Sweet Memories Page 3

  She evaluated her own family, so warm, supportive, so full of love, and resisted the urge to lay a comforting hand on Brian’s arm. She felt guilty for the many times she’d wished Jeff wouldn’t bring him home. It had been thoroughly selfish, she chided herself, guarding her family’s Christmas from outsiders just as the jay guarded the seeds he didn’t want to eat.

  This time when she said the words, Theresa found they were utterly sincere. “We’re glad to have you here, Brian.”

  Chapter Two

  “THEY’RE HOME!” shouted Jeff overhead, then he stuck his head around the basement doorway and ordered, “Hey, you two, get up here!”

  As an outside observer, Brian couldn’t help envying Jeff Brubaker his family, for the greeting his friend received in the arms of his mother and father was an emotional display of honest love. Margaret Brubaker was hiking her rotund body out of the deep bucket seat of the low-slung Celica when Jeff swooped down on her. The grocery bag in her arms was unceremoniously dropped onto the snowy driveway in favor of hugs and kisses interspersed with tears, hellos and general exuberance while Willard Brubaker came around the car and took his turn—albeit with far fewer tears than his wife, but there was an undeniable glitter in his eye as he backed off and assessed Jeff.

  “Good to have you home, son.”

  “I’ll say it is,” put in his mother, then the trio shared an enormous three-way hug. Margaret stepped back, crushing a loaf of bread. “Land! Would you look at what I’ve done with these groceries. Willard, help me pick ’em up.”

  Jeff waylaid them both. “Forget the groceries for now. I’ll come back and get ’em in a minute. Come and meet Brian.” With an arm around each of his parents’ shoulders, Jeff shepherded them into the kitchen where Brian waited with the two girls. “These are the two who had the courage to have a kid like me—my mom and dad. And this is Brian Scanlon.”

  Willard Brubaker pumped Brian’s hand. “Glad to have you with us, Brian.”

  Margaret’s greeting was, “So this is Jeff’s Brian.”

  “I’m afraid so, for all of two weeks. I really appreciate your invitation, Mrs. Brubaker.”

  “There are two things we have to get settled right now,” Margaret stated without prelude, pointing an accusatory finger. “The first is that you don’t call me Mrs. Brubaker, like I’m some commanding officer. Call me Margaret. And the other is ... you don’t smoke pot, do you?”

  Amy rolled her eyeballs in undisguised chagrin, but the rest of them shared a good-natured laugh that managed to break the ice even before Brian answered frankly, “No, ma’am. Not anymore.” There was a moment of surprised silence, then everyone burst into laughter again. And Theresa looked at Brian in a new light.

  To Brian it seemed the Brubaker house was never quiet. Immediately after the introductions, Margaret was flinging orders for “you two boys” to pick up the groceries she’d dropped in the driveway. Supper preparations set up the next clatter as fried potatoes started splattering in a frying pan, and dishes were clinked against silverware at the table. In the living room, Jeff picked up his old guitar, but after a few minutes, shouted, “Amy, will you go shut off your damn stereo! It’s thumping through the wall loud enough to drive a man crazy!” The only quiet one of the group appeared to be Willard, who calmly settled himself into a living-room chair and read the evening newspaper as if the chaos around him didn’t even register. Within ten minutes it was evident to Brian who ruled the Brubaker roost. Margaret issued orders like a drill sergeant whether she wanted to be called Margaret or not. But she controlled her brood with a sharp tongue that wielded as much humor as hauteur.

  “Theresa, now don’t fry those potatoes till they’re tougher than horsehide the way you like ’em. Don’t forget your father’s false teeth. Jeff, would you play something else in there? You know how I’ve always hated that song! What ever happened to the good old standards like ‘Moonlight Bay’? Amy, get two folding chairs out of the front closet and keep your fingers off that coconut frosting till dessert time. Willard, keep that dirty newsprint off the arms of the chair!”

  To Brian’s surprise, Willard Brubaker peered over the top of his glasses, muttered too softly for his wife to hear, “Yes, my little turtledove,” then caught Jeff’s eye, and the two exchanged grins of amused male tolerance. Willard’s gaze caught Brian’s next, and the older man gave a quick wink, then buried himself behind his paper again, resting it on the arms of the chair.

