As he pulled up in front of the entrance to the apartment building, he checked his watch and saw that it was a few minutes past six. He got out, walked around the front of the car and up the short flight of steps to the ornately carved door. In the tiled lobby, he quickly found the nameplate of ‘Vickers-Young’ in the slot for apartment ‘3E’, and pressed the small, black button next to it. In a few seconds he heard Elise’s voice coming through the intercom grill.
“Yes. Who is it please?”
“It’s Mark, Elise.”
“Oh, good! I’ll just be a minute, Mark.”
He felt exhilarated, almost giddy, by the note of pleasure and anticipation he thought he had detected in her voice. He waited impatiently for her to appear, eager to see again if she was really as lovely as his memory had pictured her throughout the day; anxious to know if she was really as eager to see him as her greeting had seemed to indicate.
The seconds dragged by until he heard the door open behind him and turned to see her come smiling through to meet him.
She carefully replaced the phone on its cradle. Her hand was shaking, and her face felt flushed and warm. Rising from where she sat on the side of the bed, she crossed the room and sat down again before the dressing table. Almost shyly, reluctantly, she met the gaze of her own eyes in the mirror.
Dear God! What was she doing? He had said it all the night before. She was a teacher in a small community-her first teaching position, in fact. And he was married, and the father of one of her pupils. But, there had been something in his eyes, something in the way he looked at her, that was so like Tommy-so like the look that she still remembered seeing that last time he went away.
Dear, sweet, gentle, dead Tommy. He had been so good, and so disappointed, the night of his senior prom, when they had come so close to ‘going too far.’ He had stopped reluctantly, but without rancor or recrimination when she had asked him to, making no attempt to force himself on her. She knew it had not been easy for him and that it was mostly her own fault for allowing him to go as far as he had. But she had been sure, even then, that she loved Tommy and that he loved her. There had never been any other boy for her from the day that he, as a second-grader, had lost to her, a first grader, in a spelling bee; and she found out afterwards that he had known how to spell the word he lost on, but had wanted her to win because he had been afraid that she would not like him if she lost.
He had wanted her to marry him right after his graduation, and before he reported to the Army. But, she had thought they were both too young to be married, and, besides, she had wanted to go on to college and to see something of the world beyond Fairview, before making the commitment to the husband and children that waited for her in the, as yet, unfathomable future. She had been determined not to be alone with him again before he left, or, at least if they were alone, that she would be strong enough for both of them. But, she had not been and, afterwards, she knew that she had not really tried or wanted to be.
On the night before Tommy was due to leave, they had driven to the lake once more-to their place-a small, secluded cave on the far side with a growth of heavy underbrush concealing the entrance. They had originally found it ten years before, when they were both too young to think of it, or use it, as anything except a secret place for acting out their childhood fantasies, and storing the memorabilia of youth. As they grew older, and more aware of each other, it had become more important to keep it a secret, for other reasons. It was there that they had exchanged their first kiss and, as the kisses became more frequent and more ardent; that they had felt the first tentative stirrings of their bodies’ need for even greater satisfaction.
Timid and fearful, she had gradually stopped going to the cave with him and when, on the night before he left, she had consented to go with him once more, it was the first time they had been there together since the previous summer. She had barely managed to avoid the ultimate surrender on that occasion. But, when he pleaded with her to return there again just once more before he left, she had agreed, convinced that she had sufficient will power to draw back in time-but doubtful that she would.
They had taken a blanket from the car and spread it on the cool, sandy floor of the cave. At first, they had just sat together talking quietly, remembering the past and planning the future, when he would be home again. They had kissed, and she had laid back in his arms as they gradually reclined and rolled together. In a few moments, all thought of turning back had left her mind and she knew that she wanted to give him something to take with him-something nobody else could possibly give him-herself. She had let him undress her, his big, farm-roughened hands fumbling with the buttons and hooks of her clothes-and then, had forced herself to watch as he quickly undressed himself. There for the first time, in the dim reflected moonlight from the lake rippling on the ceiling of the cave, they saw and felt each other’s nakedness.
