The routine had been established. Every Friday or Saturday, he and Feller took the girls out on a date, but never anywhere too visible like the Marylander Theater or a teen dance. Blondie felt a little guilty hiding his relationship with Flossie that way. He was sure she knew what he and Feller were doing. She never said anything, though.
Winter slowly gave birth to spring. Mornings turned brighter, afternoons warmer. Buds appeared on trees, early cherries blossomed. The Orioles were off at spring training — and his dad was again talking about how this could be the year they won it all.
On the way to school one morning in April, Feller suggested they take in another CYO dance.
“You mean take Flossie and Delores?”
Was Feller changing the rules?
“No. I mean just us. Look, we can’t spend all our time with them. The school year’s coming to a close. Don’t you want to try for a real girlfriend?”
Blondie reckoned he did, but he felt like it would be cheating on Flossie.
“What if they show up?” he asked.
“They won’t. I found out Delores is having a slumber party at her house that night and Flossie is going.”
That seemed safe enough, so Blondie agreed. He hoped Tammy would be at the dance and that her dad, Phyllis, Purdy and Barnwell wouldn’t. He almost broke even. Phyllis and Tammy’s dad weren’t there, but the others were.
Blondie noticed Tammy immediately. She was wearing a burgundy sweater with a chain of fake pearls around her neck. She was as desirable and unapproachable as ever.
Purdy and Barnwell watched him all evening, but they kept their distance. Blondie figured he was under Mountain’s protection. He hoped it would last.
Blondie was surprised when Dispatch showed up with Meryl. He asked Feller what was going on.
“I guess Dispatch figures if Meryl would put out for Grouper, she’d put out for anybody,” he said.
“Doesn’t Dispatch care what Grouper thinks?”
“Dispatch? Are you nuts?”
Feller began scoping out the “talent.”
“See you later, buddy,” he said, as he eased across the dance floor and made a beeline for a pretty junior in Blondie’s journalism class.
Most of the kids were shaking and gyrating as The Sensations belted out “Let me in, wee-oo.” Yet, no one had asked Tammy to dance. Blondie didn’t get it. He’d have thought she’d have danced every dance. Maybe all the guys were afraid of her. She was so poised, so graceful … a queen.
Blondie wondered if he could work up the nerve to dance with her again after making a fool of himself in front of both her and her dad. Worse, now her best friend liked him.
Then, Elvis’s voice wafted across the smoky air, slow and resonant, to the fateful refrain of “Can’t Help Falling in Love,” and Blondie knew he had to ask her at all costs. The music pulled his feet across the floor to where she stood. She gave him the same surprised look as before when she accepted his invitation and, as before, she buried her face in his chest as if she were his alone.
Blondie felt as if he held a treasure in his arms and was duty-bound to protect and cherish it all his life. He understood exactly what Elvis was singing about. He couldn’t help falling in love with Tammy.
Just before the music ended, she looked up at him.
“Aren’t you dating that Wilder girl?” she asked.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
How did girls find things out? He and Feller had been so careful to keep their love lives a secret — at least outside their group. Of course, Blondie realized, nothing prevented Delores and Flossie from spreading the news. Why hadn’t they thought of that?
“I just never thought girls like Delores and Flossie communicated with girls like Tammy,” Feller said.
Sometimes Feller could be so dense. No matter now. The news had reached Tammy, scotching any scheme — unformed as it might be — for getting together with her. He hadn’t even been able to reply to her question at the dance. He’d just stood blankly before her as she’d smiled and walked away.
It didn’t appear there was any point in keeping his involvement with Flossie a secret any longer. When Flossie asked him for the third or fourth time to accompany her to Mass, he felt he had no reason to refuse.
“Are you serious? You’re taking Flossie to Mass?” Feller said. “That’s like a ‘coming out’ to Catholics. It makes a statement.”
“I already told her I would.”
Feller threw up his hands.
Blondie realized it wasn’t just for Flossie. He’d never been to a Catholic Mass before. He wanted to know why Catholic girls were different — especially since Phyllis had informed his that Tammy was one too.
His parents were shocked.
“That’s Popery,” his dad, a lifelong Baptist said. “Catholics baptize babies before they even know what it means to accept Christ.”
Hell, Blondie thought, I don’t know what it means to accept Christ either.
“Don’t eat any fish,” his mom warned.
Sunday brought the smell of new life. Daffodils and crocuses were erupting from the small strip of earth his mom had tilled and planted in front of their house. Baby leaves unfurled from the ash on the front lawn. Blondie was glad it had survived the winter.
Flossie’s folks lived on the other side of town in an older development called Sycamore Hills, although there weren’t any sycamores. There weren’t any hills, either. Their house was a well-tended brick bungalow, 40s style, with a picture window and a concrete porch. Flossie said it wasn’t half as nice as his, but Blondie thought it was okay.
Mr. Wilder, who managed the carpet department at a Sears Roebuck in Baltimore, was slight with light-brown hair and close-set eyes, younger than Blondie would have expected. He was nice enough to Blondie — almost deferential, in fact — but he didn’t have much to say. Flossie’s mom, blonder and better fed, was much the same way.
