Lizzy, recant. Pull some strings. Make your influence lead to second chances for us all. Think of Eddie. Do the right thing. It is the only part of us we are really able to control.
It would be a start. A beginning to a better life for you. Time is running out.
Sam
I put the letter in a PBT envelope and scribbled Mrs. Barrows across the front. Then I walked quietly to my car and drove slowly to the Barrows estate. After sliding the note under the front door I got back in the Mustang and drove home.
When I got back to my room, I slid under the covers with Veronica. I’m fairly sure she never even knew I’d been gone.
98
All endings are also new beginnings. It was suddenly closing night.
The company seemed to pace through the day. Everyone anxious about the coming night yet eager for it to begin. The parking lot began to fill around 6 p.m. We greeted our patrons with gratitude and grace. All the faces and personas that had floated in and out this past summer were in attendance. It was not possible for everyone on the premises to find a seat inside, but many were content to stand out on the deck and simply listen to the last performance. Not a lot of words were spoken; feelings were expressed through a hug or a gesture or the gaze into someone’s eye. Or, truth be told, the avoidance of eye contact that might lead to tears.
The curtain went up on time, and the small show played beautifully. The applause after each number lingered in the night; we hoped it might hang on a moment longer before it must turn into memory.
Zach sang the last lyric of the summer and the orchestra played the last simple note on harp and piano. The music stayed with us all, even past its time. We could still hear it in the old barn when in reality the wind had swept into the next day, the next summer, another lifetime.
The audience began to applaud, first for the small players in the show, then louder and longer for the principles, and then, as if possessed, they brought it up a notch so the orchestra could take their final bow. The applause turned into cheers and continued loud and long. After the bows had ended and the stage lights had gone to black, still the applause continued, becoming rhythmic, as if an encore was needed. We had nothing left in our trunk of magic. Still the cheering would not stop.
The stage came up in a flash and the audience cheered as one, a voice so strong and clear it promised to wipe the slate clean of all the sins or slights or compromises that anyone, anywhere had ever authored. The cast walked to the front of the stage and applauded in return. They waved to the audience and threw kisses. The entire PBT company entered from the wings; even Ma, who had fed everyone all summer, walked on stage and found her light. Elliot had the orchestra play “All You Need Is Love” and everyone cried. They allowed the love in the room to envelop them so they could reach back and find the courage to take on all of life’s challenges, all sorrow, and those moments where they would need to ask for forgiveness.
I stood in the back and watched it all. I had nothing left to offer, nothing more to bring to the party. I was happy beyond imagination. The summer flashed through my mind like a montage edited by a master, all of it overwhelming my senses and making me numb.
Then the applause turned to a quiet chant; it took me a long while to realize it was my name that filled the room. I stood still, embarrassed and not in any way knowing what to do. Secunda ran down the aisle, took my hand, and led me toward the stage and my company. I climbed the steps and found myself center. Secunda walked into the wings and returned with a hand mic. He allowed the cheering to continue for a while, then shouted over the noise, “Sam August, ladies and gentlemen. Mr. PBT!” And then, although I would have thought it impossible, the decibel level rose yet again.
I looked into the faces of our audience. There were tears and crazy, manic, happy smiles. I stood there and said nothing. What could I possibly say?
Then Ronny Feston jumped off the stage and ran to greet a silver-haired man accompanied by a much younger, smartly dressed woman. He grabbed the man’s elbow and the hand of the young woman and helped them climb onstage. It was Anderson Barrows and his wife. She stepped to the side and walked slowly into the wings. The doctor held his hands above his head and asked that the crowd quiet. After several minutes, the building stopped shaking—stopped soaring—yet no one resumed their seat. Barrows motioned for Secunda to give him the microphone.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I am Anderson Barrows. My family has owned this property for almost one hundred years.” He motioned for me to move next to him as he continued to speak. “This young man came to see me in early May and asked me to trust him to restore its greatness. To wake up the ghosts that lived within these walls. And I did. At first with reticence, but quickly he won me over. Seeing his courage, his willingness to stare down fear, I was practically forced to embrace him in every way I was able.”
I knew his truth and I would tell it, but not tonight. I decided that joy should win as summer ended. He paused for effect and to remove something from the pocket of his blue blazer. The audience remained standing. He opened a fragile, old, folded piece of paper.
“I have here, from my personal collection of the Barrows Museum of Plymouth a letter dated 1623. It was sent from London to Plymouth, and the recipient was John Brewster, the young son of the original settler William Brewster. Its author’s name has faded, but the words and sentiment remain. It reads, ‘Dearest John, may this letter find you well and safe in New Plymouth. May you find true happiness and freedom in your new home. Many years from now, hundreds of years from now, it is my sincerest wish that your vision will have changed our world, and those who have traveled across the ocean with you.’” There was a hush in the building. Anderson Barrows continued. “I give this priceless piece of American history to this remarkable young man. With you as my witness, it is a gift from us all. This letter speaks to him with the same resonance as when it was written over three hundred fifty years ago.”
