by William L. Kutsch
Chapter 2
I always thought that events occurred for a reason. I felt
the older I became, the less and less I believed in coincidence.
It also seemed that there existed a parallel universe, and
occasionally their molecules mixed with ours.
Consider: There was an announcement and invitation sent
via the U.S. Mail, and a forwarded e-mail from the Internet,
two seemingly innocent actions . . . by themselves. Taken
together, they gained greater significance. Ten years ago,
I might have received this little postcard from a reunion
committee - and that's purely a guess - and now this time
I've had a couple of feelers come my way. If a third contact
followed, my sense of paranoia might expand exponentially.
What could possibly happen next?
#
The telephone rang one evening in early June just after
I had finished supper, some take-out sushi. I was never
one to cook for myself. My mother called with some news.
"Guess who I just hung up with?"
"I don't know, Ma," I said, after swallowing
my last morsel of food. She always did this to me. "Who?"
"Trish."
"Trish who?" As soon as I asked, I knew the reply.
My mouth started to get dry. This cannot possibly be happening,
I thought.
"You know . . . Trish. Your old girlfriend from high
school. She just called."
Actually, she was more than just an old girlfriend. She'd
been my girl, my first love. We had an almost symbiotic
relationship. I mean, during most of high school, I'd worn
this "I'm Trish's boyfriend" sticker on my forehead.
After listening to this announcement, I felt that traces
of glue must still have been there.
"Well, what did she want?" My heart started to
beat faster. Heaven help my mother if she told her about
my divorce or any other personal gossip. Let me give Trish
the dirt and answer any questions . . . on the rare chance
that I'd speak to her, of course.
"You're going to laugh," she said, taking three
seconds to drag out the word "laugh." Mom went
right to the punch line: "She wanted to see if you
planned to go to the reunion."
"A-hum. And what did you tell her?"
"Well, I told her, 'You can certainly ask him, but
you'd better do some fast talking,'" my mother recounted.
I know Mom had liked her, was probably taking her side on
this, but apparently did not wish to tip my hand.
"Is she going to call me?" I asked.
"She didn't ask for your number, but gave me hers
and told me to give it to you. She said you could call any
time."
"I wonder whether she's married," I muttered.
"What was that?"
"Uh, nothing. So what else did she say?"
After giving me the telephone number, my mother recapped
her conversation with Trish. She told me that after graduation,
Trish had gone to secretarial school, worked for the Three
Village School District as a secretary, stayed on the Island
for a few years, had married someone from the South Shore,
and then divorced - no children. She then had moved to Florida
and remarried, where she now helped run her new husband's
car transport business.
"Are you going to call her? She took the time to call
you tonight."
"Yeah. I, um . . . I guess I have to." With any
luck if I did decide to call, Trish would be on the phone
and not have a call-waiting feature, and therefore I could
at least claim a hollow victory that I had tried to return
her phone call. Or maybe she wouldn't be home. Call me a
wimp for thinking that way. I deserve it.
Why were my hands damp?
"I think you should call her," Mom said. "She'd
love to hear from you."
"A-hum. Thanks, Ma." At least Mom couldn't see
me sweat.
#
Denial set in full bore. Might this surreal event be happening
if my parents had moved out of state? Or what if my unlisted
phone number had remained just that - unlisted - how could
she ever find me? What would have happened if my brother
hadn't forwarded that e-mail to me? Parting the clouds,
the gods of kismet fixed their beam on me. How could I ignore
them? At what cost?
#
Suddenly I realized I was warm so I went outside. The slight
chill I felt in the air helped since my hands were still
clammy. And I wasn't even a smoker. Was I nervous about
something? Or spooked? Or nervously spooked?
I sat on the stoop. Visions of kids and teachers, Murphy
Junior High and Gelinas Junior High, big school busses and
long rows of lockers, all were flooding my mind. Evoked
by one telephone call. Who knows what corner of my brain
spit out the pictures. I know if I'd thought about it long
enough, some other visions would weave their way in, too.
