CHAPTER 22 - DECLARATIONS

            As Crosby, Stills Nash and Young began to sing about finding the cost of freedom; I reached into the wooden box and removed a photograph. It was a picture of Michael sitting on a blanket in his postage stamp-sized backyard. It was night or nearly so, judging from the deep shadow that surrounded the portion of the photograph not illuminated by the flashcube of my little Kodak Instamatic. Michael's pale blue eyes twinkled impishly as he gazed into the camera with an indulgent grin. He had on a plain white Oxford shirt, open at the throat, with the sleeves rolled up to the middle of his forearms - to this day, I still think a man looks sexy in a starched white shirt. The shirt was untucked, and his blue jeans fit his long legs snugly, flaring over black cowboy boots. His hands were clasped around one raised knee, and there was a pair of binoculars on the blanket beside him. The picture was taken on the night that we had intended to watch the lunar eclipse. 

***

            We were lying side by side on the blanket separated by a discreet and appropriate distance. Michael had never been anything but the southern gentleman personified where I was concerned, and frankly, it was beginning to drive me straight up the wall.

            I remember that he had seemed unusually quiet that evening, as though something worrisome was on his mind. In fact, Michael had seemed slightly more reticent than usual during our last few encounters. There was not really any particular behavior that I could single out and point to with certainty. There was just a feeling I'd been getting when we were together, a feeling that everything was not quite as all right as it had once been.

            On that night we were staring up at the stars, waiting for the celestial show to begin. He was pointing out the different constellations.

            "There's the Big Dipper," he explained as he pointed and handed the binoculars to me, "and that one there's the Little Dipper. See that bright star at the end of the handle? That's Polaris, the North Star. If you want to get really technical, they would be Ursa Major and Ursa Minor, the Great Bear and the Little Bear."

            I adjusted the focus to compensate for my myopic vision and squinted through the eyepieces. "They look more like dippers than bears to me."

            He grinned and admitted, "Me, too." He pointed out a line of stars snaking between the dippers. "That constellation is Draco, the dragon."

            "Well, all I can say is those ancient astronomers must've had real vivid imaginations 'cause it all looks like a bad ‘connect-the-dots' puzzle to me."

            He chuckled at this, and we lapsed into silence. I remember that he'd seemed preoccupied.

            Looking up at the vastness of the summer night sky, I felt rather small and insignificant. I started thinking about all the events that had lead up to this night. If I hadn't taken that first walk so many summer evenings ago, if Michael hadn't chosen that particular evening to play his guitar on his front porch, we might never have met. Something almost like fear momentarily seized me. I couldn't imagine how anything could have kept me from being here with Michael now. I didn't want to imagine living a life of which he wasn't a part.

            I glanced at him from the corner of my eye. He was stretched out beside me, feet crossed at the ankles and his right arm behind his head, lost in his own philosophical thoughts. His left hand was lying on the blanket just a few inches from my own. Blame it on the moonlight or carbonated teenage hormones and Michael's proximity, but I slipped my hand into his, our fingers entwining, then I held my breath and waited.

            Michael didn't seem startled, and he didn't say a word. He just sighed and raised my hand, pressing it to his lips in a tender, lingering kiss. The faint hope that flickered briefly with that kiss sputtered and died as he gently - oh, so gently - disengaged his long fingers from mine and laid my hand across my waist with a soft pat.

            "So that's the way you're gonna be," I observed ruefully.

            He kept staring at the sky, as though he didn't trust himself to look at me. "You know that's the way it's gotta be." His voice was hoarse and barely audible.

            Oh, but I was full of temerity that night. "Do you even know that I love you?" I asked it almost as a challenge.

            "Yes, I know," he whispered gently. He was silent for a moment, probably considering the consequences of his next statement. "I love you, too," he said at last.

            He didn't sound very happy about it. "But not in that way," I finished for him.

            Another heavy sigh as he sat up and bowed his head, not looking at me, "Yes, Maggie, in that way, even though you haven't lived enough to really have any idea what that way is."

            My youthful romanticism made me disregard his tone of voice and manner, clinging only to his words as my heart did a hopeful flip-flop. He loved me! "Well, then, what're we gonna do about it?"

            "We're not gonna do anything," he said in sad resignation. "You're a minor. There are lines we can't cross." He sighed again and rubbed his hand over his face. Then, he took my arm and gently urged me to an upright position. "Sit up and look at me, Sweetheart."

