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Only One Love
(A Short Story)
Copyright 2013 Christina M. Guerrero
DEDICATION
Yes, but part of it is private.
This is also for my kindergarten teacher,
who was a great role model.
STORY BEHIND THE STORY
I was talking to someone, and this is one of a bunch of
stories that suddenly came to mind.
While I was developing the first draft, and thinking about it,
I remembered the principal at the school where I went to kindergarten.
He wore very distinctive horn-rimmed glasses.
ABOUT DRAFT NUMBER ONE
You know the drill. This is a first draft.
It has errors and inconsistencies and awkward phrasing. Bear with it.
When I got to the end, I wondered where all the kids went
during the first scene. Suddenly, they just weren’t there.
Apparently everyone lives in a vacuum except Kendall, who flew
to New York City. No other places have been identified.
No physical description of Mrs. Stevenson, other than that she's
"a looker" according to one of the bodyguards.
Names are always difficult, without a name dictionary right beside me.
A few will have to be changed in order to match the characters' ethnic backgrounds.
No point of view from Kendall, which is important.
Hopefully in the second draft.
Took a while to figure out the ending.
At first, I just left the two actors on the set.
Then I got the idea for the two men at the end.
1969
Jennifer glanced at Kendall.
He was sitting on the floor with his legs crossed, and holding a picture book about dogs, but he was staring straight ahead and breathing strangely.
“Who’s that?” said Newton in his high voice. He was smaller than the rest of the kindergarten class, and he was somewhere behind Jennifer, as they sat on the floor and enjoyed reading time.
“Newton,” said Mrs. Stevenson. “It’s quiet time. Shhh.”
“But who is that?”
She must have done something even more stern, because Newton said in a serious way, “I’m sorry.”
Jennifer whispered, “Hi, Kendall.”
That usually made him smile. He said she sounded like Hayley Mills, the girl who played Pollyanna. He adored Hayley.
But he didn’t smile.
Jennifer heard an unfamiliar man’s voice whisper, “He’s wearing a long blue shirt, denim shorts and brown sandals.”
Another unfamiliar voice, also a man’s, said, “I see him.”
Jennifer stared at Kendall. He was wearing all the clothes they had just described. He was also looking at his book as if it were frightening him.
“Shame about it,” the first voice whispered.
Mrs. Stevenson whispered, “Yes, it is. He gets along so well with everyone. Especially the girl with the long golden hair. They have the sweetest friendship.”
The second voice whispered, “He’s going to a wonderful family. Very rich, yet very humble people. They love him as one of their own. Hopefully the change won’t be too traumatic for him.”
“I don’t think so,” Mrs. Stevenson said. “He’s a tough little boy. He’s already been through so much. He’s been in five foster homes so far this year. Couldn’t tell by looking at him.”
Jennifer glanced around without moving her head. Did no one else hear this? Probably not. The other children were reading in very low voices, or whispering, or softly chatting, creating a low-pitched murmur that almost blocked the sounds of the adults’ whispering.
“Hi, Kendall,” she said again. But her voice was different. Not happy. Sad. And it wavered.
His face grew solemn, which looked better than the scared look.
He slowly looked at Jennifer, and when their eyes met, one of the men said, “I’ll go get him now.”
Mrs. Stevenson said, “That would be fine.”
Kendall reached for Jennifer and said, “No,” in such a sad way that she felt tears in her eyes.
Jennifer put her book aside, moved to Kendall on her knees and hugged him around his arms.
“No,” Kendall said. “No, no.”
“Hi Kendall,” said the first voice, close to them, in a weird, almost-friendly way. “You’re going on a really nice trip. To New York City. I hear you like buildings. There are lots of buildings there.”
“No,” Kendall said. Somehow his arms had come free, and they were locked around Jennifer’s waist. She was now clinging to his neck.
“Come on now.” The voice was not so friendly now.
“Kendall!” Jennifer cried. She felt embarrassed, but it just slipped out.
“No,” Kendall said in that awful sad way. “No! NO!” He screamed the last word.
“Come on,” said the voice.
“JENNY!” Kendall screamed, right in her ear.
She winced, but did not move. She liked everything about him, even this. If this was all she had left of him, she did not want to forget him.
“Morrison,” the first voice said. “Help me, please.”
Jennifer heard footsteps, then a voice said close to her left ear, “Jennifer. Kendall is going someplace really nice. You wouldn’t want to prevent that, would you?”
She turned her head, not wanting to look at Morrison. But she caught a glimpse of him -- a big round face, lots of dark hair slicked back.
