CHAPTER 14 - A KNIGHT IN FADED DENIM

            Thinking about Joey had left me feeling melancholy. I still missed him as fiercely as I had on the day he left for Vietnam. And, I still got angry whenever I thought about the capriciousness of a God who would allow a life like his to be cut short. Oh, I still went to church every time the doors were opened. My father was a deacon, a respectable "elder of the church" after all, and it was expected. Frankly, I didn't really have a lot of choice in the matter. There would have been hell to pay - pun intended - if I'd even thought about trying to balk. But even though I still believed in God, let's just say I was no longer certain that I completely trusted Him.

            I was still wrestling with the theological conundrum of God's nature and the eternal enigma of why bad things happen to good people when my path crossed Michael's for the second time. It was a Saturday afternoon, just four days after our first meeting, and I had gone out for a walk. It was also the day after Flag Day, a minor holiday and one of the few that Congress hadn't arbitrarily decreed would henceforth be celebrated on Monday, inexplicably passing up the opportunity to create yet another three-day-weekend for themselves. I noticed a few houses up and down the block where the Stars and Stripes still hung limply in the hot June sunshine.

            I was just meandering down the street with no particular destination in mind, more interested in getting out of the house than really going anywhere, when I heard a motorcycle approaching. From the inimitable flatulent bass rumble of the engine, I surmised that it was probably a Harley Davidson, and a rather large one at that. Without bothering to look, I stepped out of the roadway onto the gravel shoulder to allow the rider plenty of room to pass. Instead of passing, however, the noisy machine slowed to a stop beside me.

            The rider was Michael, and he was indeed astride a big, black Harley. It was a monster of a machine, shiny with chrome that glinted and winked in the sunlight. He looked different from the first time I'd seen him and rather intimidating. He was wearing an old work shirt with the sleeves torn out, baring well-muscled and sun-browned arms. On his left arm was a tattoo of an eagle's head, the Screaming Eagle of the 101st Airborne, to be precise although I didn't know that at the time. Above the eagle's head was the word Airborne and below were the initials LRRP. His blue jeans were clean, but faded and frayed with one propitious rip revealing a very nicely tanned and not unattractive knee. He had a red bandana tied around his forehead to keep his hair out of his eyes while he rode, and the mirrored lenses of his sunglasses hid his beautiful blue eyes, making him look cold and grim. He looks like a thug or somethin' out of a biker movie, I mused . . . maybe a Hell's Angel in trainin'.

            When he took off his shades, though, the transformation from hoodlum to amiable friend was instantaneous. "I thought it was you," he exclaimed, greeting me with easy camaraderie and genuine enthusiasm as he flashed the broad, brilliant smile that brightened his whole face. "Hello there, Magnolia! Where're you headed?"

            "Nowhere, really," I replied with a self-conscious shrug. I was still unaccustomed to being paid much attention by the opposite sex inasmuch as most of the boys my age had so far expressed very little interest in my existence.

            His grin turned mischievous. "What a coincidence, that's where a lot of people seem to think I'm goin'." I couldn't help smiling back at his self-deprecating humor. "Wanna take a ride?" He asked, suddenly.

            Now, offers of motorcycle rides with good-looking guys were not the kind of thing that frequently came my way. That was the sort of thing that happened to perky, cheerleader-types, not plump, four-eyed wallflowers. Naturally, I wasn't about to pass up what might be a one-time opportunity. "Sure!" I replied with enthusiasm, and it never entered my mind that getting on a motorcycle with a grown man whom I barely knew might not be the wisest course of action. Had it been just anyone else, there could have been valid cause for concern, but from the moment I'd met Michael, I'd known without question that I would be completely safe with him.

            "Climb on, then," he directed, and I did. He showed me where to put my feet. "You're gonna have to hang on," he instructed, patting my bare knee. "Better scoot in close and put your arms around me."

            Put my arms around you? I thought as I repressed the nervous urge to laugh out loud. You're sure not gonna have to make me that offer twice! I complied quite willingly as he fired up the bike and we roared off in the direction of the main highway. I was in heaven - and for reasons that had very little to do with a mere motorcycle ride.

