Shameful Innocence

By Mark Goodeill

In the Summer of 1969 all Steve wanted was to earn a little money and return to complete his senior year of high school. By Summer's end he had determined to commit suicide rather than live with the consequences of his actions. What type of sin would drive a good Christian kid to choose hell over living with himself the rest of his life? Shameful Innocence is a coming-of-age novel that rapidly paces itself with memorable characters. The story generates unwitting victims, harassing villains and a couple of passionate heroes. This emotional fiction, inspired by true events, is definitely not for the prudish. The poignant, somewhat disturbing thoughts that come from the mind of this average teenager may be daunting to some. Its sweeping expanse and simple message delivers a dynamic impact on those who participated in the turbulent sixties or wish they had. It's an exceptional, tantalizing read.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mark Goodeill
• Release date: Jan 23, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458134189

Book preview

If there ever was a time to pray, the time had arrived. However, instead of praying, I attempted to practice transcendental meditation, something my church frowned on. Staring at my designated object, I knew the pieces of my puzzled life would never come together the way my mom had imagined. My senior high school class would have one less graduate, scholarships for college would go to someone more deserving, and the calling my mother was so sure she had heard would go unheeded. My eyelids would remain shut, the secrets in my heart would never be disclosed, and my watch would continue to tick as my wrist ceased its rhythmic pulse.

The summer of sixty nine began innocently enough. Teaching beginning guitar, driving downtown with the radio blaring, taking my sister and her girlfriend to a Clint Eastwood movie were just some of the activities that occupied my time. Then the door of curiosity was left ajar and I entered in to an arena of temptation that helped me live life to its fullest—until it overflowed. I didn’t yet know what drowning felt like and I didn’t yet realize that even our subtlest thoughts carry real consequences. I resolved to take full responsibility for my wicked actions.

The feeling of gloom overshadowed my senses as I sat on the back pew of the old Baptist church in Oakland, California. While studying the neckline of the old black man in front of me, I contemplated my plan to commit the ultimate sociological taboo: suicide. Knowing it was wrong changed nothing—it was still the one right thing that had to be done. This teenager had gone too far, sunk too low, and with each attempt to crawl out of my private quagmire, I floundered deeper in the muck. So I opted to end what I had become: a disgrace in a brown church suit.

Dismissing myself from the classroom of life would be easy, the choice of sleeping pills and Jack Daniels a tribute to my mom and Mona respectively. I wanted to be numb as I fell into the abyss of darksome gloom. If only I had listened to the small voice of conscience instead of chasing after the devil’s delights.

A trickle of sweat wicked along the lateral creases of the old man’s neck. Keeping my mind blank was a challenge because I kept thinking about what had just happened. It was the old man’s memory that triggered the revealing conversation in the first place. He didn’t know what I had to know, what I needed to know. He didn’t realize that he had been used to open the floodgate of hell when I learned that my secret was exposed in heaven.

The packed sanctuary moved in waves of exhilaration as the August heat snaked over the pews, making it difficult to keep my mind clear. The open windows did little to provide relief, and I left undisturbed the round cardboard fan perched in the songbook holder. The heat didn’t matter anymore; the three cubic feet of space I selfishly consumed would soon be available to another—like getting off a crowded bus.

I had sought out the Baptist church in order to thank Abigail Johnson for giving of herself so graciously. She was a nurse at the local hospital, who revealed the truth of life to me while my friend, Danny, drifted precariously through the hallways of death. I made several visits to the hospital that summer; the last time, I was carried in. Her simple words of truth helped my anxious soul steady itself amid the torrents of emotional instability. Nurse Abigail held my hand and gave me hope. She was an absolute angel.

The congregation stood, and Amazing Grace echoed throughout the building with a determined beat and joyful clapping hands. But I knew that no amount of grace, amazing or otherwise, could save this wretch. I had gone too far and was as lost as a dead letter buried in the basement closet of a small-town post office. What I had become, not even Christ could stomach.

I resolved to live out my grim destiny sitting among the faithful and bemoaning my heartrending condition. Wrong choices had led me to this sorry situation, and the right choice would lead me out. So I sang, hoping the song would never end.

