by Marilyn Kaye
He smiled proudly. ‘We try not to make the words too distinct. So people have to listen harder.’
‘Oh! That makes sense. Look, here’s a cafe with tables outside. Is this OK?’
He shrugged and took a seat. A girl came by and dropped two menus on the table. He picked his up, then threw it down with a look of disgust.
‘These prices …’
‘It’s my treat,’ Allison said again.
‘That’s not the point. It’s this rotten capitalist society, it stinks. All anyone cares about is money. That’s all they talk about — how much something costs, what they can afford, how they can make more money so they can buy it. Men in suits, running in circles, chasing the almighty buck. It’s a rotten world, Allison.’
He remembered her name! She nodded fervently. ‘I have a friend who shoplifts sometimes. And that doesn’t shock me at all. Just because she doesn’t have money, why shouldn’t she have a lipstick?’
He raised his bushy eyebrows. ‘A lipstick?’
She flushed. That had to sound pretty stupid. ‘Well, it’s just an example,’ she murmured. What would he think if she told him she worked for a fashion magazine?
The girl came back by their table, and Allison ordered two coffees.
‘Anything to eat?’ she asked.
She looked at Sam. He shrugged again, but she saw him glance at the table next to theirs, where a couple were sharing a slice of cheesecake.
‘And two pieces of cheesecake,’ she added.
After the waitress left, she asked, ‘Do you live around here?’
‘I’ve got some friends who’re squatting in an abandoned apartment. I’m crashing on their couch for a couple of days.’
‘And then where will you go?’
‘Dunno. Even if I could afford an apartment, I wouldn’t give money to some fat-cat landlord.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘Artists don’t stand a chance in this rotten world, Allison.’
She couldn’t resist. She reached across the table and laid a gentle hand on his arm. ‘I know.’
‘I don’t ask for much,’ ‘Sam said. ‘Just freedom. You dig?’
‘Yes,’ Allison breathed. ‘Yes, I dig.’ I dig what you say, she said silently. And I dig what you do, and I dig how you look, and I dig …
‘Allison? Allison!’
She blinked. The entertainment editor was standing by her desk.
‘Oh, I’m sorry, Mr Connelly, I didn’t hear you. I was concentrating on … on —’ she looked at the paper on her desk — ‘this article about new girl singers.’
‘Come in my office for a minute. I want to talk to you about something.’
Mr Connelly was smiling as he offered her a seat across from his desk.
‘How would you like to try your hand at an interview?’
‘I’d love to do an interview!’ she replied promptly. ‘Who with?’
‘Well, what would you say to … the one and only Bobby Dale?’ He leaned back in his seat and beamed, as if he’d just offered her a fantastic gift.
‘Bobby Dale,’ she repeated. The name was vaguely familiar.
Mr Connelly picked up an album. ‘As I’m sure you know, this is coming out next month, so his people are making him available.’
The album cover showed a typically boyish, clean-cut young singer who looked like a cross between Bobby Rydell and Bobby Vee. Why were all these young singers named Bobby? she wondered. And then she recalled a huge hit a few months ago, something called ‘You’re My Girl’. She was pretty sure Bobby Dale sang that one.
Mr Connelly was watching her expectantly.
She smiled. ‘Great!’ she said, trying to sound appropriately enthusiastic.
‘I’ll let you know when we’ve got a date set up,’ the editor continued. ‘Meanwhile, you might want to go to the library and get some background on him.’
‘OK,’ she said, and got up. But when she reached the door she turned back to him. ‘Mr Connelly … have you ever thought about an article on the new folk-music scene? You know — Bob Dylan, Joan Baez … or maybe an interview with some young up-and-coming folk singer.’
He frowned and shook his head. ‘That’s more for college kids. I don’t think our readers are interested in folk music.’
‘But …’
His phone rang, and he snatched it up. ‘Peter Connelly. Hi, Ralph, what’s up? Any news on the Frankie Avalon flick?’
He waved his hand at Allison, dismissing her.
