Forever . . ., Page 3

  “Oh . . . he’ll be right out.”

  I went upstairs to the bathroom and splashed cold water on my face. If Artie and Erica hadn’t been there I doubt that I’d have stopped Michael from unbuttoning my jeans. But I’m not sure. Now I wanted the boys to go home.

  Michael had his jacket on when I came downstairs. “We have to take off now,” he said. “It’s late . . . see you next week.” He gave me a quick kiss.

  I was sorry I’d invited Erica to spend the night. While she was getting ready for bed I said, “I think I forgot to turn out the light in the den . . . I’ll be right back . . .” I ran downstairs. I’d already put out all the lights but Erica didn’t know. I sat down on the rug where Michael and I had been together. Our rug, I thought. I ran my hands over it. It was still warm.

  When I got back to my room Erica was in bed. “Must have been a lot of lights on,” she said.

  “Yeah.” I looked at her. “Did you like Artie?”

  “He’s nice,” she said, “but I think he’s shy or something. He didn’t try to kiss me.”

  “He didn’t seem shy.”

  “I know . . . that’s what’s funny . . . I don’t have bad breath or anything, do I?” She sat up, leaned over and breathed hard in my face.

  “You smell fine.”

  “Maybe he wasn’t attracted to me. Maybe he thinks I’m too little.”

  “It probably wasn’t anything like that.”

  “He could be inexperienced, I suppose,” Erica said. “If that’s the case I could teach him. I really wouldn’t mind . . . I love his teeth.”

  I pulled on my nightshirt. “I knew you would.”

  “Tell me about Michael, Kath.”

  “What about him?”

  “Is he any good?”

  “Uh huh . . . he knows what he’s doing.”

  “Do you love him?”

  “I like him a lot . . . that’s all I know right now.” I turned out the bedroom light. I wasn’t going to say I loved Michael yet. I was too quick to think I’d loved Tommy Aronson and he and I never even got to be friends. I already knew Michael better than I’d ever known Tommy. And the way I’d felt about Tommy last year was nothing compared to what I felt for Michael.

  “Are you still a virgin?” Erica asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Is he?”

  “I don’t know . . . I haven’t asked.”

  “I’ve been thinking,” Erica said, “that it might not be a bad idea to get laid before college.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Well . . . I’d have to be attracted to him, naturally.”

  “What about love?”

  “You don’t need love to have sex.”

  “But it means more that way.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. They say the first time’s never any good anyway.”

  “Which is why you should at least love him,” I said.

  “Maybe . . . but I’d really like to get it over with.”

  “What’s the point?”

  “I’m always thinking about it . . . wondering who’s going to be the one . . . like tonight, I kept picturing myself with Artie . . . and in school I sit in class thinking how it would be with every guy . . .”

  “Really?”

  “Yes . . . even the teachers . . . I wonder about them too . . . especially Mr. Frazier, since he never zips his fly all the way. Tell the truth, Kath . . . don’t you think about it?”

  “Well, sure . . . but I want it to be special.”

  “You’re a romantic,” Erica said. “You always have been. I’m a realist.”

  “You’re starting to sound like some kind of professor . . .”

  “I mean it,” Erica said, “we look at sex differently . . . I see it as a physical thing and you see it as a way of expressing love.”

  “That’s not completely true . . .”

  “Maybe not . . . but that’s the picture I get.”

  “Well, you don’t know Michael . . . that’s all I can say.”

  5

  Another thing about Jamie is, she can cook. Not hotdogs and hamburgers like me, but real, honest-to-god gourmet stuff. When my grandparents came to stay with us the first week in February, Jamie did all the cooking. Every night, before they went to sleep, Grandma and Jamie poured over cookbooks deciding on the menu for the following day. While Jamie was at school Grandma did the grocery shopping. Once she drove all the way back to New York to get special spices for a recipe. After school they both went to work in the kitchen, preparing the feast. Jamie gave Grandma small jobs, like chopping shallots, but did all the important things herself. Since they went to so much trouble they usually invited guests for dinner. My grandmother knows everybody, from the mayor to the man behind the counter at the fish market, so you never could tell who might turn up.

