CHAPTER SIX

“1976”

”Perhaps it is our imperfections that make us so perfect for one another.”  —Jane Austin, Emma

Three months later, Dan and I learned to play tennis together, a tumultuous endeavor, marked by outbursts of profanity and “tips” he offered at the net. He broke two rackets that summer, thrashing them against the chain-link fence and I’d walk off the court in frustration, muttering that I’d never touch a racket again. Once during a long-winded tutoring session at the net, I held the lime-green ball between us and said, “Say one more word and I’m shoving this right up your ass!” Game, set, match!

Usually, however, Dan and I had a rollicking good time. We were living proof of fundamentalist claims that rock and roll and dancing were the expressway to sex. Our typical foreplay involved lying on the carpet or sofa listening to albums and letting the lyrics lull us into our own coupling. Sometimes we’d slow dance in the unlit living room, pressing our torsos together like a full row of fudge-dipped Oreos.

On rare occasions, per Dan’s instructions, I’d stand on a wooden chair and remove my clothes, slowly, one garment at a time. Sultry voices and horns vamped on the stereo as my pulse raced. Like the mating rituals of birds, the rise and fall of rhythm and song always got us in the mood.

I took classes at the branch campus rather than a summer job and Dan helped his dad with his side job, carpet-cleaning. Most of our free time was spent together. One Saturday while sunbathing at Pine Lake Dan said, “I guess you’re wondering what my intentions are.”

“Yeah, I am,” I said, trying to look dispassionate.

“Sometimes I think I love you, but other times, I just like my life as it is, the coaching, teaching, being free.”

That first phrase felt cozy, like the warm sand under my beach towel. The rest irritated, like a pebble under my back. We hadn’t discussed exclusivity and Dan had made no promises to me. I’d never met such an aloof person, able to tell a tragic story with a chuckle, or relate a close call involving drugs or alcohol with a twinkle in his eye. He drew people’s curiosity with his broad grin and reserved manner. He was emotionally unavailable, which made him all the more appealing to me. Did I find that irresistibly challenging? Was I trying to prove that I could snag this confirmed bachelor?

Living in that tiny village and being molested as a child may have stunted my growth, my image of what I could do or be in the world. Like many of my classmates, I dreamed of getting married after graduating and having five sons. I had an almost primordial sense of competition with other females, as if I needed a man to kill and bring meat to me and my anticipated brood. Every other thought was about having and keeping Dan. Study for the psychology final, write Dan a sultry note. Apply for the children’s services internship, bake Dan a cherry pie. I practically worshipped him, showered him with attention, affirmation and affection, and was determined to marry him as soon as I got my degree. Pursue on all eight cylinders.

Toward summer’s end we went to a cookout at the home of Dan’s aunt, the only sibling his mother wasn’t estranged from. (She despised one brother because he wrangled the entire farm from their father as he lay on his deathbed. Another brother was held in contempt because he allegedly reached under Mary’s skirt when she was a teenager, besmirching her purity.) Everyone carried their best side dishes and lined them up on a picnic table in the yard. Burgers were grilled, but sweet corn and plump tomatoes grown on the premises were the focal point of the meal.

What I found intriguing was Dan’s interaction with his cousin’s children, ages three and one. The older child had a patch over one eye and thick glasses with blue plastic frames. When she played kickball but had trouble booting the ball with her sneaker, Dan rolled it in the direction of her better eye. When she finally connected and the ball dribbled toward him, he bobbled it until she reached first base. I can still picture her clapping for herself and her huge smile.

When creamy peach and blueberry pies were served, Dan took the seat beside the baby’s high chair and spooned small bites into her mouth. She reached her sticky purple fingers toward his lips and I instinctively pulled my head back, thinking gross. He let her insert her fingers and pretended to gobble them up, growling like a dog playing tug of war with a sock. Her giggling gave me goosebumps in August. Glimpses of Dan’s nurturing side puffed oxygen onto the embers in my heart.

I returned to Pitt in late September and Dan continued to teach and coach. My parents’ divorce was final that month and Dad married Donna within a week, on Greg’s twenty-fifth birthday. He invited all of us kids; we attended, but I was the only one who was happy for him. Greg and Kim were stone-faced, angry, bitter. They stared at our stepmother’s four grinning children, resentful, I gathered, about the probability of their consuming Dad’s time, attention, and money.

In an attempt to take the chill off, I made small talk with Donna’s older daughters about the Florida trip, then asked the two younger kids about their favorite times of the school day. Greg and Kim ate the buttercream-frosted cake in silence.

I planted a congratulatory kiss on Dad’s cheek, hugged his new wife, and sped the three hours to Dan’s house. All the lights were out so I crept into his room where I found him asleep in wool socks and a red sweatshirt (hood covering his head) and not a stitch between. I undressed, crept under the blankets, and spooned tightly against his back. In a matter of seconds his hands were exploring every inch of my body and all felt right in my world.