Sunday, July 08, 2007
Out of Sight
A chapter from a novel-in-progress
by
Max Harrick Shenk
Note: The first section of this two-part piece was originally published in Pitkin Review
* * *
Gettysburg PA / Fall 1976
As soon as I saw the bag, I knew that it was serious.
No, actually, when I saw the bag, the first thing I thought was “What in the hell is that??!!” It was sitting at my place on the kitchen table when I got home from school the Tuesday after the breakup: one of those big, plastic-handled heavy-duty white paper shopping bags that they sold out of racks for a dime a piece at department stores like the Bon Ton, Wanamakers, Gimbels, Penney’s...
...or Woodward and Lothrup.
Christy’s Dad always took her and Kathy and their Mom to Woody’s when they went down to visit him in DC.
So... it was something from Christy. Maybe a gift. Or, seeing as the bag was stuffed so full it was almost round, several gifts.
How nice.
I approached the bag hesitantly, almost sneaking up on it. I felt like I didn’t want to get too close... I mean, what if it went off?
Closer... didn’t see any wires... closer... right on top of it now... I wasn’t really sure that I wanted to see what was inside, but I stood next to it and peeked in the top.
O.K.... I saw grey twill... which would be... a sweatshirt... and... the maroon bill of a Phillies cap... my Phillies cap... or rather the one I gave to Christy... the one that she wore like it was hers but it was mine and she knew it and she wanted to know it... except now it seemed like it was mine again and she wanted me to know it.
I stood next to the table, exhaled, and I swear, just as I was thinking “When did she leave this?” the Omniscient Voice Of Mom rang out from some unseen corner of the house.
“Christy dropped that bag on the porch after school, Brian.”
O.K. I’d kind of pictured her just tossing it out the window of the bug onto our driveway as she cruised by, so that’s good, anyway.
I reached for the bill of the cap. “Thanks, Mom,” I said as I tugged the cap out. It pulled the corner of the sweatshirt up, and I could see a couple other shirts underneath --red, blue-- and what looked like some records and papers. I tried lifting the bag: it was heavy, the top spread open too wide to pick it up by the handles.
All of this seemed somehow intentional.
I cradled the bag in my arms -- still cold; she’d probably had it in her trunk all day-- and, from the clothing, I got a faceful of Christy’s scent. Her perfume (honeysuckle), her deodorant (Tickle), her green apple shampoo. Her, hanging in front of my face the whole way down the hall and up the stairs.
Great.
* * *
I dropped the bag on my bed and knelt on the floor next to my mattress. Tipped the bag on its side and pulled at the sweatshirt --my PROP PITTSBURGH STEELERS NATL FOOTBALL LEAGUE heavy hooded pullover that Christy’d been wearing to band practices all fall... O.K., well, I didn’t mind having that back... and under that, folded neatly, my sky blue Beach Boys t‑shirt with the logo of the Indian on horseback, his arms outstretched as if to say to the gods “Why? Why are you giving me all this shit back? Why? Why?”
Deep breath.
I didn’t remember giving her that shirt.
The red t-shirt, though... that wasn’t mine. It was Christy’s size m WARRIORS ARE DYN-O-MITE tee... the one that she wore with her raggedy ripped blue jean cutoffs (those weren’t down in there, were they?).
O.K.... so she’s not just giving my stuff back to me; she’s giving me anything that reminds her of me.
Or, maybe more accurately, anything that might remind me of her. Like that t-shirt: along with the shorts, it constituted my favorite outfit, especially when Christy wore it without a bra. The word DYN-O-MITE was emblazoned right across Christy’s bosom... and the shirt was really a size too small, so it fit her like a second skin... especially the day after morning band practice that past August when we were biking back from the high school, racing a thunderstorm home, and the thunderstorm won and we got soaked through with cold rain... and as we stood on her front porch, catching our breaths, drenched, that wet t-shirt clinging to Christy’s dyn-o-mite chest, almost transparent, her nipples dimpled and hard, Christy said “I’d better go take this off...” and I said “Can I watch?” just as Katie came to the front door, and Christy bit her lower lip and shot her eyebrows up quick and suggestive as her Mom opened the screen door and let us inside to dry off.
(That was how she got my Beach Boys shirt! That was the shirt I’d been wearing in the rain that day, and she gave me one of Steve’s plain white Hanes tees to wear.)
(Did I have to find that and give it back? Was that how it worked?)
As I pulled the dynomite tee from the bag, something rolled out from inside it and THUMPed to the floor.
My class ring. I snatched it up and tossed it onto the mattress; it bounced and landed near the edge of my pillow.
I looked in the bag... now we were into records. About a dozen 45s: “Betcha By Golly Wow” by the Stylistics and “Birds” by Neil Young and “Sandy” by the Hollies and “Only With You” by the Beach Boys and “Strange Magic” by ELO and “My Love” by Paul McCartney and Wings and “Little Bitty Pretty One” by Michael Jackson and “Reflections” by the Supremes, none of which were even mine-- “RCK” or “Christy” was written on every label-- but apparently she wasn’t going to play them anymore. Then there was “Sixteen Candles” and “Happy Birthday Sweet Sixteen” and “You’re Sixteen,” which I’d given her on her (doyyyyeeee) sixteenth birthday.
I knew I should’ve gotten her “Sixteen Tons,” too.
The albums looked like they were all mine, though, and at least I’d finally gotten back my copy of Best of the Beach Boys Volume Three, the one with “The Little Girl I Once Knew” and “Girl Don’t Tell Me” on it. I’d stopped asking her about that one when? Two breakups ago? And as a special bonus just for breaking up with her, she also included, at no additional charge, my American Graffiti soundtrack and Ringo Starr’s Blast From Your Past and Gotta Take That One Last Ride by Jan and Dean and Boulders by Roy Wood and I didn’t even bother looking at the rest. Just set them on the floor. I’d file them back in with the rest of my records and it’d be like she never even had them.
Really.
I looked down into the considerably lighter bag now. There was all sorts of loose ephemera in there. It was like she’d just opened up her scrapbook and dumped all the contents into the bag. A handful of cards: postcards from camp and the beach, a few birthday cards, some Valentines... no way was I in the mood to shuffle through those... a program and hockey puck from the Hershey Bears game we went to with her sister... I tossed it onto the bed as a song lyric fragment flashed across my brain:
What the fuck
What the fuck
What the fuck
Will I do with this puck?
