Antecedent

I bent my knees trying to make more room in the back seat of his ’66 Rambler. He pushed his phallus into me, but it hit the barrier. Ray grunted as he tried again. I cried out in pain. I didn’t think he was doing it right. He shoved himself in yet again, harder this time.

When I screamed, he yelled, “Shut up! You want it! I know you want it.”

I didn’t know what I wanted, but even if I did, I couldn’t speak at that moment. Between the pain and humiliation, I just wanted it to be over. I tried to stifle my cries while he worked toward his goal. An eternity seemed to pass before he ejaculated, but when I saw the clock, just over a minute had passed.

Ray was the most sought after senior in my high school. His perpetual leather jacket excited every female student, as did his “Rebel Without a Cause” attitude. He was my height, 5’6”, with straggly dark hair which inevitably required a good brushing. He must have slept in his clothes for that rumpled effect that accompanied him everywhere.

I sparked his interest when I dropped out of academia in a rage. Always the butt of someone’s joke throughout my ten years in school, my final straw arrived in the form of clothes. Mine were hidden in the boys’ locker room during gym class.

Embarrassed, but determined, I calmly retrieved them much to the chagrin of both the male and female gym teachers. My calm burnt into rage at their harassment when I saw myself as the victim being punished for someone else’s cruel joke. My voice echoed throughout their halls of learning as I walked out for the last time.

Ray thought I was cool for quitting school, but my parents were angry, especially Mom. I was her perpetual disappointment. Dad arranged for an independent study course for me through the college, so I didn’t stopped my education, simply how I learned. 

Ray claimed that he understood the rage which burnt inside me, but I only witnessed apathy from him. Ray seemed to see me as a symbol of whom he imagined himself to be. That fateful night we ate at a local hang out. Until then, our dates consisted of parties or listening to him talk to his friends. Deeply involved with himself and his image, he never explored my character on any level.

Their discussions about TV shows, which I seldom watched, or the last Ali/Frazier fight, “The Thrilla in Manilla,” that occurred on the first of that month, bored me to tears. The boys oohed and awed over the blood spilled and punches thrown. I felt confusion wondering how people beating on each other excited anyone.

“Let’s move to the back seat,” he said when we got to the drive-in.

Once there, he grabbed me while he kissed me roughly. When his tongue invaded my oral cavity, I felt numb with terror. I flashed on the memory of the previous New Year’s Eve when Dad’s friend, Pete, cornered me in our hallway. The stench of Ten High and tobacco on his breath repulsed me as he leaned against me. After grunting, “Happy New Year,” he shoved his tongue down my throat in the same fashion.

“You’re really enjoying this,” Ray moaned hoarsely.

I felt like disillusioning him, but curiosity and fear kept me frozen. His tongue invaded my mouth again. If this was sex, I wondered why it was so popular with my peers. The discomfort of his rough handling, as he squeezed my breasts, was exacerbated by the torn vinyl scratching my backside.

I squirmed, seeking a relief for my soreness which couldn’t be had, especially with his weight pinning me unpleasantly toward the corner. His dirty fingernails dug into my skin impatiently seeking an erotic response.

“You’re such a slut,” he grunted.

I probably was by his definition of the term. Obviously, I felt grateful for any attention from a boy. Until I left school, I was the class freak, a wallflower blending into the scenery vigilant to my surroundings. It took losing my temper for the school “bad boy” to notice me. His words insulted me, though. I thought of getting out from under him. I’m still unsure as to why I stayed.

When he pulled up my skirt to finger my labia, I tensed at the pressure. “Oh, yeah!” he grunted. “You’re a real slut.”

I kept waiting for the good stuff to start. Sex was supposed to feel wonderful, yet here was a panting, slobbering guy roughly handling parts of my body, which I previously touched only to clean. He rubbed his jeans against my thighs while he fingered me.

“This feels great,” he whispered.

Part of me was glad someone enjoyed this. Boredom and discomfort were the only feelings I could muster. Relief filled me when he sat up, but then he opened his jeans. I almost giggled when his short thin phallus popped out. What a curious site! I had seen a penis in books, but never on a real boy. It was so white.

“That was cool,” Ray exclaimed triumphantly once he finished. I, on the other hand, silently thanked God it was over. Then he saw my virginal blood between my legs and spewed, “Yuk! You on the rag or something? Gross.” He continued railing at me, so I grabbed my purse and walked to the bathroom to clean up. When I returned he was gone.

My introduction to sex was the perfect metaphor for my early years. I was obviously abnormal. My wet skirt chilled my walk home in that cool October air in our Northern Ohio town. I wondered briefly if I was a lesbian but decided I wasn’t. The male characters in my books, especially Darcy and Rochester, had captured my young heart. My biggest crushes were on Orson Welles and Errol Flynn at that time. Although I felt a comradery with many female characters and actresses, I never felt attracted to them. My peers were right. I was just plain weird.

