Chapter Six: The Annunciation
[From the Willow manuscript, Part 2.]
It had been understood that I would go to law school and work with my father in Newark. It was also assumed that I would one day marry, but to my parents’ credit, they left open the possibility that I would choose to remain single. Everyone did not have to be married, not even women. Not being one of he pretty girls at Northern High, I was much relieved to hear it.
For me, high school was a series of tests with the goal of acceptance to a good law school. It was not a time to learn about boys and dating. Besides, I already knew about boys and I already had a date: Argo. As far as my classmates were concerned, I had a boyfriend, already in college, and that also relieved me of the pressure I would have had. When Argo came to visit, we would always go somewhere, even if Karen would tag along. At the Freshman Dance in May, I brought Argo. And on the summer bus trip to D.C., Argo came.
It was easy to love Argo. He was always kind, he made me laugh, my parents adored him, and he treated his intelligence as nothing more than the color of his eyes. There was little question in my mind that my parents would approve our being boy and girlfriend instead of the platonic “dates” we went on chaperoned by one of my sisters. But Argo never asked and I didn’t find out why until after I wrote him The Letter.
I was at my father’s office at the end of summer before my sophomore year at Northern High. I was subbing for the receptionist who had gone on vacation, and everyone else had gone to lunch. I had been thinking about the last time I had seen Argo. It had been two weeks since he had shown me around campus and I met his roommate, an impossible nerd whom somehow Argo managed to tolerate. I was obviously in love, and for some girlish reason I decide to tell him, and I put it in writing.
I wrote a first draft sitting at the reception desk, alone, quiet, and feeling very adult. In it I told him, rather immaturely, that I thought we both were mature, that the times we were together were the most fun I had ever had, that I missed him when he was at school, and that I thought he felt the same way. That was my first draft. The second and third were not much better until I got a good idea. I’d write him a poem. I would have preferred to write a sonnet, but I didn’t think it would come out right, even if I got the structure to work. But a haiku was very possible, and it would match the one he sent me about the frog.
A soft, lovely boat
Sailed into an empty port
And filled up my heart.
---Willow
I thought it was the best thing I had ever written and I knew Argo would like it. But as soon as I let it down the mail drop at the office, I began to worry.
I knew he would understand that he was the boat, but what would he think was the empty port? It couldn’t be my house because it wasn’t empty, and it couldn’t be my heart since it is a second place, an addition to the port. A 17-syllable poem can’t have redundancies. I decided that the empty port had to be me, not any particular part of me; besides, he would know that it couldn’t be a part of me even if someone else were to read it and get the wrong impression. And who besides Argo would ever read it? It would be a tense wait to see how he would respond.
It was only three days later before Mother called me at the office to say that I had gotten a letter from Argo. It was the first real letter he ever sent to me, and though I have since lost it, I remember it clearly.
Dear Willow,
Thanks for the lovely poem. I will treasure it always.
Yours in Christ,
Argo
l
The letter came in early August, and I was not to see Ago again until he came for Christmas dinner. I didn’t cry when I read his letter, but while I was unsure exactly what to make of it, I was sure that it was not good news. I would have to wait until I saw him to know why he signed it as he had.
It was virtually at the same time in August that I began to “blossom” as Mother called it. And the Willow blossoming came fast and furious. By Labor Day I was a C, I skipped D and went right to DD by Halloween. It didn’t matter that I ate less, began daily jogging, and even lost two pounds. I kept getting fuller. More than anything, it bothered me that I had to shop in the Misses department with my mother. Mother’s policy of dresses for ladies was mercifully modified, and I wore mostly Dad’s old sweatshirts over double pleated slacks. At least my pants were the same size as normal.
My friend who I had known from first grade, Sally Bundthaller, told me how lucky I was, but I didn’t feel lucky. I had been able to walk everywhere unnoticed, and that suited me fine, but now everyone seemed to notice --- the girls, the boys, and even the teachers, especially the men. And the looks were odd, as if there was something they knew about me that they shouldn’t have known. I ate no lunch or breakfast, I drank only water, and ate as little at supper as Mother would allow, but the 34DD minimizer was getting tight, and the shoulder straps were digging in. Jogging was making things worse, so I started bicycling; it was less bouncy.
It wasn’t all bad, though. Robby Bircher started to find reason to talk to me, and he was cute. He was in a number of my classes and that led to conversations about assignments and teachers. He was tall, had short hair, and wore glasses. His parents both worked in Raymond Street office buildings and lived a little over a mile from us. But it wasn’t only Robby who treated me better than he had before; other guys did, too. It was as if they had matured in direct proportion to my proportions.
