Queen Buttercup Speaks

Take a walk back to 1986 in a Philadelphia suburb. The first home my parents bought was when I was age seven. In a much younger mind, I saw houses right next to each other and knew that trick-or-treating would be much easier in a row home. We had been living on a busy street; the kind of street where you refuse to let your cat go outside – just in case.

The house they found backed up to woods with trails that led to the Neshaminy River eventually. What we waded in was a stream that took you to the best fishing spot. I loved the spot because it was four feet deep and I could see the bottom; ensuring I wasn’t afraid of it. In the eight years I lived in that house, I caught significantly more poison ivy than fish. I did not like fish, so I was solely there for the company I was always with.

The neighborhood was made up of one circle, apart from one small street with eight houses. The houses were grouped into two sets of four houses. Our new house would be on the end, meaning we had three more windows at our disposal. The end house on a group of row homes feels like extra elbow room, somehow. The top floor, dining area, and living room all had one extra window. As I got older, those extra windows were the difference between living in a row home and living in a “townhouse.” 

After walking the trails and seeing a tennis court-turned skate park behind our house, the house didn’t matter to me. The row home was nothing special. It was five levels, with one or two rooms on each level. I remember thinking what a cool idea that was, back then. “The living room is its own FLOOR!” It was a 1.5 bath, three bedroom, 1100 square foot pit stop to the best outdoor adventure I could imagine.

My room was on the very top floor. While all the other bedrooms had full-sized windows, my windows were shorter; the kind you often see in a basement. The house had a flat roof, so the windows made sense to whatever 1970s architect created that home. It should be noted that the ONLY access to the roof was through my bedroom. 

From June through September, the last place you wanted to be was on top of my tarred, flat roof. Next to the sun, or 1985’s George Michael, it was the hottest thing a person could ever experience.

The wise people had white on the top, making it abrasive, but less sole burning. We had the kind of tar roof that would eventually collapse into my parents’ bedroom, and onto my dad’s computer. If you had a computer in the 1980s, they weren’t cheap and usually meant you had a special protector for your shirt pocket.

Back to 1986. If you looked at the set of row homes I lived in, my house was the one capping the left side of the group of houses. On the right side of the set was another house that neighbored the woods where I’d spend most of my innocent elementary school years exploring; and only once accidentally setting on fire. This house seemed mysterious to me. Looking back now, I know it’s only because the trees surrounding the back and side of it made it feel dark, especially compared to mine.

In that house was the Charming family. There was; Mom, a baby daughter, a son named Peter, and a husband who left soon after we moved in. (I do not think the two events are correlated.) When I was seven, Peter was also seven. To me; he looked like he was six feet tall and was one of the first boys I had ever seen that I thought my Barbie would approve of since her opinion meant everything in 1986.

I remember the Charming’s had a gorgeous Doberman. They crated him outside constantly. I think it was the first time I felt true rage at another human, concerning animal treatment. I’d like to resurrect that dog so I could save him from Mr. Charming.

I was afraid of Mr. Charming. I don’t remember his first name, but I remember his dog’s name; that 100-pound Doberman’s name was Red. Red must have been cold a lot. Between how he left his dog outside constantly and how I could hear his voice resonating a few houses away from my bedroom, I knew Mr. Charming was anything but what his last name suggested. Eventually, he left.

I do not recall seeing him again afterward. What I do recall is that Red was allowed inside the house on a much more frequent basis. Eventually, the large crate, the size of a shed, was used as storage and not as a cruel cage for a guard dog who wasn’t allowed to do more than bark and be miserable.

When Mr. Charming left, I remember his kids being outside more often. Before long, Peter was a part of my daily life. I always wondered if he was friends with me or if he was friends with my sibling. It didn’t really matter to me because I got to see him almost every day. I remember always being excited to see him, but having that “itch” to run away from him whenever he talked to me with no one else nearby. 

It turns out, that if I couldn’t script a conversation, even as a kid, it didn’t matter if I had a crush on you or not; I would stumble all over myself until I found an exit.

As we got older, Peter and I figured out that both of our bedrooms had roof access. We stopped using the front door for one another unless it was for something official. That six-foot-tall elementary school kid braved the hot, tarred roof and ran across the houses to tell me to put my radio on a certain station if he wanted me to hear a song. He’d walk through a dusting of snow to see if it was safe to sit on top of our houses and not talk while sitting on his sister’s comforter.

I knew a few things about Peter, over time. Peter liked me more than he liked my sibling and Peter could not tell believable lies. 

One Sunday, Peter didn’t use the roof to get in touch with me. A bright red Peter rang my actual doorbell to get my attention. There we were, in all of our fourth-grade glory, standing on my front porch for the whole dead-end street to see. Peter rang the doorbell for me and me alone. While I don’t have an eidetic memory, I will never forget the ring he handed me nor the story he told me when he gave me the first present I was ever given that confused the hell out of me.

“My mom gave me her credit card to use. I wanted to get you this ring. Here.” 

The subtle poetry of his words was gift enough, but to give me a ring that was so expensive it needed a credit card; I didn’t know if I’d ever feel a high higher than that feeling. He pulled his hand out of his pocket so he could hand me a ruby ring, set in gold, with six prongs holding in the stone. I knew enough of jewelry to know that people add extra prongs onto rings to make sure the precious stone doesn’t accidentally fall out. My ring had SIX prongs.

My ring also didn’t come out of a jewelry store box, which made it unique. Jewelry store boxes are cardboard and don’t let you see what’s inside. My Peter found the only jewelry store in town that gave fine jewelry to their customers in a grocery store coin machine plastic egg.

Standing on the porch that day, I knew not to shower with that ring on my finger or my finger would turn swamp green. I also knew that instead of a ring in that plastic egg, the egg could have held a toy or gum or whatever else the grocery store had in those machines that Sunday. Peter “used his mom’s credit card” to buy me what his words couldn’t say and mine couldn’t either. Peter spent a quarter to say, “I like you.”

I never hinted that I knew he lied straight to my face. I didn’t want to take away his ten seconds of bravery. In fourth grade, ten seconds of bravery PLUS using a doorbell instead of a roof window made up one the bravest six-foot-tall elementary school students alive.

As fast as he sprinted over to give me his token of undying like, he sprinted back home. Through the years I spent on that street, Peter never so much as snuck a peck on the cheek. He never once behaved in any way that did anything but make me smile as I remembered how much he meant to me.

Side Note: I’d like to think that he replayed that story a few times over in his mind and perfected it before he proposed to whomever he eventually married. God, I hope so.

I have been given a few more rings since the fourth grade. Some rings came with history. Some rings got paid for with a credit card, even. I can safely say, though; that I don’t think I will ever be given another ring paid for with Ms. Charming’s credit card and given to me in a plastic egg. Thank you, Peter. You may never know how much that white lie meant to me.