The Love Letters of J. Timothy Owen (11 page)

One of the mothers was messing with the stereo. He couldn't stand it when mothers messed with stuff like stereos. They always loused it up. The music blasted suddenly, mowing everything in its path. It was that singer with the frizzy hair and dangly earrings. He didn't think much of her but he was in the minority. A lot of the girls here today had frizzy hair and dangly earrings, in an obvious attempt to resemble the singer, whose name escaped him. He thought they looked like woodland creatures, peering out from behind the underbrush of their hair. On the other hand, he himself was no slouch in the bangs department. Protective instincts, he figured. Everybody needs something to hide behind.

Melissa, who had been standing by the refreshment table, came to stand next to him. He tensed, waiting for the music, wondering what he'd do when it began. Someone turned down the sound. The mothers looked relieved. They didn't understand the louder the better.

“All right! Kids! Please! Quiet!” The mother shouting at them was obviously the head honcho. She clapped her hands together for order, and went on clapping long after silence had fallen.

“Our first dance is going to be a change-partners dance.” The mother smiled around at them as if she'd just said something witty. “When the music stops, I want all of you to change partners with the couple nearest you. That way we'll all get to know one another, and we're going to make this the best tea dance ever at St. Raymond's!” Like Liszt, she dealt in exclamation points.

He tightened his stomach muscles, as if for a blow, and grasped Melissa firmly as she put her hand on his shoulder tentatively, as if testing it for doneness. Gingerly, they clasped hands and moved their feet. Melissa kept looking down.

“Keep moving,” he whispered fiercely. “And look at me. It doesn't do any good to look at your feet.”

In a moment of panic, his muscles locked, and he thought wildly, I'm paralyzed. Then Melissa backed away and he followed her. Once started, he found if he kept a firm grip on her, and he didn't look down, he was all right. It was like being on the top of the Empire State Building. If he didn't look down, he was all right.

For a split second, she raised her head and he saw the terrified expression on her face and felt better. She was in worse shape than he was. His mother had read a book called
I'm Dancing as Fast as I Can
, which perfectly described the way he felt. He was dancing as fast as he could.

“Relax,” he said. “Nobody's going to shoot you.”

She gave a nervous little laugh. “I always have to go to the bathroom when I'm nervous,” she said. Then, realizing what she'd said, a stricken look replaced the terrified one.

“Me, too,” he said, and they both laughed.

The music stopped. Melissa's hand dropped from his shoulder. They were supposed to change partners. A big girl in a fussy dress caught his eye. She was alone and trying to look as if she didn't care. He would rescue her from her plight, a gallant thing to do, he thought. He strode toward her and a long leg came from out of nowhere and tripped him. He sprawled flat on his face on the floor of St. Raymond's gym.

“Sorry about that, Tim O.” Tony Montaldo grinned down at him. “Didn't see you in time.” Tony helped him up, brushed him off, and whispered in his ear, “Figured you needed an excuse to get out of dancing with another fat broad. You go from one fat one to another, eh, Tim O.?”

That did it. Tim took a long breath, drew back, and punched Tony in the face. Right in between Tony's mouth and nose. It was a most satisfying feeling, almost as good as hitting a golf ball just right. He stood back and watched the blood drip from Tony's nose. With any luck at all, he might've loosened a couple of Tony's beautiful teeth, too.

“Fight! Fight!” voices shouted excitedly. Nothing like a good fight to liven up a tea dance.

“What on earth is going on here?” The head-honcho mother steamed up, scarlet with indignation. Tony didn't try to hit back—he was too busy plugging up his nose. “This is a social occasion, boys. I expect you to behave like gentlemen.”

He saw Melissa's white face and felt bad. But, when he looked at Tony's face, a great joy seized him. Whatever happened next, it would be worth it. Even if they strung him up by his thumbs, it would be worth it.

“Tim, why don't you go out and get a breath of air? It's all right. Things will settle down.” Mrs. Scanlon spoke softly. “Come back when you feel better.”

