Photoplay (Jan-Jun 1959)

TOMMY SANDS Continued, from page 65 call each other up on the telephone and talk about things — silly things like how we’d act if we were twelve years old again or supposing it were the end of the world — what would we do? We both collected shaggy dog stories, and we’d go on for hours on the phone. My mom used to moan like mad. “Tommy,” she’d yell, “get off the phone!” I would for ten minutes and then call back. Joan and I had too much to talk about. Then came that spring afternoon. I picked Joan up from her home-room at Houston High, and we walked over to the drugstore and she told me the news. Her folks wanted me to go home with them after church on Sunday and have dinner with them. “Gee, Joan,” I said. “I ... I don’t know ...” I took the straw out of my Coke glass and began untwisting it. “If you don’t come. Tommy, they’re going to be very disappointed,” she said. "Mom thought if you couldn’t make it this Sunday, next Sunday would be all right.” “It’s . . . it’s not that. . .” I said, fidgeting with the straw. “Oh, Tommy,” Joan answered in a schoolteacherish voice, “they’re not going to eat you. .” “I ... I guess not,” I admitted. I didn't want to tell her how scared I was. Already there was a prickly sensation at the pit of my stomach and I could feel a thumping in my throat. She told me that her older brother, Oliver, would be coming home from college for the weekend, and I’d enjoy meeting him. He was a real brain, she added. Of course, that scared me all the more. But I didn’t tell her. Sunday rolled around. All I told my mother was that I was going over to a friend’s house for a visit. I just couldn’t tell my mom the truth. She’s great when it comes to giving me confidence about school or a show that I’m doing. But she never could understand me when it comes to girls. I’ve often wondered if all moms are this way. After church, I took the bus to Joan’s. When I got there, they hadn’t gotten back yet. Joan’s folks were Presbyterian; Mom and I were Methodists. I peeked through the front door with its large, lace-curtained windowpane. I couldn’t see a creature stirring, not even Joan’s poodle, Mukluk. I ducked behind the house to sneak a cigarette. No sooner did I inhale the first hot taste of the tobacco than I heard a car stop and the clattering of feet on the front walk. Everyone apologized to me for being late. “But didn’t Oliver let you in?” Joan’s mom asked. She was tall and roundfaced, and she wore rimless eyeglasses. “I ... I didn’t ring the bell. I just knocked.” “He’s probably still asleep,” she decided. Joan looked very pretty that day. She had on a blue print dress that brought out the color of her eyes. But she was very ;hy, more bashful than I’ve ever known her to be. All she said was “Hi.” Her father nodded to me to go inside. Joan's mother announced that Margaret and her husband Bob were coming over. Margaret was Joan’s older sister. She and r Bob had been married about a year. While Joan’s mother bustled through the house, Joan’s father and I went into the living room. It had rich maroon drapes and overstuffed maroon furniture. I noticed a framed portrait of Joan on an endtable. “Sit down,” Joan’s father said in a gruff tone. He was tall and lanky, a typical Westerner. He took off his jacket. “Want to take off yours?” he asked. “Okay,” I said, not knowing whether I should or I shouldn’t. He was so formal, as if he wanted to conduct a meeting with stiff parliamentary procedure. I sat in an easy chair and fiddled with the antimacassars. Both of us were silent for a minute. “Where’s Joan?” I asked, breaking that terrible silence. “Where do you expect?” he said in what I thought was a pretty stern way. “Where she belongs. In the kitchen. Helping her mom.” I slumped lower in the chair. “Tell me, young man,” he said in his parliamentary voice, “what are your plans?” “Plans?” I said, my voice cracking. “You know what I mean. Plans!” he answered me. “What are you thinking about in terms of college?” I fumbled for an answer. There was a lump in my throat the size of an egg. I didn’t even know if I were going to college. I’d already begun singing at nights — in little out-of-the-way night clubs, for spending money. They weren’t very fancy. I said I didn’t know about college. I was thinking about singing for a career. “But you are planning on having a higher education,” he said, an incredulous tone in his voice. “Well, sir,” I answered. “I really don’t know. My mother works, and my father — well, he’s not with us. They’re divorced. So maybe I won’t have a chance to go to . . .” Joan entered the room, and I never finished my sentence. She told us that Margaret and Bob had arrived. “Your boy over here,” her dad said, “tells me