We’ve no less days to sing God’s praise

Than when we’d first begun.

The song ended with the congregation erupting into Hallelujah, Praise The Lord and Thank You, Jesus.

If they only knew they wouldn’t be so damn happy…But then, how could they know?

I watched the crowd move with uninhibited zeal and wished I had grown up in Nurse Abigail’s church instead of the one that had failed my probing spirit.

I could stay here and live among the brethren. But I would still be the same person I was when I walked in, repulsive and fermenting, causing a spiritual stench. I have to carry out my exiting plan. When the service ends, I will shake a few hands, smile, grant their invitation to return, and embark on the journey of life, leaving behind a sobbing mother and a doubting father.

As I sat on the hardwood pew and pondered the events that had brought me to this point of despondency, the soiled images of my life projected themselves on a screen. I remembered every intricate detail concerning the undying love, the bonding friendship, and an immense hatred for that no good son-of-a-bitch, as if the events had happened only moments before.

Chapter 2: The Lesson

A driver’s license burned in my wallet, but a car was still out of reach. In the summer of 1969, my parents couldn’t afford to buy me a car, nor did they have one to give. I was content to hoof it or drive their car until I scraped together enough for an older Mustang in a year or two.

My guitar teacher needed an in-home tutor to teach five beginning guitar students. The job paid three fifty a half hour lesson. I loved to play guitar, and teaching kids would be an exciting challenge and would save me from bagging burgers at McDonald’s. Seventy dollars a month would keep me on the customer side of that counter.

Mona, my first student, dreamed of playing the guitar in a rock-and-roll band, making gobs of money, as she put it, and traveling the four corners of the world. Her exuberance on the phone told me she was an eager teenager ready to embrace the world. Her enthusiasm excited even me, and I looked forward to meeting a girl my age instead of the grade-school beginners I already had scheduled.

When I approached her house, the decals on the window disturbed me. I had heard about radical, disillusioned people expressing ideas foreign to mainstream society. The bumper sticker, Bombs Kill Babies, strategically positioned over the peace symbol, reinforced my apprehension. The typed name in the doorbell button read Bob Rainey.

Her mom and dad must be whacko, I said out loud.

I stood pointing my finger at the doorbell and pondered my choices: press the button or turn around and walk away. My finger touched the plastic button, and then recoiled without pressing it. I made a fist, grimaced, closed my eyes, and knocked.

Hi! the woman behind the screen door exclaimed. I’m Mona. You must be Stephen. I can tell by the guitar case. She grinned, holding the screen open with one hand, and pointed inside the front room with the other.

You’re Mona? I asked.

Guilty as charged, she replied. Please, come on in. I stepped up on the threshold and nearly grazed her breasts with my upper arm. The warm, self-assured words that should have graciously accepted her invitation buried themselves deep in the Steve Parish lost-and-found bin.

I’ve been looking forward to meeting you since our phone conversation last night, she said. I’m not sure where you want to set up—is the front room okay? She waved her hand like a wand and proudly presented her mosaic creation. Do you like it? she asked. Her question interrupted my sense of awe. Well…do you?

Yes, very much, I whispered. The guitar handle wobbled back and forth in my hand, as intelligible words became possible. This is something else, all right. The crimson glob in her lava lamp floated leisurely to the top, knocking a smaller glob out of position.

Will the front room be okay for our lesson? she repeated.

The drawn drapes heightened the black light’s effect on the peace sign and the Make Love, Not War posters. On another wall a couple of tie-dyed T-shirts hung as if they were holding hands. Candles glowed, incense smoldered, and music seeped through the mighty oak speakers strategically set in the corners of the room. Grace Slick wailed,

When the truth is found to be lies,

And all the joy within you dies…

I was there, Mona mused as she concentrated on her stereo console.

Where? I asked, staring at the LP revolving around the silver spindle.

I was there at the Monterey Pop Festival, she said. I was there in the summer of sixty-seven. They called it the ‘Summer of Love.’ It was a groovy time to be alive… I was right in front of the stage when they sang this song. They were great.

