Sweet Memories

by LaVyrle Spencer

  As she forced herself to turn on the water and pick up the bar of soap, it seemed as if tomorrow night would never get there.

  __________

  BUT NEW YEAR’S EVE DAY arrived at last, and Theresa managed to get an eleventh-hour appointment on this busiest day of the year in the beauty shops. In the late afternoon, she returned home the proud possessor of a new haircut and of the simple tool required to achieve the natural bounce of ringlets on her own: a hairpick.

  The beautician’s suggestion had been to simply shape the hair and stop trying to subdue it but to soften it with a cream rinse and let it bounce free, with just a few flicks of the wrist and pick to guide it into a halo of color about her head. Even the redness seemed less offensive, for with the light filtering through it, it looked less brash.

  While she hung up her coat in the entry closet, Brian called from the living room, “Hi.”

  But she avoided a direct confrontation with him and hurried down the hall to her room with no more than a “Hi” in return.

  And now everyone was scuttling around, getting ready. The bathroom had a steady stream of traffic. Theresa took a quick shower, then went to her room and was applying a new after-bath talc she’d ventured to buy. It had a light, petally fragrance reminiscent of the potpourri used by women in days of old. Subtle, feminine.

  She paused with the puff in her hand and cocked her head. On the other side of her bedroom wall was the bathroom, so sounds carried through. She heard a masculine cough and recognized it as Brian’s. The shower ran for several minutes during which there were two thumps, like an elbow hitting the wall, while images went skittering through her mind. There followed the whine of a blow dryer, then a long silence—shaving—after which he started humming “Sweet Memories.” Theresa smiled and realized she’d been standing naked for some time, dwelling on what was going on in the bathroom.

  Crossing to the mirror, she assessed her devastatingly enormous breasts and wished for the thousandth time in as many days that she’d been in the other line when mammary glands were handed out. She turned away in disgust and found a clean brassiere. Donning it, she had to lean forward to let the pendulous weights drop into the cups before straightening to hook the back clasp of the hideous garment. It had all the feminine allure of a hernia truss! The wide straps had shoulder guards, meant to keep the weight from cutting into her flesh, but the deep grooves dented her shoulders just the same. The bra’s utilitarian white fabric was styled for “extra support.” How she hated the words! And how she hated the lingerie industry. They owed an apology to thousands of women across America for offering not a single large-size brassiere in any of the feminine pastels of orchid, peach or powder blue. Apparently women of her proportions weren’t supposed to have a sense of color when it came to underwear! No wistful longing to clothe themselves in anything except antiseptic, commonsense, white!

  Just once—oh, just once!—how she’d love to browse along the counters of feminine underthings with tiny bikini panties and bras to match and consider buying a foolishly extravagant teddy, only to see what it felt like to have such a piece of feminine frippery against her skin.

  But she wasn’t given the chance, for a teddy with size double-D cups would look as if it were two lace circus tents.

  White undergarments in place, Theresa covered the full-figure white cotton bra with the new sweater and immediately felt more benevolent toward both herself and the clothing industry. The sweater was stylish and attractive and helped restore her excitement. The smoke-hued trousers fit smoothly, flatteringly, over her small hips, and the strappy high-heeled sandals she’d chosen added just the right touch of frivolity. Theresa had never been fond of jewelry, particularly earrings, for they only drew attention to a woman’s face. But as she slipped a wristwatch beneath the cuff of the sweater, she decided her new mocha nail treatment deserved setting off, so clipped a delicate gold chain bracelet around her left wrist. Finally, into the draped cowl neck of the sweater, she inserted a tiny gold stick pin shaped like a treble cleff.

  Then she went across the hall to Amy’s room to reproduce the makeup magic created in last night’s secret session. But Theresa’s hands were so shaky she couldn’t seem to manage the applicators and wands.

  Amy noticed and couldn’t help teasing, “Considering this is not a date, you’re in a pretty twittery state.”

  Theresa’s brown eyes widened in dismay. “Oh, does it show?”