            I have described Michael as gangling, and he was definitely tall and lanky. When I put my arms around him, though, I discovered that he was also as solid as that proverbial rock. The sensation of his lean, hard body beneath my hands through the thin fabric of his shirt was totally novel to me and more than a little exciting.

            The passenger seat of his motorcycle was several inches higher than the rider's, so his narrow hips were wedged quite neatly between my pale, gym-short-clad thighs. My arms encircled his torso with my palms resting firmly beneath a pair of granite pecs. I was suddenly and acutely aware of the proximity of our bodies, and it was causing some new and interesting physiological responses in parts of my anatomy to which I had heretofore been oblivious.

            It's not as though Michael was the first or only attractive man I'd ever seen in my life. There were young men both at school and at church that I considered nice-looking enough. My friend, Emily, and I often compared notes on which of our male contemporaries we thought was the most handsome and even joked about being turned on by this guy or that one. But none of them had ever affected me the way Michael was affecting me now. They were still boys and Michael, well Michael was definitely all man. For the first time in my life, I had an idea of what turned on really felt like. My senses seemed heightened and magnified, like the doomed protagonist in Poe's House of Usher, but I found the effect thrilling rather than horrifying.

            I took a deep breath. God, he smells good! Inhaling the essence that was uniquely Michael's own, I caught the faint odors of soap and shampoo. Mixed in were the fragrances of laundry detergent and clothes dried on a backyard clothesline in the wind and sunshine. I also detected an underlying hint of perspiration and something else vaguely musky and masculine. I found myself wanting to bury my face in the long hair covering the nape of his neck and get drunk on the smell of his skin.

            I was conscious of his body heat radiating through his clothing. I felt the coarse fabric of his blue jeans against the tender skin of my inner thighs, that narrow expanse not covered by my green shorts. This was my first encounter with honest-to-goodness physical desire. I felt my face get suddenly hot, blushing bright crimson.

            Michael patted my hand, effectively jolting me from my daydream. "You doin' okay?" he called back over his shoulder, blissfully ignorant of my raging hormones.

            "Uh, g...great," I replied shakily. For a depraved pervert, I thought. I was certain that nice girls didn't have the thoughts and feelings that I was having for Michael. I held on a little tighter, thankful that his eyes were on the road and not on my flushed face.

            We crossed Highway 199, following Roberts Cut Off around the sharp curve leading toward Inspiration Point. He pulled to a stop in front of the large stone shelter, one of several Depression-era constructions dotting the shores of Lake Worth. We were the only visitors on this summer afternoon. Since Inspiration Point offered a spectacular view of the lake, but no direct access, the site was not as popular as Casino Beach farther up the road - at least not until the sun went down anyway. After dark it became very popular spot for couples who wanted watch the submarine races - an oblique reference to the pastime of parking and making out.

            I wondered idly if Michael had ever been up here with anyone, and immediately felt myself get hot again as I shook my head to banish the thought. I certainly had no business speculating about Michael's love life or anyone else's for that matter. Besides, furtive fumbling in the back seat of some car just didn't seem like Michael's style.

            Michael held my hand, steadying me as I dismounted with all the grace I could muster under the situation. Being in such close proximity to all that testosterone had left me feeling lightheaded and weak in the knees. Miracle of miracles, my legs were steadier than I expected, and I walked inside, thankful to have a few seconds to collect my wits and my composure.

            Michael set the kickstand on the bike and followed me, taking off his sunglasses and perching them on top of his head. There was an effortless feline grace in his movements, and he overtook me in three or four strides, walking through the shelter to the semi-circular patio overlooking a narrow dirt path leading down to the dam.

            The view across the lake was panoramic. The shelter had been built on the edge of a steep hill above the spillway. Directly ahead were the neatly rectangular pools of the fish hatchery, and on the right, across the lake was Carswell Air Force Base. It shimmered liquidly in the summer sunlight as heat rose in waves from the airplanes on the flight line. Before its present-day incarnation as the Naval Air Station Joint Reserve Base - good old NASJRB - Carswell was one of the Strategic Air Command bases and home to the 7th Bomb Wing.

