The Love Letters of J. Timothy Owen (15 page)

He'd just stepped out of the shower when he heard the telephone. Patrick said, “Where you been, fool? I've been ringing and ringing. I was about to call the cops.”

“Hey, you're back. I was mowing the lawn. How was it?”

“Mickey and Minnie sent their best. Want to come over and shoot the breeze and some pool?”

“Sure. I'll be over as soon as I cut my hair.”

“Hey, if things are that tough,” Patrick said, “I'll lend you barber money.”

“It's just in the front. My bangs are overrunning my forehead. Hang in. I'll be there in a trice.”

He rode his bike over to Patrick's, hunched over the handlebars in a true racer's crouch, anxious to make time. He'd missed Patrick.

“I hope you did a better job on your lawn than you did on your hair,” Patrick said when he opened the door. “Come on down. We have the joint to ourselves.”

He hadn't improved his technique at pool, but then, neither had Patrick. They fooled around some, making like hustlers. Outside, the sun shone. Inside, all was cool depravity as they squinted out from under their green eyeshades, and pushed up their sleeves, and considered the possibilities of each shot.

“Did you run into any girls out there?” he asked Patrick.

“Only one worth talking about. Only trouble was”—Patrick went for the side pocket—“she couldn't shake these seven little nerds who followed her everywhere. ‘Name's Snow White,' she said. ‘What's yours?' So you know what I told her?”

Patrick missed his shot.

“I said, ‘Call me Ishmael.' What's with you?” Patrick asked. “You had any romantic adventures since I've been gone?”

Tim took a long time setting up his next shot. “Nope,” he said. “I saw Sophie at a restaurant one night. She was looking at me, and when I looked back, she ducked behind her menu.” His cue slipped and he wound up behind the eight ball. A place he was not unused to.

“She's embarrassed, that's why she hid,” Patrick told him. “I wouldn't be surprised if she called you up one of these days to apologize for the way she acted.”

He snorted. “If she did, I'd tell her I was out of town.”

A tall woman came halfway down the stairs and bent over, looking at them. He started to say, “Hi, Mrs. Scanlon,” but it wasn't Mrs. Scanlon. Maybe it was her sister.

“Hello,” the woman said. Patrick never even looked at her, never acknowledged her presence. Maybe Patrick's mother had had a face-lift. It sure looked like her. He smiled at her tentatively.

“I'm Tim Owen,” he said.

“Hello, Tim,” she said, staying put.

“Get lost,” said Patrick.

He was astonished at Patrick's bad manners. If Patrick's mother had been around, she would've let him have it.

“Why don't you just go bury your head in the sand, Melissa,” Patrick said.

Melissa?
Melissa!

Melissa came down several steps and stood there, smiling at him. “I saw you this afternoon, Tim,” she said. “When you were mowing the lawn.”

He was tongue-tied and web-footed, trying to piece things together. “That was you?” he said at last, in his usual brilliant manner. “Baby-sitting next door with the monsters?”

“They didn't give me a speck of trouble. All I did was read them a couple of Grimm's fairy tales. It was like waving a wand over them. They loved “Hansel and Gretel.” You know that part where the witch fattens Hansel up so she can eat him? They thought that was really cool. Next thing I knew, they were trying to fit Benjy in the oven, which they'd turned on high, to roast him. I got to them just in time. Benjy wasn't even singed.” Melissa's merry laugh rang out. “I'd heard those kids were a problem, but they were pussycats for me.”

“Did they lock you in the bathroom?” he asked, curious. “They almost always lock their sitters in the bathroom.”

“Well, they would've but I found the key under the rug and put it in my pocket for safekeeping. We got along fine,” Melissa said.

“Tim, your shot.” Patrick nudged him.

He bent over the table, brandishing his cue, pretending great interest in his next move. His head buzzed. What had happened to Melissa? He couldn't very well ask, “Hey, Melissa, what gives? Only a couple of months ago, you were fat and ugly. What happened?” She might take offense. Still, it was a valid question.

Upstairs the telephone rang, and Melissa thundered to answer.

