Best Man Page 7

And I assure you that this was important to boys in their early teens. Knowing that we were transitioning away from childhood, we welcomed these changes, and we wanted them to happen as quickly as possible.

  Facial hair, of course, had its own entanglements. Each of us would check the mirror on a regular basis, although we did so in a way that nobody knew we were doing so. Each time, we always hoped to spot that rare species on our face — a hair. But then, when it finally arrived, it was accompanied by a conundrum. The rules forbade us to have any sort of beard or mustache, but none of us wanted to be accused of deception. “He doesn’t have to shave. He’s just pretending.”

  So after carefully ascertaining that enough of the other boys in my dormitory had seen that one new hair on my chin, I proceeded to shave it off. It was a rite of manhood in which we delighted, not yet understanding what a tedious chore it would become.

  So, there I was, back in Washington for the summer. I checked in at the supermarket to see if Mr. Miller might hire me again. He looked me over, commented on how much I’d grown, and told me he needed someone who could work half-time for the entire summer. It was perfect. Lots of free time, and enough money to meet my family obligations.

  As you almost certainly have guessed, the person who was most surprised by the changes in my outward appearance was Angela. I still remember quite clearly the exchange when her mother answered my ring on the doorbell.

  “Timothy! Come inside, boy. We were expecting you would stop by this week.”

  I must have shown surprise as that statement, for she continued with an explanation.

  “Your mother told some people at the church, so everyone knows you’ve come home again. I’ll go tell Angela. She’ll be delighted to see you.”

  A minute later, Angela bounced into their small foyer where I was waiting. I say “bounced,” because I was looking down, and her feet showed the spring in her step to which I had grown accustomed over the previous few years. There was no question about it. It was Angela.

  She stopped in her tracks with a slightly befuddled expression on her face. I hadn’t figured it out yet, but for the first time since we’d known each other, she had to look up at me. I had grown taller.

  “Hi Timothy! You look … wonderful.”

  I was slightly ill at ease, presumably because our old intimacy as best buddies was almost a year out of practice.

  “Uh … hello Angela.”

  Her befuddled look changed to astonishment when she heard my voice. She didn’t even say anything at first.

  At the same time something had begun to register for me as well. This wasn’t the same Angela after all. She was different. Not the same kid I’d been hanging out with for five years. She was a girl. And by that, I mean she was pretty. And she had a shape. I was at a complete loss for words, but she rescued me.

  “Let’s go down the street and get a soda. I’ve got money from my allowance.”

  There was a small, family-owned store that we sometimes called a candy store, although in current jargon it would be a convenience store. We’d been going there for years if we had enough nickels and dimes to pool together for a purchase, and it was just down the street from the Reservoir Field, which had a few picnic tables. They kept the grass mowed, and it was a great place to sit under the trees on a warm June day.

  We got a couple of Cokes and some pretzels to share, and we walked to the field. We shared that bounce in our steps, and we found it almost impossible to talk to each other. Not because we couldn’t find the words, but because there were so many. We’d both start to say something at one time, and then we’d both stop. Then we’d laugh and start the whole cycle over again. After all, we each had almost a year’s worth of news and memories to share.

  It was a wonderful afternoon. We talked, and talked, and talked even more. In only minutes, we had fully regained our former easiness with each other. It was just like the end of the previous summer when we said our goodbyes.

  Except it wasn’t. Not quite.

  Nothing would ever be the same again. We had changed in ways that could not be undone, and soon enough, we would never want them to. But we quickly reestablished that we remained best friends, and we had almost the entire summer mapped out.

  Angela also had a summer job. She was a part-time cashier at one of the small shops just past the reservoir. And her days were almost the same as those Mr. Miller wanted me to work, so our free time would match. I expected that we would take up exactly where we left off nine months earlier.

  For the most part, our first summer of high school went according to plan. We usually had about three evenings and two or three full days to spend together on summertime activities. Bike rides, hikes, exploring, fishing, and days at the library. There wasn’t enough time to do everything.

  We both had assigned reading for the summer, and to make it more fun, we each read the other’s books as well as our own. And then, because we were interested in the books, we talked about them. We didn’t realize it during the summer, but that was an enormous help to each of us during the next school year. And maybe even after that, since we started by reading twice the number of required books, and our discussions brought us to a much higher level of understanding of them. We liked doing this so much that we read quite a few extra books that summer, often at the suggestion of the librarian.

  One of our best adventures never happened. It was a proposed two-day hike along the towpath on the Chesapeake & Ohio Canal.* The canal dates back to 1825 and goes all the way to Cumberland Maryland, a distance of nearly two hundred miles. We settled on a much shorter trip, but the overnight part seemed to raise some concerns at the parental level, and we had to settle for day trips.

  Our longest hike was about ten miles in each direction, all the way to Great Falls with its impressive rapids and waterfalls. There were places only a few miles from home where we could leave the towpath and go swimming in the Potomac, so we frequently wore swimsuits under our regular clothes on these hikes.

