Missing Your Smile (7 page)

Robby laughed out loud as they approached an open lot with spooky wooden posts standing tall in the shifting light of the streetlamps.

“Howdy there!” Robby hollered to one of them.

“Shhh…,” she said. “You're making a lot of racket.”

“Who cares? No one can hear us with all that racket back on Main Street.”

“That's what you think. What was that squeaking back there? I hear it again now.”

“I don't know. I didn't hear anything,” he said. “Lots of creatures could be crawling around here. But the bridge is just ahead, so don't worry. This is Asbury Park after all, and I grew up around here. It's as safe to me as your barnyard was to you, I promise.”

“And what do you know about my barnyard?” She looked over to him in the light of the streetlamps. “You think I'm a country girl, ignorant and stupid, don't you? You probably think I grew up barefoot and shoveling manure from horse stalls.”

He laughed.

“Well, isn't that the truth?”

“Far from it, Miss Hostetler,” he said. “I see you as the paragon of beauty and virtue, sun kissed, your brow untouched by the sorrow and sweat of common man. You are a lady from the bounty land brought up to know splendor and glory undreamed of by such a commoner as myself.”

“You are such a liar,” she teased back. “And a great big fat one. So shut your sugary mouth and tell me what you really think about me.”

“I kind of like you, you know. I've never had a sister.”

“That's better. Now stop talking again. I want to watch the water while we're crossing this bridge and listen to the ocean ahead of us.”

“It sounds the same as it always does,” he said, not slowing down.

“You sure aren't much of a romantic type, considering your recent outburst. I would have thought better of you.”

“Remember, I grew up around here,” he said. “It's not romantic to me.”

“That's not an excuse to ignore such music as this. It will never grow old to me. Listen.” Susan paused. In the distance they could hear the gentle roll of waves coming in to meet the shore.

“You are correct, as always,” he said, standing still, his hand on the steel railing. He tilted his head skyward. “Do you think we should listen here all night?”

“Not if you're going to keep talking.” She let go of the rail and barged past him.

“Girls don't like me, just like you don't,” he said, catching up with her.

“What has that got to do with anything?” She turned to face him. “Of course they do. Or at least one certain girl will. There's someone out there for everyone.”

“Really?” He snorted.

“Don't you believe in true love?”

“No.”

“Well, I do!” she declared.

“Is that more of your farm wisdom? Perhaps the lore you learned riding through the cornfields?”

“That's not funny anymore.”

“Okay, we'll leave that point. I hate to disappoint you, but love is the product of the imagination, the trick of the gods to lure us into actions we would never do in our wildest dreams.”

“You are a sad, sick human being, Robby. Do you know that?”

“Strong words, young lady. Very strong words.”

“Well, they're true.”

“So how has love worked out for you so far?” he asked, coming up beside her.

She turned her face away from him.

He went on. “Has it led you down the fairy path, promising you great things, whispering of the nectar of the gods, and then dashing the dream to pieces about the time you were ready to touch glory?”

“You ought to be a poet,” she said.

“You didn't answer my question, young lady.”

She took a deep breath. “God made love, and it's good, and that's the end of the question. You just have to find the right person.”

“Merry hunting, my darling. Prepare to be disappointed.”

“The heart that stops looking is the heart that dies. Mine isn't dead yet,” she snapped.

“Whee!” he said. “Please tell me the girl didn't get all this from the farm.”

“It comes from riding a broomstick above the tall cornfields,” she said.

He laughed, his face turned toward the water. “I thought that subject was forbidden.”

“Only until I bring it up again. That's how it works, don't you know?”

“Quite,” he said. “Well, we still have the ocean before us, don't we? It at least is true and faithful.”

“So it is,” she whispered.

“Come,” he said, taking her hand to lead her across the wooden boardwalk. He motioned with the other, making a broad sweep across the sky. “Behold, great princess from the farm, the mighty ocean at night.”

T
he breeze blew in from the ocean, soft on their faces. Dim lights from passing ships shone in the distance like pinpricks on the dark waters. A soft murmur rose from the sand as the waves rolled in.

“You're funny, Robby. You know that?”

“Is that all you have to say?” he asked. “After all that effort I put in? I was trying to be good.”

Susan let go of his hand, stepping forward. “Oh, but this is beautiful! I've never been out here at nighttime. Thanks so much for bringing me.”

“You were coming yourself, and I just tagged along,” he corrected, looking out over the sandy stretch of beach. “But I'll take the compliment. Let's run on the sand.”

“Just a minute!” Susan paused. With one hand she removed her shoes and held them loosely by her side.

“You should have brought your bathing suit,” Robby said.

“It's too cold. And besides, I haven't got one,” she said.

“Oh that's right. You have something against bathing suits, don't you?”

