Guilty Tears

I opened the door. I stared into the watery, red-rimmed eyes of a friend and sister. She walked in and sat down on the end of my single bed, pushed herself back and propped against the concrete block wall, feet stretched in front of her. I closed the door and joined her there.

            “What is it?”

            “They’re gonna kick me out.” I understood her words between quiet sobs.

            “Who? What do you mean?” I handed her a box of Kleenex.

            “I don’t know.” Silent tears streamed, adding blotches to blotches.

            “I missed a period.”

Pre-marital sex was an extra-curricular activity for many college couples. I was not oblivious, but during the 1960’s, no one ever talked about it, especially with someone who was not likely to be participating. It'd be like Riz confiding in Sandy in "Grease." Not that she was really like Rizzo, but I was closely akin to Sandy, minus Danny.

            “Have you told anyone? Him?”

            “I told him and he’s mad.”

 I was not surprised. She did what he wanted or he’d be mad and all hell would break loose. We’d all told her she was better than that and to dump him.

            He was a younger hunk of a guy with dark hair, a baby face, football player shoulders, basketball player height, and the object of her affection since she sighted him when he first arrived on campus. She’d gone after him and who could resist her charm and personality. She was a fun person, always ready for a good time. A quick and quirky smile, a mouth full of braces, a short haircut, and dance moves to be envied, she radiated sunshine anywhere she walked.

            The couple would break up frequently and stir up all kinds of stink in the Student Union. He was a member of a popular fraternity and anyone around them watched their courtship play out at full volume. Most of their break ups were the result of a battle of wills. After a week apart, he’d pitch rocks at her dorm window and beg her for another chance. The roller coaster was part of their culture.

            “What if y’all get married?”

            “He said he didn’t want to marry me. Not now."

            “You’ve got to tell your family. They’ll help you,” I projected my values onto her as it was all I knew to do. I could find no words.

            “If anyone finds out, I’ll be out of school, out of the sorority, and disowned.”

I figured that was probably true on all counts, because it was the threat that was held over my head all my dating years. But what did I really know. I couldn’t imagine this situation happening to a friend, a sister in my pledge class. Her confiding in me was astounding. I loved her, but we were not of the same ilk. Maybe I was the only one on the floor that night. Did she think I’d have some cure, some magic answer? I wasn’t that smart and I was tongue tied when confronted with this situation.

            “He’s making arrangements.”

            “What?" I said like a fool. She just looked at me.

            “There’s no other way. His frat brothers gave him names and he’ll set it up and take me.”

            “Don’t do this.” My head was spinning. Who else had done this while I lived in my ivory tower with blinders on? These frat guys knew people who knew people.

            “I’ll be fine. Just don’t tell anyone. Promise.”

            She returned to her dorm room down the hall. I sat silent. I never said a word to anyone.

            Burdened with her information for the next several weeks, I kept watching her, looking for any sign that she needed my help. I saw nothing. In fact, the couple seemed happier than ever.

            That summer I took a few extra courses, enjoyed morning classes and afternoon river sunbathing. Word came that my friend, my evening visitor, was in the hospital. That weekend I went home and on Sunday, drove to her hometown and pulled into a parking space at the hospital. The information desk worker gave me her room number and I boarded the elevator.

            The ding sounded and the door slid open. I looked left and right, noted the room sequence, and walked down the hallway to her room, making sure I had a big smile for her.

Her door stood open, I noted with pleasure, like she was expecting visitors. I walked right into her room ready for a cheerful conversation. Her room was empty. Maybe she’s having tests, I surmised. Or, perhaps, they’ve moved her to a different room.

            A nurse approached with linens folded over her arm and said, “May I help you?”

            “I’m looking for my friend.”

            “Who is that?”

            “Sharon Shelby.”

            “Oh, my dear,” she said, her arm extending to me."She died earlier today. We are cleaning this room. I’m so sorry.”

            I backed away into the hallway and felt the first sting of guilty tears.

It was August 3, 1969. She’d just turned twenty-one.