CHAPTER 17
Women
THE NEXT MORNING, I SPLASHED
water on my bleary eyes and stared into the mirror. I was not accustomed to looking at myself; I generally avoided it. But this morning I stared at my reflection and messy brown hair. What did Julia see when she looked at me? Was I attractive to her? Over the past year, I’d grown taller and stronger, but in spite of all the external changes, I still felt awkward. Why did I bother wondering what Julia thought? I was a fool to think anything was going to happen between us. She probably wouldn’t even show on Tuesday.
Women have a way of complicating everything. It is unfortunate, but true. I wavered back and forth between elation and depression, nervously watching the clock even though Tuesday was still days away. I told Charles that I was going to meet Julia later that week. In true form, he was so over the moon on my behalf that you would have thought
he
was going out with Julia Stine. He was turning into a dear companion, and since Thanksgiving, he’d especially been growing on me. I had come to realize that, underneath all the shenanigans, Charles had a genuine and loyal heart.
I felt as if much of my life had been spent waiting, sometimes for small things, other times for large things, but always for something. At times, I did not even know what I was waiting for. I just had the sense of waiting, feeling that at any time the much-anticipated next thing would arrive. In spite of all my practice, I had yet to learn how to wait with patience, and then, more than ever, I felt the tension of waiting for Tuesday.
Some of my tension was relieved by knowing that we’d outsmarted Dr. Groves. As planned, he had attempted to raid the boathouse only to find it empty save for a small note we’d left for him attached to the Victrola, which read as follows.
Dear Dr. Groves,
We are sorry that you were not invited to the dance. We hope you understand. Better luck crashing the party next time.
P.S.: We took the liberty of borrowing this Victrola from the music room. Could you please see that it is put back in its proper place for us?
Sincerely,
The Secret Sevens
Monday came and went. The weather had turned unusually cold, and since Locklear is located on top of a hill, we were buffeted with wind that threatened to tear the roofs off the buildings. Tuesday only got worse, with volleys of sleet and hail pounding down and pummeling anyone who dared to venture outside. I was worried that Julia would not make it to the library under the current conditions. Everyone was hunkered down inside the dorm rooms. A large group was seated around the open fireplace in the main hall. Despite the storm, there was an air of cheeriness as students looked forward to the Christmas holidays and the end of writing papers and studying for finals.
When I couldn’t take the waiting any more, I decided to head to the library. Bundled in my coat and hat, I stepped outside and was immediately hit in the face by a combination of wind and sleet. Sputtering and muttering to myself, I pushed forward against the elements toward the library. Once inside, I shook myself off and looked around. The place was barren except for the girl on duty. When she went back to reading her book, I quietly made my way to the basement so she wouldn’t notice. Of course, there was still plenty of time to kill, and I paced back and forth nervously. Part of me wanted to run to the girls’ side of campus and try to find Julia, but I had no idea where she was. What if I missed her and she thought I stood her up? Unsure what to do, I decided to wait. Soon 8:00 p.m. came, and she was nowhere to be seen. Then 8:30 p.m. passed, and still there was no sign of her. When the clock chimed nine o’clock, I decided she must not be coming. Just then, I heard light footsteps on the stairs. I looked around, and there was Charles, trying desperately to be sneaky, tiptoeing towards me.
“Charles, you bloody snoop, what are you doing here?”
He looked at me with his most innocent face. “I’m just here to find a book for class.”
“You little liar. You wouldn’t even know how to find a book in this place, seeing as you’ve never checked one out in your time at Locklear.”
“Well, there’s a first time for everything.”
I looked at him dejectedly. “She didn’t come, Charles. She blew me off.”
“She was probably afraid to venture out in this weather. Nothing more.”
“Sure. We both know I’m not good enough for her. Next time I won’t aim so high. I’ll leave that for the rest of the pompous rich boys who are always fighting for her affection. I don’t know why I even bothered. I’m a poor klutz who doesn’t belong here. For some stupid reason, I forgot that for a second.”