The ones that made me want out of school. The ones that
caused me to vow never to attend a reunion. The reminder
that there'd been unfinished business with Trish. I didn't
want to think about that.
It seemed, however, I had little choice in the matter.
My school days and the myriad reasons for wanting to avoid
them reappeared. I watched the sun set while I dusting off
the memories.
#
We had two junior high schools, Paul J. Gelinas JHS to
the north and Robert Cushman Murphy JHS to the south that
joined to comprise our high school's sophomore class. Route
25A - Setauket's Main Street - was a path for horse-drawn
carriages in colonial times, but now became our line of
demarcation for class rivalry. At that time, the Gelinas
kids lived in old Stony Brook, Old Field, and northern Setauket,
north of 25A. The Murphy kids conversely resided on the
south side, an other-side-of-the-tracks phenomenon.
I attended Robert Cushman Murphy, named in honor of the
Stony Brook naturalist and conservationist, where I met
other kids who would become my classmates in school and
my teammates on the ball fields. The newly formed friendships
were later crystallized at Ward Melville High.
To us "Murphy Boys," our intramural sporting competitions
with Gelinas had evolved into a battle between the haves
and the have-a-little-bit-lesses. Following a soccer game,
the Gelinas kids got into their parents' Cadillacs and Lincolns,
while we Murphies went to the other side of the parking
lot and jumped into Chrysler station wagons and Chevy Caprices.
Although Gelinas mostly prevailed in whatever events took
place, we Murphies took comfort in knowing that we'd all
be together on the same team in Melville.
Besides sports, customizing cars preoccupied the teenage
guys. On the
calendar hitting our sixteenth birthday, we badgered our
parents to take us to the Motor Vehicle Bureau, where we
had the honor to wait on lines for two hours for the "privilege"
of getting a learner's permit. I took advantage of the Driver's
Ed. course offered between tenth and eleventh grade, enabling
me to get a full license by my seventeenth birthday. Having
inherited the family wagon, I could now wave to a nervous
mother as I drove down the street without an adult. I remember
her having scolded me later about only having one hand on
the steering wheel as I was waving.
Once the guys had followed suit and gotten their wheels,
and the summers rolled around, like macho Turks, my buddies
and I drove our souped-up Mustangs, Camaros, and Firebirds
to the local beaches - Crescent Meadow being the favorite.
Music by Led Zeppelin, Aerosmith, Foreigner, and other now-classic
seventies rock blasted from the Jensen speakers we used
to buy at the local Radio Shack and installed ourselves.
Passersby stared, girls giggled, and little kids flashed
thumbs up whenever we drove past them around town.
Joey Borella, the backup quarterback of the Ward Melville
football team, had had the biggest rear wheel slicks on
his dark blue '72 Mustang fastback, so naturally he got
the biggest gawks from people on the road. I used to think
that if he were the starting quarterback, his satisfied
ego might have reduced his need to display such egotistical
rubber hunks on his car rims. I remembered him as a tall,
good-looking kid with dark curly hair. He used to call me
"Bobby Kay."
On arrival at the beach, we'd set up shop in the parking
lot, park side to side, roll all our windows down, open
the trunks to augment the bass, and just crank out the tunes,
challenging the upper limit of the volume level that wouldn't
cause our ears to bleed. Most of the time, a stag gathering
took place where we spoke - or bragged - about cars, girls,
and sports, but occasionally we had either girlfriends or
girl friends along for the ride. I usually had my girlfriend
- one word - with me, Trish Sylvan, also a Murphy alum.
Yes, that Trish.
#
Trish loved Crescent Meadow Beach. Considering we both
had lived nearby, we had visited it often. She, too, grew
up in the Three Village area that consisted of Stony Brook,
Old Field, and the Setaukets. She lived with her parents
and two older sisters in Stony Brook two miles away from
where I lived in East Setauket with my parents and three
younger siblings.
