CHAPTER 16 - SEPARATE WAYS

            Michael picked up his classical guitar this time and adjusted the tuning. Guitars have different voices just like singers. Acoustic, electric, 6-string, 12-string, they all have their own distinct timbre, and I really liked the subtle tonal shading that came from this instrument's nylon strings. I listened to the rich sound filling the living room as Michael began to warm up by playing a simple etude. I closed my eyes and listened. His performance was dynamic. The music rose and fell, and rose and fell again. He was somehow playing melody and harmony all at the same time. When some musicians perform, they're just picking out notes, but Michael's guitar was speaking to me, telling me a story, and it sounded somehow sad. Finally I asked, "What's that called? It sounds really cool."

            He grinned, obviously pleased by my ability to appreciate something besides Barry Manilow or Elton John. "It's one of the Sor Studies, Estudio Number Five in B-minor."

            "Oh, of course, that old ditty." I replied.

            Michael knew very well that I had never heard of Sor or Estudio Number Five. He smiled more broadly and began to explain. "Fernando Sor. He was a guitarist and a teacher who lived a couple-hundred years ago - give or take a decade or two." He was about to explain further when the jangling of the telephone interrupted us. "'Scuse me, Magnolia," he said as he put down the guitar and went to answer it.

            It wasn't my intention to eavesdrop, but he was standing beside the desk only a few feet away, so there wasn't much choice. I was only able to hear his side of the conversation, of course, but what I heard piqued my curiosity.

            "Hello?"

            His dark eyebrows knit together over the bridge of his handsome nose in an expression of mild annoyance.

            "Oh. Hi, Stacy."

            I could hear the strained tolerance in his deep voice. He listened for a few moments, and then glanced in my direction.

            "Well, I have a guest, but I'll be here if you wanna stop by for a few minutes." Almost immediately he added, "No. It's nobody you know."

            A longer period of silence ensued as he listened to the voice on the other end of the telephone. It was obvious from the look on his face that he was less than pleased by what he was hearing from the other party.

            "If that's the way you feel, I don't think we really have anything to discuss."

            Mild annoyance became a full-fledged scowl.

            "Fine," he answered in a clipped voice that conveyed exactly the opposite sentiment. "See you then."

            He hung up the phone without saying good-bye and stood there staring at the instrument. From the intense look he was giving the telephone, I wouldn't have been at all surprised if it had burst into flames.

            "You okay?" I asked.

            For a second or two he didn't seem to have heard me. Then, as though just realizing that I'd asked a question, he answered, somewhat distracted, "Oh. Umm, yeah. Fine."

            "You sure?" I persisted, making no attempt to hide my skepticism.

            He gave me a sideways grin, and came back over to the couch, picking up his guitar and dropping into the seat beside me. "Yeah, I'm sure," he promised me. He sighed heavily and then smiled, but I could tell that it was a forced effort.

            I hated to admit it, even to myself, but I'd felt a distinct twinge of jealousy when I'd realized that the person on the other end of the telephone was a woman. It was unreasonable, I knew. After all, Michael was a good-looking guy. Golly, darn, was he ever good-looking! Of course, he'd have a girlfriend, probably even a few. Besides, what difference should it make to me? He was a grown man, and I was a teenager. Anyway, who was I kidding? As far as Michael was concerned, I was a child. Girlish fantasies are one thing, but any ideas I might have about romance with Michael belonged in the not-a-snowball's-chance-in-hell category. Well, guess it's time to make a graceful exit. "If you're gonna have company, I could come back some other time," I offered, rising to leave. "I don't wanna be in the way . . . "

            He caught my hand in his and my whole body seemed to respond to his touch. I allowed myself to be gently pulled back down into my seat. "Trust me, you don't have to leave. Stacy's visit's not gonna take that long."

            There was something in the expression on his seriously handsome face that brought me up short. It was ridiculous, of course, but I almost felt as though he'd been reading my mind and was trying to assure me that Stacy was not a threat to our relationship. Now, that idea went beyond ridiculous because we didn't have a relationship. "Are you sure?" I asked. "I mean, I don't mind leaving . . . That is, . . . well, . . . I'm not in a hurry to leave, or anything but, . . . um, . . . my feelings wouldn't be hurt if, . . . er, . . . you, . . . um, wanted me to leave . . . " Please, God, I thought, let the floor just open up and swallow me now!

