Chapter 1: Wanda: Death & Awakening

November 22, 1963

There are moments in time that are indelibly etched in our minds and psyche. 9/11, Challenger and Columbia space shuttle disasters, are a few of mine, but not the first.

My first, was as I was sitting behind a large rear projection screen, threading up a Drivers Ed movie. “Death on the Highway.” A very explicit documentary about traffic accidents showing all the grizzly details in living color. I heard a girl in class gasp. “He’s dead ... the president is dead, somebody shot him.” She must have had an earphone plugged into a transistor radio. In shock the class was canceled, and I had to wheel the screen back to the AV department. Finishing that, I was just kind of wandering the halls---like a lot of kids that day---when I heard a noise around a back stairwell. There, was a girl sitting a few steps up, crying her eyes out, books scattered on the stairs were she dropped them. I went up, sat beside her, and just wrapped her in my arms, she turned to me and just said. “Why?” I placed her forehead on my chest, and she cried harder. I spent at least the next thirty minutes holding her, stroking her hair, and making soothing sounds. When she seemed to be running out of tears, I got a handkerchief out of my back pocket and started to dry her eyes. She looked up at me, gave me a weak smile and took my offered handkerchief.

She wiped her face, blew her nose, and started to give it back to me before remembering what she had just used it for. She turned red as a beat. “That’s OK.” I laughed and shoved the soggy cloth in a pocket. “Are you OK? Well as OK as is possible on a day like today. I know it’s terrible, but we will survive.”

“You don’t understand, he’s a catholic, like I am. They killed him and now they will come after me and my family like they did to my parents in Poland.” She now had a terrified look on her face.

Taking her by the shoulders I turned her toward me. “Look at me.” I ordered. “President Kennedy was not killed because he was a catholic, but he was a good man that was trying to change the world. Some people are afraid of change or want to push their narrow view of how the world should fit their prejudices. There are no brown shirts rounding up Jews or Catholics for concentration camps.” Some of my friends in New York had relatives that lived through that horror, so I knew a little about it. Few people know that Catholics were also persecuted by the Nazis, not to the extent Jews were, but still many were also sent to concentration camps. I pulled her in and hugged her. “Bye the way, I’m Tom.” Reaching out to shake her hand.

She blushed again. “Wanda ... I’m Wanda. I’ve seen you in the halls pushing around projectors.”

“Yep, that’s me, Tom the AV nerd.” I gave her a silly grin, and finally got her to at least smile. Just then there was an announcement on the PA that school was canceled for the rest of the day. “Can I walk you home?” I didn’t want to leave her alone.

“No one will be home. Could we just go for a walk? I don’t want to be in an empty house.” We collected her scattered books, headed to deposit them in her locker and went to the park across from the library. We walked the bridges over the canals that created small islands with picnic tables, sat at one that was closest to the lake and talked about everything ... nothing, just talked. At some point as we sat looking out over the water just watching a white heron fish among the lily pads close to the bank while warily paying close attention to a seven-foot gator sunning itself just a few feet away on a nearby island. Up in the branches of a cypress tree a turkey buzzard spread its wings to dry. She moved closer to me, and I put my arm around her. Finally, we had to escape the island before the ‘skeeters ate us alive. The one thing you need to know about Florida mosquitoes, they are big, they should have tail numbers, little aviator jackets and goggles.

November 25,1963

The next day at school, we had lunch together and I invited her to watch the funeral with me. The day of the funeral I took my little portable nine-inch Magnavox TV to the garage, ran an extension cord, and put it on the dashboard of the car, and reclined the seats. No way would my grandmother allow a stinking Jew---to her, if you were from a Slavic nation, you were a Jew, which explained a lot when I finally found out my mother’s folks were from Poland---in her house. Anyway, we sat in the back of the car, watching the world change before our eyes, and both cried when we saw little John-John salute his father’s flag draped coffin as it slowly passed by.

Even though I only had a permit, not a real driver’s license, my grandfather let me drive her home. When she said she didn’t want to go home yet, I took her to a secluded spot I knew wouldn’t get the car stuck in the soft sugar sand of the orange grove. She asked me to put the seats down and we sat in the back, her head in my lap, with me just stroking her hair. When she sat up and kissed me, one thing led to another. At least it started to.

I had no real experience with girls, but I did have a girl friend (note the difference) who was almost six years older. I was the only person close to her own age except for her brothers and male cousins, who she hated with a passion. She taught me a lot about what a girl might want, actually everything short of the last step. That’s why I knew that what we were doing was wrong, not because it was immoral or anything like that, but because she wasn’t there. She was like a rag doll with no emotion or response.

I backed away. “This is wrong.”

“What do you mean? You don’t like me? I’m not pretty enough?” She started to tear up.