Charles walked the rest of the way down the stairs until he was standing right beside me. Then he put his arm around me and shook me. “Oh come on, being rich isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. I would know. Don’t give that dame a second thought. She’s probably a prude, anyway.”
I’d thought for a second Charles and I might have begun to share a serious moment but, of course, I was wrong. He didn’t have a serious bone in his body. We walked out side by side, two misfits hanging together.
I didn’t hear anything from Julia or so much as see her around campus. It was as if had I made the whole thing up in my imagination. Maybe I did. Maybe the music and the dancing and frogs were all just a wild dream. I tried to put it behind me. Without any further distractions, I buckled down for exams, studying late into the night and cramming between finals, but every now and then, my mind slipped back and wondered what went wrong. Much to his credit, Charles actually opened some of his books and did a little studying himself. His attention span lasted only a short time, and every few minutes he would hop up from his desk and pace around the room. He had the worst habit of humming while he read, which about drove me crazy. More than once, I threw a pencil at him to shut him up. If we’d had another day or two of being crammed together like that, I might have killed him. The poor chap didn’t try to be annoying, but he certainly succeeded at it.
CHAPTER 18
Christmas Is Coming
IT WAS FRIDAY, AND BOTH
Charles and I had the same final exam: British literature with Dr. Remus. He was a tiny man with a bad habit of saying “hmmm” in a high nasally voice in response to nearly everything. It was well known that girls often tried to get into his classes because if they wore short skirts to class, they would be rewarded with higher grades, but for those of us who did not have that option, there was little hope of success. I was barely holding on to a B, while Charles had a D. This was the one class I was really worried about, since Dr. Remus’ grading was incredibly arbitrary.
I groaned when I looked at the test. It was nothing but five paragraphs of essay questions. We had three hours. I knew I would be in there writing for all three. I wrote until my hand cramped, and then I wrote some more. My throat was parched and I had a headache, but I kept pushing on. Charles walked out a little past the two-hour mark, looking completely fried. All he had to do was pass. His father’s connections would do the rest. I had to get a B just to survive. Finally, time was up, and I nervously handed in my seven pages, front and back, of hand-written essays. Dr. Remus was sitting up front with his legs crossed, looking as if someone had just told a very funny joke that only he heard. He was a dirty old man. I placed my paper on his desk and walked out. “God, if you are out there, have favor on me,” I prayed.
Charles was sitting at his desk staring blankly when I got back to the room. “How’d it go, Charles?” I inquired.
“Not good. Not good at all,” he lamented. “I had no idea how to answer half of the essays, so I just wrote down a bunch of fluffity puffity emotional vomit, hoping that Dr. Remus would find it funny. After all that studying, it went right out of my head. I had better not fail that class. I don’t think I could take another semester with Remus.”
“Well, here’s the good news. I didn’t do so hot, either. The bad news is that we have Remus again next semester for American Lit.”
“Oh, you just ruined Christmas for me. Like going home to be with father and my two perfect brothers wasn’t enough. This will be worse than the year I found out Santa wasn’t real and got nothing but coal in my stocking.”
“So you mean last year?”
“Shut up, you brat.”
“I do my best to bring the Christmas cheer with me; I’m sorry if you can’t appreciate it. I’d better be off. I’ll see you in a couple of weeks. Be sure to write me a letter when you find out what Remus gave you.”
“Sure thing. Safe travels and all that nonsense. Oh, and Merry Christmas.”
I had been invited to spend the Christmas holidays with Dr. Emory and his wife, so I’d devised a plan to spend just a few days back at Greenwood with my father. I cannot tell you how relieved I was to be spending the bulk of my time away from home.
