Another Springtime Ch. 07

Chapter 7: A Most Perceptive Young Lady

Reviewing her options together, she elected to drop that 101 class and enroll late into another, and at the 201 level, eliciting from me first a promise that I would help her keep up with the readings and background. To my several arduous duties I added one more, without giving it a second thought. Such times with her were a delight beyond imagining.

"Dad?"

Addressing me so was her signal now that she needed to talk to me not as a man, nor a friend, but as her father. She had come to like the less formal title of "dad" from hearing me talk of my own children, I guess, and probably from her chats with Jenny. Anyway, she thought it informal and it eased the stress of sometimes conflicting relationships and interests.

"Yes, darling daughter?" My response, too, was a little contrived, a tone deeper with a little officious overlay to keep it playful, even if the topic were to be deadly serious.

"You never told me, Dad, about… about what a man is like when his spirit dominates his body." She was looking down at her pizza and Caesar salad on her plate after sitting down in our rooms together to our take out, fast food dinner. It was Tuesday evening after the big clash on Friday. She was out of one Lit class and into the other and finding it fascinating. Together with her drama class, she was head over heels engaged in her studies and readings and the dramatic essays to be written. We had already started a couple and she was asking all kinds of questions about phrasing and syntax and word usage and style. She was a sponge for learning and it was just fun being together. For her to come back, now, with no urging from me, to our discussion about sex and intimacy the previous Thursday told me a lot about how well I was getting across to her.

"I have met a predatory beast already," she observed dryly, looking up at me and about to take a bite of pizza. "When do I get to meet a knight in shining armor?"

Her glib playfulness could be heard in her lilt, though when I looked up she pretended to be concentrating on the pizza. I had to smile at her. She was very quick, and learning to express herself in English with a cute and refreshingly feminine manner that was very alluring – at least it sent my heart into a series of impromptu aerobatic stunts that boggled my mind.

"Well," I had to buy myself a little time here to come up with something appropriate in response, "I will review the schedule to see when the knight is to appear, and let you know."

"How will I be able to recognize him? Can I assume he will not have muddy paws and be panting after me like that lunatic in that one short story?" She was recalling a story we had enjoyed together. Our discussions, sometimes at considerable depth and detail, of the short stories we read together were such that in our casual conversation we could make reference to many incidents with just a word or two and know that the other would pick up immediately.

We pushed on and I explained some more of what I felt was perhaps useful for her, trying to keep it short.

She was quiet then for the longest time. She cleared the table and did up the few dishes quickly, and I wondered whether I had answered her question to her satisfaction. How would I ever know? Each person is so very unique in their thinking and values.

She was still drying her hands on the dish towel, her back to me at the table, "No wonder your daughter is so smart." She paused; she had spent a lot of time with Jennifer by now, and they had become good friends. "With a Dad like you to stimulate her brain, no wonder that she has found learning and ideas about all kinds of things…" she turned now to me, confident and bubbly, "fun. You make it that way for me."

Her smile was like the morning's sunrise itself, and she leaned over and kissed my forehead as were she but ten years old. "Thanks, Dad," and she moved away into the other room, leaving my head and heart in a swirl.

"Can we read that next Langston Hughes short story together now? We've still got forty minutes before study time. OK?"

"Sure. Either that or we start Poe's ‘Gold Bug.'" ‘The Gold Bug' is certainly one of Edgar Allen Poe's masterworks, I thought, and one of my favorites, and I had seen it listed in the contents of her lit book.

"Oh, yes, let's do that one first! I'll get my book."

]

The entire matter of sex and intimacy and love and standards was not, however, put away on the shelf. Not by a long shot.

He appeared the very next week. From among the young men in her Lit 201 class one soon stood out and caught her eye and she caught his. Lit was scheduled right before her Drama class, so time after was limited and this fellow said he worked afternoons and evenings. By Thursday they chatted briefly before departing and I watched from a distance. No Viking, this young man was a runner, wiry and slender, broad shoulders and well built in a runner kind of way. Not massive, but tight and bundled for speed.

