Yet, there were mysteries about him that she could not solve. He grew silent on occasion, deep in thought, unreachable, which panicked her, afraid that he would somehow slip out of her grasp or her life. She wanted him to meet her parents but he always made some excuse for not doing so. He seldom picked her up at her home, but when he did he blew the horn and waited for her to come out of the house. Most often, they met downtown, at the library, at the Mall. Although this meant that she had to bus it to downtown Wickburg, she didn’t mind. He also had to bus it from the other side of Wickburg and needed a transfer to make the trip, She was vaguely disturbed but her accelerating heart, the small, sweet gasps of breath when he came into sight, obliterated her misgivings.

  She pondered whether she should tell him about the trashing. Once or twice she brought up the subject. Subtly, she thought. Said: “Some terrible things happen these days, Buddy.” She loved saying his name. “Like rape and trashing.”

  A startled look on his face, he turned away from her. Did not follow her lead. Changed the subject, in fact. Pointed out something or other in the park.

  Another time, she said: “Some people have no respect for others.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, like other people’s property. Wrecking it, trashing.” That word again—trashing. Why couldn’t she just come out and tell him about what had happened? About Karen in the hospital. Was she afraid that this would somehow alienate him, the way the trashing had come between her and Patti and Leslie? But what she and Buddy shared was different from those friendships, if they had been friendships at all.

  Why, then, didn’t she take a chance? Did that hidden part of him deter her? Or did it have to do with Harry Flowers?

  There, she had said his name. Ever since she met Buddy, she had relegated Harry Flowers to the dim corners of her mind, refusing to think about him. Could not allow herself to think of him. She knew that Harry Flowers went to Wickburg Regional, where Buddy was also a student. Harry Flowers was a senior and Buddy, a junior. Did Buddy know Harry Flowers? Did they nod to each other in the cafeteria? Buddy used to play basketball—had they been teammates? Stop it, stop it, the told herself. Stop asking those questions. Wickburg Regional was a huge high school, thousands of students, drawing them not only from that city but the surrounding towns as well. It was possible that they did not know each other, had not even heard of each other.

  Reveling in the glow of Buddy’s love, she managed, most of the time, to set aside her concerns about Harry Flowers. Except for her visits to Karen in the hospital, she could almost believe that the trashing had happened in another place, another time of her life, a time that was over and done with. Harry Flowers also belonged to that time.

  She also realized that the foul odor was gone from her life along with the thought of Harry Flowers.

  Thank God for Buddy Walker, she murmured one afternoon in the hospital chapel.

  As if saying a prayer.

  The first time Jane mentioned the word trashing, Buddy flinched, then turned away in self-defense, his thoughts racing wildly as he anticipated what her next words would be. He had to head her off, change the subject. Luckily, his eyes fastened on a funny-sad scene: a woman’s shopping bag collapsed and all her groceries rolled haphazardly toward the gutter. He helped the woman retrieve the groceries and stood patiently with her, holding the soup cans, until her husband pulled up in his car.

  Jane brought up the subject of trashing once or twice more and each time he was able to sidestep or change the subject. He had the distinct feeling that she wanted to talk about the trashing at her house. Why did she hesitate? Why didn’t she simply tell him? Terrible thought: did she suspect that he had been involved? He shook his head in protest. How could she love him, let him hold her, kiss her, caress her, if she thought he had participated in the trashing, in hurting her sister? The possibility of having Jane find out that he was guilty, after all, was an ominous shadow in their relationship. The shadow that kept him drinking, even though his desire for booze had lessened since he had met her. He had to be more devious now, of course. Had to keep Jane from the knowledge of his drinking. He worried about his breath, wished that he could buy a guaranteed breath-freshener, not trusting Certs or Scope. He chewed all kinds of gum, which he hated, the taste too sweet and cloying. Sometimes held his breath or breathed through his nose when he was close to her. Felt her stiffen on occasion when they kissed, and wondered if she could taste the gin on his tongue. The simple thing, of course, would be to stop drinking altogether. But drinking these days enhanced the happiness that Jane had brought to him. The marvel of liquor: changing with his desires, magnifying the good things of his life. Drinking gently, not gulping frantically anymore but sipping slowly, bringing into focus the wonder of Jane and their love, allowing him visions of the two of them together through the coming years.

  No more the intensity, the desperate quality of drinking but a different kind now, dreamlike, gentle.

  Stepping through the revolving doors of Filene’s one afternoon, they emerged on the sidewalk and met his mother. Stunned glances, time suspended for the fraction of a minute as they stared at each other. He stumbled through the introductions: “Jane … my mother … Mom … Jane Jerome …” His mother, elegant as usual, every hair in place although a windy day, paused, eyebrows raised in curiosity, glancing at him inquiringly as if to ask: How long has this been going on? And he realized, sadly, the chasm between their lives, how they, did not connect anymore. She had not mentioned the retreat since that meeting in her bedroom. He had not asked her about it. Felt dismayed now.

