Letters To My Mother

by Rebecca Heath

  Later in the afternoon, when we arrived in Burley, I was genuinely sorry to see him leave. Mr. Hyde collected some packages from the overhead rack and put on his hat. “It’s been real good talking to you, miss.” He leaned down and whispered in my ear, “Do you want to know the secret of happiness?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “John three-sixteen.” With this cryptic message, and a “Merry Christmas”, he got off the bus.

  My father met me in Ogden and together we hoisted my suitcase into the back seat of the Volkswagen and drove home to Clearfield. I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed him; physically I resemble my mother, but in every other way I am a Collins, with the same taciturn New England temperament of my ancestors, born from generations of struggle with icy winters and rocky soil. It was only at nineteen that David was beginning to thaw some of my glacial reserve.

  Over the Christmas holidays Daddy and I talked incessantly. He was an avid reader and the only person I knew who could skim a page in seconds and recall everything on it; even David couldn’t do that. I often wondered how my father felt about his career as a naval officer, if he wouldn’t have been happier in the academic world like his younger brother, who’d left the Navy after the war and used his G.I. Bill to earn a Ph.D. in mathematics, how he felt about my mother, or about me, but emotions were strictly taboo as topics of conversation. When I was fifteen he took me to the Naval Academy chapel in Annapolis and showed me, carved on the wall, his favorite Biblical quotation: “I have fought the good fight, I have finished my course, I have kept the faith.” That phrase exemplified my father; when he died twenty years later, a truly good man left the world.

  Mother and I didn’t discuss Petrarch or the Battle of Lepanto. When David came up in our conversations, she prized from me most of the truth about him and her intuition supplied the rest. Her indifference to David’s marriage amazed me. She considered him an extension of my university education; he would teach me sex and, being an older man, would make sure I was properly taught. One evening after dinner and three double scotches, she regaled me with her teenage misadventures: ripped condoms, clumsy groping in the back of a car, an abortion. David was going to spare me all this. I didn’t want to hear her stories, but it was Christmas and I felt sorry for her. That David and I loved each other never entered her head.

  Sunday I helped Daddy put up the tree, a job which traditionally fell to us every year. Together we whittled down the base until it fit the chipped enamel holder, and he guyed the trunk to the walls of the living room with piano wire, for the tree was too large to stand unsupported. Nothing evokes the past for me like trimming a Christmas tree. I can see them still, the glittering German ornaments I bought in Chicago with the money I earned shelving books in the high school library; the little cardboard houses with their mica-sprinkled roofs, ordered from a Sears catalog when we lived in Hawaii; the white feathered dove of peace that crowned every tree. They are all mine now, ghosts of Christmas Past.

  Shortly after Christmas, I received an amusing postcard from my Spanish professor. The day of the final exam I had given him two cards so he could mail my grade, one addressed to me in Clearfield and the other to David at the university. Knowing I’d earned an ‘A’ in the class, I wrote on David’s “I told you I can sew and study at the same time!”

  My card from Mr. Maldonado arrived with a border of holly leaves and berries he’d drawn around the edge in red and green ink. He wrote:

  A+

  Catarinita – francamente, me parece requetetonta enviarte una tarjeta postal. De todos modos es así. Feliz navidad y próspero año nuevo de parte de

  CEM

  (Katie – frankly it seems extremely ridiculous to me to send you a postcard. Anyway that’s how it is. Merry Christmas and a happy new year from CEM)

  My parents invited me to a New Year’s celebration at the Officer’s Club, but I declined, not wanting to start 1957 in the company of drunks. About eleven o’clock the night of the party I got on my bicycle and pedaled past the rows of silent warehouses toward the club. Straddling the frame, I stood and looked through the window at the gaily-decorated room, filled with crepe paper streamers, balloons and bare-backed ladies. I was suffering an acute attack of Missing David, anxious for the New Year to arrive, yet apprehensive at the prospect of spending the night with him. I bicycled back home to watch Guy Lombardo on television and continue a sewing project.

  Just before midnight the telephone rang. I recognized David’s voice instantly despite the noisy background music and the sounds of a party.

  “David? Where are you?”

  “I’m calling from a public telephone in the Washington Plaza Hotel; it’s just before eleven Seattle time, so it’s nearly 1957 where you are. I wish you were here – not at this party, it’s dreadful – but with me. Kate, dear …”

  Just then he stopped and I heard a woman’s strident voice over the phone line.

  “Why David, you naughty boy, where have you been hiding? I’ve been looking everywhere for you. Be a sweetheart and get me a martini.”

  The woman must have been standing at David’s side; her voice was slurred and she sounded like someone who’d been drinking heavily. I wondered if she was Arlene.

  David didn’t bother covering the speaker with his hand and I heard his icy response. “I’m making a personal telephone call, Marion. I’ll go back to the party when I’m finished.” There was a short pause and David returned to the line. “Sorry for the interruption. I’m just calling to say I love you and I miss you. You’ll be here Saturday afternoon?”

