Personal Touch (14 page)

Mother and Mrs. Lansberry took off for their cars to go home and change clothes and collect my father, but Tim said he’d go with me. We walked back to the bookstore together. “That was nice of you,” said Tim. “I didn’t want to pop her balloon, but I had asked you out already.”

We were walking very slowly, which was unusual, because Tim never strolls: he rushes. And his legs are much longer than mine. But slow walking was very companionable. “Didn’t it feel sort of funny to you when she got upset?” I said. “Sometimes when I talk to your mother I feel older than she is.”

Tim smiled his half-irritated, half-sad smile. “I’ve felt like that all summer. It isn’t funny. I hate it.”

I unlocked my bike from the parking pole and got on. The bike is a bit too large for me. My parents figured I’d grow into it, but I never did. If I’m not actually pedaling, I have to balance by one tippy toe.

“You’ve had a pretty rough summer,” I said, tilting the bike so I could approach the seat without spearing myself on it.

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Tim, grinning at me. “Parts of it have been very nice.”

“What parts?” I couldn’t think of anything in his summer that qualified for ‘very nice.’ Oh, right, I remembered. Winning the car had certainly been nice for Tim.

“Your part,” he said softly, and he kissed me. He didn’t even give me time to enjoy it, or think about it, let alone return it. “Here,” he ordered. “You sit on the handlebars. I’ll pedal.” He gave me a push that ruined what fragile balance I had and got on the seat himself.

“Tim, I can’t possibly sit on the bars. I’m not that good at balancing. We’ll fall off and split our skulls. I’m too heavy. It won’t work.
Tim
!” He ignored my protests and put his hands around my sides to move me by force onto the bars. “If there’s one thing you aren’t, bookmark,” he said, “it’s too heavy.”

“You mean either I give in,” I said indignantly, “and sit on those dumb handlebars, or else I have to trot alongside my very own bike? Chauvinist. Dictator.”

“None of the above. Think of me as a chauffeur. I do all the pedaling while you get a free ride.”

“It won’t be a very comfortable free ride,” I said doubtfully.

“Next time I’ll bring a pillow for you.” Tim hoisted me up, and just like in Westerns, swung me up on the bars. I loved it. I sat there trying to look graceful and laughed instead.

“Don’t jiggle the bike so much,” said Tim, “or we really will have an accident.”

I had to concentrate so hard on not falling off that there was no time to think of Tim’s compliments or kisses. He pedaled much harder and more forcefully than I ever do. I am of the coasting mentality. Tim is of the win-this-race mentality. We whipped down sidewalks in a way that would have endangered the lives of little old ladies, had any been out.

When we zoomed into our yard, my parents and Tim’s mother were sitting on the stoop having a drink. I tried to look relaxed and suave, as if I always rode hunched and clutching on handlebars. Fortunately I didn’t have to get off by myself. Tim lifted me off. I must say it was pleasant. I was only sorry that each time he moved me he immediately let go of my waist.

For a first date, it was a very pleasant one. Three chaperones were, as Tim whispered to me, a little excessive, but at least they were nice people. And for the first time all summer, we didn’t talk about divorce, separation, or money. We talked politics and jobs and schools and life.

I even managed to engineer a moment alone with Tim, after my parents went on into the house when we got home, and Mrs. Lansberry headed quickly for her kitchen door because she could hear her phone ringing.

There wasn’t any awkwardness between Tim and me, the way girls say there is when you first go out with a boy. Perhaps Tim and I really did know each other very well; perhaps talking so much about so many personal things had ended any barriers there might be between us otherwise.

We walked behind the fence and past the rose bushes and stood in the shadows and kissed. For me it was like reaching something I’d been trying to stretch toward forever. I liked Tim so much I wanted to cry, being held by him. “Ah, Sunny, don’t,” said Tim. “The best thing about you is you’re like your name. Sunny.”

“Been raining a lot at your house, huh?” I said, running my hands through his hair and over his face and across his chest.

We stopped talking and kissed again and then Mrs. Lansberry’s voice, cracked like old ice in the spring, came piercing through the dark. “Tim!” she said. “Your father is on the phone. Come talk to him for me. Hurry.”

