Early Lesson in Love

Copyright 2018 Anita Fontana

Early Lesson in Love

            His name was Henry Mueller, pale-skinned, blonde, he lived across the street from me. I don't remember how we became attracted to each other; no logic or detail that I can recall. No swelling music. No “I fell in love with him the moment he flicked that piece of fried chicken off his chin!” No, it all happened gradually and without really noticing.

            It was 1960, Seventh Grade. I had been to his house a couple of times. Everything scrubbed to a shine, a tall armoire with locked glass doors housing dozens of Hummel figurines occupied a prominent place in the living room, lace doilies covered the furniture and every other surface.

This time Momma Mueller, stone-faced and coldly polite, offered me tea and cookies, speaking half German half English to her son. She asked me if I wanted zucker and milk with my tea. Looking back, I think she was testing me.

My eyes widened, “Zucker. Does that mean sugar?”

She smiled and said, “Ah, you recognize a German word. Yes, zucker and sugar mean the same.”

“Yeah, the words sound so much alike, so I thought that’s what you meant. Isn’t that amazing?”

“Maybe you learn German a little, yes?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’d like that.”

I thought that maybe she was beginning to like me just a bit. Henry was smiling which I took as a good sign.

The bus stop was a block from my house. It was kind of a long block, but I could see the corner from my gate and he could see me coming from the corner. He always got there first, so much more punctual than me. I would come through my gate, looking with anticipation down the street and watch him slowly walk to meet me half-way. Our daily ritual. Thrill at the meeting. Touch hands. My guy had come to escort me, to guard and protect me from all the terrible things that could happen in that half block. Him on the outside, a perfect gentleman, me on the inside, a not-so-perfect lady. We would arrive at the corner and say hi to our friends, still arm in arm. All the kids knew. He had chosen to make our love public in front of the others, to proudly accompany his girl.

            Of course, we sat together on the bus, the other kids automatically avoiding the double seat all the way in the back reserved for our love.

            He played trumpet in the school band. My older sister had told me that dating a horn player was really cool because they had something called an Embouchure—well developed, muscular lips—and were great kissers. She was right. His pale skin would flush red when I told him how much I loved his lips, how I loved kissing them because they were so thick and soft. Why were we attracted to each other; a German and an Italian? Me so full of gusto, flapping at the world, he so proper and restrained.

            Life in junior high can be so hectic that you may not see that special person all day. Mornings and afternoons were our time, the bus ride to and from school. My face would be hot as we got off the bus after smooching in the back. No kissing on the street—someone might see. Arriving at my gate, I would press myself against his hard, beautiful body, begging for just one more kiss with my eyes.

“I'll see you tomorrow. Have a good night.” Parting is such formality. Momma Mueller peeking through the white lace curtains making sure her boy was acting properly.

            I would arrive home with mixed feelings of delight and disappointment. Would we ever be alone long enough to really kiss? Long, lingering, unhurried kisses, like in the movies and in books? My awakening body longed for those thick lips, those strong arms holding me close.

            For the first time I had a steady boyfriend and could finally go to the annual Spring dance. Momma Mueller drove us—she was one of the chaperones—and we entered the school gym together. The ominous, smelly place where we were forced to perform inhuman feats of calisthenics had been turned into a breathtaking nightspot. Crepe paper streamers hung from the ceiling lights where the glaring white bulbs had been changed to pink and blue, casting a lavender glow over the dance floor. Tables decorated with pink and blue tablecloths and silver doodads circled the room.

Everyone was dressed in their finest: boys in suits and ties, girls in frilly, sherbet-colored dresses and sparkly jewelry. I wore a pink felt poodle skirt, a crinoline slip that coaxed it wider around my bony legs, and a black blouse. A pink necklace and bracelet, and black patent leather shoes completed the outfit. I felt like a model.

            The kids danced the Bop, the Hop and The Twist to Chubby Checker, Chuck Berry and Little Richard and slow danced to The Platters, Pat Boone, and Connie Francis. Henry had told me that he didn’t know how to dance to rock ‘n roll music. So, he had given me permission to dance fast dances with other boys as long as there was no flirting and if I came back to him when each dance was over. I had dutifully obeyed. When a slow dance came on, we clung together, me with my head on his shoulder, Momma Mueller eyeing us vigilantly from the sidelines.

            It was Monday morning and I was still giddy from Saturday night. I closed the gate with the same anticipation, turned the corner, and looked ahead to the bus stop. There he was! There he was! There he stayed. He wasn't walking down the block. Thoughts raced through my mind; he must be distracted, maybe he's looking to see if the bus is coming. 

Something wasn’t right. I began to walk faster, hoping that any minute he would turn around and start down the block. He didn’t move. I could see he had his back to me. Oh my God! What's wrong? My breakfast threatened to pay me an unwelcome visit. Heart pounding, panic crawling into my chest and landing in my throat, I swallowed hard and thought, “Compose yourself. You're acting crazy. There's probably a perfectly good explanation. Calm down. Wait till you get there.  Don't panic, DON'T PANIC!” I panicked.

            “Hi, how are you?” I was so composed, so serene on the outside, choking down the fear and the tears.

            “Fine, and you?”

            What was going on? Where was the squeeze of my hand, the I'm-so-happy-to-see-you smile? Only cold, grey-blue steel where his eyes used to be. What to do. What to say. I couldn't stand it anymore.

            “What's wrong? Why didn't you meet me in the middle of the block? Why won't you look at me?”

            “It's because of Saturday night.”

            “What? What do you mean? We had a great time at the dance together.”

            “My mother said you acted like a slut, dancing and flirting with all the boys and having so much fun doing it.”

             A SLUT. The lowest kind of woman. A SLUT? Me, who had never even kissed a boy before him. A SLUT. Didn't sluts take their clothes off and do unspeakable things in the back of cars? I was more confused than hurt. How could this be?

I had had so much fun. I was actually just showing off in front of him, hoping my dancing would impress him and he would love me even more. I thought we were so happy.

             “What did you say to your mother?” I cried, hoping beyond hope that he had told her to mind her own business, that I was his girl and if it was okay with him, then she could just go ...

            “Nothing,” he said, as if his blood had turned to ice.

            That word ... so hard, so unyielding, so final. “Nothing.” It echoed in my ears. “Nothing.” Nothing left. That one word said all that needed to be said. It was over.

            I don't even know how I got through the rest of the day, the rest of the week, the rest of the school year. On that Monday morning, at that bus stop, on that corner, I learned that love doesn’t always last forever.