Yearbook (29 page)

Her hand had drifted onto his knee, and Guy patted it and smiled. She smiled back.

They walked in the chill, hardly speaking. Ro-Anne had her arm in his.

It was dark by the time they reached her driveway. Cocoon buds, green and bundled up on naked shrubs, were ready to unwind; small promises of spring.

“Please come in,” said Ro-Anne. “My mother’s out with Lester.

They’re never home till late. I don’t think I could stand being alone all that time.”

“Me either,” Guy assured her.

“I’m a very deep person, Guy. I’ve got a lot of feelings, you know.”

“I know. I can tell. “

“What if I throw a couple of TV dinners into the oven?”

“Sounds fine.”

Throughout their Swanson’s meal they talked only of Corky. Once the aluminum trays were cleared, Ro-Anne took Guy into the television room. Sitting next to each other on a large pink and white couch, they watched “Gunsmoke. “ James Arness shot an ornery outlaw and Ro-Anne cried.

Guy held her hand. Weeping, she wrapped her arms around him. He didn’t know what to think. What to do.

They kissed.

No. Please. Don’t! A frightened voice cried from inside. Don’t touch her. You can’t. He put his arms around her.

Drawn to him by the trauma of the afternoon, Ro-Anne made some crazy sense out of his consolation. Reassuring warmth replaced vacant words.

What is she doing? Stop her. Just let go. Drop your arms and lean back.

Their tongues touched; for Guy, a weird new sensation.

More than anything he wanted to stop. What in the world was going on? She hardly knew him. He brought a tentative hand to her breast.

“No. Don’t do that!” she whispered, removing it.

Guy heard Corky’s voice as loud as the television: Rule number one—whenever they say no, they mean yes!

Dutifully, his hand returned to her breast, refusing to let go. Ro-Anne didn’t resist. She recognized the technique. Ignoring all sense of reality, she lay back. He followed. It wasn’t as if he had a choice.

Each move of the hand was calculated. Every caress, every kiss. Each next step was as he imagined Corky would have handled it. Guy Fowler would never have dreamed of lying on a couch with anyone as untouchable, as beautiful as Ro-Anne Sommers; lying there half naked, tops thrown to the floor. Guy Fowler would never have known where to begin.

But as Corky, he proceeded to make love to her.

It was a fine arrangement. For a while.

By the time they had struggled out of all their clothes, and he was lying on top of her, too much confusion, too much guilt had set in.

He could no longer pretend. The sight of her lying there naked, longing not for her surrogate lover but the genuine article, was too jarring.

He went soft. Sitting up, he hid his face in his hands.

She sat up too, and all sugar-sweet asked, “Is there something wrong with you?”

Wrong?
Of course not! He’d show her there was nothing wrong. No real man could refuse her.

He turned and kissed her again. Hard. As he was biting her lip, Amy’s voice suddenly came from nowhere, telling him again he could never touch Corky. Banishing the uninvited, he admitted into the movie playing behind his eyes more appropriate visions.

He saw Butch’s dirty postcards. He thought of the half-naked girl in a
Playboy
centerfold, her amazon tits, her alluring lips. Nothing.

Amy’s nagging voice returned, and even as he tried erasing it, an image played on his mind; a triumphant Corky sitting on a locker bench in jockstrap and shoulder pads, motioning to him.

No. Guy fought it, replacing the sick, erotic fixation with a pair of voluminous breasts.

Ro-Anne blew in his ear. “Oooh,” she moaned, recalling how much Corky liked that done to him.

Corky, Corky, Corky,
she thought, lying down again, twisting her head left to right.

Guy, reading her mind, went stiff again. Like an old hand he mounted her, pushed his way in and, his face buried in a cushion, pounded away.

“Yes!” she cried, once again in the back seat of Corky’s Chevy. “Yes, my darling…that’s it!”

And now as he thrust at her violently, he was himself. Guy. Little Big Guy Fowler—one of the fellas—do in’ it! Joining the ranks. Sowing his wild oats, losing his virginity and his boyhood with the school’s hottest piece of ass.

One minor adjustment.

At the climax it was no longer Ro-Anne, but the recurring image of a half-naked Corky in the locker room, responding to his touch, that carried him through the long, abandoned ride home.

When it was over Ro-Anne wept and Guy sent his disturbing thoughts straight back to a dead spot behind his brain, from which he promised himself never again to summon them.

