by Ann Herrick
About halfway through the job, Papa signaled me to take a break. He poured me a cup of cold lemonade from the thermos and we sat in the shade of a maple tree in Mrs. Holland's back yard. As I gulped my lemonade I noticed a curtain in an upstairs window part ever so slightly. Papa said Mrs. Holland always kept an eye on him to make sure he didn't charge her for any break time. I waved to the crack in the curtain, and it quickly closed.
In the back yard was a garage facing an alley. In this part of Monroe garages were not to be seen from the street. Too tacky or something, I guess. This garage had once been a carriage house, and, with arched doorways, shutters at the windows, and a weathervane on the roof, was grand enough to be a home if it were in Chatfield. In fact, Papa once mentioned that there was an apartment in part of it. At one time the Hollands had a full-time groundskeeper who lived there. Apparently, for the Hollands, the days of live-in help were over. But I think I could've struggled along nicely as lady of the manor with the cleaning crews I'd seen going in and out of the house.
"Well, break time is over," Papa said, with a slight nod toward the once-again-parted curtains.
I was going to crack a joke about the curtain, when I saw Papa stop suddenly and grab his arm.
"Papa! What's wrong?"
"Uh ... nothing. It's nothing." He massaged the upper part of his arm. "I must have pulled a muscle. Probably starting the mower, and it just caught up to me. Don't worry. And don't mention it to your mother. You know what a worrywart she can be!"
"You're sure your okay?"
"I'm fine. Now let's get to work."
As soon we stood up, the curtains fell together.
The lemonade must've helped, because I attacked the hedge with renewed vigor. Soon enough I raked up the clippings and Papa finished the mowing. When we were done, we loaded the truck. I climbed in and Papa clapped his hand on my shoulder. "Good job, Vija."
"Thanks." I let out a sigh of exhaustion. Even though Papa had twenty-five years on me, he seemed to have more stamina.
"You know, the rest of the schedule isn't that heavy," Papa said as he started the truck. "I can swing by the house for lunch, and you can have the afternoon off."
"You sure?" I said, secure in knowing Papa would not make such a suggestion unless he was sure.
"I really needed your help at Mrs. Holland's place, but the rest I can do myself. So 'don't sweat it.'" Papa smiled at his play on words of one of Karl's favorite expressions.
"Thanks!" Suddenly, I had energy to spare.
As Papa rounded the corner, a motorcycle cut in front of him and roared into the alley in back of the Holland's house. Papa scowled. He didn't like motorcycles to begin with, and what he called "stupidity in traffic" really ticked him off. Some of the kids at school teased me for driving like a turtle, but I knew I'd be grounded until I was thirty if I ever got a speeding ticket.
As soon as we finished lunch, Papa left, Mama went back to her bookkeeping, and I took a shower. As the layers of sweat, slime, and dirt slid off my body and down the drain, I started rehearsing my phone call to Nolan.
Nolan, Hi!
Hello? Nolan?
Hi, Nolan. This is Vija.
How pathetic. Even in my imagination, I couldn't get past hello. Then it hit me. Did Nolan even know my name? I ran the scene from last night over in my mind. I'd never even opened my mouth! And Caprice certainly hadn't introduced me.
Still .... Nolan had given me his phone number. He'd told me to call him. Me. Not Caprice. Me! That had really bugged Caprice, I could tell. She'd sat in steamy silence all the way home from The Exit.
Coming out ahead of Caprice for once in my life gave me courage. I hopped out of the shower, wrapped myself in a towel, and pulled Nolan's telephone number out of my box of treasures in the drawer in my night stand where I stashed it last night. Getting a phone for my room, even though it was only an extension phone, had been the absolute thrill of my seventeenth birthday. That, and Karl talking Mama and Papa into letting me "keep his car warm" while he was away in the Navy. I sat on the edge of my bed, took a deep breath, and dialed.
The phone rang once. Twice. Three times. He wasn't there. Four times. He was there, but he knew it was me and he wasn't answering. Five times—
"Hello?"
"Nolan-hi-it's-me-Vija," I said much too quickly. I fell back on my bed. Why was I such a drip!
"Vija?"
"From The Exit. Last night."