“All of a sudden,” Patrick said gloomily, “she's got 'em stacked up on the runway. Everywhere you turn, these dudes who wouldn't have looked at her crosseyed are standing in line waiting for a turn to nuzzle Melissa. It's indecent. My mother and father are practically having a heart attack.”

“Yeah.” He took his chance. “I noticed she's changed some. What
did
happen to her?”

“For one thing, she turned fourteen,” Patrick said, as if that explained the miracle. “For another, she dropped twenty-two pounds at the fat camp she went to. What with one thing and another, it's a puzzlement. I think my parents wish they'd left her the way she was. That way, nobody would look twice at her. But now the fat's in the fire, both literally and figuratively. Last night I heard my father tell my mother he thought sex was rearing its ugly head around here. And I don't think he meant me. Pretty racy talk from the old man, huh?”

Well put, Mr. Scanlon, he thought. Very well put. He hung around so long, hoping Melissa would return, that Mrs. Scanlon came down to announce dinner and asked him if he'd like to stay.

“Thanks,” he said reluctantly, “but I can't. My father's coming over. I'll take a rain check, if it's all right with you.”

Chapter 23

“So, the way it looks now,” his father said, watching as his mother dished up the steak-and-kidney pie, “I'll be going out to the coast next week to try to line up an apartment. They want me there by the first of October.”

“I think that's wonderful, Andrew. I'm very happy for you.” His mother came around the table and kissed his father's cheek. “I'm thrilled at your getting such a wonderful promotion. I'll bet you'll love living in California, too.”

“Well”—his father looked down at his plate hungrily—“my contract's good for two years. That's not long. If, at the end of that time, things haven't worked out for any reason, I can always come back. They're keeping a place open for me here, they told me.”

“They must think very highly of you, Andrew. Here's to your great success.” They raised their glasses and drank to his father, whose company, he had just told them, was sending him out to take over the management of a new plant they were building outside San Francisco.

“I hope you'll come visit me, Tim,” his father said. “That's the only bad part about this—leaving you. And, of course, I'll miss you, too, Maddy. I'll miss you both.”

“What about Joy? Is she going along?” One thing about his mother, if she wanted to know something, she asked the direct question. She never minced words.

“Joy's got herself a new beau.” His father made small noises of pleasure at his mother's cooking, a habit that had endeared him to her early on.

“I'll bet the guy has a five handicap,” Tim said. His father laughed. “He'd better have.”

All in all, it had been an eventful day, he reflected, as he scraped the plates and listened to the rise and fall of his parents' voices. First Melissa's metamorphosis, then his father's announcement that he was moving to California. Two very big happenings. At last he had to admit something to himself, something he'd been wrestling with for some time. His mother and father were not going to get remarried. He had hoped they would, prayed it might happen. People did get remarried. He was always reading or hearing about people who did. But now he knew it would never happen to them. His mother and father both were happily embarked on new ventures. He was the only member of the family dragging his feet, flailing away at life, running in place.

The next day, Patrick's mother asked him if he'd come to a family cookout they were having at six. “I'd love to!” he shouted, trying vainly to conceal his enthusiasm. He took pains with his appearance, parting his hair on the left side, then on the right. Then he tried for the casual look, no part at all. He looked like a Neanderthal man fresh from the bush. On probation. A middle part was quaint. He looked like Alfalfa. Then he rummaged through his drawers for matching socks, having decided to spare no effort or expense to look suave. He settled for two pale-gray socks with red stripes.

Going all out, aren't you? he told his mirror image. His little voice, silenced for a while, shot back with “You're wasting your time, bud. You heard what Patrick said, she's got 'em stacked up on the runway.”

But I saw her first, he answered back.

“Oh yeah?” The little voice was feeling testy.

“Wasn't it nice of Mrs. Scanlon to include you?” his mother said. “Is it a party?”

“I don't know. Patrick's back from Florida and Melissa's back from camp, so I guess it's a family reunion, sort of.”

“Well, I think you won points with Mrs. Scanlon when you took Melissa to the tea dance.” His mother fiddled with her lipstick. “That's the kind of thing the mother of an unattractive thirteen-year-old girl never forgets, Tim.”

