CHAPTER 7
We left the house at about twenty minutes before seven. I wasn't sure how long it'd take to get to Darla's place. She lived in a new condo development called Mile-High Village. She'd told me that it was on the northwest side of greater Denver; and she'd given me general directions that would at least put me in the right neck of the woods. But, beyond that, I had absolutely no idea how to get there. I was on my cellphone with her the entire time I was driving, listening as she gave me more detailed directions. Since she and I had grown up next door to each other, she knew where I was coming from, so I figured she could direct me pretty well—and she did . . . except when it came to the freeway.
Darla and I had both been away from Denver for so long, we were unaware of some of the new branches that had been added to the city's freeway system—especially those around our old neighborhood. Darla knew the on- and off-ramps around the newspaper offices and her own condo village pretty well. But the newer ones in our neck of the woods baffled her. I read off each of the exit signs before we got to them, so she could tell me if the area—or the street—in question was anywhere near her place. When I mentioned Iroquois Avenue, she cried, "That's it! That's the one! Take that exit . . . then turn left at the light, or the stop sign, or whatever."
So I did. I turned left at the light. Iroquois Avenue was a busy street . . . and it led . . . straight to . . . Mile-High Village! Big surprise!
"Woot!" I said in celebratory fashion, as I spotted a huge billboard on the right that advertised "Mile-High Village Condominiums—the new name in quality and comfort—just 2 miles straight ahead." Of course, there was a picture of what the condos looked like. They were pretty nice, from what I could tell. I hoped Darla's was as roomy and comfortable as she needed it to be. . ..
One of the things I remembered about Darla was that she always valued her personal space. Being the youngest, she didn't have a room of her own till both of her siblings had left the nest. Even when she'd gone to college she'd had a roommate. This was probably the first time in her life that she was actually living alone. I was, of course, concerned for her safety. I hoped the condo—or at least the village itself—had sufficient security measures.
I pulled into what could appropriately be called "the neighborhood" that was Mile-High Village, and Darla told me how to find her street. She lived at 1357 John Elway Circle. The folks who built the place seemed to think it would be nice to give the condos regular addresses—like houses in the suburbs have—instead of just numbering them 1 thru 300, or however many units there were. And, of course, all of the so-called "streets" were named after great Broncos—even the coaches. The main street—the one that led right down the middle of the whole complex—was called "Dan Reeves Boulevard." It had a median, with small blue spruces every ten feet or so; and freshly-mowed, young green grass. Nice.
On the right, after we'd passed about a dozen little trees, I spotted a sign bearing John Elway's name and turned onto the appropriate street. I closed my cellphone and slid it back into my pocket, driving slowly around the cul-de-sac that was John Elway Circle. I had expected to see a cluster or chain of buildings: i.e., each condo having another attached to it on each side. But Mile-High Village wasn't like that. It was more like a series of what the British would call "semi-detached houses." Or what we would think of as extra-large duplexes.
I soon saw Darla and a younger woman with blond hair standing on a sidewalk, waving. I pulled into the double driveway that Darla apparently shared with her left-hand neighbors in 1359. An address number was skipped between each building, so the next duplex had the numbers 1363 and 1365. Since it was a cul-de-sac, there was no "other side of the street," and, therefore, no even numbers. Why the village's designers had chosen to use odd numbers instead of evens was anybody's guess, and why they had started numbering at 1351 was also something of a mystery. But I wasn't about to let such inconsequential things occupy my mind for more than a second.
I turned off the engine on the Cherokee, got out, shut the door, and walked up to Darla with my hands held out in front of me, a warm "I'm happy-to-see-you" smile on my face. Darla's hands reached for mine and took them. "You made it!"
"With you giving me directions, how could I not?" I queried politely. I drew her closer to me and kissed her on the cheek, whispering in her ear, "You look like a million dollars!"
"Thanks," she said in return, smiling softly.
Now, I'm not one to fuss overmuch about clothes, but I couldn't help noticing what the girls were wearing. Whether it was deliberate or not, they almost looked like matching bookends. Darla was wearing a pair of shiny black slacks—flawlessly neat, clean and pleated—with a silky white, short-sleeved blouse and a strand of pearls. From her right shoulder hung a small, simulated-pearl-covered shoulder bag on a long, golden chain. It just about reached her hip. On her feet she wore a pair of classy white dress sandals, evidently with nylons of some kind. I was glad to see her toenails weren't painted. Some peculiarities that women have I can handle; but painted toenails isn't one of them. Maybe I'm just priggish, or something.
