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“Don’t get wise with me, kid,” he shot back. “Maybe you’d like to go down to the station.”
“On what charge?” Belinda put in. “I’d like to know how you got a warrant to search this house. My lawyer with the ACLU might like to know too. Did you find any dope?”
The cop didn’t like her attitude, Clinton could see, but mention of the ACLU made him cautious. When he did not reply, she asked again if they had found anything.
“We’ll file a report and send you a copy.”
“In other words, you didn’t find any — because there isn’t any,” she called as he walked away. Clinton got up, ran around to the front of the house, and caught the police as they were heading for the car.
“I want to know why you just walked into my home and searched it. You gave no explanation. Like my girlfriend said, we have a lawyer. I want to know what this all about, and I think that as a law-abiding citizen I have a right to know.”
“We had a tip that there might be drugs in the house.”
“Who supplied you with that tip?”
“We’re not at liberty to say.”
“You shouldn’t believe everything people tell you.”
“You’ll get a report,” he reiterated. Clinton noted the cop was angry. Probably one of those arrogant bastards who plays golf with Miller, he thought. The cops piled into two squad cars and drove off.
* * *
The summer passed. Clinton worked at Sorello’s. He and Belinda lived in bliss. They took a trip to southern Indiana, visiting Nashville and Clifty Falls Park. He spent more of his money on a trip to Chicago to attend a concert by Isaac Stern. They drove down to Indianapolis to see a Shakespeare play. Having money to spend on partying, clothes, and booze when he went away to college suddenly did not seem so important.
At the beginning of August Belinda came into quite a bit of cash. Ray Miller settled out of court and paid Belinda a large sum of money to drop the assault and battery charge against him. She gave a generous contribution to the ACLU and had the rest of the cash free. She also earned some by playing piano for two weddings.
It was the money, he thought later, that precipitated their break-up — though not what caused it. One day she announced, “Clinton, I’m leaving you.”
He looked across at her in shock. They were sitting at a picnic table in a local park. Her hair blew in the breeze. She had on a purple smock and bell-bottom jeans. She had cut the seams where the bells were and sewed colorful cloth in to make them bigger. She wore no shoes. He wondered if this was a joke or jibe, but by now he knew Belinda did not go in for jokes or teasing.
“What do you mean?”
“Just what I said. It’s time for me to move on.”
“I don’t want you to move on.”
“Yes, you do. You won’t admit it to yourself, but it’s time. You’re going to college, aren’t you?” He had been accepted at Indiana University but had hesitated, knowing she would not go with him and that their relationship would not work if he went away. “You need to go.”
“I won’t go without you.”
“You can’t go with me, because I’m leaving. It’s time to move on.”
Clinton hoped he would not cry. “Why? Tell me.”
“Well, a lot of things. The whole thing with Miller was upsetting. I came out ahead on it. He got put in his place. But I’ve got better things to think about than that.”
“It can’t happen again.”
“It can. You’ve got a lot of ties here and a lot of people who have plans for you. I’m not a part of their plans.”
“I want to follow my own plans. I’ve learned that from you.”
“You need to follow your dreams, Clinton, not your plans. And I’ve got to follow mine.”
“Your dreams don’t have anything to do with me?”
“No. Not now. Yours don’t have anything to do with me, really. You want to stay with me because you love me — ”
“Isn’t finding someone you love finding your dream?”
“Not always,” she said, her voice little cold. “Most of the time it is, but for you and me, no. I’ve got to explore. I don’t want to be chained down in life. What’s the point of living if you’re chained down and can’t find your reality?”
“You think being with me is like being chained down?”
“For me, for now, yes. And don’t think it’s your fault or that I don’t love you. I do love you. But now is not the time to settle down. I’ve got to find my dreams. You do, too. You need to go to school.”
“That’s not my dream anymore.”
“You have to work through the expectations people have for you. You think you can find your dreams by acting like me; or by being close to me and in love with me. Neither of those things will work. You’ll find what you really want in a different way.”
He sat there feeling emptied out. She looked across.
“I’m leaving in three days. Will you do one thing for me?”
“Anything.”
“Enjoy our last days together. Make them sweet.”
“It’s so. . . bad . . . that you’re leaving.” He fought back tears.
“Life is unkind.”
The park, the sunshine, the people walking, the children, the noises around them — everything resonated unreality. Still, he rallied. He looked at her.
“I’ll miss you,” he managed to say.
She only smiled.
* * *
Clinton could never describe the next three days accurately. The mix of pain and joy he felt defied category. He only had to work one night. The rest of the time they were together. They did not make the days spectacular. They followed the same routine they had always followed. They read and listened to music on the back deck. At night and mornings they made love. He felt hollow and washed out. Belinda seemed sad. She tried, almost too hard, to avoid a show of emotion. It crept through, though. Once he found her crying. When he tried to talk to her she held up her hand and shook her head. They did not talk about why she had wept. At the end of three days, she packed. He carried her clothes, which now filled a duffle bag rather than a back-pack.
“Can you drive me to the airport?” she asked.
He nodded. He drove her there. They kissed, she hefted her duffl bag, started to go, hesitated, threw the bag down, embraced him a long moment, threw a flurry of kisses on his mouth and face, picked up her bag, and hurried into the terminal.
Each moment of that day seemed to be made of lead and to last an hour. He worked that night. Betsy came to the restaurant. Somehow she heard he and Belinda had split.
“You want to go somewhere tomorrow night?”
He said he did and would call her.
The date went off predictably. He tried not to be morose. Betsy talked a lot. When it was late, she suggested they go to visit a mutual friend. The house was empty. She all but pulled him into bed. After she fell asleep, he lay there looked into the darkness thinking of Belinda and of dreams.
* * *
He went to college. Betsy also enrolled there. They continued their relationship. Clinton had never been a big Rolling Stones fan, but his roommate had the LP Flowers. He heard the song “Ruby Tuesday” for the first time. His roommate was away, and he played the song over and over. He must have played it twenty times when his roomie arrived back.
“Cool song,” he remarked, noting the odd look on Clinton’s face.
“It is. Who’s it about? I mean, is it about someone in particular?”
“The ideal chick, I guess,” he said.
Clinton got the lyrics to the song. The number of phrases in it that coincided with things Belinda had said stupefied him. He concluded she knew the song. It had been released two years earlier, so she undoubtedly had heard it. She was a Rolling Stones fan. She might have adapted phrases from the song into explanations of why she did what she did. Maybe the song influenced how she thought about herself and what she wanted out of life. Maybe she had gotten her idea of pursuing dreams and not thinking about the past or about tomorrow from the song. It might have been important in how she formed her personal identity.
He bought his own copy and played the song over and over again. For many years he thought he might encounter her, thought she might return to her home town to see relatives or friends, but he never saw or heard of her again. Even with the advent of the Internet and improved ways to search for people, he could not find Belinda Parker. Married to Betsy Lane, successful, wealthy, he still thought of her at night, as he lay beside his wife, children asleep in their beds, the demands of his career always floating through his mind.
Every time he heard the song, he remembered.
About David W. Landrum
