People will tell you that, as you get older, you forget close friends’ names and what you ate for dinner yesterday, but you recall in detail events from your youth. As I anticipate this, this date, I have a vivid recollection, not of one of the countless times Barb and I went to see a film, but of the very first time I took a girl to a movie.
I was in Grade Eleven. The dating picture for me hadn’t been encouraging. Our high school was a power in boys’ basketball and most of the pretty girls went out with members of the team. I wasn’t a member. I didn’t play inter-room hockey either—I couldn’t skate. Those were my excuses for not going out very much. But a pleasant new girl had moved into our neighbourhood and she appeared in my class, at the desk right next to mine. Her name was Shirley Kernigan. I thought I might ask her out before the other girls got to her with a resumé of my defects.
A few minutes before class one day, I waited in the hall and saw her approaching our room alone. She was about medium height with dark hair cut just above shoulder length and pulled back from her pretty face. Her clear forehead and her wide-open brown eyes seemed to be somehow right out there in front of her—or in your face, as the kids say today. She smiled all the time and was always ready to give you her bubbly laugh. Her demeanour encouraged you to make her laugh. She had a rather thick waist and her modest bosom seemed to sit up higher on her torso than it did on most girls.
“Shirley,” I said, and she gave me her beaming smile, “would you like to go to a movie this Saturday?”
There was a cardinal rule in those days: When you ask a girl out on a date, especially if it’s the first time, it must take place on a Saturday night.
“Oh, Jenkins, I’d love to!” she said, and she laughed. It wasn’t a derisive laugh, the kind a girl today might use to cut you down, accompanying a sarcastic “Yeah, right!” No, it was a genuine show of pleasure.
I suggested we go to see the double-bill at the Windsor Theatre and she said that sounded super. I said it was close enough to walk to.
I was sixteen but I didn’t yet have my driver’s licence. My older brother Allan had that past summer given me a few lessons in his company car. I may not have been athletic, but I’d gotten the message that You need a car to get a girl, so I was trying to learn. However, something happened on one of my practice runs that aborted the lessons for a time. I was driving south on St. Mary’s Road with Allan beside me. The street had two lanes of concrete going south and two going north and in between was a grassy, muddy median with two sets of streetcar tracks. Somehow I wandered far enough to the left to have the driver’s-side wheels slip off the pavement down onto the median. When I jerked the steering wheel to get back into my lane, the left-front wheel was several inches below the top of the concrete and too close to get purchase on the slab. By some law of physics, the car was wrenched sideways and since I, stunned, still had my foot on the accelerator, we bounced over both sets of streetcar tracks, across the two north-bound lanes and directly toward the plate-glass display window of Swanson’s Drug Store. Luckily, there were no streetcars going in either direction at the time and no immediate traffic headed north. Allan was able to get one foot past my accelerator-foot onto the brake. We came to rest on the boulevard a few feet from Swanson’s. As tolerant and even-tempered as Allan was, he didn’t plan to take me out for another lesson anytime soon.
So Shirley and I would walk to the Windsor. When we spoke after classes on the Friday before our date, she told me she welcomed the walk.
“I walk as much as I can,” she said. “People don’t walk enough, do they? If they keep driving everywhere all the time, the human species is going to evolve into—I don’t know—maybe seals or something?”
She laughed, and I thought, Not me, I can’t swim either.
I called for her at 6:30 on Saturday evening. She lived two streets from mine. It was warm, one of those gorgeous windless September evenings that often followed a cold and windy preview of winter. Shirley came to the door in what I can only describe as an old-fashioned dress—what people used to call a frock. Her dark hair was arranged the same way she always wore it, pulled back from her forehead and held there by blue barrettes that matched her dress. Her gaze was so direct, her wide eyes so unblinking, I thought she’d be incapable of anything devious. There was no sign of any other family member.