Robby was my first real date. It was at the Graham to see Robert Redford and Mia Farrow in The Great Gatsby, which our English class had been assigned. Before he came to call for me, Mom had laid out a few instructions. I was to pay for my own movie, and I was to come home directly afterward. She would have dessert ready for us if he wanted to stay. I wore tan slacks and a new blouse I had gotten from Macy’s --- it was blue and blousy --- and navy Espridelles. Mom gave me her sapphire crucifix.
Robby wasn’t much of a conversationalist, and it was up to me to prevent the awkward silences that lay like lard after each interchange. We both liked the movie and thought the book was better, though I did like the white clothes Redford always wore. I said that I thought movies were better than books because of the color, which despite textual description, never made as much impact as it did in film. Robby just agreed and he told me about how bad the Yankees were that previous season.
Still, I was glad that he stayed for dessert. Mother and the girls stayed in the living room watching the Disney Channel, and Dad was in the study. We laughed when he remarked that we had a lot in common, including the fact that we were both trees.
That night I moved Argo’s letter from my copy of The Sonnets of the Portuguese to my what-not box which had among other things ticket stubs from The Nutcracker and the Ice Capades, a religious medal of the Blessed Virgin, and a self-portrait Eileen gave me that said “I love you.”
Robby and I went on another date, and while I enjoyed being with him, I had been looking forward, perhaps too much, to seeing Argo once again. There was not one day that I had not thought about his letter and imagined what he would say and what would happen when I saw him next. When the day finally arrived, I was nauseous, had a headache, and got my period.
It was the day before Christmas, and Argo was to stay overnight and leave after Christmas dinner. Presents were exchanged Christmas morning in the living room with Christmas music in the background, Dad taking pictures, and Mother directing things while sipping her traditional cinnamon tea with honey from a Christmas mug that was reserved only for this one day. It had been given to her by Grandmother Colby as a wedding gift, and it would be mine when I got married.
Dad had left to pick up Argo from his dorm and Mother was preparing the traditional Christmas Eve dinner, baked ham, collards, yams, and wild rice. The girls were tidying their rooms, and I was dusting and cleaning the mirrors. I had decided not to be ready when he arrived but not what to wear or whether to wear lipstick.
My stomach hollowed when I heard the front door open. It would be a white and red pinstripe shirtwaist dress with a black belt and black flats, and a pale red lip-gloss. I tied my hair back with a Christmas ribbon, and splashed on some toilet water. I made sure to wear no jewelry in case Argo had bought me a piece for Christmas.
Perry Como was wishing us a very Merry Christmas as Dad poured everyone eggnog with nutmeg when I made my grand entrance down the stairs. Argo smiled when our eyes met, but I was too nervous to hold his gaze. He was wearing a white buttoned down shirt, a red tie, and navy blazer. His hair was thick and wild, and there was a gold crucifix in his lapel. We each said Hi as I approached to give him a peck on the cheek, and he returned it with lizard-like speed. I noticed the shopping bag of gifts he had bought that had been placed by the Christmas tree and wondered how he had money to buy them.
It turned out that he had gotten a job waiting tables at The Ledge, an on campus student restaurant. It was four hours a day, seven days a week, and he had worked the breakfast shift that day and would have to work the evening shift on Christmas Day even though the campus was a ghost town.
“Doesn’t it cut in to your study time?” I asked as we sat in the living room, Christmas carols filling gaps in the conversation.
“Not, really,” he answered. “If I were on a team it’d be the same.”
“Then we can expect expensive gifts this year?” I said trying not to smile.
“You can expect them,” he said. Mother and Dad laughed and I gave him my best you-smart-aleck look.
“Willow made honor roll again,” said Mother.
“Amazing,” said Argo, his dark eyes laughing. I threw a pillow at him.
“Now, Argo, be nice,” cajoled Mother.
“He can’t,” I said. “It’s not in his nature. By the way, with all the money you make it seems you can’t afford a haircut.” His hair was over his ears and made his large head look even bigger.
“Yes, Argo, be nice. We all know how hard learning is for Willow,” said Dad with a straight face.
“And you,” I said rushing toward him. “He doesn’t need any help from you,” I said punching his meaty shoulder. He guffawed and Argo was tickled.
Dinner was as enjoyable as it was long, and it felt as if Argo had never left. No one wanted to get up from the table except Eileen who had to watch a Frosty special. Mother had baked her usual one million Christmas sugar cookies, but this time she had made a peanut butter sauce to dip them in. There was no question that they cost me an additional pound.
“Do the English call their money pounds because that’s what that much food adds to your weight?” I asked.
Dad and Argo ignored me and kept dipping, but Mom answered with little sympathy, “I don’t recall forcing anyone to eat them.”
“We wouldn’t want to disappoint you, babe,” said Dad.
