Glory Days

by Irene Peterson

  John stepped into the vestibule and heard noise coming from Flo’s place. Someone was playing the piano and he thought he heard Flo’s voice and another going along with the tune.

  One voice sounded awfully young and high.

  Carly?

  He knocked on the apartment door. “Flo, it’s John. Can I come in?”

  The music stopped dead.

  “Sure, join the party!” Flo called out in a strong voice, more like her old self than when he’d seen her last.

  He let himself in, surprised to find lights blazing, filling the room with bright cheeriness so different from the drizzle outside. Flo, sitting like a queen on her chintz-covered couch, had her foot raised on the cushions. The petulant Liz Atwater sat on the edge of the easy chair and Carly—Carly!—sat on the piano stool, hands poised over the keys, looking as if someone had just run over a puppy at his entrance.

  John surveyed the scene. What was going on here?

  Flo, apparently reading his mind, smiled and spoke. “Carly here has been entertaining us. She’s quite the piano player, did you know that? Well, of course you did, John. She’s been playing some of the old sheet music. The girl’s got talent, sight-reading all those tunes. Brought back some memories of happy times.” Her voice went quiet for a second.

  “I hope she hasn’t been a bother,” he murmured, still trying to figure out what had happened to bring the kid downstairs.

  “Oh, no! She’s a dear!” protested Flo.

  He turned to Liz, noting the pinched mouth was back.

  “I needed help with Grandmother . . . she’d sunk so far back into the chair I couldn’t move her. Gram sent me up to get you. Since you weren’t there, Carly came down.”

  He nodded, then turned his attention to the kid. “So, everything all right?”

  The brightness of her smile faded a bit. “I guess so. I didn’t think you’d mind if I helped Mrs. Zanetti.”

  He ran his hand over his face. “No, of course not. I didn’t want you making a pest of yourself.”

  His words slapped the smile off her face. “I . . . I didn’t think I was. . . .”

  “Oh, John, lighten up. Carly’s been keeping me company. I don’t often get to talk to people her age. Besides, she’s a sweetie. Made me feel better hearing the way she tickled the keyboard. And since we’re closed, she didn’t keep us from anything.” Her voice took on a chiding tone that made John bite down hard to keep from snapping at her that it was none of her business.

  “It’s nearly suppertime,” Flo added. “You and Carly are welcome to join us, aren’t they, Liz?”

  Liz, starting at the request, took a few seconds to respond. “We’re just having a light meal, but you’re welcome, of course.”

  “Wow ! I sure am hungry.”

  Carly’s face lit and John couldn’t help but say yes. He guessed the kid was plenty hungry. He knew he was. The thought of a hot meal held its appeal, especially when he saw the annoyed look on Liz’s face. For some strange reason, anything that pissed off Ms. Atwater, that got a rise out of her, was fine with him.

  “Let’s eat!” he said. “I’m starving.”

  Flo sat in the booth, looking uncomfortable. Liz made funny steam noises as she hefted the heavy stew-pot from the burner. John watched her covertly. He didn’t want her to think he was interested in her, although her expressions of anger and resignation intrigued him. Something about the fire in her eyes drew him to her. And when he looked away, he saw that Flo was watching him watch her granddaughter.

  “It’s just stew,” Flo commented. “But Liz is a good cook. She’s going to be working in the store with me until I’m able to be on my feet all day. This darn business slows me down too much for too long.”

  Carly huddled in the corner, her eyes alight. John wondered why she was so excited, so intent.

  “Your stew is great, Flo. Have you been giving out your recipes?”

  The older woman laughed, preening under the praise. “John, only family gets my recipes. But thanks for the compliment. No matter how old I may be, I am not dead yet and I love getting compliments.”

  She turned to Carly. “You never told us where you were from, Carly.”

  Carly flushed.

  “I’ve lived in Philadelphia all my life. Well, on the outskirts. But I know the city well enough. It’s a cool place.”

  Liz returned to the table and plunked the heavy pot on the edge. “All right, let’s have those plates.”

  John laughed. “Real home cooking.”

