by Jan Surasky
As Bud pulled her tight for a long, slow kiss, he left her wanting more. As she stepped on the accelerator, the old Corvette skidded on a pile of autumn leaves, newly lost from the large, grand, overhanging trees of the parking lot.
Chapter Seventeen
Sparky was splendid in a swirly denim skirt, ruffled top, and heavy, clunky sandals. Her long, limp, pale brown hair, usually hanging loose, was plaited into a braid that hung neatly down her back. Her glasses, usually plain or steel-rimmed, were sporting bright, red frames.
“Gee, Sparks, you look positively artsy.”
“That’s the idea, Jen.”
“I’m so glad you could come. I can use the company. It’s been a busy season for Bud.”
“Glad to be here. Great after-midterm break.”
“What a great car, roomie. Great guy magnet. That oughta get you some hot, Saturday night dates.”
“Aw, Jen. It’s my transportation. I go home now just about every other weekend. My dad thinks he can get me a summer internship with one of the larger engineering firms in The City.”
“Great, Sparks. But, what ever happened to those dreams of settling down here, growing your own food, and rolling up your jeans to wade along the beach like we used to do?’
“Gone with the age of practicality. I hear they need engineers, and the place to be right now is New York.”
“Okay. Let’s get cracking. Dinner’s in the oven. We need to make the salad and get to the art show by eight.”
Making dinner with Sparky was not like making dinner with Mother. They chatted and chatted while the chicken sputtered in the oven and Jenny stirred the champagne sauce. Sparky tore the lettuce, chopped the tomatoes, tossed in the olives, and crumbled feta cheese over the top.
“Where are your dishes? I’ll set the table.”
“Right over your head in the left-hand cupboard.”
“Great. I choose the chipped, red-flowered ones.”
“Courtesy of a nearby flea market. Lots of bargains.”
“Someday you’ll be a proper matron and have a set of Spode china.”
“Right now it looks like it’s a long way off. Bud’s dad promised him a partnership only if he stays on the team and keeps passing grades. I’ve written a lot of papers.”
“What about your art work?”
“I’m working on a canvas in a once-a-week class. It’s my only free time.”
“Well, good. Maybe we can find a prospective buyer for it tonight. We’d better get chowing down.
“Jen, this is great. Where did you get the recipe?”
“From Aunt Gert’s files. She slipped it to me last visit.”
“I run into her on campus every now and then. I’ll look in on her for you.”
“I’m not sure who looks in on who. She’s pretty resilient. But, I’d sure appreciate it.”
“My pleasure. The girls love her. Kate Donavan who had her for three classes can’t stop talking about her.”
“Well, talk about her influence, we’re about to taste her favorite dessert, the one she’s been making since I was carted there in an oversized carriage. Voila, the chafing dish and the dramatic set up of cherries jubilee.”
“Brilliant, Jenny! I’ll start it on fire, since I’m the engineer. If we succeed in not burning the house down, we get an early start for the art show.”
Sparky’s robin’s egg blue convertible was a fitting chariot to whisk to the art show in. Breeze whipping through their hair with the radio on full blast. Memories of their idle times at Keuka.
“Hey, Jen. I see one lone parking spot. What kind of a shindig is this?”
“I don’t know, Sparky. Miss Lindstrom didn’t say.”
“Why don’t you take a peek at the invitation and let us in on it.”
“Everson Museum of Art invites you to attend ’Artists of New York State Retrospective: From Grandma Moses to Andy Warhol.’ Curated by the Brooklyn Museum of Art. Andy Warhol, guest artist. Reception, 7:30-9:00 pm.”
“Wow, Jen, Andy Warhol. He’s the hottest on the New York art scene. Maybe some of it will rub off.”
As they followed the crowd, Jenny saw a building of three red brick blocks set out on the Syracuse plaza like an enormous sculpture. Art was everywhere. An arced sculpture set out on the lawn to offset the blockiness of the building. Large, white canvases with streaks of color at the entrance. And, delicate, porcelain vases on stands with vivid hues of blues and reds, birds and flowers, a testament to survival through the centuries.
