Second Stories

By Lynn Schneider

Geo and Lydia - caught up in their own insecurities, they lost their way as a couple years ago and after decades of a strained marriage, have gone in different directions. When a life-changing event causes her to reevaluate her marriage and her life, a secret is revealed, which has the potention to bring their marriage to a tragic conclusion.

Nick and Bonnie - They drifted into marriage for less than the right reasons. He believes things will always stay the same, and is shocked to learn that for her, those same things are the reason she will seek a different life, a life without him.

Sam and Patti - She had her motivations for marrying, and they were less than honorable. He was caught up in tye expectations of the sixties, that when a man reaches a certain age, he marries and has a family. Sometimes, the time is right, but the decision is not.

Joe and Angie - High school sweethearts, together fovever and always. Theirs was a romance that is enviable, the shared youth experience, that will always be their bond.

This is the story of a forty-year friendshp between the four men, and the women in their lives. Sometimes there can be a second story, sometimes not.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lynn Schneider
• Release date: Mar 7, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301864072

Lynn Schneider

Lynn Schneider is the author of three women's fiction novels. She is a baby boomer, who writes stories about her generation. She spent thirty years in IT and is now retired to pursue her career in writing. Born in western New York, she attempts to recapture the feelings, memorabilia and turbulence of the sixties and beyond. Whatever Happened to Lily? was published in February, 2010, Second Stories in January 2011, and Perigee Moon in May, 2012. Lynn blogs at www.lynnschneiderbooks.com.

Book preview

The end of a late spring heat wave. For over a week, each day had been hotter, the humidity more oppressive, than the day before. Lydia watched the Doppler on the evening news, red, purple, green, morphing east over Lake Erie, like a lava lamp. She picked up the paper and a generous glass of Chardonnay and headed out onto the porch to wait.

One of her favorite things, storms in warm weather, since the days of her childhood when she'd sat with her grandmother, on the upstairs porch on hot summer afternoons. Her Granny always said when the wind blew in and exposed the undersides of the leaves, there was a storm brewing, it was only a matter of time. Lydia's Granny had talked in clichés, hardly a sentence was uttered without one.

The air was still, then a roar in the distance, and closer, as gusty winds blew in. The trees groaned and cracked a little, as their branches moved to places they normally wouldn't go. The wind stopped, gusted, stopped again. She settled on the swing to wait. Very timely. She'd had time to get home from work, time to change her clothes, time for anticipation of the storm.

Pretty pathetic, the only excitement in her life the advent of nasty weather, but exactly as it should be. Who wants an exciting life anyway? Dull is good. Predictably dull. Predictably unchanging. Why change anything? The grass is always greener on the other side of the fence, her Granny had advised, as if no one had ever said that before.

She heard the first splatters, big drops spitting against the pavement, and the musky smell of cement, hot and damp. It came harder, like a water faucet being turned to full strength, and the lightening, and the thunder. The bamboo shades that hung between the support posts billowed in, and the time between the flashes and crashes shortened by half-life until virtually the same. And there was a crack, and an explosion, and a flash before her eyes.

Maybe she'd been hit. It could have happened. Her ears rang and she saw glowing spots against black, lines and swirling images and the panic rose up in her chest and she thought maybe her internal organs heaved up against each other and she shook with fear. The air buzzed with electricity, or maybe she imagined it, that it had nowhere to go so it filled the space around her. She dared not move, dared not touch anything, so as not to realize she was dead.

Her vision cleared, she looked down at her arms, her hands. Freckled with goose bumps, clammy with fright, and her heart beat at twice the intensity it should have. It appeared she wasn't dead. She moved her legs, twisted her neck.

Close, that much she knew for sure, but how close? The house? The tree that lived between the house and the sidewalk? Rationality returned, in degrees, as she assessed the damage, and discovered it was non-damage. Everything seemed intact.

She heard sirens, the piercing whines louder and louder, and waited for the fire trucks and police cars to appear. The lights flashed blue and red, but stopped, down half a block, at the corner. Lightening usually went after something more interesting than people. It wasn't the first time that transformer had been hit. The old saying about lightening not striking twice in the same place didn't seem to hold up.

It was dark, darker than normal dark. Darker than the no sun left but lamp in the window, stars in the sky, street lamps lit, kind of dark. It reminded her of the nights when she was a kid, and her parents had left her in the dark bedroom, shades drawn, door closed, the only light the thin strip under the door from the hallway. She'd always hoped to be asleep before everyone went to bed, because then they'd turn out the hall light too, and the dark was fearsome. It swallowed a person up, brought new sets of terror, evil in closets, monsters under beds, and she had to lie very still so the bad ones might not know she was lying there above them.

