Last Night at the Drive In

Betty stared vacantly into the mirror. Her brunette waves cascaded over her slender shoulders as she absentmindedly slid a boar-bristled brush repeatedly through her long tresses. If you had asked her how long she had been stuck in this realm between reality and daydream, she wouldn’t have been able to tell you.

Francis was set to arrive in just a few minutes, and while Betty was looking forward to spending time with him, she had trepidations about the date they had planned. Tonight felt like both a beginning and an end. Although they were both only eighteen, she had a strong suspicion that he was going to propose tonight. The proposal wouldn’t be because that they were madly in love; it was because there was a very real chance that this would be the last night they spent together. Francis, whose frame and stature were comparable to Betty’s, had been drawn in the most recent round of drafts. Francis was a sweet soul, a poet with dreams of moving to London, although he had never been outside of his home state. Their relationship, as one might call it, began when they locked eyes in an indeterminate class several years prior. Which class, you might wonder? Well, Betty remembered it as eighth-grade art, but if you asked Francis, he would claim it was math (and the reason for his failing grade that semester). To be fair, many of the boys had their eyes on Betty, but she chose to ignore their gaze.

Outsiders might label their relationship as a platonic friendship, but Betty and Francis were adamant about their love to anyone who would listen — perhaps to both of their detriment. It wasn’t that Francis was unattractive; far from it in Betty’s eyes. But as he confessed to her during one late night of studying, he would never be romantically attracted to her, or to any woman. While it stung to hear those words, she still cared deeply for him and promised to keep him and his secret safe.

Suddenly, in the slight chance of possibility, her hand grazed a rogue piece of hair that sliced into her like a tiny shard of glass.

Ouch.

Betty held her hand up to the tungsten bulbs surrounding her vanity mirror. A small drop of blood slid down the side of her ring finger, pooling around the base of Francis’ silver class ring that he had gifted her. She held her hand up to her mouth, the taste of copper combining sickly with the bubblegum she had been anxiously chewing for God knows how long. She spat the gum into a piece of tissue she had previously used to adjust her pink lipstick and looked at herself in the mirror one last time.

Before she could begin fidgeting with the buttons on her baby blue cardigan, she heard her father’s sarcastic voice shout from the hallway, “Francine’s here!”

She hated how dismissive her father was of Francis. Their arguments always hit all the tropes. “But Daddy, I love him,” she would plead, as he begged her to weigh her options and not commit to a man that he knew would never give him grandchildren. And yet, Betty was appreciative that her father managed to keep his opinions contained to the household.

“Betty, you look so gorgeous,” Francis spoke in a simple yet honest way. While she knew that they would never be romantically involved, in that moment, she knew that he really did love her.

Betty subtly shifted her gaze from her date’s polished shoes all the way back up to his blonde curls. “You do as well,” she replied with a smile. “I like your polo shirt.”

“Thanks, my mom gave it to me for my last birthday,” Francis said happily, before slightly wincing after he said the word “last.” They both knew the implications of the draft. They both knew how well five-foot-five boys fared in the jungles of Vietnam.

Despite his dismissal of Francis on the basis of his sexuality, Betty’s father was opposed to young Francis being drafted and to the draft in general. “If we were doing well, we wouldn’t need the draft in the first place,” he’d often mumble at night while finishing off his last nightly can of Miller’s.

“You’re bleeding,” Francis noticed as he reached for Betty’s slender hand. “Here, let me get that,” he said while pulling a cotton handkerchief from the pocket of his jeans. Francis and Betty’s father’s eyes locked as he gently wiped the blood from her hand. “I will take good care of her, I promise,” Francis said. Although he was looking at Betty’s father when he said those words, they weren’t intended for him specifically. It was as if Francis needed to hear them himself, as a verbal commitment that he would return and that this wouldn’t be their last date.

