After All These Years

After All These Years

         “What do you mean?” asked my roommate, Flora, “You have to go back to elementary school for what?”
         “I told you,” I sighed. “Tonight’s the big night. We’re opening the time capsule.” How could I explain? Twenty years before — when I had been in fifth grade — my homeroom teacher, Mrs. Loretta Birnbach, had arranged for all the kids in her class to store mementos in a time capsule, which we had buried in the school’s back yard. And we had all taken a vow to return in twenty years — on the night of June 15 — to see it opened.
         “I know it’s silly,” I said as I gathered up my purse and car keys. “But I have to go,” I paused when I reached the front door and turned to Flora. “You see, there’s something in the time capsule I need to get. If someone else gets to it before I do, then it could be a very embarrassing situation.” Without explaining further, I rushed from the apartment and slammed the door behind me.
         

         On the way to Frederick Elementary School, I lamented the act I had committed twenty years before, when--at the impulsive age of ten--I had declared my love for Gregory Wyatt on a pink valentine card. After planting a lipsticked kiss mark on the envelope seal, I inscribed his name on the front and dropped it into the time capsule. In my girlhood fantasies, it was only a matter of time--a very short time--before Gregory would be mine to love.
         Well, no such luck. Gregory married some girl from the city--Candace Liverpool was her name. And never had he ever shown any interest in me. I wish I could say that time had dulled my feelings for him, but it would be a lie. I loved Gregory more than ever. He only came into town every once in a while, always driving his blue and white truck with the name of his business--Wyatt’s Nursery--announced on the sides. Whenever I saw him drive by, I was washed over with sadness.
         It wasn’t that Gregory ignored me. He always called me by name, even back in our school days. “Hey Violet,” he’d say, rushing off to football practice as I made my way through the empty hallway, inevitably on my way to the library.
         No, Gregory had always been nice to me, smiling his dimpled smile whenever we passed one another. But he was so cute that other girls--braver than me--flocked him. Shy me never stood a chance.
         “How could I have been so stupid?” I muttered to myself as I rounded the bend. The elementary school was just up ahead. Mrs. Birnbach had called me the week before to remind me of the ceremony. As if I needed to be reminded of the time capsule. For the past five years or so, since Gregory had gotten married, I have been dreading this day, picturing the awful scene: Gregory--with Candace at his side--opens my valentine, looks over to me and laughs. Candace laughs and passes the valentine around so all can see it. Everyone laughs at me, the shrinking Violet in both name and spirit, the one who still doesn’t have a real valentine, even after all these years. 
         But I was determined that it wouldn’t happen that way. I planned to be the first one at the capsule, and I would reclaim the valentine, do or die. Nothing would stand in my way.

         A small crowd had gathered at the edge of the building, directly in front of the rose bush we had planted twenty years before to mark our spot.
         “Just look at these roses,” said Rachel Gillespie, a former classmate. Now she was a sophisticated woman in a pink business suit and heels. She leaned over waved her nose over one of the many plump pink roses that bloomed on the bush.
         “It’s a shame we’ll have to dig up this bush to get the capsule,” I said.
         “Don’t worry about it,” said a voice. “I’ve got my equipment here. We’ll replant it.”
         I turned and found that Gregory Wyatt was directly behind me. And sure enough, he had come equipped with his gardening tools; the biggest was a tall wooden handled spade, which he secured firmly in the ground. “Hi Violet,” he said, and smiled. His dimples were the same as ever, and his thick blonde hair was just as golden.
         “Greg-ory!” screeched Rachel, she wrapped herself around him in a massive bear hug. “Gregory, you look even better than you did in fifth grade.”
         “Uh, thanks,” Gregory said. “You look better too. And so does Violet.”
         I smiled but could not speak. My heart was flip-flopping. All I could think about was that time capsule buried in the ground. If Gregory was the one doing the digging, would I be able to get the Valentine away from him in time? At least he didn’t have Candace with him.
         Gregory checked his watch. “I guess all we’re waiting on is Mrs. Birnbach.”
         As if summoned, Mrs. Birnbach appeared from around the corner. The class--and almost all twenty of us were there--applauded as she joined the group. Rachel plucked a rose off the bush and handed it to her. “After all these years,” Rachel said, “You brought us together again. Thank you Mrs. Birnbach.” She kissed the woman’s cheek and then smiled up at Gregory. “It’s time to dig, Gregory,” she said. “Let’s get to it!”
         And as Gregory stabbed the earth with a shovel, the class applauded once more. Except for me. My hands were shaking too hard.

