The Myth of Perpetual Summer Read online

  “How can you say that? I want to know everything about you.”

  If that’s true, why did you disappear for five months and not write more than thirteen words to me?

  “It’s 4:00 a.m. I’m too tired to tell you everything,” I say in a teasing tone that I hope will lighten things up.

  He leans in and kisses me gently. “I’m a patient guy.”

  * * *

  My new mantra: I am not Margo. I am not my father. I will not be that weak. Although the hours fly when Cody and I are together, I haven’t handed him the key that unlocks my ability to draw breath.

  On a Saturday in mid-October, Cody picks me up directly from work. I change clothes in the back of the bus as he drives to beat the sun to the water.

  Now we’re sitting shoulder to shoulder on the beach north of the Santa Monica Pier. We’ve walked to where the wide sand narrows and it’s more private.

  Each beach I’ve been to has its own personality. Malibu is an outlier, staid and quiet. Huntington Beach is surf and music centered, low-key and plain-Jane with its oil derricks and quaint City of Huntington Beach Pav-a-lon. Just over two miles south of where we now sit in near seclusion is the noisy, lively Pacific Ocean Park, where for $1.91 (their claim to fame) Cody and I spent a whole Saturday enjoying the rides. No one seems to mind that the park is an unlikely mix of nautical and space-aged themes; its Diving Bells, Sea Serpent roller coaster scrambled in with Space Wheels and Trip to Mars. But I found the incongruity of it unsettling.

  Before we left the amusement park, he put a dime in that creepy robotic gypsy fortune-teller and had me pull the lever: Your past will collide with your future; a new nightmare begets a new dawn. He laughed. “Lame. Whose past doesn’t collide with their future every damn day?” But something in those words sent a shiver down my spine. Maybe because I’m working so hard to keep my past back where it belongs.

  I wiggle my bare feet deep into the sand just off the edge of our blanket, enjoying the solid feel of his side pressed against mine as we drink half-warm beers. Maybe that’s one of the things I like about Cody, no incongruities. He says what he thinks, voices his passions, and there is no tangled rope of opposing emotions. His feelings are well defined and stay in their proper lanes.

  “So now are you going to tell me what’s in the bag?” he asks.

  I pick up the brown grocery sack and unroll the top. “Drumroll, please.”

  He obliges by drumming his hands on his thighs.

  Reaching in the bag, I pull out an I. Magnin box filled with peanut butter fudge with chopped peanuts on the bottom and chocolate chips on the top.

  His face lights up when I pull off the lid and lift the wax paper. He reaches right in. “Where did you find it?” He pops a piece in his mouth. “I thought my mom was the only one who made it like this.”

  “I hope it’s close. I found a peanut butter fudge recipe, but had to guess at the rest.”

  “You made it?”

  “I did.” I can’t help smiling my pride. “The kitchen at the Studio Club doesn’t have a candy thermometer, so I had to use the drop of syrup in cold water method. Is it the right consistency?”

  “Perfect!” He gives me a peanut butter flavored kiss. “Thank you.”

  “I wanted to do something special. It’s been a month.” As I say it, I feel silly and girlish. Adults probably don’t celebrate something as commonplace as dating for a month. But every day since he returned, I wake with happiness in my heart.

  “It has. But I count longer, from the day we met.” He kisses me again, then leans his forehead against mine. “The Frisbee was no accident, you know. Somehow I knew you were special, different. And your heart is even bigger, you’re even stronger than I could have imagined.” I lay my head on his shoulder and his arm comes around me. “Still, I hope you don’t expect me to share this fudge.”

  I chuckle as the flaming orange sun inches closer to the water. The upper parts of the few fluffy clouds go a deep, vibrant blue as their rippled undersides show various shades of electrified purple and pink. I haven’t felt this calm and at peace . . . well, ever. I’m in the perfect place, not longing for time to push forward or lingering over things past. I’m not even dithering over whether Cody is making me feel this way, or if it’s the infinity of the ocean and the reliability of the arc of the sun.