Once or twice I noticed Argo’s eyes drop to my “blossoms,” but in truth his eyes darted everywhere. Still, it would have been impossible for him not to notice. When I got up to clear the table, I could feel his eyes on me, but when I returned he didn’t notice me at all.
Mother and Dad had gone to bed as did the girls, and Argo and I were on opposite ends of the couch watching “Miracle on 34th Street” when he went to the shopping bag of gifts he had brought. He picked out two, each the same size but with different wrapping.
“One is for Karen and one is for Eileen, but I don’t know which to give to whom,” he said holding them in front of me. They’re stuffed animals holding Rutgers banners; one’s a skunk and the other’s a raccoon.”
“Ah, vermin for Christmas,” I said, “What could be better?”
“They won’t like them?” he asked with a beginning look of devastation.
“Of course they will. They’ll love them.”
“So who should get which?”
“Well, Eileen hates to get a bath. Give her the skunk.”
“Should I put labels on them; all the others have labels.”
“Of course,” I said getting up. “I have some in my room.”
He stood there as I headed for the stairs.
“Come on up,” I said without looking back.
The labels were on my desk, but my underwear was on my bed.
“I have them right here,” I said drawing his attention to the desk. “Do you want ‘Merry Christmas from’ or ‘To, From’?” I asked then answered my own question, “To, From,” and handed two of them to him.
As he sat to write, I opened my whatnot box and put his letter down in front of him.
Argo finished the labels and looked over at me. I was sitting on the bed, and I held his gaze for a long moment.
“That was a beautiful poem, Willow. It really was. I loved it.” His voice was soft, almost a whisper, and it seemed to have come from deep inside. But it was also sad. His deep brown eyes paled.
“So why do you seem so unhappy?” I asked.
“I’m not unhappy. It’s just that sometimes beauty and love are sad.”
I wasn’t sure what to say for a moment, then the words just came out. “I didn’t feel sad when I wrote it, but now I do.”
“Well, I didn’t mean for you to feel sad, not at all. It’s a lovely poem.”
“I’m not talking about the poem --- I mean I’m talking more than about the poem.”
Argo was looking down at the folded letter as if he were reading it. “I know, and that’s part of what makes it sad,” he said without looking up. “I guess love can bring sadness.”
“Well, I didn’t know what to make of the way you signed it. I mean, I’m not yours in Christ.”
“I think you are,” he answered. “In that we all are.”
“I thought I was more than that.”
“But that’s just it; you can’t be, at least not for me,” he said looking into my eyes.
“Okay, what are you saying, ‘not for me’?” I asked knowing what he was going to tell me.
“I’ve made a decision,” he said. I froze but my heart pounded in my head. “I’m going to major in philosophy and take religion courses at the Rutgers Theological Seminary. I’ve decided to become a priest.”
“Well, I guess I’m happy for you,” I said trying to smile. For some reason I kept staring at the letter, drawing imaginary boxes around it.
“It’s okay if you’re not,” he said.
I couldn’t stop making boxes. “Do Mother and Dad know?”
“Just you.”
“Well, they’ll be thrilled, though Dad expected both of us to …”
“So did I, but I seem to be drawn to the Church. Maybe I won’t make it, but I’m going to give it a try.”
“So you’re sure?” I asked, finally able to look at him.
“Pretty much. I mean, in so far as it’s possible for me to be sure of anything in the future.”
“Is it a calling?”
“I don’t know,” he said with a shrug.
The pounding in my head stopped, and I could feel my face flush and a prickly sensation crawl up my arms. “So when you graduate you go to a seminary,” I said hoping my blushing wasn’t obvious.
“Yes, but it’s not a cemetery. You look so sad.”
“I’m not sad,” I lied. “Just surprised.”
“It’s not such a bad surprise, is it?” he asked with a shy smile.
“Well, it’s not a happy surprise.”
“Then it’s sad,” he said studying my face. “It’s okay.”
I sat there mute. Of course I was sad, and I believed he was too, but there was nothing I could say. We were motionless, wrapped in a quiet pall.
Finally I got up and told him I was going to get into my pajamas and finish the movie. He said he would join me, thanked me for the labels, and left me looking at the letter on the desk and wiping secret tears from my eyes.
I seemed like a robot; every movement seemed just a hair too slow and deliberate. I was watching in my mind’s eye what I was doing, passive and remote. First I washed my face with cold water, brushed my hair out, and put on fresh lipstick. Then I took off all my clothing and rubbed a dab vanilla body lotion on my arms and chest and slowly opened the bottom drawer of my dresser. Without looking I pulled out a long white t-shirt, then I opened the top drawer and reached in for my fancy white panties. I could see myself doing everything as if it were programmed.