Wow. I stared at Mona as if she were a goddess.

They’re from San Francisco, you know, she said. Gracie brought this song and White Rabbit with her when she joined the Jefferson Airplane in ’sixty-six. Mona lit another stick of incense, blowing on the red tip till it glowed. Mmm… I watched her eyes close as she inhaled the sweet fragrance. Jasmine really turns me on. How about you?

I stood mesmerized, feeling a true sense of belonging—something I suddenly realized I had longed for but, until that moment, never knew I was missing.

This is an awesome house, Mrs. Rainey, I said as I collected data to amaze my friends at church with.

Call me Mona, please, she responded. ‘Mrs. Rainey’ just ain’t right.

Mona brought in a chair from the kitchen, looked around, and then took it back to the kitchen.

Let’s just sit on the couch, she said. If that’s all right with you…?

Sitting next to a beautiful, sexy woman was an unexpected surprise; especially since our phone conversation had suggested she was a teenager. Her long, black hair parted in the middle, flowing over her shoulders and down to the small of her back, and her lips looked like wings of sweet fire. Silky, tanned legs emerged from a blue denim granny dress, and a lovely turquoise-and-silver necklace draped below delicate collarbones. Several matching bracelets clinked on her wrists when she moved.

Steve, she repeated, Will the couch be all right with you?

Oh, yes, of course. That’ll be just fine. I’ll just put my music stand right here.

She smelled like the Garden of Eden and looked like the goddess of love. Her fragrance lingered whenever she drew near. It didn’t matter if I ever opened my guitar case in her presence—the good fortune to breathe the same air was enough to sustain me for a couple of lifetimes.

The wooden coffee table had some coasters on it, an empty ashtray, and a white vase of wildflowers. A copy of ‘Kahlil Gibran’s The Prophet sat opened in the middle of the table. I set the music stand up between the wooden coffee table and the couch. The first guitar case snap echoed throughout the room, so I muffled the other three and carefully lifted my guitar from the confines of its nest.

A statue of the Buddha smiled at me from a corner.

Mona retreated into a back room and brought out an old guitar, which she handed to me, then promptly sat down. My uncle gave it to me, she explained. He lives in Reno now.

I set the old guitar on my lap, tuned it, strummed a few chords, and handed it back. I demonstrated how to hold the guitar, where to position her left hand on the neck, and how to strum the strings with the pick in her right hand. I taught her a simple G chord, a C, and a D7, and when our half hour was up, she was so enthralled with making music that I hated to stop, so I stayed a while longer. Two hours longer, in fact! She proved to be so teachable and enjoyed herself so much; I wanted to teach her everything in one session.

Oh, this is so much fun, Steve, she said. Teach me some more, will you?

I sat close to her so I could place her left fingers on the frets of the fingerboard. I used my own fingers to show her the proper placement first, and then let her try. Her fragrance made me dizzy. I stared at her profile while she squinted her eyes and wrinkled her nose, struggling to press the strings down hard enough to make a clear sound. When she did, she gave a squeal of delight.

I did it! I did it. Did you hear that, Steve? I did it! I think I celebrated more than she did.

I watched her bite her lower lip as she turned her head to the other hand and strummed Mona Had a Little Lamb, adding her name to the song was her idea.

She sang the kindergarten song good and strong, moving her head back and forth, singing about herself and her little lamb. I gave her my beam of support and sang with her, ad-libbing some jazz melody chords on my guitar for effect.

When Mona’s fingers hurt, I told her I would make the chords and she could strum the strings. She didn’t seem to mind when I laid my right hand behind her rear, on the seat of the sofa. My left-hand fingers formed the first chord on the guitar neck. I hummed and nodded my head so she could strum the beat. When she recognized the melody, she strummed with a distinct rhythm, closing her eyes and humming the song with me. At that point I sang the lyrics…

It’s right that I should care about you

And try to make you happy when you’re blue.

It’s right, it’s right to feel the way I do,

Because, because I love you.

When we finished the last chord of Because, she opened her eyes and looked at me with astonishment.

