Chapter 7: An End and a Beginning

August 30, 1981

Debbie surprised us at the end of study group. Marcus hadn’t come today.

“Um ... guys. I need to tell you. Marcus and I broke up.”

“What?” “Huh?” “Wow!” “Why?” “I’m so sorry!”

Several of us gave Debbie hugs as she started crying.

“I ... he’s ... he um ... I don’t want to get into it right now, OK?”

“Of course, honey,” Angie said. “When you’re ready. Or not at all, if you don’t want to.”

“T ... thanks,” Debbie sniffled. “I just ... not, not now.”

Angie nodded. “OK. We’ll wait, of course. As long as you want, including forever.

“Thanks everyone! I’ll see you Tuesday!” Debbie said, still sniffling.

“If you need anything, just call. I think that goes for all of us.”

Everyone agreed; it did.

9:30pm

Angie rubbed noses, stretched out.

“So. I’ll ask, even though you might not share. Anything about Debbie’s situation on the girl-talk grapevine?”

Angie pouted. Or, pretended to, anyway. “Nope. Totally out of the loop. You know I don’t like that!”

“I do. I’m trying to not play guessing games because I’ll likely guess wrong and get all pissed off for the wrong reasons.”

“Which ... means you have a guess,” Angie smirked.

“Well. Yeah. I think Marcus did something. I mean, that he shouldn’t have.”

“That’s my first guess too, because just Debbie came.”

“Yeah,” I said.

“I also have a guess on something else related to this. And I don’t think it’s a great idea.”

“What?”

Angie chuckled. “You taking Debbie to Homecoming. As a friend, of course.”

“I ... never said anything like that.”

“Which tells me you thought it.”

“Yeah, OK, fine. I thought about it. I wasn’t sure, either. Why don’t you like the idea?”

“You two don’t belong together, at all. Plus, if Marcus caused the split, she’d be poised for rebounding. Combine that with you also still at risk of rebounding. It likely wouldn’t go well. Neither of you deserves that drama.”

“Fair point. And, you’re right. I’m not ready for a relationship.”

“Of course, I’m right. I’m always right. Even when I’m wrong.”

I raised an eyebrow.

“OK, fine, I was totally and completely wrong about that. Happy?”

I raised the other one.

“And that, too! Spoilsport.”

“Are we even hinting at the same things?”

“Max, and you being an awful person. And, the likelihood of you being Iceberg Steve. There are others I will admit to. Including ones you will never, ever know about.”

“Given that, I agree. Always right.”

She giggled and kissed me. “I love you, big brother.”

“I love you, too, little sis.”

“Bedtime.” She rubbed noses, then hopped up.

“Goodnight. Sleep well.”

“You, too!”

August 31, 1981

By the luck of scheduling, I didn’t have any classes with Marcus. Two with Debbie, but she wasn’t saying anything.

I caught Marcus outside the cafeteria. “Hey, Marcus! Hold up!”

He paused, looking ... I’m not sure. Upset? Angry? Embarrassed? It wasn’t clear; it wasn’t good either.

“Yeah, Steve?”

“Look. All I know so far is that you and Debbie broke up. Nothing more. No one’s said anything else. I’m curious, right? We’ve got a lot of history. I wanted to talk to you before I make guesses.”

He frowned. “We broke up, yeah. Um...” He looked a little more shifty, or something. “Look, I don’t want to get into it right now, OK? I like y’all but I’m taking a break right now. That’s all I’m gonna say right now.”

“OK, Marcus. Let us know. I’m sure any of us would love to talk,” I sighed.

“I’ll do that.

I saw him at lunch in a different group. All guys. I was pretty sure it wasn’t a sudden switch of teams. ‘Girl trouble’ seemed to be one of the more plausible explanations. But I wasn’t going to get an answer soon.

September 1, 1981

Debbie skipped group, but had phoned Mike to say it had nothing to do with Marcus; she just wasn’t feeling well. And Marcus was a no-show. Four of us, besides me, had tried to talk to him at school and all got evasive answers.

Everyone refrained from making random guesses. There was idle speculation that we might have an opening, but that was obviously not official yet.

We planned our Labor Day party. At Mike’s, of course. We talked about going to the park for sentimental reasons, but decided against it. We weren’t taking off Sunday. None of us would’ve been comfortable at the party, if we’d blown off studying.

September 3, 1981

9:30pm

Angie stretched out on the bed. “The grapevine has produced answers.”

“I thought it might.”

“I can’t tell you the whole thing.”

“Figures.”

She laughed. “Yeah. Well. What I can tell you is they both screwed up. Current belief is that Marcus’ was worse, but there’s enough blame to go around.”

“Interesting.”

“I don’t expect to see Marcus back if Debbie’s still coming to meetings. I don’t know if Debbie will quit on her own. Several of the girls are going to talk to Debbie.”

“Mmkay.”

“Also, a friendly bit of advice. Ask Debbie to the dance and I will smack you, like you told me to.”

I blinked. “That bad?”

“Drama no one needs. You can do better. Trust me on this.”

“I trust you.”

“Good boy.”

I laughed and hugged her. “I love you, sis.”

“And I love you. And it’s bedtime.”

“Yeah.” I paused a bit, then hugged her. “Did you make a schedule or something? What if I’d wanted privacy?”

“You don’t,” she giggled. “And if I’d made the schedule I want, it’d just have all the nights checked off. The problem is, it’d upset Mom. Not that she’d necessarily do anything, but it’d upset her, and that’s more than enough reason to be cautious.”

“I agree.”

“Sweet dreams.”

“You, too!”

We rubbed noses and snuggled up.

September 4, 1981

The first football game of the year found us all in the stadium for Cal’s debut. Andy was nursing an injured ankle on the bench, but Cal played pretty well in his first varsity start as a linebacker.