Hands in pockets to show he didn't care, he sauntered out to the hall, as she'd suggested. What he really wanted to do was just split the whole scene. His feeling of exhilaration had subsided, and one of humiliation took its place. He bent down for a drink of water from the drinking fountain.

“Hello, Tim.” Sister Mary Teresa didn't seem surprised to see him. She didn't mention the brawl. Maybe she hadn't seen it. “I thought I recognized you, though you've grown some. How are you? I hadn't seen you around, so I thought perhaps you'd moved.”

“No, I'm still here, Sister.” She meant she hadn't seen him at Mass. He only went when the spirit moved him. His father was Catholic, or had been until the divorce.

Without warning his voice trembled, and he bent to take another long drink to give himself time to recover. Sister Mary Teresa waited patiently for him to finish.

“You probably will be surprised to hear it, Sister,” he said, on impulse, “but lately I've been thinking about souls. Not only mine, but souls in general.”

Sister Mary Teresa nodded and waited for what he'd say next, her eyes bright with curiosity. Nothing had ever surprised her, he remembered now.

“Well, to tell the truth, I've been reading a book of famous love letters, and I noticed how frequently they talked about the soul back then, Sister, and that made me think of you.”

She laughed. “That's interesting, Tim. I don't think I'm usually associated with love letters.”

“Well, you taught us about souls. And I got to thinking. If I could see my soul, which I know I can't, I wonder what it would look like. And I decided it might be like a laser beam. Sort of a darting light.” He paused, out of breath, and waited for her reaction. Two girls walked by, looked back at him, and whispered to each other.

She said nothing. “What do you think of that, Sister? Do you think that's sacrilegious? I don't mean it to be. I'm only trying to relate the soul to everyday life, trying to equate it with something. I mean, if you don't have faith enough to believe in the soul, maybe you would have faith if you were able to liken it to something modern. Get it?”

“If it makes you feel better to do so, Tim, if it makes you think about God, well, I say go for it. I don't think God would mind. He might even approve. How's Patrick?”

“He's fine. I brought his sister to the dance. She asked me, and I came anyway, even though I'm much too old for it. Her name's Melissa.” He found talking to Sister Mary Teresa calming, so that he forgot for a minute his embarrassment and anger.

“Oh, I know Melissa. The Scanlons are a fine family. Well, Tim”—Sister Mary Teresa put out her hand—“it was very nice to see you after all this time. If you ever want to discuss souls again, come by. I'm always here, and I'd be glad to see you.” They shook hands and he watched her walk down the hall and disappear.

When he went back to the gym, Melissa was standing off to one side, looking somewhat forlorn. He walked toward her. When she saw him, she looked relieved. “I'm sorry, Melissa,” he said. “I couldn't help myself. He tripped me.”

“Oh, I thought maybe you'd left—gone home, that is. You know?” She smiled. “It's all right, Tim. He had it coming.”

The music started up and, as they moved out onto the gym floor, she peered up at him and said, “You look different without your glasses.”

This dancing routine was easier the second time around. He steered her confidently around the other dancers. “I don't really need them,” he said. “They're not prescription. I only wear them because they make me look like a scholar. I want people to think I'm an intellectual. They're fake.” He'd never told anyone that before, not even Patrick, though he knew Patrick suspected.

“Oh,” said Melissa. “Well, anyway, you look nice without them. You look nice with them, too. I didn't mean that.” She smiled self-consciously and tightened her grip on his hand. “I think this is the best dance ever. Are you having a good time, Tim?”

“It's the best tea dance I've ever been to,” he said.

“Have you been to lots of tea dances before?”

“No,” he said, “this is my first one.”

She giggled. “Oh Tim, you're
so
funny.”

When he thought about it, he
was
pretty funny. He began to hum, keeping time to the music.

Chapter 16

“How was it?” his mother asked.

“Not bad. Not as bad as I'd thought it would be.” Worse.

“Almost nothing is,” she replied.

Little did she know. He'd tell her in his own good time. Not now.

“I saw Sister Mary Teresa, Ma. We had a nice conversation.”

“How is Sister MT?” His mother had always called her that. “What's she up to?”