Ro-Anne pushed him off, sobbing, “Oh my God, are you crazy? What have we done?”

THIRTY-NINE
 

“You
WON T TELL ANYONE
about this!” Ro-Anne pointed a reproving finger at Guy.

“ ‘Course I won’t. “

They stood at the door, saying good-by.

“Corky would feel just awful if he knew you’d bird-dogged him.”

Now she tells me. “I know.”

“And besides…” She waved a hand in the air. “Oh, never mind.”

“No. Goon. Say it.”

“Well, besides that”—she giggled—”who would believe it?”

Guy smiled sheepishly, knowing she was right. “My lips are sealed.”

“I’m not going back there, Guy. Never again. “

“To see Corky?”

She nodded. “Ican’t. It’sjust too devastating.”

“Devastating.” Guy stared at his shoes.

“Besides …” she pouted. “We’d just broken up when he ran out on me looking for Amy, that ugly witch.”

That was it! Guy finally linked the missing piece to the puzzle of Corky’s accident.

“So if he could go after some UGA like her, maybe I never really knew him anyway.”

Guy shook his head. “Maybe not.” Turning to leave, he kissed Ro-Anne’s cheek. “By the way, have you seen her lately?”

“Who, Amy?”

“Yeah. Next time take a close look.”

“Why would I do that?”

“She’s not so UGA anymore is why. Good night.”

Guy returned home in a daze.

CUppity-clop
, Birdie descended the stairs. Paying no attention to her son, shivering in the doorway, she rushed directly into the kitchen.

“Pie pan!” she hollered at the refrigerator.
“Where s my pie pan?”

Barging her way back out of the kitchen, she approached Guy.
“What about my pie pan?!”

“Hi Mom,” said Guy, preoccupied.

“Where have you been? Do you know what time it is? Come on, son. Think! Where could it be?”

Guy looked at her blankly. “I went to Rushport to see Corky. Remember?”

Birdie threw both hands high in the air and barreled back upstairs. An unusual welcome.

Guy unbuttoned his parka.

Nathan, thin and slow, came down the stairs. “There you are. Why didn’t you call or something? Where’s your mother’s pie pan?”

“I want to Rushport today. To the hospital.”

Nathan didn’t hear him. “We haven’t time for any jokes, Guy. Where is it?”

“Where is what, Dad?”

“You know!”

“Mother’s pie pan?”

“Yes. Her pie pan! Have you seen it?”

“I just walked in the door, Dad. I’ve had a very rough day.”

“None of us have had it easy, so don’t tell me your troubles. We’ve looked everywhere. I told her to buy a new one when she gets there. But you know your mother and her superstitions. Says she won’t go without it.”

“Go where?”

“Ten years!” Birdie declared, clumping down the steps again. “I’ve had that darned thing ten years. You know what it is, Nathan. I shouldn’t be leaving you. You’re not well enough yet for me to travel.”

“Travel where?” Guy asked.

“I’m fine!” Nathan insisted. “You’re going and that’s final! Now, don’t worry, it’s got to be somewhere—”

“But where?” Birdie was desperate. “Could it be in your room, Guy?”

“ Mother, what would a baking pan of yours be doing in my room ?”

“How would I know? For your photography, maybe. … All I know is it’s not where it should be, not where I put it… . How can I go without my pan?”

“Go
where?”
Guy asked again, feeling part of some strange merry-go-round for which he held no ticket.

“Your mother’s made it to the Pillsbury Bake-Off finals. She’s leaving for Saint Louis tonight!”

“I am not! I’m not going anywhere. How can I go?” Birdie argued.

“That’s wonderful,” said Guy, subdued, trying to sound cheerful.

“She didn’t even tell us about it. If Rose hadn’t found the telegram…”

“Which recipe did they finally accept, Ma?”

Birdie blushed. “You know that lemon-rhubarb glazed crumb-cake with raisins and the anise flavoring?”

Guy nodded.

“Well, I mailed it in on one of my index cards as this year’s entry, not knowing that on the back was the recipe for my cinnamon-apple pie, the one I’ve been making for almost twenty years, and
that’s
the one they picked!”

“Apple pie? Plain ole apple pie?”

Birdie nodded with pride.

“Not in the attic!” yelled Butch, bounding down the steps.

“Well, I’m not going without it.” Birdie moped into the living room. “Disappeared right under my nose. Can’t you see it’s an omen?”

