pleased me. It made me seem mysterious and special. She wouldn’t forget me. She would never forget the wild, reckless ride with Alan James. “I don’t know.”
She faced me again, blinked slowly, sizing me up in a new way, and then, surprisingly, she smiled as she adjusted herself in the seat. “Well… it wasn’t so bad, Alan James. Not so bad.”
She gave a happy little laugh and touched my cheek with a single soft finger. I felt electric and conquered. She’d won, with a simple touch.
“How much further?” I asked.
“Just ahead.”
We started again. I squinted into the shafts of headlights. “I don’t see anything.”
“There’s a clearing ahead. You’ll see the lake. Moon Lake. At least that’s what the fishermen call it. Everybody goes to Crystal Lake because they don’t know about this place.”
I drove slowly. The moon was nearly full, sliding in and out of purple clouds, swimming through the black lace of trees. I slanted a look as the forest gradually fell away, and then as through an invisible door, we entered a clearing and viewed the gorgeous domed sky swarming with stars. I drove across a carpet of leaves to the edge of a high bluff, staring in wonder at the panoramic vista of the world, a moon-sprinkled lake and the distant silhouette of rolling hills.
“This is incredible,” I said. “I didn’t know this was here.”
Rita’s head lolled back, relaxed. “Not many people do. I used to come here on my bike when I was 15. I came here to escape the house, school…everything. I’m glad you like it.”
“You thought I wouldn’t like this?”
“No…there’s more. But that can wait. Let’s just sit here for awhile.”
I silenced the engine and we sat in an intimate stillness. Finally, I turned to her. “Where did you learn to write so well, Rita?”
“It’s sweet that you think so, Alan James. Really sweet.”
“You do, Rita, you know you write well.”
“My father.”
“He wrote?”
“He read. He was always bringing me books and making me read them, especially when I was sick and couldn’t go out.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. He loved books.”
“What books?”
“Jane Austen, Steinbeck, C. S. Lewis, D. H. Lawrence. Most nights, when he was around, which wasn’t often, he’d put me to bed and then read to me awhile. Then he’d ask me to tell him a story. I was too embarrassed at first. Nothing came, just bits and pieces of things I’d read, but he made me keep trying. Sometimes he’d help get me started. He’d start it off:
“‘In a silky black sky, where the round yellow moon drifted through moving dark clouds, a young golden-haired girl emerged from her sleep, crept to the window and peered out, hopeful and wanting. Someone below called to her.’”
“Wow, you remember all that, word for word?” I asked.
“Yes, because he started every story that way, for like, weeks, and then he’d ask me to continue on and finish it. So I started mixing things up, and stringing together lies and half truths of my own life; my dreams and things I’d read. I started looking forward to it, those nights. Scratching out those little “lies” in my diary, and reading them to Daddy when he got home after a week or a month.”
She turned reflective and averted my gaze. Her voice was low and soft. “They were for him. The stories. I wrote everything for him, then. He’d say, write me something, Rita girl. Write. When I’m home, you can read them to me. So I did.”
I waited a moment. “Where is your father, Rita?”
Without answering, she pushed the door open. “It’s time, Alan James. Turn on the radio and join me.”
The radio came alive when I turned on the engine. It was playing Billy Joel’s Honesty . I left the car, stretching in the cool autumn wind, and went to Rita. She was at the edge of the bluff, peering down at the 30 foot drop-off to the lake below, ticking off little rocks with her shoes.
“Be careful,” I said.
“I always am, Alan
She faced me again, blinked slowly, sizing me up in a new way, and then, surprisingly, she smiled as she adjusted herself in the seat. “Well… it wasn’t so bad, Alan James. Not so bad.”
She gave a happy little laugh and touched my cheek with a single soft finger. I felt electric and conquered. She’d won, with a simple touch.
“How much further?” I asked.
“Just ahead.”
We started again. I squinted into the shafts of headlights. “I don’t see anything.”
“There’s a clearing ahead. You’ll see the lake. Moon Lake. At least that’s what the fishermen call it. Everybody goes to Crystal Lake because they don’t know about this place.”
I drove slowly. The moon was nearly full, sliding in and out of purple clouds, swimming through the black lace of trees. I slanted a look as the forest gradually fell away, and then as through an invisible door, we entered a clearing and viewed the gorgeous domed sky swarming with stars. I drove across a carpet of leaves to the edge of a high bluff, staring in wonder at the panoramic vista of the world, a moon-sprinkled lake and the distant silhouette of rolling hills.
“This is incredible,” I said. “I didn’t know this was here.”
Rita’s head lolled back, relaxed. “Not many people do. I used to come here on my bike when I was 15. I came here to escape the house, school…everything. I’m glad you like it.”
“You thought I wouldn’t like this?”
“No…there’s more. But that can wait. Let’s just sit here for awhile.”
I silenced the engine and we sat in an intimate stillness. Finally, I turned to her. “Where did you learn to write so well, Rita?”
“It’s sweet that you think so, Alan James. Really sweet.”
“You do, Rita, you know you write well.”
“My father.”
“He wrote?”
“He read. He was always bringing me books and making me read them, especially when I was sick and couldn’t go out.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. He loved books.”
“What books?”
“Jane Austen, Steinbeck, C. S. Lewis, D. H. Lawrence. Most nights, when he was around, which wasn’t often, he’d put me to bed and then read to me awhile. Then he’d ask me to tell him a story. I was too embarrassed at first. Nothing came, just bits and pieces of things I’d read, but he made me keep trying. Sometimes he’d help get me started. He’d start it off:
“‘In a silky black sky, where the round yellow moon drifted through moving dark clouds, a young golden-haired girl emerged from her sleep, crept to the window and peered out, hopeful and wanting. Someone below called to her.’”
“Wow, you remember all that, word for word?” I asked.
“Yes, because he started every story that way, for like, weeks, and then he’d ask me to continue on and finish it. So I started mixing things up, and stringing together lies and half truths of my own life; my dreams and things I’d read. I started looking forward to it, those nights. Scratching out those little “lies” in my diary, and reading them to Daddy when he got home after a week or a month.”
She turned reflective and averted my gaze. Her voice was low and soft. “They were for him. The stories. I wrote everything for him, then. He’d say, write me something, Rita girl. Write. When I’m home, you can read them to me. So I did.”
I waited a moment. “Where is your father, Rita?”
Without answering, she pushed the door open. “It’s time, Alan James. Turn on the radio and join me.”
The radio came alive when I turned on the engine. It was playing Billy Joel’s Honesty . I left the car, stretching in the cool autumn wind, and went to Rita. She was at the edge of the bluff, peering down at the 30 foot drop-off to the lake below, ticking off little rocks with her shoes.
“Be careful,” I said.
“I always am, Alan
Similar Books