            Michael's smile was more genuine now as he put his hand over my mouth in a playful gesture of shutting me up. "Hush. You don't have to leave," he assured me. "If ya really wanna know the truth, I'm about to get dumped, an' it'd be kinda nice to have a friend around for a little moral support."

            "She's dumping you?" I asked as I pulled his hand away, aghast at the very idea. "Is she nuts?" I blurted, and immediately clapped my own hand over my mouth. I had not meant to say that out loud.

            Michael burst out laughing at my expression of outraged disbelief. "That's entirely possible," he agreed. I blushed hotly as I realized that my outburst had surely admitted to more of an interest in Michael than was proper or prudent. Still laughing, not appearing to have noticed my embarrassment, Michael patted my knee. "And thanks for the vote of confidence, Magnolia. You're a sweet kid."

            Kid. Well, that was more effective than a bucket of ice water. Told ya so, dummy! I berated myself silently; he thinks you're a baby. As soon as Michael began playing his guitar, though, any annoyance at being called a kid gave way to supreme delight at being the beneficiary of another wonderfully private performance.

            I closed my eyes and savored each note, each musical phrase, as it wafted over me. He was playing something classical and vaguely Spanish-sounding in a minor key, probably something else by that ‘Sor' guy. It was very mournful and melodramatic. Perhaps that telephone call had affected him more than he'd let on. Whatever he was playing, though, it sounded heavenly. Gosh, I seriously envied that guitar. What would it be like, I wondered, to be held in his arms at the mercy of those nimble fingers? My eyes snapped open and I felt another flush of embarrassment color my face. Surprised by my own erotic imagery, I thought, Whoa, Nelly, let's not go there.

            I cast a quick glance at Michael. He hadn't observed me turning bright red. He was lost in his music, paying no attention to anything but the guitar. I took a few deep breaths to calm myself, and studied him discreetly. Like Moses, I might never reach the Promised Land, but that didn't mean I couldn't admire it from afar. Looking at his striking features, I regretted that I had not been gifted with an artist's skills. I wish I could draw. I'd love to draw his picture, I mused. How would it feel to create something that beautiful?

            Michael was definitely beautiful. In my 16-year-old eyes, in fact, he was darned near perfect. He was one of those lucky individuals blessed with an unblemished complexion, without so much as a freckle, and I privately doubted that any zit would ever have dared to mar the flawless expanse of his tanned visage.

            His handsome face was framed by a lion's mane of brown hair that had been tinged with burnished copper by the June sun. Its deep, silky sheen seemed to beg me to run my fingers through its softness if I only had the audacity.

            Without a doubt, though, Michael's eyes were his best feature; pale azure ringed with indigo and deep enough to drown in. Talk about dying happy! I thought with a sigh. While I contemplated this scenario, Michael raised his beautiful eyes and winked one of them at me. He'd caught me staring! Fortunately I was spared a slow, lingering death from embarrassment by the arrival of someone at his front door.

            "Knock-knock! Anyone home?" A throaty female voice inquired with false cheerfulness from the other side of the screen door.

            Michael rolled his eyes and put down his guitar as he got up to answer. "'Scuse me again, Magnolia." He pushed open the screen and stepped back to admit the visitor. "C'mon in, Stace." His voice lacked any enthusiasm for her visit.

            The woman who stood in the open doorway looked like a model. She was tall, almost as tall as Michael, leggy, and reed slender. Her platinum-blonde hair stood out in stark contrast to her sun-bronzed face. She might as well have just stepped out of an advertisement for Coppertone Tanning Lotion or possibly out of the Neiman Marcus Catalogue in her perfectly coordinated halter and short ensemble. Humph! I thought. She probably took longer to get ready for this casual summer outing than it takes me to get dressed up for church on Easter Sunday morning. Just looking at her made me acutely conscious of the faded gym shorts and baggy T-shirt I'd donned that morning.