            I complied, reluctantly, and looked up into his face. He suddenly looked much older than his 25 years. "Oh, dear," I said, "this isn't gonna be any fun, is it?"

            "I'm afraid not," he answered as he released his grip on my arm and moved away, putting some very symbolic distance between us. "We can't keep doin' this, Maggie. I won't keep doing this. It's illegal and it's immoral."

            I tried to close the distance between us, but he moved farther away, and it felt like a slap in the face. "We're not doin' anything wrong," I protested.

            "Then, why are we sneakin' around?" He demanded. His voice was angry, challenging, and his eyes were blazing. "Do you parents know you're alone here? With me? Like this?" Michael wasn't really angry with me. He was angry with himself and our circumstances, but I couldn't see that at the time, and he was scaring me. A lot.

            "They know as much as they wanna know." I retorted hotly. I get angry when I'm scared, and I tend to snap and snarl. "They know as much as they've ever bothered to find out!" We both knew this was true, but he continued to regard me without speaking, his gaze searching and accusing.

            I stared back at him with as much defiance as I could muster, but I was unable to meet his gaze for long. "Not exactly," I finally admitted, looking away. "I just told ‘em that some of us were going to watch the eclipse. It might not be strictly the truth, but it isn't technically a lie, either."

            "Have you always had this talent for equivocation, or do we thank my influence for turning you into a liar?" He sounded almost disdainful as he passed judgment on my character and his own.

            "You haven't been a bad influence," I protested. "You're the most honorable man I know."

            His gaze was level, his tone direct and final, containing all the warmth and tenderness of a block of ice. "All right. Then I'll do the honorable thing. This is over, Maggie. We can't see each other again."

            I gasped. My world was falling to pieces around me, but I forced myself to remain calm. Hysteria would hardly help my case. "Is that what you want? Can you really just send me away like that?" I couldn't stop my voice from trembling. I was emotionally reeling from the prospect of losing Michael, and I didn't know anything could hurt so badly and not be fatal. It felt like I was losing Joey all over again.

            Michael bowed his head for the span of a breath, and then he turned to face me. His eyes were shining and his voice was choked with emotion as he shook his head, "No. I can't. And that's my sorrow."

            His mask of iron resolve cracked just a hair's breadth, and I glimpsed the vulnerable and tormented soul beneath. There was no more anger in his azure eyes, only grief and defeat.

            It is beyond my power to describe how profoundly it affected me to realize that Michael was suffering just as much as I. Or to describe the profound remorse I felt to realize that I was the cause of all his pain. I wanted to throw my arms around his neck and sob out my penitence, but I was afraid to touch him. So, I sat on my side of the blanket with that great chasm of propriety yawning between us. "I'm sorry," I whispered as I began to cry.

            Michael was wiping his own eyes. "What for, honey?"

            I shook my head in confusion. "Anything. Everything. Whatever you want!"

            "Oh, my sweet Magnolia," he murmured, "none of this is your fault. I'm the adult. I'm the one who's supposed to know better. Believe me, I never expected or intended for any of this to happen."

            I raised my tear-stained face to look at him. "I'm still glad that it did. You're a good and kind man. I refuse to believe that my feelings for you could be immoral."

            Michael cupped my cheek in his hand and brushed away a tear with his thumb. "My head knows this is wrong," he said. "I know that your daddy could come after me with a shotgun, an' there's not a court in the country that would convict him." He shook his head, "But my heart can't let you go. I don't think I could go without seein' you anymore than I could go without breathin'."

            "You're more important to me than anything in the world," I said. It sounded like typical teenage melodrama, but I meant every word. "If it means keeping your friendship, I'll abide by any rule or do whatever you say."

            I don't think he trusted himself enough to embrace me, but the ghost of a smile flickered across his features. "God," he asked, "how could I not love you?" Then a shadow passed across his face or perhaps it was only the moon moving into the shadow of the earth, but Michael's expression became resigned and regretful, "You know this doesn't change anything. It doesn't matter how we feel about each other. We're not allowed to act on our feelings."

            I met his gaze. "But I know you love me, and I can live on that forever."

            "Someday, Magnolia," he whispered as he lay back down and gazed up at the sky. "Some. Day . . . "

            In the words of the Credence Clearwater Revival song, Someday Never Comes. We didn't know it then, but our romantic impasse was about to become a moot point.