Silly childish fears, but she remembered, and sometimes even now, imagined hearing things in the house at night. Footsteps on the stairs, someone sneaking around looking for things to take from her, who might shoot her if she looked at them, so she hid her eyes, and cowered under blankets.

***

She'd been spared. With the relief, came the realization of what could have been. It could have been the house, the porch, herself, and not a hundred feet away. A narrow escape.

A thought came to her, in that moment. Maybe the electrically charged air triggered a response in her head. Afterwards, she didn't know for sure, only that at the moment she knew she was safe, the thought came to her.

Twelve years earlier, she'd witnessed a scene, harmless, but it had changed her. Changed the way she viewed her life, her family, her future and she'd made a conscious decision. She'd considered it a life-changing event. Tonight had been different. This time, she'd feared for her life, expected she might not make it, that it might be the end. Another life-changing event.

Once the fear dimmed, and her heart ceased its pounding, the thought came to her, that her marriage was over, and had been since just after it started. It was a disaster, a failure, a tragedy, defined by what it wasn't. It wasn't a friendship, wasn't companionship, wasn't comfortable. It wasn't love. It wasn't fun. He hadn't loved her the way a man should love his wife, not from the very first. And she knew when that happens in any marriage, almost always, the unloved eventually quits it too.

Since he didn't love her and twelve years ago she'd decided she didn't love him, the marriage should end. And yes, it was probably late in life to do it, and if she hadn't been nearly killed on the front porch, due to an unexplainable curiosity for thunderstorms, maybe the thought wouldn't have popped into her head. But it had, and now that it was there, it wouldn't go away and she could hardly think about anything else, except what a good solution it would be.

Then the logistics. A complication. She wanted to stay in the house, wanted him to do the leaving. But the house they lived in had come from his side of the family. She loved it, but his grandfather had built it. Even though the grandfather had died in the upstairs bedroom long before she'd come around, she still thought about him every day and thanked him for this place, the house she had restored and perfected and loved.

One of them had to go. She'd have to convince him that she should be the one to stay in the house, but if he refused, it could get ugly. He didn't care about the place like she did, and that was her only argument. She knew separating and divorcing brought out the worst in people and fired up every self-preservation instinct defined. And if he didn't want the separation, but why wouldn't he want it? Why would he care? If only he'd bring it up, instead of her having to do it, she'd be in a better bargaining position. She doubted that would happen. If he hadn't done so in all this time, it was unlikely he'd do it now.

She thought about the people who were gone, people she'd cared about, her grandmother, and his grandmother, who had been her special friend. The swing moved, very slightly, her foot on the floor, and she reached for the wine glass and settled back to wait. The last of the rain, or it might be only drops that clung to the leaves and fell to the ground in the after-rain breeze, eased her toward calm.

And then she saw him as he made his way in the gloom, stepping carefully over fallen limbs and he stopped on the stairs when he saw her.

Hello, she said. Her foot stopped the motion of the swing.

He paused at the top of the stairs, looked at the front door, then back at her. She sensed his unease, that he wanted to go inside, not have any interaction with her, but the house was dark.

Sit down, Geo, she said. I need to tell you something.

Geo and Lydia

Chinese Checkers

In the Spring of 1945, two and sometimes three times a week, Brad Jennings stopped in at Red's and Trudy's, a place he'd frequented before he'd gone away to the Army and the war. It soothed him, the smell of the grease, the clatter of plates and pans in the kitchen, the sound of the sharp side of the spatula as it knocked against the metal grill. The place was small, crowded, and noisy and he always sat alone at the counter. The waitresses called him Red because of the color of his hair, even though no one had called him that before, and they knew he liked his eggs over light, his steak medium, and his coffee black. No one asked questions about the past, or where he'd been or what he'd seen, and he liked it that way. It was the present he cared about. The past was past, and better forgotten.

He saw Roxie there one night with three of her friends. Not her face at first, but the back of her head, hair upswept into a mass of dark curls, and the curve of her slender, very white neck, as it disappeared into the folds of a fuzzy pink sweater. When she'd got up to go, and noticed him, he'd smiled at her, and she at him. She waved the others on, told them to please wait for her outside, and approached him. They hadn't much time, so they exchanged names and he got right to the point, asked for her phone number and she wrote it on a napkin.

