And then there was me.
This was my chance, you see. After being out of the state, away from all of the New Church energy, not taking the Greek course or participating in the quilting, what I wanted was to get my bearings again.
And then there was her.
She never had a hair out of place, and that's saying something, considering that we'd been through the seventies together. There was a lot of hair on the planet in the 1970's, and hers was never messy. Her clothes were never wrinkled, and her cool brand of calm never ruffled. She'd gone on a couple of dates with my Crime Fighter, and he told me once that they'd almost been in what would have been a horrible car accident, and she said not one word about it. Not in the middle of it, not afterward. Her composure never broke.
And then there was my mother.
She saw me coming downstairs on that first Friday of meetings, jeans and shirt (untucked) ... bare feet. I was dressed for a summer Friday. I was not dressed for success. It was deliberate.
"Wouldn't you be more comfortable if you put on some shoes?"
"Nope."
Not competing with her. She would be coming to the meeting, and she would be completely perfectly absolutely composed - and so ... I would not be.
* * * * *
They came. They gathered. We studied. And there was a tall guy I'd never seen before. (Well, actually, there were several.) We'll call this Bob Jones student the Male Model, because he could have been. Who knows? Maybe he was. He was definitely a Bob Jones student, though. We had a lot in common. We laughed easily and knowingly about the rules at his school and mine. We were both going back. We knew why we were attending schools like that, and we were both going back, and we both thought most of the way they live down there is just silly.
I liked him. His name was David, the Male Model.
But she liked him, too. And their parents approved. My journal is filled with page after page of longing and railing and fussing and complaining because of her. And him. Why wouldn't he ask me out? Why? I liked his sister. We went to a play together and we had a blast. Taming of the Shrew ... set in a Wild West town, complete with Wild West accents. I just couldn't understand it. Why does little miss cool and perfect get the dates? Where's the fun in that?
They came. They gathered. We studied. And there was a tall guy I'd never seen before. (Well, actually, there were several.) We'll call this Bob Jones student the Male Model, because he could have been. Who knows? Maybe he was. He was definitely a Bob Jones student, though. We had a lot in common. We laughed easily and knowingly about the rules at his school and mine. We were both going back. We knew why we were attending schools like that, and we were both going back, and we both thought most of the way they live down there is just silly.
I liked him. His name was David, the Male Model.
But she liked him, too. And their parents approved. My journal is filled with page after page of longing and railing and fussing and complaining because of her. And him. Why wouldn't he ask me out? Why? I liked his sister. We went to a play together and we had a blast. Taming of the Shrew ... set in a Wild West town, complete with Wild West accents. I just couldn't understand it. Why does little miss cool and perfect get the dates? Where's the fun in that?
* * * * *
There is this journal ... and then there is all the stuff I didn't write about. Stuff I remember. Stuff we remember. The walk, for instance. The walk I now get teased about, as if I'd known what I was doing all along.
What's not in my journal is this one small fact.
Each Friday night, when everything was done, when people went home, the David that was Faye and George's nephew didn't go. After a little more time had passed, my parents would go to bed. That David was still in our house. My brothers would give up and go up to their rooms, and that David was still there. Me, him, the vast living room, and questions. He asked them. I'd run out of breath and run out of answer, and he'd ask another one. An hour - maybe two. The summer evening would turn into a summer's night, and eventually I would say good night to him, all by myself ... and then close the front door, and go through the kitchen to the steep back stairs, up and past the second floor, to the sitting room and three bedrooms at the top of the house. My brothers were asleep in the other two. Everything was quiet inside the house, and the sound of an occasional car driving by on the street or a distant siren would waft through the open windows. By the light of my bedside lamp, I wrote and wondered why David the Male Model was so interested in little miss perfect coiffure. I stopped writing and wondered about the interesting new David. He was too confusing to write about, apparently.
But he was interesting to talk to. His questions were interesting. His answers (when I could get them) were even more so. And so, one night in August, to escape the looming game in the hall, and find a place to talk that wouldn't be interrupted, I asked him, "Want to take a walk? We could go up to the park ..."
"Sure!"
Confidently - as if I knew perfectly well where I was going, how to get there, and how to get back, I started off, up the sidewalk toward the park. We talked. I tried not to get caught noticing how tall he was. (Tall is a big thing for me. I'd told my dad years before that I wanted him to find me a man who was as tall as the missionary we had staying with us at the time. "How tall are you?" I asked him. "Six four," he said. "Dad," I said, "find me a guy who's six four." I wanted to be able to wear high heels when I got dressed up and still not be taller than the man I was with.)
We made it to the park, and then we started down again, and all at once I had no idea where I was. It was getting dark. The abundant plant life that's all over the city of Portland was hanging over our sidewalk (what sidewalk was this?) so that we had to walk single file. We'd gone uphill to get there, so I was very much hoping that walking downhill would get us to something I recognized. I thought about how stupid it would sound to admit to being lost a few block from my own house. It was easier to think about than the fact that I was lost with an enormous stranger.
To this day, that David claims that I made this move on purpose - to give him a chance to watch me from behind as we went back down to the house. But, really, he knows better. I still get lost in what ought to be familiar places. And he still knows where we are. The difference now is that I know when he's watching me from behind.
What's not in my journal is this one small fact.
Each Friday night, when everything was done, when people went home, the David that was Faye and George's nephew didn't go. After a little more time had passed, my parents would go to bed. That David was still in our house. My brothers would give up and go up to their rooms, and that David was still there. Me, him, the vast living room, and questions. He asked them. I'd run out of breath and run out of answer, and he'd ask another one. An hour - maybe two. The summer evening would turn into a summer's night, and eventually I would say good night to him, all by myself ... and then close the front door, and go through the kitchen to the steep back stairs, up and past the second floor, to the sitting room and three bedrooms at the top of the house. My brothers were asleep in the other two. Everything was quiet inside the house, and the sound of an occasional car driving by on the street or a distant siren would waft through the open windows. By the light of my bedside lamp, I wrote and wondered why David the Male Model was so interested in little miss perfect coiffure. I stopped writing and wondered about the interesting new David. He was too confusing to write about, apparently.
But he was interesting to talk to. His questions were interesting. His answers (when I could get them) were even more so. And so, one night in August, to escape the looming game in the hall, and find a place to talk that wouldn't be interrupted, I asked him, "Want to take a walk? We could go up to the park ..."
"Sure!"
Confidently - as if I knew perfectly well where I was going, how to get there, and how to get back, I started off, up the sidewalk toward the park. We talked. I tried not to get caught noticing how tall he was. (Tall is a big thing for me. I'd told my dad years before that I wanted him to find me a man who was as tall as the missionary we had staying with us at the time. "How tall are you?" I asked him. "Six four," he said. "Dad," I said, "find me a guy who's six four." I wanted to be able to wear high heels when I got dressed up and still not be taller than the man I was with.)
We made it to the park, and then we started down again, and all at once I had no idea where I was. It was getting dark. The abundant plant life that's all over the city of Portland was hanging over our sidewalk (what sidewalk was this?) so that we had to walk single file. We'd gone uphill to get there, so I was very much hoping that walking downhill would get us to something I recognized. I thought about how stupid it would sound to admit to being lost a few block from my own house. It was easier to think about than the fact that I was lost with an enormous stranger.
To this day, that David claims that I made this move on purpose - to give him a chance to watch me from behind as we went back down to the house. But, really, he knows better. I still get lost in what ought to be familiar places. And he still knows where we are. The difference now is that I know when he's watching me from behind.
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