CHAPTER 23 -HEARTBREAK

            I reached into the cigar box again and this time I withdrew the small gold music box. Giving the key on the bottom a couple of cautious turns, I opened the lid. An old familiar tune began to play softly, and I closed my eyes. 

*** 

            I arrived at Michael's doorstep slightly earlier than usual a few evenings after the eclipse. He was lounging on the wicker settee beside his front door with his long legs stretched out before him resting on the bottom rail of the high, wide balustrade that ran the length of his porch. He was reading a book and taking periodic sips of iced tea from the ubiquitous Mason jar resting on a table beside him. Just the sight of him never failed to take my breath away.

            Perhaps this evening I could return the favor. For the first time since we'd met, my customary wardrobe of tee-shirts and shorts had been replaced by a dress. It was a sleeveless white A-line shift with a haphazard pattern of huge, florescent-blue tropical flowers. My waist-length hair, which was normally pulled back in a braid because I hated listening to my mother complain about "that stringy mess", was loose around my shoulders.

            Michael sat up straight and put down his book, giving a long, low whistle when he saw me. "Have mercy!" he exclaimed. "You look mighty pretty tonight, Magnolia. Surely you didn't get all gussied up on my account."

            I made a face. "I wish. But no, I'm just waitin' for my dad to get home from work. He's got some big announcement." I made ‘air-quotes' around the phrase with my fingers. "And he's takin' us out to dinner to celebrate." I plopped down on the couch beside him. "Personally, I think it ought to be a capital offense to make somebody put on pantyhose in August." I extended one leg and gave the nylon encasing my knee a disrespectful snap.

            He grinned, giving my legs an appreciative look. "Well, I sure wouldn't want to have to wear ‘em, but they do look pretty good on you."

            I got the mental image and started to laugh. "No, you don't look anything like Joe Namath." There was a commercial running on television in which the famous New York Jets quarterback was actually wearing pantyhose. " . . . if Beautymist can make my legs look good, imagine what they'll do for yours . . . "

            "I have much better lookin' legs than Broadway Joe," he joked. Then, more seriously he said, "You do look very pretty tonight, Maggie."

            I regarded him with some skepticism. "Really? Truly?"

            He crossed his heart and raised his right hand. "Really. Truly. Don't your folks ever tell you you're pretty?"

            I just looked at him and raised my eyebrows in an expression that silently asked what he'd been smoking.

            He considered for a moment. "You're right. Dumb question."

            "You think I'm pretty?" I ventured shyly.

            "Very," he said, earnestly. "You have the face of a Botticelli Madonna."

            I sat up straighter and looked at him. "Yeah?" I'll admit that at the time I didn't have the foggiest idea who Botticelli was, but it sounded flattering.

            "Yeah." He assured me.

            "Okay. Who's Botticelli?"

            Michael laughed. "Sandro Botticelli. He was a Renaissance artist. He painted La Primavera and the Birth of Venus."

            "Oh, him." Like I suddenly had a clue.

            Michael could tell that I still didn't have the vaguest idea about the artist. "All right, then. Time for a visual aid. Wait a minute." He got up and went into the house. I couldn't see what he was doing, but I could hear him through the screen door as he rummaged through the bookshelves. He returned just a few seconds later with an oversized coffee-table tome entitled, Art of the Italian Renaissance. He opened it to a page in the section devoted to Botticelli and presented it to me. "There. The Birth of Venus."

            I actually did recognize the picture, but had never paid any attention to the name of the artist. Yep, there she was, Venus on the half shell in all her plump pulchritude. I looked up at Michael with a mixture of surprise and disbelief. "You think I look like that?"

            "No, not exactly like that. But you do have that same quality of timeless beauty."

            Me? Timeless beauty? Strangely enough, I believed him when he said it, even though I was the antithesis of the teenage feminine ideal. Instead of being a tall, tanned, slender athlete; I was a short, freckled, voluptuous bookworm. Gentlemen might prefer blondes, but my hair was brown. I was just a plain, well-endowed, blue-eyed mouse, but then, I guess Michael was partial to mice.

            "Thanks," I said, eyeing him shyly. "You're not half bad yourself."

            He rolled his eyes, "Well that was a ‘damn' of faint praise if I ever head one!" He gave my shoulder a playful little push.

            I closed the book and placed it on the seat beside me. I was amazed by how quickly I'd become adept at disguising my feelings behind a veneer of badinage. The truth of the matter was that I thought Michael was much more than ‘not bad'. However, it would not have been appropriate for me to say it.

            Michael and I had admitted that we had feelings for each other, but that was as far as we could allow it to go. For now. By tacit agreement we both refused to acknowledge the elephant in the room. Quite honestly, his boyishly brooding good looks were the stuff of more than a few of my girlish fantasies - vague though they might have been due to my lack of any practical experience.

