A Penny a Kiss

by Judy McConnell

  57 Groveland Terrace in Kenwood—1949.

  I joined the Church of Youth choir at the Hennepin Avenue Methodist Church, one block away. On Sunday mornings I marched up to the choir rosters in a black robe and squeezed in among of the altos. I could hear the tenor voice of the choir director’s knock-out-handsome son, Steve, several heads down the row. My crush on Steve was provoked by my habitual lateness. One morning I came rushing in the side door of the church, down the stairs, along the hall, and burst breathless into the choir chamber where the others were putting on their robes. As I rounded the corner I crashed smack into Steve, knocking his music book to the floor. We exchanged confused glances. Two weeks later I charged into him again, slamming my nose against his chin. He started glancing at me from the tenor section, no doubt plotting ways to avoid me.

  I stole looks at Steve constantly; in fact I couldn’t keep my eyes off him. His mother, the choir director, began to notice something from her vantage point at the front of the choir, and I tried hard to restrain my wandering eyes. At least Steve knew who I was, I thought. I guessed this was an advantage, although what advantage wasn’t clear. He watched for my arrival and we exchanged surreptitious glances when we happened to pass. I never missed a rehearsal or performance.

  He showed up at many of the Church of Youth picnics and Friday night sing-a-longs in the church auditorium. With plates piled with hamburgers, Gedney pickles, and baked beans, we crowded around long tables and sang “Cruising down the River,” following words printed on a white screen. I caught him staring at me but would have died rather than approach him. He was so far out of my league that any actual encounter would have thrown me into confusion. What could I have said, with my skinny figure, stringy hair, and slumped shoulders? Girls with opulent bright hair and vivacious laughter loomed everywhere.

  * * *

  Once we obtained drivers’ licenses, we began boy-chasing in earnest. That summer Jean, Snookie, and I took to cruising the town in Mom’s yellow Studebaker, prowling along Lake Street and down Hennepin Avenue. When we spied three guys in another car, one of us would lean out the window and yell.

  “Hey, where ya goin’ with that green hearse?” we hollered. The boys waved, yelled back, and then motioned us to follow them around the corner where they pulled up to the curve. Our car slithered up behind theirs, an older model rusted along the fender. We jumped out and angled along the curb, looking each other over.

  The boys wore jeans and close-cropped hair cuts. They shuffled their feet or leaned against a car fender.

  “So what are you girls up to?” one of them asked.

  “Just out for a drive.”

  “Want to do something?”

  “Probably.”

  “Want to go over to the Creamery for a coke?”

  If we liked their looks, we agreed and followed their car to the café where we slid into a booth while the miniature jukebox on the wall above each table blared out the harmonies of “How High the Moon.” Sometimes we agreed to join them afterwards, and after grabbing a couple of six packs, headed to a hidden parking spot in a secluded park. Piling into one car, we opened the beers, and exchanged information about schools and background. We fabricated yarns about who we were, supplying no last names, no addresses, and no official facts.

  Necking became a favorite pastime. We never went beyond kissing. Nice girls did not go “all the way.” It was the girl’s responsibility to enforce this iron-clad rule and mostly the boys understood this. Some daring girls allowed petting and would let the boy get into her blouse, especially if they were going together.

  Naturally, we couldn’t bring these guys home. At the end of the evening Jean, Snookie, and I drove away into the anonymity of the city, waving a vague good-bye. Since we had to cloak our identities, there was no way we could see them again.

  Sometimes the boys had no expectations, considering how we’d met. Sometimes they wanted to see more of us. Once or twice I broke down and let a boy drive me home. I would direct him up to the carriage apartment above the garage and run up the steps to the front door. I hid underneath the overhang until his car had driven off before scampering across the lawn to my own back door. I wanted at all costs to avoid being identified with a house in Kenwood and the suggestion of affluence. This identification would, I was certain, set me apart and create a barrier with any of these boys.