I pulled out Chaim Potok’s In the Beginning, the book I was reading at that time, from my bag. Darkness prevented reading, so I held it to my chest as comfort while I imagined how Kafka would have written my experience. Whatever words he used, it would have been more fun to read than live through.

I could never have confessed what happened to Mom. My choice to leave school had angered her enough. According to her way of thinking, I had risked my immortal soul when I had sex outside of marriage. I had stopped believing that God wrote anyone off by that time. To me, it was just one more bad experience in a life filled with disappointments.

For the next eighteen months I cleaned house and completed my school work alone. Once a week, I met with a professor at the college to guide my studies until I finally took the GED which I kept postponing for one reason or another.

I was fixing Mom’s lunch, as usual, on my 18^th birthday, when she came in waving a letter violently in my face. “You didn’t schedule your exam!” she bellowed. “How do you expect to attend college this fall without your GED? You’re wasting your life.”

This confrontation was inevitable, but I cringed once I finally faced it. “I’m not ready, yet,” I admitted.

“Not ready yet!” she shrilly echoed exasperated. “It’s time for you to face the real world, little girl. You’re so deeply buried in your books that you don’t see the responsibilities you neglect.”

Her meaning eluded me. I did most of the housework, I made her lunch daily, and, at that time, I was completing the trigonometry book which my independent study teacher claimed would help me in college.

“And turn down that damned music. I don’t know how you can study with music up that loud,” she added.

I looked at my trig book which lay open on the kitchen table while Lou Reed serenaded me on the stereo. “I can’t do math without music, Mom,” I confessed as I complied with her wishes. “I’m nearly finished with trig. After that I need to write my senior exit project on Moby Dick before I take the test in October.”

“October?” Mom screeched. “College starts in September! You’re labeled a troublemaker, Jessie. Do you want to work in a factory all your life?”

She seemed to think that was a threat of some sort. “I’ll take care of it, Mom. I promise.”

“You better! Wait until your father gets home. He’ll hit the ceiling,” she concluded as she took her lunch to the den to eat, so she watched her soap opera.

I sat down to work on what was left to complete from my math book. I can’t say I was surprised, but I felt disappointed that she didn’t wish me a happy birthday. When she left to return to her job as a receptionist for a local real estate company, my concentration had vanished, so I took a walk.

My favorite haunt in those days was Shangri-La, a retail outlet which specialized in items imported from around the world. It was located on the corner of Adams and State in an area known as Statesville because the state college was two blocks away. Apartments rose several stories above each store in this neighborhood.

Shangri-La was the only national chain in that quaint locale. As I wandered through its aisles, my imagination roamed to the various countries where their merchandise originated. I sometimes spent hours studying their unique items.

That day, as the tall, thin African American gentleman greeted me from behind his register with his usual kind smile, an idea surfaced. If I worked there, I could earn money and get Mom off my back. She couldn’t accuse me of being lazy if I had a job.

“Excuse me,” I started shyly. “Could I fill out an application to work here?”

He playfully tapped my hand and sang out, “You’re in luck, honey. Bob just started his new job in Cleveland. With Johnny leaving at the end of summer, we could use fresh blood. I feel like I know you with the way you meander around here all the time. I’m Roger, by the way, the store manager.”

“Jessie! Jessica Merrill,” I introduced myself as I offered him my hand.

He gave me the application which I filled out immediately. When he noticed that it was my birthday, he stated jubilantly, “Happy Birthday, honey! Did you know that your birthday is the day after Marilyn Monroe’s?”

His nervous prattle relieved my self-consciousness. “Is that good?” I asked amused.

“Of course, darlin’!” he said with an exaggerated glee. “She’s an immortal.” As I giggled at his nonsense, he added, “I need you here at eight in the morning, so don’t party too late tonight.”

I immediately thanked him and left for home. The ease of this accomplishment amazed and excited me. I couldn’t have asked for a better place to work. When Mom got home from her job, I eagerly told her about mine.

“It’s about time you joined the real world,” she quipped sarcastically. Maybe there’s hope for you yet.”

Dad took pride in my initiative. After wishing me a “Happy Birthday,” he took us out to celebrate. Although Mom liked to threaten me with his rage, he usually accepted my perceived shortcomings.

“You’ll find more people like you in college,” he told me. “I think you’ll bloom there.”

Mom rolled her eyes. “She needs to learn to assimilate,” she barked at him. “The world won’t change for her. That’s for sure.” 

Independence

Roger’s favorite time of day was 10 a.m. when he adjourned to his office to do the store’s paperwork. He liked his alone time. However, from the first day, he asked me to check his numbers before he sent them off to Barb in Cleveland which housed the Shangri-La offices.

“I’ve never trusted my math,” he explained. “And Johnny makes fun of me when he finds mistakes. I love him to pieces, but he makes me nervous sometimes. He’s leaving for college anyway, so I’ll rely on you for this. You won’t make me feel stupid when you do my idiot checks. I can tell.”

