Authors: Renae Kelleigh
John weighed his words carefully before responding; he couldn’t decide how much he wanted to reveal. Finally opting for at least a part of the truth, he replied, “A girl.”
Charlie raised an eyebrow. “Oh I see.” He pursed his lips and rocked back on his heels. “Is it serious?”
John shrugged. “The way I feel about her is.” He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “I haven’t asked her to marry me or anything like that, though, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Are you planning to?”
“Planning to what?”
“Ask her,” said Charlie. “To marry you.”
“Oh. No. I’m not.”
“Why not?”
He shifted uneasily; this wasn’t the line of questioning he’d expected from his typically reticent brother. Idly he wondered whether their mother had put him up to it.
“Because, Charlie.” He softened his voice. “I’m going to Vietnam. As much as no one seems to want to talk about it, that’s what’s happening. I’m not going to tie her down when you know as well as I do that I might not come back.” Glancing away, he added, “She’s too young to be a widow.”
Charlie was struck momentarily silent. Finally: “Jesus, Jack. You can’t talk like that.”
John stroked his temples with his left thumb and forefinger. “Not you, too,” he murmured. His sigh was one of fatigue. “Can we go for one second without pretending like nothing could happen over there?” he asked gently.
Charlie nodded slowly. “OK,” he breathed. “All right, Jack. Let’s just say for the sake of argument that something does happen - God forbid. You think not being married is going to help this girl hurt any less?”
“At least it won’t be her responsibility,” John muttered. He cleared his throat and shook his head to empty his baleful thoughts. “Anyway, what gives?” he asked. “Is there a particular reason you feel so strongly about me proposing to a woman you’ve never even met?”
Charlie shrugged. “I’d just like to see you give it another shot, that’s all. I know things weren’t so hot between you and Catherine there at the end, but none of us has ever questioned that you’d make a wonderful husband to the
right
woman.”
John smiled; he clapped a hand on his brother’s shoulder, appreciating that, as usual, his heart was in the right place.
* * *
One week later, John hugged his mother and his sister, both of whom were quite obviously on the verge of hysteria. It helped him knowing they would be strong for each other in his absence.
Then he boarded his flight to LAX. He boarded his flight to Meg.
Meg sat forward in her seat, smoothing the palms of her hands over her skirt as she watched Pan Am flight 1610 taxi toward the gate. She stood on impulse and strode over to the window. Pressing her hands to the glass, she wondered if John could see her through one of the small acrylic rectangles along the airplane’s smooth metallic flank.
The stewardess propped open the door, and moments later, passengers emptied from the belly of the aircraft and started to appear at the top of the gangway. Meg stood still, watching as several business types walked swiftly past, carrying their briefcases and their suit jackets.
She couldn’t be sure how many strangers filed past her, but it felt like plenty more than a hundred. The steady flux reduced to a trickle as the crowd thinned, and she became increasingly aware of the tightness that had gathered in her chest. What if he hadn’t made it?
An elderly man in a tweed coat emerged - a man with thinning hair and a spine that had curled with age like the corners of an old photo. Meg guessed he was at least eighty years old. She stretched onto her tiptoes to peer behind him and nearly toppled over when John appeared at his back.
Time stood still as she cataloged each of his features, one by one. From here he looked unchanged from the last time she’d seen him, save for the fact that his hair was now cropped close to his head: still impossibly, surreally handsome. He grinned down at the old man, and Meg felt the corners of her own mouth lift in witnessing it.
Only after a long moment of euphoric gawking did she notice the luggage. On one shoulder John wore an oversized duffle; in his opposite hand he carried an enormous leather suitcase. Meg jerked out of her reverie and moved toward him automatically, determined to lend a hand.
She felt the moment when he noticed her, even without looking. A tidal wave crashed over her like an electromagnetic pulse, subatomic particles colliding and coalescing to form shatterproof bonds that shrank as they cooled, pulling them closer together. In one fluid movement, John stooped to deposit the suitcase and swing the duffel onto the floor. He rushed forward, his arms outstretched, and she vaulted into them before wrapping her legs snugly around his waist.
