by Jill G. Hall
“Who’s that?” Sylvia asked, trying to sound nonchalant.
Paul frowned. “Ricardo Lorenzo Lopez.”
Sylvia nodded. “Right. I’ve seen his picture in the paper. How do you know him?”
“We played golf once.” Paul’s voice sounded gruff.
“What’s he like?” she asked.
“He’s a dipsomaniac.”
She giggled. “A what, Mr. Dictionary? That can’t be a real word.”
“It means he’s inclined to excessive drinking.”
“You made that up.” She turned her gaze back toward Ricardo just as he removed a silver flask from his tuxedo jacket and took a swig. Sylvia and Paul looked at each other and laughed.
“You might be right.” She gazed back toward Ricardo. He was so suave. “Tell me more about him.” She wanted to know everything.
“He’s from Mexico.” Paul paused.
“And?”
“And he’s a ladies man.”
She nodded. “I believe that. He’s so dreamy.”
Paul’s face reddened. “But he’s not to be trusted.”
“What do you mean?”
The band returned from their break and picked up their instruments.
“I just have a feeling about him,” Paul said slowly. Obviously he didn’t want to talk about Ricardo anymore.
“What kind of feeling?”
“He’s furtive. Like when we played golf. I saw him tap the ball with his foot to get a better shot.”
“That’s not much.” She took another sip of her martini.
The dance floor began to fill up again, and Ricardo pulled a curvy redhead toward him in a tight embrace.
Paul lowered his voice. “I’ve also heard rumors.”
“Like what?” Sylvia whispered, leaning toward him.
He looked across the room, then back at her. “It is just hearsay.” He paused.
“What?” She grabbed his elbow.
“It’s too black.” He shook his head. “I don’t want to scare you. Anyway, it can’t be true.”
She wished Paul would spill all, but he was not the kind to gossip. In fact, she’d never heard him say a bad word about anyone. “You can tell me.”
“Let’s dance.” He stood and put his hands on the back of her chair.
“Excuse me, Mr. Palmer.” The maître d’ set a long-corded telephone on their table. “You have a phone call.”
Paul sat, took the receiver, and mouthed, Sorry, to Sylvia. He listened for a few minutes while she watched Ricardo twirl the redhead and dip her down into his arms.
“I see. I’ll be right there.” Paul hung up the phone and stood. “We’ve got to go.”
“Why?” She wanted to stay and watch Ricardo all night.
“Work emergency.” Paul stood.
“Can’t I even finish my drink?” She tried not to whine.
“Got to spring someone from the slammer,” he said in a deep voice.
Sylvia scrunched up her lips to hold back a laugh. “You don’t even do that kind of law.”
“Actually it’s an estate client in some hot water.”
“Can’t I stay?”
“By yourself?” His eyes grew wide.
“I’m enjoying the music.” She swayed with the rhythm.
He looked around the room. “I don’t know.”
“Please?” She clasped her hands toward him. “Milo can pick me up.”
Paul shrugged. “Well, I don’t see why not. I’ll notify Milo.”
“Thanks. Call me tomorrow.” She leaned her cheek toward him for a kiss, watched until he was gone, pulled a cigarette from her clutch, and lit up just like she had practiced.
She sat alone smoking her Lucky Strike, not feeling very lucky. She had only set eyes on Ricardo less than an hour ago, and her heart felt as if it might explode with excitement. Was this what they meant by love at first sight? Even if it were, he wouldn’t ever be interested in someone plain like her. In the society columns, he was described as “dashing” this and “playboy” that. She took a drag of the Lucky Strike, curled her lips, and blew smoke out through her nostrils like she’d seen actresses do in the movies.
Ricardo stared across the dance floor. Her throat felt dry. With a jittery hand, she put the martini to her lips and swallowed a mouthful. She should have gone with Paul. Hands shaking, she snubbed out her cigarette and gripped the pearls around her neck. As Ricardo drew closer, his dark good looks became more pronounced. His caramel-colored skin was offset by light brown eyes that penetrated hers. A mysterious crescent-shaped scar adorned his right cheek.
Even though her legs felt like Jell-O, somehow she found the power to stand and turned to escape. But he grasped her and brushed his lips over her hand, the thin mustache tickling her smooth skin.
