As Weak as Winter, Part One

I planned to post this entire story today but, once written, it was too long for a single post. I will post the rest Tuesday.

————————————————————————————————————————————————

In the bleakness of winter, she called. The weather was harsh. Snow had been falling most of the last few days. Before the snow, ice from the sky laid a deadly, slick coat over every surface. Her voice on the line and the invitation it carried could have melted it all.

The invitation was the first in the little more than a year I had known her. Our meeting had been dramatic. A friend of mine who, back then , nurtured dreams of an actor’s life had landed a role. His high school, smaller than mine and situated in a rural part of the county, was mounting a production and he asked me to come see.

I did. I forget now his performance. I remember her. She played an old lady with granny glasses and one of those beaded things you tie to the earpieces to keep them around your neck. She was funny and energetic and I wanted to know her.

I was sixteen, and like many an adolescent male, had buried in my brain a device whose sole purpose is to detect beautiful girls. Such a machine cannot by fooled by some Old Mother Hubbard disguise. Up there, under the lights, her auburn hair, her pale skin, made her gorgeous, like a model, like a star.

I went up after the show and was introduced. A few days later I called her up.  Then, I called her up for a year. We did not attend the same school, so the times we saw one another were rare. I would invite her to church youth group functions; sometimes she would go with my family to shop or out to eat.

All this, she did with no expression of serious interest in me. I took this as normal. Women were a topic in which I had great interest, but little expertise. My confidence was thin, my style awkward.

Still, when she called that Saturday in January, I knew it meant something. Her church group was coming into town that night for a band concert, she said, and did I want to meet her there. This kind of request tends to cause electrical overload in the brains of boys. I managed to say I’d be there moments before the circuits blew and rendered me speechless.

I would have to drive myself to the auditorium. This shouldn’t have been a problem.  Earlier that year, my parents had bequeathed to me their old car, a 1976 Dodge Charger they had spruced up by having it painted black. Before, it was the color of a banana.

It was enormous, a tremendous boat of a car.  My brother and I had ridden in it throughout our childhoods. When children today ride long distances in cramped and compact cars they play games, miniature versions of the full-sized models at home. This was never the case for my brother and me. The back seat afforded us enough space to play anything we wanted, like football, for instance.

For weeks, I had neglected the car. If I needed to go somewhere I would just borrow my parents’ car. Convincing them to allow me to abscond a little while with their vehicle was always easier than chipping away at the frozen detritus that covered my own. That night, however, they had plans. They were going out of town and taking the car with them.