It Happened on Maple Street Page 11
“Of course it did!”
“You weren’t just a guy out for sex?”
“No!”
“Have you told . . . anyone . . . what we did?”
“No.”
“Have you done anything like it since? Have you been as intimate as we were?”
Those blue eyes were gazing up at him, and they weren’t part of his life anymore. “No.”
“So we were special to you?”
What did it matter? “Yes.”
The answer seemed to satisfy her.
And he was glad he’d stopped by.
Eleven
I WAS EIGHTEEN AGAIN—STARTING COLLEGE AT WRIGHT State and fantasizing about my great-hair guy. For the rest of Christmas break I thought about Tim. I kept watching for him to show up again. Every time I left the house, the first thing I did upon my return was ask my mom if there were any calls for me.
And just like in the past, I lay in my canopied bed—the one I’d once sat on to play guitar for Tim and cried myself to sleep the night before I headed back to college.
Tim hadn’t contacted me again.
I told myself I was done with him, but I knew it wasn’t true. During the long ride back to school—a ride that extended from the usual twelve hours to seventeen hours due to inclement weather—all I did was think about Tim. I analyzed everything he’d said.
And everything he didn’t say.
He hadn’t sounded all that excited about this Emily person. He’d been hesitant. He thought maybe there’d be more. What I knew was that if it were there, he’d already know it.
But what kept me going, what had me hooked, was the fact that he’d come by at all. He’d wanted to know about the card I’d sent. About the signature. He cared.
I couldn’t wait to get back to school to my bunk in my dorm room and write to Tim. I had pen in hand before I’d even unpacked. Wrote for a bit, but I didn’t sign off. I couldn’t end my conversation with him.
Hello, Babe!
I know this is strange, but I felt really super seeing you last week and I want to stay in touch. I’d love to have a place in your busy schedule.
It was a long letter, a week in the writing, filled with every minute of my days. I tried to keep things light so I didn’t cramp him or push him away. I described my room to him, the classes that were starting the following day. I talked about the pizza I’d eaten, meeting up with my roommates and friends again. I talked about the weather, the long drive back. I asked him how his classes were going. I told him that they’d announced that due to the cold, girls were going to be allowed to wear pants to class instead of dresses. I was most definitely not a dress person. And in between the news, I added the things I most needed to say.
Like,
Please be sure you’re alone when you lift your weights.
And,
I really wish that I’d met you now rather than last year, though I do have lots of fantastic memories that I’d like to keep!
Toward the end, I got really serious.
What happened between us, especially physically, has never happened to me, before or since. Yes, you took a lot and I realize that it was partly my fault and I don’t regret anything. I don’t even know why I’m telling you. I sure didn’t mean to. But I don’t want you to harbor any doubt.
I also hope that it was something special to you and that you are being honest when you said you’d not told anyone or done anything since. Otherwise it was a waste.
I better shut up! This is probably the most I’ve ever let you know of what I think . . .
I’m very serious when I say that I’d love for you to write me.
By the way, if you’re ever down by my house there’s always something waiting for you . . . a big kiss and hug.
Tim wrote back, a pithy ditty telling me to move my fridge so I didn’t get fat. I didn’t lose heart. I tried again ten days later. I wasn’t so emotional that time, though. Not until the end. Tim had noticed the signature on my Christmas card.
It had intrigued him enough that he’d sought me out.
I signed my second letter, Love Always, Tara
I’d seen one of Chum’s prior girlfriends sign a letter to him that way once. It had touched me to the core. A vow of undying love. It meant everything.
I wrote to Tim again on Valentine’s Day. Not so much about my daily life this time. Spring break was coming up, and I had really high hopes that Tim and I would see each other then.
I’d made up my mind. If he agreed to see me, I was going to do everything I could to get him into the backseat of his car and finish what we’d started that night on Maple Street.
So I put my heart out there a little more. Not so much that I scared him off. But enough for him to know that I wasn’t playing around.
I keep thinking back to last Valentine’s Day—I was such an ick—and you sent me that card.
That was when I’d thought I was pregnant. And he hadn’t told me he loved me. I’d had such high hopes that I’d get a ring for Valentine’s Day . . .
I’m really sorry for the hard times I’ve given you. I’m paying for them now, though. I feel awful about it.
Be a good boy.
Remember I love ya, Tara
He’d told himself that seeing Tara over Christmas break had been a good thing. Yes, she was his first love, and as such she’d always have a part of him, but he’d left her house and he hadn’t fallen apart. He kept telling himself that all was good, that he’d moved on, as he wrote back to her over the next couple of months. They were friends. And that was fine.
He could tell himself anything. The truth hit him in the face when he got her Valentine’s Day letter. Wearing his usual smile, his heart filled with “letter from Tara” lightheartedness, he opened the envelope.
