Short Story
Robbie Crossman was five when his mother, Sally May, told him Bible stories, but her stories were different than those he heard in Sunday School. Instead of Jesus, Mary and Joseph, her stories were about Robbie himself and his parents. Even at a young age, he knew the place they lived wasn’t Judea; it was Indiana, and Indiana was in America.
When Sally May told her version of the Gospels, sometimes she and Dad would fight, really fight, and when they started hitting each other, Robbie hid in a kitchen closet to cry. Dad didn’t have to tell him not to share any of Mom’s notions with cousins or preschool friends. In the winter of First Grade, Sally May went away for what seemed a long time. Robbie knew there was something wrong with her. Aunts and uncles never spoke about his mother’s odd behavior or her subsequent disappearance. He did however live in fear of what others might say. Kids at Maple Township School knew he had only a father at home, but most didn’t say a lot about it. The teachers in Robbie’s aging four-room schoolhouse advised parents, reminded them of the Crossman family’s long-standing, respectable history. When he was six, Robbie had no knowledge of his teachers’ sympathy. Nevertheless, given society’s general disapprobation of mental illness, he lived in a world of unspoken shame. Sally May Crossman was released from treatment shortly after he started Second Grade. Returning home, she didn’t tell those strange stories anymore, not for a couple years, and then she went missing for a second time.
After he finished Fourth Grade, Maple Township School was closed and amalgamated with two other tiny districts; Butternut Township and a nearby village school in Pokagon. With so many new faces among students, Robbie was tagged as “the crazy woman’s kid.” Quiet, painfully shy in the company of others, to resist loneliness, he joined Boy Scouts and learned to play baritone in the school band. Diffident and polite, his teachers and many parents treated him kindly, but he was haunted by the embarrassment his mother brought to the family.
#
In the summer before Sixth Grade, a sheriff came to evict Sally May from the family residence. That spring, Robbie’s father, George Crossman, took him to a judge’s chambers at the county seat. Nothing to be afraid of, George told him, just answer questions as best you can. In an office with shelves of leather tomes, a bushy-eyed jurist asked which parent he favored.
When Mom first realized George was seeking a divorce, she fantasized of living with Robbie in the nearest city. Her son could have a morning newspaper route, she a waitress job in a cafe. Mom admitted to Robbie it would be hard, but somehow they’d get by. He found the prospect frightening; he knew nothing of city life, and she talked as if he would be “the man of the house.” In the divorce proceedings she was assisted by a court appointed lawyer who advised how unlikely it was a county judge would accept her being, even minimally dependent, on the financial prospects of an eleven year old. Moreover, given her unstable mental history, there simply was no possibility of Sally May being granted sole custody, and so she coached her son to say he loved them both.
The judge was solemn, unhurried, cautious when he heard Robbie’s statement. A few days later his decree confirmed her lawyer’s prediction. Robbie could visit Mom from time to time, but he would live permanently with his father and grandmother, an understandable but uncommon decision for the late 1950s.
Before the sheriff arrived that summer morning, Sally May packed a few of Robbie’s clothes in a striped suitcase. When he was ready, he stood outside the concrete block house that was his home from birth. A few hundred paces away beyond a hay field, he could see Grandma’s green-trimmed farmhouse. Only Grandma Ivy and George lived there. In Ivy’s youth, the house throbbed with the lives of six children, but now Grandpa was buried and their youngsters long flown, all except for George who came home after the war to operate the farm. Accompanying George was a Southern woman, a singer and piano player he’d met in a Tennessee USO before being shipped overseas. To Grandma, George’s bride was a scandal: blonde, voluptuous, already once divorced, totally unsuited to farm life and twice diagnosed with mental illness since Robbie’s birth. In Grandma’s opinion, Sally May’s only contribution to the Crossman family was the boy. Thank goodness George was shut of her.
The sheriff drove Robbie to the farm where his father and grandmother waited on the front porch. Hefting Robbie’s suitcase, George said, “You’ll see Mom when she’s settled somewhere.” From an upstairs bedroom Robbie saw the police car drive past. His eyes blinked slowly as Mom waved to him. Dad patted his shoulder. “Someone’s gonna help her find a place to live. A social worker.” George turned Robbie to face him. “Do you know what all this means?”
“I think so, Sir.”
“Mom got some money in the settlement, but it won’t last. She needs to find a job.”
“What if she has to go back to hospital?”
Dad shook his head. “I committed her twice. Broke my heart both times. She’s someone else’s problem now.”
#
After the divorce, it was a year before Sally May sank into despair. Then one more year surviving crude electro-shock therapy at a state mental hospital, until for a third time, she was released. It was then Rob and his mom were allowed to correspond.
