He Loves Me Not: A Cooney Classic Romance

  Ted and I rushed down the aisle, skirted the liquor-box altar, and set the keyboard down where Ralph was pointing. Ted plugged it in, I opened the legs and locked them, Ted slid a folding chair under me, and I joined in at the chorus without anybody missing a beat.

  I was halfway through the “Wedding March” before I realized that I had not even thanked Ted for enduring all that for my sake.

  5

  I LOVE WEDDINGS. I love all those words about goodness and loyalty and love. I love the flowers and the vows and the misty eyes of grandmothers. This bride was perfect: small and slender with a delicate face half-hidden by swaths of cloudy veiling. Her groom was handsome and very nervous, and the minister had a fine, clear voice that made me shiver.

  During the exchanging of rings, Ted squatted down next to me and began focusing his camera. I had almost forgotten that he was with a newspaper. I looked down into his hair, which was wavy and thick. His face was furrowed and he was concentrating very hard on his work. He didn’t even know I was there. How well I knew the feeling!

  Just as he was about to take the shot, the bridal party all suddenly shifted places and now the keyboard was in his way. Making a face and a little murmur that only I could hear, Ted got up off his knees and sat on my chair. The only trouble was, I was taking up all the space. “Shove over,” he hissed.

  I gave him all but an inch.

  He took about six photographs of the bride and groom exchanging vows, looking up into each other’s eyes. I looked into Ted’s eyes instead. It was difficult to tell what color they were and we were at very close range, too. Gray, I thought, from three inches away. Or bluish.

  Ted had forgotten about me so completely that when he turned he was absolutely shocked to find another nose literally touching his. We sat there, squeezed on the folding chair, nose to nose, and all of a sudden it was funny.

  The minister was leading a prayer.

  The guests were absolutely silent.

  And Ted and I were starting to giggle.

  I took his elbow to help him contain his laughter. But laughs don’t start in elbows; they start in chests, and I couldn’t start hanging on his chest. It was the bride and groom who were supposed to do the embracing, not the pianist and the photographer. I felt my own laugh spurting out of me and I practically crammed my fist down my throat to stop it. Ted took his pencil and wrote in big capital letters on a page of his notebook: GAG. Very quietly he ripped the word off and held it gently over my mouth.

  I thought I would burst. My ribs hurt from holding in a laugh. And I wasn’t even sure what was funny. If Ralph hadn’t kicked me I would actually have missed my cue for the recessional.

  We smashed into the march, all trumpet and drum and noise, and as the guests began talking and laughing, I said, “You know, Ted, it’s rather difficult to play when I can’t reach half the keyboard.”

  “Would you like me to move?”

  That was a tough question. I really did need access to the other half of the keyboard. On the other hand, no, I didn’t want Ted to move. I liked him pressed up against me like that.

  Ralph said, “Uh, kid, do you mind getting off Alison’s chair? I would like her to contribute to this number, please.”

  Ted got up quickly and I shifted over. The seat was warm where he had sat. I hoped he would stay and talk to me but he didn’t. He moved on behind me. I twisted once to see him but it wasn’t possible. All I could see was the occasional flash of camera in the crowd.

  We wrapped up the march, and I sagged with relief. I had not enjoyed that one. If I had really burst out laughing in the middle of somebody else’s wedding…

  What I had enjoyed was Ted. I looked around for him, but my view was blocked by gray pants. I looked up, past the belt and the jacket, and there was Ted. I stood up. We weren’t nose to nose. He was taller. “Good nose,” he said.

  “Yours isn’t bad either.”

  We giggled then. “So you’re a reporter?” I said.

  “Yup.”

  I was pretty sure you had to have a college degree in English or journalism to be a reporter, which meant Ted could not be younger than twenty-one or twenty-two. But he looked about seventeen to me. Perfect age, I thought. Perfect nose. What else could I ask for? “Where do you go to school?” I said carefully.

  “Western High. How about you?”

  “J.F.K. High.” That meant we lived on opposite sides of the city, which has five high schools. “What paper are you with?” I asked him.

