You Can't Buy Love Like That Page 7

  I told them I felt mortified and wasn’t sure I wanted to go back. They reassured me that I would recover from my embarrassment and that this was an important test of character. I needed to show myself I had what it took to rise above adversity, and they believed I could do it. My parents always showed their greatest kindness to me in my darkest and most vulnerable moments—focusing on the important lesson to learn, rather than condemning my shortcomings.

  The first few weeks back at school were awkward. I had to face all the freshmen on my floor and tell them that I wouldn’t be their RA anymore, though I’d be around if they wanted to talk. I settled into a downsized single room on the third floor, which sported a set of stacked bunk beds against one wall and a tiny wooden desk against the opposite wall. Both pieces of furniture were scarred with scratches and bits of chipped wood that revealed rough use over many years. Gone was my lavish suite of two rooms and the luxury of space. Gone was the privilege of having an identified leadership role in the dorm. Gone was my sense of pride in having my tuition paid for. These visible losses were a big wake-up call. I was determined to stop fooling around with Nicky and focus on my grades and my relationship with Mike.

  While my intentions were clear, my resolve was weak, and I easily succumbed to any adventure Nicky suggested. One Saturday morning she bounded into my room out of breath and said, “What do you say we go downtown and take the next Greyhound bus, wherever it’s going?”

  I couldn’t resist, and, grabbing my coat, we took off down the stairs, buoyed by the prospect of an escapade. We arrived at the bus station, checked out the schedule, and found that a bus was leaving for Benton Harbor in fifteen minutes. We bought our tickets, got on board, and sat near the back. Sitting side by side in the confined space permitted us to lean into each other and enjoy the physical sensations that danced between as we talked and laughed all the way there.

  Our intention had been to get off, walk around the place, and then get back on the bus and come home. We were so excited by the adventure that we failed to check the return schedule prior to boarding. Only upon arrival in Benton Harbor did we discover that no buses were going back to Kalamazoo until the next morning. Our choices now were to call Mike to come and get us or spend the night; I had to call him in any case to cancel the date we had for the evening. We looked at each other, shrugged our shoulders, and together said, gleefully, “I guess we have to spend the night.”

  I looked around for a phone booth in the bus station, dialed Mike, and waited, slightly worried he would be upset by the change in plans. I listened to the ring as I twirled the phone cord around my finger and read the graffiti on inside of the booth. He was generally easygoing and often found my impulsive actions funny or at the very least entertaining when they involved him. Finally, he picked up the receiver.

  I tried to sound upbeat, hoping he would see this little trip to nowhere as kind of a lark, that he could appreciate the fun of it all. I began with, “Hi, honey, you’ll never guess where I am.”

  “No—probably not.”

  “Well—I’m in Benton Harbor with Nicky. You know how I like to be spontaneous . . .”

  “What?” he said, annoyed. “We were going to go to the basketball game tonight with Bob and his wife.”

  I had not heard this tone before; I had crossed a line. I softened my voice in my reply. “I’m really sorry. We didn’t realize there wasn’t a bus coming back tonight. I know it was a reckless thing to do.”

  “Carol, I’m really disappointed.”

  My gut tightened; Mike had never said that to me before, and I had taken him for granted more than once in our relationship. Now, I felt sheepish. I apologized again and let him know I understood why he would feel that way. My impulsiveness had gotten me in trouble on other fronts in the past, and I knew he was right to be angry.

  “What time does the bus get back?”

  I told him it was around noon and asked if he would like to have lunch together. It was quiet on the end of the line as I wound my hair around my finger and held my breath, worried he may never want to eat any meal with me again. I implored him not to be angry, though I really couldn’t fault him for whatever he felt. I would have had a fit if he had done something like that to me. “I love you,” I said tentatively.

  “Call me when you get in. I’m not feeling very hungry at the moment.”

  I sat there for a few minutes. Even I could see how selfish my actions were. Torn between my loyalty to Mike and my attraction to Nicky, I allowed the intensity of my regret to dissipate as I walked away and rejoined her; she was counting her cash to see if we had enough between us to get a hotel. She could tell by the look on my face that things hadn’t gone well.