            Everything about this woman was perfect: perfect hair, perfect teeth, perfect make-up, perfect manicure, and her perfection served, in my mind, to spotlight and magnify every one of my personal deficiencies. My only consolation was the fact that she exuded all the genuine warmth of a department store mannequin. It's amazing what they can do with molded plastic these days, I thought as I concealed an insufferably pleased smile behind my hand.

            The cardboard box she was carrying seemed incongruous to say the least. It was emblazoned with the logo for Lone Star Beer, and I doubted that she would ever have consumed something so pedestrian. No, she looked like the kind of woman who would demand nothing less than champagne.

            That's when she noticed me for the first time. From the slight narrowing of her cold, green eyes, I could tell that she hated me instantly. It was nothing personal, mind you. She was just one of those women who cherished an unstinting animosity toward anything else female. If I'd been a 92-year-old grandmother or a drooling toddler, it wouldn't have mattered a bit to her because I still represented competition for that spot at the center of everyone's attention which she undoubtedly considered unequivocally hers. I almost laughed out loud at the idea that someone like her could consider me competition for the attentions of someone like Michael.

            She made a great show of handing the box to Michael, which he promptly deposited in the big armchair next to the door after giving the contents only a cursory glance. "I can't stay," she said with feigned and exaggerated regret. "I just wanted to drop off some things you left at my apartment."

            The two of them went back through the screen door and stood together on the front porch. Since the door and all the windows were open to admit any passing summer breeze, this only gave the illusion of privacy because I could still see and hear everything going on quite well. "Yeah, it looks like you've got somewhere else to be," Michael said as he nodded toward the shiny new Mustang convertible - red, of course - parked in his driveway. The handsome but nervous-looking young man behind the wheel waved a self-conscious greeting in Michael's direction. The current boyfriend looked as though he was not entirely convinced that the former boyfriend wouldn't decide to march down the steps and beat him to a bloody pulp. Michael responded with a tight-lipped nod of acknowledgement that probably did absolutely nothing to allay the young man's fears.

            "That's Charlie," Stacy explained, even though Michael couldn't have cared less. "We're going skiing at Possum Kingdom. His parents have a house on the lake." It sounded as though she were trying to impress Michael. Or, make him jealous. When he didn't rise to the bait, she tried another tack. "When you said you had company, I didn't realize you were babysitting," she said with a smirk.

            What a witch! I thought as I itched to slap that superior grin right off of her face.

            Michael scowled in annoyance at her bad manners. "Maggie is a friend, Stacy," he said slowly as though trying to explain this difficult concept to a small child.

            "Better be careful! Friends that young can get you in big trouble," she said with simpering smugness.

            He glared back at her with a look of absolute disgust. "Maggie's just a sweet kid who happens to like music. And you," he sneered, "you've got a dirty mind."

            I groaned inwardly. There's that word "kid" again.

            Stacy shrugged, "Whatever you say," she replied, but it was obvious that she wasn't convinced.

            Michael was growing impatient. "You pretty much summed things up on the telephone Stace. You said you thought we oughta see other people." He nodded toward the car in the driveway with a sneer. "Well, it looks like you've already got a head start. So, if there's nothing else on your mind, you really don't wanna keep Ol' Chuck waitin'."

            Stacy looked pained. This was obviously not going the way she'd envisioned. She dropped the Southern Belle act. "So that's it, then? You really don't give a damn, do you?"

            "No more'n you do, obviously." He stared at her impassively, his arms folded across his chest. "C'mon, Stace, what d'ya want? Didja expect me to beg you to stay and swear I can't live without you?" He rolled his eyes. "We both know that isn't true. I'm not any more in love with you than you are with me."

            Stacy looked like a beached fish as she opened and closed her mouth without making a sound. She couldn't have looked more surprised or offended if someone had hit her in the face with a dirty mop. She was way out of her league, and I could almost find it in my heart to feel sorry for her . . . well, maybe not. Her eyes narrowed again. "You bastard!" she spat, fixing him with a cold glare.

