Every Time I Think of You (3 page)

Perhaps it was the heat of being once again fully dressed in my parka, boots and all, but I melted again.

Yes, he would charm my parents. They, like me, would do their best, on the surface, to ignore the oddity of their bookish child having suddenly acquired the handsome son of the wealthiest family in our tiresome town as his friend.

That they were neither religious nor conservative assured a drama-free development as Stage Two of our friendship would be revealed. No, that would be the least of our problems.

Everett turned to the kitchen table, grabbed a paper plate of cellophane-covered tree cookies, handed them to me as a parting gift, turned his head both ways in a cartoonish sneaky gesture before planting a parting kiss on my cheek and whispered, as he ushered me out the door, “We’re gonna be great together.”

Chapter 4

When the phone rang, I was in the garage taking off my boots. Beside them were my muddy running shoes and a few pair of my parents’ winter boots. I’d been chastised a few times to clean mine, but when faced with the logical explanation that they’d only become muddy or wet again, Mom always gave in.

I sat on a small pile of cardboard boxes, cartons of maple syrup, probably. My father, once a lowly accountant before I was born, had gradually been elevated to district manager of Best Rite, a company that bought regional foods wholesale and resold them to grocery stores and shops throughout the county.

Despite our ample supply of slightly dented cartons, cans and jars of preserves, cheeses and syrup, we refrained from excess consumption, mostly because of my mother’s frequently stated distaste for what she called, “Germanic cuisine.”

Mom sometimes served picture-perfect recipes from the old magazines she saved, all with a sense of humor about it. She’d even put up a few of her favorite culinary illustrations under magnets on the refrigerator. I suppose it inspired her. On special nights, hams appeared topped with pineapples and pink cherries, or roasts were adorned with amusingly trimmed potatoes. It wasn’t until I’d dined at boyhood friends’ homes that I realized such meals weren’t a joke to other people.

I heard my mother pleasantly chatting on the phone for several minutes. I thought she was discussing some bit of gossip with one of our neighbors. Mom engaged in social activities with a few of the nearby wives, but maintained an air of remove. Although she never stated it outright, I felt that she found most of the women she’d met in Greensburg lacking in intellect.

She finally approached the door of my bedroom, where I’d just sat down. I’d been pretending to get a jump on next semester’s reading, but was half-seriously wondering if I could find out the possible genetic side effects of orally ingesting the DNA of a loved one.

“Knock, knock,” Mom chirped. Her dusty blond hair was tied in a ponytail. Her slim pants and post-holiday sweater gave her a youthful look.

My over-reaction may have spurred her suspicion, since I pretty much leapt up, then adjusted to a false calm as I preceded her back to the kitchen phone, which hung on a wall next to a small memo pad.

“Hello?” I said.

“Look out your window in ten minutes.”

“Hey, how’s it going,” I practically shouted, my phone voice clanging with insincerity. Everett had hung up. I suddenly pressed a finger down on the receiver and invented a short one-ended conversation filled with a few too many ‘Okay’s and ‘Uh-huh’s, then said goodbye to no one.

“So, your friend’s coming over?” Mom said in an attempt at casual bemusement.

“Uh, yes?” Had he asked to be invited? Did she invite him?

Everett would be my first dinner guest in years, since seventh grade, when a boy named Ricky Chambliss thought wolfing down mashed potatoes and burping were common etiquette. Several of the guys from the cross-country team had visited one fall afternoon for a team party. For the most part, they ate and muttered inside jokes, then left as soon as the food was gone. For a skinny bunch, they could wolf down Mom’s creatively arranged hot dogs almost as quickly as she served them.

I told myself that my general friendlessness had more to do with my studious nature, denying a mild fear that my slightly sarcastic parents and our contented life were a bit boring.

It wasn’t that I was embarrassed by my small home and inconsequential life. I was more interested in being elsewhere with the few friends I’d had until then.

A pause, then, as expected, Dad asked, “
The
Forresters?”

I visibly rolled my eyes, a small performance for my mother, as if we were nonchalant about our guest, when in fact we were both a bit giddy for entirely different reasons.

“Yes, Dad.
The
Forresters.”

“Well,” was all I heard, as if he knew his consent or opinion were superfluous. Amid the confusion of my having to for almost the first time fake my emotional state in the presence of my parents, I’d forgotten our charmer’s instruction. I retreated to my bedroom and realized its purpose.

From my window, in the middle of that snowy field, darkened from the fading dusk light, he emerged from that now precious strip of forest. I wiped my glasses, put them on, peered out and remained fixed on him as he approached, a lone dark figure whose form grew with each step. Seeing me in the window, he performed a little snow-kicking dance while balancing something in one hand, then headed toward me.

I remembered my previously unasked question,
Where the hell have you been all these years?
The answer, at least during holidays and summers, was apparently about three hundred paces due south.

From outside, my bedroom window was just above chest level. Impulsively, I opened it, shoved up the screen as well, leaned out like a suburban Juliet, and accepted a frozen welcome kiss from my beau.

“You have to invite me in through the door,” he smirked, “like a vampire.”

Chapter 5

To say that Everett’s presence as our family’s first dinner guest in months was impressive would be an understatement.

Everett charmed my mother by bringing a freshly baked pie, made by Helen, he explained in a polite manner that dodged the fact that his mother couldn’t boil water. My mother rarely served desserts, not through any dietary restrictions, but mere disinterest. She treated the pie like a rare prize.

