We were sixteen going on four

We were sixteen going on four. Bill was the preacher’s son; I, the deacon’s daughter. Since my daddy didn’t allow me to sit in the back of the church with all those rowdy teenagers who talked and passed notes all during the service, Bill and I were seated about middle way of the left side. We had our heads piously bowed over out Bibles. No one else sat on that pew to see what we were really doing. We’d carefully chosen it for that very reason. After the congregation sang “Amazing Grace” and sat down, Bill surreptitiously reached for my hand.

“Please pray with me,” the preacher said, beginning his sermon.

My hand was tucked in Bill’s and my mind was off playing on that plane where most teenaged minds go in church. I tried to pay attention, but I found it extraordinarily difficult, especially after 20 minutes or so. Suddenly, Bill started turning my new ring around and around on my finger. I’d just gotten that ring for Christmas and was vainly proud of it, my only relatively expensive piece of jewelry. My freshly painted nails shimmered satiny pink and my young fingers were long, slim and pretty accented by the ring.

After awhile, Bill pulled it off my finger and put it on his. It only fit over the top and wouldn’t go over the knuckle. He pushed. I touched his arm and frowned my disapproval, only to be ignored. He kept pushing it. I couldn’t stop him without disturbing the church, which I didn’t dare do. My daddy would surely kill me. Suddenly the ring slipped over his knuckle and he held his hand up for my inspection. I demanded it back with gestures and facial expressions, but he just grinned, teasing me. Finally after what seemed a long time to me, he satiated his appetite for teasing and tried to pull it off. It wouldn’t come. He struggled and pulled for several minutes.

In the meantime, the preacher droned on about some subject neither his middle son nor I were paying any attention to. We watched, horrified, as Bill’s finger began to swell and take on a bluish hue. Soon it was cold to the touch and we both were terrified. Surely his father would finish soon. Surely!

We waited as patiently as possible for the final amen, and then Bill hastened away to confess his sins to his father, who then hauled his wayward son to the emergency room to have the ring cut off. I in the meantime envisioned Bill with a missing finger. I worried about my own fate when Mama and Daddy found out. I was especially worried about my mother with the volatile temper. She’d carefully saved the money to buy me the ring, and it had taken quite a chunk of her ironing and baby-sitting money. She would not be happy with us.

Bill paid penance in pain as they cut the ring from his finger. I paid, too, because my ring was ruined, and my mother, as I had feared, was most unhappy with me. She also had a few choice words about not trusting the son of a preacher man.

Obviously I grew up and developed some common sense. Larry and I sometimes disagree on the amount. I’d venture a guess that Bill grew up, too. I can’t swear to it, though. I haven’t seen Bill in a long, long time. Unfortunately, just about the time we have teenagers living in our households, we forget what it was like to be one. We’d probably do well to remember.