Perhaps I wanted to show Argo what he would be missing, but perhaps I wanted to see myself. I don’t recall, but before I got to the stairs, everything changed. I seemed to awaken, to be aware to every move, every nuance, as I glided down the stairs. I could smell the Christmas tree, hear every bit of the movie dialogue, and I could feel the cling of the t-shirt against me.
He was on the couch and didn’t look up when I came down the stairs. I lowered the TV volume on the remote and turned toward him. “Don’t want to wake them up,” I said looking up at him. In the dim light I could see his eyes, and it felt as if they could see right through the shirt. I felt naked, embarrassed, and excited.
“Well that was considerate, except I already lowered it, and now I can’t hear it,” he said like a brother.
“Well pay attention and you’ll hear it,” I answered, flipping my arm along the back of the couch and sitting erect.
“And how can I pay attention with you distracting me,” he said in a deepening voice.
“I’m not doing anything,” I objected looking straight at the TV.
Argo looked at me until I turned to him. “Mrs. Robinson, are you trying to seduce me?” he asked. He was smiling, but his eyes were different.
I wish I had been sophisticated enough to say even something like, “You should know, Dustin,” but I simply denied it.
“Well, that nightshirt doesn’t hide much --- not that I’m complaining.”
“Sounds like it to me. I wear this a lot instead of pajamas.” I looked down at my shirt then back at him.
Argo stood up. “You know, Willow, you’ve become a woman. You’re not a girl anymore.”
“Is that bad?”
“No,” he said standing over me.
“You make it sound as if it is.”
He reached down and lightly touched my check. “I guess it’s bad for me,” he said standing over me. It was like nothing I had ever felt, as if every nerve in my body felt the spot he touched.
“It doesn’t have to be,” I said putting my hand on his. His dark eyes tightened and his breathing changed, more shallow. I felt my jaw quiver and a sudden plunge in my stomach. When he leaned down to kiss me I closed my eyes. His lips were full and cool.
I’m not sure whether I pulled him down, but he was right next to me now, our arms were around each other. He moved his hands in slow circles around my back as I pushed against him as tightly as I could; our lips locked drawing the breath from each other.
I wanted to feel him on me, all of him, but he just sat up, breathing heavily. He was different, louder and bigger, but still gentle.
“Maybe, we should stop,” I said looking into eyes.
“I don’t want to,” he said pulling my hand down between his legs. He cupped my face in his hands and kissed me lightly by my ear, and I kept my hand there unsure what to do.
“Argo, we have to,” I said finally, sitting up straight. He did also.
“What?” he whispered.
“Stop.”
Argo leaned over his knees and, looking down at the floor, agreed. I rubbed his back lightly still trying to catch my breath when I heard a bedroom door open.
Argo did too and leapt to the other side of the couch.
“Did Santa Claus come yet?” Eileen called down.
“Not yet,” I said getting up. I went up the stairs to usher her back to her room.
By the time I got back, the TV was off and Argo was gone.
I lay in my bed with no blanket letting the cold air fall over me. Sleep was impossible even though I refused to think about what had just happened. But that was also impossible. Did I seduce him? He came over to me and he kissed me. What did it mean? It meant we were in love. What would he do now? Maybe he’d pretend it never happened. How would it be the next morning? Certainly I would say nothing until he mentioned it. What would we say to each other? I had no idea.
Then I heard footsteps outside my door. Then a soft knock. Quickly I got under the covers and strained to listen. Another soft knock. I froze like a fawn in the woods.
Then he went back to his room as silently as he came, and I finally fell asleep, safe in the protection of my bed.
Christmas dinner was going to be earlier than usual because Argo had to get to work, so that meant breakfast was only for the hungry and had to be quick lest there be less than the usual three hours of unwrapping gifts.
I gave Argo Isotoner gloves, and he gave me a crucifix that he had bought from a Flemington shop which forged its own pewter. He waited to tell Mother and Dad of his vocation, and they were appropriately delighted. The only good thing about his telling them was the way he said it. He said he thought he had a vocation and was going to pursue it.
Dinner was over and he was about to leave, and we hardly said anything to each other, certainly nothing about what had happened. He looked at me differently, though, as if he wanted to talk, but there really was no opportunity.
“Oh, Argo,” I said as he went up to his room to collect his things. “I meant to show you this new English text they assigned. It has a whole section on sonnets.”
“Don’t tell me they’re making you write another sonnet?” he said following me into my room. We left the door opened and whispered.
“What are we going to do?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” he said. “What do you feel?”
“You know. It’s obvious.”
He nodded.
We looked at each other for a long while. “I don’t know,” he said finally.
“You’re not angry with me, are you?” I asked.
“No, Willow,” he said with a whisper from deep within, “I love you,” and left not waiting for an answer. We never touched.
