by Lee Hanson
“Close the door there. Have a seat.” He lifted the coffee mug on his desk. “You want some coffee?” he said, as he took his seat behind the cluttered desk and leaned back, making himself comfortable.
“No thank you, sir. I’m fine.”
“You know, we used to have a store out in LA with all girls sellin’ the cars. They did pretty good. They were all redheads.”
Julia had researched the company and knew about them. They all wore the same sexy outfits, too. It didn’t last long.
“Really?”
“Yeah, no kiddin’,” he said. “So, have you done any sellin’, Julie?”
“I’ve done well selling Avon, sir.”
“Avon. That’s makeup, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir…but Avon has all kinds of products now. I’ve been in sales for three years, sir. I’m a group supervisor and I’ve recruited and trained four girls who work under me.”
“How old did you say you are?” he said, skeptical.
“I’m twenty, sir, but I’m really good at sales. I know I could sell cars!”
“Look, Julie, relax. You got the job. And stop callin’ me ‘sir’.”
Suppressing an urge to dance, Julie exited the showroom clutching her “employee paperwork” like a winning bet on a long shot. With a wide, triumphant grin, she jumped into her mother’s old Ford, shifted into reverse and backed out of the dealership.
I did it! I got a job with a car. I’ll be able to make some real money…I’ll be able to move!
•
Daydreaming all the way home about her future freedom, Julie finally turned into the driveway, lining up the sedan’s wheels with the two paved strips in the grass and weeds, as she always did. She pulled up even with the back door to her family’s old, white clapboard house. Jumping out, she ran up the crumbling flagstone steps. The wooden screen door banged shut behind her as she absently kicked off her shoes. “Mom, I got the job!” she yelled, stepping out of the hall.
Happiness flew away like a popped balloon.
Julia’s mother was kneeling on the kitchen floor. She was crying, her hand bleeding into a puddle of gin, drunkenly trying to pick up the broken pieces of her martini glass. As her mother slowly turned toward her, Julia saw an angry, purple welt on her right cheekbone that was also bleeding.
“Oh, God, Mom! Here, leave the glass,” she said, rushing to help her up. “Stop, Mom. I’ll get it. Where is he?”
“I don’ know.”
Elizabeth Danes was a mess. Disheveled clothes and crazily teased salt and pepper hair. A sad clown would have envied her makeup.
The usual war of emotions raged within Julia. Her love and pity for her mother had kept her from going away to college, even though she was an honor student. That was three years ago, and it was plainly a mistake. Perhaps this dysfunctional play would close with one less actor, she thought. Or was she the audience? Leaving was the only way to find out.
I can’t change things, Mom.
I can’t change you.
I can’t change him.
Suddenly, the swinging door connecting the kitchen and the dining room burst open, slamming into the side of the stove.
Julia whirled around, every muscle tensed, her fist clenching the glass shards in her hand, not noticing that she’d cut herself.
“What the hell are you doing?” roared her father. “Get away from her! She’s a fucking lush! Let her pick up her own goddamn mess!”
George Danes was a drinker who never appeared to be drunk. Over six-feet with silver hair and blue-gray eyes, he could have been cast as a doctor on a daytime soap opera. An avid fisherman and hunter, he was considered a “man’s man.” Men liked him and foolish women flirted with him. Behind his front door, his wife and daughter feared him.
Not me, Dad. Not anymore.
Julia quickly dropped the broken glass in the wastebasket and grabbed the frying pan off the counter. She stood with her feet planted apart, in front of her cowering mother.
“Stay away from her!” she said, holding up the heavy skillet with both hands.
George stopped in his tracks.
This wasn’t the first time she had physically defended her mother. But she wasn’t a child anymore, to be swatted away like a pesky insect. She was tall and strong…and she didn’t make empty threats.
George smiled and began to laugh.
“Goddamn! At least you’ve got balls. You take after me.”
“I’m nothing like you.”
