Lawrence Sanders - Private Pleasures

"it did so, too."

"I bet you've kissed lots of girls."

"Well, I haven't."

"Never?

"Well, maybe one or two," I said.

"Who were they? Do I know them?"

"Nah," I said, "you don't know them-" That was a lie. "They were just girls."

"Why did you kiss them?"

"Holy moley!" I said. I was getting sore. "I don't remember why I kissed them. Okay?"

"You don't care for me," she said again, and we were right back where we started.

I began to think that if she was going to talk like that all the time, maybe it wasn't such a great idea to let her come along when I left home. I mean I couldn't figure out what she wanted.

"Look," I said to her, "I don't ask you how many boys you've kissed."

"Well, I haven't," she said. "You're the only one. So that proves how much I care for you. Because you're the only boy I've let kiss me."

"Tell me what you want," I begged her. "Just tell me what you want me to say, and I'll say it."

"That's no good," she said. "You've got to say it on your own." , Well, that was one talk we had in the garage, and I didn't know what she was getting at. I was all mixed up, and even though I thought about it a lot, I couldn't understand why she was, like, mad at me. I didn't do anything to her. I wished there was someone I could ask about it, but there wasn't.

I was hoping she'd forget about it, but she didn't. Almost every time we talked she'd ask if I cared for her. I mean she really picked on me.

"Now look here," I told her, "if we're going to be traveling, I'll take care of you. Don't worry about it.

"That's not what I mean, Chet," she said.

"Well, what do you mean?" I asked her.

"When I ask if you care for me, I mean do you like me?"

"Sure, I like you."

She was quiet a while, then she said, "Do you love me?"

Geez, she was something. First it was did I care for her, then it was did I like her, and now it was did I love her.

"Wait a minute," I said. "Kids are supposed to love their parents, and maybe their relatives and a sister or brother, if they've got one. But kids aren't supposed to love other kids."

"Who says so?" she said.

"Everyone knows that. When you get grown up, it's okay to love someone and then you get married. But kids can't get married, so what's the point of loving someone? It wouldn't do you any good."

"You can love someone and not get married," she argued.

"Freddy Washburn told Velma Burkhardt he loved her, and they're just kids and can't get married. ,who told you that?"

"Told me what?"

"That Freddy Washburn told Velma Burkhardt he loved her."

"Velma told me."

"Well, Freddy Washburn is a real nerd, everyone knows that, and he was probably lying."

"No, he wasn't," Tania said. "He gave Velma a friendship ring. it's got like this little blue stone in it. So that proves he loves her, Chet."

"He probably found it in a box of Cracker Jack."

"But he gave it to her. That's the point."

"Well, what do you want me to do-give you a friendship ring?"

"That would be nice," she said. "it would show you love me."

"I didn't say I did."

"Does that mean you don't?"

"I didn't say I did, I didn't say I don't. What's important about it anyway?" so She sighed. "You just don't understand."

"I sure don't," I said. "Explain it to me."

"Well, if a boy says he loves a girl, then she is his girl and he can't love anyone else. And if a girl loves a boy, then she can't love anyone else either. It's just the two of them, forever and ever."

"That's stupid," I said. "What if one of them moves away?" , "Then they write each other or talk on the telephone.

"But what if one of them moves to like Russia and they never see each other again. What happens then? "

"It doesn't make any difference, Chet," she said. "They've got to keep on loving each other, because they said so."

"That's stupid," I said again. "It just don't make sense." "Doesn't," she said. "And it's not stupid. It means the boy and girl belong to each other. And if one of them gets hurt or gets sick, the other one takes care of them."

I didn't say anything.

"If I get hurt or sick, Chet," she said. "I mean after we run away.

Will you take care of me?"

"Sure," I said. "Of course I would. I wouldn't just leave you."

"Well, that proves you love me. And if you gave me a friendship ring, it would be like a sign."

"A sign of what?"

"That we belong to each other."

"Hey," I said, "it's awfully hot. Let's put our suits on and go to the pool."

"All right," she said.

I was glad she agreed. Talking about love and all that mush was making me nervous.

I sat in that stinking wheelchair every day, and every day I wondered if I had been a goddamned fool not to accept Uncle Samuel's offer of prostheses and elbow canes. I don't know why I opted for a chair. I think maybe I didn't want to display my infirmity in public. Or maybe I wanted to play the martyr. who the hell knows. Do you always know why you do the things you do?

That's especially true of moral choices. They're a bitch, because no one gives you a guid when you're born. You're supposed to learn by education, training, and experience. But sometimes you're faced with conflicts that nothing has prepared you for. There are no precedents, and common sense can only take you so far.

What brought on that fit of introspection was the business of my niece, Tania, planning to run away from home. I figured that if I snitched on her, she'd never forgive me. But if I kept her plans secret, as I had promised, I could be endangering her safety. I didn't like to think of what kids like her and Chester Barrow might face on the road by themselves.

So I batted it back and forth, and I finally decided to inform their parents. I told Cherry Noble what I was going to do.

"I'm glad, Chas," she said. "Children are not just young adults, they're children and haven't yet learned to act in their own best interests."

"I guess," I said. "I keep wishing Tania may eventually forgive and forget I betrayed her. And maybe it'll make the parents pay a little more attention to their kids. It's a gamble."

"All our choices are gambles," Cherry said. "Aren't they?

We try to calculate the odds and go with the decision that offers the best chance of success. But sometimes we go against the odds.

That's called hope."

"Thank you, doctor," I said.

"How are you going to tell the parents?" she asked, ignoring my sarcasm. "Telephone them?"

"No, that's too cold. Herman comes here for lunch every Thursday.

I'll tell him then," "I think that's wise," she said. "Be sure to say or imply that you think it's the shortcomings of the parents that made Tania want to leave home. I wish you could talk to the mother, too."

"I will," I vowed. "I'll tell Herman to ask her to come out here so I can talk to her one-on-one. I'm going to be tough on them."

"Good," Cherry said. "Even if Tania is imagining her grievances, they should be aware of them."

So that was that, another crisis dealt with, a decision made.

But I couldn't forget what Cherry had said about all our choices being gambles. The most important bet I had to make involved her.

What convinced me were things I had said and things she had said about my book-in-progress, The Romance of Tommy Termite. It didn't take a giant brain to realize I was writing about myself.

All of Tommy's indecisions were mine, and all his hopes were mine.

That included love, marriage, home, family-the whole megillah.

It wasn't that I was unhappy with the way things presently were between Cherry and me, ut our relationship irked me because it seemed b incomplete. There was something missing-and it wasn't just sex.

It took me a while to figure out what was bugging me, but I finally identified it, There was no commitment.