“Let’s go,” she said. She stepped outside and closed the door. She wasn’t carrying anything—coat, purse or wallet. This gave her a carefree air, a hint of recklessness that wasn’t evident in her face. “I’m looking forward to this.”
As we started down the sidewalk, I took her hand. She chuckled, but it seemed the natural thing to do, if only to prevent our hands from banging into each other as we walked.
After a minute or two of silence, she said, “Can you type?”
“Yes,” I said, “I took Typing in Grade Ten as an extra option.”
“They wouldn’t let you do that at the school I went to in Regina. Not if you were in the matriculation program.”
“I didn’t take it for very long. About a month—just long enough to learn where to put my fingers.”
She laughed and I blushed, as if I’d said something dirty.
I felt a need to explain. “When I found out we’d be tested for accuracy and speed, I dropped the course.”
“I know what you mean. It’s okay to be under pressure to answer a theory test, but having someone standing over you with a stopwatch—I wouldn’t like that, either. I found out I can take a class during my spares. Maybe I’ll do what you did, just learn the basics.”
“Who’s the teacher?”
“Mrs. Smithers.”
“Oh, that’s who I had. You’ll like her.” We walked past Martha’s, a local hangout, and I didn’t see anyone I knew. There were people here and there, cars going by, a streetcar—and I found it so natural to be with Shirley, I felt my usual inhibitions dropping away. “She’s a bit of a character. When she’s giving you a drill, she stands up on a chair and claps her hands to the rhythm of the keystrokes.” I stopped walking, held my hands up ready to clap and did my Mrs. Smithers impersonation: ‘Hands in home position! Altogether now! A-semi-S-L-D-K-F-J-G-H!’”
Shirley laughed and clapped her own hands, applauding.
The ice, it seemed to me, was broken. We were getting along well. I recalled my good friend Claude’s edict: You impress beautiful girls with your brains. You impress bright girls with your sense of humour. Shirley was pretty enough but, based on what I’d seen of her performance in class, she definitely fit into the bright category. And I was definitely amusing her.
We crossed to the river side of St. Mary’s Road just before The Junction—where St. Anne’s Road began. I told her more about Mrs. Smithers’s foibles as we approached the Windsor.
I don’t remember what was playing that night. I do know the program consisted of an animated cartoon, a newsreel, a preview or two, a so-called B-movie, and a feature movie that had run in one of the larger theatres downtown some weeks before. Almost four hours for thirty-five cents.
I do remember feeling nervous as we walked up to the theatre. I wondered if I’d see kids I knew, couples who’d be in the back rows getting set for their long bout of necking. Where were we going to sit? I couldn’t expect Shirley to sit at the back among the neckers. Or could I?
There was no-one I recognized going in at the same time as we were. I paid at the box office. In the lobby, Shirley declined my offer of popcorn, saying it was too soon after dinner. We entered the theatre, where low-wattage lights were still on. Shirley hesitated.
“Where would you like to sit?” she asked.
I glanced at the back row and recognized only one person, a guy named Merlin from our class. He was with a girl I didn’t know but she was wearing a tight, light-coloured sweater that showed off her bosom. I doubt if Merlin and I had ever exchanged more than two words, but he looked surprised to see Shirley and me together on a date.
“I don’t know,” I
said, “somewhere in the middle?”
“Sure,” Shirley said.
There was no sign of relief or disappointment in her voice as we moved down the aisle to a row almost exactly in the middle. Two old couples stood to let us in. We sat. I remembered the Life Savers I’d brought from home.
“Candy?” I asked.
“Oh! Thank you.”
I peeled back the wrapping. “If you don’t like lime—”
“I love lime. Thanks.”