  While they cooked, Grandpa would wander into the kitchen, lifting lids off pots and sniffing inside. Since his stroke he walks with a cane and has trouble talking. He can’t always get the right words out. It’s sad to see him struggle over a simple sentence and hard to keep from trying to finish it for him. My mother was very close to Grandpa while she was growing up and now when they’re together I can see how painful it is for her to watch him. But my grandmother treats him the same as always, like there’s nothing wrong at all.

  I’ve heard that people who come from happy homes, with parents who really care about each other, like my grandparents, tend to have good marriages themselves. And I believe it. My mother and father are certainly the happiest married couple I know. They really enjoy being together, which doesn’t mean they agree on everything, because they definitely don’t. But after an argument they laugh about it and I like that.

  On Thursday night of the week my parents were away Michael picked me up at the hospital and drove me home. “What floor do you work on?” he asked.

  “Third,” I told him, “in geriatrics.”

  “Geriatrics . . . that’s old people, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why’d they put you in there?”

  “I requested it.”

  “How come?”

  “Oh . . . it’s a long story . . .”

  “I’m listening.”

  “It’s hard to explain . . .”

  “Come on . . . I’m interested . . . really . . .”

  “Well . . . when I was a little kid my father’s mother lived in an old age home in Trenton and every Sunday we had to drive down to see her and I always wound up crying . . . you sure you want to hear this?”

  “Uh huh . . .”

  “Okay . . . so my parents would explain it by saying I was just overtired from the long ride . . . but the truth was, I hated the place. Just the smell of it made me feel sick . . . you know?”

  “Go on . . .”

  “Well . . . I never really knew my grandmother . . . as a person, that is . . . she was just some old lady with crooked fingers and wrinkled skin and I was kind of afraid of her . . . and of the other old people too . . . I was scared that one of them might grab me and hide me in a closet and my parents wouldn’t be able to find me. . . .” I looked over at Michael before I went on. “Then, when I was about seven, my grandmother died, and I was glad . . . because we didn’t have to go to Trenton anymore . . . God, I’ve never told anybody this story . . .” I took a deep breath. “. . . so anyway, when my grandfather—that’s my mother’s father . . . you’ll meet him tonight—when he got sick last year and I went to the hospital to visit him I realized that he was old too . . . but I wasn’t afraid of him . . . because I loved him. I guess this doesn’t make much sense to you . . . but that’s why I asked to work in geriatrics . . .”

  “It makes a lot of sense,” Michael said.

  “Look . . . don’t get the wrong idea . . . I’m no Florence Nightingale . . . and I’m not big on blood and guts . . . I don’t do much for the patients . . . just deliver the mail and flowers . . . and bring water and adjust beds . . . nothing special . . . but it makes me feel good
. . .”

  “It makes you look good too.”

  I pulled my coat around me and laughed. “I always feel funny in my uniform . . . like I’m dressed for a part in a play or something . . .”

  “Say . . . that reminds me . . . our school play’s in two weeks. Artie’s got the lead.”

  “Artie . . . I can’t picture him on stage.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know . . . he doesn’t seem like the type . . .”

  “You’d be surprised.”

  “He’s so self-conscious.”

  “Artie . . . self-conscious . . . never.”

  “Not with you . . .” I said.

  “You mean with Erica!”

  “Uh huh.”

  “I don’t know about that . . .”

  “Well, anyway, I’d like to see him in the play.”

  “Good . . . and there’s a party after it . . . at Elizabeth Hailey’s house.”

  “Didn’t you used to go with her?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “But New Year’s Eve . . .”

  “We were together but it wasn’t anything special.”

  “Still . . . won’t you feel funny bringing me to her house?”