It was not until he was fourteen, the summer prior to his Freshman year in high school, Rob was able to visit his mother. By Greyhound, the city where she lived was an hour north. The bus turned at a downtown intersection to reach the station. He waited while other passengers disembarked and scanned city folk greeting visitors. He didn’t expect Mom to be among them. She wrote to say her shift would end a few minutes after his arrival and he should come inside to meet her co-workers. Dragging his overstuffed suitcase, he trudged into the terminal and was immediately approached by a heavy-set woman in a flowered dress.
“Lordy, you got to be Robert! Put’er there, sonny.” He dragged his suitcase closer to the woman’s outstretched hand but was promptly wrapped in a hug. “Your momma said look for the handsomest white boy I ever did see, and you sure take the cake.”
“Please, Ma’am. Sally May Crossman is my mother. Is she here?”
“You bet she is. Shift’s almost over. Follow me.”
Three more women at the lunch counter and two cooks behind an order window, all knew his name; then Mom was there to clasp him tight. Afterwards, they made their way to a long-stay hotel on a busy street. She unlocked the front door and they climbed steps to a dimly lit, second floor hallway. “You’re next to me, Robert. I’ll find the manager and get your key.”
When Sally May returned, she knocked softly and entered to lay a metal key on a writing desk. “For supper, there’s a sit-down restaurant just a block away. Later we can watch Ed Sullivan on TV. Tonight he introduces that new British group!”
“That’ll be fine, Mom. Whatever you like.”
Stout with thinning, light colored hair, Mom sat on the bed and motioned for him to take the armchair. “So, tell me Hon, how’s Scouting? Did you make First Class?”
“Oh, for sure.”
For half an hour she quizzed him, but chagrined, his answers were brief. Did he enjoy being a Patrol Leader? It’s OK. Was the marching band fun? Yes. How was his father? Working hard in the fields. Does Dad have a girlfriend? Heavens, no! Have you thought of university? Dad can’t afford it.
“Robert, you must try. There are scholarships for good students.”
Before suppertime, Mom took him to her own room, showed him long, white envelopes, each labelled with a dollar amount. On one she’d written, ‘Robert $2.50/w.’
“I save up. After a couple months, I can afford to rent that room for a night, take you out to eat, maybe even a movie if I’m careful.” She looked a little sad. “But no movie this time. I couldn’t wait to see you.”
“I miss you too, Mom.”
Later that night, he watched the luminous dial on his bedside clock as it counted early morning hours. He thought of what Mom told him before she said good night. “Hon, I never had the chance till now, to talk to you about something serious. Do you know about the birds and the bees?”
Robert was flabbergasted, red-faced with embarrassment. “Mom, we live on a farm. I know how babies get made.”
“Human babies?”
He nodded.
“But, Hon, there’s something probably only your mother will tell you. A girl, a young woman could trap you into marriage. You’ll be a wonderful catch, so you’ve got to be careful, not to make a baby. She might even say she’s carrying your child and you got to marry her, even if she isn’t pregnant.”
Robert was wide-eyed. “Is that what happened to you and Dad?”
“No, Robert. We tried three years before you came along. But I’ll need you to look after me when you’re grown, finished college with a good job. If I lose you to some pretty, young girl, I don’t know what will happen to me.”
#
Rob vowed all A’s and B’s when he started Ninth Grade, his Freshman year. He knew Mom was counting on him.
* * *
It was a wet Saturday evening in autumn. Dressed in Rob’s red band uniform, he and his father drove into Pokagon’s school parking lot. He unpacked his baritone and stored its empty case in the trunk of Dad’s old Plymouth. George rolled down the window. “Son, you’re gonna get soaked.”
“All these little kids in costume, we’ll only march to the bank corner.”
“Bet they’re already soaked.”
“I’ll look for you south of the light. OK, Dad?” There was only one stoplight in Pokagon.
“Sure, Robbie. See you there.”
Band parents drove to the village intersection while high school musicians gathered at the flagpole. Already lined up were youngsters in Halloween costumes. Pokagon’s Band Director stepped onto the street. “Listen up folks. Align on me!” First row, far right, Mr. Donley was Front Anchor, and he waved forward a row of clarinets, six across. Then mixed rows of flutes, oboes, saxophones and trumpets, followed by French horns, baritones and trombones. Last came tubas and the drum corps with snares, cymbals and a xylophone. Leading, the Drum Majorette blew her whistle and the band stepped out, marching at a pace slower than usual so little ones could keep up.
Evening rain slackened when they reached Washington Avenue, and under streetlights, the Majorette whistled a halt. “Check your music,” Mr. Donley shouted as high-pitched chants of ‘Trick or Treat” rang from behind. Rob opened his flip folder and balanced at parade rest. Ahead and two columns to his left was a classmate, a Ninth Grade oboe player. She looked dreadful: dripping red nose, wet hair straggling from her uniform cap, then a sneeze that broke her oboe reed when her lower lip struck the embouchure. Groaning quietly, she hastened to replace the reed while her mouth bled only a little. Rob thought she had no business performing on such a cold, miserable night.
