Chapter 1: Missed

George Foster told himself all through the flight that no news was good news. He wasn’t convinced. He and Sylvia hadn’t exchanged any promises when he went off to Chile except the promise to write. The last letter he’d got from her was written in November. Now, he had received it in July, and it had mentioned a previously-written letter which never got to him. So, there might be any number somewhere on the way.

On the other hand, she might have met someone else, someone to whom she had made a commitment. And the November letter had said that she’d be graduating in December. She would send him her new address. So, there was no way he could get in contact with her; God knew how many of his previous letters she had received -- none after she’d graduated, probably.

Out of sight was probably out of mind. Sylvia was a lovely girl with an active sex drive. She could do better than an anthro grad student on another continent. For that matter, could she do worse? She was probably telling her current lover (fiancé? husband?) right that minute about the stuffy grad student she’d thought she’d liked before she met her real love.

Well, the expedition had wrapped up. The plane would get to Boston in an hour or two. Then he would at least know his fate.

When he got to Boston, though, he still didn’t know anything. He called from the airport but got only dead ends. Her old dorm hadn’t the foggiest idea -- former resident? did he know how many former residents a dorm had? did he know how few staff were around in August? The alum office might know -- since policy was against giving out any such information, the secretary he reached didn’t see the point in trying to look it up.

He needed to get more coins by then. The coffee shop would sell him a roll of nickels if he bought something. The Danish was stale and tasted ungodly sweet after his diet in the village, but the nickels worked. Directory assistance had four ‘Sylvia Jennings’ listed in Boston. If she didn’t have an unlisted phone, if she wasn’t living in one of the suburbs (or another part of the country!), if her phone wasn’t in her new husband’s name, one of those numbers should be hers. He tried them.

The third one got her. “Sylvia?” he asked.

“George! Sorry. I hope I didn’t deafen you.” She didn’t need to apologize. That response was a delight after all his worries. “Where are you?”

“Logan. The first booth I could find. I had to try directory assistance. What happened?”

“I graduated in midyear. You knew I would. I wrote you all about it as soon as I knew my new address.”

“Never got it. I got your November letter last month. Look, has anything else changed? I mean are you married or anything?” He crossed his fingers.

“Nothing like that. Do you want me to pick you up?”

Did he want that? On the one hand, he wanted that more than anything else. On the other hand, he was hardly presentable right then. “Dunno. I’m filthy. And I caught a cold in Santiago.”

“I’m coming. I have a car, now.”

That was fine. That she wanted to see him was wonderful. “I’ll be waiting out front. You’ll know me by the coat I’m carrying. It ain’t just chilly in Chile; it’s damn-well freezing.”

He bought two small packages of Kleenex. The expense was incredible after the price structure of the village. Then he stood outside and let the sun bake a little of the cold out of him.

Sylvia drove up and popped the trunk before getting out. “Well,” he said, “you’re looking great.” And she was. This girl had starred in his wet dreams for a year, and she looked better -- even clothed.

“So are you. Is this all you have?”

“With me. All the important stuff was shipped by the expedition. Gave some of my clothes to people there who’d been great helps. When you’ve worn three pairs of jeans for a year, sometimes wading streams and never seeing a washing machine, they aren’t worth carrying back. So, you’re an affluent teacher now? Car and everything.”

“Calling a new substitute teacher ‘affluent’ wouldn’t endear you to the union,” she said as they stood on the sidewalk. He felt awkward -- he badly wanted to kiss her, but he had a cold and was dirty. Besides, what claim did he still have? “And I only got half a year in,” she continued. “We’re making subsistence wage at best. I’m waiting tables again this summer. That’s where the real money lies.”

“Haven’t shifted my point of view yet. These clothes I’m wearing, not even counting the coat. (People were staring at me for carrying a coat in August.)” Maybe they were staring at him for being dressed the way he was. All the other travelers looked like businessmen. Maybe they could smell the coat. It hadn’t been tanned very well. “These clothes would be considered significant wealth in the village. Gonna be a shame to throw them away. Goodwill wouldn’t take them?”

“Throw the coat in the trunk?” he asked. The smell might offend her as well. On the other hand, he could smell the stink of the traffic even with his nose stuffed up. Living in Boston might kill one’s sense of smell.

She had an ‘Impeach LBJ’ sticker on the fender. “Can’t believe I voted for that mother,” he said.