Roger’s obvious insecurities made me less self-conscious about my own although his seemed unfathomable to me. He reminded me of Charlie Chaplin's Tramp with his kindheartedness, yet inability to mesh with society. I loved him immediately.

Besides doing Roger’s “idiot checks,” my responsibilities consisted of serving customers, running register, when necessary, keeping the stock dust free and the storeroom organized. Since Roger was so hard on himself, I made it part of my job to compliment him whenever possible. He was so sweet beneath his inexhaustible discontent with the world.

Johnny, my other coworker, was the son of the owner of Shangri-La. “Dad’s into teaching us personal responsibility,” he exclaimed with mock exasperation when explaining his reasons for working there. “I started working when my brother, Phil, left for Columbia. Dad thinks I need to understand where money comes from, but I hate being indoors.”

Johnny’s sharp blue eyes missed little as they looked out over the mass of chestnut hair like a candle in the dark. I often feared he could see into my soul when his eyes sought mine, but those blue orbs were his best feature. He was quick witted and teased all around him mercilessly.   

“You’re such a book nerd,” he goaded me whenever I strolled into the store finishing a chapter of whatever novel accompanied me on my walk to work. “You should learn to have some fun, Jessie!”

Although I enjoyed reading from a young age, being called a nerd irritated me. Through literature, I lived my solitary pubescent years via the pages of characters’ minds. I made a face and offered him a rude gesture which inevitably provoked his laughter.

Johnny stood well over six feet with an athletic build and donned a studied scruffy look. I suspected that he shaved Friday nights because, although a beard never quite formed on his face, stubble was visible every Monday morning.  

Flirting seemed entrenched in his persona. He turned on his massive charm like a light switch whenever a female entered the store, no matter her age or disposition. I became immune to his allure after watching him turn it on repeatedly. He fine tuned his personality to fit the target of his enchantments like an actor playing a scene. I eventually gave up wondering which of his various characters was his true self.

Johnny told me that his father ran Shangri-La from Cleveland, but he claimed his dad visited our store at least once a week unless he was traveling on Shangri-La business.

“Roger goes on overload occasionally, so Dad likes to keep an eye on him,” he shared as we cleaned the shelves one morning. “Besides, Charles is like his blood-brother.”  

Charles was Roger’s lover who lived with him in an apartment over the store. He cared for them like any homemaker. He laughingly referred to himself as “the little woman” with such a deep bass voice that I giggled whenever he repeated the phrase.

I began visiting Charles and Roger nightly during my first week at Shangri-La. We’d sit and talk until I decided that I should get home for dinner so I wouldn’t irritate Mom. Charles incessantly teased Roger about his foibles. Since it became my quest to make Roger more secure, I snapped at Charles playfully every time I heard him.

“You’re just kissing your boss' ass,” Charles usually replied, but Roger always stuck up for me. It became a game with us.

Johnny had a parade of girls which streamed into Shangri-La to chat. If I was nearby, Roger would nudge me with a grin and a roll of his eyes when one strolled by.

“That boy needs a steady girl!” he remarked after I had worked there a few weeks. “You should go for it. You’re nicer than any of them.”

Although he had asked me for a date during my second week of work, I refused. Johnny seemed dangerous to me. Besides the fact that he was to leave in late August for college, I felt too insecure to date anyone. I preferred him as my friend.

When he spoke of college in Syracuse, it was always about their baseball program which had accepted him. “Someday, I’m going to play first base for the Boston Red Sox. Until then any club which drafts me’ll be okay.”

“I’m more of a Cub fan,” I admitted to his amusement. This gave him a new subject for his terminal teasing.  

Since baseball dominated Johnny’s life, I responded to his teasing by using jock stereotypes as retaliatory fodder. He seemed to enjoy our verbal sparring as if he wanted a female companion who wasn’t seeking to be his girlfriend.

My favorite thing about Johnny, though, was how he made little old ladies giggle. No matter how sad or tired they looked when they entered our store, by the time they got to the register, he made them laugh. The sound of little old ladies giggling cheered my heart.

“You should come to watch me play baseball tomorrow!” Johnny proposed one Friday afternoon about six weeks after I started working for Shangri-La.

“I need to finish reading Moby Dick,” I said as an excuse.

“It’s the summer, silly! Put the books away and have some fun!” he chastised.

I sighed. “We’ll see!”

The next day was hot, and Mom was on the warpath. I had finished my chores, but I couldn’t concentrate on reading with her sporadic interruptions. Dad had taken refuge with his lawnmower, so I used Johnny’s invitation for an excuse to get out of the house, but I brought Moby Dick in case I got bored.  

As I entered the park, Johnny whistled at me. “Hey Jessie! Put the damned book away and have some fun for a change.”