And that was the end of our conversation because the lights went down and the first short came on. I have no recollection of what we watched over the next four hours. My head was full of what we must look like to the people behind us. I was overly conscious of not only Shirley on my right but also the person on my left, a middle-aged woman who smelled vaguely of mothballs and whisky and had the habit of uttering little grunts in reaction to each scene. I stole glances at Shirley, her pretty profile half-smiling and illuminated by the light from the screen. She kept her hands in her lap, away from my right hand which I sort of dangled off the end of the armrest, ready in case she wanted to seize it in a burst of emotion. At some point, I thought of touching her to offer her another candy but I didn’t want to startle her, so I kind of waved the package in front of her face, and she cleverly took one without making any contact with my fingers. I thought of Merlin and the other guys in the back row, shoving their tongues down their dates’ throats and doing terrible things with their hands, and I glanced at Shirley’s mouth, which was looking more enticing by the minute, and I could hardly wait to get her home for what would surely be an amazing good-night kiss. She might even invite me in and let me mimic Merlin on her chesterfield.
The movies seemed interminable and yet, when I reminded myself that this was the first time I’d ever been to the pictures with a girl, I wanted to savour the experience. I glanced at Shirley innumerable times—trying to glance without turning my head so that I wouldn’t annoy the person behind me—and she maintained that half-smile, as if she too was imagining something nice that would happen later.
As the lights came up and Shirley and I exchanged innocuous comments on the films, I tried not to look toward the back of the theatre. I didn’t want to see girls hastily rearranging their sweaters and blouses and guys wiping off their mouths. Envious as I might’ve been, I tried to tell myself that such behaviour was juvenile and unseemly. We proceeded slowly to the exit and, when we reached the back rows, all the kids who’d been sitting there were gone.
Outside, Shirley said, “I liked both movies a lot.”
“Yes, I did, too,” I said. “Do you want to go to Martha’s for a snack or something?”
“Oh, thank you, but no, I should go straight home, if that’s okay.”
“Sure,” I said, relieved because I didn’t relish the thought of running into the characters who frequented Martha’s.
I don’t remember what we talked about on the way home—maybe the films, or maybe we returned to Mrs. Smithers’s typing class. All I know is, I was nervous. There was, after all, no guarantee that we were going to kiss. My wanting to kiss, my anticipating a kiss, my expecting that Shirley would want to kiss—those feelings had no basis in reality. Though all boys believed a kiss was the natural ending to a pleasant date, I knew there were girls who didn’t believe in kissing on a first date.
When we reached Shirley’s house, the lights inside appeared to be off, but the front outside light was on. I walked up the steps with Shirley, hoping she’d ask me in. She turned to me, still with that little smile on her face.
“I had a lovely time,” she said. “Thank you, that was fun.”
“Maybe we could go out again sometime?”
“Yes, I’d like that.” There was an awkward but poignant moment, she looking at me with that smile, her face so open and guileless and trustworthy and fresh and happy. “Well, it’s late. I’d better go in.”
I had a sudden sinking feeling—maybe that moment, that awkward and poignant moment when I just looked at her, had been the time for me to make a move … and it had gone. Still looking at me, there under that beacon, she turned toward the door.
“Good night, then,” she said, but before she turned her face away I put my arms around her and I didn’t care who could see us, standing on the concrete stoop bathed in million-watt incandescent light.
I kissed her earnestly yet as tenderly as I could.
How long should a good-night kiss last? I think I was determined to make this one go on as long as Shirley let it. Imagine my delight when she allowed me to hold her and kiss her for—oh—seconds and seconds; she even participated, gently pushing back.
I made only one mistake.
My curiosity got the better of me. I wanted to see how Shirley looked with those big eyes of hers closed in rapture. I opened one eye—a slit, really—I just wanted a peek.
I’ll never forget what I saw.
The one eye I could see was wide open. While we were kissing! Like the eye of a child’s doll. So huge, so close, so eerie.
The sight shook me. “Oh!” I cried.
Shirley gave me the smile that up to that moment had seemed beatific. Now it seemed diabolical.
I said, “Good night!” and, trying not to appear scared or in a hurry, I left.
“Good night!” she called after me. “I had a great time!”
