Mr. Johnson, I can fit,’ you said. “ He chuckled.

  “I loved doing that stuff with your dad. He was so cool, Miah.”

  “He used to tell me all the time how I shouldn’t let you get away. He’d say, ‘Jeremiah, I don’t know why you’re wasting your time with all those other girls, when Harley’s right up the road.’ He was unrelenting. I had to tell him you were trouble.” He grinned.

  “Trouble?” I defended, lighting the candles on the cake.

  “T-r-o-u-b-l-e,” he teased, spelling it out. “A girl like you, a man-eater, heart-breaker.”

  “Oh, blow out your candle.” I held my hand in front of his pursed lips, mouth full of air. “Don’t forget to make a wish.” We exhaled in unison, quenching the dancing sparks atop the candles.

  “What did you wish for?” he asked.

  “I can’t tell you or it won’t come true.”

  “Want to know what I wished for?” He offered me a piece of cake from his fork.

  “Sure, I’ll bite. What did you wish for?” I offered my mouth up for the cake.

  Jeremiah pulled it away, closing the gap between his mouth and mine. He stopped, his lips millimeters from my own, and whispered, “I wished I would see you again.” He kissed me softly, lingering. He tasted sweet, the combination of icing and cake, intoxicating.

  He pulled his mouth from mine, returning blood flow to my brain. “Hmm, you are one smooth operator. Yet, I remind you, I’m the ‘man-eater, heart-breaker’ extraordinaire,” I said, accompanied with air quotes.

  “What!”

  “‘I wished I would see you again,’” I mocked. “Go for it...lean in...and the kiss. You’ve watched way too many movies, Miah.”

  “I knew that was coming. You’re so jaded,” he jovially fought back. “Maybe I was trying to be sincere.”

  “Maybe you were sincerely trying to make it past first base,” I said, causing both of us to laugh between bites of cake.

  “I would have stopped after second.” He grinned.

  “See!” I swatted him. “I have too many guy friends to get duped into second base. You guys talk way too much.”

  “You’re not going to write a book or something are ya, exposing our methods?”

  “I don’t think it’s a big secret. Your methods have been around since the caveman,” I said. Jeremiah laughed. He had a great laugh. I watched, momentarily caught up in his smile. I loved the way the corners of his eyes crinkled when his mouth curled. He was just beautiful. God, I would miss him.

  “Thanks, Harley-girl. For this, staying with me, everything.”

  “You’re welcome.” I reached my hand out, putting it on top of his, giving it a gentle squeeze.

  Oh crap! I shouldn’t have touched him. Why is it, refraining from crying is do-able until someone touches you or hugs you? He tried to recover, pulling his hand back with the realization of the emotions welling in his eyes. He quickly got up from the table, pacing the floor of the living room.

  “When does it stop?” He ran his fingers hastily through his hair as he paced. “I’m tired of crying. Damn it! I think I’m over it and then it just starts up again.” He sank onto the couch, sitting on the edge, his elbows resting on his knees, hands fidgeting, his jaw tense, twitching in an attempt to halt the tears flowing freely down his face. He looked to me, his somber brown eyes flooded, unnecessary shame exposed in his expression. “I’m sorry,” he said, hiding his head in the crook of his arms.

  I moved to him, only a short distance separating us, my own hands fidgeting. I wanted to touch him, comfort him, unsure of how to do that. I felt his arms around my waist, pulling me to him, down onto his lap.

  The danger of the situation flooded my senses. I shouldn’t be this close to him. Did he have any idea what he did to me, how he effected me? I felt warm all over, melting into his frame. Cupping his face in my hands, I kissed everywhere I found the slightest trace of wetness, until my lips were filled with the taste of his tears. I leaned back onto the couch, meeting the softness of the pillow behind me. Jeremiah followed, resting his head on my chest. I covered us with a blanket, stroking his hair, his neck, and his back, until he fell asleep in my arms.

