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  “Good to see you getting on with Pug,” Mr. Chamberlain said to me as he racked up the balls. He turned to one of the uncles and explained, “We’re hoping Al will win my little Pug’s heart and keep the kid out of trouble.”

  “The boy’s doing all right,” replied one uncle. “She was snuggling up against him all through dinner.”

  “And what was all that whispering about, Al?” asked the second uncle. “You looked a bit riled up.”

  “Oh, Pug likes to make jokes,” I lied.

  “Thought she was going to eat your ear, boy,” said uncle number one. Then he turned to Mr. Chamberlain. “That girl doesn’t need a boyfriend,” he said, “she needs a chastity belt.”

  Mr. Chamberlain looked up from the pool table. “Well, if it all works out, Al here is going to be that chastity belt.”

  The two uncles laughed. Mr. Chamberlain frowned. I drained my glass in a single gulp.

  Be strong, I told myself. Be resolute.

  I had just lost a game of pool to uncle number one, who was a pretty good player, when we heard the garage door open and close. There was a brief discussion of who might have driven in, but since there was no obvious answer all the men decided to go upstairs to see.

  We had just reached the kitchen and rejoined the women when the door to the garage wing opened. It was Kirk. He had a terrible look on his face, a look that combined all the worst features of anger, loss, and despair.

  For a moment there was simply silence in the room. The obvious question was hanging in the air, and Kirk said nothing. We waited. The clock ticked. And finally one of the uncles broke the silence. “What is it, boy?” he asked.

  Kirk stared at all of us, one at a time, and then told the whole story in two words.

  “That bitch!”

  15

  True Love Doesn’t Always Wait

  KIRK’S OUTBURST REFERRED, of course, to the world’s most perfect girlfriend and almost-fiancée, Kathy. My roommate did not immediately explain just what issue had come up between them, and that wasn’t the most pressing issue since his use of a five-letter expletive violated the family code of ethics. Despite Kirk’s obvious distress, his mom took the moment to remind him of proper language in the Chamberlain house.

  Perhaps for that reason, Kirk was not very interested in filling in the family on details. Nor was he interested in the remains of our turkey dinner, or his father’s general comments to the effect that “She’s just a girl,” or his sister’s observation, “I never trusted that Kathy—she was too good to be true.” He was sunk into a despair so profound that it made his little dust-up with Kathy in September seem like a lover’s tiff.

  “Al, let’s play pool,” was all he said.

  I hesitated for a moment, and then I realized that my redeemer had, in fact, arrived. I shot Pug a look of reluctant acquiescence, a look that told her how awful it would be to postpone our Christmas festivities, but that the emotional needs of my friend had to come first.

  When Kirk and I got to the billiards room, it was soon clear that the real attraction was not the pool, or my companionship, but the single malt in Mr. Chamberlain’s liquor cabinet.

  We dealt with Kirk’s crisis the way men do—by pretending to ignore it. Under the male code, men talk about nothing emotional or personally important until we have exhausted a goodly supply of liquor and all the safe conversational topics: cars, sports, and politics. Since I know very little about cars, sports, or politics, our conversation was focused on the game in front of us and the drinks in our hands. It took two hours for Kirk to get back to the events that made him look like Oedipus after the bad news.

  “It was the page turner,” he mumbled.

  “Nine ball, corner pocket,” I replied and then took my shot. I missed. “The what?”

  “The page turner,” Kirk repeated. He chalked his cue. “At the Christmas pageant, didn’t you see that geek turning pages while Kathy played? I should have been able to spot it right then.” There was a pause while he eyed the table. “Four ball, side.”

  He sank the ball. Kirk was very good at this game, and he got better when he was angry.

  “So it was another guy?” I asked.

  “Yeah. Three ball, bank.” He sank that, too.

  “She told you?”

  “I said the page-turner guy was getting pretty close up on the piano bench. I mean, I wasn’t doing a big jealous thing, just observing.” He paused. “Six ball, combination.”

  “Then she told you.”

