“Once more!” He grunted like a weight lifter, and we gave it another try.
Nope.
Using our only flashlight, we scoured the area for something to cram under the tires. Nothing. Jack hiked up the road, leaving me standing in darkness that smothered me like a Cossack’s cloak. Ten minutes later, he came back. “We’re on the right road and only twenty kilometers from Saint-Tropez.”
Punching on and only perforated my quaking insides. It would have been easier if he had ranted—so I could have let a few choice words fly in my defense. He didn’t. And I didn’t. Instead, I sounded like a crybaby. “I feel terrible. I’m really, really sorry.”
“Yeah, well, that’s not much help, is it?”
Ouch! The lieutenant again. After all my hopes, after surviving our ups and downs, I had dumped our romance into the ditch.
Jack took off once more, searching for some miracle. I paced in a tight circle close to the car. At first, our crash silenced the night creatures, but soon the woods chirped and rustled and growled with unseen critters. Minutes ticked by like hours.
A pair of lights darted among the trees. The flickers grew brighter. Headlights! I screeched, “Jack, quick! A car!” His footsteps pounded the road toward me. He reached into the Sting Ray, and two beams of light shot into the sky. Together we threw up our arms and waved like marooned sailors.
The car roared past. Damn! But then brake lights. Ever so slowly, the car backed up.
“Look out!” I shouted. “The ditch! There’s a ditch!” The car stopped. The doors flew open, and a gang of guys tumbled out like circus clowns. Four of them.
Jack had never studied French, so I said, “Bonsoir. Avez-vous un . . . ?” I couldn’t recall the word for chain. “Un chain?” I tried to pantomime it.
“What’d she say?” one of them asked.
“You speak English?”
“Better than you Yanks, doll.” This from the burly guy in a New York Yankees cap.
Jack put a protective arm around my shoulder. “Your timing’s perfect. We owe you.”
“Your lucky day, mate. Looks like we sailed past the turn to Saint-Tropez.”
“Wow, Corvette in the ditch,” said the guy with a crew cut. “That’s one bloody mess.”
I winced, but I couldn’t let them think Jack had done this. “It’s my fault,” I said. “I thought I’d missed the turn too. But this is the right road.”
Jack and the Brits huddled at the Sting Ray. Within fifteen minutes, their combined muscle had freed the car. They shined their lights on it and deemed it roadworthy. Jack dug a glob of muck and weeds out of the tailpipe, and we were on our way.
Jack drove. In complete silence. No swearing. Not a word of blame. But an acerbic cloud saturated the space between us. I retreated into the black hole of his fury. This was about more than fuzzy-headed good intentions gone awry. It was about a man and his steed—an extension of himself. He had trusted me. And I had failed him.
Fortunately, the Sting Ray hummed along as usual. No clanking, bumping, or grinding. No audible sign of my assault on his baby.
Small comfort.
Terry
Saturday afternoon, 4 July 1964, Telluride, Colorado. Telluride had a mere 677 full-time residents compared to Silverton’s bustling 849. But Telluride on the Fourth of July had two-mile-an-hour, bumper-to-bumper traffic and crowds six deep for a parade boasting a half-dozen marching bands, a slew of floats, and a massive mounted posse. A carnival was hopping, its calliope ramped up to shatter eardrums. Silverton’s Fourth looked junior high by comparison.
But the festivities seemed more a pretext for rowdy behavior by a band of yahoos than a celebration of our nation’s birthday. After the parade, beer cans and bottles, crushed paper cups, and piles of horse manure littered Main Street. Glassy-eyed scruff-heads staggered about, whooping and hollering, gulping Coors like it was water.
We didn’t stay for the fireworks. After buying a jug of Chianti, the five of us headed into the high country and camped at Alta Lakes, accessible only by four-wheel drive and a world apart from the pandemonium in Telluride. Under a brilliant night sky unsullied by man-made light, we sipped wine, told stories around a campfire, and philosophized the night away. We flung our sleeping bags onto the ground and settled into our private cocoons.
As I drifted off, BAM! Annie shanghaied my mind. Her absence kept me awake—or, more likely, the fact that tonight she was with Jack in some quaint little French inn that dripped history and romance. He would be in the adjacent room, separated by a paper-thin wall, close enough she could hear his whispered longings. Or worse, snuggled in a tent together somewhere in the Alps. She told me he planned to take her camping. Nah, I told myself, she wouldn’t put herself in such a compromising situation. But the thought of Annie beside him in a sleeping bag set me on edge. How tempting that would be.