“Hey, Jen, wake up. We’re about to be stampeded. Maybe we’d better circumvent Andy Warhol and head for the back and the exhibit. I value these sandals.”
Jenny had never seen so many people with objects in their hands. Students on benches penciling strokes into sketch pads of all sizes. Women with heavy mascara peering intently at the paintings through their gold-rimmed lorgnettes. Men, turtlenecks rumpled, leaning toward the artwork, aided by the thick-lensed spectacles carelessly dropping upon their noses. And people everywhere with notebooks in their hands, listening and writing.
“Sparky, have you ever seen these paintings?”
“Not these, Jen. But, some by these same artists.
“But, I’ve never seen any Grandma Moses. It says here her paintings hung in the homes of movie stars and she was invited to the White House by President Harry Truman.”
“I didn’t know art could get you there.”
“Art can get you everywhere. Warhol’s paintings hang on the walls of every Manhattan penthouse and Hamptons mansion whose owners can afford them.”
“Gee, Sparky, I wonder if I’ll ever get there.”
“You’ll get there, Jen. You’ve got grit.”
“Hey, chick. Are you an artist or a buyer?”
“An artist. I’m sorry, do I know you?”
“Of course, you don’t know me. I don’t live here. But, I’m here to pick out the artists and the buyers. I helped curate this exhibit, and I have a gallery in Soho. Chip Everly.”
“Jenny Thompson. Pleased to meet you, Chip. Welcome to the backwoods of New York’s southern tier.”
“Thanks. I like your traffic patterns.”
“This is Amanda Parker, better known as Sparky. She’s a fellow New Yorker.”
“High five, Sparky. I bet you like the traffic patterns, too.”
“Better than the Lincoln Tunnel at five.”
“Jen, do you have anything to show me?”
“I’ve only got one canvas at the moment, and the paint is still wet. I’m newly married. I don’t have the time.”
“Trust me, Jen. Make the time. Otherwise it’ll never come.
“If you chicks spot any new talent, or Jen, if you get there yourself, give me a buzz. Here’s my card. Great to meet you.”
“Gee, Jen, you made a contact.”
“He’ll probably be retired by the time I can get something to him.”
“Well, stop writing papers for Bud and maybe the time’ll come sooner.
“Say, Jen, I’ve gotta get back. How about meeting Andy Warhol and making an exit?”
As Jenny pumped Warhol’s hand, she looked directly into his eyes. Warhol’s imposing figure, tall as it was, was intense. Shy, quiet, direct. A thatch of blond-white hair. According to his posted bio, he had been born in Pittsburgh, the son of working class immigrant parents. A transplant to New York in ’49, he had pushed himself to the top of the heap by sheer hard work and guts.
Jenny found herself thinking of Jake. The summer and her marriage had separated them. She wondered how kind the Big Apple would be to Jake.
Chapter Eighteen
Football game Sundays brought panic to Bud the moment he woke up. Jenny tried to soothe him.
“Hey, Bud. You’ve practiced and practiced. You said the guys are doing great.”
“Yeah. Well, that doesn’t tell you how well the opposing team’s doing. We’re up against Temple. Those guys don’t have to get through school. All they have to do is play foot
ball.”
“You’ll slaughter them. They’re playing here. They won’t know where they are.”
“I hope Mooney gets his game together. He lost his girl over the weekend. They split.”
“That’s too bad.”
“Not really, but he doesn’t know it. She was a loser. Always nagging him. He was never around.”
“Well, maybe we can have him over for dinner. Cheer him up.”
“Good. Settled.”
“How about a back rub?”
“Never turned one down yet.”
As Jenny gently kneaded the muscles of Bud’s arms and shoulders and back, she reveled in the delights of a newlywed. A private world, a private man, the scent of autumn wafting through the screens of a second floor, makeshift apartment.
“Oh, that’s good, Jen. Good.
“Hey, how about giving us the real thing.”
“Ready when you are, captain.”