He'd known he really would call her, and she told him later she'd known it too. They dated for the allotted amount of time, and performed the engagement ritual, and the wedding preparations, and married before the summer ended. But he'd always thought if they'd left together that first night, and gone home together and married as soon as the next day, it wouldn't have changed a thing.

Their daughter was born within the year, named Lydia, and two years later a son, Ned. When Ned came along, the serenity they'd enjoyed before having children, and the relative serenity when they'd had only a very well-behaved two-year old daughter, was shattered. Roxie couldn't cope, she ate too little and lost weight, cried too much and called her mother a dozen times a day for advice. It seemed to Brad that the best arrangement would be to buy a big house, with two apartments, and invite Roxie's parents to live upstairs. It was a good arrangement, and Roxie relinquished a good portion of the childcare to her mother. Lydia and Ned never realized until much later that there was any other family structure. And Brad figured if he had to contend with his wife's parents in order to have her back, so be it.

Ned may not have been the easiest child to raise but Lydia was in the running for the title. Good, quiet, obedient. She never questioned why, did as she was told. And pretty, in the fragile, innocent way of some young girls, until she hit a bad period. Her adult teeth grew in crooked and stuck out, too big for her narrow face and she needed braces. Her eyesight deteriorated and she needed glasses. Finally, her face broke out and she grew tall, all at once, which made her appear painfully thin. Ned teased her, called her names and she believed it, believed she was ugly and skinny and stupid.

She'd had one neighborhood friend, since she was four years old, her best and only friend, Linda, who had eased into adolescence. One of the lucky ones, without the braces or the glasses or the zits. She'd had the early figure, which made her the most sought after girl on square dancing day in gym class. In high school, Linda decided her friendship with Lydia could be sacrificed for the popular crowd. The popular crowd girls were particular about who they accepted into the fold. They wanted no part of Lydia, and she was left out.

She spent her nights and weekends playing Casino and Scrabble and Gin Rummy with her Granny, and read books and magazines and love comics, went to school alone and came home alone, and decided that's the way things would be. The one friend she'd had would barely say hello to her, pretended not to see her while with the new friends, and Lydia tried not to care. Her grandmother was her friend, she could always count on that.

The Lindas of the world are early bloomers but the blossoms can fall off prematurely, while the Lydias bloom much later. Her grandmother tried to tell her, but as long as Lydia was friendless and shy and thought herself ugly, she didn't believe it. When she'd looked back on it, what she really believed was it didn't matter what you turned into, it's what you were when it was so all important, when you were a girl turning into a woman, which formed that forever after self-opinion.

You'll be pretty one day, Lydia, her grandmother told her. Clearly, she wasn't pretty yet, but would be some day, sometime in the future. Not today, not tomorrow, but one day. One day she'd be pretty. Of course she didn't believe it. Not for a minute.

At the end of high school, she'd begun to look a bit better, the braces came off and she wore contact lenses instead of glasses, purchased with her baby sitting money, and had at least the start of a figure. By then she was content with her aloneness, having no real friends, certainly not a boyfriend. The night of the senior prom had been like any other Saturday night. She and her grandmother played Chinese Checkers until nearly midnight.

You've managed to block me. I had planned a straight shot to the top of your triangle, her Granny said.

That's the way the game is played, Granny. Don't expect me to be considerate of your plans. This is serious, Lydia said.

There was a lot of cooperation at the beginning of the game, establishing the line of marbles from one triangle to the other, so both players could make a bit of headway to the other side, but at some point, the cooperation ended and the competition began, as the game neared its conclusion.

Do you feel bad about missing the prom, dear? I thought every girl your age wanted to go to it, her Granny said.

No. Not at all. Some want to go no matter what, no matter who takes them. I could never do that. I have no interest in it.

That Johnson boy would have taken you, I think. I see the way he looks at you in church.

Dennis Johnson? Are you serious? He only looks at me in church because there's no one else to look at. In school he doesn't give me a second glance.

I don't know about that. I watched him last Sunday, looking at you the entire time from the choir loft. Even during the prayer, when his eyes should have been closed.

Uh. Lydia shivered. He's disgusting. He swears and smokes and doesn't smell good. His hair is greasy and he has dandruff.

He smokes and swears? Well, my word, he seems like such a nice young chap.