[From the Willow manuscript, Part 2.]
It had been understood that I would go to law school and work with my father in Newark. It was also assumed that I would one day marry, but to my parents’ credit, they left open the possibility that I would choose to remain single. Everyone did not have to be married, not even women. Not being one of he pretty girls at Northern High, I was much relieved to hear it.
For me, high school was a series of tests with the goal of acceptance to a good law school. It was not a time to learn about boys and dating. Besides, I already knew about boys and I already had a date: Argo. As far as my classmates were concerned, I had a boyfriend, already in college, and that also relieved me of the pressure I would have had. When Argo came to visit, we would always go somewhere, even if Karen would tag along. At the Freshman Dance in May, I brought Argo. And on the summer bus trip to D.C., Argo came.
It was easy to love Argo. He was always kind, he made me laugh, my parents adored him, and he treated his intelligence as nothing more than the color of his eyes. There was little question in my mind that my parents would approve our being boy and girlfriend instead of the platonic “dates” we went on chaperoned by one of my sisters. But Argo never asked and I didn’t find out why until after I wrote him The Letter.
I was at my father’s office at the end of summer before my sophomore year at Northern High. I was subbing for the receptionist who had gone on vacation, and everyone else had gone to lunch. I had been thinking about the last time I had seen Argo. It had been two weeks since he had shown me around campus and I met his roommate, an impossible nerd whom somehow Argo managed to tolerate. I was obviously in love, and for some girlish reason I decide to tell him, and I put it in writing.
I wrote a first draft sitting at the reception desk, alone, quiet, and feeling very adult. In it I told him, rather immaturely, that I thought we both were mature, that the times we were together were the most fun I had ever had, that I missed him when he was at school, and that I thought he felt the same way. That was my first draft. The second and third were not much better until I got a good idea. I’d write him a poem. I would have preferred to write a sonnet, but I didn’t think it would come out right, even if I got the structure to work. But a haiku was very possible, and it would match the one he sent me about the frog.
A soft, lovely boat
Sailed into an empty port
And filled up my heart.
---Willow
I thought it was the best thing I had ever written and I knew Argo would like it. But as soon as I let it down the mail drop at the office, I began to worry.
I knew he would understand that he was the boat, but what would he think was the empty port? It couldn’t be my house because it wasn’t empty, and it couldn’t be my heart since it is a second place, an addition to the port. A 17-syllable poem can’t have redundancies. I decided that the empty port had to be me, not any particular part of me; besides, he would know that it couldn’t be a part of me even if someone else were to read it and get the wrong impression. And who besides Argo would ever read it? It would be a tense wait to see how he would respond.
It was only three days later before Mother called me at the office to say that I had gotten a letter from Argo. It was the first real letter he ever sent to me, and though I have since lost it, I remember it clearly.
Dear Willow,
Thanks for the lovely poem. I will treasure it always.
Yours in Christ,
Argo
l
The letter came in early August, and I was not to see Ago again until he came for Christmas dinner. I didn’t cry when I read his letter, but while I was unsure exactly what to make of it, I was sure that it was not good news. I would have to wait until I saw him to know why he signed it as he had.
It was virtually at the same time in August that I began to “blossom” as Mother called it. And the Willow blossoming came fast and furious. By Labor Day I was a C, I skipped D and went right to DD by Halloween. It didn’t matter that I ate less, began daily jogging, and even lost two pounds. I kept getting fuller. More than anything, it bothered me that I had to shop in the Misses department with my mother. Mother’s policy of dresses for ladies was mercifully modified, and I wore mostly Dad’s old sweatshirts over double pleated slacks. At least my pants were the same size as normal.
My friend who I had known from first grade, Sally Bundthaller, told me how lucky I was, but I didn’t feel lucky. I had been able to walk everywhere unnoticed, and that suited me fine, but now everyone seemed to notice --- the girls, the boys, and even the teachers, especially the men. And the looks were odd, as if there was something they knew about me that they shouldn’t have known. I ate no lunch or breakfast, I drank only water, and ate as little at supper as Mother would allow, but the 34DD minimizer was getting tight, and the shoulder straps were digging in. Jogging was making things worse, so I started bicycling; it was less bouncy.
It wasn’t all bad, though. Robby Bircher started to find reason to talk to me, and he was cute. He was in a number of my classes and that led to conversations about assignments and teachers. He was tall, had short hair, and wore glasses. His parents both worked in Raymond Street office buildings and lived a little over a mile from us. But it wasn’t only Robby who treated me better than he had before; other guys did, too. It was as if they had matured in direct proportion to my proportions.