“Unattractive!” The word burst from him, unannounced. “You oughta see her now, Mom. She's something! She went to a fat camp and shed piles of pounds. Plus, she shed her zits and had her hair cut. She's got beautiful red hair. All the Scanlons have red hair, you know.”

His mother turned to look at him. She was smiling. “Well, what do you know? Melissa must really be something. I've never heard you wax so enthusiastic about a girl before, Tim.”

He'd gone too far.

“She's fourteen now,” he said, backing off. “I guess when most girls hit fourteen, they sort of blossom. I've got to split, Ma. Mrs. Scanlon said six, and I'm running late.”

“Have a good time, Timmy. Give the Scanlons my best.” His mother still held her lipstick aloft, a bemused expression on her face.

A gibbous moon rose from behind a bank of clouds as the scent of hamburgers rose from the Scanlons' grill. Mr. Scanlon basted the burgers with his special sauce, the ingredients of which were top secret. Tim was the only guest.

It was tough going, keeping his eyes off Melissa. Every time he stole a peek, she was looking back. They sat down at the outdoor table, and the telephone rang.

“If that's for you, Missy”—Mr. Scanlon spoke, plainly irritated—“tell him you're about to have dinner and not to call back for an hour.”

“And this is only the beginning,” Mrs. Scanlon murmured.

“I thought only girls hung out on the phone so much,” said Patrick. “Those cretins who keep calling Missy never got the word, apparently. Half of them haven't even gone through a change of voice yet. The other day, I answered, and I thought it was a girl until he said, ‘Tell her George called.' George isn't even dry behind the ears.”

“It wasn't so long ago,” Mr. Scanlon reminded Patrick, “that the same might have been said about you. Age is relative, after all. A two-year-old thinks a six-year-old is old. And I used to think fifty was ancient, until I realized I would be fifty in three years and I'm still a broth of a boy. Another burger, Tim?”

“No thanks, Mr. Scanlon. I've had three already.”

“Save room for dessert, Tim. It's coconut cake.”

Mrs. Scanlon's coconut cake was so outstanding, the mere thought of it almost drove Melissa out of his mind. After supper, the whole crowd trooped down to the pool room. Melissa and her mother played against Patrick and Tim. He let Melissa win. That's what he told himself.

“I guess I'd better take off,” he said, the chiming of the Scanlons' clock reminding him of the passage of time. Mr. Scanlon offered to run him home but he said he had his bicycle. He said good night and thank you very much and Melissa escorted him to the door.

“Well, guess I'll see you in high school come September, huh, Melissa?” he said. Sometimes his own dialogue almost put him to sleep. Imagine what it did to her. How come when he was alone he always managed to sound so dynamic, so positive, each word a pearl, but when he was with a girl, everything came out sounding stolid and heavy, like a politician discussing tax reform?

“My mother and father are making me go to the Academy up the river,” Melissa said with a long face. “I want to go to the high school, but they're afraid I would get too boy crazy there. I wouldn't, but they think so.”

“Oh.” He was taken aback, wondering where to go from here.

“Tim, I was thinking,” and although Melissa was tall, almost as tall as he, she managed to give the effect of being petite as she glanced up at him through her eyelashes.

“Yeah?”

“If I write you, will you write back?” Melissa said in a rush.

“You mean we'd be correspondents, sort of,” he said, his head in a muddle.

She nodded eagerly. “I think it would be fun. When I get my new address, I'll send it to you. How would that be?”

“Fine. Great.” Melissa put out her hand and he took it and held it gingerly in his, stroking it gently, as if it was a baby rabbit just out of its mother's womb.

“Tim,” Melissa breathed.

“Hey, you guys!” Patrick loomed. “I thought you'd gone, Tim.”

He jumped away and assumed a devil-may-care look, which seemed to suit the occasion. “I was just telling Melissa about high school, on account of she's not going there,” he said.

“Well,” said Patrick, “I guess that's as good a reason to tell her about it as any.”

“Missy!” Mr. Scanlon bellowed. “Telephone!”

Melissa raced to answer, and he departed at last, serenaded by Patrick singing one from his large store of golden oldies. The gibbous moon watched sourly as he pushed his bicycle out to the street and climbed aboard for the return trip.