I knew exactly how tempting, not only because of my night with Annie on James Creek, but because of young Miss Janet, who at that moment lay a foot away, her ponytail peeking out from her sleeping bag like a flirty nymph. She wasn’t Annie, but frankly, she was a dish. I tried not to think about her trim figure. Even buried in a sleeping bag she was adorable. She stirred, her ponytail swished, and her face popped into view. “You awake? I can’t sleep either,” she said.
I had been staring. Actually, lusting. She must have sensed it—girls could do that. Annie had convinced me of it. “It’s the night sky. Too gorgeous to waste,” I said.
“Yes, that too. But I can’t get Black Bear out of my mind. I was scared to death. Also at the powerhouse. I wasn’t brave enough to follow you out onto those stairs.”
At least she had some common sense. I’d spent the afternoon wondering how I’d gotten sucked into such foolhardy risks. But that night, I was grateful. Not only because we had seen spectacular sights most people would never see, but because I’d pushed myself beyond my limits. I told her that.
She rose on her elbows, leaned in so close the heat of her warmed my face. “Me too,” she whispered. “I’m so thankful you let me come with you. You’re a dear.”
Had she been Annie, I would have squirmed into her bedroll and prayed that our animal instincts would take their natural course. But Janet wasn’t Annie, and she and I only talked. She, too, had been repulsed by the traffic in Telluride, the crowds, the noise, the drunks. “I’m glad you insisted we get out of town,” she said. “‘Progress’ has destroyed the charm.”
We whispered on. The last thing I remember was the lullaby of her voice, soft and melodic. I tried to convince myself her presence made up for Annie’s absence. I couldn’t.
Ann
Sunday, 12:30 a.m., July 5, 1964, Saint-Tropez, France. At last, the lights of town flickered into view. Traffic built up as we came into Saint-Tropez. People spilled off the sidewalks. Cafés teemed. We had stumbled into a Fellini movie—women parading in Europe’s finest haute couture, others with tops so skimpy their inflated boobs jiggled in a mad struggle to escape at every step. On some, skirts so tiny they barely hid their shameless owners’ privates.
Sullenly, Jack inched through town. Eventually, he found a campground near the beach. He set up the tent. I dug out our camp stove and fixed tea. He swallowed a chunk of bread with cheese and disappeared into the tent fully clothed.
At 1:45 a.m. I sat alone in a spartan campsite. Today had begun splendidly. My stupidity erased it all. Would we recover? I couldn’t muster a shred of hope. Did I dare presume to sleep in his Casbah? No choice. I couldn’t sit on the dismal picnic bench all night.
I kicked off my sandals and squirmed into the tent, fully dressed, like Jack. The tent bobbed, closed in around my fanny, and nearly collapsed. Dang, I had caught my belt loop on something. I hunkered like a praying mantis, yanking at the snag. The tent heaved as if it would sprout wings. I freed myself.
Good news: He’d left space for me. Bad news: He had turned his back to me. He didn’t move, but I knew he wasn’t asleep. Anger steamed off his body. I lay stone still. Finall
y, I squiggled in next to him.
“Jack?” Barely a whisper. “I wouldn’t have blamed you if you had dumped me by the side of the road. You know, ‘This is the end of the line for you, kiddo.’”
Silence. Then a growl. “Well, the thought did occur to me, but—”
“I’m eternally grateful you didn’t. I was—”
“—you still have a redeeming quality or two. I suppose we—”
“Can you find some way to forgive me? Can we . . .” Wow, did he say “redeeming quality”? Did that mean he could forgive me? I had interrupted him twice, and now his silence scolded me. “I wish I could show you how wretchedly sorry I am.”
No answer, but he rolled to face me. He draped his arm over my shoulder and set his fingers to stroking my back. “You’re a bright girl. Maybe you’ll come up with something.”
Yikes, our hideaway breathed sex. I had dived headfirst into that place I vowed to steer clear of. Lordy, what now? I laid his hand on my breast and held it there, feeling it rise and fall with each breath. I let him unbutton my blouse. Encouraged him, actually. Let him slip his hand into my bra. I was on my back by then. His hand slid to my shorts. He undid my belt . . . the button . . . the zipper. Could this be the night? No! This smelly tent was too cramped for love. I tensed and brought his hand to my breast again. “Do you really want me that way? Extracted as payment for my stupidity?”
