for free all summer long.
The interesting thing about Cal is that when he’s not on the boat, he’s carving decoys from driftwood—ducks and geese and even a soot-colored replica of a coot (no, not a grumpy old man but a waterfowl that Cal says you mix with the other more familiar decoys to help lure in the real birds—“traitor coots” he calls them, sort of like a “Judas goat,” whatever that is). You see, Cal’s kind of the artistic type. You’d probably love him. But like Mitchell there’s this side of him that’s beyond reach. Just when I feel ready to go out and have a good time, he’s ready to go carve a duck (and while that might sound like a good euphemism for other activities, in his case it’s sadly literal).
Then there’s Macon (“last name not Bacon” as he tells everyone he meets) who’s quick with a joke or a story. He’s the town postman who is already well on his way to being the postmaster (the current one, Mr. Fowler, is approaching retirement and has no children to pass the title and the building to). Macon not Bacon is a lot of fun. He has a designated seat at the town tavern and a story about every resident. I guess everyone has the inside scoop about everyone else, but Macon can tell those stories in a way that makes even the subject of the story laugh, not get mad. He knows just how far he can push the limits. So everybody loves Macon. Unfortunately, Lil let me know early on that he’s off limits. I could make a go at him (never stopped me before, right?) but I’d probably lose my job and my welcome on the island. And before you sense in me a dare about to be accepted, let me add that Macon is a little too round and comfortable for my taste, and I don’t mean just the extra inch or two at his belt. He’s a Shawnituck version of the frat boys at Center—too sure of his own desirability.
By now you’re probably thinking the sea breezes have made your sister too fussy for her own good. Maybe so, or maybe I’m just enjoying a diverse and full dance card and bringing to it a newfound perspective. It’s nice for once to be the new girl in town, receiving the attentions of an overabundance of men and playing the field like a seasoned pro, or at least the friendly and not too ugly mainlander out here for the summer.
And if I ever need snuggling, there’s always Onion. He may smell like fryer grease and isn’t the sharpest knife in the cutlery block (pretty good, huh?) but he’s laid back without pretensions or black holes inside and easy to hang out with. Oh, and he’s got a source for some killer weed (but don’t say who told you).
Well, it’s “off to bed for this Sleepyhead” (thanks, Momma, for that little ditty). No after the restaurant closes unwinding this night—got to sleep sometime.
Greta says “Hi.” I say “If you did like Brooke at the prom Saturday night, I hope you used your Deb balloon.” Write soon and tell me all about it.
Sweet dreams, Little Sis. Big Sis loves you—
Brooke
June 2
Dear Brooke,
Hope you’re having fun trimming your Onion grass! (That girl has gotten so clever, Mabel. We ought to graduate her from high school and send her off to college!)
Come to think of it (in truth, I’ve been thinking of little else) I will be graduating from high school this Friday. Another doll-up occasion, this time with a pretty sleeveless white and green print dress Momma got me at Belk’s, and my hair done up so soft and shiny by Momma who does a nice job but not as nice as Big Sis would do. And maybe even a little make-up, but not too much. Tell Aunty Greta I will be wearing the beautiful shell bracelet she sent, and thank her also for the generous check. I will send a real thank-you card with some pics after we get them back from the drugstore.
And then I’ll be out. Can you believe it—Leah loose on the world? The odd thing is, I have been waiting all spring to begin to feel different; but it has not happened yet—maybe after this Friday. Did you feel different?
