A Penny a Kiss

by Judy McConnell

  The sound of a motor chugging softly along the far shore reached across the water, then drifted off, swallowed by the dark. Margo and Riley swam out into the darkness. Dick and I could see the bare outline of their heads gliding along the dark surface. Bill and Bobby were nowhere to be seen. I was used to their clandestine disappearances. They were, Margo hinted, in love. Bobby herself was not forthcoming, and I imagined that in their enamored state, they needed only each other. I was still contending with the niceties of dating and clung to the prevailing moral code.

  After changing into shorts, we settled in the boathouse. Peggy Armstrong, a classmate, and her date, Les, soon came tromping up the grassy path, two six-packs under their arms. We stretched out on an air tube that extended over the entire floor, clutching cold cans of beer. Candlelight flickered from the corners and an errant breeze wafted in through the screen door, caressed our bare limbs, and passed out an open window.

  “This is a neat place,” remarked Les, leaning against the tubing next to Peggy. “You don’t need electricity.”

  “You don’t need civilized amenities to have fun,” said Peggy. She laughed in her bell-like soprano voice.

  Bobby, lying on her back with her head in Bill’s lap and her legs angling up the wall, was investigating ways of getting beer out of the can and into her mouth. “I can’t drink,” she complained.

  “Maybe you could quit for five minutes,” chimed in Peggy, her long legs crossed and coddling a can of beer against her blouse, “but no more than ten.” She tilted her head up to Les and gave one of her breezy laughs.

  “You girls are underage,” declared Les. He sank his good-looking, Scan­dinavian head back against the cushion. “Only Riley and I can drink legally.”

  Margo was indignant. “It’s ridiculous to ban seventeen-year-olds from drinking beer. What’s the harm in beer? Everyone we know consumes beer. How else can you have a party?” We all agreed, taking deep swigs from our cans. “If you ban drinking and smoking, kids will find a way. When will adults learn?”

  “The adult world,” I said, lighting a cigarette, “doesn’t know anything about anything. The main goal of adults is to keep us reined in and obedient, doing what they program us to do.” I spoke with some force.

  “Parents can be a pain in the butt,” agreed Margo.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” said Riley, seated next to her under the window. He regarded her face in the dim light. “I’ve only got my mother, but I’m close to her. She’s always been there for me and my brother. I trust her. Aren’t any of you close to your parents?” Several no’s drifted up from the air pillows.

  “Parents have no clue,” I said, tapping the ash from my cigarette into a tin can ashtray “They fuss over you, but everything they do is on their terms—it’s their way or the highway.”

  Dick couldn’t contain himself. He drew up his knees and leaned forward. “Parents devote themselves to making our lives success­ful. They provide opportunities and set the stage for us to follow their foot­steps. Every­thing they do is for us. My parents are strict, but for my own good. They’re always there, pointing me in the right direction. I think I’m pretty lucky.”

  Dick turned to look at me as he finished. He sounded sure of himself, although his tone was gentle. It struck me that he was from a different mold, inhabited a different zone than I, which didn’t prevent me from secretly wanting him to move closer and put his arms around me.

  “They support us—that is, the fathers do,” Margo put in, “while the mothers keep busy enjoying themselves.”

  Riley’s voice was firm. “Parents aren’t perfect. I don’t have both of mine. I’d be happy with two imperfect ones. Come on. You’re fortunate.”

  “I’ll say one really good thing about parents,” exclaimed Peggy with enthusiasm, “they aren’t here now.” She let out a jingling laugh and looked up at Les, who turned his blond head to her and smiled.

  “Well, that’s enough of that,” Margo commented as she slipped a Zippo from her pocket and lit up a cigarette.

  Someone brought out fresh cans of Bud and fizzing noises circled as Bill punctured them with a church key. Then the songs began. “Put Your Arms Around Me Honey,” “Beautiful Brown Eyes,” and “Mocking Bird Hill.” Dick taught us one he’d learned in DeMolay.

  Young folks, old folks, everybody come

  Join the darkies’ Sunday school and have a lot of fun.