“Cut it out, Birdie, you’ll miss your train!” said Nathan, following her.

“Who cares?” Birdie collapsed onto the couch, folding her arms in frustration.

Nathan sat next to her. “I want you to go upstairs and finish packing.”

Fighting back tears, Birdie turned away.

Butch went to the couch. “Come on, Ma. One pan’s as good as the next.”

“It is not, and I’m not going. Period. Your father needs me here.”

“Not down there!” Rose came up from the basement.

“About time you got home!” she told Guy on her way into the living room. “I’ll bet you’re the guilty party.”

And in a way he was, Guy realized with a shock, as he suddenly remembered where indeed the pie pan was. He was trying to figure a graceful way to come clean when Butch snapped his fingers at him. “Corky? How’s Corky?”

Everyone looked to Guy. “Better. The nurse said he was feeling better.”

“Good,” said Butch, and everyone nodded silently as Guy, still standing in the hallway at the living room entrance, asked innocently, “Are you looking for the big round pie pan that—”

Nathan erupted. “Of course we’re looking for
the big round pie pan,
goddammit! What did you think? What the hell do you think your mother has been so frigging hysterical about?”

“I have not been hysterical, and I’ll thank you to watch your language in front of the children.”

“What do you mean, watch my language? I’m a sick man who’s sick of watching his language!”

Guy decided it was now or never. “I know where the pan is,” he said softly.

As everyone came to a stunned silence, Guy hurried into the kitchen, opened the oven door and removed the pie pan. He’d put it there that morning when he’d seen it on the counter, freshly scrubbed, and without thinking had simply returned it to its customary storage spot on the bottom shelf of the oven.

In their frenzy no one had bothered to check there. Too obvious.

The Fowlers stood huddled together as Guy delivered the sacred pan into Birdie’s open arms.

“All right. Enough!” Nathan clapped his hands. “We haven’t time for any mushy stuff. Finish packing, Birdie. You’ll be leaving for the station in five minutes!” Exhausted, he sat down.

“Yippee!” Butch raced from the room. “I’ll start the car!”

“I’ll help you finish packing, Ma!” Rose took the stairs two at a time.

Birdie regarded her pie pan as if it were a just-awarded Oscar for Best Cook. She placed an open hand on Guy’s cold cheek and kissed him. “Remember when you were a little boy and we took that car trip to Uncle Arthur’s in Albany? All alone in the back seat, remember how you tied a handkerchief around your mouth and signaled to other cars for help?”

“I made believe I was being kidnapped,” Guy recalled.

She nodded. “And then the state police pulled us off the road and took out their guns. Remember?”

“It took ten minutes to convince them I really belonged to you.”

Birdie sighed. “You’ve always been a strange and wonderful child.”

Guy smiled a goofy grin and performed his bogus tap dance. “Hey, Ma. You better get going. You and your pie pan have a date with fame and fortune!”

 
MAY
 

FORTY
 

“You HAVE A VISITOR, “ said the nurse.

Corky opened his eyes.

Amy walked into the room. “Hello.” She went over to the window and placed the plant on the sill. “I brought you these. Azaleas. It’s finally getting warm out. They’re playing baseball—”

Corky tried turning his head toward the window. It hurt.

“Move closer, miss, “ said the nurse. “He can’ft see you over there. “

Amy went to the bed, fighting to retain composure. She decided it would be better to get right to it. “I know what you’re thinking, Corky, you’re wondering why I’m here, right? Fair enough. Well, it’s like this… . Guy said you were looking for me when you got hurt, and I wanted you to know how sorry I was and that I understand things better now. I’d like to be friends. …”

Corky still remembered nothing about the night of the accident. His eyes opened and closed.

Amy cleared her throat. “Azaleas aren’t very hardy. Still, it’s spring, you can’t go out yet so I thought I’d bring the mountain to you. …”

He looked at her. Nothing registered.

“It’s Amy, Corky. Amy Silverstein.”

“Ro-Anne?” he asked through wired teeth.

“No. It’s Amy.”

He shook his head. It wasn’t Amy. He would have remembered Amy. He didn’t recognize this attractive stranger.

Amy smiled nervously. “Well, I just wanted to drop by with this. I’ll let you get back to sleep.” She touched his hand. “Feel better. Feel better soon. Okay?”

Corky thanked the nice girl and went back to sleep.

Wiping her Anglo filed nose, Amy hurried from the hospital.