Robby was my first real date. It was at the Graham to see Robert Redford and Mia Farrow in The Great Gatsby, which our English class had been assigned. Before he came to call for me, Mom had laid out a few instructions. I was to pay for my own movie, and I was to come home directly afterward. She would have dessert ready for us if he wanted to stay. I wore tan slacks and a new blouse I had gotten from Macy’s --- it was blue and blousy --- and navy Espridelles. Mom gave me her sapphire crucifix.
Robby wasn’t much of a conversationalist, and it was up to me to prevent the awkward silences that lay like lard after each interchange. We both liked the movie and thought the book was better, though I did like the white clothes Redford always wore. I said that I thought movies were better than books because of the color, which despite textual description, never made as much impact as it did in film. Robby just agreed and he told me about how bad the Yankees were that previous season.
Still, I was glad that he stayed for dessert. Mother and the girls stayed in the living room watching the Disney Channel, and Dad was in the study. We laughed when he remarked that we had a lot in common, including the fact that we were both trees.
That night I moved Argo’s letter from my copy of The Sonnets of the Portuguese to my what-not box which had among other things ticket stubs from The Nutcracker and the Ice Capades, a religious medal of the Blessed Virgin, and a self-portrait Eileen gave me that said “I love you.”
Robby and I went on another date, and while I enjoyed being with him, I had been looking forward, perhaps too much, to seeing Argo once again. There was not one day that I had not thought about his letter and imagined what he would say and what would happen when I saw him next. When the day finally arrived, I was nauseous, had a headache, and got my period.
It was the day before Christmas, and Argo was to stay overnight and leave after Christmas dinner. Presents were exchanged Christmas morning in the living room with Christmas music in the background, Dad taking pictures, and Mother directing things while sipping her traditional cinnamon tea with honey from a Christmas mug that was reserved only for this one day. It had been given to her by Grandmother Colby as a wedding gift, and it would be mine when I got married.
Dad had left to pick up Argo from his dorm and Mother was preparing the traditional Christmas Eve dinner, baked ham, collards, yams, and wild rice. The girls were tidying their rooms, and I was dusting and cleaning the mirrors. I had decided not to be ready when he arrived but not what to wear or whether to wear lipstick.
My stomach hollowed when I heard the front door open. It would be a white and red pinstripe shirtwaist dress with a black belt and black flats, and a pale red lip-gloss. I tied my hair back with a Christmas ribbon, and splashed on some toilet water. I made sure to wear no jewelry in case Argo had bought me a piece for Christmas.
Perry Como was wishing us a very Merry Christmas as Dad poured everyone eggnog with nutmeg when I made my grand entrance down the stairs. Argo smiled when our eyes met, but I was too nervous to hold his gaze. He was wearing a white buttoned down shirt, a red tie, and navy blazer. His hair was thick and wild, and there was a gold crucifix in his lapel. We each said Hi as I approached to give him a peck on the cheek, and he returned it with lizard-like speed. I noticed the shopping bag of gifts he had bought that had been placed by the Christmas tree and wondered how he had money to buy them.
It turned out that he had gotten a job waiting tables at The Ledge, an on campus student restaurant. It was four hours a day, seven days a week, and he had worked the breakfast shift that day and would have to work the evening shift on Christmas Day even though the campus was a ghost town.
“Doesn’t it cut in to your study time?” I asked as we sat in the living room, Christmas carols filling gaps in the conversation.
“Not, really,” he answered. “If I were on a team it’d be the same.”
“Then we can expect expensive gifts this year?” I said trying not to smile.
“You can expect them,” he said. Mother and Dad laughed and I gave him my best you-smart-aleck look.
“Willow made honor roll again,” said Mother.
“Amazing,” said Argo, his dark eyes laughing. I threw a pillow at him.
“Now, Argo, be nice,” cajoled Mother.
“He can’t,” I said. “It’s not in his nature. By the way, with all the money you make it seems you can’t afford a haircut.” His hair was over his ears and made his large head look even bigger.
“Yes, Argo, be nice. We all know how hard learning is for Willow,” said Dad with a straight face.
“And you,” I said rushing toward him. “He doesn’t need any help from you,” I said punching his meaty shoulder. He guffawed and Argo was tickled.
Dinner was as enjoyable as it was long, and it felt as if Argo had never left. No one wanted to get up from the table except Eileen who had to watch a Frosty special. Mother had baked her usual one million Christmas sugar cookies, but this time she had made a peanut butter sauce to dip them in. There was no question that they cost me an additional pound.
“Do the English call their money pounds because that’s what that much food adds to your weight?” I asked.
Dad and Argo ignored me and kept dipping, but Mom answered with little sympathy, “I don’t recall forcing anyone to eat them.”
“We wouldn’t want to disappoint you, babe,” said Dad.