He had been gentle, as always, and patient, and there had been only an instant of pain, instantly forgotten, when finally he entered her. It was gone even as she felt it, lost in a mounting, almost unbearable ecstasy, as her body; seemingly with a will of its own; had surged to meet his. Then it was over, with a disappointing quickness, and only then was she aware of the weight of him on top of her. He had rolled to the side and she lay against him, her head on his chest. They had murmured all the ageless endearments and promises, the conviction of their youth lending a renewed verity to the old, abused words and phrases. The soft breeze off the lake had quickly cooled their sex-warmed bodies, and he pulled the blanket over them. His breathing became heavier and deeper and, as he slept, she had laid beside him wondering-and frightened-at the remembered passion with which she had received him, and responded to him. Slowly, she had felt the urging stirring within her again and, as she moved against him, he awoke and was immediately aware of her desire, and immediately ready to match it with his own. This time, there was less urgency and more tendernessin their movements, and it had ended in a moaning intensity that left them both exhausted.
It had been almost dawn when they got home, and she had not seen him again before he left later that morning. Her mother and father had not alluded to the implications of her and Tommy having spent almost the entire night together but, during the next few weeks, she had been aware of both of them watching her with worried looks. She had worried too, until her menses began on schedule, and then she had been free to remember, with pleasure and longing.
But, by the time he had returned on furlough for the Christmas holidays, her longing had diminished and her resolve had strengthened. Coupled with a busy holiday schedule and a resultant lack of opportunity, she had been almost successful in thwarting his eagerness. Then, as the time grew closer to his leaving again-and the possibility of it being forever had loomed larger in both their minds-she had gone with him back to the cave once more. They had undressed rapidly and shiveringly in the frigid night air, and crawled into the sleeping bag that he had taken from the trunk of his father’s car. They had been warm and together, but cramped and uncomfortable. The sweetness and innocence of their original coupling could not be recaptured and, after one unpleasant and unsatisfying effort, they had quickly redressed and returned home.
The two families had gone together to the station late the next day when he caught the only passenger train that still stopped there. She and Tommy had stood a little apart as they said their goodbyes, earnestly repeating the timeless vows of love and fidelity echoed on the wind by all the parting couples in all the wars down the endless chasms of history. But, even as the train disappeared from sight and the two sets of parents silently prayed for the safe return of their sons (her two brothers, Walter and Carl, were both already in Vietnam) she had known that something very tender and delicate had been lost between them during the few frantic, groping moments in the sleeping bag. She had been sure that she still loved him-or, at least, that she wanted to believe she did. And, she had been determined that when he returned, she would not keep him waiting. If he still wanted her, she would marry him right away, and then, they could be together, properly, as man and wife, and recapture the loveliness and excitement of that first time their bodies had been joined in love.
In May she was seventeen and had attended her senior prom escorted by her brother Walter, who had returned home, slightly wounded and discharged, a few weeks earlier. Out of loyalty to Tommy, she had decided not to attend the prom, but it somehow had not seemed disloyal to attend with her brother-although she had felt a little guilty about enjoying herself so much.
Three weeks later she had graduated from high school and, a month afterwards as she sat in her room writing him a letter, Tommy Buckhouser had taken the last, fatal step of his life and planted his right foot firmly and irretrievably on the trigger mechanism of a Russian-built, Vietcong implanted, anti-personnel land mine.
That Fall, when she began her freshman year at Paynton Teacher’s College, her lingering mixture of grief and regret had made her ripe for recruitment in the campus unrest that was slowly mounting to a fever pitch. As the daughter of the newly appointed Chief of Police she, and the school; as a symbol of the typical small college, in the typical small town, in the heartland of America; had become prime targets for the professional agitators, amateurish intellectuals and misguided faculty members who had banded together to put an end to the war and to the town too, if necessary, in order to make their point.
To the initial consternation of her family-which gradually turned to anger, frustration and revulsion-she was to be seen in the forefront of the marchers; carrying their signs, and shouting their obscenities; her hair, her clothes and herself looking equally unwashed and uncared for. She had ignored the pleas of her mother, the tears and fears of her sister, the anger of her brother, the disapproval of her friends, and the pain in her father’s eyes. But finally-and almost fatally-her participation had culminated in an orgy of broken windows, burning cars and general vandalism. It had ended in a pot and LSD party from which she awoke cold, naked and sick in a filthy, decrepit shack strewn with dirty, torn mattresses and other naked bodies, in varying hues ranging from black to white.
