I'm Your Girl

by J. J. Murray

  I nod. “It is cool. New beginnings all around.” I cringe. “We’ll probably have to take a couple’s class.”

  He laughs. “Where they teach us how to be a couple?” He rubs my foot. “I think we already know how to do that.”

  I put my other foot in his hand, and he rubs it as well. “I think they’ll teach us how to have a holy marriage.” And this time I cringe inside. The Bible tends to be, well, sexist when it comes to marriage, with the woman taking second place to the man. I know I can love Jack, but can I obey him? That’s stretching the limits of everything I believe. “I suppose the class is required if we want to get married there. We may even have to become members.”

  “Fine.”

  “Just like that?”

  He nods once. “Just like that.” He squeezes each individual toe, and I squirm with delight. “If I were to, say, buy a ring sometime this week, what size should it be?”

  I want this ring so badly, but…“Let’s hold off on that until my parents leave and you come back from your tour, okay?”

  Yeah. I’d be waiting for that engagement ring for almost two weeks. But, I’ve waited this long, so…

  “One shock at a time, okay?” I say.

  He sighs. “Okay.”

  I put my head on his chest. “Size seven, round diamond,” I whisper.

  “What was that?”

  I know he heard me. “Nothing.” I mean, he can give it to me anytime, right? I just won’t wear it when they’re here.

  We cuddle for a long while, occasionally kissing, occasionally squeezing, but mostly…just cuddling—and talking about his parents.

  And I learn that his parents are, well, weird.

  His father, Arthur Davis “David” Browning, and his mother, Maryanne “Annie” Berry Browning, have had a dysfunctional (yet enduring) romance.

  “Dad was born in Delaware, first son of the five children of Grandma Ella and the Reverend Jack Browning,” Jack begins. “He lived in north Philadelphia, where he became an athletic schoolboy legend of the gridiron.”

  I try not to giggle at Jack’s choice of words. He sounds so much like a movie narrator.

  “Dad’s attempts at being a star in baseball were thwarted one cold, Philadelphia day. With the legendary pitcher Robin Roberts in attendance, Dad pinch-hit late in the game after riding the pine. He lined a clean, crisp single to left, then ran himself literally into the ground on his way to first base. His legs, inert for six innings, just wouldn’t work. The left fielder threw him out at first base.”

  I don’t know much about baseball, but that doesn’t sound good.

  “On the football field, however, Dad was amazing, quarterbacking the Abington High School Ghosts to many victories and playing halfback for the Wheaton College Crusaders.” Jack pauses. “They’re called ‘The Storm’ now.”

  “To be politically correct?” I ask.

  “Strange name for a Christian college, though. Anyway, Dad earned all-American honors and a picture in Sports Illustrated.”

  “Yeah?”

  He nods.

  “Are you athletic?”

  “I used to be,” Jack says. “I played baseball mainly.”

  I learn that Jack’s father had studied criminology and aspired to be a detective, but a ride-along with the Chicago vice squad quickly put that out of his mind.

  “Dad was a bit of a prankster in college. He and his teammates once carried a Volkswagen Beetle, owned by a particularly difficult history professor, into the faculty cafeteria. He had even led an aged horse into the office of an evil Greek professor, who had failed half of the starters from an undefeated team, causing them all to take summer school. It was June, it was hot, and the professor was on vacation.”

  Nasty!

  “The horse died, and the building had to be fumigated.”

  “That really happened?”

  Jack nods.

  I thought that sort of thing only happened in the movies.

  “Because Dad went to college on the GI Bill, he owed his soul to Uncle Sam and served his tour of duty at Fort Bliss, just outside of El Paso.” Jack smiles. “And that’s where he met Mom.”

  From Delaware to Philadelphia to Illinois to Texas. Jack’s dad certainly got around.

  “Mom was the third of four children born to Ree Theus Berry, a bilingual high school business education teacher, and Jefferson Davis Berry, a lieutenant in the United States Army. Grandpa Jeff, given the choice between being stationed in Pearl Harbor or Panama in forty-one, chose Panama, where Annie was born.” He looks at me. “Otherwise, I might not be here.”

