The Love Letters of J. Timothy Owen (9 page)

It would be simpler, of course, to just pick up the telephone, dial Sophie's number, and when she answered, say, “How about it? Want to go steady?” Or, if that proved too abrupt, he could say, “How about a flick tonight?” Neither of these approaches grabbed him. The love letters were it.

Tonight, however, the words, his own or the real pros', seemed to have lost their charm. So he took down the old cigar box his father had given him. He had put the old letters from the trunk inside that box. When his father had presented it to him with a certain formality, saying, “I kept my stamp collection in this when I was your age, Tim. I want you to have it,” he had known his father, in his quiet way, was telling him how much he cared about his son.

“Thanks, Dad,” he'd said. The box still smelled faintly of ancient cigars. Even the meager pile of letters smelled of old cigars. He rifled through the stack. Not all of them were letters of love. Several had been written in a spidery hand to someone named Mae, from her Aunt Nellie.

Well, weather here a little cooler as we had a good rain last night. It's been high eighties since Mon. Had some palpitations and went to Dr. to see what was what. Dr. said it was the heat, told me to lie with my feet up higher than my head when they started in. Jesse caught me with my feet in the air and thought I was passed out and having a fit. He threw a glass of water in my face to bring me around and ruined my new shirtwaist. Love, Aunt Nellie
.

Every time he read that one, he laughed out loud. He could see Jesse throwing the glass of water in her face, see her jumping up and maybe chasing Jesse around the yard, waving a broom at him and hollering.

He put the cigar box back on his closet shelf and lay on his bed, fingers laced behind his head.

I don't want that turkey, Kev, for a stepfather, he thought. Why can't she find some bozo her own age, someone who loves her better than he loves himself, someone who doesn't carry an orange tent on his back like some sort of bizarre shell.

Turkey Kev sounded like a dish using leftover turkey in a new and delicious way, he thought. One that combined yogurt, tofu, and bean sprouts, perhaps. If his mother hadn't freaked out and lost her sense of humor, as she seemed to have done, he'd tell her that. And she'd come up with other ingredients to add to Turkey Kev. As it was, he kept his thoughts to himself.

A knock on the door made him spring to his feet. He didn't like anyone to find him lying down. They might think he was sick, or taking a nap. Neither of which he was.

“Oh, hi, Dad.”

“Tim, just thought I'd ask if you'd like to go with Joy and me on Saturday to the driving range. Maybe you might like to give it another chance?” He noticed his father's sideburns had been trimmed down considerably.

“Sure, Dad, why not?” Why not indeed.

“Pick you up at ten, then,” his father said.

“Great.” His too-hearty voice rang insincerely in his own ears. He wondered how his father was going to break the news to Joy that she was persona non grata at the family dinner table. Maybe his mother was simply going through a hostile phase and would pass through it quickly and emerge on the other side. She loved to cook for people, loved having diners compliment her on the excellence of her cuisine. His mother could make three-day-old chicken taste like squab. Just ask her, she'd give you the recipe right off the top of her head. A pinch of thyme, a dash of basil, and it would melt in your mouth. Even its own mother wouldn't recognize it. She insisted on teaching him how to cook so that when he was on his own, she said, he wouldn't exist solely on hamburgers and scrambled eggs.

“Sophie, my angel,” he said aloud. “My angel Sophie.” Either one was bound to win her. Any girl would like being called my angel. Wouldn't she?

Chapter 13

Shortly after dawn on Saturday he rode his bike through the deserted streets of town, feeling like Robin Hood in search of the Appalachian Trail. With the wind at his back and the scent of the darling buds of May in his nose, he rode as if pursued by demons, straight into the rising sun. Only last week he'd seen
The Adventures of Robin Hood
on TV, starring the incomparable Errol Flynn. Now, there was a man. Fine legs and always a smile on his face. And what a swordsman. Even Basil Rathbone couldn't bring him to his knees.

A red pickup truck rattled by and the driver hailed him as if they were old friends. There was a definite feeling of camaraderie at being awake and on the move this early, he thought. He kept his eyes on the pavement, starred with cast-off pop tops, which always fooled him into thinking they were quarters. Last year alone he'd found, by eternal vigilance, three pennies and a dime.