I could remember as far back as tenth grade, when Trish
and I had first started dating, we spent special moments
at Crescent Meadow. We strolled during the summer along
the water's edge, where we could smell the salt-water marsh
under a relentless sun; and during the winter, from the
car, we watched the pounding waves crash the beach. During
our high school lunch period, if we grabbed a burger at
the Jack-In-The-Box on Main Street, then either we ate at
the beach on a wooden picnic table or down on our favorite
bench at the Mill Pond, where teal-colored ducks invariably
swam up and waited for scraps of bread. I'd bet our initials
are still carved on the wood.
Trish and I enjoyed the usual teenage activities together.
We spent many nights talking on the phone, hours on end
- I liked that she always laughed at my one-liners - all
before the advent of Call Waiting no less. I can only imagine
how many calls our parents missed because of tied-up telephone
lines. It's remarkable how teenage blather could fill a
two-hour conversation.
By the beginning of senior year, our classmates had considered
us, in essence, perpetual high school boyfriend and girlfriend.
Sure, some small break-ups occurred, but our classmates
had labeled us "married" from the tenth grade
on anyway, since any noted episodes of separation lasted
only temporarily. I mean, even if one of us had so much
as tried to show interest in someone else, we'd hear, "Oh,
you and Trish . . . " or " . . . you and Bobby
are such a good couple. You'll probably elope someday."
Funny, the prospect of us recreating the plastic bride and
groom on the top tier of a wedding cake never appealed to
me. What's more, I don't think it should have; I was just
a kid.
In any event, recalling those wild, wonderful times so
long ago, I remember how Trish - my first girlfriend, the
first girl I'd ever kissed, the first girl I had brought
home to meet my parents, my sweetheart - always had an aura
of cheer about her and a kind heart. True to her Scandinavian
heritage, she had straight golden blonde hair, parted in
the middle. It cascaded down the sides of her face, framing
her dazzling blue eyes and sculpted nose.
Trish and I both were the same age and on the taller side,
she five-seven and I four inches taller. In view of our
love of athletics, we had played intramural sports after
school. Classified as "jocks," or sports-oriented
kids, we could always find that common ground for conversation.
Most students wore one of three labels: "Bomars"
were the über-smart with nerdy tendencies; "dirts"
were the long-hair-and-denim crowd that were friends with
Mary Jane; and, of course, there were the jocks. In high
school, Trish and I mostly had hung out with other jocks,
whether Murphy- or Gelinas-bred.
I remember the times when Trish and her close friend and
softball teammate Lynda Vargas hosted raucous pool parties
at Lynda's house in the days when wearing skimpy bathing
suits didn't cause embarrassment. I considered myself a
decent swimmer, but I will admit I had accidentally performed
my first and last belly flop in that pool. Trish laughed
good-naturedly about my stomach welt, and Lynda, ever the
gracious host, apologized endlessly. Why, I don't know because
she didn't do anything wrong.
Weekends meant we'd cuddle up at the movies, or ride bikes
to the nearby Emma S. Clark Memorial Library to research
term paper subjects. We bowled on a Saturday or two at the
lanes nearby at Stony Brook University.
And, lest I forget, our gang even spent many a Friday night
at the local gin mill, the Park Bench. There, we'd inevitably
belted out in unison Billy Joel's classic ballad "Scenes
from an Italian Restaurant" whenever it blared from
the jukebox. Oh, how I wished I had a buck whenever someone
substituted "Tricia and Bobby" for "Brenda
and Eddie," referring to the lovelorn high school sweethearts
of song who'd romanced, married, and then eventually divorced.
I tried getting the song queued early on, because after
our friends had had a couple of beers, they playfully switched
the lyrics.
But hey, it was all in fun. Drinking age was eighteen back
then, DWI hadn't become a major issue yet on Long Island,
but we knew when to say when - courtesy of sound parental
advice. The Park Bench was later sold to some guy who turned
it into a café. He even took out the jukebox.
#
So what did it mean that I now was humming that Billy Joel
song? I know I'd said my good-byes to Trish. Or did I?