  “The Register.”

  “You’re a full-fledged reporter?”

  “Do I look half-fledged?”

  I giggled again. “No. You—”

  “Alison,” said Ralph, “arrange your love life on your own time. We have to get into the other room for the reception.” He took my arm to pull me away from Ted. Obviously he felt force would be needed.

  “Wait a minute,” said Ted. “How was Alison supposed to play in another room? Did they expect you to roll their terrible grand piano down there?”

  Ralph shrugged. “They’ve got another piano. In perfect shape. We found out about it just after you two left.”

  Ted and I looked at each other. “Oh,” we said.

  “It’s like that sometimes,” said Ralph. “Come on, Alison.” He dragged me away. It seemed to me I had a fantasy about being fought over by two men. This wasn’t quite what I had in mind. The one wanted me for my music; the other didn’t care because he was off immediately taking more photographs.

  Musically, receptions are a bore. Nobody is listening to you anyway, and as long as you keep the rhythm and the melody going they think they’ve gotten their money’s worth. I’ve done the repertoire so often I don’t even have to think about it to get it right. This was nice, because I could use the reception time to daydream about Ted. It would have been a drag to have to pay attention to my music as well.

  Ted drifted around the huge buffet, stuffing himself. It seemed unfair that he could eat and I had to sit there working. By the time the reception was over and I could stop playing, the food would be all gone. And these people had civilized food. Roast beef and cheese and cold salads mixed in with their nauseating fish eggs.

  Ted materialized by my elbow. “You like petit fours?” he said.

  “Love them.”

  He popped a chocolate-and-mint petit four into my mouth.

  “Romance at the piano,” said Ralph. “I’m too old for this sort of thing. Ted, old boy, bring me something, too. A whole plateful, if you don’t mind. Lots of rolls. None of your romantic little cakes. I’m starved.”

  So Ted very obligingly filled up plates for everyone. Between melody lines Ralph would grab a quick bite. I had to play some very long tags so he could finish chewing. But I didn’t mind. Since I couldn’t eat with my fingers, Ted fed me.

  I kept thinking that we would drive home together, Ted and I. We’d laugh about falling over and getting ice in our shoes. We’d talk about his being a reporter and my being a musician. We’d get nose to nose again, and maybe lip to lip.

  Ted said, “I have to go. Got to get this to the paper by five. Nice meeting you, Alison. Take care of yourself.”

  And he was gone.

  I was playing, “What the world needs now, is love, sweet love.” I thought, Who cares about the world? Alison, I, Alison, need love, sweet love.

  But Ted needed to get his pictures and his story in to his paper. I wondered what he had thought about me. Was I just a creature who had tripped him up, but nevertheless worth a few minutes’ effort of food-stuffing? Did he think I was interesting? Or just an unbelievably hungry piano player?

  “I never thanked him,” said Ralph. “What was his name, Alison? I’ll call him up tonight.”

  “Ted,” I said. I thought what a nice secure easy name Ted was.

  “Ted what?” said Ralph irritably.

  I didn’t know his last name. I’d forgotten to ask. “Maybe he’ll have a by-line on his article,” I said. “Buy The Register and
see.”

  But when The Register came out, it had three photographs of important guests and three paragraphs of data about them…and no by-line.

  I considered going over to Western High and standing in the central hall waiting for Ted to pass by. I could sort of flag him down. Hi, I’d say, I was just passing through.

  He would probably suspect something.

  “What I suspect,” said my father, frowning at me, “is that you have gone and gotten a crush on somebody.”

  “You don’t go get crushes,” I told him. “Crushes come and get you.”

  Daddy nodded sagely. “That’s the worst kind,” he said.

  And he was right. I had the worst kind. The biggest, heaviest, most ridiculous crush I could ever have imagined. On a boy whose last name I didn’t even know. I would probably never run into Ted again.

  I actually lay in bed thinking about his nose. It worried me that I wasn’t sure what color his eyes were. How could I go on with this crush when his eyes might be gray or they might be blue?

