Yale Farewell: part 1

As I pulled her in for a hug, I knew it was probably the last I’d ever get to give her. She had not expected it. She reached out her hand, spreading her cute small fingers out in a fan as her arm extended toward me. I grabbed it, and was going to unclench my fingers into a handshake when, in an emotional fit, I changed my mind. No! A mere handshake wouldn’t suffice. I wanted to feel her beating heart one more time. She did not resist. She let herself fall into my arms, and grunting in surprise, threw her free hand over my shoulder and around my neck. I pulled her closer. Her cheek to mine, we stood there for a good one minute, saying not a word to each other. My mind was blank–rather–I cleared my mind of any thought. I did not want to interrupt that fleeting moment of ecstasy.

She was presently saying something to me. Although her lips were right by my left ear, her words sounded distant and echoed in my mind as if she spoke into a tunnel. All I could hear was the rhythmic pounding of her heartbeat. Yet, her peaceful voice kept intruding in unwanted but pleasant intervals. Finally, my mind found room to process what she was saying: “…we’ll keep in touch.”

How hollow those words seemed. I could literally see them fall out of her mouth into the emptiness that was my ears, dropping into even a deeper, darker void in my head. We will keep in touch. I did not want to let go. I wanted her always here, with me. Mentally, I cursed my predicament, hoping that time would suddenly start flowing backwards. Oh, how the past seemed glorious and nostalgic. I let myself recall the few hours I had spent with her at the Coffeehouse. We had each ordered a glass of juice, and spent two hours drinking it–well, mostly talking between sips. By the end, the juice had settled in the clear plastic cups, so that two layers were clearly visible. At the bottom of the cup were chunks of orange pulp; on top, a disagreeable pale liquid. I–we did not mind it. Back in high school, I was used to drinking a pale liquid in place of break-time tea. During those golden old days, the cooks would simply pour barrels of water into the pot, bring it to boil and threw in a few packets of third unrefined tea leaves. The result was a pale bitter liquid that could pass for common mud water. Some of us joked that if you were patient enough to let the lukewarm liquid sit for a few hours, you could decant clear water right of the top. Of course, none of us was bold enough to try the hypothesis, given the limited break time and stringent school rules. Ah, the good old school rules. I remember clearly now the inscription on the plaque at the foot of the flag pole: Time Waits for No Man! The message was clear: either you look busy or you were summoned to the head-teacher’s office.

If you were subpoenaed to appear at the head-teacher’s office your life that week was likely to take a turn for the worse. The message on the plague was the head-teacher’s cherished pet, and the fact that you were summoned on suspicion of laziness meant you were in direct violation of that cardinal rule: don’t cross the head-teacher. Sitting across his wide desk, he would look up at you, tilting his chin upwards for emphasis of authority and ask you to state your purpose for being there in his office. Clearly, the man knew why he had summoned you; yet, he must have enjoyed seeing your perplexed expression as you twisted the little English you knew trying to explain your guilt away. Then, sitting up from his chair, he would motion you to a cabinet on the side of the room, where he kept files on everyone in the school – cooks, night watchmen, teachers, students, and others. One time I was summoned to his office for dishonoring one of the many prefects’ codes of conduct by dressing in a sleeveless t-shirt at a Sunday morning assembly. I had made the t-shirt myself by tearing off the sleeves of my dorm’s official t-shirt, but I must have used excess force pulling off one of the sleeves and a made a huge tear along the seam. As a result, a gaping hole exposed my left ribs, and a flap of cloth swung loosely below my armpit. However, I did not mind the fact that my ribs were visible to anyone with the time to count them, or to the school bullies who loved to jab at my bare skin. I was proud of my handiwork.

Anyways, back to the head-teacher’s office. He had ceremoniously conducted his chin-up, ritualistic first examination and ordered me to pull my file from the shelf of folders in the cabinet. As my fingers racked the stack of multicolored folders, I couldn’t stop wondering why he felt the need to color-code every file. Finally, I pulled my file and handed it to him. Trembling I awaited his verdict. Guilty! I could almost hear the head-teacher’s blood-curdling sentence being handed to me. After some minutes, the short schoolteacher emerged from his chair and straightened himself up, apparently in an effort to match my height. Realizing the limitation of his height, he sank back to his chair, let out a long sigh, and took another look at my record. Finally he started, “I cherish…” There, he said it! The head-teacher like to use the word “cherish,” so much that his whispered nickname in the student community was “I cherish.” I almost let myself smile at the dramatic overuse of the word, but I was reminded of my precarious reality by his irritated “Ahem!” Flashing his eyes in my direction, he stated that I was being let of the hook for several reasons, among them the fact that I was an otherwise exemplary student leader, and I posted consistent, stellar grades in class. Other than my attempt to conform to the dress fashions of the time, I had an impeccable record. I was being let off with a first-and-last warning. I was unceremoniously dismissed from his office, but not before the head-teacher had made it clear that he had his eyes on me. “I’ll keep in touch,” he had said. Until my graduation from high school, I could not shake the feeling that I was always being monitored with hawkish attention.

Keep in touch. Yea, that was what she was telling me. Unconsciously, I loosened up and let my grip on her fail. She must have sensed the relief, for she quickly slipped out of the embrace and stepped back. I stood there, unable to find the right words. Her lips were moving again, saying something, something I should have heard. The next moment, she was receding from me towards her house. I wanted to reach out to her again but my hands remained glued to my side. With effort, I eventually lifted my right hand and stretched it out to grasp her retreating body. By now, she was approaching the door, and as I stood there at the bottom of the staircase, all I could do was pray that she miss a step and sprawl back at me. How nice that would be! I would catch her spiraling body as she flew into my capable arms, terrified at her alternate fate had I not been there. I could see myself gleaming at her horrified, cute face with reassuring strength. I would tell her in soothing tones that she need not worry, I was there. She would feel safe. I would bend over to inspect her smile as she came to. “You’ll be alright!” I thought aloud.

She looked back. “Uh?”

“Call me,” I replied, not sure what else to say.

She smiled, entered her house, and shut the door behind her.