The sun had set already and it was twilight. I thought
about how the sun had set twenty years ago on Trish and
me.
#
If I had to guess, I'd have to say our boyfriend/girlfriend
relationship fizzled just before graduation. I heard through
channels - and later confirmed from Trish after some interrogation
- that she'd gotten "cozy" with the manager of
a deli where she'd been working. I initially expressed disbelief
due to the age difference between the participants. Because
Mr. Manager was twenty-five and his subordinate eighteen,
I would've assumed Trish might have stayed closer to her
age as opposed to gettin' gaga over an "old" guy
like this. From what I'd remembered of him, he had sprouted
a few gray hairs on his Boar's-head. His name was Artie.
I think he was the first guy I'd ever looked at with a scowl
etched into my face.
Now, come senior year, with the prom on the horizon, I
had been curious to see if Trish planned to ask salami-man
to escort her. This was all before I even thought about
putting the request to her. My heart told me Trish and I
belonged at the prom as putting the exclamation point on
our relationship and on high school, but then I'd thought,
"You know, if she's interested in someone else, why
bother to ask her? Tuxes are expensive. And then there's
the corsage and the limo . . . "
Naturally, I'd felt an obligation to clear the air with
her, find out where I stood exactly, and play nice, but
I never did. I suppose the anger and jealousy got in the
way. Anyway, I stopped calling. When we'd pass in the hall,
I got:
"Oh, hi. Sorry I haven't called; I've been out with
friends."
"A-hum."
Our shared reticence developed into a Mexican standoff,
seeing who blinked first. There were no winners. The stare-down
never ended.
In any event, Trish showed this certain coolness, and her
association with her comfortable clique of friends - plus
the deli guy - had consumed her non-school hours. Whatever
brief conversations we did have simply avoided mutually-inclusive
future events - except Lynda's graduation party. I told
Trish I was going, but in reality, ultimately a crapshoot
would decide whether I would.
Now the first week of June had arrived and my countdown
to graduation began in earnest. I wanted out of school.
I'd made some friends during this three-year sentence but
I insisted my parole start immediately. I mean, after all,
high school was for kids. I felt that my future as a grown-up
begins after the toll of the last class bell. No more caste
system, no more stuck-up guys, no more catty girls, and
no more bullies.
Anyway, it was nearing summer and the weather had started
to turn pleasant. My beloved Yankees had Reggie Jackson,
trying to secure another trip to the World Series, carrying
the team on his back in a pennant race. Baseball had proved
to be a satisfying diversion from studying for finals or
thinking about our formal. I soon made the first big decision
of my life: "There'll be no prom for me. It's Friday
night, the Yanks are on."
Relationship-wise, I felt the fork in the road had approached,
and with a heavy heart, I knew Trish and I would take different
paths. We seemed to have lost that "connection."
Out talks were shorter, the smiles less frequent, and the
sizzle more of a fizzle. I mean, the whole dynamic had changed.
So, considering the question of could we remain a couple,
the Ouija board of fate had answered "No." It
seemed that Trish made her own plans, and I had taken a
summer job at the nearby Smith Haven Mall at a card store
and I looked forward to meeting some new people before starting
college in the fall.
It was at this point that I realized I'd had my first love
and it was over. Immediately, questions arose. What would
happen with her picture I've been carrying in my wallet?
What might become of that box of love letters in my closet?
Who could ever touch me like this again? How can I ever
find someone with that cute little giggle that Trish had,
someone who knew how to read my moods, or someone who could
empathize with me on the periodic over-protectiveness of
parents? I simply lacked the knowledge and maturity to develop
an acceptable response to these and other questions. I loved
Trish, but now it seemed we should be moving on, saying
our good-byes, and promising to keep in touch.
Well, that should have been the plan. That never happened.
This teenage union had stopped and disconnected, like lifting
the needle off a record player. There was no official send-off,
no last date, or anyone waving Brenda and Eddie good-bye.
I never saw her again.
#
So what could I possibly have gained by returning her telephone
call . . . besides having damper hands?
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