  There’s a place to check your chewing gum and razors at the door

  And you’ll hear some Bible stories that you never heard before.

  Danny was a brave man, he sassed the king

  The king said he wouldn’t stand for any such a thing,

  So he chucked him down a man hole with lions underneath,

  But Danny was a dentist and he pulled the lion’s teeth.

  The verses were endless. We sang out, oblivious of the racial inferences. To us, it was just a silly song. Dick and I leaned on matching pillows listening to his baritone blending with my alto. One song triggered another. The favorite, known by every partier and repeated at every party, went like this:

  Roll me over, in the clover, roll me over, lay me down and do it again.

  Oh this is number one and the story’s just begun,

  Roll me over, lay me down and do it again.

  Roll me over, in the clover, roll me over lay me down and do it again.

  Oh, this is number two, and he’s got up to my shoe,” etc.

  New verses were easily made up if someone was in the mood. Oh this is number twenty and we all know you’ve had plenty. We loved the raunchiness. The aim was to express as much daring as possible. This was followed by Sipp’n Cider:

  The cutest girl, I ever saw

  Was sipp’n cider, through a straw,

  The cutest girl I ever Saaaaaaaaw,

  Was sipp’n cider through a straw.

  And not and then the straw would slip

  And I’d sip cider through her lip.

  Finally, when the candles had burned to molten stubs on the window sills and the smell of cherry wax and stale tobacco hovered in the air, we pulled ourselves up, gathered suits and towels, and headed for the house.

  Dick and I stood on the bathhouse stoop. I looked at him.

  “I’ll walk you to your car,” I offered.

  “I think you should do that,” he smiled, and taking my hand, led me towards the green Packard parked behind a cluster of bushes. The darkened yard reverberated with the chirping of crickets, and the lake slapped soft laps on the shore as we made our way along the point. Above us the outline of treetops stretched along the sky, backlit by the luminous blinking of stars. Walking beside Dick, anticipating a lingering good-bye, I felt light and airy and deliciously in tune with the summer darkness. We didn’t say much as we climbed into the back seat of the car and Dick scooted along the upholstery after me, cornered me on my side and held me close.

  I was thrilled to be dating a good-looking guy like Dick. I relished being a couple and the rewards of fitting into the social niche of the fun-lovers. On the one hand I could hardly believe my luck; on the other, my feelings towards Dick were ambiguous. There wasn’t much to hang on to. Our conversations were strictly group oriented and I hadn’t a clue how to approach him on a personal level. We knew nothing about each other. I had no idea what his feelings were towards me, or if he even had any. Best to have no expectations and to hold back. I assumed a blasé stance and coasted. Dick kept asking me out.

  * * *

  It was 2:00 a.m. when Margo, Peggy, and I entered the back porch. Bobby and Bill had disappeared. Mrs. Holt lay stretched on a chaise lounge watching an old movie on TV.

  “We came in to say good-night,” Margo told her.

  “Oh, hello girls.” Eyes brightening, Mrs. Holt turned her head, straightened the afghan ove
r her lap, and reached for the highball glass at her side. “How was the lake? Refreshing?”

  “You bet. The water was heavenly,” Margo said. “What’re you watching?”

  “The Bells of St. Mary’s. I do love Bing Crosby. I suppose its bed time.”

  “Yes, and I best get going,” said Peggy. “Les has the car running. I just came in to say good night and thank you for having me.” Like Margo and me, she looked a bit scroungy, but Mrs. Holt didn’t seem to notice.

  “You’re welcome, dear. Come again.” Mrs. Holt took another swallow of her drink. These night caps, as she called them, helped her sleep.

  “Do sit down girls. Isn’t Bobby coming in?” Margo, Peggy, and I exchanged glances. How were we to explain her absence? To have left without thanking Mrs. Holt would have been rude. To have vanished into the dark recesses of the grounds with a boy even worse.

  “Uh, she and Bill had to go—I guess she had to get home,” Margo mumbled lamely. We knew there was no excuse not to stop in and take her leave. Mrs. Holt only smiled and turned back to the TV.

