Terry Sanville

See Your Own Face

PUBLISHED IN FOLIO 2025: VOL. 40.

Bobby always acted weird. In third grade, he sat at a desk next to me. When the street sweeper machine drove down Arrellaga Street on Wednesday mornings, our class would jump up, run to the row of tall windows and wave to its driver – all except Bobby. He would hurry to the opposite side of the classroom and stand in the corner, facing the wall.

“What’s wrong?” I asked the first time he did it.

“Don’ know. Just scares me.”

“Why? It’s just a stupid machine.”

“I think about those brushes scoopin’ me up . . . dumpin’ me into the dark tank with all that trash. Gives me bad dreams.” He shrugged and hung his head.

“Hey look, the next time you can hold my hand. It’ll be okay.”

“I ain’t gonna hold no girl’s hand.”

“Ah come on, I won’t give you cooties.”

Our teacher, Sister Mercedes, the kindest and ugliest nun at Immaculate Heart Elementary, moved toward us. But before she could say anything, the street sweeper passed and the class took their seats. At recess, she talked with Bobby. After that, on sweeper Wednesdays he’d quietly move to his corner, eyes closed, lips moving as if reciting something important, like the rosary.

Throughout eight years of grammar school, we ate lunch together two or three times a week, except when my mom packed a PB&J sandwich with strawberry jam. At first sight of it, Bobby would bolt and dash across the schoolyard to hang out with Santa Barbara’s Westside Boys. I thought he feared that his buddies would pick on him for always being with me.

But finally, he explained, “My older brothers go hunting with my father. They bring home deer and wild pigs. That strawberry stuff in your sandwich reminds me of the blood and guts.”

“Yuck, that’s gross. You’re not going to like biology class when we get to high school. My sister said they had to kill and cut open a frog and identify its parts.”

“Yeah, I know. I’m gonna cut class that day.”

“Let me know when and I’ll come with you.”

We were in seventh grade, and almost overnight it became cool for boys and girls to talk with each other. And some of the girls, me not included, were already showing breasts. The nuns patrolled the schoolyard during lunchtime, making sure that nothing nasty happened. I hoped Bobby would see me as something other than a little kid. We did hold hands, and once on the school bus going home we sat on the far back seat and he kissed me on the lips. The bus driver winked at me when I got off at my stop.

By high school, I could tell when one of Bobby’s states came upon him. His eyes had that thousand-yard stare, his lips trembled, and he’d chant his Latin lessons in a soft yet precise voice. I could never tell what triggered them. But it seemed connected somehow to the nightmares he complained about but would never tell me their stories. I knew I loved Bobby, worried about him and wanted him to be happy with me and find relief from his strangeness.

After our senior prom, Bobby took me to the fancy ice cream parlor on State Street. We both had been accepted to the same university. We had even talked about marriage but had not come to any conclusion. But sex, that was something clumsy yet wonderful. I’d see Bobby in church before mass, standing in line at Father Salvador’s confessional, ready to confess the same sins as myself. But we weren’t stupid, always used protection – another sin according to the Catholic Church. I wondered if the priests got tired of hearing the same old screw-ups week after week.

We sat at a table next to the ice cream parlor’s plate glass window, slurping up delicious sundaes and sipping hot coffee; the combination made my teeth ache. We talked excitedly about college in September. I shivered in my fancy dress that exposed too much for a cold night while eating ice cream. Bobby offered his tux jacket but I refused, wanting to show off my body to him and everyone there, to show that I had matured, was no longer a child.

The fluorescent lights above us dimmed then flickered. Outside on State Street, a truckload of Friday night idiots cruised by, screaming their heads off. I looked across the table at Bobby. His eyes defocused. The Latin recitations began. I grasped his hands. But he shook me off and bolted, knocking over his chair. The parlor quieted.

Bobby looked lost, more than I’d ever seen him before. He turned around in circles then dashed to the shop’s door and pushed outside. I tried following but wasn’t quick enough in my stupid dress and heels. On the sidewalk he turned and turned, then tore across State Street on the red light. A speeding Ford Falcon full of high schoolers took his life, took him away from me, sent his silent body sailing across the intersection and landing like a sack of laundry. I stumbled into the street. Car horns blared as I stood over him, shaking. I remained there until the police took me home.

The entire school turned out for the funeral. I was asked to provide the eulogy. I cried through the whole mess. With Bobby’s future wiped out, so seemed mine.

“You’re young, you’ll get over this,” my mother said.

“Yeah, sure. But I’ve lost my . . . my love.”

“You’ll have others.” Mama was full of one-liners that morning. “You’ll have Bobby’s memory in your heart and mind. He will always be a part of you.”

That last one turned out to be true. Sixty years, two husbands and five kids later, I gaze into the mirror. My eyes have that thousand-yard stare. My seamed lips tremble. I mutter my Latin lessons – cum amore est dolor – though never quite so poetically as Bobby.

Terry Sanville lives in San Luis Obispo, California with his artist-poet wife (his in-house editor) and two plump cats (his in-house critics). He writes full time, producing short stories, essays, and novels. His stories have been accepted more than 575 times by journals, magazines, and anthologies including The American Writers Review, Bryant Literary Review, and Shenandoah. He was nominated four times for Pushcart Prizes and once for inclusion in Best of the Net anthology. Terry is a retired urban planner and an accomplished jazz and blues guitarist – who once played with a symphony orchestra backing up jazz legend George Shearing.