He isn't. He's nasty. He stands outside the Third Street entrance of school every morning and smokes with the other creeps and laughs and talks dirty.

I never! I'm sure his mother doesn't know about that.

I'm sure she doesn't. And don't tell her either, because if she says anything to him, he'll know it was me who told. Promise?

Promise, her Granny said. And she knew her Granny wouldn't do anything she'd promised not to do. That's the way she was.

He always seems so nice, her Granny said.

He's like Eddie Haskell on Leave It To Beaver. Sickeningly phony to adults, singing in the church choir. What a weasel.

You just never know, her Granny said.

Her Granddad stood at the doorway, in from his bedroom. He had a 1940's wooden radio in his room and sat in the dark, in his old gray vinyl chair, the seat permanently bowled in, and listened to St. Bonaventure basketball in winter and Yankee baseball in summer. When there were no games, he sat quiet in the dark and Lydia wondered what he thought about.

Hello there, kid, what do you know besides nothing? her Granddad asked. His standard greeting, every day, every time she saw him, every time he spoke to her, it's what he said.

Hi Granddad, she said.

Going off to bed after this inning, her grandfather said. Good night, Lydia. Good night, Mother.

Goodnight, they said.

He shuffled off. Lydia could hear him take the lid off the Prince Albert can, which sat on his dresser, to get a pinch or two of tobacco to roll into his late night cigarette. Her Granny sniffed.

Tsk. She shook her head.

It's funny that Granddad calls you Mother, Lydia said.

Ever since your mother was born. He said I was a born mother and he's been calling me that ever since.

Isn't every woman a born mother? Lydia asked.

No, not at all. Some women are born wives, others are born mothers. My mother was a born wife, and I always thought it's the daughters of the born wives who become the born mothers. Now your mother, she's a born wife, like my mother.

Maybe I'll be a born mother then, Lydia said. It must skip generations.

I never had a bit of my mother's attention, her Granny said.

They played in silence, until the last marbles were in their proper places, on the opposite sides of the board.

I win, Lydia said. Four out of seven?

Her Granny rotated the board. And they began the ritual, one marble out, one move ahead, a two jump, followed by another move ahead, and a three jump to the center.

It's a good choice, your going to Alfred Tech, her Granny said. Close to home, a good school. And there are no bars in the whole town.

I didn't know there were no bars there, said Lydia. Not that it matters.

Those Baptists do something right, her Granny said. Bars are the devil's workshop.

Lydia smiled. Yes. The devil's workshop.

You laugh about it, but the other night on the way home from Women's Circle, Mrs. Eisner drove past that awful Wheel place to drop Ethel Watterman off down on 17th Street. The door was open and we looked inside. Drunkards yelling, rock and roll music blaring, people on the street, staggering. It was a disgusting sight. Smoking, drinking. I don't know what this world is coming to.

Probably a little spring fever, that's all, Lydia said. I'm sure the Wheel is usually a much nicer place. At least it was the last time I was in there.

You tease me, but you know I'm right. The thought of you going in such a place makes my blood run cold, her Granny said.

I don't think women go in there. I'd never go in a place like that, Granny. You don't need to worry about it.

I know that, dear. But at Alfred there won't be the temptation. I'm sure the students there will be a lot nicer than those Bonaventure men.

I don't think it's the college guys in the Wheel, Granny. It's the townies. Kids from high school go there.

But they aren't even eighteen yet, at least some of them aren't.

That doesn't matter, Lydia said.

Her Granny sniffed. The Lord help us. What the world is coming to, I'm sure I don't know.

Alfred

She and her grandmother settled into the backseat of the car, and her parents were in the front, for the trip which would take only an hour, and she wasn't sure if she wanted it to be over with, to be there, or if she wanted it to go on forever, so she might never reach her destination. Now that she was on her way to college, and since she had a natural fear of the unknown, her stomach churned with apprehension.

At the beginning of the summer, she'd been excited to go, leave the old home town behind, but as the time grew shorter, she was more unsure and worried about every detail. What if she couldn't do the work? What if she didn't get along with her roommate? What would it be like to share a room with someone she'd never met? She reread the letters from Gretchen, which she carried in her purse. Gretchen had written twice, once to introduce herself, and again after Lydia had replied. Gretchen had taken the initiative to write that letter. It helped, that there had been that bit of correspondence between them but Lydia would probably never have thought to initiate it.