  It’s lovely to meet you,” his mother said. He was proud of her stylish manner. Leaning confidentially toward Jane, she said: “Buddy has been so happy lately that I thought there must be something wonderful going on in his life. And now I see why …”

  Which inflicted further guilt. He should have told her about Jane. Then thought: why hadn’t she inquired if she saw how much I had changed? He saw that life was never simple.

  Walking along later, whipped by the winds, Jane’s hand tucked in his and both their hands in his jacket pocket, he thought about his mother and father—and love. How they had probably once been swept with the same kind of love he and Jane shared. Did love change over the years? Become diluted, pale? Or did it deepen? Or did it become less equal? His father had fallen in love with someone else. But not his mother. He knew how devastated his life would become if Jane were to leave him. Is that what had happened to his mother, abandoned by her husband, the man she loved, the man who was supposed to love her and keep on loving her through the years? Until death do us part. And his father: he was in love now with this woman, Fay, enough in love with her to leave his family. A terrible thing but—but did he feel toward that woman, Fay, the way Buddy felt about Jane? Suppose he had met Jane when he was involved with someone else and …

  “What’s the matter, Buddy?” Jane asked, pressing against him, warding off the wind, her hand still in his, warm and moist.

  “Nothing,” he said, confused by his thoughts, by the strange thing love could be.

  “Your mother seems very nice,” she said. “She’s beautiful …”

  Right. But my father still left her, he thought.

  That night, he said to Jane: “I will love you forever.” Making a pledge, solemn, enduring.

  He waited for her response, waited for her to say:

  I will love you forever, too.

  But she didn’t speak, her head inclined, her hair brushing his cheek, the scent of her shampoo radiant and fresh.

  He waited. Then said: “Jane?”

  “Yes?”

  “I said: I will love you forever.”

  She nestled closer to him.

  “Will you love me forever, too?” Sad, because he had to ask.

  She drew back, puzzled, a frown creasing her forehead. “Don’t you know that by now?”

  He hugged her to him, trembling inside, having just seen, as if in a light-bulb flash, how empty and meaningless his life would be without her.

  Shuddering, he drew her to him, kissed her passionately, unendingly, until they drew away and she whispered tremulously: “Oh, Buddy.”

  The whole world in her voice as she spoke his name.

  “When are we going to meet this mystery man of yours?” her father asked at the dinner table.

  “He’s not a mystery man, Dad,” she replied. He’s just … shy.” Fumbling for the word shy, unable to find another word for Buddy’s reluctance to meet her parents.

  “Maybe there’s no Buddy at all,” Artie said. “Maybe he’s a figment of her imagination, Dad.” At times, there were flashes of the brat who had been her brother before the trashing. Although he still did not play his video games, he did not have nightmares anymore and had again joined the brat pack on the streets and sidewalks of the neighborhood.

  “He’s real, all right,” Jane said, remembering his touch, the way he had tremblingly cupped her breast the night before. “Give us time …”

  “He may be a very nice boy, Jane,” her father said, an edge to his voice, “but I think we should meet him. I don’t like the idea of having you dash out of the house and into his car …”

  “His mother’s car,” she amended.

  “I’m not talking about whose car,” her father said, voice sharp now. “I’m talking about a boy you’re spending a lot of time with, that you’re all dreamy-eyed about, and we’ve never met him. He’s never set foot into this house …”

  “We’re just trying to show you that we care about you,” her mother said, gently, placatingly.

  “Don’t you trust me?” Jane asked.

  “Of course we trust you, hon,” her mother said. “But is it so unreasonable to want to meet this boy you think is so wonderful? Don’t you want to share it all with us?”

  Brushing her hair later in her room, she knew that her relationship with Buddy would remain incomplete until two things happened: telling him about the trashing and introducing him to her parents.

  Both happened unexpectedly that same night.

  She and Buddy had just stepped off the bus that brought them back to Burnside from Wickburg when they encountered her mother and father strolling along Main Street after seeing a movie at the Downtown Cinema. Flustered, embarrassed, but delighted, she managed the introductions and then stood silently proud as Buddy, very politely, shook their hands, murmuring “Pleased to meet you” a bit shyly, stammering endearingly. Looking at him through her parents’ eyes, she was pleased at what she saw: a good-looking and polite young man, neat in his tan cords and brown sport shirt. Her pleasure increased when her father said: “Hope you’ll drop around the house sometime,” and Buddy answered: “Thank you, sir, I will.”

  Perhaps that meeting was the reason why, a few minutes later, Jane told him about the trashing as they sat on a park bench at the edge of Jedson Park, basking in the warmth and fragrance of the spring night. The words popped out of her mouth without plan or rehearsal.

  “My house was trashed a while ago,” she said. “These guys wrecked it. My sister is still in the hospital, in a coma. She fell down the cellar stairs. Or was pushed …” Could say no more, her throat constricting.

  His arm went around her shoulder, gripped her tightly. “I know,” he said, voice hoarse as if his own throat were constricted.

  “You knew all the time?” she asked, turned to him. “Why didn’t you say something?”

  “I didn’t know how much it would hurt you to talk about it,” he said. “I wanted you to do it in your own time.”

