Confluence
by Denise Em
© 2004, 2006
How did I know?
I've asked that of myself many times, but I'm still unable to give a logical answer. I just ~did~. Similar to a deja-vu experience, as soon as I saw him I ~knew~ who he was - even though we hadn't seen each other for over forty years.
And so much had changed. Where was the skinny kid that I'd known in elementary school and, again, in high school? His ears no longer stuck out like funnels, and his hair reminded me of Friar Tuck in the Robin Hood TV series. Yet - standing there in profile, awaiting his turn to file a flight plan - I saw some critical feature, or set of them, that made me certain. The man in front of me was the boy who had walked me home from school - the whole half-block trip - almost every day of second grade, even though he lived in the exact opposite direction.
For a moment, my mind was flooded with memories of him - galloping around the play yard, hands slapping on his thighs in a horse's hoofbeat; snorting and whinnying with the rest of us - the only boy in our little herd of maybe 8 ponies.
And I remembered how much I missed him in third grade, when they wouldn't let the boys and girls play together any more.
They'd also split third grade into two classes, and we had different teachers. On top of that, he couldn't walk me home every day; sometimes he had to scoot straight home - like for his Cub Scout den meeting, which fell on the day between my ballet classes.
But we always waved when we saw each other.
And when fourth grade started, he wasn't there any more. Someone else was living in his house.
But for that whole year, every time I had a ballet performance, I thought of him ...
Standing in the mini-studio that my dad had created in one corner of our garage - complete with a floor-to-ceiling mirror and an eight foot long barre - trying to learn the basic positions ...
In my old ballet costume.
I had just got a new one for our next performance, and I was so excited about it. He'd seen me home, as usual, and I invited him inside, asking him if he'd like to see it. That's right - unconsciously, I thought of him as "one of the girls" rather than as a ~boy~. And he didn't react like a boy, either. He showed real interest in it, remarking how pretty it was.
I asked him if he'd seen my old one. He hadn't. I took him out into the garage and dug it out of the rummage box to which it had been consigned. He said that its deep blue color was his favorite, as he gazed at it longingly. I didn't even think about whether he, a ~boy~, should be wearing a girls' ballet costume; I just asked him if he'd like to try it on.
He was hesitant, which was my first hint that we might be stepping into "forbidden territory", but he did say yes.
At first, we tried putting it on over his T-shirt, but it wouldn't zip up. So I told him to take the shirt off and try again. It fit him quite nicely, with the hem just past his knees. My first thought was to ask my mom if he could have it, instead of giving it to the Salvation Army.
"Can you roll up your jeans legs so they don't show?" I asked him. He did, but it still looked a little silly with his feet still in his P-F Flyers. I didn't tell him that; but his expression after he'd taken a twirl in front of the mirror told me he knew.
"Want me to unzip you?" I asked. But even though he obviously wasn't happy with the way things looked, he wasn't ready to take it off yet.
"Barbara, I have cookies and milk out on the kitchen table," I heard my mother say behind me.
Poor Eddie; his deer-in-the-headlights expression is still so vivid in my mind. Maybe it was a good thing that he was so completely terrified that he was frozen in place. It would have looked worse, if he'd tried to run or hide.
Mother was so cool, though. She casually asked him what he knew about ballet. He just shook his head to convey "nothing", to which she responded, "Well, you can't get all dressed up for it and not learn a little about it.
"Barbara, why don't you show Eddie the First Position."
I did, and she asked Eddie to try to do just what I did.
We spent about 10 minutes going through the beginner's positions and movements, then Mother told him that the cookies were waiting, so he should change back into his "street clothes".
I had ballet class the next day, right after school; so he wasn't invited in. He seemed a little more disappointed than usual.
It was the middle of the following week before there was a day when I didn't have to go somewhere right after school.
I invited him in, and he asked me if I'd asked my mother.
I told him no, but that I was certain that it was okay. He told me that I'd better check first, but then said that he had to get home right away, anyway. Still, it seemed as though he ~wanted~ to come in ... but didn't feel as though he dared?
The next Monday, we were both free after school. I invited him inside. Mom made each of us strawberries on a small piece of shortcake.
When we were done with our snack, I asked him if he wanted to learn more about ballet. His reply was positive, but still hesitant, so I took him into the garage and showed him some stretching excercises that he'd need to know. We had a good time until it was time for him to leave.
