Tonica Days #3–NightMoves

September 1968…

Even now, nearly forty years later, I remember it. The flash from the lightning bolt reflected from her eyes and burned itself onto my retina as she lay in my arms. The cooler wind from the gust front swept across the orchard where we had parked–soon we would have to scramble for the shelter of the car.

By the time the first big drops struck the leaves above us, we had gathered as many of our clothes as we could find, tossed them into the front seat and had snuggled in the back under the blanket, picking the remaining blades of grass that had come in with it. The wind howled noticeably and the lightning forked, again and again, hitting trees so close that the strikes weren’t followed by thunder, but instead accompanied by the crack of superheated air.

We giggled in pretended terror at the closest ones, holding each other more tightly each time. In the strobe light, we noticed each other’s face and I enjoyed, once again, the wonder of a girl who kissed back with feeling.

Eventually, the storm passed–heading off toward Chicago, where it would dampen the fun of other teenagers until it ended somewhere over Ontario. We opened the doors, inhaling deeply of the ozone-laden air as we rearranged our clothing by the overhead light until we were sure that we passed muster. I clumsily tried to refasten her bra, but the nuances of female undergarments were still far beyond the expertise of my fingers.

The rain had been severe enough–an inch or so in an hour–that I had to rock my father’s Buick for several minutes before we were able to get to the lane leading back to the township road. A couple hours had passed, but the dance at the high school wouldn’t yet be over.

I parked at the edge of the lot, we leaned together for a last kiss, then she walked toward Tonica High, where the old gymnasium had been decorated for the back-to-school dance. I would follow ten minutes later, making sure that no one saw me and could make the connection between the two of us.

You see, at sixteen, nothing matters as much as being included. We were both outsiders, ridiculed and unaccepted for reasons that our tormentors seldom bothered to explain.

She was not a pretty girl, but instead interesting in ways that would not bear fruit until college. Her hair was raven black, her shape too wide across the hips and too small across the bust. Her mother had been unwed and way too young at the time of her birth. She tended towards the white blouses and knee socks below plaid skirts that the girls at the Catholic school wore.

I was lost in thought most of the time. It was nearly impossible for me to overcome my shyness long enough to speak to a girl. We didn’t have a shower at the house, so it was difficult to remove the detrius of farm life from my body. My mother bought me clothing from the Sears catalog that she felt were the latest thing, but that were guaranteed to result in at least one occasion per week when I would be cornered and slapped repeatedly by the tough boys.

When I entered the dance, I looked for her across the floor. She was talking to the few girls that would speak to her–each of them too fat or too skinny to be included in the cliques of girls dancing with each other on the floor with one eye out for the basketball stars. The other girls noted my interest and turned up their lips in disgust.

My neighbor friends, Joe and Billy, were leaning against one of the poles that held the balcony up. They had secreted their packs of Marlboro Reds in the pockets of their jeans lest the banker or the grocer who had agreed to chaperone the dance find them and confiscate them–the height of irony, since the grocer himself had probably sold them the cigarettes over the noon hour.

We watched the movements of the cool girls dancing on the floor. Billy was good-looking enough that he would probably get a chance to spin with LouAnn out on the floor once or twice before the evening finished. The two of them noticed the small foursome of outcast girls off to the side and made the kind of cutting remarks that only uncaring males could make, just loud enough for them to be heard. I cringed, but said nothing, knowing that even the slightest hint of defense would result in both of them ostracizing me for at least a month. I couldn’t afford that, since the two of them were as close to a defense as I could find against abuse from the tougher crowd.

I stood and joked, aching to speak, to hold, to touch the girl across the room once more. I was sure that she felt the same about me, but if I dared to approach her group, she’d lose the few friends that she had. It wasn’t worth taking the chance for either of us.

As the last few songs played on the hi-fi, we wandered off to the parking lot. She waited in the darkness after her friends drove off, I waited in my car for that moment. She opened the door and slid in beside me, her hands flew around my neck and she covered my face with kisses. After a few minutes, we resigned ourselves to our curfews. My father, in particular, was adamant about the car being back at the house before midnight and our assignations were dependent on having a vehicle to get us away from the lights of town.

“So,” I said, “you have any idea about the Homecoming Dance?”

“Sure, ” she replied, “the insurance agent is going to be chaperoning and he’s got three little kids. He should be gone for hours. I’ll let you know when he and his wife have left and the kids are in bed and you can slip in with no one the wiser.”

“Sounds good. I really can’t wait. Do you think we’ve got time for one more…”

She put a finger to my lips and smiled in the light of the streetlamps that we were passing. “You know better than that. Mom waits up and so does your dad. I’ll see you at school and even if we can’t talk, we can look at each other and smile, right?”

She stepped out of the car and into the gravel driveway of her house. The lights reflected from the puddles in front of her as I watched her go inside. I put the Buick into gear and headed off into the country….

I think back now, lyrics of a half-dozen classic rock songs running through my head–Night Moves, Paradise by the Dashboard Light, Brown-Eyed Girl and so many others. I was troubled for years thinking that I had done her wrong by not being willing to acknowledge her in public, in front of our tormenters despite the cost.

A few years ago, I got an email from her. She, like myself, was a grandparent. She had married several times, lived all over the country and sometimes, when she saw the lightning in the distance, thought about how we felt together and regretted that we didn’t know more about life when we had each other. My conscience was put to rest at last.

So here’s to you, my brown-eyed girl–there is nothing quite as sweet as the wickedness of the completely innocent. I will never forget you, even if I live to be a hundred.

“I awoke last night to the sound of thunder
How far off I sat and wondered
Started humming a song from 1962
Aint it funny how the night moves
When you just dont seem to have as much to lose
Strange how the night moves
With autumn closing in…”

Tom