Molly’s Last Visit
Looking backward from 2009-10-18.
Once the letter I’d sent to [Molly] in August came back to me unopened, I heard nothing more from her, at least, not until well into 8th grade. The weather had gotten chilly as the days remaining in October of 1974 were few, when she called to check in. Apparently, she’d had the tonsillectomy she mentioned when we last talked in May, because she now spoke in a notably higher register. Indeed, she’d gone from a tenor to a high alto, or perhaps even a soprano and she sounded a whole lot sexier, if that was even possible.
Her call came into extension 50 in the boy’s side recreation area, one afternoon just before supper. Just like the last time we went for weeks without communicating, my feelings for her started weakening; though I truly enjoyed the way she’d occasionally pop up, out of the blue. If she’d lived closer – maybe if she’d been a student at Schenley high school just up the hill, we might have become grade school sweethearts. But as it was, though we really liked each other, keeping the romance alive proved impossible. I mean, hearing her caring and tender way still warmed my heart and made me very happy, and I seemed to do this for her too. But in those days, cell phones and free long distance were but lofty dreams. She and I were never physically close enough to take advantage of local calling, which only cost a dime per conversation. The Internet and email were still in their infancy as well, and so, were not available to the general public. In fact, I wouldn’t have known how to use a computer even if I had one, as I had no training on it then.
Yes, pay phones were available at WPSBC and at the various places she’d been staying, but quite expensive for both of us. I earned only a few dollars a week as a pot washer, and she probably made little more. A single person-to-person or collect call would have eaten up all my wages for the week. So keeping in touch was highly sacrificial, to say the least.
Infrequent talks weren’t our only problem either. With [First Love] so close by and [Molly] so far, not only was it difficult to stay interested in [Molly], but it was hard to stay disinterested in [First Love]. Though [First Love] had rejected my advances for over a year now, a relationship with her still seemed more plausible and thus desirable, than with [Molly]. So what I felt for [Molly] at this point had become (just an) abiding friendship; my fantasies in eighth grade focused way more on [First Love] as well as my homeroom teacher. In short, since [Molly] was largely out of sight, she was also for the most part, out of mind.
But here she was on this old, black wall phone beside a rattling water fountain, in this noisy hall with two-story high ceilings, without a stitch of carpeting anywhere to dampen the echoes; a place where kids played pool and scurried about, yelling, thumping, and watching TV. Not the most romantic setting to be sure, but I clearly heard her above the racket, as the school’s phones tended to be louder than usual anyhow. She talked of how she’d enjoyed the Heritage Hills summer camp in Oakdale, and said that she missed me. She was sad that I hadn’t answered her last letter. Actually I had answered. But that’s the letter (here) that she never received because she’d left camp before it got there. She wasn’t mad though. In fact, any hurt she felt vanished once we began talking this time. As we each reestablished to the other, that in spite of our sparse correspondence, we still cared, all the loneliness disappeared.
She went on to catch me up on her life, saying that she’d gotten into some sort of trouble. But she offered no details. The result however, was that she now lived in a juvenile hall which wasn’t too far from WPSBC. So she asked to visit me again now that she could get to me with little cost. Apparently, her infractions weren’t very severe, as she was not confined to the hall full-time; she just had to board and attend school there. But she could go out in the evenings after finishing her homework. I eagerly agreed to see her. Her behaviors, whatever they were, never concerned me. Now days I’d likely break immediately with anyone with a history of police problems once I discovered it. But as an eighth grader, in a school virtually free of crime, I had not yet developed any sense of caution; I was still quite innocent and naive. So I profusely assured her that I still accepted her no matter what she’d done. The fact that she accepted me with my low vision compelled me to do likewise for her and her juvenile problems. So we discussed them no more; she, content to avoid them, and me, content not to ask. Then, we quickly moved on to other, more pleasant matters.
Not only were our telephone conversations too far apart, but also way too short. When we managed to have them, they rarely lasted more than ten minutes. This one was no different; though I did squeeze in a bit about my vacation at camp Beacon Lodge, and she discussed her summer at camp Heritage Hills. But the reason for this call was not chit-chat, but rather, to arrange a visit with me before the time ran out and she’d have to deposit another thirty-five cents in the payphone for three more minutes. So we got to those details in short order.
Her visit was easy to work in, as my evenings, though rather full with study halls, religion on Tuesday nights, and recreation periods on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays, could easily be adjusted for callers. We arranged our get-together for the next evening.
She arrived, like last time, with a friend. But this time, it was a guy who accompanied her, and she introduced him as her boyfriend! True. He drove her to me after all. So in some ways I was grateful to him. Perhaps this is why I did not get upset at this much unexpected twist in our story. Indeed feeling as little hurt as I did, bewildered me, because I thought I should be angry. After all, she said nothing of a boyfriend last evening. In fact, she talked then like she still hoped that the two of us would go together eventually, though we both knew that that would be unlikely. Apparently she thought it less likely than I’d imagined, now that she had this tall and dark-haired fellow with dark-rimmed glasses on her arm.
