[Working title: We Could Never See Tomorrow Chapter 1]
Mike grabbed a set, looked at each one in turn, as if making sure all the numbers were there and in the correct order. He beamed, started laughing when he saw the last one. It was oriented horizontally, not vertical like the numbers, and read, “STOP!”
“Paisley – I guess that’s our thing, huh?” He turned to Bobby as he said this, who just shrugged in reply.
Miss Foley suggested, “Why don’t we give them a try? Mike, just start your first affirmative, and Janie, you sit there” – she pointed to her couch about ten feet away from the kitchen table – “then ring this bell when you want to start the clock.”
Mike, all business, laid his lectern next to the flower vase and coffee cup, and started to unscrew the handle. Lizzie plopped down next to me on the couch; Bobby sat down on the other side, giving us a smile and a pat on my knee as he did. I looked at Liz, pleading for help.
She piped up, “Where did you get that box? How does it work?”
That’s all Mike needed. As he placed the handle down and lifted up the front, unfolding it to become, with the top, a slanted resting place for his note card, he explained, “My father made this for us. See, look at the space on top for paper, and underneath, we’ve got two drawers for our cards…”
“Yeah, Mike’s real proud of that, but I’ve gotta take my dog for a walk in an hour; let’s get this done,” Miss Foley said, nodding at me to start the clock.
I rang the little bell, held up the first card, which read, “Start”, and studied Michael as he went into his spiel. I’d heard it before, and rather than follow the argument, examined the boy as if I were framing him for a photograph. His face was long and goyish, and it looked like he wasn’t really shaving yet. His arms also seemed a little long, fingers ending about six inches above his knees. Those hands! I couldn’t keep my eyes off them. They seemed to say as much as his words, implying a maturity of thought that belied his tender visage. He had full, dark eyebrows, slightly arched, which could move independently. He used them to underscore and emphasize the facts he wanted us the remember. I was feeling that flutter down in my stomach again, and my nerves turned a little jangly.
Bobby jabbed me in the ribs. Startled, I looked over. He was tapping his watch and glaring at the cards. My reverie interrupted, I flipped to “5”, and got back to my task. The other guys – Kit and Marc, the B team, juniors prepping to take the mantle next year, and Tom, the extemporaneous speaker – had heard this all before, of course, and were busy poring over the sleeve of the latest Dylan record Kit had brought in. Kit was arguing for the full-length version of “Like A Rolling Stone” to be played on AM radio, instead of the shorter, A-side which had been released.
I wasn’t that into music, but my big brother, Eddie, was, and he had indoctrinated me into the Gospel according to Zimmerman, our little Jewish hero from the North Country. That’s where my head was at when I flipped the last card to “Stop!”, just as Mike lowered his hands to indicate the end of his talk.
Miss Foley said, “Very good. I like the way you wove the Test Ban Treaty into it this time. I think we’ve got this just where we want it. Bobby, comments?”
Beto looked thoughtful, then murmured, “No, you’re setting me up very well, Mike. I think we’re ready.”
“OK then, Marc, why don’t you get up there as first negative, give Robert something to work with.”
I handed the cards to Lizzie, and followed Mike into the kitchen, where he was pouring a glass of water. Glancing my way, he raised those brows and asked, “Want some?”
Those were the first words Michael Harrison spoke to me.
********
Bobby was driving me to school that winter, after he finally got a car from his father. He was kind of my mentor, him being Student Council president, and me wanting that job the next year. While other girls were getting sidetracked over which boy might ask them out, and where they stood in the hens’ gossip pecking order, I was trying hard to please my mother, getting elected class representative, and working on making sure the report card was all A’s. I wasn’t athletic, not at all, couldn’t even dance. Not like Lizzie, who’d taken ballet all her life, and ran the Pony Chorus dance team in our class review, “Peanuts”.
I felt comfortable with Bobby; he wasn’t a threat to all of that. I’d known him since I was in 7th grade, when we moved to Clifton, and saw him as sort of a brother, or worldly cousin. One who wasn’t Jewish, too. All of that made him safe for me.
So it was easy to ask, “What more can you tell me about Mike Harrison?”
“Are you serious about this, Janie? ‘Cause I think you’re gonna have to do some work to get to know him.”