  “You might want to stop wiping your palms on your thighs every thirty seconds. Pretty soon your new slacks are going to look like a plumber’s coveralls.”

  “It’s silly, I know. I wish I could be more like you, Amy. You’re always bright and witty, and even around boys you always seem to know the right thing to say and how to act. Oh, this must sound ridiculous coming from a woman my age.”

  Somehow Amy’s next comment was again just the perfect choice to calm Theresa’s nerves somewhat. “He’s going to love your new hairdo and your makeup and your outfit, too, so quit worrying. Here, give me that eyeshadow and shut your eyes.”

  But as Theresa tipped her head back and did as ordered, her sister was given the difficult job of applying makeup to trembling lids. Yet, she managed to produce the same magical effect as the night before, and when Theresa looked into Amy’s lighted makeup mirror, all complete, dewy and lashy, she unconsciously pressed a palm to her chest in astonishment.

  Smiling, Amy encouraged, “See? I told you.”

  And for that precious moment, Theresa believed it. She swung around to give Amy an impulsive hug, thinking how happy she suddenly was that none of this had ever happened before. It was wonderful experiencing these first Cinderella feelings at age twenty-five.

  “Good luck, huh?” Amy’s smile was sincere as she stood back and stuck her hands in the pockets of her jeans.

  In answer, Theresa blew an affectionate kiss from the doorway. As she turned to leave, Amy added, “Oh, and put on some perfume, huh?”

  “Oh, perfume. But I haven’t got any. I got some new bath powder, but you must not be able to smell it.”

  “Here, try this.”

  They chose a subtle, understated fragrance from the bottles cluttering Amy’s dresser top, leaving nothing more for Theresa to do but face Brian Scanlon. That, however, was going to be the most difficult moment of all.

  Back in her room, Theresa puttered around, putting away stray pieces of clothing, checking her watch several times. She heard the voices of Jeff and Brian from the other end of the house, joined by Amy’s and her parents’. Everyone was waiting for her, and she suddenly wished she’d been ready first so she wouldn’t have had to make a grand entrance. But it was too late now. She didn’t care if she soiled her new trousers or not, she gave one last swipe of her palms along the gabardine, took a deep breath and went out to face the music.

  They were all in the kitchen. Her mother and father were sitting at the table over cups of coffee. Amy stood with her hands in her front pockets telling Jeff she was going babysitting tonight. Brian was at the sink, running himself a glass of water.

  Theresa stepped into the room with her heart tripping out sixteenth notes. Jeff caught sight of her, and his smiling response was instantaneous. “Well, would you lookit here ... I think I asked the wrong girl to go out with me tonight.” He swooped Theresa into his arms and took her on a Ginger Rogers-Fred Astaire swirl while grinning wickedly into her eyes, then affecting a convincing Bogart drawl. “Hiya, doll, whaddya say we get it on tonight?”

  Brian looked back over his shoulder, and the water glass stopped half way to his lips.

  As Jeff brought his sister to a breathless halt, she was laughing, aware that Brian had spilled out the water without drinking any. He turned away from the sink and crossed to clap a hand on Jeff’s shoulder.

  “Just your tough luck, Brubaker. I asked her first.” His approving gaze settled on Theresa, creating a glow about her heart.

  “Isn’t her new hairdo great?” piped up Amy. “And she bough
t the outfit especially for tonight.”

  Amy Brubaker, I could strangle you. Jeff lightened his hold and settled Theresa against his hip. “She did, huh?”

  Brian’s eyes made a quick trip down to her knees, then back up to her makeup and hair. To the best of Theresa’s recollection, it was the first time his eyes had ever scanned anything below her neck.

  Margaret spoke up then. “Jeffrey, turn your sister around. I haven’t had a look at what that beauty operator did to her yet.”

  Does everybody in the house have to blurt out everything? Beneath her fresh, translucent makeup Theresa could feel the pink ruining the entire effect and hoped that for once it didn’t show. Jeff swung her around for her mother and father’s approval, but at her shoulder she felt Brian’s eyes following.

  To Theresa’s further chagrin, her mother’s verdict was, “You should have done that years ago.”