Unfortunately the rest of the team didn’t, and Washington wanted revenge. 35-14 later, they had it. I had a bad feeling that it was going to be a long year.

Angie and I and Cammie and Gene would miss a lot of games. And on non-tournament weekends we’d likely spend a lot of time in libraries, therefore cutting our football attendance even more.

It sucked, but actually taking part in something was a lot more fun than cheering on some other people doing something else.

September 5, 1981

We piled into the car and headed to an enormous warehouse just east of downtown. The shipment with Frank’s things had arrived a few days ago, and this was our first chance to go through it.

After checking some paperwork, and Dad’s identification, a worker led us to an area full of fenced-off sections of goods. He unlocked one and ushered us in. Inside were about thirty boxes and Frank’s couch, two nice chairs, two end tables, a master bedroom set, what had to be Angie’s bed, dresser, and nightstand, some floor lamps, a desk, a somewhat battered file cabinet, a dining room table — also battered, a kitchen table, a bunch of chairs for the tables, two bookshelves — one was identical to one of Dad’s — and a few odds and ends (two bicycles, for instance, and a sled — useless in Houston).

Angie smiled. “My bed! And nightstand and dresser! I like the ones you got me, Mom and Dad, but...”

“But these are special. I understand, Honey,” Dad said. He looked a bit emotional, which I understood. In a way, this was all that was left of his brother, beyond memories. He was almost having to say goodbye again. He started looking through at a few of the boxes. The first proved to be papers; the second, books. I wasn’t sure how Sid had cleared Frank’s house or what we’d find.

When we’d finished, Angie wanted her old bedroom set, the desk and its chair, one lamp, and a side chair. I raised eyebrows by picking Frank’s bedroom set, but Mom, after a second’s hesitation, nodded and went with it. I checked the mattress and box spring; they seemed none the worse for wear, and there was no sign of bedbugs that I could detect. I took the other chair and lamp. The couch seemed better than our living room couch, so Dad took it. We’d donate the one we had. We had no use for the dining room or kitchen tables and chairs, nor the end tables, bicycles, or sled; the storage facility would arrange to donate those and send the receipt to Dad for a tax deduction.

We took both bookshelves; Angie would get one, and I’d take the one like Dad’s. It’d turned out that they, and two others, had been his father’s; when he passed away, Grandmother had given one to each brother. Donald was already estranged by that time, so Richard had both his and Donald’s.

All of the boxes would go to our house. I volunteered my room for box storage; we’d have to go through them over the next month or two. Mom had poked at a box and found unopened toothpaste and after shave lotion. Angie was pretty sure Sid had just ordered anything not clearly trash, or perishable, boxed and stored. That way no one could fault him for throwing out something important.

The moving company guy said everything would arrive Thursday the 10th. Mom would have to be there to accept the shipment, but beyond that all she would do is point the movers to the appropriate room.

September 6, 1981

Ang and I made a trip to the department store. Goal: sheets for my new full-sized bed. She tried to convince me I’d be fine with pink, but I declined. We compromised on a dark green that seemed masculine yet still appealed to her. She wanted new sheets for her bed; we got those, too. They were pink, of course.

Excepting buying a set of blue sheets for the guest room bed — the sheets already on it were blue, and we all just matched those — I hadn’t been sheet shopping in ... um ... years. Since 2021. I mentioned that to Angie; it amused her. She was also amused that many sorts of sheets common in 2021 were unheard-of, now. Microfiber? Bamboo? 1000 count Egyptian cotton? Not in stock here, at least. And a store like this would’ve been loaded with them, forty years from now.

So, we both got nice cotton ones that weren’t absurdly expensive.

September 7, 1981

Debbie had skipped group, both yesterday and today. I guessed the girls knew something that the guys didn’t. Mike speculated on it; Sarah studiously looked away. Discretion being the better part of valor, I just gave Angie a look that she returned with a nod.

Everyone that wanted a nap got one, and we all swam, played games, snacked, danced, and just hung out.

I was aware the clock was running on the Homecoming Dance. Nineteen days to go, and if I didn’t ask someone by this weekend, I’d be both risking someone already having a date or making them feel like they were an afterthought.

If I didn’t ask someone, Ang would kick my ass. Quite possibly that would literally involve her foot and my butt.

September 8, 1981

Both Debbie and Marcus skipped group again. I was really wondering what was up with her. Both of them were still stonewalling at school — not that we were badgering them, but there was still the occasional question, just in case they’d want to share something.

9:15pm

“I have more news from the grapevine, big brother. Most of the girls — I stress most — know that I share everything with you, and the rest know I share a lot. I’m going to share this. You can’t repeat it.”

“As if I would. I prefer living, and with all of my body parts properly attached and undamaged.”

“Good attitude. So ... the scuttlebutt is that Debbie has been leading Marcus around by a certain body part, which was maybe good to start with. You know I wasn’t a huge Marcus fan at first but had been won over. That was Debbie’s doing. The problem is, she never stopped. Not too long ago, he got a better offer.”

“Do I want to know who?”

“Not if you want to keep a high opinion of Marcus.”

“I think it’s already too late for that, just given your saying I’d lose it if I knew.”

“Theresa Beckett.”

“Who is, at least in the popular view, trying for Ashley Lennox’s crown.”

“Yeah. I wouldn’t say she’s easy. But she’s easy.”

I snickered. Then sighed. “Well, if anything would piss off Debbie, that would. I get why she won’t call him out; he’d attack right back. Right now, he’s got some — limited — stud credentials and sympathy. She’d get labeled as a controlling bitch.”

“Not that inaccurate a label,” Angie said.

“They hid this really well.”