began reciting a litany of all the things we’d do once I got there. As I started looking for the interchange that would take me to Athens and The University of Georgia, I caught myself humming the little singsong; so, after giggling like a schoolgirl, nothing could have stopped me from warbling, “I’m gonna see My Lori; I’m gonna see My Lori; I’m gonna see My Lor?]eeeeeee; I’m gonna see My Lori!” It’s a good thing nobody made the trip with me, since I sing as if a wood rasp had grated my vocal cords.
My Lori and I grew up together; then, in high school, we grew romantic together. The quintessential Waldo-type nerd, I wore the requisite thick-framed glasses (contacts irritated my eyeballs), nursed on the asthma inhaler whenever I got nervous, belonged to the chess club, and even sported the pocket protector like the be-all and end-all of fashion. And I sank deep into an addiction to fantasy role-playing games. Not those video things with killer graphics that cause sensory overload, but the old pencil-and-paper tests of mental acumen requiring a library of books, several oddly shaped “crystals,” and many, many hours to play a single adventure in a never-ending campaign lorded over by a game-master with a God complex. But I guess every high school needs guys like me to keep the eternal pecking order alive.
My Lori, on the other hand, was a science geek. Short and overweight, she swore allegiance to every diet craze to ride over the horizon, but never with any success. (She never believed me when I told her I loved her just the way she was.) And she had terrible acne, which finally started to clear up about the time we graduated. She was, and, truth be told, she still is, the smartest person I’ve ever known.
The University of Georgia rewarded all My Lori’s hard work with a full scholarship; I got a government grant to attend the local community college. We wrote religiously from the time she left. I saved every dime until spring break found me warbling my singsong in the Deep South.
Because of the scholarship, her parents sprung for an off-campus apartment. When I finally got there, I found her pacing the parking lot. I felt a little better about my Christmas Eve behavior and my giggles when she actually jumped in the air, clapped her hands, and squealed with delight all at the same time.
I ran to her and pulled her close while she enfolded me in those short, fleshy arms. We stood there hugging and kissing and saying “I love you” and “I missed you” for probably a half-hour before going up to her apartment and making love all night. As a nerd and a geek, we both got teased mercilessly by the burn-outs, jocks, and pretty boys and girls; but once My Lori and I figured out now much we loved each other, we probably had more sex than every member of all those cliques combined. We awoke midday, brushed our teeth, showered, then made love for another hour, completely unable to restrain ourselves. Then we needed post-coital showers—though My Lori, much to my disappointment, insisted we do so separately.
I emerged from the bathroom, vigorously towelling my shock of always unruly hair, and found her standing in pink-silk panties, with her back to me, fastening her bra. I tiptoed up, wrapped my arms around her ample form, and said, “My sweet Georgia peach, what say you and I spend the rest of the day right here, and I will feast on this fine Southern Belle.”
She giggled! My Lori’s giggle always made me feel like all was right with the world. “Stop it!” she squealed. Wriggling free of my grasp, she said, “I’ve been keeping something from you.”
Another man who’d spent months separated from his girl would’ve dropped his heart at that moment, but knowing My Lori would never hurt me, I reverted to Christmas Eve Syndrome. “What is it? What is it?” I might or might not have done the Happy Dance, which is quite entertaining from a naked nerd.
“Get dressed,” she said, still giggling. “Then I’ll take you out for some southern cookin’.”
That was the first time I noticed my Michigander girl had developed a charming southern twang. It enhanced her appeal so much I wanted to hug her ’til she popped, but the mere thought of pressing flesh distracted me; so I hurriedly dressed, and we soon traveled down the road with My Lori at the wheel.
We headed south for about two hours, laughing, joking, and playing the whole way. In the proverbial Middle of Nowhere, we stopped at a place called (it still makes me smile) Granny Cal’s Good Vittles. Inside, I found the most charming restaurant in the history of the world. There were only ten tables, all covered in red-checked cloths, each with a single ceramic vase holding a single flower. (Marigolds, I think; I’d never known much about flowers.) Salt and pepper shakers in the shape of little dogs (Georgia Bull Dogs, My Lori informed me) flanked each vase. And two comfortably cushioned chairs accompanied each table. Only two other couples were there, each on opposite ends of the fancy eatin’ parlor, so we sat right in the middle, still laughing and giggling.
“Now be good,” My Lori said, responding to my fancy-eatin’-parlor remark. “You’re just gonna love Granny Cal.”
“How many times you been here?” I asked.
