“Do you want to sleep with me, handsome?” she asked.
“Yes, I do. It is quite late.”
“Sleeping is a euphemism. How about some lust, sweat, and orgasms?”
“With you?”
She slapped me on the side of the head. A few moments later, she began to remove her tank top. I took her hand and stopped her, pulling her next to me. She didn’t say a word, just nestled as closely into me as she could.
Despite all the thoughts racing in my head, not one distracted me from the moment. “Veronica, I can’t have sex with you tonight.”
“Why not?” she asked, making it clear that she really wanted to know why.
I spent some time thinking about my answer. “Veronica, sweetheart, I’d have to be dead not to want to have sex with you. Even then I’m sure I’d make every effort to do so.”
“So? Do you think I’m loose, that I fuck anybody?”
“No. Well, actually, I did when we first went out. I mean, you always look so available. You make no effort to hide how great you look . . .”
Her faced flushed with anger. “I’m pretty. Is that a bad thing? Should I dress like a fucking nun? Would you prefer if I dressed like I just escaped the convent? You think you would have cared two shits about me if I didn’t look and dress the way I do?”
“No, I probably would not have paid you much attention.”
“So, you won’t fuck me because you think I’ll be with anybody. Is that it?”
“I didn’t say anything of the sort. In fact, I won’t fuck you because I have been with anybody and now I want to be with somebody.”
Veronica got off the bed and walked over to the chair where she had thrown her sweatshirt. She put it on and began running the zipper up and down in an awkward sort of way. She went over to the dresser and picked up the bottle of milk. “You want a refill?”
“Sure.”
She sat back on the bed and poured the remaining milk into my glass. There was barely enough left to coat the bottom. She threw the carton casually across the room, then sat drawing circles with her finger on the sheet. She avoided my eyes.
“What else can I get you?” she asked at last.
“You are the somebody, Veronica. I think you’re the somebody.”
She looked up at me with tears welling in her electric blue eyes. “Somebody. Somebody is good. Other than the burden of being pretty with a fantastic body that makes mere mortals turn to stone . . . somebody is good.”
Then she kissed me on the cheek for a very long time.
Veronica climbed under the covers and pulled the blanket as high up to our chins as possible. From under the covers, she removed her sweatshirt and discarded it with a flourish. Then came her tank top. Her panties followed. She rubbed up against me.
With her head resting on my chest, and smiling as if she had one big special secret, she said, “Get some sleep. You’re going to need it. Big day tomorrow and it starts early. That shit with those raccoons could get you in a whole lot of trouble. Oh, by the way, big boy, I am totally naked.” I felt her breasts press up against me and she wrapped her long legs around mine. “Sorry you can’t do anything about it. You see, I’m not just anybody. I am somebody.”
I stroked her soft hair and moved her so she rested in the crook of my arm.
Plymouth was now a kingdom of magic. It promised more. Yet as I lay in Veronica’s arms, I thought, If this is it, then there is indeed a God, and he is kind and rich and offered a bit of giddyup.
Veronica sighed and pressed even closer. If you could make a musical out of all of this, it would run forever. I closed my eyes. If it took months for them to open, well, that would be all too soon.
36
Veronica was true to her word. The morning began early. She had roused me from a deep sleep by 7 a.m. and given me fifteen minutes to meet her outside. When I did, she was standing next to her car holding two steaming cups of coffee. Her hair was in a long ponytail, and she wore a white form-fitting T-shirt and blue jeans that hugged her butt as if painted on by a grand master. How did anyone, especially me, ever rebuff her overtures?
She handed me my coffee and suggested I follow her. We sped down Rocky Hill Road. The morning was chilly, but the sun was already making things right. Veronica turned into the lot at PBT. The marquee remained lit, shouting out the news of our new season, and again the sight of it gave me a thrill.
In the driveway were two pickup trucks with business names on their doors. One was a tarnished navy-blue fifties Chevy whose sign read IRON’S PEST CONTROL, the other a shiny red El Camino, sporting WHITE CLIFFS OF PLYMOUTH.
Seated at the picnic table in casual but crisp outfits of denim and khaki were two guys; one I knew a little and the other was a stranger. They were eating a box of doughnuts and drinking coffee. As I approached the group they stood up to greet me.
“Hi, Sidney,” I said as I shook his hand and offered a friendly grin.
The guy I didn’t know said, “Morning, Sam. Johnny Iron. Good to meet you.” He presented a firm handshake.
The dead raccoons from last evening lay a few feet from us; they now had visitors in the form of ants, flies, and other vermin.
“Sam, I brought Johnny by because yous got a serious problem with these animals here,” Sidney stated. “They’re dead, you know?”
I looked at the carcasses of the fallen raccoon family and remembered how close their relatives had gotten to extracting revenge. “Yes, Sidney, they’re dead.”
“You shoot them?”
“Nope.”
“Who did?” asked Johnny Iron.
“Is that important?” I asked. “If this is a problem, then let’s talk about fixing that, and then we can move on to the recriminations.”
Sidney looked peeved. “Veronica, honey, comes over here so I can understand what your college boy is saying.”
