True Love

I never pictured it this way, Drew thought, as Cathy's father measured him with gentle eyes and an unnerving smile.

Drew reminded himself that Mr. Banwood liked him. At least, he thought he did.

Drew inhaled. "Mr. Banwood — " He paused, hoping Banwood would raise his hand and say, "Please, boy, it's David — you've been coming around here long enough."

Banwood said nothing.

"Mr. Banwood, sir," Drew said, raising his chin and closing his eyes for a moment to draw the phrase out of his throat, "I'm just crazy about Cathy. I really am. I can't even tell you how crazy I am about her. It's true love. I was wondering if I could, you know, have her hand.

Now that it was all over — and it was over quickly, considering the extensive rehearsal — Drew decided his performance had been pretty good. Perhaps very good. Genuine, at any rate.

"True love, you say?"

Oh, yeah. I love her. Totally.

"Truly. You did say truly."

"Right," — Drew knew better than to pause now — "truly. With everything I have, sir." That sounded good, for something that wasn't part of the original script. He reminded himself to stay on his toes.

"Certainly, then, you will be willing to perform two hundred consecutive pushups to prove your love?"

"Sorry?"

"Drew, I have not always been successful. My comfort today results from a certain attitude I acquired around the time I was your age. It's not a particularly original attitude, but it works. I'm an advocate of the straight-line principle — shortest distance between two points. Including the instance in which the two points are the claim to true love and the truth of that claim. You know, the wonderful thing about life is that there are so many ways in which one may construct his value system."

Drew hadn't a clue what Banwood was talking about. He was still trying to figure out if the man was serious about the pushups.

Through the combinations of circumstance which have created my life experience, I have formed my value system. Rather, it has formed itself. I have never questioned it, for the forming of value systems seems to me one of life's most natural processes.

What Drew valued most right now was an interpreter.

"I live by rules of practicality and directness. Your argument for true love seems sincere and mildly cogent, however I have known too many masters of elocution to base any one judgment on the spoken word. If you do love Cathy as you say, you will find the strength. Even if you reach the penultimate pushup, and it is my caprice to say 'A thousand more!' you will find the strength."

What the hell does penultimate mean?

"Have you a song?"

Drew tried not to look puzzled."Huh?"

"You and Cathy. Most couples have a song. Please don't feel embarrassed. I'm simply trying to offer some assistance in completing the task I have set."

Task?Drew's palms had become moist.

Banwood dropped to one knee, then the other, and placed both palms on the floor.

"I will demonstrate a proper pushup."

How about doing the first hundred, too?

He extended his legs fully and straightened his arms. Drew had long been awed by this man's vertical stature; horizontally he was an even more compelling specimen. He looked like cheetah, streamlined head to toe, ready to spring.

Banwood let his elbows bend outward, allowing the rest of his body to lower until both nose and pelvis nearly touched the floor. He held himself in this position and said, "Your body must remain straight, especially your buttocks. Please note my buttocks, Drew."

Drew noted Mr. Banwood's buttocks.

"They are aligned with my thighs and my back. They must not rise above this plane." His speech was unbroken by shortness of breath. "Most important, your knees must never touch the floor." Now he raised his body until his elbows were once again locked. "When you regain initial position, your body must be straight again, heels to shoulderblades. In this position you may pause for as long as you wish, provided your body remains straight."

Is there an instruction manual?

"Well," Banwood said as he stood, "is true love powerful enough to withstand two hundred pushups?"

He had worked out for a few months two or three years ago. His arms were thin but strong; neither his chest nor his stomach, while toned, could be described as muscular.

"I would suggest removing all your clothing — or, if you prefer, all but your underthings. You will likely be soaked with sweat before long. Your clothes will provide additional weight and irritation."

Drew agreed that removing his clothes might be a good idea. He thought withdrawing his marriage proposal might be an even better idea.

"I would not be troubled to see you fulfill the task. Cathy speaks passionately of you."

Thanks a lot. Now the pushups are practically done.

"Thanks a lot, Mr. Banwood, but like I said, um, I really love Cathy, and — "

"I know what you're thinking, my boy. You're thinking, I know my heart is strong enough to perform two hundred pushups, but this may prove irrelevant. Marathon runners have the will to break the tape, but at a certain point, not only do muscles begin to weaken, but eventually the entire body simply loses control."

"You just sort of caught me off guard." Shooting me would have been less surprising.

"I understand. I can give you only two pieces of advice. The first I have already given, and that is to strip. The second is to place yourself in the days when chivalry thrived, when courageous knights rescued damsels. If it will help, perceive me as the dragon or ogre blocking the gate, and Cathy prisoner high up in a tower."

What the hell is he talking about?

Not five minutes earlier he had rung the doorbell with a plan. Cathy was writing a summer final and wouldn't be home for another day. Her answer was not in question, though her father's might be. A decent speech embellished with a little sincerity ought to afford him a fighting chance.

Now, he was considering the best way to perform two hundred consecutive pushups.

"Have you made a decision?"