Anderson Barrows gave me the letter and offered a hug to go along with it. It was quiet for a long time. People were waiting for me to say something, but I had used up all my words. Elliot hit a downbeat, and the orchestra played “Try to Remember.” They played slowly with grace and ease. The actors began to sing, and for the last time that season our theater was filled with music. Words were superfluous.
Then a final surprise came when Veronica walked up to me hand in hand with Lizzy Barrows. Both were wearing the widest grins possible without their faces breaking. Veronica took my hand and spoke to me with tears in her eyes. “Lizzy called me this morning and asked for grace. She said that all great journeys begin with a single step and asked me to join her at her side. She said I should do it because it was what you wanted. I asked no questions and said yes.”
Tears were now running down her face and I saw that Lizzy was following suit.
Veronica walked a few steps off stage and returned with a young man who looked so much like her that it could have been her brother. It could have been her brother! I leapt into the air and quickly hugged Lizzy, whispering in her ear, “You did it! You found grace Lizzy, you found grace! There’s hope for you and for us all. God bless you, Lizzy. Be happy.”
Then I put my arms around my girlfriend and pressed against her with the entire power of my will, my soul, my being. She was crying and laughing, not knowing which to own; both were joyous and filled the small stage with another level of magic.
“This is my brother Eddie,” she said. “Eddie, this is my boyfriend, Sam.”
Eddie and I embraced and said at exactly at the same time, “I’ve heard a lot about you, man. It’s good to finally meet you.” For good measure I added, “Welcome home, Eddie. Everyone has missed you more than you’ll ever know.”
When we broke from the embrace, Eddie shook my hand and said, “I haven’t seen a show in a long while. I was able to see the second half tonight and it was really something. But I have to ask you, does this happen every night?”
My girl
friend pushed her brother aside and kissed me and I kissed her back. We stayed that way until the din of glory had faded away and all was mercifully calm.
99
PBT was eerily quiet. I sat alone at the redwood table under the enormous maple that now sheltered me from a steady, warm, late-summer rain. I nursed a beer and waited for Veronica to arrive. We had promised one another to spend one night by ourselves now that everyone had left to follow their respective dreams. I welcomed some quiet time with her after the race the summer had been. I was going to shut the theater down, place a soft ghost light on the stage, and let the ghosts sleep until next year.
I wasn’t coming back and Veronica was moving on—alone or together remained to be seen. Plymouth had nothing left for me except a lifetime of memories. I had little else to learn here. I had answered the bell a great many times over the past four months. I had shed the cloak of innocence and was on the path of becoming a real man. It would happen soon, but not in America’s hometown. I still needed some work to become someone I could be proud of, a person of substance, of courage and character. A man in full. I had set a good foundation and was confident in my ability to do better. Life is not a dress rehearsal.
I was struck by how quickly things change. A day earlier the place had been rocking, bursting with the electricity of promise and hope. Tonight it was the last dying ember of a conflagration before it burns to ash. Darkness had set in, when just days ago the light lingered at the end of each evening and night came on slowly. A summer of heat and light was all behind us now. The rain continued, seemingly unsure whether to drift off or regain its strength to wash away the echoes that danced in the sweetly pungent air.
Veronica pulled into the driveway. The rain had decided to stay, and I could see it clearly, fresh and clean in the headlights of her car. She opened the driver’s door and led with her long, tan, and truly fabulous legs. Her hair hung easy to her shoulders. I noticed it was blonder than when we first met, lightened by days of summer sun. Her eyes were beacons of blue. She wore no makeup. Veronica was a true and natural beauty. I was lucky, or perhaps even wise, to realize she would remain lovely long after her youth had left, for Veronica was a woman whose soul led the way.
“Hey, big boy,” she said with a wink in her tone. “Looking to get lucky?”
“With who?” I asked.
“Well, I have a bottle of wine and nothing to do till morning.”
“So I guess you’re my best chance.”
“I would think so.”
She walked over to me and took my hand in hers. “Take your time,” she said. “Say goodbye. You’ve got to have endings before you have beginnings.” Then she headed toward the house, swaying as she walked, her feet not seeming to touch the ground.
The rain continued, creating a sense of calm and serenity, of anticipation and palpable expectation. Not just for this night but for the road ahead.
“Don’t go in just yet, honey.” I said.
She stopped short of the front door and looked back at me. “It’s raining pretty hard, you know. Important things happen in the rain. You taught me that.”
Then she walked back toward me as the rain came down, soaking us both. Our clothes clung to our bodies like a second skin. She looked into my eyes and then gently wiped the water off my face while tracing my features as if to freeze them in memory for all time.
“This is important,” I said. Then I kissed her, and all that I had lived and learned these past months infused that kiss. I was certain there would be more, but this one I would never forget.
I broke our embrace.
The summer was over. I would take with me the lessons learned, the myriad adventures I had encountered and remarkably survived. I had won this first round in the game of life. The rain came down and washed away a part of me I would never get to live again.
