Best Man Read online

  That scenario repeated itself several more times before the end of the summer. The only time it changed was the last night before I went away again. We sat on the blanket, and we kissed.

  “Hold me, Timmy.”

  I did as she asked. It was awkward, because we were sitting up, and we were inexperienced. But it was transcendent. When we said goodbye that night, standing beneath that crepe myrtle, our euphoria completely overwhelmed the sadness.

  • • • • •

  My third year at away at prep school was much like the first two. I was busy with sports and my academic work. I continued to excel in rowing, and my improvement on the ski slopes drew wide attention among my peers and even some of the faculty.

  While I had many friends at school, I wasn’t close to them. They were boys I went to class with, played sports with, and ate meals with. But they were not the kind of friends that I could share my feelings with. As they year progressed, I realized that there was only one person who fit the latter description, and that was Angela.

  I found myself looking forward to reuniting with her as the spring term neared its end, although I wasn’t quite sure just how we would reconnect. I also worried that she would find other boys and wouldn’t want to spend time with me any longer.

  I rang the doorbell, expecting a repeat of my earlier experiences, hoping desperately that her mother would not appear in the doorway to tell me Angela wasn’t there. That she was away for the summer, or that she just didn’t want to see me at all.

  Instead, the person who appeared as the door opened was not her mother. It was Angela. A little older, a little prettier, but the same smile.

  “Hi, Angela.”

  “Hello, Timothy. Come in. I knew you’d be here today. I heard you were getting in last night. It’s so good to see you again. You look great.”

  She grabbed my hand, not to hold hands, but to pull me into the house and into the living room, where she released me in front of the sofa her mother was sitting on.

  “Look, Mom! It’s Timothy. He’s back home again for the summer.”

  “Hello, Timothy. Sit down, please. Welcome home.”

  “Thanks, Mrs. Donatello. It’s nice to be back.”

  We followed the same routine, except this time I beat her to the punch.

  “I have some money, Angela. Let’s go get a soda or something.”

  “I’d like that.”

  She called to her mother.

  “We’re going out for a while Mom. I’ll be back for dinner.”

  We carried our drinks to one of the wooden tables in the Reservoir Field, and we sat looking at the water. It was peaceful, and we were happy. We told each other about our respective school years, those rapid-fire data dumps that allowed us to check all the boxes before moving on to things we could share. Our feelings about the world and about each other.

  Of course, we were still kids, and our feelings for each other could not be expressed explicitly. There were signals and codes that had to be used instead.

  “You’ve gotten taller.”

  “You have, too.”

  “And you fill out your shirt now.”

  I blushed when I said, “So do you, Angela.”

  I couldn’t tell her directly that I had missed her, but I was able to say, “I’ve been thinking all week about sitting here and drinking a Coke with you.”

  She couldn’t say it either, but her response was animated.

  “I’ve been thinking about it for two weeks.”

  We both understood. We were okay. But it still took a few more weeks before we could recover the lost ground. It wasn’t until after the Fourth of July fireworks that I found the nerve to reach for her hand as we walked home that evening. And it was another week before we kissed good-night. And another week after that before we sat on the blanket in the field and kissed and held each other.

  Once again, the end of the summer provided the catalyst for a step forward in our relationship, at least for the physical part. I think it was Angela who started it, when she leaned back on one elbow, facing me.

  “Kiss me, Timmy.”

  I did. And then I kissed her again, this time for a much longer time.

  “Angie.”

  It was all I was able to say.

  “Timmy, I have a question.” Her voice was slightly hesitant.

  “What?” My answer was correspondingly wary.

  “Do you know about French kissing?”

  “I’ve heard of it.”

  “But you haven’t done it?”

  “No.”

  My answer was probably too emphatic, but it was accurate. There had been a few occasions at school when the girls from Abbot came over to the Andover campus for a combined activity. But there wasn’t much opportunity for kissing of any kind.

  “What about you?” I asked.

  Her answer skirted the question.

  “They told us at school that it’s a mortal sin.”

  “Do you really think it is?”

  “I think when you genuinely care about someone, it’s okay. The older girls at school all talk about it.”

  Again, her expression contained neither admission nor denial.

  “Will you kiss me that way, Timmy? I’ll show you.”

  “Yeah, okay.” It was all I could manage.

  To this day, I don’t know what the proper words are to describe the experience. Intense? Spectacular? Miraculous? Maybe it was all of those. But it was wonderful. When we walked home that night, we held hands so tightly that I was afraid we wouldn’t be able to let go.

  It was near the end of the summer, and the few additional times we had together were equally as intense. The last night before I was to go back to Massachusetts, neither of us wanted to go home.

  “We should get going, Angie.”

  “I know.”

  We kissed some more.

  “You’re probably right. It’s getting late.

  I held her tight, and our bodies pressed together.

  “I don’t want you to go away, Timmy.”

  We kissed again, and I rubbed her shoulder.

  “I’ll get in trouble, but I don’t even care.”

  We clung together, and my hand moved down her back to touch her bottom.