  “Why should I?” Michael took one hand off the wheel and reached for mine. “We go together, don’t we? It’s no big secret or anything.” I tightened my fingers around his.

  When we got to my house Grandma, Grandpa and Jamie were entertaining the DiNizios, from next door—I used to babysit for their kids—and Mr. and Mrs. Salamandre, our butcher and his wife. I introduced Michael to everyone, then Grandma insisted we join them for dessert, which was a chocolate mousse with almondine sauce. Michael said it was the greatest thing he’d ever tasted and Jamie positively beamed.

  After that Michael had to leave and I had to study for a Spanish test. I walked him to his car and got in for a minute. We kissed goodbye.

  Later, Grandma said, “He’s a nice boy, Kath.”

  “I know.”

  “Intelligent.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Attractive, too.”

  “I agree.”

  “Just be careful . . . that’s my only advice.”

  “Of what?”

  “Pregnancy.”

  “Grandma!”

  “And venereal disease.”

  “Really . . .”

  “Does it embarrass you to talk about it?”

  “No, but . . .”

  “It shouldn’t.”

  “But listen, Grandma . . . we aren’t sleeping together.”

  “Yet,” Grandma said.

  In the old days girls were divided into two groups—those who did and those who didn’t. My mother told me that. Nice girls didn’t, naturally. They were the ones boys wanted to marry. I’m glad those days are over but I still get angry when older people assume that everyone in my generation screws around. They’re probably the same ones who think all kids use dope. It’s true that we are more open than our parents but that just means we accept sex and talk about it. It doesn’t mean we are all jumping into bed together. I was really surprised that Grandma thought Michael and I are lovers, in the true sense.

  On the final night my grandparents stayed with us they had tickets to a concert at Lincoln Center. I said they should go and that I would stay home with Jamie and ask Michael over to keep us company. Jamie liked the idea of cooking something special for him. Finally, Grandma said, “I’ve checked with the DiNizios and they’ll be home and you know the number in case of fire, don’t you . . .”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Then I guess it’s all right for us to go.”

  “I’ve been babysitting since ninth grade,” I said.

  “I know . . . I know . . . but with your mother and father away I feel responsible.”

  “Everything will be fine. You and Grandpa don’t have to worry . . . just enjoy yourselves.”

  Jamie cooked all day. She made veal marsala, spinach salad and lemon chiffon pie. Michael devoured everything. When we were done I told her that we’d do the dishes and she went downstairs to practice the piano. She has a kind of studio down there, where she can work on her music and her artwork undisturbed.

  Michael and I loaded the dishwasher but there wasn’t any room left for the pots and pans so I filled the sink with hot sudsy water and said, “I’ll wash and you dry.” I handed him a dish towel.

  “Aren’t you afraid of dishpan hands?” he asked.

  “Nope . . . are you?”

  “Oh, sure . . .” He held out his hands, pretending to admire them. “I only use Ivory . . . that’s why everyone thinks I’m eighteen instead of thirty-eight. My hands don’t give me away.”

  “You idiot!” I flicked some soap bubbles at him.

  “Hey . . .” He reached into the sink, picked up a handful of suds and threw them at me.

  So I tossed some more at him and he tossed them back and we had a terrific water fight until both of us were dripping and laughing hysterically. I cried, “No more, Michael . . . please . . .”

  He wiped off his face with the dish towel, then started snapping it at me. “Work, slave, work . . . clean up this mess.”

  “Stop it . . .” I told him, jumping away, but he kept snapping the towel at my legs. I ran around the kitchen, shrieking, with Michael chasing me, only now he was aiming the towel at my behind.

  “I’m going to get you,” I said, reaching into the broom closet. I came out with the feather duster and tickled his face.

  “You’ll have to pay for that,” Michael said, grabbing my wrists. I dropped the feather duster as he pushed me against the counter. He took off his glasses before he kissed me.

