Memoir / Chapter 13

I sat for a long time, pondering the conversation I had with Kara. When the coffee in my cup was as cold as the fire in the grate, I shook myself out of my reverie and took the collection of china cups, saucers, and flatware to the sink. I was still lost in thought and didn't hear Clark come up behind me. He wrapped his arms around my waist and kissed my cheek, the stubble on his cheek grazing my skin. I leaned my head back into him a bit, proferring my neck to him so that he might take the invitation. He began to nip and press his lips against the sensitive flesh on the column of my neck. I always loved it when he did this—I would gladly agree to wash dishes all day if he would hold me like this, caressing my neck and collarbone with his supple lips.

"Penny for your thoughts." His words tickled my earlobe as he brushed a gentle kiss at the tender spot below my ear.

"Do you have a one?" The government had stopped minting pennies when the price of copper exceeded the worth of a penny. In fact, nickels and dimes were no longer minted, either.

"Nah, do you?"

"As a matter-of-fact, I do."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah—you gave it to me."

"Really, when?"

"Remember the first time you took me to Coney Island? You said the same thing to me then, 'penny for your thoughts' and I made you give me the penny before I would tell you."

He laughed. My eyes were closed, and my back to him, but I could imagine his radiant smile. "Yeah, I do remember. And I also remember the monumental decision that had you so preoccupied; chili dog with onions, or chili fries."

"It was a hard choice."

"So hard that you chose both." He squeezed me tighter and rested his chin on my shoulder. "You kept it all this time?"

"Yes."

"Who knew you were such a sentimentalist?"

"Don't act so surprised. You know I am."

"I know it now. I didn't know it then. If I had known, then maybe I would have done something extraordinary, you know, so that I could impress you."

"It was the fact that you didn't try to impress me that impressed me the most."

"Where do you keep it?"

"In the attic."

"Show me."

"You don't believe me?"

"I believe you. I just want to see what other mementos you have tucked away."

"Okay. C'mon." I felt suddenly giddy and girlish. I took his hand and led him up the stairs to the attic. He pulled the lamp chord and a circle of yellow light pooled on the attic floor. Our footsteps scuffed and thudded across the dusty planks. I led him to a cedar trunk with an ornate, celtic design carved in the lid.

"Wow. This was my mother's trunk—given to her by my grandmother."

"Martha gave it to me years ago."

"I remember. I thought . . . I thought you had passed it down to Ellen." (Ellen was our eldest daughter.)

"I told her I wasn't done with it yet. When I'm done using it she may have it then." I began to kneel down.

"Wait. Don't sit down yet." Clark said to me and he dashed off before I could protest. He returned with a stool for me to sit on--thoughtful, as always. I got comfortable and Clark crouched down beside me as I opened the lid and began lifting my treasures out of the trunk to get the box where I'd been keeping the penny and my other 'date' mementos.

"Lois, these books . . . are these your journals?"

"Yes."

"I had no idea you'd been keeping them."

"It's all in here. Scrapbooks, letters, postcards, photos, articles, microfilm, and flash drives full of research on politicians and celebrities I've collected over the years. Oh look, here's that penny." I pulled out a round hat-box full of odds and ends. Clark was still looking pensively at the journals. "Didn't you keep journals?"

"Yes, I did—but not like this. You gave me my first journal. Remember?"

"Yes, it was for your 18th birthday."

"I still have it. I remember what you told me."

"Clark, that was a really hard year for you. It was right after your father passed away."

"But you were right. You know, even then, you knew me better than anyone else."

"Of course I did." I smiled at him. Together, we examined the contents of the hat box, commenting and reminiscing about the items and the memories they evoked. There was an odd hodge-podge of items; photos, napkins, name tags, chopsticks, a Japanese fan, worry dolls, a snow globe, menus and matchbooks from restaurants and hotels that we had visited in our travels around the world, both as reporters and then as friends and lovers. We giggled at some old fortunes from cookies that I'd saved, laughed at a pez dispenser of Superman, grimaced at the silly mug-shot photos we'd had taken while visiting China, and groaned about a hideously ugly caricature that was done of us when we went to Sea World in San Diego. At length, we collected the items and returned them to the box.

"May I read these?" Clark was holding several of the journals in his hand.

"Of course Clark—you know I have no secrets from you."

He reached out to me and gently caressed my check with the palm of his hand and said, "Thank you for trusting me with your secrets—and your heart." I gazed into his eyes, shadowed by his long, dark lashes, hiding in half-shadow in the poorly-lit attic room. They shone brilliantly and I was lost in their depths. Clark has said some pretty romantic things to me over the years, some corny, but romantic none-the-less. Something about the way he said this to me convinced me that this was one of the most romantic thing he had ever said to me. I took his face in my hands and kissed him, hoping that I was infusing into that kiss all the love that I felt for him—all the love that pulsed and coursed through my heart and brain and in the hearts of our children and our children's children. He shifted onto his knees and drew me closer to him, threading his large fingers through my hair, kissing me, loving me.