Jenny looked at Bud with admiration. A shock of blond, sleep-worn, hair hanging over a face of intensely, chiseled features. Muscles honed to perfection. As they made love, the sounds of the neighborhood children playing freeze tag on the sidewalks below drifted in on the autumn air.
“Jeez, Jen, we gotta get going. Coach says we gotta be there before noon.”
“I’ll get on it right away. How do you want your eggs?”
“I don’t care. As long as we get going.
“Say, Jen, I’ve got something to tell you.”
“Great. Save it for over the eggs.”
As they sat, the second-hand chrome and formica table between them, Jenny looked out through the open window which hung above the postage stamp-sized backyard. A farmer lazily tooling along on his old John Deere was clearing a long, narrow field below them. Jenny admired the contrast. The open field surrounded by small, frame hastily built 1960s houses. A rebel farmer fighting the urban sprawl.
“Hey, Jen. Wake up. I’ve got a surprise for you.”
“What, Bud?”
“My folks bought us a house.”
“But, I thought we were going to be here for two years. What about my art classes?”
“Well, we can move back, and you can paint all you want. That way you can get the house ready for when I graduate.”
“But, Bud, I like my job here.”
“You can get one in Penn Yan. That way I’ll be all set to move in with my dad at the agency.”
“What kind of a house, Bud?”
“A great, old farmhouse on the edge of town. It’s got five acres.”
“But, I was kinda hoping for one of those bungalows Carl and Lyman Andrews are putting up over by the old Seneca Dairy.”
“You’ll love it. Give you a chance to put all those art classes to use fixing up the place.”
“What does it look like?”
“White frame. Needs paint. You can paint it any color you want. Structure’s good. Plumbing needs replacing. Owner lost his job and had to sell. The folks got it for a song.”
“When do we have to go?”
“As soon as we can. This lease is up in January.”
“Well, I’ll have to tell Miss Lindstrom so she can start looking for somebody else.”
“Don’t worry, Jen. She’ll get along. She’s been there for thirty years. She’s a tough, old gal.”
“Just the same, I’ll miss her.”
“Okay, let’s get going. We gotta cream those guys from Temple to even have a crack at the finals this year.”
“You’ll make it, Bud. The guys look good on the field this year. Everyone’s pulling together.”
“I hope that Mooney gets a grip. He’s our only holdout.”
“Good luck. I’ll be in the stands.”
“See ya, Babe.” As always, Bud’s long, slow kiss kept her wanting for more. She buried her desire under the heap of household tasks she knew were waiting. A slam of the door and he was gone.
As she tidied up, she thought about what she would wear. A player’s wife was always on display. A new pair of Calvin Klein jeans ought to do it, set off by brown leather ankle boots and a wild scarf through the belt loops. A white turtle neck and a nubby pink crew neck should keep her from the autumn chill. She would sit with Coach Jensen’s wife and the other players’ girlfriends in the stands.
The noise of the farmer’s tractor still drifted through the screen. Somehow, she desperately wanted to photograph the scene. She knew they had received a simple, SLR as a gift. But, where might it be? She dropped the dishes and ran to the very, small bedroom. It lay in the storage chest, nestled between an extra blanket and a quilt.
As she grabbed it and ran down the stairs, the sun rose in the sky toward high noon. She knew this photograph would be good.
Chapter Nineteen
Hanging curtains in the old, frame house they had moved into in January had had its problems. Warped window sills and rotted wood. Frames that never measured the same on either side. But, Jenny was determined to make it work.
As she stood on the second rung of the rickety ladder, the hammer above her on the top rung, a beautiful, new antique brass curtain rod in her hand, she surveyed the challenge. The heavy side drapes she had purchased would keep out the winter cold, and their bright reds and royal blues would add color to the presently drab living room. Simple sheers would let the sunlight in.
Federal blue on the walls would give it a more pristine look, and the replica of the Egyptian vase she had purchased at the Everson, with the deep, blues and greens of its peacocks and bright reds of its Egyptian blossoms would tie it all together. Slipcovers would make the second-hand attic furniture the Andersons had dumped on them all but disappear.
