Two Wonders

Two Wonders


        Our front lawn served as a huge drop cloth, catching the leaves from two giant, Western Bigleaf maples. Late in September the leafy downpour had begun, and my mom had sent me to begin this autumn’s ritual of raking away the debris. I thought that day would prove boring and humdrum . . . but I was wrong.

        The two girls strolled along the road in front of my house idly chattering, tittering, and tilting close to each other as if sharing a secret. Audrey, wearing a baggy, beige coat to cover her stick figure, had long, hang-down hair that nearly hid her elongated face. Mary, with brown, mid-length hair and a pretty smile, was my neighbor and noticed me first. Giving me a wave, her friend followed suit.

        “Where ya goin’?” I asked, leaning against the bamboo rake.

        “Oh, just down to the woods to hang out for a while. Girl talk, you know.” Mary tossed me a smile. “Looks like you got some work.”

        At twelve years of age I didn’t know what girl talk was. Guy talk was sharing masculine feats and telling dirty jokes, but I doubted if girls did that. I cocked my head and groaned, “Yeah, I’m going to be rakin’ a while. I guess I’ll see you on your way back when you finish your girl talkin’.”

        They chuckled as if I'd said something clever and continued down the dead end street.

        I didn’t know Audrey very well. Although we’d attended the same grade school, we didn’t share many of the same teachers. Besides, she lived nearly a mile away on the main highway to town.

        On the other hand, I’d known Mary every since we moved here six years ago. We played ping pong in the empty shed behind my house. Now and then, she came by just to talk or pick ripening raspberries in early summer. Sometimes I’d wait for her outside the decrepit, little house where she lived with her grandmother, and we’d walk to the bus stop together.

        But after sixth grade, things began to change. Girls started spending more time with each other. They weren’t as eager to build neighborhood forts, ride bikes, or explore the surrounding woods with us guys, preferring to share secrets among themselves instead. They began changing physically too. Girls started developing hips and breasts, and although I was fascinated, I wasn’t sure how to act around them anymore.

        I continued making little piles of maple leaves about the yard. Occasionally, I’d look up to see if the two girls were returning. Finally, curious about where they’d gone, I threw down the rake to look for them.

        Cresting the hill on the gravel road that led to Blackjack Bottoms, I heard giggling in the trees to my left. I easily followed the sound to their hideout – a small clearing among newly planted firs and established alders whose leaves were just turning yellow. They didn’t seem surprised to see me. “So, you got tired of raking, huh.” Mary looked at me with a knowing smile.

        I just rolled my eyes. “You two were sure easy to find. I’d get farther off the road if I wanted a private place.”

        They just laughed, and then we talked for a while. They thought that Donnie was cute, but stuck up. They wanted to know if I agreed. They also thought that old man Stewart who lived next door to me acted kind of creepy – the way he took peeks at girls. One time he even invited them into his workshop to “look at something” he was building. They didn’t take him up on his invitation. I just shrugged my shoulders, beginning to discover what they meant by “girl talk”.

        Shortly, Audrey announced that she had to go home. She turned to us as she left the clearing, with playful eyes and a smirk. “Now, you two be good,” she snickered. Mary blushed and said, “Don’t be silly, Aud.” I didn’t know what she was talking about.

        After a short, but uncomfortable silence, I asked Mary, “Well, what do you want to do?”

        Her eyes darted down and up between the ground and me. “What do you mean?”

        “Do you want to walk down to Blackjack Creek? We’re part way there already.”

        “I should be home soon. Can we make it there and back in a half-hour?” I assured her that time was no problem. “You know, I’ve never been to Blackjack before,” she confided.

        “You’ve never been there?” Her confession shocked me. I assumed that a person who’d lived in the neighborhood all their life would have visited Blackjack Creek.

          “Well, that’s gonna change today. Follow me.” We marched down the gravel road with purpose to our steps. Veering left on a little used logging road, we walked a short way until it petered out downhill into thickets of young saplings, huckleberry bushes and sword ferns crisscrossed by barely visible deer trails. Although I had never seen a deer in Blackjack Bottoms, their faint paths testified to their existence.

          I pointed the way, and she moved with the free, uninhibited gait of a young girl. She surprised me by being sure of foot and confident of step. She took the lead as we crossed a small meadow. On the other side loomed the maples, alders, and cedars that marked the creek bed.

        Topping a small hummock, I saw it first. Patting her on the shoulder, she turned to me, and I raised my left index finger to my lips. Stopped in our tracks, her eyes followed my outstretched hand toward the stream. A young deer, recently rid of its spots, drank from the rushing water – the burbling sound masking our approaching footsteps.

        We stood there holding our breath for a long time. Finally, the deer, sensing our presence, lifted its head and regarded us with curiosity. Then, feeling no threat, she twitched her ears, pranced downstream, and looked for a place to cross. Soon, she splashed in the water and vanished wraithlike through the curtain of trees on the other side.  My first wild deer! I thought.

        “She was so beautiful!” Filled with awe, Mary’s voice broke the silence. “How wonderful! My first trip to Blackjack Creek and my first deer.”

        “Mine too,” I answered. “Do you want to go a little farther upstream?”

        My question snapped her from her reverie. “I should be going home. My grandmother needs help with dinner.” Then, she paused. “But let’s rest first before we head up the hill.”

        Nodding in agreement, I pointed to a place on the hillside at the edge of the meadow. We sat and gazed at the blue-green beards of moss that hung from the trees enclosing the creek. Mary sat with her hands propped back and knees pulled up toward her chest. The smells of freshly-washed clothes, wet earth, and decaying leaves mingled in the cool air.

        The sunlight cast her cheeks with a rosy glow, and she arched backward. Her gray, ribbed turtleneck fit snuggly, accentuating her young breast mounds beneath. The moment seemed right, and she was like a magnet drawing me to her. Powerless to stop, even if I wanted, I leaned down and gently kissed her on the lips. I met no resistance . . . my first kiss.

        When I withdrew and looked at her, I took in her loveliness. Acting out of instinct, I bent over to kiss her a second time, but raising her right hand, she placed two fingers against my lips and whispered, “We’d better not.”

        I figured she knew best. I stood, held out my left hand, and pulled her to her feet. “I guess we’d better go home,” I sighed.

        She nodded.

        We retraced our steps, walking in silence until we reached the top of the hill. Before we moved within view of my house, she stopped, turned, and took my hands. She held them briefly and said, “Thank you.” For taking her to Blackjack Creek? For the kiss? For both? I never knew.

        I remarked, “Maybe some time we could go back.”

        “I’d like that.”

        Then we parted, going our separate ways on that day of two wonders: my first deer and my first kiss.

        Our lives returned to normal. Sometimes I walked her to the bus stop, and occasionally, I sat with her. We said “hi” in the junior high halls. And during berry season, my mom invited her to pick raspberries for her grandmother.

        But things were different too. Mixing with her friends in the crowded halls or during a free moment in class, our gaze at times locked for an instant – our eyes first widening, then sparkling, then furtively glancing away – both of us remembering and acknowledging that we had shared something personal, something special while choosing to remain just friends.

        We never paid a second visit to Blackjack Creek.

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