            Michael picked up the jar from which he had been drinking. "I'm ready for a refill, Maggie Mae. Can I get you a glass?"

            "That'd be good. Thanks."

            I remained outside as he went into the house for more iced tea. Our relationship had undergone a sea change in the few days since we'd confessed our feelings.

            All interactions now took place outside on Michael's front porch, in broad daylight, in front of God any anybody else who might be interested enough to look. It was an attempt to prove to the world and ourselves that we had nothing to hide and nothing of which to be ashamed.

            I weighed every word and deed to be sure that nothing would be misconstrued or misinterpreted, carefully tiptoeing around the subject of our forbidden love. Our relationship had become very fragile, and we were both making ever effort to treat it with the utmost care, desperate to hold on to the little that was left to us.

            Michael returned with a second Mason jar of tea. "Here you go, Magnolia," he said as he sat down and picked up the book he'd been perusing when I arrived.

            "Thank you," I said as I accepted the glass and took a long drink. Leaning over, I tried to see the title of the volume in his hand. "Whatcha readin'?"

            "Bury My Heart At Wounded Knee," he said, holding it up for my inspection. "It's about the westward expansion from the Indians' point of view."

            "Ooh. Sounds grim," I opined.

            "Very grim," he agreed, "but it makes ya think. There's a little bit of local history mentioned in here. Ever heard of Fort Richardson?"

            I shook my head.

            "It's about 70 miles thataway." He gestured toward Highway 199 in the direction of Lake Worth. It's in Jacksboro."

            "As in that's why it's called Jacksboro Highway?"

            "You got it. Satanta and Big Tree, were a couple of Kiowa chiefs. They were tried for murder there. In fact, they were the first Indians to be tried in the ‘white man's court'. Fort Richardson's a state park now. Maybe we'll ride up there some Saturday."

            The prospect of riding anywhere with Michael was appealing but we both knew that his sense of morality would prevent the two of us from ever making such an excursion on our own, particularly in view of recent developments. "I'd like that," I said, pretending to believe that the aforementioned ride would ever actually take place. I glanced down at my watch. "Oops! It's nearly 6:00. Gotta run." I said, springing up and dashing down the steps. "Even though I'd much rather stay here," I paused long enough to add, looking back over my shoulder.

            "Well, I'll be all right alone," he assured me with a smile. "Though, I'd much rather have your company."

            I took one more look back as I rounded the corner. Michael hadn't returned to his book as I'd expected. He was still watching me with a look of undisguised affection. I waved, and he returned the gesture.

            Someone should have cued up the ominous music because both our lives were about to be turned upside down. 

*** 

            Two hours later, I knocked on Michael's door. When he opened it, one look at the stricken expression on my face told him that something was dreadfully and terribly wrong. Without a word, he gathered me into his arms and gently held me. I didn't cry. I was completely numb.

            After a few moments, he led me into the living room, and for the first time, he shut the door behind us. Guiding me to the armchair, he sat me down and took his place on the hassock facing me. Still holding both my hands in his, he spoke softly, "Tell me what's wrong." That steely calm must have served him well on the battlefield.

            I stared back at him bleakly, "Everything!" I almost wailed. "My father's big announcement. He got a promotion. A promotion that means he's being transferred to San Antonio. We have to move at the end of the month." Actually saying it out loud made me feel sick all over again, the same way that I'd felt when I'd first heard my father's words. My heart had shriveled up inside me, but I'd pretended to be pleased. I couldn't pretend any longer.

            Michael bowed his head without a word and seemed to focus intently on our clasped hands. "I'm sorry, babe," he said at last.

            "I don't want to leave you," I blurted, jumping up and pacing the room in agitation.

            Michael came up behind me and put his hands on my shoulders. His closeness was anything but calming. "I don't want you to leave," he assured me, his voice a whisper in my left ear, "but maybe . . ."

            "No!" I shouted as I whirled around to face him. "Don't you dare! If you say ‘Maybe this is for the best,' I swear to God, Michael Donovan, I'll slug you!"

            "Maybe it is for the best," he said simply.

            I couldn't believe what I'd just heard. Well, I warned him. Doubling up my fist, I swung my right arm at his head in a roundhouse punch.

            Michael easily avoided the blow, catching my wrist with his left hand and holding it tightly. Frustrated and angry, I swung with my left hand, which turned out to be an even more ineffectual punch than the first. Michael caught my other wrist and held it as well.

            "So, you wanna play that game, little girl?" Pulling me forward, he wrapped both arms around me and pinned me tightly against his chest. His arms held me like a straitjacket, and struggling was useless, but I kept struggling all the same. "Just listen to me for a minute," he demanded as he tightened his hold even more, "then if you still want to knock my block off, you can have at it, and I won't even bother to duck."