  “I’m glad you’re here.”

  “Me, too.” He looks at the ceiling. “Grandpa Jeff spent two years in the Italian campaign, then spent the rest of his life trying to forget the Italian campaign, running a grocery store and drinking rye for breakfast. Mom, who learned to drive at the tender age of eleven, graduated from Texas Western, which is now called UTEP, in three years and was a virtuoso viola player.”

  His parents are a football star from Philly and a viola player from west Texas. Wild!

  “In sixty-one, Dad, an eraser-headed second lieutenant, attended church in El Paso with his buddy Pete, a red-faced Irishman who wanted Dad to meet ‘his girl’—Annie Berry.”

  “Your daddy stole your mama from someone else?”

  Jack nods. “From the moment Dad’s and Mom’s eyes locked, it was love at first sight. Mom quickly gave Pete the boot, and only thirty days after knowing each other’s names, Dad asked Mom to marry him.”

  And I thought that Jack and I were moving fast!

  “Mom, naturally, said no.”

  As any woman would have…wouldn’t she?

  “Rebuffed but not disheartened—”

  I start to giggle.

  “What?” Jack asks.

  “‘Rebuffed but not disheartened’?”

  Jack shrugs. “I read the thesaurus a lot as a kid.”

  Poor kid!

  “Dad continued to pursue Mom for the next three months, writing her long letters—in all capital letters.”

  So, that’s where Jack gets his handwriting.

  “I remember finding one of those letters in a cigar box, of all places; Dad doesn’t smoke. It read something like, ‘Annie, just being with you is heavenly, whether we’re washing dishes or just picking the meat off the chicken bones after a meal.’” He laughs. “My father has a way with words.”

  And despite the “chicken bones” line, it’s kind of sweet.

  “So, four months after they first met, Dad went to Grandpa Jeff and asked for Mom’s hand in marriage. Grandpa Jeff sized up Dad and asked, ‘What about the rest of her?’” Jack smiles. “Dad said he wanted the rest of her, too.”

  This is so…quaint!

  “They were married in El Paso, and he drove her to Aylen Lake, Ontario, Canada, the first time she had ever been north of Oklahoma, for their honeymoon.”

  I’m beginning to think I need a map to understand all this!

  “On this honeymoon, they played Monopoly, and when Mom won, Dad, after upsetting the board first, decided to let Mom run their finances for the rest of their marriage, something he tells me was the best decision he ever made. Mom ate fish for the first time, used an outhouse for the first time, and almost cleaned a smallmouth bass for the first time, too.” He sighs. “I’m not boring you, am I?”

  “No.” This is all so…odd.

  “After my sister Jeannine was born—”

  “You have a sister?”

  Jack nods. “Two, actually. Jeannine’s a year older than me. She lives out in Los Angeles, and Jessie, who lives in Atlanta.”

  Four months I know him, and I really don’t know him. “Go on with your story.”

  “So, after Jeannine was born, they all moved to Philadelphia. Dad approached Westinghouse, General Electric, and the Aluminum Company of America, Alcoa, and said: ‘What can you do for me?’”

  That’s cocky.

  “Dad entertained
offers from all three but settled on Alcoa. So, while I was being born, Dad was taking the return train from Manhattan and the World Trade Center back to Philadelphia.”

  That’s quite a daily commute!

  “So, where are they living now?” I ask.

  “North of San Francisco somewhere,” Jack says. “I’ve never visited them there.” He drops his chin. “And we don’t, um, talk as much anymore.”

  “They know all about me, right?”

  He nods. “I sent them an e-mail. That’s how we talk most these days.” He starts to massage my back. “Platinum or gold?” he whispers.

  “What?”

  “Platinum or gold?”

  We go from his family back to the rings? I guess he doesn’t want to discuss them anymore. “What do you think?” I ask.