She hoped her family wouldn't try to make idle conversation because her stomach was in knots with the uncertainty of it all, she felt sick and didn't want to say a word. Maybe she should have stayed at home, found a job of some sort, not decided to do this unknown thing. If she did that, she might end up like Miss Brown who lived two doors away, who was in her fifties now and went to her job at the bank, and came home to her garden and her aging parents. It was too late for Miss Brown, who would never have a family of her own, who lived in the house where she'd grown up, and that's where she'd probably always live. And when Miss Brown's parents passed away, she'd be really alone. Lydia didn't want to end up that way, although it sounded like a safe alternative.

Back when she'd planned this, it had seemed the right thing to do. Go somewhere new, meet people, get an education. A logical solution to the problem of what to do after high school. She'd need to support herself and working had seemed worse than going to school. And where would she have worked, what would she possibly be able to do for anyone? What had seemed the right choice back then didn't look so right now though, when confronted with the actual challenges of it.

On campus, there were cars everywhere and people carrying things, suitcases, boxes, lamps, small pieces of furniture. Lydia's father double parked and they dumped all the stuff from the trunk onto the nearest sidewalk while they waited for him to park the car. He carried the boxes, Lydia carried the suitcases, her mother and grandmother the odds and ends, bags of things, tins of cookies, and a couple of framed family pictures. Her grandmother inspected the room on the fourth floor of the dorm.

This will do, she said, and Lydia's mother agreed. Yes, this would do.

Gretchen had already moved in. The bed on one side of the room had been made up, there were stuffed animals, books, pictures. Neat, everything in its place. That was comforting. She unpacked the suitcases, put clothes in drawers, on hangers. Finally, when there was nothing left to do, she walked back to the car with her parents and her grandmother and hugged them all and waved as they drove off.

Gretchen was there when she returned. She was small, probably not over ninety pounds with dark hair, curly and short. Big brown eyes. I'm Gretchen, she said, and extended her hand to Lydia, and smiled. At least part of her anxieties could be put to rest.

***

There were visitors from Gretchen's hometown the first night, Bitsy and Cherry, who seemed to expect Gretchen to explain everything to them, tell them what to do. Where to go, what to wear, what to say.

I don't know what they'd do without you, Lydia said. They seem so uncertain of everything. It's new to all of us, yet they expect you to know it all, and explain it to them.

I'm like a mother to them. It was the same in high school.

Okay, Mom. Lydia laughed.

***

At the end of the first week of classes, she looked forward to some down time, have dinner, go back to the room, read and sleep.

Lydia, Gretchen said. Let's go down the road. Cherry knows a guy who has a car and he'll take us. He's got room for four of us, if we all squeeze into the back seat.

Down the road? What's that?

It's a big bar, nine miles out of town, outside the stupid dry laws. There's live music. It's where everyone goes.

Even though Alfred was a dry town, apparently there were ways for the students to get around that issue. Lydia thought about what her Granny would think of that. She didn't really want to go, and wished Gretchen hadn't suggested it.

A bar? I've never been in one. I don't think so.

It'll be fun. Come on, it's Friday night. We need to meet some guys.

My grandmother told me never to go to bars, I'd never meet anyone nice in one. Lydia laughed.

My grandmother would've wanted to go with us. I think she met her second husband in a bar.

I can't imagine going to a bar.

It isn't really a bar. Think of it more as a dance hall, where they just happen to serve alcohol. There's a big room, with bands and dancing. You don't have to drink anything. Come on, Lydia.

She didn't want to disappoint Gretchen. All right.

***

Her eyes scanned the unfamiliar room. A bar, that was bad enough, and she'd only just met JD, the guy who drove them all there. If she hadn't let herself be talked into it, she'd be where she wanted to be, back in her room, within her safety net. Her heart thumped along with the loud music and she felt hot and uncomfortable.

She watched a couple as they danced to a popular song, Hey, Hey, We're the Monkees.

It doesn't sound like the Monkees at all, just a bunch of guys who saved up their summer job money and bought guitars. Gretchen had to yell over the noise.

Lydia laughed and her eyes returned to the couple on the dance floor. She recognized the girl from her chemistry lab class, and watched the girl's partner, who attempted the newest dance craze, arms at opposite directions, up, down, up, down in time with the music. It looked silly to her. More than that, he looked ridiculous.

He likely thought it looked silly too, his grin seemed almost apologetic. His long, dark brown hair fell over his forehead and flipped around as he moved. He had a serious, intense look about him but when he smiled, it changed him. She liked it, the way he smiled so suddenly.