“Huh,” he snorted.
Still laughing, he turned and pushed through the swinging door to the dining room. Julia heard the front door slam, and the car start up out in front of the house.
She lowered the iron skillet.
“Mom, you’ve got to get a new bodyguard,” she said, wearily. “I’m a car salesman.”
* * * * *
Chapter 5
Pete Soldano phoned Julia the next afternoon to tell her that she needed to be at the dealership the following morning for training. He also mentioned that there would be another person in the class.
At nine sharp, as nervous as a filly in a derby, Julia reported for duty. The store was empty, except for a slim guy with glasses on the other side of the showroom. She walked into the business office behind the reception desk, and found two women. One was standing, cradling a steaming mug of coffee. She had an old-fashioned pageboy hairdo, but appeared to be no more than twenty. Julia gave her a warm smile.
“Hi, I’m Julia…ah, Julie…the new saleswoman. I’m starting today.”
“Hi…I’m Annie.”
There was no return smile, just a nervous glance at the older woman, who turned toward Julia while pulling out a file drawer.
“Hello, Julie. I’m Mrs. Bennett, the Office Manager. I’ll be with you as soon as I tend to a couple of things here. You and Marc Solomon - he’s the other person in this class - you need to see some training films. Why don’t you go out and introduce yourself to Marc, and I’ll come out and get you in a few minutes?”
The showroom seemed cavernous to Julia with the lights off. She made her way around the shiny, new models toward the fellow she’d noticed before. He was sitting at one of the many round tables near the all-glass front of the room, sipping coffee. He saw her coming, and stood up, nearly knocking over his chair.
“Hi, I’m Julie Danes,” she said. That’s the new me, Julie. An overwhelming sense of beginning filled her as they shook hands. “I guess you’re Marc Solomon, the other sales trainee?”
“Yup, that’s me,” he said with a sweet, shy smile. He glanced down and his wavy, light-brown hair fell over one side of his John Lennon glasses. “And, yes,” he said, looking up, “I’m related to the boss.”
“I thought you probably were.”
“My father wants me to learn the business.”
The staccato click-tap of Mrs. Bennett’s pumps echoed through the showroom, and they both turned at the sound.
“Ah, there you are. I see you’ve found the coffee, Marc.”
“Yes…thank you, Mrs. Bennett.”
“Please, call me ‘Laura’, Marc. None of the salesmen call me ‘Mrs. Bennett’. Would you like to get some coffee, Julie, before we start? It’s right over there, by the Parts department.”
Julie hurried to go grab a cup, pondering the word “salesmen”.
I don’t think I’ll call her Laura yet…
* * * * *
Chapter 6
It was closing time, the end of her second week, and Julie walked to her car as frustrated as a benched ballplayer. Twice that day she had greeted a walk-in, only to find out it was a returning customer who had already met with another salesman. It had been happening to her all week. How could she make a touchdown if she never got the ball?
The very next day, Julie arrived determined to write some business. She was the first one out of the morning meeting…and just in time for the first customer of the day, who was entering the showroom.
“Good morning!”
she said, smiling and shaking his hand. “I’m Julie Danes. How can I help you?”
Suddenly, from the back of the room one of the salesman called out, “Hi, John! I’ll be right with you!”
Damn...not again!
Julie sighed. “He’ll be right out, John. Can I get you some coffee?”
“Sure…but my name’s Ted.”
Dawn broke over Marblehead.
“I guess he’s mistaken you for someone else,” she said, taking his arm. “Let’s go get that coffee, Ted.”
•
Week three was a bonanza. Julie had three “full-sticker” sales to three happy customers, all walk-ins. She was about to receive the biggest paycheck she’d ever earned, and even though the women in the office still wouldn’t give her the time of day, Julie sensed a grudging respect…if not friendship…from the salesmen.
Her mother had called once, sobbing and drunk, carrying on about George. In the past, Julie would have dropped everything and run to her rescue. But she didn’t…and life went on. All in all, things were going very well.