            He didn't even blink, but I cringed. She'd chosen the one epithet calculated to cut the deepest, and I hated her for it. Michael only smiled, a scary kind of tight-lipped grimace that made me hold my breath in anticipation of the explosion that would surely follow. Michael surprised us both. "Well, you're right about that," he said quietly, "but then, you knew that already."

            Stacy realized too late that she'd passed the point of no return. "Michael . . . ," she began.

            But he cut her off, as immovable as a marble monument. "It's time to say good-bye, Stacy."

            "Well, I guess I'll see you around," she offered with a nonchalant shrug as she turned to go, trying to salvage what remained of her dented dignity.

            Michael caught her forcefully by the arm and spun her around roughly and so quickly that she flinched and almost lost her balance. She looked positively terrified, and Charlie reached for the door handle. For a split second, I think the three of us thought Michael might do her bodily harm. Of course, such an act would have been completely contrary to Michael's character. He could no more have raised his hand to a woman than he could have sprouted wings and flown. He only leaned in closer and stared straight into her eyes. "No. You won't see me around." His voice was low and adamant, tolerating no dispute. "You had your little walk on the wild side, but from now on, it'd be better for everybody if you just stayed the hell away from the poor side of town."

            She pulled away from him, stomping angrily down the steps. If looks could kill, then Michael would surely have keeled over on the spot from the malicious glare with which she regarded him. Charlie, on the other hand, just looked relieved now that it was no longer necessary for him to come to her rescue or do battle for her honor. "Fine with me, you ignorant hillbilly!" she retorted, each word dripping with venom as she made a hasty escape to the safety of the Mustang's front seat.

            Michael just stood there, impassive, watching them drive off in the direction of the highway, his expression as dark as a thundercloud. Then, he stepped back inside long enough to pick up the box Stacy had left. Without a word he walked down the driveway and dumped the whole package rather unceremoniously into the battered garbage can at the edge of the street.

            When he came back in the house, his expression was no longer as dark or as intense. "Sorry ‘bout the interruption, Maggie Mae," he said, trying to pretend that the previous interlude had not taken place. "Now, where were we?"

            I nodded in the direction of the door and made a wry face. "Malibu Barbie?" I asked, my tone clearly questioning his judgment.

            He looked sheepish. I really believe he was embarrassed by my disapproval. "Yeah, well," he rationalized with a shrug, "it seemed like a good idea at the time."

            "Oh well golly gee, I'll bet it did." I shot back with a knowing look.

            His took his place beside me on the couch and regarded me from the corner of his eye. His expression was rueful. I think he was questioning his own judgment, too. "Well, I guess ya had to be there."

            "Pass." I replied. I was curious about his trip to the garbage can, though. "Didn't you want your stuff anymore?" I asked as I nodded toward the door.

            Michael's expression turned serious again. "No," he said quietly. "I know what Malibu Barbie said, but those weren't things I just left at her apartment. They were gifts I gave her while we were dating." He made a face at the last word as though it had left a bad taste in his mouth.

            My mouth dropped open. "That witch!" I'd only thought it before, but now I said it out loud, and I meant it whole-heartedly. The thought of Michael being hurt, especially by someone like the superficial snob who'd just left, made me angry.

            Michael laughed at my indignation on his behalf. "Don't worry about me," he said as he patted my hand. "My heart's not broken over Stacy. In a way, I'm kinda glad it's over. She was really gettin' to be a lot more trouble than she was worth."

            He picked up the guitar and began idly strumming another tune. I thought about Stacy and about Michael, and I tried to imagine the two of them together. The very idea made my skin crawl. "She wasn't good enough for you, y'know," I observed after a few moments of contemplation.

            I really don't know what kept Michael from telling me to mind my own business. He would certainly have been justified in doing so, but for some inexplicable reason, he seemed perfectly content to sit there and accept counseling on his love life from a 16-year-old virgin. His head was bowed over his instrument, and I saw the corners of his mouth turn up in a faint smile. "Stacy'd probably disagree with you ‘bout that." He raised his head and regarded me with a look of fondness as he patiently explained. "She thinks I'm the one who's not good enough for her. That's why she started seeing me in the first place."

            Huh? I shook my head. That did not compute. "Wait a minute. I don't understand."