  “I think I went a little too far this time,” I said, furrowing my brow and running my hands through my hair. “I really hate hurting him. And . . . I love it that you are spontaneous like me.” I talked myself into believing things would be all right as I reached into my pockets and pulled out a few bills and some change. Between the two of us, we had a little over forty dollars. Master-Card had barely been invented (and my parents didn’t have one), so cash was the only option for payment. We looked at each other and laughed—having no idea how much a room would cost for the night—and set out on foot in the direction of some possibilities.

  We walked two blocks and found a small independent motel that looked a little dumpy but was in our price range. We paid our money, went up to the second floor, and opened the door to modest furnishings—one double bed, a small black-and-white RCA TV, and a desk with a lamp and a Bible on it. I opened the window to let in fresh air; then I put the Bible in the drawer.

  We had passed a pizza place on the way, so we went back and got a small deep-dish to go and took it back to the room. We spread out one of the threadbare towels on the bed as a dining cloth and then sat cross-legged on either side to share our picnic.

  The dim lights intensified the feeling of mystery and anticipation. Whatever it was about Nicky, being around her always heightened my senses. I felt the familiar waves of sexual attraction as I watched her take a bite of pizza and chase the dangling cheese with her fingers, scooping it up and putting it in her mouth.

  Around 9:00 p.m. we turned on the TV and lay apart on the bed, still fully clothed; we fell asleep watching I Love Lucy. Midway through the night, we climbed under the covers, and, just before drifting off again, Nicky rolled over and slipped her arm around me, just like Gina had years ago, drawing me into her body. The same voltage I experienced back then seared through me, and I savored the sweet torture—to be so close to her yet unable to free myself to feel the full glory of physical connection. While my mind kept saying, “Stop this,” my body kept saying, “Get closer, this is what love feels like.” I didn’t want to go back to sleep. I just wanted to lie there and listen to Nicky breathe and feel her tenderness and her strength surrounding me, knowing that when the morning came, all of this exquisite pleasure would be gone. And, in the light of day, the guilt and self-hatred would rage over me with the force of Niagara Falls, making me despise myself for loving something this beautiful.

  Mike forgave me and came over the afternoon we returned. We spent most of the day together wandering around Milham Park holding hands, tossing bread crumbs to the ducks, and sitting on the bridge beneath the tall pine tree we climbed on our first date. Guilt swarmed inside me as we strolled. He was such a good man in every way—kind, caring, thoughtful, reasonable. Even as I reminded myself of his many superior qualities, my thoughts returned to my time in Benton Harbor—eating pizza on the bed, watching Nicky’s face in the reflected light of the television, the way she turned her head and swept the hair out of her eyes, and the evocative feeling of her arm slipping around me as we fell asleep.

  While there was a sexual revolution going on in the sixties, it was about greater freedoms for heterosexual men and women to explore sex with multiple partners, inside or outside of marriage, or for women to challenge laws that prohibited them from usin
g birth control. In the absence of any similar public discourse helping same-sex partners understand and joyfully explore their feelings, Nicky and I were alone in our attraction, never talking about it openly—not even to each other.

  Then, one night, as I was sprawled out at the foot of my bunk bed in the dorm talking with Nicky, who was on the top bunk, she unexpectedly descended from her perch, turned out the overhead light, and lay down next to me. Inching closer, she curled her body around mine. The feeling was tender and breathtaking, the smell of her hair sweet, as she nuzzled into my neck. It was luxurious—just as it had been the night in Benton Harbor. We lay there in silence for a few minutes before she raised herself up on one arm, bent her head over my ear, and circled the inside of it with her tongue.