“Well, for starters, where does he live? How does he get to school?”
“I think he’s in Amberly Village, maybe Pleasant Ridge.” This was a white-bread enclave at the very northeast corner of Cincinnati. Pleasant Ridge was where Lizabeth lived. Why hadn’t she told me that? “He told me he drives his mom to work every day, then comes and parks on the front drive. I think she’s getting her Ph.D. in psychology at UC. He says she got a Master’s at Radcliffe, right after the war.”
Radcliffe. That was the number one school on the list I’d made with the school counselor, Miss Mkrtchian. She was a crusty old lady, who had decided long ago that women did not get a good deal in life, especially when it came to college. So she made it her mission to find the “top” girls in each class, and guide them towards somewhere other than the kitchen or the maternity ward. Every year, she picked her five pets, called them the Senior Girls’ Council, euphemistically known as her Five Fingers. It was a honor equal to things like cum laude or Quill and Scroll. When I’d met with her to talk about college applications, she sent me signals I would be one of the chosen. Which made sense, as I was on my way to maybe being valedictorian. She said, “You know Janie, that half of all ‘Cliffies are either first or second in their high school class.”
His mother going to Radcliffe, and in Psychology at that, added to the intrigue. I just had to find a way to him, to learn more about him and find out what that wrenching flutter in my pit was all about.
As we pulled into the football field lot – only seniors at the top of the social order dared park there – I asked Bobby, “What about college? Do you know where he’s applied?”
Bobby gave me his serious look, a downward nod as if peaking over reading glasses. “Oh, he’s already in. Amherst, early decision. Found out last year. He doesn’t have to worry about a thing.” Bobby’s first choice was Williams, so that made sense. The two paired up so well, intellectually at least. They weren’t friends, but they could at least hold their own with each other.
As we walked by the gym towards the back entrance under the dome, Bobby continued, “Are you two serious about this timekeeper thing? We’ve got the Regionals coming up in two weeks.”
“We’ll be there. Lizzie’s got some dance recital that night, but you’re done by three or so, right?”
********
It was Friday, and the basketball team was headed off to its usual drubbing at the regional tournament – two losses, and they’d be out. Probably by Saturday night. The band and cheerleaders were gathering a crowd on the steps outside the auditorium for a short pep rally before the start of school. I saw Lizzie at the edge, and wandered over, carrying my pile of books in two arms in front of me, like most of the girls, or at least the ones who carried books. The boys hauled them one-handed at the side, resting on a hip. She was standing next to Mike, who had three or four texts on top of a blue fabric notebook slung down his right side, gripped by the more beautiful of his hands.
He was saying, “…well, yeah, I guess I could drive you there.”
They lived about a mile apart in Pleasant Ridge, but had never really met before that night at Miss Foley’s. And now, here they are talking about getting together, driving somewhere. I started to inwardly grumble when she turned around and smiled, “Hey Janie, Mike’s gonna take us to Princeton next week for the debate. That OK?” She sounded so innocent, but I knew she was getting tired of my hesitance, and was trying to push Mike and I together if we couldn’t do the work ourselves. But something in me worried she was there, ready to take over if I faltered.
Mike looked over his left shoulder at me with a smile that just melted my heart. “We really need – like – the support. You’re right – look at what the basketball team gets, and they’re only 4th in the league, barely in the regionals.”
That smile! The first crack in the geode! Now’s the time to look inside, I told myself. “Are you going to the game tonight?”
“Uh…I hadn’t…”
“I’m going. I have to. Chatterbox wants a second photographer, and I got drafted.” I didn’t know a thing about basketball, and wasn’t sure if he cared either. But he was a little jock-ish, being on the swim team and all.
“OK, yeah, I’ll go.” He looked away from us, up at the sky, then down at the steps. He pulled his lips together, the pushed them out. “Uh, you think I could pick you up, and maybe we can go out before or after to get something to eat?”
Lizzie’s eyebrows shot up her forehead. My God, I thought, is he asking me out? Totally forgetting that I was the one who’d started the idea. Maybe he’s been thinking of me, too, and just too afraid to do anything about it? Doesn’t matter, I told myself, the ball’s bouncing now, and let’s hope one of us can put it in the basket.