Friday evening she wanted to talk some more about knights and the various kinds of shining armor that knights wore, as she phrased it. She told me that Nick was a local boy, on the track team, but worked two part time jobs to save for his transfer in the fall semester to the University of Washington in Seattle. He had enough credits to begin his junior year in his undergrad work. He was a History and Political Science dual major, and a little older than the others with a four year hitch in the Navy behind him. She was impressed with how courteous he was with her, and he could make her laugh at, she said, his silly jokes.

It was obvious just watching her that she was very pleased at his attention. Her eyes were alight and she was animated and excited, and had to tell me every little detail. Well, many, anyway. There were doubtless some of which she made no mention.

Then it came out. He had asked her to dinner Sunday evening. She had asked him about his plans, she told me, just like we had discussed before, and he had said he would make reservations at the hotel's dining room where we had ourselves dined just the previous week. He had told her that it was the best place in town for a good steak dinner and a nice place to just chat and get acquainted. Afterwards he would bring her home again, he had said, because he had to go to work on the night shift at 10 PM. She had said "yes," she told me with excitement, and I could feel her waiting for me to respond, as if she needed my approval.

"That's marvelous, Christine. He sounds like a pleasant fellow, and he's right about two things, I can tell you that right now. The hotel's dining room is a good place to eat." I suddenly decided the second thing would be better left unsaid, and left it at that.

She was not fooled for a minute.

"What's the second thing?"

It was a calm enough question, but I made no response. I should have known better.

"Dace? What second thing?" Now her tone told me she knew she was on to something and would dig it out of me for sure. It was not that she was aggressive, just persistent when she felt she had to connect the dots and make sense of things.

"He obviously has a sailor's eye for a pretty girl." I tried to keep that from sounding other than complimentary. Christine looked at me intently, and even as she blushed prettily at the acknowledgement of her beauty, the look in her eyes told me the wheels were turning in her head.

I guess I just wanted to close the subject and go elsewhere. There was a silence suddenly in the room, one of those silent periods that seems like lifetimes but is in fact probably thirty seconds on the outside.

She broke the silence when she stepped up to me sitting at the table and took my chin in her one hand, turning my face up to hers. She looked directly into my eyes, a somewhat forward and daring act for her, but she was blossoming and gaining confidence as the days passed and I was pleased to see it.

"You're jealous!" She declared with astonishment.

I was too shocked at myself to do anything but sit there dumbly.

She couldn't find anything to say either, and finally I pulled her down in the chair beside mine.

"Yes," I finally admitted weakly, "I guess I am jealous. You are the most delightful young lady, Christine, and I have enjoyed immensely our time together. I hope I have never embarrassed you nor made you afraid of me in any way. I can hardly be blamed for wanting to not have to share you with any other man. Were I a little younger I would fight them all off with a stick and carry you away to my castle on the hilltop… and I would be sure to be wearing my very best suit of shining armor, too.

"I am mostly concerned that you are safe and happy."

I don't remember ever feeling so awkward and tangled up as at that moment. Fortunately I knew better than to spout off a lot of emotional stuff that I couldn't back up and wouldn't be appropriate for the time anyway.

After a pause she stood up slowly and remained a moment by my side. "You've never embarrassed me, and from the very first day I have felt safe in your care. You're a remarkable man, Dace Shepherd." Standing next to me, she seemed as were she the Statue of Liberty or Venus de Milo, majestic, imposing, striking in her person, engagingly beautiful to me; and suddenly in her increasing maturity as distant as those maidens of stone.

She laid a hand gently on my shoulder.

"Gute Nacht."

For her to slip back into German was unusual. Maybe she did feel secure with me and that allowed her to… what? I don't know.

I put my hand on top of hers lightly and squeezed. As if her touch opened a valve somewhere, it flowed out in rather roughened Bavarian dialect, "Gut' Nacht, Mädle. Tuest ‘mal g'schwind ei'schlaofa!"

With that she stepped away into her room, turned and smiled sweetly, and closed the door.

