The imposition

Dear reader, as what follows is a chapter from the middle of my memoir, permit me to offer some needed detail. Otherwise, you may find yourself wondering what the hell is going on. First, an introduction. I was born a New Yorker who, owing to circumstances beyond my control, was raised from before memory by loving but occasionally error-prone American parents in London.

My family also maintained a vacation home on the Atlantic in Bay Head NJ. Which is where the events in this chapter take place.

I am in my early teens and becoming aware of the world and its distractions.

Chapter Four

When I look back, I picture England in black and white - and America in color. English girls are peaches and cream. American girls are tan. English girls smelled of soap. American girls smelled of sun oil and salt. I loved them all.

English boys aspired to be slender and Byronesque. They stored troves of quotes and bon mots. And flattered hostesses. Good manners, sophistication, and casual erudition were the mark of a man. Attention to dress, modesty, and effortless, apologetic achievement was their goal.

American boys were vigorous, athletic, and well-built. They were loud, large, and enthusiastic. They steam-rolled subtlety, strove to win, and loudly celebrated victory in whatever physical endeavor they pursued. It was why America was the richest, most vibrant, and productive country ever known. And it was why so many people did not like Americans.

Of course, it was not as clear-cut as that. There were many young American poets and plenty of English boys who would gut you as soon as look at you on a football pitch (soccer if you must).

Sports were compulsory at my schools. My prep school’s motto was Juvenal’s admonition “Mens Sana in Corpore Sano” - "a sound mind in a sound body." And they wanted their young Christian soldiers to go onward with stamina. I did not mind. I loved sports.

Particularly tennis. It was the only sport I could play with girls. Back then, especially in England, girls only played hockey - the field kind, because they did not have ice in England, even in the drinks. Except my parents used ice - because they were American and did not know any better. Once in Bay Head, I played tennis with a girl for over three hours in the rain without talking. I have no idea what the score was.

I was silent because I was shy and had little idea what girls like to talk about. And despite a desire for her to see me as more than a tennis opponent, I did not want to impose on her. In my self-absorption, I was ignorant of the distinct possibility that, for three hours, she was waiting for the imposing to begin.

Her name was Kim. Short for Kimberly. That was Americans for you - always using nicknames and abbreviations.

Kim had a friend whose family rented the summer home next to hers. She was called Shelly. Her real name was Rachel. It took me a while to realize that her nickname was a diminutive of the last syllable of her formal name. The one her parents called her when they were mad.

But back to Kim. Not only did I possibly disappoint her by not imposing on her for three hours, but I certainly disappointed her father by calling her ugly. I did not mean to. And it was not my fault. Her father made me. Let me explain. And while I do, you have to consider that some observant fellow once said that Americans and the English were two peoples separated by a common language - or some ripe observation of the kind.

Anyway, her father (I do not remember his name, but he was a judge - not that that’s relevant) once asked me to rate Kim’s looks by English standards. I guess he was curious. However, I did not understand what he was driving at. I was unaware there were distinct national rankings for appearance. If pushed to identify a difference, I suppose I would have to say that - to my eye - American girls were darker. This conclusion is hardly surprising as I only saw American girls in the summer when they were tanned.

Be that as it may, let me get to the end of the judge’s request for an independent, foreign analysis of his daughter’s looks. I hesitated. I desperately wanted to give him an answer that he would be pleased with. But I could not lie. My parents had done an admirable job of instilling in me an obligation to tell the truth.

To my inquisitor, my incertitude was plain, and thinking that the process might be speeded up with a helpful prod, he changed the form of the question to multiple choice by offering some alternatives. To wit, he asked if I thought his daughter was beautiful, ugly, attractive, cute, or homely. Before I tell you my reply, let me give you some background.

Kim had a pleasing, open, candid, and direct face. But she was not a classic beauty. At least not at the time of the judge’s interrogation. She was trim and fit - you will remember that she was capable of three hours of tennis - but cursed by her age to be the victim of hormonal changes that left on her the marks of adolescence. Let me rephrase. If you squinted, she showed signs of the swan she grew into, but an honest appraisal would admit that there was much of the duckling still about her.