The young couple drove in silence down the dirt road to the local drive-in theater. Dust and pebbles were kicked up behind the back of Francis’ old 1950-something Ford. He placed his nervous hand on Betty’s thigh. Although she assumed that this was more of a gesture of reassurance than anything romantic, she slid his hand up slightly and left it there. She wasn’t entirely sure why she had done that.

Francis’ heart raced. He was thankful that the cover of darkness was concealing how red his face felt. He blushed so easily, even when it wasn’t warranted. There were days when all he wanted, more than anything, was to be stronger. To have even a hint of machismo in him. To be the man that he felt Betty deserved. On other days, he wanted to be wrapped in the arms of someone much stronger than himself. To be protected from the weight of a world that felt all too heavy for someone with the soul of a poet.

The dust behind his old car settled as they pulled up to the ticket booth of the drive-in. “Two, please,” Francis spoke softly, before clearing his throat. As they pulled into their assigned stall, he took a deep breath and closed his eyes for a moment, lost in thought. So many thoughts.

“Would you like to talk about it?” Betty asked.

“It could mean so many things,” Francis replied with a small laugh.

“Us, the movie… Heck, even penguins would be fine,” Betty retorted, trying her best to make him smile.

Francis tried his best to give her the smile she was looking for, before placing his hand back on her thigh and giving Betty perhaps the third kiss of their four-year relationship.

“We don’t need to do this,” Betty said. “Let’s not ruin what we have.”

“Ruin?” Francis asked.

“Ruin wasn’t the right word. I just… I don’t want you to feel… obligated.”

“Thank you,” Francis replied, while lowering his head.

“It’s okay, you know I love you,” Betty whispered with a hint of sadness.

“And I love you too,” Francis answered.

As the pre-show concession advertisement began to play, Betty unbuckled her seat belt. “I’m going to grab some popcorn for us, I’ll be right back.”

“Sounds good,” Francis replied, taking in a big breath full of relief and the hint of Betty’s daisy-scented perfume as she closed the car door behind her. He thought about what it would mean if he and she, well, you know. But he just couldn’t. He wanted nothing more than for her to be happy, but he knew ultimately that she would end up with someone else. Perhaps he would survive the jungles after all, and return a tough, red-blooded man. He would gain the ability to grow a beard, lose his baby-fat features, and sweep Betty off her feet, and they would live happily ever after with a handful of children… Deep down, though, he still dreamed of studying abroad in London. He wanted an English degree from Cambridge, friends that understood him, and a crush on a handsome professor. What Francis wanted didn’t matter, though, as he knew his life wasn’t his own whether he survived the war or not.

◆◆◆

Betty once again found herself drifting off in thought as she stared at the snacks in the concession stand. Was this really the last time she would be in Francis’ company? Was this really the last time they would share the same space? The same dreams? The same air? She felt a large, hard knot forming in her throat. Before she could cry though, her thoughts were interrupted by the boy working at the concession booth.

“Hey, Betty.”

Patrick.

They had English class together the year prior. He wasn’t much of a writer, though. The teacher had paired them up for a group project once at the beginning of the term, but Betty ended up doing most of the work rather than collaborate with him more than was necessary. And yet, he insisted on signing as the project’s lead. The way he stared at her made her deeply uncomfortable. She always felt his eyes on her in class, rather than the chalkboard. To her, Patrick’s intentions felt more predatory than like a crush.

“You here with Francis again?” Patrick asked in an accusatory tone. He couldn’t understand why she would waste her time with such an obvious queer.

“Of course I am,” she replied quickly and curtly. “Could I get a popcorn, please? And a bag of cherry licorice.” She anxiously tucked her hair behind her ear while shifting her gaze to the floor.

“Fifty cents.”

Betty pulled several coins out of her small beaded purse and placed them on the counter. The way the metal of the coins ricocheted slightly on the counter made her think of bullets. She felt faint.

“I heard your boyfriend’s getting shipped out tomorrow morning.”