  “Yes, at four. David, I love you, too.”

  Outside the house, an explosion of firecrackers heralded the arrival of 1957 and the strains of "Auld Lang Syne" poured from the television set.

  “A happy New Year, dearest.” I wished him the same and we said goodnight.

  Chapter 12

  Blaine Hall, Room B102

  University of Washington, Seattle

  Jan. 7, 1957

  Dear Mother and Daddy,

  Happy birthday, Mother! I’m going to phone you after my first class

  and give you my greetings in person, but am writing this just in case

  you’re not home. Even though you’re busy getting ready for the move

  to Oakland, I hope the two of you have a chance to enjoy an evening

  out to celebrate.

  My friend Frank picked me up at the Greyhound station

  Saturday afternoon; we had dinner at a seafood restaurant near

  the marina and then he took me to the residence hall for check-in…

  When my bus reached the Greyhound depot in Seattle on the fifth, I looked anxiously out the window for David and finally spotted him standing apart from the crowd, aloof as always, his hands thrust deep in the pockets of his overcoat.

  I went running to his arms as soon as I stepped off the bus, and we embraced with a long kiss, oblivious of the people around us. David was grinning from ear to ear. “God, it’s good to see you. It seems more like two years than two weeks. Give me your baggage check and let’s get out of this place.”

  By the time we finished our meal and left Sam’s, it was eight o’clock and already dark. Throughout dinner we chatted gaily, delighted to be together again, but on reaching David’s car I fell silent. Two weeks at home had given me plenty of opportunity to worry about spending the night with him and I was starting to shiver with anxiety.

  “Where are we going?” I asked, as we drove down an unfamiliar highway.

  “Straight to hell, probably. Seriously, I’m heading toward North Seattle. I don’t want to be too near the university. I think there’s a number of … motels on Aurora Avenue.”

  “Where do you usually take your girlfriends?”

  David didn’t smile. “I’ve never done this before with anyone.”

  I slid over beside him and put my head on his shoulder. “I’m sorry. Bad joke. That makes two of us.”

  We left Highway 5, turned up Aurora, and passed a coupl
e of prospects. “Those seem decent enough,” David remarked. “At least they’re AAA approved. Do you have any preference? TV?” He shot me a quick smile. “Twin beds? Shower?”

  “I’m not much of a TV watcher and I’ll leave the bed arrangement up to you. I would like one thing, though.”

  “What is it?”

  “A bathtub. I feel so grimy after the bus ride. I’d love to relax in a tub of hot water.”

  David circled back and drove into the closest motel. He returned from the registration desk with a key in his hand and a smile on his face.

  “Done. No TV, a double bed for me and a bathtub/shower combo for you. And courtesy coffee in the morning.” David carried my bag to the room and I lingered outside for a few minutes, petting the motel owner’s golden retriever who had padded over from the office to greet us.

  David stood in the doorway, watching. “It’s well past nine; surely you’re not going to stay there all night with that dog are you? We can always invite her in, you know.”

  I realized he had more on his mind than dogs; almost reluctantly, I said goodbye to the retriever and followed David inside. It was a typical 50’s style motel room, neat and anonymous, amply furnished in chrome and formica. A slightly crooked picture of a Dutch windmill hung above one of the two double beds.

  “Two beds?”

  “Of course. One for you and one for me. Which one do you want?” David started to laugh. “They came with the tub.” He locked the door behind us and put his arms around me.

  “What name did you use when you registered?”

  “My own. I gave the biochemistry department as my address, though.”

  We stood holding each other without saying a word. David looked at me.

  “Do you still want to take a bath? While you’re in the tub, I’m going in search of a drugstore. I forgot to bring a razor; if I don’t shave I’ll look like a bum in the morning.”

  David left and I started to unpack. I laid out on the bed the nylon chiffon nightgown my parents had given me for Christmas, a timely and rather uncharacteristic gift. It was light blue, and cut low at the neckline, with appliquéd flowers on the yoke and sleeves. David returned about ten minutes later and knocked on the bathroom door to let me know he was back. I dried myself, loosened my hair so it fell to my waist, and put on the gown. I peeked out at David; he’d pulled a chair beside the bed lamp and was sitting with his legs crossed reading a newspaper.

  I opened the door and smiled at him, shyly, clutching the neckline of my nightgown. David glanced up and gave a gasp of surprise. “Kate … I’ve dreamed about this moment for so long…”

  I repeated the words David said to me the first time he held me in his arms, “they say anticipation is better than realization. Is it true?”

  He replied with mine, “Emphatically not; the realization is infinitely better.”

  “You remembered.”

  “Yes, dear, I remember. That was a first time, too, just as this is.”

  I walked over to his chair and he stood up. “Before we reach the point where we can’t stop, there’s something I have to do. I’m going to shave and take a shower; I won’t be long.”

  “Do you always shave at night?”

  He took my hand and rubbed it against his cheek. “Almost never, but if I don’t shave now, your face will be sandpapered raw by morning.”

