You Can't Buy Love Like That Page 4

  I felt the material as he held them out to me and enjoyed the sensation of the silk slipping through my fingers. My hands were not visibly trembling, but I could feel the current of energy run through them as I stopped just short of touching his hand.

  I let the tie go and pointed to the one with swirls of red and blue. As we walked to the cash register, I reached into the back pocket of my shorts and pulled out my money. At the same moment, my driver’s license, which had been tucked between the bills, fell onto the table. He picked it up and read the major descriptors then looked into my eyes and said, “Carol Elaine, that’s a nice name.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “I was named after my mother’s best friend, Caroline. My mother didn’t like the full version, so she shortened it to Carol, thinking that when I was older and more sophisticated, people could call me Elaine.”

  “Are you older and more sophisticated now?” he asked, with a smile on his face. For the first time I noticed that, in spite of his bold approach and smashing good looks, he seemed shy as he posed the question.

  “Pretty close,” I said, blushing. He was refolding the shirt now, slipping it back into the plastic. Then he wrapped tissue paper around it and put it into a paper bag.

  “Well, you seem pretty sophisticated to me. Would you like to go out some time?”

  I thought, Would I like to go out? Oh my God. With you? Yes. Yes. Yes. Absolutely, I would love to go out with you sometime, any time, how about right now? Fortunately, I managed to say instead, “I’ll bet you say that to all the girls,” and then I followed that quickly with, “Sure, I would love to go out sometime. When?”

  “How about tomorrow?” he said, not missing a beat. He offered me a pen and a torn slip of paper to write down my phone number and address. As I reached across the table to hand it to him, I couldn’t stop smiling, giving away my obvious pleasure at his invitation.

  “So what’s your name?”

  “Charles, but my friends call me Charlie.”

  “Well, Charles—Charlie—I will see you tomorrow.”

  Mary was standing next to me with her mouth hanging open, and I had to touch her on the back to move her in the direction of the car. “See you tomorrow at five,” he said as we walked away. I looked back over my shoulder and shot him a smile.

  Charlie pulled up in front of our house on time the next day, wearing a starched yellow short-sleeved shirt and dark brown pants. His tanned arms contrasted beautifully with the light shirt, and his brown loafers had little tassels on them that bounced when he walked. You could tell his clothes came from a more expensive store than Sears by the way they hung perfectly on his body and that, despite his forty-minute car ride to my house, his pants didn’t show a single wrinkle. I met him at the door and asked him in. My parents, trying not to be overly intrusive, joined me in the living room. After the obligatory ten-minute interview, we moved to the doorway, and, upon his promise to bring me home by 9:00 p.m., my parents released me to his care.

  Just sitting next to him on the bench seat of his Chevrolet was a thrill, and it didn’t matter where we went or what we did. We spent every weekend together for the rest of the summer until he returned to school at Central Michigan University in September. He was a junior in college, while I was soon to be a senior in high school. Even then, I wondered why he would want to date me, but I didn’t care. I was attracted to a guy, and not just any guy—a guy that other girls would dream of dating.

  Even after just our first date, those same tantalizing feelings I had for Gina began to surface about him instead. Lying in my bed at night, I imagined his arm sliding around my waist instead of hers. Instead of waiting for her to call or write me a note, I waited for Charlie to call and to write me letters. Instead of feeling anxiety and fear that I was sick in some way, I felt joy and delight in my connection to him. This discovery of feelings for a guy made me overjoyed and reinforced my belief that I must be okay. This new development allowed me to reframe my experience with Gina as nothing more than an immature, adolescent crush on a girl that was of no consequence.

  After he returned to school at the end of August, he sent me typewritten letters with SWAK (Sealed With a Kiss) written on the back of the envelope and the Tau Kappa Epsilon fraternity house as the return address. I would read his letters over and over and run my fingers over the typewritten pages as though I could feel traces of the energy in his hands that had touched the same paper.