  I awoke in the night, forgetting the position in which I fell asleep. My attempt to roll over was stifled by the weight on top of me. My senses came alive, silent, dim and warm, with a mixture of men’s cologne and evasive pheromones. Hmm, he smelled divine. How can a man, devoid of nutritional value, fill me up?

  Jeremiah stirred slowly, rolling onto his side, his arm around my middle turning me with him.

  “Got enough room?” his voice raspy, his eyes sleepy and provocative.

  “Too much.” I couldn’t get close enough to him. I lay right next to him, but it wasn’t close enough.

  He drew me tighter still. “Better? You cold?” He pulled the blanket up around us.

  I looked at the clock hanging on the living room wall, three in the morning. I would leave in a few hours, to go far away from here. Would I ever see him again?

  “Still not close enough,” I said, nervously covering his mouth with my own.

  Urgently, I unbuttoned his shirt, exposing his bare skin, tracing his chest with my hands. His muscles so well-developed, two of my fingers fit tightly into the sculpted divot between his pecs. His skin felt soft and hot, as my fingers found their way to his navel. His abdomen tightened as I neared its lower recesses. He pressed hard against me with his body and his mouth before pulling away. I could see the questions in his eyes, as unsure as I was.

  Nervously, I stood up from the sofa in front of him, squelching the judgmental thoughts ringing in my head. You’re not that girl, Harley. You don’t just give it up to some guy. I could feel my face blush as I watched him watch me. He lay there pleasantly dazed, completely silent and still, as I timidly removed every article of clothing from my body. He wasn’t just some guy and apparently I was that girl, because I wanted to surrender to him, completely. My first at everything, I wanted him to continue that tradition.

  I returned to the couch, climbed in, and pressed my naked self against the full length of him. He slipped his arm around the small of my back, his hand gently coercive, pulling me closer still.
My lips wet, the flesh on his neck hot as fire. I tasted him, he moaned, his hand moving up my back, now entwined in my hair. He pulled my head back, removing my lips from his neck, shifting my body underneath him. His mouth hovered over mine, his breath quick and labored as I breathed him in.

  “You’re beautiful, Harley-girl,” he whispered, his hand lightly tracing my face. He kissed me softly, feather-light, tickling my mouth with his lips and his tongue, as my hands danced over his skin, enjoying the warm, muscular terrain. I stopped at the button on his jeans, breaking the clasp loose. I had to have him, feel him flesh to flesh. I released the zipper and he pressed his hips into me, momentarily stifling my hands. Reluctantly, he pulled his mouth from mine, his eyes half-open and salacious. I licked my lips, coveting his taste. I could feel him hard against me through his jeans. I wanted him, nothing between us.

  “Don’t stop.”

  “You sure?” Yes I was sure! I felt wet and warm all over. My body ached. I couldn’t turn back now. I needed release, something, whatever it is sex does. I didn’t know what, exactly, but I knew I needed it. My hands busily continued, pulling the waistband of his jeans down around his backside, releasing the fullness of him between my thighs. He moaned at the contact with my flesh, his neck bowing until his forehead rested against mine.

  He spoke, painstakingly controlled, “I don’t want you to have any regrets.”

  My only regret would be not having him. He was so handsome, lying there above me. If the rumors were true, a girl’s first time isn’t really all that enjoyable. Supposedly it hurts and it’s over before you know it. The stats aren’t all that impressive. If anyone could make it enjoyable and meaningful, Jeremiah could. If it’s true what they say, you never forget your first. I never wanted to forget him.

  “Please, Miah,” I said, my response to his eyes desperately searching mine for an answer.

  He pushed at the waistband of his jeans until they lay at the foot of the couch. Fully unclothed, his flesh molded into mine. I accepted him, my arms wide open, my hands exploring the broadness of his shoulders, the curve of his spine, the round, firmness of his backside. He simultaneously slid one hand beneath my back, supporting his weight, while the other gently caressed my thighs as he found his way to my core. Nervous with anticipation, I held my breath.