“That’s not it at all. You are very pretty; you have a great sense of humor and your fun to be with. But just now, there wasn’t anyone home.” I touched her forehead. “It’s like you flipped a switch and shut down all your emotions. Did anything I was doing make you feel good at all?”

“You are a man, this is what men are entitled to, we are just here for your pleasure.” She got a little snipy at the end.

“Who, who fed you that crap? This ... What we were doing is way more than biological function between animals. It’s a sharing of feelings, sensations, I give, you take, you give, I take. Did anything we were doing excite you?”

“Well ... I’m not supposed to ... My grandmother told me.”

“I’m sure your grandma is a great woman, and she was teaching you what she had been taught, but she’s wrong. You are just as entitled to pleasure as I am. I love the way your lips feel and the softness of your body. But if you are not participating, if you don’t share in that pleasure. I’m nothing more than a rapist. I won’t be that person.”

“But I don’t know...” she broke down sobbing. I took her in my arms. “Do you even know what makes you feel good. When you touch your body, what excites you?” Seeing her confusion, “Do you even touch yourself.”

“Of course I do, I take a bath every day and wash thoroughly.” At least she was displaying some emotion.

“I’m sure you do. But have you ever run your hands over your body just to enjoy the feeling. Touch a certain spot and enjoy the tingle running through your body.”

“Why?”

“So, when I, or another guy you want to share this with, touches you there, you can let him know and he can enjoy it with you.”

“But you’re a man, even if you did care, you should know.”

“What’s your favorite flavor ice cream? Besides chocolate, every woman likes chocolate.” That made her smile.

“Pistachio.”

“Do all your girlfriend’s Like that also?”

She laughed. “A few can’t even pronounce it. No, only a couple of them.”

“This is the same. No one has the same body. Some girls might like it when I do this.” I lightly brushed her cheek. “Or some might go through the roof when I...” Leaning over I nibbled her ear and kissed my way down her neck and thought I got a little response from her. “Other girls may be totally repulsed by that but go wild if I.” I took her arm and kissed the tender skin inside her elbow, definitely getting a response that was quickly stomped on. “What I’m saying is that if you don’t know, can’t or won’t communicate what excites you and what you don’t like that much---My crystal ball is out for repairs---I have no way of giving you the pleasure you deserve.”

“This is all very confusing. I don’t ... You really want to please me?”

I placed a finger on her lips. “Of course I do, and if you ever find a guy that doesn’t, kick him in the balls and walk away, he doesn’t deserve a girl like you.” I thought for a minute. “Tell you what. When you take your bath or shower?” I raised an eye brow in question.

“Bath.” She blushed again.

“Great, bath. Pretend that I’m sitting there watching.” She put her head in her hands. “No seriously, it doesn’t have to be me, maybe Elvis. Start touching every inch of your body gently.” I softly brushed the inside of her arm. “I’ll need to remember that spot.” I Thought. “Like that. When you find a spot that really feels good and especially if you get a little tingle here.” I softly caressed her breast. “Or here.” I slid my hand between her legs. She blushes so cutely. “Let yourself feel and enjoy the sensation. “I like you, enjoy your company. Even if we don’t do this, I’d like to see you again. But if you do want to mess around like this, you have to enjoy it as much as I would, and I would love to show you.

“How do you know all of this?”

“I had a girl friend who was much older than me. She taught me the importance of sharing this and how to make her feel like a woman, not just like a kid. I think I learned a lot; I know she thought so. Anyway, I’m sure Elvis and I will be having a restless night thinking about you.” She slapped my arm but was smiling.

November 28, 1963

A couple days later she waved to me in the hall. “I did what you said and learned a lot about myself ... a whole lot...” There were those rosy-red cheeks again. “If you still want to, I would love to see you again.”

“Wanda, it would be my honor. Let me make a few arrangements, it’s a date. Would you like to see a movie?”

“I think I’d rather go where we were the last time, it was so peaceful and pretty.” It was in the middle of a scrub orange grove, but it smelled good.

“I got to ask, was it me or Elvis?

She looked down at the ground and kind of pushed around an imaginary rock with her toe. “Elvis.” Came out in a whisper.

November 30, 1963

Two days later my grandpa let me have the car again and my grandmother just wanted me out of the house. I went to Wanda’s door and was met by who must have been her grandmother. She glared at me for the whole ten minutes it took for Wanda to come out. It was worth the wait, Pink angora sweater, black poodle skirt, ankle socks, and saddle shoes. Straight out of Grease. We made a quick escape.

Once parked, seats down and pad laid out, she looked at me. “Was all that true? About guys wanting to know what gets a girl hot ... I mean pleases her.”

“I can’t speak for the entire male species, but if he doesn’t care he’s stupid and not worth your time.”

“I talked to my big sister and her friends, and they thought the idea was silly. I’m happy you explained it to me.” She leaned forward and kissed me, tenderly at first, then with more feeling.