The other man squatted to her right. He was wearing horn-rimmed glasses and he had a crew cut. “Jennifer. You’re gonna have to let him go soon. He’s got a plane to catch.”
“JENNY!” Kendall screamed again. He cried miserably.
Mrs. Stevenson said, “Kendall! Why on earth are you making such a fuss? Honestly, gentleman, I’ve never seen him act this way.”
Jennifer felt a big hand on her right arm. The man with the crew cut was touching her. He said, “Let go.”
She buried her head in Kendall’s small chest. He hugged her tighter and wept.
Hands gripped both of her arms.
“This is MY Kendall!” She shrieked. She wiggled one arm loose and punched Crew Cut in the nose.
“JENNY!” Kendall continued to cry.
“Jennifer, how dare you!” Mrs. Stevenson said.
Morrison chuckled. “You okay, O’Brien?”
Jennifer stared at the man to her right. He was rubbing his nose.
“Yeah,” O’Brien said.
Then he reached out, and Jennifer suddenly felt cool air against her bare arms and legs, instead of the warmth of Kendall. Morrison had one arm, and O’Brien, the other. They were facing her, and had left Kendall kneeling on the floor.
She thought, It is May, 1969, and I am five, and this is Kendall, and he is five, too. I am wearing a short-sleeved white blouse and denim shorts. He is a little bit bigger than me, and he is skinny, with dark brown hair and brown eyes like a cat’s, and a long narrow face. He always smells good, like vanilla.
Kendall scrambled to Jennifer, threw his arms around her neck and screamed, “JENNY!”
Morrison said, “Kendall. Shouldn’t she be crying, and shouldn’t you be quiet and strong like her?”
Kendall slumped against Jennifer, and continued to cry.
O’Brien said, “Kendall. Why are you acting like a little girl?”
Jennifer said rudely, “Boys can cry.” She thought that perhaps she should feel embarrassed that they were holding onto her arms, which stretched out to her sides, but she felt oddly triumphant.
She thought, Mrs. Stevenson has her hands over her mouth, and this class always smells like glue and crayons.
“Well, this has lasted long enough,” Morrison said. He nodded to O’Brien, and they peeled Kendall away from Jennifer.
;Jennifer started screaming. “Kendall!”
“Jenny!”
“No! Don’t go!”
“I don’t want to!”
Morrison said, “Children, don’t you want a better memory of this goodbye?”
Jennifer was actually swinging from O’Brien’s hand as she struggled and cried out for Kendall, while Morrison started to walk away, as Kendall walked backwards with him and cried, “Jenny! Jenny!”
Morrison said, “Jennifer. Stay put. If you follow us, I’m sure Mrs. Stevenson will have to put you on detention.” He let go of her.
Kendall cried, “Jenny! I love you! I love you!”
She moved toward him, but Mrs. Stevenson said, “Jennifer. I wouldn’t take another step if I were you.”
“Say goodbye,” O’Brien said from the doorway. He lit a cigarette with one hand and blew smoke toward the playground.
Jennifer fell slowly to the ground and landed on her knees. She reached for Kendall and said, “I love you too. I’ll always remember you.”
O’Brien and Morrison exchanged a look. Morrison said softly, “Wait.”
Kendall was quiet again. He stared with big, slanted brown eyes.
Jennifer thought, He has pale skin. Not like he is sick. Just whiter than others.
O’Brien tugged. Kendall turned silently and walked out, followed by Morrison.
Jennifer began to cry miserably. Mrs. Stevenson looked at her sternly, then turned away, grabbed a tissue and ran outside.
2013
“ ... and cut.”
Jennifer relaxed. She had been having a pretend argument for five hours. Her co-star, Kale, also appeared to relax as he sighed and closed his eyes.
“Checking the gate,” a quiet voice said.
“Thank god,” a voice said from somewhere else in the crowded room.
A few people laughed.
Kale opened his eyes and said to Jennifer, “Five hours. My throat hurts. Hasn’t hurt like that since--”
His face, usually merry and kind, grew solemn. He clenched his jaw; a muscle tightened near his left ear. As he tilted his head, as if listening for something, light sparkled off the gray strands that were hiding in his long, dark brown hair.
“When you might have been sick?” she asked, feeling a bit reckless. They had been working together for only a few days. He was a guest star, playing a former boyfriend.
“No.”
She waited, but silence began. After a few moments she said, “Something else.”
He nodded. “Yes.” His usual smile re-appeared, rather naturally, and he said, “You sound hoarse, too.”
“Yeah. I hope I put enough emotion into it.”
