Authors: Tom Winton
She took a Kleenex from her purse and blew her nose.
"But it didn't matter to those … those bastards. One yanked the stocking off his head and started shooting at my father when he ran by. Twice he missed but the third bullet … the third bullet, Dean … went into his left eye. It came out the back of his head. We saw it happen. The vision of him like that is something I've fought to keep out of my mind ever since. It hasn't been easy. I've dreamt about it hundreds of times."
I put my other arm around her now, cupped the back of her head with my hand and drew her face close. Cheek to cheek, her tears warm on my face, I felt so weak and helpless. My words seemed so inadequate, so understated when I said, "My God, Theresa, that's horrible."
"It's the worst when I’m asleep, when I can't control my thinking. I still dream about that day so often. I sometimes dread going to sleep."
"I’ll bet it's been hell for your mom too, huh?"
"Yes, it's no wonder she’s like she is. That was when she started drinking, when Dad got killed. Oh … she drank before that, you know, socially, at parties, weddings, things like that, but after my father died is when it got the best of her."
"She must've figured it was the only way out," I said.
"Yes, exactly … and I don't really blame her. But, you see what she looks like. She was beautiful once."
"I can see she’s worn, but you can tell she was a good looking woman. It's obvious where you got your good looks from."
Theresa managed a small ironic smile, then she kissed me, twice. Her lips firm against mine, lip kisses that conveyed more affection than any passionate kiss could possibly have at that particular moment.
That was when, for the first time, she told me. She said those words that propagate our species, slowly, deliberately, "Dean … I-love-you." Looking through my eyes, into my soul, she tilted her head, just a bit, shook it slowly and said, "I-love-you-so-much."
I had only known Theresa Wayman for three weeks, but for eighteen years my own innate need to love and be loved had been growing, intensifying, waiting for this person and this precise moment. I had loved her all that time. There had been a place in my heart reserved for her. I just hadn't met her yet. I could not, nor did I want to, keep this feeling bottled up any longer. My declaration of humanity’s most powerful emotion simply gushed from within me now. "I-love-you-too, Theresa,"
Then we embraced. We held that pose and those emotions for a long moment and, in the face of the blustering wind, we became warm. But then the rain came, hard and cold, pushed by the new wind from Canada. Hand in hand, heavy drops beating on us, stinging our faces, we ran out of the deserted park.
Four blocks later, we ducked inside the first apartment building we came upon. Two radiators in the lobby of the five-floor tenement hissed and clanged, bringing up heat from the basement boiler. After stripping off our dripping jackets we sat, side-by-side, atop one of the radiators. All was wee-hour-quiet in the lobby, but we knew we couldn't stay there. Five floors, half a dozen apartments each, someone was bound to come home late on a Saturday night. If we were discovered, we’d surely be chased out. Stealthily, like two cat-burglars, we climbed the stairs of the old walk-up. Being a city kid, knowing all about apartment buildings, I knew that where the staircase ran out, one flight above the top floor there would be a landing next to the roof entry.
It was warm and dry up there. We could have some privacy if we kept quiet. Our inside-out jacket-pillows, mine rolled up hastily, Theresa's folded ever so neatly, added a semblance of comfort to the hard tile floor. Still wet from the rain, we laid there holding each other. Sharing our body heat, feeling the beat of each other's heart against our chests, Theresa thanked me again for staying the night with her. Then an ancient urge swelled within us both. Cheek to cheek, body to body, our pulses quickened and so did our breathing. Heavy breaths against young necks aroused us with a heat that fueled our desires. This undeniable feeling suddenly erupted into an irrefutable passionate craving. Our lips met, and our tongues pulled to each other. None of it forced, everything coming so beautifully, so naturally. Instinctively, we wrestled out of our clothes. The rain pounding on the roof muted our labored breaths and pleasureful moans as we explored each other's flesh. When I entered her, Theresa withdrew her tongue from my mouth and whispered, "I love you, sooo much."
When it was over, we dressed, shared a smoke, and fell asleep in each other's arms. What we had experienced atop that tenement stairwell, couldn't have had more meaning if the act had taken place in the finest Park Avenue penthouse or the stateliest Hyde Park mansion.
Chapter 7
At about eight the next morning, we awoke to the slam of a door in the hallway below. Someone was leaving their apartment, probably going to church, the bakery, or to pick up the Sunday paper. As the heavy galloping footsteps of a man descended the stairs, we quickly straightened ourselves up the best we could. Still, we looked like what we were, two kids who'd spent the whole night out. Yet, Theresa, despite her damp rumpled clothes, lack of make-up and disheveled hair, was still beautiful. It boggled my mind that she actually loved me as hard as I did her, that she had given me everything she had to offer. Something, I had learned that night, she had never given to anyone before. I wanted this small moment to last forever.
Theresa said it would be safe to go back to her house by now. We could clean up, get something to eat. By this time her mother would be at 'The Point Diner', waiting her tables. We would be able to get inside. She couldn't possibly chain and deadbolt the door when she left for work. As we made our way to her house, neither of us said much. I hoped it was only fatigue from spending the entire night out, but I feared she might be regretting what we'd done on the stairwell. Maybe that wasn't even it. Maybe she was worried about the confrontation she'd surely have later with her mother.
As soon as we got in her house, Theresa put on coffee, then she asked me, "You don't mind if I take a quick shower, do you Dean?"