So, it was with relief that I found one of the judge’s offerings to be an acceptable response. I had to dispose of ‘beautiful’ for the reasons mentioned above. ‘Ugly’ was never a contender because that would be plainly insulting, and proper young English boys never insulted girls’ fathers. ‘Attractive’ had a whiff of improper thoughts about it. And I would just as soon have died as admit to the judge that the thought had crossed my mind that I might impose on his daughter. ‘Cute’ was a non-starter because it was not a word I used. And to my taste was better suited to babies. But ‘homely’ - there was the winner. If you are an American, I can feel your shock - your wonderment over what could have possibly possessed me to settle on that.

I must offer my reasoning. The meaning of homely in American English is not complimentary. However, in British English, the word conjures up images of the welcoming warmth of the hearth and the comfortable embrace of the family home. I had tried to convey to the judge that his daughter was a credit to her family. So I was surprised after I announced my selection, that his tone was henceforth more formal with me - our relationship considerably more frosty.

When the American meaning of homely became clear to me some years later, it caused me deep regret. If only I could have turned back time and changed my answer - or at least tracked down the worthy gentleman and explained my cruel logic. Alas, neither option was available as time travel was a non-starter. And the judge had disappeared from the scene.

I never made Kim aware of my harsh - if unintentional - rating of her appearance. And I hope she never became aware of my even more profound betrayal of her. We had exchanged glances after our tennis match. And there was an unspoken anticipation that there may be more than friendship in the offing. Yet my dilatory attentions bore no fruit. We never held hands. Then the road forked, and I traveled a different path.

One evening, I went to the movies with Kim and Shelly. Perhaps Kim anticipated a little imposition in the dark, but my mind and hand moved elsewhere - much to Shelly’s surprise. I do not know what she and Kim talked about. I cannot say whether or not my name came up in their conversations. And if it did, whether Kim discussed a desire to hold hands with me. But whatever the substance of their conversation, it had left Shelly unprepared for the developments in the movie house.

Shelly turned out to be a decisive girl. I do not know if it was because she was someone who would have what she wanted, regardless of the plans of her girlfriends. Or because Kim had left the field open by staying silent on her dreams for me. Or lastly, because Kim had given Shelly carte blanche in matters of the heart. Regardless, after Shelly started at my approach and looked around to see the source of the light brush against the back of her fingers, she took my hand without hesitation into the cool warmth of hers. I cannot remember the name of the movie.

Our affair was deliciously illicit. Pleasure came from the shared secrets we kept from others. If Shelly rued her possible betrayal of Kim, she did not show it. And I was too callow to appreciate the effect my behavior might have on others. I cannot offer the reader much blushing detail as our relationship was prim. The summer came to an end. And Shelly and I were never together again.

Inconsistency is one of the problems of memory. You can recall the memorable - but the daily to and fro of living is consigned to the blurred pages. The beginning of my romance with Shelly is a picture rich in detail. Its end is lost to me.

Memory can be capriciously one-sided. While I look back fondly at our evening in a cinema, Shelly may have no memory of the occasion. Or, if she recalls, she may view our handholding as unremarkable event in a series of handholdings. Or maybe it is as historic a memory for her as it is for me.

I do not know where Shelly lives now. Statistically, she is - or has been - married. She has children that I will never meet. If I passed her in the street, I would not recognize her. And God knows, maybe we ate at the same time in the same restaurant, our tables next to each other - with us sitting back to back with no idea that we had once sat in a darkened cinema, side by side, holding hands.

It seems cruel. And yet it is not. We are, in part, our memories. Without the losses, we would not value what we have found.

I hope Shelly is happy and has a large family - if that is what she wants. Does she have a career? Does she think much about the past? Does she write? And if she writes - did she ever write of me? I will never know.