THEO
IT WAS SUNDAY MORNING. It hurt to put my hat on my head, but I had a sermon to deliver in two hours. It was just my luck that this would be the day planned for a strong lecture about how the overuse of alcohol leads a man astray from the light of the Lord. And some say God has no sense of humor.
Walking to Saint Mary’s I spotted a white car, a Thunderbird parked in the driveway of the Bouvre cabin, trunk open, full of boxes. Figured they sent the brother to clean things out, but then, a glimpse: blonde hair pulled back, sunglasses, straw hat, indigo jacket, white blouse, a shapely calf-length skirt, sandals, and effortless poise—looking like Grace Kelly in Rear Window—even in that disguise and from two blocks’ distance, I knew it was her looking at me, a ghost. My ghost. Andréa Bouvre.
She hesitantly raised her hand to wave, then quickly lowered it as if she’d just realized I was a stranger, not who she thought. My heart leapt to my throat. I couldn’t move. I’d pictured her, thought of nothing but her, dreamed of her every day for the last six years, and now, there she was, Andréa.
Last time I saw her was in that very same driveway; it was a Friday. She wore her new white trench coat, her hair down around her shoulders, and she was crying, begging me not to go. But then her brother David came out of the house and lambasted me up the side of the face, shouting, “Get away from my sister, you stupid Mick!”
I hit back, then him, then it was full on. Don’t know why I lost it the way I did, but I did. Andréa’s father gripped my clenched fist from behind and yanked me off her bloodied brother. She stood in the rain with a look of horror on her face that’s never left me. Her father lifted his son from the ground and helped him to the porch. He turned and said, “Andréa, say goodbye to your hooligan once and for all . . . let him go.”
She slid off our ring, placed it in my hand, kissed me and said, “Go,” then went inside.
***
The Bouvres never forgave me for when Andréa and I turned seventeen and were arrested buck-naked and drunk on the beach. Mr. Bouvre came to the Tillamook jail, bailed her out (ten dollars for lewd behavior), and left me there. Mamaí and Father Gants picked me up the next day. The lectures, rumors, town snickers, and price to be paid for our “sin” was steep. Andréa was sent to Paris that summer, and it was seminary classes instead of boxing camp for me.
Now, there she stood, hand on the car door rim for a moment longer. And there I stood, frozen, unable to believe my eyes—the mirage I’d imagined a thousand times, there in front of me. Andréa, an unrelenting magnet, me, just a piece of damaged metal with no religion big enough to save me.
Tired of waiting, she turned, climbed into her car, and backed out of the drive. I finally raised my hand to wave. Too late. Always too late. I called out, “Andréa!” and started after her but made it only a block before a sharp pain in my hip stopped me. Her tail lights disappeared at the edge of town. She was good at that. No one could vanish like Andréa Bouvre.