“Reading’s fun, Moran! Perhaps you should open a book and find out!” I hollered to his amusement.

A man in Indian style baggy white cotton shirt and pants was sitting in the stand stretched out with his elbows on the row behind him and feet on the row below. His braided red hair fell across his shoulder as he watched me climb the stands. I thought of California when I saw the sun reflected in his dark glasses. He grinned charmingly as he nodded in my direction.

I nervously returned the gesture and moved to the top row to be less conspicuous. I read undisturbed through batting practice and during the first two innings except for Johnny’s at bats. A lively group of women had congregated around the red-headed man. They all jumped around and screamed whenever a member of Johnny’s team hit the ball or made a great defensive play. Their exuberance amused me.

The man’s gentle musical quality of speech which I overheard as he discussed the game with these ladies betrayed he wasn’t from Ohio. His pattern of speech didn’t sound either British or Scottish, so I wondered about his birthplace.

His age eluded me as well. He could have been in his late twenties or early thirties as far as I knew, but he had the self-satisfied air of a mature man. His hair glowed orange in the sunlight as if he was surrounded by flame. Since men with hair that long were usually hippies, I decided he was probably in his early thirties.  When I finally caught flecks of gray mixed with his red strands, my mind returned to affixing his age.

His prominent nose didn’t look Grecian or Roman. His skin was pink, clean shaven and unlined. I caught the glint of a gold band as his left hand waved elegantly while he spoke. My mind moved to which lady was his wife, but none appeared particularly intimate with him.

His smile seemed like a full body expression. Laughter caused his chest to rise as it vibrated. His shoulder blades moved back and together gracefully until his wide muscular chest imprinted his shirt. His head often fell back as he released joyful sounds.

Eventually, he looked my way, but I snapped to attention and focused my gaze toward the field. He must have done the same because I heard him shout his approval of Johnny’s successful at bat. I giggled when he punched the air jubilantly as Johnny gracefully landed on second base. 

"The name’s Sean,” he declared when he leaned over and offered me his hand. “I’ve never seen you at a game before."

I hated getting caught when I watched people. Usually I wasn’t, so this disconcerted me. I looked at my book as I quietly replied, "Jessie."

When a crack of a bat drew his face back to the field, I caught sight of his profile. He came into Shangri-La several times, but I had never spoken to him before.

Hoping that would explain away my interest in him, I shyly stuttered, "I think I’ve seen you at work."

"Where might that be, Jessie?" he asked amusedly.

"Shangri-La! You know! The import store!"

He startled me by laughing loudly. Although his mirth increased my shyness, his openness excited me. "You're the Jessica I’ve heard so much about! Forgive me,” he uttered. He spoke to the women around him and moved next to me. “How wonderful to finally meet you! I run Shangri-La. I should have introduced myself sooner, but time has been precious of late.”

The stunned realization that this was Johnny's father struck me shortly before embarrassment overwhelmed me. My knuckles went while I grasped the book on my lap. I had been staring at him for almost an hour.

“What must he think of me?” I wondered inwardly.

"No wonder the boy can't keep his mind on the store's business," he quipped cheerfully.

I felt suddenly hot, even for July. "Excuse me?" I spat out startled staring at him in shock.

“Everyone’s been telling me that I must meet you. John told me you were beautiful. He wasn’t joking."

My hands clutched Moby Dick nervously when he placed his index finger beneath my chin and turned my face toward his. I thought he was making fun of me. I didn’t feel pretty, let alone beautiful.

“I hope you don't mind an old man saying that," he added.

His remark took me by surprise. “Old?” I asked with a laugh. “Dad looks way older than you and he’s 38. That’s not even middle aged." His grin made me feel self-conscious. I realized that didn’t come out right. This was Roger’s boss, my boss. I knew I should be more respectful. "I'm sorry. I’m saying all the wrong things,” I stammered stupidly.

Then he removed his sunglasses and I peeked into his eyes for the first time. They drew me in like a magnet. They resembled Johnny’s, blue and piercing, with that same feeling as if he could see into my soul, but Sean’s eyes seemed like blue-rimmed wishing wells.

"Wow!” I uttered breathlessly. “Your eyes are so cool."

When I realized what emerged from my lips, I awoke. My hand flew to my mouth to keep any further stupidity from dribbling out, as he laughed loudly. My eyes returned to my book. I wanted to disappear.

He removed my hand from my mouth and kissed it. I gasped audibly as he replied good-naturedly, “Johnny’s right! You speak your mind! A woman who speaks her mind blesses those who hear her thoughts."

I giggled partially because his statement sounded like a joke and partially because my entire body tingled from his kiss to my hand. Giggling momentarily soothed my embarrassment. I looked at the hand which he still held and realized his eyes sought mine. A thrill electrified me as I looked into those eyes. I had seen Johnny's a hundred times, but they never effected me like that. I grinned at how different their eyes really were.