That door had been closed only very few times in the months we had been together, and suddenly she seemed farther away from me than ever, and utterly beyond my reach. By her mere presence in my world she had lit candles that lightened much of the darkness… and now shadows seemed to be everywhere advancing. All manner of rationale and reasoning changed nothing.

I felt devastatingly alone… again.

]

The remaining weeks of the summer session were quickly passing. I can quicken the story here with a synopsis. Two trends were taking very firm root in her life which were transpiring right under my nose, and I have to admit I could not at the time see them at all clearly.

That Sunday evening's dinner date with Nick seemed to have been very successful. She was delighted and was exuberant and chatty. I tried not to allow the green monster to raise his head again and I believe, all in all, I managed that. Still, as the days past, her door was closed more often and there were other evenings out with Nick, and, though I tried to be patient and understanding, our uninhibited discussions seemed to wane a little and she was most often pre-occupied elsewhere.

What clouded my perception was that she was at the same time developing and polishing her dramatic presentation for her drama class final exam. She had asked if I would allow her to use one of my CDs from the collection in the car. No problem. Would I come and assist her in her final? Of course.

Nevertheless, my feelings became more and more despondent as the days past. The distance between us seemed to be growing as I felt her pull away. We had come to be so very close that even a little widening of the distance seemed to border on tragedy. I felt she needed some space to be herself and expand her horizons as she chose, and that I could not restrict her unduly. She was not a prisoner, by any means.

I spent a lot of time talking to myself to retain something akin to a rational outlook.

Three days before her scheduled final in her afternoon lab session on Friday I crossed paths in the library with the class instructor, a pleasant and vivacious woman in her thirties, who evidently remembered me from our conversation after the evening performance weeks before. Quite impromptu, I thought, she asked if I had a minute and could we talk. I said yes, that Christine was in her Lit. class lecture across the hall at the moment and could I be of help somehow. Nearby was a vacant glass-enclosed cubicle for study groups with a door, and we stepped inside so we could talk undisturbed.

She was not an aggressive personality, but came right to the point. "Mr. Shepherd, you likely are aware that Christine is a most sensitive and delicate girl…." She seemed to pause for me to take in her declaration as if I might not have noticed myself.

"Yes, my own observations support that conclusion." It was not yet evident to me what additional conclusion she would be drawing for my benefit, and I waited for her to "lay her cards on the table," so to speak.

"What I mean to say is…" now she seemed at a loss for words, "she is so very innocent of the world, and trusting… her essays are beautiful and poignant and full of hope and joy, but she is a babe in the woods." She paused, I think to see what impact this might have on me. "Do you understand what I am trying to say, Mister Shepherd"

Maybe I did, though she was leaving a lot of leeway open for interpretation. "I think I can probably guess, Ms. Trenton, but by all means feel free to speak your mind plainly. I'm all ears."

She seemed openly amazed that I would invite her more pointed comments, but hesitated only a moment. "That sweet girl deserves very the best that life can give her!"

Had she been a judge on a federal bench her words could not have been more firmly explicit in tone and timbre.

"I don't know what your intentions are, sir, but if you hurt her in any way you ought to be shot at sunrise!"

She had admitted not knowing, but had made some assumptions just the same, even rendered a judgment, and in mentioning summary execution for such crimes I concluded readily that the judge – it was hardly a veiled opinion – was letting it be known she didn't much care for what she thought she was seeing.

I could understand her position. "Thank you for your candor, Ms. Trenton." It was an honest appreciation and from that I estimated that I knew now almost exactly where she stood.

I figured also that the situation warranted, in the face of a professional who taught and practiced drama, a little something dramatic of my own. I opened a side pocket on my briefcase and extracted a calling card and handed it to her:

R. K. "Dace" Shepherd

Lieutenant Commander, U. S. Navy

Office of Naval Intelligence

The look on her face was as had she seen a ghost, though at the moment I did not recognize that.

"Such cards are," I started off casually, "easily printed by most anyone, so you may with rights be somewhat skeptical. It may help you for me to let you know that she is in some considerable danger for her life and safety, and..." my voice was even and calm and looking into her eyes it was easy to see that she was not a gullible woman, "since I am one who holds beliefs and values similar to your own, it is my assignment... and, I might add, high privilege... to protect her." I opened my briefcase sufficiently for her to see the service-issue Colt automatic.