            Michael rested his foot on the low stone parapet at the edge of the terrace and gazed out across the lake, the expression on his face was solemn and inscrutable. He was looking in the direction of the air base, but I could tell that he was seeing something much farther away. It was the thousand-yard-stare that I would come to know very well during my association with Michael. Something would trigger a memory of Vietnam, and he would slip away for a few moments, communing with the ghosts of his past.

            I followed his line of sight and saw that the object of his attention was a B-52 Stratofortress, one of the most fearsome aircraft in the fleet with a 70,000-pound payload of death and destruction. Its 185-foot wingspan drooped slightly as it sat on the tarmac. To see one of those great lumbering behemoths sitting helpless on the ground made it difficult to envision something so large and ungainly flying through the air. They flew quite efficiently, however, and I could testify to that personally. My elementary school had been right in the middle of the base's flight path, and I could remember everything coming to a halt, students and teachers alike lapsing into helpless silence, whenever one of those huge beasts took flight with a window-rattling roar. During the escalating years of the Vietnam War, such interruptions had been a regular occurrence. Far from being a nuisance to those of us who had grown up in the shadow of Carswell, to anyone who had a loved one overseas fighting in Southeast Asia, those noisy intrusions were rather comforting in their formidable familiarity.

            I cast a sidelong glance in Michael's direction. The view on the porch of the shelter had grown more interesting to me than the one across the lake, though, as I secretly admired Michael admiring the view. The expression on his face was no longer remote and stern. Apparently his latest sojourn in whatever private purgatory he called home was past for now. He stretched his strong arms over his head, making satisfied noises as he twisted his lean torso back and forth, working out the kinks from what had apparently been a long ride. Nodding toward to base, he shook his head. "I spent a lot of time out in the boonies because of those guys. Every time there was an Arc-Light we'd get sent out for BDA."

            I looked at him blankly. He was speaking in some sort of incomprehensible code. "Arc-Light? BDA?"

            He gave me an embarrassed grin, that rueful little half-smile that reduced my insides to quivering Jell-O. "Military jargon, sorry. Old habits die hard. Every time there was an Arc Light - a B-52 strike in our area of operations, we'd get sent out to do BDA - bomb damage assessment. You know, see if they hit anything important," he translated.

            I nodded. "Ohhhhh, gotcha!"

            "I always thought the craters looked like a bunch of half-finished swimmin' pools," he continued. "They'd fill up from the rain, and some of the guys were crazy enough to actually dive in, but the water was muddy and smelled kinda funny." He wrinkled his nose at the memory.

            I nodded. "Yeah, Joey wrote me about that. He said it was like swimmin' in a stock tank." Even if I was a city kid, I'd still spent a few summers down on the farm in them old cotton fields back home with my country cousins, so I had a little experience with such things. Both my paternal grandparents had come from Greenville, a rural community about 90 miles away in Hunt County. It was a place on the backside of nowhere whose greatest notoriety came from acres of cotton and the legacy of favorite son, Audie Murphy, the most decorated soldier in World War II. Every visit to east Texas with its miles and miles of nothing but miles and miles only made me appreciate Fort Worth's leisurely bustling metropolis that much more.

            Michael sauntered back inside the shelter and stretched his sinewy frame out on top of one of the picnic tables, propping himself up on one elbow. I perched below him on the bench with my back to the soot-stained stone fireplace in the center of the building. The last two buttons on his shirt were undone, and the garment fell open to reveal a generous expanse of firm, flat abdomen above the top of his hip-hugging jeans. My eyes widened involuntarily, and I swallowed hard. Dropping my eyes, hastily, I began examining several generations' worth of graffiti carved into the wood. I hoped that concentrating on this catalogue of other peoples' loves would give my still-fluttering heart a chance to resume its normal rhythm. I traced an entry with my finger: Johnny loves Linda. Unfortunately, Linda loved somebody else. In fact, Linda loved everybody judging from the number of times her name was repeated on the distressed wood. I hope Johnny got over her, I thought

            Michael's deep voice brought me back to the present and set my heart pounding all over again. "So, Maggie Mae, whatcha been doin' with yourself?"