“How do you like working at Shangri-La?” Sean asked as he released my hand.

“I love it,” I admitted. “I have nothing to compare it with though.”

He smiled again. "So you’re new to retail. Does it interest you?"

“Shangri-La has always interested me. I love learning about all the beautiful stuff from around the world,” I rattled on. “I even enjoy dusting because it gives me a reason to see them more closely.”

He released that somewhat surprised laughter which had startled me at first. It was a jolly laugh, free from maliciousness. It calmed my fears.

"I’m gratified to hear that you find our merchandise beautiful. I pride myself on my eye for beauty," he remarked. "But what do you think about the business aspects of our store? Roger and John speak highly of your work. Roger already counts on you.”

Then, he laughed adding, “Hearing Roger say nothing but what he can praise is truly a joy, not to mention a feat."

I laughed in spite of myself. Roger was dear, but he complained a lot. I sometimes sighed as I listened to his seemingly ceaseless dissatisfaction. I felt relieved, though, that I didn’t add to his distress. Then I felt suddenly disloyal toward Roger because I was laughing at his expense.

"He's a really good boss,” I stuttered, trying to cover my guilt. “He lets me know what needs to be done and demonstrates what I don’t understand. I just love him. He’s so sweet."

Sean’s kind smile calmed me. "He's a fine man. Roger and I are family, so we tease. He’d be proud to know what loyalty he inspires. He’s terribly insecure." He stopped suddenly as if he said too much.

Screams returned our attention to the game. Someone on Johnny's team had knocked in a run. “Do you like baseball?” Sean asked.

“I’m not a big sports fan, but I enjoy the pace of baseball. It’s leisurely.”

“The boy wants to play for Boston when he’s done with university,” he confessed with an eye roll which told me he wasn’t too convinced about this choice of career for his son. “He thinks he can help them finally win the Series. If he does, one of us will die happy, anyway."

"My dad’s a Cub fan,” I shared. “He was furious in ’69 when the Mets won. He claims the Cubs are cursed, but they say that about the Red Sox too." He grinned as he nodded.

I giggled as I continued, "Dad hates the designated hitter rule. He won’t watch the Indians anymore because of it. He says that AL pitchers will become prima donas.” I lowered my voice to imitate Dad and growled, “‘They’re athletes, not opera singers.’” Sean laughed, so I concluded with a shrug, “He gets riled up about baseball." 

"Sounds like he takes baseball as seriously as Johnny.” He snapped his fingers and released a sound of frustration. I felt his warmth radiate as he leaned into me playfully. “I keep forgetting. I’m to call him John now that he’s a legal adult," he confided.

"Yo! Dad! I saw her first," Johnny shouted as he walked up the bleachers.

I flushed as I glared at Johnny. Before I could think of anything witty to reply, Sean put an arm around my shoulder and called out, "Game over so soon? We were just getting comfortable." He sighed as our eyes met. "If I wasn't so old, we’d definitely have a problem, son."

My mouth dropped open in shock at this great looking, intelligent man talking about me like this. He winked at me jovially.

"If he gets out of hand, whack him on the side of the head. His mum did that many times when I was his age.” Then he leaned in again, adding with raised eyebrows, “But not too hard, we don’t want him losing what few brains he has."

As I giggled, he told Johnny, "You treat this beauty with the respect she deserves. She’s a member of our family now. Besides, she stands up for Roger, bless him. ‘Tis a first!"

Johnny laughed loudly, but I snapped hearing Roger being belittled again, even in jest. "Roger’s been very nice to me. Please, lay off him! He’s sensitive."

When I realized that I had just issued an order to my boss, I covered my mouth silently determined never to remove it in Sean’s presence again. Grinning broadly, Sean took that hand in both of his.

"Roger’s discovered a heart of gold!" he exhaled fervently before kissing my hand. “I must give that man a raise.” A shiver went through me as I looked away, afraid I might stare. His graceful movements easily hypnotized me.

I clutched my book and remarked nervously, “I need to go. I must finish Moby Dick sometime before Armageddon.”

Instead of the easy out I had expected, my mention of Moby Dick drew Sean's attention even further. "How do you like Melville?" he asked with a chuckle.

"He’s interesting," I replied quietly. I felt more comfortable talking about books than anything else. "I don’t like the violence, and the details of whale hunting can be tedious, but I enjoy the psychological study of the obsessed whaler focused on the futility of defeating a certain whale in that huge ocean. It’s like Melville has him compulsively working toward a battle to the death between himself and God. It’s silly because God always wins, right? He’s immortal."

 Sean’s laughter returned my embarrassment. I didn’t think I said anything funny. When I glanced into his eyes questioningly, they appeared vigilant for my next sentence. No one ever listened to me like this, especially not about books.