  Coming up that week was an Elks’ Club Dance, the Women’s Clubs Annual Combined Awards Dinner, and a thirtieth wedding anniversary. I doubted very much that Ted would be at any of those.

  I bought every issue of The Register that week. I didn’t read many of the articles, but I checked out all the by-lines. If they had a reporter whose first name was Ted, they weren’t mentioning it.

  He was a mirage, I thought. I’ve got a crush on a cloud.

  6

  “SAW YOU THE OTHER day,” said Mike MacBride. “All red ribbons and glitter going into the country club.”

  I nodded. That outfit has too many spangles for my taste. But as Ralph points out, the customer isn’t paying all that money to watch a bunch of post office clerks at work. I have a long dark cape I wear over it during the winter, to sort of hide beneath.

  “And that cape!” said Mike. “You looked like Superwoman, all right. Ready to swirl off and save the world.”

  Evidently the cape wasn’t too good for camouflage. My cheeks went as red as the spangled costume. “It was just the Women’s Clubs Annual Combined Awards Dinner,” I said.

  “Hey,” said Mike, laughing. “Sounds exciting.”

  “No—stodgy.” I smiled up at him. He was just about the same height as Ted. I could tell by the distance between our noses. And Mike’s eyes were definitely brown, dark deep brown.

  “You ought to rev things up with a little hard rock,” said Mike.

  “They don’t want to notice anybody but themselves,” I told him. “We’re just background.”

  “Background?” said Mike. “In that red outfit? Not likely.”

  He was cornering me on the third floor and I had to get to gym in the basement. Ms. Santora had told me if I came in late one more time, she’d knock my grade down. I tried to decide whether a good gym grade was more important than small talk with Mike McBride.

  If it had been Ted, there’d have been no question.

  It was so ridiculous to be talking with a real, live, interested, handsome boy right there in the hall—just the daydream I’d always had—and be comparing him with a boy I didn’t even know. “Could you walk down toward the girls’ gym with me?” I said. “I’m really worried about being late again.”

  Mike hesitated. He’s pretty large, as football players tend to be (successful ones, at least), and when Mike hesitated the whole corridor of passing students hesitated with him. “Okay,” he said smiling, “fine. I guess I can be late to Trig instead of you being late to gym.”

  I actually argued with him. I told him that Trig was more important than gym, I shouldn’t have asked him, he should go on to Trig.

  “Pick up your feet, will you?” said Mike. “At least one of us should get to a class on time.”

  I picked up my feet. From the direction he was propelling me, I could tell that I was going to be the one getting to class on time. I wished it could be summertime, when nobody had to go anywhere, and Mike and I could just wander around and talk. No, it had to be school—and gym, of all things—and we were going into a hall that smelled of old unwashed gymsuits and sweaty sneakers. If there is anything less romantic than that, I don’t want to hear about it!

  Mike, like Ralph and Ted, had very long legs. I had to trot beside him. I thought how terrible it would be if I fell over with Mike the way I had with Ted. On the other hand, maybe it would lead to something interesting.

  Mike was talking about a ball game. I had been paying a lot of attention to Mike, but absolutely no attention to what Mike was saying. I hadn’t any idea whether he’d been in the game, or seen the game, or read about it in the sports pages. I didn’t even know what sort of ball was involved. Surely not football, this time of year. “Mmmmm,” I said, trying to sound understanding and interesting.

  Mike gave me a peculiar look. “Who was the guy whose van you got out of at the country club?” he said.

  “Ralph. He runs the combo.”

  “Ralph ever get substitutes for you?”

  “Oh, sure.” I told him about my father’s rules on wild parties.

  “How awful,” said Mike. “You go to all the dreary, boring, middle-aged stuff and you have to stay home for all the good ones.”

  “Right,” I said. I thought, wow, Daddy wouldn’t like Mike. Daddy doesn’t think the wild parties are the good ones. I looked up at Mike again and wondered if all the parties Mike went to were wild. I had a feeling they would be.

  Ted. Somehow I didn’t even picture Ted at parties. I pictured him doing things alone. Doing interesting things. Skydiving, maybe, or hiking the entire Appalachian Trail.