Jamie was dressed similarly, but her slacks were dark brown and her blouse was kind of a beige-ecru sort of thing, like the one Darla had been wearing that morning in her office, except that Jamie's—like the one Darla was wearing now—was short-sleeved. Instead of a necklace of any kind, Jamie was wearing a lapel pin—not big enough to be called a brooch—in the shape of a French poodle. It was silver and was studded with small, round bits of turquoise. She carried a clutch purse, which, like her shoes (which had closed toes but only straps in the back) was bedecked with silvery specks. They both looked gorgeous. I could tell Mac thought so, too.
I took all of this in while Darla, still holding my hand, turned to look at Mac and Jamie and proceeded to introduce us all to one another.
Mac, however, had already introduced himself to Jamie, and she had returned the favor. My kid brother appeared to be completely taken with her. I doubted either of them had noticed the warm greetings Darla and I had just given each other. In any event, Darla introduced Jamie to me and vice versa. We shook hands in a perfunctory fashion, smiling politely.
"Well then," I said once the intros were all out of the way, "shall we be off?" I held out my arm to Darla and walked her to the passenger side of the front seat of the Cherokee.
"I take it this means that you and I get the back seat," said Jamie to Mac.
"If you're uncomfortable with that idea," I said, "we can always change it and put Darla in back with you. But I was told this would be a double date . . . ."
"No, no, it's fine," Jamie said, nodding, although I sensed that it wasn't. I couldn't help wondering how long it'd been since Jamie had been alone with a man anywhere except in a laboratory. . . Anyway, Mac opened her door for her, putting her behind her aunt.
"So," I said to Darla, once everyone was seated and strapped in, "how do we get to this restaurant you're so fond of?"
"It's about five and a half blocks north from the village entrance," she informed me, "on the right-hand side of the street."
"Good! I hate making left turns across traffic."
"So, do I," Darla admitted. Then she asked, "Did you and Mac find anything interesting in your uncle's dictation?"
I shook my head. "We really haven't taken the time to look it over yet. We were . . . otherwise occupied this afternoon." I could feel myself redden a little.
Darla smiled. "You were talking about us, weren't you? I mean, about Jamie and me."
"Some," I admitted grudgingly.
"It's okay, really. I don't mind."
"Neither do I," spoke up Jamie. "I figured, since we were all going out together tonight, Mac might have a few questions about me."
"You look a lot like your mom," Mac commented.
"So I've been told," Jamie replied blandly. "I understand she was your babysitter before Aunt Darla was old enough to do it."
"I really don't remember. I was two when Darla took over. I just remember seeing Joan before and after school when I was a little older."
"Aunt Darla," Jamie queried, "why did Mom turn the job over to you, anyway?"
"Because she was asked to sit with the Ramsey twins across the street. They were girls, and she made twice the money. Mrs. Ramsey paid sitters per child as well as per hour."
Mac whistled. "That's pretty generous."
I looked over at Darla and nodded. "I remember you telling me about it at the time; and I believe I said something like, 'No wonder Joan palmed my brother off on you.'"
"'Palmed off?'" Mac protested. "Do you see what I have to put up with?" he asked Jamie, obviously after sympathy.
Jamie shrugged. "My brother and I are no different. Siblings fight. It's a fact of life."
"Yeah, well, with Jack and me, it's a bit more than that."
Jamie nodded. "The age difference, I know."
"Actually," I spoke up, "it's a bit more than that—on my part, anyway."
"What?" Mac asked, leaning forward in his seat and looking at me intently.
I sighed. "I was fifteen when you were born. Dad and I were just starting to really bond, you know?—doing guy stuff together that he'd always thought I was too little to do before. Then you came along and all that changed. Under normal circumstances, I don't think he would've been as hands-on with you as he was. But, since it'd been so long since I was a baby, and since Mom's health was kind of precarious after you born, Dad took a more active roll in your care and nurturing than he did mine. All my life he'd treated me like a kid; then, when I got into high school, our relationship became more adult. . . and a lot more man-to-man. After you were born, it was gone as quick as it started."
"Hey, I'm sorry," Mac apologized. "But it's not as if it was my fault."
"I know that," I griped. "In my heart I knew it back then, too; but in my head . . . ." I shrugged. "What can I say? I resented you for taking Dad away from me. It wasn't reasonable. It just . . . was."
"But when Mom got stronger and I didn't need quite so much care, he turned his attention right back to you again, didn't he?" Mac said resentfully. "All I ever heard growing up was how proud he was of his son in the Navy."
