The Love Letters of J. Timothy Owen (13 page)

“That's a shame,” his father said. “I feel for you.”

“My wife says I should cool it, not let it get to me,” Len went on. “She says they're only cuckoo love letters, the guy means no harm, she says. And I tell her cuckoo love letters are dangerous. What does she know? The guy's a weirdo and he oughta be pulled off the street and locked up. I say they should book him on charges of harassment, if not downright obscenity.” Len's little eyes glittered as he hauled out his handkerchief and dabbed at his moist face.

“I ask you, as a father, what would you do?” Len said. And, although the question was directed at his father, Len's eyes were trained on Tim.

His father said, “I guess just what you've done. If the police don't take the letters seriously, well, I guess you have to warn your daughter about speaking to strangers, taking rides from people she doesn't know, that sort of thing. How old is she?”

“She's fifteen, old enough to know better. I asked her did she know anybody might be writing this garbage to her and she says no, she doesn't know anybody would do that. I tell you, kids these days are no damn good. The lot of 'em. When we were kids, we just did pranks. You know, not bad stuff, just pranks. Like we'd let the air out of tires, steal apples off the neighbor's trees, pour sugar in somebody's gas tank if we didn't like what he said, stuff like that. All good, clean fun. Today, if they're not in jail by the time they're fourteen, you figure you got it made. I tell you, the world's going to hell in a handbasket.”

“Hello, you two!” It was the first, indeed the only time he'd ever been glad to see Joy.

Len wiped his face one last time. “Sorry, folks. Didn't mean to get going like that. But I'm not myself. I'm so upset by this letter thing. But mark my words.” Len's eyes were like two raisins in a rice pudding. “This guy's dangerous. The kind packs a BB gun so's he can shoot out streetlights, the kind lays in wait to mug old ladies walking on their canes.”

Joy looked from him to his father, then at Len. “What's all this about?” she asked brightly.

Len was not quite finished. Leaning close, he whispered, “I think the guy obviously has sexual problems.”

It was his father's turn to take out a handkerchief and wipe his brow. “I certainly hope you're wrong on that score,” his father said.

A heavy silence fell.

Into it, Joy spoke, “You boys ready to hit a few balls?” she said, jovial as any department-store Santa. “How about you, Tim? You want to start?”

Carefully, painstakingly, he set up his ball, nestling it neatly into the tee. Then he bent his knees, tucked in his elbows, placed his feet just so, kept his eye on the ball, and whiffed.

Chapter 19

“Do you feel all right, Tim?”

“Sure, Ma. Just a little queasy. Must've been those four hot dogs and three cans of soda Dad bought me at the driving range.” He felt as if he'd been kicked in the stomach by a donkey.

“Did something happen with Dad? Is that it?”

“Ma, please. It's nothing. Nothing happened with Dad.” He had a rule: never discuss one parent with the other. It was a question of loyalty to both. “How'd the show go? You make a bundle?”

She lifted the palms of both hands and held them open, and empty. “Not so's you'd notice. The booth fee was seventy-five dollars and my total take for the day came close to that. But there's always tomorrow.…” She shook her head. “You wouldn't believe some of the junk they come up with at one of these shows, Tim. A lot of the dealers don't know the difference between trinkets and trash.”

“Hey, that wouldn't be a bad name for a shop,
TRINKETS AND TRASH
.”

“Sort of like telling it like it is, right?” his mother said.

What had he done so wrong? All he did was write some flowery love letters, copied from the world's best. So, what made that a criminal act? He couldn't get over Sophie's father and the things he'd said. He was shattered by this turn of events. Where do I go from here? he asked himself.

“Tim.” His mother hesitated. “I hate to ask you this because I know you'd rather work outside, but I was wondering if you'd help me in the shop this summer. I'd pay you minimum wage, and free room and board go with the job, of course.” She smiled at him weakly.

There went his plan to hike the Appalachian Trail with Patrick. How could he turn her down?

“Kev take off?” he asked.

“Yes. That's it for Kev, Tim. You were right.”

He patted her on the shoulder, comforting her as best he could, knowing what it must have cost her to say that. “Sure, Ma, I'll give you a hand. I don't know squat about antiques, but I guess I can learn.”