  On Saturdays, we were allowed to stay out later than on weekdays, but not much past dark. Still, it let us share some wonderful summer evenings. We would go down to the field by the reservoir and talk. We would watch the fireflies and the people with their dogs, and those evenings would be magic. About halfway through the summer, we realized that we would be much more comfortable if we had something to sit on that was softer than the wooden benches or the grass.

  That was where my next stage of tradecraft originated. I had a somewhat moth-eaten, olive-drab, surplus Army blanket at home, and we agreed that it would be ideal for our purposes. But we agreed that is might be unseemly for us to walk around with a blanket, although I don’t think we were quite sure why. Perhaps we didn’t want anybody to mistake our friendship for a romance. In any event, we decided that a level of secrecy was necessary. The first step was to put the blanket in my rucksack, which I still carried, although not as often. The second step, which required my mother being out for a few minutes, was to stash the backpack below the back steps of our house.

  The third and final step was to take the rucksack and hide it in the bushes across the street from the reservoir near a building that was some kind of a small government structure. Unlike the Reservoir Field, this small plot of land was not kept up, so it was highly unlikely that anyone would find our secret. From then on, if we wanted to go sit out in the field, we just stopped to get the blanket first. It was discreet, and it was convenient.

  By late August, I think we both started to feel somewhat apprehensive about going back to school. I can’t pinpoint the exact date, but I recall an evening when it was getting dark as we sat together on our blanket in the Reservoir Field. Sunset was arriving earlier with the end of summer, and it was almost completely dark when we packed up. I slung the rucksack over a shoulder, and we began to walk in the direction of home.

  It felt like an accident, yet it might have been intentional, although whether on my part or Angela’s, I can’t be sure at all. A slight adjustment in
pace to avoid a crack in the sidewalk or to sidestep a fallen acorn might have been enough. A simple brush of her arm against mine. It would have required no more. So, there it was. Suddenly, without warning, we were holding hands. If it indeed was accidental, there was nevertheless no effort made by either of us to undo the inadvertent contact.

  For me, at least, the touch had been electric. It went from my fingertips, through my hand, and up my arm. Then, the nerve impulses diverged and continued simultaneously up to my brain and down to my toes. I had never felt anything like it. Then again, I had never before been fifteen years old.

  I invented some foolish reason, and we walked the long way around the block to her house. We walked up to the steps in front of her house and stopped by the crepe myrtle tree that shaded us from the porch light. Embarrassment intruded suddenly, and I remember letting go of her hand as we faced each other. After an evening of easy and pleasant conversation, I had no words.

  Quite unexpectedly, at least for me, she leaned in close and kissed me. On the lips. Not a long kiss, but a real one.

  “Good-night, Timmy.”

  Nobody had ever called me that. Nobody else ever would. The kiss had stunned me, and I was able to respond only with great difficulty. “G’night … Angie.”

  We saw each other only twice more in the coming week. The first time was a free afternoon, and we went to the library. We each had one book from our summer lists that wasn’t finished, so the time together seemed much more like work than play. And then the last time. It was on a Thursday. I don’t know why I remember the day, but I know that is when it was. We each finished up at work that afternoon at about four, and we knew we only had a couple of hours left.

  “Let’s go up toward Battery Kemble Park. To our special place.”

  She was referring to one of those hidden locations just off MacArthur Boulevard. We walked a hundred yards or so along a dirt trail and turned off where a fallen tree lay at the edge of a small clearing. We sat down next to each other without saying a word.

  Once more, it happened unexpectedly. It might have been accidental that time as well, but there’s no way to be sure. It was a simple change in quantum states. One moment, we were sitting there, two people near each other as they sat on a log, and in the next instant, without looking and without words, we were again holding hands. And the sensation was no different as it ran through my body.

  Nothing more happened. We didn’t kiss, and we didn’t embrace. But we sat there for a very long time. Holding hands. No more, and no less. We didn’t even talk, but somehow, we communicated. We both knew it was the end of our summer, and we understood that our relationship had somehow changed. We were no longer little kids, even if we weren’t yet adults.

  After what seemed like hours but was probably far less, we nodded to each other. More nonverbal communication to indicate that it was time. We stood up, hand in hand, and walked back down the trail. When we reached MacArthur Boulevard and stepped onto the sidewalk, we reentered the world, and it happened once again, this time in reverse. Suddenly, and quite unexpectedly, our hands had separated, and we were just a boy and a girl walking near each other along the street.

  When we reached her house, she stopped at the base of her front walk and turned to me. She smiled. Not a sad smile, nor was it one of infatuation. Just a genuine smile of affection.

  “See ya’ Timothy. Have a good year.”

  “Yeah … You too, Angela. Study hard.”

  • • • • •

  I thought a lot about Angela while I was away at school. At least I did at the beginning of the year. But as the year progressed, I must admit that my attention turned toward more immediate matters. I had my studies, and my athletic pursuits, school friends, possibly of the greatest importance, my time alone in the library.

  That fall, I became friendly with one of the first-year students, a boy name Peter Weatherford, who grew up in Georgetown, Massachusetts, about a thirty-minute drive from Andover. We found a common bond from growing up in places with the same name. Pete also chose crew has his sport, so we saw a lot of each other during the fall term.

