Kandy by Bill Tope

Kandy by Bill Tope

1
I pulled my car to a stop alongside a small brick home just two blocks from my high school, where I’d graduated some 40 years before. The sign said they were having a yard sale. I remember passing this house every day for years, yet never knowing who lived there. Then I spotted her once more: Kandy.

Still fit and beautiful, she flounced across the lawn and embraced me in a warm hug.

“Sweeney,” she said with a brilliant smile, “you look good.”

“Liar,” I kidded her back. We both laughed. I had aged in the usual ways, putting on weight, growing gray and walking a little more stiffly. But Kandy: she hadn’t gained an ounce, as far as I could see, and her complexion was as fair at it had been the last time I’d seen her, at graduation back in 1979. It had been an outdoor event and Kandy gave her valedictory speech in the clear morning chill, to a rapt audience.

“How’ve you been, Sweeney?” she asked, stepping back and observing me closely.

“Good,” I lied. “I had no intention of being a buzz kill and telling my old classmate that I had Stage 5 kidney disease, and that my life expectancy could now be measured not in years, but in months. “So,” I asked, “how did your life turn out, Kandy?”

There was a little flicker of something in her green eyes, but it passed and she told me she had been married — twice — and divorced both times. She hadn’t learned her lesson, she admitted, and said she had returned to her childhood home to take her vows a third time, because she wanted her mother to be in attendance.

“Who’s the lucky SOB?” I asked happily.

She grinned back at me. “Kim Johnson,” she answered. The name seemed vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t quite place it. “We met in California,” she said.

“Another actor?” I asked.

She nodded.

“Is that where you’ve been, California, all this time?”

She nodded again. “I went to L.A. to become an actress,” she revealed. She had done stage work while in high school. She was a good actress and had a wonderful voice.

“How did that work out?” I asked.

“Not so much,” she admitted, then broke into a laugh. “I’m officially still a dues-paying member of SAG, just in case the right part comes along.”

“You’re still pretty enough to be in the movies,” I told her honestly, looking her up and down in admiration. “50 is the new 30,” I reminded her, quoting something from People magazine.

“Thank you, Sweeney,” she said softly. “You’re still sweet.”

“So,” I asked, glancing at the portable tables she’d erected, “what’s for sale here?”

She ignored my question. “Did you hear about Dean?” she asked.

“Dean Haskill?” I asked. Dean had been the young-man-about-town back in the day. Tall and good looking, he dated all the pretty girls, always had a grin and a good word for anyone, including me, and I was never one of the in group. Even the teachers liked him. Kandy and Dean had dated for a year while in their junior year. He had even been senior prom king, and was a good athlete. “No, what’s he up to?”

“He blew his brains out,” she told me bluntly. “Put a shotgun under his chin and pulled the trigger,” she explained. “His parents had a closed casket.”

“When, and why?” I asked in confusion. “He always seemed so… positive and happy.”

Kandy shook her head. “Guy like that had the world by the tail,” she remembered sadly. “He did it almost 10 years ago. He was just 47 years old.” She shook her head again. “I don’t know why he did it. I came back for the funeral, half expected to see you there.”

“I wasn’t living here then,” I said, “or I would’ve made it back. Nobody called me,” I said lamely.

“Here,” Kandy said, suddenly changing the subject. She picked off a table a hideous decorative wall mask, a bizarre mosaic that had probably spent decades hidden away in the attic. “Buy this, Sweeney — $5.”

I grimaced. “I dunno, Kandy, I love you, but…”

“You told me you owed me,” she reminded me with a twinkle.

And so I had. I bought the mask.

2
1977

I was 14. My face was a collage of acne. I was terribly lonely. Never one of the popular kids — more a brain than a jock, and not cool enough to be a freak — I languished in isolation with the other nerds at Washburn High.

As I walked past the ever-mysterious little brick house, Kandy suddenly emerged from the back door. I did a double take. So, the most beautiful, most popular, smartest girl in school lived there! How had I missed that?

“Hi, Sweeney,” Kandy greeted me.

“I didn’t know you lived here,” I said stupidly, having nothing more intelligent to say.

“All my life,” she said breezily, falling into step with me.

Hey, I thought. This won’t hurt my reputation, to be seen in public with the hottest girl in town. Suddenly a rock pinged off the notebook I carried under my arm.

“Goddamn geek!” taunted Rick, a boy who tormented me almost every day. “Why do you even want to be seen with that nerd, Kandy?” he asked my companion. He laughed harshly.

Kandy didn’t break a smile. “Babies throw rocks, Rick,” she reprimanded him. “Don’t do it again,” she warned.

Seconds later, another missile can streaming in and clipped me on the back of the head. Rick hooted.