They didn’t kiss - not at first. Kissing precluded looking, and looking was priority number one. Suddenly four and a half months had a way of seeming closer to four and a half years.
Eventually (likely only seconds later, but who can know for sure?), their lips met. They kept it chaste, still remotely aware of their surroundings, but even the limited duration was powerless to dampen the sweetness of it.
John helped Meg to her feet before reaching up to hold her face in his hands. “You have no idea how much I’ve missed you,” he whispered. “Words can’t express...”
Before she could respond, he turned and gestured to the man in the tweed coat, who was looking between the two of them with an appreciative grin. “Meg, I’d like you to meet Dr. William Durant. He’s a pathologist at UCLA’s medical school. I had the good fortune of being seated next to him on the flight from Houston.” He slid his hand to the small of her back before turning to the cherubic man beside him. “Will, this would be the delightful Margaret Lowry.”
“I’m so pleased to meet you,” he said in a quiet but dignified voice as he cupped Meg’s hands in his own. She bowed her head closer to better hear him. “It does this old man’s heart good to see young love reunited. Reminds me of my late wife, God rest her soul. Evelyn was her name - though I always called her Evie.”
“Nice meeting you as well,” said Meg with her kindest smile. John’s grip tightened around her waist, and she placed her hand over his.
“You’re every bit as beautiful as he said you’d be,” added Dr. Durant with a conspiratorial wink. Meg beamed up at John as he pulled her yet closer.
They walked through the crowded airport together, a mismatched trio. When they reached the outside curb, Dr. Durant waved at a black car as it pulled up next to the door. A uniformed driver climbed out from behind the wheel and took the big, leather suitcase from John. As he went to place it in the trunk, the professor turned to shake John’s hand and kiss the back of Meg’s. “Thank you for your help, son,” he said. “And thank you for your service.”
“I’m glad to have met you, Will. Take care.”
The old man touched his forehead, doffing an invisible cap, then sank into the dark leather interior of the car. It rolled away from the curb, and John took a step forward, positioning himself in front of Meg so he could look at her full-on. His giddiness was evident in the infectious smile that worked over his full lips and crinkled his bright eyes. Passersby might have found them strange, standing amid the bustle on such a crowded sidewalk, grinning stupidly at one another without exchanging words.
“Should we go?” asked Meg.
“Wherever you want,” he agreed.
Meg’s car was parked on the third level of the parking garage, a gleaming off-white with the top rolled down to reveal tan leather seats. She heard John’s footsteps cease behind her as she approached the car, and she cringed out of embarrassment. “What?” she asked a little defensively as she peered back at him.
“This is your car?” he asked, his eyebrows raised.
“Yes,” she replied.
“You have a Karmann Ghia?”
“So it would appear.”
He laughed once, incredulous. “Mind if I drive?”
“Be my guest,” she said, tossing him the keys.
* * *
The wind was a touch on the chilly side, but they drove the distance to Santa Monica with the top down anyway, while Buffalo Springfield and The Dells poured from the radio and the palm trees on Lincoln Boulevard waved their fronds at the passing traffic.
It was just after three when they pulled into the driveway at Meg’s house. Her father was at work still, of course, and Irene’s Thunderbird was absent as well.
Even after John cut the ignition, Meg remained in her seat for most of a minute. It was otherworldly, this feeling she had - there was no other word for it. Having him here, in the place where she’d grown up. She looked from him to the house and back again, trying to make the pieces fit together in her mind.
John chuckled. “You look confused.”
She shook her head, smiling faintly. “Just trying to convince myself I’m not dreaming.”
He reached for her but paused mid-movement, his eyes flicking to the house. “Is anybody home besides us?” he asked softly.
“No.”
In response, he pulled her across the center console and into his lap before his lips landed on hers once again. They were parked in the shaded, private driveway, no longer exposed to the prying eyes of strangers, so he had no reason to hold back any longer - and he didn’t. Meg pressed against him as they kissed, desperate to feel more of his hands on more of her skin, and he pressed back, moaning quietly.
Hours or days later, Meg pulled away, laughing and breathless. “Irene could be back any time.” She grimaced at the realization of all her statement implied: that for as long as they stayed here, they would be reduced to sneaking around like adolescents, hoping for stolen moments.
