What's the Good of My Caring?
Inspired by the song, “Pris’ner of Love,” this second-person essay is in obvious retrospection of the summer 1961 events portrayed in the previous book, That Morgan Boy (It Happened in Riverdale, Book 3).
“Someone that I belong to
Doesn’t belong to me,
Someone who can’t be faithful
Knows that I have to be.
Wonder if I am wrong to
Give him my loyalty…”
“Alone from night to night you’ll find me,
Too weak to break the chains that bind me,
I need no shackles to remind me
I’m just a pris’ner of love…”
“What’s the good of my caring?…”
Well, what is the use of my caring? Not that I don’t care. Because I do. I’m in love with him. That’s pretty blunt, but this has to be straight to the point.
I remember our last date—it was in June—and the last time he held my hand, the last time we kissed goodnight. Not that it’s important now. But a girl can never quite forget those things—those little things. The way he said your name, the look from across a crowded room that only you can understand.
If your guy moves to Timbuktu or some place else way far away, it might be easier to take. You’ll come to your senses—sometimes—and realize you had to give him up. Sure, you’ll be lonely, and some time after he’s been gone awhile you’ll wake up in the middle of the night and realize—it’ll hit you suddenly—he’s gone! But always, down deep inside, will be that secret hope that someday, somewhere, somehow you’ll meet and it’ll happen all over again.
But the guy’s not gone—not even moved across town. One day you’re a happy couple, living, loving, and sharing your dreams. Then comes that trip to the beach and poof!—everything ends. Not just like that, of course. It takes a while for him to realize that you were a little upset over the quarrel of two days ago and you lost your head and went on the moonlight walk that night with another fellow. But when it soaks in, whamoo!—out comes all the pent-up emotions and fancy words and poetry you never dreamed he had in him! A couple days later, you realize how foolish you were ever to do such a thing as you did at the beach. But then it’s too late, ’cause your guy’s on his way to Arizona with his folks. But you just keep your fingers crossed that he’ll still “love” you when he gets back and that he won’t run into his old girlfriend in Arizona.
He said he’d write. So you wait. And wait. And when nothing comes ‘cept a little ol’ card—and he didn’t even sign it “With love”—you get suspicious. Of course, he calls you the minute he gets home and you see him the day after that (when he’s all rested up from the trip) but he seems sort of cold. And the day after that, you find out why.
Oh, the philosophical language! But since you can be an honest thinker when you have to be, you realize it’s all true. But why, oh, why, must you be so stubborn and end it with a fight? You don’t want to quarrel with him, really. Well, when he finally admits he held hands with his old girlfriend in Arizona, it’s like a dagger, although you expected it. Everything seems so unreal—like a nightmare you’re struggling to wake up from. Your head knows, but your heart won’t believe that he’s gone!
Well, of course, all this happens just in time for the weekend campout in the mountains, and just in time for the Riverdale County Fair, and just in time for the hayride you didn’t go on together. You’re surprised because not too many people ask questions. Maybe they suspected all along. Or maybe they don’t realize what has happened because, after all, you and he did agree to remain “friends” after you broke up. Now you wonder if that was such a wise decision after all. He doesn’t act like you’re his friend. Maybe others can’t see through his teasing, but you can see his subtle insults aimed at you and you can feel the hurt, down deep inside, where it really hurts. Yet, despite this, you still love him. It’s a yearning impulse, ’way down deep inside of you.
And here you sit, all alone, on a Saturday night. The summer moon is full, and a soft breeze is astir. You remember an old song, a song you learned from him….
“What good is the moonlight,
The silvery moonlight that shines above?
I walk with my shadow, I talk with my echo,
But where is the one I love?”
And a poem he sent in a letter once….
“As I sit here without you, my darling,
I think of the time when we met—
Now I’d nestle in silence beside you,
And all but your presence forget….”
Where is he now? Wake up!, you tell yourself, and stop being such a fool! He probably has forgotten you even exist. You can’t go on carrying a torch for him the rest of your life.
You remember the Riverdale County Fair. Hope? So he took you on a couple of rides just for kicks. So you saw the puppet show together. So he held your hand and called you “Sweetheart” and said, “I love you.” So what? It was all so mechanical. When the Fair was over, when the festivities were gone, so was his artificial affection. And you see how he was such a, a, well, you don’t want to say he’s a hypocrite, but you can’t think of a milder word at the moment.
Oh, he was a pretty good guy. Pretty good? You thought he was the ideal, and that no one you know of could ever compare with him. And you still feel that way. But you must give him up; you can’t hold on to him—even in your memory.
“Though I’ll cry when he’s gone,
I won’t die—I’ll live on….”
You’ll live on? You’ll exist. Everywhere you go, everything you do, you’re reminded of him, for you went everywhere, did everything—together. His hair, his voice, his blue, blue eyes belong to the boy you once knew and loved. But he’s not the same—and you know he never can be. You see him as he talks and laughs with the pretty girls he once never knew existed. And you watch as he passes, scarcely glancing at you, let alone saying “Hi.”
A heart cannot always respond in love to cold indifference and careless insults. Your love was once warm and, oh, so true. But you were hurt—terribly hurt. Time will heal the wounded heart—eventually. But, always, there will be a tiny scar. For a girl can never quite forget….