Like the girl who brought [Molly] to visit last May, this fellow is but a dark silhouette to me now. I remember very little about him other than the fact that he was there. He hovered around very little, and he and I exchanged just a few small pleasantries; he was not the jealous type. She may have preempted such feelings by explaining before they arrived about the sort of special relationship that she and I enjoyed. Perhaps he perceived no threat to their relationship from a vision impaired boy like me. But whatever the source of his security, it seemed unshakable, and I guess I’ll never know what it really was. Indeed, he knew to back away once she and I started talking quietly, and he did so without a grudge. As we headed toward the recreation area from the reception hall, he fell back to half a hall length away, and she and I were thus in effect walking alone, together. I forgot all about his presence until it was time to say good bye.
Now in late October, 1974, it was too cold to sit on the merry-go-round or lawn swings. So instead, the three of us traipsed downstairs to the pop room. During the colder times, students and staff alike hung out in this room, located in the basement, underneath the pool table rooms on the first floor. There was a Coke and a Pepsi machine; a can of pop in those days cost a quarter. A jukebox blared out currently popular music along with some classic rock favorites, and this place had a pool table as well. Shiny maroon was the waxed floor, and the walls were a pale, glossy yellow. A white ceiling capped the area, at least what one could see of it; lots of water, drainage, and steam pipes ran to and fro, hiding the rest of it.
Lit by cool white fluorescent lights protected by screen mesh cages, the room had a decidedly industrial or gymnasium look. But it was perhaps the most popular place to go, for in addition to the pop machines and the jukebox, a bowling machine offered many hours of fun gaming for both high school and grade school students alike.
Back then, students could smoke tobacco as long as the school had signed permission on file from their parents. Many did smoke, particularly in this pop room, and the haze often hung thick in the air, just like it does in a honky-tonk bar. There were numerous brass-colored cans full of sand scattered about this place that served as very large ash trays. Some of us non smokers rubbed snuff and chewed “side chew” tobacco, and we’d use these cans for spittoons as well. So their contents got to be pretty gross-looking after just a few days, and they weren’t emptied but once or twice during the whole school year. Yet I was not embarrassed to show [Molly] this place, though I might be today. I wanted her to meet my friends, and I wanted them to see me parading this gorgeous sighted girl around. Yes, I admit it. I wanted to gloat just a little.
We walked into this recreational hangout / lounge to find between ten and twenty folks milling about the tables, bowling on that clickety-clackety machine that was always breaking down, and listening to that thumpy jukebox that played so much outdated music, and sometimes got jammed. We ran into [Tad], my long-time, dear friend, and when he heard [Molly's] voice, I could feel him snap to. She got his attention alright, and it was quite easy to see, even in a school full of blind people, that he desired her. So we joined him.
For an instant, and only silently to myself, I objected. Why? Because the scene was just all wrong. Seeing the drooling [Tad]’s amorous feelings expressed as we sat with some of our buddies, hanging around a spittoon like it was a camp fire on a cold night, was not my first choice for quality time with [Molly]. I wanted to go off alone with her, so that we could talk in private, for longer than the mere ten-minute spurts that we’d gotten used to on the payphone. The wonderful letters received since meeting her last April, still left so much unsaid, and I had hoped to say all that on this evening. I’d been waiting for months to say it. I wanted to tell her in person that I cared, to hold her hand, and enjoy her long and sweet bubblegum-flavored kisses. But the fact that her boyfriend came with her crossed out that option. I knew that on this occasion, I’d have to make due with being together in public only. So I bore no grudge toward [Tad]. After all, he was not the one keeping me from a private meeting with [Molly]; only circumstance was to blame and so, I felt jealous for neither [Tad] nor her boyfriend.
So I introduced her to [Tad], and in less than five minutes, the two of them were laughing and chatting. [Tad] seemed never to have problems getting girls to like him; indeed he was quite the lady’s man. But he was also a good friend and so, he took every opportunity to make sure that he included me in the conversation. Every few minutes, he’d direct the talk at me by saying things like “Isn’t that right, Tom?” or ”I bet Tom has something to say about that, don’t you Tom?” He clearly liked [Molly]. But I don’t believe he wanted to steal her from me, though she was not mine to be stolen from in the first place.
I’m not sure I needed his help though, for [Molly] really liked me. I knew that then, and now. I could feel it in the way she watched me and in her tones of voice when she addressed me. But on some deep level, we both knew that the circumstances made it impossible for us to go together. Neither of us drove, and had neither the money nor the freedom to meet very much and for very long. She in ninth grade and me in eighth, were both still quite securely underneath the thumbs of our parents, house parents, teachers, and customs, as well it should have been. But I so wished it could be different, and she did too.