  “You look pretty as a picture, dear,” added Willard.

  Unaccustomed to being the center of attention like this, Theresa could think only of escape.

  “It’s time to leave.”

  Jeff released her to check his watch. “Yup. You can head out. Patricia should be here any minute. She’s picking me up in her car.”

  Theresa whirled around in surprise. “Aren’t we all going together?”

  “No, she’s afraid I might overindulge tonight, and since she claims she’s always levelheaded, she thought it would be best if she drove her car and dropped me off at home instead of the other way around.”

  “Oh.” Once she grunted the monosyllable, Theresa felt conspicuous, for nobody said anything more. She realized she sounded rather dubious and ill at ease about being left alone with Brian. But he went to get her coat from the front-hall closet, and Jeff nudged her in the back. She followed and let Brian ease the coat over her shoulders, then she found herself doing something she’d never done before: helping Brian with his. He was dressed in form-fitting designer blue jeans, and a corduroy sport coat of cocoa brown under which showed a neutral tweed rag-knit sweater with the collar of a white shirt peeking from under its crew neck. As he struggled to thread his arms into a hip-length wool coat, she reacted as politeness dictated, reaching to assist him when the shoulder of his jacket caught. Theresa experienced an unexpected thrill of pleasure, performing the insignificant service.

  “Thanks.” He lifted the outer garment and shrugged his shoulders in a peculiarly masculine adjustment that made her knees feel weak. He smelled good, too. And suddenly all she could think of was getting out of the house and into the car where darkness would mask the feelings she was certain were alternately making her blush and blanch.

  She kissed her mother and father good-night. “Happy New Year, both of you.” They were spending it at home, watching the celebration in Times

  Square on television. “Amy ...” Theresa turned to find her sister’s eyes following her wistfully. “Thanks, honey.”

  “Sure.” Amy leaned her hips back against the edge of the kitchen counter and followed their progress as Brian opened the door for Theresa and saw her out. “Hey, you’re both knockouts!” she called just before the door closed.

  They smiled goodbye, and a moment later were engulfed by the cold silence outside. Theresa’s car waited in the driveway where she’d left it as she’d rushed in from the hair appointment. Brian found her elbow while they crossed the icy blacktop, but she suddenly didn’t want to drive. It would take some of the magic away. “Would you mind driving, Brian?”

  He stopped. They were at the front of the car, heading around toward the driver’s side. “Not at all.” Instead of leaving her there, he guided her to the passenger side, opened her door and waited while she settled herself inside.

  When his door slammed, they found themselves laughing at his knees digging into the dashboard.

  “Sorry,” Theresa offered, “my legs are shorter than yours.”

  He fumbled in the dark, found the proper lever, and the seat went sliding back while he let out a whoof of breath. “Whoo! Are they ever!”

  She handed him the keys and he fumbled again, groping for the ignition. “Here.” In the blackness, their knuckles brushed as she reached to point out the right spot. The brief touch set off a tingle in her hand, then the key clicked home and the engine came to life.

  “Thanks for letting me drive. A person misses it.” He adjusted the mirror, shifted into reverse, and they were rolling.

  The quiet was disarming. The scent she remembered emanated from his hair and clothing and mingled with her own borrowed perfume. The dash lights lit his face from below, and she wanted to turn and study him, but faced front, resisting the urge.

  “So that’s where you went this afternoon—to the beauty shop. I wondered.”

  “Amy and her big mouth.” But Theresa grinned in the dark.

  He laughed indulgently. “I like it. It looks good on you.”

  She glanced left and found his eyes on her dimly lit hair and quickly looked away.

  “Thank you.” What is a woman expected to reply at a time like this? Theresa wanted to say she loved his hair, too, but she really preferred a man’s hair longer than the Air Force allowed, though she loved the smell of his, and the color of it. She heartily approved of the clothing he’d chosen tonight, but before she could decide whether or not to say so, Brian suggested, “Why don’t you put on something classical? We’ll have our fill of rock before the night is over.”

