That First Time

A week went by. Bob's settlement hearing with Yvonne was coming up in another two. As the day pulled closer he grew more and more impatient, more restless.

He ran his own business, a house-painting company. As he worked that week, balanced carefully on his ladder, he found himself thinking more and more about Annie Cole. He'd been so shocked to hear the news that he'd asked Vicky almost nothing about her. In his head she was still the tiny slip of a girl he'd known for a week in high school; he couldn't picture her as a grown woman, let alone someone pale, bald, suffering. Dying, and then dead.

Then, Bob remembered: he might still have a picture of Annie, packed away in storage. She'd sent one to him, after, and he didn't think he'd ever had the heart to throw it out. When he came home from work that night he unlocked his basement storage cage and dug out the box labelled HIGH SCHOOL. He lugged it upstairs and emptied it on the living-room floor. He set aside his diploma, and a bunch of old report cards, all relentlessly unexceptional. For the first time in years he looked at his senior prom picture, with Yvonne. In her gown she looked fabulous, proud; he looked confused, maybe even a little scared. But then he'd been stoned that night.

Scattered on the bottom of the box were several loose photos. Sure enough Annie's was one of them: a wallet-sized picture, well tattered. In it she leaned against a tree, wearing a baby-blue sweater and a tan skirt. She was smiling shyly, and wasn't wearing her glasses. Her hair fell thick and glossy over her shoulder. On the back of the photo was a girl's handwriting: To Bobby. I'll never forget. Love, Annie.

By the time Annie sent him this picture he'd known he'd never speak to her again. He set it down on the carpet, right next to the prom photo. And there they were: the triangle Yvonne had never known about.

Bob had already been in love with Yvonne the summer he and Annie met. That was the whole problem. Yvonne, his first girlfriend, the first person he'd slept with. That summer—1988—they'd briefly broken up, while she prepared to leave Indiana for college in Maryland. Bob's folks had just split, and for complicated reasons he had to spend the summer in his father's house in little East Oak, fifty miles from Westover. There Bob had a jumbled basement room with its own bathroom and exterior door. His father was away a lot on business, and Bob was in a town he didn't know well, and in which he wouldn't stay past summer's end. Everything, even the ground under his feet, felt impermanent.

He worked part-time in a restaurant, and met a lot of East Oak kids there. He was a decent-looking guy, and thanks to friends back in Westover he always had pot, so he found himself, that summer, strangely popular. He took advantage. In the month after Yvonne broke things off, he brought three different girls back to his basement room. Why not? He didn't know then whether what he felt was freedom or despair. When he was in his room, smoking a joint, or stripping off the panties of a girl he'd just met, he was able to believe it was freedom.

He'd met Annie at the East Oak park, while he was waiting with his friend Lew for their turn at a game of pickup hoops. Annie sat in the grass next to them with a friend—it must have been Vicky—watching boys she knew on the other team. Who had talked first? Bob couldn't remember. But they'd introduced each other, chatted, joked.

He looked down at the picture in his hands. He would have noticed Annie's hair first. And then—her voice. He remembered it. Deep, a little husky—like she smoked, even though she didn't, usually. He remembered her long thin legs, her white tennis shoes. He and Lew got up to play their game, and when he came back twenty minutes later Annie had left. But she'd written her number on a slip of paper and tucked it beneath his keys.

Bob called her that afternoon and a couple of nights later they met up at the Pizza King downtown. Annie brought Vicky and he brought Lew. Bob sat next to Annie in the booth. She was wearing a short skirt, and was laughing and wild and flirty, turning in the seat to face him and, once, putting her hand on his knee.

Later that night, down in his basement room, he was shocked when Annie told him it was her first time. Why me? he asked her. You barely know me.

Annie, curled up beside him on the bed, laughed and blushed and said, I feel like I do. Like you're right for me.

Bob put down the photo. Against whatever judgement he had left, he called Yvonne. She didn't answer. He left her a message: A friend of mine from high school died. It's thrown me for a loop. I'd really like to see you before next week—

He realized what he was saying and quickly hung up. Then, without setting down the phone, he dialled Vicky's number.

While her phone rang he stood out on the balcony, 150 feet above the city streets. Off to the east a thunderhead had massed; lightning flickered down over the suburbs. If it rained tomorrow there'd be no painting; he'd have nothing at all to do. The thought filled him with panic.

Vicky, he said when she answered. It's Bob Kline.

Oh! I thought the number looked familiar.

Is it a bad time? I can let you go.

No. I'm fine, really. How are you?

I don't know, he said. Leaves blew on to his balcony, from some place in the city that had trees. I guess I'm a little curious, he said.

He listened to the long silence.

Is it all right if I ask about her? he said. I don't want to put you in a bad spot—

No! Ask. Please.

Her voice was strange. Was she crying? He couldn't tell.

He said, I forgot to ask whether she was happy. I want to know if she—if she was in a good place.

Yes, Vicky said. Until she got sick, she was very happy.

Was she married?

Yes.

Nice guy?

Yeah. They were good for each other.

Kids?

No. She wanted them. But no.

Bob stood and leaned against the rough concrete wall of the building. Rain was starting to fall through the glow of the patio light, the drops appearing frozen for an eye-blink.

What did she do? he asked.

She was a lawyer.

He laughed.

Is that funny?

I'm in the middle of a divorce, he said. Or at the end, I guess I mean. I make a lot of lawyer jokes.

She was a prosecutor.

Well, I've steered clear of those, he said, taking a sip of his drink. I guess that's all right.

She was quiet on the other end. He said, Hey, I can let you go. I'm just shooting the shit now.

It's all right, Vicky said. I'm—I get a little defensive about her.

Can I ask another question? Do you mind?

Sure.

Was it—He ran a hand through his hair. Did she suffer? Was it bad?

Another long quiet. It was cancer, Vicky said.

You were with her.

Yes. Me and Rick and her folks.

That must have been—

It was hard.

He said the next part quickly, meaning every word of it: I don't know you, or even her, really. But it sounds to me like she was real lucky in her friends.

The line was so empty that he had to check the screen on his phone to make sure he hadn't lost the call.

Thanks, Vicky said. A little burble of sound in the machine next to his ear. It's—it's been rough. I miss her.

Bob wanted to say, I do too—but that would be stupid. Up until a week ago he hadn't missed her at all. But he did, now that he thought about her. He missed the girl touching his knee at the Pizza King. That feeling of invitation.

Listen, he said. You said you live in Indy?

Yeah.

You want a drink? I'm just sitting around here thinking about this. If it'll help—I mean if you want to—I'm glad to meet you someplace.

He hadn't planned on saying that, but once he had, he hoped dearly Vicky would say yes. But why would she? She didn't know a thing about him except that he'd screwed over her friend in the eleventh grade. He paced back and forth and wondered at his own stupidity.

But then Vicky said, Sure. Okay.

It turned out she lived not very far from him, out in the neighbourhoods to the east, right underneath the lightning and the smudge of rain. She gave him the name of a bar halfway between them.

Bob spent a few minutes in the bathroom, taking a quick shower, shaving off two days' worth of stubble, looking with dismay at his jowls, rubbing some gel in his hair. He was thirty-five, but he looked older. He had some grey at his temples. Years working in the sun had done a number on his skin. He was tanned, at least, didn't look unhealthy. Vicky would be remembering the seventeen-year-old he'd been: long, greasy hair, bloodshot eyes, a wispy goatee. Whatever he was now would have to be an improvement. He put on a nice polo shirt and clean blue jeans and black shoes.

Bob squared himself up in the mirror. After the attention, he still looked just like he felt: lonely, a little drunk, probably on his way to making a mistake.