Breakheart Hill (14 page)

On that particular December morning, however, Kelli did not remain in the classroom, but headed directly into the hallway. She was almost at the stairs before I reached her.

“Kelli,” I called to her as I came up from behind.

She stopped and turned toward me.

“Listen, Sheila Cameron came up to me this morning,” I told her. “She said she was planning on having a Christmas party in a couple of weeks. Sort of a semiformal-type thing. She’s having it at the Turtle Grove Country Club.”

Kelli watched me expressionlessly.

“It’s sort of a dance,” I added, now growing more nervous under the gaze of Kelli’s motionless black eyes. “It’s just for couples. You know, so everyone will have a
partner.” I hesitated, then bit the bullet. “She thought that you and I might want to come.”

Kelli smiled. “Okay,” she said lightly.

She had accepted too quickly, so I wanted to make sure she understood what I was getting at. “I mean the two of us,” I added pointedly. “Together.”

“I know what you meant,” she said. Then she gave me a quick smile, turned breezily and trotted down the stairs.

Luke was delighted when I told him later that afternoon.

“That’s great,” he said happily. “We can all go together. You, me, Betty Ann and Kelli.”

As it turned out, we did exactly that. It was the night of December twenty-second, and though a cold winter rain had been predicted, it was clear and brisk, the moon so bright that its light actually outlined the high mountain ridges that loomed in the distance.

Luke selected a huge late-model Lincoln from his father’s used-car lot, picked up first Betty Ann, then me, and finally drove us all out to Collier to pick up Kelli.

“This thing’s got great speakers,” Luke said proudly, then rattled off the car’s other features. “It’s got AC, dual-reclining seats, genuine velour upholstery, adjustable leg room—”

“Enough, Luke,” Betty Ann said sharply. “I’m not going to buy the damn thing.” She glanced back at me. “Are you, Ben?”

I shook my head.

We headed on toward Kelli’s house, and as we neared it I could feel myself growing more and more nervous. I adjusted my tie, wiped my glasses, checked my fly, my jacket handkerchief, the shine on my shoes.

“I was really surprised when Sheila invited me to this thing,” I said.

“Well, I don’t think it was really you that was invited, Ben,” Luke said with a playful wink. “I think it was
Kelli that was invited.” He glanced at Betty Ann. “In case you haven’t heard, Ben’s just the fly on the chariot wheel as far as this party goes.”

Betty Ann tossed her head back and laughed. She was a large, red-haired girl, the type who always sits in the shade and whose skin, in summer, is perpetually pink. She was quick to laugh, particularly at Luke, with whom she has lived now for nearly three decades. She is considerably larger now, a fad dieter with a gently rounded double chin, and middle age has robbed some of the dazzling highlights from her hair, but of all the people of my youth, I think that Betty Ann has built the strongest life. She owns a store in the sleek new mall, stocks its fancy mirrored shelves with what she jokingly calls “southern objets d’art” and at the end of each working day returns to Luke and the last of their three sons, the other two having already left for college.

I saw her again only a few weeks ago, while doing my Christmas shopping in the mall. She was dressed to fit the season, in a bright red skirt and blouse, with a holly-green sash wrapped around her waist. “If Santa Claus were a woman,” she said, twirling around slowly to show off her outfit, “he’d look just like me.”

I had come in to buy a few presents for some of the people at the hospital, a practice I began after Dr. McCoy died, and of which, I am sure, he would have disapproved.

“It looks like we might have a white Christmas this year,” Betty Ann said as she completed her turn and came up to me.

“So they say.”

“It’s been a long time since that happened.” She thought a moment. “Eight or nine years ago, right?”

“Yes,” I said. “At least that long.”

“Jimmy was still a little thing, remember? So was your Amy.”

I nodded.

“We took them sledding.”