  Supper was plentiful and plain: Polish sausage, fried potatoes, baked beans and toast—Jeff’s favorite meal. Willard sat at the head of the table, Margaret at the foot, the two “girls” on one side and the two “boys” across from them.

  While they ate, Brian observed Margaret’s buxom proportions and realized from whom Theresa had inherited her shape. Throughout the pleasant meal Theresa kept her blue sweater over her shoulders, though there were times when it plainly got in her way. Occasionally, Brian glanced up to find Amy gazing at him with an expression warning of imminent puppy love, though Theresa never seemed to look at him at all.

  Midway through the meal the phone rang, and Amy popped up to get it.

  “Hello,” she said, then covered the mouthpiece and looked disgusted. “It’s for you, Jeffy. It sounds like dumb old Glue Eyes.”

  “Watch your mouth, little sister, or I’ll wire your top braces to your bottom ones.” Jeff took the phone and Amy returned to the table.

  “Glue Eyes?” Brian glanced at Theresa.

  “Patricia Gluek,” she answered, “his old girlfriend. Amy never liked the way Patricia used to put on her makeup back in high school, so she started calling her Glue Eyes.”

  Amy plopped into her chair with a grunt of exasperation. “Well, she plastered it on so thick it looked like her eyelashes were glued together, not to mention how thick she used to plaster Jeff with all those purrs and coos. She makes me sick.”

  “Amy!” snapped Margaret, and Amy had the grace to desist.

  Brian curled an eyebrow at Theresa, and again she enlightened him. “Amy worships Jeff. She’d like to keep him all to herself for two solid weeks.”

  Just then Jeff dropped the receiver against his thigh and asked, “Hey, you two, want to pick up Patricia after supper and go to a movie or something?”

  Brian craned around to look over his shoulder at Jeff.

  Theresa gulped. “Who, me?”

  Jeff flashed an indulgent smile. “Yeah, you and Bry.”

  Already Theresa could feel the color creeping up her neck. She never went on dates, and most certainly not with her brother’s friends, who were all younger than herself.

  Brian turned back to Theresa. “It sounds fine with me, if it’s all right with Theresa.”

  “Whaddya say, Treat?” Jeff was jiggling the phone impatiently, and the eyes of everyone at the table turned to the blushing redhead. A bevy of excuses flashed through her mind, all of them as phony as those she’d dreamed up on the rare occasions when single male teachers from school asked her out. At her elbow she sensed Amy gaping in undisguised envy.

  Brian realized the house was totally silent for the first time since he’d entered it and wished the rock music was still throbbing from Amy’s room. It was obvious Theresa was caught in a sticky situation where refusal would be rude, yet he could tell she didn’t want to say yes.

  “Sure, that sounds fun.”

  She avoided Brian’s eyes, but felt them hesitate on her for a minute while Jeff finalized the plans, and she withdrew from center stage by going to get dessert plates for the German chocolate cake.

  When the meal was finished and Theresa was helping with dishes, she cornered Jeff for a moment as he passed through the kitchen.

  “Jeffrey Brubaker, what on earth were you thinking of, to suggest such a thing?” she whispered angrily. “I’ll pick my own dates, thank you.”

  “Lighten up, sis. Brian’s not a date.”

  “You bet he’s not. Why, he must be four years younger than I am!”


  “Two.”

  “Two! That’s even worse! Why, it makes it look like—”

  “All right, all right! What are you so upset about?”

  “I’m not upset. You just put me on the spot, that’s all.”

  “Did you have other plans for tonight?”

  “On your first night home?” she asked pointedly. “Of course not.”

  “Great. Then the least you’ll get out of the deal is a free movie.”

  Oh no! the peeved Theresa vowed. I’ll pay my own way!