"Do you know why I joined the Navy in the first place?" I asked. "It wasn't just because it was an old family tradition, although that was a part of it. But for me, primarily, it was to get back some of that attention I'd lost. I knew if I became a successful naval officer Dad would be pleased as punch and would start noticing me again."
"So, it wasn't just the fifteen years' age difference after all," said Darla. "There really was—and still is—a powerful sibling rivalry between you two."
Jamie then put in another nickel's worth. "It doesn't matter what caused the rift or the rivalry. You're full grown men now. It's time to grow up and stop digging at each other all the time. Find some common ground and work from there. Isn't that what this whole 'kidnapping' escapade of your dad's is all about?—getting the two of you together?"
"Supposedly," I replied. "I'm still not entirely sure about that."
"But—" Darla began.
I held up a hand, nodding. "I know, I know: it's what Dad told you. But something in my gut tells me everything isn't quite what it seems—that there's more to this than meets the eye."
"Like what?" my brother asked.
I shook my head. "I'm not sure. It's just a feeling. I expect it'll become clearer as time goes on."
"You mean, once we decode the stuff your uncle dictated to Mac," Darla inferred.
"Maybe . . ." I said noncommittally.
We had reached the restaurant. Further conversation was suspended till after I parked the Jeep. As I opened the door for Darla and she stepped out, she said, "Rule number one: no talking about your dad's disappearance over dinner; rule number two: no more squabbling between you two. This is a date; we're here to enjoy ourselves. Let's keep it light and friendly."
"And rule number three," I added as I closed the door, "no bringing up anything about the past that might be embarrassing or hurtful—to anyone."
"So, how do we know what might be embarrassing and what might not?" Mac inquired mischievously as Darla and I rounded the Jeep and met the other two on the sidewalk.
"Just put yourself in the other person's shoes," I replied. "If it's something you wouldn't want discussed if it was you instead of them . . . don't bring it up."
Jamie nodded. "Good rule of thumb. Might take a lot of fun out of the evening, though."
Darla looked at her niece slightly askance as I opened the door of the restaurant for her. "You were hoping to hear a few juicy tidbits, weren't you?" she asked as she stepped inside.
"Well, maybe a few . . ." Jamie replied with a smile, following her aunt through the door.
"After you," I said to my brother, continuing to hold the door as he approached.
"I wouldn't think of it," Mac responded, taking hold of the door. "Age before beauty."
Darla took my hand before I could make a retort. "Come on, Jack. Let's go on inside. I'm starving!"
I wanted to say "Later, bro," to Mac, but I let it drop. Darla and Jamie had both made it clear that any more evidence of the sibling rivalry between Mac and me was a no-no for the evening; best to put the grudge aside for now. If Dad had his way—and Jamie, too, if her comments were any indication—it would be put aside permanently.
Once we were all inside, a hostess led us to a table by a window with a view. Mac and I sat side by side, with the girls across the table from us. Darla and I were next to the window, with Mac and Jamie on the outside. It was a large table, so Mac and Jamie could move farther toward the edge of the table any time they—or we—wanted more privacy.
Being as it was summer, it was still light outside. Mile-High Village—and the restaurant—were in the suburbs. Downtown Denver was miles away. The entire area was green with grass, shrubbery and trees. It was downright relaxing just to gaze out at it—which I did while everyone else was perusing their menus.
In due course, a "server" arrived. (I still prefer the old-fashioned, gender-specific terms: "waiter" and "waitress"; "steward" and "stewardess." At least princes and princesses are still specific. . ..)
"I'd like the California health food salad," I heard Jamie say. At least my little brother remembered his manners enough to let the ladies order first . . . .
"Darla?" Mac queried.
"I'm going to have the petite sirloin on the seniors' menu: smaller portions for a smaller appetite." Despite the fact that I was still looking out the window, I couldn't help but smile.
"Soup or salad?" the waitress asked.
"Neither," she replied. I smiled again. That was my finicky little Darla.
"I'll have the steak and shrimp platter," Mac said, jumping right in, "with a baked potato and lots of sour cream. And I'll take a tossed salad with blue cheese dressing."
"What about you, Jack?" Darla asked, pulling me out of my reverie.
"Hm? Oh, the menu; right." I picked it up and scanned it semi-carefully. "The surf and turf sounds good to me, too . . . but I think I'll have French fries instead."
"Soup or salad?"
"Salad. I hate eating soup during the summer. Ranch dressing for me."