I am one lucky bastard, I thought, and that was one hell of a first act.
About the Author
Mitchell Maxwell attended Tufts University, where he later served as an adjunct professor. He lives in New Jersey with his daughter and his computer, on which he is completing his second novel featuring Sam August, On Second Thought.
A Note from the Author
Dear reader:
Thank you for spending time with Sam and his friends. I sincerely hope you enjoyed getting to know him as much as I did as I wrote his story. For Sam, it is just the beginning.
When I chose to write Little Did I Know, it was at a time in my life where I felt I needed to revisit the past and remember the magic of youth and accomplishment that comes as we mature. In doing so, I felt revitalized and eager to begin the second and third acts of my life.
Please spend more time with Sam in the upcoming sequel to Little Did I Know, titled On Second Thought. It is being released by The Story Plant later this year.
On Second Thought is not a “standard sequel,” as it picks up eleven years after the book you have just finished. Those years have been chock full of challenges, change, romance, and the further maturation of Sam August. I believe he is a good man who finds the life he seeks in Little Did I Know, stumbles as we all do at times, and then, in his indefatigable fashion, finds a way back. On Second Thought will inspire you and make you think about the choices we all make in our lives and which road to take when there are so many options.
Sam looks forward to visiting with you all again soon. Please save a place at the table for him. His tale is captivating, full of surprise, and most worthy.
Thank you.
Mitchell Maxwell
Here’s an excerpt from On Second Thought:
The pheromones did make an appearance dancing along with AJ and me like some magic dust in a famous fairy tale. And the chemistry lab percolated a potion that was like grabbing mist made up of pastels and yearning. We danced to Ronstadt and then to Stephen Stills singing “Love The One You’re With” and Frankie Valli telling us, “Can’t Take My Eyes Off of You.” The jukebox seemed programed and Rick was right that the tattoos didn’t rub off, although if they could they would. We were that close. I had learned quickly not to judge, and first looks do lie. AJ was soft and desired closeness as if it had left her long ago. She smelled of gardenias and she danced with a certain ease that made me feel invincible. Gene Kelly had nothing on me and I was indeed in the moment having fun.
“So you’ll be Christian and I’ll tell you what to say like Cyrano did,” she said. “Roxanne fell in love with the man and his mind rather than his looks.”
“His looks?” I asked.
“You know, Sugar, his nose that embarrassed him so, that made him an outcast and alone.”
“Who takes the role of Roxanne in your production?”
“I do,” AJ replied without pause.
“Your dual casting doesn’t fly. First Roxanne falls in love with Christian. It is not till she discovers that Christian is a simpleton that her heart is captured by Cyrano. And if you are both Roxanne and Cyrano that is a tough scene to play.”
“You sound like Christian. You play the fool.”
“I am just playing the role I was given. Rather unflattering, I might add. Why the fool?”
“You bought this team in this crazy town and you know nothing about baseball, which I will explain later if you are open to my musings and receptive to being saved. So you need me to tell you what to do, what to say, and how to say . . . it.”
“You are an expert on all things baseball?” I asked with true curiosity.
“I know more about baseball than Mister Abner Doubleday himself. More importantly, I know everything about baseball players. Old ones, young ones, and those yet to be born.”
“I am listening,” I said. I had noticed that as the evening progressed the southern lilt in her voice became more pronounced and she became more alluring.
“All this wisdom comes when you wise up B.”
My brow furrowed, as I was at a loss
to what “B” meant.
She quickly explained. “Back home we called boys “B” if we thought they were sweet – cause bees bring honey and bein’ sweet gets him a lot of things he might be lookin’ to get.”
I got it, and nodded ascent.
“But B, I am flirting with you with – well I am practically throwing myself at you – and you’re making no effort to catch me,” she stated.
“I’m Christian, remember? He is slow and overmatched.”
“Lies don’t become you Sam. You don’t like my look the same way Roxanne rejected Cyrano because of his nose.”
“I like your nose. It’s rather perfect, in fact.”
She smiled and looked like a young pretty girl. Whatever woe she’d been wearing earlier had magically vanished. She was Cinderella at the ball.
“Roxanne initially rejected Cyrano till he won her love with wit and intellect and kindness,” I continued. “Nothing stays the same in life. It moves, we search one’s eyes and see more than what we held onto at first glance. We grow or remain shallow way past the days when that had some modicum of charm.”
“So you find me attractive? You have thought of nothin’ through this whole dance other than when and how you would kiss me?”
She had thrown down her gauntlet.
“That’s a very unfair question.” I replied. There is only one answer that works, no middle ground or room for discussion.”
“You are an imbecile. You are Christian. A man wants to kiss a girl or not. There’s no debate or discussion. You don’t want to kiss me because of my tattoos. You don’t know why I have them or what they represent, and that makes you more foolish than anyone – even Christian. You kiss my lips, not the butterfly inked into my back or the other art you don’t deserve to see but will regret not gettin’ a view of down the line.”
Little Did I Know Page 38