She sashayed over from the table, licking the powdered sugar off a doughnut.
“Sam, these animals are dead,” said Johnny Iron. “They pose a health issue. You know, disease and all. And they are going to fuck up the smell around here pretty darn quick.”
“You think these suckers are dead?” I deadpanned.
Johnny Iron took another look to make sure, looked back at me, and said, “Yeah, they are, Sam. They’re dead.”
“Quit fuckin’ ’round here, college boy,” Sidney said sharply. “This ain’t funny. You got animals here that were shot. Somebody goes to jail for that shit in Plymouth County. Even if yous got a license for the gun, there’s no license that allows you to shoot coons. You got to make this go away. Veronica called me, so I dragged my old ass out of bed to help yous. So now what’s it going to be?”
“I’m sorry, Sid. I am certain you came to help and I am very appreciative. But can I ask you this? You can’t shoot ’em even if they’re about to make you their dinner?”
“Funny,” he said red faced, voice rising. “You think jail is funny?”
I realized this wasn’t amusing anymore. “Okay, guys, what do I do?”
Johnny jumped in. “I can get this all cleaned up and stashed away. Hose down the grounds and disinfect that room there. I can even come back and check the house and the grounds for colonies . . .”
As I was mulling this, a shiny black king-cab Ford raced into our circular driveway and the driver jumped out. He was muscular, wearing a tight white T-shirt, with a Red Sox cap pulled down over his face and shades.
“Pay me three hundred in cash,” Johnny continued. “Less than an hour, this all never happened.”
“Three hundred bucks!” I said. “This is bullshit. I have nothing to do with these raccoons . . . I’m going to speak to the landlord and . . .”
The guy from the black truck had been lurking just outside the circle of our conversation. He now took off his cap and sunglasses. He took a few steps closer to me, and with his arms folded against h
is chest, nodded in my direction.
“Gary Golden,” he said. “We met the other night at the Moondog. I know the landlord, and he won’t give a shit.”
“Yeah, I understand that you and Barrows are asshole buddies,” I said. I made sure to put special emphasis on the word “asshole.”
Gary ignored my quip and continued. “As your friend, I should tell you three hundred bucks is cheap to stay out of trouble in this town. So is a grand, three to Johnny here and the other seven hundred to me to keep it all under the radar. Trust me, money well spent, especially for the new kid on the block.”
I pointed to his left cheek. “Quite a bruise. Did you have an accident?”
“No,” he answered, arms still crossed and with no glint of humor behind his dark eyes. “But it’s a small town. Accidents happen all the time.”
Suddenly, Veronica tripped over something, and as she stumbled, her coffee found its way all over Gary Golden’s crisp clean white tee. “Sorry, friend,” she said.
“I guess you’re right, Gary,” I added. “Accidents do happen.”
37
It was midafternoon and the day had settled in better than its promise of early morning. Dead animals, bribes, and coffee spills do not an omelet make.
Johnny Iron erased any remnant of Raccoon Nation and the girls had moved into their bedroom, which was now animal free and freshly painted. Work on the business of our business was actually getting done.
Earlier in the day, wearing a liter of hot coffee, Gary Golden had looked a lot less tough. I thought that with much of his menace denuded it was a good time for him and me to have a chat. “Hey, Mr. Golden,” I said, “if I actually had a spare seven hundred dollars and if I was crazy enough to agree to give it to you, the only way I would do that would be to shove it up your ass.”
He didn’t seem to appreciate my attitude.
“Additionally,” I added, “you might want to know that my friend Davey Molson has a pair of panties with one of those summer camp name tags sewn on the band that reads ‘Golden.’ I don’t think the panties are yours, Gary— too small, I imagine—but I’m pretty certain they would fit your mom.” He wasn’t wild about that comment either.
“Oh and, Gary, get the fuck out of my face.” As he left I called after him, “Don’t you want your mom’s panties?”
I felt pretty cool about all of this until Sidney put an arm around my shoulder and said, “College boy, you’re a moron.”
Maybe the morning was indeed a portent of the rest of my day.
38
It was early dusk. The sunset was on its best behavior. The breeze off the ocean was scented and cool. The compound was ablaze in pinks, violets, eggnogs, jonquils, and aquamarines, all dazzling in their splendiferous spring grandeur. It was all a delicious buffet of nature. JB, James, Debbie, Diana, Elliot, Jojo, Secunda, and I sat comfortably under the big dogwood tree that stood in front of the theater.
I felt as if we needed an oversized calendar to check off the day’s goals and accomplishments. We’d had so many over the past few days. Unfortunately, we’d also had some enormous distractions and unforeseen obstacles. I thought of the many films I loved growing up, all of those great Hitchcock movies about ordinary men placed in extraordinary circumstances. I looked at my friends. We were extraordinary dreamers, yet had enough character to elevate the next four months from the benign to the sublime. We just had to stay the course.
JB laid out the agenda for her crew, which included chores for Debbie, Diana, James, and herself. Jojo updated us on the status of actors, design issues and scheduling. Secunda had actually met with the licensing libraries and secured the rights to the shows we wanted to do. I don’t know if he overpaid for those rights or offered to send someone’s kid through college, but we were clear.