You’re a good singer, Steve! Maybe I’ll take you on the road with me when I become famous. We laughed as she grazed my shoulder in jest. Her touch stimulated my senses, and I longed to continue our lesson.

How about we sing another song? I suggested.

How about I take a rain check? she said. I’m expecting company soon. I felt disappointed that our lesson was over; I didn’t want to leave.

"Oh, I almost forgot, I owe you some money, don’t I? Oh, my God, we’ve been doing this for two and a half hours! Gee, I must owe you—let’s see, ah, three fifty and three fifty is seven, two sevens is fourteen, and three fifty is seventeen dollars and fifty cents! Well, it was worth every penny, Steve—let me get my purse."

No, please, I can’t take that much. I had just as much fun as you. Besides, I only charge three fifty a lesson, and I decide how long the lesson goes. Anyway, you really don’t even have to pay me now. Sometime this week is okay with me.

How about if I give you this and we call it even? She placed a bill in my hand.

All right, I said without looking at it.

Thank you so much for such a wonderful day, Steve. It has been so much fun. It’s a day I will never forget. Same time next week?

Yeah, same time next week.

Oh, by the way, she said, How do I make my fingers stop hurting so much? I envied the fingertips she placed between her lips.

Practice, lots and lots of practice, I assured. When the tips of your fingers callus, they won’t hurt anymore. See, like mine. She held my fingers up close to her face.

Umm, so that’s what my fingertips will look like next week.

I closed my guitar case and folded up my music stand. Mona excused herself for a moment and disappeared down the hall. When she returned, she handed me $3.50 and thanked me for the lesson. I told her she already paid, but she insisted I just keep it.

I’m sure you earned it, Stephen, Mona said. Where did the afternoon go?

On the way home I smiled at people, jumped to slap the dangling leaves hanging over the sidewalk, and played my guitar case like Pete Townsend of The Who. That day the sun could have closed its eye and I wouldn’t have noticed. I did wonder why Mona gave me a ten-dollar bill and then gave me another three fifty when she returned from her bedroom. I didn’t know then what I found out later, or it would have made perfect sense.

Chapter 3: The Mandate

When I arrived home, I immediately called the guitar student whose lesson I’d neglected. I promised to make it up to him and not charge for the first lesson we’d complete the next day. He understood that emergencies happen, and proved to be a gracious and obliging young man. He even thanked me as we hung up the phone.

How’d your guitar lessons go, honey? my mom asked.

"The lessons went well," I assured her.

That’s great, dear. Well, dinner’s almost ready. If we hurry, we’ll make it just in time for church.

Wednesday night meant midweek service at our church in Oakland, California. We lived in Hayward, fifteen minutes south, and made the journey in our white Ford station wagon. We weren’t always on time, but we always showed up for Sunday school, Sunday morning worship, Sunday night service, Wednesday midweek service, and any social event that fell in between. Whenever the doors opened, we were there.

That night during the service, songs were sung, the offering made, various appeals voiced, and a sermon preached with dignity and purpose. I don’t remember the text of the sermon or the subject. My best friend and I were too busy finger wrestling. Danny Foster had the distinction of being Pastor and Sister Foster’s only child. PK, or preacher’s kid, was a term he hated. When a kid at school once called him a PK freak, Danny got a three-day suspension and the kid’s tooth for a souvenir.

Danny’s long hair used to embarrass the Fosters, but they finally conceded that their objections were futile. The arguments, the threats, the accusations lessened, and Danny’s locks remained. He told me he would rather die than cut off his hair. I admired his tenacity. I wasn’t as brave, of course, and kept my hair shorter, but since my parents didn’t say anything about my long sideburns, I kept them.

Sitting in the back pew next to the pastor’s son had its advantages. The ushers would pretend not to notice our horseplay, though sometimes people sitting a row or two away shifted in their seats or cleared their throats in a feeble attempt to end our insensitive antics. Did they think we could sit there quietly for over an hour, and remain sane? After all, falling asleep would be more embarrassing than our childish maneuvers. Brother Nelson, the biggest dozer in church, had the audacity to accuse us of wallowing in the foyer of immaturity.