“Had to. If Goldwater had got in, American troops would be fighting a war in Vietnam by now.”

He was tempted to treat her as if the previous year hadn’t happened. He glanced down at her thigh every time she accelerated away from a stop. He could see the muscles flexing under that old denim, and his hand ached to caress them, at least hold her leg. But the year had intervened. She had been in his thoughts, in his wet dreams; he had no reason to believe she had thought of him. Well, she had welcomed his return; that was something.

She had a room in a rooming house. When they got there and the door was closed on the hall, she came into his arms for a kiss. That was heavenly, but he felt filthy. “I’m dirty,” he said.

“Question is,” she replied, “are you hungry? Spaghetti?”

“Your spaghetti? I ate on the plane, but it wasn’t your spaghetti.”

“Are you finished?” she asked at the end of the meal. He realized that he’d eaten much less than he would have eaten before the expedition.

“I’ve gotten out of the habit. They had some good stuff -- some stomach-turning stuff, too -- but their good stuff didn’t match your standards.”

She put her glasses on the table, and he put his glasses beside them. She came around the table for a kiss.

“I’m dirty,” he warned her.

“For God’s sake. Take a shower. Not yet. You need to visit the drugstore.”

“Drugstore?” A shower would help a lot more than deodorant.

“I went off the pill.” He hadn’t dreamed that they would start back again, certainly not so suddenly. Well, he’d dreamed that all right, but he’d not believed it for a minute when he was awake. But going off the pill suggested a medical reason. He should at least voice some concern.

“Problems?” he asked.

“Nothing medical. It’s just that I didn’t need it anymore.” That sounded even better. “Do you have money?”

“Enough for that. I should buy a toothbrush, too. Can I use your toothpaste?”

“Sure. I’ve got it here. You can take it with you to the bathroom.” When he got back, she outfitted him completely -- robe, towel, soap, toothpaste, shampoo. She stood outside the door while he showered and used the other stuff. He put on her robe, which rode indecently high on him. He’d hate putting on his clothes again, but they’d look better than this.

She brought him back to the room, and he dumped his clothes in a corner when she came into his arms for a kiss. “I’ve got a cold,” he warned her.

She wasn’t deterred, and -- truth to tell -- he would have been disappointed if she had been. The kiss was sweet and deep, her tongue meeting his. Still, with the cold, he had to breathe through his mouth. When he left her mouth, he trailed kisses over her face and down her neck towards her breasts. When he’d got the blouse unbuttoned, she stepped back. Why had she asked him to buy the Trojans then?

“Faster this way,” she said. When she’d got her top half bare, he kissed her breasts reverently. “Missed these,” he said. “Missed you.”

She let him kiss those delightful globes, running her hands through his hair as she did. He resisted the nipples as long as he could, which wasn’t long.

When he fumbled with the snap of her jeans, she stopped him. “You can’t do those; hardly can myself.” She stepped back. “First the bed,” she said. That was a great idea.

She went to the closet, a large closet for such a small room. When she opened it up, there was some sort of a contraption inside. She pulled it down, and -- after a brief appearance as a threat -- it turned into a double bed. Meanwhile, she was moving and exerting herself with her breasts swinging free. The sight was delightful.

When she was less busy, he had to pay tribute to them. He kissed each one, and when she turned around, held them. Meanwhile, she removed her jeans. She probably could have done that faster without his interference, but he’d been denied those breasts for more than a year.

When she was down to her panties, she took her robe off him. Except for the necessary moments of pulling his arms through the sleeves, his hands were never off her. He had a year’s deficit of touch to make up.

“Let me look at you,” she said and pushed him back. He let her look, but he still felt her breasts.

She lay down on the top sheet. “Come here.” That was an invitation he wasn’t about to refuse. He lay down beside her and kissed her while his hands returned to her breasts. Soon, touching wasn’t enough; he kissed them all over before concentrating on the nipples. He stroked down to her legs. He fondled her thighs, then ran his fingers over her panty-clad mound. The last impediment was easily removed. Her vulva was delightful to feel, and he could tell that she was becoming aroused as well. She grasped his cock, then stopped.

“Damn!” she said. Was there a problem?

“Could you get the rubber?” That was a problem easily dealt with. Actually, it turned out to be less easy than he had thought. His clothes were in a pile in the corner, and the box was in the left trouser pocket. He put on the condom and returned to the bed.