We had no door chimes, no buzzer, only a stem of cast iron with a small ball of iron welded to it to drop against a metal plate. Grandad Forman made it himself. With so few visitors to our home, no one lobbied him to improve upon it. Waiting for Chandler’s arrival, I was so nervous it felt like a small army of ants were parading up from my stomach to march around my drum-pounding heart. I debated going downstairs early and sitting by the front window, watching for his car coming up the drive, and then I thought that would look tacky or make me seem too anxious.
Instead, I remained in my room, staring at myself in the mirror, fidgeting with my hair, my clothes, alternating holding my breath with taking deep breaths, and listening hard for the sound of that metal doorknocker reverberating through our hallway. Grandad and Daddy were still out in the west field with Uncle Simon. Mommy was downstairs working on their dinner. I looked at the clock and remembered one of Mommy’s favorite expressions: “A watched pot never boils.” The hands of the clock indeed looked like they hadn’t moved since my last glimpse.
“You’re being foolish, Honey,” I told myself. “You’re acting like a child. It’s just a date, just dinner and a show.”
Just dinner and a show!
I’ve never been taken by a boy in my school to dinner and a show, I thought. What was this restaurant he was going to take me to? Would it be some fancy place, where all the other patrons would take one look at me and know I had never been there or anywhere like it before? Would they whisper and smile and laugh at the “girl just off the farm”? And then would they watch my every move to see if I knew which fork to use, did I talk with my mouth open or keep both elbows on the table? Would I eat too much or too little?
Would they laugh at my clothes, my hair, my makeup? Would they know Chandler Maxwell’s family and wonder what Chandler was doing with someone so unsophisticated? Would I see all this ridicule in their faces and simply burst out in tears and run from the table?
It was easier milking cows or shoveling chicken manure, I thought.
The metal clang echoing through the house made my heart stop and start. It sounded again, and Mommy called up to me.
“Should I get it for you, Honey?”
“I’m coming,” I cried and jumped up. I bounced down the stairs. Mommy came out of the kitchen and stood in the hallway, looking toward the front door. I opened it quickly and stepped back.
Chandler was dressed in a dark blue suit and tie. He looked even more nervous than I was, and for a long moment, neither of us spoke. We just contemplated each other.
“Oh,” he said, and brought up a corsage he was holding in his right hand, just behind his leg. “This is for you.”
I took it in my hands gently, so gently anyone would have thought it was a newly laid egg.
“Thank you,” I said.
Mommy came forward.
“Hello,” she said. “You look very handsome,” she added.
“Thank you. Honey looks terrific,” Chandler said.
“Oh, this is my mother,” I leaped to say.
Mommy glanced at me with a laugh on her lips and extended her hand to Chandler.
“How do you do,” she said.
“I’m Chandler Maxwell. Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Forman,” Chandler said.
“What a beautiful corsage,” Mommy said.
I started to fumble with it.
“Here, let me help you do that,” Mommy said and fixed it properly. She stepped back. “Very nice. Well, I hope you two have an enjoyable time.”
“Thank you,” Chandler said. He glanced at me and I stepped forward, walking out with him.
He hurried ahead to open the door for me.
“Thank you,” I said and got in.
I looked back at the house. Mommy was in the living room window just between the curtains, peering out at us. I could see the soft smile on her face. Chandler moved around to the driver’s side, got in quickly, and started the engine.
“You really do look terrific,” he said as we pulled away and down the drive.
“Thank you. Remember the bump!” I cried, and he hit his brake and slowed to go over it.
His laughter broke the film of cellophane we had wrapped around ourselves. I could feel my body relax.
“I hope you like Christopher’s. It’s close to the theater, so I thought that would be a good choice. You ever been there?” he asked.
“No,” I said.
The truth was I had never even heard of it. The only restaurants I had ever gone to were places Uncle Peter had taken me, and they were all more or less restaurant chains, never anything fancy or expensive. Grandad thought eating out was close to a cardinal sin because of the cost.
“It’s pretty good. They have a French chef, who’s part owner, so he makes a great effort. It’s one of my parents’ favorite places.”