  The six ball went in. “Yeah. Had to confess the whole thing. Thank you, Kathy, I really needed all that on Christmas Eve. That’s what I should have said.”

  “What did you say?”

  “Nothing,” he replied. “I choked.” He looked up at me for just a second. “You know, Al, I loved that girl. I trusted her.” But that was enough sincerity. Then it was back to the game. “Two ball, corner.”

  “Nice shot.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Eight ball, corner.” He sank it. “Game. More Scotch.”

  So the story emerged in bits and pieces, over many hours, while we drained most of the bottle. This left me a bit tipsy, since I’m really not used to drinking, but Kirk was too angry to show any effects.

  While it may be possible for true love to wait, exactly how long it will wait seems pretty variable. It appears that Kathy had been reasonably faithful until some time after Halloween, when the evil influence of lust and the advances of an available young man took their toll. I was certain, though Kirk was not, that Kathy made some effort to resist both the lust and the young man. Perhaps it was the proximity that did it: the two of them side by side at the piano bench. Perhaps it was just the influence of fate. Nonetheless, the otherwise perfect Kathy gave in to temptation. I actually had some sympathy for Kathy, especially because I myself was no stranger to the sin of lust and know how hard it is to resist temptation.

  Unlike Kirk last fall, Kathy had made no confession via telephone, nor did she send a contrite letter begging for forgiveness. Instead she let the illicit passion grow. I suspect, though Kirk would disagree, that Kathy had some intention of breaking it off. I suspect, though Kirk would deny this, that she felt quite guilty and conflicted. Indeed, she might well have kept the whole thing hidden had not Kirk become suspicious. When confronted, Kathy blurted out the truth. Did Kirk really want to hear that truth? Probably not, but Kathy offered up her affair in a tearful confession on Christmas Eve. Happy holidays.

  Kirk reacted like a gored bull moose. He had been insulted, betrayed, and lied to by a scheming woman. “A Jezebel,” he declared, and I vowed to look up who Jezebel might have been. I suspected she was not a very nice person.

  I didn’t try to speak sensibly about any of this. A man in the midst of jealous rage does not want to hear sensible thoughts: he wants to swear, blaspheme, and otherwise spew it all out.

  And then the guy gets worn out. After five hours of venting, Kirk was finished—knocked out by anger and sadness and injustice and Scotch.

  “Bitch,” he said. It came out a bit slurred: bissh.

  “Not worth your time,” I agreed.

  “Here’s my Christmas present. Here’s what I got.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a girl’s ring, obviously Kathy’s ring: “True Love Waits” was inscribed on the silver band.

  “Ironic,” I said as he threw the ring on the pool table. “Might as well throw yours away, too.”

  “Yeah,” he said, tossing it at Kathy’s ring.

  In that moment, as the two rings collided, I had a sudden flash of insight. Kirk’s grief might solve my problem.

  When I got up to my room, there was a note on the bed written in a young girl’s curly script. “Your Christmas elf couldn’t wait all night. Tomorrow I’ll be your Christmas present.” There were the usual number of x’s and o’s, followed by Pug’s signature.

  A few hours before, such a note would have brought more panic. But now I had a plan. On Christmas morning I would
be ready. I would be as wily as ancient Odysseus.

  Unfortunately, I had to put my plan into effect a bit earlier than I had thought—at five A.M. to be precise. I was lying in bed, asleep, when I heard my name.

  “Alan,” whispered the voice. “It’s Christmas!”

  I opened my eyes and saw nothing, but felt a weight on my bed. Bleary and hungover, I tried to wake up. At the same time, Pug turned on the little lamp beside the bed.

  There she was, my present, wearing little more than a bright red bow.

  “Oh my,” is all I could say. I sat up in bed so I could get a better look.

  “Do you like the outfit?” Pug asked.

  “It’s…uh, very attractive,” I coughed out.

  “I brought us candy canes,” she said, handing one to me. Then she began licking hers in a way that can only be described as lascivious.

  Oh no, I said to myself, I’m giving in. I’m losing my resolve. I had to act immediately and be decisive and follow my plan.