Ticket stubs from movies we’d seen, clipped together with a clothespin... a pine cone, from some hike we took somewhere... a Fantasyland napkin, from some other Sunday afternoon I’d forgotten about... next, pictures, tied together with raffia: on top, class pictures of me, all geeky and groomed (I swear I never looked like that in school), the inscriptions on the backs evolving from generic eighth grade (“To Christy Kelly from Brian Pressley”) through newly-dating ninth (“To Christy Love Brian”) into totally familiar tenth (“I love you Christy! xoxoxox Bri”)... then a small stack of Margo’s Polaroids: one of Christy and me that Margo took on Ski Night at Ski Liberty the year before, looking all flushed and chilly, our rosy faces close together like we loved each other (which we did when Margo snapped the picture)... another from the pool the previous summer, Christy in her red tank suit, just a hint of cleavage creeping up from the bottom of the frame, and me with my arm around her in that blue Beach Boys tee... another of Christy and me in our band uniforms at God-knows-what-football-game, standing in line at the concession stand, holding hands, me looking straight ahead, Christy leaning forward, looking at the camera, smiling and waving (“See... Christy knows how to look at the camera, Bri!”)... another of us sitting at the picnic tables out at Distelfink, me with a mouthful of burger, and Christy with her eyes shut, hand flattened and in motion in front of her face, like she was either swatting at a bee or about to slap me. I didn’t even look at the rest of them.
Underneath all the Loose Matter, there were NOTES: a thick sheaf of letters and notes and screeds and scrawls... some of them folded, some of them creased and flattened... written on notebook paper, scraps of yellow newsprint, the backs of tests and band music... whatever I’d had handy when I scribbled them out.
CHRISTY! Grab me a piece of chocolate cake, OK? PLEEEEASE??? xoxo Bri the top one implored.
I read the first lines of the next few:
Hi sweetie! Just sitting here in study hall thinking of you, not getting much studying done...
Honey- I’d like to go to ski night but I’ve never ski’d? (Skid? Skiid? Skied?) How hard is it? How much CRAP will Margo give me when I keep falling down?...
Hi baby! It sure was great seeing you last night. You drive fine-- Margo said you kept stalling out...
And finally, underneath all the notes, a jagged-edged, five-inch by seven-inch piece of birchbark from the white paper birch right outside of Christy’s window in the Kelly’s front lawn.
THINKING OF YOU AT HOME was written on the white side in red flair pen.
I remembered her giving me that note... how did she get it back? Unless it was a new note...
No, couldn’t be a new one... it doesn’t say GO FUCK YOURSELF anywhere on it.
KNOCK KNOCK!
I tossed the birchbark onto the bed. “Yeah?”
The door opened and Mom looked in, first at me, then at the stuff strewn around the bag on the bed. “Do you want me to wash those shirts, Brian?” she said.
“No,” I said, “they’re clean.” I don’t know why I said “no.” I mean, they smelled like Christy; Christy and me were through. Why would I want to smell her?
“O.K.,” she said, and she sighed, brushed her brown hair back and looked me in the eye, like she wished there was something she could do for a 17-year-old who wanted his Mom to hug him but was too cool to ask, much less just let her. “She just dropped it on the porch and drove away,” Mom continued. “I didn’t get to talk to her or even say ‘Hi’ to her.”
“Well,” I said as I scooped the sheaf of notes up and stuffed them back in the bag, “that makes two of us.”
“Awwww...” Mom said softly, and she stepped into my room and, as I stuffed more notes into the bag, stood behind me and petted my hair. “I’m sorry, Brian,” she whispered, and I almost started crying, almost turned around and hugged her, but instead I just kneeled there with my back to her, stony and still, biting my lip, holding back the tears as I filled the bag back up. Mom leaned down from behind me and kissed the top of my head. “We’re having lasagna for dinner,” she said as she straightened back up, like that would make me feel better. And it did. Kind of.
“Good,” I said, and I stuffed the t-shirts into the bag.
Mom patted my head one last time. “At least you got your class ring back, sweetie,” she said, and she turned to leave the room, shutting the door behind her.
Yeah.. class ring... great. The only reason I bought one was so I could give it to Christy.
I stuck the small stack of pictures back in the bag, and the puck and the ticket stubs and pine cone and the rest of the crap that I just didn’t want, and as I reached for my ring, a tear slipped out of the corner of my right eye, trailing over my cheekbone.
None of that, I thought, sniffling once, and I dropped the ring in the bag, stood up, opened my closet and pushed the bag to the back, behind my dress clothes and shoes and boxes of children’s books and baseball cards, and then shut the closet door.
“I didn’t have it... Christy had it,” I said.
Margo picked up the album and scanned the cover. “So, what... it’s hers?”
“Can I borrow it?”
I sighed. “Yeah, sure, why not?” I said. “She’s only had it a year... I never got to play it or anything... go on ahead.”
“Thanks, Bri!” Margo set it aside along with Gotta Take That One Last Ride, and then looked at me like the tone of my voice had finally registered. “You sure you don’t mind?”
I nodded. “It’s O.K.,” I said.
“Thanks!” Margo continued flipping. “I’ll just tape them and bring them right back, I swear!”
(Right back turned out to be August 25, 1978, when I was getting packed for college. “Remember these?” she said, and she handed over a stack of albums that included Gotta Take That One Last Ride, Blast From Your Past, Let’s Get Small, Truckin’ Favorites --“Mom liked that one”-- Ramblin’ Gamblin’ Man, The Best of The Move, Miracles Greatest Hits From The Beginning, Surfer Girl, Favorite Russian Spectaculars, Sinatra Sings Of Love And Things, Magnetic South, From Elvis In Memphis, and Live Peace In Toronto. Among others.)
(“Except...” she said as I took the stack, “I never did get to tape those first two. You mind if I borrow them tonight? I swear I’ll bring them back by tomorrow when you leave!”)
We put on side two of the Ringo album (skipping over “Only You (And You Alone)”) and Margo sat at my desk and I sat on the floor, my back against the bed, door opened so Mom and Dad knew we weren’t Up To Something (as if) and notebooks and books opened so we could study (as if). “I’m just still thinking about the birch bark, Bri,” Margo said as she flipped through her notes. “You’re sure that that’s not the one she gave you?”