  “So if you ever really wanted not to work some night,” said Mike, “Ralph isn’t necessarily dependent on you.”

  “Right. The world is full of keyboard men.”

  “You are not,” said Mike McBride, looking down at me and taking my arm as we got to the top of the next flight of stairs, “definitely not, a keyboard man.”

  I flushed. All I could think of was falling. He was going to spring compliments on me and, I was going to tumble down a flight of stairs like a complete klutz. I hung on to his hand on one side and the railing on the other, like a cripple. The distinctive odor of the locker rooms wafted up to meet us.

  “I hardly ever come down here,” said Mike. “Feels like alien territory.”

  “Feels alien to me, too,” I told him. “I hate gym. The only reason I’m even passing Physical Education is because I do attend. They can’t flunk you as long as your body is on the floor.”

  Mike frowned. “You don’t like gym?” he said. “But you like sports, don’t you?”

  Too late I remembered that sports were the center of Mike’s life the way music was the center of mine. “Sports,” I said feebly, trying to think of one.

  Mike just laughed. “Nice to talk to you, Alison,” he said. “See you around.” His thick sneakers pounded on the stairs going back up.

  Stupid. The adjective belonged to me. Mike had all but said that he liked me, and he wanted to know if Ralph ever gave me free evenings. I told myself Mike had rushed away to get to Trig, but I really knew he had lost interest in me. How could I blame him?

  I changed into my nasty gym clothes (I admit to being partially responsible for that ripe odor in the halls) and went out into the gymnasium. We were doing gymnastics. Or rather, other people were doing gymnastics. I was standing around wondering how they could bend their bodies like that.

  “Alison,” said Ms. Santora helplessly, “you’re so slim and trim and you must be well coordinated or you couldn’t play the piano. But you can’t even find the mat, let alone tumble on it.”

  “Actually,” I said, “falling is one of the things I do best.”

  I tried to do a somersault, fell heavily on my side, and struck the tumbler next to me with my left foot. For the millionth time, I thanked God that gym is not coed. If I have to make a fool of myself three times a week, at least I don’t have to do it in front of the boy
s.

  Boys, I thought.

  I narrowed that down quickly. Boy. Ted. Two very fine three-letter words.

  It was much easier to daydream about Ted, whom I didn’t and wouldn’t know, than about Mike, who was real and there and required effort I didn’t know how to make.

  7

  “YOU KNOW, HONEY,” SAID my father at supper, “I always thought you’d be a companion to me in my old age. But I’m hardly even middle-aged yet, and you’re off seven nights a week gallivanting.”

  “I’m not gallivanting, Daddy, I’m working.”

  We were having frozen pizza. We both hate cooking. Hate it. We eat a lot of frozen dinners, tons of junky fast food, and consider it the height of domesticity when we scramble eggs and make toast. The way we eat is boring, expensive, and probably not very nutritious, but it suits us.

  “Sometimes I worry about what your mother would say,” my father told me. He finished his pizza and began tugging at his hair, which is a sign that he’s about to deliver a distress lecture. I’m not sure he even knows what Mother would say about that. They had known each other only two months when they got married; I was born eleven months later, and she died six months after that.

  This time Daddy was sufficiently upset to get her photograph off the piano. We have a nice old Yamaha grand, and Daddy likes to keep their wedding picture propped up on it. Every single time I practice I have to set it on the floor so it won’t fall off and break during the banging of chords. It’s dreadful to think that my only contact with my mother is impatiently moving her wedding picture out of my way.

  “Your mother would want you to have a more normal social schedule, honey,” said my father.

  “I’ll second that,” I said.

  My father nearly dropped his napkin. “You would?”

  “I’m normal, Daddy. I’d like to date. Have boyfriends.”

  “Then why don’t you?” He was honestly puzzled. You would have thought I could run downtown and buy a boyfriend at the department store. Pick my size, keep my change, and live happily ever after.

  I shrugged and shoved the pizza leftovers into their cardboard box.