  Cody calls sunset nirvana for surfers, a mystical time when the link between soul, sea, and sky is strongest. If what I feel now is anything like that, it’s no wonder they paddle out there regardless of frigid water or failing light.

  I open my mouth to tell Cody that I understand. Then snap it closed. If I tell him what this moment is making me feel, the release of the tightly wound barbed wire that has been within me my whole life, I’ll have to explain why it’s there in the first place. He thinks I’m fearless. Strong. Perfect.

  I’m so lost in my own thoughts, his voice startles me slightly when he says, “As long as I live, sunset will remind me of you.”

  A beautiful sentiment, but a flutter of panic disrupts my perfect peace. I stay silent and keep my eyes trained on the colorful western sky, but I can feel his gaze still on me.

  Touching my chin, he turns my face toward him. His eyes look even greener, his dark lashes in sharper contrast, in the declining golden light. That sensation of falling hits me hard. I can’t retreat. My only defense is to close my eyes.

  His hand slips behind my neck, and his thumb caresses my cheek. “Look at me, Tallulah.”

  Instead, I lean forward and kiss him. Then I try to settle back, put some space between us, but he holds my face close to his. I fight the urge to close my eyes against the intensity of his gaze once again.

  “Sunset is supposed to be the dying of the day,” he says in a near whisper. “Since I met you, it’s where the day begins.” His kiss is restrained, a question of its own. “I need you. More than I’ve ever needed anyone.” He’s waiting. Waiting for me to speak. Finally, he says, “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

  Your intensity makes me want to break away and run. And yet, I want to climb inside your skin and become one person. I’m terrified of myself.

  I cannot fall into the vortex of my own emotions. “We’re missing the sunset.” I manage to wriggle down and resettle my head on his shoulder.

  He places an arm around me, and I hear his sigh of disappointment. But I can’t speak the words he wants to hear. Not now that I know that with a few simple words he can wreak havoc on my hard-won inner peace.

  The bottom of the sun hits the water and I hold my breath, waiting for this fear to pass, my nirvana to return.

  One by one, the surfers disappear until Cody and I are totally alone under a dark moonless sky, listening to the hypnotic roll of the surf.

  Finally he says, “Tell me something you’ve never told anyone else.”

  So many things flash in my mind: My parents loved so wildly, they destroyed each other. My father was a tormented man. My brother betrayed my trust. My mother is a self-centered hypocrite. My grandmother has secrets so dark she’d rather lose me than reveal them. I’m afraid if I love you, you’ll destroy me. Instead, I stay safe and say, “I used to think that if I held my breath, bad things wouldn’t be able to touch me.”

  “Did it work?”

  “Probably about the same percentage of the time that doing nothing did.”

  “Huh. Imagine that. So, what were these bad things?” He ducks his head close to my ear. “Monsters under the bed? Boogeymen in the closet?”

  “Nothing quite so imaginary.” My voice is flat and cold, far from the flippant air I aimed for.

  “I don’t like the sound of that.” He twists so he can look at me. “Tell me.”

  “Spiders. Tornadoes. Math tests.”

  “Tallulah.” He pushes my hair away from my face, and I can see his frustration-laced disappointment. “That list could belong to anyone. Talk to me. Share with me.”

  It won’t change anything except how you look at me.
r />   “I want to know the little girl who grew into this woman. Don’t hide her from me.”

  He told me part of what he dislikes about performing is the way girls grasp at the idea of what he is, having no interest in who he is. He says he liked the way I didn’t fall for an idea, that I held myself back waiting to know him.

  He gives of himself so freely—his trust, his soul, his love. I know the name of the teddy bear that lost an arm when Cody was five; of his best friend in grade school; of the first girl he kissed (in fourth grade, little Casanova). He told me about his terrible fights with his father and the handful of words he regrets saying but will never apologize for. I know his baby sister nearly drowned and his mother has never forgiven herself—mostly because his father won’t let her. I know he thinks his parents should have gotten divorced, but stubbornly remain mired in their misery because they think it’s better than giving up. I know he values beauty over money, principle over success, truth over everything.