That set the pattern for the rest of the school year. At least once a week, we went into the garage and practiced some of the basics. I got him to wear an old pair of my satin slippers - that matched the old costume - so that his clunky sneakers wouldn't spoil his movements. He looked quite cute with their ribbons wrapped around his ankles. He looked even cuter a few times later, when I talked him into trading his jeans for a wrap-around skirt ... and eventually, in the costume again.
His protestations aside, he obviously enjoyed those opportunities. I didn't understand it then, but his demeanor bespoke something bordering on rapture.
Mome even talked to him, and his mother, about signing up for real lessons at the ballet studio.
But eventually summer came, and he was soon gone.
We met again in our sophomore year, when we started high school. But something had changed. We shared two classes our first year - English and Latin - and I had tried to chat him up, but he was so timid that we never made it past the "friends" stage throughout our three years there. We never dated even once.
Maybe he was still "one of the girls"?
I'd heard he went to Grad-night at Disneyland with girl; but just as friends ... was that just "friends of convenience"?
I don't mean to say that I thought he was strange. He seemed like a regular guy - except for when we'd do ballet stuff together; he was never interested in learning the men's parts.
I mean, he did pretty much all the regular "guy" stuff. During our senior year, he had two cars: the first was an old Ford coupe that was long overdue to the junk yard; and when it finally did expire, he bought a typical Surf-mobile, an eight-year-old Ford two-door station wagon. He took auto shop, and was a member of the school band. He also was on some sort of sports team at his church; and he went to their dances instead of the school dances. And, the entire senior year, he
held down a job, too.
Mostly, he just seemed very ... timid.
He didn't appear to be that way now, reading off his notes to the FSS - a typical pilot: all business - as direct, and brief, as possible.
It was a good thing he was so thoroughly engrossed in his conversation. I'd have been embarrassed if he'd caught me studying him so closely. There were little things that caught my attention. Most guys his age had rather bushy eyebrows. His weren't. They weren't femininely thin, either, but they definitely had the look of being well-groomed, if you know what I mean.
I moved to the side so that I could see his left hand. Yes, there was the telltale band of untanned skin. He'd been married - maybe still was? Somehow, I didn't think so. A pilots' lounge just isn't the sort of place for a guy to be out tomcatting. That left "divorced" or "widowed".
Either thought left me feeling a little sad for him. He looked like he was still very much a Nice Guy. You know what I mean - by his age, people tend to show how they've interacted with life. He didn't have that hardened look that I'd come know far too well.
My former husband looks years beyond his age - which I attributed to his bitter attitude.
The first 15 years of our marriage, he had been the perfect model of the "man of velvet and steel" husband: supportive of my role as mother of our three children; encouraging of me developing my talents; and later, encouraging of my efforts to go back into the workplace after the youngest started high school - that is, until I started making more money than he did.
When he left - the day after our baby's 18th birthday - he complained that I didn't want a husband, I wanted a wife!
Well maybe I did. At the very least, I wanted a husband who would be supportive of me when I was doing what I loved and did very well. I didn't need a "partner" who tried to undercut me at those critical moments when I needed to focus my full attention on business matters.
Worse, the children "got it". The older two told him he should just relax and enjoy the extra income, or maybe even become "Mr. Mom", so that Jeanette would have someone at home when she got out of school. Not that she needed that; she was involved in so many activities at school and church, that she rarely came home directly from school, or even got home before I did.
Apparently, he just couldn't stand the notion not being THE provider, so he left. Why couldn't he just have been happy for me? I never asked him to try to out-earn me. It was just my good fortune to find a situation which brought out my talents. Why couldn't that have been a source of joy to him, as well? It wasn't as if I had been neglectful of him. We'd had about as much time together as when he'd been the sole breadwinner.
That was an odd place to have a dimple - right in the center of the ear lobe. Maybe he'd had his ear pierced some time in the past?
I wondered what kind of husband - and father - he had been. How had his wife reacted to the pierced ear? That's his right ear - is the other one pierced also?
I had to force my mind away from a vision of him - lest I giggle aloud - with two inch gold hoops through his ears; coifed in an updo; his face made up; and wearing a 50s style shirt-waist dress; the perfect wife for a high powered executive - me!
But the vision was compelling. His jaw wasn't so angular that he would appear out-of-place with a hairdo of soft waves and curls. A little bit of pencil work to extend those brows ...
He had hung up the phone and was gathering up his notes. I was so engrossed in my fantasy that I didn't think to look away.
He turned and looked straight into my eyes. Was that a look of recognition?
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