“Muy bonita,” he said with one raised eyebrow.
Certain her face was as red as the pimento of her martini’s olive, she looked down, pulled her hand back, and played with the pearls again. “Gracias,” she whispered, having studied a little Spanish in school.
“Would you care to dance?” His accent was thick, exotic.
She peeked at him and stammered, “Not tonight.” The band was playing “Sincerely,” a slow romantic number, and the thought of him holding her close made her feel lightheaded.
“Lo siento.” He shrugged and sauntered away.
Sylvia sat back down and watched as he took the redhead by the hand and led her to the dance floor again, holding her close. Sylvia wished she had the courage to dance with him like that. To be cradled in his arms would be thrilling.
The band switched rhythms to a rousing rumba version of “Rock Around the Clock,” the marimba playing the melody. Ricardo swayed with one hand on his hip and the other outstretched. The redhead wiggled her body, and three more women joined in to dance around Ricardo. He tossed his jacket over a nearby chair, exposing a slim waist nuzzled by a red cummerbund. The satin shone like garnets, and Sylvia wanted to rub her hands flat along its slick surface. She nibbled her martini olive and sucked juices from the toothpick.
Ricardo caught her eye and flirted back with a wry smile. She turned her head. The bandleader’s ruffled sleeves and maracas were shaking wildly and so were the dancers’ hips. Sylvia rolled her eyes. The tawdry women giggled as Ricardo swiveled to the music’s rhythm. Who does he think he is, Elvis?
The crowd hooted and clapped. Sylvia frowned, angry and disgusted, with him for being such a show-off and at herself for thinking he was sexy. She downed the rest of her drink, grabbed her white fox fur, and rushed out into the night.
The foggy air seeped over her warm body, cooling it. Milo opened the Rolls door for her, and she slid inside.
“Have fun?” He turned on the ignition and smiled at her in the rearview mirror.
“Guess so.” She didn’t want to talk about it. The Rolls climbed into the shrouded hills that matched her gloom. A crescent moon, like Ricardo’s scar, hung barely visible in the misty sky. She pulled off her pearls and clutched them. Then she closed her eyes and tried to banish Ricardo from her brain.
Once home, she mixed a Kahlúa and cream and carried it up to bed. She sipped it slowly, hoping it would calm her. But instead she grew hot, threw off the covers, and kept thinking of him. His dark slick-backed hair, shiny waist, and rhythmic dancing feet swirled in her mind.
5
The next morning, Anne had another message from her mom. “I told Tootie and Pootie you’re probably moving home, and they’re so excited!” When Anne was a baby and had started to talk, she couldn’t pronounce Trudy, her father’s sister’s name, so she had called her “Aunt Tootie” instead, and the name stuck. A year later, Tootie gave birth to Prudence, and everyone called her “Pootie” for consistency.
Anne remembered her visit home last summer. As soon as she stepped off the plane at Saginaw Airport into the dreadful humidity, she felt like she’d landed on another planet. The sky was a pale blue, with not a cloud.
Aunt Tootie,
cousin Pootie, and her mom held up signs that read, “Welcome Home, Artist.” Despite the heat, Anne enthusiastically hugged each in turn. In the parking lot, Pootie and Anne climbed in the backseat of the green Ford Fairlane, and her mom pulled out for the hour-and-a-half drive north.
“Sure you don’t wanna stop at the mall while we’re down here?” Pootie teased.
“Very funny.” Anne shoved her cousin’s arm. Most girls, while growing up, tired of the Oscoda Walmart, would beg their parents to take them down to the Penney’s or Target in the big city. But not Anne; she would only wear clothes she found at Second Chances Thrift Shop on Main. No wonder no one had ever asked her to prom.
Heading toward the highway, they drove by an empty industrial park and a neighborhood that had every other house boarded up.
Tootie, riding shotgun, asked, “Sold any art lately?”
Anne shook her head. “I hear you’re having a drought.”
“Did you know Jimmy Johnson moved back to Oscoda?” Her mom glanced at Anne in the rearview mirror.
“Who’s he?”