On Wednesday nights, half the congregation stayed away. I never analyzed why people were missing in action for Wednesday night prayer meeting or why our family consistently attended all the functions. It was never questioned. I was born on a Tuesday and in church on Sunday, and my life revolved around church. A bulletin-led, born again, just-as-I-am, Bible-thumping service was the norm.

It was the same with Danny, only worse. Every time his parents went on a holy mission or spiritual excursion, they left him with a relative or friend from the church. Conventions, seminars, and visitations were constantly on the Fosters’ agenda. Danny was raised in church on a handshake rather than a hug. To me, being constantly alone on a crowded pew seemed a travesty.

I embraced what Danny’s parents overlooked. His friendship, dedication, and attention to basic needs inspired me. No fear seemed to be his motto. In fact, if need be, Danny would ride his white stallion through the gates of hell, circle around the camp, capture a runaway imp, and ride out again without a singed hair—just for me. He was that kind of guy.

Pastor Foster asked a member of the congregation to say the benediction; one more amen and we were out of there.

Our church was blessed with a Fellowship Hall complete with a basketball court, located above the Christian Education Department, which was a fancy name for the Sunday school classes. It was customary after each service for a group of kids to scurry upstairs to shoot baskets, play tag, talk, or basically kill time while their parents socialized. I wanted to talk—talk about my first guitar lesson, the lava lamp, and the psychedelic panorama that I had embraced today.

The kids hurried out the door and headed for the Fellowship Hall. I lagged behind, hoping someone would sense my detachment, but no one noticed. I went to the restroom, then walked to the car and back to the doorway that led to the Christian Ed Department. I walked the fifteen stair steps that elevated me to the second floor, and turned the corner to survey the scene. Kids ran around chasing each other while others pounded the rim with a basketball.

Danny occupied himself entertaining my sister, Sarah, and her best friend, Molly. He was busy doing some of his John Lennon impersonations. Paul is dead and repeating number nine over and over were his two favorites. I waited for him to finish before I made my entrance. When my sister saw me, she smiled and nodded for me to join them.

Sarah was a year younger than I and appreciated what Mother Nature had endowed her with. In her joyful transformation she made a concerted effort to stand straighter, wiggle her hips with purpose, and throw a glance like a Frisbee. She turned some male heads and enjoyed every stare. To a lot of unsuspecting guys she was a hot babe. To me she was still my little sister.

Molly also grew up in the same church. She spent so much time at our house, she was like a member of the family. Her hourglass figure had filled out nicely underneath the straight, golden hair that she parted like Peggy Lipton of Mod Squad fame. On occasion, I’d catch myself staring at the beginning cleavage she proudly displayed. Whenever she caught me sneaking a peek, I would comment on her necklace or earrings, attempting to divert attention. I’m not sure it ever worked.

When we were younger, Molly and I wrestled around and thought nothing of it. Then it became much more enjoyable as she developed mounds of flesh where a flat chest had once prevailed. I made it a point to rub up against her breasts with an arm or an elbow during our friendly altercations and cop a feel or two. Getting her in a bear hug was another turn-on for me. When my pelvic region rubbed against her smooth rear end and my nose caressed her soft silky hair, it drove me wild.

She knew that I did some of these moves—well, most of these moves…okay, all of these moves—on purpose, but she didn’t seem to mind at all. Occasionally she even dragged my arm over her breasts and held it there while we wrestled on the floor. When she wore her flowery blue, silky short dress, it only heightened the whole experience even more. What were once mere buds had turned into a handful of mature fruit.

My real true love, though, was Rita—Rita Nelson, Brother Nelson’s cute, studious daughter. Like me, she was sixteen going on seventeen. I had given her a ring to suggest we go steady, but by the next week she gave it back. We decided (actually, she decided) it would be best if we remained friends and avoided the potential embarrassment of a breakup. The thought of having to see an ex-boyfriend at church was too much for her to handle. I didn’t understand true love that way, but I got the hint. So we remained good friends, friends who sought each other out when confidential matters mattered.