  “Why do you always do that?” I asked him after.

  “Did you ever try to kiss with glasses on?”

  “No.”

  “Well . . . they get in your way,” he said. “Your hair’s all wet.”

  “So’s yours.” I reached up and rumpled it. “We better dry off.”

  We went upstairs to the bathroom. When I looked in the mirror I was surprised. “Hey . . . I really do have soapy hair.”

  “Just remember who started it,” Michael said.

  “Hmph!”

  “I’ll shampoo it for you, if you want.”

  “You will?”

  “Yeah.”

  “In the sink?”

  “Unless you prefer the shower.”

  “Very funny.”

  “Well?”

  “Okay.” I handed him the shampoo and bent over the sink.

  He did a good job on my hair and when he was done I wrapped a towel around my head, then shampooed him. We rubbed each other’s heads until they were barely damp.

  “I have to change my shirt,” I said. “It’s drenched.”

  “Go ahead.”

  I walked down the hall to my bedroom. Michael was right behind me. “I’ll just be a minute,” I told him as I started to close my door.

  But he pushed it back open. “I’ll stay.”

  “Oh, Michael . . . come on.”

  “I promise, I won’t touch.” He closed the door behind him.

  I took a sweater and bra out of my dresser drawer while Michael bounced up and down on my bed. “Very nice,” he said, “firm but not too hard.”

  “I’m glad you approve.”

  “Did you know that soft mattresses are no good for making love?”

  “Michael . . .”

  “Really . . . I mean it.”

  “That’s very interesting . . . now would you please leave so I can change.”

  “Are you ashamed of your body, Katherine?”

  “No . . . of course not.”

  “Then what’s the difference if I stay?”

  “Oh . . .” I shook my head at him, turned away and unbuttoned my shirt. I pulled it off and unhooked my bra, which was also wet. Then I hesitated for a minute and slipped that off too. I reached for my dry bra and put it on. All that time neither of us said anything
.

  Then Michael was behind me.

  “You promised . . .” I reminded him.

  “I’ll hook it for you . . . that’s all.”

  “Don’t bother.”

  “It’s no trouble.” But instead of hooking it he slid his hands around to my breasts and kissed the back of my neck.

  “Please, Michael . . . don’t.”

  “Why not, Kath?”

  “Because . . .”

  There was a knock at my door then and Jamie called, “What are you two doing in there? The kitchen’s a mess and it’s almost time for the 9:00 movie.”

  “Coming . . .” I answered, hooking my bra and pulling on my sweater. Then I turned to Michael and whispered, “That’s why . . .”

  “Excuses, excuses,” he said.

  “Ha ha.”

  We finished up in the kitchen and sat in the den with Jamie, watching the Saturday night movie on TV. When it was over Michael kissed us both goodnight, me on the lips and Jamie on the cheek. She was still touching her face when I went in to tell her goodnight.

  “I think Michael is the nicest boy in the whole world,” she said.

  “That make two of us.”

  “I wish he had a younger brother.”

  “That would be fun . . . but he doesn’t.”

  “Kath . . .”

  “Hmmm?”

  “What were you two doing in your bedroom?”

  “Nothing . . . Michael just wanted to see it.”

  “Come on, Kath . . . I won’t tell anybody.”

  “There’s nothing to tell.”

  “I know all about sex.”

  “Congratulations!”

  “Were you fucking?”

  “Jamie!”

  “That’s not a bad word . . . hate and war are bad words but fuck isn’t.”

  “I never said it was.”

  “So were you?”

  “No . . . I wasn’t . . . but even if I was I wouldn’t tell you.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it’s none of your damn business . . . that’s why.”

  “Oh wow . . .” she said, clucking her tongue, “your generation is so hung up about sex.”

  6

  “How’d it go with Artie?” I asked Erica on Monday. We were in zoology, classifying mollusks.

  “I’ll tell you how it went,” Erica said, “. . . it didn’t!”