The waitress . . . er, rather, the server, then asked us what we wanted to drink. There were two orders for lemonade and two for Dr. Pepper. I'll give you two guesses who ordered which, and the first guess doesn't count. (Without consulting one another, we all seemed to have come to the conclusion that we were best off staying completely sober.)
"So, the seniors' menu, huh?" I teased Darla. She blushed. I smiled again. "You know, blushing gives you a certain . . . glow," I said.
Darla took a sip of water; then, after setting the glass down again, she self-consciously turned it around, as if she were playing with it. Then she shrugged and said (without looking at me), "I'm over fifty. I figure I'm entitled."
"I'm more over fifty than you are," I pointed out.
"Yes," she said, finally looking at me, "but you're a guy. Generally speaking, men eat more than women do."
I nodded. "Yeah, I guess you're right. Although, by the time I'm, say . . . eighty(?) . . . I won't have quite as much appetite as I do now. I've been to countless banquets with all kinds of retired officers—some of 'em looked like they already had one foot in the grave—and I swear . . . those old geezers ate less than a five-year-old."
"Most of them probably don't have all their own teeth anymore," Darla opined.
"Or all of their own body parts," spoke up Mac. "When your body isn't working properly anymore, it's harder for it to digest food."
"Now there's a pleasant thought to start a meal with," I said sardonically.
"So, let's change the subject, shall we?" Darla asked.
The salads were arriving—including Jamie's BIG one. Time to eat.
"So," I asked Darla, "what are you going to do while the rest of us eat our salads?"
"I'm going to sit here and look at all of your beautiful faces and tell amusing anecdotes."
"Look," I said as the waitress returned, "here's a basketful of soft rolls and butter. Why don't you save the anecdotes for later and eat?"
"Are you worried about me, Jack?" she asked impishly.
"No! It's just that . . . I've never been comfortable eating in front of other people. It was a house rule, ya know? It's not polite to—"
"It's my choice, Jack."
"I know, but . . ."
She smiled beguilingly. Man, she could drive me crazy!—in a good way, of course. "All right. I'll have a roll."
"So," said Jamie as she picked up a forkful of greens, "how much about Aunt Darla do you really remember after all these years, Jack?"
"I'd like to know that, too," Darla said, looking at me pointedly. "What's my favorite food?"
"Spaghetti."
"That's incredible! When did I tell you that?"
"Never. Don't you remember the backyard barbeque at our house on the occasion of Mac's first birthday back in '66?"
"Yes, but—"
"Dad asked you whether you'd rather have a hamburger or a hot dog, and you said spaghetti was your favorite food and you didn't like barbeque sauce much anyway, so he said he'd cook you a burger or a hot dog without any sauce, and you agreed. As I recall, you took a hot dog and put mustard on it."
"Like I said before, bro," Mac whispered to me, "you paid awful close attention—"
I shut him up with a slight kick under the table.
"Would you two knock it off?" Jamie scolded. "You're breaking rule number two."
"Sorry," said Mac. "I can't seem to help myself."
"You're not gonna earn any brownie points that way, bro," I pointed out. Then I looked across the table at Darla. "Next question."
"Before you, who was my biggest hero?"
"In real life, your dad. In fiction, Sugarfoot. You thought Will Hutchins was the cutest guy on the planet." Jamie and Mac looked at me blankly. "Old western; before your time."
"What was my favorite song by the Monkees?"
"Hm . . . let me see . . . it was 'I'll be True to You' until 'I'm a Believer' came out . . . I think."
"You remember that?"
"And your favorite Beatles song was 'Penny Lane,' with 'Yellow Submarine' a close second. That was when I realized just how whimsical you really were."
"If she was that whimsical, how come she didn't pick 'Gonna Buy Me a Dog' or 'Auntie Grizelda' as her favorite Monkees song?" Mac asked.
"I said she was whimsical, not tone deaf! Anyway, she did like those songs when she was in a silly mood. But when she was in a romantic mood—which happened much too often for a girl as young as she was back then—she preferred the other two."
"You never had a favorite romantic Beatles song?" Jamie asked.
Darla shook her head. "Not during the Monkees years. When I was in high school I developed a liking for 'And I Love Her,' though."
"Unfortunately, I wasn't around all that much by then, so I had no way of knowing that," I pointed out.
"Duly noted," said Darla. "Okay. Next question. What's my favorite color?"
"As I recall, you had two: blue and yellow—blue for the sky, yellow for the sun." A tender smile crossed my face as I recollected how I'd come by that information. "I seem to remember a certain leprechaun . . ."