            "That's ‘cause you're a nice person," he said. "Y'see, Stacy likes games. She wanted to pretend she was livin' dangerously, so she decided to bring home some poor white trash to shock Daddy an' the rest of the country club set."

            I was appalled. "You're not trash!" I protested.

            He cocked his head slightly, amused by my naïveté. "Well actually, I am." There was no self-pity in his voice. On the contrary, I detected an almost perverse kind of pride as he stated the simple fact. "I come from the wrong side of the tracks and the wrong side of the blanket. To Stacy's folks, I was persona non grata. I might've been good enough to fix their cars, or clean their pool, but I wasn't good enough to date their daughter, and I sure wasn't what they had in mind for a future son-in-law.

            "Yep, there was some kinda storm an' thunder when Stacy brought me home to meet the folks. I thought her old man was gonna have a stroke right then an' there." He smiled wickedly at the memory. "Well, that's just what Stacy wanted. She likes drama, and she likes to be the center of attention. But, she also gets bored easily." He shook his head and laughed shortly. "Once her mom and dad started to succumb to my boyish charms and decided that I might not be such a bad guy after all, Stacy figured it was time to go looking for a new toy."

            "How in the world did you two ever meet in the first place?"

            He nodded toward the framed diploma on the wall, a BA from UT Arlington, dated earlier that year. "We met a few months ago while I was still goin' to school. Oh, we had fun at first, but a little of Stacy goes a long way. Kinda like booze, too much will make ya regret it in the mornin'." He leaned back and studied me. "But I'll bet you wouldn't know anything about that, now, wouldja?"

            I gave him a wide-eyed shake of the head in reply. Michael already had a pretty good idea of how sheltered my life was as the only daughter of a Southern Baptist pillar of the community. At the age of 16, my first taste of liquor was still about a decade in the future.

            He grinned. "I didn't think so. You don't look like the type to sneak booze. Or cigarettes. Or anything else forbidden." The look he gave me was coolly appraising. "In fact, you don't look like the type who breaks many rules at all."

            He hadn't spoken unkindly or sarcastically, but I felt a faint sense of condemnation in being told what a good girl I was. True, I was not the adventurous or rebellious type, but what should have been regarded as a virtue suddenly felt suspiciously like a vice. I squirmed a little under his scrutiny. "Hey," I exclaimed impatiently, gesturing toward his guitar, "are you gonna play that thing or are we gonna talk about what a boring goody-two-shoes I am?"

            He nodded his acquiescence. "I'm gonna play this thing. Are you gonna sing for me or just sit there with your nose outa joint?" He knew that I was miffed, and he was doing his best not to exacerbate the situation by allowing his expression to betray his amusement at my annoyance.

            He strummed the guitar and began to sing softly, "My horses ain't hungry they won't eat your hay, So fare thee well darlin' I'm goin' away."

            It was an old traditional tune, and like most folk songs, it had as many names and versions as there had been performers. Whether it was called My Horses Ain't Hungry, Rambler Gambler, Pretty Polly, or Wagoner's Lad, it was pretty much the same tune and sentiment. I recognized the version Michael was playing as Pretty Mary, and I knew it from the B-side of Joey's old 45rpm recording of Puff, the Magic Dragon, by Peter, Paul and Mary. I remembered how Joey had played the record over and over, to learn the chords so he could play Puff for me. We'd sung the song together often until some straight-laced guardian of the public morals had decided that the words must be a metaphor for smoking marijuana. My father had summarily forbidden us to sing the group's songs or play their records - which only meant that we waited to play them until we were sure he wasn't going to be around.

            I smiled at that memory and contributed my soprano to Michael's baritone, "Your parents don't like me they say I'm too poor, They say I'm not worthy to enter your door." I had goose bumps as I listened to Michael's strong voice singing those singularly appropriate words. Oh yeah, I thought, Stacy definitely got to him a lot more than he's admitting. However, I diplomatically pretended not to notice and continued to sing along. "Pretty Mary, Pretty Mary would you think me unkind, If I were to see you and tell you my mind? As sure as the dew drops fall on the green corn, Last night I was with her tonight I am gone."