“Oh. Will they be there tonight?” I asked quickly. The thought of that put a dagger of cold fear through my heart.
“No. They have a dinner party at Congressman Lynch’s home. That’s why my father gave me the tickets. The congressman is in the midst of his big reelection campaign, so he continues to court big political contributions,” Chandler added with a smirk. “My mother really enjoys all that glitter. My father has to keep up appearances and mingle. There is a lot of politics involved at the bank. Actually,” Chandler said, “there’s a lot of politics in practically everything my parents do.”
The world he comes from, I thought, is so different from mine, I would almost feel like Mommy had felt coming from Russia, if I was ever introduced to it.
“My father says your grandfather’s farm is one of the most successful family-run farms in our community,” Chandler said. “I didn’t get to look around much, but it does look like it’s in great shape. I know it’s very hard work.”
“Very,” I said.
“You don’t want to become a farmer’s wife then, huh?”
“No,” I said emphatically and with such conviction, he laughed.
“So, you better practice that violin and get yourself into a good school. Or marry someone very rich,” he added.
“If I marry anyone, it won’t be because of what he has in his bank account,” I replied.
Chandler threw me a look of skepticism.
“I mean that,” I said.
“Okay,” he said.
When we pulled up to the front of the restaurant, there were young men there to valet park Chandler’s car. One of them rushed to open my door, and then another was at the restaurant door to open that for us. I took a deep breath and stepped in alongside Chandler. He approached the hostess, who immediately recognized him and called him, “Mr. Maxwell.” She escorted us to our table, a corner booth.
“This is a little more private than the other tables,” Chandler explained when we were seated. “I don’t like feeling I’m in a fish bowl, do you?”
“Oh, no,” I said. He had no idea how grateful I was, being seated where fewer people could observe us.
“I can’t get us any wine,” he said apologetically.
“That’s all right.”
The only wine I had ever drunk was a homemade elderberry on Christmas, but I wasn’t going to tell him that.
The waiter greeted us, again obviously familiar with Chandler. He handed us the menus, which to my surprise had everything in French. I started to declare my inability to read it, when Chandler turned the page and I saw it was all translated.
“I recommend the duck,” Chandler said.
I stared in disbelief at the prices. Everything was à la carte. The only thing they gave us was a platter of bread.
“This is very expensive,” I said.
Chandler leaned forward again to whisper.
“I’ve got my mother’s charge card. No problem. Order whatever you want, even caviar, if you want.”
“Oh, no,” I said quickly. The caviar was more than a hundred dollars itself. “I’ll have the duck.”
“Good. Me, too,” he said, and ordered that for us, and two of what I thought were ridiculously priced salads as well as a large bottle of French water. He told the waiter we were going to a show and the waiter promised to get us served quickly.
I glanced around at some of the other people. The restaurant was only about a quarter filled. Chandler explained that it was early. The people here were probably all going to the show, too. Everyone was well-dressed, the women in fancy gowns, the men in suits, even tuxedos. I began to worry that I was very under-dressed. I didn’t have any of the glittering jewelry all the other women had. Chandler misunderstood my looking at everyone with such interest.
“Don’t worry,” he said confidently, “none of the lollipops are here.” He leaned forward and smiled. “It’s like flying above bad weather. That’s what money does for you.”
“Not everyone with less money is bad weather, Chandler,” I said.
He shrugged.
“No, not everyone, but enough of them.”
“I don’t have lots of money,” I said.
“Yes,” he said, nodding and looking at me firmly, his eyes becoming small and intent as they often did, “but you will, Honey. You will.”
“How do you know that?” I asked, smiling.
“I know. I have a built-in wealth detector.”
I started to laugh.
“I do!” he insisted.
We were served our salads and talked about the music we were practicing.
“Mr. Wengrow’s a bit eccentric,” Chandler said, “but I respect his music skills. I’ve learned a great deal since I’ve been with him, and he’s big enough to admit that he will bring me, and now you, to a point where we’ll have to go on to someone more knowledgeable and experienced to improve any more. My parents wanted me to have someone else as a tutor, someone one of their friends had used, but I refused. They thought because Mr. Wengrow was charging far less that he wasn’t as good.”