Without a word, Kandy stooped and retrieved the very stone that Rick had hurled and in a flash threw it, with deadly accuracy, into Rick’s crotch. Kandy was pitcher on the girls’ fast pitch softball team. Rick howled with pain. “That’s what you get,” she told him. Interestingly, that pest never bothered me again.

“Thanks, Kandy,” I said with a grin.

“Guys like that, you hafta just walk up to them and kick them in the balls,” she said. I nodded. “I hear that Charlotte Gordon thinks you’re hot,” she said out of nowhere.

Charlotte Gordon? I thought. Another cute girl. Why would she want anything to do with me? I wondered.

“She really likes you, Sweeney,” said Kandy, perhaps reading my thoughts. “I think she wants to jump your bones,” she went on, with a smile.

We were nearly at the high school. “Kandy,” I confessed, “I’ve never even kissed a girl.”

“Every boy hasn’t ever kissed a girl — until they do! You’re one of the sweetest boys at Washburn,” said Kandy, “but you’ve got an inferiority complex. You don’t believe in yourself, which is crazy because you’re so darn smart. And good looking.”

My head shot up. Good looking? Moi? For a moment, I thought she was pulling my leg.

“You know where I live now, Sweeney. Come over tonight after school, around three o’clock. I want to show you something.”

Then we parted company.

At three o’clock that afternoon, I took myself off to Kandy’s house, straight from school. I wondered if she’d forgotten our appointment, but no. There she was, standing at the back door, waiting for me.

“C’mon in, Sweeney,” she invited.

We walked up a carpeted staircase to the second floor, where we found Kandy’s room. It was done up in posters and lighted beer signs and sports pennants and the like. A hidden turntable played “Queen” tunes, which spilled out of high-tech, expensive stereo speakers. In the center of the room was the biggest bed I’d ever seen. I swallowed.

“My parents won’t be home till 5,” she informed me. “That gives us nearly two hours.”

I looked at her queerly. I still wasn’t certain what I was even doing here. I’d entertained fleeting fantasies, of course, but I thought little would come of them. Kandy straightened me out right away, however.

“Take all your clothes off, Sweeney,” she instructed. I gaped at her, but she was rapidly disrobing herself. I swiftly complied.

Once we were both in the buff, Kandy approached me and remarked, “You’ve got a nice body, Sweeney.” At the time, I lifted weights and did endless pushups and situps; I guessed they’d paid off.

“When I was younger,” she said, sitting on the bed, “I had a sort of mentor, who taught me the ropes — sexually, you know. I think that’s what you need now. Then you won’t feel so freaked out when some girl comes on to you — and believe me, they will.”

Unbidden, I sat next to her on the giant mattress. “Why do you want to do this?” I asked her.

“You’re my friend, Sweeney. I like you. And maybe some day you’ll do me a good turn. But you know what they say: return a kindness twice over.”

Next she leaned forward and kissed me on the lips. “Make your lips softer,” she coached. “That’s right,” and she kissed me deeper, then explored my mouth with her tongue. She touched me intimately and I felt a frisson of electricity race up my spine and down my limbs.

Kandy did other things with her tongue. Things which by turn drove me wild, excited me, matured me. Then she showed me how to pleasure her, as she put it. She said I was a fast learner. We made love several times over the next two hours.

At 5 o’clock, we got dressed and Kandy leaned in for a goodbye kiss, almost chaste by comparison. “I’m not promiscuous, Sweeney,” she told me. “I have a lot of friends, but I don’t do this with everyone. Only the special people.”

“I owe you, Kandy,” I told her, half in love but knowing that this girl was still out of my league. Charlotte Gordon, huh? I thought.

Taking my leave, I padded back down the stairs and let myself out the back door. The episode was not repeated, and I never revealed the experience to anyone.

3
Several months later, when next I visited my hometown, I ran into another old friend from Washburn, Grace, whom I met up with infrequently. Grace was also an old friend of Kandy’s. We met at another yard sale.

“Hi, Sweeney,” she said, squeezing my shoulders. “What’s new?”

After exchanging small talk, I brought up the subject of Kandy. I told Grace excitedly about running into our old friend and recounted that meeting. I told her that Kandy had returned to get married.

Grace nodded somberly, then said, “I don’t know how to tell you this, Sweeney, but Kandy passed away a month ago.”

I gaped at her, in shock, then spluttered, “How, why…”

“Her heart,” she murmured. “It was sudden.”

“But her husband…” I began.

“She did get married,” Grace informed me.

“Do you know Kim Johnson?” I asked, remembering the name.

Grace nodded, then stepped aside as a stunningly beautiful woman of around 50 came forward and, offering her hand, said, “I’m Kim Johnson.” When I didn’t immediately respond, Kim said, “You were a friend of Kandy’s.” It wasn’t a question. I grasped her fingers.

“Yes,” I said. “I’ve known her since grade school. My name’s Sweeney.”

“Kandy mentioned you, Sweeney,” she said kindly. “She said you were the sweetest boy at Washburn.” She smiled.

