NOW I GET IT

By Bob Liter

I was surprised that Sunday when Maggie flicked her tongue in my ear. She had stayed on her side of the bed for a week and had discouraged me from joining her. What had been wrong? Did I forget her birthday? No, it wasn't for a month or two, I was almost sure. Maybe it was because I went to Chicago for a ball game with a couple of guys and didn't invite her.

I lifted my head from the pillow. Morning sunlight filtered through the fluttering curtains.

“What time is it?”

“Almost seven,” she said.

She dug an elbow into the mattress, propped her chin on her hand, and said, “What attracted you? Why are you still attracted? You are, still attracted to me, aren’t you?”

I stretched, settled back into a sleep position, and mumbled, “Are these trick questions?”

She flipped the sheet to the foot of the bed, tickled my bare chest by swishing her hair across it, brushed her lips on my skin and said, “Not trick questions.”

Was this an opportunity? I rubbed my nose into her shoulder and caught a whiff of apple shampoo. She didn't pull away. I gently slapped her sweet ass and said, “You’re female.”

“I understand that part, but why me?”

I sat up and tried to kiss her. She dodged away, laughed music into the room, a lonely place before her, and said, “C’mon, Nick. I’m serious.”

She rested her head on my stomach and blew warm air toward my most sensitive area.

I caught my breath and said, “You had that all-knowing smile that suggested you knew I was intent on getting into your pants, so to speak, and yet you didn’t pretend to be offended.”

“Is that all?”

“I like the way, when I was allowed to caress them with my mouth, I like the way your nipples rise to the occasion."

She slapped my belly gently, moved her head, kissed my ear again, and whispered, “Tell me more, big boy.”

I pressed my lips into a breast, inhaled the smell of her and mumbled into her chest, “Your breasts are just the right size. So firm. They fit my mouth just about perfect.”

To prove it I surround as much of one as I could with my lips. She pressed my nose into her chest and said, “And.”

I reached down and rubbed the inside of her left leg well above the knee and said, “Your legs. I like the firm muscles of your thighs, the slender beauty of your ankles, the earthiness of your bare feet.”

She rubbed her chest against mine, and said, “This stuff is nice, but it’s all physical.”

I slapped her behind and said, “Your ass. I like the way you tighten the muscles and then let them go soft when I fondle them.”      

She kissed me here and there, and said, “Very nice again but still only physical.”

“Your eyes.” I pushed my nose against hers. My eyes crossed.

“Still physical,” she said.

“How about love. That’s not physical. I love the way you inspire the kids during your readings at the library, the way you make me a better person when I’m with you.”

She covered my lower half, part of which was putting on a display, and said, “Very nice. Even the last part which you picked up from a Jack Nicholson movie. You know, the one with Helen Hunt. I just wanted to see how far you’d go to try to get out of taking me to the band concert.”

Damn, she never forgets. All the stuff I said was true , but ordinarily I wouldn’t talk about it. I was trying to soft soap her so I could get out of the band concert thing. I wanted to watch the Chicago Bears exhibition game on television that night. She probably knew that, too.

“Are you sure I promised?”

The truth is I did. I guess it's a promise even if you make it under pressure and hope it will be forgotten.

Maggie said, “C’mon Nick, the outdoor concert season is almost over.”

She wiped an imaginary tear from under her right eye and said, "Please."

"I've got to run an errand."

"An errand? It better not keep you from taking me to the concert.”

She frowned and tried to look fierce. Her eyelids closed partially and her mouth turned down. But her eyes sparkled and her lips curled up into a smile. 

"It won't take long," I said.

"Then you'll take me along, won't you?"

My name is Nick Bancroft. In my hometown, Central City, Illinois, I squeeze out a living as a freelance reporter and private investigator.

She rolled out of bed and stretched. Light from the window cast breast shadows across her chest. The light emphasized the slight arch of her stomach and the intriguing gullies and mounds of her lower body. She left the room, a floating dream in my sleep-fogged mind. I heard her open a closet door, heard her push clothes hangers around and finally remove something from the closet. I floated back into sleep.

Later the smell of fresh coffee lured me to a sitting position on the side of the bed. Springs sighed with relief when I stood. I grabbed blue jeans from the floor where they had landed the night before and pushed my way into them. In the kitchen I savored coffee and sought room to stretch my legs. Our knees touched as we sat at the fold-down table.

“You could wear something today besides those raggedy-ass jeans. After all, it’s Sunday. Somebody I know might see me with you.”

I flicked an imaginary crumb off my left knee.

“I’ve only worn these a couple, maybe three days,” I said. 

“Look, Nick, if you're going to weasel out of the band concert . . ."

I sat up straighter and said, “Have I ever weaseled on a promise to you?”