John’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. “We’d better move inside then, huh?”
They spilled clumsily from the driver’s side door, and he took his duffel from the trunk. As they walked through the side door into the kitchen, Meg tried pretending that they weren’t entering her parents’ house. She felt a familiar surge of self-consciousness as she thought of how many years had passed since John lived at home with his parents.
“This is the kitchen,” she said, stating the obvious to divert his attention in case he was having similar thoughts. “Through there is the dining room, and the living room is down that hall.”
“Beautiful house,” he remarked, following her through the archway into the corridor. He paused when he reached the row of framed photos mounted on the wall beneath the staircase. “Is this you?” he asked, smiling. He stood before a photo of a much younger Meg, posing with her aunt and an exceptionally large corndog before the Ferris wheel on the Santa Monica pier.
“That’s me and my Aunt Virginia,” she replied.
He leaned forward to inspect it more closely. “You look a lot alike.”
She waited patiently as he examined the other photos on the wall: Meg sporting Minnie Mouse ears at Disneyland; Meg with her parents at Big Sur; Meg accepting her high school diploma; Meg and Virginia standing outside Stern Hall on her first day at Berkeley. Finally he glanced up. “You’re so pretty,” he said. He sounded sort of in awe, and it caused her cheeks to flush.
“This way, Lover Boy. The guest room is all made up for you.”
The guest bedroom was at the end of the hall at the top of the stairs, directly across from the room Meg had slept in for the sum total of her formative years. She stood to the right of the door, gesturing for him to enter, but John stuck his head into her bedroom instead. She waited while his eyes swept over the room’s contents: the bed with its double wedding ring quilt that Meg’s paternal grandmother had hand stitched over fifty years ago; the oak vanity and matching wardrobe; the cedar hope chest filled with linens and silverware passed down from her grandmother to her mother (and secretly, a few personal items). After a moment of quiet assessment, John took a step into the room, and Meg followed.
“Where are the posters of movie stars and pop singers?” he teased as he walked over to the bed.
“I’m twenty-two, not sixteen.”
He chuckled as he scooped up Meg’s stuffed bear and fingered its button eyes and the red silk ribbon around its neck. “Are you sure?” he asked, holding up the bear.
She colored instantly, her neck and face prickling with heat. She strolled quickly to the side of the bed and snatched the bear away before chancing a sidelong glance at him: his expression had contorted from one of amusement to remorse. Taking her shoulders in his hands he said, “I’m sorry, Meg. It was a horrible joke.” He planted a lingering kiss on her forehead. “I think it’s sweet that you have a teddy bear.”
She couldn’t be sure whether he was being sincere or simply trying to make her feel better, but she relaxed some regardless. “Virginia got me this bear for my sixth birthday. I had lots of stuffed animals, but this one was always my favorite. I was sort of convinced he was lucky for some reason.”
John’s smile was kind, without trace of judgment. “What did you name him?”
Meg shrugged. “I never did. ‘Bear,’ I guess. That’s all I’ve ever called him.”
“Hunh.”
“What?” she asked.
“I just thought all kids liked naming their stuffed animals. I liked naming
everything
when I was a kid. I probably would’ve named all of my socks and shoes if I thought I could remember them.”
She laughed. “Keep it simple. That’s been my motto for about as long as I can remember.”
“Fair enough.”
He dropped his bag on the floor and, to her dismay, sat on the edge of her bed before stretching out on his back. “Come here,” he said. Patting the mattress: “Lie beside me.”
Her eyes darted quickly to the doorway, then back to John. Knowing her parents could be home any minute set her on edge, but surely the sound of a car in the driveway would provide them sufficient notice. In any case, she was powerless to resist him. She knew this as well as she knew her own name.
When she curled up next to his body and he enfolded her in his arms, they both exhaled in the same moment. Nuzzling her cheek with his nose, John said, “Christ, I’ve missed this. You feel even better than I remembered.”
Meg squirmed closer and turned her face to kiss his cheekbone. She lifted her hand and felt the short, silky stubble on his head. It felt like the soft bristles on a hairbrush sifting between her fingers.