  “It was terrible, Buddy,” she said, shuddering, relieved that the topic was out in the open and that he had not withdrawn from her. Her earlier reluctance to talk about the trashing was replaced now by a need to talk, to tell him what had happened from her point of view, not from what he had read in the newspaper or heard from other people. As she spoke he kept shaking his head, frowning, wincing sometimes as if her anguish were his own, as if he, too, had been damaged by the trashers. She had never loved him more than at this moment.

  “Poor Buddy,” she said, stroking his cheek. “Don’t feel so bad. My family’s fine now. The doctors are sure that Karen will come to soon. All the tests show that there is no brain damage.” Actually, the doctors weren’t sure at all—but she wanted to offer him consolation because he seemed so sad.

  Later, when he left her at the steps of her house, he kissed her with a prolonged intensity that left her breathless, as if he would never kiss her again.

  “I love you,” she whispered as she slipped out of his arms. She had spoken those words to him a thousand times but never with such passion and fervor. “Thank you for being so wonderful …” Dashing into the house, she was exhilarated by the evening’s events. But later, slipping on her pajamas, she wondered if she should have asked him about Harry Flowers.

  While Buddy, at home, desperately drank himself into a stupor and then oblivion for the first time since he had met her.

  They had just left the Pizza Palace at the Mall two days later when he spotted Harry Flowers stepping off the escalator. Buddy stiffened, looked around wildly for a place to hide although he knew there was no way to escape. He turned toward Jane, trying to block Harry’s view of her and she leaned against him, misinterpreting his movement, thinking he wanted to get closer to her body. She looked up at him, smiling that self-satisfied smile he loved to see on her face. Taking her elbow, he steered her away from the escalator and she allowed herself to be navigated. He could not resist looking back over his shoulder, however, risking a quick glance to assure himself that Harry had come and gone without seeing them. The pizza with pepperoni became lead in his stomach when he saw Harry standing twenty-five feet away, a weird and evil smile on his face as he waved to Buddy.

  Buddy did not wave back, did not acknowledge Harry’s presence but maneuvered Jane around the corner, sick to his stomach suddenly.

  That night, at home, he waited for the telephone to ring. He roamed restlessly around the house, looking out the windows, turning the television on, watching it awhile, then turning it off again. Harry Flowers: his nemesis, his downfall. After Jane had told him of the trashing on that park bench, he had been waiting for her to mention his name. His name had been in the newspaper. Jane had certainly read that story and saw it. Buddy waited, in fear that she would say: “Harry Flowers—he goes to Wickburg Regional, too. Do you know him?” She had not mentioned him but ever since, he had endured a special kind of torture when they were together. He felt trapped, helpless, sensing that he was on the verge of losing Jane Jerome.

  The telephone rang as he went into the bathroom. He let it ring, standing motionless, hoped it would keep on ringing and nobody would answer. Which was impossible, of course. Phone rings, someone answers.

  “Buddy, it’s for you,” Addy called.

  He picked up the phone in the living room, out of earshot of Addy in her room and his mother going over household accounts in the den.

  “Hey, Buddy, what’s going on?” Harry asked. That sly insinuating voice.

  “Nothing,” Buddy said. Maybe he had not seen him and Jane together, after all.

  “Saw you at the Mall today, too bad we didn’t have a chance to talk …” Voice casual now, almost too casual. But at least no phony accent.

  “Was that you? I thought it was you but wasn’t sure …”

  “Oh, it was me all right, Buddy, but you seemed in a hurry. Either that or you didn’t want to talk to me right then …”

  “Well, I was in sort of a hurry …” And let the sentence end, blowing air out of his mouth.

  “You were with a girl, Buddy. You keeping secrets from Harry? Got a girlfriend and haven’t told Harry about it?”

  “She’s not my girl,” Buddy said. “Just a girl I knew. We have a pizza together once in a while. I think we went to a movie once.”

  “You think you went to a movie? Aren’t you sure, Buddy? Is your memory that bad? I mean, did you go to a movie with this girl or didn’t you?”

  “Yeah, that’s right, we did go to a movie. I mean, it wasn’t really a date …”

  How can I get out of this stupid conversation?

  “Who is she, Buddy? Anybody at school? Anybody I know?”

  “No, you wouldn’t know her.”

  “Why wouldn’t I know her? I mean, I know a lot of people, Buddy, and you don’t know everybody I know, do you? So how do you know I wouldn’t know her?”

  Jesus, Buddy thought, perspiration gathering in his armpits, his palms, his crotch, everywhere.

  “Well, she’s new in town. So I figured you wouldn’t know her. I mean, she doesn’t know many people here and she doesn’t go to Wickburg Regional …”

  “Where does she go then?”

  Buddy’s hand was so slippery with sweat that the telephone almost said from his grasp.

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know? Let me get this straight. You’re going out with this girl, right, you eat pizza with her, right, you go to the movies with her and you don’t know where she goes to school?”

  “She doesn’t like to talk about it. About school, I mean. She’s having problems transferring from out of town and would prefer not to discuss it.”

  Buddy’s mind was racing so fast, to lie, to fabricate, that he felt dizzy.

 

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