There was the slightest pause, but it sounded like forever to me. "Long blonde hair. Pale blue eyes. I should've known you'd have a beautiful name like Vija."
He thought my name was beautiful! I almost swooned.
"You're so brave to call."
Me? Brave? Nolan thought I was brave! Too bad I couldn't think of another word to say! But I didn't have to worry. Nolan came to my rescue.
"Are you free? How about if we get together for coffee?"
"Jâ!" I slapped my forehead. When I was nervous, I sounded as if I'd just landed in Chatfield. Plus, I wished I'd hadn't agreed so quickly. I had to remember to "play hard to get," as Caprice would say.
"Anywhere you want."
"Hmmm. Let's see ...,"I said. Where to go? I could see I was going to have to learn to like coffee.
"Van Horn's, Nicki's, or Rosie's Diner."
I tried to think. Van Horn's was where most everyone from school hung out, and it was in the center of town. "Van Horn's."
"You sure?"
Didn't he want to go to Van Horn's? "Well, any of those three you mentioned would be fine."
"Let's go to Nicki's."
Nicki's was over in Monroe, and I thought it was sort of a dive. But what would happen if I said no? "That'd be great."
"Meet you there in an hour?"
I felt an odd twinge of disappointment. For some reason I thought he'd be picking me up. But of course he hadn't said that. I shouldn't jump to conclusions. Besides, he probably lived in some cheap pad in New Haven, a third-floor walk-up, I'll bet. It'd be out of his way to come all the way to Chatfield and then double back to Monroe. "An hour would be fine."
"Cool. Later." Nolan hung up.
I started counting backward. It was about a twenty minute drive to Nicki's. So I had forty minutes to decide what to wear. I wasn't even sure what meeting for coffee meant, exactly. Was it a date, in which case I should probably wear a dress? Or was it more casual? I decided it was casual. After putting on and shedding six different outfits, I settled on my tan tapered pants, my sleeveless peppermint striped blouse, and my brown sandals. I could only hope that was the right apparel for coffee in the afternoon at Nicki's.
I combed my hair and let it hang loose around my shoulders. I wasn't much into makeup, but I decided to slide on a touch of Baby Pink lipstick. I checked myself out in the mirror. I thought I looked nice. But what did I know? Did I really look like a dipstick? Oh, why couldn't I be one of those girls who just knew how to put herself together?
I told Mama I was going for a drive, probably over to Hammonassett Beach. Mama didn't say anything, and I could sense her disapproval, but she nodded, so it was okay for me to go. It wasn't as if I'd lied. I was going for a drive. Who knows, maybe at some point I'd go to Hammonassett Beach. But in any case, I'd only said I'd "probably" go there.
It was hot and humid by the time I hopped into the car. A tattered beach towel on the driver's seat kept the back of my legs from getting scorched, but it looked so tacky. I thought about ditching it. But then, Nolan wasn't going to see it. He was meeting me at Nicki's.
As I drove toward Monroe, I kept the window rolled down and the radio blaring in an effort to distract myself from the heat. When "Sixteen Candles" came on, I sang along, even though my voice is not that great.
Three songs later I arrived at Nicki's. It was right on Route One, with not a single tree on the property. Just a bumpy dirt parking lot baking in the hot sun, and a colossal pile of oyster shells just outside a door near the back. The faded green wall of the front of Nicki's was pu
nctuated by two doors and a window. Over one door, "Restaurant." Over the other, "Bar." In the window, a neon "Ale" sign cast a thin blue glow.
Before I got out of the car, I checked my hair in the rear-view mirror. It was all wind-blown, but a quick comb with my fingers settled it in place. I wondered if Nolan was here yet. I had no idea what kind of car he had. I tried to imagine what a starving-yet-promising young folk singer would drive. Scattered across the parking lot were an ancient station wagon, two pick-up trucks, a big, black, motorcycle loaded with chrome trim, and a beat up, slightly-rusted sports car with the top down. Did one of them belong to Nolan? There was only one way to find out.
I headed for the restaurant door and hesitated only slightly before stepping inside. It took me a few seconds for my eyes to adjust. It was as dark as a movie theater in there. After a minute, I could see enough to look around. If Nolan was there, I couldn't find him. There was no sign saying I should wait to be seated, so I plopped down in a small booth.