>
Juno and After
I haven’t told my daughter Tracy that I’m going out to a movie with a woman. I heard from her two days ago—reports on how her husband Clay’s business is progressing and how their daughter Mason is doing in school and in her gymnastics career. I chose not to tell her about this date. But what if I run into one of Tracy’s friends—or Tracy herself—at the cinema?
I find what I think must be Liz’s place; I can’t see the number anywhere. There is no driveway; most people in her district have garages you reach by a back lane. A Lexus sits parked directly in front of her house, and beyond that is a fire hydrant. I decide to back up and park behind the Lexus. I put the gearshift in reverse, only to be jolted by a loud honk. A car comes out of nowhere and passes me. The driver gives me the finger.
Rattled now, I do an exaggerated shoulder check, see no-one coming up behind me, yet expecting another car to appear and bear down on me—no, not a car but a menacing Hummer, or maybe even a tank. Unconvinced that the street is clear, or even that I have the right of way, I park behind the Lexus. I feel as unsure of myself as a student driver on his first lesson, not the best way to arrive at Liz Oliver’s. The prospect of walking her to the car, installing her in the passenger seat, starting the car and moving it away from the curb and around the Lexus, driving down streets, stopping at stop signs and red lights, squeezing into the hell-bent traffic on St. James Bridge, making the correct turns, and finding a parking spot at the Silver City Cinemas at Polo Park seems exhausting, even foolhardy.
I check behind me again before I open my door. It will not surprise me if a goddam cyclist appears at the moment I get out and crashes into me. Seeing no-one, I step out and close the door. I walk to the rear of the car and see that it’s at a slight angle to the snowplowed curb—but it will do. I aim the key-fob at the car and press the lock button twice and the little honk reassures me the way it always does.
There is no shovelled path across the boulevard but there are enough footprints in the snow to make the approach to the hedged yard easy. Metal numbers on one gatepost tell me this is indeed the address I’m looking for. Beyond the gate, a sidewalk cleared of snow leads up to some steps and a front door sheltered by an eave. As I walk through the gate, a robust-looking man dressed in an overcoat and white scarf comes out of the front door and down the steps. I’m surprised. I think Betty’s social life has not only improved since she became Liz, it’s crowded, so much so that this fellow is barely getting out before the next shift arrives.
I feel as if I’m in a Monty Python sketch; we need only bowler hats so that we can tip them and say in
that semi-bored but infinitely polite English manner, “Good evening.” “Good evening.” We converge. We can’t ignore one another. The porch light illuminates me but his face is in shadow, though I can tell he’s handsome in a pudgy way, with a full head of grey hair. There is nothing I can think to say but:
“Good evening.”
“It is a very good evening,” he says, and, as he passes me, he uses his remote start to activate the Lexus. That gesture and his comment do nothing to comfort me.
I walk up the steps and ring the bell. I try to compose myself, show Liz the cheery face she last saw on New Year’s Eve. If this fellow has left her in a dishevelled state, I’ll do my best to ignore it. It occurs to me that I have no idea what her relationship is with her ex-husbands. Perhaps still chummy. Oh, I have no experience with this sort of complication.
Liz opens the door.
“Hello, Jenkins. How are you? Come in for a sec and I’ll fetch my coat.”
For the moment that I see her before she turns away, she looks absolutely ready to go out: makeup in place and not too much of it, an immaculate teal sweater and matching skirt, knee-high medium-heeled boots, auburn hair falling in a well-brushed way to her shoulders. She returns with a hip-length brown leather jacket, arranging a light scarf at her neck.
“You probably saw my brother on your way up the walk,” she says, donning the jacket. “Did you see him? You’ve likely met him before, have you?”
“Your brother.” I break into a smile. “No, I don’t know him. You mean the fellow with the Lexus. We did say hello.”
“Why didn’t he introduce himself? I told him you were coming here. Honestly. That man has his head in the clouds sometimes.”
“Are we off, then?”
“Yes. I’ll just set the alarm.”
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