As I took Everett’s parka, his green V-neck sweater with a tie and button-down shirt peeking out appeared more formal than I’d expected. Then I realized his clothes were everyday wear at his school. Still, my own flannel shirt and jeans seemed too casual by comparison.

My father was gradually bowled over as Everett, who had won trophies for the debate team (extemporaneous category), engaged him in discussions ranging from philosophy to national politics, all with a precocious maturity that I found a bit contrived.

After re-crafting the story of our initial meeting that he’d told his housekeeper, again minus the snowy woods and any reference to it, my parents seemed less suspicious of him.

Over a dinner that surprisingly featured fewer olives on toothpicks or side dishes with faces made of cornichons than I’d expected, the conversation revolved around my guest.

The questions my mother asked focused around Everett’s family life. I felt almost jealous that his story was told for all of us, information he had yet to share with me.

“My family, as you know, has a long history with Forrestville.”

“They
are
Forrestville,” Dad added, a joke that fell flat.

“Yes, in a way,” Everett acknowledged, immune to my father’s comment. “My father left us a few years ago. My mom’s busy with some charity work, League of Women Voters, that sort of thing.”

“Oh.” Mom perked up at the mention of any sort of political or feminist sensibility. Such women were rare in our town.

Everett affectionately told of his sister, Holly, the big city dweller, and his infrequent visits to see her. I sensed a game being played, as if the mention of Pittsburgh was a key he’d just inserted, and the lock was clicking open.

As I chewed my food, mostly in silence, I realized the purpose of Everett’s affable behavior. He intended not only to assure them that my time with this new friend would be safe, but also informative, educational and even a bit of a status boost.

My parents were being played.

A flush of embarrassment overcame me as I found myself gazing at Everett as he spoke, smiled and nodded to me. His throat, sprinkled with the slightest of stubble, his strong chin and flat nose, made him appear mature beyond his years. His comportment confused me, as if I were having a secret affair with an adult. It didn’t make my self-restraint any easier when, since we’d been seated next to each other, Everett had removed one of his loafers (which he’d worn on his walk under rubber galoshes) to graze his socked foot along my shin.

“What’s so funny, son?” Dad asked.

“Oh, nothing,” I blurted. Instead of shoving Everett’s socked toes away, I spread my legs wide under the table, giving him more access.

I decided to take Everett’s boldness a step further. While part of me wanted to bluntly state what should have been obvious, that we were more than friends, I could hardly say that we were dating. We had yet to seal the plan of what I’d hoped would be our first date. I tossed the dare back to our guest. “I was thinking of a story Everett told me the other day.”

At that moment, I clumsily attempted his game, the art of the innocuous fib. “The one about lacrosse.” I openly nudged him, saw the sly twinkle in his dark eyes, acknowledging that I was beginning to play along.

Of course Everett would have a lacrosse story. With a graceful wipe of his napkin, Everett told a succinct tale about one of his teammates hurling the ball into the stands and into the lap of the school dean’s wife. It was innocuous, and our laughter was the perfect cue that dinner was concluded.

As we retreated into the living room, my mother stoically refusing bussing assistance, Everett made himself comfortable on our sofa, I at the other end, and my father in his usual recliner chair. I almost expected him to offer Everett a cigar and a snifter of brandy.

As a family, we generally eschewed the drone of the television, and instead listened to some of my father’s jazz or classical LPs. Dad chose a Stan Getz album. Mom’s preference ran toward older pop favorites; The Mammas and The Pappas, Doris Day, Dean Martin. Off to the side, my few rock albums filled the rack.

Everett, after dropping a few names like Coltrane and Gillespie, again doffed one loafer, tucked one leg under his other knee, and settled further back on the couch near me.

It took some reserve not to simply lay my head in his lap, I was that happy. My parents might have been initially miffed, surprised or even put off, more by any open display of affection than by it being between two boys, one of them their son. Learning by Everett’s example, I realized that perhaps joy contained might have more longevity.

Dad asked Everett about his college plans, to which he replied, “Pre-Law, maybe, or Public Policy, with perhaps a minor in Classics. I thought of International Studies, but my French is a bit rusty. I’m still undecided.”

“Well, isn’t it great, not having homework for a while?” Dad added.

“Actually,” Everett countered, “your brainiac son was telling me how much he’s itching to see that new exhibit at the Carnegie Museum in Pittsburgh.”

Being handed the opportunity for what I’d hoped would be an entire day with Everett, my stomach performed a small flip-flop. No, it would be a day and night with Everett, preceded by a perfunctory trek to gaze at ancient plants under glass, and ending with a romantic night in his sister’s most probably lavish guest room. This all whirled through my imagination until I felt a pang of shame at having witnessed my parents so easily become complete suckers.

Everett’s conspiratorial wink told me it didn’t matter. The sale had been made.

Having almost succeeded in mentioning with a casual air that I’d walk Everett home, “for part of the way,” my mother warned me, “Don’t go running at night. I don’t want you tripping in some snow bank.”

She knew I had a propensity for off-season jaunts rarely preceded by a proper warm-up, and sometimes without proper clothing or my glasses. I promised to keep myself to a pedestrian pace.

Our coats on, my parents properly thanked and bid goodnight by Everett, we were soon out in the field, half-heartedly attempting to retrace our footprints from the other direction. All the houses along our street had kitchen windows facing south toward the field. The buffered light afforded an eerie yet safe glow across the field, making night sledding a pastime for younger children.

Fortunately, no one was playing that night. Everett took his gloved hand in mine. Unsatisfied by our lack of direct contact, he rushed a quick peck to my lips.