             "Not much," I admitted. "Just tryin' to keep cool." That was certainly no small accomplishment during a Texas summer. A thunderstorm earlier in the week that should have cooled things off had only resulted in higher humidity and a proportionate increase in the general misery.

            "Hangin' out with your friends?" He suggested.

            "Nah," I said, "Emily's still in Corpus Christi with her dad and stepmom, and she won't be back until the end of August."

            He looked a little surprised. "Well, don't you have any other friends?"

            I thought about that for a moment. "Not really," I said with a shrug. He seemed taken aback by this, so I tried to turn it into a joke. "What can I say? I'm an only child. I just don't play well with others."

            He smiled a rather sad little lopsided grin. "Is that so?"

            "Oh," I exclaimed dismissively, "most of the kids from school are boring anyway. They're hung up on stuff that doesn't really matter. If you don't belong to one of their groups, they won't have anything to do with you. I'm not on the pep squad, in the band, or the choir, and I'm not in any of their clubs, so I'm an outsider."

            "But you sing like an angel," he protested. "And you said you sing in your church choir. Why in the world wouldn't you wanna be in the school choir, too?"

            The reasons were complicated and a little embarrassing. It would be difficult to explain, so I fell back on what I hoped was not too obvious a cop out, "Just not much of a joiner, I guess."

            Michael eyed me skeptically, one raised eyebrow expressing his doubts. Just as I'd feared, he hadn't bought it, and he wasn't going to let it go. "Okay, now what's the real reason?"

            I looked up into Michael's blue eyes. There was no judgment there, only acceptance. Almost before I realized what was happening, I found myself confiding in him. "I was in the choir once, sixth-grade chorus, but after havin' to make a costume and chauffeur me to a few performances, Mom told me that I'd better not ever sign up for anything else that took up her time or cost money. Since then, I've sorta steered clear of extra-curricular activities. My parents don't really care what I do as long as I don't involve them in it. I was in the Girl Scouts for a little while, too, but when you have to go to the Father-Daughter Banquet and the Mother-Daughter Banquet all alone because your parents can't be bothered, it's kinda easy to just say, ‘to heck with it'." I cringed inwardly. What on earth possessed me to volunteer that last piece of information! Michael was so easy to confide in that I found myself sharing much more than I intended.

            Michael was staring at me, dumbfounded, shaking his head in utter incredulity. "I don't believe that."

            "Well, I didn't make it up!" My voice rose defensively at what I had perceived as a question of my honesty. I put my feet up on the bench and wrapped my arms around my legs in a protective gesture as I looked away and stuck out my chin defiantly.

            I heard the wooden tabletop creak as he sat up and put his hand on my shoulder. With the other hand he cupped my chin and very gently turned my face back toward his. Looking directly into his eyes, I saw a mixture of sympathy and concern on his handsome face. "It's not you I don't believe, honey," he assured me gently. "It's them."

            I hugged my knees more tightly to my chest. "Oh, it's no big deal, I guess. Maybe my folks won't ever win ‘Parents of the Year', but I get along okay. You don't have to worry about me, and you don't have to feel sorry for me."

            Michael's previously sunny expression had grown decidedly stormy. "I don't feel sorry for you, Magnolia." There was bitterness and condemnation in his tone. "I feel sorry for them. I don't think they'll ever get to know you, and they're missin' a lot."

            I regretted that my admission had cast them in such a poor light. Feeling like a tattletale, I tried to smooth the situation over. "Hey, it could be a lot worse. They put food on the table, clothes on my back and a roof over my head. It's not like they beat the crap outta me on a regular basis or anything . . . "

            His gaze was fixed on me; his normally warm azure eyes had gone steely and cold. His dark eyebrows were knit together in a disapproving crinkle above the bridge of his elegant nose. For a guy with such a normally pleasant expression, his scowl was a frightening thing to behold. I fervently hoped that I would never be on the receiving end of his anger. "There are all kinds of cruelty," he said pointedly.