I couldn’t imagine Brother Nelson as my father-in-law anyway. An accountant by trade, and a beleaguered adult by choice, he considered all teenagers equally challenged, choosing to distrust every one of them. After all, he used to be one. He once prophesied that I would be possessed by an uncontrollable yearning for loose girls, and a fetish for fast cars. I surmised he was crazy, since I wasn’t in to hot rods at all.

Joining the circle where Danny, Sarah, and Molly stood seemed like the right thing to do. I watched Rita walk across the court with a couple of schoolbooks in her arms. Enrolling in summer school was her way of keeping busy—at least that’s what she had told me. Graduating from high school early was also on her agenda. I watched her sit down, pull out a pair of glasses from her purse, open a book and settle in for some serious study. When she looked up long enough to catch me staring at her, she offered a perfunctory smile and lowered her head again.

Talking to Rita that night was high on my priority list. Her sympathetic ear, combined with a perceptive appreciation for life, always provided a soft place to land. The surprising events of the day continued to massage my emotions, like a baseball player kneading his glove, but when Rita donned her glasses, it was like securing the vault—no verbal penetration was possible. The temptation to invade her space was difficult to ignore, but as usual, I respected her temporary seclusion.

When someone in the group asked what I thought about whatever they were talking about, I appeared to have lapsed into a stupor. They just laughed and continued their conversation. A couple more kids gathered around to hear Danny tell his tales about girls, a chain-wheeling hood, or a frustrated teacher at school. He went to an Oakland high school, where tensions were high and so were the students. The dangerous environment that shrouded his school provided more live entertainment than my school, Sunset High in Hayward—even the name suggested sleepy time.

Ray joined the group, prancing back and forth from one foot to the other. He acted younger than the rest of us, always attempting to get our attention by any means possible. His red hair and freckles reminded me of Opie on the Andy Griffith show. Ray was one of the kids who actually lived in the neighborhood of the church, not like the rest of us, who had to commute with our parents every time we graced those hallowed doors. I liked Ray hanging around with us, because he looked up to me.

The summer before, he called my house every day for a month until his Mother got the phone bill. He didn’t realize there were stupid charges, as he called them, charged when calling Hayward from Oakland. They added up to over a hundred dollars—dollars he had to pay out of his paper route money. I was glad he couldn’t call anymore, though, because he became annoying after a while.

That night I considered talking to Ray about the day’s events, but the notion quickly evaporated when I heard him chant in a sing-song way, You can’t catch me!

What a dork.

Hey, Steve, Danny said as he nudged my arm. Come out back; I want to show you something. I followed him through the door that led to the flight of stairs in back. He slid down the rail and landed on the pavement below.

What is it? I asked.

Hey, man, check it out. I got it from a guy at school for ten bucks. Whatcha think, man? Isn’t it bitchin?

I think this could wind you up in juvie. You shouldn’t be carrying something like that around. I mean, what if your dad catches you or something?

I don’t care about my ol’ man, he said. He’s somewhere in Loserville anyway. I just thought you might like to hold it.

Danny handed me a switchblade knife with a finely polished mother-of-pearl handle. I hesitated to touch the trigger mechanism that would release the well-crafted, sharp stainless steel blade. The knife was precision balanced, beautiful, and, of course, completely illegal to own. I massaged the handle with my fingers before releasing the blade with my thumb. I also liked the power it wielded. I played around with it for a while until my mom called.

Coming, Mom, I yelled back, and slipped the switchblade back into Danny’s hand. I felt like a secret agent handing over top-secret information.

That was close, man, I breathed. Don’t be bringing that thing around here anymore. You don’t need any more trouble, know what I mean?

Danny winked as he burrowed inside his pocket and pulled out another switchblade, a blue-handled one.

This one’s for you…catch ya later, man.

To keep? I mean—is this for me to keep?

Yeah, yeah, to keep. Just thought you might need it someday. See ya Sunday.