"The parallels with the Jonah story brought God to mind,” I stammered trying to justify my remarks. “Also, most of the names are Biblical. I’ve been looking them up. They seem to shed light on Melville’s characters and their relation to the story."

My eyes locked into his. I suddenly felt like I could say anything to him, and he would listen, but when I glanced at Johnny, he seemed bored. He stood watching his ball which he had thrown up in the air, waiting to catch it.

I was afraid I sounded crazy, so I finished shyly, "I'm sorry. I like it, I think. I’ll know when I finish."

"Melville’s one of Dad's favorite writers," Johnny explained blandly, as his ball hovered once more in the air. "He calls him the great American philosopher." He laughed as he tossed the ball yet again. He seemed to be making fun of his father, but I didn’t understand the joke.

"Meeting you has been a joy, Jessica,” Sean said kindly. Then he squeezed my hand and added, “You’re insightful. I look forward to hearing more when you finish."

I returned the squeeze like I never wanted to let go. When I remembered myself, I released his hand quickly. I looked down to collect my excited emotions, but couldn’t, so I placed my hands on Johnny’s sweaty shoulders, kissed his cheek and snapped, "See yeah!"

Then I bounced down the bleachers. At the bottom, I glanced up with a wave. Johnny's attention was on his dad, but Sean smiled. I savored one last look into his eyes before I left.

Entrenched

“Hey Jessie!” Johnny said when he saw me the following Monday morning. “Why don’t you come out to dinner with me Friday? We could go to The Lounge afterward and dance.”

I stared at him dumbfounded.

I couldn’t go after meeting Sean. For the first time, a man seemed interested in my ideas. Johnny was interested in Johnny. I refused to settle for less, now that I knew it was possible.

“You have enough girl friends,” I quipped so as not to hurt his feelings.

He laughed. "I didn't think you changed your mind, but Dad said I probably didn't ask you the right way. He said you liked me and, hey, you came to my game."

I watched him shrug off my rejection, but I felt the need to soothe his ego. "You know I like you, Johnny, but I’m not dating anyone until I finish this school stuff. Your game was fun, though. I want to go again this Saturday.”

He grinned. "Dad’s a book nerd like you, but he hates when I call him that. He turns red and starts the lecture that I call, 'Your mother valued education above all things.' It’s fun to watch."  

His mother died when he was 12. He had discussed it in a matter of fact way which surprised me. I would have been crushed by such a loss, but he seemed at peace. It wasn’t as if he didn’t miss her because he did. He admitted that repeatedly. It’s more like he accepted what happened.

The thought that he made his dad mad as a joke irritated me though. “You’re so mean,” I retorted. “That’s why I won’t go out with you. You’d end up breaking my heart and laughing about it with your teammates."

“Would not!” he retorted and continued arguing the point until Roger told him to leave me alone and get back to work.

Now that I knew him by sight, I realized how often Sean visited our store. Once we became baseball companions, he often came up behind me while I worked and rested his hand gently on the small of my back as he asked about my day. Tingles always accompanied his gesture. My immediate, though hopeless, attraction to him grew with experience. He always smelled great, subtle, yet intoxicating.

When I was running the store numbers, he periodically sat with me for a few minutes and chatted. “I enjoy the way your fingers dance across the keys,” he joked one morning. “I envy you. I’m more of a hunt and peck adder.” His self deprecating humor always made me giggle. I forced myself to avoid looking into his eyes, however, or I’d have to redo my addition if I .

"I’ve watched you at the store," Sean confided to me at one of Johnny’s games.

After that first Saturday, he encouraged me to join the group of women whom I had seen him with that first game. They were the wives, mothers and girlfriends of team members. Sean and I were the only ones there for Johnny, which surprised me considering the stream of young women who continued daily to flow through our store.

That day, I had arrived before him. When Sean strode up the stands to sit next to me, I was reading Jane Eyre for the umpteenth time. I smiled at Sean and waved at Johnny who had gone straight to batting practice. The warmth of Sean’s presence, as he leaned in to discover what I was reading, stimulated me.

It disconcerted me, though, that anyone, especially Sean, watched me. I preferred invisibility. I silently lowered my eyes awaiting his judgment. Mom loved to innumerate the multitude of flaws in my character, so I expected him to be harsh. Still I was curious what imperfections Sean discovered.

"You’re wonderful with people,” he said kindly. “I especially like the way you relate to older women. You’re respectful. I know they appreciate that."

Surprised and bewildered by his praise, I thanked him shyly. “Most people who come into the store are very nice,” I explained quietly. 

"Roger mentioned you’re finishing high school independently. That can’t be easy. If you need help, please ask. This is our quiet season, so, while John’s here, take what hours you need for study. Education’s too important not to be taken seriously." Then he added emphatically, "Ignorance will destroy the world, if we allow it."

The look on his face was intense, yet gentle. I remembered what Johnny said about Sean prioritizing education. It sounded like his mission. I admired that. Even though I left school, I never gave up on learning.