When the song ended, she wondered if the couple would remain together, but he nodded to the girl and returned to a group of guys where he talked to one who was very tall and blonde. The darker haired guy wasn't quite as good looking as his friend but there was something about him she liked, despite the terrible dancing, if anyone could call it that.

It was a little hard to breathe, and her heart seemed to quicken. Her head felt swimmy, dizzy. The music was loud and the crowd pressed in. It was too warm, too close, she felt flushed. She watched him from across the room. It didn't appear he had the same effect on anyone else, none of the other women seemed to notice him.

She made loud, pretend conversation with Gretchen and the others, but checked back often to observe the dark-haired guy. And then it happened, he looked up and saw her, as she watched him. He'd caught her. Caught her looking. She hadn't taken her eyes away from him soon enough, so he would know it wasn't a casual glance. The only thing to do was turn away and pretend it hadn't happened. She felt a rush of heat, which turned to a chill.

What a stupid thing to do.

House in New Orleans

The first time he saw her, she was not thirty feet from where he stood. She looked at him until she noticed he'd seen her, then dropped her eyes and turned away and he could only see her profile. She turned again, and he could only see the back of her head. Her hair might be red or brown, or a combination, he couldn't tell exactly in the dim light. It hung to her shoulders, in waves and curls.

That face. It seemed he'd seen her face before, yet couldn't think where that would have been. He'd had only a glimpse of her before she turned away, but was pretty sure her eyes were blue, and they were large and very round. She'd seemed serious, almost severe, nearly a worried look, or apprehension. Or something. Her skin was very light, and the combination, of fair skin, red hair, blue eyes was very appealing to him and he stared at her, hoping she'd look at him again.

What a strange sensation. Had she been looking at him too? Was that why she turned away from him so abruptly when he'd first seen her? He watched. Her movements seemed jerky, nervous, jumpy, as if she weren't completely comfortable. Before he thought too much about it, he crossed over to where she stood. His hands were clammy, and he felt the beginning of a sweat. It was hot in the room, and he was unsure of what to say and he'd rarely done such a thing, maybe never, as introduce himself to a complete stranger. It was too late. It would seem awkward to turn back now.

When she sensed his approach, she looked up and he saw the tensed muscle between her eyebrows.

Hello, he said.

Hello. That voice. He'd known she'd sound like that. A beautiful voice, low-pitched, very soft, a silky quality. Again he had the feeling he'd known her, seen her, heard her, before. Her tone seemed inviting, as if she wanted him there.

Who are you? he asked. That sounded dumb. I mean, what's your name? Are you a freshman? Is this your first time here?

Lydia, she said. Yes. My first time. I'm new here, and never been in a place like this before. My roommate talked me into it.

Geo, he said. George, but no one calls me that. He smiled at her, and she smiled up at him, and her eyes lost the worried look and the corners tilted up. There were two small lines that formed on either side of her mouth, and her teeth were a bit too large and very white, whiter than her skin. Her eyes were that very dark blue, and her hair was more red than brown. Her face was oddly triangular in shape, high cheekbones, her chin a little pointed. She was unusual, not beautiful. No. He thought she was beautiful, or nearly so.

She wound her arms around her waist, each hand clutched the opposite side, the area just above her hipbones and her arms formed three sides of a square and she shivered even though it was hot, and close in the room. He wanted her to feel comfortable, enough that she might talk to him, but he could see that she didn't. He asked the usual questions. Where was she from and what was her major. It was odd, he'd always been so reserved and here he was, trying to draw her out, as if he were the outgoing one. She answered his questions, until he ran out of things to ask about. After a brief silence she asked him where he was from and he felt relieved, that maybe she wanted to talk to him too.

Will you let me buy you a beer? he asked.

She laughed. I've never even had one before, but yes, thank you. I'd like to try it.

Keep in mind, you might not like it at first. It's an acquired taste.

I wonder why anyone drinks it, if you have to learn to like it?

He laughed. It's a good question.

She followed him to the bar area, where he ordered the drinks. He handed one to her and she sipped it.

I like it, she said. I like that it tastes a little bitter. It's nice.

What's your last name? he asked.

Jennings, what's yours?

Thurman. Let's sit down for a while, Lydia Jennings.