I remember that day very well. The mountain had been a wall of white, and Luke had driven all of us up the mountain road, past the recently abandoned high school, to where we’d huddled together in the ankle-deep snow and watched our children sled gleefully down the more gentle upper slope of Breakheart Hill. Luke had stood with Betty Ann beneath his arm, and I with Noreen nestled at my side, the four of us chatting quietly under a crackling skeletal roof of frozen limbs.

After a time the children had exhausted themselves, and we’d all trudged back toward the car, Noreen and Betty Ann walking a little ways behind Luke and me.

“You know, all of us being in the car together on the way up here,” Luke said, “it reminded me of that night we all went to Sheila Cameron’s party in Turtle Grove. Except, of course, that was with—” He stopped, then lowered his voice and continued hastily and self-consciously, as if he’d unexpectedly stumbled upon a grim association and was rushing to get through it. “Well, that was with Kelli, you know,” he said.

I glanced back and almost saw her as she might have been that snow-white afternoon, a handsome woman walking in a dark coat beside Betty Ann Duchamp, her face older now, with lines at her eyes, her voice a bit more southern in its rounded O’s and A’s, but her dark hair still falling to her shoulders, with the same checked scarf wrapped around her throat, though now with a little girl tugging at her hand, one no less likely to have been called Amy.

Luke said nothing else as we made our way to the car. It was a big station wagon, and Luke had fitted its tires with the snow chains necessary to get us up the mountain road.

“He’s been waiting for fifteen years to use these snow chains,” Betty Ann joked as Luke edged the car back onto the road and we began our descent into Choctaw.

Luke laughed at the remark, but I could see that the old questions had returned to him, and I believe that it was from that particular moment, as we’d slogged our way up the snowy slopes of Breakheart Hill, that he began purposefully to revisit the single event that had most marked his youth, confronting the doubts that still plagued him, and that from then on, he used the party at Turtle Grove as the point of embarkation for his journey into the past.

Kelli was ready for us when we got to her house that December night, but I could not have been prepared for the sight that greeted me, a beautiful girl in a long red coat, sweeping down a short expanse of stairs, then rushing through a great darkness to arrive breathlessly at my side.

“I thought you’d forgotten me,” she said.

I smiled, and then, wholly without knowing it, uttered a promise I have not failed to keep. “Never,” I said.

T
URTLE
G
ROVE IS A PART OF EVERY TOWN
. I
T LIES FOREVER
on the outskirts, beyond the range of sirens and factory whistles. The lawns are always greener and more carefully tended. The trees are larger, more spacious, and in summer they cast the lawns in a cooler, deeper shade. Always, and more than anything, there is room to expand.

Luke and Betty Ann live in Turtle Grove now, and although I still live within the town limits of Choctaw, I long ago joined the Turtle Grove Country Club, a move that Dr. McCoy, whose practice I took over, absolutely insisted upon for professional reasons. “You’ll need paying customers, Ben,” he told me firmly, “just the same as if you ran a grocery store.”

In the fall, when the first cool descends upon the valley, Luke and I sometimes play a round of golf on the club’s gently rolling course. Several years ago, we came upon Todd Jeffries, as he lay facedown, passed out and
looking like a beached walrus as he wallowed unconsciously in the sand, the crotch of his lime-green pants darkly soaked with his own urine. Luke shook his head despairingly. “My Lord, what will ever become of him,” he said.

Certainly one could not have predicted such a sight when, on that clear December night so many years before, Todd had met us at the club’s broad double doors, opening them to their full width. “Sheila’s got me playing the butler tonight,” he said with his usual welcoming smile.

Mary Diehl was on his arm, as beautiful as she would ever be, her eyes sparkling, her long dark hair flowing down her back. “Hi, everybody,” she said cheerfully.

We all said hi, then walked past the two of them and into a hall that Sheila and her Turtle Grove companions had transformed into a glittering palace. There were colored lights everywhere, hanging from the picture molding, spiraling up the tall wooden columns, dangling from the banisters of the curving central staircase.