Back at her desk, she considered her new assignment. Pamela ambled over. It was lucky for her that Felix Duncan didn’t work on their floor. Her orange knit dress was so snug that Allison could make out the lines of her underwear, and the thin belt drawn tightly around her waist exaggerated her ample bust and hips.
‘What are you up to?’ Pamela asked.
‘Mr Connelly wants me to conduct an interview with Bobby Dale.’
Pamela eyes were the size of saucers. ‘Bobby Dale!’ she practically shrieked. ‘You’re going to meet Bobby Dale?’
‘Shh,’ Allison hissed.
Fortunately, at that moment the beauty editor stuck her head out of her office. ‘Pamela!’
‘Coming,’ Pamela called back. Shooting one last glare of envy in Allison’s direction, she took off.
Allison leaned back in her seat, bemused by Pamela’s reaction. As far as she was concerned, Bobby Dale was just another teen heart-throb, one of a hundred Bobby-boys with squeaky voices who sang stupid mindless love songs and made stupid mindless girls scream. Guys who had too much publicity already.
And then there were guys like Sam, talented guys, who wrote their own meaningful songs about real life, and they didn’t get any attention at all. It wasn’t fair.
They’d ended up spending all of Sunday together in the Village. That evening they went back to Washington Square Park, where he played some more, and actually collected two dollars’ worth of change.
Even so, Allison insisted on buying them a couple of sandwiches, and told Sam to save his money for the next day’s lunch. On Monday people would be at work or at school, and he might not get any listeners at all. She could tell he appreciated her concern.
They arranged to meet up on Monday evening. Allison picked up a pizza and brought it to the apartment where he was currently crashing. It was pretty nasty — not very clean — but no one else was around, and there was a jug of cheap red wine in the refrigerator. They talked more then, and she learned a little more about him. He came from some wretched middle-class town on Long Island, from a typically bourgeois family who couldn’t understand him at all. He’d escaped while he was still in high school, and he’d been hanging out in the Village for almost two years now.
Later they headed over to another coffee house, where a guy he knew was performing and they could get in without paying the cover charge. The friend called Sam up to the front of the room to play something. Sam performed a song she hadn’t heard before, and this time she caught more of the lyrics. The song was about seasons, and how there were seasons for everything — a time to be born, a time to die, a time to laugh, a time to weep. It was absolutely beautiful. There wasn’t much of an audience — only a dozen people — but after he sang they clapped, and she was bursting with pride when he came back to their table.
The idea, when it came, didn’t burst fully formed in her head. As she went back to proofreading, it established itself as a tiny seed in the back of her mind. And as she marked punctuation errors with a red pencil, the idea grew slowly, and took on a shape and form without any effort at all. By the time she finished correcting the article on new girl singers, she knew what she was going to do.
As requested, Allison would meet with Bobby Dale, interview him and write it up. And on her own time, outside of Gloss hours, she would interview Sam. She’d find out what made him tick, what had drawn him to folk music. She’d learn about his inspirations, his ambitions, how he created his music.
She would write a decent article about Bobby Dale. But she’d
write a brilliant article about Sam. There would only be enough space in the magazine for one interview. And if Mr Connelly had any brains at all, he would make the right choice. Teen readers would become aware that there were options in entertainment.
Sam was going to get the recognition he deserved. Allison was going to make it happen. And together they would change the world. Or at least, one boring teen magazine.
29 June, 1962
Summer school wasn’t all that bad. For the first time in what seemed like forever, Donna had an English teacher whom she actually liked.
Miss Robertson was young, fresh out of university, and this was her first real job. She told Donna this on the third day of summer school, when the teacher asked her to stay after class.
Donna was pretty sure she knew why she’d been asked to stay. The first assignment, a book report, had been turned in the day before. They’d been told to write about a favourite book and it had been a problem for her.
Miss Robertson pulled a chair up next to her desk and indicated that Donna should sit there. On the desk lay her book report, covered in red pencil marks.
‘I have some problems with this, Donna,’ she said. Her voice was so gentle, Donna looked up. The teacher’s eyes were kind.
‘I don’t read very well,’ Donna said.
Miss Robertson nodded. She took a book from her desk and opened it. ‘Could you read aloud for me, please? Just the first paragraph.’