  Charlie’s dad was an executive with Seagram’s, and they lived in Bloomfield Hills, an upscale neighborhood far beyond our social bracket; but he didn’t seem to care that I was working class. Sometimes he would come for Sunday dinner when he was home from school and sit with my family around the table in our tiny kitchen. While I imagined he was more accustomed to a real dining room outfitted with a fine wooden table covered in a linen cloth, sterling silver cutlery, and maybe even crystal drinking glasses, he seemed quite comfortable with our plastic tablecloth, stainless steel flatware, and mismatched water glasses. I was the one who felt uncomfortable.

  At the end of our dates, we would park on Capitol, the street that ran perpendicular to Mansfield, where I lived. That way we could make out without my mother coming out of the house and asking what we were doing. Of course, I still heard her verbal messages playing in my head about the dangers of physical attraction, now even more pronounced, since he was a boy and I had no intention of getting pregnant. I loved kissing him, but I wouldn’t let him go further than touching me in my clothes. It was too scary to think about messing up my life by doing something that I could never change. If he really loved me, it wouldn’t matter that I didn’t go all the way. And he wasn’t real pushy about it. Back then, few girls had sex with boys outside of marriage, and those who did were referred to as “fast,” a connotation that could ruin your reputation.

  We continued to date through the fall, and I invited him to my high school football game one weekend, eager to show him off. He happily agreed and suggested I come to visit him at Central sometime. My eyes met his, and I felt myself melt into the bench. Surely, this was what falling in love felt like. And best of all, I could tell he felt that way too, something he confirmed with each new letter he wrote from school.

  On November 10, I received his invitation to homecoming. It felt like things were really getting serious when I read his words:

  Just received your letter . . . GREAT NEWS! Boy, is it ever great that you can come up. It’s the best news I have had in a long time . . . Guess what song they are playing right now . . . “Mr. Lonely.”

  I think of you more than anyone else I’ve ever known—love is the word I’m leaning toward! I’m hurrying with this letter, so forgive my haste. I’m kind of excited too. Waiting for this weekend.

  Love, Charlie

  There it was in writing: the L word. I was riding a wave of delirious pleasure.

  Homecoming was fabulous. He arranged for me to stay with some friends of his in a girls’ dorm. We went to the football game and the homecoming dance and walked around campus holding hands, and I got my first glimpse of a fraternity house.

  In all our time together, we had never discussed religion. I didn’t even know what his beliefs were about God, and I didn’t care. I had found a boy to love, who loved me.

  As Christmas approached, I searched for the perfect present to give him. Cufflinks? A sweater? A monogrammed shirt? Perhaps he would give me his fraternity pin—a sign that this was as serious as I thought. I got him all three. In his letter, he said he would call when he got home for break. It was a week before Christmas, and I still hadn’t heard from him. I wondered if he was on a golf trip, since he played on the team and it was too cold for golf in Michigan. Maybe he was finishing finals and had a lot to do. Yet, it seemed strange he hadn’t contacted me. My anxiety grew with each passing day. I didn’t eat much and couldn’t easily sleep. Girls didn’t call boys or initiate any kind of contact in those days. Waiting was my only option.

  On Christmas Eve the presen
ts sat sparkling under the tree lights, awaiting his arrival to open them. Still there was no word. Throughout the day, when I heard a car turn on to our street, I got up and peeked out the window. I checked the phone repeatedly to make sure it wasn’t off the hook, so he wouldn’t get a busy signal if he called. I forbade anyone in the house to use the phone except for emergencies. I reread his last letter and searched for clues that something had changed, that I had missed a sign somewhere. While my mother tried to be reassuring, her words of comfort did nothing to ease my worry. Though my father said nothing, I could tell by the look on his face that he wanted to smack Charlie for putting me through this misery. I thought that if he was alive and well and was just letting me suffer like this, I would kill him myself when I saw him.