Once or twice I noticed Argo’s eyes drop to my “blossoms,” but in truth his eyes darted everywhere. Still, it would have been impossible for him not to notice. When I got up to clear the table, I could feel his eyes on me, but when I returned he didn’t notice me at all.
Mother and Dad had gone to bed as did the girls, and Argo and I were on opposite ends of the couch watching “Miracle on 34th Street” when he went to the shopping bag of gifts he had brought. He picked out two, each the same size but with different wrapping.
“One is for Karen and one is for Eileen, but I don’t know which to give to whom,” he said holding them in front of me. They’re stuffed animals holding Rutgers banners; one’s a skunk and the other’s a raccoon.”
“Ah, vermin for Christmas,” I said, “What could be better?”
“They won’t like them?” he asked with a beginning look of devastation.
“Of course they will. They’ll love them.”
“So who should get which?”
“Well, Eileen hates to get a bath. Give her the skunk.”
“Should I put labels on them; all the others have labels.”
“Of course,” I said getting up. “I have some in my room.”
He stood there as I headed for the stairs.
“Come on up,” I said without looking back.
The labels were on my desk, but my underwear was on my bed.
“I have them right here,” I said drawing his attention to the desk. “Do you want ‘Merry Christmas from’ or ‘To, From’?” I asked then answered my own question, “To, From,” and handed two of them to him.
As he sat to write, I opened my whatnot box and put his letter down in front of him.
Argo finished the labels and looked over at me. I was sitting on the bed, and I held his gaze for a long moment.
“That was a beautiful poem, Willow. It really was. I loved it.” His voice was soft, almost a whisper, and it seemed to have come from deep inside. But it was also sad. His deep brown eyes paled.
“So why do you seem so unhappy?” I asked.
“I’m not unhappy. It’s just that sometimes beauty and love are sad.”
I wasn’t sure what to say for a moment, then the words just came out. “I didn’t feel sad when I wrote it, but now I do.”
“Well, I didn’t mean for you to feel sad, not at all. It’s a lovely poem.”
“I’m not talking about the poem --- I mean I’m talking more than about the poem.”
Argo was looking down at the folded letter as if he were reading it. “I know, and that’s part of what makes it sad,” he said without looking up. “I guess love can bring sadness.”
“Well, I didn’t know what to make of the way you signed it. I mean, I’m not yours in Christ.”
“I think you are,” he answered. “In that we all are.”
“I thought I was more than that.”
“But that’s just it; you can’t be, at least not for me,” he said looking into my eyes.
“Okay, what are you saying, ‘not for me’?” I asked knowing what he was going to tell me.
“I’ve made a decision,” he said. I froze but my heart pounded in my head. “I’m going to major in philosophy and take religion courses at the Rutgers Theological Seminary. I’ve decided to become a priest.”
“Well, I guess I’m happy for you,” I said trying to smile. For some reason I kept staring at the letter, drawing imaginary boxes around it.
“It’s okay if you’re not,” he said.
I couldn’t stop making boxes. “Do Mother and Dad know?”
“Just you.”
“Well, they’ll be thrilled, though Dad expected both of us to …”
“So did I, but I seem to be drawn to the Church. Maybe I won’t make it, but I’m going to give it a try.”
“So you’re sure?” I asked, finally able to look at him.
“Pretty much. I mean, in so far as it’s possible for me to be sure of anything in the future.”
“Is it a calling?”
“I don’t know,” he said with a shrug.
The pounding in my head stopped, and I could feel my face flush and a prickly sensation crawl up my arms. “So when you graduate you go to a seminary,” I said hoping my blushing wasn’t obvious.
“Yes, but it’s not a cemetery. You look so sad.”
“I’m not sad,” I lied. “Just surprised.”
“It’s not such a bad surprise, is it?” he asked with a shy smile.
“Well, it’s not a happy surprise.”
“Then it’s sad,” he said studying my face. “It’s okay.”
I sat there mute. Of course I was sad, and I believed he was too, but there was nothing I could say. We were motionless, wrapped in a quiet pall.
Finally I got up and told him I was going to get into my pajamas and finish the movie. He said he would join me, thanked me for the labels, and left me looking at the letter on the desk and wiping secret tears from my eyes.
I seemed like a robot; every movement seemed just a hair too slow and deliberate. I was watching in my mind’s eye what I was doing, passive and remote. First I washed my face with cold water, brushed my hair out, and put on fresh lipstick. Then I took off all my clothing and rubbed a dab vanilla body lotion on my arms and chest and slowly opened the bottom drawer of my dresser. Without looking I pulled out a long white t-shirt, then I opened the top drawer and reached in for my fancy white panties. I could see myself doing everything as if it were programmed.