            I rested my chin on one upraised knee. He was right, of course. There are many kinds of cruelty, and indifference is one of the most dastardly. I don't know what made my parents so parsimonious with praise since they doled out criticism generously enough. I was expected to do well, so my accomplishments were deemed unworthy of much comment. Mistakes and failures, on the other hand, provoked endless vituperation. Consequently, I learned not to reach too high and risk a fall, to do what was expected and no more. I knew I could never win their approval, so I concentrated on trying to escape as much of their condemnation as possible. No wonder I struggled with self-esteem.

            Despite Michael's denial, I knew that he did feel a certain amount of pity for me. I was touched and a little surprised that even though he barely knew me, he still cared enough to be so angry on my behalf. And I could tell from the look on his face that Michael was most definitely angry. His forehead was furrowed in a furious glower and his full lips were compressed into a taut line.

            I put my hand over his where it still rested on my shoulder. "I guess knights sometimes wear blue jeans instead of shining armor and ride motorcycles instead of white horses," I said, looking up at him. At that, his expression quickly softened, and the cold, disapproving glare of a moment ago was replaced by a disarming look of tenderness and warmth.

            I had spent a lifetime immuring myself against parental apathy only to be utterly undone by this compassionate man's concern. Disdain, I was used to, but sympathy was more than I could bear. Since Joey's death, I had suffered frequent bouts of depression, and tended to cry for no reason, or for reasons that were too deep to articulate. I suppose I shouldn't really have been surprised when I felt the tears welling up in my eyes. I quickly buried my face in my folded arms, embarrassed that my new friend should be seeing such an unflattering side of me.

            Michael, on the other hand, seemed to be bothered not at all. "Aw, hey, honey," he said, his voice a soothing whisper in my left ear as he moved off of the table and sat beside me on the bench. He put his arm around my shoulder, holding me against him while I cried. "It's okay, sweetheart. Go ahead."

            Clinging to him, I thought about Joey, the only other person who had ever held me while I cried. Both of my parents disdained emotional displays and considered tears something to be ashamed of and hidden. Big girls don't cry was a lesson that had been indelibly ingrained into my sensibilities from the time I was a toddler. I had always done my weeping silently, in the darkness of my room. Not since Joey had I trusted anyone enough to be able to display any kind of weakness. My usual impulse was to run away and hide until the storm passed, but being with Michael felt different. Being with Michael felt safe.

            He didn't try to shush me, and he didn't seem unduly alarmed to suddenly find himself comforting a crying teenaged girl. On the contrary, he appeared quite content to let me sob against his chest for as long as I needed to. After my emotional outburst had exhausted itself, I sniffed and wiped my eyes with the heels of my hands. "I'm so sorry," I said. "Self-pity's unbecoming. I don't know where all that came from. I guess my folks named me Maudlin for a reason."

            Michael's expression turned to complete puzzlement and he leaned back and regarded me blankly, "Maudlin?" He asked, incredulously. "Your name is Maudlin?"

            "Well, yeah, sort of," I explained, grateful for anything that would focus his attention on something besides my unseemly sniveling. "Maggie's short for Magdalen, like Mary Magdalene. That's where the word maudlin comes from, y'know. She's always painted as a weeping sinner, and maudlin is sort of a corruption of Magdalene. Magdalene becomes Magdalen, which becomes Madeline, and then Maudlin." I sniffed again. "Magdalen Rose Shannon, that's me, a weepin' sinner."

            "Weeping, maybe, but sinner, I doubt," he said softly, gazing down at me with a look of such kindness that I very nearly started crying all over again. "It's a beautiful name," he said as he stroked my hair, "for a beautiful person."

            I looked up at him and attempted a weak smile, "Thank you." I noticed where my tears had made dark spots on his shirt. "I got your shirt wet," I observed, apropos of nothing.

            He looked down, unconcerned. "So you did," he said, softly. "Well, it'll dry. And, what's a little damp cotton between friends? Come on, Maggie Mae," he said, giving me a quick and enthusiastic one-armed hug. "Let's split. It's a hot day, and there's a pitcher of iced tea callin' our names."