“Same old stuff. We talked about souls. I told her what I thought about my soul and she said she didn't think God would mind.”

“She probably thought it was a step in the right direction that you're even thinking about your soul,” his mother said. “Sister MT always was a liberated woman. If she hadn't become a nun, she might've been a stateswoman or a politician. Or maybe the president of a college. A very far-thinking woman. I'm glad you ran into her, Tim. I bet she was glad to see you, too.”

“Yeah, I think she was. She remembered me. I was kind of surprised. Although I guess I gave her so much grief she probably couldn't forget me. She asked about Patrick, too. How'd your day go?” he thought to ask.

“Kev was here,” she said. “We went over the books, and it turns out we barely made the rent money last month. It's very discouraging. If we had a better location, we'd sell more, and also command better prices. But we can't afford the rents on Main Street, so we'll have to stay tucked away in the alley.” His mother was clearly disturbed. “Kev's not sure he wants to continue in the antique business.” She busied herself arranging a pile of books and magazines, keeping herself occupied. “He thinks he might like to head west, to Oregon or Washington State, something like that. He wants me to go with him.”

He took off his jacket and felt his armpits. “Boy, did I ever work up a sweat,” he said, pleased with himself. “Dancing is a lot of work. Even the kind of dancing I do, which isn't exactly what Fred Astaire had in mind. Melissa and I were about even, I'd say. She looked at her feet a lot. She might be a star tap dancer, but when it comes to touch dancing, she isn't any better than I am.” He loosened his tie and sat down. “What did you tell him? Are you going?” A picture of his mother and Kev wrapped in each other's arms in the orange tent flitted briefly through his head. “Are you getting married?” With an effort he remained nonchalant and noncommittal, waiting for her answer.

“I don't think Kev has marriage in mind.” His mother's face was turned away from him, but he heard the quaver in her voice. “He wants me to go with him on a trial basis.”

“Who's on trial?”

His mother laughed without mirth. “Me, I guess.”

Oh, boy. If Kev turned up now, he'd smash in his face, punch him out good. He'd get him in a shoulder lock and grind him down to pulp. He'd set the monsters on Kev and tell them they had
carte blanche
. Do your darndest, kids, he'd say. And the monsters would lead Kev away and that would be the end of him. A little taste of blood was a dangerous thing, he thought.

“That guy is something else, Ma.” He shook his head. “You're well rid of him, if you ask me.” Which she hadn't.

His mother frowned and chewed on her lip. “Does it seem extraordinary to you, Tim, that you and I are talking to each other this way? I mean, it's as if you're my contemporary and I came to you for advice. And you're my son, my sixteen-year-old son.” She got up and went out to the kitchen. Presently, he heard the kettle singing, sounding off. She was making tea. She always made tea in a crisis.

“You want to know what I think?” She stood in the doorway, cup in hand. “I think the trend of parents becoming more their children's contemporaries than their parents is a bad thing. I think children are forced into adult situations at a ridiculously early age. Here we are, Tim, talking like this. I wouldn't have had this happen to us for all the world. I am your mother. You should be coming to me for advice, not the other way around. I'm supposed to show you the way, protect you, teach you how to cope with life. Now our roles seem to be reversed. It's nutty. Absolutely nutty.”

“Ma, I need lots of advice,” he said. “You and Dad always taught me to think for myself, to work out my own problems. That's what I try to do, but it doesn't always work that way. Stuff piles up. There's a lot going on out there that's bad. We both know that. You're a good mother. So you got tied up with a wimp. That could happen to anybody.”

She blinked rapidly several times and drank her tea. He thought it would burn her mouth, she gulped it down so fast.

“If you want to keep going in the antique business, well, keep going. Things will improve. You'll make some big bucks if you try. You don't need Kev. Go it alone. I'll help. Dad will want to help, too, I'll bet.”

The cup rattled in the saucer as she set them down. “I don't want Dad to know anything about this, Tim. That's understood. This is between you and me.”

“Whoa.” He held up his hand. “I didn't say I was going to tell Dad anything. All I said was he'd probably help if he knew you needed it. That's all. My lips are sealed, Ma.”