The Love Letters of J. Timothy Owen (7 page)

“If you knew only half the happiness it would be to me to see you here tomorrow, the day after tomorrow, I would not hesitate to say to you, ‘Come Marie, Marie.…'”

Come, Sophie, Sophie. Substitute Sophie and it read much better.

“Let your beautiful head bend voluptuously again to mine, let your adorable tears …”

Could a head bend voluptuously? He stood in front of the mirror bending his head this way and that, shooting tender glances at himself. The mirror's reflection sent him back a twit looking in need of some milk of magnesia. Maybe females were able to bend their heads voluptuously. It was beyond him.

Scratch “adorable tears.” Mind bending. No such thing existed. He didn't want to alienate Sophie, freak her out. He only wanted to make an indelible impression to pave the way for something big.

Maybe it would be wise to combine the best parts of the Liszt letters, working in the bit about the tiny feet. It also occurred to him that Sophie might not want him, or anyone else, for that matter, to kiss her feet. He sure wouldn't want her kissing his.

“Oh, how I long to see you again, dear masterpiece of God.” Old Franz was really warming up now. Also getting heavy. “Dear masterpiece of God” sounded slightly ridiculous, also slightly sacrilegious to him. Not to mention going too far. Scratch it.

“How could I help adoring the Good God who created you, so good, so beautiful, so perfect, so made to be cherished, adored and loved to death and madness.”

There were no two ways about it; death and madness caught the eye, made one pause and think. His handwriting sprawled ungracefully across the paper, lending a certain
je ne sais quoi
to the words. On the other hand, if Sophie was one for taking sentences apart, dissecting each and every word, she might conceivably take exception to being loved to death and madness. It was hard, deciding what to leave in, what to take out. He was in the position of censoring Franz Liszt. Not too many people he knew could make that statement. Writing a love letter was not an easy job, he decided. Even if it wasn't an original love letter.

The phone rang.

“Hello, fool,” Patrick said.

“Can't talk now. I'm working on something really big.” If he quit now, before he finished, he might chicken out and not finish at all. He had to get his letter in the mail before he lost his nerve.

“You want to play some pool?” Patrick's father had given the family a pool table for Christmas. Patrick's mother had been outraged at first, said she didn't want her children picking up bad habits. Now Patrick's mother was the star pool player in the family. Melissa was second.

“Later. I'll come over after I'm done.”

The words plunged across paper, faster than he could get them down. Slow down, he warned himself. Slow down. Or she won't be able to read a word. His handwriting, he realized, had taken on the look of ancient hieroglyphics as urgency and artistry drove him forward, ever forward. He had never felt as close to anyone as he felt right now to Sophie. This was for her. He hardly knew her, yet writing these words of love, Franz Liszt's words of love, overblown, highfalutin, made his and Sophie's romance seem real. What a terrific thing he was doing! Copying from the masters. Sophie would be overwhelmed; maybe she'd be his forever.

But how would she know who had sent her the letter? He couldn't sign his name. And, if he didn't sign his name, he wouldn't get credit for it. It was a dilemma. He would have to be Anon. Sophie would have to fall in love with Anonymous, old silver-tongued Anon.

There was more. “The day will come when we shall see and comprehend clearly what at present we can only dimly glimpse and hope for in our terrestrial darkness … then you will recall the burning words that neither you nor I could have held back, for they would have shattered our bones.”

Way to go, Franz. What a wrap-up. Lay it all out. Shattered bones and all. He thought of adding a row of kisses, XXXXX, as a final expression of the high esteem in which he held Sophie, and decided that, in view of what had gone before, the XXXXX would be an anticlimax.

Sighing, he jotted down, on a separate piece of paper, various possible ways he might sign his letter. “God bless thee!” was one. “In haste, I am forever yours,” another. “Your patient and humble servant” didn't grab him.

“Yours, Anon.” That would do it, have to do it. Selecting one of his mother's envelopes, he donned a pair of her gloves before slipping the letter inside. Thereby eliminating all fingerprints. A theatrical move that pleased him greatly. All that remained was to find a stamp.

“Hey, Ma, got a stamp?”

“Look at this, Tim.” She was poring over an arrangement of old coins she had spread out on the tabletop. She held up a coin blackened with years and they both studied it with attention.