***

He couldn't be sure if she stayed with him because she thought she should, since he'd parted with some of his cash to buy her a beer, or whether she stayed because she wanted to. Some guys were quick to offer up drinks in order to generate social responsibility on the girl's part to stay, while they, the guys, felt no such obligation. If something better came along, then that's the way it went. It was one of the many benefits of being a guy, but he, himself, wouldn't do that. Well, he probably wouldn't. In her case, he was sure he wouldn't.

She was a bit of a mystery, shy maybe, but he couldn't have said whether she really liked being with him or not. He'd wanted to dance with her, and suggested it, but she'd more or less turned him down, saying she wasn't any good at it. That brought on a different question. Was she really not good at it, or did she not want to dance with him?

No, he'd take her at her word, and when they slowed it down and played The House of the Rising Sun, he gestured to the dance floor and she followed him. He took her hand, brought it to his chest and she put her hand on his shoulder, barely touching it.

Halfway through the dance, he pressed his hand against the small of her back, moved closer but he sensed her resistance. She might be uncertain about it, since she'd said she'd never been in a place like this before, and she was right, she didn't dance too well. But it hardly mattered, because what he really wanted was to get closer to her, put his face in her hair, touch her.

After they'd danced a couple of times, he felt better about it, that she might be a bit of an introvert. He liked that. She seemed unsophisticated, a bit naïve. And the more he looked at her, the more he thought she was pretty, in a non-glamorous way, a girl-next-door kind of way. But so quiet. She hardly said anything that wasn't an answer to a question he'd asked. The feeling that he'd met her before stayed with him, though he was sure he hadn't.

Another girl approached them, and he was shocked to discover that the whole evening had passed, and it was time to get back, for the one o'clock curfew. Lydia introduced the girl as her roommate, Gretchen, and though he wanted to ask to take her back, it seemed wrong to do it, while Gretchen stood there.

Goodbye, Geo, Lydia said. Thanks for the beer. It was nice meeting you.

It was nice meeting you, too, he said. I'll see you. He wished he'd had the foresight to check the time or asked if he could drive her home. She might think he wasn't interested enough, and it wasn't true. He was interested enough and should have made that clear.

Likely, on the scale of shy, she outweighed him, but still, he wasn't exactly Mr. Congeniality. He knew that about himself.

Down the Road

There were a lot of firsts that first Friday of the first weekend away from home. First time in a bar, first time she'd had beer, first time she'd been with anyone like that. Ever. She sat in the back seat of JD's car, scrunched in the corner, even more crowded than it had been on the way there because Cherry now sat next to JD in the front seat and one of the guys was in the back. At least he wasn't next to her, she didn't want to have body contact with him.

She wanted to think about the evening, and the time she'd spent with him. How the thought of dancing had been so unsettling, that she wanted it but was afraid. She'd been sure she'd mess it up, step on his foot, or trip or something equally awkward, but she hadn't.

He'd taken her hand, brought it to his chest, pulled her close to him. And when he'd put his hand on her back, and moved even closer, she'd wanted to crush herself to him, but hadn't. Instead she'd tried to hold herself back so their bodies wouldn't touch, because she was very afraid of what was happening to her.

She was glad Gretchen had suggested going down the road and knew she'd probably never forget it, and House of the Rising Sun.

***

She hoped he'd call, though he hadn't asked if he could, or for the phone number. She'd told him where she lived, not which floor, but if he really wanted to talk to her, he could have found a way. There was one phone in each wing, two wings per floor, and whoever happened to be nearby answered the phone and found the person for the caller.

In late afternoon there was a knock on the door, a call for her. She approached the phone, and felt the way she had the night before. Tense with anticipation. It must be him.

Hello, Lydia, her grandmother said. She drew a quick intake of breath, sharp disappointment, followed immediately by guilt, that she'd hoped it would be someone else.

Will you be coming home next weekend, for Ned's birthday?

Of course, Lydia said. I'll ask Dad to come get me Friday.

Good. I was hoping you'd help me with the cake.

Later, she attempted the novel which had seemed so appealing the night before but she read the same paragraph several times, and didn't comprehend any of it. She reran the evening with him in her head. He must not have liked her all that much, it had been only a few hours she'd spent with him.

The book slipped from her hand, fell to the floor. She remembered when he'd held her, close enough that she could hear his breath. She'd been too shy, not interesting enough. There were likely many girls, prettier and more fun to be with, whom he'd prefer.

***

She turned down the next invitation to go down the road. Wednesday and Friday were the best times to go, and Saturday was couple's night, Gretchen explained. Lydia thought if she went at all, it wouldn't be on a weeknight.