  Once I carelessly let a boy I liked drop me at the big house. Several nights later I heard loud beeping outside my bedroom window and looking down saw a rusted-out olive-green car filled with boys, their faces peering up at the house. I ducked out of sight and hid on the bed. The honking persisted interminably, until Mother finally knocked at the door. “Do you know anything about that strange car?”

  “Don’t know a thing.”

  The car finally drove off. It taught me a lesson.

  * * *

  One Saturday night at the ebb of a long, sultry August summer, Snookie and her two older brothers threw a party. Mrs. McIntyre dropped us at a small bungalow in Bryn Mawr on the north side of Olson Highway. Jean and I, freshly made up in Spice Pink lipstick and a thin streak of eyeliner around our eyes, walked up to the house and rang the bell excitedly. A soft breeze stirred the air and wafted around our striped sundresses. The door opened and Snookie stood there in her green-and-white shirtwaist dress with patch pockets and a forest green scarf tied around her pony tail.

  Small and agile, Snookie combined a freckled mouse-like face with the deliberate movement of an aardvark. But she could be quick when inspired, and with her short skinny legs could run the fastest of any girl at Meadowbrook School. Quiet in her early years, by ninth grade Snookie was learning to enjoy herself and a squirrelly grin lit up her face when she was having a good time.

  We followed Snookie into the basement where strings of blue lights hung along the ceiling, and a long table set with cokes, beer, mixed nuts, and pretzels was pushed against one wall. Young people lounged on couches and chairs that lined the edge of the room, played dart-board, and munched popcorn from a large orange bowl Snookie’s mother kept refilling. The dog, Blackie, trotted down the stairs and sniffed his way around the room, tail beating, searching out attention, although when he showed a persistent interest in the Polish sausages he was banished upstairs.

  The guys hung around the food table and, as the night wore on, pulled the girls up to dance. Someone switched off the main lights and a single brass floor lamp in the corner cast a golden gaze over the floor, while the overhead bulbs lent a purple aura to the darkened room. A Victrola plopped down 331/3 rpm records from a stack perched atop a spindle: Buttermilk Sky, Blue Skies; Blue Moon, My Darling, My Darling, Maybe, Golden Earring, Mood Indigo.

  I sat in my blue-and-white sundress with matching jacket and ballet slipper flats and watched the guys mull around the room, popping Old Dutch potato chips into their mouths as they eyed the girls. One or two asked me to dance, guys dressed in Levis with tapered legs and crew-necked polo shirts, or button solid-color shirts with open collars. Dancing was effortless; precise steps were not required, scooting one foot at a time to a spot on the floor a millimeter away was enough. The music played slow and languorous, as the couples now merged into single silhouettes in the dark. I felt my partner’s breath against my cheek and his arms tighten slowly, languidly around my back.

  The door at the top of the stairs opened.

  “It’s awfully dark down there,” said a male voice.

  “Oh, Frank, let them have some fun.”

  “I’m going down.”

  “No, no. Here, I’ll send Blackie down. That will amuse them.”

  “What? What good is it to send a dog down? Is he going to give us a report?”

  The door closed, no sign of the dog.

  Someone turned up the music. Mel Tormé’s voice crooned, “I’ll cling to him, each spring to him, and long for the
day when I’ll cling to him.” My partner drew me closer, drawing my arms around his shoulders, and my cheek tipped against his bent head as we warmed with the rhythm of the song. The closeness banished all thought or talk. We swayed, buried in each other’s movement. Other couples drifted like shadows around us.

  The upstairs door flew open again. “Snookie? Are you down there? Do you want more popcorn?” No response.

  “Snookie, I’m coming down. I’m going to turn on the light. Snookie?”

  The record scratched to a stop and the couples broke apart.

  “Come on down, Mom.”

  “Frank, you go down.”

  “All right and there’ll be hell to pay.”