“He is,” Betty replied, as detached as she could muster. There was a long pause, which she wasn’t sure how to interpret. She was reluctant to waste a moment longer in the concession booth when she should be in the car with Francis. However, after a year of discomfort from this boy, she was morbidly curious about what he had to say.

“I am sorry.”

Another pause.

“I know you don’t like me, but I mean that. My brother got drafted too.”

“I am also sorry,” Betty replied softly, while picking up the popcorn and candy from the counter.

Despite the softness of her voice, Patrick could feel her discomfort. Why wouldn’t she look him in the eyes? Didn’t he deserve at least that from her?

“Since we’ll both be alone soon, I guess we’re going to start seeing each other around a lot more,” Patrick said with a hint of venom. He was only trying to be nice to her. She should be happy that he even gave her the time of day after how small she repeatedly made him feel when they were class mates. How dare she look at him with disdain.

In that moment, it felt as if the salty air of the concession booth had been vacuumed out. Betty could once again feel Patrick staring at the back of her head as she left quickly, causing the swinging door to flap behind her.

◆◆◆

“Are you okay?” Francis asked as Betty climbed back into the car, adjusting her cardigan that became disheveled thanks to the static of the old tweed seats. “You look like you just saw a ghost.”

“No, just Patrick.”

Francis understood and proceeded to drop the topic. As the movie’s title card began to roll, he reached into his faded denim pants and pulled out a piece of paper.

“I know that we’re here to see a movie, but… I really want to share something with you,” Francis said softly, doing his best to conceal his nerves. Betty leaned over and listened lovingly.

While the poem wasn’t the proposal that she had anticipated, the words he wrote meant more than a ring ever would.

I would die for you, although I really hope that I don’t have to,

it concluded.

Betty leaned closer and gave him a chaste kiss on the cheek. “It’s just one year apart. We can — you will — survive this. In one year, when you come home, I will be waiting. In fact, I’ve already started saving. When you get home, we can go to London, together,” Betty said as quickly as she could, holding back tears.

“That sounds like heaven,” Francis answered, also choking back his fear.

Betty reached over and squeezed his hand.

◆◆◆

As the movie ended and the last rectangles of celluloid unspooled from the reel, the young couple finally left the theater. They drove in silence down the long dark highway, neither wanting to say anything to take them out of the current moment, or to remind them of what tomorrow would hold.

“How was the movie?” Betty imagined their parents would later ask.

“It was fine,” they would both reply in their separate homes. The truth was, though, no one paid much attention to the film that night. For all of the filmmakers’ hard work, crafting a vision and weaving a narrative, nothing was more compelling than the pains and heartache of their young lives. Betty closed her eyes for a moment, imagining their future together in a city far away from the war and the pain.

It was in that moment of silence when Betty and Francis looked to each other one last time and smiled, before they both spotted the oncoming truck. “Francis, look out!” Betty screamed with the last of her breath.

The impact was so strong and so sudden that neither of them felt much of anything. The emergency responders presumed that they died instantly, their young lives cut tragically short. Francis’s letter was still folded up and gently clutched in Betty’s bloodied slender fingers.

Patrick enrolled in college that fall. He hadn’t been planning to — especially on an English major. But something in him shifted the night of Betty’s death. He realized, since she was gone, he could say whatever he wanted about her. About them. As she was no longer alive to correct others, to tell the truth, he was free to use her as he saw fit. She was the ultimate muse.

“How very tragic,” his future classmates would tell him when he confessed to losing his high school sweetheart, “And right after your brother was drafted? You poor soul,” they would elaborate.

Sometimes, after a few drinks late at night in the college bar, he would tell everyone how he missed her smile and how she tucked her hair behind her ear, always so gently. Sometimes, when he was quite inebriated, he would even tell listeners that he and Betty were engaged at the time of the crash. She was exactly what he needed to overcome his writer’s block.

Author Bio:

Ashley Good is an author currently living in Alberta, Canada. Her novels include JUST ADD WATER (2021) and MARY & THE ALIENS (2024). To learn more about her work, visit ashleygood.ca.