!!!!!!!********WORKING DRAFT********!!!!!!!
Thanksgiving came and went as a blur. Mike and I had one afternoon and evening together, the Friday after. A drizzly mist greeted us downtown as we walked from store to store, circling Shillito’s to see the animated Christmas scenes: smartly dressed families with children, impeccably coiffed, opening presents; a sleigh stuck in North Pole snow, reindeer in front pulling hard while elves in back pushed to get Santa off the ground in time; finally, the live scene of Santa in the window, greeting small children one-by-one on his knee while green-suited assistants took pictures.
I tolerated this; still I announced, “We don’t have a tree, or anything like that, you know. In our house, we don’t do Christmas, that’s for sure. Some of our friends, they put up lights around the house. Never the multi-colored ones, though, always blue.”
“Yeah, I notice that sometimes,” Mike replied. “What about that, does it mean anything?”
“I dunno, maybe like blood around the door? ‘There’s Jews inside.’ Maybe it’s a way to fit in and still say we’re special.”
After admiring the lights hanging from the top of the statue in the fountain on the square, we checked out the RKO Albee. The poster out front for The Professionals featured crossed bandoliers over rugged images of Burt Lancaster and Lee Marvin, valiantly trying to wrest a busty Claudia Cardinale from the clutches of a Mexican bandit. I was relieved when Mike said, “No way. Let’s go back to your house, OK?”
As we got there, mom and Linda were in the kitchen. We hadn’t had lunch yet, so I asked, “Want to have a sandwich? We’re not going to eat until after 7, I think. Right, mom?”
She smiled, nodded, and wiped flour-dusted hands on her apron. Pointing to the cabinet, she announced, “Sweetie, I think all we have is peanut butter. That OK with you, Michael?”
“No problem.”
Absolutely no problem, I thought. Mike had told me all he ever ate as a kid was mashed potatoes and peanut butter sandwiches. Probably on white bread. He seemed clueless how to make them, though, so I went to work, starting with the whole wheat bread we always had around. I took down a jar of Peter Pan, and scooped out a slab with a knife.
“Wait a minute! What are you doing? What about the jelly? What about the butter?”
“Huh?”
“That’s the way my mom always makes ‘em. Butter first, helps the peanut butter slide down easier.”
Sighing, I acquiesced to this demand, thinking, “The things we do for love.” I handed it over, and watched as he smushed the slices together, causing the peanut butter to ooze out towards his palm.
“What a minute! Aren’t you going to freshen it up?”
His turn to say, “Huh?”
I looked up at mom, then Linda, for some help. As I licked the mess off the bread crusts, Linda said, “Right, that’s the only way to eat it. Gotta keep your hands clean, Mike.” She was emptying the dishwasher, working on the silverware. My sister had a distinctive technique here. She called it her “symphony.” Each utensil went into the metal tray with a distinct note, higher for the forks, lower, almost basso for the knives. By altering the beat, she sometimes could make a simple melody out of it.
“What are you playing tonight, Linda?” I asked.
“How much is that doggie in the window,” she came back, eyeing Mike all the time. He did look like a forlorn puppy just then, his hair flopping nearly to his glasses, eyebrows uplifted as he chomped down on his meal.
“Come on, buddy,” I urged him. “Finish that up and let’s go to my room.” I shut the door behind us. I was about to take his hand, but looking up, I saw his mouth smeared and sticky. “Wait a minute…” Then I got a washcloth, moistened it with my tongue, and wiped him off, patting gently with my fingers. That produced one of his wan smiles, which kept growing, widening his eyes. Already standing close, it was natural to just melt together. After an exploratory brief kiss, I rested my head in the crook of his shoulder, face inward, listening to his heart beat.
“I miss you. I love you,” he murmured as he stroked my hair. I felt a tear erupt and trace a slow descent down my cheek.
Monday afternoon, in the Chatterbox office, waiting for the editorial board to meet, Lizzie asked, “So how as it?”
“How was what?” I deadpanned.
“Don’t be shy. The only thing you’ve talked about the past two weeks was Mike coming home. What did you do? Where did you go? Is he still Mike, or has he changed a lot?”
I recited a blow-by-blow of our day and evening, leaving out a few minor intimate details. Lizzie and I were both indeed still a bit shy when it came to things like that.
“Well, that all sounds like him, for sure. So you didn’t really do anything, just talked, ate dinner with your family, that’s all?”
“It was enough. Enough to tide me over until Christmas, I think.” The rest of the board had filtered in.
“Enough what, Janie?” Will asked. William Bayer had moved to Hyde Park the previous year, and shown himself to be both a wit and a writer of note. He’d quickly impressed the Chatterbox faculty, who put him on the Board with me, Kit, and Phil Schwartz. Funny, we were all National Merit Finalists, and again, I was the only girl on this team.
Lizzie eyed him, then looked back at me. “Did you hear from your early decision school, Will?” she asked, as if she knew the answer.
Smiling broadly, he proudly answered, “Sure did. I’m going to Wesleyan, just like Mike.” Turning away, he shifted gears, “Hey, Kit, did Miss Foley say it was OK for me to come to the debate practice Thursday night?”
Kit, absorbed in editing some copy for the lead article, just nodded and mumbled, “Sure.”
Will, still eager, looked at me and asked, “Are you guys, you and Liz Upton, going to be the timers for the team again?”
I stared at him, wondering what he knew. “Never entered my mind, Will. That team’s moved on, you know.”
“You could help us out; come on, Janie, don’t desert us.”
“Us?” I thought. I wondered where this was leading. He wasn’t even officially on the team yet. He wasn’t going to dislodge to Marc and Kit from their perch, so he’d have to pick one of the thespian categories. He didn’t seem very histrionic, although he did have a well developed ego, with a greatly inflated self-image. I turned away, relieved that Kit was calling us to order. Lizzie got up to attend to her Features page. On the way out, she threw me a quizzical look over her shoulder, tilting her head towards Will.
********