“Positive,” I said. I’d found the other note in my desk drawer.
“Positive...” Margo repeated. She scanned her notes for a few seconds, like they contained evidence in the Case Of The Duplicate Birch Bark Note and not scribblings from our AP Civil War History class. “Maybe...” She sighed. “Maybe she wrote you another one and just never gave it to you,” she said at last.
“Maybe,” I said.
“It’s just... I can’t figure out why she’d give it to you, you know? I mean, unless she wants you to know that she’s thinking of you. It’s either that or...” She bit her pencil eraser. “Maybe she just didn’t care what it said... maybe she just wanted to get rid of it.”
“Maybe,” I muttered. I really didn’t want to talk about it.
Margo looked back down at her notes. “Just doesn’t make any sense,” she said, and she turned the page and ran her eyes over her notes. I could tell she was thinking, but probably not about the exam. “Unless... she just didn’t care what it said,” she said at last. Pause. I hoped she wasn’t waiting for me to respond, because I wasn’t going to. “But see, Christy’s not like that. You know? She thinks of stuff like that.” She bit her lip and tapped her pencil on the desktop a couple times. “I think she’s trying to send you a message, Bri--”
“--Well, she sure did.”
That seemed to stop the discussion, and the record played-- “Oh My My” --as Margo flipped the pages in her notebook. “Oates...” she said almost to herself as she flipped, and either she was talking about the Alabama infantry commander or she’d remembered that Christy took a baggie of Cheerios with her to nibble between races at her swim meets. (That was what I thought of when she said it, anyway.)
“You know...” Margo started, “at least...” and she let her voice trail off.
“‘At least’ what?”
“Well...” Margo sighed. “I was gonna say at least you got your class ring back, but... the only reason you bought that was to give to her in the first place, right?” I didn’t answer. Margo stared out the window into the dark as “Early 1970” started, and she sang along quietly with the first few lines-- “Lives on a farm, got plenty’a charm, beep beep! Got no cows but he sure got a whole lotta sheep!”-- and then brushed her hair back. “I like Ringo,” she declared, and then, without taking a breath, “You know... it’s actually really kind of ignorant, her doing that, when you think about it. I mean, giving you all your stuff back. That really sucks.”
“I know,” I said.
“Bitch!” Margo said as she looked down at her notes, and then she glanced over at me like she expected me to protest. “Serious,” she added. “I don’t care if she is my best girlfriend.” She tapped her pencil a couple of times. “God... and at least I won’t have to see her in that... sweatshirt again. I swear to God, it was so big on her. Made her look like she had... f’n... triple ds. Which maybe she wanted, I don’t know.” She took a breath as she looked down at her notes. “And that... tight red t-shirt...” she continued. Breath... sigh. “I mean... Christy’s kind of an airhead sometimes, you know, Bri? I mean, she dresses all... tight and scanty, which is fine for you, but...” She shifted in the desk chair. “Like... for instance...” She was bugging me, but I had a feeling that she’d been waiting a while to unload this, and she was on a roll, so I let her go on. “A couple weeks ago, right? I saw her coming into the building? Cold morning, if you know what I mean... headlights... on!” --and she stuck her pencil up her shirt over her left breast and pushed the fabric out like the eraser was an engorged nipple, then withdrew it quick-- “No bra. Well, I said‑‑” and Margo lowered her voice “‘--Christy... why aren’t you airing-way an awe‑bray?’ And she goes--” and Margo rolled her eyes and head dizzily, her voice Christy-cute “--‘Ohhhh, Brian likes it.’ Which I’m sure you did, but, I mean, it’s like I told her: ‘Honey, Brian’s not the only one who’s gonna see that.’ You know? God. Doesn't think. I mean, really, it was kinda tacky, Bri.” She shot me a glance. “You probably loved it, though.”
“I don’t remember,” I said.
“Oh, you would’ve noticed, believe me.” She tapped her pencil on the desktop. “Doesn’t that bother you?”
I sighed loud. “Really, no,” I said. “I mean, right now, I don’t care what she wears. She can dress any way she wants to. What do I care?” And I sighed again and flipped the page in my notebook.
Margo raised her eyebrows. “Well, that’s now, Bri... I mean, didn’t you mind it then? I’d mind it.” Tap tap tap, not in time to the record. “Scotty’d mind if I came to school like that. He’d be all...” She went into her Scotty Whining voice. “‘I don’t waaannnnnt other guys checkin’ you out, Marrrrrgohhhh.’ Like they would.”
I took a breath. Bad enough that she seemed to be trying to push my Christy Sucks buttons, but no way was I taking that bait and getting into the whole Yes You Are Attractive And Guys Check You Out thing with her, which was basically just her fishing for compliments... compliments from me.
You really think so? Serious? Awwwww... thanks, bud!
No. Not tonight.
I sighed. “Look... are we gonna study or not?”
“I’m tired of studying,” Margo said. “I wanna dish on Christy.”
I laughed once. “I don’t.”
“Might make you feel better... get it out...”
“I don’t wanna get it out,” I said.
“Brian, if you’re pissed off--”
“--We’re supposed to be studying,” I said.
“We are.”
I looked down at my notes. Pickett’s Charge.
“O.K.,” I said, “so... who opposed Lee’s order to march on the center of the Union line?”
“Longstreet!” Margo said. “Ha!”
“Well, that’s one right,” I said.
“One point, maybe,” Margo said. “You know it’s not facts. He does essays.”
“Well, maybe this one’ll be multiple choice,” I said.
“Yeah, you wish,” Margo said. “‘Pick one because you didn’t feel like studying.’”
I laughed. “You’re the one who said she didn’t feel like studying!”
“And you do?” Now she was annoyed. She shut her notebook. “Jesus, Bri, you know... I’m your best friend. I don’t see why you just can’t say ‘Margo, Christy gave me this big bag of... crap back, and I really feel sad and I could use a friend.’”
I looked down at my notebook. “You knew that was what I meant when I said I wanted to study...”
“No...” Margo said, “I figured that was what you meant. But I didn’t know... any more than Christy knew you weren’t pushing her to have sex last Thursday.” She sighed. “If you’re upset, tell me.”
