My Father Says I Can Go Out with You

A True Story of Innocence and Poor Behavior

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Photo by Jake Ballard on Unsplash

“My father says I can go out with you,” she said from her end of the canoe. The boat was rocking gently in the middle of the small pond behind my house, as we faced each other, the dripping paddles lying crisscross in the hull between us. The baby-blue canoe was mine, my proudest possession.

“But we can only see each other at my house when my parents are home,” she said. “Or, if we go on a date, my brother has to come.”

What was this? We were alone at this very moment! Must I lose this pleasure simply because I wanted her to be my girlfriend?

Kim and I, along with her younger sister and brothers, had been friends since the previous summer, when I’d seen that a new family had moved into the sagging farmhouse up the road and turned my bicycle into their driveway to say hi. There was an old wood picnic table beneath a big weeping willow in their yard, and this was where I’d spent most of the past two summers, chatting with my new friends, joking, wrestling in the grass, taking pictures of each other with the 35-millimeter camera I found at a neighborhood yard sale, competing to correctly identify any car that passed along the street (this was her brother’s invented game, which he won every time), and teasing the next door neighbor, Carlos, who was always hanging around and didn’t understand most of what we said; he laughed when we laughed, smiled when we smiled, and taught us a few Portuguese swear words.

Kim was the oldest, about my age. Her sister, Dee, was next, and then Scott, who was ostensibly my “real” friend, though I felt much closer to Kim and Dee—especially Dee; she was my self-professed “buddy.” Finally, there was little Jimmy. His parents insisted we let him hang around.

Dee had a crush on me, but I reserved my romantic feelings for Kim. While Dee was fun and flirtatious and comfortable around the boys, Kim was bookish and poised, and somewhat guarded, though she always had a smile for me. She was petite, with a round face and pixie-cut dark hair. I think Kim represented for me some deeper aspiration for a more sophisticated, or intellectual, or thoughtful path. Kim didn’t often sit with us at the picnic table on those breezy summer days, and I remember keeping half an eye on the house as we chattered, hoping she’d come out. Sometimes she did and sometimes she didn’t.

Kim would have been my first girlfriend. But I was not interested in handicapping our relationship; I’d pass on the deal, I said. Better to remain friends.

Was I really that strong and independent back then? I really liked her. Or was it that I sensed this was the answer she wanted to hear? She accepted my decision as the sensible option. Two traders shaking hands over a mutually satisfactory arrangement.

We paddled ashore and carried my canoe across the field to my father’s barn.

I don’t remember the last time I saw Kim, but a number of years later, in my early twenties, I found myself swimming at the Dartmouth quarry with my younger sister and her new boyfriend. The quarry was a popular summer destination for young people, and Kim’s sister, Dee, happened to be there. Dee’s playful spirit and youthful energy endured, but her flirtatiousness now inhabited a more... curvaceous residence.

Wet bathing suits and glistening skin somehow led to the agreement that we would meet back at my apartment.

To this day I regret how I handled things afterward.

Dee was a great girl. I don’t know why I wasn’t more attracted to her; I just wasn’t. She was a fine companion and kept things light. I’ll never know if we could have stayed friends because I never called her after that night. I had recently started seeing another girl, and on this day, the day we ran into each other at the quarry, I was having doubts about my new relationship. I thought it would be good to “play the field” a bit before committing. But that was never me; I was a one-woman kind of guy, and I felt guilty immediately after my evening with Dee. And that’s all right—feelings are feelings—but she didn’t deserve my snub.

I ended up marrying that other girl. It wasn’t necessarily the best decision I ever made, but it felt right at the time. Or, at least, most of the time it felt right.

Dee and Kim’s dad died of cancer sometime between the summers beneath the willow and the quarry meet-up. Dee was very close to her dad. I believe his name was Jimmy, like his youngest son. I always liked him. He was a heavy smoker but an affable guy. Their mom was not so friendly. She was very strict and never smiled. A few years after Jimmy Sr’s death, I heard the woman had gotten arrested for driving under the influence. She’d sideswiped a couple of cars and taken down a fence, someone said.

I don’t know where any of my summer friends are now. The last I heard of Dee—from my mom, who saw her in town quite a few years ago—was that she was dating a guy who was generously adorned with tattoos (according to my mom, he “looked like a comic book”).

It’s Dee that I think of the most—we certainly spent more time together than Kim and I, despite that one memorable afternoon in my canoe, or even than Scott and I—and I do wonder what she’s doing today. I guess, now that I think about it, this story is more about Dee than Kim.

I’m sorry, Dee. I’m sorry I acted like such a dog. I’m sorry I never sent you that photo of your dad that I promised. I hope you’re happy and living a good life. I hope your tattooed boyfriend treated you better than I did. When I think of you, I remember your bursts of laughter, your playful pouts, the way you would place your hands on your hips and mimic the girls from school, the zest you showed for every thought you couldn’t wait to share.

I miss you, Dee. I hope you know that your joy, and those two summers laughing beneath the willow, and our one night together, live inside me still.

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Thanks for reading!

DB

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