Brian’s first letter came on the third day after he’d left. She found it in the mailbox herself, for she was always the first one home. When she flipped through the envelopes and found the one with the blue wings in the upper left-hand corner and the red and blue jets on the lower right, her heart skittered and leaped. She took the letter to her room, got the fiddling frog from his perch on the shelf and held him in her hand while she sat cross-legged on the bed, reading Brian’s words.
But his picture was the first thing that fell out of the envelope, and she dropped the pewter frog the moment Brian’s face appeared. He was clothed in his dress blues, his tie crisply knotted, the visor of his garrison cap pulled to the proper horizontal level over his brow. He was unsmiling, but the green eyes looked directly into hers from beneath their familiar, sculptured brows. Dear face. Dear man. She turned the picture over. “Love, Brian,” he’d written on the back. Theresa’s heartbeat accelerated, and warmth stole over her body. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath and pressed the picture against her breast, against the crazy upbeat rhythm his image had invoked, then laid the picture face up on her knee and began reading.
Dear Theresa,
I miss you, I miss you, I miss you. Everything has suddenly changed. I used to be pretty happy here, but now it feels like prison. I used to be able to pick up my guitar and unwind at the end of a day, but now when I touch it I think of you and it makes me blue, so I haven’t been playing much. What have you done to me? At night I lie awake, thinking of New Year’s Eve and how you looked when you came out into the kitchen dressed in your new sweater and makeup and hairdo, all for me, and then I wish I could get the picture out of my head because it just makes me miserable. God, this is hell. Theresa, I want to apologize for what happened that morning on my bed. I shouldn’t have, but I couldn’t help it, and now I can’t stop thinking about it. Listen, sweets, when I come home I’m not going to put the pressure on for that kind of stuff. After everything we talked about, I shouldn’t have done it that day, okay? But I can’t stop thinking about it, and that’s mostly what makes me miserable. I wish I’d been more patient with you, but on the other hand, I wish I’d gone further. Man, do I sound mixed up. This place is driving me crazy. All I can think about is your house, and you sitting on the piano bench. Last night I put the Chopin record on but I couldn’t stand it, so I shut off the stereo. When I can handle it again I’ll make a tape of “Sweet Memories,” and send it to you, okay, sweets? It says it all. Just how I’m feeling every minute. You, slipping into the darkness of my dreams at night, and wandering from room to room, turnin’ on each light. I don’t think I can make it till June without seeing you. I’ll probably go AWOL and show up at your door. Do you get Easter vacation? Could you come up here then? Listen, sweets, I gotta go. Jeff and I play a gig this Saturday night, but no girls afterward. That’s a promise.
I miss you,
Brian
She read the letter nonstop for half an hour. Though each line thrilled her, Theresa returned time and again to his offhand question about Easter vacation. What would her parents say if she went? The thought rankled and made her chafe against having to tell them at all, at her age. The house seemed restrictive after that, and she felt increasingly hemmed in.
She had put off writing to Brian, feeling that to write too soon would seem ... what? Brazen? Overstimulated? Yet his words were thrillingly emotional. His impatience and glumness were a surprise. She’d never dreamed men wrote such letters, holding back nothing of their feelings.
She didn’t want to send her picture. But now that she knew what heart’s ease there was to be found in having Brian’s picture to bring him near, she realized he’d probably feel the same. She got out one of her annual elementary-school pictures, but for a moment wavered. It was a full-color shot: black and white would have pleased her more. The camera had recorded each copper-colored freckle, each terrible red uncontrollable hair and the breadth of her breasts. Yet this was just how she’d looked when he first met her, and still he’d found something that pleased him. Along with the photograph, Theresa sent the first love letter of her life.
Dear Brian,
The house is so lonely since you’ve been gone. School helps, but as soon as I step into the kitchen, everything sweeps back and I suddenly wish I lived somewhere else so I wouldn’t have to see you in every room. The flowers you sent are just beautiful. I wish you could’ve seen the look on mom’s face when she first saw them (and on mine when I opened the package and found they weren’t for me.) Naturally, mom got on the phone right away and called everyone in the family to tell them what “that thoughtful boy” had sent.
I really wasn’t disappointed to find the flowers weren’t for me, because what I got two days later was dearer to me than any of nature’s beauties.
Thank you for your picture. It’s sitting on the shelf in my room beside The Maestro, who’s guarding it carefully. When your letter came I was really surprised to read how you were feeling, because everything you said was just what’s happened to me. Playing the piano is just awful. My fingers want to find the notes of the Nocturne, but once I start it, I can’t seem to finish. Songs on the radio we listened to together do the same thing to me. I seem to have withdrawn from mom and dad and Amy, even though I’m miserable when I sit in my room alone in the evenings. But if I can’t be with you, somehow I just don’t want to be with anyone.
It’s really hard for me to talk about this subject, but I want to set the record straight. I know I’m really naive and inexperienced, and when I think of how uptight I get about the really quite innocent things we did together, I realized I’m paranoid about ... well, you know. I really want to be different for you, so I’ve decided to talk to the school counselor about my “problem.”
Did you really mean it about Easter? I’ve read that part of your letter a hundred times, and each time my heart goes all sideways and thumpy. If I came I’m afraid you’d expect things I’m not sure I’m prepared for yet. I know I sound mixed up, saying in one breath I’m going to see the counselor and in the next I’m still old-fashioned. I’m sure mother and dad would have a fit if their little Theresa announced she was going up to spend Easter with Brian. Some days mother drives me crazy as it is.
Here’s my awful picture, taken in October with the rest of the Sky Oaks Elementary student body and faculty. You say it’s the color of flowers. I still say vegetables, but here I am anyway. I miss you so much.
