Long Bright River(45)

I walked to the end and sat down. I drew my jacket around myself more tightly. The Ben Franklin Bridge was lit up, and its reflection shone on the water, a necklace of red and white beads.

Ten minutes went by before I heard footsteps. I turned and saw Simon, who ambled toward me, his hands in his pockets. He was out of police attire, and in a uniform of a different kind: cuffed jeans, and black boots, and a wool hat, and a leather jacket with a shearling collar. The outfit he always wore when off duty. From where I sat on the ground, he seemed taller and stronger than ever.

He joined me on the ground. Our legs dangled off the wooden pier.

Before he spoke, he put his arm around me.

—How are you? he said, turning his head to look at me. I could feel his breath, the warmth of his lips, at my temple. It made me shiver.

—Not great, I said.

—Tell me what’s going on, he said, and, as always, I did.



* * *



—

That was the night that Simon told me I should think seriously about joining the force. Today, the age requirement is twenty-two; then, it was nineteen.

—Listen, said Simon. You could fight her. You could declare yourself independent, and fill out the paperwork yourself. But that would take a while, I think.

—What will I do until then? I asked him.

—I’m not sure, said Simon. Keep working. Go to community college. You need credits under your belt either way.

—But hey, he said, continuing. I think you’d be great at it. You could be a detective. I’m always telling you you’d make a good one. I wouldn’t lie.

—I guess so, I said.

I wasn’t sure. I did like detective novels. I liked—some better than others—the movies Simon assigned me, many of which centered on police work. Most importantly, I liked Simon, who was himself a police officer. But I was very good in school, and I loved reading. And, thanks to Ms. Powell and her stories about the past—which had the effect of making me feel, somehow, less lonely—I had recently decided that I wanted to become a history teacher, like her.

I hedged.

—It’s up to you, Simon pronounced finally. He shifted a little. He still had his arm around me. He rubbed his hand on my arm briskly, as if to keep me warm.

—What I can tell you, though, he said, is that you’re going to be fine. You’re going to be great at whatever you do.

I shrugged. I was looking out at the river in front of us, lit up brightly by cities on both sides. I was recalling the lessons Ms. Powell had taught us: that its fount was the West Branch River, and its outlet the Delaware Bay. That, thirty-five miles to our north, George Washington and his troops had crossed it on a similarly cold winter night in 1776. It would have been dark then, I was thinking. No cities. No lights to lead the way.

—Look at me, said Simon.

I turned my face up toward him.

—How old are you, he said.

—Eighteen, I said. My birthday had been in October. Even Kacey, that year, had forgotten it.

—Eighteen, said Simon. You’ve got your whole life ahead of you.

Then he lowered his head and kissed me. It took my brain a while to catch up with my body. When it finally did, I thought, My first kiss. My first kiss. My first kiss. I have heard from others about first kisses that were miserable, the recipient bombarded by a deluge of saliva, or forced to accept into her mouth the aggressive tongue of a similarly inexperienced teenager, or nearly swallowed by his open mouth. But Simon’s kiss was, in that moment, extremely reserved, a bare brush of lips and then a drawing back, and then, in a subsequent moment, a faint clandestine touch of his teeth against my lower lip. It excited me. I had not thought of teeth as a part of kissing.

—Do you believe me, said Simon, quietly. He was looking at me intently. His face was so close to mine that my neck was bent at an odd angle to accommodate our pose.

—Yes, I said.

—You’re beautiful, said Simon. Do you believe that?

—Yes, I said.

It was the first time in my life that I did.



* * *



—

Late that night, lying next to my sister in bed, I had the urge to tell her. Years earlier, when Kacey had had her first kiss, she had described it to me. She was twelve years old at the time, and we were still best friends. Kacey had come home from playing outside and had shouted my name once, excitedly, had run up the stairs to our room and flung herself down on the bed.

—Sean Geoghehan kissed me, she said, her eyes bright. She put a pillow over her mouth. Screamed into it. He kissed me. We kissed.

I was fourteen. I said nothing.

Kacey lowered the pillow and regarded me. Then she sat up, her face concerned, and stretched out an arm.

—Oh, Mick, she had said. It’ll happen. Don’t worry. It’ll happen for you too.

—Probably not, I said. I forced a laugh but it sounded sad.

—It definitely will, said Kacey. Promise me you’ll tell me about it when it does.



* * *



—

The night Simon kissed me, I wondered where I would begin. Before I could speak, I heard the soft, unguarded exhalation that meant that Kacey had drifted into sleep.





I did what Simon told me to do. I graduated high school, and I continued to live in Gee’s house. I moved, finally, into the middle bedroom, which still felt haunted by my mother’s presence. I started part-time work as a cashier at a local pharmacy, and I began to pay Gee two hundred dollars in monthly rent. I took my sixty credits at CCP. Then took the police exam. At twenty, I became a police officer. No one came to my induction ceremony.