Even Kelli, who I assumed to have previously seen a great many grand interiors, appeared impressed.

“Beautiful,” she whispered almost to herself. Then she turned to me. “Beautiful, don’t you think, Ben?”

I nodded silently, still unwilling to give the Turtle Grove crowd their due, but finally giving it anyway, albeit grudgingly. “They really know how to do this kind of thing,” I said.

She swept ahead of me, tugging me along behind her, her fingers pulling at my jacket. I pretended reluctance, as if, bored worldling that I was, such things no longer dazzled me.

But I was dazzled. I was dazzled by the club itself, the sumptuousness of its decorations, the hundreds of lights and scores of holly wreaths and potted poinsettias that had turned its stately plantation-style interior into the closest thing I had ever seen to a wonderland. But even
more, I was dazzled by the way dark suits and sleek semiformal dresses had transported the awkward and untested teenage boys and girls I saw each day in the halls of Choctaw High to the borders of a grave adulthood. They’d gathered themselves together in small groups that evening, these young men and women who talked quietly and sipped punch as reservedly as they would later sip bourbon. Standing in their midst, I saw Choctaw’s next ruling generation make its opening bow, its future lawyers and bankers and businessmen, its coming mayors and councilmen, the faces that would oversee its chamber of commerce, and guide through incalculably troubled times its board of education. It would never have occurred to them, as I told Kelli later that same evening, to do anything other than what they’d been born to do, govern a small valley town with what they took to be a princely grace and wisdom.

Her response surprised me. “Is that bad?” she asked.

She’d just finished doing a turn on the dance floor with Luke, and a final twirl had flung a single curl across her forehead. She’d pushed it back into place as she’d spoken, then tossed her head lightly before adding, “You seem to think that’s a bad thing.”

“Well, you’d think that with all the money they have, they’d want to see the world a little,” I said peevishly. “Not just settle down here in Choctaw, which is what all of them will do.”

Her eyes were shining. “Maybe they’re not that interested in the rest of the world.”

I shook my head. “It’s just because you’ve lived in a big city, Kelli, that’s why you think these people are so great.”

“I don’t think they’re great.”

“Nice, basically,” I continued. “Quaint.”

She looked at me. “Why do you hate them so much, Ben?” she asked. “What did they do to you?”

“Nothing to me, personally,” I told her. “But I hate what they do to themselves, what they settle for.”

She turned away and stared out at the dance floor. I could tell that she disagreed with me, but had chosen not to argue the point. “Look at Luke go,” she said after a moment.

After a series of ballads, the band had suddenly veered into a full-scale rock and roll rhythm, and Luke and Betty Ann, along with almost everyone else, were gyrating wildly on the dance floor.

“That’s more what I’m used to,” Kelli said. “That’s the way we danced in Baltimore.” She turned to me. “You haven’t asked me yet.”

I shrugged.

“Don’t you ever dance?” Kelli asked.

I smiled and allowed myself a moment of self-mockery. “Of course not,” I said as if offended by her question. “Haven’t you noticed? I’m much too serious for stuff like that.”

She took my hand. “No, you’re not,” she said jokingly as she pulled me from my chair.

We danced quite a few times after that, and I think that Kelli was surprised at how good I was at using the flashy little steps Luke had taught me only a few days before, but which, on that crowded, dimly lighted dance floor, must have appeared completely spontaneous and improvised.

But I was not the only boy she danced with that night. Eddie Smathers asked her to the floor, and Chuck Wheelwright, who later went to the state senate, and Wilkie Billings, whom I’ve treated for quite a few ailments since then but who now appears to be doing fine, and Randy Wilcox, who died at Khe Sanh.

And yet, to use the title of the song that brought the party to an end that night, Kelli did save the last dance for me.

We were both quite tired by the time they played it,
a slow, mournful ballad, as all last dances were in those days, and during which, for a few delicious moments, I held her very close to me, felt her breath at my ear.