After loading and taking off, Carole comments how like sheep Americans are. We’re led to believe that Americans fight for their rights, that they’re not as polite and docile as us. The evidence is mounting against that theory. A big man in the seat beside us says nothing matters anymore. We’re given a tiny packet of wheat pretzels. The airline is sorry. Carole closes her eyes, listening to Cuban music on the Discman.
I start in on the Elmore Leonard, but my mind’s fuzzy from the Percocet. It’s hard to concentrate. A stewardess neatly slides around first a passenger and then the drinks cart. Let me get a better look at that. I feel shame and return to Elmore Leonard as if it’s the Bible and can expiate my sins. I entertain the idea that Carole’s cancer is God’s punishment for my sins. My hellish libidinous thoughts are going to kill her.
I turn away and look at the darkness. I see my reflection.
I‘m in grade nine. It’s fall, and I’m standing on the edge of a stony football field. There’s a shack where the balls and equipment are kept. If you stand around one side of this shack no one from the Bible school can see you. This is where Veronica and I stand. Veronica is from Manitoba. She’s in grade nine with me. Veronica has a fully developed bosom and light freckles on impeccable skin. Her thighs and legs are perfection. Her eyes are muted and mysterious, and when I look into them I feel her amusement at my desire. I love her completely and of that I’m sure. I want nothing more than her. My bad skin, my insecurity, my developing and raging desire want only her. I’ve won many ribbons of glory on the stony field beside us. I’ve no interest in that anymore. I move my face close to hers. She lets me all the way inside her mouth and our tongues explore each other. She groans. My erection embarrasses me, but I feel the earth move, I really do. It’s the finest moment in my short life without question.
The radio is playing a song. I’d heard it many times before. It’s a sentimental thing about a car accident. “Where oh where can my baby be, the Lord took her away from me . . .” or “We were out on a date in my daddy’s car, we hadn’t driven very far . . . .” Veronica turns her head to the side to avoid my mouth. I’ve never experienced a stab like that. I think I’m going to die of humiliation. I say, “What’s wrong? ”
She looks away, listening to the music. “I can’t kiss you again. This song reminds me of my boyfriend. He died in a car accident this summer. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have kissed you. I have to go now.”
I never got to kiss her again. I don’t know what happened to her. I think she left the school early that fall. It all started a pattern in my life that would repeat many times. When I’m close to something wonderful, when I’m about to attain what I want more than anything in the world, it’s snatched away.
It’s 2 a.m. at the LA airport when we land. We hustle off the plane to a waiting bus. It doesn’t take very long, and for this I am grateful. Carole is good, but she’s getting tired. She wants me to make sure that a taxi is waiting for us in San Diego. I screw up my courage and sound as tough as I can with the airline agents. They assure me that a fleet of taxis will be waiting in San Diego. Problem solved. I get us to the front of the line to board the bus. We load. The air conditioning is freezing, so I take off my thin windbreaker and wrap it around Carole. She tries to lay her head on my shoulder, and I try to become the strong male. We pull out of the LA airport. The steering is out of whack and I’m thinking there’s a hell of a lot of sway. I ask the driver if he can turn down the air conditioning. I’m wearing shorts in anticipation of Mexico, and my legs are freezing. I don’t think he understands me. Carole’s Percocet is still doing the job, and mine is at a nice stage as well, but the bus keeps lurching toward the guardrail and I have to read freeway signs to calm the anxiety. The names of famous beaches float by in the darkness, places I have heard named in songs. The driver stops the bus and gets off. He comes back on. We’ve got a flat tire. We’ll get it fixed in San Diego. I try and get my body as close to Carole as I can. She’s cold and her stomach is hurting. “Oh God, get us to San Diego alive and let Mexico do the rest.” I try to sleep but can’t. My mind is too busy.
The night the Beatles made their first Ed Sullivan appearance, I had to go to church. A friend’s dad was the head usher, a huge man as big as a wrestler. He loves to bully the young girls into taking a pew. He volunteered for this job, and it has become his kingdom of cruelty. He’s at war with young women who look at themselves in the mirror at the back of the church in the coat room. He’s very Islamic about it. I have to hang back and wait for the giant/dad/usher to chase seven female friends to their pew. He does this like he’s herding chickens. I move quickly up the back stairs to the balcony. It’s darker up there. The holy few sit downstairs in front. Up here is the hidden land. Dirty books sometimes are tucked inside Bibles, and a boy can look devout while doing something altogether different. How else do you entertain yourself through an hour and a half of basically the same stuff over and over again? I’m very excited about the Beatles. This is a wave I have to catch. I pause for a moment and cast my face down like I’ve remembered something important and then I shoot back down the stairs and out the door before it closes with that jailer’s clang.
I open our door. I’m home. There’s Dad sitting on the big chair. Ed Sullivan already on. I sit down. We don’t speak. Ed comes out, introduces the band, and the Beatles play a couple of songs. At the end of their set Dad gets up and turns off the TV. I think he might kill me. He grunts something about having to read the Bible and pray because we both missed church.