I felt myself starting to smile. “No,” I said.
“Fuck you, then,” Margo huffed.
We sat quietly for a few seconds, not studying, not talking... “I’m The Greatest,” the last song on side two, had faded out, and the motor of the automatic turntable clicked and whirred as the tonearm lifted off the record and glided back to the OFF position. Margo tapped her pencil as she looked out the window. Finally, she looked down at me, sighed, and then pushed her chair out, got up, and sat down next to me on the floor, her hip and leg right against mine. I didn’t move. “Look...” she said gently, “first... it’s not just that you two broke up. I mean, I keep trying to talk to her and she’s just... I don’t know... weird.”
“Weird? How?”
“Just... like...” Margo bit her lip. “Distant. You know? I mean, three times today I approached her: gym... public speaking... study hall. And it’s not like she was ignorant or anything... it’s more like she just didn’t have anything to say back. Curt answers, you know? Conversation killers. ‘Yeah. No. Nope. Yeah. Yeah.’ You know? Kinda like you were being earlier.” I laughed; she was right. “And I’ve tried calling her and she doesn’t call back. Now... either she didn’t get my five messages since Friday, or...” She bit her lip. “Maybe I should try calling her again from here, you know, so you can listen in.”
“I don’t think you need to do that,” I said.
“Yeah, I guess,” Margo said. “God... you might yell ‘WHY’D YOU GIVE MY STUFF BACK??’” She turned a little to face me, leaning with her left arm on the edge of the mattress, and I turned to face her, leaning on my right arm. It was kind of like pillow talk, our faces less than a foot apart. “See,” Margo continued quietly, “every other time this has happened, she and I have still talked. But this time, she’s even giving me the cold shoulder, you know?” She sighed; I could smell her gum (Fruit Stripe: “I don’t like breath gum; I like flavor gum!”). “But I don’t know... the storming out of the dugout, the ripping up the note, the bag... I mean, I’m sure she’s upset, but just... something about it just seems like a big show to me. It’s like... she’s already upset about something else and she’s just using you guys as an excuse. You know?”
“What do you think it is?”
“I don’t know, Bri. I don’t know.” She bit her lip. “But I swear it’s something that has nothing to do with you. Except that she needs to be away. From you, from me, from everybody.” She laughed a single light laugh. “Except the swim team. I mean, maybe something with her family. Kathy’s off at Bloomsburg, Tommy’s off... where’s Tom Kelly go to school?”
“University of Vermont,” I said.
Margo looked surprised, like she couldn’t believe she didn’t remember this. “Yeah, sheez... all the way up there.” She sighed. “Anyway... I just kinda wonder, you know? Her Dad’s down in DC for the term. I just always get the impression that Katie leans on Christy for help when her Dad and Kath and Tom are gone. But she never says. See, you gotta...” She yawned. “...you gotta say when you’re sad or hurting, you know? Just say.”
“I’m not sad,” I said.
Margo smiled. “I’m not talking about you.”
We sat there quietly for a second, and Margo looked down at my arm. “I’d be sad if I got a bag of junk back from Scotty, you know? Even if it was records I missed.” She looked at me. “You sure you’re not sad?”
“Yeah,” I said, and really, I wasn’t, not that much. But what was I? “More... confused,” I said. “I just can’t figure out what I did that she’d come back at me like that.”
Margo nodded. “Which is why I’m saying: maybe you did nothing. You know? Maybe all you did was light the fuse. I mean, you saw her shirt: she already was dyn-o-mite. Maybe it was just a matter of time before she blew up.” She sighed. “I mean, you know Christy. Everybody always says she’s such a sweetie. But I swear she’s worse than you... I mean, you do get it out eventually, you know? I just have to find the right combination of buttons to push.” I smiled. “But Christy...” Sigh. “She just goes on being nice, and then if you ask her if something’s wrong, she just goes ‘No, I’m fine.’ ‘What’s wrong?’ ‘Nothing. I’m fine.’ ‘How’s stuff at home?’ “Fine.’ ‘How’s school?’ ‘Fine.’ You know?”
I nodded my head. “Yeah, you’re right.”
“And all that builds up, Bri. I mean, when you’re feeling something, it’s gotta come out somehow.” I laughed. “What?” Margo said, smiling.
“Well, Christy’s the one taking the psych class,” I said. “You’d think she’d know that.”
“Hey,” Margo said, “just because you take a psych class doesn’t mean you have sense. You know?” She patted my leg and we looked at each other for a second, Margo’s turquoise eyes glimmering, and I felt like, if she’d fished for a compliment at that moment, she would have gotten a bite. “So...” she said softly, and I half-expected her to try to seduce me.
“What?” I said.
“What’d you guys have for dinner?”
I laughed. “Dinner? Why?”
Margo buried her face in the crook of her arm. “I’m hungry...”
“Well, why can’t we go eat your leftovers?”
“We’re here. Besides, I didn’t like what we had.” She shook her head, and her hair went just a little wild and then fell back into place. “Come on, Bri. What’s down there?”
“Lasagna,” I said.
Margo sat straight up and clapped her hands once. “Yes!” she said. “350 for ten minutes... and it’s probably still warm in the middle.” She leapt to her feet and reached down to pull me up. “Come on...” she said, yanking at my arm, and as I stood up, I felt a rush in my head, like I’d already been through this scene with her before. I didn’t quite know what to say, but, as usual, I didn’t need to say anything.
“What, Bri?” Margo said.
“Deja vu,” I said.
“Oh. Me too,” Margo said matter-of-factly. “Come on,” she said, and she grabbed her book and notebook and went out of my bedroom ahead of me, down the stairs. “Come on!” she called out one last time from the staircase.
I took one last look at the closed closet door before I snapped the desk lamp off and went downstairs to the kitchen, where Margo was already putting the casserole of leftover lasagna into the toaster oven, like I felt like maybe she’d already done, sometime, somewhere.
Copyright c 2005 Max Harrick Shenk
by
Max Harrick Shenk
Note: The first section of this two-part piece was originally published in Pitkin Review
* * *
Gettysburg PA / Fall 1976
As soon as I saw the bag, I knew that it was serious.