  “Patti,” I said, using her real name to add gravity to the situation. “You are the most beautiful, most irresistible girl I’ve ever met. I mean, being here with you is like a dream come true. You’re a fantasy, a delightful Christmas fantasy.”

  She smiled as I waxed poetic. It was all quite true, really, except for the irresistible part. I kept hoping that Patti would be quite resistible, or else I’d have a lot of explaining to do.

  Be strong, I told myself. Be resolute.

  Pug climbed under the covers with me. Her hand traced its way down my chest…and lower. The best-laid plans of Alan Macklin’s brain might soon be lost if this kept up.

  “I’m ready,” she whispered. “And so are you.”

  Be strong. Be resolute.

  “But, Patti,” I went on, “you’re so much more than a fantasy to me. I realize that I’ve only known you for a couple of days, but I feel that I’ve known you all my life.”

  Groan. I’m sure that line bubbled up from one of those 1940s movies, but I figured I should heavily lay on the romance. Pug, I knew, wasn’t terrifically interested in romance, so somehow I had to re-aim her lust in the direction of love.

  “High school boys can’t appreciate someone like you, Patti. You’re so much beyond their level.”

  “I am?”

  “Oh, you are,” I said, my voice full of sincerity. “You know how special you are to me. I mean, that first kiss yesterday was…I can’t tell you…it was like I’d been waiting my whole life to meet you.”

  “Really?” she asked, wide-eyed.

  “Not the word of a lie,” I said, lying quite handily. “And now, well, you can feel how ready I am for you, how much I want to make love to you.”

  “Yeah, me too. Can we, like, do it?”

  “But Patti,” I croaked. Be strong, be resolute, I told myself. Think of the Chamberlains, your roommate, your sacred honour. “We can’t.” “We can’t? Why not?”

  “Because I’m in love with you,” I whispered. “Because I want this moment, this first sexual moment, to be as special and as wonderful as it can be.”

  “Well, so?”

  I saved my best line for last. “Because true love waits.” “Ohmygod!” she shrieked. “Have you taken the pledge?” “Of course,” I lied. “I thought you would have, too.”

  “Yeah, but it didn’t mean anything. They made all the girls in school take the pledge. Look how long it stopped Kathy from screwing around on my brother.”

  “But that’s not the point,” I told her. “The pledge means we have a real loving commitment, that we’re not just two horny people hopping into bed.”

  “But I’m okay with that,” she said eagerly. “I mean, I’m horny and we’re already in bed.”

  “I want more than that for us,” I sighed. I hoped my sigh was full of romantic languor. “So I’m going to give you your Christmas gift a little early. I’m sorry, I didn’t have time to wrap it.”

  I reached into the drawer in the bed table and pulled out the girl’s “True Love Waits” ring that Kirk had thrown in disgust on the pool table. I held it in my hand for a second, and then whispered, “This is for you, my love,” as I put it on her fourth finger.

  “Ohmygod,” she repeated. Either Pug was quite moved or she was at a loss for words.

  “And there’s one for me, too,” I went on, picking up Kirk’s old ring. “True Love Waits,” I sighed.

  Pug seemed to think about all this for a while. Then she asked the question that had been plaguing Kirk earlier on. “Yeah, but how long does it wait?”

  “Till the summer,” I said. Surely I’d come up with another plan by the summer. Or maybe by then I wouldn’t need a plan at all. “Then we can have hot, sweaty sex.”

  “Hot…sweaty,” she repeated.

  “It will be wonderful. It’ll be worth waiting for.”

  “Oh, that will be so cool” she sighed. “I mean, like, so hot. Hot and sweaty.” With that promise, I think I had won her over.

  “Thank you,” I said. I felt my performance had been pretty spectacular too, all things considered.

  “But I’ve got a question,” Pug said, pushing herself into my arm. “I can see waiting for sex, but does that mean we have to wait for everything? I mean, your elf wants to make you happy.”

  “Oh, I think there are lots of ways we can make each other happy.”