  “I’m going. I’m going myself. Never mind.” With that we heard the click of heels descending and Snookie’s mom came into the room, looking inquisitive and sheepish. Her short hair was streaked with gray, the side pocket of her beige print housedress bulged with Kleenex. “Don’t let me disturb you. Keep right on doing what you were doing. Do you need me to fetch more lamps so you can see?”

  “Mom, it’s more fun to dance in dim light. It’s not so embarras­sing. It helps us relax.”

  “Well, of course. Your father . . . Just don’t sit down too much. Stay moving. Dancing is such fun. I used to love it when I was a girl. We had big dances you wouldn’t believe, with full white dresses and flowers . . . not quite like this.”

  “Thanks, Mom. You can send Blackie down.”

  “All right, dear. I’ll see if he’s available.”

  The music started up and the couples recommenced their swaying. No one talked. It was a relief. Nothing to do but feel the warmth and listen to the songs that recounted love and happiness and loss. Here was a way of connecting to boys that felt comfortable. With the sweet odor of peppermint breath brushing my ear, I lost myself in the music and the blue night.

  * * *

  Late one afternoon as the sun lowered over the lake, Snookie, Jean, and I sat on a wooden bench at the Calhoun Beach pavilion drinking Dr. Peppers. Three good-looking guys ambled by, gray blankets tucked under their arms, looking idly at the women in shorts trailing dogs and the pre-teens whizzing by on roller skates. We surveyed their dark jeans and colored sport shirts. They slowed, turned, and ambled over to the bench. “Hi.” They explained they were from West High and lived in the neighborhood. Did we want to walk with them? When we reached the other side of the lake they invited us to a group picnic with promises of baseball and bonfires. We agreed.

  At the park the boys spread out blankets over the grass. Shouts came from a nearby baseball game and a thin odor of charcoal fanned over the field. A crowd of picnickers from West High were enjoying the soft twilight air, lounging on blankets, sitting on blue-and-white coolers, or standing around a steaming grill. Jean, Snookie, and I settled ourselves on the blankets with the boys and watched the ball game between spurts of talk. The tall, dark boy, whose name was Jack, looked directly at me as he spoke.

  The boys brought us grilled hamburgers on paper plates and large paper cups of beer. Our made-up stories were no good here; these guys were too open and generous to fool. We talked about the Calhoun beach boat rentals, the new popcorn shop on the corner of Hennepin Avenue, and the second-hand car the blonde boy had just purchased. Jack, leaning elbows on knees on the blanket next to me, darted a smile my way every so often. I was intrigued by the wry smile that crossed his face at some remark, the way his brown eyes turned to me to see if I’d caught a joke, and his quiet, good-looking face.

  As a yellow pool of moonlight crept over the grass, the others wandered off. Jack and I turned on our backs and watched the orange fringe around the tree branches overhead fade into darkness. The nearby activities died down, revealing a murmur of rustling leaves, and the rolling of hushed voices issued softly from the nearby bonfire.

  I breathed softly and watched the shadows fade into the underside of the night. The ground gave off a faint scent of lavender. Then Jack was pulling me to him, holding me close. As I lay in his arms I breathed in the musky smell of his leather jacket against my face, an odor that would remain intoxicating long after I was away from his breath and his kisses.

  * * *

  The night Nancy Krech came to my house brought an end to my innocence and a stop to unchaperoned parties in the basement. Nancy’s heavy weight made her something of an outcast. The angora sweaters with matching socks she wore to school rather than camouflaging only emphasized her elephantine shape. Her manner was hangdog and pleading. Neither pretty nor clever nor confident, Nancy coasted in the background of the class. In the Meadowbrook graduation picture she loomed in the back row, an unfocused though dominant figure. The candy and other treats she distributed at school proved a hopeless appeal, for the attention of her classmates evaporated as soon as the offerings were gone. Once her parents invited the eighth-grade class to her large brick house for outdoor grilled steaks and lemonade, which improved her status for about a week.