Revolted and sickened, she had grabbed the first articles of clothing she could find, not knowing or caring whether they were her own or not. While the others still slept-or were still unconscious-she was not sure which-she began walking in what she hoped was a homeward direction. But, she had had no idea where she was, and the recurring effects of the drugs she had taken only increased her disorientation. She had tried to follow the road but kept wandering off into the cornfields and woods on either side. She had fallen often and finally realized she had lost her shoes-or maybe she had not taken any with her-she could not remember. It had gotten colder and began to snow and she knew she had to find shelter, even if it meant going back to the shack. But, by now, she did not even know where that was. The LSD had begun to take effect again and her body began to shake uncontrollably as the world spun violently around her. She had fallen again to her hands and knees in the ditch beside the road, convulsively and chokingly sick. “Momma-Poppa-Momma-Poppa”, was all she could gasp between her retching spasms, too weak to raise herself. She had lost control of her kidneys and bowels and had been sure she was dying, and thought what a terrible way to die-frozen in her own excrement. Her arms had given way and the blackness descended as she fell forward into her own still steaming vomit.
One of her father’s deputies had found her, half-frozen and burning with fever. He had taken her directly to the hospital where, for the next few weeks, she had hovered on the edge of death. At first, it was even feared that she might lose some of her fingers or toes but, like the rest of her pneumonia wracked body, her hands and feet gradually regained their natural healthy color and strength.
During the long weeks and months of convalescence that followed, she had come to realize and understand the stupidity and futility of what she had done. Out of the guilt and remorse brought on by the mistaken belief that her failure to give more of herself to Tommy had somehow contributed to his death-or, at least, had deprived him of the fulfillment that would have let him die happy-she had almost sacrificed her own life in an effort to expiate her imagined sin and avenge him. As she grew stronger and more aware of what she had almost lost, she had known that neither was necessary, because neither was called for. She had given him as much of herself as she could ever give. She had loved him, and the special corner of her mind where the memory of that warm summer night in the cave would always be preserved, would always be his. But, she knew now, that when he went away for the last time, she had no longer loved him in the same way. She had wanted to; and she thought she should; and in her letters she tried to make him-and herself-believe that she still did-because he was so far away, and in danger. She had not wanted him to be hurt or killed-especially killed-thinking that she no longer loved him. She had avoided even the slightest hint of her change of heart, because she could not risk the possibility that worry over her would momentarily distract him into making the fatal error that could cost him his life. But, she worried about having to tell him the truth when he came home.
When his parents had driven in from the farm that Sunday afternoon; right after they got the telegram; to bring her the news of his death, her initial shock had been followed by the fear that maybe she had, inadvertently, allowed her real feelings to show in her letters. But, then she had been sure she had not and her fear had been replaced by relief that now she would not have to tell him how she really felt-and, for one horrible moment, she had realized that she was glad he was dead, and she was freed of the responsibility of continuing the pretense.
And so, her natural sorrow and unhappiness at the loss of her first love, had been distorted into the guilt, remorse and madness that almost cost her the love of all those she held most dear, not to mention her own life. And, finally, she had known that this was what she had intended as a fitting atonement for her imagined disloyalty and betrayal-and had recognized the pointlessness and waste if she had succeeded.
Nothing that they had ever not said, or done, or meant to each other-no unspoken word, uncompleted act, unexpressed thought-would have moved his foot the few inches in any direction that would have made the difference at that moment between life and death. And nothing that she could do now-no protest, no demonstration, no shouted obscenity, least of all, no self-abnegation-could make his death any less permanent or more acceptable.
As the days lengthened into Spring, and the fields and woods renewed themselves, the fragmented memories of the shack, and its occupants, had gradually dissolved and were buried in the recesses of her sub-conscious. Occasionally, in the night, she had awakened terrified and unsure of where she was, the room distorted and spinning from the still recurring effects of the LSD. But, as time passed, it had occurred with less frequency and diminishing intensity. One day during the Summer she had gone back to the lake by herself, and sat in the cave, and cried softly for a long time-silently letting the tears run down her cheeks. When it was dark, she had washed her face in the cold lake water and gone home, and had never gone back.
In the Fall, she had re-entered college. Subdued, contrite, but infinitely more mature, she had spent the next four years quietly pursuing her education and re-establishing herself with her family, the school and the community. By the time she had been elected president of her senior class, she had evolved into a stunningly beautiful and poised young woman-envied by many, but befriended by most of her female contemporaries. While her beauty and poise made her an object of great desire by the male of the species, her self-possession, and a certain remoteness, tended to disconcert them. As a result; although she had never lacked for an escort; she was rarely seen with the same one very often, and none had developed intoanything even approaching a romantic alliance.