“He’s the only teacher I’ve had.”
“And look at what wonders he’s doing with you,” Chandler said quickly.
“Do you really believe that, Chandler?”
“I’m not in the habit of saying things I don’t believe,” he replied.
I smiled at him, this time not so displeased with his arrogant tone.
The waiter arrived with our main dishes and we began to eat.
I was impressed with the duck, and had to admit that I had only eaten wild duck my mother had prepared.
“We still have time for dessert,” Chandler said, checking his watch. “What about a crème brûlée?” he suggested. “They really make a great one here.”
I had never had one before, of course, and didn’t even know what was in it.
“I guess,” I said.
When it came and I took a taste, I was unable to hide my pleasure and surprise.
“First time you had that?” he asked.
“Yes. It’s so delicious,” I declared, and he laughed.
“I knew it would be fun being with you,” he said. “I’m glad you said yes.”
“I am, too.”
I was able to glance at the bill. Grandad Forman would have exploded at the table, I thought. He would yell that he could buy another cow for that.
When we arrived at the theater, there were valets to park the car there, too. I was surprised and pleased at our seats. They were practically on the stage. Contrary to what Chandler suspected, the show was wonderful. Afterward we both raved about the leads and the quality of the music.
All the way back to the farm, we talked incessantly, leaping in on each other’s momentary pauses as if we were terrified of silence. As we approached the driveway, Chandler slowed down to nearly a crawl.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I should have asked you if you wanted to go somewhere else first.”
“That’s all right. I couldn’t eat anything else,” I said.
“Your big uncle going to be waiting at the door?” he asked.
“He might be,” I said, laughing.
Chandler brought the car to an abrupt stop.
“Then I better kiss you good night right here,” he said and leaned over to kiss me. It was a quick kiss, almost a snap of lips. He knew how disappointing it was even without my saying anything. “Not too good, huh?”
“Let’s say you’re better at playing the piano.”
He laughed, hesitated, and came toward me again. This time the kiss was longer and hard enough to start my heart tapping and bring a warmth up my body. He held himself close.
“You’re the prettiest, nicest girl in the school, Honey. I’ve got to thank Mr. Wengrow.”
“He might not understand why,” I said, and Chandler laughed.
“No, he might not.” He sat back. “Sure you don’t want to go somewhere else?”
I looked up the driveway. I knew Mommy and Daddy were waiting up for me, and Uncle Simon was most probably sitting by his window, too.
“Not tonight,” I said. “But I had a great time. I really did. Thank you,” I said.
“Okay,” he said, his voice dripping with disappointment. He started up the driveway. “Bump away,” he cried, and we laughed as we went over Grandad’s hump in the road.
I didn’t see Uncle Simon anywhere when we pulled up. His room looked dark, too. I did see a curtain move in the living room.
“Looks quiet here,” Chandler said. “I could have gotten away with a good night kiss after all.”
“It’s not too late,” I said.
He smiled in the dim pool of light coming off our single, naked porch bulb. Then he slid closer to me, put his arm around my shoulder, and brought his lips to mine again, stronger, longer, full of passion.
“Just takes practice,” I said. “Like the piano.”
He laughed loudly.
“I really like you, Honey. You don’t beat around the bush or pretend to be someone you’re not. You’re fun to be with. I mean it.”
“I’m glad,” I said and started to open the car door. He got out quickly and ran around to finish opening it for me.
“Miss Forman,” he said with a mock bow. “We hope you enjoyed yourself tonight.”
“Indeed I did, sir.”
He walked me to the front steps, said good night again, and got back into his car. I watched him back away and then I waved to him, and he waved back and started down the driveway.
“You let that boy touch your body sinfully?” I heard, and spun around to see Grandad step out of a deep shadow to the right of the front porch.
“Grandad, you frightened me.”
“Remember, the wages of sin is death. Remember.”
“I didn’t sin,” I flared. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I saw you,” he said, stepping into the perimeter of the light. “I saw you in the car.”