  “Oh, Timmy.”

  “I’ve got to take you home, Angie.”

  “Not yet. This is too nice.”

  My hand moved back to her shoulder and then to the side. It was a cool night, and she was wearing a thin sweater. My hand moved over it to touch her breast.

  “Oh my God.”

  “Is it okay? Is it okay, Angie?”

  “Oh, yes. Of course, it is, Timmy. Just hold me tighter.”

  “I’m going to miss you, Angie.”

  It was the closest I would come to telling her how I felt. It was also a signal that our evening was over, and a minute or so later, we were walking back to her house.

  One last time that summer, we stood beneath the crepe myrtle and kissed. Not the intense, passionate kisses of those few minutes earlier, but sweet meaningful kisses that took the place of saying goodbye. Those last kisses said all the words we were unable to say aloud.

  * * *

  13

  Commencement

  My final year at Andover was certainly my best. At fall rowing, everyone said I’d be in the first varsity boat for sure. And in the winter, my fearlessness on the ski slopes caught the attention of all.

  The four years of my prep school experience had coincided with a sequence of dramatic events on the national and world stages. In the first week of December of my senior year, Apollo 17 was launched on what would become the last of America’s manned lunar missions. Many of my schoolmates were inspired by NASA’s accomplishments in those years, and “astronaut” became a frequent career goal, or at least a quiet aspiration.

  The space program did not entice me, however, at least not as a potential participant. I was more interested in the geopolitics of the space race. I enrolled in the elect
ive history course on the politics of international relations, and that is where I found my calling.

  I quickly began to realize that politics and international relations were inextricably linked to the art of spying. My term paper for the course was about the space race, the “missile gap” that had been exploited by Kennedy in his Presidential race, and the lunar explorations that served both to generate national bragging rights while serving as a proxy war between the two superpowers and enabling them to test their missile technology, all the while being monitored by the other side in a constant evaluation of their respective capabilities.

  The paper was very well received, and at the risk of seeming somewhat boastful, I will tell you that I was awarded the Kingsbury Prize in response. Certainly, it was a fitting capstone for my academic career at Andover.

  • • • • •

  The selection of a college that fall was a daunting task. Admittedly, there were councilors at Andover to advise me, recruiters from many of the best institutions to explain why their college should be my top choice, and even Uncle Christopher to suggest what might be the preferred option.

  I had been concerned about cost, just as I had been before enrolling at Andover three years earlier. My mother had encouraged me to follow my dreams, however, reminding me that most of the best colleges and universities would provide assistance to families lacking the financial wherewithal to pay full tuition and fees. Uncle Christopher had discreetly told me the same.

  “You need not worry, Timothy. Cost will not be an issue to concern you. Your goal should be excellence. Excellence of the school you select, and excellence in your effort once you get there. It is your future, my boy, and you must make the most of it.”

  When the list of colleges to which I would apply was finalized and prioritized, Dartmouth was in the first position. It seemed that some of my teachers at Andover were disappointed that it wasn’t Yale, but Uncle Christopher had hinted at his pleasure over my ranking.

  I thought my decision had come very quickly on the day I learned about Daniel Webster* in history class. The American statesman had represented Massachusetts in both the House of Representatives and the Senate, and he also was elected as a Representative to the former from the State of New Hampshire. Moreover, he served as Secretary of State for three different Presidents.

  As I read about this great man, I discovered he was a graduate of Dartmouth College, and I recalled the name of the summer cottage. Most people called it the Webster House, but properly speaking it was the Daniel Webster House. I also made the connection to my uncle. Christopher D. Webster. The middle initial stood for Daniel. These were no mere coincidences.

  The icing on the cake was what I read about Daniel Webster’s career as a constitutional lawyer. In one of his most famous cases, he argued in front of the Supreme Court against the efforts of the State of New Hampshire to take over Dartmouth College. But the college operated under a charter originally granted by King George III, and Webster successfully argued that Article I of the Constitution made the original contract inviolable. Dartmouth retained its status as an independent college.

  These discoveries made my decision easy, and I went back to my dormitory room that afternoon to revise and finalize my list. It was clear, and it was final. The institution at the top of the list was Dartmouth College.

  My decision did not necessarily mean that I would be accepted, but somehow, I knew it would happen. And it did. I was delighted, my teachers were pleased, my mother was happy, and Uncle Christopher expressed his full approval.

  • • • • •

  Commencement ceremonies were held the second weekend of June, and I was as proud as I could be. My mother was there, having arrived the night before with Uncle Christopher, and they appeared to be as proud of me as any parents in the audience. There were lots of photographs, and when I looked at them subsequently, I was surprised to see how the small boy who had entered Phillips Academy Andover four years earlier was now a head taller than his mother. Similarly, I was astonished when Uncle Christopher shook my hand after the ceremony and I realized that my eyes were at the same level as his.