"That was so long ago! How could you—"
"How could I forget? The leprechaun incident is what started the whole 'crush' thing."
Mac shook his head as though to clear it of fuzz. "Wait a minute. What have the colors blue and yellow got to do with a leprechaun?"
"And how did a leprechaun cause Aunt Darla to get a crush on you?" Jamie queried.
Mac looked intently at me. "C'mon, Jack . . . spill it."
I cocked my head in Darla's direction and said, "It's up to Darla. It's her story."
Darla looked at me and smiled. "So, I get to tell an amusing anecdote after all!"
"From what I recall, it wasn't all that amusing."
Darla shrugged. "Ancient history. We'll both tell the story; but I'll start it since you weren't there at the beginning. You jump in from the time I got on the bus."
I nodded.
"It was St. Patrick's Day, 1960," Darla began, putting down what was left of the roll she had mostly eaten. "Jack had turned ten about two months before; and I was two months away from turning six. I was in kindergarten and he was in fourth grade. We rode the same bus to the same grade school every day.
"Miss O'Hanlon, my kindergarten teacher, gave each of us a picture of a leprechaun to color. It was a standard picture—much like what you'd find in an ordinary coloring book. Then she handed out the individual boxes of eight crayons. . ..
"There were cutouts of leprechauns, pots of gold, rainbows and shamrocks hanging up all over the room. (Miss O'Hanlon had put them up as soon as Washington's Birthday had passed; President's Day hadn't been invented yet). It wasn't hard, then, for any of the kids in the class to figure out how to color a leprechaun. They all dutifully got out their green, black, brown and yellow crayons: green for the clothes, black for the hat, shoes and belt, brown for the hair, and yellow for the golden buckles. Since we didn't have a flesh-colored crayon in those little boxes of eight, how we colored the leprechaun's skin—or even if we did—was entirely up to us."
"Now comes the good part," I editorialized with a smile. Darla looked sideways at me, a little miffed, I guess, that I'd interrupted her flow. "Sorry," I apologized.
"Anyway," she went on, "I didn't want to color my leprechaun the same as everyone else's. Although I have nothing against green—I'm a big fan of grass and trees—blue and yellow were my favorite colors because (as Jack said) the sky is blue and the sun is yellow; and there was nothing I liked better as a little girl then bright, sunshiny days. So, I colored my leprechaun blue and yellow. I made his clothes blue and his hat and shoes yellow. I did make his hair black, though, just so it stood out. Due to my non-conformity, Miss O'Hanlon gave me a 'D' and berated me in front of the entire class."
"That's terrible!" spoke up Jamie. "A woman like that has no business teaching impressionable young five-year-olds."
"What did you do?" Mac asked Darla. "Aside from crying, I mean." Darla didn't take offense at the remark. It would be difficult to imagine any kindergartner not crying under those circumstances.
"Fortunately, it was the end of the day. I took my picture, put on my coat, and left without saying a word to anyone. I was kind of slow, though, since I was so upset. So, when I got on the bus, all of the seats were pretty much full, and all of the kids who were in my class that rode the same bus I did were still sniggering about it, and no one would let the 'colorblind cry baby' sit next to them. The bus driver, being a man with no children of his own—and not likely to get any in the near future—was less than sympathetic. He didn't care where I went; he just wanted me to find a seat and plant myself."
At that moment, the waitress returned, took our empty salad plates away and left our beverages. "I'll be right back with your meals," she told us with a smile.
"You may now continue the story from where I left off," Darla told me, "now that I'm on the bus."
"Right," I acknowledged. Turning my attention to Jamie and Mac, I said, "The moment I heard the ruckus, I looked up and saw Darla standing in the aisle, looking brokenhearted and dejected. Everyone was staring at her, some of the kids were laughing at her, and the bus driver was yelling at her.
"Now, my buddies and I had possession of the back seat. Even though we were only in fourth grade, we outnumbered the fifth and sixth graders from our neighborhood, so they pretty much left us alone. I told my friends I was gonna go help Darla find a seat. They thought I was nuts. If the truth be told, I did, too. I knew I'd hear about it the next day, but I didn't care. I just couldn't stand to see that poor little girl, standing there in the aisle, with virtually everyone on the bus giving her a hard time. So I got up and made my way slowly down the aisle, perusing every bench, looking for a likely spot for Darla. About five or six seats up from the back there was a big, fat kid—a third grader, I think he was. He had B.O. and bad breath, and was about the only person on the bus who, at that moment, was less popular than Darla. I leaned down and said to him, 'Tubby, get your butt to the back seat. If my buddies complain, tell them they can take it out of my hide tomorrow.' So he did. He got up and moved—I'm assuming to the back seat. I didn't look to see: I was too busy sitting down and trying to catch Darla's eye."