Maggie looked at the ceiling, lowered her gaze, and rolled her eyes as though she was about to faint. She stood and swirled, displaying slender legs and a green, yellow and red dress.

“That’s pretty, the way the colors blend into each other.”

“Thank you, sir. They’re fall colors.”

After I finished my coffee and dressed -- in brown slacks, a beige short-sleeved shirt, and my only sports coat, we walked out into a bright new day of blue skies and drifting snow-white clouds.

“You dress up good,” she said.

 Heads turned as we strolled hand-in-hand toward the Methodist Church three blocks away. They weren’t looking at me.

"Such a nice morning," Maggie said.

A breeze tugged gently at her shining auburn hair. She joined churchgoers on the wide walk in front of the church, and I moseyed on to Kellogg’s Drug Store a couple of blocks down Division Street, bought a copy of the Sunday Chicago Tribune and strolled back to the apartment.

In the living room I sat on the couch across from my 16-inch television. The smell of ink tweaked my nose when I opened the paper. I put the rest of it aside and turned to the sports section. The top story featured the dim prospects of the Chicago Bears having a winning season. The major league baseball season was nearly over and the Cubs were dead again. It saddened me. I was stuck with being a fan of both teams, but should their losing make me miserable? Of course not. But it did. Guess it was a reflection on me. Made me a loser too.

Our cat, an unnamed recovering stray with an attitude, came into the living room from some secret place, jumped onto the couch with feline ease, and placed itself against my thigh. I had read most of the paper when it jumped down, went to the door, and rubbed against Maggie's ankle when she entered. She kicked off her shoes, slipped out of panties, pulled the dress over her head and went into the bedroom.

"Shame," I said. "You having just come from church and all."   

"I'm sorry if I embarrassed you." The words drifted back to me as she entered the bedroom.   

That evening, before the band concert, we drove to Veteran's Cemetery on winding Harmon Road through low rolling hills south of town. Leaves hinted of the spectacular colors to come. The cemetery spread before us on the left.

"Oh, this place is beautiful. I'd forgotten. Haven't been out this way for years," Maggie cooed.

"And look at that," she added. "Those flowers are beautiful. The contrast between the silver and red. Somebody is taking loving care of that grave site."

We passed under the arch that marked the entrance. I drove around the cemetery on a one-way road before parking below the flowers she had admired.

As she removed herself from the car she said, "I'm dying to know what we're doing here. It smells so fresh. Someone must have just mowed."

I walked up the slight incline and got to my knees beside the flower bed. I pulled a couple of weeds that weren't there the week before and reached behind the grave marker for my hand hoe. I tilled the ground around the red petunias and the silver and green dusty millers.

Maggie bent and scooped up a bit of black dirt, held it to her nose and said, "Nick, don’t tell me . . ."

She leaned toward the grave marker and said, "Who is Caroline Miller?"

I continue to hoe and said, "All of her relatives are either dead or have moved away. She never had any children."

Maggie said, "Did you plant these flowers? Make this lovely arrangement?"

I nodded.

She rubbed her hands together to remove the last bit of soil and said, "I would never have imagine you taking care of flowers. Who is Caroline Miller? Judging from the dates on her tombstone she'd be seventy-five if she were alive."

I pulled a last weed from the bed, tilled the soil where the weed had been and struggled to my feet. I put the hoe back and said, "Okay, let’s go to the band concert."

She rose gracefully, put her hands on her hips, glared at me, and said, "I'm not leaving until you explain. Who is Caroline Miller? Why do you take such loving care of these flowers? You won't even water my flower pots at the apartment."

"We better get going or we'll miss the band concert," I said.

 Maggie slapped her hip and said, "And, of course, you wouldn't want to do that."

"Don’t be sarcastic, my dear. I promised -- so you say -- to take you to the concert, and now I'm doing it. Let's go."

I loped down the slope toward my faithful Escort. She trotted beside me and said, “Who is Caroline Miller?”

I started the car and drove back the way we’d come. We turned on       Glen Drive and, after a few blocks, entered the half-empty blacktop parking lot above a natural amphitheater in Glenoak Park. Oak and elm trees rimmed the top of the west and north banks. A small lake hemmed in the east side. The bandstand nestled on a stage at the back of the hollow. Twenty years old, it was kept freshly painted. The park was one of Central City's "Points of Pride."

"What about Caroline Miller? You claimed on the way here you couldn't talk and drive at the same time. No more excuses. Tell me."

Her heels clicked as she followed me down a wide cement path past semicircular rows of weathered wooden park benches.

"Can't talk now," I said. "Too much noise."

 She scurried around me and led us to the front row. Large speakers stood guard at either end of a raised stage. A path led from the benches up to a concession stand. Behind the benches a grassy slope provided space for blankets and lawn chairs.