  My body went limp, and I knew for sure that this was no accident. Gone now was all resolve to deny the intensity of our attraction. She lowered her body on top of me, rested her cheek next to mine, and stroked my hair with her hands. She kissed me on the forehead, then on my cheek, and finally on my lips. It was otherworldly—the softness of her face, the gentleness of her touch, the weight of her body. All night long we lay half awake, half asleep, as we savored the sensation of being pressed up next to each other. While the familiar threats from my Christian upbringing marched in and out of my consciousness (along with glimpses of Mike’s face looking aghast), I didn’t care. My body was in charge, not my brain, and it had hungered so long for this moment, it was irresistible. As the morning light came in, I brushed her blond hair away from her eyes and touched her face to awaken her. We looked at each other in silence, no longer protected by the darkness of night.

  “I really don’t want to go to class,” she said.

  “Neither do I,” I responded as we both got out of bed, now feeling shy and self-conscious, glancing at each other with uncertainty about how the other felt. We smiled and hugged before she left, sharing a secret that still had no words. When the door closed behind her, I sat back down on my bunk awash in a jumble of feelings. I wanted to relish the sweetness of this innocent love before the face of Reverend Mitchell or my mother came smashing through my psyche to rip it away. His voice intruded as I got up and got dressed: “The wages of sin is death . . . repent and be saved.” I kept moving as I pushed the words outside my head.

  Nicky frequently spent the night in my room that spring, and, each time, I felt tormented by the contrast between my excitement over her and what felt like brotherly love for Mike. It was as though I had gotten the signals switched. I could only manage this angst by compartmentalizing my public relationship with Mike, who made me feel normal, and my private love for Nicky, who made me feel whole. It helped that Nicky was a favorite of my mother. But even this delight was confounded by my fear that should my mother ever find out the true nature of our relationship, she wouldn’t like her at all. This caused me to once again be extra cautious about what I shared with my mom. It was contrary to both my body and soul to feel such great passion for Nicky in private and to suppress it completely in public. Lying with words is difficult; lying with your body, impossible.

  Meanwhile, my relationship with Mike was progressing, at least on the surface. He agreed to attend the Baptist church with me, which further endeared him to my mother. Nicky pledged my sorority. She and I visited each other’s homes on the weekends when Mike had other plans, and we double-dated on special occasions. After dropping off our respective dates in the lobby of the dorm, sure to have others notice us leaning against the walls making out with them before they departed, we would retreat to my room, turn out the lights, and climb into bed together. We carried on as though this split-level life could continue forever, never bothering to inquire how long it would be sustainable.

  The answer to that question came in the middle of March when Nicky came down with a severe case of mononucleosis and had to go home. A dull emptiness crept into my body from the moment I got the news. Corresponding with that announcement, coincidentally, I was summoned to a meeting with Judy, the assistant director of the residence hall. Nicky was sprawled out on the lower bunk in my room, half asleep as she struggled to do her biology homework, when I left for the consultation.

  I suggested she stay there and rest until I returned. It was unlike her to be so low in energy, and it worried me. I left quietly and headed to the director’s room. The door was closed, which was unusual, so I knocked and waited. Judy opened the door slowly; all the RAs were sitting in a circle. None of them stood up to greet me, give me a hug, or banter in the way we once had when we all worked together. The dim lighting made the institutional lime-green walls feel even more oppressive than usual. My hands were clammy, my throat dry. My heart pounded so fiercely I feared others could hear it.

  “How are you doing?” Judy asked as I took the empty chair in the circle.

  “I’m not sure—maybe you could tell me,” I said. “Is something wrong?”

  I was scared. I had visions of my parents being in a car wreck or my mother having a stroke at work. Surely someone must have died to create the heaviness hanging in the room. Finally, Dottie spoke.

  “You know we are your friends . . .” She paused for a moment before continuing. My body stiffened, anticipating a blow. “We just wanted to let you know that people are talking about your relationship with Nicky.”

  My eyes were fixed on the brown tile as I counted the flecks in it and noticed how the sun had faded the ones closest to the windows. My lip curled inward in an effort to keep back the tears. I knew what was coming next, though I wanted to cover my ears and not let the words reach me.

  “They say that you are sleeping together. In fact, people are saying that you’re gay.”

