STRANGE
BAPTISM
Driving
rain stung my face, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t make the hood
on my slicker cover my eyes and cheeks. Melissa
was walking slowly. All I wanted to
do was get to the Union as quickly as possible.
The
path was a thick, slick plait of bricks, roping its way through the old elms and
oaks. As the wind picked up, more
leaves were driven around in whirlwinds. But
the moment they hit the path, they stopped and were held in place with more
rain, like an autumnal papier-mache. We
walked along, skidding and slipping. Why
we didn’t walk on the grass is beyond me.
It wasn’t as if the path were any drier.
The veneer of leaves sometimes covered dips that held pools of water.
And even with duck shoes on, my thick socks soaked up the water around my
ankles.
Melissa
was caught up in her explanation of how actions and events in childhood led to
patterns of behavior in adulthood. I
hated it when we met up after her psych class.
I’d be her guinea pig while we walked to the Union, had lunch and then
went on to our next class.
“Tell
me your earliest memory. I mean one
that really
stands out in your mind, not something like your favorite toy or anything.”
Her thin, girlish voice was almost lost in the whipped up wind even
though she was practically yelling.
I
had to hold back a smirk at the sight of her -- hood drawn tight against her
head, dark brown hair shellacked to her forehead, her eyes closed as she faced
me to keep the rain out, her mouth wide open talking as loudly as she could
without actually screaming. Then again, I probably didn’t look any better.
I
felt badly that she was so earnest and I couldn’t match her enthusiasm.
Prodding into people’s thoughts seemed so unnecessary, even a bit
brazen. I must admit to being
guarded with her, when she of all people probably knew as much about me as
anyone, with the possible exception of my mother.
I
thought I’d better provide her with some mundane recollections that popped
into my head. Like the times I used
to play in Kenneth and Bobby’s garage. We’d
find all sorts of good stuff in cardboard boxes and play pirate submarines, and
then we’d get yelled at later for making a mess.
But I wasn’t certain when that was.
And it didn’t seem that important.
Maybe Ursula’s garden with its huge sunflowers, their heads impossibly
heavy with seeds, slowly swaying in the slight summer breeze.
I always thought they were moving around to watch me.
Even over the fence to our yard. But
I was probably four or five; I must have memories earlier than that.
“I
don’t know. I’ve got lots of
memories, but it’s hard for me to remember when any of them happened.”
I thought that if we ended it now, we might be able to make the walk to
the Union in just over five minutes rather than somewhere around ten or twelve.
The
darkness had crept in, making it dark enough for the street lamps to come on.
It was that strange kind of day where it wasn’t really that dark, and
the lights didn’t really make things any more visible.
They were more of a comfort, more of a reminder that the roads would be
slick and the driving rain would make it difficult to concentrate.
In
other circumstances I would have loved to walk in this kind of weather -- the
cool earthiness, the steady patter of rain drowning out any other sounds, and
the clouds folding on themselves high above the thinning branches – everything
blocked out except the pleasantly tangled ideas I chose to follow.
Looking around at the sandstone and brick buildings, I would imagine
being warmed by the glow held inside; I would savor the feeling of the soothing
warmth on my cheeks that had been made raw from the brisk air.
However,
Melissa’s amateur psychology made me focus on the water creeping into my
slicker around my neck and wrists, and the numbness of my fingers clenched
around my books and bag. From the knees down, my jeans were now heavily soaked and
made a loud whipping, swishing noise as I walked.
“OK
then. What about this...”
Her voice suggested this was not going to be a dropped subject. “I
think that more than the things that happen to us, our reaction to events
shapes who we are. And I know what
you’re going to say...” No, she
really didn’t. I wasn’t going
to say anything, as I just wanted to get on with it.
“It’s the action that caused you to have the reaction.
Bu-ut, I think that when
we first experience some new reaction, the circumstances and stuff are an
indicator of how we are going to live our lives later.
You know what I mean?”
I
gave a muffled “um” as if I was considering her views.
I was really thinking about how bricks look so porous when they’re dry
and yet in the rain they look like a completely different material.
The color intensifies; they look so smooth, hard and cold, not chalky and
rough in subtly different sun-baked hues as when dry.
“Pen.
PEN! Are you even
listening?” Her voice found a
brief calm between gusts and cut straight through the rain.