Again the Majorette blew her whistle and flutes led into the Sorcerer’s Apprentice theme. As they marched, villagers applauded, two and three deep on both tree-lined sidewalks. At the stoplight, players formed a concert half shell to serenade onlookers with Night on Bald Mountain and Danse Macabre. The girl he’d noted earlier looked worse than before. She teetered unsteadily but fought to stay upright. How brave she seemed. Resolute.
She was Marilyn Grant, a girl from Butternut Township. Rob had never spoken to her, but maybe someday he would.
The concert ended with the Pokagon Children’s Choir rushing forward to mount the rising bank steps for a chorus of Santa Claus is Coming to Town. Hardly a Halloween tune but at least a well-known jingle for children expecting delights. Concluding with a cheer, they scattered into village streets in search of lighted porches marking willing Treaters.
Mr. Donley waved his hat overhead. “Thanks Everyone! See you Monday morning.” Rob tucked the baritone beneath his arm with relief; the night’s music sounded fine. As players broke formation in search of rides home, he looked for Dad’s rusting Plymouth.
The crowd dispersed. Carrying her daughter’s empty oboe case, Marilyn Grant’s mother stepped down from the bank steps with two youngsters. Mrs. Grant was a tall, handsome woman Rob remembered from Music Booster meetings. Marilyn’s sister and brother, both in clown costumes, quivered with the cold and excitement. “Please Mom! There’s all kinda lights on Michigan Avenue. We’ll go ahead now. OK?”
“Absolutely not!” Shaking her head, Mrs. Grant was appalled by her daughter’s appearance. “Oh, Marilyn, you’re red as a radish. Why is your mouth bleeding?”
Rob took one step closer. Really, it wasn’t all that bad.
Mrs. Grant lunged to restrain her son from running into the night. “Marilyn, we told you not to come. Now you’re too sick to help me chase after Jane and Jeffy. I should have brought Dad and left you at home.”
Rob took another step closer as Marilyn knelt on the sidewalk to pack her instrument. “Of all people, Mom, you know how Mr. Donley is about concert attendance.” Mrs. Grant was President of the Band Boosters.
Rob’s third step brought him to Mrs. Grant’s side. “That’s right. He’s a real stickler.”
Marilyn glanced up as her mom turned to him. “Rob. Thank goodness. Would you and your dad drive Marilyn home? It’s not far.”
He bobbed his head. “For sure, Mrs. Grant. I’m short a Good Deed for today anyway.”
“Mom, Rob’s just saying that cause he’s a Scout.”
She knew his name!
“Please tell George I’ll bring you both a tray of brownie squares at the next Booster Meeting.”
“Dad will be sure to come then.”
As Rob and Marilyn walked south from the stoplight, he thought she was lucky to have a mom like Nancy Grant.
#
Early Monday morning after the weekend Halloween parade, Mr. Donley tapped his wand against the music stand to draw everyone’s attention. Musicians raised their instruments in unison and the Children’s Choir launched into a school-wide broadcast of the National Anthem.
Rob memorized his music for the Anthem years ago. Across the concert band shell, second row, second chair, was Marilyn Grant. Seeing Mr. Donley’s downbeat from the corner of his eye, Rob found her, the new reed held firmly by her lower lip. She too, obviously, had the Anthem in mind, and in a few moments her eyes also began to wander: to the music room clock above the door, over towards Mr. Donley as he conducted, then to flutes and clarinets in the first row, and farther to trombones and baritones in the third, until she noticed Rob. He glanced to his music, then back to Marilyn, who was staring at Mr. Donley’s black leather shoes. Momentarily she raised her eyes to meet Rob’s but looked away again. A minute or so later, the Star-Spangled Banner came to an end, and both gazed steadily to confirm that, yes, they’d been watching each other.
That fall in music class, sometimes Marilyn would moisten a dry reed brazenly, then suppress a giggle. In reply Rob would nod to her with the barest smile. When class was over, he made sure to hold open the music room door for her, and side by side they went to second period Algebra, often saying little or nothing.
Marilyn was first-born in a family of three children and a farmer’s child, like Rob. Soon he came to admire her courage, humor and quiet intelligence. Midway through Freshman year, she would ask him to tie the usual Windsor knot beneath her uniform collar. Mrs. Grant wondered why she didn’t ask her father to do that anymore and supposed Marilyn must have learned on her own. It was in the moments before the Spring Concert, she noticed her daughter leaning into Rob’s hands as he fashioned the necktie. By year’s end, Rob admitted to himself he was falling in love.