“I think you did, Jen. Whatever you’re remembering ....” He smiled kindly, then looked away and blushed.
It was her turn to look solemn. She always tapped into a horrible day in kindergarten for feelings of anger, abandonment and aggression. She frowned, remembering Kendall’s little arms and legs and sandals. He had been taller than her, but he was so slim.
“--Jennifer?” Kale was saying.
“Sorry. What?”
“Is Jen short for Jennifer?”
“Uh.” She smiled. “I plead ... unwilling to confirm or deny.” She was using Jen, plus her ex-husband’s name.
Kale nodded. “Gotcha.” He looked at her hair. “I hope you don’t mind me asking, but what’s the name of your hair color?”
“Autumn Morning.” She felt wistful. Once upon a time, she had long, curly golden hair. But it had all turned gray during the past few years. Now, at age forty-nine, she chose to be a light redhead.
“What’s your smile for?” Kale asked.
“Well ... I used to have ....” She struggled, and felt ridiculous. She looked older than forty-nine, and reminiscing about what she looked like at age five seemed silly.
An angry voice made them both flinch. One of the child stars said, “Hey! You spilled my crayons.”
Another voice said, “Sorry. I’ll help you pick them up.”
An extra said, “You guys need help?” He swiftly packed the crayons into a box, stood up and said, “Anyone want to smell? Sure brings back memories.” He sniffed.
Kale winced. Jennifer watched him wince, and remembered the scent of her kindergarten classroom: crayons and paint. And Mrs. Stevenson with her hands over her mouth.
Jennifer said, “Did you have a bad experience with a box of crayons?”
Kale was quiet as he considered this. He said, “No. Good memories.”
A loud voice said, “Take five minutes, but stay here, folks,” just as a woman ran by. She wore horn-rimmed glasses and was carrying makeup bags.
Jennifer remembered O’Brien. She smiled fully when she remembered punching him in the nose.
Kale looked from her to the woman and said, “Happy experiences with makeup or horn-rimmed glasses?”
“A man with horn-rimmed glasses.”
“A boyfriend?”
She felt her smile fade. All her life, she had loved only Kendall. Everyone else, everything else, had been unnecessary. Her ex-husband was funny and cheerful, but they had moved too fast and married too soon. She felt lucky that their parting had been amicable after he fell in love with someone else, and that he was kind and supportive of her, despite their history.
“No, not a boyfriend,” she said. “An unkind man.”
She knew Kale was studying her, but she did not want to explain.
Kale said, “I once knew a girl who hit a man ten times her size in the nose. He was wearing horn-rimmed glasses.”
She studied Kale. He was taller than her, and slim, but oddly flat and rectangular. He did not resemble the skinny, long-limbed Kendall. Perhaps he was a different classmate who spied on the incident.
She also looked at his eyes. Kendall’s had been slanted, like a cat’s. Kale’s ... could conceivably be similar. She considered his last name: something Russian with lots of syllables. Kendall’s last name had been short and succinct.
An aggravated voice called out, “Take five more minutes, folks. We may get back to work sometime in our lifetimes.”
Jennifer said, “Is your crayon experience too personal to share?”
Kale bowed his head. He smiled and said, “No. We used to ... well ... in kindergarten ... my friend and I ... we used to pretend they had personalities.”
Jennifer remembered Kendall and some blond kid laughing and moving their crayons around like soldiers.
A tray appeared between them and a woman asked in a pleasant voice, “Snacks? Oreos, Chocolates, Fig Newtons?”
Jennifer felt somber at the last description; she saw Kale wince again. She remembered the little kid Newton piping up on the day of the separation.
“Thanks,” Kale said. He took a handful of everything and held out an Oreo to Jennifer.
“Cheers,” she said.
He tilted his head again. “Do I hear a faint English accent?”
“You do.”
He studied her intently; she looked away.
“English grandparents?” He asked.
“Yes. And private school with English expat teachers here in America.”
Kale looked her over, rather curiously. She felt glad she had stayed trim all her life. Maybe a little too thin; she definitely received more attention when she weighed a bit more.
Kale said, sounding like he was in a daze, “That girl who hit the man. She looked like Sleeping Beauty.”
Jennifer said, without thinking, “Not Hayley Mills? The English actress?”
“She sounded like Hayley Mills. Looked more like ....” Kale reached out and pulled on a strand of her curly red hair. He frowned as he studied her.
Jennifer said, “I’m trying to figure something out.”
“What’s that.”
“How does a skinny, lanky little boy grown into a flat, rectangular adult?”
“I did.”
“How?”