He took an immediate liking to Flossie’s five-year-old brother Ted, a skinny and hyperactive towhead. Blondie teased him about Roy Rogers, his hero. He told him Gene Autrey was quicker on the draw.
“Is not,” he squealed.
“Is too,” Blondie said, making a gun with his thumb and index finger and pointing it at Ted.
“I think he likes you,” Flossie said.
Maybe he could be a role model, Blondie thought. He promised himself never to disappoint the little tike.
Flossie looked sharp to him this morning in a light-blue seersucker dress and heels, her light hair gleaming in the morning sun.
She basked in his approval for a minute or two, then slipped her hand into his and said, “Let’s go. Mom and dad and Ted will come along a little later.”
She directed him to a fieldstone church halfway to Percy and set back from the road in a grove of oak trees, embraced by their stout limbs. A cemetery lay to one side, its headstones rows of Mah Jongg tiles.
Blondie found Catholicism a lot more impressive than what he’d grown up with. The priest wore a long scarf trimmed in gold. The altar boasted silver goblets and candlesticks. The balustrade in front was white marble. And there was a lot more ritual … a lot of kneeling and praying and signs of the cross by the priest … boys in robes scampering back and forth performing mysterious tasks. He could only guess at the meaning of any of it because almost the whole service was in Latin.
Nonetheless, he knelt respectfully on the padded wooden rail while the priest chanted “Doh-mee-nus voh-bis-cum” and the massed worshippers answered, “Et-cum-speery-tutu-oh.”
“What’s it mean?” Blondie whispered to Flossie. “Why is it in Latin?”
“Sh-h-h.”
“Don’t you care what they’re saying?”
“No.”
“Then why do it?”
“Because I’m Catholic.”
Blondie was glad Flossie didn’t mind his questions. All she seemed to care about was that he was there with her. Blondie w
ondered why Feller had been so concerned about his coming.
He found out on Wednesday.
“Why are boys so rotten?” Phyllis asked Blondie on the way home from the Fentonian staff meeting.
“What do you mean?”
“All they care about is sex.”
“That’s not all,” Blondie argued without conviction. Since he’d met Flossie, thoughts of sex occupied a large percentage of his waking moments — and nearly all his sleeping ones.
“You’re one to talk,” she snapped.
“What did I do?”
“You’ve been hanging around with that Wilder girl.”
Phyllis’ fingers were turning white around the steering wheel.
“Who told you that?”
Had Tammy told her?
“I saw you in church Sunday.”
Of course. She was a Catholic too. Blondie wondered why he hadn’t seen her there.
“It’s not what you think.”
Why was he feeling so defensive? It was none of Phyllis’ business.
“I bet you’re taking her to the prom.”
Huh? What was Phyllis talking about? He hadn’t even thought about going. Anyway, the prom was over a month away.
“Look, Flossie and I aren’t going together.”
“You’re just having sex with her, is that it?”
Blondie felt his face ignite.
“What I do is my own business,” he said.
“And who I drive around in my car is my own business, too.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I mean I don’t think I should let a boy in my car who doesn’t believe in the sanctity of women.”
“Jesus Christ!”
“Blaspheming won’t help, either.”
She was a nut — and she was acting like a wounded lover. Feller’d been right. She did have a crush on him.
When Phyllis dropped him off, she told Blondie he could find another ride back from the Fentonian.
“No one else comes this way,” he protested.
Her smile was spiteful as she backed from the drive.
When the phone rang that evening and his mom said it was for him, Blondie was sure it would be Flossie. But it was a male voice, one he didn’t recognize.
“What about tomorrow? After school?”
Blondie was confused, but the voice sounded familiar.
“Tomorrow for what?”
“Golf. It’s supposed to be warm again. We could get in nine holes before dark if we left right after class.”
It was Bobby Clements! What had inspired him? Golf the next day? It was out of the question. He had things to do. It was a school night. But then … a chance to play golf with Clements. It might be the start of a real social life. Blondie had to make it happen.
“Do you have wheels?” Blondie asked Bobby.
“No. I thought you would.” Bobby sounded disappointed.
“Just a second.”
Blondie set the phone down and went downstairs to the family room. His parents were watching a Milton Berle special.
“Could I borrow the Pontiac tomorrow?”
No way the Dart was cool enough for Bobby Clements.
“What for?” his dad asked. His tone wasn’t promising.
“I want to play golf after school with a friend.”
“Play on Saturday. I want the Pontiac for a meeting tomorrow night.”
“Not that old Order of whatever it is,” his mom said.
“Military Order of Merit,” his dad stated.
“What’s so important about playing tomorrow, dear?” she asked.
“It’s just with the coolest guy in school.”
His mom gave his dad a knowing look.
“Well, Francis, don’t you think you could miss one meeting?”
“There’s a war going on, Betty,” he pleaded.
“What war?”
“In Vietnam.”
There it was again.
“Well, it doesn’t involve us,” his mom answered. “Anyway, I’m sure Kennedy can take care of it.”
His dad wilted.
“Well, okay,” he said. “But be careful. That car’s just a year old.”
“What could happen? I’m only going up to Meadowbrook.”