It was in her Junior year, at sixteen, Marilyn blossomed with such beauty Rob found her astonishing. A lithe entrancing body, green eyes and lovely oval face, she was almost as tall as Rob himself. Vice President of their Eleventh Grade class, Prom Princess and 4-H Queen, lead actress in the Junior Play; he watched her rise so high, he felt himself trailing in her triumphant flight. In Senior Year, both were unstinting in academics, sharing homework and music practice, studying for exams, dreaming of university and careers as musicians, teachers, or scientists. He decided that whatever school she chose, he would follow; to pursue his dream of a lifetime with Marilyn, despite Sally May’s expectations of him.
#
Two weeks following graduation from Pokagon High, Marilyn and Rob enrolled in a summer typing course for university-bound students. Morning break came at 11 A.M, after two hours pounding manual typewriters. They sat in shade behind the gymnasium, their backs braced against its high brick wall. Rob leaned near, almost close enough to nuzzle her ear covered by short blonde hair. “For graduation, Aunt Miriam gave me an Olivetti Portable.”
“Oh! Now I’m jealous, Rob. Does she have any more at her store?” With a mischievous smile, she nudged his shoulder.
“There were four or five when I picked the blue portable.”
“I’ll tell Mom we have to hurry up and buy one.”
“If you like, I could call Aunt Miriam to put one aside?”
It was so like him, Marilyn thought. Four years of considerate favors he’d shown her, always a sounding board, a gentle watchfulness whenever he was near. In her mind he was a Guardian Angel, hovering over their years together, asking nothing in return.
However, Marilyn’s mother viewed their relationship differently. Almost from the beginning, Nancy Grant saw how devoted Rob was to her daughter. When Marilyn was a Sophomore, Mrs. Grant told her to be cautious when she was alone with Rob, not that she was in any danger whatsoever. But a careless word, a kiss or caress from Marilyn would raise unwarranted hopes. With any luck, Rob would come to the right conclusion on his own; for a husband, Marilyn could do much better than a farmer’s son of sullied provenance. Surely he would realize how unsatisfactory a match he made for the exquisite Marilyn.
That morning as they sat in unmown grass behind the gymnasium, she pulled away slightly and lowered her eyes. “Yesterday, Indiana University came through.”
“With a scholarship?”
“$1000 a year for housing at a residence called Read Hall. With Daddy’s GI Bill, I’m golden.”
Rob nodded happily. “IU has a fine School of Music.”
“Do you think that’s where I should go?”
“It’s so important to choose for yourself, Marilyn. There are only a couple weeks left to accept offers. I’m still waiting to hear.”
“Rob, remember Band Day and how pretty the campus was? Maybe I really should go there.”
“It felt like an Ivy League school.”
“That’s true. It would be almost like studying at Juilliard. Mom is over the moon.”
“It’s wonderful you’ve pleased her, Marilyn.” His joy drained away as he lifted his head to watch clouds scudding east.
Again, she nudged him gently. “What’s wrong? Are you worried about scholarships? Ball State and Purdue came through for you.”
“No, not that.”
“Please tell me.”
“This Friday I’m heading north again. I’m supposed to stay the weekend.”
“Your mom must be so proud, Rob. Isn’t this what she always wanted for you?”
“I sent her my Pokagon graduation picture, and one of you.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Marilyn, all her hopes are in me, only me. I’m failing her.”
“No, you’re not. I don’t understand. Stay with me after class. We’ll walk into the village, have lunch and talk.”
#
A few days later in the Grant farmhouse hallway, Nancy Grant listened in plain sight as Marilyn spoke to Rob on the phone. Harvey, her father, turned down the television in their living room. “Yes, Rob. Let’s take Jane and Jeffy to Penguin Point to celebrate. That’s really good news.” She hung up the phone as her mother scowled. “Did you hear that, Mom?”
“Rob’s also been accepted at IU.”
“They gave him a full ride; four years tuition by keeping good grades. They promise a job on campus so he won’t have to borrow at all.”
Harvey came to stand in the doorway. “Be a fool not to take it.”
“Daddy, he’ll take it because I’m there.”
Disapproving, Nancy shook her head. “Harvey, he will be in this house before the year’s over, asking our permission to marry Marilyn. Mark my words!”
“It’s her decision, not ours.”
“That’s right, Daddy. He told me Sally May expects him to take care of her when he’s finished university. And besides, won’t he always be a poor farm boy?”
“Someday he’s going to inherit the Crossman property. Rob should be at Purdue in Agriculture, no matter where you are, Darling.”
“I like him, but I won’t settle for a stay-at-home, momma’s boy.”