  Liz shot him an evil look. “If you want to eat, give me your plate.”

  “Liz!” Flo’s eyes sparked with impatience. “Just because we’re eating in the store, doesn’t mean you have to be rude to our guests.”

  She tapped the ladle against the pot. “Grandmother, I’m sorry. I’m just . . . I’m just not myself today.”

  “Well, snap out of it, girl. The store opens up for breakfast at seven tomorrow. You’d better be ready with a smile or I’ll lose my clientele. John here doesn’t pay me enough rent to keep the building going without income from this place.”

  Liz pursed her full, rather luscious lips.

  It amused John to watch Ms. Atwater hold back. She had come a long way to take care of her grandmother. If she hadn’t wanted to be bothered, she’d have stayed in California. Something was up with her, something he ought not to think about. But he had never been good at controlling his curiosity. And it always got him into trouble.

  “Here you go, Ms. Atwater. I like stew, so pile it on, if you don’t mind.”

  He winked at her.

  She wrinkled her nose at him.

  He smiled, deliberately turning on the charm for which he was legendary.

  She sniffed and plopped stew onto the thick white plate.

  Carly hesitated before holding out her plate.

  “If you show me where everything is, I’ll wash up.”

  Flo brightened. “Why, dear, that’s so sweet of you.”

  Liz looked at the kid, her expression softening. “That would be nice. I can use the help. It’s been a long time since I worked the kitchen.”

  She sat after filling her grandmother’s plate and her own. Noting the rise of her voluptuous chest, John watched her inhale the delicious aroma of the stew. Down, boy!

  He’d waited for his hostess to start.

  “Eat up,” demanded Flo who seemed to be taking some sort of delight in watching the goings on. “This is quite good, Liz. You haven’t forgotten, that’s for sure. Liz used to work with me summers when she was in school.”

  This bit of information added to her mysterious allure. “When was that?” he asked.

  Liz chewed then swallowed. “Summers, late eighties, I guess. I got Grandmother to let me listen to Bon Jovi and Bruce on the radio. I like to think it brought in customers.”

  “Nah, it wasn’t the music, kiddo. It was you that brought in the customers.” Flo beamed at her granddaughter. “She used to wear shorts and halter tops when it was really hot, before we had the air conditioning installed. Fellas used to come from all the construction sites just to watch her.”

  “Grandma!”

  John smiled again, directing it toward both women. “I would have come for lunch if I’d known you worked here.”

  Liz sniffed and kept on eating.

  Carly’s eyes went round and she ate quickly, but neatly. He intended to ask her some more questions after they left the luncheonette.

  He had to know what to tell his parents when he took her there tomorrow.

  Chapter 5

  The kid sat so far forward in the seat she strained against the shoulder belt. He braved furtive glances at her, sometimes finding himself looking directly into those haunting blue eyes of hers. He’d looked away, but kept turning back to see if he could find anything of himself in her face.

  Something other than blue eyes and the fact that she sucked the jelly end of the doughnut, just like he did.

  Driving up the Garden S
tate Parkway was a matter of routine. If he’d had a big car, not this old Jeep, he’d have turned on the cruise control device and settled back in the comfy seat. But he didn’t have one, or the extravagance of cruise control. The Jeep was necessary for the four wheel drive and the small size. He could park it anywhere and not be afraid of someone stealing the hubcaps or anything else because it was so ordinary. He kept it dirty, something he’d learned in his previous life. Bureau cars were small and nondescript. Not that the bad guys didn’t peg them as government cars—they just didn’t attract too much attention.

  He’d love to have more power under the hood, and cruise control, sure. Maybe a cassette player or CD player, but he settled for the AM/FM radio. He reached over to turn it on at the exact time Carly tried to do the same. She pulled her hand back as if she’d been scorched.

  “Go ahead,” he offered. “Just none of that rap crap.”

  Her hand shook slightly as she turned the knob. “I listen to the Philly stations sometimes.”

