June 2024
A Moment in Time Two things grabbed my attention yesterday in the space of a moment. We had just landed in Las Vegas from Maui en route to Los Angeles, and turned on our phones. A text came through from our daughter-in-law, Sarah Hagan. The image of our son holding an Emmy popped into view on my husband’s phone. He showed it to me, and I squealed in delight. I knew he’d been nominated as best director for a documentary, but I’d barely dared to hope. I glanced at Facebook on my own phone, and another image appeared. My first boyfriend—I’d rarely thought of him as such until this moment—had died. David Boaz had teased me mercilessly from the time we moved from Lone Oak to Mayfield when I was eight. It was my Uncle Prentice (he too died recently, only a few weeks before David) who said, “Mark my words. They will end up dating.” I hated David, or so I thought. We were often the last two left in a spelling bee, and invariably I was the one who messed up first. When we graduated from high school, his GPA was a smidgen of a fraction higher than mine. Hence, he made the valedictory speech; mine, as salutatorian, was far less brilliant, less intellectual, less impressive. We also rivalled each other in our ineptitude for sports. It did not occur to me at the time that this lacking might have been more humiliating for him than for me. Always he seemed so confident, so self-assured, so cocky. In fourth grade, I discovered my passion for theater. The two sections of fourth grade at Longfellow were jointly performing “Snow White and the Seven Basic Food Groups.” Yes, there were seven back then. Snow White was cast from the other section, the wicked step-mother (a witch) from ours. The final decision came down to me and Sarah Pierce. “She should get it.” David pointed to me. “She won’t need to wear a mask. Or a fake nose.” He remarked on the length of my nose so often, I spent hours staring at it in the mirror, pushing the tip upward. I resolved to get it fixed as soon as I moved away from home. “Do you know the longest word in the dictionary?” he asked me once. “Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious,” I ventured. He roared with laughter. “That’s not a real word. It’s antidisestablishmentarianism.” Oh, I hated to be bested. He tried to run over me on his bike. Certain he’d swerve at the last minute, I held my ground. But his lack of athleticism prevailed, and he narrowly missed when I darted out of range. Or, perhaps once more, I’d been bested. “Pretend the ball is David Boaz’s head,” the team captain would tell me in kick ball. Yes, our animosity was well known. Looking back, I believe he liked me all along. He had not figured out his sexuality yet. Despite his advanced vocabulary, he likely did not understand what it entailed, any more than I did at the time. He relished our rivalry. Perhaps, despite my protests, I did as well. How thrilled I was on the rare occasions when I beat him in a spelling bee, or in a blackboard race to finish a math problem! When we finally began to date, it was David who made the overture. Despite Uncle Prentice’s prediction, I was shocked. “What??” “I said, would you like to go out sometime?” David mumbled, his face red, his voice uncharacteristically low and muffled. “No way!” But he persisted, and eventually I agreed. We talked, we debated, we argued, we laughed. Oh, we were still rivals, but we had fun. One night I expressed a craving for Boston cream pie, and he managed to locate one. I think of him whenever I see Boston cream pie on a menu, not so often anymore. Tiramisu reminds me of Boston cream pie somehow, and hence of David. Another night, after watching a movie, he remarked, “That actress reminds me of Camille King.” “Really?” I lifted my eyebrows as the green bubble of envy exploded in my veins. “I don’t think so…I thought she was really pretty.” “So?” David was right, of course. Camille was pretty, and I knew she and David were friends. When the rumors began that David was queer, I refused to believe them. Back then, no one I knew ever admitted to homosexual inclinations. There were “sissies,” of course, but I saw this attribute as having nothing to do with sexuality. David was not a sissy, however. He was handsome, if a bit preppy for my taste, well built, and carried himself with excellent posture, even pizzazz. When he never attempted to kiss me, even on prom night, I regarded this as a failing on my part. Undoubtedly, I lacked sex appeal to such a degree the one person who “liked” me could not bring himself to make a pass. I was, once more, humiliated. How he must have suffered, I realize now. We lost touch after graduation. He went to Vanderbilt, while I settled for the nearby state university. I started dating Norm my freshman year, and we had a date scheduled the last time I remember talking to David. We were on break from classes, both of us home for the summer. “David Boaz is downstairs to see you,” my mother called. She always regarded David as the perfect prospect. I groaned loudly enough for David to hear. Reluctantly, I came down the carpeted steps into the living room. “Why are you here?” I demanded. “No reason, apparently,” David snapped. “I guess I’ll be going.” He spun on the heel of his well-polished shoe. “Wait,” I said. “How are you? How’s Vanderbilt?” “Fine. And you?” His tone was clipped. “Fine.” I let him leave shortly after that, without ever learning what he’d intended to say or ask. For some bizarre reason, I realize I’d taken David’s homosexual leanings as a personal insult. How ignorant I was. Another opportunity arose when my husband and I attended a high school reunion several years later. Once again, I blew it. I did not speak to David. Why not? How I wish I had. He was surrounded by our former classmates, and I try to tell myself that he was too busy for me. But I know better. More than once, I caught him glancing in our direction. I went to a few reunions after that one, but David did not. He had achieved national fame by then. Still, I should have reached out. I wish I had. In his obituary, I read that he had a partner for the last thirty years. I hope he found happiness. I believe he did. He had such a zeal for ideas, for interaction… for life.
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