She had graduated at the top of her class and was almost immediately hired by the Glen Park Board of Education upon the recommendation of one of her professors who was himself, a former resident and teacher in the village. She had moved to Glen Park a week before school opened and, six weeks later, after her second near escape from death, met Mark.
When he had first walked up to the car and introduced himself to the deputy, she had been still too unnerved by her narrow escape to be interested in who or what he was. She had almost forgotten he was there until the deputy had reminded her that he would probably want to talk to her before she left. A few moments later, when Mark had spoken to her through the car window, she had been instantly aware of his reaction to her. She had seen the same reaction many times in others, both male and female, and had always been pleased and proud that they saw her so. But, when she saw it in Mark, she had realized that-perhaps for the first time-she was glad she was beautiful, because it pleased someone else. And there had been that something extra in the way he looked at her that was more eloquent than any words.
After the shock and horror of the accident, and with the vision of the truck bearing down on her still repeating itself on the screen of her consciousness, she had welcomed his offer to drive her home and have her car towed in. She had seen the anger in his clenched hands at the smaller deputy’s innuendo, and had liked the strong but gentle touch of the same hands as he took her back to his car. She had been initially reluctant to accept his offer of a drink for exactly the reasons that he had enumerated. But, though he had spoken unemotionally and rationally in his effort to persuade her to change her mind, there had been something in his voice that betrayed a need she could not deny. It had been very like being back in the cave by the lake with Tommy on the night before he went away the first time.
Despite his having to question her about the accident; and the disturbing thought of the driver being helpless in the face of his impending death; the rest of the evening had been surprisingly pleasant-almost euphoric. She had been aware that he avoided-as, strangely, Cassandra had seemed to avoid mentioning her mother-any mention of his wife, even her name, and suspected that the marriage had probably already reached a point of no return. She had been genuinely tired after dinner, but had knowingly accepted his suggestion that he call her the next day-although she had felt sure there was nothing else of importance that she could tell him.
As he had driven her home and compulsively told her the story of the restaurant owner, it had been as if he were telling her about himself. In his voice, and the sincerity of his words, she had thought she detected a longing to confide himself to her. She had even tried to encourage his confidence, but was compelled to admire him for not taking advantage of the opportunity to play the role of the misunderstood husband. When, finally, she had started to get out of the car and he had reached out to her, saying her name, the longing and need in him had become almost tangible-as real and as strong as the grip of his hand. Only the knowledge of the very brief time that they had known each other, and the fear that she had possibly misread his intentions, kept her from an immediate, acquiescing response. She had been relieved when he released her hand without urging, but had known; and had tried to make itplain to him; that now she wanted him to call her the next day.
In the morning, when she saw him coming toward her across the schoolyard pulled along by Cassandra, she had been again reminded that he was married. But, as they stood talking, she had felt him reaching out to her and knew that she already had taken her first tentative steps toward him. During the day, as she watched his daughter at her classwork and playing with the other children, she had wondered about her mother and their marriage. Cassandra seemed to be a happy, healthy, normal child, but there was a sadness in her eyes and; at odd moments, despite the activity around her; she would become strangely silent and thoughtful, as if she were suddenly all alone in the room-or, in the world. Watching her, she had found herself wondering too, what sort of children she and Mark would produce. When school ended for the day, she had turned down an invitation to attend a concert in the city with two of the other teachers, and had hurried home to wait for his call. She had been certain all day that he would call and had carried on a lively debate with her conscience about what her attitude should be. But, when four o’clock came and went, and the hour hand of the electric clock in the kitchen moved silently closer to five, she had begun to think that her struggle with herself had been purposeless, after all. Then, when finally he did call, and, at first, had seemed on the verge of saying that there was no need for them to see each other again, a momentary panic had gripped her and she knew that her conscience had lost, and that she had to see him again, regardless of the consequences. And then, she had almost laughed with joy when he told her the real reason for his call, and she knew that there would be no need for pretense between them.
Now, as she checked her appearance once more in the full-length mirror on the back of the bedroom door, and left the apartment to ride down in the elevator to meet him, she felt certain that; despite any obstacles; he was the man she would marry, and who would give life to her unborn children. She opened the door to the lobby and he turned, smiling, to greet her.