Affectionately,
Theresa
P.S. Hi to Jeff.
P.P.S. I like the name “sweets.”
January 10
Dear Sweets,
I can’t believe you didn’t say no, flat out. Now I’m living on dreams of Easter. If you come, I promise you’ll set the rules. Just being with you would be enough to tide me over. You’ll probably think I’m speaking out of turn, but I think somebody twenty-five years old shouldn’t even be living with their parents anymore, much less having to get their okay to go off for a weekend. Maybe you’re still hiding behind your mother’s skirts so you won’t have to face the world. God, you’ll probably think I’m an opinionated sex maniac now, and that all I want is to get you up here so I can act like Greg What’s-His-Name. Don’t be mad, sweets, okay? Ask the counselor about it and see what she says. Your picture is getting curled at the edges from too much handling. I’ve been thinking, I wouldn’t mind getting away from this place for a while. Instead of coming up here, maybe we could meet halfway in Fargo. Let me know what you think. Please decide to come. I miss you.
Love,
Brian
__________
THE COUNSELOR’S NAME
was Catherine McDonald. She was in her mid-thirties, always dressed in casual yet extremely up-to-date clothes and always wore a smile. Although they hadn’t had many occasions to work together, Theresa and Catherine had shared many friendly visits in the teachers’ lunch room, and Theresa had come to respect the woman’s inherent poise, objectivity and deep understanding of the human psyche. There were school counselors whom Theresa thought more qualified to be truck drivers. But Catherine McDonald suited her role and was immensely respected by those with whom she worked.
Rather than meet in school, Theresa requested that they get together over cups of tea at the Good Earth Restaurant at four o’clock one Thursday afternoon. Potted greenery and bright carpeting gave the place a cheerful atmosphere. Theresa was led past the Danish tables and chairs on the main floor to a raised tier of booths overlooking it. Each booth was situated beside a tall window, and it was in one of these where Catherine was already waiting. The older woman immediately stood and extended a hand with a firm grip. Perhaps the thing Theresa had first admired about Catherine was the way the woman’s eyes met those of the person to whom she spoke, giving an undivided attention that prompted one to confide in her and believe she cared deeply about the problems others unloaded upon her. Catherine’s intelligent, wide-set blue eyes remained unwaveringly on Theresa’s as the two greeted each other, settled down and ordered herbal tea and pita-bread sandwiches, then got down to the crux of the meeting.
“Catherine, thank you for taking time to meet me,” Theresa opened, as soon as their waitress left them alone. Catherine waved a hand dismissively.
“I’m happy to do it. Anytime. I only hope I can help with whatever it is.”
“It’s personal. Nothing to do with school. That’s why I asked you to meet me here instead of in the office.”
“Herbal tea has a mellowing influence anyway. This is much much nicer than school. I’m glad you chose it.”
Catherine stirred unrefined sugar into her tea, laid down the spoon and looked up with a laserlike attention in her blue eyes. “Shoot,” she ordered tersely.
“My problem, Catherine, is sexual.” Theresa had rehearsed that opening line for two weeks, thinking once the last word fell from her mouth the barriers might be broken, and it would be easier to talk about the subject that so easily made her blush and feel adolescent.
“Go ahead, tell me.” Again the blue eyes held, while Catherine leaned her head with prematurely silver hair against the tall back of the booth in a relaxed attitude that somehow encouraged Theresa to relax, too.
“It has to do mostly with my breasts.”
Amazingly, this woman still kept her eyes on Theresa’s. “Am I correct in assuming it’s because of their size?”
“Yes, they’re ... I’ve ...” Theresa swallowed and was suddenly overcome by embarrassment. She braced her forehead on the heel of a hand. Catherine McDonald reached across the table and circled Theresa’s wrist with cool, competent fingers, letting her thumb stroke the soft skin in reassurance before gently lowering the hand and continuing to hold it for a full thirty seconds. The contact was something strange and new to Theresa. She had not held a woman’s hand before. But the firm squeeze of the counselor’s fingers again inspired confidence, and soon Theresa went on speaking.
“I’ve been this size since I was fifteen years or so. I suffered all the usual persecution, the kind you might expect during adolescent years ... the teasing from the boys, the awed stares from the girls, the labels males somehow can’t help putting on that part of a woman’s anatomy, and even the misplaced jealousy of certain other girls. I asked my mother at the time if I could talk to a doctor or counselor about it, but she’s almost as big as I am, and her answer was that there was nothing that could be done about it, so I’d better learn to live with it ... and start buying heavy-duty bras—”
Here Catherine interrupted with a single brief question. “You still live with your mother and father, don’t you, Theresa?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry. Go on.”
“My normal sexual growth was ... impaired by my abnormal size. Every time I found a boy I liked, he was scared by the size of them. And every time I settled for a date with somebody else, he was out for nothing but a groping session. I heard rumors at one time in high school that there was a bet among the boys that anybody who could produce my bra would win a pot worth twenty-five dollars.” Theresa looked into her teacup, reliving the painful memory. Then she swept it from her mind and squared herself in her booth. “Well, you don’t want to hear all the sordid details, and they’re not really as important anymore as they once were.” Theresa’s eyes grew softly expressive, and she tipped her head slightly to one side. “You see, I’ve met a man who ... who seems to ... to look beyond the exterior and find something else that attracts him to me.” Theresa sipped her almond tea.
“And?” Catherine encouraged quietly. This was the hard part.
“And ... and ....” Theresa looked up pleadingly. “And I’m a virgin at twenty-five, and scared to death to do anything with him!”
To Theresa’s amazement, Catherine’s response was a softly exclaimed, “Wonderful!”
“Wonderful?”
“That you’ve come right out and unloaded it at last. It was hard to say, I could tell.”