Summer of '69(78)

She breaks away. “I want to wait.”

“You do?” Darren says. He eases her feet back down to the sand. “I mean, yeah, that’s cool. We can wait.”

“I’d like a bed,” Kirby says. “I’m sure that sounds old-fashioned.”

Darren kisses her. “Not old-fashioned at all. I’d like a bed too. You deserve a man who lavishes you with attention, who takes his time with you.”

For no reason, tears burn Kirby’s eyes. Or not for no reason. She is suddenly assaulted by memories of sex with Officer Scottie Turbo. It was fast, it was rough, it was about his pleasure, not hers; it was about his needs, his schedule, his agenda.

He used her, then threw her away.

“Hey,” Darren says, running a thumb under her eye. “What’s wrong?”

“Your parents don’t know we’re seeing each other, do they?” She uses the phrase seeing each other because that’s all it is. It isn’t dating. They never go anywhere together. They are never seen in public. She’s a secret for him, just like she was with Scottie Turbo.

Darren sighs. “No,” he says. “They don’t.”

“It’s your mother who objects.”

“Yes, and she persuaded my father that you’re…I don’t know. Inappropriate? I’m not sure why.”

“I know why,” Kirby says. She squints down the beach; it’s deserted. “Want to walk?”

“Sure,” Darren says.

The story is easier to tell while they’re in motion. Kirby can stare straight ahead instead of at Darren, which gives her some emotional distance.

“Remember when I told you about the policeman I dated?” she says.

“Yes,” Darren says. “He’s haunted me since you mentioned him.”

“I went to an antiwar protest this past winter,” Kirby says. “In Cambridge.”

Darren shrugs. “I didn’t go to any. I mean, I’m against the war, but I had so much work…”

“Protesting takes time,” Kirby says. “You don’t have to explain to me.” She had spent countless hours making signs and convincing other women at Simmons to go. This was in February, after the second year of surprise Tet attacks but before Tiger was drafted, so at that time, Kirby’s opposition to the war had been pure and uncomplicated. She had marched, she had chanted, she had disobeyed police orders to the crowds to stand down, to clear the streets and go home. She had called one policeman a pig and was preparing to spit on his shield just as she had spit on Roger Donnelly’s school desk years before when he grabbed her, pinned her hands behind her back, cuffed her, and said, “You’re coming with me, dollface.”

It gives Kirby chills thinking of it even now.

She quieted down once she was cuffed; her situation had become very real very quickly and all she could think was how angry her parents would be, and Exalta would be worse than angry. Kirby was being arrested. The officer remained silent as he did his best to skirt the mob and lead Kirby back to his squad car. He pulled her along by the upper arm, though his grip loosened, and indeed, he was nearly gentle with her, protective. Kirby was relieved for a moment. This man was going to deliver her from the mayhem. What was she doing here, anyway? She did want an end to the war and she wanted her voice to be heard by the people in charge—Nixon, John Mitchell, Spiro Agnew, Henry Kissinger. But now there would be very real consequences for her idealism—expense and public shame.

“I’m sorry I called you a pig,” Kirby said. “I don’t think the police are pigs. I’m not sure why I said that.”

The officer shrugged. “Nobody’s right if everybody’s wrong.”

Kirby suppressed a smile. He was quoting Buffalo Springfield! Had she managed to get arrested by the one member of the Boston Police Department who had a rebellious streak?

When they got to the squad car, the officer read Kirby her Miranda rights, but his heart didn’t seem to be in it. Kirby focused on his name tag, TURBO, and thought that it was a name better suited to a fighter pilot. Then she noticed that his eyes were green, her favorite color, and there was a sly cast to his expression that had long been her downfall with men.

“How old are you, dollface?” he asked.

“Twenty,” she said. “I’m a junior at Simmons.”

“Oh yeah?” he said. “I thought maybe you were one of those uppity Wellesley girls.”

“They rejected me,” Kirby said. Blair had gone to Wellesley, but Kirby’s grades hadn’t been as good and she didn’t make the cut, much to Exalta’s dismay.

“Rejected you, dollface?” he said. “You’re kidding me.”

“Stop calling me that,” she said. Dollface. It was such a demeaning term. She wasn’t a doll. She was a woman, a person.

Before she knew what was happening, Officer Turbo lifted her chin and kissed her. She thought of resisting, pushing him away, even kicking him in the nuts. He was abusing his authority! But she instantly felt attracted to him. She was helpless anyway, with her hands shackled behind her back, but the thing was, this turned her on. It was so wrong, so counter to the principles of being a strong female, that she felt betrayed by her body.

He was the one who pulled away. He looked as startled as she felt. “I’m against the war too,” he said. Before she could respond, he said, “I’m not going to haul you in. But I am writing you a ticket for disturbing the peace.”