“Oh
yeah. It was just hard to hear you
with the rain and all.”
“Well,
then tell me! What was the first
lie you remember telling?” She was determined to play analyst and I figured it was
easier to just give in.
“I’ve
told lots of lies. I mean every kid has. ‘He
hit me first.’ ‘I don’t know
what happened to the cookies.’ You
know how it is.”
“That’s
not what I’m talking about. I
mean where you made a decision not to tell the truth.
Not just give an excuse to cover your ass.
Like, it could be to cover your ass...just something major, big. You know?”
I
looked ahead, down the path snaking around the corner of the library.
Blustery gusts pushed us forward and along.
I thought about being a child again.
I was only 20 now. How could
I single out a memory? How could I
pluck something like that in a minute or two?
That’s like fishing around for the lone, sickly cherry in the fruit
salad. Was it really worth the
effort?
Shock
of cold.
I
had landed in a well-camouflaged puddle. Water
immediately filled my shoe. My mind
and heart were wrenched from me, hurling back with my memories; a strange force
guided them instantly, and abruptly brought them to a crashing halt.
#
The
air was full of sounds -- icy, watery, tinkling sounds.
The sounds of winter giving in. Icicles
dripped, finally returning water to the ground, hitting the snow in muffled
drops. Each drop a distracting
beat. And then, the first buffeted
breeze bringing the promise of thaw, scented with some earthy organic awakening,
found its way through the window. The
sounds carried into the classroom on that warm breeze made me long to run,
splash and be carried away in the push of the wind.
Distraction
seems to be my way of life. Focusing
on the smooth surface of my memory, like the surface of the puddles I remember
forming in the early spring melt, my mind skims and dances.
Growing rings ripple and break into each other.
My thoughts fade just as quickly as they form again.
One thing remains clear, its integrity unblemished by the unsteady nature
of my recollections, I’ve nurtured a desire to become something I never was.
That desire remains mired underwater, seemingly unable to bob above.
It stays forgotten until its patina catches my eye and holds my gaze.
A prize that can’t be grasped, taunting me to find some means to
finally clutch it in my hands.
The
thin trickle running over the roads paved with pea gravel near home -- it was an
irresistible sound. It was going
somewhere, joining other trickles, and making rivers and streams further on.
No gutters to regulate the flow here; the water was allowed to express
itself in laughingly magical ways. Magical
for a 7 year old. I could never
duplicate the wonderful paths that nature took on those early spring days.
Try as I might, sand, dirt, stones, no construction of mine that sprung
from my imagination could approach the effortless designs carried out on the
side of the road. Down the
hill, the water fell into ditches, coursed through drainage pipes, snaked around
bends in the road, and finally fed the pools formed at the site of perpetually
blocked storm drains.
A
boot was dipped in the edge, followed by others, creeping further in, testing
the depth. On warmer days perhaps,
the water would be a clear pond, the long grass underneath would become a secret
garden of seaweed. But in those
heavy gray days, the cold was still lying in wait, barely covered by the first
spring gusts, and the puddles were made steely dark.
A
thin crackling sheet of ice covered the edges in places. Its brittle fragility was shattered with a harsh violence,
followed by jeers and calls to do more damage.
“Go
further. How far can you go?”
My muddled memory tells me that I was told these things.
Knowing myself now, I wonder if I hadn’t told myself.
In fact, I don’t remember actually being coaxed to go further.
A hazy image of my antagonist remains stolid on the edge of the growing
pond. No movements or words.
My memory has imbued him with the role of instigator.
The voice I hear, however, is my own.
My own will pulling, pushing, prodding.
My
shivering legs were bare and thin, planted in boots. My navy pea coat just covered the skirt of my dress, but
provided no further warmth. Surprisingly,
the pressure of the water against my boots felt like a warm bath.
My feet sluggishly slipped on the muddy floor of the puddle.
I recall that in an instant the water went from being a mere puddle to a
small sea, growing as I found it more difficult to proceed to its center. Kids huddled together giggling on the edge.
I can’t remember being cheered on.
For all I know, they weren’t even paying attention to me.
I attempted to be the center of attention quite literally by standing in
the middle of them all where no one else dared to go.
Slowly, and most un-surely, I crept further, the water skimming the tops
of my boots.