he doesn’t know if he’s going to college.” Joan blushed redder than her lipstick. She swallowed hard before she could speak. “Dad,” she said. “Tommy’s a friend, that’s all. . .” “Well,” her dad said impatiently, “he tells me he’s not thinking seriously about going to college. . .” We were saved by Joan’s mom who announced dinner. “Joan helped to prepare it all before church,” her mom told me, smiling. We went into the dining room with the long table all set beautifully with an ivory linen tablecloth and cut-glass water tumblers and fancy silverware. I was so impressed. “Oliver!” Joan’s mom called as Margaret told us where we should sit. I sat across from Joan . . . between Bob, who was a quiet kind of guy, and Margaret, whom I noticed was wearing a pink maternity dress. Oliver finally came down and sat next to Joan. He had evidently just gotten out of bed. He’d thrown on a sport shirt and chino pants and slicked back his hair, it looked, with cold water. His eyes were still puffy from sleep. First, we all drank our glasses of tomato juice. Then Margaret insisted she serve the roast beef while her mom stayed seated. We passed the mashed potatoes and buttered peas. When it came my turn to help myself to vegetables, I was so afraid I’d spill something that I did. Some of the peas fell onto the tablecloth. “I’ll . . . I’ll pick them up,” I said. I didn’t know if that was right or wrong, but I was ashamed to let them lie there. They had made round butter stains on the tablecloth, and I wondered if I should open up my mouth and apologize. But I was too embarrassed even to say a word. Just then Oliver started talking. Joan was right. He was a brain. He began explaining how he must be under some spell from Morpheus, the god of slumber. Then he announced his favorite myth was Atlanta and the golden apples. He said something in Latin I didn’t understand. “Isn’t that a beautiful thought?” he commented, and looking me right in the eye, he asked, “Who wrote it?” I was studying Latin all right, but I was strictly the amo-amas-amat type. “We’re only in first year Latin,” Joan said softly. “What are they teaching you kids these days,” Oliver said smiling, but I knew he was serious. Then Joan’s mom leaned over the table and said, “A little birdie told us, Tommy, that you're quite a performer. I hear you sing and dance and play the guitar.” “Yes, ma’am,” I said. “I do.” “Maybe you’ll do a number for us after dinner,” she suggested. I wished I could get up that minute and run far away from everyone. “What do you think, Tommy?” Joan’s mom said in a pleasant voice. “We would like to hear you sing. Joan’s so proud of you.” “Thanks, ma’am,” was all I could say. For dessert they served hot apple pie which I’m nuts about. But somehow I just wasn’t hungry. I couldn’t eat it. Joan understood. She kept looking at me from across the table, and from time to time she smiled a nervous little smile. Suddenly I felt very sad about growing up. When I was a boy, a kid in short pants, all that had mattered were water pistols and cowboy hats and storybooks. Now, the things that used to matter didn’t seem to matter anymore There were so many other things that were important — too many almost, all of them crowding my mind. So it was so hard to be certain about anything. Before, if I’d liked somebody, I’d just liked them. Now if I liked somebody, it seemed there was all this . . . and maybe more to contend with. After dinner we all went into the living room. Joan’s father and Bob watched a newscaster on TV sum up the week’s events. The women went to the kitchen to do the dishes. Oliver disappeared upstairs to study for his exams. I sat in a corner, nervous and alone. When the women finished in the kitchen they came into the living room, and everybody watched TV for a while. Then, suddenly, Joan’s mom looked at me. “Tommy,” she said, “you haven’t forgotten? You’re supposed to sing for us.” I looked down at the stippled pattern on the rug. “Maybe,” I said slowly, “maybe some other time. . .” “But what’s wrong with right now? It’s as good a time as ever,” she insisted. Joan came to my defense. “Mother,” she said. “Tommy doesn’t have his guitar.” “But can’t he sing without it?” “I ... I guess I’m just not much in the mood,” I said. “Even for only one song,” Joan’s mom begged. She seemed such a nice woman I hated to disappoint her so finally I gave in. They all moved their chairs back and made me stand in front of the enamelled mantelpiece. I didn’t want to sing a loud rock ’n’ roll or rockabilly number so I figured it’d better be something balladlike— a folk song maybe. “How about ‘In the Evening By the Moonlight’?” I suggested, thinking that would be a safe choice. “That’s not much of a song,” Joan’s