Yeah, okay. See ya Sunday. I looked at the illegal knife as if it were treasure on ice. Looking back up at Danny, I watched his hair bounce in the breeze. Hey, Danny, I yelled. Without breaking stride, he turned his head around. Thanks, man! Danny waved, turned the corner, and headed to wherever he went when nobody noticed.

On the way home I felt heat generating from my pocket and the secret treasure it held. Sarah invited Molly to spend the night and go swimming at the Hayward Plunge the next day. Sarah sat next to the window in the back seat of our station wagon, and Molly sat in the middle, next to me. Her hips and thighs nestled up close to mine even though there was plenty of room to sit comfortably. I didn’t mind, though, because she looked good and smelled good. In appearance, both Sarah and Molly were fifteen going on eighteen, while I was still thinking, going on crazy.

My dad, Earl Parish, was listening to the local country music station, KEEN, and singing along, off in his own la-la land: Just because I ask a friend about her, just because I spoke her name somewhere, just because I rang her number by mistake today, She thinks I still care. My mom, Helen, was somewhere lost in deep thought, too, probably thinking about Pastor Foster’s sermon or something religious. I could have asked her for a million dollars and she would have answered, That’s nice, dear.

Her radio preference would have been the Christian preacher station KFAX. My sister and I liked KFRC or KYA, the two local AM rock stations in the Bay area, but we never heard them while my dad was at the wheel. The unspoken rule was, The driver chooses the radio station, unless it was my mom, who wound up listening to whatever my sister or I wanted. Why she gave in is beyond me.

Riding home that night, I thought about my older brother, Paul. He always listened to my problems while we drank a bottle of Coke on the front porch. I visualized him smiling while listening to the events that happened to me that day, and telling me what he’d do. When I was a kid I liked hanging around with him and his friends; they always treated me with respect.

But then he got drafted, survived boot camp, and got shipped off to some foreign country where the Cong looked like the Neese, and the Neese were the friendlies. He ended up in Dang Ho or Dong Ha or whatever village it was, taking cold showers and walking around with eyes behind his back. I decided to write him a letter.

We lived in a four-bedroom house that accommodated us quite nicely. My bedroom was in the back and out of the way of the others. I liked it that way—small and private.

What did you think about Pastor Foster’s sermon tonight, dear? Mom asked. Sarah and I flashed each other a look as we sifted through our minds for anything we could remember from the pastor’s droning.

It was sharp. I cautiously spoke the words, hoping they would end the discussion.

Did you like the analogy he used with the beavers building a dam?

Not remembering anything about a beaver or a dam, I looked at my sister for help.

Yeah, that was cool, Mom, Sarah chimed in.

Oh yeah, beavers are great. I smiled at my sister and she laughed.

We pulled into our driveway and paraded into the house.

You want to play Sorry with us, Steve? Sarah’s eyes pointed toward Molly.

No, thanks, I said. I think I’ll go to my bedroom and hang out there for a while.

Is anything wrong, Stephen? Mom asked while putting her Bible away.

Oh, everything’s fine, I said. I just want to go over some of the guitar lessons I have planned for my students this week. I’ll see you in the morning. Good night, Mom.

Okay, honey, Mom said. Don’t forget to say your prayers. Good night, dear.

Molly stood in Sarah’s bedroom doorway in her pretty blue, short church dress and watched me say good night to my mom. I glanced over at her and thought about the possibilities that awaited. I wanted to get close to Molly, play a few games, go a few rounds with her, and maybe let nature take the next step. My mom always cooperated by trusting the three of us together, and Sarah seemed to help in any way she could. Molly was pretty, Sarah was accommodating, and I was tempted, but I opted to abstain. I had too much on my mind, too much to plow through, too much to figure out that night.

Good night, Molly, I said. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?

Well, okay, Steve, if you’re sure. Are you going to the Plunge with us tomorrow?

I might. Not sure right now. I got to go to bed now. I headed for my safe haven and retreated to the place where all teenagers like to hide. Staring at the ceiling, I tried to keep up with the million thoughts that zipped through my head.

Doesn’t it mean something if when you’re together with someone, the hours pass like minutes, and then when you’re away from that person, the hours seem like days? That must mean something important—I know it’s got to be high on the I Love You scale somewhere!