  I stared past the people in the chairs and out the window. Spring was near, and the sun was bright on the trees. People in light jackets walked from the library back toward the dorm, and a couple of girls played catch on the front lawn. I felt my lungs collapse inside my chest, desperate for a deep breath that would sustain me through this nightmarish scene. I didn’t know what the punishment would be if the truth were known, but expulsion was the first thing that came to mind. I wouldn’t let them make me admit it. I wouldn’t allow the truth to harm Nicky or me. I sat still and tried to keep composed though the overriding sensation was one of defeat—trapped in the enemy camp with a sword to my throat. Of course people would think that. Of course they would imagine we were gay. Of course they would make it ugly. It was an indefensible position—most of all because they were right. She did spend the night in my room. We did sleep together. I did love the feeling of her arms around me, the touch of her skin next to mine, the way her hands moved in the dark to pull me closer to her. I loved the sound of her breathing, the way she looked in the morning, her shy tenderness, the way she touched my face when she kissed me.

  My ears were hot, and my hands turned to fists in my lap as I prepared to speak. Instead of confirming their accusations, I responded with an incredulous, “What? That’s ridiculous!” My gut roiled with the force of this lie, my chest heavy with despair.

  Dottie persisted. “Well, is it true?” she asked in a derisive tone.

  “She’s my best friend. Is there a problem with that?” I tried to convey an appropriate balance of surprise and indignation. “So, who’s saying that?” I asked, taking the focus off of me.

  “We are not going to name names, but it’s more than one person.”

  I wanted to throw up, run out of there, smash something. Instead, in the calmest voice I could muster, I said, “Sure, we spend time together, but it’s no big deal,” as though Nicky meant nothing to me.

  “Does she spend the night in your room?” Jane asked in a tone that made me feel I was being interrogated by the relationship police.

  “Yeah, sometimes—but I have bunk beds, you know. I find this insulting!” My voice strained as I kept denying the allegations.

  “Carol, you know we are your friends.” Really? None of this felt very friendly. It felt harsh, accusatory, hu
miliating. I glanced around the room, but no one’s eyes met mine. Heads down, staring at the tile, they spoke to the floor as though I weren’t there.

  Sherry weighed in, “Sometimes people make things up, and, whether they are true or not, they can ruin your reputation.” Why would loving someone ruin your reputation? I thought to myself. Tethered to my chair by invisible ropes, eyes cast down, I was unable to speak.

  “Are you okay?” Dottie asked. “We just wanted to let you know that we’re concerned.”

  “Yeah, I’m fine,” I lied again as I stood up to leave. “Is there anything else?”

  “You might not want to give people the wrong impression,” Judy said in closing.

  But they already had the wrong impression on all counts by making our relationship something to be ashamed of rather than to celebrate, and there was nothing I could do to give them the right impression because somewhere inside I had the wrong impression also.

  “Okay then—nice poster,” I said as I nodded at the Planet of the Apes wall hanging and turned to the door. I reached for the knob and yanked it hard. Out in the hallway, I half expected a crowd of girls to be there, jeering at me. No one was around. I turned left and hurried toward the back stairs. Torrents of shame squeezed my chest like a cider press. God didn’t need to punish me. I could do that myself—by lying to people in order to preserve my identity as a straight person, by lying about the one person who meant the most to me.

  I raged inside at them, at myself, at Nicky—anything to stop the pain. I was going against everything my parents had taught me about standing up for what I believed in. I was going against everything my parents believed in—loving a woman. So many letters my father typed to me, from the time I was sixteen to that very day, were filled with declarations about my courage to be a leader and to say what I thought, regardless of what people said. I felt I was letting him down with my deceits—that he would expect me to tell the truth regardless of the cost. But this price was much higher than I could bear. Homosexuality was a sin. It was against the law. It was a sign you were mentally ill. People were ostracized for being gay. People lost their parents and their friends. People were fired. I couldn’t conceive of dealing with the ramifications of my truth. Death would be preferable.