I walked to the driver’s side, opened the door, and slid in. Mickie had walked to the passenger door. I put the key in the ignition, but Mickie remained standing outside the car. I checked the door lock to make sure the knob was up. It was. I looked up at her. “What’s the matter?”
“I’m waiting for you to open my door for me like a gentleman. It will be good practice for Saturday night.”
10
The following Saturday, I stood in the marble foyer of Mickie’s house in a burgundy tux with a ruffled shirt and burgundy bow tie. A photograph, much to my chagrin, remains in my mother’s scrapbook for 1975.
“Did you take a job as a waiter?” one of Mickie’s brothers asked. My luck they were home from college.
“A job as a waiter,” Joanna laughed, holding on to the banister and swinging back and forth.
“Is that velvet, Hill? I think we have drapes made of the same material,” Mickie’s other brother said.
“We have drapes made of the same material,” Joanna repeated, laughing.
Thankfully Mickie’s father had moved out of the house by this point.
Joanna stopped swinging and yelled, “Hey, Mickie! Sam’s here, and he has flowers!” She started up the stairs. “I’ll get Mickie, Sam. My mom is putting tape on her boobs.”
I had no idea what that meant and flushed a color to match my tuxedo.
Mickie’s brothers and I sat in the den with the television blaring. After the initial ribbing, we made small talk about the Giants and the Forty-Niners. I felt like the room was a thousand degrees. Finally, I heard the click of high heels on marble, stood, and almost dropped the corsage. I’d seen pictures of my friends at their proms. The girls wore long dresses that made bridesmaid dresses look good. Not Mickie. She wore a burgundy dress that seemed to defy gravity, held up by nothing more than two thin shoulder straps. It sank low enough to reveal a hint of cleavage, hugged her hips, and ended just above her knees. Her legs were free of nylons, her calves toned above white high heels. I couldn’t tell you the fabric of the dress, but it looked like silk. I really didn’t care. As eye-catching as I found the dress, Mickie’s face stole my attention. She looked like something created by a great artist, with her hair curled and diamond earrings protruding from her lobes.
“Close your mouth,” she said. “You’ll catch a fly.”
“Oh, Michaela,” her mother said.
“You’ll catch a fly.” Joanna rolled on the ground in hysterics. “You’ll catch a fly.”
“This is for you,” I said, holding out the corsage.
“Aren’t you going to pin it on?” Mickie asked.
I studied the thin straps.
“Here, Sam, I’ll do it,” Mickie’s mother said, coming to my rescue and giving Mickie a reproachful look.
The corsage in place, Mrs. Kennedy instructed us to stand this way and that as she took pictures and promised to make an extra set, which my mother would date, label, and slide into the photo album right next to the photograph of me in my tuxedo.
Mickie rested her hand on my arm to keep her balance on her high heels as we walked down the front steps to the Falcon. I opened the passenger door and waited until she’d gathered a matching shawl and slid across the seat. When I got in the driver’s side, Mickie sat in her customary spot.
“Everything okay?” she asked. “You were kind of quiet in there.”
This time I did not hesitate to say it. “You look beautiful.” I did not feel the least bit self-conscious saying it. I was stating a fact, like looking at a waterfall and calling it breathtaking. “Really. Really beautiful.”
Mickie blushed, beaming. Then she leaned over and kissed me on the cheek.