The Summertime Girls

by Laura Hankin

  But that was before the day Deirdre and Peter drove off to deliver malaria medicine to a cluster of families in the mountains, leaving her in charge. That was before, sitting idly at the desk in the damp stillness, she heard screaming rip apart the morning air.

  NINE

  Ally slammed her feet on the road into town, and her steps stirred up the heat captured by the asphalt. It shot up her legs and danced, forking itself all around her.

  She’d been walking like this for only a few minutes when her cell phone buzzed. Working it out of the pocket of her shorts, she saw her mother’s name on the screen. Clearly, Marsha was in one of her manic communication modes again. She slowed her angry pace ever so slightly to catch her breath before answering.

  “Hey, Mom, what’s up?”

  “Beautiful, glorious daughter of mine, I’m not going to beat around the bush. Are you coming to New York to see me?”

  “Oh, shit, Mom,” Ally said, “I haven’t really thought about it since we spoke. Things have just been crazy here. There’s been no chance to bring it up with Beth yet.” Ahead of her, she saw a figure approaching, traveling the opposite direction on the wooded road that led from Grandma Stella’s house to the center of town. As he neared, she recognized Owen Mulberry. He waved at her as he passed, carrying a load of cardboard boxes, little half moons of perspiration showing in the sleeves of his neat gray T-shirt. She turned her head to watch him after they passed one another, admiring his ass in a dispassionate, impersonal way.

  “All right, sweetheart,” her mother said. “I’m not going to beg. I won’t throw myself at your feet. But I talked to Glen and we agreed that it would be nice to get you a plane ticket just in case. That way, you don’t have to worry about logistics or any of the gory details.”

  “Wait, you bought me a plane ticket back to New York?” Ally asked.

  “Yes, the early flight out of Bangor on Thursday.”

  “But, Mom, I didn’t tell you I was going to come.”

  “Well, you don’t have to use it! Glen has so many miles built up, and he wants to meet you so badly, we thought we should just go ahead and have it waiting for you if you want it. If you don’t use it, we won’t be angry. We’ll just miss you, and I’ll cry.”

  “Oh my God,” Ally sighed. “Okay, I will strongly consider it.”

  Marsha emitted a squeal, somehow throatier than Ally had thought squeals could be. “Do! Do consider it! Glen made the Jean-Georges reservation for Friday night. He said just take a taxi from the airport back to your place, and he’ll reimburse you! Oh, I’m just dying to see you.”

  As trees turned to town and Ally entered the first block of shops, she stopped to smell the flowers in one of the planters that lined the sidewalk. These blossoms, rich purple something-or-others (she was no good with flower varieties), still had water droplets on their little petals. She knew that various townspeople volunteered to plant and tend the flowers, and looking up a couple planters ahead, she saw one of them making the rounds, watering with zeal. The woman—older, tall, with a birdlike thinness—wore a floppy tan hat to protect herself from the sun. As Ally got closer, she peeked into the planter. Once again, she had no idea what the flowers were called, but they were plentiful, and shockingly red.

  “Wow, those are gorgeous,” she said to the woman.

  “Thank you!” the woman said happily, turning her head briefly to give a satisfied smile. “I worried about these babies—we’ve had such a cool season so far, they were holding out on me a little. But I think they’ve come through nicely.”

  “What are they called? I love them.”

  The woman stopped her watering and pushed back her hat, turning to Ally to answer, and that was when Ally realized who she was: Penny Joan Munson. Ally had never actually held a conversation with Penny Joan before, though she’d been aware of her for as long as she could remember. Grandma Stella generally ranted about the latest Penny Joan annoyance at least once a summer. Apparently, Penny Joan was aware of Ally too, because she squinted at her, and then, having identified her, suddenly appeared to perch on the sidewalk, ready to fly away at any minute.

  “They’re coreopsis. Limerock Ruby variety,” she said, curt, and turned back to the planter.

  “Ah,” Ally said. “Would they grow well farther south too?”