“Thanks, but Roger’s great whenever I feel stressed about school. In fact, he makes me bring my books, so that, when I’ve finish my work and business is quiet, I can study in his office. He’s determined that I finish soon, and I won’t let him down.”

"Good on him!" he remarked playfully. "I must say, he’s become positively optimistic since you began working there, Jessica. If he wasn't gay, I’d swear he had a crush on you." He laughed and hugged my shoulder jovially. When he brushed his lips against my cheek, my body tensed.

Then the ladies began to arrive, and he rose, as was his custom, to greet each with a compliment and a kiss on their hand. My eyes followed his every move. I was too young to be cautious where emotions were concerned. I was in love.

Sean always looked great. At the games, he wore his usual baggy white clothes, but, whenever he did business, he wore black. His black jackets, held closed by three black buttons, had thin lapels although thick were in vogue.

He even wore black shirts which were collarless with gold buttons, some of which were hidden. I never saw him in a tie. The toes of his black shiny boots were pointed with silver tips. His red hair, which he usually braided with thin black leather straps, created a stunning effect.

“You look more like a gangster than a businessman,” I once teased him.

He laughed as he replied, “There’s a bit of gangster in all businessmen.” Then he warned, “Be careful.”  

His suits were made of exceptionally soft material. I admired the beauty of the fabric, once, as an excuse to touch him. He thanked me and confided, “I enjoy feeling soft things next to my skin.”

I giggled as I took the opportunity to peek into his eyes. I felt the need to keep busy while we chatted, so I returned to straightening the display which I had been working on when he walked up behind me.

"I wanted to ask you what you thought of the conclusion of Moby Dick."

My self-consciousness disappeared as I activated my intellect. "Wow. What a great metaphor!"

I didn't get much opportunity to discuss books at home. Mom read mysteries, but not ones I enjoyed, like Chandler or Conan Doyle. My dad hadn't got past the evening paper since college, and neither liked studying literature. It was an added treat that it was Sean to whom I could speak about my books.

“We should meet for breakfast some morning so I can hear your ideas on Melville,” Sean said. “Would you mind?”

I couldn’t believe my ears. "I’d love that," I responded trying to mask my zeal for the proposition.

He opened his ever-present datebook and frowned. "Early meeting tomorrow, so that’s out," he remarked. "How’s Friday?”

“Great!” I squeaked out.

“Is seven too early?”

“Fine! Seven’s fine,” I answered stunned that this was happening.

“John’s still here, so I’ll simply warn Roger that I’m borrowing you for breakfast so we needn’t watch the clock while we chat. Do you know Rose's Cafe?" he asked.

“I’ll find it,” I promised.

He nodded as he walked away saying, "See you then."

Rose's Café was a coffee shop, but not as I defined one in 1977. To me, coffee shops sold eggs and bacon instead of warm muffins and coffee in a thousand varieties. I ordered cocoa, but I declined the whipped cream afraid to appear childish in front of Sean. I meekly thanked the lady at the counter and found an empty table.

I read while I waited.  When the room warmed suddenly, I looked up to see Sean smiling at me. He gently kissed my cheek before exhaling, “Good morning.” His breath tingled in my ear. I closed my book before he continued, "I need to order. You’ve what you want, I see. It’s good to meet an independent woman.”

My eyes naturally followed him to the counter. "Lovely morning to you, me darlin' Rose," Sean sang brightly with an exaggerated charm which seemed laughable even from him. I suddenly realized that he was Irish. He was using it to put on a show for Rose. My embarrassment abated as I watched his performance entranced.

Rose broke into a grin as she turned toward him. "Sean, you foolish man! It’s been far too long. How nice to see you!” She added with a little slap on his hand. “I've missed you."

She beamed as he picked up her hands from the glass counter and kissed them both. "Rose, I had come, so I may once more look into your lovely eyes. Angels weep with envy when they see emeralds like yours."

I stifled my giggle. Then I wondered if he complimented others to avoid being studied too closely, like I did by listening to people while I watched them at the store. I overcame my shyness using this method. Although Sean wasn’t shy, I felt a distance which I couldn’t explain.

She laughed and shook her head. "What can I get you?"

"I'll have me usual, as only you make it and one of those…" He paused and glanced in my direction. "Make that two pumpkin cream cheese muffins. I spent the last hour playing racket ball with Johnny. I deserve a treat for keeping up with the boy."

She laughed as she rang him up. When she turned her back, he dropped a $20 bill in her tip jar. Then he turned toward me and smiled as if he was caught doing something he shouldn’t. I momentarily found myself lost in his eyes.

When Rose handed him his tray, he smiled as he remarked, "You’re as luscious as your delicacies, Rose. God love yeah."

She giggled and took the next customer’s order while he walked toward me. I thought about Johnny and the giggling old ladies at the store. He obviously learned that from Sean.