"Which he did," Darla broke in. "By the way, Jack, 'Tubby,' as you so graciously called him, went to the back seat, and all your buddies scooted over into one corner, leaving him the other corner. After that, I looked at you and saw you gesturing for me to come and sit by you."
"And that's how it all started," said Jamie. "It's so simple, yet so . . . poignant."
"But that was just the beginning," Darla said. "There's more to come."
"Which we'll talk about in a minute," I said, as the waitress delivered our main courses. "Mm! Looks delicious!" I rubbed my hands together, picked up my silverware, and dug in.
"So, tell us some more stories, you guys," Jamie begged before stuffing another forkful of salad into her mouth.
"I'll try to talk between mouthfuls," I replied. "But before we tell you more stories, we need to finish the first one. . . When Darla said my letting her sit by me on the bus was just the beginning, she meant of that particular incident," I clarified.
"So, what happened next, then?" Mac queried.
"Darla told me everything that'd happened; and, like you, Jamie, I was appalled that any woman who was teaching kindergartners could be that callous. Darla was hurting, and it didn't seem fair—or right. . ..
"I looked at the picture. It was amazing. She had managed to do something most kindergartners are incapable of: she'd colored inside the lines. So what if it looked more like a cub scout than a leprechaun? Isn't art about creativity and objectivity? Isn't it more about what's inside of the artist than it is about what's 'normal' or acceptable?"
"These days it is," interpolated Mac, "although I prefer art that actually looks like what it represents. But I don't have a problem with polka-dotted teddy bears, pink hippos or purple dinosaurs; so I don't see any reason why you can't have an occasional leprechaun that isn't the standard green."
"(That's very open-minded of you, bro.) Anyway, when we got home, I went with Darla to her house and explained the situation to Mrs. McIntyre. I did it for two reasons: firstly, because I didn't want Darla to have to tell the story all over again; and second, because I thought Darla had suffered enough for one day, and it occurred to me that Mrs. McIntyre might see nothing but the 'D' and get upset with Darla, too, which would only make her feel worse. Having heard the story and Darla's feelings on the matter, I knew what needed to be said; and I figured I could do a better job of it than Darla could, seeing as how she was only five and her vocabulary was still somewhat limited.
"So, I presented the case before Mrs. McIntyre in such a way that her protective instincts as a mother took over and booted her concern over the 'D' right out the window. She thanked me for bringing Darla home and explaining the situation to her so thoroughly. She then said she was going to pay Mr. Crawley, the principal, a visit before school in the morning and have a few words with him about Miss O'Hanlon. I volunteered to go along as an eyewitness to the indignity and persecution Darla had suffered on the bus because of Miss O'Hanlon's actions."
"No kidding! I never imagined you could be so caring and conscientious toward a little girl you barely knew!" piped up my brother.
"Stow it, Mac. . . I did it more because I abhorred the injustice of the situation rather than out of any particular fondness for Darla; we hadn't gotten to that point yet. This was only the first incident. As you say, I didn't really know her yet."
"So, what happened when you and Grandma went to see the principal?" Jamie asked.
"Mrs. M. explained the situation to him pretty much the same way I explained it to her, and she said she was appalled by Miss O'Hanlon's behavior; Mr. Crawley agreed. He got on the intercom, summoned Miss O'Hanlon to his office, and laid down the law to her. She was not to grade art projects on whether or not they were done in the normal or usual fashion, but on how well done they were. Judging a picture by its colors alone, he said, was unfair. Children could often be whimsical, so allowances needed to be made. Darla's leprechaun was superbly colored and deserved an 'A' rather than a 'D' in his estimation. If she started scribbling, or coloring outside the lines the way some of her classmates did, then she could give her a 'D'. Miss O'Hanlon was very intimidated and humbled by the scolding; and, afraid of losing her job because of her insensitivity, she agreed to everything Mr. Crawley laid out in the way of rules of conduct for her. She admitted that she'd had very little training as an art teacher, and she had graded it solely on what she, personally, considered to be acceptable. She then apologized to Darla and Mrs. M. and promised to make a formal apology to Darla in front of the entire class and to hang Darla's picture on the wall with all of the others, expunging the 'D' in whatever way she could—from both the paper and her grade book."