“Isn't this handsome?” His mother turned the coin in her hand.

“Cool, Ma, but can I borrow a stamp from you?”

“What on earth for?”

“To mail a letter, what else?” said he, pretending that he mailed letters frequently. Don't give me heat now, Ma, he begged her silently. I might cave in and tear it up. Please, Ma, no heat.

She looked at him in a puzzled way, which he ignored.

“In the righthand desk drawer, Tim,” she said. “Help yourself.”

“Thanks, Ma!” he shouted in sudden elation. “You're some sweet masterpiece of God, all right!”

He slammed out of the house, whistling, leaving her with her mouth open, astonished.

When he reached the mailbox, he had second thoughts. To mail, or not to mail. Faint heart never won nothing. A favorite pithy saying he'd dreamed up. On the other hand, it seemed a dubious thing to do, now that he was here, letter in hand, Sophie's name and address culled from the phone book, writ in large letters, zip code and all.

Sometimes, he reflected later, life's biggest decisions are based on small, inconsequential events. As he stood there, it seemed to him the letter moved in his hand. His soul was inside that letter. The mail truck pulled up, the driver got out, unlocked the box, and loaded its contents into a Postal Service bag. The mailman looked at him. “You want me to take that?” he said. “I'm running late as it is.”

Tim looked down at the letter. “I'm not sure I have the right address on it,” he said.

“Always put your return address on the back. That way you get it back, if it's not right,” the mailman said.

“I don't want her to know who sent it,” he blurted out.

The mailman's eyebrows went out of control. “Oh, one of those, huh? You got to watch what you send through the U.S. mails, buddy. They got all kinds of laws. You can get sent away two, maybe even three years, if you don't watch your step. You look like a nice kid. I wouldn't want to see you in trouble. But you want to be careful what you send through the mail. We got very strict rules.”

Maybe the mailman thought it was a bomb, albeit a skinny, tiny one. And that he was an anarchist.

“Also, too,” the mailman continued, “you want to watch what you put down on paper. Once or twice, I myself let the heart rule the old noggin. Resulting in nothing but sad news, I'm sorry to say. But you live, you learn. It's your life, buddy. I'm running late, like I said. Make up your mind.” The mailman tossed the bulging bag into his truck.

“Take it,” he said, thrusting the letter into the man's hand. “It's now or never.”

“Way to go,” the mailman said, hopping back into the truck. “Hope you stay out of jail!” he hollered before he drove away.

“You and me both, buddy,” Tim said.

Chapter 10

When Melissa answered his knock and saw him standing there, her hand flew to cover a cluster of zits that had settled on her chin. In a slightly muffled voice she said, “I didn't know you were coming over.”

He smiled at her.

“Come on in. Patrick's downstairs, practicing,” Melissa said. “I beat him five games last night, playing pool. He's sore. Patrick's a sore loser, know that? My mother and I can take him on and my father any day, and wipe up the floor with them.”

Melissa's hair was done up in fat pink curlers. Without her glasses, her eyes were pale, luminous, myopic. He noticed the zipper on her jeans didn't quite close, leaving a small portion of Melissa hanging out. He averted his eyes, thinking of what Patrick had said about a thirteen-year-old sister being the ugliest thing in the world. Melissa would improve, he figured. She had nowhere to go but up. Her nose was a little lopsided and the zits didn't help. And she could definitely stand to drop ten, maybe fifteen, pounds. Outside of that, Melissa was all right.

“What grade you in these days, Melissa?” he asked, being friendly.

“Eighth,” she answered, hand still over her chin. She wore a gray sweatshirt that declared “I Wanna Rock.”

“Tim,” she said hesitantly, “don't tell Patrick I asked you, but I want to ask you something. Privately.”

Melissa cast a cold eye over her shoulder, ready to nail Patrick if he showed himself.

“Ask away,” he said, feeling very mature, flattered that she wanted to consult with him, ask his advice.

“Well, we're having this dance. That is, at my school. It's sort of a fund-raising dance combined with a graduation party. Graduation from eighth grade?”

Melissa was asking him, not telling him, and he began to feel uneasy. Was she going to hit him up for money, he wondered, slapping noisily at his empty pockets. “Yeah? Go on, Melissa.”

Melissa took down her hand and the zits seemed to leap out at him.

