And so, taking a cue from my father, I sought out odd calamities, and on the pretext of “covering” them for the
But for all that, only once did I very nearly achieve my aim of rescuing Kelli. A sleet storm had swept through the area, turning the mountain into a shimmering wonderland of ice, and I decided that we should get a few pictures for the next issue. And so, as soon as the mountain road had been cleared, we drove up to a granite precipice I knew about, and from which the whole valley could be seen.
It was, as I expected, a spectacular view, and I remember that Kelli stared out over the valley for a long time, as if in silent awe of so strange and magnificent a scene.
“It’s so beautiful,” she said. “It’s like everything has turned to crystal.”
“It happens once every few years or so,” I told her.
She gazed out over the valley, then took the photographs we’d come for and began to head back toward the car. I was walking beside her, up a small incline coated with several inches of ice, the precipice behind us, and beyond it, a sheer drop of at least a hundred and fifty feet.
Suddenly, more quickly than can be imagined, she vanished. I looked around to see her sliding helplessly toward the jagged edge of the cliff. A wooden guardrail had been erected years before, but in that frozen instant, it looked every bit as fragile as it was.
To my astonishment, Kelli was laughing as she slid, her voice falling away as she moved at a terrifying speed toward the railing. She hit it with a muffled thump, and I saw the wooden crossrail shudder for a moment, heard its timbers crack, but hold.
Kelli was still laughing, her back pressed up against the groaning rail, and I recognized instantly that she had retained a Yankee’s faith that such safety rails had been constructed according to state regulations and were frequently checked by state officials. As a southerner, however, I knew that that railing had been built by whoever had been available at the time, that it had been constructed according to no particular standard, and had, in all likelihood, never been checked a single time since its erection years before.
“Don’t move, Kelli,” I shouted as I started down the slope toward her.
She looked at me, puzzled. “What?”
“Don’t move,” I said urgently. “Just stay where you are. I’m coming.”
She laughed and waved her hand. “You don’t need to do that,” she said. Then in a single fluid movement she leaned forward, pressed her feet against the still-weaving rail and pushed forward, bringing herself to her feet.
I stopped, frozen in place, and watched helplessly as she walked casually up the slope, laughing softly and brushing bits of ice from the sleeves of her coat.
“That must be what skiing’s like,” she said when she reached me.
“Yeah, I guess so” was all I could say in reply.
We walked back to my car, Kelli still exhilarated by her slide down the icy bank, I utterly depressed that she had “saved” herself before I’d had a chance to rescue her.
On the way back down the mountain, Kelli talked lightly about her plunge down the icy slope, but I could think of nothing but the grave danger she’d been in. In my mind, I saw the old wooden rail shatter, her body tumble over the side of the cliff, falling through a vast distance of clear air, then through a crackling net of bare limbs, and finally to the frozen ground with a dreadful, lifeless thud. I saw her dead on the ground, her body growing cold in the frigid air, her eyes open and staring up at me from a hundred feet below, and it was all I could do not to shudder visibly. I knew that I had deliberately exposed her to that danger, and the terrible consequences that might have followed from that act stunned and terrified me. What if she had fallen? What if she had died? The thought filled me with a jarring emptiness, and I vowed that I would never do such a thing again, that if I were going to win Kelli Troy, it would have to be by some other means.
When we arrived at her house in Collier a few minutes later, Kelli opened the car door quickly. “See you tomorrow,” she said brightly as she got out, “and thanks for the adventure.” Then she turned and rushed toward home, leaving small gray footprints in the snow. As she disappeared into the house, I felt a great sense of relief sweep over me. I had brought her safely home. Even now I can remember the sincere warmth of that moment, how pleased I was to know that she was in her house, out of danger, beyond the grasp of even my own bizarre imaginings. And when I think of how I felt as I sat in my car during those few seconds before I drove away, sat quietly watching her house as if sent to guard her from some outer peril, I see myself in the final stage of my own romantic innocence, the last time I felt love as something utterly selfless, a quickening light. And I know that it was a feeling so pure and sacrificial that I felt it not as something new in life, but something very old, instinctual and unlearned, as if it had been passed down from that first creature who’d placed itself between danger and some other creature for which it had felt something powerful yet inexplicable, a feeling of indisputable depth and urgency, yet still without a name.
THE WEEKS PASSED, AND THERE WERE A FEW MORE BREAKUPS. But there was some coupling, too. Eddie Smathers took up with Wanda Flynn, whom he married six years later. Sheila Cameron went back to Loyal Rhodes, whom she later married, then divorced not long after Rosie’s death, her feelings toward him so bitter by then that she’d finally reclaimed her maiden name.
A few more boys approached Kelli during this time. Lee Douglas asked her out, but was turned down. Steve Whitfield did the same, and with the same result.
And so for a while, time remained on my side.
Then in late February, Tony Lancaster, a handsome senior who was also president of the Debating Club, asked Kelli out. And to my despair, she accepted.
“Told you,” Luke said when he found out about it.
I downplayed my panic. “Kelli and I are just friends,” I insisted, pretending that I was not holding my breath to see what would happen.
Nothing did. Not with Tony, nor with the two or three other boys Kelli went out with during that winter. And so, after a while, I began to feel somewhat secure again.
It was only in early March, when Todd Jeffries, still at odds with Mary Diehl, suddenly showed up at the table where Kelli and I usually ate together in the cafeteria that I began to worry.
He was wearing his football jacket of black and gold, the school colors, and a pair of ordinary blue jeans, but he looked splendid nonetheless, a boy who, in a larger world, might have thought of acting or modeling or any of a thousand other adventurous paths.
He had seemed to approach us shyly, and I remember seeing him glance toward us from his place at the end of the lunch line, his tray in his hand, hesitate for a moment before finally deciding to walk over to our table.
“Mind if I take a spot?” he asked politely.
I shrugged, concealing my astonishment. “Sure,” I said. “Have a seat.”
He sat down beside me and across from Kelli, but I knew that he had come to talk to her rather than to me, and at that moment, and with no evidence at all, I knew that Todd had been thinking of doing it for a long time, plotting as I had been plotting, waiting for his own right moment. I felt a twinge of fear, a premonition that she had already slipped from my grasp and would soon be cradled in Todd’s arms, the two of them marrying soon after graduation, having children, living out their lives in Turtle Grove, figures of local royalty.
“Hi, Kelli,” Todd said as he opened his milk carton and inserted a straw.
Kelli nodded.
Todd’s eyes remained fixed upon her. “There’s a new girl in school,” he said. “Mr. Avery asked me to take her around this morning.” He smiled. “He should have asked you instead of me.”
“Why?” Kelli asked.
“Because you probably know more about how it feels,” Todd replied. “To be new, I mean.” His eyes lingered on her a moment before darting down toward his tray.
“What’s the new girl’s name?” I asked, asserting my presence just for the record.