Tim let go of me instantly and without the slightest sign of reluctance. “Have to go,” he said simply. “See you tomorrow.”

And he slipped inside without another word.

I like him more than he likes me, I thought. He’s wrapped up in his family problems so completely that I’m kind of a side issue for him.

It was cool enough to need a jacket. We hardly ever had weather like that at this time of the year. All the insects and creatures of the marsh were singing and rasping and croaking.

I wondered what the school year would be like. Would a lot of other things always come first for Timothy Lansberry? Would he be involved in sports and clubs and jobs and friends as well as family—and I, if I came into it at all, would be at the bottom of the list?

He’s such a nice person, I thought. And I like him so
much.
Why can’t this crush be equal on both sides?

On the other hand, if Tim liked me as much as I liked him we would have eloped by now, which probably wasn’t such a good idea either.

I kept thinking about what my father had said a few weeks ago. Something like—she’s making eyes at him and he hasn’t even noticed. There’s been some progress, I thought, laughing at myself. He’s noticed, at least.

The singing insects of the marsh became the biting insects of the backyard.

Good night, Tim, I said silently, and I went home.

S
ATURDAY, LABOR DAY WEEKEND.

It was hotter than it had been all summer. Working in the bookstore was like cleaning out a steam boiler. While it was running. I seriously questioned that I was going to live until closing. I drank at least two gallons of lemonade. “I’m dying,” I told Mr. Hartley. “And for what? Six customers all day?”

“So close down,” said Tim, bounding up the stairs as if he had never heard of heat prostration. He sat on the counter and let his legs dangle. He was wearing shorts. “I finished my eight hours,” he said. “How about it, Mr. Hartley? Can Sunny leave now?”

Mr. Hartley said, “It’s a good thing for you people that I’m so flexible. Some employers would fire you for demanding so much time off.”

“This is my last day anyhow,” I said, laughing.

“That’s true,” said Mr. Hartley. “Your wonderful summer of freedom ends Tuesday, doesn’t it?”

“Freedom,” I said. “I’ve had about as much freedom this summer as a canary in a cage.”

“If you’re trying to make me feel guilty, you’ve failed,” said Mr. Hartley. “But since I’m such a lover of young people and such a fine man in any circumstances, I will allow you to close down early. Go. Have a good time.” I hugged him but he said it was too hot, send him a thank you letter instead, and he went back into his tiny office.

I crossed the room to turn off the fan and Tim stuck out a leg to stop me halfway. It was a tanned, muscular, hairy leg. A very nice leg, if you like boys’ legs. I happen to like them a lot. I let him stop me.

Tim hooked his knee and pulled me in toward him and we took up our kissing where we had left off the other night. Every time we finished a kiss we laughed a little and gasped for air in the hot, sticky room. “Either we sit in someplace that’s air-conditioned all afternoon,” said Tim, “or we go for a drive with the windows all rolled down. What’ll it be?”

“A drive,” I said, thinking more of the end of the road, and someplace cool and shaded to sit, than of the drive itself.

We clattered downstairs and over to Tim’s car. You could see the heat rising in layered shimmers from the metal. Tim unlocked my side first, almost burning himself on the blazing door handle, and I got in gingerly. Tim had towels to spread over the vinyl so we wouldn’t burn ourselves. Leaning way over, I unlocked Tim’s door for him so he wouldn’t have to do it. It was such a tiny gesture, but I felt so sort of warm and good doing it. Silly idiot, I said to myself. He’s not going to notice that any more than he notices anything else.

“Thanks for unlocking that,” said Tim. “You didn’t burn your fingers, did you? Quick, roll down your window.” The Beetle had air vents which we cranked open too and I could hardly wait for him to start up so we could get a breeze.

“Where are we going?” I said.

“Up north,” he said. “To the state park.”

The state park would have sixty million people on Labor Day Saturday. But I didn’t care. A trip with Tim was worth a crowd.

We talked the whole time we drove. I don’t think we stopped talking a single second. If it had been me, I would have had a hard time driving and talking so much too. Not once did we mention families. We talked about school coming up, and Tim’s courses, and what teachers he would have, and how good the soccer team was. We talked about my activities—I’m next year’s president of an anti-drug action club called Hands Down. We do a lot of presentations at the junior highs. Tim wanted to know if there was a rifle club, and I told him I thought guns were evil and we argued fiercely about whether people should have guns. He told me about his old school in Albany and the things he did there.

