Stranger at the Door - Laura Abbot

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gripped the book between my fingers, sensing I was on the brink of a fateful decision.

      “Go ahead, Izzy.”

      Twink’s use of the special nickname committed me in a way nothing else could have. “Okay.” I turned to the middle of the book, then blinked, certain I could not be seeing what was there on the page in black and white. “Twink?” Light-headed, I held out the book for her inspection. “Are they doing what I think they are?”

      “Yes.”

      Incredulous, I studied the photograph of the naked couple. I knew vaguely about sperm and eggs and ovulation, but no one, not my mother and not the health teacher, had ever explained in detail about the sex act.

      “See—” Twink pointed to the picture “—the man puts his thing in her. Listen here.” Turning the page, she read me a graphic account of the mechanics, then flipped to photos of other contorted positions.

      “Twink, this is revolting.”

      “It’s icky to think about our parents doing this, isn’t it?” she said in a hushed voice.

      “My parents!” It’s a wonder the neighbors didn’t hear my shriek of outrage, but the mental image of Irene and Robert Ashmore coupling was utterly incomprehensible.

      Twink and I never opened the Monopoly set. Instead we spent the afternoon devouring every lurid detail, alternately horrified and titillated.

      Only later, walking home, did the full import hit me. Husbands and wives did this. That’s how babies were made. I would someday have to do that thing myself. I remember leaning against the trunk of a tree, on the verge of being sick, trying to catch my breath.

      Then another thought came. Grandmama and Mother kept asking me whether I had any beaux. But if they knew what men and women did…

      In bed that night, I thought about Laidslaw Grosbeak and Jimmy Comstock. Even Tab Hunter. Then I made a solemn promise to myself. I would die an old maid before I would ever do that.

      One afternoon with “the book” had shattered the idealized image of Southern womanhood for me. However, all that knowledge couldn’t prepare me for what was to come, and before too long, I discovered life always has the capacity to blindside us.

      ARMED WITH THE back-to-school issue of Seventeen, Twink and I assembled our wardrobe for the most momentous step in our lives—high school. The three-story brick building, two blocks off the town square, had not yet been remodeled. Tall, heavy-sash windows opened to whatever breeze might come, desks rested on polished wooden floors and freshly cleaned blackboards bordered the rooms. But to Twink and me it was Valhalla—the place where the gods and goddesses of our adolescence resided.

      On that first day, although I had mastered my locker combination, I was fearful about getting lost. What if I was late for a class? To add to my insecurities, I caught sight of the head cheerleader, the varsity quarterback and the senior class president, whose green eyes and dimples made me weak in the knees. I had never felt so out of place or awkward.

      But that changed when I walked into algebra and saw Taylor Jennings. He had the dark good looks of a Creole grandee and a sultry voice that transported me to moonlit bayous. Sitting at my desk, feeling his gaze on me, the hairs on the nape of my neck stirred. In the pit of my stomach were funny, unfamiliar sensations. Unbidden, the photos in “the book” rose in my memory, and I felt myself blush.

      Walking home with Twink, I mentioned Taylor.

      “He’s handsome, all right,” she agreed. “If you like freshmen.” She smirked, then did a jig step. “I’m setting my sights on Jay Owensby.”

      I stopped dead in my tracks. “He’s a junior.”

      She giggled. “So? I’ve always adored older men.”

      “Aurelia Mae Starr Montgomery, are you keeping secrets?”

      “I was going to tell you. Dad hired Jay two weeks ago to mow our lawn. You should see him without a shirt.” She made a play of fanning herself. “Anyway, we’ve been talking, and last night he came over to pick up his check. One thing led to another and…”

      I wanted to shake her. “What do you mean?”

      “He asked me to go for a walk and we ended up in the park.” Her eyes twinkled mischievously. “Oh, Izzy, it was di-vine!”

      “What was?”

      “The kiss.”

      She said it so matter-of-factly, I wasn’t sure I’d heard correctly. “The kiss?”

      “Believe me, it was nothing like those stupid games of post office.” She shivered with delight. “I can’t wait for the next one.”

      I wanted details, but at the same time I felt like a novice in the presence of the initiated. “Are you two, like, dating?”

      “He’s taking me to the football game this weekend. He has a car. Who knows? We may end up at the lake for a smooch.”

      “A smooch?”

      She put an arm around my shoulder and leaned closer. “And maybe more.”

      “More?” In my bewilderment, I couldn’t stop parroting her.

      “Oh, Isabel, it’s all starting—just like in the movies. I’m so glad we’re growing up.”

      By the time we reached the corner where we parted ways, we had changed the subject, yet all I could think of was the change in Twink.

      DESPITE TYPICAL TEENAGE trials, high school was an idyllic interlude. I enjoyed my classes and, committed as I was to pleasing my parents, Daddy in particular, I excelled. That achievement was not without its price, however. I soon discovered that boys were not interested in the quality of my mind.

      I dated some, but usually other serious students, whose claim to fame lay not on the football field but in labs and at debate tournaments. Like most teens, I fantasized about being the homecoming queen, escorted to the prom by a handsome, champion athlete. Instead, my date was the aforementioned Laidslaw Grosbeak, who, at least, had grown ten inches and adopted his middle name, Barton. And yes, Twink was the queen.

      As far as what passed for romance was concerned, I lived vicariously through Twink, who knew how to flirt, lead a boy just to the point of no return, cast him aside and mysteriously remain on good terms with him. She also gave me my first view of the world beyond Springbranch. At least twice a year her family vacationed in exotic spots like New York City, London and Honolulu, scenes I could only imagine from magazines or television. Much as I wanted to see such places for myself, I was intimidated by the unfamiliar. I couldn’t envision a future that didn’t include Springbranch, a provincial outlook that hardly prepared me for what happened later.

      One snapshot from those years summarizes the two of us. We stand in caps and gowns, arms entwined. Mortarboard at a rakish angle, Twink grins triumphantly at the camera, while I face straight ahead, my mortarboard aligned in a scholarly manner, clutching my diploma protectively. “Graduation is only the beginning,” she appears to announce, whereas my demeanor screams a need to remain eternally at Springbranch High School.

      How often I have appreciated Twink’s adventurous spirit. Even considering her two divorces and years of caring for her ailing mother, she has rarely lost her optimism. I, on the other hand, am full of reservations and second thoughts, which makes this trip down memory lane both necessary and bittersweet.

      CHAPTER TWO

      Springbranch, Louisiana

      August, 1957

      TWINK AND I WERE TOGETHER every day of what was to be our last Springbranch summer. In mid-August Twink’s parents abruptly put their house on the market under suspicious circumstances. Twink acted unfazed. “After all,” she said with a toss of her head, “I’ll be back East at college. What do I care where they live?”

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