“Only when I'm wearing such things where the whole world can see.”

“I bet you've never had one on in your whole life,” he said.

“No, I haven't,” she admitted, pausing to wiggle her toes. “The sand feels so different at night.”

Robby held out his hand and said, “Come with me.”

She took it, pulling back as he pulled forward, propelling herself with the momentum, feeling the soft footing shift under her feet.

“Run,” he said, approaching the edge of the waves. “Run like you've never run before!” He let go of her hand and sprinted forward, becoming a dim shadow ahead of her.

Susan hesitated. Should she give in to this feeling of abandoning one's self? The world was somehow much larger out here. Ahead of her the horizon was shrouded in darkness, stretching on and on into nothingness. Underneath her feet the sand moved.

“I'm coming!” she shouted. “Wait for me.”

“Run!” he shouted back, his voice distant.

She ran, her strides hesitant at first.
There's a certain trick to this
, she thought.
A way of planting my feet for the next push forward
. These were lessons not learned on the farm. But this was a
gut
thing. Susan propelled herself forward, lifting her dress high. Who could see anyway in the falling darkness?

The wind brushed against her cheeks. Her eyes searched ahead. Robby's form was a dim blob ahead of her. Boys ran fast, but she had grown up on a farm. The time spent running to and from the back fields had not been wasted. With a burst of effort, she increased her speed. Robby's form came into view and then seconds later, she passed him.

“Whew!” he said, slowing down. “You did grow up on a farm.”

“That was fun,” she said, gasping for air as she slowed to his pace.

“Just good old city fun.” He flopped down on the sand. “I guess one has to know where it's found.”

“Are there many more of these hidden pleasures around?”

“Not many. Shhh…the moon is coming up.”

She lowered herself onto the sand and looked up to the moon, its first dim glow bubbling up on the horizon.

“It's coming,” he said.

Susan watched as the light increased. How
vundabah
this was. The minutes seemed to hang on each other like molasses running out of a barrel. The emerging form of the moon cast its light across the waters. The bubble loomed larger, soon becoming a simmering halo on the horizon.

“You've seen this before,” she whispered.

He nodded. “It's almost enough to make a person believe in God.”

“Don't you?”

“I do in moments like this…”

She watched the light expand until the whole ball was visible, save for a tiny sliver missing from the top.

“It's not quite a full moon anymore,” he said. “That was a few nights ago.”

“Did you come down here then?”

“No, I haven't been here in a long time.”

“Then why now?”

“You, I guess.” He turned on his elbow. “You and that touch of the farm you bring with you.”

“And to think I was trying to lose that mark.”

“I didn't mean that in a bad way,” he said, turning his head, his face half lit by the light off the water. “But then perhaps it's more than that. You think God lives out in the country?”

“
Yah
, but He surely lives here too. I hope He does.”

“God is everywhere. That's what they used to tell us in Sunday school.”

“You don't go to church anymore, do you?”

“Not for a long time.”

“Your mom took me to her church last Sunday. We'd have gone again today if it weren't for the festival. You should come with us sometime. It would do you good.”

“I didn't know you were full of missionary zeal. I thought farm folks were more laid back, less in your face. That's what I liked about you.”

“Well, I didn't mean to offend you. It was just a suggestion. If you have problems, maybe you can find answers there.”

“You think I have problems?”

“I think we all have problems. I know I do. And plenty of them.”

“Nothing that church won't cure, I'm sure.”

“I hope so. I know I sure wouldn't want to stay home on Sundays. Even if I'm going to a church where my parents would disapprove…or even think sinful.”

“Going to church sinful?” He looked at her. “How is that?”

“You must not know much about Amish people.”

“No, not much,” he said, tracing lines in the sand, darker shadows appearing where his finger had been. “Other than things like plowing their fields with horses, one-day barn raisings, lots of pie eating…and nice girls.”

“Really!” She laughed. “I'm sure that was before you met me.”

“You're okay,” he said, his finger pausing. “So why would they object to mom's church?”

“Are you sure you want to know?” she asked.

When he nodded, she took a deep breath and began. “Church attendance has to stay—shall we say—in the family. And according to the family, that could be Old Order Amish, New Order Amish, Black buggy Amish, Yellow buggy Amish, Schwartzentruber Amish, Beachy Amish, and who knows how many more. Then there are the Mennonites—liberal, conservative, Black Bumper….well, you get the idea. But the Baptist church where your mom goes is….well, just not acceptable.”

“You sound a little bitter,” he said.

“I think that's just an echo of your own voice you're hearing,” Susan said. “As for me, I've accepted things the way they are. Who can change them?”

“But you're changing yourself?”

“That's something I
can
change. But even when I do, who knows if it will be any better.”

“Is that what you want to find out?”