No, actually, when I saw the bag, the first thing I thought was “What in the hell is that??!!” It was sitting at my place on the kitchen table when I got home from school the Tuesday after the breakup: one of those big, plastic-handled heavy-duty white paper shopping bags that they sold out of racks for a dime a piece at department stores like the Bon Ton, Wanamakers, Gimbels, Penney’s...
...or Woodward and Lothrup.
Christy’s Dad always took her and Kathy and their Mom to Woody’s when they went down to visit him in DC.
So... it was something from Christy. Maybe a gift. Or, seeing as the bag was stuffed so full it was almost round, several gifts.
How nice.
I approached the bag hesitantly, almost sneaking up on it. I felt like I didn’t want to get too close... I mean, what if it went off?
Closer... didn’t see any wires... closer... right on top of it now... I wasn’t really sure that I wanted to see what was inside, but I stood next to it and peeked in the top.
O.K.... I saw grey twill... which would be... a sweatshirt... and... the maroon bill of a Phillies cap... my Phillies cap... or rather the one I gave to Christy... the one that she wore like it was hers but it was mine and she knew it and she wanted to know it... except now it seemed like it was mine again and she wanted me to know it.
I stood next to the table, exhaled, and I swear, just as I was thinking “When did she leave this?” the Omniscient Voice Of Mom rang out from some unseen corner of the house.
“Christy dropped that bag on the porch after school, Brian.”
O.K. I’d kind of pictured her just tossing it out the window of the bug onto our driveway as she cruised by, so that’s good, anyway.
I reached for the bill of the cap. “Thanks, Mom,” I said as I tugged the cap out. It pulled the corner of the sweatshirt up, and I could see a couple other shirts underneath --red, blue-- and what looked like some records and papers. I tried lifting the bag: it was heavy, the top spread open too wide to pick it up by the handles.
All of this seemed somehow intentional.
I cradled the bag in my arms -- still cold; she’d probably had it in her trunk all day-- and, from the clothing, I got a faceful of Christy’s scent. Her perfume (honeysuckle), her deodorant (Tickle), her green apple shampoo. Her, hanging in front of my face the whole way down the hall and up the stairs.
Great.
* * *
I dropped the bag on my bed and knelt on the floor next to my mattress. Tipped the bag on its side and pulled at the sweatshirt --my PROP PITTSBURGH STEELERS NATL FOOTBALL LEAGUE heavy hooded pullover that Christy’d been wearing to band practices all fall... O.K., well, I didn’t mind having that back... and under that, folded neatly, my sky blue Beach Boys t‑shirt with the logo of the Indian on horseback, his arms outstretched as if to say to the gods “Why? Why are you giving me all this shit back? Why? Why?”
Deep breath.
I didn’t remember giving her that shirt.
The red t-shirt, though... that wasn’t mine. It was Christy’s size m WARRIORS ARE DYN-O-MITE tee... the one that she wore with her raggedy ripped blue jean cutoffs (those weren’t down in there, were they?).
O.K.... so she’s not just giving my stuff back to me; she’s giving me anything that reminds her of me.
Or, maybe more accurately, anything that might remind me of her. Like that t-shirt: along with the shorts, it constituted my favorite outfit, especially when Christy wore it without a bra. The word DYN-O-MITE was emblazoned right across Christy’s bosom... and the shirt was really a size too small, so it fit her like a second skin... especially the day after morning band practice that past August when we were biking back from the high school, racing a thunderstorm home, and the thunderstorm won and we got soaked through with cold rain... and as we stood on her front porch, catching our breaths, drenched, that wet t-shirt clinging to Christy’s dyn-o-mite chest, almost transparent, her nipples dimpled and hard, Christy said “I’d better go take this off...” and I said “Can I watch?” just as Katie came to the front door, and Christy bit her lower lip and shot her eyebrows up quick and suggestive as her Mom opened the screen door and let us inside to dry off.
(That was how she got my Beach Boys shirt! That was the shirt I’d been wearing in the rain that day, and she gave me one of Steve’s plain white Hanes tees to wear.)
(Did I have to find that and give it back? Was that how it worked?)
As I pulled the dynomite tee from the bag, something rolled out from inside it and THUMPed to the floor.
My class ring. I snatched it up and tossed it onto the mattress; it bounced and landed near the edge of my pillow.
I looked in the bag... now we were into records. About a dozen 45s: “Betcha By Golly Wow” by the Stylistics and “Birds” by Neil Young and “Sandy” by the Hollies and “Only With You” by the Beach Boys and “Strange Magic” by ELO and “My Love” by Paul McCartney and Wings and “Little Bitty Pretty One” by Michael Jackson and “Reflections” by the Supremes, none of which were even mine-- “RCK” or “Christy” was written on every label-- but apparently she wasn’t going to play them anymore. Then there was “Sixteen Candles” and “Happy Birthday Sweet Sixteen” and “You’re Sixteen,” which I’d given her on her (doyyyyeeee) sixteenth birthday.
I knew I should’ve gotten her “Sixteen Tons,” too.
The albums looked like they were all mine, though, and at least I’d finally gotten back my copy of Best of the Beach Boys Volume Three, the one with “The Little Girl I Once Knew” and “Girl Don’t Tell Me” on it. I’d stopped asking her about that one when? Two breakups ago? And as a special bonus just for breaking up with her, she also included, at no additional charge, my American Graffiti soundtrack and Ringo Starr’s Blast From Your Past and Gotta Take That One Last Ride by Jan and Dean and Boulders by Roy Wood and I didn’t even bother looking at the rest. Just set them on the floor. I’d file them back in with the rest of my records and it’d be like she never even had them.
Really.
I looked down into the considerably lighter bag now. There was all sorts of loose ephemera in there. It was like she’d just opened up her scrapbook and dumped all the contents into the bag. A handful of cards: postcards from camp and the beach, a few birthday cards, some Valentines... no way was I in the mood to shuffle through those... a program and hockey puck from the Hershey Bears game we went to with her sister... I tossed it onto the bed as a song lyric fragment flashed across my brain:
What the fuck
What the fuck
What the fuck
Will I do with this puck?