“Oh, Tim, I'd be so grateful. You know as much as lots of people who call themselves experts. You can learn. I'll try to find some little old lady to tend the shop on weekends if I have to go to an auction to buy things. We'll close the shop two days a week, so you'll get a chance to have some fun. Thank you, Tim.”

When he told Patrick about this turn of events, Patrick said, “Tough beans. But my father said he didn't want me hiking on the Appalachian Trail this summer. What he has in mind for me,” Patrick said, fluttering his eyes to indicate despair, “is yard work. In his yard. For which he proposes to pay me peasant's wages and, in my spare time, which said father estimates at half an hour on Saturdays and time off for good behavior after church on Sundays, I am to be allowed to bask in the sun reading good books and resting up my muscles for the week ahead. Melissa's going to camp, so it's going to be me and my parents against the world.”

“Woe is you,” he said, secretly pleased that Patrick was in the same boat he was. “And woe also is me. I'm in the antique business with my mother, pushing porcelain and distressed armoires.”

“One of the troubles with being sixteen,” Patrick told him with a long face, “is that you're neither fish nor fowl. They tell you you're almost a man, but they still have that tight grip on you, telling you what you can do and what you can't. They get you out of Pampers, and you think you can lock them up in the closet if they get out of line. Next thing you know you're in bondage to them at minimum wage. I thought when I hit the big one-six I'd have it made. My troubles would be over. Now I know they're just beginning.”

“You know something?” he said. “I'm always reading about these sixteen-year-old hotshots who invent a computer chip or a new use for the laser beam, and they get to be millionaires by the time they're seventeen. How come I never run into any of those guys? Where do you suppose they're all hiding?”

“On the Côte d'Azur, probably. Going skinny dipping with starlets at the Cannes Film Festival. Trouble with being a genius, a rich genius, Tim, is they're all burned out by the time they hit twenty. They've seen it all. What fun is that? Wouldn't you rather be an average jerk and have some fun?”

Talking to Patrick always made him feel better, if only for the nonce. He wanted to tell Patrick about Sophie and the love letters and Len Feeley's reaction, but he was ashamed and humiliated, and wasn't ready to share his humiliation yet. Not even with Patrick.

As if reading his thoughts, Patrick said, “How are you doing with Sophie? Hit her up for a fast game of spin the bottle yet?”

He shrugged. “The status is about quo.”

“Trouble with you, Tim, is you don't assert yourself. You have to pursue her. Go after her, let her know you think she's hotsy totsy, ask her out.” Patrick snapped his fingers. “How about if we double date? That way, if she won't talk to you, you can talk to me and my date.”

“What's her name?”

“It just so happens I met this girl,” said Patrick, grinning. “Her name is Faith.”

“As in Hope and Charity?”

“Yeah, those are her sisters, Hope and Charity. Anyway, she's really dishy, long blond hair, brown eyes, and built!” Patrick staggered, clutching his chest to illustrate his point. “I'm thinking of having a slumber party and asking her. No, I'm only kidding. I'm going to ask her if she wants to play pool. So, why don't you ask Sophie?”

“Sophie's into music. I'm not sure she plays pool,” he said.

“Just ask. She can't kill you for asking, can she?”

He said OK, he'd ask her. So what am I supposed to do? he asked himself that night, lying in bed, looking up at the ceiling. Go up to her in the hall and say how about a game of pool Saturday night? No, it wouldn't work. But he'd give it a try.

On Monday he lay in wait for Sophie outside the science lab. He'd rehearsed what he'd say. “Hi, Sophie.” Very upbeat. “How about a game of pool at my friend Patrick's house on Saturday night. I'll pick you up about eight, OK?”

It sounded simple, had sounded good alone in his room, mouthing the words, trying on his repertoire of facial expressions in front of the mirror, choosing just the right one. One of friendly interest—nothing serious, nothing to worry about. A boy asking a girl for a pool date. Don't bring your bathing suit, honey, it's not that kind of pool.