            I realized what I'd done - or tried to do - and I dissolved into tears. "I'm sorry," I sobbed as I went limp in his embrace.

            "Aw, don't worry about it," he consoled me. "You're not the first woman who's ever been mad enough to take a swing at me," he said with a grin. "It may seem like it, now, but this is not the end of the world."

            "No?" I half-demanded, as the hopelessness of the situation hit me for the first time. He was a grown man who'd experienced life. I was barely more than a child. Everything I knew about life had come second-hand from books and movies. What did I have to offer him? Absolutely nothing, and that only made this harder.

            "No," he said gently. "It's only a couple of years."

            "What?" I asked, staring blankly up at him. My mind was spinning. What on earth is he talking about? Only a couple of years?

            "Just a couple of years until you're eighteen," he explained, "and then everything changes." He regarded me with a smug, self-satisfied grin.

            I shook my head to clear the fog I'd been walking around in since I'd heard my father's news. "Wait a minute. Are you saying you'd want to . . . ah . . . uh . . . that you'd wait for me?"

            "Magdalen," he said, softly, his voice like a caress. It was the first time he'd called me by my given name, and it sounded like music. "I said I love you, and I meant it. I mean it. Trust me. This is not forever," he assured me softly, enfolding me in a much gentler embrace and resting his chin on the top of my head. "It just means we're gonna get real good at writin' letters."

            He held me out at arms' length again and looked into my eyes. Brushing back a strand of my hair, he tucked it behind my ear. "Then, in a couple of years when you're 18," a strange look came over him as he added, "if you still want me, we can be together and I can stop taking cold showers."

            My puzzlement was plain on my face, "Why in the world have you been taking . . . uh . . . oh, my!" I exclaimed as I suddenly realized what he was talking about. I blushed a fiery shade of red from the roots of my hair to the tips of my toes. ‘Naïve' and ‘innocent' didn't even begin to describe me at the age of sixteen.

            Michael was enjoying my embarrassment, and his grin became even more smug and more self-satisfied - positively wicked, in fact. "What? You think I only admired you for your mind?"

            This took me a little by surprise. Michael had always treated me very respectfully, behaving like a brother toward a younger sister, very careful never to stray too close to that invisible line between us. I really hadn't known what to think, but I wasn't about to let the maddeningly superior Mr. Donovan know that. "In that case," I pointed out archly, "the age of consent in Texas is seventeen."

            The man was utterly unflappable. "My age of consent is eighteen. I dig older women. Maybe I'll even buy you a beer on your birthday." The legal drinking age in Texas was still eighteen, due mostly to the Vietnam War. The reasoning had been that if a kid was old enough to ship off to Southeast Asia to die for his country, he was old enough to buy himself a drink.

            Well, if Michael was going to acknowledge the elephant then I would, too. I was in the mood to do a little boundary testing. "Oh, I get it," I observed wryly, "once I'm old enough to vote, then I'll be old enough for you to fu . . . "

            Michael's eyes widened as he quickly clamped his hand over my mouth to stifle the offending word, "You watch your language!" He smiled as he said it, but there was no mistaking his serious undertone.

            I couldn't help laughing. Apparently he wasn't totally unflappable. "Aw, c'mon now," I teased, as I pulled his hand away. "Don't tell me you've never heard that word before."

            "Heard it and even said it on occasion," he stated flatly.

            I was feeling reckless, to say the least. As I saw it, I had very little left to loose, so I looked at him askance and asked, "How many times have you done it?"

            That got him. His mouth dropped open. "A gentleman doesn't tell," he replied quickly, then added, "And a lady wouldn't ask." He was definitely not expecting my question.

            "Hey," I protested, "you started this."

            "And I'm sorry I did," he observed as he sat down on the couch.

            I sat down beside him and laid my head against him arm. "I promise I'll behave," I said contritely, as I tried to look properly chastened, but it was difficult while also trying to conceal a smile. Michael was so sweet with his highly developed sense of propriety. Most of our exchange had been playful, though there was that unmistakable subtext of seriousness to our conversation.

            Michael truly was a gentleman in every sense of the word. He had never used coarse language to me or in front of me, and he certainly wouldn't have appreciated hearing that kind of language from me. Tonight's conversation was the first time he'd made more than a heavily veiled reference to having actual physical desires for me. No, Michael would definitely never kiss and tell.

            I found his sense of chivalry to be quite touching. Even with my lack of experience, I recognized what a rare man Michael was. I also knew that his sense of honor was sadly the exception rather than the rule, a fact that would be borne out by some of my future dealings with the opposite sex.

            He smiled at last, giving me an affectionate squeeze. All was forgiven. "Oh, Magnolia, we're quite a pair."

            The seriousness of our situation hit me all over again, "But not for much longer," I said, choking back a sob.