“Of course not.” He sighed. “Besides, I’m not in the right frame of mind.” He turned away.
I snuggled up. He reached back and laid his hand on my thigh. His breathing softened, and soon his hand slid off. It didn’t come back. Asleep at last.
I couldn’t rein in my self-flagellation. About the wreck. About my indecisiveness. We had been to the brink of sex, and again I’d cut it off. Jack was the guy. What better way to atone for my egregious blunder and seal our love? Or was I right that it would have been tainted by the stink of payoff?
Was I worthy of him? I had my doubts, and for that I was thankful we didn’t go all the way. But also because of Terry. What about him? How could I explain my behavior to him?
What a mess. How was I ever going to figure this out?
Dawn rescued me from a fitful sleep. I was alone in the stuffy tent. When I peeked out, the air was early-morning fresh, the midsummer sun eager at the horizon. No one in sight. To my left, the camp restrooms beckoned. I smoothed my rumpled blouse, crawled out, and raced down the dirt path. A shower in water fresh off a Norwegian glacier transformed me. But yesterday’s rain had sent my hair into a frenzy of curls. Jack was about to see the real Orphan Annie.
Back at our campsite, he was flat on his back, flashlight in hand, peering up under the Sting Ray. I tiptoed past and ginned up a grand breakfast—six eggs, an onion, a bit of cheese, and half a loaf of bread. After setting water to boil, I covered the scuzzy picnic table with a towel, put a fistful of dandelions in a tin cup as a centerpiece, and hunkered down.
Ten minutes later, Jack joined me. “You’re—we’re lucky. She’s okay. Let’s eat.”
We celebrated—tentatively—with my hearty concoction and geared up to explore this famed beach. The Moment of Truth: Could I wear my new bikini in front of Jack? I had to. Saint-Tropez was, after all, modern-day Gomorrah itself. Besides, I had paid a bundle for it.
By now a musty kiln, the tent undermined my resolve. I peeled off shorts and panties but couldn’t get the tiny bikini up over my sweaty buns. Inside that five-foot-wide canvas fun house, I yanked and pulled, stuffed and squeezed. I tried it on hands and knees and then flat on my back like a capsized turtle, lifting my buns so I could stretch that snip of material over my fanny. Next, I wrestled with the skimpy top, scraping my head on the tent walls. In my mind, I heard Dad scolding my brothers and me on car trips: Quit squirming like monkeys in a gunny sack. I got to giggling.
From outside the tent, Jack’s voice stopped me cold: “Hey, what’s going on in there?”
“Don’t come in. I need a sec.” Choking back a snicker, I knelt like an anteater, face pressed into the sleeping bag, arms contorted behind me, and got the top fastened.
When I finally crawled out, I draped a towel over my shoulders like a timid twelve-year-old. Taking a deep breath, I stretched as tall as I could, flung the towel away, and curtsied. “Ta-dum! Am I ready for Saint-Tropez or what?”
“Well, well, well. Gooood morning. I love your outfit.” He stepped toward me, arms extended, a give-me-a-bear-hug grin plastered all over his face.
“The outfit? Or all the skin?”
He stopped midstride. “I . . . no offense meant. It looks great on you. Sleek black. The design. But I’d be just as thrilled if you wore a granny dress and combat boots. You’re striking. Your smile. Your hair. I didn’t know you had curls like that. I love them.”
He loved my curls? I couldn’t believe any guy would like a wild mop of corkscrew curls. I took his arm. “Come, my prince, let’s frolic on the Riviera. By the way . . .” I stood back, eyed his blue and red pinstripe trunks, and gave him a lascivious look. “I like your outfit too. Downright classy. Better than your regulation GI shorts.”
Ours were the first footprints on the surf-scrubbed beach. We hunted seashells, chased hermit crabs, and stomped out notes in the sand, and then found a secluded spot and settled onto our blanket.
“So think back to January, when I was studying for finals and you were freezing at that lonely outpost on the border. Did you imagine that in July we’d be on this beach? You and I?”
“Not even in my fondest daydreams,” he said. The adoring look was back.