            As were singing, though, I was forced to admit that Stacy had gotten to me somewhat as well. A shadowy feeling of uneasiness and vague dissatisfaction began to gnaw at the edges of my consciousness. It's difficult to describe, but it was as though something bright had become tarnished. I couldn't attribute it to anything that Michael had said or done directly. His attitude and behavior toward me hadn't changed at all, but the interlude with Stacy had made me realize the difference - the distance - between us.

            I don't enjoy looking or feeling foolish, and I was definitely feeling foolish over having burst into tears back at Inspiration Point. Michael had probably forgotten all about my crying jag by now, and it hadn't really seemed to bother him at the time. However, the truth of the matter was that I hadn't forgotten about it, and it absolutely bothered me. I was also impelled to admit that it was unquestionably foolish for a girl my age to be hanging around a man Michael's age. Stacy was just being snide when she'd called Michael my babysitter. As much as I hated to admit it, though, there had been a grain of truth in what she'd said. Stacy had managed to plant the seeds of doubt that caused me to question the sincerity of Michael's friendship.

            Michael's musical preferences seemed to be inclining toward the melancholy, because one song of unrequited love and loss followed another until my own chronic case of blues deepened several shades. Michael began playing an old Donovan tune, Catch the Wind. I couldn't count the number of times I'd heard the song, or sung it myself with Joey. The lyrics weren't overtly sad, at least no more so than any other song we'd been singing, but today, this minute, there was an underlying emotion that smacked me right in the heart.

            The theme was simple and timeless. What made the words so unreservedly sad in my mind and at this particular time was the repeated refrain, "I may as well try and catch the wind." To want to little and yet to know that it was still so totally unattainable moved me nearly to tears.

            I began to sing along, this time choosing the melody line instead of my usual harmony. Within the interval of a single beat, Michael picked up the harmony, and the transition had been seamless. Joey and I had been able to do that too, switch parts without talking about it or even so much as looking at each other. It was as though each one of us always knew what the other was thinking.

            I thought about Joey. What would I give to have one more evening together, sitting on the front porch and singing the way we used to? Such a hope was vain, just like trying to catch the wind, and the memory of that loss twisted in my heart like a knife.

            The mood of the music seemed to underscore my deepening state of depression so that by the time we got to the third verse of the song, I was wallowing in my own personal puddle of self-pity. Still heartbroken over Joey's death, disappointed with my parents' seeming apathy where I was concerned, and despairing that I would ever be loved, especially by anyone like Michael, I closed my eyes and poured all my sorrow into the words. I wasn't just parroting someone else's sentiments; I was singing my life's story.

            When I finished the verse and opened my eyes, Michael was watching me intently

            "What?!" I demanded, my tone more confrontational than I intended when he didn't immediately say anything and continued to study me thoughtfully.

            "Wow." He responded softly at last, his face showing his surprise. "Where did that come from?"

            I shrugged, feeling self-conscious. Then I leaned back in my chair and closed my eyes so I wouldn't have to watch Michael watching me. "Oh, lots of places, I guess," said, hoping he wouldn't press the issue. Abruptly, I sat up and looked at my watch, observing the advanced hour with an equal measure of reluctance and relief, "It's gettin' late. I should probably be gettin' home."

            "Yeah, you're probably right," Michael agreed with equal reluctance but no apparent relief as he got up to walk me out to the front porch. His arms were folded across his body in posture that struck me as oddly remote, or maybe it was just a projection of my own hyperactive imagination that caused me to perceive Michael as emotionally distant.

            I was standing beside him with my hands shoved into the back pockets of my shorts, suddenly feeling awkward with this man and hating myself for it. "Well, guess I'll see ya later." I pretended not to notice that Michael was watching me from the corner of his eye. I could tell that he was puzzled by my sudden change of mood and was probably trying to decide whether or not to comment.

            Apparently, he decided to keep his own counsel for the time being. "See ya, Maggie. Take care," Michael said as he stood with his hand on the porch post, watching me descend the steps and head for home. I heard the underlying note of concern in his voice, and it made me feel sad and guilty at the same time, almost as though I had disappointed him in some way.