Annie on My Mind

Chapter eleven

"And you're right," I said, following her into the dining room, "about
the bed." We ate lunch mostly in silence, and afterwards we went up to
the living room and listened to music. But Annie sat in an easy chair
all afternoon and I sat on the sofa, and we didn't mention the bed
again, or go near each other.

The next day, Friday, the day before Ms. Widmer
and Ms. Stevenson were due home, we cleaned the house and made sure
everything was the way we'd found it, and then we went for a long, sad
walk. My parents and Chad were going out for dinner that night, and for
the first time in my life I was really tempted to lie to them and say I
was spending the night at Annie's and ask Annie to tell her parents she
was spending the night at our apartment, so we could both spend it in
Cobble Hill. But I didn't even mention it to Annie--although I think I
lived every possible minute of it in my imagination--until the next
morning, when it was too late to arrange for it to happen.

"Oh, Liza," Annie said when I told her. "I wish you'd said. I thought
the same thing."

"We'd have done it, wouldn't we?" I said miserably, knowing it would
have been wrong of us, but knowing it would have been wonderful, me, to
have a whole night with Annie, in a real bedroom--to fall asleep beside
her, to wake up with her. "Yes," she said. Then: "But it wouldn't have
been right. It--we shouldn't have been doing any of this. In someone
else's house, I mean." I filled the cats' water dish--we were feeding the
cats for the next-to-last time and they were wrapping themselves around
Annie's legs, expectantly.

"I know. But we did--and I'm not going to regret it. We've put everything
back. They don't have to know anything."

But I was wrong about that. It rained on Saturday, hard. We'd planned to
go for another walk after feeding the cats, or to the movies or a
museum or something. Without talking about it, we had decided to avoid
staying in the house any more. But the rain was incredible, more like a
fall rain than a spring one--biting and heavy. "Let's stay here," Annie
said, watching the rain stream darkly past the kitchen window while the
cats ate. "Let's just listen to music. Or read. We--we can be--oh, what
should I call it? Good isn't the right word. Restrained?"

"I'm not sure I trust us," I think I said. "It's not wrong, Liza," Annie
said firmly. "It's just that it's someone else's house."

"Yeah, I know."

"My Nana should see you now," she said. "You're the gloomy one." She
tugged at my arm. "I know. I saw Le Morte al'Arthur in the dining room.
Come on. I'll read you a knightly tale." I wonder why it was that so
often when Annie and I were tense about the most adult things--wanting
desperately to make love, especially in that bedroom as if it were
ours--we turned silly, like children. We could have gone out for a walk,
rain or no. We could have sat quietly and listened to music, each in our
own part of the room, like the day before. We could even have finished
leftover homework. But no. Annie read me a chapter out of the big
black-and-gold King Arthur, dramatically, with gestures, and I read her
one, and then we started acting the tales out instead of reading them.

We used saucepans for helmets and umbrellas with erasers taped to the
ends for lances, and gloves for gauntlets, and we raced around that
house all morning, jousting and rescuing maidens and fighting dragons
like a couple of eight-year-olds. Then the era changed; we abandoned our
saucepan helmets and Annie tied her lumber jacket over her shoulders
like a Three Musketeers-type cape. With the umbrellas for foils, we
swashbuckled all over the house, up and down stairs, and ended up on the
top floor without really letting ourselves be aware of where we were. I
cried

"Yield," and pretended to pop Annie a good one with my umbrella, and she
fell down on the big bed, laughing and gasping for breath.

"I yield!" she cried, pulling me down beside her. "I yield, monsieur; I cry
you mercy!"

"Mercy be damned!" I said, laughing so hard I was able to go on ignoring
where we were. We tussled for a minute, both of us still laughing, but
then Annie's hair fell softly around her face, and I couldn't help
touching it, and we both very quickly became ourselves again. I did
think about where we were then, but only fleetingly; I told myself again
that no one would ever have to know. "You've got long hair even for a
musketeer," I think I said. Annie put her hand behind my head and kissed
me, and then we just lay there for a few minutes. Again I wasn't sure
which was my pulse, my heartbeat, and which were hers.

"There's no need for us to pretend to be other people any more, ever
again, is there, Liza?" Annie said softly. My eyes stung suddenly, and
Annie touched the bottom lids with her finger, asking, "Why tears?"

I kissed her finger. "Because I'm happy," I said. "Because your saying
that right now makes me happier than almost anything else could.
No---there's no need to pretend."

"As long as we remember that," Annie said, "I think we'll be okay."

"So do I," I said. It got dark outside early that afternoon, because of
the rain, and it was already like twilight in the house. One of us got
up and pulled the shade down most of the way, and turned on a light in
the hall. It made a wonderful faraway glow and touched Annie's smooth
soft skin with gold. After the first few minutes, I think most of the
rest of our shyness with each other vanished. And then, after a very
long time, I heard a knock, and downstairs the handle of the front door
rattled insistently.

Dear Annie,

It's late as I write this. Outside,
it's beginning to snow; I can see big flakes tumbling lazily down
outside my window. The girl across the hall says December is early for
snow in Cambridge, at least snow that amounts to anything. January and
February are the big snow months, she says. "Know the truth," Ms.
Widmer used to quote--remember we used to say it to each other?--"and the
truth will make you free." Annie, it's so hard to remember the end of
our time in Ms. Stevenson's and Ms. Widmer's house; it's hard even to
think of it. I read somewhere the other day that love is good as long as
it's honest and unselfish and hurts no one. That people's biological sex
doesn't matter when it comes to love; that there have always been gay
people; that there are even some gay animals and many bisexual ones;
that other societies have accepted and do accept gays--so maybe our
society is backward. My mind believes that, Annie, and I can accept most
of it with my heart, too, except I keep stumbling on just one
statement: as long as it hurts no one.

Annie, I think that's what made me stop writing to you last June. Will I
write to you now--will I send this letter, I mean? I've started others
and thrown them away. I don't know if I'll mail this. But I think I'll
keep it for a little while ...

14

When the door handle rattled, Annie
and I both froze and clung together. I have never been able to forget
the look on Annie's face, but it is the one thing about her that I would
like to be able to forget--the fear and horror and pain, where a moment
before had been wonder and love and peace.

"It's not either of them," I
whispered to Annie, glancing at the clock on the night table. The clock
said half past six, and Ms. Stevenson and Ms. Widmer had said they'd be
home around eight.

"Maybe if we just stay quiet," Annie whispered, still
clinging to me--I could feel her shaking, and I could feel that I was
shaking, too.

"Open this door," commanded a loud female voice. "Open it
this instant, or I'll call the police." My legs were made of stone; so
were my arms. Somehow I kissed Annie, somehow moved away from her and
reached for my clothes. She sat up, holding the sheet around her. A
kitten, I thought, looks like this when it's frightened and trying to be
brave at the same time.

"Stay here," I said. "I'm the one who's supposed
to be feeding the cats--it's okay for me to be here." I was pulling