“I think it’s just genes. How one’s body grows.”
“Is Kendall your real name?”
“What?” He appeared to be surprised.
“I meant ...” She smiled. “I meant is Kale your stage name?”
“Both are true.”
After a long silence she said, “Hi, Kendall.”
He smiled ... truly smiled ... and she finally saw the child’s face in the adult’s features.
“Jennifer?”
“It’s me.”
His face crumbled.
“Don’t cry,” she said.
He engulfed her in a bear hug. “Boys cry too. Remember?”
“Where have you been? Why didn’t you write?”
“They wouldn’t let me. They thought it would traumatize me.”
“Did you go to New York City?”
“Yes. Until I was eighteen. Then I studied acting, and have been doing it since then. And you?”
“Mostly music. Then drifted into acting.”
“Any great loves?”
She squeezed him around his neck. “Only you. I was married, but it wasn’t a good match. And you?”
“The same. A brief marriage to someone who looked like you. But it didn’t last, either. I fell in love with you when I was five. No one has ever believed me.”
“I do.”
The aggravated voice said, “Go to lunch, folks. We’ll get back to it in about thirty minutes.”
“Where’s craft services?”
“This way,” Jennifer said. She tugged on Kale’s hand.
A grip walked by and said, “Already holding hands? That was fast.”
Kale said, “I belong to her.”
“That’s right,” Jennifer said. “You’re my Kendall.”
Morrison raised a liver-spotted hand to his head and scratched. He still had a full head of hair. He scratched among the iron-gray, slicked-back strands absentmindedly as he frowned at the TV screen.
He said, “Hey. O’Brien.”
O’Brien snorted, coughed and opened his eyes. “Eh?” His crew cut had receded to complete baldness.
“Wake up. Geez, you’re always sleeping these days.”
“I’m eighty-nine, and I worked hard all my life, and I’m a retired bodyguard, and I deserve to sleep any damn time I want. What do you want?”
“Look at these two lovebirds.”
O’Brien squinted. “On the TV?”
“No. Sitting next to you.”
O’Brien looked around. “Cooper and his little girlfriend?”
“Show some respect. That’s his niece. On the TV, O’Brien, on the TV!”
“You don’t have to yell. You’re the one with the hearing loss.”
“I wish it was a complete loss. Now look at the gentleman and the lady on the TV. Don’t they look familiar?”
O’Brien said, “Oh, for crying out loud.” He put on his glasses and watched. “This man with the dark hair? And the redhead?”
“Yes.” Morrison sighed and rhythmically squeezed a small styrofoam ball. He wished the ball was O’Brien’s head. Sometimes he wished they hadn’t decided to live in the same retirement community. They were both widowed, and got on each other’s nerves constantly.
O’Brien stared. Morrison stared.
Morrison said, “Something about her eyes. I’ve seen them before.”
O’Brien said, “Yeah. Bright blue. And the gentleman. The shape of his eyes. Kinda like a cat’s. But only when he smiles ....”
Morrison frowned as O’Brien pulled out a slip of paper from an inside pocket of his jacket, opened it up, and scanned it.
“What’s that?” Morrison asked.
“Every job we ever had.”
“Every one?”
“All of them.”
“What are you carrying them around for? That’s confidential information.”
“It’s in code.”
“Let me see it.”
O’Brien handed it over.
Morrison said, “What the hell kind of code is this?”
“Nunya.”
“Nunya? What kind of language is that ... oh.”
Morrison handed the paper back.
O’Brien said, “Happy?”
“Yeah. As a clam.”
O’Brien resumed his perusal of the paper, then said, “Huh. That’s the girl who hit me in the nose.” He walked slowly to the TV, stared, then returned to his chair.
Morrison thought about this. “The school! And that teacher. She was something else.”
“Yeah, a real looker. Married, though.”
Morrison said, “That’s the kid we took to New York City. For that tycoon.”
“Yep.” O’Brien put the paper back. “Yep. That one was hard. Those kids cried like babies.”
Morrison said, “Not the girl.”
“Oh yeah, not the girl. She was tough.”
“They got together anyway.”
O’Brien said, “You don’t know that. Maybe they’re just co-stars.”
“Maybe.” Morrison added, “But they got together anyway.”
O’Brien gently rubbed his nose. The girl had broken it that day -- a hairline fracture.
He scowled. His only injury during his entire career.
“They got together anyway,” Morrison said for the third time.
O’Brien watched the actress on TV. She was looking at the actor with fondness.
He knew she wasn’t acting.
He felt a little smile cross his face.
* ~* END *~*
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