“Just a few. The first time was when I stupidly agreed to spend a weekend at Daytona Beach with some girls at school. The only good thing about the trip was this place. While them other girls were all actin’ up at that corner table over there, I talked with Granny Cal. She just has this way of makin’ ya feel comfortable like.”
I swear, when I heard My Lori talkin’ all southern like, it gave me goose flesh in places not meant for water fowl.
“Granny’s as warm as a fresh biscuit, and I come back whenever I can.”
And at that moment, I had a whole skein of honkers flyin’ ’round my undies.
A little old lady walked hurriedly toward our table. Less than five-feet tall, with gray hair pulled into a bun and a patchwork dress covered by a red-checked apron, she looked like a hundred-year-old doll.
My Lori saw her and jumped up, and the two women stood there in a hug usually reserved for relatives seen only at family reunions.
After they exchanged their “Good to see you’s” and “I’ve missed you’s,” Granny Cal turned to me and asked My Lori, “Is this him?”
“This is him, Granny Cal.”
The old woman wrapped her arms around my neck, pulled me into a half-hug half-headlock kind of thing and started saying things like “He’s just what you said he was” and “He’s so adorable” and other wonderful stuff that made me love her immediately, even though she continued to wrench my head back and forth like a bull dog playing tug-of-war with a hawg jowl, or whatever they used in Georgia. “And you know how lucky you are to have such a fantastic girl, which makes you even more special,” she added. She let go of my head, looked me in the eyes, and asked, “You hear?”
She stayed there, looking into my eyes as if time had stopped for her; then she smiled the warmest, most sincere smile I’d ever seen, and said, “Welcome home.”
That should have been my first clue, but, at the time, I took it as nothing more than southern hospitality.
We enjoyed an absolute feast of fried chicken, mashed taters and gravy, corn-bread stuffin’, and more side dishes than I can recall. When My Lori tried eating light, citing her latest diet craze, Granny Cal soundly chided her. When I agreed with Granny, since I do love My Lori just as round as she wants to be, my Southern Belle gave in and ate nearly twice as much as I did—including a big hunk of sweet tater pie while I choked down but a sliver.
As we readied to leave, Granny Cal hugged me tightly, whispering, “See ya soon.”
That should’ve been my second hint, but, again, I thought it simple southern hospitality.
“She seemed to know you rather well for only having met a few times,” I remarked once we again traveled down the road.
Any other woman would’ve heard suspicion in that comment, but not My Lori. “She just has this way of getting to know you.”
“I know what you mean; I feel like I’ve known her forever.”
That should’ve offered my third inkling, but “I feel like I’ve known her forever” is one of those comments you make a million times, like “I slept like a baby” or “I could eat a horse” or “It’s runnin’ as smooth as a pig on stilts.”
“So what’s next? A roadside inn and a little hanky-panky?” I asked. Okay, so I waggled my eyebrows when I said it. A nerd waggling his eyebrows behind thick-framed glasses usually has about as much success as a one-toothed man in a jerky chewin’ contest, but My Lori loved it.
“Perhaps later. First I have to show ya what I been keepin’ from ya.”
I’d completely forgot! That’s the kind of trusting love I had with my little science geek. I hadn’t felt any worry or suspicion all day. My Christmas Eve Syndrome returned, though I did manage not to clap my hands and giggle. “What is it? What is it?’’ Okay, so I barely managed.
“You’ll see.”
We turned onto one of those unpaved country lanes like you find in paintings. She pulled over at a little turnaround edged by a slat fence, then bent over my lap to open the glove box. (I admit I had a thrilling thought at that point!) Pulling out mosquito-repellent lotion, she said, “Here, put this on.”
I started whining. “Aw, honey, you know I hate the smell of this stuff.”
She kissed my cheek. “It’s odorless, and without it the skeeters will eat you alive.”
Skeeters! I’d have spread Essence of Asbestos on my skin at that point.
We both painted ourselves with skeeter stuff, then climbed out of the car. “Where we goin’?” I asked, trying to speak Southern. I weren’t very good at it.
“Stop mawkin’ me!” she said with a little giggle.
I hugged her. “Mocking you? Darlin’, I find it so ’dorable I could sop ya up with a biscuit.” Okay, even I thought that was corny.
“Stop that!” she squealed, slapping my shoulder. “C’mon.”
We walked hand-in-hand down a hard-packed trail with slat fencing bordering both sides. Mosquitoes buzzed around us, flying blood-seeking sorties, disappointed to find us well defended.
“The skeeters really are thick around here,” I said.
“There’s marsh on both sides, so it’s the perfect breeding ground. And they breed ’em big down here.”