The bell rang, signifying the end of classes. His muscles knotted in anticipation. He felt her presence before he saw her. She came up on him, her little cat feet silent in their sneakers, long-legged, glossy-haired, carrying a pile of books across her chest like a breastplate. He turned and they looked into each other's eyes. It was the way he'd dreamed it would be. He smiled. She licked her lips so they shone redly.

“Hello, Sophie,” he said softly, stepping toward her. She stepped back and away, a shy, virginal temptress, glorious in her confusion.

“Why don't you just knock it off!” Sophie hissed, small beads of spittle escaping from her mouth. “I know it's you. Barbara said so, and I know she's right. I'm telling my father if you keep it up. I can't stand it. You give me the creeps. Just knock it off, all right? Else I'll tell my father and he'll sick his Doberman on you. You're weird, really weird, you know that? You're sick. You need professional help. My father says whoever writes those letters to me is a sicko, and he's right. You are a sicko. And you know something?” Perspiration dotted her forehead, her upper lip. “You make me sicko, too.”

He opened his mouth and was unable to speak. His hand shot out to grab her, to give her the sign of peace once more.

“Listen, Sophie,” he croaked, “hear me out. Let me explain.” She lunged out of reach.

“Don't touch me,” she said in a calm, quiet voice that was worse than anger.

I meant no harm. Please, please Sophie, I adore you. Please, Sophie, give me a break.

Then she was gone, leaving in her wake the scent of cinnamon candy.

He turned and ran. The hall was crowded and plenty saw him go.

“What's wrong?” someone asked.

“Some guy's off his nut, I guess. Either that or the draft board's got his number.”

He ran until his side ached. Bile rose in his throat and filled his mouth. It was no good. He had given it his best shot. Sophie hated him. He could hardly breathe. He threw himself on the ground and rested his head in the dusty grass, which stank of dog droppings. And tried to think of nothing.

Chapter 20

It was a while before he could bear to think of Sophie's face, of the cruelty in it as she'd hurled words at him, words like pellets filled with poison. He kept his head down as he walked, imagining people looking at him peculiarly, as if asking themselves, “Who is this monster, this dealer in pornography?” He imagined Sophie screaming insults at him in his dreams. He caught his mother giving him sympathetic looks, as if someone he loved had died. Which, in a way, was what had happened.

“What happened?” Patrick asked at last. “I heard you and Sophie were mixing it up in the hall. They said she was really letting you have it with both barrels. I didn't know you knew her that well, Tim. Maybe if you tell me about it, I can help.”

There was no sense keeping it to himself any longer. He told Patrick the whole story—the letters he'd copied from the book his mother had provided, the romantic impulse that had led him to it, the way he'd got caught up in it, listening to Len Feeley sound off at the driving range, and the confrontation with Sophie that had brought everything to a head.

Throughout, Patrick maintained a subdued silence, broken only by long, low whistles and general expressions of astonishment.

Finally, exhausted by his flow of words, he reached the end. He felt old, old and worn out. Not caring anymore what happened.

“I'm sorry, Tim. That's rough, really rough. Wish I could figure out something to make it better,” Patrick said.

“Nothing can do that,” he said. “I wish I was dead.”

“Baloney.” Patrick scowled. “Don't be an ass. You don't wish that. She's only a girl. Besides, she's not worth it, Tim. If she knew you, she'd think you were a good guy. She ought to talk to my mother. My mother'd tell her a thing or two about you.”

“Yeah,” he said, “same with my mother. I'm very big with mothers. It's only with the chicks I'm a washout. I'm just glad school's almost over. At least I won't have to face all those kids. I'm planning to work my tail off this summer, about twenty hours a day. After I finish up at the antique shop, I'm going to mow lawns, clip hedges, dig wells, if necessary. I'm making plenty of bucks. Then I might go hiking on the Appalachian Trail by myself. If your father says you can't go …”

“Listen, someday we'll get a good laugh out of this, Tim. We'll tell our grandchildren about it. And we'll roll on the floor while we tell it. You wait.”

“Thanks, Patrick. I appreciate your help. I hope you're right. Now I have to go help my mother move some gigantic pictures and tables and junk she bought at some tag sale. She's going crazy buying stuff.”