That is, until the beginning of week four when Dan O’Hara, the chauvinistic and charismatic New Car Manager, came roaring back from an award trip to Hawaii and crash-landed into Julie’s life.
* * * * *
Chapter 7
September 17, 2007
Boston, Massachusetts
Julie awoke with a start as the plane bounced on the landing strip, amazed that she had slept through the entire three-hour flight. Around her, passengers unclipped their seat belts and opened the overhead bins, but Julie remained seated, concentrating on details long past, reluctant to let go. Despite her effort, most of her dream slipped away.
Eager now to see Pete and Joan, Julie waited impatiently with the crowd exiting the plane, and then made her way quickly through the airport, boarding the bus to Hertz. As she drove along Route 1 North toward their house in Salem, she thought back to the last time she saw Marc and David. She had gone down to Key West to visit them.
It was a celebration, Julie recalled. They had gone with Susan Dwyer, Marc’s agent, to Mallory Square for the Sunset Party. Later, they had closed up the Hog’s Breath Saloon. Julie focused on their conversation. Marc was getting bombed, she remembered, smiling. He was talkative, exultant…
“I finally did it, didn’t I? I’m so excited! Rave reviews in the Globe and the Herald. Did I tell you I sold several big pieces?”
“Yes! I’m so happy for you, Marc.”
“You know the best part of it? The show was in Boston, right under their noses.”
“Whose noses?” she asked, laughing.
Marc’s demeanor suddenly darkened.
“Dear old Dad and Evil Av.”
Julie was confused.
“Avram? Your brother?”
Susan interrupted.
“C’mon, Marc. He’s not that bad. He makes sure you get your check every month.”
Julie was taken aback by Marc’s reaction; he flared at Susan.
“It’s not from him!”
Susan just sat there, stunned into silence. It was an embarrassing moment.
Marc, drunk as he was, realized he was out of line. He immediately quelled his anger. He waved his hand dismissively.
“Oh, the hell with Av,” he said, putting his arm around her. “If we can agree on some stuff, Susan is going to get me a show in New York!”
Julie couldn’t remember talking about Avram again that weekend. Surprisingly, Marc and David had been planning a trip to Castle Cay in the Bahamas. They’d talked about it a lot, but Julie didn’t remember one word of that.
Castle Cay.
Did I deliberately tune that part out?
The mere thought of the place literally stopped her cold. She pulled off the road near a quiet intersection and sat there, nauseous.
A cold, familiar sweat crept across the nape of her neck and she shivered. Why would Marc go to that cursed island? Julie had trained herself to quickly cut off thoughts of Castle Cay when they surfaced. She struggled to bring herself back to the present.
Pete and Joan. They’re waiting for me. Where the hell am I?
She pulled out her cell phone and called the Soldanos. Their house was “ten minutes away”; they told her to “continue on the exit road, north to the river”.
Julie kept the river on her left as directed, driving slowly, squinting at each street sign on the right. The area was heavily wooded, and it was growing dark and difficult to see. She didn’t want to have to turn around on the narrow, two-lane street, which was edged on the left with nothing more than a tiny rock wall and some birch trees above the riverbank.
At last she saw it, an oval sign on her right, rimmed in gold:
Drake Hill
She turned right up a steep grade and immediately saw their house, ablaze with lights. Like the other five houses on the short street, it was nicely landscaped and set among the large, granite boulders of the hill. They were waiting for her outside. She got out of the car and they all hugged each other warmly.
“Look at you two, you’ve hardly changed.” They’re a matched set, Julie thought - not for the first time - about her friends who looked more like a brother and sister. Dark haired and a few inches shorter than she, Pete and Joan were fitness fanatics who walked and biked daily. They were beach-lovers, too, and deeply tanned. Julie could see some craggy lines on Pete’s face and his hair had thinned some, but not a strand was gray. Julie thought he looked great. And as for Joan…she was as pretty as ever.