"And you never had to say a thing," Mac inferred.
"Nope. Mr. Crawley did ask me why I was there and I told him. He smiled at me and said it was nice to see me in his office for a good reason instead of a bad one for once. He hoped it was the turning over of a new leaf for me."
"Was it?" Jamie queried.
"What do you think? Darla became my personal project—and my shadow—for the next several years . . . and never again did I set foot in any principal's office for misbehaving—which was quite a surprise to Mom and Dad."
"And there you have the story of how and why I fell in love with Jack Beckham," Darla said, smiling at me with her eyes as well as her mouth.
"Under those circumstances, I think any girl would," said Jamie.
"So, what was the price you had to pay when your buddies confronted you the next day?" Mac asked me.
I shrugged. "Nothing."
"What do you mean, 'nothing'?"
"If you'd let me explain . . . ."
"Sorry."
I looked at the girls. "The man has no patience! . . . Anyway, after we left the principal's office, I walked Darla to class. I wanted to make sure she got there okay without any of her classmates stopping to tease her. I figured that walking with an older boy might give her some status—undo some of the damage, and Miss O'Hanlon's public apology in front of the class would do the rest.
"After dropping Darla off, I headed for my own room. My buddies were all waiting for me there. 'You sweet on the girl next door, Beckham?' They asked me. 'Not really,' I told them. 'I just don't like to see defenseless little kids being picked on. If you've got a problem with that, take it up with Mr. Crawley.' They were more than a little surprised to find out that I'd gone on purpose to the principal's office with Mrs. McIntyre. They were duly impressed—especially during lunch, when Mr. Crawley smiled and said hello to me as though I were his favorite student. I was treated with much more respect after that; so was Darla. End of story . . . that particular one, anyway."
"What you said was only partly true," Darla said quietly. "I was only treated with 'more respect' for a little while."
I sighed. "Yeah, life is never easy when you're an independent thinker."
"It wasn't always my independent thinking that caused me problems, though."
"True. It might've gotten you into trouble with some of your less liberal teachers; but there were other things that kept you from being popular with your classmates."
"Being bad at sports has to be at the top of the list," she admitted. "I was always picked last for teams. I had two left feet—I was always tripping over them; and I was scared to death of flying balls—especially if they were coming directly toward me."
"I remember the day you told me how much you hated P.E. because of all those problems you had. Recess you could handle: playing with your friends was always fun. But P.E. required skills you didn't have. That would get anybody down."
"No matter how 'down' I was, it wasn't right for me to lay all my problems on you, Jack. But, after the leprechaun incident, I couldn't help myself."
"Now, wait a minute, Aunt Darla," broke in Jamie. "Are you saying that every time you had a problem at school, you cried on Jack's shoulder?"
Darla nodded. "I sat on the front porch, waiting for him to come home. Whenever he saw me sitting there crying, he'd come over to comfort and console me."
"It wasn't that big of a deal," I said, shrugging. "I enjoyed being needed. Darla was the only person in my life who made me feel that way. Even Mom and Dad made me feel like I had only one purpose in life: to make them proud—to show what great parents they were."
"I doubt very much that that was their intention," Darla said. "But, since you felt that way, I'm glad I took advantage of you." She was wearing that cat-that-swallowed-the-canary smile again.
"What do you mean, you took advantage of me?"
"Didn't you ever wonder—all those times that you came home from school and found me sitting on my front porch crying—why I was sitting there, of all places?"
"I just assumed you liked sitting on your front porch."
Darla reddened. Jamie shook her head and smiled cryptically. Mac sniggered.
"What? Is there some deeper meaning behind this that I'm not getting?"
"Shall I tell him Aunt Darla?—or would you rather do it?"
Darla shrugged. "Since you and I have never discussed this before, he can't accuse us of collusion. Go ahead and tell him, Jamie."
Jamie cleared her throat, sat up straight, looked at me squarely and said, "My dear Admiral Beckham, when a girl is hurting and needs to have a good cry, she usually goes someplace where she can be alone . . . like her bedroom, her back yard, a large closet, a hiding place in the basement. . . She doesn't generally go out to her front porch where everyone passing by the house can see her sitting and crying her eyes out."
"Meaning . . ."
"She did it just to get your attention and sympathy, bro," Mac put in, smiling sardonically.
I looked at Darla, startled. "Is that true?"