From there I could see, through the doorway of the bar, a shadowy figure slide off a stool and stroll over to a juke box. Then I heard the clink of quarters, followed by Tom Dooley by The Kingston Trio. The shadowy figured emerged from the bar and revealed himself as Nolan, wearing a T-shirt, tight dungarees, and black boots. Definitely different from last night. Very James Dean.
"Hi." The beginning of a smile tipped the corners of Nolan's mouth, and he slipped into the booth, right next to me.
My heart turned over in response. "H-hi. I didn't realize you were old enough ... um, I mean, I'm not—"
"Relax." Nolan held up a hand to silence me. "I'm twenty. I just sneaked in there to feed the juke box. I left my fake ID at home. Joke." Nolan's face grew dark. "I don't smoke or drink." For a moment it looked as if he would say more, but he didn't.
"I ... I'm almost eighteen." Okay, it depended on how you define "almost." I felt my face turn red and hot.
Nolan scanned me. "You look older."
Suddenly two menus hit the table. "Are you here for lunch?"
I glanced up at the waitress. She looked like one of the new Barbie dolls with her jet black hair pulled back in a ponytail, eyelashes coated with several pounds of mascara, and a figure that came remarkably close to Barbie's extraordinary proportions. About the only difference was that she was about five feet tall instead of eight inches.
"No lunch," Nolan said. "Just coffee. Two. One black and ...." Nolan looked at me.
"Oh. Um. Cream. And sugar. Please." Anything to kill that coffee taste.
"Two coffees it is," the waitress said in a silky voice, as she picked up the menus and walked behind a counter to get our coffee.
"So ...," said Nolan. "Tell me about your past."
"My past?" I barely had a past.
"You know, past boyfriends."
"Oh. Right. Well. Let's see .... Well, truthfully ...." Boyfriends. What boyfriends? I never had any boyfriends. I never even had a boy notice me. I smiled, hoping I looked coy. "There was never really anyone one guy who was, you know, special." Close enough.
Nolan raised one eyebrow. "So you just played the field?"
"You could say that." I couldn't, but he could.
"What about your name? Vija?"
I explained that it was Latvian, that I was born in Latvia, that we came to Chatfield when I was eleven.
"Latvian, huh?" was all Nolan said.
"Here's your coffee." The waitress leaned across Nolan to place my cup in front of me. I couldn't help noticing her generous cleavage peeking out from the V at the top of her uniform. I tried not to notice Nolan noticing.
"Thank you," Nolan said. "By the way. You have a great walk." He smiled his approval. "Very graceful."
"Thanks." The waitress smiled at him, then tossed me what I thought was a tiny glance of triumph as she plunked a small pitcher in front of me. "Here's your cream. Sugar's over there." She pointed to the sugar shaker, and gracefully walked off to take an order from a guy a couple tables down.
I felt a stab in my chest as I silently spooned sugar into my coffee, and then poured in some cream. I took a sip and tried to think as I felt the steamy liquid slide all the way down to my stomach. Why was I feeling this way? Nolan had complimented the waitress. So what? He was probably just being nice. Yes, that was it. And so what if the waitress looked at me the way she did when Nolan complimented her? She was just ... just making eye contact. That was normal. Wasn't it? Wasn't that normal?
"Ahhh. Good coffee," Nolan said.
"Mmm? Oh. Yes. Great coffee." Maybe it was. How would I know?
"Anyway, I think it's important for me to tell you about my past girlfriends," Nolan said, picking up the thread of our conversation—or lack thereof—of past relationships. "The more we know about each other, the easier it will be for us to bond."
Bond. He wanted us to bond! That sounded promising. I looked directly into his peacock-blue eyes. Maybe talking about old ... friendships was what people did when they were heading in a serious direction.
"I've had nineteen relationships, but only three were serious," Nolan said.
Nineteen relationships? "Only" three were serious? For a second I had trouble breathing. But then, I reminded myself, Nolan was older. And he was a folk singer. Artistic types, performers, they were very ... emotional. Wasn't it the emotion in the songs Nolan sang that pierced my soul? So, naturally, being emotional, he—I suddenly realized Nolan was continuing and I hadn't been listening.