Doobie, looking very green, had been by earlier in the day and, along with Veronica’s brother Tommy, put together a maintenance crew that would make the place ready for inspection within days. I considered the possibility that we had all read a few too many Winston Churchill speeches in our day, but I liked Winnie, and the allies did win the war.
I felt it important that we figure out Plymouth. Secunda was right: it didn’t matter who was fucking who in this town or who was corrupt or a saint. Who paid their taxes, hit on underage girls, or tipped less than ten percent. I knew that at some point our sense of righteousness would get us in trouble. Yet, if I were to be any good at directing this summer, I had to have a clear head to do so. So did my cohorts. We were puppies and we had elected to run with the big dogs.
As we continued our meeting, a Garden cab pulled into the driveway and stopped at the office. A clean-cut young man wearing jeans, white sneakers, and a powder blue poplin button-down shirt got out and paid the driver. As he surveyed the property, I noticed his body language change from tough to mellow. A smile creased his face and he looked happy. Bobby Stevens appeared pleased to be in Plymouth.
39
Bobby noticed me across the compound. He was no longer mellow. He walked briskly in my direction and I met him halfway with an extended welcoming hand. “You found us!” I offered, sounding a bit jollier than I intended.
He avoided my proffered hand and said, “You stole my photos. I did a nice thing and then you ripped me off. You’re an asshole.”
“I’m sorry, Bobby, but I didn’t steal your pictures. I had every intention of returning them.”
“When? Before or after I got fired?”
“Neither,” I said, speaking evenly. “Bobby, you made the trip up here. It’s a beautiful evening. Sit for a few minutes and have a beer with me and my friends. If after I explain you still want to punch my face in, I’ll offer you my chin.”
“I came here to keep my job. Maybe have you arrested.”
“Bobby, please have a beer with me.”
He looked as if he had just kissed a lemon. He looked around the grounds and reluctantly agreed to sit. I grabbed a beer and sat across from him at the redwood picnic table. I raised the bottle and gestured for us to clink. We did. The compound was postcard perfect. The ocean could be heard down the road fewer than three hundred feet away. Bobby drank a long pull on his beer and ran his hand through his hair. I could sense he didn’t want to remain angry.
“Thank you,” I said. “For sitting with me. Making the trip up here. And letting us steal the pictures.”
“I knew I shouldn’t have left you alone,” he grumbled.
“You know, the beach is just down the road. If you stand on the bench, you can see it.”
“I don’t do that well in the sun. Fair skin.”
“It’s nice at night as well. You should see it. The rocks are phosphorescent. They light up the sea. It’s a little bit sci-fi.”
“Why did you steal my pictures?” He asked this without anger, just really wanting to know. “I could have called the cops.”
“I needed you to come up here and I thought it was the best way to make that happen.”
His brows knit. “Why did you need me to come up here?”
“Because I need to sell thirty thousand tickets this summer and I need to get the newspapers all over the Cape to write about us and I need the Boston Globe to say we’re the second coming. You can do that.”
I thought I might have him. A moment passed.
“I have a job. So thanks for the beer. Now give me back my pictures.”
“You don’t have a job like this one. It’s only four months. I would think your internship would be waiting for you after Labor Day. Guys with your skills and vision can find intern gigs every day, but here it’s all yours to make sing. To make our noise. To make a legend.”
JB, Secunda, and the rest of the PBT elite wandered over and surrounded the table. If Stevens was planning to bolt, he’d have to run through them. They introduced themselves and expressed how excited they were that he was thin
king of working with us. James replaced his empty beer with a fresh cold one.
We all explained why we were there for the summer. We showed Bobby the theater, the backstage, and the scene and costume shops. We walked to the beach and chatted as we all sat watching the waves and the phosphorescent rocks reflecting against the early night sky.
By nine o’clock we were figuring out how he could ask for a leave of absence and still keep his job. Secunda offered to buy him a lobster, show him the wharf, and welcome him big time. Bobby agreed, but asked to speak with me for a minute in private. The girls suggested they pick up Veronica and head downtown. Bobby and I could follow and talk on the way. We’d all meet at Souza’s.
As Bobby and I drove, I rehashed much of what we had discussed over the past few hours. “One of my professors did his graduate work at Colgate University, then took his first teaching job at Tufts. You know him. He was at Colgate during your senior year. Gerry Collins. When I told Gerry what I was doing this summer, he insisted that I had to get you to play. After all, you put the Colgate 13 on the map. You made it matter. When I found out you sang with the group, I knew I could win you over. I mean, your own press office, on the beach, free reign, and you can be in the shows. All I needed to do was get you up here.”
“You sure are a confident guy,” Bobby said. “It’s more than obnoxious, you know.”
“Yes, to the latter. It’s all a front, to the former. But, Bobby, I know this: if you work with us, everyone will know our names. We will leap to the front of the pack, and I guarantee it will be one terrific ride.”
“I believe you,” he said. “But the audacity of stealing my pictures works once. You better do for me what you promise, because I need the tools to win.”
“I promise. To keep my promise.”
Little Did I Know Page 16
