Yeah, I used to. Wait and wait til all
were asleep, eyes out for the night watchman, laggard, who wandered by a few
times a night, for what I'm not certain, really. I requested a dorm room on the
earth side of the hill, window flush with the lawn, on the back of the
building, in the shade of the street lights. And after he'd wandered by, while
it seemed everyone was sleep, I'd pull on my coat and boots, remove the screen,
smile at my wakened roommate, who glanced at me, then fell back asleep, and
crawled out the narrow window, reaching in to crank it back closed as much as I
could; or she'd jump up and do it for me, waving me on.
Up the snow covered hill I'd climb,
through the sparse trees, up through the deep snow of the field to the small
country road, waiting there, darkness all around. And I'd wait, like some
Russian novel's protagonist, not caring. About the cold, or the night or the
darkness or alone out there. Because after awhile, he would have made it home,
grabbed his old VW, raced through New York to Connecticut, and sped round the
curved wooded roads, approaching the top of the hill, where he'd kill the
lights, drifting quietly down the hill.
Maybe I'd have fallen sleep, in the deep
snow; or maybe I'd be lying on my back, watching the stars and the trees bowing
over me in the winter wind. Cold cutting into me, feet numb, face reddened. No
matter. He'd call out, if I didn't stand right up, knowing I may be in dream
land, somewhere in the field, near the road. And I'd hear him, if I'd fallen
asleep, or see him, If I'd been awake, creeping his black car slowly down the
snow crusted road.
And I'd rise up, brushing myself off
some,and make my way around the car, him opening the door, anticipating my numb
young fingers, and in I'd jump, both of us smiling, hard.
And we'd kiss. Long long. Like young ones
do. LIke rapturous ones do. Til I'd been thoroughly warmed; and then, why we'd
drive right round the boarding school; sometimes for a lark, up one side of the
long drive leading to the main building, laughing so hard! As the night
watchman peered out, or came stumbling out, wondering who goes there, as we
descended to the other end of the drive, the four large locked up dorm's lights
blinking in the deep night after us.
Holding hands, sometimes I'd fall asleep
once again, opening my coat to the warmth of the car's heat, and he'd make our
way back to New York, to his parent's house, where all were fast asleep. He'd
stand at the refrigerator, open, eating, offering me this and that, I who ate
little, and I'd tug tug on his arm, thick coat, to come come upstairs, to bed.
Up the small stairs from the kitchen,
designed for the 'help' years before, to his back bedroom, where we'd curl into
each other, and spend the night, our own bath, doors locked up.
Until quite early, but late enough that
his parents would be in the kitchen, in their pjs and nightgown. And his mother
would make some sort of frightful surprise sound, then go on and on in English
and Yiddish and Spanish and perhaps a bit of German, to us, to her husband, to
me, about my age, about being here. No control; they had no control over those
5 sons. And he'd smile, kiss his mother, grab some food for us from the frig,
I'd give her a quick embrace, a smile to the dad, and off we'd go, the sky
still new in the day.
Same path back, same small hill, same
snowly day after, same killing the engine. Same long long kisses. Same his hand
pulling me back to him, as I readied to depart the car. Same me laughing and
pushing him rough, climbing up on him- pushing him hard into the seat, a
dominant dog perhaps , or lion- I'm not sure. My knee on his lap, my hands
holding back his shoulders, my mouth on his. One more. Then enough of this, I'd
laugh to myself, and out of the car I'd be, slinking into the field, waving
without looking back. Knowing he was watching.
Then watching far up by the Music Building,
scoping things out...waiting for my moment, as I carefully brushed snow off,
readying myself for a casual entry. To the dining room. Or back to the dorm.
Not meeting anyone's eyes. Appearing sidetracked and unavailable. Younger ones
walking by, watching quietly, it was all in the feeling you projected, was what
I'd slowly learned.
I knew of one other who was a chronic,
such as myself; could not be penned in, and we'd each only gotten caught once,
each of us making up dramatic-upset-home-things to cover, sitting in front of
the Assistant Headmaster, at her desk, she younger than I am today.
I could cry on command, and tell the best
story, with not too many details or feeling, replicating real experiences, til
I began to wonder what would become of me, doing this pretending in the world,
when all I wanted was more sanity and wisdom than those I'd come from.
But the next second, I knew I'd only do
this as long as necessary, to get what I wanted, and no more. So I let it drop,
as I watched her, behind her desk, telling me that when I was her age, I would
hold the very same opinions and values as she held that very day. And could I
try to just take it in, the rules and the way of thinking and the best for the
future and all that.
Yet I knew in my wise young mind, as I
still know today, that she was wrong. Wrong. She held nothing for me, then. Her frustration and her hard job and her own life and all those long stairs to the Headmaster's office. Her tweed and pretense and
aspirations for social standing and shame of her husband and bustling opinions. None would ever be mine.
As out I'd go, slipped by once again,
just one of us: so young.
Determined, when all came down to it,
to make your own way, always.
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