Peter Straub - If You Could See Me Now

“There’s nothing to do.”

“Polar Bears could think of something,” she said sweetly. “I know. Let’s go swimming. Let’s go up to the quarry. I’d like to go swimming. Hey? Let’s do it.”

It seemed like a dubious proposition to him. “They won’t let us do it.”

“You wait and see. I’ll show you how we swim in California.”

He wondered aloud how they would travel the eight miles to the quarry. It was in the hills just outside Arden.

“Wait and see.” She jumped up from the grass and began to march toward the farmhouse. Oral Roberts had ceased faith healing for another week, and now the sounds of a dance band mingled with the voices of their mothers. He ran to catch up with her and followed her through the screen door of the porch.

Loretta Greening, a softer, taller version of Alison, was sitting on the porch sofa with his mother. The two women looked very much alike. His mother was smiling; Alison’s wore her perpetual look of nervous excitement mixed with discontent. After a moment the boy noticed Duane seated on a wicker chair at the far end of the porch. Slapping a fist noiselessly against his thigh, he appeared to be considerably more discontented than Mrs. Greening. He was staring at Alison as though he hated her, but she blithely ignored him.

“Give me the keys to the car,” Alison said. “We want to go for a drive.”

Mrs. Greening shrugged to her sister.

“Oh, no,” said the boy’s mother. “Alison is too young to drive, isn’t she?”

“It’s for practice,” Alison said. “Just on the back roads. I have to practice or I’ll never pass the test.”

Duane was still staring at her.

“I have this theory,” Mrs. Greening said to the boy’s mother. “You always let them do what they want to do.”

“Because I’ll learn from my mistakes.”

“Well, don’t you think—” his mother began.

“Here,” said Mrs. Greening and tossed her the keys. “For God’s sake watch out for that old fool Hovre.

He’d rather give you a ticket than chew that disgusting tobacco.”

“Oh, we’re not going anywhere near Arden,” Alison said.

Duane had put his hands on the arms of his chair. The boy realized with sickening certainty that Duane was going to invite himself along, and he feared that his mother would insist on their allowing him to drive the Greening Pontiac.

But Alison acted too quickly for either Duane or his mother to speak. “Okay, thanks,” she said and wheeled back through the door of the porch. By the time the boy could react, she was already sliding into the car.

“We pulled that one off all right, didn’t we?” she said minutes later, as they were swinging out of the valley road onto the state highway to Arden. He was looking out the back window, where he thought he had seen the lights of Duane’s pickup truck. But it could have been any truck from one of the farms in the valley.

He was about to agree with her when she spoke again, strangely counterpointing his thoughts. It was a common experience between them, this access to each other’s thoughts and fantasies, and the boy thought that it was what Auntie Rinn had noticed.

“Old Duane was just about to invite himself along, wasn’t he? I wouldn’t mind him if he wasn’t so path-et-ic . He sort of can’t do anything right. Did you see that house he was building for his girlfriend?” She began to giggle. The house had become a subterranean family joke, unmentionable before Duane’s parents.

“I just heard about it,” he said. “It sure sounds funny. He didn’t want me to see it. Duane and I don’t really get along. We had a big fight last year.”

“And you didn’t even sneak out there just to take a peek? Jesus H. Christ, it’s amazing. It’s…” she; broke down into giggles, unable to characterize the house any better. “And,” she said gasping, “you’re not supposed to mention it to Duane, you can’t make just the teeniest tiniest little comment…” She was laughing uncontrollably.

Because the car was weaving in and out of its lane, he said, “How did you learn to drive? My parents won’t even let me touch the car.”

“Oh, from these greasers I sometimes hang around with.”

He merely grunted, having no idea what greasers were, and thinking that they sounded even worse than the art teacher.

“Do you know what we should do?” Alison said. “We should make a pact. A really serious pact. A vow. To make sure that whatever happens, you know, no matter who we marry, since we can’t really marry each other, that we stay in touch — no, stay together.” She looked at him oddly for a moment, and then swung the car to the side of the road. “Let’s make a vow. This is important. If we don’t, we can’t be sure.”

He looked at her dumbly, amazed by this sudden emotion. “You mean, promise to see one another when we’re married?”

“Married, not married, if we’re living in Paris or Africa — anything. Let’s say — let’s say we’ll meet here on some date. On this date in ten years. No, that’s not far away enough. In twenty years. I’ll be thirty-four and you’ll be thirty-three. That’s lots younger than our mothers. July twenty-first, um, 1975. If there’s still a world in 1975. Promise. Make me a vow.” She was looking at him with such intensity that he did not even attempt to turn the absurd promise into a joke.

“I vow.”

“And I vow. At the farm, twenty years from now. And if you forget, I’ll come after you. If you forget, God help you.”

“Okay.”

“Now we have to kiss.”

His body seemed to become lighter in weight. Alison’s face seemed larger than its true size, more challenging and mask-like. Behind the mask her eyes shone at him. With difficulty, he made his body move on the carseat. He bent toward her. His heart began to gong. When her suddenly enormous face drew near his, their lips brushed. His first sensation was of the unexpected cushiony softness of Alison’s lips, then this was supplanted by an awareness of her breathing warmth. Alison pressed her mouth harder against his, and he felt her hands at the back of his head. Her tongue darted through his lips.

“This is what Auntie Rinn is afraid of,” she whispered, her mouth publishing warmth over his. She kissed him again, and he became a pinpoint of sensation.

“You sort of make me feel like a boy,” she said. “I like it.”

When she withdrew, she glanced down at his lap. He looked dazedly into her face. He would have given her anything, he would have died for her on the spot.

“Did you ever go swimming at night?” she asked.

He shook his head.

“We’ll have so much fun,” she said, and started the car again. With a flourish, she pulled out into the road.

He turned his head to look again out of the rear window, and saw the high headlights of another vehicle swing out thirty yards behind them. “I think Duane is following us.”

She hastily looked into the rearview mirror. “I don’t see him.”

He looked back. The headlights had disappeared. “But he was there before.”

“He wouldn’t dare. Don’t worry about old Du-ane. Imagine having a name like that anyhow.”

As he laughed, relieved, he was stopped short by an appalling realization. “We didn’t bring our suits! We’ll have to go back.”

Alison glanced at him oddly. “Don’t you wear underwear?”

Again, relief made him laugh.

When they reached the rutted dirt road leading up the hill to the quarry, the boy quickly checked for the following headlights, but saw nothing except the lights of a farmhouse far down the road. Alison flicked on the radio, and “Yakety Yak” blared out at them. She sang the words as they sped up the hill. “ Don’t talk back .”