“Then, Marilyn, maybe it’s long past time to say he hasn’t a chance. But not tonight while he’s happy celebrating. That’d be cruel.”
#
With one week left in August, Sally May wrote to say she’d returned to her hometown of McKenzie, Tennessee. Thinking she would be happier there, she apologized for being unable to see Rob before he left for school and for not meeting Marilyn for a first time. Rob told Marilyn in passing that his mother had returned South but did not admit it was a great relief to him. Indeed, he was thoroughly ashamed of sending her picture to his mom. As he anticipated, that photograph broke his mother’s expectation of him being her life’s guarantor.
During their last few days in Pokagon, they met in the village park to share hopes for the future. In her final year of high school, it became clear Marilyn possessed the skill and determination to become a classical musician. She aced her summer performance audition at IU Bloomington.
“Maybe I could be First Chair with the Boston Symphony! Oh, Rob, it’s my dream job.”
As they sat at a picnic table, he reached to take her hand. “It’s hard to start at the top.”
“I know. Third Chair, with the Indianapolis Symphony, Denver, Winnipeg. I’ll start anywhere. Even small cities in Europe have symphony orchestras.”
“You could be a world traveler.”
“London, the London Symphony. Can you imagine!”
Looking into Rob’s face, seeing how pleased he was being with her, Marilyn did not follow her father’s advice. Over the years, she’d learned to care for Rob, to depend on his support. If he was listening at all, he must realize her path did not lead to loving him. Not for years, if ever. And how could his mother ever fit into their lives?
“You know, Marilyn, maybe I’d like to teach.”
She thought this might be her chance to disillusion him.
Rob noticed she looked a bit glum. “No, it could be great. Wherever there are children, they need teachers.”
“I’m sorry Rob. Teaching would be such a comedown for me.”
“For you, yes. You don’t want to teach music to kids. But I’m good at Spanish and mathematics and physics. Remember how we competed for best marks in science?”
“I’ve always thought teachers pretty much stayed in one place.”
He shook his head slowly. “If a teacher’s married with children and a mortgage, I guess it’s hard to move around.” He stretched his arms wide and grinned at her. “But look at me, no mortgage, no kids! We could . . . I could go anywhere.”
* * *
Read Hall was located near the campus’ heart, across Jordan Avenue from the School of Music. Many of its residents came to study music, voice, or ballet. Under terms of Rob’s scholarship, he worked early mornings in food service, and he’d wangled an assignment to Read Cafeteria by insisting it was easy to reach from his own nearby dormitory.
That fall in September, Marilyn was selected as Read’s sponsored candidate for IU Homecoming Queen. Read students supposed she was a shoe-in for the Queen’s Court, if not the crown itself. Though Marilyn was remarkably attractive, still she was only first year.
#
One Friday morning in October, Rob hung his white service jacket in the cafeteria staff room, then hurried outside to meet Marilyn.
Oboe case in hand, she waited on a shaded sidewalk along Jordan Avenue. “There you are, Rob. I was about to head over without you.”
“Pay day. I’ll go to the bank before Spanish Literature.”
She transferred the instrument case to her left hand and pulled him closer to gawk at his paycheck. “One week?”
“That’s for the whole month of September. Not much is it?”
She grimaced and shook her head. “I was hoping we could go to the Chicago Symphony concert next week. But two tickets would wipe you out, Sweetheart.”
“You mustn’t miss that, Marilyn. Just post a note on the Music Memo Board. You’ll get a dozen offers to buy both tickets.”
Rob thought her calling him ‘Sweetheart’ was almost worth losing a date that never got off the ground.
#
The Jordan River was a creek Rob could leap over, dry-footed. The Jordan meandered through Dunn Meadow where they lounged for a Sunday evening Stromboli supper. Red maples shed autumn leaves around them.
“Second Runner-Up at Homecoming. You’re brave to be seen in public with such a loser.”
Rob yearned to pull her into his arms. “Not a vain bone anywhere, have you, Marilyn?” Both smirked.
She was quiet for a while then clasped his hand. “I shouldn’t be enrolled in that Sophomore level Music Theory course. It’s a real bear.”
“We talked about that. Getting it out of the way sounded like a good idea.”
“Mr. Donley didn’t teach theory in high school. I’m sinking. I didn’t want to drop it so . . .”
Stalling, Rob chomped into his half of the foot-long sandwich then handed her the rest. “Aren’t there other folks in the same boat?”
She beamed and inched closer. “Yes, there are, nine or ten of us. I posted on the Memo Board like before. We’ve formed a study group.”
“Great minds think alike, Sweetheart.”
He’s always such a dear, she thought, but so clueless. “There’s just one problem. Group meets Wednesday and Saturday nights. It’ll be harder for us to see each other.”