“Your house is beautiful. I love the way the homes are built around the boulders. We don’t have anything like this in Orlando.”
“Yeah, it’s nice here. We built the place,” said Pete with pride.
“Julie, I made a dinner reservation for eight o’clock,” said Joan. “We’re going to have to leave right away if we want to make it, you know? Pete, why don’t you take her bags inside the house.”
“No problem,” said Julie quickly. “Don’t worry about my bag; we can take it in later. Hop in…I’ll drive. Where’re we going?”
“Pickering Wharf,” said Joan.
•
Pulling into the familiar waterfront area was bittersweet for Julie, who remembered going there with Dan. The three ate in a favorite seafood restaurant, and brought each other up to date on their lives.
Julie talked briefly about Orlando and her business and they laughed when she told them about her cat, Sol, and his independent ways. Pete and Joan beamed with pride as they talked about their boys, Pete, Jr. and Paul.
Julie learned that Soloman Chrysler had grown to three locations, and that Pete was now the GM of the Lynn store. They reminisced about the folks they knew who still worked for the company.
But the tragedy in Key West couldn’t be pushed into the background for long. Joan was the one who finally went where no one wanted to go.
“Was Marc terminal, Julie?”
Julie sighed.
“Yes, he was, in the sense that AIDS isn’t curable. But was death imminent? No it wasn’t, Joan. He looked good when I saw him. He was happy.”
“We went to his show on Newbury Street,” said Joan. “I loved Marc’s paintings… especially the Castle Cay ones, you know?”
Pete interrupted his wife.
“The ol’ man, Milton? He didn’ go, y’know,” he said, fuming. “Can you believe that? He’s one stubborn son-of-a-bitch!”
“Pete,” shushed Joan, her hand on his arm. “Keep your voice down.”
“Sorry. It just gets me mad. Marc never deserved to be treated the way the ol’ man treated him. When Miriam died, Milt and Avram both acted like Marc didn’ exist.”
“Avram did go to the art show, Pete.”
“Did you talk to him?” asked Julie.
“No,” said Pete, “He was with some dame.”
“Maybe Avram’s finally ready to settle down,” said Joan.
“Yeah, right,” said Pete.
On that note, he
peeled off a tip for the waitress, and they left for home.
•
The day’s measure of grief and travel had taken their toll. Julie sank into the sofa-bed in the guestroom, pulling the blankets up to her neck against the chilly air. She missed Marc terribly and fell asleep remembering another time….
* * * * *
Chapter 8
December, 1989
Boston, Massachusetts
They were seated at their favorite table in the alcove by the bow window inside Blum’s Bakery & Deli, two blocks from the dealership. The windowsill was egalitarian, sporting Hanukah candles and a miniature Christmas tree. Julie looked through the lightly steamed panes at the snow blowing around outside. The little restaurant was renowned for its soups and sandwiches and was filled to capacity with lunchtime regulars, who were as dependable as kids around an ice-cream truck. Julie watched as each of them stamped their wet boots and unconsciously smiled as they entered.
The cacophony of voices actually made for privacy and the two of them found it a cozy spot for conversation. But, for some reason, Marc wasn’t his usual chatty self. He had finished his pastrami sandwich in near silence, and now he was studying her with a very serious expression.
“I’m leaving, Julie. I can’t sell cars. I haven’t had a sale in a month.”
“Marc, don’t say that…you have to be more positive.”
“All right, how’s this? I’m positive I’m not cut out for this. Seriously, I just can’t take it anymore. I can’t. I’ve had it.”
“Oh, stop. It’s all in the numbers. If you see enough people, someone will buy. Besides, it’s not you they’re rejecting; it’s the car, or the deal.”
“Why can’t they be nice, though?” he whined.
Oh, God, not that again.
“Look…people are defensive in a sales situation, Marc. You have to stop taking it personally.”