“I'm broke, Melissa,” he said. “Sorry, I can't help.”

“It's not that.” Her face was very earnest and her cheeks were stained a deep red.

He waited, listening, hoping for sounds of Patrick approaching.

“We're supposed to ask a boy, see,” Melissa said in a rush. “I was hoping you'd be my date.”

He was stunned. Absolutely knocked on his ear. Go to a dance with Patrick's thirteen-year-old sister, who was in the eighth grade? Melissa went to St. Raymond's parochial school, the very same school in which he and Patrick had received their religious instructions before they made their first communion.

As if she read his mind, Melissa said, “I'm almost fourteen. That is—I'll be fourteen in six weeks, or so.”

“Uh,” he said, as if someone had hit him in the stomach. They stood there, looking at each other. “I don't know how to dance, Melissa.” Which was the plain truth. “I never went to dancing school.”

“That's all right.” She seemed to feel better now that she'd spoken her piece. She waved her arms around and her feet moved as if to silent music, though she wore no headset, no earphones. “I can't really, either. Nobody dances at these dances, anyway. They just sort of stand around and pig out.”

Once, twice, he tried to find the right words to turn her down. He even resorted to a choking fit, fighting desperately for time.

Gasping, eyes tearing up, he finally said, “How come you don't ask one of the boys in your class?” blinking at her as if a bright light had been turned on suddenly, blinding him.

Melissa put her hands on her hips. “Because,” she said, “they're all smaller than me. Than I. I'm the biggest girl in the class.” Suddenly, without warning, Melissa's face turned downward completely, like a sad clown's. Mouth, eyes, eyebrows, even her nose seemed to dip down as she spoke. A terrible silence fell, broken only by the sound of him swallowing. All the saliva seemed to have left his mouth.

“It's only a tea dance!” Melissa wailed, tossing her head, sending the pink curlers on a wild wobble.

“A tea dance?” He had never heard of such a thing. This was even worse than he'd thought. “A tea dance,” he repeated, trying to stay calm.

“Yeah. From four to six. On Sunday. Please, Tim.” Melissa's huge eyes glistened at him. “Will you please, Tim? If you won't go with me, I won't go either. You're my only hope.”

“Can't you find someone else to take you?” he asked, almost pleading with her. “I think I'm busy Sunday. I don't think I can go, Melissa.”

For Pete's sake, kid, I just spent hours composing a steamy love letter to this girl. A tea dance. Kid stuff. A pig-out tea dance, for God's sake. Go play with your pals, Melissa, and leave me alone.

Melissa stood close to him, smelling of shampoo and onions.

“You wouldn't even have to dance with me, Tim,” she said. “All they do anyway is stand around, the girls, I mean, and the boys do the same thing. They tell jokes and burp and, you know, laugh. We wouldn't have to stay the whole time. We could just stay a little while. Just so they'd see you were my date.” By now, she was so close her breath tickled his ear.

“And I'd pay, Tim. It wouldn't cost you a nickel. I promise. My mother's buying the tickets, anyway. Please, Tim?”

He couldn't look at her.

“Why don't you get Patrick to take you?” he whispered, ashamed.

Melissa jumped as if stung by a wasp, a whole nest of wasps. “I'd die first!” she shouted. The color left her face and he was afraid she might be having an attack of something, might even faint. “I'd absolutely die rather than go with my own brother!”

At the word “brother” Melissa let out a low gurgling sound, like an unplugged drain.

“Hey Tim!” Patrick popped into view. “I didn't know you were here. What're you doing, chewing the fat with Fatty? Let's go down and shoot some pool.”

Melissa turned and ran. He stumbled after Patrick, falling upon the pool table as if it was an oasis and he a traveler tuckered out after crossing the Sahara. Patrick tossed him a cue and a piece of chalk, to take the slipperiness off the tip of the cue, Patrick said, as if he'd been playing pool since he was a pup.

Patrick beat him one game; then, by a fluke, he beat Patrick. The cool joy of winning was heady and unfamiliar to him. He was not a winner at sports, or at much of anything. There was nothing like coming in first, he decided, hoping to make a habit of it. Patrick's father showed up and beat both of them. Fortunately, for one and all, Patrick's mother and Melissa were otherwise occupied.