Our knees touched as he got comfortable in the chair next to mine. My excitement invoked a momentary inhale, which I tried to cover by blowing on my chocolate lightly as if it hadn't cooled enough. Once settled, he handed me a muffin.

"You must try this. They make you think that you’ve died and gone to heaven."

“Thanks,” I responded. I didn't know what else to say, so I stirred my drink.

"Is that chocolate?" he asked.

“Yes,” I whispered since my voice seemed to desert me.

"Nectar of the Goddess!” he replied. “I stopped drinking caffeine when Margie died, but for an occasional chocolate. As the single father of two teenage boys, I couldn't afford to crab at them. I drink the cinnamon decaf latte. Cinnamon wakes me without stress, like green tea."

“Coffee makes me feel incredible for about two hours,” I admitted shyly. “But then I drag for the rest of the day. Also, I make too many mistakes when I drink coffee, but chocolate doesn't seem to do that to me."

"The Goddess takes care of Her own," he responded at his muffin absentmindedly.

It sounded like a weird comment, but I let it pass to avoid seeming stupid. I thought of something to say and, proud that I didn't lapse into a shy silence, asked, “When does Johnny leave for Syracuse?”

 "Sunday," Sean replied with an emphatic nod of his head. "I pray he balances his studies with his social life. Every conversation we have seems to revolve around young women." He grinned at me mischievously.

I laughed. I saw enough girls visit him at the store to understand. "He asked me out, but he... Well, he's like a friend sort of guy to me, like Roger, except not gay," I commented into my chocolate. I cringed as I realized what I said and what I wanted to say were totally different. Afraid that I offended Sean, I peeked at him nervously, but he laughed before my eyes met his.

"You’re fond of understatements. The only men my boy attends to are those who carry bats or gloves.” He continued to laugh until he added, “But he has taste, my dear, and he’s a remarkable judge of character. I’d be disappointed had he not shown an interest in you.” He silently watched me for a moment and sighed as he whispered, “Pity."

Confusion filled me as I wondered if I disappointed him by not dating Johnny. When he raised my chin with his finger like he did that first day at the ballpark, my thoughts shifted to his eyes which searched my face. His odd gesture allowed me to contemplate the depth in his eyes.

Then, he removed his finger and gazed at his latte. He sighed and declared, "We came together to discuss Moby Dick, as I remember."

I relaxed, and, for the next two hours, we talked about Melville, the biblical allusions in his work, and the existential implications of his moral. After the first half hour, he asked Rose for a pitcher of water and a couple of glasses. He poured us each a glass, and we continued our conversation in rapid fire pace.

He actively listened to whatever I said. When I made a point which he especially liked, he elaborated on it. If he disagreed, he stated specifically the point of his disagreement and supported his position by quoting Melville’s lines from memory. I couldn't understand how he did that. Memorization was impossible for me. The more that I listened to him, the more his intellect overwhelmed me.

At nine o’clock, he announced that he had to leave for a meeting. “This was the most wonderful way to start my day. I hope we can do this again. You’re quite insightful, and you’ve a wonderful grasp on subplot."

“Thank you,” I whispered.

Then he put his hand to my cheek. "This may sound like a joke, but I’d like to paint you. If Bottecelli had met you, he’d have painted blondes instead of all those redheads.”

"I like his redheads," I replied automatically, trying to imagine Bottecelli without redheads. “His paintings would be boring without them.”

He laughed loudly. "Now I understand why you stared at me at the ballpark," he remarked cheerfully. I realized, horrified, that I inadvertently affirmed at least a small part of my attraction to him. "You’re a fan of the master," he added good-naturedly. I giggled with relief at his joke. As we stood, he thanked Rose again, apologizing for occupying the table for so long.

"Do it more often, Sean," she ordered with a nod of her head. "Bye for now." 

When he offered me a ride to the store, my heart leapt, but I declined. I didn't trust that I wouldn’t put my foot in my mouth, again. Outside of my redhead remark, I did quite well that morning.

"No thank you, I’ll walk,” I told him. “You have a meeting, and I have my book."

What are you reading?” he asked.

"Dickens," I responded, showing him my copy of Great Expectations.

"Ah,” he exhaled with a smile and nod. “We must discuss that when you finish. I want to hear your interpretation on Dickens' view of morality. Well, dear one, have a lovely walk. You’ve a fine day for it. Thank you for sharing your morning with me." He picked up my hand and held it momentarily. "I’ll see you soon. Have a lovely weekend." 

I watched him get into his car and drive away. "YES!" I screamed inside. I felt remarkably important all of a sudden. I had a conversation with a knowledgeable man who liked what I said. I didn't humiliate myself, and he treated me like an intellectual equal. The gratitude I felt increased my longing. I closed my eyes momentarily to visualize his and smiled. Then I opened my book and walked to work.

(return to Shangri-La Chronicles)