#
They did meet less often and Rob came to depend on her late evening telephone calls. In mid-December, he was diving for the phone shared with three roommates.
“Hello, Marilyn! I’ve missed you.” He waved everyone else away. “Do you think . . .”
“Listen, Dear. I have the most tremendous news. Pat in my theory group lives in Hartford, Connecticut. She’s invited me home for a ‘Currier and Ives’ Christmas: sleighs pulled by Clydesdales, covered bridges, mulled wine.”
“Wow! That does sound great. When will you come back to Pokagon?”
“With any luck, not at all. I mean . . . Pat’s father offered to take us to New York City for a week around New Year’s Eve. The Russian Tea Room and Empire State Building, Carnegie Hall. Rob, have you checked your mail?”
“That sounds . . . what, my mail? No, not since this morning.”
“Well, Darling, there’s something there.”
“There is?”
“I dropped it off half an hour ago. It’s a ticket for tomorrow’s Swan Lake. I’m playing First Oboe.”
“Tomorrow. Well sure, but Swan Lake is a ballet, isn’t it?”
“Of course it is, Silly. Please, please come. There’s a traveling ballet corps from England. We’re a student orchestra, but we’re the IU Student Orchestra. Our show’s sold out!”
“I’d love to be there. Christmas break is the day after tomorrow so . . .”
“Rob, I need you in the auditorium to see me, hear me. It’s a good seat, tenth row, center. I’m depending on you.”
“Could we get together after? You remember my mother went back to her hometown, to McKenzie. I’ll be visiting her for a few days. I got a letter . . .”
“Why, that’s marvelous, back with her friends! I’ll bet she’s so proud of you becoming a teacher. Soon, soon Rob. I promise we’ll talk after the holidays, tell each other our adventures. But my chair is empty in the bridge game next door. They’re calling me to start the bidding. Bye.”
#
Wearing his only suit, Rob walked through wisps of snow to Showalter Fountain. Its mermaid pool was drained for the winter, but jokesters had draped strings of red garland between the sculpture’s upraised arms. East of the fountain was the auditorium where Christmas wreaths were mounted above a row of open doors. Faculty in tuxedos and evening frocks emerged from chauffeured limousines as hundreds of students streamed inside.
Tenth row, seat eighteen.
In seat nineteen Rob discovered a charming brunette in a long white sheath that draped from shoulders to shoe tops. She rose to shake his hand. “Hello, Rob Crossman. I’m Eileen O’Bryan.”
Rob checked his ticket once more. “Sorry, Miss O’Bryan. Was I misdirected by the usher?”
“No, Rob. You’re exactly where you belong.”
“Please, who are you?”
“I’m Marilyn’s roommate. She’s told me all about you.”
“Don’t believe most of it.” Rob managed a smile. Eileen cradled his hand and he eased into the seat beside her. He glanced at the curtained stage as nervous tuning came from the wings. “Please Miss O’Bryan . . .”
“Call me Eileen. Relax Rob, pretend we’re friends who’ve never met.” She slipped back in her chair to watch him carefully. “It’s true, the friends part, as far as I’m concerned.”
“If you say so.” Dark hair curled into a Hepburn bun, alabaster skin, bronze-colored eyes. Rob found her unflinching gaze intimidating. He began to stumble. “But she’s never mentioned you; she’s never said . . .”
“I’m here to report if you leave early or didn’t show up at all.”
“Something strange is going on, Eileen. I’ve no idea what Marilyn is up to. Are you here to tell me something?”
“I wasn’t supposed to speak to you until the program ends.”
He turned to face her. “Then why have you?”
“I’m not sure. Perhaps I don’t entirely approve of what my roommate is doing.”
Rob breathed deep, his anxiety rising. The sound of tuning faded as house lights dimmed. Musicians entered the orchestra pit, women in black gowns, young men in charcoal jackets. In moments Marilyn arrived to take First Chair among oboes. Crossing in the row behind her, a French horn player nodded to Marilyn. Rob saw her eyes follow him. Eileen gripped his arm as Rob slid forward in surprise.
The conductor raised her baton, and with the downbeat, the curtain drew aside. Les corps de ballet came on stage dressed as peasants to celebrate Prince Siegfried’s majority. In the performance that followed, Siegfried battled an evil magician who transformed the lovely Odette into a swan by day, human only at night. Stunned by her behavior, behavior Rob was certain went unnoticed except by Eileen and himself, he closed his eyes and listened to Tchaikovsky’s lovely strains in Act One, Scene 1. He opened, then closed his eyes during the waltz in Scene 2, then again during the dance of the princesses, and once more for almost all of Act Two. When he dared to watch, each time he waited until Marilyn’s eyes darted to the French horn player, then Rob steepled his fingers against his brow and sought darkness. At intermission, he bent to Eileen’s ear and whispered, “Patrick, not Patricia.” On the armrest between them, Eileen tucked her elbow in front of Rob’s, then laced their fingers. She rested her shoulder against him.