  She was awfully quiet. Did he scare her that much? She’d spent the night on the sofa, this time with a pillow and blankets. She said she didn’t mind . . . what was he supposed to do? He had too much leg to try to fit on the couch and the bed was his and his alone. He’d never slept on the sofa without having passed out there first.

  “So, I’m taking you to my parents’ house. There’s something there I have to look for. And I was thinking you might want to meet them. They love kids.”

  Carly touched his right arm. “Remember to ask for the WD-40 if you want to get that tape off.”

  He cracked a smile. She’d suggested he try the lubricant after looking on the Internet for how to remove duct tape adhesive. The kid knew how to get around on the computer, all right.

  “So, how good are you with the computer?”

  She shrugged. “I know the keyboard tricks and surf the Net.”

  “How?”

  “Beg pardon?”

  He slipped them into the toll booth, tossed coins into the basket and sped away. “I asked you how you learned to work the computer.”

  That seemed to pique her interest. She squinted a bit before speaking. “School.”

  “Ah,” he said, dragging it out while he thought. “What grade are you in?”

  Her body caved a little. “I was a junior.”

  John said nothing, absorbing the body language and the sigh she suppressed, wondering why. She must be sorry she left school. Her friends. Did she have friends?

  “You like school?” Hell, what a lame question to ask a teenager. He didn’t want to sound stupid and old, but he couldn’t help it, not even to himself.

  “Yeah. I liked it all right.”

  “Get good grades?”

  She sat a little straighter. “Yeah. Real good.”

  He tapped the brake as they rounded a curve. “Like?”

  “Good enough. My teachers were tough.”

  He tried to read behind her words, sense exactly what she meant. “Catholic school?”

  She threw back her head and laughed. The sound tickled his heart in the oddest way. Like music he wanted to hear and never had.

  “Oh, yeah. St. Aloysius. Ever heard of it?”

  John shook his head with genuine regret. “Nope. Got a good football team?”

  All he wanted to do was get along with the kid. He didn’t want to sound as if he was trying to be cool. Yet he had some pride so he didn’t want to sound completely lame either. Teenagers could spot lame a mile away. And lame was hopeless. No saving face after getting that label.

  Carly laughed again.

  “The worst! Probably the suckiest team in the world. They had a good quarterback year before, but he graduated. Most of the team graduated. . . .”

  “Let me guess, what was left was pathetic.”

  She grinned back at him. “You got that right.”

  It had happened at his old school after he’d left. For some time afterwards, he’d deluded himself that it was because of him. “So, you like football?”

  She sat back a little bit more. “I guess so. I got to see some of the home games and they were pretty good. Interesting and all. And some of the guys were real hunks, but not usually.”

  Filing away this “hunks” information, he realized that this kid probably had more to her than he first thought.

  “Do you have a boyfriend?”

  Color rose on her cheeks and she turned to look out the window, but not before he saw her blush.

  “Come on, you can tell me.”

  “Why? It’s not like I’m ever going to see him again, or any of my friends. Or go to the prom. Or graduate.” Her voice dropped into a low whisper. She kept staring out the window, but John could see her reflection in the glass as she waged a battle against her tears.

  “Ma! Anybody home?” John entered the small brick Cape Cod house through the side door. Carly waited to be asked inside. He tugged on her hand. “Ma! Where are you?”

  Rose Preshin, pleasantly plump and standing only about five feet tall, came into the kitchen and wrapped her arms around her son. He eyed the pink plastic rollers in her hair. Some things never changed.

  “You could have called.”

  John gave her a squeeze and pulled her off her feet. She socked his arm until he put her down. “You always say that. I never think.”

  She smiled up at him, forgiveness wreathed in her welcome. “You know this is your home, Johnny.”

  Carly shifted her feet, drawing Rose’s attention.

  “Who’s this?” she asked, stepping away and wiping her hands on her sweatpants.

  “Mom, this is Carly Snow. She’s a client.”

  Rose extended her hand to the girl. Carly took it and gave it a weak shake. “You’re welcome in our house, Miss Snow.”

  “Uh, thanks . . . thank you. And it’s just ‘Carly’.”

