Twice In A Lifetime

By the time I worked up the courage to call the prettiest girl in town (and not coincidentally the girl who once lived next door) I was an emotional train wreck. So I figured she would hang up in my ear. Or worse, say something like “No, I won’t go out with you, and don’t call again! I don’t date nerds.” But I’m getting ahead of myself, so let me share a little history.

This course correction really began three years earlier, when my family moved away from the old neighborhood. Why my parents never asked me how I'd feel if we left Celeste behind will always be a mystery. How could they do such a thing without consulting me? I was devastated.

I needed plenty of time to recover from this loss and choose which magical words to use when I phoned her. Because when I got around to it she had to say “Yes Bobby. I’d love to go out with you. I’ve been waiting for your call!”

Even after I perfected my pitch, I waited another week to free the butterflies in my belly. What got me through those endless seven days was the Good Guy perched on my right shoulder. He kept saying, “Hey Bob, relax. You’ve known her for twelve years. And she knows what a stand-up guy you are. She’ll be thrilled you called.”

Of course, the Bad Guy was leaning into my left ear, filling my head with erotic dreams. “Listen up buddy. She’s been dying for you to ask her out! And she’s not the little girl you grew up with. You never know, you might get lucky!!”

Naturally that fiendish voice registered much louder than the other guy ever could. I was seventeen and testosterone ruled. So I listened to the dark side; and why not, he was right. Celeste was hot!

I finally worked up the nerve to call and invited Celeste out to a Friday night hockey game. Our high school was playing the dreaded Mount Saint Charles team at Rhode Island Auditorium.

To my clever way of thinking this was a way to score points with her by showing my team spirit and might even wind up scoring myself.

I was a nervous wreck that day but come Friday night I pulled myself together just before I pulled into her driveway. I took a few deep breaths and walked to the door. Celeste’s mother answered the doorbell and ushered me inside. To my great relief her father, the most protective dad in Rhode Island and certainly one of the largest, wasn’t at home.

I accompanied her mother into the living room and made safe (and very lame) conversation while I perched on the edge of an overstuffed chair. We spoke for all of five minutes, but it seemed like an hour. Celeste finally floated down the stairs leading into the living room, looking better than she had in my wildest fantasies. She was wearing an obviously expensive winter coat over a blue dress.

I stared for a second or two, recovered and flashed what I hoped was a sophisticated smile. She smiled in return, and I was hooked; her light blue eyes were hypnotic. And her blond hair was longer than the last time I’d seen her. The combined effect of all this visual overload was overwhelming.

My tongue was tied in knots, but once again I recovered and said something goofy like, “Gosh Celeste, you didn’t have to get all dressed up for a hockey game. We could be going to the prom!”

I doubt my words were that clever, but my feelings were real enough. I remember clearly that she smiled even wider, and her mother smiled too. We headed for the door and I promised to bring Celeste home by 10pm.

When we arrived at the auditorium I parked, jumped from the car and ran around to open the passenger door. Just like a perfect gentleman! We walked to an attended booth where I purchased two tickets. I probably purchased 2 cokes and some junk food as well, but I have no memory of any of that. I was in Shangri-La with the one and only Celeste by my side.

We found our seats and sat down to wait for the game. I’m sure we spoke about school or conscientious objectors or whatever, but I have no memory of that either. When the game started it was a relief. I could pretend I was so interested in the game that talking to her was almost secondary; I was that nervous.

The hockey game was more or less uneventful until a friend of mine who played right wing was injured. Like a concerned friend I went down to the barrier separating the ice rink from the seats and yelled, “Jack! Are you all right?”

Since he was lying on the ice and quite unconscious he couldn’t reply. When I rejoined Celeste, I used that as a way to salvage any dignity lost when I ran down the auditorium stairs like an idiot. I believe I said, “He’s out like a light so of course he couldn’t answer me. Anyway, he’s my best friend (a lie) and I hope he’s OK.”

But instead of applauding my admirable concern for a friend she sat there, silent and unresponsive. And apparently very unimpressed with my performance. I figured that I had either misread her mood or messed up something else. My brain had only one concern: Did I screw up my chances with her?

 I was confused and thinking dark thoughts until she suddenly smiled again. I recall exactly what we spoke about next: the neighborhood I grew up in, impossible parents and the war in Vietnam. We were back in sync and my fragile ego slowly healed.