  “Oh yes,” Penny Joan answered. She watched the water as it streamed from her watering can into the planter, and then she turned back to Ally and said quickly, “They actually do better in slightly warmer climates. Maine is probably too cold for them, but I had to try.”

  “Good to know,” Ally said.

  “Yes,” Penny Joan replied. She hesitated a little, then asked, “Do you garden? Are you interested in flowers?”

  “I had a basil plant on my windowsill in New York but, um, it died.” Of course Ally realized that watering plants was generally the first step in keeping them alive, but sometimes it was hard to put that knowledge into practice.

  “Marigolds are good starter flowers. I’d recommend those if you don’t have much space and time,” Penny Joan said.

  “Thanks so much,” Ally said. She smiled big at Penny Joan and, automatically, Penny Joan smiled back. Her smile struck Ally as familiar—the crookedness of one of her teeth, the greater-than-average amount that she opened her mouth.

  “Now, excuse me. I should . . .” Penny Joan gestured vaguely toward the rest of the planters and waved her watering pot around.

  “Oh, of course,” Ally said, and Penny Joan hurried away, crossing to the other side of the street. Ally stared after her, her mind fitting the pieces together.

  It wasn’t Beth’s great-aunt Lila in those photos from the attic.

  Ally turned and sprinted into the closest shop. A tinkling bell announced her arrival.

  “Ally! Oh my goodness, hello!” Sarabeth, the counterwoman at the knitwear store, stood up and opened her arms for a hug. The knitwear store never had many customers in the summer, so Sarabeth was always overly perky when Ally and Beth came in, starved for both attention and business.

  “Hi, Sarabeth,” Ally said. As Sarabeth hugged her tightly, a familiar smell emanating from her, Ally suspected that she’d taken to spiking the mug of tea she always kept on the counter.

  “How the heck are you doing? You’ve gotten so beautiful and grown-up.” Sarabeth grabbed Ally’s hand and tugged her over to a display. “Here, try on some hats—”

  “Thanks,” Ally said. “Listen, sort of random question—do you know if Penny Joan Munson and Beth’s grandma used to be friends?”

  Sarabeth paused in the act of plopping a green beret on Ally’s head. “Oh, you know, I haven’t thought about that in forever.” She frowned at the beret, then pulled it off and sorted through a pile of other options. “Let’s see. Well, I know that they used to meet up every Wednesday night for dinner across the street here, at Monroe’s. I’d walk by the restaurant after closing up the shop and wave to them. Yes, I remember they always sat at the same table in the window, with a bottle of Merlot and a basket of bread.”

  “Why did it stop?”

  “Oh gosh, no idea.” Sarabeth wound a puce-colored scarf around Ally’s neck. “That’s nice on you, right? It’s still chilly here at night. You don’t want to catch a cold!”

  “Very pretty,” Ally said. “But, sorry, do you remember when the dinners stopped?”

  “Oh well, when Stella’s husband died, they didn’t have dinner that week, I know that. But of course I didn’t expect that they would after such a loss. If, God forbid, Martin goes before me, I just don’t know what I’ll do. I’ve told him, I would like to die first, or we can do it at the exact same time, like in that wonderful Nicholas Sparks novel, but him leaving me here alone? No sir!”

  “Did you ever see them together again?” Ally asked.

  “I don’t remember,” Sarabeth said, adjusting a soft red winter
hat on Ally’s hair. Then she suddenly gasped, “Oh!”

  “What?” Ally felt her whole body stiffen with anticipation.

  Sarabeth pointed one finger toward Ally’s nose. “That hat just looks darling! It does wonders for your complexion. I’ll give you a discount, as long as you tell everyone in New York to come up here and keep me in business.”

  She tried a few other stores after Sarabeth’s, but no one had any extra information. She ambled by Hooked on Tonics a few times, her stride slowing almost imperceptibly as she passed those full windows, calling to her with their siren song. Finally, popping the last bites of an ice cream cone she’d gotten for free from Mr. Stebbins into her mouth, she decided to go in. Leave no stone unturned, she thought to herself.

