Page 15

“I guess tomorrow you’ll show me around.” The tip of your tongue traced the whorl of my ear. The tips of your fingers crept beneath the elastic band of my panties. “Hush now and let me show you what you’ve been missing.”

In the morning, Mother woke me with a knock on my bedroom door. “Best get up before Billy talks your friend’s ear off,” she said, the corners of her mouth pulled up into what passed for a smile on her hard face. “That boy’s taken to her like a pig to mud.”

Daddy had already gone to work at the bottling plant, a daily act of heroism that sapped all the stamina the war had left him. Mother was baking a peach cobbler to serve after supper. I packed a picnic before coming outside to find the two of you having a catch. Our dog, Charlie, ran happily back and forth between you.

“You’ve got a good arm on you, Billy,” you were saying, reaching wide to catch my brother’s errant throw. “You’d give Willie Mays a run for his money, I bet.”

“Have you really seen him play?” Billy asked, letting the ball you tossed drop at his feet.

“I was at the Polo Grounds a couple weeks ago, watching the Giants thrash the Pirates.” You gave me a wink. “Don’t break my heart and tell me you’re a Yankees fan, now, Billy.”

Instead of being crazy about baseball like most nine-year-old boys, my brother had been fanatical about long-distance running since Emil Zátopek won his three gold medals in Helsinki. Billy appreciated America’s pastime, though, for those weekend afternoons when Daddy tuned the radio to a game and the two of them coexisted in harmony for a few hours.

“My dad roots for the Dodgers,” he admitted.

The forgotten ball at Billy’s feet was in danger of becoming a dog toy. I took it out of Charlie’s mouth and put it in his hand.

“Well, that’s all right by me,” you said, stooping to catch his throw. “Say, maybe you’ll come down to the city sometime and I’ll take you to a game.”

From the light in Billy’s eyes, it seemed he was falling in love with you as hard and fast as I had.

“Don’t you have some chores to do, Billy?” I said, tousling his hair. He’d be needing a cut before school started, I thought, making a mental note to bring him to the barber.

“Not really,” he claimed, though I knew darn well Mother had told him to go pick squash bugs off the pumpkin leaves.

“Catch up with you later, kid,” you said, throwing the ball back to him one last time. He caught your pun faster than any of the balls you’d tossed him. Billy smiled so big the scab on his cheek cracked before he ran off, Charlie nipping at the ball in his hand.

You draped your arm casually across my shoulders. “What’s on the agenda, Hazel?”

I pointed to your Oxfords. “Can you walk through the woods in those shoes?”

“I’ll walk anywhere you tell me to, sweetheart.”

I swear, Evelyn, the way you flirted it’s a wonder the whole world wasn’t groveling at your feet. I lowered my voice, the heat of a blush burning my face. “There’s a place I want to show you where we can be alone.”

In the city, I’d been a wide-eyed out-of-towner following your lead. Here, I was the one who knew the land and could name the trees and tell what time it was from the angle of light. You toted the basket I’d packed as we walked past the chicken coop and Mother’s garden and Daddy’s shed toward the falling-down barn on the bank of the stream. As we rock-hopped across, I told you we called the stream Patience Creek after my great-grandmother, whose husband built the saltbox house we all lived in to that day. When the woods thickened around us, I explained how past generations had selectively logged the land, harvesting the oldest oaks for timber framing while planting saplings to take their place. Daddy had been taught to leave the sugar maples and hemlocks untouched, though he always cut a nice spruce at Christmas.

I imagined you riveted by my recitation of trees and tradition until you huffed, “What’s in this basket, anyway, rocks?”

I took a handle and we carried it between us, following the path I knew by heart that you couldn’t even see. After a climb that got our blood pumping, we emerged from the woods into an overgrown pasture. Dragonflies and hummingbirds and buzzing bees darted among the shrubs and wildflowers. You set the basket down to catch your breath.

“Not far now, Evelyn.”

“Oh, I’m fine.” You slapped at an insect. “Lead on, Dr. Livingston.”

On the far side of the pasture, we arrived, finally, at the pond. Sunlight sparkled on the green water like strewn emeralds. A heron stood still as a statue in the shallows. The rat-a-tat-tat of a woodpecker echoed overhead as crickets serenaded us with their violin legs.

“This is lovely, Hazel.”

“Isn’t it?” You expected me to unpack the picnic, didn’t you? Instead, I stepped out of my shoes and unbuttoned my dress. “It’s spring fed, and cold. Come on!”

We stripped down to bras and panties, our clothes folded over a fallen log. I waded in, the frigid water stinging my skin. You clambered on a rock and spread your arms. Your body was a wonder, then: muscles toned, breasts high, skin taut and tanned. Dressed, your height and broad shoulders made you seem manly. Nearly naked, you were a Greek goddess revealed.

“Here I go!” You fell backward, the entire length of you landing with a splash.

I jumped in, squealing. Paddling like puppies, we circled each other, laughing. When you pulled me close for a kiss, though, I pushed you away.

“Not here. The Sprague boys come by sometimes for a dip.”