“Oh, blast,” said Tim.

“What?”

“Oh, double blast,” said Tim, looking as if he really were cursing.

“Sunny, how come you have to be so
interesting
? It’s all your fault. Why do you do these things to me?”

The car was sputtering a little bit.

“What’s my fault?” I demanded. “What’s wrong with the car?”

Tim steered over onto the shoulder of the road. It was pretty wide where we were. He was able to get safely off. “I don’t believe it,” he said, staring not at me, but out his own window. “I swore I would never do this in my entire life and I’ve had my license less than one year and I’ve done it.”

“Done what? What’s the matter?” I was getting panicked. I had less than ten dollars in my purse, and if the car had broken down how were we going to pay for repairs? Or some other kind of transportation home? On today of all days, my parents could not possibly come and get us.

“We’re out of gas,” said Tim. “I was so busy talking to you I forgot to look at the gauge.”

He said it with so much shame you would have thought he’d just been arrested on a vice charge. I began giggling.

“It isn’t funny,” he said furiously. “It’s
stupid
.”

I could not tell him what I was thinking—that my father was wrong! Tim noticed me! Noticed me and not the gas gauge.

“Cheer up,” I said. “It can’t be more than a couple of miles to a gas station. We’ll hike back and buy a gallon. Not a big thing.”

It wasn’t the hike that bothered Tim. It was the humiliation. He stomped the whole way and didn’t want to exchange one word. It didn’t bother me at all, although it was pretty darn hot for a walk like that.

We bought the gallon—to the song and dance from the gas station attendant of how dumb we were to have gotten in this fix, but then, he said, there were a lot of dumb people around. Tim loved that.

“Every year,” said Tim, as we hiked back, taking turns carrying the unwieldy gas container, “I tell myself that
this
will be the good summer. Every day, I tell myself that this will be the good day. And look what happens.”

“It was a fine day,” I said. “It’s still a fine day. We—”

And both of us, at the same instant, realized that it was not a fine day any more. Billowing, blackening clouds were swooping down on us. Lightning was cracking the sky to the west. We could see rain a few hundred yards away and any moment we were going to get drenched. We stopped talking and ran. I thought my chest would burst—running madly down that road to get to the car before the lightning got us. We were drenched when we got in, but we weren’t dead. We leaped into the car, rolled up the windows-the interior of the car was soaking—and sat there while the lightning burst through a black sky and thunder made the ground around us tremble.

“Your mother’s home alone,” I said. “Is she going to be scared?” I huddled up against Tim. We were both abruptly cold and shivering. The soaked towels were no help.

“Not Mom. She’s a weatherhound. She designed that house so she could watch every cloud and every wind-whipped wave out of all those screwy modern windows she tossed in all over our walls. She’ll love a storm like this. She’s been disappointed because the weather has been so tame all summer.”

I was astonished.
Mrs.
Lansberry had designed that house?

“Sure,” said Tim. “Dad wanted to build a cute little Cape Cod that would match yours.”

Wonder of wonders. Mr. Lansberry, this summer’s bad guy, would have built the house we Comptons would have been happy with. How surprising people are, I thought. It was dear Mrs. Lansberry who was our architectural enemy all along. I guess you can’t judge anyone very easily. You just have to muddle along and hope.

We shifted against each other, trying to get warm.

“Know what, Sunny?” said Tim.

“What?”

“You no longer qualify to be a bookmark.”

“Oh, Tim,” I said suddenly, and I couldn’t stop the words from coming, although I tried. “I was afraid you wouldn’t come back after all. I thought you’d stay with your father and sell the house here and I’d never see you again and I thought I couldn’t stand it!”

Tim pulled away from me, catching his breath, and I could have kicked myself. He doesn’t feel that way, I thought, and I knew he didn’t. Why did I have to say things like that? I’m the one carrying the heavy end of this crush. He’s just along for the ride. Why did I have to make a fool of myself and ruin what we were having?

Tim’s breath was coming unevenly—from my position, I could monitor his heart and lungs like a medic—but he didn’t say anything.