  The store smelled wonderful, like varnish and the metallic tang of mesh on a microphone. She didn’t recognize the guy at the counter, who was immersed in his magazine, scratching the scruff on his cheeks. With his eyes still cast down he said, in a voice devoid of enthusiasm, “Hey, let me know if you need help.”

  She decided to wait to bother him until he seemed a little less invested in his reading, and looking around, her eyes were drawn to the array of guitars on display. Really reasonable prices, she thought, her attention locked on a mahogany acoustic Fender. It reminded her of her own guitar, which was still underneath her bed, useless, accruing dust. She hadn’t had the heart to throw it away.

  “You’re allowed to try it out,” the guy said. “We’re not a museum.”

  He continued looking at her, half-expectantly, tapping a pencil against his chin, so she reached out, her fingers stretching toward the guitar neck.

  “Don’t drop it!” he yelled sharply, and she let out a gasp, spastically drawing back her hand. He snorted, and she turned to him. Her relief expelled itself from her body in a breathless laugh.

  “Don’t be an asshole!” she said, smiling.

  “Sorry. I’ll leave you alone now,” he replied, his eyes still glinting, and he sent his attention back down to the magazine—the New Yorker, she saw.

  Shaking her head, she grabbed the guitar and sat on a nearby stool, resting it on her knee. She placed her fingers on the strings and pressed down, forming a C chord. The strings bit into the pads of her fingers, fleshy and vulnerable without the calluses she used to have. She winced at their sensitivity. The pain felt good, right, and she pressed down a little harder. I can build these calluses up again in no time, she thought, as she strummed a random selection of chords. As soon as she caught herself thinking it, she fanned her fingers out and curled them into a fist, cutting off the music.

  “No need to stop,” the guy said.

  “No, it’s okay. Actually—”

  “You a musician?” he asked.

  “I used to be. I haven’t played in a while, though. I actually came in to ask you if you knew Stella Abbott or Penny Joan Munson.”

  “Who are they?”

  “Okay,” she said. “Guess not, then. Thanks.” As she talked, she hung the guitar back up and started toward the door.

  “Wait, lapsed musician,” the guy said. “Play me a song.” She hesitated, then shook her head. “Come on,” he pressed. “It’s the price of admission to the store.”

  “I didn’t know stores had admission prices.”

  “This one does.”

  “You know, I’m not even sure if I remember anything. I haven’t played in a really long time.”

  He moved out from behind the desk then and, in just a few strides, loped over to the guitar display. Standing, she could see how rangy he was, taller and leaner than he’d appeared while sitting. He looked to be in his early thirties, with a few threads of gray nestled among his dark, shaggy hair. He wore a faded brown T-shirt with Jeff Buckley’s face on it. He must have owned that shirt for years. It seemed like it had been through the wash so many times that whatever shape and thickness it might have once possessed had long since been worn away. He had the slightest hint of a beer belly, but a delicate one that fit in with the skinniness of the rest of him. Attractive, she thought, in a halfhearted, aging-hipster way.

  “Then just make something up,” he said. “I’m bored. Already to the critics section in the New Yorker, and there are still so many hours left in the day.”

  He foisted the Fender on her and then, in response to her self-conscious protestations, grabbed one for himself. “I’ll play too,” he said. “But you start.”

  Thinking that she was tired of protesting, and that it would probably be easier to leave if she just played something and got it over with, she sat back down on the stool.

  “Fine,” she said. “But I’m warning you, do not get your hopes up.”

  He smiled a crooked smile at her. “No promises.”

  She took a deep breath in and heaved it out, her mind casting about for a song to play. Preperformance nerves did belly flops in her stomach.

  Just play something, she instructed her fingers silently, and, obediently, they started to strum. Thankful, she switched to a second chord, one she thought might sound pretty after the first. It did sound nice, she realized, as she switched to another, then another, and then repeated the pattern over again, strumming louder. Counter Guy stared at her fingers, and then he started to move his own, picking out a melody on the strings of his guitar. It swooped delicately high, and then full and low. She stopped looking down at what she was doing and concentrated on his movements, trying to answer them with her playing. When it didn’t feel like enough anymore, when she wanted to add in more harmonies, she started to hum almost without knowing it. It felt good to hum, her body vibrating from the guitar’s reverberations and the noises coming from her own throat.