  He kisses my neck, and then…we attack each other until we fall off the sofa, continuing our clothed grinding in between the sofa and the coffee table, spilling the coffee and panting and—

  I definitely have to get a bigger sofa! And softer carpet here! I’m getting rug burns through my clothes!

  Sometime after who knows when—because suddenly time doesn’t matter as much to me anymore—Jack gets up to leave. I kiss him three times. “Those kisses are for those three little words you said to me.”

  He pulls me to him…and squeezes my caboose three times! The nerve!

  “What were those for?” I ask.

  He puts his lip near my ear. “Those were for these three little words: I want to make love to you.”

  I count the words in my head. “That was seven.”

  “I know.” He squeezes my caboose four more times, powerfully and with more ferocity than ever before. “And now you know that I can’t count. I’m terrible with numbers. Now, did you whisper six or seven?”

  I squeeze his caboose once, digging my nails in. “Seven.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Round diamond.”

  “Ah.”

  I wince. “Ten carats.”

  He blinks. “Ten?”

  “Ten.” As if that will happen!

  He nods. “Ten it is.”

  I pat his behind. “I was kidding.”

  “I wasn’t.”

  I sigh. “Kiss me and get out.”

  He kisses my nose. “Let me get this straight. You’re a size ten, square diamond, platinum, seven carats.”

  “Go home, Jack.”

  His eyes soften. “I am home, Diane.” He cocks his head at the door. “That other place is just temporary. This is where I want to be.”

  “This is where I want you to be.” And then I start laughing uncontrollably. This is all so corny! And yet, I know in my heart that I’ll be reading it in Jack’s next chapter of A Single Touch, every word, every gesture, every squeeze. When I recover, I hold Jack’s jaw in my hands. “Please don’t put any of this in the book.”

  “I intend to.”

  “Oh, come on, Jack! Let’s keep some of our lives private.”

  “No.”

  “Please, Jack?”

  “Hmm…I’ll think about it. I won’t put anything about my parents in there.”

  “Why not?”

  “Who would believe it?”

  True.

  He hugs me. “I’ll be up all night writing.”

  “Not about this conversation, right?”

  He nods. “I won’t put any of this in our book.”

  “Promise?”

  He crosses my heart, and the girls perk up. “Promise.” He turns to go, but I grab his arm.

  “What will you be writing all night about, then?”

  He winks. “Our first night of passion.”

  “You’re going to put a sex scene in our book?” Mama will hate us more for sure!

  “Call it…my plan for our first night, then. I’ll even let you edit it to your satisfaction.”

  That could be fun. “Will there be…ice cream?”

  He looks up. “No. Scented oils, I think. And candles. And a foot massage followed by…”

  I’m warming up just hearing about it. “Followed by what?”

  “Followed by some serious boot knocking.”

  “Huh?”

  He pulls me to him. “I’m going to knock your boots so long they’ll end up in Tibet, and some sherpa is going to trip over them and smile because he knows in his Tibetan heart that someone is getting a good boot knocking.”

  I’m speechless. Mild-mannered Jack is Dan Pace when the sun goes down.

  “And tonight, I’m going to go on-line to explore all the positions of the Kama Sutra.” He smiles. “This is going to be a very long chapter.”

  I’m still speechless.

  “And even if it doesn’t get into the book, it will get into your head.”

  It already has! My upper lip is sweating! “Um, size seven, gold, round diamond, you decide the number of carats.”

  He rubs on my caboose. “You just make sure you have your boots ready to get knocked.”

  I’m nearly out of breath! “I’ll, uh, I’ll shine them up for you.”

  His eyes change, softening back to the Jack I love. “You already shine, Diane Anderson.”

  Oh, that’s so sweet!

  “And I intend to polish you until the sun and moon get jealous.”

  And that’s so nasty!

  “And yes, I’m putting those two lines in my next chapter.”

  Lord, I’m sorry, but this man is making me horny. Please make him go!