"No...Sure... go ahead."
While waiting, I smoked a cigarette and tried to recapture a vision of her lovely body. I couldn't. No man's memory can ever recall the clear splendor of a lover's body. It's always far, far better when he actually sees her again, when he loves her again. Like pain, shades of color, or scents, you simply can't bring them back into your mind as they truly are.
I punched out my smoke, ambled across the room to where that picture hung on the wall. The room daytime-brighter now, I could see it was a black and white of a little knobby-kneed Theresa in an adorable white dress, standing in front of her parents. The way Mrs. Wayman stood, her head tilted onto her husband's shoulder, reminded me of the way her daughter did that to me. She looked so different then. Mister Wayman appeared somewhat uncomfortable in his baggy suit, like a handsome, hulking tradesman who couldn't wait to get back into his jeans, like a small boy who'd been forced to wear short pants.
A few minutes later, sitting on that sofa’s middle cushion, I again worried that Theresa might resent what we had done on the stairwell. That’s when she came back out wearing just a white terry cloth robe. I was surprised by this new-found familiarity but at the same time relished it. But wait. Maybe my clunk-headed, testosterone-driven male ego was taking it out of context. Maybe Theresa simply figured she was covered and it didn't matter with what, and that's really all there is to it. Regardless, I thought it utterly marvelous that she'd now come out in front of me with a robe on, maybe nothing else. It was tough, but I did a pretty fair job of acting like the whole scenario was no big thing.
"Why don't you take a shower?" she asked. "There are clean towels in the bathroom."
"Nah, that's OK."
"No, really, you'll feel better," she said, massaging her scalp briskly with a pink towel.
"You sure it's alright?"
"Sure. My mom won't be home till mid afternoon."
Just the thought, of being naked in someone else’s shower, made me feel vulnerable. What if Theresa's mother came home? But I was real funky, as you could imagine, so I went ahead and did it. I can't honestly say I didn't worry about her coming home as I quickly soaped, lathered, and rinsed myself, but she was only on the fringe of my consciousness. All I could really think about was Theresa standing naked in the very same tub just minutes before. Both my imagination and my hormones were again in high gear. The small tiled room was damp, the window and mirror still steamed up, her bare feet were right where mine were now. I found it all quite erotic. I longed to hold her naked in my arms again. "Forget it," I whispered to myself while toweling off, "what's important now is that she isn't hurting, that I didn't put her on some kind of guilt trip."
Safe once again after toweling off and dressing, I stepped out into the kitchen to the aroma of the fresh coffee. On the counter two ceramic cups stood next to the percolator. In the middle of the small room, an old yellow-Formica table with chrome legs was grouped with its only two surviving chairs. Where yellow tape was peeling off the vinyl cushions; brown cotton-like dashes of padding were plainly visible.
"Theresa," I called, after peeking into the empty living room.
"I'm in here," she answered, her voice sounding distant behind a closed door. “Come on in, Dean.”
Instinctively, I just had to glance out the living room window. The coast being clear, I padded into the kitchen and across the linoleum. The bathroom door was open and so was the one to her mother's bedroom. I knew it had to be hers, because it was a mess.
"You in there?" I asked the only closed door.
"Yes," Theresa giggled, "come on in."
The little room was immaculate. An antique white dresser and mirror stood against one wall and a twin bed with a matching headboard was opposite it. Theresa was on the bed, lying on her back, still in her robe, her head propped on a frilly pink pillow.
Patting the mattress, smiling, she said, "Come here, Dean."
Absolutely bewildered, I took one more nervous glance through the kitchen and out the front window, then, obediently I did as I was told. Stepping uncertainly toward Theresa, her wide bright smile began to fade. Just lips now, a different kind of smile, much more serious. I thought I saw desire in it but how wasn’t sure. Slowly, as if entering sacred ground, I sat on the edge of the mattress.
She raised her hand to my face and, in a gesture that seemed almost maternal, she stroked my cheek and told me "I love you, Dean Cassidy."
I felt the corners of my mouth slowly rise, then I said “I love you too, Theresa. I don’t want us to ever end.”
We held each other’s eyes for a long moment, then, slowly, I dropped my gaze from hers. I couldn't help it. I just had to. I’d noticed in the outer boundaries of my vision a movement, a movement that for lack of a better word embezzled my attention. Theresa was ever so delicately opening her robe. I watched now as the soft material fell alongside her naked young body. It was like petals parting on a most lovely white flower. Like a lone, white cloud in a blue sky had separated, revealing the kingdom of heaven and all its promise.
Chapter 8
Time passed quickly, the days piled into weeks. Theresa and I nurtured our deepening bond. Our love grew day by day atop its original flimsy infrastructure of strong physical attraction. Isn't that how it works almost always? No chemistry, no future. Good karma, boundless romantic possibilities. Yet it was far more than just the physical aspect that helped forge our two young souls into one. I believe that the deficiencies in our lives helped propagate our love. All our troubling hardships actually seemed to strengthen what we had. Both of us coming from the social ladder's lower rungs, we had much in common. For starters, money had always been a problem for both of us. We each, all our lives, had eaten off of chipped plates with mismatched silverware. Both our mothers were dysfunctional, not exactly the types to help their kids with math homework. Theresa's father was deceased, mine was violently hot-headed and hardly ever around.