“I never ever thought I’d wear a bikini. Once a prude, always a prude.”
“Me too. I much prefer my baggy army trunks to this getup.”
His comment invited me to appraise his muscular arms, shoulders, and chest, his taut belly and sinewy legs, the snug bathing suit. I wanted to grab him, hug him, feel him hug me. Instead, I said, “What, you don’t like being girl bait?”
“Depends on the girl.”
Down the beach, tiny stick figures began to dot the sand, too far away to distinguish men from women. Luckily, they remained at a distance. I wasn’t keen to witness Jack ogling a parade of tanned, curvaceous, scantily clad beauties, next to whom I would be as pale as piano ivories.
From nowhere, a gray-haired man sauntered up, a leather-skinned sun worshipper who had apparently spent his entire life on the beach. A tight sliver of a sky-blue swimsuit covered the essentials, but displayed them in skintight outline. He greeted us with a burst of French. He looked expectant, but all I could manage was a hopeful “Anglais? Parlez-vous anglais?”
He raked his eyes over every inch of my body and sprayed me with another fusillade. I gave a befuddled shrug. He tried again, this time like one of Jack’s taped letters when I accidentally put it on the slower speed, with enough gestures for a silent movie. I caught a couple of words—le mer, les gendarmes—and nodded appreciatively. “Merci beaucoup, monsieur,” I said in a chirpy schoolgirl voice.
The guy smiled broadly, bent over, and casually removed his swimsuit. Not two feet away and stark naked. I stared open-mouthed. He flashed me a thumbs-up, nodded toward Jack, and sauntered into the sea.
“You were wrong about the monokini,” I said. “It’s ‘no-no-kini.’”
“Know what? I bet we’re on a nude beach,” Jack said. “Well, when in Saint-Tropez, do as the Saint-Tropezians do.” He stuck his thumbs into his trunks and tugged.
“Dare you.”
“So I’m a prude too. Come on, I’ll race you.” We waded and swam and splashed, chasing each other like kids. We flopped on the blanket to catch our breath and raced out again. Eventually, hunger and thirst drove us to our camp. After polishing off our jug of water, we gobbled down some cheese sandwiches and napped in our tent sauna.
I woke up later that afternoon with a start. My skin was on fire. I couldn’t bear the weight of clothing or even my own touch on a sunburn so horrific I opened my mouth to screa
m.
But no sound came out. A flaming sore throat had stolen my voice.
9
On the Road Again
Terry
Monday, 6 July 1964, Center, Colorado. I pulled into our driveway two hours past lunchtime. I’d left Silverton at ten. Four hours to negotiate Coal Bank and Wolf Creek passes was trophy-winning time. I flung open the car door and raced out to the mailbox. Empty.
Mom was standing on the back steps when I came around the side of the house.
“Hi, Mom,” I said. “Any mail for me?” We didn’t hug in our family when arriving or departing. Or pucker up for those awkward air kisses. We said hello and bye and waved, or sometimes we clapped one another on the shoulder.
She shook her head. “We’re glad to see you too, Terry. Have you eaten?”
“Nope. I’m starvin’. Any leftovers?” I followed her into the house.
Inside, the boys descended on me like eager puppies. Greg dragged his new Boy Scout gear into the kitchen to show me—official walking shorts, sleeping bag, aluminum mess kit, and a mound of Colorado-themed trinkets to trade. He would leave Friday for the National Boy Scout Jamboree in Valley Forge, Pennsylvania. He’d never been out of state on his own, and none of us had ever been “back east.” He tossed maps and pamphlets on the table, along with Boys’ Life stories of past jamborees, and wanted me to read everything. Immediately.
The moment Greg scampered off, Randy plopped down at the table across from me and started firing question after question about California, about the cousins he had never met, about the weather and the ocean and how far we could drive in a day. He was taking off with the rest of us in two days to visit Mom’s sister Gwen, Uncle Bob (my favorite uncle), and their six kids.
Pam, now eighteen, was running errands. Mom was washing clothes. “Better get your backpack in here if you’ve got anything you need cleaned,” she said.
When I handed it off to her, she gave me a list of must-do chores: Burn the trash, mow the lawn, weed the garden, check the oil, radiator, and tires on her car, get the maps and figure out the route to San Francisco, and make sure we had enough food for the dog and chickens.
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