Shock
of cold.
Unable
to even let my panic take hold, I only managed to push myself up after I
realized that I could not take away what had just happened.
It has always been difficult for me to let an embarrassing moment simply
pass. I force myself to replay the
episode over and over again. And as
a kind of precursor to such self-flagellation, I find that I cling to the moment
while it happens, drawing it out, turning over each detail in my mind so that it
can be stored for future reference. In
a strange way I savor it.
Dripping,
frozen. My coat has become
completely saturated. The iciness
fills my boots. The early spring
has withdrawn from embarrassment, winter firmly reclaiming its place.
What
do I do now?
Cry.
Run and cry. Panic. The cold and wet don’t mean anything.
How can I tell my mother what has happened was my own fault?
That’s simple. I don’t
have to.
I
make it home. My coat frozen,
encrusted in a thin glaze of ice. My
mother must have heard me running up the path. My screams took in great gulps of
frosty air; my throat became raw as my calls turned to hoarse barks.
One
look at me. I could have sworn she
would be able to tell that it was all my fault. I could only tell her that a boy had pushed me.
It was impossible for me to admit to the truth.
The truth wasn’t even an option. Not
that I feared the consequences. More
that I was so ashamed of being so bold, being the one who thought she could show
off.
Left
in the doorway, dripping, sniffling and more cold than I’d ever been, I
watched as my mother ran across the yard and down the street. I saw her chasing the boy and the moment he saw her coming, I
turned away and went inside.
When
she came back, I could see her breathing hard, her chest and shoulders heaving
with each determined, justified breath.
“What
happened?”
“I
pushed him into a puddle. See if he
likes it!”
Guilt
didn’t come until later. At the
moment, the only thing that warmed me was the protective love of my mother.
I was wrapped up in thick towels and blankets, given warm drinks of
cocoa, cosseted in loving, concerned ways.
I would have been given the same had I told the truth, I knew.
But somehow this was better. Being
protected was far superior to being simply nursed.
As
the last memory ripple reached my mind’s edge, I was left with the same
motherly warmth again.
#
“My god! I don’t believe you did that! Did you ever tell your mother?” Melissa’s voice was half smiling, half shocked.
Her
incredulity straddled the divide between bursting out laughing and maintaining
the somber look now plastered on her face.
“No.
Haven’t yet. Maybe I should.” I tumbled the idea for a second.
“How
about something like, ‘Mom, remember that boy you pushed into the puddle?
He didn’t do it.’ And
see what happens. I mean, she might
not remember. I can imagine now,
some poor guy about my age with a morbid fear of puddles.”
I smiled with the memory of this untold secret. “You know, if I was a
mother now and found out that my daughter lied about getting pushed into a
puddle I think I’d be pretty mad at her, or at least feel like I should punish
her some how. But looking at it
from my point of view now, I’m glad I didn’t tell the truth.
And in the grand scheme of things, it doesn’t seem as if it did anyone
any harm.”
Melissa
inhaled sharply as if to say something, but stopped.
Then she replied cautiously, “I guess you’re the only one, apart from
that poor kid , who could judge what harm it did, if any.”
“So
tell me, does that lie give you any insight?
I mean, do you know me any better?”
I teased her to see what analysis she could derive from the story.
“I
know well enough to stay away from puddles when you’re around.”
Laughing, we bent our heads down against the wind and pushed our way
forward.
My
mind played back and forth between memories of puddles big and small.
Daring my brother to go into the flooded basements of houses under
construction. Swimming fully
clothed in pools to get my life saving certification.
Wading deep, up to my chin, into the waters off Brittany to pull a boat
ashore. Bailing water out from an
aluminum canoe in the lost waters of Minnesota and Canada.
The first memory released, a flood soon followed with images passing by
in eddies.
The
rain had subsided some. A light mist had taken its place and some warmth had
returned. On the horizon, the burnt edges of clouds offered the only color the
day had seen.
The
path widened and met the Union building steps.
We climbed them and shook our slickers and stamped our feet before going
inside. We were still dripping.
I wasn’t that sorry to be so wet.
Some
lies aren’t so terrible given a bit of time.
Guilt is fleeting at best. Remembering
them brings a secret smile instead of shame. What was there to feel guilty
about?