Christmas had always been my favorite time of the year as a child. Everything seemed better at Christmas. Even Father was less rigid, as if something about the holiday allowed him to let down his guard. He would come into the kitchen to help Mother and me bake sheet after sheet of sugar cookies, which we would smother with icing while they were still warm from the oven. And in the background, we always had Christmas carols playing on the radio. It was our tradition to go out and cut down a fresh Christmas tree and then decorate it with tinsel and colored balls and long strings of popcorn for good measure. But my favorite part was always the hanging of the lights. Every year my father would complain, but he was no match for my mother and her excitement. Eventually, he would be up on the roof with a ladder, stringing lights. Mother and I tackled the lower ones, hanging multi-colored lights all around the porch, the windows, and the mailbox—even in the small trees in the front yard. We would always wait until dark to turn them on and then stand in awe at all of our hard work when the house blinked and glowed and blipped like a living organism. Christmas was wonderful. After our work was complete, we would go into the kitchen and drink steaming mugs of hot cocoa and snack on the broken sugar cookies. The rest would be wrapped up and placed in Christmas tins as gifts for the neighbors.
All of these memories and more played in my head on the train ride home. There were patches of snow scattered on the ground here and there, but mostly the land just looked dead. Everything was brown and bent and barren. It did not feel like Christmas. It hadn’t felt like Christmas since Mother died. There were no more Christmas trees or sugar cookies, just silence and boxes of unpacked lights buried in the garage.
On Christmas morning, Father and I ate oatmeal with milk while staring glumly out the kitchen window. There was still no snow. After I cleared the dishes, Father handed me a small box.
“Here, Tom, this is for you.” Every year now, he got me a small gift. I think he did it for Mother. It was the final shred of Christmas that remained. I took the box and carefully opened it. Inside sat a dark wooden tobacco pipe. I picked up the polished pipe and examined it closely. It was carefully crafted and had a good weight to it.
“Thank you, Father. It’s very nice.” He could tell that I was pleased.
“You are welcome, Tom. I figured now that you are in college, you ought to have one. Every man should have a good pipe.”
I tucked the pipe safely back in its box. I felt foolish for not having brought him anything. I wanted to let him know that I loved him, but the chance had been missed. I would have to wait. We sat there in silence for a spell. We were both thinking about Mother. It was inevitable on a day like today to feel her absence more strongly, but neither of us was ready yet to admit that she was gone. It was as if we expected her to walk through the door any second with an armload of presents and scold us for not having strung up the lights or put up a tree. She would have hugged us both before insisting we open our presents immediately. But it was not to be.
A gust of wind rattled the windows, breaking our stewing thoughts. I stood up and headed for the kitchen to brew a pot of coffee. I was ready to leave this place. Poor Father. There was no leaving for him. Every day he came back, and she wasn’t here. Every day it was the same horrible routine. I pitied him, but I could not stay. I could not join him, waiting to die, waiting to join her. Here in this house, her memory was too strong. I left that same afternoon. On the way out of town, it began to snow.
The few flurries of flakes escorting me out of Greenwood soon turned into a raging blizzard. There were no cabs out because of the holiday, so I was forced to walk. By the time I arrived at the Emory residence, it was long past dark, and my body would not stop shaking from the cold. I rang the doorbell and stood shifting my weight from one foot to the next, trying to keep warm. My hands were nearly frozen inside their thin gloves, and I blew on them desperately, trying to warm my fingers. At last, Dr. Emory opened the door and ushered me in. He took one look at my shivering frame and yelled for his wife.
“Sarah, get some blankets quickly, and put some water on to boil! Tom’s here, and he’s half frozen to death.” He steered me quickly into the den where a fire was crackling and sat me down in front of it. Its heat made my fingers and face sting.
Sarah came scuttling in with a pile of well-worn quilts, fussing every step of the way. “Oh my, of all the days for Tom to travel. I can’t believe this foul weather and the snow. Poor thing must be an icicle.”
She wrapped two blankets around me and patted me gently on the head before scampering away to the kitchen. Dr. Emory helped me take my shoes and socks off and began to rub my feet to help them thaw. I slowly began to regain feeling in my feet, and my ears began to sting. Eventually, my teeth stopped trying to chatter their way out of my head, and my blue lips returned to a healthy pink.
Mrs. Emory appeared with a tray of hot water and mugs. “Alright, Tom, this should fix you right up, my boy.” She poured me a glass, and I gripped it tightly, feeling the warmth seep through my fingers all the way up my arms and into my core. I continued to clutch at the cup, trying to soak up all of its heat.