Once town was behind him, he rode more slowly, patting the fenders of his bike now and then as he would have a horse's flanks—lovingly and with praise. It was a morning for poetry, and metaphors abounded. Clumps of complacent cows watched him pass. Frail, empty houses clung to the side of the road, their broken-down porches decorated with rickety rocking chairs nodding sleepily, as if ghosts sat there, taking a breather. Dogs came out at him as if he'd insulted their mothers—snarling, leaping, baring old teeth.

Not bad, he thought. A meadow massed with bright yellow and purple flowers caught his eye. He stopped, hoisted his bike over the stone wall that ringed the meadow, and dropped into the deep grass that lay on the other side. There he buried the bike in the tallest grass, a perfect concealment from marauding bands.

He climbed the slope to the top of the meadow and lay down, face to the sky. Hunger rolled noisily in his stomach, but he decided to hold off eating his apple and sandwich. The sound of running water brought him upright. The stream ran clear and sparkling and, suddenly thirsty, he filled his cupped hands and brought them to his mouth, remembering in the nick of time it wasn't safe to drink just any water. Even in this idyllic spot PCBs abounded, pollution was everywhere. Angered by his own action, he let the water trickle back through his fingers.

He lay down again and closed his eyes. Perhaps, at this very minute, a princess was climbing the hill, silken garments blown by the wind, golden hair flying, tiny feet encased in velvet slippers. Feet again? He and Liszt were both foot fetishists. There were worse kinds. And she would have a voice like jewels dropped into a satin bag! He could hardly wait! A bee buzzed him. He blew it away. Birds sang. The sun lulled him. It was Walt Disney all the way.

Then he felt eyes on him. The princess! He believed in miracles. Quivering with anticipation, he waited for her soft lips to land on his. He couldn't expect any soul kissing, not on the first go-round.

Nothing moved, nothing happened. Yet someone was standing over him. He opened his eyes the merest crack.
That
was a princess? What did he know? It was his first princess, after all. Disguised as a raggedy waif with snarled hair and skinny arms and legs that looked too long for the rest of her.

“My daddy says you don't get off our proppity,” said the waif in a penetrating voice, “he's gonna shoot.” Some jewels.

He sat up and looked at his watch, giving himself time to regroup. He waited for her to smile. But she remained stony faced and unblinking.

“It's about time I was going anyway,” he said, calling her bluff. Behind him came the sound of someone large crashing through the underbrush. Hastily, he stood up.

“I wasn't doing anything,” he said. The child's eyes flickered. He thought he heard heavy breathing as the crashing sounds grew closer. He started down the hill.

“He scatted fast!” the waif hollered. “Lookit him go!” As he ran, he tried to remember the exact spot in which he'd buried his bike. Suppose it was gone? Suppose the marauders had seen him conceal it and, the minute his back was turned, they'd stolen it?

It was there, where he'd left it. He hoisted it hurriedly over the stone wall and, poised to take off, he looked back. A man stood there, shaking one fist, the other filled with a gun. Shouting obscenities.

He assumed a racer's crouch, making himself small, as small as possible, in case the guy decided to let go at him.

Again, he rode as if demons were pursuing him. He would not have been surprised to have a car pull alongside, to have the man behind the wheel instruct him to get inside because he was wanted for questioning.

I didn't even drink his water, for Pete's sake. Tim's morning, which had started off so well, had been trashed, ruined, thrown on the ash heap. The trip back seemed endless. The sun had lost its warmth, though it was close to noon.

“Your father was here,” his mother said when he got home. “He said you had a date with him and Joy to drive golf balls. You didn't leave a note, Tim. I was worried. I told him I didn't know where you'd gone.” Her face was wan.

“Oh, God, I forgot,” he said. “I biked a long way out of town and found this meadow. You wouldn't believe how beautiful it was, Mom.” A catch in his throat stopped him. How to tell her how wonderful the place had been, how high his expectations. There was no way. “Then this little kid told me to get out or else her father'd shoot me. This creep came at me with a gun.” He shouldn't tell her this. It would only add fuel to the worry fire constantly simmering in her head. “How come? I want to know,” he plunged on, unable to stop, “if I was such a monster, why did he send his little kid up instead of coming himself? How come?”