“You know, Jennifer Collin’s cousin by marriage. He had moved to Florida but now says ‘There’s no place like home.’ Brought a new wife with him. She’s smitten with the mitten now too.” Her mom held up her hand to show the shape of Michigan.
The women continued to gab nonstop. They passed the Au Gres Marina and Campground, where Anne lost her virginity to Danny Murphy from college after consuming a box of wine. A smooth Lake Huron appeared on the right, and the rhythm of the car made Anne drowsy. “Are we there yet?” She yawned and nodded off.
“Wake up!” Pootie yelled, and she shoved Anne’s arm. She opened her eyes just in time to see a great blue heron stretch out its question mark-shaped neck as it flew overhead. The two girls used to sit on the dock for hours just hoping for a glimpse of one.
“Look, there’s even a Mexico restaurant in Tawas now,” her mom pointed out.
“Cuatrooo Amigooos,” Trudy read. “What’s that mean?”
Anne grinned. “Four friends.”
Soon they passed Tootie and Pootie’s house, and then, two doors down, the car pulled into the drive of the yellow house, the only one on the street not white. A sign in front on the browned-out lawn read, Avon’s Skin-So-Soft Sold Here. The hydrangeas drooped, and even the maple tree in front of Anne’s gable window looked thirsty.
“Supper in half an hour,” her mother called as Tootie followed her inside, the screen door slamming behind them. Anne put down her duffel bag and sat on the porch swing.
“Wanna go fish off the pier?” Pootie asked.
“It’s too hot.” Anne picked up an Avon brochure and used it as a fan.
“Let’s play rummy then.” Pootie sat across from her cousin and dealt the cards. “Who are you seeing?”
“A guy named Karl. He runs a family hardware store. How about you?”
“Nope, nobody,” Pootie sighed.
Anne felt sorry for her cousin. She’d never had a boyfriend.
After a while, Aunt Tootie yelled from the kitchen, “Come and get it, or we’ll feed it to the hogs!”
Plates filled with steak, potatoes, and corn on the cob were set up on TV trays in the living room. Anne ate her corn and picked at the mashed potatoes, avoiding the meat. She didn’t want to remind them she didn’t eat meat because she knew they would tease her.
They watched an episode of Anne’s least favorite show, The Bachelor, until a Brian’s Heating and Air Conditioning ad cut in. It was the same cheesy ad that had run on television for years but had been reshot with Brian, instead of his father, Brian Senior. Brian’s familiar deep voice resonated: “One hundred degrees and your air conditioner broke down? Don’t start cryin’. Just call Brian.” He looked even better now than the last time she had seen him five years before—his smile wide and his arm muscles expanded under the company T-shirt. Seeing him up on the screen, Anne felt the same tough yearning she had in high school. Not even Pootie had known how she had felt about him.
“Boy, that Brian is such a hunk!” Pootie cried.
Anne nodded. “Is he married yet?” She squinted to see if he had on a ring.
“No.” Aunt Tootie shook her head.
“Maybe he’s gay.”
“Mother!” Anne had never gotten those vibes from him.
Her mother defended herself. “I heard it directly from his own mother. Gwen Youngman, their neighbor, said that his mother said that she’s frustrated because he never takes anyone out.”
“Maybe he’s just shy.” Pootie picked up an Avon sample, squirted out some lotion, and rubbed it on her thin legs.
Aunt Tootie smiled at her daughter. “Yes. He might be a late bloomer like somebody else we know.”
“He did take Jessica Jones to senior prom.” Anne had been heartbroken he hadn’t asked her. She had thought maybe he would because he always said hello to her in the hallway when passing by.
“Only because she called him.” Pootie handed the lotion to her cousin.
Anne hadn’t heard that. “If he were gay, he would have moved out of town by now.” She dabbed some lotion in her hand and sniffed the orange scent.
Anne’s mom shook her head. “Oh no. He needs to take over the family business.”
Yes, no known gays in Oscoda. Unlike San Francisco, Oscoda was all white. No ethnic flavors here, no Latinos or Chinese. Except maybe Sue Ellen Eigner—she always bragged about being a quarter Native American. Which might have been true, with her shiny dark hair and eyes.