Ticket stubs from movies we’d seen, clipped together with a clothespin... a pine cone, from some hike we took somewhere... a Fantasyland napkin, from some other Sunday afternoon I’d forgotten about... next, pictures, tied together with raffia: on top, class pictures of me, all geeky and groomed (I swear I never looked like that in school), the inscriptions on the backs evolving from generic eighth grade (“To Christy Kelly from Brian Pressley”) through newly-dating ninth (“To Christy Love Brian”) into totally familiar tenth (“I love you Christy! xoxoxox Bri”)... then a small stack of Margo’s Polaroids: one of Christy and me that Margo took on Ski Night at Ski Liberty the year before, looking all flushed and chilly, our rosy faces close together like we loved each other (which we did when Margo snapped the picture)... another from the pool the previous summer, Christy in her red tank suit, just a hint of cleavage creeping up from the bottom of the frame, and me with my arm around her in that blue Beach Boys tee... another of Christy and me in our band uniforms at God-knows-what-football-game, standing in line at the concession stand, holding hands, me looking straight ahead, Christy leaning forward, looking at the camera, smiling and waving (“See... Christy knows how to look at the camera, Bri!”)... another of us sitting at the picnic tables out at Distelfink, me with a mouthful of burger, and Christy with her eyes shut, hand flattened and in motion in front of her face, like she was either swatting at a bee or about to slap me. I didn’t even look at the rest of them.
Underneath all the Loose Matter, there were NOTES: a thick sheaf of letters and notes and screeds and scrawls... some of them folded, some of them creased and flattened... written on notebook paper, scraps of yellow newsprint, the backs of tests and band music... whatever I’d had handy when I scribbled them out.
CHRISTY! Grab me a piece of chocolate cake, OK? PLEEEEASE??? xoxo Bri the top one implored.
I read the first lines of the next few:
Hi sweetie! Just sitting here in study hall thinking of you, not getting much studying done...
Honey- I’d like to go to ski night but I’ve never ski’d? (Skid? Skiid? Skied?) How hard is it? How much CRAP will Margo give me when I keep falling down?...
Hi baby! It sure was great seeing you last night. You drive fine-- Margo said you kept stalling out...
And finally, underneath all the notes, a jagged-edged, five-inch by seven-inch piece of birchbark from the white paper birch right outside of Christy’s window in the Kelly’s front lawn.
THINKING OF YOU AT HOME was written on the white side in red flair pen.
I remembered her giving me that note... how did she get it back? Unless it was a new note...
No, couldn’t be a new one... it doesn’t say GO FUCK YOURSELF anywhere on it.
KNOCK KNOCK!
I tossed the birchbark onto the bed. “Yeah?”
The door opened and Mom looked in, first at me, then at the stuff strewn around the bag on the bed. “Do you want me to wash those shirts, Brian?” she said.
“No,” I said, “they’re clean.” I don’t know why I said “no.” I mean, they smelled like Christy; Christy and me were through. Why would I want to smell her?
“O.K.,” she said, and she sighed, brushed her brown hair back and looked me in the eye, like she wished there was something she could do for a 17-year-old who wanted his Mom to hug him but was too cool to ask, much less just let her. “She just dropped it on the porch and drove away,” Mom continued. “I didn’t get to talk to her or even say ‘Hi’ to her.”
“Well,” I said as I scooped the sheaf of notes up and stuffed them back in the bag, “that makes two of us.”
“Awwww...” Mom said softly, and she stepped into my room and, as I stuffed more notes into the bag, stood behind me and petted my hair. “I’m sorry, Brian,” she whispered, and I almost started crying, almost turned around and hugged her, but instead I just kneeled there with my back to her, stony and still, biting my lip, holding back the tears as I filled the bag back up. Mom leaned down from behind me and kissed the top of my head. “We’re having lasagna for dinner,” she said as she straightened back up, like that would make me feel better. And it did. Kind of.
“Good,” I said, and I stuffed the t-shirts into the bag.
Mom patted my head one last time. “At least you got your class ring back, sweetie,” she said, and she turned to leave the room, shutting the door behind her.
Yeah.. class ring... great. The only reason I bought one was so I could give it to Christy.
I stuck the small stack of pictures back in the bag, and the puck and the ticket stubs and pine cone and the rest of the crap that I just didn’t want, and as I reached for my ring, a tear slipped out of the corner of my right eye, trailing over my cheekbone.
None of that, I thought, sniffling once, and I dropped the ring in the bag, stood up, opened my closet and pushed the bag to the back, behind my dress clothes and shoes and boxes of children’s books and baseball cards, and then shut the closet door.
Out of sight, out of mind, I thought, and I opened the window to air the honeysuckle, Tickle and green apple scent out of the room.
* * *
“Hey, at least you got your albums back,” Margo said when she came over to study later that night and flipped through the stack from the bag. “Blast From Your Past... I didn’t know you had this one.”
* * *
“Hey, at least you got your albums back,” Margo said when she came over to study later that night and flipped through the stack from the bag. “Blast From Your Past... I didn’t know you had this one.”
“I didn’t have it... Christy had it,” I said.
Margo picked up the album and scanned the cover. “So, what... it’s hers?”
“No, it’s mine,” I said. She was reading the song titles on the back cover; I knew what was coming...
“Can I borrow it?”
I sighed. “Yeah, sure, why not?” I said. “She’s only had it a year... I never got to play it or anything... go on ahead.”
“Thanks, Bri!” Margo set it aside along with Gotta Take That One Last Ride, and then looked at me like the tone of my voice had finally registered. “You sure you don’t mind?”
I nodded. “It’s O.K.,” I said.
“Thanks!” Margo continued flipping. “I’ll just tape them and bring them right back, I swear!”
(Right back turned out to be August 25, 1978, when I was getting packed for college. “Remember these?” she said, and she handed over a stack of albums that included Gotta Take That One Last Ride, Blast From Your Past, Let’s Get Small, Truckin’ Favorites --“Mom liked that one”-- Ramblin’ Gamblin’ Man, The Best of The Move, Miracles Greatest Hits From The Beginning, Surfer Girl, Favorite Russian Spectaculars, Sinatra Sings Of Love And Things, Magnetic South, From Elvis In Memphis, and Live Peace In Toronto. Among others.)
(“Except...” she said as I took the stack, “I never did get to tape those first two. You mind if I borrow them tonight? I swear I’ll bring them back by tomorrow when you leave!”)
