“Well that ain’t romantic, baby,” Melanie said.
Finally, after much trial and error, the veil was released and floated perfectly into the action below. Wild applause in the theater. Melanie gave a whoop and jumped onto Erik’s back, wrapping him in arms and legs, her full-throated laugh against his ear.
Oklahoma! was a triumph. Full house after full house, standing ovation after standing ovation.
A few days later, after the stage was struck, the sets broken down, the props stored and the costumes dry-cleaned, Erik and Melanie went out for a drink.
“You mean like a date,” Melanie said to his invitation. “Or just a do?”
“A date,” Erik said.
She looked at him a moment, arms crossed. “I’ve never dated a white man.”
“Neither have I.”
She clucked her tongue, planted her palm square in his chest and pushed him away. “You are adorable. Pick me up at seven.”
Erik whistled as he showered and shaved. It wasn’t until he was tucking in his shirt tails that he realized today was the nineteenth of April. Seven years since the shootings. Where would he have been at this time of the night? Probably in the waiting room of the hospital. Asleep.
He pondered that as he buckled his belt and filled his pockets: cash, wallet, keys. He paused, the flattened penny in the palm of his hand. Troubled, he sighed and jiggled it in his loose fist.
“You know, James,” he said. “I think I’m gonna fly solo tonight.”
He went to his bedside table drawer and took out the blue leather case that held Joe Bianco’s purple heart. He flipped open the cover and lifted out the inset.
“This is the most symbolically wrong place I can think to put you,” he said, laughing as he placed the penny in the bottom of the case. “So do me a favor and keep it entre nous. All right?”
He replaced the inset, covering the penny with the medal. Then he shut the case and left.
Ten After One
He slept well and woke up smiling and stretching the next morning. Lazy and smug, he combed through last night’s images. It had been, in his opinion, a spectacular first date. A crazy good, touchy-feely time, culminating in ice cream and a walk along the canal.
Kissing Melanie on the Main Street Bridge, their mouths sweet with chocolate and butterscotch, Erik had felt flammable. It had been a long time since he had kissed like that: slow and soft, letting it unfold of its own accord, following where her embrace led him. Feeling her kiss go from sweet cold to even sweeter warmth. The way his mouth felt in hers. He was dialed into her, and it had been an eternity time since his sexuality had extended feelers beyond his own selfish needs and into a woman’s experience. An immeasurable age since he’d been caught up in a woman like that, caught up tight with her, engaged mind and body to the point of wanting to be inside of it all. Feeling young. Feeling great. Great to be alive with nowhere else to rather be.
Nowhere else to rather be?
Erik bolted up from the pillows, noticing his bedroom was suspiciously bright with sunlight. He seized the clock: it was ten after one.
Ten after one?
He checked his watch. It was right.
“Shit,” he muttered, falling back.
He considered screwing it. He’d already come this far. He could call in, claim a debilitating stomach bug and go back to sleep. But his conscience wouldn’t let him do it. He got up, dressed and drove to campus.
It was April 20, 1999.
The theater was quiet and eerie. Hurrying down to his office, Erik passed the student lounge where a crowd had gathered, students and faculty huddled together on couches, standing in close groups. People were holding each other. Some were crying. Everyone was focused on the television.