  I sat down, picked up the newspaper, and read an article about the preparations for Eisenhower’s inauguration at least three times without understanding a word. I listened to the noises from the bathroom, and when the shower stopped and I heard the sound of David’s vigorous toweling, my mouth went dry. He appeared a moment later with one towel wrapped around his waist and another over his arm.

  “Something else I didn’t bring – a pair of pajamas.” He looked down at the towel around his waist. “I didn’t want to frighten you with my maleness.”

  I realized why he’d covered himself and tried not to stare.

  David put his hand on the light switch. “May I?”

  I nodded and he turned out the overhead light, leaving only the small lamp where I was sitting. He crossed over to the bed, pulled down the covers and spread the towel he was carrying over the bottom sheet. I turned off the lamp and stood up. For a moment the darkness blinded us; David reached out to touch me and I began to tremble.

  “I’m sorry. Somehow it was easier on the boat.”

  “What happened on Sturmvogel was spontaneous; you didn’t have time to be apprehensive. I understand.”

  He put his arms around me and started to cover my face and neck with tiny kisses.

  “David, when people do this, do they take their clothes off?”

  “Well, it depends.” Even though I wasn’t able to see his expression clearly in the dark, I could tell from the sound of his voice that he was smiling. “According to Dr. Kinsey’s study there’s a positive correlation between the educational level of the partners and their state of undress. So in that case, dear Kate, I think we’re entitled to remove these.”

  David untied my nightgown and it slithered to the floor, followed by his towel. He picked me up, laid me on the bed, and lay down beside me.

  My teeth began to chatter.

  “Dearest,” he whispered, “I know you’re afraid. I promise to be gentle.”

  And he was. I felt a sudden rush of heat and saw sparklers flashing behind my closed eyelids; it was a strange sensation, neither painful nor pleasant, and I have never experienced it since. Afterwards I lay beside David, half awake and half asleep, listening to his regular breathing. Cars sped by on the road outside the motel; their headlights raked the walls of the room like gunfire and then disappeared, plunging us again into darkness. I studied David’s silhouette in the dim light and began tracing his profile with my index finger.

  “What are you doing?” he asked sleepily.

  “I’m pretending I’m a sculptor. You’re craggy. You look like you were just carved from a marble block – all angles and planes – no curves. You know, you’ll always be handsome; it’s in your bone structure.”

  I ran my finger down his profile again and this time he bit it.

  “Are you happy, Kate?”

  “More than happy, contented.”

  “What’s the difference? In Spanish they’re the same.”

  “All the difference in the world. To me contented means something more than being happy; contentedness is an all pervasive joy, a state of nirvana where there’s no more striving, no more desire.” Abruptly I sat up on one elbow. “What’s your name?”

  David looked puzzled. “David Rosenau, of course; is this one of your African witchdoctor things about names?”

  “The sign by the door to your office says ‘L.D. Rosenau.’ What’s the ‘L’ for?”

  “Oh that. 'Leopold', for my father. You can see why I go by ‘David’. Why are you asking me now?”

  “This is terrible. It just occurred to me I’m in bed stark naked with a man and I don’t even know his name!”

  David laughed. “Do you know one of the reasons I love you? Because you’ve restored my sense of fun. I’d forgotten what it was like to let myself go and be utterly goofy. I’ve been so busy living up to the image of David Rosenau – Leopold David Rosenau – that the real me, the quintessential me, was nearly extinguished”.

  We were silent for a few minutes; David put his arm around me and drew me to him.

  “There’s something I want to ask you”, I said, “an anatomical question. No, don’t look at me. I get embarrassed when I ask questions like this and you can see my face.”

  “My eyes are shut. Ask away.”

  “You know with male dogs, how they have a sort of sheath and the penis is inside and it only comes out when the dog is ready to mate?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is … that the way men are?

  “You’ve never seen a naked man, not even in a photograph?”

  “When we were in Florence I saw Michelangelo’s David, b
ut I was too embarrassed to take a good look.”

  David laughed. “Men are different; may I show you?”

  I shook my head vigorously. “I can’t look at you … not yet.”

  He took my hand. “Then let me show you this way. You said you didn’t know if you should touch me in certain places. Is this what you meant?”

  “Yes. Is it … is it all right?”

  “More than all right.”

  “David?”

  “Mmmm.”

  “Do you remember the conversation we had at the zoo … when you told me what you were afraid of?”

  “Yes, I remember.”

  “It didn’t turn out the way you thought, did it? I mean …”

  “No, it didn’t. With you it was different, completely different. How about you, all the things you worried about?”

  “Me? Was I ever afraid?”

  He guffawed.

  “David?”

  “Yes?”

  “Do people ever make love more than once?”

  “Sometimes.” He moved his head slightly to catch the light on my face. “You’re very narrow, dear, and I’m … would it be too painful?”

  “No.”

  He put his hand between my legs, inserted a finger deep inside, withdrew it, and started to massage me with a circular motion. I recoiled in shock and clamped my legs together.