I slouched on the bench and hoped time wouldn’t stand still as we waited for the concert to begin. A breeze rustled through the trees high above and occasionally favored us with a cool kiss. Clouds, highlighted by slanting sun rays, drifted by now and then. Maggie glared at me, her eyes demanding I talk. A woman dressed in tight slacks and a striped blouse sat down. Maggie greeted her warmly. She turned and said, ”Nick, this is Nina Fouch. Nina, Nick Bancroft.”

Nina and I exchanged greetings as she examined me. I felt like answering the question in her eyes by saying, “Maggie and me are kissing cousins.” That would have been a little joke. We’re not really cousins. 

They chatted about how Nina loved the books Maggie chose for her daughter. The daughter, perhaps six years, with straight brown hair and large brown eyes, squirmed her way onto my lap. She smelled of Ivory soap.

“Do you like me?” she said. Her eyes held mine until I said, “Sure.”

She bounced a couple of times and said, “Bet you don’t know my name.”

Before I could admit my ignorance she said, “When will the music start?”

I shrugged.

She said, “Why don’t you talk to me?”

And so it went. The questions came faster than I could answer. Eventually I just said, “Because.” She countered with, “Why?”

What seemed like an hour later, but was probably only a few minutes, Nina and her daughter left to join a woman and two children several rows away. I sighed and squirmed. To kill time I observed the variety of humans flowing down the ramp. Musical instrument cases, large and small, were attached to some. Those persons, dressed in black slacks -- white shirts for men, white blouses for women -- meandered to behind the bandstand and eventually appeared on the stage.

Sounds, at first isolated, became a raucous chorus of discordant notes, and challenged the boom of a kettle drum.

I squirmed and said, “They aren’t very good are they?”

Maggie faced me, gently pushed an extended finger into my stomach, and said, “You know, smart ass, they’re just tuning up. Sit up before you slide off the bench. And tell me about Caroline Miller.”

“Speaking of ass, you’ve got a built-in cushion there to sit on. I’m all muscle.”

She stood and looked behind us, as slim as a teenager. Well, almost. A brown belt surrounded the top of her tan shorts. A black, silky blouse fitted nicely over her breasts. Tan sandals housing red toenails completed the outfit. Her hair was cropped. Women probably have a fancy name for it, but to me her hair was cropped.

I stood to keep the disfigurement of my rear from becoming permanent.        A steady stream of squealing children flowed back and forth in front of and behind us. I sat and continued to squirm, trying to find a comfort zone. 

Maggie said, “See, I told you we’d have to get here early for a good seat. The benches are nearly filled already.”

More people filed down from the parking area and onto the benches, or carried their lawn chairs and blankets to open spots on the slope.

“Yeah,” I said. “Those late comers will be sorry. They won’t be able to hear a thing.”

The kettle drum guy, not much taller than the drum, thumped it with a drumstick, adjusted the tightness of the skin with turnbuckle-like things, and thumped it again. The band director appeared in matching coat and pants and a generous portion of shoulder decorations. He faced the band. A single drawn out note sounded from one of the instruments. The others duplicated the sound. The noise from the stage ceased and the murmur of conversation behind us dwindled. The conductor raised his baton. At last the concert was under way. Eons later band members stopped making noise and talked to each other. Was it finally over? No. Just intermission.

The noise of the crowd and the ruckus created by the ever moving children returned.

"Now, mister, you're going to tell me who Caroline Miller is, or was."

I sighed and knew taking her to the cemetery was a mistake. She probably wouldn't understand.

"Well," I said, "When I was a little boy, about nine or ten, I was a cute kid."

"Yeah, I'll bet. Does that have anything to do with Caroline Miller?"

"She was the one who said I was cute. She said it when I knocked on her door and asked if she wanted me to mow her grass. She lived in a bungalow on Bigelow Street."

"Nick, the intermission will be over soon. I'm not going to stop bugging you until you tell me."

I thought of that morning so long ago when Mrs. Miller smiled down on me and said, "How are you going to mow my grass? You don't seem to have a mower."

I told her I thought maybe I could use hers.

"She didn't hire me to mow her grass then although I did it later. She hired me to weed her flower beds along the front and one side of her house. The same flowers you saw at the cemetery."

Maggie reached across and placed her hand on mine and said, “When she died you started taking care of her burial plot?"

"Not right away. I was in college when she died. And then I worked in Chicago. When I came back I thought I'd look her up. When I learned she'd died I went to the cemetery."

"And in honor of her, in memory of her, you started planting and taking care of her favorite flowers. How sweet."

"Yeah, how sweet," I said. "Now let's settle back and listen to the concert."

She smiled.

That night she didn't stay on her side of the bed. The next morning, after she'd gone to the library, I figured it out. It was the band concert. Damn, there wouldn't be another one until next summer.

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