We put on side two of the Ringo album (skipping over “Only You (And You Alone)”) and Margo sat at my desk and I sat on the floor, my back against the bed, door opened so Mom and Dad knew we weren’t Up To Something (as if) and notebooks and books opened so we could study (as if). “I’m just still thinking about the birch bark, Bri,” Margo said as she flipped through her notes. “You’re sure that that’s not the one she gave you?”
“Positive,” I said. I’d found the other note in my desk drawer.
“Positive...” Margo repeated. She scanned her notes for a few seconds, like they contained evidence in the Case Of The Duplicate Birch Bark Note and not scribblings from our AP Civil War History class. “Maybe...” She sighed. “Maybe she wrote you another one and just never gave it to you,” she said at last.
“Maybe,” I said.
“It’s just... I can’t figure out why she’d give it to you, you know? I mean, unless she wants you to know that she’s thinking of you. It’s either that or...” She bit her pencil eraser. “Maybe she just didn’t care what it said... maybe she just wanted to get rid of it.”
“Maybe,” I muttered. I really didn’t want to talk about it.
Margo looked back down at her notes. “Just doesn’t make any sense,” she said, and she turned the page and ran her eyes over her notes. I could tell she was thinking, but probably not about the exam. “Unless... she just didn’t care what it said,” she said at last. Pause. I hoped she wasn’t waiting for me to respond, because I wasn’t going to. “But see, Christy’s not like that. You know? She thinks of stuff like that.” She bit her lip and tapped her pencil on the desktop a couple times. “I think she’s trying to send you a message, Bri--”
“--Well, she sure did.”
That seemed to stop the discussion, and the record played-- “Oh My My” --as Margo flipped the pages in her notebook. “Oates...” she said almost to herself as she flipped, and either she was talking about the Alabama infantry commander or she’d remembered that Christy took a baggie of Cheerios with her to nibble between races at her swim meets. (That was what I thought of when she said it, anyway.)
“You know...” Margo started, “at least...” and she let her voice trail off.
“‘At least’ what?”
“Well...” Margo sighed. “I was gonna say at least you got your class ring back, but... the only reason you bought that was to give to her in the first place, right?” I didn’t answer. Margo stared out the window into the dark as “Early 1970” started, and she sang along quietly with the first few lines-- “Lives on a farm, got plenty’a charm, beep beep! Got no cows but he sure got a whole lotta sheep!”-- and then brushed her hair back. “I like Ringo,” she declared, and then, without taking a breath, “You know... it’s actually really kind of ignorant, her doing that, when you think about it. I mean, giving you all your stuff back. That really sucks.”
“I know,” I said.
“Bitch!” Margo said as she looked down at her notes, and then she glanced over at me like she expected me to protest. “Serious,” she added. “I don’t care if she is my best girlfriend.” She tapped her pencil a couple of times. “God... and at least I won’t have to see her in that... sweatshirt again. I swear to God, it was so big on her. Made her look like she had... f’n... triple ds. Which maybe she wanted, I don’t know.” She took a breath as she looked down at her notes. “And that... tight red t-shirt...” she continued. Breath... sigh. “I mean... Christy’s kind of an airhead sometimes, you know, Bri? I mean, she dresses all... tight and scanty, which is fine for you, but...” She shifted in the desk chair. “Like... for instance...” She was bugging me, but I had a feeling that she’d been waiting a while to unload this, and she was on a roll, so I let her go on. “A couple weeks ago, right? I saw her coming into the building? Cold morning, if you know what I mean... headlights... on!” --and she stuck her pencil up her shirt over her left breast and pushed the fabric out like the eraser was an engorged nipple, then withdrew it quick-- “No bra. Well, I said‑‑” and Margo lowered her voice “‘--Christy... why aren’t you airing-way an awe‑bray?’ And she goes--” and Margo rolled her eyes and head dizzily, her voice Christy-cute “--‘Ohhhh, Brian likes it.’ Which I’m sure you did, but, I mean, it’s like I told her: ‘Honey, Brian’s not the only one who’s gonna see that.’ You know? God. Doesn't think. I mean, really, it was kinda tacky, Bri.” She shot me a glance. “You probably loved it, though.”
“I don’t remember,” I said.
“Oh, you would’ve noticed, believe me.” She tapped her pencil on the desktop. “Doesn’t that bother you?”
I sighed loud. “Really, no,” I said. “I mean, right now, I don’t care what she wears. She can dress any way she wants to. What do I care?” And I sighed again and flipped the page in my notebook.
Margo raised her eyebrows. “Well, that’s now, Bri... I mean, didn’t you mind it then? I’d mind it.” Tap tap tap, not in time to the record. “Scotty’d mind if I came to school like that. He’d be all...” She went into her Scotty Whining voice. “‘I don’t waaannnnnt other guys checkin’ you out, Marrrrrgohhhh.’ Like they would.”
I took a breath. Bad enough that she seemed to be trying to push my Christy Sucks buttons, but no way was I taking that bait and getting into the whole Yes You Are Attractive And Guys Check You Out thing with her, which was basically just her fishing for compliments... compliments from me.
You really think so? Serious? Awwwww... thanks, bud!
No. Not tonight.
I sighed. “Look... are we gonna study or not?”
“I’m tired of studying,” Margo said. “I wanna dish on Christy.”
I laughed once. “I don’t.”
“Might make you feel better... get it out...”
“I don’t wanna get it out,” I said.
“Brian, if you’re pissed off--”
“--We’re supposed to be studying,” I said.
“We are.”
I looked down at my notes. Pickett’s Charge.
“O.K.,” I said, “so... who opposed Lee’s order to march on the center of the Union line?”
“Longstreet!” Margo said. “Ha!”
“Well, that’s one right,” I said.
“One point, maybe,” Margo said. “You know it’s not facts. He does essays.”
“Well, maybe this one’ll be multiple choice,” I said.
“Yeah, you wish,” Margo said. “‘Pick one because you didn’t feel like studying.’”
I laughed. “You’re the one who said she didn’t feel like studying!”
“And you do?” Now she was annoyed. She shut her notebook. “Jesus, Bri, you know... I’m your best friend. I don’t see why you just can’t say ‘Margo, Christy gave me this big bag of... crap back, and I really feel sad and I could use a friend.’”