  Then Counter Guy started to sing. “Oh, we’re sitting here playing guitar,” he crooned, in a rasp that she wouldn’t exactly label “pleasant,” but that bounced nicely against her eardrums anyways. He stopped singing and cocked his head toward her.

  Quickly, she ran through rhyming possibilities—star? par? mar?—and then, her voice coming out easily, sang, “We haven’t played very much so far.”

  He smiled, his eyes focused up toward the ceiling as he searched for the next line. “But you just wait, because before very long . . .”

  Easy, she thought. “We’ll have made up an entire song, an entire song.”

  They played through a few bars of just guitar, and she loved the way her whole body felt like it was dancing even though she was anchored to a stool, a big instrument weighing down her lap.

  “Hello, my name is Nick,” the guy sang again, starting a new verse. “Sorry that at first I was being a dick.”

  “Hi, Nick, my name’s Ally,” she answered, “and I forgive you for fucking with me.” Then she slowed and, resolving the chords, sang one last time, very sweetly, “for fucking with me.” He harmonized with her on the last “fucking with me,” the both of them looking into each other’s faces with total concentration as if they were playing a game, trying to discern the next steps simultaneously without speaking them aloud. They held out the last note. Ally cut it off. Nick added one final cha-cha-cha on the guitar, catching her off-guard so that she only got the last beat of it. They laughed at the nearness to improvised perfection they’d reached.

  “Well, Nick-the-Dick,” she said, “that was fun.”

  “Yes it was, Ally. Nice voice.”

  “Really? Thanks,” she said. “You have a nice voice too.”

  He snorted. “Thanks. I consider myself more a guitarist-slash-drummer-slash-pianist who can carry a tune, but I’ll take the compliment. We should jam more sometime. I got a makeshift, semicrap recording studio back there.” He jerked his thumb toward a doorway by the drum sets.

  “Wow, a semicrap recording studio? How could I resist?” Ally teased.

  “Seriously, we should. You home from college or something?”

  “Oh no, I grad
uated already. And I don’t live here. I’m just visiting. I live in New York.”

  His face sparked with the same luminescence she’d seen when he was playing, a joy tinged with wistfulness. “Man, New York! I used to live there.”

  “Ah! Really? Where?”

  “Lower East Side.”

  “Oh, I wish I could afford the Lower East Side. I’d live there in a heartbeat.”

  “I know, it’s sick, right?” he said, talking faster than she’d heard him speak before. “So many good music places. You ever go to Arlene’s Grocery? Or Rockwood? Jerky always gets guitarists so good, they’ll make you weep.”

  “Yeah! Those places are amazing. I’d sort of like to live in them, you know, just sleep on the floor and drink all their beer for breakfast and get to see free shows every night.”

  He laughed. “So assuming you don’t live on the floor of dirty music clubs, where you located?”

  “Queens. Sunnyside. It’s cheap. Why’d you come to Britton Hills? That’s a big move.”

  The enthusiasm leached out of his face and voice. “My wife’s from here, and her dad got sick so we moved to take care of him. Plus, she never wanted to stay in NYC. Too expensive, not enough space for hypothetical future kids to run around, all that shit.”

  For the first time, she registered the slim silver band on his left hand. She’d been too busy watching his right as it leapt from string to string while he played. She resolved to tone down the flirting.

  “But hey, Britton Hills is awesome. Plus, you get to have a cool music shop.” She tried to sound sincere as she said, “Hooked on Tonics!”

  “I know, I know,” he groaned. “It’s a terrible name. My wife thought all the townies would like it, and they do, but I think it sounds like a piss-poor college a cappella group trying too hard to be witty.”

  She didn’t have much to say to contradict him.

  “So, who are you visiting in Bumblefuck, Maine?” he asked.