My flesh burned. I didn’t know if this woman knew the whole story about Kandy and me, and I wasn’t about to raise the issue. Then her face and name came into focus for me.

“You’re in that show on HBO,” I said. “You play Sofia on ‘Trigger.’”

Kim nodded. “Guilty. It’s not a big part, and not everyone recognizes me. If I’d had your number, I would have told you of Kandy’s…passing.” A single tear ran down her lovely cheek. “I was thinking of holding a memorial in Washburn, for those special friends of Kandy’s, who never had a chance to say goodbye,” said Kim. “You’ll come?” I gave her my phone number and she tapped it into her cell. “I’ll be in touch,” she said.

“Were you together long?” I asked.

Kim nodded. “Ten years,” she said.

“When we were younger, Kandy was such a giving, loving person,” I said. “And when we ran into each other again, she told me how in love she was with you,” I added, making stuff up now for this poor woman. I hadn’t even known that Kandy was bisexual.

Kim stared at me with gratitude in her eyes. “You know,” she said, “Kandy was in one of the episodes of ‘Trigger.’ It’ll air in March.”

“Thanks for telling me.”

“Kandy didn’t talk much about Washburn,” Kim revealed. “I think the high school years were a sort of mixed bag for her. But, she did mention you, Sweeney, and Grace and a boy named Dean Haskill. Just after she and I met, I accompanied her to Washburn to attend his funeral. They were very close, I think.”

“I’m so sorry about Kandy,” I said.

“Thank you, Sweeney.” Kim went on, “She said she extorted you into buying that horrible wall mask I made in art class in college,” she said, laughing. “I’m sorry,” she apologized lightly.

“That’s alright, I owed Kandy. I was just repaying a debt.”

“Yes, she told me about that too,” she said softly. “I’d like to talk to you further about Kandy and when you knew her, if that’s alright with you. Perhaps at the memorial.” I agreed.

4
The memorial transpired two weeks later and was held at a small hall at the local VFW, which Kim rented when she learned that more than 200 of Kandy’s former classmates, teachers and friends would be attending. On a table at the front of the room was a framed photo of Kandy looking gorgeous at 18. A mic was set up and person after person came forward to offer their condolences, their memories and their thoughts of the dearly departed.

At one point, Mrs. Tuller, the German language teacher, came forward to speak. This was unusual only in that most of our high school teachers were deceased or at the very least in extended care facilities. Mrs. Tuller must have been ninety if she was a day. She spoke fondly of her former student and mentioned that Kandy acted as liaison between the student body and the faculty. She said she had formed a very tight relationship with the girl.

“Auf Wiendersehen, Schatzi,” she murmured softly, then left the rostrum, dabbing at an eye.

Things went well, until which point that Rick, the rock thrower of yesteryear, snatched the mic and expounded on “that freaking bitch” who “nearly crippled” him more than 40 years ago. Once the episode with the rock had become known across the school, Rick never did live it down and clearly, he held a death’s grip on a grudge. Also clear was that he was drunk. The rest of us just sat and stared at him. Eventually, his rant concluded, he staggered out the door.

At the luncheon, Kim confided that Mrs. Tuller had been Kandy’s mysterious mentor in things sexual, all lthose years ago.

“Really?” I asked. “Today she’d get prison for something like that.”

“Mrs. Tuller was, or is, bisexual,” said Kim, “and when she knew Kandy, Mr. Tuller had recently been killed in a traffic accident.” My mind skirted through memories and I remembered that. “Kandy had been raped by her boyfriend…”

“You mean Dean?” I asked in a hushed voice.

“No, someone else. She never told me his name; probably afraid I’d hunt him down like a dog and beat the shit out of him. It was date rape.” Kim went on, “Kandy was horrified, was afraid of boys, and said that, during that time, you befriended her in some fashion.” Again I ran through the pages of memories, but nothing turned up. “Anyway,” said Kim, Mrs. Tuller cosseted Kandy, perhaps took advantage of her, but got her through it. Kandy was always grateful to her, and so I was too.” She reached out and touched my hand. It felt warm.

After the memorial was over, I stepped onto the parking lot, blistering hot in the August sun, and encountered Rick once more. Once again he taunted me, ridiculing me, calling my mother a whore, and what have you. It was 1977 again. He just stood there, next to his Corvette, draining Drambuie miniatures, and sneering at me. I was about to walk past him, to my own car, when I recalled what Kandy had told me, so many years before. Annoyed by the incessant itching of my AV fistula and by the simple unfairness of life, I felt my face set in hard lines.

I took several long strides toward Rick and cocking my leg, kicked him as hard as I could in the balls. Rick, writhing and throwing up on the pavement, probably didn’t hear me when I remarked, “Debt paid in full,” as I walked away.

* * * * THE END * * * *
Copyright Bill Tope 2024