“Keep your eyes on the road.”
Parents! They acted like you couldn’t piss in a pot without their help. “It’s a deal,” Blondie told Bobby over the phone.
Blondie felt like a big shot driving the Pontiac to school the next day. True, it wasn’t a hot rod or anything, but it was almost new and it was a Pontiac. Blondie drove as slowly as he could into the lot hoping someone he knew would see him arrive. But only Phyllis was there and, thankfully, she didn’t recognize him in his parents’ car. Blondie didn’t want another scene.
Blondie was surprised at Bobby’s clubs when he dumped them in the trunk after school. They were decades old and rusty — his dad’s no doubt. The irons didn’t even have flanges on the bottom.
It was warm. Blondie buzzed the electric windows down. He wondered what he should talk about with Bobby. Girls? No, he’d heard that truly cool guys seldom talked about girls. College? Maybe. Sports? Yeah, that should be safe.
“How’s baseball practice going?” he asked him.
“The season’s underway. We’ve already played a game.”
Blondie felt stupid. He should’ve known that. Sports was his beat. He pulled into a service station and bought a couple Cokes. He handed one to Bobby.
“Where are you going to college?” Blondie asked as they headed out again.
“Nowhere if I don’t get a scholarship.”
“You’ll get a scholarship. You’re the best athlete in school.”
“That may not be good enough.”
Why was Bobby being so negative? Guys like him were supposed to have reservoirs of self-confidence. Maybe he should talk about girls. He knew Bobby was scoring there.
“Your girlfriend’s a knockout.”
“Yeah,” Bobby responded with little enthusiasm.
“Are you going to marry her?” Blondie asked.
“Who told you that?”
Bobby stared at him.
“No one told me,” he answered. “It’s the talk around school.”
“What do they know?”
What the hell was eating him? Blondie told himself not to let Bobby’s grouchiness drag him down. It was a beautiful day. They were on their way to play golf. What could be better?
Blondie turned on the radio:
“Duke, Duke, Duke, Duke of Earl, Duke, Duke …. ”
Life was sweet. Moments later the bouncy beat of “Hey, Baby” by Bruce Channel jumped from the speakers.
“Do you always sing along with the radio?” Clements asked Blondie.
“Was I singing?” Blondie asked. What a dork he was.
“No, it’s okay.”
Blondie peeked over at Bobby. He had his eyes shut. His arm was half out the window and his head rested on it. The breeze billowed his hair.
As they neared the golf course, the road twisted along the creek. Blondie finished his Coke and tossed it out the window. He turned and looked back to make sure it hadn’t shattered on the road. The next thing he knew, they were flying through the air. Blondie’d missed the curve! He turned just in time to see the looming trunk of a huge tree. The Pontiac came to a crashing stop against it. A spider web of cracks spread across the windshield.
“Are you okay?” Blondie said to Clements.
“I’m fine … but you just wrecked your parents’ car.”
It sounded so formidable to hear someone else say it.
“Well, so much for golf,” Bobby added.
Those words were even more frightening to Blondie. He couldn’t give up his chance to play with Bobby. Who knew when he’d get another?
“We can still get in nine holes,” Blondie said on an impulse.
“How? We can’t even get there.”
“I’ll call a tow truck. They can drop us off on the way.”
“How’ll we get home?”
“I’ll call Dispatch. He owns a car.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard of it. What’s he call it? The Pussymobile?”
Clements chuckled.
Blondie trudged up the road to the clubhouse and called a tow truck. The driver, an overweight older man with graying sideburns, was surprised when Blondie asked him to let them off at the course.
“Your parents know about this?”
“Sure.”
“Should I call them?”
“No. What for?”
“That’s what I thought. Well, I got the car, so I guess I don’t need to worry.”
Maybe his parents would be glad he was still alive and not get too mad, Blondie thought. He didn’t believe it.
Watching Bobby play was a humbling experience for Blondie. He could tell Bobby had spoken the truth when he said he didn’t play often. Every once in a while, he spun a shot off into the woods. But when he hit one right, it was awesome, even with his old beat-up clubs. He had a natural rhythm a pro could never teach. Blondie felt depressed thinking about it. The one sport he was pretty good at and Bobby could be better if he wanted to.
Dispatch proved a complete asshole about picking him and Bobby up after golf. He bitched about “being inconvenienced” the whole way back into town. He didn’t seem to care that he was getting a chance to drive a school hero around. Bobby sat in the back seat and smiled, amused by Dispatch’s fulminating. His worries seemed to have disappeared.
Blondie was surprised by Bobby’s house. It was small and run down. A heavy-looking woman peered out the window. She had a beer can in her hand.
When Bobby got out of the car, he said “Maybe we’ll do it again sometime. I’ll drive next time.”
He laughed and walked away.
“Where’s the car?” his dad asked as soon as Blondie entered the house. Blondie conceded it was a reasonable question. He’d been trying to think of a good answer all the way home.
“You’ll be glad to know I wasn’t injured …. ” Blondie began.
“Are you telling me you wrecked my new car?” Tiny arteries on his dad’s nose flared.
Grouper's Laws Page 19