Blind and silent in Acts 3 and 4, he waited for the finale and Odette’s tragic demise. After a second curtain call, Rob and Eileen rose from their seats. The orchestra pit was emptying; Marilyn left accompanied by the horn player. Eileen withdrew a small, unsealed envelope from her clutch. “I’m to give you this. Marilyn asks to meet you outside Read’s main entrance after breakfast tomorrow. She wants to say goodbye before leaving for Hartford.”
From what he’d seen, Rob was confused. Surely she loved someone else, someone named Patrick. Hadn’t he just seen the proof? “I’ll decide in the morning, Eileen. Tell Marilyn, her’s was an extraordinary performance.”
#
Marilyn didn’t appear for breakfast, nor did Eileen. When his shift ended, Rob took a mug of coffee into the empty dining hall. He watched the second hand on the exit clock sweeping time away. Standing at last, he went to the parking circle to see Marilyn and Patrick holding hands beside a Chrysler sedan. Patrick brushed snow from the car’s windshield as she walked towards Rob.
“I’m glad you came.” She offered to kiss his cheek, but he stepped back and simply stared at her. She sighed. “Rob, I’ve thought an awful lot about you and me. I put it all in a letter, care of your Dad.”
He threw up his hands. “I’m standing in front of you!”
“It’s complicated, Rob. To understand things myself, I needed to write it out, and now I’m sure this is best for both of us. Our friendship . . .”
Patrick’s horn beeped. “Marilyn, we’re late. It’s a noon flight to Hartford!”
“Please, Rob. My letter explains it all.”
“Marilyn! We’ve got to go.”
She walked backward toward the car. “Dear Rob, contact me after the holidays. I promise, we’re still best friends.”
In the passenger seat she rolled down the window and waved. As he drove by, Patrick shouted, “Happy New Year, Robbie!” Inside, Marilyn swatted his arm and he laughed as they drove onto Jordan Avenue.
Rob stood motionless until the car disappeared, hands clenched in his jacket pockets.
#
“Wait for me, Rob.” Eileen O’Bryan stood next to a snow-covered bench. As he walked away, she hurried to catch up. “Don’t leave yet. Are you okay?”
“Goodness, what a question!” Rob slowed and studied the sidewalk until Eileen’s snow-dusted boots appeared. “Are you here on Marilyn’s behalf – to patch up the damage?”
She waited silently until he glanced into her face. “When do you head south to visit your mother?”
“Is there anything she doesn’t tell you?”
“Very little. You must be looking forward to seeing your mom.”
“I tried to tell Marilyn, but last Tuesday, I got a letter from the Tennessee Convalescent Home in McKenzie.”
“Oh, Rob. Is that a hospice?”
“If I could afford the trip, they said to come right away. I have a bus ticket for this afternoon.”
She touched his jacket sleeve. “We didn’t . . . Marilyn doesn’t know about the Convalescent Home.”
“Last night, I couldn’t sleep. So much is happening, things I didn’t expect.”
“When you return to Pokagon, please read her letter. Now I think you need a friend more than ever. And Marilyn will always need you.”
“Eileen, you’re saying things I don’t understand.”
“I know she’s sorry to hurt you, but she couldn’t hide the truth any longer. It’s not fair to you.”
He shook his head in dismay. “Your roommate and I have a history. What I saw last night means more to us than perhaps even you realize.”
* * *
Rob thought he must have been nine when he traveled to visit his maternal grandmother and his great uncle, Mr. Thomas. He remembered Lola May as a slight, graying widow who played piano and sang beautifully in the parlor of her ramshackle home. On a quiet afternoon in summer, Mr. Thomas explained how young Rob’s grandmother sank into poverty during the 1920s after her husband died. Thereafter, Lola May supported herself and Sally May by giving music lessons to local children.
Mr. Thomas failed to relate why Rob’s mother divorced her first husband. Rob learned only they were high school sweethearts who married during the Depression.
As Rob rode the Greyhound to Tennessee, he thought of Marilyn and now he doubted there ever was a chance of them making a life together.
#
It was midafternoon the following day when Rob arrived in McKenzie Valley.
The Convalescent Home was a four storey monstrosity of red brick. A treed lawn spread across the building’s front where bare magnolia and red bud trees shed tears of rain. Up three concrete steps were glass doors framed in oak. The reception desk was on the right.
“I got a letter saying my mother is here. Sally May Crossman.”
The receptionist searched a file cabinet. “Here’s the carbon. Are you Robert Crossman?”
“Yes, Maam. That’s me.”