“Let’s go home, Pootie. I have to get up early for the parade.” Aunt Tootie leaned over and kissed the top of Anne’s head. “It’s great to have you here.”
Anne and her mother cleaned up the dinner mess and then climbed the stairs to their own rooms. Even though it was nine o’clock, it wasn’t quite dark yet, and Anne, still on California time, found it impossible to sleep. She began to clean out a junk drawer and picked up the “magic wand” Aunt Tootie had given her for her fifth birthday. Anne ran her fingers over the plastic star. She had loved that wand and had used it to cast spells—for it to stop raining so she could go out to play, for Nana’s cough to go away (it worked for awhile), and for Daddy to come back from Iraq. He did come back, but in a wooden box with the red, white, and blue flag draped over it. God must not have understood her magic prayers, and from then on, she tried hard not to wish for anything too much, or it might come true but in the wrong way.
As the casket was lowered into the ground at the cemetery, her mother had held her so tight that Anne could barely breathe. Tootie sobbed also, having lost her own brother, and she told Anne, “Your Daddy’s in a better place now.” But Anne had known the truth. He was in the box underground in the dirt. How could that be a better place?
She now waved the wand and wished to make enough money to be able to stay in California. She loved her family and home but never felt as if she quite belonged.
The next morning, Pootie called upstairs, “Ready?” No one in Oscoda ever locked their doors.
“In a minute.” Anne had barely slept. An invisible mosquito, as loud as a 747, had woken her in the middle of the night. She had jumped on the bed and swatted at it for half an hour. When she had finally fallen back to sleep, a thunder-and-lightning storm had woken her. She had curled up and listened to the much-needed rain pound on the roof.
She grabbed a blue floppy hat, stepped onto the porch, and let the screen door slam behind her. Sweat already dribbled down her back, adhering her white eyelet sundress to her body.
“Where’s the red?” Pootie frowned. Her outfit, a traditional Fourth of July affair with red-and-white striped T-shirt and denim short shorts fit her lithe body perfectly. She had also stuck a miniature American flag into her ponytail.
“My lipstick, see!” Anne puckered her lips and fish-kissed them at her cousin.
Pootie rolled her eyes. “Come on! Let’s hurry. We don’t want to miss it.”
They walked the two blo
cks to Main, where kids sat on curbs in front of their parents and oldsters relaxed in folding chairs. The cousins pushed their way to a place in the shade across from the post office right before the city police and county sheriffs turned on their sirens and led the parade. Everyone stood and put their hands on their hearts as the American flag passed along with the Oscoda Marching Band. The Knights of Columbus in capes and plumed hats stood erect in the back of a truck, and elderly VFW men in their medal-covered uniforms waved.
When Brian strutted toward her, beside the Air Conditioning and Heating van, Anne’s heart felt like one of the footballs he had punted over the goalpost in high school.
“Annie,” he yelled, lobbing a Tootsie Roll at her. She fumbled it then bent over to pick it up, and her hat fell off, which exposed her sweaty, squished hair. As fast as possible, she put the hat back on and looked up in time to see him pass with a smile.
“There they are!” Pootie howled at the flatbed truck with the banner that read: Oscoda Garden Club Digs You!
“Hey, girls!” Anne’s mom called, waving her shovel. “Groovy, huh?”
The eight women riding the flatbed all wore bellbottom jumpsuits and wigs adorned with daisies and were dancing the hitchhiker.
“They must be hot in those huge wigs,” a woman behind Anne said.
As the fire trucks closed off the end of the parade, Pootie asked, “Ice cream?”
“You know I’ll never say no to that.” Anne smiled, and they waddled in the heat down Main to Oscoda Cones.
“I’ll have a scoop of dark chocolate and another of chocolate mint.” Anne dabbed her damp chest with a napkin and watched the attendant fill the giant-sized waffle-cone.
Skinny Pootie ordered a lime sherbet in a cup. They stepped out of the shop as the ice cream dripped down Anne’s hand. She licked at it, but the top scoop popped off and fell into her cleavage. “Oh my God!”
“That should cool you off,” Pootie laughed.
“Hi, Annie.” Brian stood before her, his mischievous smile as big as Lake Huron.