As she stood, the phone jangled from the kitchen she had painted a cheery, bright yellow. She ran to answer it.
“Hey, Sparks. What gives?”
“How about a walk on the proverbial beach this afternoon. A break for you and me. The trees are starting to bud and deliver their native greenery, and the smell of spring is in the air.”
“Sounds good. I’ll pack us a lunch.”
“Jenny the homebody. Nah. This time I’m buying. Seneca Dairy is opening for the season.”
“Okay, provided some of their ice cream goes along with it.”
“Choose your flavor. I never knew anybody addicted to ice cream before.”
“Only to theirs. I was practically raised on it.”
“Well, then, be prepared to order a double scoop. You’re looking a little thin lately.”
The shore along the lakefront of the college looked the same. Jenny realized she hadn’t walked its shores since sophomore year. She picked up a few shells and shards of colored glass as they strolled.
“Jen, what would you think if I bought a house here?”
“Well, Sparks, you did tell me you were angling for a job in New York City.”
“Yes, but I thought about what you said. How my dreams for the future were here when I first met you. Subsistence farming and going barefoot in the dirt.”
“Well, practicality always interferes with dreams. If I had my way, Bud and I would live in the Village in New York and I would be working on making it in the art scene.”
“I think I can make it here, Jen. There are some good engineering firms in Rochester and Syracuse. I can work there by day and be an inventor by night. I still have some good connections in The City.”
“Sounds good, Sparks. If you need a place to stay, we have plenty of room.”
“Thanks, Jen. But, my folks are giving me big bucks for my graduation. I think I’ll use it for a down payment on a house.”
“Swell. I can help you look. We’ve got a year.”
“So, how’s the devoted housewife?”
“Pretty good. Making a dent in that old farmhouse. I should have most of the rooms done and ready for entertaining by the time Bud finishes this semester.”
“And, what are you doing for yourself, Jen? Are you painting anything but the walls?”
“I�
��ve got a studio ready to go in the attic. Aaron Hartwell is going to put a skylight in for me when he finishes helping his father in the furniture shop.”
“Good. Maybe now you’ll get busy and give Andy Warhol a little competition.”
Jenny looked at her former roomie. Her limp brown hair still hung in a braid along her back, her perky polka-dotted red-framed glasses had been replaced by contacts.
“And, how about you Sparks? Have you corralled any men lately? Has anybody been lucky enough to swing a date with you?”
“Well, I have been dating a guy. Westin Embury, III. From Short Hills.
“He’s a serious student. One of the few around here. We study together, and once in a while we take in a flick in town or, if we feel adventurous, drive to Syracuse in his new Ferrari.”
“I’d like to meet him. He sounds like he has style.”
“We’ll drop over sometime. Maybe we’ll even take you out with us on one of those nights when you’re a football widow.”
“Great. I’ll be waiting.
“Okay, let’s hit the Seneca Dairy. My curtains are waiting. I promised Bud I would have the living room done in two weeks. He’s invited the whole football team over for an open house.”
“Jenny the devoted workhorse. I’ll race you to the parking lot. Last one there pays for the ice cream.”
As Jenny fell behind Sparky, she checked out her former roommate. Jeans outlining a pair of very athletic legs. Sparky was an avid tennis player, swimmer, and beach comber.
Jenny realized she had let herself go in an effort to keep up with Bud and his needs and her job. She promised herself a half hour a day in front of the television with a Jack LaLanne workout. Summer was coming, and she would soon have to pull her bikini from its storage place in the basement. She was certain Bud’s family had been busy booking pool parties at the country club for them to attend since before the crocuses had poked their tiny white and purple heads through the fertile soil to signal the start of spring.
Chapter Twenty
Jenny looked down at her spreading figure. At four months pregnant, she was beginning to show.
Bud had graduated from Syracuse, barely squeaking by. The Andersons celebrated the occasion with lavish parties nevertheless, including a late-night stag affair for his former teammates to which she had not been invited.