He must have gone on for at least twenty more minutes describing Sarah, Danielle, and Elizabeth. I picked up on a common theme. They all did something artistic—Sarah, ballet; Danielle, painting (watercolors); and Elizabeth, piano (she not only played, she composed music). And what had I done by the ripe old age of seventeen? I trimmed hedges, read novels, played field hockey, and collected ceramic horses. Not very glamorous.
Another common thread was that Sarah, Danielle and Elizabeth were all dark-haired, petite, and graceful. I was getting very depressed.
"Say," I heard Nolan say through my cloud of depression, "have you ever thought about dyeing your hair?"
For a second my tongue refused to move. I was somewhere between hurt and surprised. I considered my hair one of my few good features. I collected my wits and used the standard defense. "My parents would kill me."
"Strict, huh?"
"You could say that."
Nolan shrugged.
I decided that meant dyeing my hair was not that important to him. After all, what had he said? He hadn't asked me to dye my hair, only if I ever considered it.
Nolan placed his hand on my shoulder. "Here's what I've got planned for the rest of the afternoon."
The rest of the afternoon? My heart be still! 'Til now, I didn't even know there was going to be a "rest of the afternoon." I waited breathlessly.
"There's a Town Fair over in Sachem. We'll go there."
I nodded, too excited to speak. I'd come to love the old-time New-England atmosphere of Town Fairs, and I knew from articles I read in the newspaper that Sachem was a beautiful town set on a high ridge of land jutting out onto Long Island Sound.
Nolan signaled for our check, paid, and left, I noticed, a very generous tip for only two cups of coffee. When we walked outside, I blinked as my eyes adjusted back to the bright sunlight. Nolan took my hand, and I drank in the sight and smell of him. I felt airborne.
I saw we were heading toward the beat-up red sports car. I pictured us cruising along Route One, my hair blowing in the breeze, a romantic song playing on the radio. No, wait! Nolan singing a romantic folk song.
We zipped right past the red sports car and stopped in front of the motorcycle. Nolan ran his hand over the handlebars. "Meet my pride and joy."
In one of those life-flashing-before-my-eyes moments, I ran through all my options. One, offer to drive us in my car. Two, flat out refuse to ride the motorcycle, pulling, for the second time in only minutes, the my-parents-would-kill-me defense. Three, act as if riding a
motorcycle was something I did every day. I selected option three.
"Nice." I tried to sound both enthusiastic and knowledgeable enough about motorcycles to conclude that it was, indeed, nice.
Nolan climbed on the motorcycle. "Hop on!"
I hesitated, then swung my leg over the seat, settled myself behind Nolan, and gingerly put my arms around him.
Nolan looked over his shoulder at me. "You gotta hang on tighter than that."
I hugged him tightly, slightly embarrassed as my breasts pressed against his back.
"And get your feet up."
I was blowing it! I looked down to see where to put my feet. I had barely taken them off the ground, when Nolan revved up the motorcycle and we took off with a roar. I clamped my arms around Nolan so hard I was afraid his heart would pop out of his mouth. This was worse than a roller coaster, and roller coasters terrified me.
Every time we went around the slightest curve in the road I was sure we'd tip over or I'd go sailing off. The wind tore through my hair. So much for my fantasy of being serenaded in a gentle breeze. But I was with Nolan. We were going to a Town Fair. That's what mattered.
Chapter Three
The motorcycle sent up a cloud of fine brown dust as we zoomed into the dirt parking lot just outside the fair. When we finally stopped, I unfastened my arms from Nolan and let out a sigh that was half relief, half exhilaration. The sensation of tearing along the road on the motorcycle had been both terrifying and thrilling. It was a sense of freedom greater than I'd ever felt cruising around in Karl's old Chevy.
As Nolan and I dismounted, he put his hand under my chin, turned me toward him, and smoothed my hair. "By the way ...." He flashed an irresistible smile. "On the motorcycle, you should lean into the turns, not away from them."
"Oh. Sorry. I didn't know ...." I closed my eyes, hoping to shut down my embarrassment.
As I opened my eyes, Nolan touched the tip of my nose with his finger. "It's okay." The warmth of his smile echoed in his voice.
Nolan caught my hand in his. I wondered if he could feel the tingle of excitement in my fingers.
