an IOU, because I’m late for class.”
I kept using the wheelchair after the cast came off. If asked why I wasn’t walking, I had lots of excuses: I was afraid to fall again; the weather was nasty; my leg still hurt. I didn’t mention that when using the wheelchair, I had more energy for socializing.
I made friends with a girl from my English class, Jenny. We had lunch together at least twice a week. She was pretty and popular, and had a gorgeous boyfriend named Tom. Jenny loved to talk about their relationship, which was a stormy one—lots of fights and reconciliations. I listened patiently, nodding a lot and being as sympathetic as a friend should be.
Once, after a long lunch, which ended with Jenny crying over her strawberry ice cream while I patted her arm with sisterly affection, she asked, “Aren’t you glad you don’t have to deal with this stuff?”
“What stuff?”
“You know, this boyfriend stuff!”
“Well, since I don’t have a boyfriend right now, I don’t have to deal with it. But I’m sure I will in the future.”
She looked at me as if I were speaking a foreign language. “Do you think you’ll ever get a boyfriend?”
Like everyone else, Jenny believed relationships were not possible for me. She had generously told me about hers, so I could have some vicarious experience. We left the cafeteria without speaking.
I stopped having lunch with Jenny and started having lunch with Anna. She was friends with Paul, the guy who was collecting IOUs from me. She’d come along one day as Paul was getting me up the steps to the library, and she casually grabbed the footrests of my chair to help. Anna was the opposite of Jenny—not that pretty, and though she had friends, male and female, she wasn’t popular and didn’t have a boyfriend. Nor did she show much interest in being popular or having a boyfriend. We talked about serious issues—civil rights, women’s liberation, the war in Vietnam… I was reluctant to end our conversations.
Anna also loved folk music, and we planned to go to a concert together. “Maybe we can ask Paul to join us. Does he like folk music?”
Anna didn’t answer.
“Paul, your friend, do you know if he likes folk music?”
She was looking at me as if I’d turned into a Martian.
“Yes, he does,” she whispered finally.
“Well? Do you think he would go with us?”
She sighed. “It’s not fair.”
I was puzzled. “What’s not fair?”
“It’s not fair that you’re handicapped.”
“You’re telling me!” I laughed.
“It’s not fair for you, and it’s not fair for Paul, who’s in love with you.”
“Paul is in love with me?”
I was astounded. Other than a little teasing, there had been no sign of any love interest. He showed up at the right time to help me get in and out of inaccessible buildings—that was all. The IOUs for kisses had remained unclaimed.
“How do you know Paul’s in love with me?”
“We’re friends. He confides in me.” She sounded burdened. “It’s very painful for him, you know, to be in love with you, knowing nothing can come of it. I understand him so well. I know all about love that cannot be. I was once in love with a priest.”
What the hell was she talking about? Love that cannot be? In love with a priest? Oh, yes, of course. Like being in love with a cripple. Knowing nothing can come of it.
“I understand him so well,” she repeated, and sighed. “Poor Paul!”
I couldn’t stand it. “Come on! You don’t expect me to feel sorry for him!”
“Well, you could try to be more considerate of his feelings. The priest I was in love with tried to stay away from me…”
I’d had more than I could take. “I don’t want to know about the priest, Anna. Good-bye.”
I called Audrey from a pay phone. She was home from school that day. “I can’t believe this!” she kept saying as she listened to my story. When I stopped talking, she asked, “Do you have any more classes?”
“American history at three.”
“Cut it. Get in your car and drive out here.”
“I don’t know…”
“Drive out here,” she insisted. “I’ve got a story, too, very similar to yours. You’re not going to believe it.”
She was waiting for me in her car. She pulled out of her driveway and motioned for me to pull in. I parked, got out on my crutches, and went to sit in her car. She told me her story while driving around the neighborhood. I listened as I looked for signs of the coming spring: daffodils ready to bloom in front of one house, violets around the lawn of another…
“What are you looking at? Are you listening to me?” She got annoyed when she didn’t have my undivided attention. Her story was better than mine. I’d learned about Paul’s love from a third party. She’d learned from the guy himself, who confessed his love for her and his anguish at knowing nothing could come of it.
“To me, you’re like a nun,” he had declared.
And Audrey had replied, “I can’t be a nun! I’m Jewish!”
That struck me as outrageously funny. I started laughing and couldn’t stop. Audrey was soon laughing, too, so hard that she couldn’t drive anymore. She parked the car on a quiet street, in front of someone’s newly planted lawn, and we both grew hysterical, laughing harder and harder, hitting each other, then hugging, shaking and hiccupping, mascara-stained tears running down our cheeks. Until we weren’t even sure if we were laughing or crying.
Later that day, I called my mother to tell her I would be spending the night at Audrey’s. Then we got all made-up and dressed to kill. She wore a skintight electric blue sweater and I wore a skintight hot-pink one—one of hers. We put both our chairs in her car, which was always a feat, and drove out to a club that had no steps. She parked in the “No Parking” zone in front of the door.
“You’ll get a ticket,” I said.
“Fuck it!”
“You have a foul mouth.”
“I know.” She laughed.
While struggling to get our chairs out of the car, we couldn’t help but notice a group of young people on the sidewalk—staring at us. I tried to concentrate on securing my leg rests. Audrey, sitting straight in her chair, pushed her long blond hair back with a flick of her hand, raised her head defiantly, and stared back.
“Like the show? Wanna give us a round of applause?”
I knew she was in top form.
We’d