I thought about God as I slipped my hand under my mattress and pulled out one of my brother’s girlie magazines. I flipped through the pages of Swank, spellbound by the plump breasts and well-rounded rear ends.

How could God make such beautiful women then mandate that we do not touch?

Chapter 4: The Plunge

A dream lingered as I stood in front of the bathroom mirror. The reflection through the misty glass released a sultry smile as I stared into the eyes of a stranger. As portions of the dream revisited my teenage imagination, the possibility of love increased. It was then I decided to let my sideburns grow longer.

It might look good. But what I meant was, it might do me good.

I walked out of the bathroom, hoping someone would notice my new look. The aroma of French toast permeated the kitchen as the girls sat eating at the table. Mom dunked a piece of bread into the bowl of her flavored egg concoction, one side, then the other, and lightly placed it on the frying pan. The sizzle tantalized my taste buds as I sat down.

The girls were hoping you’d take them to the Plunge today. Could you do that for me? It sure would help out a lot. She slid a slice of golden-brown French toast on to my plate. Inhaling the delectable aroma, I watched the butter melt and drenched the toast with sweet maple syrup.

Sure, I’ll take ’em, Mom, but not until this afternoon.

That’ll be fine, hon, she said. You’ll have plenty of time to mow the lawn for Dad. I sat perplexed by her response as I dried the inside of my ear with my fingertip. My frustration dissipated as I thought about how I would spend the afternoon. I gave the girls a wink, and they smiled and went back to their breakfast.

Mowing the lawn was a small price to pay for the chance to wrestle with a bikini-clad Molly. Anything could happen—like her top coming undone. The thought of us rolling in the grass, combined with the events in my dream, caused the smile to linger on my face.

We drove downtown before heading for the Plunge. Molly sat next to me, with her bare leg rubbing against mine. It felt good. The wind blew through our hair and the freedom we craved was ours, all ours.

Would you stop that? Sarah pleaded.

Stop what? I asked.

Stop changing the radio stations around so much; you’re driving us crazy!

And what’s that song you keep humming? Molly asked. She turned the volume down and looked right at me.

Because, I said.

Because? Because what?

You know, I said. Because, because I-I love you!

The following moments of our lives seemed to continue for an eternity. I realized what I had said and momentarily stopped breathing.

Did I just say I love you to Molly? Did she just think I was referring to her? Oh, God, get me out of this one, please! I pleaded, with no mercy to spare. When the ten-second eternity released my tongue from its grip, I blurted out, Yeah, you know, and I started singing the song out loud: It’s right that I should care about you, and try to make you happy when you’re blue…

Sarah and Molly bounced their heads in recognition and sang the song with me. We sang with energy. People in other cars or walking on the sidewalk noticed and waved. They were waving at us either because we were acting like singing fools or because we were foolish teenagers driving a family white Ford station wagon. When the end of the song arrived, we finished the last chord in unison, with a resounding Zzzing!

Hey, I love that song, too, Steve, Molly declared. Who sings it?

The Dave Clark Five sing that one; I like it a lot. It’s just that kind of song that really sends me. I’ve been searching for it on the radio all morning.

It sends me, too, Steve, Molly said. I just love it when we sing—I mean, they sing the part ‘because, because I-I love you.’ She sang those five words as if she were reaching for the stars.

That day, that hour, that moment, I believe the love clock gained noticeable momentum for Molly. Singing Because together began a romance that multiplied by the second. She sat closer, snuggled up, gripped my arm, and moaned something about how she really liked driving with me. Her hair smelled so good…

We continued driving around as Molly held on to my arm, singing to the Manfred Mann song, Do Wah Diddy Diddy.

There she was, just a walkin’ down the street, singin’ do wah diddy diddy dum diddy do…

We sang about how she looked good and looked fine, when out of the corner of my eye I saw a woman who looked like Mona. I drove around the block to catch a better view. It was Mona. She walked down the street as if she owned the whole block. I pulled over and shoved the gearshift into park.

Hey! Where ya going’? Sarah yelled