River of Love. Aimée Medina Carr
the double doors of the small theater with the Prom in full gear. Tonight’s theme—
“A Night in King Arthur’s Court.” I’m at home here, where we spent months rehearsing and performing Murder in the Cathedral. A two-story yellow brick, block building, with a stage.
The building is in the middle of campus surrounded by thick, lush bushes and shrubs the monks planted years ago giving it an Ivy League school vibe. A swimming pool completes the dense oasis. A favorite spot, after Gonad football games, Marie Noonan’s, classes and theater rehearsal. We would steal away behind the thick bushes and sit on the stone bench; our Secret Love hideaway.
We make our entrance, I imagine that we’re the Prom King and Queen royalty. I hold my head up high knowing that I belong here just as much as the rich bitches from the sister parochial school. I’m going to dance my tush off, this is our last chance to celebrate and go out in a burst of brazen glory all starry and sublime: Per Ardua Ad Astra—Hard and High to the Stars.
Miles’ band plays, Jack and I dance non-stop for the first hour—every song. The band dives into Nights in White Satin by the Moody Blues, a poignant, slow song. My mind wanders, while cocooning in his comforting arms. I hold tight and grip hard. I know this is it. The future won’t be kind to us. Savor this moment; I’m swept up by a wave of belonging and Love. Everyone’s dancing—small clusters raging together, laughing, and bobbing up and down. The electric evening vibrates with bonhomie brotherhood. They’re with their de facto families. The years living together fosters a natural familiarity. Mac stumbles up to me. He’s crestfallen, “Cha Cha stood me up!” He stammers. He’s a disheveled, hot mess. His breath notched with liquor and pot. His bow tie unraveled, the tux shirt dangling and torn. He fell outside, and the ripped tux pants are caked with mud. His heart’s dismantled. “I’ve tried calling her apartment, many times—why’d she do this?” He slurs his words, hunches over and fights back tears. He’s a sophomore; there’ll be many more Proms. “I’m sorry Mac, she’s made a horrible mistake and has hurt an innocent person by making wrong decisions. I’ll let Cha Cha explain to you what happened.” I bear hug squeeze him tight. Jack walks up. “C’mon, it’s the Who’s “My Generation.” Dancing to his favorite song, overrides any Mac drama. “Please, go to your room and sleep,” I whisper to Mac, his shoulders slumped, chin in his chest, wavering he turns and staggers toward the door. The next day Cha Cha calls me and relates how Mac’s friends had him call her while he was quite drunk and stoned. After a few rings, she answered. “You BITCH! He slurs into the pay phone, propped up by his buddies, shouting obscenities in the background. She apologizes meekly. “I’m SO sorry, Mac!” She hears voices egging him on and heavy breathing—he drops the receiver and quickly, picks it up. “Tell her Mac, way to GO!” Then click, the phone went dead. A half-hour later still drunk, but feeling awful, he calls her back. “I apologize for that phone call Cha Cha, my friends made me do it,” he explains. “No Mac, I’m the one that is deeply sorry. You didn’t deserve what I did. I made a horrible mistake. Somehow, I’ll make it up to you,” she promises. For many years, Cha Cha received Christmas and birthday cards from Mac. It was an honor to have known him and often thought of him and how poor judgment can profoundly hurt those you care for. The first of many contributions to her “grist for the mill.” Cha Cha never makes it to the Prom.
9
Trust The River
Leave the past to God’s mercy,
the present to God’s Love, and
the future to God’s providence.
Then you will be free.
–St. Augustine
Jack and I arrange a night together at The River—one last celebration of bonding under a silver spring solstice moon. I tell my parents I’m spending the night at Cha Cha’s. Sleeping bags, camping stove, and tent are stashed in a secret location. He calls a week before the special night.
“I’ll bring drinks, cookies, and sandwiches from home,” I offer.
“Let’s stack a pile of firewood and make sure there are no surprise visitors,” he said.
The barrage of Mom’s lectures about not trusting men works as a twisted type of birth control. I set an appointment with Planned Parenthood. The nerve-racking visit introduced a woman’s most dreaded torture tool; the speculum. What we do for Love.
On a warm May evening, a bright moon showers a gossamer glow on our transformation. We meet at The River’s entrance and kiss tenderly. First Love, what a sublime marvel. We’ve shared so many first blush experiences together. Spent hundreds of hours talking, exchanging ideas learning and growing. His patience beyond exemplary, he’s proved Mom wrong on so many levels.
We’re giddy and nervous. Jack’s sky blue eyes brim with excitement, he’s squirrelly and talking fast and ready for me to lead the way. We have complete trust and the other’s best interest at heart. I want this to be the happiest day of our young lives. Our hearts bound together.
He understands my difficult, bi-cultural existence: Chicana in a white world. How I shift without missing a beat. A hybrid creature that fits in—he admires my versatility with a smile that sets the world on fire.
“Let’s put the tent up and make a fire while we have light. Oliver sent a pre-bonding gift.” He took a joint out of his shirt pocket.
“Hmmm…something to smoke, what a surprise.” I giggled.
“Super potent doobage from the Hill. Via alumni friends from Boulder, it’s called Joaquín. It’s sold in tobacco cans instead of a three-finger lid. Ollie referred to it as muy primo.”
He puts up the tent, I grab the sleeping bags, camping stove and slip in Martin’s tape in the portable cassette player. The mellow acoustic guitar melody riffles through the campsite. We built a fire together and sit opposite each other. We watch the sudden crests of flame; our excitement building equally. Un Fuego. He stokes the fire, our eyes lock in the pale, gold campfire light. We’re intoxicated by the luminous beauty and waves of euphoria that surround us.
I’m in a turquoise, peasant dress with a white, lacy shawl wrapped around my shoulders staving off the cool night air.
He begins: “The moment I saw you… I’m so grateful for it all. I’ve experienced such joy and happiness, at this Tranquil River flowing through our lives.”
I take a deep breath and squint at the sparkling surface of The River just beyond the campsite—the gentle sound of water lapping, rushing over the rocks, beating against the shore like a heartbeat.
“Our Love is an eternal embrace with beauty that ebbs and flows and nurtures us. You and The River are the most profound miracles that opened up a new world to me.”
He’s off to Tulane University. I have another year of high school. Sadness about to blanket the intimate mood, we rebound quick. “Wanna seal it with a smoke and a glass of Blue Nun?” He prompts cheerfully and pours us two glasses of wine. I force a weak smile through tear-filled eyes.
“Let’s move over to The River.” The large, full moon hangs over the glittering water and springy waves. The gurgling, slop, slop, the sound of energy rushing, flowing like my life at this moment. I inhale the soft breeze of green woodsy and apple blossoms. I glimpse upstream, and on a rock: the Great Blue Heron our avian witness, on this monumental night.
With our glasses of wine, we relax on a large, flat granite boulder close to the riverbed. Jack lights up the joint and passes it to me. “I don’t have to worry about getting too stoned and fumbling my way home.” I sigh. He takes a hit. “Don’t you pass out on me.” He said and smiles.
“Fat chance, I’m enjoying every second with you.” I drink in the way he looks at me like I’m his lucky lodestar.
A wistful song