  Christmas Day came and went. Instead of going to the traditional family dinner at my Aunt Jerry’s, I stayed home by the phone, certain that he would call me, that he would come. Nothing. Not a call, not a letter, not a word. My parents returned from the family dinner, hopeful there had been some news. They could tell by my dejected state that I knew nothing more. Finally, my parents went to bed. I stayed up glaring at his unopened presents under the tree, the lights bouncing off the shiny red paper I’d wrapped them in. These gifts looked like orphans waiting on a Sunday afternoon for someone to come and claim them. I felt like an orphan, too, as I sat and stared at the tree, watching the tiny pine needles drop one by one onto the unopened packages.

  As I sat, his face flashed before me with scenes of walking in the park, his stunning smile that revealed flawless teeth, the warmth of his broad palm in my hand, the smell of Old Spice. I remembered the day we met, his eagerness to sell me a shirt, the way he rummaged through the pile looking for just the right one, that my driver’s license fell out of my pocket with my cash, the feel of the silk tie and the way he looked at me. I thought about my trip to Central Michigan University for homecoming, his arms around me like he would never leave my side. Finally around midnight, I got up, went to bed, and buried my face in my pillow, hoping I would sleep for the rest of my life.

  On January 2, the tree came down, and I unwrapped the presents myself. Tears splashed on the bright red reflective paper; the gold ribbons, now untied, lay on the rug. Still, I held the hope that maybe he had been in an accident and no one knew to call me. Finally I couldn’t stand it anymore and enlisted my pal, Mary, to drive out to Sears with me on the off chance he would be working over his break. I knew he wasn’t supposed to return to school until later. We snuck into the men’s department, and I hid behind the suits while Mary walked by the belts, the sweaters, and the shirts on sale, directly up to the counter. Since she had been with me when I met him, she knew what he looked like. I saw her spot him next to the case with the watches, cufflinks, and other jewelry for men.

  There he was, alive, standing tall and tan and handsome as ever, wearing his white shirt and red-and-blue tie with the swirl in it. Seeing him in the flesh was like discovering a dead relative was actually still living. Yet I couldn’t believe it. If he was alive, why hadn’t he called me? Why hadn’t he come over? Why had he led me on for months if he didn’t mean any of it? My heart felt alternating waves of hope and terror. There must be some explanation for this, but I was too vulnerable to confront him myself. I stayed behind and watched Mary march right up to him and boldly ask, “Are you Charlie?” Her voice was so loud that I could hear her from where I was hiding.

  He looked around as though caught by surprise, perhaps wondering if he should admit to his identity. Finally, in a cautious tone, he replied, “Yes, I’m Charlie.”

  “You know that Carol Anderson waited all Christmas long to hear from you,” Mary said, staring intently at him, waiting for an answer. He dropped his eyes from her fierce gaze and stared down at the case of jewelry. I could see that he was uncomfortable. His hand moved back and forth over the top of the glass counter as though he were searching for a message in braille that he could offer to get himself off the hook.

  “Well?” Mary said.

  Charlie stood still for several minutes, his face flushed. After what seemed like hours, he slowly reached into his pocked and pulled out something and slapped it on the counter as he muttered. I was too far away to see or hear exactly what transpired. Mary stood there, just looking at him, and he nodded toward her and then turned and walked around to the other side of the counter until he was out of sight. My last glimpse of him was through a rack of suits, watching his beautifully sculpted body disappear. My stomach felt like Roto-Rooter had blasted my gut into tiny fragments. I was still trying to gain my composure when Mary said, “Let’s get out of here,” and headed toward the door, walking with a long stride for such a short girl. I struggled to catch up to her.

  “What did he say?” I asked, out of breath. “I couldn’t hear. What did he give you?” I wanted to know, and I didn’t want to know, at the same time. To know the truth was to give up entirely. There would be no more fantasy reasons for why he wasn’t there. It was torture waiting for her to speak.

  “He gave me a dime and said, ‘Tell her to call me when she grows up.’”

  It felt like a verbal knife slashing its way across my chest. I almost expected to see blood pour through my white blouse and my turquoise sweater. What did that mean? Who was this person? He wasn’t the same guy I met last summer, not the one who wrote me all those love letters, not the one who missed me and wanted to be with me, not the one that invited me to homecoming or sat in our kitchen and ate my mother’s fried chicken.