  And I have stingily meted out only the things I want him to see. He wants more—deserves more. Yet fear keeps my words locked inside.

  I lace my fingers behind his neck. “My time with you is special. I don’t want to waste it talking about my boring childhood.”

  “I want to know every tiny, boring detail of your life. I’m in love with you, Tallulah.”

  Tell him. Tell him now how you feel.

  But I can’t. Instead, I show him with a kiss full of love and need.

  We lie back on the blanket, his hands gentle yet echoing the hunger in my kiss as they slide under my top and pull it over my head. As his kisses trail down my neck, across my collarbone, I realize this is the moment I’ve been waiting for since I fled from his first kiss, the moment that will bind us together forever in my memory. There is a fire in this need, burning so hot and bright it cannot last. But we have this moment. Now.

  All I can think about is getting closer to him. I unbutton his shirt and run my hands over his skin. He’s trembling. I’m breathless. I slide my hand between us, caressing him through his shorts.

  “My God,” he breathes, his forehead against mine. “You’d better stop that.”

  He’s said it before and I have. But this is the place. This is the time. “No.”

  That one small word leads to soaring joy.

  We stay on the beach, cocooned in our blanket, chilled but warm in each other’s arms, until the sky begins to lose its inky darkness.

  27

  Colors are brighter. Smells stronger. The lyrics to love songs at last reveal their hidden meanings. Every brush against my skin sets off erotic thoughts of Cody under that endless velvety sky. Not even the dullness of the hosiery department or Loretta’s cattiness can bring me down.

  Tonight Cody’s playing at Pandora’s Box, an outlandishly painted building right in the mix of the strip where music people come to scout out talent (and it’s not an over-twenty-one venue). I’ve never seen him onstage, and the prospect makes me a little nervous—for him or for me, I’m not sure. As I wait in the long line out front, everyone is talking about the headline band, but occasionally I catch Cody’s name floating around. It’s all I can do not to claim him as mine.

  The decor inside is bare bones. I find a beat-up bentwood bistro chair near the front.

  By the time Cody steps up to the microphone, the house is packed, which fills me with personal pride, as if I have anything to do with his talent. Girls exclusively fill the first few rows. They’re not Beatles kind of crazy, but they’re vocal enough that I know they’re swooning over Cody before he even opens his mouth. I think about what he said, how none of these girls mean anything to him.

  As he begins to sing, instead of the crowd ramping up to the level of insanity that keeps anyone from hearing the Beatles when they perform, the room falls quiet. What I see on the stage is a doppelgänger, he looks exactly like Cody, but there’s something ethereal about him as he loses himself in his music. The emotions he paints are so real, so compelling. And his voice—rich and rangy, plaintive, deliciously restrained, then powerful. I lean forward, straining to grasp every nuance. And I’m not alone.

  When he begins the last number in his set, he locks eyes with me and sings the song I heard bits of on the piano the night he returned. A song so hauntingly beautiful and heartbreaking, not only am I crying, so is every girl in the building . . . even a few guys are wiping their eyes.

  As he bows his head with the last note, the silence hangs in the air for so long I begin to panic. Did I misread the crowd?

  And then, the whole place erupts. Cheers. Applause. Whistles.

  I cannot believe he’s in love with me. I feel unworthy.

  Girls rush the stage. The manager can’t get things back under control so the headlining band can get set up. Finally, he resorts to squawking the mic long enough to get the attention of even the deaf. Cody finally extricates himself and pushes through the crowd, straight to me. He’s holding his guitar by the neck with one hand, his other arm wraps me tight. His voice is hot in my ear. “Did you like it?”

  I pull back and look at him. “I. Am. In. Awe.”

  His smile carries as much potency as his performance. Good thing he’s holding me, because my knees go a little weak.