  The Saturday night of my party, Mrs. Quady, a matronly widow, was staying with us while my parents were cruising the British Isles. Nancy unexpectedly showed up. She had burst in when we were discussing the party and there was no was polite way to avoid including her. As Jean, Snookie, Betty Farendorff, and I were mixing in the basement with a group of friendly young soldiers, we spied her swaying down the stairs. Eying the large swivel armchair, she arched her back and sank into the cushions, smiling at the uniformed boys standing nearby. Jean’s boyfriend Mickey had recruited them from the airport military base where he was stationed. Most were from other states and glad to be entertained in a private home.

  The record player blared “How High the Moon” as people bent over the pin-ball machine or sprawled around the room guzzling beers. Snookie and I sat on stools at the bar talking to two soldiers. Finally the overhead light was switched off, someone put on a slow ballad, the coffee table was pushed against the wall, and couples formed to dance. From the corner of my eye, I saw Nancy seated in the lap of a rather slight guy, and it flashed through my head that the boy, and possibly the chair, would not long bear up under her. The snaps of the pin-ball machine balls lurching back and forth faded until the only sounds were beer cans popping open and records beings slipped into place on the phonograph. Shadowy couples moved about the room and blended on the dance floor, indistinguishable, obliterated by the magic of the music. I felt the warm pressure of a boy against me and melted trancelike into his arms.

  Mrs. Quady’s voice rang from the top of the stairs that it was midnight and time to close up. The lights were switched back on, the music silenced, and people stood up or broke apart.

  But where was Nancy?

  We searched the bathroom, the kitchenette, the laundry room, even Dad’s tool room on the far side of the basement. Finally I approached the furnace room, a small enclosure directly behind the bar. When I opened the door, I heard scrapes in the darkness. Groping for the light, I pulled my palm over the switch, and there on the floor under the stark glare of an overhead bulb was Nancy Krech. She lay there on her back, legs spread, with her naked thighs flushed out on the bare concrete, the slight boy stretched over her on his elbows.

  The sight of them spread out next to the dusty furnace was so incongruous that I couldn’t speak, I stood stark still, my throat clutched, my eyes riveted to the two figures on the floor. Then I looked away, hoping the vision of her with this soldier she had never met before would lose its intensity. Nancy and the boy scrambled to their feet, blinking. Nancy tugged down the side of her chemise dress that was matted with charcoal and beer, and the boy whipped his army pants up and fumbled with buttons, all the while twisting his head away from the naked bulb. Neither looked at me as they passed through the doorway. We didn’t exchange a word. The people crowding around stood uncomfortably, looking at their shoes and each other.

  I flew up to Mrs. Quady for refuge, una
ble to conceal my shock. I hadn’t intended to tell her the details, but as soon as she demanded to know what happened, I spilled. There was no getting around it, no other way to explain my distress. I begged her not to tell my parents when they returned, but she had her duty. I think she was more distressed than I was, for she had a worried frown on her face all the next day.

  The next morning Jean and I commiserated on the phone. We agreed that what had happened was shocking and that Nancy’s desperate bid for male attention had led her to degrade herself. We wanted nothing more to do with her. Later Snookie added that Nancy would do anything to get boys. I couldn’t shake the squalid sight of Nancy and the soldier on the furnace room floor and feared the image would spring to life every time I looked at her. Something I hoped never to have to do again.

  Mrs. Quady continued to stay with us on future occasions, but there were no overnights, no parties, and above all no boys within a mile.

  I did see Nancy once more, several years later when Betty Farendorff talked me into visiting the apartment where Nancy lived with her husband and baby. She had changed, Betty assured me, become a solid homebody, enveloped in happiness. One afternoon we paid her a call. I spent an uncomfortable hour in the messy apartment with rows of dying plants crowding the counters, sticky fly bars hanging from the ceiling, and a screaming baby in a high chair spitting mashed apples down its chin and onto the floor. Nancy lumbered around the kitchen, rotund as ever in a torn cotton chemise. The smell of dead fish hovered over the sink. The scene left me depressed. If Nancy had found happy domesticity, I wanted no part of it.