  When they found out that I wasn’t going back to Washington for Thanksgiving, the Weatherfords invited me to their home for the holiday weekend, and I happily accepted. It was a delightful weekend, and we thoroughly enjoyed three days of eating and relaxing.

  It was during that weekend that I began to realize the extent to which Pete held me in high esteem. When the subject of crew came up at the dinner table, he was effusive in his praise.

  “You wouldn’t believe it, Mom and Dad. Timothy has only been rowing for a year, and the other boys and the coaches are already talking like he’s the very best. They said that if he keeps up his progress, he’ll soon be on the top varsity eights.”

  At first, I demurred, but it was hopeless. Peter’s parents seemed as impressed by me as he was. And I must admit, I was really quite flattered by their collective praise.

  A similar situation arose when Peter told them I had won a Webster prize, given by the History Department. Again, my efforts to downplay the significance of the award were undermined by the praise of the Weatherford family.

  I looked forward to further interactions with this delightful family, but it was not to be. It seems that Peter’s aspirations and imagination overmatched his abilities. I was aware that he’d had a few bad exam scores that first term, and he was unable to improve his grades sufficiently. At the end of the spring term, when we all said our goodbyes, ours was a particularly solemn one. He’d already told me that he would not be back at Andover the following fall.

  While unable to return to Washington for Thanksgiving during my second year at prep school, I certainly made it back for the Christmas holidays. I really enjoyed being with my mother again, and she went out of her way to fix all my favorite meals. We even had a small turkey on Christmas day.

  Unfortunately, the holidays did not live up to my expectations. Whatever my assumptions might have been in September, I discovered that the approach of December had been accompanied by the return of Angela to my thoughts. Consequently, I created in my imagination a wonderful pageant of activity and conversation. Angela and I were the only characters in this play, and I derived great pleasure from the simple anticipation of watching it play out.

  After my first day or so at home, with my mother demonstrating her sincere and constant devotion to her only son, I went to Angela’s house. After a brief wait in the chill winter air, her mother answered the door.

  “Timothy!” she said, with a big smile. “How good to see you.”

  “It’s nice to see you too, Mrs. Donatello. Merry Christmas.” And then, after an awkward pause, “Is Angela home?”

  Her look of surprise made my heart sink.

  “You didn’t know? I’m so sorry, Timothy. She went up to spend her Christmas break in New York with my sister.”

  “Oh. I didn’t realize.”

  “She’ll be so disappointed she missed you. But you’ll both be here next summer, right? She’ll have lots to tell you then. Broadway shows, ice skating at Rockefeller Center. And her cousins, both her age. She’ll have so much to tell you about.”

  “Yeah. I guess so. Well, tell her I’m sorry we missed each other. And Merry Christmas again, Mrs. Donatello.”

  “Merry Christmas to you also, Timothy.”

  Time flew during the winter and spring terms, so June arrived before I even realized it was coming. Once again, I ventured over to Angela’s house a day after returning to D.C., and this time her mother opened the door with a smile and a wink.

  “Hello Timothy. She’s expecting you. Come on in.”

  We sat shyly in the living room for a few minutes, until her mother finally excused herself to do some housework.

  “You kids let me know if you need anything.”

  I was surprised to discover how much our relationship had regressed. The last time we had seen each other, we were completely simpatico, but here we were, reunited
at last, yet awkward and uncomfortable.

  We talked for a few minutes about unimportant things, the way grown men discuss sports teams when they cannot broach more difficult or intimate topics. The distance between us seemed so great that I was nearly in a panic. Was it possible that there was someone else? Another boy? Could she have a boyfriend here in D.C., and she was only talking in generalities until she could send me packing and go off with the person she truly cared about?

  After a few minutes, she must have realized how uncomfortable I was, and she changed the subject from whatever silliness we had been talking about.

  “I have some money from my allowance, Timothy. Let’s go down the street and get a Coke or something.”

  She smiled at me when she said that. It was the same old smile.

  The summer went much as the previous one had. We were both working longer hours than before, and the only extended periods we had together were on the weekends. Maybe it had something to do with our age, but our preferences seemed to have evolved. Bike rides and hikes were out of favor, but long walks were in. A few times we would go to a movie on Saturday and then hang out in the Reservoir Field afterward. My rucksack with the old Army blanket made its reappearance, and we were happy spending our free time together.

  I didn’t quite understand why, but we did not quickly regain our physical closeness. At least half the summer passed before, one evening as darkness fell, we were holding hands again. I remember that when we reached the front of her house that night, I kissed her as well.

  “G’night, Angie.”

  “Night, Timmy.”

  And so the summer passed, uneventfully, tranquilly, and happily. As the end approached, I think we both felt the impending separation, and a tinge of sadness began to encroach. One evening, as twilight fell, we were walking near the reservoir, and she pointed to a place on the other side of the field, near some trees.

  “It’s more private over there.”

  We sat on the blanket, talking quietly, happily being ourselves and being with each other. We held hands. And we were quiet together. We kissed. And then we talked again for a while. It was a wonderful evening.