  “Is it always like this . . . the crowd reaction, I mean?” I ask.

  He shrugs. “Sometimes. Other times I’m playing to a room with four people in it, two of them asleep, the other two playing a game of chess.”

  “I can’t imagine how anyone can pay attention to anything but you when you’re on that stage.”

  “Believe me, it happens. But I’m happy you liked it. I was worried.”

  “Oh my God! You have to be kidding.”

  His eyes grow serious. “You’re the only thing that matters more to me than this music.” Before I can deflect his intensity with a glib comment, his lips are on mine, and I forget we’re in a room full of people.

  But Cody soon remembers and hurries us outside.

  We barely get the VW door closed behind us before we’re naked in his bed in the bus. Our first lovemaking is all fire and desperation. The second is something so tender I feel uneasily defenseless afterward and turn away. He pulls my back to his chest. “God, I love you.”

  I wriggle free and start gathering my scattered clothes. “We’d better get dressed before the police come knocking on the steamed-up windows.”

  He grabs my hand. “Come to Berkeley with me.”

  “Berkeley?” I slip my dress over my head, shielding my vulnerability. “For a show?”

  “There are plenty of music opportunities up there, sure. But there are also a lot of important things happening. Last week they arrested a guy for handing out fliers for CORE. The college administration has no right to control what their students say. Anyway, the students blocked the police car he was loaded into for two days. The car became a podium for free speech and civil rights. The police finally let the guy go. People are making a difference there.”

  The very idea of a crowd pressed around a police car in protest makes my entire body revolt. Too much anger. Too many bodies. Too much uncertainty.

  I think of Griff’s sullen form behind Mr. Rykerson’s shattered windshield.

  “Was there violence?” Back in July, there were riots in Harlem. Six days of yelling and rocks and bottles and nightsticks and fires. So much hatred. Just seeing it on the news ignited the same dark, oily sickness in my belly that living in our house on Pearl River Plantation sometimes did.

  “No,” he says. “That’s what’s so great about it. If enough people band together and show their will, speak their piece, violence isn’t necessary.”

  I’ve seen plenty of violence wrought with just two people who refused to budge. I think Cody is being naive, but I don’t say so.

  On the other hand, if simply standing for free speech and civil rights can do some good, shouldn’t I get involved? I think of Maisie and how she could have a different life, one with more choices.
r />   “When will we come back?” I ask.

  “Does it matter? Maybe never.”

  Can I just run off with Cody because I feel like it?

  “I don’t have much money saved up,” I say. “I need to work.”

  “Don’t they say two can live as cheaply as one? I’ll be able to keep us fed and gas in the bus. What more do we need?”

  Just pick up and go? This is so far from anything I’ve ever considered. But isn’t this what I came out here for? To be free? To live how I choose?

  “Come on, Tallulah.” He cups my cheek. “We’re good together.”

  “Maybe we’re good together because we’re still new.” Daddy and Margo could go a long time with things being good—until they weren’t. “And what happens if I give up my job and my room and a week down the road you change your mind and want to be rid of me?”

  He takes my face in his hands and kisses me. “I’ll never want to be rid of you. Come with me.”

  Then it hits me. He’s going. With or without me, he’s going. The idea of another long separation makes me light-headed.

  He says, “You didn’t have a job or a place to stay when you came to LA, did you? It’s the same—except you won’t be alone. You’ll have me.”

  “What if I say no?”

  The hurt in his eyes is clear and immediate. “Don’t ask me not to do this, Tallulah. I want to be involved. Don’t you?”

  “I’m not asking you not to. I’m asking what happens to us if I don’t go with you?” As I say it, I realize the only thing holding me here is a meaningless job.

  I need to be with him, near him, beside him as he makes his music and fights for what’s right. I want it so much, I can’t trust myself.

  He scrubs his hand over his face. “I don’t know. I want you with me. If you stay here, I don’t know how long I’ll be gone.”