  “This is a good movie. Do you want to see the rest?” she offered. The TV screen flashed Bing Crosby standing in a white collar, upright and demure at an open window, looking out over a courtyard of student boys. “There’ll be a new film on soon. I’m too tired to get up and go to bed,” she chuckled. “Did the boat work all right? Tom was having trouble with it this morning. Maybe you should drive it over to Sinclair Marine tomorrow and have the engine checked. I think I’ll have a top-off before bed. I’ll sleep better.” Mrs. Holt drew herself off the chaise with a burst of will and went over to a corner chest, where she replenished her glass with Bourbon and soda.

  “No thanks, we’re off to bed.”

  Just then the porch door flew open and Bobby and Bill breezed in, crumpled and out of breath, wearing limp smiles. “So sorry—we got lost. Bobby flashed a wide grin and moved forward a step. “Thank you so much Mrs. Holt for having us. I do love it out here.”

  “Of course, Bobby, any time.”

  “I’m very late—can’t stay—great time. Goodbye.” And she and Bill were gone.

  Mrs. Holt peered into the misty liquid in her glass. “Such a polite girl,” she said. “Always remembers.”

  As we left, I turned on impulse and looked at Mrs. Holt. All I saw was the gray back of her head that protruded above the chaise cushion and her soft chunky arms along the rests. Black-and-white images flickered on the television set across the room. Darkness pressed against the porch screens on all sides, boxing her into a space so small I wondered if she would ever be able to escape. I’d seen her sitting like that often, a lonely shadow in the circle of the TV light, and for some reason I didn’t want to leave.

  Settled a few minutes later in bed, Margo and I were still too invigorated to feel tired. We started a pressing conversation about the evening, especially the two boys with whom we had spent it, but before we got to the good part we fell asleep.

  * * *

  Later that summer, Dick kissed me good-bye and went off to DeMolay camp for two weeks, leaving me his address and promising to write. To my surprise, I immediately received four letters, a new one every day. Chatty letters about canoe trips and cookouts that I read attentively, searching for clues to his feelings. I was being inundated with letters, but what did it mean? I calculated a decent interval and wrote him back in the same nonchalant tone as his, but it proved to be too late.

  I never heard from him again.

  I mulled this over. What had happened? What had I said in my letter or not said? I could not bombard him daily. On the contrary, I was careful not to be pushy or appear anxious. I was getting good at the art of distancing myself and maintaining an aloof air that kept me from unwise expectations. It prevented people from cringing at my eagerness, a skill that would serve me often in the future.

  No more letters, no phone calls. No more envious glances from other girls. My mind reeled with possibilities: he was busy with scouting, his octopus family drained all his time, he had met another girl. As I gazed out the window of my bedroom at the dome of the Basilica, the rain eased its incessant patter and in the silence a note of truth sounded. It was me—plain, unappealing and boring. The idea burned a bitter taste in my mouth. Was this what I thought of myself?There were so many messages from different quarters, how to sort them out? Could I accept being mediocre and ignored?

  I set about swallowing the loss. I was not going to let it bother me. But it was a spike in my self-esteem, a reminder of how much there was to lose if I ventured into a relationship with a male, where no true feelings were revealed and nothing was secure.

  Chapter 10: Prancing with the Seniors

  Senior year presented a wealth of opportunities. In our small class of twenty-eight, every student was needed to fill a leadership slot or participate on a committee. My election as president of the drama club was aided by the fact that I was one of only two girls in the class remaining without an office. Miss Ingalls, the drama coach and music teacher, assigned me the job of keeping order during after-school rehearsals of Sense and Sensibility. I spent most of the time shushing people and telling them where to go, for which I received little appreciation. It was my first experience with official responsibility, very different from my usual passive role. I then joined the Athletics Committee. It took a while to overcome a tendency to daydream, but eventually reality sank in and I dutifully evaluated and recorded the proposal of the committee for the renovation of the school gym.