After the game I drove back in the general direction of her house. And then the Bad Angel started in on me again. He was planting nasty thoughts in my head, suggesting that we really didn't need to go straight home. Why not take a detour to Warwick Country Club and park for a while?

So without a word I did just that. Celeste hadn’t even held my hand, but I was convinced I had a chance to hit a grand slam!

I noticed her glance my way more than once as we veered away from the quickest route to her house and instead headed toward Warwick Neck. But I was determined to have my way. When I pulled onto the side road which led to the country club entrance, she still hadn’t said a word.

I parked and looked out over moonlit Narragansett Bay and crossed my fingers for luck. I slid my arm over the passenger seat and ‘casually’ draped my right hand over her shoulder. She didn’t respond but she didn’t pull away either. My hopes rose exponentially. Until she began to speak, choked on her words and finally said “I don’t want to do this, Bobby. Please take me home.”

I was crushed. I thought her silence showed her tacit acceptance of my big plans and she was as eager as I was! Then I realized she had been crying quietly for some time. And now my good angel was working overtime, lecturing me about my unforgivable behavior and how deeply I had hurt Celeste. The voice on my left side was very quiet.

We drove back to her house in silence. The second I pulled into the driveway, Celeste opened the passenger door and stepped away from the car. But she stopped, looked back and to my amazement said, “I’m sorry Bobby.” Then she ran to the door. Her words hurt worse than if she had cursed at me.

I encountered her mother about ten years later as I checked out groceries in the local market. She was working as a cashier in the line which I carelessly chose to pay for my purchases.

I won’t repeat her mother’s comments here, but I walked to the car with my ears on fire. I didn’t know she used such words! As I drove away my ears cooled off, but my brain was telling me things no one wants to hear.

About thirty years after that unforgettable episode a contractor cousin told me he had remodeled the home where Celeste and her husband lived. I jotted down the address and made a promise to myself: I’ll look up her number and apologize. Definitely.

Instead, I put it off for another fifteen years, rationalizing that her husband might answer the phone. I considered driving up to the far northwest corner of the state and stopping in at her garden supply business. But once again, the chance of running into her husband made me postpone my long overdue amend.

It took fifty-five years, but I finally obtained her mobile number and made the call. She picked up immediately.

“Hello Robert. It’s been a long time. How are you?” Given the circumstances her formal manner was hardly surprising, but still, it hurt a little. But what did I expect- she would call me Bobby?

So, I echoed her tone. “I’m quite fine Celeste. I hope you are as well.”

“Yes, thank you for asking. We are very happy here and the business is profitable. We’ve been very fortunate.”

Every time she said ‘We’ I cringed. And the super-safe chatter was off-putting, but I kept it up for another minute or so. Until I had to say it. “I’ve meant to call a hundred times since that, well, you know what I’m talking about.”

“Yes. I never forgot that night either. How could I? But the worst part was seeing my mom afterwards. She cornered me as soon as she saw me crying. And my dad punched the fridge when he heard about it. I think he would have hurt you if he ever saw you again.”

“I can only imagine how it must have been. Your mother gave me a hint one time…”

“She told me about it after she finished her shift. I know she used some strong language, Robert.”

“I deserved it. So…as you probably guessed, I called to apologize for everything about that night. My behavior was despicable.”

Her next words were so much softer. “If only you’d asked me about going for a drive after the game! I would have said no, but that would have made everything so different. And we might have gone out again. Maybe a lot of times.”

Now it was my time for tears. I eventually managed to say, “I guess we’ll never know. Anyway, you have a family and I’m very happy for you. If you don’t mind me asking, how many children are there?”

“No, I don’t mind. Two daughters and a son. And six grandchildren.”

“That’s wonderful Celeste. You must be proud and awfully busy too. I mean between the kids, and their kids, and the garden supply business.”

“They all work at the store or in the garden nursery, either full or part time. So, my end is pretty easy. I just manage the finances and try to stay out of the way.”

The thaw in her voice was even more evident now. Why did I put it off so many years?

“How about your husband? Is he writing his memoirs?”

“Brian’s been deceased four years now. But you couldn’t know that.”

“I’m sorry Celeste. I’m getting used to saying that. Better late than never I guess.”

“No more apologies Bob. If you really want to make up for that night, you could take me out to dinner. Let me give you the address.”