It Happened on Maple Street

I didn’t ask Tim to move. I took out my paper and pen and prepared to do the job I’d been hired to do.

“How long does this thing last?”

“Depends on the agenda. Anywhere from half an hour to all night.”

It was a Tuesday night. We had school the next day. Tim had a long drive back to Eaton tonight.

“Let me have that.” He took my pen and paper. And started writing my name. I loved how it looked in his penmanship. He was much more artistic than I was. He wrote his name. And our names.

I sat there and watched. Getting warm all over. And smiling.

And then I thought about the baby and felt all weighted down with dread again. I still hadn’t started my period.

The city council filed in. A couple of members glanced at me as they took their seats. They smiled.

I hoped Tim had noticed. And that he’d see that I was good enough to marry.

The meeting was called to order. I took back my pad but gave Tim some paper and my extra pen. Roll was called. Minutes were read. Tim doodled. And leaned over and half licked, half blew on my ear.

I tried so hard not to notice. To pay attention to the business at hand. I jotted some notes.

The Dayton Daily News paid me for my writing.

Writing was going to be my career.

Tim kept tempting me with his breath. And whispering nutty things to me.

Eventually I ssshhh’d him. I’d done it in geology class all last semester, and every single time he’d just grinned and kept right on pestering me. That night he sat back, looking like I’d hurt his feelings.

The next item on the agenda was called.

And I wondered if they’d fire me from the paper if I turned up pregnant and unmarried at eighteen.

On the second Friday in February, I started my period. I was so relieved I sat in the bathroom and cried. For a long time. I cried for so long that I finally had to admit that the emoti

on pouring out of me wasn’t relief. I was empty. Bereft.

Because I wasn’t carrying Tim’s child.

Which made no sense. I’d been physically sick worrying about a pregnancy. And when I found out there wasn’t one, I was devastated. The war inside of me was taking a huge toll. If something didn’t happen soon, I was going to lose my mind.

Tim had to give me his emotions as well as his passion, or . . . I didn’t know what. I couldn’t even think about living without him. But my stomach was in knots all the time. I wasn’t sleeping.

I wasn’t pregnant, but every single time I was alone with Tim that danger loomed. I loved him too much to resist him.

Driving to his house one night at the end of February, knowing what we’d end up doing when we got there—and needing it as badly as he did—I tried one more time.

“We need to talk.”

I waited.

He sat there, saying nothing. Didn’t he care about my feelings at all? How could he just ignore me?

His heart was there. It had to be. I just had to find a way inside.

“How old did you say you were when your dad died?”

“Five.”