  Getting ready to go, Theresa couldn’t help but admire how carefully Brian had concealed his reluctance. After all, who’d want to be saddled with a big sister? And worse yet, a freckle-head like her? She scowled at the copper dots in the mirror and despised each one with renewed intensity. She tried to yank a brush through her disgusting hair, but it was like a frayed sisal rope, only not nearly as pleasing in color. Damn you, Jeffrey Brubaker, don’t you ever do this to me again. She drew the hair to the nape of her neck, tied it with a navy blue ribbon and considered makeup. But she owned none except lipstick, which she slashed onto her surly lips as if scrawling graffiti on a rest-room wall. I’ll get you for this, Jeff. Little thought was given to the clothing she chose, beyond the certainty that she’d put on her gray coat and leave it buttoned until they got back home.

  She wasn’t, however, planning on running into Brian in the front hall by the coat closet. When she did, she came up short, caught without a sweater or guitar or table to hide behind. Instinctively, one hand went up to finger her blouse collar—it was the best she could do.

  “Jeff went out to start the car,” Brian announced.

  “Oh.” The word was barely out of her mouth before Theresa realized Brian had shed military attire in favor of brown tennis shoes, bone-colored corduroys and a polo-style shirt of wide horizontal stripes in red and beige. He’d been carrying a brown leather waist-length jacket, and shrugged it on while she watched, transfixed. If Brian had subjected Theresa to the blatant inspection she gave him, she’d have ended up in her room in tears. She hadn’t even realized how pointedly she’d been staring until her eyes traveled back up to his. She felt utterly foolish.

  But if he noticed, he gave not the slightest clue beyond the hint of a smile that disappeared as quickly as it had come. “All ready?”

  “Yes.” She reached for her gray coat, but he took it from her hands without asking and held it for her. Even as Theresa felt the flush coloring her cheek at the unfamiliar gesture of good manners, she could do nothing but slip her arms into the coat, exposing the front of her so there was no hiding her proportions.

  They called good-night to her parents and Amy and stepped out into the biting winter night. Theresa had gone on few enough dates in her life that it was difficult not to feel seduced into believing this was one, for he held the door of the station wagon while she slid in next to Jeff, then slipped his arm across the back of the seat as he settled in, too. She caught the drift of the same scent she’d detected when he handed her his cap earlier, and since Theresa wasn’t a woman given to using perfumes herself, his faint hint of ... sandalwood, that was it, came through all the clearer.

  Jeff had the radio on—there was always a radio on—and he turned it louder as the gravelly voice of Bob Seger came on. Jeff’s own voice had the grating earthiness of Seger’s, and he picked up the refrain and sang along.

  “We’ve got to learn this one, Bry.”

  “Mmm ... it’s smooth. Nice harmony on the chorus.”

  When the chorus came around again, the three sang along with it, their harmony resonant and true.

  “Ooo, shame on the moon ...” Beside her, Theresa heard Brian’s voice for the first time—straightforward, mellow, the antithesis of Jeff’s. It sent shivers up her arms.

  When they reached Patricia Gluek’s house, Jeff went inside while Theresa and Brian transferred to the back seat, leaving a respectable distance between them. The radio was still playing and the lights from the dashboard lent an ethereal glow to the space beyond the front seat.

  “How long have you and Jeff been playing and singing together?”

  “Over three years now. We met when we were stationed at Zweibrticken together and started up a band there, and luckily we both landed at Minot Air Force Base, so we decided to look for a new drummer and bass player and keep a good thing rolling.”

  “I’d love to hear the band sometime.”

  “Maybe you will.”

  “I doubt it. I don’t have many chances to swing by Minot, North Dakota.”

  “We’d like to get a new group started when we get out next summer, and hire an agent and make it a regular thing. Hasn’t Jeff mentioned it?”

  “Why, no, but I think it’s a great idea, at least for Jeff. He’s wanted to be a musician since he spent that first fifteen dollars on his Stella and started picking up chords from anybody who’d teach him.”

  “Same with me. I’ve been playing since I was twelve, but I want to do more than just play.”

  “What else?”

  “I’d like to try writing, arranging. And I’ve always had the urge to be a disc jockey.”

  “You have the voice for it.” He certainly did. She remembered her first appreciative surprise upon hearing it earlier. But it went on now, turning attention away from himself.