She communicated this as we walked outside around the cold playground after leaving [Tad] and the rest of the gang a half-hour later; she wanted to see the boy’s play area again even though the weather showed no mercy. A raw and cold wind whistled around my ears through the hooded jacket I wore as the pelting sleet made a hissing sound as the little white beads of ice hit the sidewalks and gravel near the unoccupied merry-go-round. No daylight remained in the sky, as it was nearly 8:30 PM. Only the incandescent floodlights beaming from the distant porch gave us any visibility. The rain, sleet, and snow mixture resembled a white sheet flapping in the wind when seen in that lighting, and as blustery as it was, this picture was still quite a romantic one.
We walked along; her boyfriend trailing far enough behind so as not to hear our words. In fact, he might have even waited inside by the porch door for us to return. But with all my attention on [Molly], I knew not where he was; nor did I care.
As we shivered, she admitted that it was out of place for her to have brought her special friend here. She apologized repeatedly, squeezing my hand with gentle pulsations to augment her sincerity. “I know I said that I loved you,” she went on, “and I still do. But I,… I…” She trailed off, not knowing how to say what was to me, already so clear. She needed to say no more, for I got it. I knew not, how to tell her with words. that I got it. So I relied on my body language to do the talking, and just hugged her. She understood and fell silent as she cradled my head against her bosom (she was a head taller than I), rocking me gently from side to side.
While there in her arms, and enveloped by her emotions, I stopped noticing the cold and rain hitting my face and messing up my glasses. I could have stood there with her forever. Yes, she had a boyfriend. Yet I could tell that at that instant, her heart was actually mine. So I felt no jealousy. If anyone would be jealous that night, it would be him. But as for me, I easily avoided it because I knew, without a doubt, that she cared, even though she called him her boyfriend, and not me.
She then put her right cheek against mine, and whispered one last time, “I love you, Tom. Please. Never forget that.” I sensed the unmistakable depth of her feelings. She really meant it, because her words were pure and without any hidden agendas tied on. She was the first girl I’d ever encountered, who said this to me with such conviction and zero hesitation. Besides, convincingly, she sobbed as she said this, struggling to hold back her tears that just wouldn’t stay away. I tasted them as they passed by my lips, on their way down my cheek from her moist eyelashes. They were warm, salty, and in fact, quite real.
Yep. She loved me, and I never have forgotten that. But also, ironically, I discerned from the tone of her words, this in-your-face finality that clearly spoke a last good-bye. Apparently, she thought that we’d never again see each other, and I believed this too. So far, we’ve been right. We haven’t. But one day, I would like prove us wrong, and find her once again.
Her love, which I was one hundred percent convinced that she felt, vanquished the hurtful edge that a true love saying good-bye forever might otherwise have produced. Indeed, I felt nothing hurtful or negative then. Instead of being angry or sad, my heart rejoiced at having known her. There was no pain, and when I thanked her and wished her all the best, I truly hoped she’d lead a charmed life, even though I would never again be a part of it. My love for her as well as the knowledge of her love for me, enabled me to let her go without one bit of jealousy, or feeling of loss.
At that, we slowly pulled apart, our arms stretching further and further in a vane effort to keep touching each other, as the distance between us grew larger. She didn’t want to leave, and I so wished her not to go. But it had to end. Her silent boyfriend nearby was an all-too-poignant reminder of that. Plus, it would soon be time for us eighth graders to head upstairs to the dorms for bed.
I was thankful to her buddy in a way though, because if he hadn’t brought her, she and I probably would never have had this time together. So I shook his hand with sincere gratitude as we met him inside the door near the steps down to the pop room.
Then, I led them out to the reception area where our evening had begun, and now, was about to end. They departed with little pause as I watched through the ornate windows in the double front doors, while their bright red tail lights grew dimmer and dimmer as they pulled out of the main driveway, never to return.
And then, she was gone; just like that, leaving behind a love-stricken boy once more. I found her bubblegum scent all over my shirt, and slept with it near my pillow each night afterwards until the scent faded away several days later. As I walked toward the back stairs, I covered my eyes and nose with my right arm, partly to smell her, partly to remember her, and mostly to hide my tears.
I basked in the memories of the previous hour, playing them over and over in my mind as I climbed the stairs to my third floor dorm in room 310. I hurt because she couldn’t be mine, but celebrated because she wanted to be. I hated that she had the boyfriend, but appreciated her visit anyway, in spite of that baggage. No, she’d be more difficult to forget this time. Yet the practical side of me wanted to forget, because I’d be in for weeks or even months of heartache if I didn’t. But the romantic side of me also desired to keep her front and center. After all, she was the first perfect-10 girl who thought me as attractive as I did her. She was the first to welcome my love, boyish though it was, and she never embarrassed me or pushed me away because of it.
Even at the age of thirteen, I suspected that this sort of mutual attraction was indeed rare, and I would discover in the more than three decades between then and now, that I had sadly, been so, so right.
Take care.
June 10th, 2010 at 1:10 pm
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