I dozed fitfully on the 20-hour overnight bus ride home from Vermont to D.C., disturbed by scary dreams I couldn't remember when a bump would jerk me awake, and tears of regret about how I'd let Danny down. Mom picked me up from the bus depot, fed me warm soup and put me to bed, where I stayed pretty well round the clock. She was always my best friend.
Pierre phoned the next afternoon and I agreed, reluctantly, to him coming over. Truthfully, I dreaded seeing him. The last night with Danny at the hut was a raw memory, and I was still distraught about the hurt I'd caused both of them. I just couldn't face the sadness or anger I was sure was coming: my obsession with Danny had been so all-consuming that I'd barely thought of Pierre the entire summer.
An hour later I called him back, fibbed that I was unwell and made vague promises to see him in a couple of days.
Mom kept me busy shopping. At nineteen, I was too old to have my mom buy me school clothes, but I was grateful that she took a half day from her busy work schedule so I could spend it with the person I loved most in the world. Though I was mortified when she took me to the women's undergarments department at Woodward and Lothrop's, she was firm. I'd put on weight, and a lot of it was in the bust (I breathed a silent thank-you to The Pill) and my B-cup bras were not only worn out, they were, in her words, "indecent, with you spilling out all over the place." She bought me five pretty brassieres, 34C. Looking back, they lasted me right through the bra-burning years of the late Sixties!
We got home late on the humid summer D.C. afternoon, made a quick meal and took it out on the shady front porch to eat. Mom smiled when a snazzy Mustang pulled up in front of the house just as we finished.
My jaw dropped when Pierre got out!
He grinned, leapt up the steps to the porch, bent down and kissed my mom and shyly took my hand. My heart was thudding in my throat. I didn't know whether I was ecstatically happy or furious, specially when I looked at mom and realized she was part of the conspiracy. Pierre sat down, and mom went into the house to rustle up dessert.
Awkward silence.
I was tongue-tied. Emotions raged through me — happiness at seeing him, regret for our fight in June, sorrow for not writing him even him a postcard all summer, guilt for my transgressions with Danny, realization that I was still in love with Pierre, and a despairing hope that somehow he could mend things between us.
My face must've reflected what I was feeling; he watched me in silence, concern knitting his brow.
Mom came back in the nick of time, carrying three bowls of vanilla ice cream laced with Hershey's syrup, Pierre's favorite, and brightened up the moment. Gradually the ice between us thawed and I asked him about the shiny car, the hottest, sexiest ride of the time. He chuckled: A friend at the lab where he'd worked was out of town for a few days, and to Pierre's delight, had lent him the Mustang. He'd been tooling around town enjoying the girls' stares and hoots.
"Want a ride?" he asked.
"Really? May I?"
I practically skipped to the sidewalk and caressed the bodywork, its rosy beige paint glowing incandescent in the setting sun. He held the door and I sank into the cream-color bucket seat. Who said girls can't fall for sexy cars?
We drove off into the warm dusk, windows open, radio blaring "Ticket to Ride," "California Girls," "Mr. Tambourine Man" ... when the Stones' "Satisfaction" came on, Pierre reached past the shifter and lightly caressed my knee, laughing. The effect was electric. The memory of the summer's frustration boiled up and I burst into tears. At the same time, I was suddenly aware that my nipples were hard and my panties were wet. I wasn't ready for this, and instinctively clamped my legs shut. Pierre pulled his hand away with a frown and concentrated hard on his driving, though there wasn't much traffic.
As it got dark, the radio filled in our silence. Then I reached down and turned it off.
I'd been thinking of the words of Kahil Gibran — one of Pierre's advanced-placement teachers had given him
The Prophet
in June, and back then (it seemed like a lifetime ago) we'd read the poems together, he from his new volume, I from the dog-eared copy I'd had for as long as I could remember.
Your joy is your sorrow unmasked.
And the selfsame well from which your laughter rises was oftentimes filled with your tears.
Much of your pain is self-chosen.
It is the bitter potion by which the physician within you heals your sick self.
... let there be spaces in your togetherness,
And let the winds of the heavens dance between you.
I knew the words by heart, and murmured them into the warm darkness as Pierre wheeled the Mustang around and drove slowly, reluctantly home. Tears burned down my cheeks and he stared straight ahead, wordless in the powerful presence of poetry.
He pulled up in front of my house.
Thank goodness he had the sense to shut the engine off and wait. When he walked around to open my door, I was shaking. He reached down and helped me up, and stood close. I looked up into his eyes, dark in the wan streetlight. They glittered with unshed tears. I leaned into him and he wrapped his arms around me. Our lips brushed lightly.