         About a half-hour later, Gregory’s shovel hit something.
         “That’s it,” someone whispered as Gregory cleared the dirt from the top of a metal container. Gregory abandoned the spade and picked up a trowel, loosening the dirt and rocks. As he wrenched the vessel from the ground I leaned forward, ready to take immediate action and reclaim my mistake.
         “Wait, wait,” said Mrs. Birnbach. “Let’s take the capsule inside the building, back to our old classroom.”
         I groaned inwardly. This was going to be complicated. How was I going to be able to claim something addressed to Gregory with all of these people standing around? I trudged in with the group, Gregory leading with the fated capsule in his grip. I was doomed.
         In the classroom Mrs. Birnbach--with the rose pinned to her dress--stood behind the front desk. “Now I’ll open the capsule and reveal the contents. If you remember, the class stored important mementos in this container. Pictures, poems, records, and letters. For those of you who took the opportunity to do something special, tonight is the night you will see the reward of your foresight.”
         Or the humiliation, I thought.
         Mrs. Birnbach twisted the rusty, dirtied cap and was--amazingly enough--able to open it by herself. She flipped the container over and the contents spewed onto her desk. A few gasps and chuckled lilted through the room and all at once, everyone rushed forward to survey the goods. I rushed forward as well, but was blocked by the sea of bodies. I pushed forward as hard as I dared, nudging my way toward the desk, toward the little card I had so stupidly written out twenty years before.
         But I was too late. Just as I gained sight of the capsule, I watched--as if in slow motion--as my pink valentine, which I recognized instantly, was handed by Mrs. Birnbach to Gregory. And I watched, in horror, as Gregory--his eyebrows tensed in curiosity--peeled open the envelope.
         “Oh, here’s something for Violet,” I heard someone say, and an envelope was thrust into my hands. By this time I was stepping backward, eyes on Gregory, who was reading the card. Our eyes met. He opened his mouth to say something but my feet had found themselves and--instinctively--I rushed from the classroom, down the darkened hallway, through the double doors, past the upturned rosebush, through the parking lot, and finally, into the safe haven of my car.
         My hands trembled and tears sprung to my eyes. I breathed deep and reminded myself that--even though Gregory had gotten the valentine after all--I had saved myself humiliation by rushing away before he could say a word. After several more deep breaths I remembered the envelope I was holding. I looked down. The paper was yellowed, and my name, “Violet,” was scratched on the front in childish script. Carefully, I unsealed the yoke and pulled out a folded piece of notebook paper, which I promptly unfolded. I turned on my car’s interior light to read the words:

         Violets are red, Violets are blue
         but the Violet I love
         is . . . you
         love,
         Gregory Wyatt

         My hand flew to my mouth. My heart raced. After all these years! I had never thought. . . it couldn’t be true.
         But it was. I had proof. And then, in the distance, I saw a figure rushing toward the parking lot. Sure enough, it was Gregory. Awkwardly, I exited from my car and stood to face him.
         “I guess you must have been about as anxious as I was,” he said.
         In the dying light his hair shone a soft gold. His eyes--warm and worried--were crystal blue like a summer sky. “Gregory,” I said. “I never knew.”
         “And neither did I, Violet,” he said. “I only hoped.”
         “Me too,” I replied. “I was hoping too. I was hoping that in twenty years. . .” I paused, not sure how to continue.
         “That in twenty years it would be easier to say what we couldn’t say then?”
         “Yes,” I said.
         “Well,” he said. “Maybe we did ourselves a favor,” he said. “Because now we have to say it all.”
         “But. . . what about Candace?” I asked.
         He shook his head. “Candace and I divorced last year,” he said. “She couldn’t take life in a small town.”
         “I’m sorry,” I said. It seemed like the right thing to say.
         “It was for the best,” Gregory replied. “I have my business, and this is my home. But to think that after all these years you and I are only just now getting to talk for more than a second. Life is strange that way. Some things — the best things — come only after you’ve waited a long time.”
         “Does that mean. . .” but my words trailed off. Shrinking Violet, that was me. I still couldn’t say what I wanted to say.
         “Does it mean that I still harbor twenty-year-old crushes?” Gregory asked.
         “Well,” I said, smiling. “Do you?”
         Gregory’s fingers curled around mine. “Who doesn’t?”          
         And then — after all these years — we kissed for the very first time.

THE END