  16

  Happy Holidays

  CHRISTMAS MORNING WAS a bit stressful at the Chamberlain home. We gathered around the tree with a variety of emotions and expressions on our faces. Kirk, of course, was extremely unhappy, verging on morose, given the events of the day before. By noon, he avoided going to church by claiming illness, both physical and spiritual. He went back to bed.

  Mr. and Mrs. Chamberlain soon noticed the TLW ring on Pug’s finger, and gave me wonderful smiles of approval. Much as they were distressed about Kirk and his failed relationship, they were heartened by the pledge Pug and I had taken.

  Pug and I were looking a bit conspiratorial that morning. The reason was simple: my answer to her last question was a no. True love does not have to wait for everything. In fact, true love can accommodate all sorts of very satisfying things up to, but not including, intercourse itself.

  I had not, technically, had sex with Pug. There had been many activities in my bedroom that morning, some of them even a bit noisy, but I had stayed true to my commitment. I had been strong and resolute. I had kept my sacred honour intact. I had respected the trust of my roommate and his family…mostly.

  My only regret was that my virginity, like hers, was still intact.

  I spent two more days at the Chamberlain house before flying home. I kept busy by consoling Kirk, playing pool with his father and uncles, and stealing a few wild moments with Pug. Now that Pug and I both wore our rings, the family was content that their daughter was being looked after. As for me, I found that looking after Pug was a burden that came mixed with certain benefits, as the phrase goes. When I flew home, there was a moment of real emotion as I said goodbye to her at the airport. But then I flew back to my real life.

  When I got back to my house I decided to use my dad’s computer to email Maggie and see how her Christmas vacation in Vermont had gone. I knew that Maggie wasn’t much of a skier, but I suspected that the skiing was just a pretense to lure her to a remote and romantic winter hideaway. Somebody with far more money than I had was putting on the moves.

  From: amacklin@​BU.​edu

  To: maggiemac@​sl.​edu

  Much enjoyed Christmas ;-) Kirk’s born-again family turned out to be far more interesting than I could ever have imagined. And you’d be proud of me. I managed to fight off the lustful intentions of Kirk’s younger sister with a resolve that impressed even me. Let me know when you get back to your dorm and I’ll tell you more.

  BTW: How was skiing in Vermont? Were you able to schuss your way down the hill, or were there unfortunate moments along the way?

  I thought that was a pretty im
pressive email. I liked the phrase “lustful intentions,” which sounded like the title of a Victorian porn novel. I also thought the word schuss was quite impressive, and I really will look it up some day.

  My surprise was that Maggie emailed back right away.

  To: amacklin@​BU.​edu

  From: maggiemac@​sl.​edu

  No schussing. All moments were unfortunate. I am not at the dorm but back here at home, about ten blocks from your house. Come see me. I’m miserable.

  I borrowed the family car to drive over. I look good, I said to myself as I checked my appearance in the mirror. Perhaps clean living pays off with a clearer complexion; perhaps my stoic resolve was being rewarded with a more attractive physical presence. Perhaps, I thought, Maggie will notice the difference.

  But the difference to be noticed was in Maggie.

  “What happened to your hair?” I asked. Maggie has always had frizzy flaming red hair, lots of it, usually piled or pinned in various shapes. But today her hair looked like she had chopped it short with a pair of scissors—herself—when she was half-drunk.

  “I’m tired of hair,” she said.

  “How can you be tired of hair?”

  “Hair is bourgeois. It is part of a whole industry that seeks to trivialize and sexualize women. I’m tired of that, too.”

  Poor Maggie sounded so tough, yet so forlorn. She was acting like a feminist intellectual, but that was only on the surface. Underneath, she was hurting. I could see it in her eyes.

  “Do I look that bad?” came her small voice.

  “Nah,” I lied. “It was just the shock when I first came in. I kind of like your hair short.” I thought it was a pretty convincing lie. In fact, Maggie looked halfway between Andre Agassi after a bad day at the barber’s and Wynona Ryder in Girl, Interrupted.

  “I look bad,” she went on. “It’s how I feel. I’m pathetic.”