We stopped to lean on a fence and gaze into the darkness beneath the swamp-tree canopy. A chorus of nature washed over us, dominated by the basso profundo of bullfrogs. “Some of those are gators,” my science geek informed me. I took the Swamp Queen’s word for it.
That’s when I saw them, and I gasped. “Will-o’-the-wisps!”
My Lori squeezed my hand. Softly, so not to ruin the moment, she whispered, “Surprise.”
Misshapen orbs of muted blues, soft yellows, bright scarlets, dull violets, and myriad other shades and hues floated above the tenebrous swamp. They phased into my plane of existence, revealing Spanish moss in tendrilous shadows, before fading back to the ethereal. The very air, heavy with humidity, seemed to support them, buoying them up during their brief stay in the material realm. Like the mythical creatures I’d battled a thousand times, I felt their pull, their promise they’d care for me. An old fantasy nerd stood there in awe, experiencing the second most magical night of his life; nothing would ever overtake the night My Lori and I first merged.
She laid her head against me. “You like it?”
“They’re beautiful,” I whispered. “How could anyone not believe they’re alive?”
My science geek could have launched into the ignis fatuus explanation, but she loved me far too much to ruin this moment.
Unfortunately, that’s when I tried to climb the fence.
My Lori pulled at me from behind. “What are you doing?”
“l have to go to them,” I said.
“Are you crazy? Alligators, remember? Not to mention poisonous sakes, quicksand, and several other deadly or highly harmful things.” She’d lost all traces of her osmotically obtained accent.
“But they need me,” I insisted.
That’s when she did, indeed, launch into the ignis fatuus explanation. It was I who had ruined the moment.
But I didn’t care, and I fought harder to get over the fence; but a skinny nerd has no chance of overpowering a short, round science geek. (It’s something about body mass and center of gravity; My Lori would know.) She womanhandled me from the fence and got me started back toward the car, squeezing my hand tightly—but not just for love. “You really scared me,” she said, a light tremor in her voice.
“I scared myself.” It was the first and only time I lied to My Lori. In truth, the will-o’-the wisps still called me, my grip on reality growing tenuous.
We found the little roadside inn I’d suggested earlier, but we didn’t spend the night making love. I really had scared her, and she just needed held. Honestly, I didn’t feel like making love, either. I lay awake all night, thinking of the ethereal lights and the way they called to me. It felt like they had followed me and guarded me there in the room, protecting me from my own sanity. A few times I could swear I saw them out of the corner of my eye, but when I looked, only shadows met my gaze. The following morning, on our way back to Athens, I remembered Granny Cal’s “Welcome home.” I only had to ask once. My Lori seemed relieved. I think she just needed one of Granny’s hugs. Unfortunately, the warm old woman was gone, so we ate a light lunch, then continued on our way.
Back in My Lori’s apartment, we started a night just like the previous one at the inn. But the call of the will-o’-the-wisps grew too loud to resist any longer. About two in the morning, I slipped my arm from under My Lori’s neck, and headed for my car.
I arrived just before dawn to find the lights waiting for me. I immediately climbed the fence and started through the marsh. I had no fear of the deadly creatures My Lori warned me about, for I knew I had protectors. And not long after I climbed the fence, the will-o’-the-wisps encircled me, guiding me along the safe path.
As I neared the big tree growing on the hillock (I didn’t know what kind; I’d never been very good with trees), a golden light infused its crown with a glowing aura. Most people would have claimed the dawning sun created the gleaming halo, but I knew my arrival had excited the hundreds of fairies flitting through its branches.
I climbed from the water and practically skipped up the hillock. Granny Cal opened her arms wide and gave me a welcoming hug before resuming her fairy form. “It’s so good to have my wings back!” she said, turning capers in the air. “It’s been so long.”
“Your vigil was noble, my lovely Calandra,” I said. “And your sacrifice during these decades will be rewarded.”
For the rest of the day, I leaned against the bole of that great beech tree, enjoying the long-missed adulation of my fairies and the loving attention of my queen. As twilight blanketed us, we passed through The Veil of Dreams and returned to paradise.
I’ve lived several lifetimes among mortal humans. While making those journeys, I don’t want to remember my true identity; otherwise, I wouldn’t experience the real life of a human. Fate always leads me home, but one of my adoring subjects is forced to assume human form to watch for me, and I always reward her well. I cherish all my human memories, whether of a thirteenth-century Crusading knight, or a twentieth-century gaming nerd. Seldom do I grow attached to the people who cross paths with my human form; for humanity, in general, offers few worth loving.
I’m still pondering different tactics I can use to explain to Titania how much I miss and want My Lori. I wonder if my science geek is still crying.
* END *
|