  “Did you eat?” Rose looked first at John, then Carly.

  John laughed. “Didn’t I tell you she’d ask?” He gave Carly a wink. The kid looked confused and didn’t answer.

  “We could eat something, Ma. We’ve been on the road since before rush hour. Where’s Dad? I have to ask him something.”

  Rose grunted. “Where do you expect him to be? He’s in his shop.”

  He gave her a blank stare. “Huh?”

  “In his shop. Where the old coal bin was. When your sisters moved back last month, he put up wallboard in there and that’s where he disappears every day.”

  “My sisters moved in here? Last month?”

  Firmly planting her hands on her hips, Rose seared him with a look. “Yes, both of them and your nieces and nephews, too.”

  John felt his plans for Carly sliding away. “Why?”

  His mother made a noise of exasperation. “Why do you think? Their husbands, God protect them, have been deployed. I thought it would be better for them to come back here to live.”

  John heard the desperation in his own voice. “All of them? Where did you put them all? Where are they now?”

  His mother stopped emptying the refrigerator and ticked off with her fingers, “Two upstairs in your old room. Two downstairs in the rec room. One sleeps in the small bedroom down here and Frankie sleeps on the sofa in the living room. And the kids are in school and your sisters are grocery shopping. I expect they’ll be home soon.”

  “Oh, good.” He nodded, not meaning it. There was no room for Carly here. Damn. “I’m going downstairs to talk to Dad for a second while . . . while you’re whipping up lunch, Ma.” He escaped down the stairs, leaving the kid to deal with—whatever.

  Rose looked at Carly as she opened the refrigerator door. “I love feeding people. Don’t even think you’re putting me out. And I don’t mind my family being here. There’s always enough food, even if there isn’t too much room around the table. Carly, that’s your name, right?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Carly.”

  She dealt out slices of white bread and slapped cold cuts onto them. “You like lettuc
e and mayo?”

  Carly hesitated, looked toward the cellar door then back at John’s mother. “Uh, yes. I do. Very much, thank you.”

  “Hmm, I haven’t heard a ‘thank you’ around here in some time,” Rose observed, talking under her breath. She looked up at Carly and smiled. “You’re a polite child. My son called you his client. What is he doing for you, if I may ask?”

  “He’s . . . uh, going to find my father for me.”

  Rose turned her head slightly, catching the expression in the kid’s face. “You lost him?”

  Carly nodded slowly. “You might say that. I never knew him.”

  Rose’s face crumpled. “Oh, you poor dear! I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have asked such nosy questions. But I know my Johnny will find him for you. He’s got a real talent, that boy.”

  Carly accepted the sandwich plate Rose handed her. “I hope so.”

  Rose wiped her hands on a dishtowel, opened the cellar door and shouted, “John Preshin, get up here and eat. You, too, Stanley. If you’re not up here in two seconds, I’m going to feed it to the dog.”

  “You better get up there, Johnny.”

  His father looked old. Standing there, wiping his hands on a greasy rag, he looked worn out and graying, with his tools behind him and his glasses halfway down his long nose.

  “Come on, Pop. She called for you, too.”

  The older man turned, placed the rag on the workbench. “I’m not real hungry. She made me eat breakfast. I didn’t want to eat breakfast, but she made me get up and eat. Hot cereal. Yatch! I hate hot cereal. I wanted bacon and eggs, but she said Frankie and Bill Junior finished them, so I had hot cereal.”

  John heard something in his father’s voice he’d never heard before. “What’s wrong, Dad?”

  Stanley turned and raised his palms in front on him. “All these people in this little house! I can’t turn around without somebody being there. A man can’t even fart when he needs to without offending someone. I tell ya, Johnny, it’s too much.”

  John put his hand on his father’s shoulder. “Tell them all to go home.”

  Surprise washed over Stanley’s face, replaced by sternness John had seen few times in his life. “I can’t do that. They are home. This is their home, just like it’s your home. They belong here . . . I can’t ask your sisters to stay on the base all by themselves when their husbands are out doing who knows what.