She nodded, blushing. "I'm afraid it is. You were so good to me in kindergarten that I wanted to make sure you stayed sympathetic. It wasn't easy, though, to tell you all those things about myself: all of my flaws and shortcomings; all of the things my classmates—and some of my teachers—found so distasteful. I had friends, butthey were primarily outcasts, too (although not always for the same reasons). We pretty much hung together; but that didn't make my own aberrations any easier to bear. . ..
"There were times I wished I'd been born prettier, or more graceful; that I hadn't been cursed with myopia and finickiness. The only thing that made those years at all bearable was having you there to talk to. You encouraged me and told me those things didn't matter—that it was who I was inside that counted most. You put your arm around me, squeezed me and kissed me on the head. My mom said similar things to me, but it didn't mean as much. Moms always love and encourage you, no matter what. But you were an older boy—and a popular one. Your kind words—however insincere they may actually have been—meant the world to me; and that, my dear Jack, is why I had such a longstanding crush on you and grew up in love with you. The leprechaun incident, as they say, was the tip of a very large iceberg."
That last speech lasted long enough to give me time to get over the initial shock—time enough, too, to realize that it didn't matter why she had laid her burdens on me. All that mattered was that she had; and those talks had meant almost as much to me as they did to her.
I looked across the table at the woman that my "personal project" had become and I said, "My words were never insincere, Darla. However awkward you might've been, however clumsy or ungainly you might've felt . . . I always genuinely cared about you. You were very special to me. I hope you know that."
"I do." She was smiling again. "Do you remember our first kiss?" she asked.
"I sure do," spoke up Mac. "It was during Christmas vacation in 1969. Mom'd hung a sprig of mistletoe just inside the front entrance. As soon as Darla found out Jack was home from Annapolis, she ran right over to see him, in spite of the fact that the snow was three feet deep in both yards, and she was still in her pajamas."
"I slept in during the holidays," Darla admitted with a shrug. "Mom told me about Jack as soon as I went to the kitchen for breakfast. I got more than a little excited. Anyway," she said defensively, "I was wearing a robe over my flannel pajamas—and I put my snow boots on."
I smiled. This was the Darla I'd been so fond of.
"I see where this is heading," said Jamie. "But who caught whom under the mistletoe?"
"Darla got me under the mistletoe, but she didn't exactly catch me," I said. "Either way, it was more or less inevitable, since I was the one who answered the door when she rang the bell. She was well aware that the mistletoe was there, since she'd been babysitting Mac on a regular basis (while Dad was at work and Mom was out Christmas shopping)."
"So, did she shove you under it or something?" Jamie wanted to know.
"No, she was much more subtle than that. It played out kind of like this: I greeted Darla warmly and opened the storm door to let her in. While I was busy shutting both doors, she got under the mistletoe and waited. The situation did not escape my notice. 'You do realize you're standing under the mistletoe, right?' I asked her. She nodded. I then said, 'So, you want me to kiss you, huh?' She nodded again."
Put in Darla, "I have to say, I was trying hard not to appear too eager, but it wasn't easy."
"You didn't look overly eager to me," I said. "I knew you had a crush on me, and I assumed you were using the mistletoe as an excuse to get something you'd wanted for a long time."
"Didn't quite work out the way either of us wanted, though, did it, Jack?"
"A peck on the cheek or the forehead was all you had in mind, huh, Jack?" Jamie asked.
"Precisely. But Darla wasn't about to settle for that."
"No, I wasn't. I was fifteen. I'd invested nearly ten years in trying to develop some kind of a relationship with this man. So, the moment he stepped under the mistletoe and lowered his head to kiss my cheek, I turned my head so that he ended up kissing my lips instead. Since he had only intended to peck me on the cheek, it was a very brief kiss. But it was warm and tasted like hot chocolate."
Darla's voice sounded almost little girlish, as though she were reliving it in her mind . . . which, I suppose, was more or less the case.
"I was, to say the least, startled," I confessed. "I was trying to figure out what to say to her, but before I could utter a word, she pulled away, bolted for the door, said, 'Merry Christmas, Jack, and welcome home!' Then she left."
"Aunt Darla, you were shameless," Jamie scolded her.
Darla nodded. "Yes, I was. I was very much in love with a man who only saw me as a little girl. It was very frustrating. I tried everything I could to get him to notice me—to see that I was growing up." She shook her head. "It was all to no avail. He married Liz; end of story."
"Not quite the end, end," I said. "Today we started a whole new chapter—maybe even a whole new book. It's time we stopped dredging up the old memories and made some new ones." I was looking at Darla very intently. I think my brother got the hint. He decided it was time to go home.