His heart was pounding. His emotions churning. He was . . . outraged. Or something. It was the closing that got him. Remember, I love ya. My God, she said it, she wrote the words. Not just, Love ya. Or Lots of Love. She’d put the I there this time. Made it personal. He had evidence.
And then the nagging voice inside of him stopped him. This was Tara. Maybe she didn’t really mean what he thought she wrote. A girl could love someone like a brother and not be in love with him. There was a big difference.
He added the letter to the others in his locked box. But those words at the bottom of that page caused him great angst.
They wouldn’t let go of him.
What in the hell had she meant?
He was just going to have to be direct with her. There’d be no more cat and mouse. Too much was at stake.
February 20, 1979
Dear Tara,
Hi, how are you? Received your letter today. Was glad to hear from you. I’ve had a lot on my mind. I’m still seeing Emily and I think it’s safe to say that I love her more than last time I wrote you. We’re making plans together, maybe marriage in a couple years.
He wrote that deliberately. That should send a message to Tara. Either tell me you’re sorry you broke up with me and want me back or let me go. But then he told her that Emily was still kind of hung up on an ex-boyfriend, too. Before he messed up too badly, he got to the point.
Tara, I’m not sure how you meant that “I love ya” you wrote at the end of your letter. It seems weird seeing it, because you never did before. Let me ask you this. What was the extent of your feelings for me? I just want to know if you really did care? Please tell me honestly. Because I sometimes get the feeling no one could really love me, that there’s always something better. Do you know what I mean?
I cared a lot for you. So much it almost hurt.
This should get the answer that he needed.
And then he scribbled some more. Because he suddenly felt too exposed. And because he needed her to negate his fears.
But I guess it wasn’t meant to be. Now all we can be is good friends. Write back with some answers for me, please.
Love, Tim
Four days later he had his answer.
The extent of my feelings for you? That’s a tough question to answer, Tim. It’s also unfair. However, I’ll do the best I can. Yes, I really did care, and I still do. You’re a super person. There’ve been a lot of times that I really wanted your arms around me, bad! I don’t know why it didn’t work, but I’ve always cared. I told you when I was home why I never said I love you, and I have still never said it—but that doesn’t meant that I don’t feel it. I guess I wrote it because I didn’t feel threatened. I just wanted you to know that you’re loved, and I’m here if you need me—for whatever reason.
One week and four days till I’m home. I have to go to Wright State the week I’m home. Maybe we can meet for lunch. I promise not to eat you.
Love you, Tara.
He’d asked, and now he had his answer. She didn’t say she was in love with him. He’d put it right out there and she’d talked in circles about caring and loving, but nothing intimate. She just wanted to be friends. Good friends, maybe.
At least now he knew for sure.
He wrote her back, telling her he’d meet her for lunch.
What could it hurt?
I was up before my alarm went off the morning I was due to meet Tim at Wright State. I showered. Did my hair. Put on eye makeup. I’d packed my blue sweater—the one he’d liked best—and my nicest pair of jeans, and when I put them on, when the fabric slid across my skin, I shivered. If things went as I hoped, Tim would be sliding his hands in place of that fabric before I was back in my bedroom.
I went to school early. Registered for the summer classes I needed to take to graduate from Armstrong the next spring. With the credits I’d taken during high school, I just needed a physical education requirement. I chose racquetball. Hard to believe I was already in my junior year.
And then I went to the student union to wait for Tim. Just like old times. Wright State wasn’t on spring break yet, so the place was swarming. The feeling of homecoming was so sweet I thought about transferring back to finish my last year where I’d begun my college education.
Finding a seat closest to the fire, I read every word on my registration receipts. And then turned to the course catalog the guidance counselor had given me while, surreptitiously, I watched for Tim. I wanted to see him before he saw me. I wanted to be in his arms before he knew what hit him.
I’d hoped he cut class. Or leave early. He didn’t.
His class ended at 11:00 AM. My nerves were at the screaming point by 11:05 AM.
At 11:15 AM I stood, started walking around the union, looking for him. He was probably sitting somewhere, waiting for me. But how could I have missed him? I’d had every entrance in sight.
I walked around until 11:30 AM. And then I sat again. I waited.
For my Tim.
At noon, I went outside, got in my car, and drove home.
I drove slowly. I had to face my mom. Tell her that Tim had stood me up. She’d pity me. And if I started to cry the tears weren’t ever going to stop.
She was in the kitchen when I walked in the house.
“There’s a message from Tim on the answering machine,” she said before I got a word out.
My heart leapt. I knew it! Something had happened. His car broke down. He . . .
“He said that he was sorry but he wasn’t going to make it.”
“Did he say why?”
“No.”
“Did he tell me to call him?”
“No.”
“Did he say he’d call me?”
“No.”
“Do you think he’s okay? Maybe something bad happened.”
“I think he changed his mind, Tara.”
I thought so, too.
And for the second time in my life, Tim Barney had broken my heart.