Drew paused. Then he nodded./p>

"You haven't answered my question about the song. Or perhaps a particular type of music?" Banwood's hands were crossed, his mustache pushed up by a beaming smile.

"Jazz," Drew murmured. "We like old jazz. Or at least she does — "

"I have a wonderful collection. Just a moment."

Drew summoned Cathy's voice, and for that moment, found it. He closed his eyes and pictured her; sensed the texture of her skin, her scent. Imagined her writing the exam, hair tied back off her forehead.

"Even if it takes you all night, I think my stock will last us," Banwood said cheerfully as he returned. In one arm he carried a pile of records. "Many of them have scratches, but that adds a certain timeless flavor, I believe." In the other hand he pinched a thick blue mat, the kind that reminded Drew of the ones he would use in junior high. Banwood dropped the mat in front of Drew, then removed one of the records from its sleeve.

"Will you be keeping your clothes on, then?"

Drew pulled his sweater over his head, folded it, and handed it to Mr. Banwood.

Twenty sets of ten. No, maybe right through the first forty, then twenty at a time until one hundred, then sets of ten.

Or maybe two hundred, no stopping. It would take maybe ten minutes.

Drew's chest was bare. He unbuckled his belt and slipped it through the loops.

Drew reached his boxers

"Before we begin, do you have you any questions?"

Drew knelt as Banwood lowered the needle and, amid light static, Count Basie began to play.

Drew decided that diving right in would be best — that anger might allow him to erase the first quarter of the "task" before he had a chance to really think about what was going on. He placed his palms firmly on the mat. Still kneeling, he took three large breaths.

"Lock your elbows, Drew — they are bent slightly. Recall my pushup."

Drew locked his elbows, and at the same time tried to ignore the fact that Banwood was observing his body at all. Once Cathy's image was fixed in his mind, he closed his eyes and lowered himself. He inhaled through his nose and exhaled through his mouth, having heard this was the most economical way to breathe while jogging.

He reached the fifteenth pushup in less than half a minute. By thirty his breaths were becoming shorter, but his strength seemed game. He accelerated a little.

At the bottom of thirty-four the mat shifted, nearly causing Drew's arms to buckle. He regained the upper position and centered himself.

"Mr. — Banwood?"

"Yes?"

"Can I continue on the carpet — not — the mat?"

"Provided your posture is maintained."

I was afraid of that. Drew moved laterally, keeping his buttocks aligned, until oth hands and feet were on the carpet.

He enhanced Cathy's image in his mind so that it would blot out the dull burn near his shoulders. But the burn was insistent.

At sixty he realized this was going to take some time. Sets of ten were perhaps feasible until one hundred, but then it would be sets of five, and sets of one soon after.

Drew forced himself to focus. If he made it halfway, it would be like struggling up a hill and cruising down the other side. The last hundred he could cruise — just as his muscles tensed and fought so powerfully through the first half, they'd relax and bounce through the last.

But Drew's muscles never bought the analogy. Their appeals grew louder.

Eddie Jefferson and Cathy Banwood sang together, the former on CD, the latter behind the wheel. She was smiling for two reasons. First, she had breezed through the exam as if she'd designed it herself, and second, she felt alert enough to drive home a day early and surprise Drew.

Three reasons, really. With the thin traffic she had made great time, and was around the corner from home.

He was surrounded by opulence. His arms felt like fraying ropes ready to snap. His pores seemed to be made of fire. His hair itched madly. Several feet away a large, handsome man was looking at him. Jazz drifted around the room.

Now that he was acquainted with the situation, Drew closed his eyes again.

By ninety — he was down to sets of three or four, and was no longer counting, but instead listening for the interval calls — Cathy's image had become blurred.

"One hundred!" Banwood said. Drew heard the call with vague awareness. He had been preoccupied by the thought of letting his arms give.

No!shrieked an inner voice. The shout jolted him back into normal consciousness long enough to cause him to lock his elbows. He panted atop one hundred.

Asked to fabricate the most bizarre scene she could, Cathy Banwood could never have come up with the image of her boyfriend performing pushups in his boxers, his body glowing a bright red, her father standing over him, jazz playing in the background.

"Drew? Daddy? What — Daddy! Drew!"

"Cathy!" Banwood rushed toward her while Drew paused above one-hundred-ten. "Honey. Listen to me. You must leave. Stay at one of your girlfriend's tonight."

"Why is Drew in his underwear?"

"It's okay," Drew said meditatively. He gazed ahead. "Just have to complete a small task..."

"Daddy! What's going on?"

Banwood could see his little girl was becoming hysterical. "You mustn't be here. Trust your father."

"Yes. I have you here." Impossibly, Drew lifted one arm and tapped his temple, then lowered it again and resumed lifting and lowering himself. "One-eleven...one-twelve..." His gaze remained fixed.

Drew could see her clearly now. Like a bright, beautiful splash of sunlight she had burst into his mind, her voice as clear close as if she were standing behind him. He could not fail.

Cathy twisted out of her father's grasp and ran in front of Drew. "Drew, get up and put some clothes on. Then I want the both of you to tell me with in God's name is going on!"

Drew took her in. "I won't stop."