  “Enough about me. I hear you’re into music, too.”

  “Grades one through six, Sky Oaks Elementary.”

  “Do you like it?”

  “I love it, with the rare exceptions like yesterday during the Christmas program when Keri Helling and Dawn Gafkjen got into a fight over who was going to be the pink ornament and who was going to be the blue one and ended up crying and getting the crepe-paper costumes all soggy.” She chuckled. “No, seriously, I love teaching the younger kids. They’re guileless, and open, and ...” And they don’t gawk. “And accepting,” she finished.

  Just then Jeff returned with Patricia, and introductions were made as Brian and Patricia shook hands over the front seat. Theresa had known the girl for years. She was a vivacious brunette, now in her second year at Normandale Community College. She was waiting to step into her former status as Jeff’s girlfriend the moment he got out of the service, though they’d agreed to date others during their four years apart. So far, though, the attraction had not faded, for each of the three times Jeff had been home, he and Patricia had been inseparable.

  When the pretty brunette turned toward the front, Theresa was chagrined to see her and Jeff share a more intimate hello than they’d apparently exchanged inside the house. Jeff’s arms went around Patricia, and her head drifted to his shoulder while they kissed in a way that sent the blood filling up the space between Theresa’s freckles. Beside her, Brian sat unmoving, watching the kiss that was taking place in such a forthright manner it was hard to ignore.

  Goodness, would they never stop? The seconds ticked away while the music from the radio didn’t quite conceal the soft murmurs from the front seat. Theresa wanted to crawl into a hole and pull the earth over her head.

  Brian laced his fingers over his belly, slumped low in the seat, dropped his head back lazily and politely turned to gaze out his side window.

  I am twenty-five years old, thought Theresa, and I've never known before exactly what was implied by “double date.” She, too, gazed out her dark window.

  There was a faint rustle, and, thankfully, it was Jeff’s arm lifting from around Patricia’s shoulders. The wagon chunked into gear, and they were moving at last.

  At the theater, Theresa made a move toward her purse, but Brian stepped between her and the counter, announcing unceremoniously, “I’ll get it.” So, rather than make an issue of the four-dollar expenditure, she politely backed off.

  When he turned, she said, “Thank you.”

  But he made no reply, only tipped his shoulders aslant while slipping his billfold into a back pocket where the beige wales of the corduroy were slightly worn in a matching square that c
aptured Theresa’s eyes and made her mouth go dry. He turned around, caught her gaze, and she wished she’d never come.

  Things got worse when they’d settled into their seats and the movie began, for it had an “R” rating, and exposed enough skin to create sympathetic sexual reactions in a sworn celibate! Halfway through the film the camera zoomed in on a bare spine, curved hips and a naked feminine back over which two masculine hands played, their long, blunt fingers feathered with traces of dark hair. A naked hirsute chest rolled into view, and the side of an apple-sized breast, then—horror of horrors!—an upthrust nipple, controlled by the broad, dark hand. A bearded jaw eased into the frame, and a mouth closed over the distended nipple.

  In her seat beside Brian, Theresa wanted more than ever to simply, blessedly, die. His elbows rested on the armrests, and his fingers were laced together, the outer edges of his index fingers absently stroking his lips as he slumped rather low in the seat.

  Why didn’t I consider something like this happening? Why didn’t I ask what was playing? Why didn’t I wisely stay home in the first place?

  Theresa tolerated the remainder of the love scene, and as it progressed a queer reaction threaded through her body. Saliva pooled beneath her tongue. She could feel her pulse throbbing in the place where her purse was pressed tightly against her lap. And a quicksilver liquid sensation trickled through her innards, setting her alive with sensations she’d never experienced before. But outwardly, she sat as if a sorcerer had cast a spell upon her. Not so much as a pale eyelash blinked. Not a muscle twitched. She stared spellbound as the climax was enacted, reflected in the facial expressions of the man and woman on the screen and the animal sounds of fulfillment.

  And not until those climaxes ended did Theresa realize Brian’s elbow had been skewering hers with pressure that grew, and grew, and grew ...