The dorm room was the same. My twin bunk was still over there by the windows. The comforter was still beige and mauve with splashes of white. My two-foot-tall Raggedy Ann doll still graced the covers.
I was entirely different. The last time I’d slept in that bed I’d dreamed of Tim. Even before I’d fallen asleep. I’d poured out my heart to him from those covers as well during the two months I’d written to him.
We’d had our problems, but he was my Tim. We were destined to be together.
That’s what I’d known the last time I’d been in that third-floor dorm room with the cold brick walls and commercially tiled floor.
Standing in the doorway, alone, the first one back to the suite after the break, I wasn’t sure I could enter.
Tim was in that room.
Tim was no longer in my life.
It was really over. He’d made his choice, and it wasn’t me.
I heard voices in the stairwell. Someone laughed. The sound was getting closer. I couldn’t bear to be laughed at. Or find laughter to share, either.
I couldn’t smile and say that spring break had been great. Or even okay.
I took a step. And then another. I closed the door behind me. I crumbled. I cried.
And the next week I signed up for every single social activity offered on the campus of Armstrong University. Someplace—among the people, God, the choices, the beliefs and studies and opportunities—I had to make a life for myself. I had to find a life.
Spring Sing was an annual event. An alumni weekend fund-raiser consisting of a theme and musical acts that followed the theme. All of the social clubs, Armstrong’s answer to sororities and fraternities, competed with their attempts at musical theater and production. The show went on for two nights, Friday and Saturday, and was always, without fail, sold out.
Awards were given—top place was monetary. And the social-club members, who spent the money on service projects, really cared about winning.
My club, together with our brother club, had hired a choreographer and had been practicing every night for weeks.
“You ready?” The voice belonged to James, my social club’s big brother—the male who attended all of our meetings to lead us in prayer. The tall, dark-haired man had brown eyes. And a mustache. He played tennis. If there was any resemblance to Tim in him, I chose not to see it.
“Yeah. My ribs are taped.” My social club sisters said he liked me.
I probably liked him, too. In an innocuous sort of way. I was experienced now. My heart was no longer raw and open and available.
“You want to practice one more time?” He was whispering from our vantage point at the side of the stage. The other twenty kids in the same matching blue-silk skirts and slacks and tops stood around us in various curtain breaks in the wings.
“No,” I said, biting back the irritation that was solely a result of prestage jitters. I was a member of a family of entertainers. I could do this.
“You want to go out for a soda afterward?”
“Sure.” Everyone on my floor had dates. I didn’t want to be alone. I didn’t want to spend the next year dateless.
I was done being the undated girl in school.
James accompanied me to church the rest of that semester. We went to movies on campus and ate together sometimes on Sundays. We hung in the same groups.
And one night, when he walked me back to my dorm, he stopped just before we moved from the darkness of the shadows into the light shining above the front door of the all-girl habitat, and I knew what was coming.
This was it. The moment I’d been dreading. And yet . . . I liked him. He was kind. Nice looking. He really liked me. Enough not to choose someone else over me. And I didn’t want to be alone.
The thoughts chased themselves around in my brain.
James didn’t say a word. With his hands on my shoulders he pulled me closer until there was only a foot of distance between us. I saw him lower his head. Saw his lips coming closer. And I waited.
They were a little bit cold. We’d just had soda.
And then they were gone. With a smile on his face, James took my hand and walked me to the door.
Twelve
I DIDN’T SEE OR TALK TO JAMES THAT SUMMER. I didn’t see or hear from Tim, either. It was the summer of 1979. The worst summer of my life.
My father took exception to my newly formed allegiance with the church I’d joined. James’s church, though I’d joined before I met James. It was Armstrong’s church. The church where I’d found the God who’d filled my gaping heart.
My instructors at school had warned me that I’d probably get some resistance from my parents when I got home. They’d given me the mental and emotional tools to stay strong.
Scriptures. Words of love. Students from school were set up to write to me every day that summer to help me stay strong in a nonmember family.
“You have a church home,” my father told me my first week home, on a Friday afternoon in July.
I’d spent the month of June in an Armstrong summer intensive—a graduate-level class that toured New England literary historical sites. I’d been to Louisa Mae Alcott’s home. Seen hundred–year-old etchings that were referred to in a classic I’d loved as a child. I’d stood in Longfellow’s home and stared at the staircase that was the central point in a poem my mother had recited to me from the time I was a toddler. I’d been to Yale. Seen Hawthorne’s home. I’d walked the streets where the Scarlet Woman had walked. Imagined how she’d felt.
Because I’d been scarlet, too. But I’d been forgiven. My new faith assured me of that.
And my father thought I was going to turn my back on that?
“I want you to come back to church with us.”
“I can’t.”
His lips tightened. I tensed. And I stood my ground. I wasn’t a little girl anymore. I’d made mistakes. I’d lived through a broken heart. Broken dreams. But I was redeemed.