“It’s not a sin to kiss someone good night, Grandad.”
“One thing leads to another,” he said. He pointed his finger at me. “God knows what lust lies in your heart. You’ll bring His wrath upon us all,” he declared.
“I will not,” I said. “That’s a silly thing to say.”
“You were too close with Peter,” he suddenly said. It took my breath away.
“What? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I watched the two of you. The Lord saw what was in both your hearts and struck him down.”
“That’s a horrible thing to say, Grandad. How can you say such a horrible thing? You’re terrible! I hate you for saying something as terrible as that.”
“Don’t be insolent,” he threatened and took a step toward me.
“Leave her be,” we heard. I turned to see Uncle Simon coming out of the barn.
“Go on with you,” Grandad said, waving at him.
The front door opened and Mommy stepped out. She took one look at Grandad, another at me, and then at Uncle Simon.
“What’s going on out here?” she demanded.
Instead of replying, I put my head down and ran up the stairs, past her and into the house. Daddy was in the hallway, a look of surprise on his face, too.
“Honey?”
I shook my head, the tears flying off my cheeks, and charged up the stairs into my room and slammed the door shut.
Thank God Chandler had driven away when he had.
I didn’t put on the light in my room. I simply threw myself on my bed and pressed my face into the pillow. Grandad’s horrible words circled me like insistent mosquitos, biting and stinging. How could he harbor such ugly thoughts in his mind? How could he turn something that had been gentle and kind, loving and beautiful, into the most detestable and ugly ogre of smut and filth? He made me feel dirty inside and out. I shook my body as if to throw off the stains.
What had he been doing all those years while I was growing up and Uncle Peter was at my side, taking my hand, showing me wonderful things in nature, swinging me about, hugging me, kissing me, and lavishing gifts on me? Was he hiding somewhere in the shadows, watching us, forming these disgusting thoughts? The day Uncle Peter was killed, did he actually look at me and think I was somewhat responsible?
I started to sob when I heard my door open and close softly. I stopped, took a breath, and turned. Mommy was standing there, her back against the door. The moonlight illuminated her face. For a moment it looked like a mask, her eyes were so dark and deep.
“What did he say to you, Honey?” she asked softly.
I scrubbed the tears out of my eyes with my fists and sat up, taking a breath before speaking, not knowing if I could even form the words in my mouth.
“He said I was too close with Uncle Peter and because of that God struck him down.”
Mommy said something in Russian under her breath.
“He’s a sick, twisted old man. You must not pay any attention to him.”
“I can’t look at him,” I said.
Mommy came over and sat beside me. She patted my hand and stroked my hair.
“Did you have a good time with Chandler?”
“Yes, a wonderful time. He spent a lot of money on dinner, too.”
She laughed.
“When I was a young girl, my mother used to tell me to find a man who is frugal, who won’t waste a ruble on you because, in the end, you’ll have security.”
“Chandler’s family is very rich, Mommy. They can waste money and still have security.”
She laughed again.
“Why is Grandad Forman so mean? Why would he say such a thing to me now?”
“He’s coming to the end of his life and looking back on his own sins,” she said. “He’s trying to win back God’s sympathies. He thinks he’s Job from the Bible. He likes suffering because he thinks it gives him a chance to show God how faithful he is.”
“What sins are in his past? He lives like a monk or something,” I said.
“No man is perfect, especially not your grandfather. Forget what he said. He’s like some creature eating out its own heart. I won’t let him say anything like that to you again,” she vowed.
“How can you stop him, Mommy? He owns everything. He never stops reminding us.”
“He owns nothing,” she said and stood up. “Go to sleep thinking about the nice things that happened tonight. Tell yourself your grandfather wasn’t even there.”
“I thought Uncle Simon was going to get into a fight with him. I was so frightened.”
“I know. Don’t think about it,” she repeated. She walked to the door.
“Practice your violin, Honey. Do well in school. I’ll tell you what my mother told me. Find a way to leave this place,” she added, then opened the door and left me sitting in the darkness, wondering what she had not said.
In my heart I knew it would come; it would come soon.