Perhaps I wanted to show Argo what he would be missing, but perhaps I wanted to see myself. I don’t recall, but before I got to the stairs, everything changed. I seemed to awaken, to be aware to every move, every nuance, as I glided down the stairs. I could smell the Christmas tree, hear every bit of the movie dialogue, and I could feel the cling of the t-shirt against me.
He was on the couch and didn’t look up when I came down the stairs. I lowered the TV volume on the remote and turned toward him. “Don’t want to wake them up,” I said looking up at him. In the dim light I could see his eyes, and it felt as if they could see right through the shirt. I felt naked, embarrassed, and excited.
“Well that was considerate, except I already lowered it, and now I can’t hear it,” he said like a brother.
“Well pay attention and you’ll hear it,” I answered, flipping my arm along the back of the couch and sitting erect.
“And how can I pay attention with you distracting me,” he said in a deepening voice.
“I’m not doing anything,” I objected looking straight at the TV.
Argo looked at me until I turned to him. “Mrs. Robinson, are you trying to seduce me?” he asked. He was smiling, but his eyes were different.
I wish I had been sophisticated enough to say even something like, “You should know, Dustin,” but I simply denied it.
“Well, that nightshirt doesn’t hide much --- not that I’m complaining.”
“Sounds like it to me. I wear this a lot instead of pajamas.” I looked down at my shirt then back at him.
Argo stood up. “You know, Willow, you’ve become a woman. You’re not a girl anymore.”
“Is that bad?”
“No,” he said standing over me.
“You make it sound as if it is.”
He reached down and lightly touched my check. “I guess it’s bad for me,” he said standing over me. It was like nothing I had ever felt, as if every nerve in my body felt the spot he touched.
“It doesn’t have to be,” I said putting my hand on his. His dark eyes tightened and his breathing changed, more shallow. I felt my jaw quiver and a sudden plunge in my stomach. When he leaned down to kiss me I closed my eyes. His lips were full and cool.
I’m not sure whether I pulled him down, but he was right next to me now, our arms were around each other. He moved his hands in slow circles around my back as I pushed against him as tightly as I could; our lips locked drawing the breath from each other.
I wanted to feel him on me, all of him, but he just sat up, breathing heavily. He was different, louder and bigger, but still gentle.
“Maybe, we should stop,” I said looking into eyes.
“I don’t want to,” he said pulling my hand down between his legs. He cupped my face in his hands and kissed me lightly by my ear, and I kept my hand there unsure what to do.
“Argo, we have to,” I said finally, sitting up straight. He did also.
“What?” he whispered.
“Stop.”
Argo leaned over his knees and, looking down at the floor, agreed. I rubbed his back lightly still trying to catch my breath when I heard a bedroom door open.
Argo did too and leapt to the other side of the couch.
“Did Santa Claus come yet?” Eileen called down.
“Not yet,” I said getting up. I went up the stairs to usher her back to her room.
By the time I got back, the TV was off and Argo was gone.
I lay in my bed with no blanket letting the cold air fall over me. Sleep was impossible even though I refused to think about what had just happened. But that was also impossible. Did I seduce him? He came over to me and he kissed me. What did it mean? It meant we were in love. What would he do now? Maybe he’d pretend it never happened. How would it be the next morning? Certainly I would say nothing until he mentioned it. What would we say to each other? I had no idea.
Then I heard footsteps outside my door. Then a soft knock. Quickly I got under the covers and strained to listen. Another soft knock. I froze like a fawn in the woods.
Then he went back to his room as silently as he came, and I finally fell asleep, safe in the protection of my bed.
Christmas dinner was going to be earlier than usual because Argo had to get to work, so that meant breakfast was only for the hungry and had to be quick lest there be less than the usual three hours of unwrapping gifts.
I gave Argo Isotoner gloves, and he gave me a crucifix that he had bought from a Flemington shop which forged its own pewter. He waited to tell Mother and Dad of his vocation, and they were appropriately delighted. The only good thing about his telling them was the way he said it. He said he thought he had a vocation and was going to pursue it.
Dinner was over and he was about to leave, and we hardly said anything to each other, certainly nothing about what had happened. He looked at me differently, though, as if he wanted to talk, but there really was no opportunity.
“Oh, Argo,” I said as he went up to his room to collect his things. “I meant to show you this new English text they assigned. It has a whole section on sonnets.”
“Don’t tell me they’re making you write another sonnet?” he said following me into my room. We left the door opened and whispered.
“What are we going to do?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” he said. “What do you feel?”
“You know. It’s obvious.”
He nodded.
We looked at each other for a long while. “I don’t know,” he said finally.
“You’re not angry with me, are you?” I asked.
“No, Willow,” he said with a whisper from deep within, “I love you,” and left not waiting for an answer. We never touched.
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