The prom was great, but not for the reasons you alluded to (nothing happened on that score). What made it so much fun is for the first—and, at this point, probably only—time, I felt like I was truly a part of Horton High School. I was no longer the grudgingly accepted deaf girl with a few advocates and contacts scattered among faculty, administrators, and students. Everyone at the prom greeted me like an old friend, even some girls I did not think knew me, as well as lots of guys and all the teacher chaperones, even those I had never had for class. Better than being greeted by everyone, no one got intimidated or flustered at the thought of trying to communicate with me. They all just spoke in a natural way to me, a few of them supplemented their words with various versions of sign language, and I understood it all! Well, almost all. When they gave out the Belle of Horton High award, I missed the name of the winner (did you ever notice how Mr. Duncan looks down at moments of high emotion or anticipation?) but clapped along with all the rest until Mr. Duncan walked across the dance floor and presented the trophy to me! I must have blushed five shades of red, but Paul held my hand the whole time and kept me from losing my bearings. Whenever he went off to the bathroom or to get some punch, guys I barely knew would come up and talk to me. A couple of them wanted to dance but I politely declined. I enjoyed their attention but also knew who had “brought me to this dance.” I had no intention of leaving—that dance or any other—with someone else.
Which brings me naturally (I have been writing too many papers!) to the subject you not so subtly alluded to. Paul and I had a good talk before the prom and he agreed that introducing too much physical intimacy at his point would be confusing and potentially devastating. At the same time, we both acknowledged feelings (Paul signed “desires”—a bursting out of the heart—probably more accurate but I stuck with “feelings”—the heart in a cradle rocking). So our compromise was that we could express those feelings/desires in private and with our clothes on and our hands above the waist and agreeing that was the limit “for now and far into the future.” That latter assertion was a fun, and strictly our own, sign—casting our hands, our whole bodies, out over the mountains, the moon, the stars, seeming like nearly forever but not quite, granting that one day, somewhere far, far in the future, there might be room for more physical touch and expression of “desire” (O.K., I said it, but do not tell Paul!). And pretty much from that moment till now, our hands have not left each other when in private—and of course above the waist!
But it took a minute to get going. After a year and eight months of nothing but chaste and proper contact, we were surprised and a little confused about the new freedoms our pact granted. You would have laughed. We looked all around us—we were in Paul’s bedroom, sitting on the edge of his bed with the door slightly ajar (his mom’s rules) but most of the way closed and no one in the house anyway—and most definitely in private. That realization dawned on us simultaneously. Paul’s eyes got really wide and that made me laugh. I think at first he felt hurt but he quickly got over it. Still, neither of us moved for the longest time. Finally, Paul lifted one hand and lightly caressed my cheek. His touch was like sparks. I am surprised I did not blast through the ceiling! But then I must have leaned my face into that touch because it no longer felt tingly but now soft and caring. Then he brought his other hand to my other cheek and cupped his two hands below my chin. And we sat like that for who knows how long. If someone had been watching, they would have thought us a statue—a Rodin bronze in the park titled “Lost.” But we were not lost and we were not a statue. Paul was kissing me with his eyes, and I after a while was kissing him back with mine. Who would have thought eyes across a gap could have said and done so much? Well, me for one. Then his eyes closed and he was kissing me with his lips, all over my face. I watched for a while his wondrous release that quickly became my release. Then I closed my eyes and kissed back. Then we lay down on the bed and pretty quickly reached the limits of our agreement. I kept waiting for him to push past those limits and test my resolve (truth be told, I do not think I had any resolve at just that moment). But he was the perfect gentleman. We had drawn a line (on our bodies, I guess, though that is a little more graphic and titillating than I want to think—do not wa
nt to make my heart go pitty-pat!) and he was not going to cross it, however powerful the urges. I am lucky to have Paul.
Well, gee, I did not mean to turn this letter into Harlequin romance! Mainly I wanted to let you know that Paul and I have worked out an understanding appropriate to our relationship and our circumstances. Neither of us knows what the fall will bring, after we have gone off to college and are separated by hundreds of miles. It is painful for me to think about. But I know many couples have gone through similar separations—sometimes the relationship survives, most times it does not. We need to be kind to each other and build flexibility into our friendship, not trap ourselves to satisfy short-term desires (there goes Paul again, in my mind’s eye, throwing his heart at me!). So it is O.K. And I am getting all the snuggling I could ask for. And the kissing! Let’s just say my lips are chapped, and last I checked winter is months past!
Did I do like Brooke would have done?
Or is doing? What is she doing, anyway? Sounds like you have a lot of guy pals, and all confined on one small island. How do you keep from running into each other? Have