            "Hey, now, it's gonna be all right, sweetheart. You've gotta cheer up." He stood up. "I know just the thing."

            Moving over to the record player, he flipped through a rack of 45 rpm records. Selecting two, he put them on the turntable. "Whenever my mom was feeling sad, she liked to dance with me." He turned on the machine, and Patti Page began to sing the Tennessee Waltz. Michael extended his hand to me. May I have this dance?"

            I pulled back self-consciously. "I don't know how," I confessed. "My father is extremely Baptist, and besides, I never had anybody to dance with."

            He shook his head, "I can't believe the way they've neglected your education. Well, you're not gonna learn any younger, so come on. It's a waltz. You can count to three, can't you?"

            "Just barely," I said with a touch of sarcasm as he pulled me to my feet, and I joined him in the middle of the room. I was wearing platform sandals, so the eleven-inch difference in our respective heights was somewhat diminished, and I could look into his eyes without breaking my neck.

            He extended his left arm and grasped my right hand. Then, he put his right arm around me, resting his hand very lightly just above my waist. I placed my left hand on his right shoulder. The distance between us would have pleased the chaperone at an eighth-grade dance. "Everybody talks about Fred Astaire bein' a great dancer," he said, "but remember, Ginger Rogers did everything old Freddy did, and she did it backwards in high heels."

            I laughed, nervously. "I've never done this before."

            "I promise I'll be gentle," he teased with a rare double entendre. "It's easy," he promised, "just follow my lead. Step back, left, together," he said, directing me through the steps. "Step forward, right, together." Within a little while we were gliding around the room with only the occasional misstep. Michael was a graceful dancer, and I felt very graceful and grown-up there in his arms. He was looking down at me, smiling a wistful smile that made it easy to picture the little boy and the woman in the photograph, as they must have looked dancing together. The image brought a lump to my throat.

            The first record ended, and a new one began. I recognized the voice of Michael Nesmith in his post-Monkee incarnation with The First National Band. He was singing about someone named Rose and about one rose being left in his heart.

            Michael drew me closer and I put my head on his shoulder as Michael's silky baritone whispered in my ear, "I love you, Rosie." This time, I did begin to cry, stopping mid-step and breaking into the sobs I'd been holding back since I'd arrived on his doorstep.

            He released my hand and wrapped both his arms around me, holding me tightly while I cried, rocking me gently. "It's all right," he whispered over and over in a comforting litany until I'd cried myself out. Then, he handed me his handkerchief.

            "I'm sorry I keep doin' this, " I said, wiping my eyes.

            "Don't worry about it," he said, giving me another hug. "Sit down, I have somethin' for you."

            I sat down on the couch and watched him disappear into the bedroom. He reappeared a few moments later carrying a small round box. He sat down beside me and placed it in my hand. It was a gold box with scrimshaw inlaid on the lid. It was a picture of a man and woman dancing together engraved in ivory. Judging from their costumes, they were probably intended to represent characters from the Civil War, a Confederate Officer and a Southern Belle. "What's this?" I asked.

            "It belonged to my mother. Open it."

            I raised the lid, and the little box began to tinkle the first few bars of "The Tennessee Waltz". The waterworks promptly commenced once more.

            When I had composed myself yet again, I asked, "If this belonged to your mother, are you sure you want to give it to me?"

            He cupped his hands around mine as they held the little treasure. "Yes, I'm sure," he said softly. "I think she'd like you to have it."

            I sniffed, looking up at him with watery eyes, "Thank you," I whispered, as I slid my arms around his neck for a grateful hug."

            He smoothed my hair back. "You're welcome, darlin'." He stood up. "But, it's getting' late, m'dear," he said, helping me to my feet. "You should probably go. I don't want your father comin' after me with a shotgun. And I'm certainly not interested in an all-expense-paid trip to Huntsville for the next 20 years."

            "You don't have to worry about that," I assured him. "My dad thinks I'm at Emily's house, telling her we're movin'."

            Michael cocked his head to one side and gave me a playfully disapproving look. "Another one of your half-truths, Magnolia?"

            I looked up at him solemnly. "No, a whole lie. I told him I was goin' to Emily's house."

            Michael threw back his head and laughed. "Oh, Maggie Mae," he said, shaking his head in disbelief. "I guess we can add ‘corruptin' a minor' to my long list of crimes."

            "No, I was already corrupt."

            "Then you probably need to go home before you corrupt me." He was smiling as he said it.

            I nodded and let him lead me to the door, his arm around my shoulders. "G'night, Michael." I whispered, "I love you." Impulsively, I stood on tiptoe and gave him a parting buss on the cheek.

            I turned to go, but he caught me by the shoulders and turned me around to look at him. Then, he pressed his lips to my forehead in a kiss as chaste as a benediction.