Two weeks after her first time down the road, Gretchen insisted she come with them again. She'd thought of little else than the one night she'd spent there. What if he were there, and with someone else? But in the end, Gretchen convinced her to go, and it was because she wanted to be convinced.

As she came through the door, she saw him immediately, with the same group he'd been with before. Light-headed and shaking, she wanted to stand next to him, talk to him, watch for the smile that lit up his face.

Should she pretend not to notice him, not look in his direction? If she did, he might think she didn't like him. No, it would be better to let him know. When he noticed her, she smiled and waved. He waved back and turned to his friend. She went cold, with a pang of disappointment and embarrassment. Her eyes prickled and she felt like she'd been kicked. She turned away.

Moments later, she sensed someone behind her, and thought she smelled him, the same cologne she remembered from before. Warmth spread through her, dizzy relief. He was beside her, the uncertainty of the last two weeks forgotten. He smiled down at her.

I looked for you last Friday, he said.

He had looked for her. I had to go home for the weekend. My brother's birthday. He's sixteen. We had a party for him. She babbled, in a sudden spasm of near-euphoria.

Oh, that's good. Was it was good that was the reason she'd not been there? She hoped so.

She knew that anyone had only to look at her to know how she felt about him. She was smiling too much, transparent. Maybe he could see it, maybe others could see it. Strangely, she didn't care. If only the night would never end.

They danced, to The House of the Rising Sun.

Can I take you home?

Yes, she said.

***

He introduced her to his friends as they left. She sat next to him in the middle of the front seat, with the good-looking blonde friend, Jay, to her right. There were two other guys in the back seat and she couldn't think of a thing to say to any of them. He dropped the guys off first. What should she do? Stay there, in the middle of the seat, next to him, or move over to the passenger side? She decided to move over, even though she didn't want to. It was all so confusing.

He stopped at the dorm, and turned off the car. Again, should she wait for him to come around or let herself out? She decided on the latter. There was only five minutes until the doors locked. He walked her to the door, shook her hand, and said good night. She was disappointed, watched him leave from inside the entryway and thought how everything she'd done had been all wrong. He'd know she was inexperienced, hadn't known what to do. It would have been better to come back with the others.

Even though she thought the end of the evening hadn't gone well, still she hoped for a phone call the next day. Again, there was none. She tried to study, and finally climbed into bed with the book she couldn't seem to get involved in. It might be a forgettable novel. Or, more likely, she couldn't concentrate. She turned out the light.

***

The following Friday, she debated whether to go down the road with the others but in the end, she couldn't not go. But he wasn't there. His friends were there without him. She sat with Gretchen, Cherry and Bitsy, and JD, who'd brought them, and who was now dating Cherry. A long night.

That's it. Enough. She'd put him out of her mind. Maybe he had a girlfriend back home. What did she really know about him? She wouldn't come here again, looking for him.

Rosebud

She stood with Gretchen in the cafeteria line at the student union and he was up ahead, not ten feet away. Dizziness swirled behind her forehead. Weak-kneed, she grabbed the rail, where the food trays rested. Her face would have changed, white, or maybe flushed, she couldn't say. She turned toward Gretchen, so her back was to him and hoped he wouldn't notice her. Her hands shook. She couldn't do it, go through the line, accepting dishes of food without dropping them. And how could she eat anyway, feeling like this?

I don't feel well, she said. I think I'd better go back.

Gretchen put her hand on Lydia's forehead. You don't look good. You might have a fever.

Lydia left the line. Maybe she really was ill. It was hard to say whether it was physical or emotional or a combination. Something was wrong. She hurried back, and by the time she let herself in the room, her limbs shook with the cold, as cold as she could remember.

So it hadn't been the sight of him that had caused it. She undressed and climbed into bed, in a nightgown, a sweater, an extra blanket and fell into a troubled, feverish sleep. There were nightmares and she woke frequently, and knew she'd dreamed but couldn't remember. It seemed like hours later, Gretchen arrived, back from dinner.

Lydia, how are you doing? She carried a single rosebud, of a dark pink, nearly red color.

Not so good.

Can I get you anything? Do you need water, or maybe aspirin?

I have water. That's all I need.

That guy you were with down the road before, saw you leave and asked me where you'd gone. I told him you were sick and went back to the room. Later he came over and gave me this flower, and asked me to give it to you. He said he hoped you felt better soon. Gretchen put the rosebud into a glass and filled it with water.

"Oh.