  Mary got in the car and started it up while I sat staring out the windshield. Was this about not sleeping with him? Not letting him have what he wanted? Had he met someone new who would give him that? Did he mind that I was a working-class girl? I could find no answer that made any sense. All of this, and I still didn’t know what happened. Too exposed, desperate for his love and affection, I couldn’t look at him face-to-face and ask. As we exited the parking lot of the Wonderland Mall, I stared out the window, biting a hole in my lip. I didn’t speak all the way home

  It was my first realization that falling in love could lead to heartbreak and that there was no explanation for how feelings that powerful in someone could so easily evaporate. I didn’t know if I could ever trust someone again, and if I did, it wouldn’t be for decades.

  chapter

  4

  the blood drive

  It took a long time to get over Charlie. While other guys asked me out, none of them compared to him in any way. They weren’t as handsome or as sophisticated. They weren’t as mature or as interesting. They weren’t as self-assured or romantic. And none of them were nearly as charmed by me as Charlie had been. Most of all, there was no chemistry with any of the others, and my youthful broken heart was certain there never would be.

  I started school at Western Michigan University without a boyfriend. Still, it was exciting to be on my own and away from the rigidity of the Baptist church. Though I promised my mother I would find a place to worship in Kalamazoo, I didn’t promise I would attend. By my sophomore year, I’d made new friends and eagerly joined many activities—with the exception of the annual blood drive. The thought of being jabbed with a needle made me squeamish, so I usually changed the subject when others suggested we participate. In spite of my skillful efforts to avoid such an outing, I was hijacked one evening by two friends who dared me to come along with them. Easily enticed by a challenge, and not wanting to lose face with my peers, I went, despite my apprehension.

  Norma, Carla, and I had just finished filling out the required forms in the union cafeteria, temporarily turned into a frenetic hall full of zealous college students waiting to give blood. Little red stickers with crosses on them adorned multiple surfaces as I glanced around for the exit, hoping no one would miss me if I disappeared. Before I could take action, a tall blond male volunteer came over and smiled at me as he inquired, “Your first time?”

  “Yeah. How can you tell?” I asked, looking up into his ruddy fac
e. He smiled more broadly as he replied.

  “You look like you are being chased by a cougar, and no one has even touched you yet.”

  Carla interrupted and introduced me to Mike, a friend of hers, advising me not to let him scare me, as a woman in a light pink apron and nurse’s cap escorted her to a table. Mike sat next to me, explaining the process as he handed me a small cup of juice, telling me to drink it so my blood pressure would remain steady and to keep me from getting dizzy or fainting. I gulped it down, and he offered me a second cup.

  Great, I thought. This is the best-looking guy I’ve met in the last two years, and I am either going to pass out or throw up on him. “Do I look like a wuss to you?” I asked, hoping to sound lighthearted as I flexed my arm to demonstrate my strength. He laughed as he reached over and squeezed it with his thumb and forefinger.

  As he escorted me to the table where my blood would be drawn, he offered to wait while the nurse set things up. I nodded appreciatively. She asked me to lie down and tightened a piece of rubber around my arm, telling me I had great veins. I took this as a plus. Mike signaled okay with his index finger and thumb and told me he’d be back to check on me.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Carla lying on the table next to me. She turned her head toward me and said, “I think Mike likes you.”

  “Really, what makes you say that?” I asked, blushing, hoping it was true. He was the first guy I had met since Charlie in whom I had the slightest interest. She went on to say that he didn’t pay that kind of attention to most girls, and, in spite of his great looks, he wasn’t dating anyone.

  Now I wished I had dressed a little better. They’d grabbed me after supper, and I hadn’t bothered to fix my hair and was still wearing my jeans and oversize football jersey with a giant number 67. I was asking Carla if he went to school at Western when I noticed him coming back toward me.