I looked down at my notebook. “You knew that was what I meant when I said I wanted to study...”
“No...” Margo said, “I figured that was what you meant. But I didn’t know... any more than Christy knew you weren’t pushing her to have sex last Thursday.” She sighed. “If you’re upset, tell me.”
I felt myself starting to smile. “No,” I said.
“Fuck you, then,” Margo huffed.
We sat quietly for a few seconds, not studying, not talking... “I’m The Greatest,” the last song on side two, had faded out, and the motor of the automatic turntable clicked and whirred as the tonearm lifted off the record and glided back to the OFF position. Margo tapped her pencil as she looked out the window. Finally, she looked down at me, sighed, and then pushed her chair out, got up, and sat down next to me on the floor, her hip and leg right against mine. I didn’t move. “Look...” she said gently, “first... it’s not just that you two broke up. I mean, I keep trying to talk to her and she’s just... I don’t know... weird.”
“Weird? How?”
“Just... like...” Margo bit her lip. “Distant. You know? I mean, three times today I approached her: gym... public speaking... study hall. And it’s not like she was ignorant or anything... it’s more like she just didn’t have anything to say back. Curt answers, you know? Conversation killers. ‘Yeah. No. Nope. Yeah. Yeah.’ You know? Kinda like you were being earlier.” I laughed; she was right. “And I’ve tried calling her and she doesn’t call back. Now... either she didn’t get my five messages since Friday, or...” She bit her lip. “Maybe I should try calling her again from here, you know, so you can listen in.”
“I don’t think you need to do that,” I said.
“Yeah, I guess,” Margo said. “God... you might yell ‘WHY’D YOU GIVE MY STUFF BACK??’” She turned a little to face me, leaning with her left arm on the edge of the mattress, and I turned to face her, leaning on my right arm. It was kind of like pillow talk, our faces less than a foot apart. “See,” Margo continued quietly, “every other time this has happened, she and I have still talked. But this time, she’s even giving me the cold shoulder, you know?” She sighed; I could smell her gum (Fruit Stripe: “I don’t like breath gum; I like flavor gum!”). “But I don’t know... the storming out of the dugout, the ripping up the note, the bag... I mean, I’m sure she’s upset, but just... something about it just seems like a big show to me. It’s like... she’s already upset about something else and she’s just using you guys as an excuse. You know?”
“What do you think it is?”
“I don’t know, Bri. I don’t know.” She bit her lip. “But I swear it’s something that has nothing to do with you. Except that she needs to be away. From you, from me, from everybody.” She laughed a single light laugh. “Except the swim team. I mean, maybe something with her family. Kathy’s off at Bloomsburg, Tommy’s off... where’s Tom Kelly go to school?”
“University of Vermont,” I said.
Margo looked surprised, like she couldn’t believe she didn’t remember this. “Yeah, sheez... all the way up there.” She sighed. “Anyway... I just kinda wonder, you know? Her Dad’s down in DC for the term. I just always get the impression that Katie leans on Christy for help when her Dad and Kath and Tom are gone. But she never says. See, you gotta...” She yawned. “...you gotta say when you’re sad or hurting, you know? Just say.”
“I’m not sad,” I said.
Margo smiled. “I’m not talking about you.”
We sat there quietly for a second, and Margo looked down at my arm. “I’d be sad if I got a bag of junk back from Scotty, you know? Even if it was records I missed.” She looked at me. “You sure you’re not sad?”
“Yeah,” I said, and really, I wasn’t, not that much. But what was I? “More... confused,” I said. “I just can’t figure out what I did that she’d come back at me like that.”
Margo nodded. “Which is why I’m saying: maybe you did nothing. You know? Maybe all you did was light the fuse. I mean, you saw her shirt: she already was dyn-o-mite. Maybe it was just a matter of time before she blew up.” She sighed. “I mean, you know Christy. Everybody always says she’s such a sweetie. But I swear she’s worse than you... I mean, you do get it out eventually, you know? I just have to find the right combination of buttons to push.” I smiled. “But Christy...” Sigh. “She just goes on being nice, and then if you ask her if something’s wrong, she just goes ‘No, I’m fine.’ ‘What’s wrong?’ ‘Nothing. I’m fine.’ ‘How’s stuff at home?’ “Fine.’ ‘How’s school?’ ‘Fine.’ You know?”
I nodded my head. “Yeah, you’re right.”
“And all that builds up, Bri. I mean, when you’re feeling something, it’s gotta come out somehow.” I laughed. “What?” Margo said, smiling.
“Well, Christy’s the one taking the psych class,” I said. “You’d think she’d know that.”
“Hey,” Margo said, “just because you take a psych class doesn’t mean you have sense. You know?” She patted my leg and we looked at each other for a second, Margo’s turquoise eyes glimmering, and I felt like, if she’d fished for a compliment at that moment, she would have gotten a bite. “So...” she said softly, and I half-expected her to try to seduce me.
“What?” I said.
“What’d you guys have for dinner?”
I laughed. “Dinner? Why?”
Margo buried her face in the crook of her arm. “I’m hungry...”
“Well, why can’t we go eat your leftovers?”
“We’re here. Besides, I didn’t like what we had.” She shook her head, and her hair went just a little wild and then fell back into place. “Come on, Bri. What’s down there?”
“Lasagna,” I said.
Margo sat straight up and clapped her hands once. “Yes!” she said. “350 for ten minutes... and it’s probably still warm in the middle.” She leapt to her feet and reached down to pull me up. “Come on...” she said, yanking at my arm, and as I stood up, I felt a rush in my head, like I’d already been through this scene with her before. I didn’t quite know what to say, but, as usual, I didn’t need to say anything.
“What, Bri?” Margo said.
“Deja vu,” I said.
“Oh. Me too,” Margo said matter-of-factly. “Come on,” she said, and she grabbed her book and notebook and went out of my bedroom ahead of me, down the stairs. “Come on!” she called out one last time from the staircase.
I took one last look at the closed closet door before I snapped the desk lamp off and went downstairs to the kitchen, where Margo was already putting the casserole of leftover lasagna into the toaster oven, like I felt like maybe she’d already done, sometime, somewhere.
Copyright c 2005 Max Harrick Shenk
# posted by Max @ 3:53 PM 