To his great dismay, he felt tears building. He turned his back, fighting for control. It was not a situation that called for tears but they were there.

“Oh, Tim.” His mother's voice was gentle. “How terrible. You're sure you didn't do anything to antagonize him? You know how short people's fuses are these days.”

“I swear, Ma. I didn't even drink any of his lousy old water. I was just lying there, thinking about things, enjoying myself. It's crazy. Absolutely crazy.”

He heard her move behind him and hoped she wouldn't touch him. Not now. Give me time, he thought.

“I was just heating up some soup,” she said in a normal voice. “Want some?”

“Not right now, thanks. I'd better ride over to the driving range and try to catch Dad. I feel bad about not being here. I want to explain.”

He thought, and did not say, I wouldn't want him to think I skinned out on purpose.

“And Melissa called.” His mother put the crowning touch on his day, without knowing she did so. “She said to come over about three-thirty tomorrow. Her mother will drive you to the dance, she said.”

He hadn't told his mother about the tea dance and Melissa. He could hear the question in her voice but she didn't ask.

“Oh, God.” He groaned. “Maybe it would've been better if that creep had let me have it after all. Just a flesh wound. Just enough to put me out of commission for a couple of days.”

He heard his mother draw in her breath sharply, but he didn't look at her. “I'll be back in about an hour, Ma,” he said, and climbed on his bike once more.

Chapter 14

On Sunday, he went to ten o'clock Mass, seeking solace. Church didn't always offer solace but he went anyway, always hopeful. He sat in one of the back pews so he could watch people come in, watch the way they genuflected before entering the pews. The older the people were, he noticed, the more they sort of bobbed up and down gently before they settled in with their rosary beads. They managed never to hit the floor with their knees, only grazing it. Arthritis, probably. His grandmother had arthritis in her left knee and she said it wasn't any fun. He'd suffered a torn cartilage while playing soccer, so he appreciated what a wacko knee was like. He liked the way the light hit the stained-glass windows, sending shafts of color spraying over the congregation. He liked the way the church smelled, a mixture of incense and the flowers that decorated the altar. He kept a close eye on the altar boys, checking to make sure they knew all the right moves. He and Patrick had each had a turn at being altar boys. Now, he'd heard, they had girls as altar boys in some parishes. Boy, the world she is a-changin'.

Sometimes, even at his advanced age, he still felt an overpowering urge to laugh that hit him only in church. He didn't know why. The desire had been more acute when he'd been four or five and new to the ways of the world. He remembered thrashing around in the pew, restless, not sure why he was here in the first place. He'd checked out the missals tucked in the rack, checked out the people sitting in front of him, and wanted to touch those people with one finger, as light as a spider. He had envied kids he saw surrounded by siblings, all of them in their Sunday best, their faces shiny with soap, their clothes crisp and new. He remembered watching them wistfully, the families of five, maybe six or more, kids, watching while the parents carefully spaced the kids, inserting themselves between the ones more apt to fight with each other, making warning faces at the livelier ones, telling them to behave. It was then, and only then, he regretted being an only child. Most of the time, he thought it was fine.

He could always tell the parochial-school kids from the ones who went to public school. The parochial-school kids were much better behaved, and when they went up to receive communion, their hands were always neatly folded, with the fingers interlocking, their eyes cast down, and they didn't chew the host the way the public-school kids did.

This morning a little kid of about two sat in front of him, trying to stare him down. The kid wore Oshkosh oyeralls and a red baseball cap, and had the most unblinking stare he'd ever seen. He tried making a couple of funny faces, hoping to break the kid up. No luck. The little weasel didn't know how to smile.

The sermon lasted twenty-one minutes. He timed it. Each time Father McDuff paused to collect his thoughts, he thought for sure it was over. Then the priest got his second wind and plunged onward, always onward. An old nun had just died. Father McDuff said she was a very holy woman, a member of a cloistered order who never left her cell, never went beyond the walls of the convent. She spent her days praying. She had loved God and man, the priest said. She was filled with love. He wondered why the old nun had never gone out into the world to tend to the sick, the needy, and the poor, who needed all the help they could get. If she had, she would have been using her love to the greatest advantage. Or so it seemed to him.