  The music filled the uncomfortable transition period while they rode, with Theresa giving occasional directions. Within fifteen minutes they reached the Rusty Scupper, a night spot frequented by a young adult crowd, many of them singles. They helped each other with coats, left them at the coat check and were shown to a long table set up for a large group. Theresa recognized some of Jeff’s friends and performed introductions, watching as Brian shook hands with the men and was ogled by some of the women, whose eyes lingered on him with that inquisitive approval of the single female presented with an attractive male novelty. She watched their eyes drop down his torso and realized with a start that some women checked out men in much the same way men checked out women. She was totally abashed when an attractive sable-haired beauty named Felice returned her eyes to Brian’s and smiled with a blatant glint of sexual approval. “Keep a dance free for me later, okay, Brian? And make sure it’s a slow one.”

  “I’ll do that,” he replied politely, withdrawing his hand from the one that had retained his longer than was usual. He returned to Theresa’s side, pulled out her chair and settled himself beside her.

  In a voice low enough for only her ears, he questioned, “Who’s she?”

  Theresa felt dreadfully deflated that he should ask. “Felice Durand is one of the crowd. She’s hung around with Jeff and his bunch since high school.”

  “Remind me to be monopolized by you during the slow dances,” he returned wryly, filling Theresa with a soaring sense of relief. She herself had little experience on the boy-girl social scene, and Felice’s bold assessment of Brian’s body, followed by her forward invitation, was unnerving. But apparently not all men were hooked by bait as obvious as that dangled by Felice Durand. Theresa’s respect for Brian slid up another notch.

  Jeff and Patricia arrived then, and the table filled with lively chatter, laughter and orders for cocktails. Soon thereafter menus arrived, and Theresa was astounded at the inflated New Year’s prices that had been substituted but told herself an evening with Brian would be worth it.

  Carafes of wine were delivered, glasses filled and toasts proposed. Touching his glass to Jeff’s, Brian intoned, “To old friends ...” And with a touch of the rim upon Patricia’s glass, and finally upon Theresa’s, he added, “and to new.”

  His eyes held a steady green spark of approval as they sought hers and lingered after she self-consciously dropped her gaze to the ruby liquid, then drank.

  Dinner was noisy and exuberant, and for the most part Theresa and Brian listened to the banter without ta
king part. She felt relieved that he, like her, was rather an outsider. She felt drawn to him, in a welcome semi-exclusion.

  Over tiny stem glasses of crème de menthe, they relaxed, sat back in their chairs and waited for the dancing to begin.

  The dancing. Just the thought of it filled Theresa with a mixture of apprehension and eagerness. It hadn’t been so difficult turning into Brian’s arms that day in the living room. Here, the dance floor would be crowded; nobody would notice them among all the others. It should be easy to submit to the embrace of an attractive man like Brian, yet at the thought, Theresa felt a tremor tumble through her lower belly. He's been stuck with me.

  Just then the waitress approached and spoke to the group at their general end of the table. “As soon as the dancing starts, it’s a cash bar only, so if you wouldn’t mind, we’d like to get the dinner bill settled up now.”

  Automatically, Theresa reached for her purse, just as Brian lifted one hip from the chair, pushed back his sport coat and sought his hip pocket. As he came up with a billfold, she produced the purse and was reaching to unzip it when his fingers closed over hers.

  “You’re with me,” he ordered simply. Her eyes flew to his. They were steady, insistent. His cool fingers still rested upon her tense ones while her heart sent out a crazy stutter step.

  Yes, I am, she thought. I’m really with you.

  “Thank you, Brian.”

  He squeezed her fingers, then his slipped away, and for the first time she truly felt like his date.

  Chapter Six

  THE BAND HAD A LOT OF TALENT wrapped up in five members, plus a female singer. They played a mix of mid- to easy rock, ranging from The Eagles to Ronstadt to The Commodores to Stevie Wonder, but all their music had a hard, sure beat to encourage dancers onto the floor, then once they were warmed up, back to the tables to cool down with another round of drinks. When half the group deserted their table in favor of the dance floor, Brian and Theresa remained behind in companionable silence, watching the dancers.