"You are also a discreet woman, your entire demeanor confirms that, so you will readily understand that it is imprudent for me to say anything more."

I closed my briefcase.

Her expression was blank, but collected and steady. I knew essentially nothing of her background, but I let myself suppose that few here in a little college town in the west ever felt the heavy hand of the federal government and the wider world in quite such a way.

"You are a marvelous teacher, Ms. Trenton. I commend you once again for your dedication and skill. Christine is thrilled with your classes and demonstrations and we talk together for hours about what she is learning.

"I will not fail her either," I added, trying to sound as firmly declarative as she had.

She stood as still as a stone monument, then lifted her eyes to me and responded in a much more contrite manner. "I have mistaken you. Please forgive me, Commander, for being so blunt."

"Forgiven. No harm done; and forgotten."

She appeared to want to say something else and I waited for her.

Her voice turned suddenly light and fragile and trusting, "My husband was a captain in the Marines...." She pursed her lips tightly, and I noticed she gripped the edge of the table to steady herself.

"Was...?" I ventured, when she seemed not to be able to complete her thought.

"He died in a helicopter accident... three years ago." Her eyes were soft and feminine now, glistening a bit. Ouch! I could not let myself go there. Loosing Lynn and the boys was still much too fresh an experience for me and I could feel my compassion swelling up suddenly from within.

"I loved him very much, and miss him... still… like it was just yesterday."

She began fumbling with her hands and her books, unnerved a little by her own emotions surfacing so readily.

"My condolences. I'm sorry, and wish you well in all you undertake." I needed to say something gentlemanly. Maybe that did the job, but my own feelings were right on the edge.

With her purse and notebook and text in her arms and some effort, her composure was reasserting itself and she turned to the door to leave, and then hesitated and turned back to me.

"You may be interested to know, Commander," and I could feel again the character of this young lady as she spoke to me now in a kinder and more confidential and sincere tone, "though she hasn't a clue how to tell you..." she paused and looked up at me with a gentle and refreshingly candid smile, and then concluded, "she loves you, her gallant knight in shining armor...she loves you, with all her heart and all her soul."

The lady opened the door and went her way, leaving me standing there alone, anchored in place, dumbstruck at what she had told me. I had thought Christine's manner very pleasant with me, pleasing and confident... but love? That came as a surprise… yes, a complete surprise, but a very delightful surprise. I had not let myself see it, and dared not hope!

It was a refreshing and bright new sunrise in my heart.

I knew I loved her too.

Almost immediately on the heels of my talk with Ms. Trenton came Christine's final test for her drama seminar. A tight schedule meant that in between there was little time for but school work and projects. She was, well each student was, to present a three-to-four minute original creation for critique by the class and the instructor. Each student was to look for techniques and themes they had studied and write about the strengths they observed in each fellow student's performance. There were eight of them and each student had the stage with a lighting and sound technician available to assist as they directed. Visitors were welcome, but it was agreed that there would be no applause and no sounds from the audience until the very last.

Christine had asked me to be a prop on her set and in advance coached me on the posture I was to assume and maintain for her presentation, but she told me nothing of her design other than that. I was in the dark, but not worried. It was easy enough to do what she asked and evidently I didn't need more to complete my part. Clearly she wanted it to be a surprise and I tried not to disturb her concentration in preparation. She had her portable CD player with earphones and had worked on her project in her room for several evenings prior to the test. It occupied her and I had time to catch up on my own work and study projects, e-mail, and rethinking our basic security plan and associated arrangements.

We left for the college at noon with time for a sandwich and soda on the way in the snack bar. Two of her girl friends from her class were there as well and the three of them were soon all involved in their conversation and full of anticipation. To keep things balanced they were not to tell each other about their project so critiques could be as equal across the board as practical. The conversation moved to other things. No one else had a boyfriend in my age bracket so the other two wanted to know about me and all that. Short answers, humble and self-effacing, seemed to impress, and Christine smiled to herself.