  Often I stayed after school, caught up in meetings and prac­tices, singing under Dr. Winslow in the Glee Club and pounding out the close barbershop har­monies of “How High the Moon,” and “On the Sunny Side of the Street” with three classmates on the music room piano.

  Special senior events included floor modeling at Dayton’s where we strutted through the aisles in cocktail dresses and pumps; tea-leaf reading at the Tea House on Nicollet Avenue; and lunches at Dayton’s Sky room and at Young Quinlan’s Fountain Room. A canasta party Mother arranged was covered in the society section of the Tribune under the caption: Judy Bradford Entertains Classmates. Next to the article ran a photo of Margo, Peggy Armstrong, Caroline Hessen, and me seated around a card table at the Minneapolis Woman’s Club, spiffily dressed in wool tweed suits and pearls.

  Northrop class of 1952 in senior room. I am in the first row, third from the right.

  * * *

  My favorite teacher was Miss Bennett. Miss Bennett lectured our English class with a clipped British accent and orally drilled us on the works of Chaucer, Milton, Shakespeare, and Dickens. She was a tall, matronly woman with thick white hair tucked in a loose bun on the back of her neck, from which a thin strand sometimes strayed. Her white hose and thick-heeled black shoes contrasted with a crimson wool Jamawar shawl draped around her shoulders. Sometimes she showed up at school on a black bike and chained it against a tree in the back lot. The sight of Miss Bennett peddling along Kenwood Parkway, bent over her bike, was the source of curiosity and her strange manners were repeated in whispers as girls clustered by the lockers. I had to admit she was not like the rest of us, that she added a peculiar individuality to the school halls.

  Miss Bennett soon won me over. Her classes were provocative. After a class discussion of Hamlet, during which I fiercely disagreed with every interpretation offered, I turned in a written analysis of the play, backing up my ideas, and was rewarded with an A-minus. This scrap of encouragement was all I needed. Sometimes I accompanied her to the teachers’ lounge pelting her with questions.

  One day Miss Bennett, aware of my sporadic writing attempts at home, suggested I submit a short story to the school literary contest. I hastily completed a draft and send it in and to my shock was awarded second place. When I opened up the Tatler yearbook and saw my name and story in print, I let out a whoop and flew down to Miss Bennett’s desk. I couldn
’t believe it! Mrs. Bennett smiled her twisted smile, clapped her hands, and handed me the sprig of violets sitting in a blue Dalton cup on her desk.

  In August, we piled in cars to spend the weekend at Mr. Reed’s north woods cabin where we hiked, swam, water skied, sang around the barbeque pit, and played charades in front of a two-story stone fireplace. Afterwards, rolled up in sleeping bags, we whispered secrets in the dark, stories of Miss Nelson and Miss Silverson and how they had been seen by a student kissing in their car and other scandalous tales that shocked us down to our toes.

  The senior slumber party was held at Cindy Appleton’s Minne­tonka Lake home. After patrolling the bays along the Navarre shoreline in the Appleton’s pontoon boat under a golden sun, we played a game of croquet on the lawn and then lay and watched Mr. Appleton grill steaks in his blue-and-white checked chef’s apron. Later, stomachs full, we divided into teams for a game of Mind-buster. A riddle was read off dilemma cards and the team that was up had to figure out the answer, a mind-twisting game that kept us up far into the night until we finally fell asleep on top of our nylon sleeping bags.

  During senior year my class standing improved. Somehow I moved closer to the body of the class and became integrated, to some extent, into its ranks. Now that my class had moved to the top in our turn as rulers of the upstairs halls, everyone was more relaxed. New girls had joined the class and there was a burgeoning spirit of tolerance. It didn’t hurt that I was dating Dick Winston, a feather in my cap, and had won a short story prize. Maybe the girls were getting used to me. Maybe some of the rough edges had been smoothed over as I learned the ropes. Some of the girls walked up the back hill and hung out at my house after school while waiting to be picked up by a parent, and we helped ourselves to chocolate-frosted cookies from the red-and-yellow clown cookie jar in the kitchen. I was invited to one of the Saturday overnights at Caroline Hessen’s house.