  Following the commencement ceremony that Sunday, we packed my belongings, and we all got into Uncle Christopher’s new car. It was a brand-new Mercedes-Benz 450 SE. Gone was the sedate and elegant black of his previous car, replaced by electrifying metallic blue paint that would turn heads a quarter mile away. Believe it or not, Brad Waterhouse, the same classmate who commented on Uncle Christopher’s car our first day at Andover, saw us as we first approached the Mercedes and walked over to me.

  “He still knows how to pick out a great car.”

  I nodded pleasantly.

  “Think he’s gonna let you drive this one?”

  “We’ll see. Have a fun summer, Brad. And good luck at Yale next year.”

  “Thanks, Timothy. See ya’.”

  We drove most of the way back to Boston that afternoon, stopping for dinner at a restaurant in Marblehead. Uncle Christopher was in an unusually cheerful and expansive mood that day.

  “This is a celebration, Timothy. For you. In recognition of your success. You’ve done a fine job, my boy. All the way around. Academics and athletics. You’ve done me proud. And your mother. You’ve done us both proud.”

  After we were seated, he went on about the restaurant.

  “Finest lobster in New England, Timothy. Your mother will tell you that. You’re going to have a feast tonight.”

  The waiter brought a bottle of champagne and three glasses. I was surprised, because the rules at Andover were so strict. No alcoholic beverages. On pain of expulsion. It was one of those rules we never pushed.

  My uncle allowed the server to pour three glasses, one for each of us. I was under the legal age, but that didn’t seem to present a difficulty.

  “Timothy, you know the rules about alcoholic beverages, right? That they’re completely forbidden for Andover students.”

  “Yes, sir. I do.”

  He smiled broadly and with more empathy that I typically saw from him.

  “It turns out, Timothy, that you are no longer a student at Andover. You just graduated! So, raise your glass, and we’ll drink a toast to you.”

  And just like that, my time at Phillips Academy Andover was over.

  * * *

  14

  Transition

  I had written to Angela late in the spring of my senior year at Andover to tell her when I was going to be back in Washington, and I said I would come over to her house. So, she knew I was coming, and I knew I was going. Nevertheless, I was unprepared for her appearance at the front door. I will grant that we had each become aware of significant changes in the other a year earlier. But the changes this time were astonishing. Perhaps that is an odd term, because the changes were not extreme. It might be more accurate to describe them as significant.

  The summer before, I had been surprised to see a girl for whom the first signs of an emerging woman were hidden just beneath the surface. But here I was on this occasion, face to face with a someone whose childhood qualities remained visible to me only because I knew where to look. What could be seen by any other observer was a young woman. A beautiful young woman.

  I was prepared that summer for a slow rekindling of our friendship and of our nascent romance. However, I discovered that we resumed our level of comfort and intimacy with remarkable alacrity. Certainly, there were some awkward moments the first few times we were together. Asking questions the other might not want to answer, or providing answers the other might not want to hear. If there were rocks below the calm waters, we did not strike them.

  By the end of the first weekend, we could hardly keep our hands away from each other. Unlike previous summers, we held hands when we walked together, even in broad daylight, even in crowded areas. There was no longer any question about it. We were a couple. Boyfriend and girlfriend.

  Evenings in the park resumed where they had left off. Usually, it was the Reservoir Field, l
ying on the old Army blanket, smelling the freshly mown grass, watching the sun set beyond the reservoir as the first fireflies made their appearance. When the growing darkness provided sufficient privacy, holding hands would proceed to an intimate embrace, and by midsummer, we would be there making out almost every evening.

  I don’t mean to suggest that our relationship had become exclusively physical. We didn’t have as much time together as in prior summers, but we were circumspect in daylight hours, and we frequently brought books with us when we went off on an outing. We might sit by the edge of the Potomac and read silently together for hours at a time, or we might begin talking about something in one of our books.

  Nor would I suggest that our discussions were limited to the realm of fiction. Those were exciting times, and we shared an interest in politics and current events. And Washington was at the center of it all. Earlier in the year, Nixon had halted offensive operations in Vietnam, and the Paris Peace Accords were signed. The Watergate scandal was unfolding, and the existence of the White House taping system was revealed in mid-July as the Senate carried out its investigation. Combat troops had been withdrawn from Vietnam in the spring, the POWS had been freed, and the last American troops were preparing to return home. Congress passed legislation to end further funding of the war.

  “I’m so glad it’s over, Timmy. If it had kept going, they would have called you.”

  An unexpected tear rolled down her cheek. I didn’t know what to say, so I squeezed her hand.

  “Do you think they’ll impeach Nixon?”

  “Not sure. I guess it depends on whether they find anything to link him to the break-in.”

  “Yeah. But it’s all sleazy, no matter what.”

  “Want to go to the movies on Saturday? There’s a new one showing. American Graffiti. It’s supposed to be good.”

  “Sounds like fun.”

  • • • • •

  Angela and I discussed college during that summer, but we shared a reluctance to spend too much time talking about something that soon would separate us. She was happy that I would be able to attend a top school, and she had plans herself for the coming year. They were still not finalized, but it seemed likely she would be taking courses at Mount Vernon College. It was a junior college at the time but was in the process of becoming a four-year school.