“Sally May’s mighty low, Mr. Crossman. I’m glad you’re here in time.”
“She’s still alive?”
“A few ladies from the church are sitting with her. They’re the Tuesday afternoon shift.”
“Afternoon shift?”
“You’re welcome to go up. They’ll be glad to see you.”
#
In Room 208, three women gathered around an adjustable bed, blocking Rob’s view of the patient. The robust lady facing him was dressed in a holiday sweater. Bent close to a nightstand, she read from a Bible in her lap. Two other ladies sat with backs turned as they knitted. He waited just inside the door to be noticed. He bowed his head and listened to the Christmas Story as told in the Gospel of Luke.
“Goodness sakes! It’s Robbie Crossman.” The woman stood, hugging her Bible, as the other two made way for him. Each took a hand and guided him to a chair close to Sally May.
She was much thinner since he’d last seen her. Almost bald, her face was gaunt and her breathing shallow. She didn’t wake when Rob came near.
“So thankful you’ve arrived,” said the woman who was reading. “Sally May’s about ready to meet her Maker.”
A thin woman in heels said, “Told us about you, training for a teacher and all. Your mamma’s so proud. Wish she could tell you, her own self.” He reached to enfold his mother’s hand in both of his.
“We knowed your momma from the time we was all girls,” said a woman wrapped in a dark gray shawl. They were in their mid fifties, his mother’s age.
“Did you go to school together?”
“Why no, Hon. Wasn’t allowed back then.”
“But Lola May, your grandma, taught us all. Taught Sally May, too. To play piano and sing like birds in springtime.”
“When your momma came home last summer, she found every one of us again. Made us into a choir to sing at the Methodist Church. But cancer pulled her down sudden, just before Thanksgiving.”
“Chorus folk been sitting turns to see her off.”
“A fine woman, your momma, but I think she had lotta troubles up North. No friends or relations, and so she lost her way. Better if she’d stayed with us.”
He watched Sally May as she lay quiet, but after a time, he glanced at the nightstand. In a double frame were the pictures he’d sent; photographs of himself and Marilyn, posed face to face.
Rob lay his forehead on her hand and wept with guilt for breaking faith with his mother.
Three days later, she was gone.
* * *
Read Lounge was crowded with students returned from vacation. Clusters of young women and their beaus watched television. At the far end of the hall, others played bridge or table tennis. Rob saw Marilyn standing beside a fireplace. There was a winter coat draped over her shoulders, a hat and brightly patterned scarf loose in her hands. She was listening to Eileen and a bevy of friends who chatted together at fireside. Eileen’s eyes glanced to Rob, and he saw Marilyn’s quick smile as she turned.
She was dazzling with a glow that wrapped Rob into her presence. Eyes only for him, Marilyn approached without a word. Even knowing he’d lost this treasure, he was breathless, faint with joy.
She flipped back his snow-sprinkled hood, tucked the muffler around his neck and tugged down a toboggan cap. “I bought these for you in a country store outside Hartford. It must be awfully cold outside.”
“Marilyn, I’ll always love you.”
“Let’s go out for a walk. Find some place quiet.”
“A storm’s blowing.”
“Then we’ll have to hold on to each other, won’t we?” She led him into the night.
Wind-driven snow pressed against them as they passed lampposts that cast swirling yellow light. To shelter from the storm, they entered the old well house in Dunn Forest. Sitting on a stone bench close beside him, her face was hidden in shadows. Rob believed these must be his last moments with the woman he loved beyond all reason.
She squeezed his gloved hand. “I called George this afternoon.”
“You phoned my dad?”
“You’d already left for campus, so George and I talked. He told me about your mom’s death and the funeral. I am so very sorry.”
“When I got home, Marilyn, I burned your letter. Never read it. Now that I’ve lost you, it’s too painful to learn why.”
“We’ll always be best friends. You haven’t lost me at all.”
He slipped off a frozen glove and placed his fingertip against her lower lip. “Did it hurt?”
“It did! I remember that night. Was it the moment you chose me, years ago?”
“Near enough.”
“Rob, you were always beside me, my rock and shield. The letter explained it’s my turn now to make a choice.”
“And your choice is Patrick.”
“Yes. It’s Patrick. He understands the life I want to lead. As a musician it will be his life, too.”
“Marilyn, I would do anything you want, be any one you can imagine.”
“My dearest Rob, there’s no need to change. I’ll always care for you, but our being together would only bring us pain.”
Already knowing what she would say, didn’t make hearing it any easier. Rob stood slowly. “I wish you a lifetime of happiness. I’ll walk with you back to Read.”
He followed her outside, onto the lighted forest path. Patrick waited only a few steps away and strode quickly to Marilyn’s side.
Rob retreated in search of another way home.