"What?" As Cathy reached for him, a pair of hands carried her out of the room and deposited her on the other side of the door, then locked it. He returned to Drew's side as Cathy pounded on the door. Billie Holliday sang.

Only in the shallowest sense could Drew see Mr. Banwood or hear Billie Holliday. He had begun to travel inward.

Banwood decided to replace Billie Holliday with something more upbeat. As Billie faded into static, Banwood slipped Woody from his sleeve. Throughout, his attention remained on Drew. "One hundred twenty-five!"

Drew paused above the carpet, conscious of his buttocks. Though his arms were still acting like plucked rubber bands, the intensity of their convulsions seemed to be waning.

Cathy's image was also waning.

"Drew!"

He heard her voice.

Banwood looked at his watch. Drew had been doing pushups for close to thirty minutes, and had been paused above one-twenty-five for some time.

Drew lowered himself into one-twenty-six. A sense of ease pressed through him. His arms felt stronger tan they had fifty pushups earlier, as though the muscles had been replaced with industrial-strength elastic. He continued toward one-fifty. Banwood snapped along as Woody Herman gave way to Coleman Hawkins.

"One-fifty!" Banwood shouted.

"One-fifty," Drew gasped, locking his elbows. His shallow breaths rasped. Sweat stood out all over his face. Yet his body continued on, lifting itself and lowering itself. Past one-sixty. Past one-seventy.

Banwood heard a thud. He looked toward the door as Drew paused at the top of one-seventy-four.

A second thud came, this time accompanied by Cathy's grunts.

"Young lady, would you please act your age and go play in traffic or do something other than squander this boy's attempt at proving his love for y — "

Two long shards of wood blasted outward. Banwood looked back at Drew. "Quicken your pace, boy! You must finish!"

There was, of course, the problem created by Cathy's determination.

The door splintered again, and Cathy's shoe appeared, poking around like a squirrel's head in the bole of a tree.

Drew's breathing was deep and regular. The expression on his face had changed as completely as one season to the next, yet just as discreetly. His elbows unlocked and his body, aligned shoulders to buttocks to heels, lowered into one-ninety-one.

"Nine more, Drew!"

The hole in the door had expanded. Cathy picked away spokes of wood and threw them aside.

"Cathy, no! Stay!"

Drew's body continued to raise and lower itself. He took in new air, old air passing through his lips in a thin stream.

And his eyes remained closed.

Cathy's right foot feet was planted on the side of the door closest to Banwood. She swung her back down and under.

"One-ninety-seven! Cathy! Don't move!"

Drew paused. Banwood's eyes widened.

The music!

Banwood darted toward the stereo, where Jellyroll Morton, between skips, repeated the same piano riff. Cathy's left foot came down on the near side of the door. As Banwood lifted the needle and dropped it beyond the scratch, Cathy ran for Drew.

It took Banwood only a few strides to reach her. A yard from Drew's heels he hurtled himself. He pinned her against the carpet, holding her arms.

"Let me go!" Cathy shouted.

At the same moment, Drew whispered, "Two hundred," exhaled softly, and lowered himself — all the way down this time, until he, too, lay against the carpet, his entire weight against it, a thousand soft fingers caressing his skin. He opened his mouth and mumbled something. Neither Cathy nor her father could tell what it was.

Eyes still closed, Drew repeated the phrase, distinguishable even through his exhausted whisper because no other words sound similar: "I love you."

Banwood smiled at his daughter.

The will of true love, having carried Drew to completion, dove back into its room. Drew began to gasp.

Then, as the deep, dark tones of Sarah Vaughan crept about the room, he passed out.

Two hours later Cathy escorted Drew into the living room, where Mr. Banwood reclined on a sofa. Banwood swung his legs off the cushions and stood.

"Hello, son," he said. "How do you feel?"

Drew had again lost on the courts today, but the matches were getting closer. If he could make more than half of his first serves, the outcome might be different. It didn't matter. Dad's company was agreeable, and conversation between them was easy. He looked at Drew with a languid smile. His arms rested on the ledge of the Jacuzzi, bubbles gurgling under his armpits. Drew compared his wingspan to that of an immense prehistoric bird.

Must be six inches across, Drew thought, trying not to goggle at the scar. Upon his first notice of it he had nearly said something. Since, he had always subdued the urge to stare. He could no longer keep it in.

"Dad?"

"Yes, son?

"That scar on your arm. It's really long."

"Would you believe almost eight inches?" Banwood paused, smiling wistfully. I loved Cathy's mother dearly, God bless her soul. Her father cleaved to very specific principles. One of these, he explained to me on the day I asked for Belinda's hand, pertained both to romance and directness — practicality, as he put it. A kind of balance between the two. To be honest, I was perplexed by all this. Here I was, a young man whose sole belief was in the love I had for Belinda, and here he was rambling on about this thing and that. I wanted to tell him so, but never got the chance. He went on and on, digressing every other sentence, expounding on some philosophy he must have thought was the answer to the secret of the universe. I was barely able to understand a word of what the man was saying.

"Also, he had a chin-up bar."

Storyteller 

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