  He kisses me tenderly, hugs me once, winks, and leaves me…with wet panties. If he can talk me into it, just imagine…

  Lord, shield Your eyes for about an hour, okay?

  And please let me have some fresh C batteries somewhere in this house!

  50

  Jack

  Big day, eh?

  Another giant step.

  How could you sleep after you wrote out that sex scene?

  I had nice dreams, didn’t I?

  The best.

  I find an empty box in the laundry room and trudge up the stairs one final time with Noël and Stevie’s eyes staring at me from the wall. I start with the family portrait.

  That only took one take. Stevie smiled right on cue, even though all those other kids in line were wailing like banshees.

  I put the portrait in the box. The next is Noël in her garden. She was the brightest flower in that garden.

  And she smelled the best, too.

  I put her picture in the box. I try not to think as I remove the others, but it’s hard. It’s as if I’m taking down life itself, and the memories won’t let me be. Stevie is dancing in the surf at the beach, unafraid of the waves, while Noël’s face outshines the sun in an eternal smiling laugh….

  Noël’s mother would like these.

  Yeah. I’ll drop them off at her house while I’m out today.

  What about the ones in your office?

  Them, too.

  You’ll need a bigger box.

  I don’t have a big enough box…for all these wishes.

  Steady now.

  I’m not crying. Just remembering.

  What about the photo albums?

  I have to hold on to something. I’ll keep them. In storage.

  What about…the ring?

  The one I’m planning on buying or…that ring?

  The one in your pocket, Jack, the one you roll around in your fingers when you’re nervous, the one you keep in your pocket on dates with Diane, the one you put on the dresser before you go to sleep, the one—

  I know which one. I’ll take it to a pawnshop.

  You should have buried it with her.

  I know.

  I drive first to Noël’s childhood home, a Cape Cod in southwest Roanoke with a huge backyard now full of red and yellow roses. Roses must be Sandra’s therapy. They take lots of careful tending. After parking at the curb, I walk to the front door and hesitate before I ring the doorbell. I count to ten. No one arrives. I put the box on the welcome mat.


  You should stay and talk to her.

  We’ve never had much to say to each other that didn’t involve Noël and Stevie, and here they are all boxed up. I’ll just leave her be.

  On the way back to the car, I look up at Noël’s window one last time. She had looked out at the world from that window for nearly twenty years before I gave her other windows to look out. And the last window she looked out of was the van’s….

  Think about something else.

  I squint at the sun peeking out of a cloud. And now she and Stevie are looking out of heaven’s window on me.

  That’s better.

  I stop at the first of several pawnshops I come to on Williamson Road, only a few blocks from Hooters, which is a strange placement for a pawnshop.

  Hey, if you really like their wings, you might need to pawn something.

  I hand my ring to the pawnshop owner, a bald man wearing a lime green tank top and sitting on a stool. “How much?” I ask.

  The man weighs it in his hand. “Thirty.”

  It cost close to $900!

  I shake my head and put out my hand. “Thanks anyway.”

  Three more pawnshops later, I still have the ring, fifty dollars the best offer. I put it back in my pocket and head to the mall and Kay’s, where Noël and I had bought our rings five years ago.

  You sure you want to go to Kay’s? There are four other jewelry stores in this mall.

  I’m sure.

  While the salespeople wait on other customers, I stroll through the store, looking at all the possibilities. I’ve already gotten Diane a necklace and some earrings. What’s left?

  A toe ring.

  A toe ring? Here, at this fine, upscale jewelry store? How would they even size it?

  That one says, “One size fits all.”

  I doubt that. And what are those dangly things?

  “How may I help you today?” A tall flaxen-haired woman stands in front of me, looking down at those dangly things.

  “What are they?” I ask.

  “They’re for piercings,” she says.

  Kinky. Ask her where!

  No.

  I straighten and look at a poster behind her of a white woman showing off a stunning diamond ring to a white man.

  Even jewelry store posters separate the races.

  Yeah.

  “I’m here to buy an engagement ring. Round diamond, gold band, size seven, one carat or more.”