Donna tried. Less than a minute later, the teacher stopped her.
‘That’s enough, Donna. I’m wondering if you might have dyslexia.’
Donna stared at her in alarm. ‘Is that a disease?’
‘No, it’s a learning disability, where your brain doesn’t recognize certain symbols. Now don’t worry — it’s not brain damage, and it’s got nothing to do with intelligence, it’s just a little … well, I’m not exactly sure what it is. A disorder, I guess.’ She smiled.
‘Is there anything I can do about it? Like, take a pill or something?’
‘I think there are exercises you can do to improve your reading skills. I’m not qualified to diagnose this or treat you for it, but there are specialists who know how to deal with it. I’ll find someone in the area who can test you.’
‘How much would this cost?’ she asked Miss Robertson.
‘I don’t know.’
More than she could afford, Donna thought. She was very sure of that.
A couple of days later, the teacher did give her some names. Donna called one and asked about fees. After that, she didn’t even bother to call the others.
In the Peake household, welfare cheques barely covered necessities. But it had lifted her spirits, knowing her problem had a name. It was a comfort to realize she wasn’t just plain stupid. Maybe some day, when she was out of school and working, she could do something about it.
Life in general had been better lately. Her mother was actually sober most of the time. She wanted to get back into the social scene, maybe meet a new man, and she decided she needed to go on a diet. Personally, Donna didn’t think Shirley Peake was fat, but her efforts to lose weight meant that she had cut back on her drinking. And Donna could feel a lot more comfortable leaving the kids with her when she went out in the evening with Ron.
It had been over a month since that first date, and they were now going out three or four times a week. She couldn’t say she was madly in love or anything like that, but Ron had a car and a job, and he didn’t mind spending some of his wages on her. He picked her up when he said he would, and sometimes he would bring the little ones candy. He wasn’t much of a talker, and she still didn’t know much about him, just that he dropped out of high school and left a hard-scrabble life on a farm when he was sixteen. He’d come to town and took a job at one of the factories.
It didn’t last long, and now he bounced from job to job. He seemed to get bored easily.
‘Have you ever thought of becoming a car mechanic?’ Donna had asked him once. ‘I’ve seen ads for a training programme at a technology school downtown. You could become a qualified mechanic in less than a year.’
He hadn’t appreciated the suggestion. ‘Why would I do that?’
‘Well, you like cars, and you could develop a real skill for repairing them. Think about what you could do with that. You might end up owning your own garage. Wouldn’t you rather fix cars than pump gas?’
‘Nothing wrong with pumping gas,’ he’d retorted.
‘Of course not, but—’
He cut her off. ‘Don’t bug me.’
Ron wasn’t ambitious; she learned that early on. And his moods could be troublesome. He got angry easily — not at her, fortunately, but at anyone who bothered him, or even just looked at him the wrong way. But when he was feeling good, he was easy to be with, and she really had nothing to complain about.
Their dates were pretty predictable. He’d pick her up after the kids were in bed. Sometimes they just went back to the apartment he shared with a couple of other guys, and they’d watch a ball game with his roommates and their girlfriends. Other times they’d go to a particular hangout, where he’d play pool and she’d sit at the bar and watch. That wasn’t much fun, especially since his pool-hall friends were low-life types, and fights sometimes broke out. But whenever that happened, he’d get her out of there, which pleased her. He never said, ‘I love you,’ but if he wanted to protect her, he must have some feelings for her.
Every now and then they went to the drive-in theatre. It didn’t matter what was playing — all he wanted to do was climb in the back seat with her and make out. She liked the hugging and the kissing and the feeling of his body close to hers. But it usually got ugly in the end. He always wanted to take it further, and she always resisted.
‘Stop,’ she’d say, when he fumbled with the clasp on her brassiere, or slid his hand under her skirt.
‘Come on, baby,’ he’d urge.
‘No!’
‘Why not?’
‘I’m not ready for this,’ she’d tell him.
‘When are you going to be ready?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I’m not going to wait forever,’ he’d warn her.
But he kept coming around, and she was grateful for that. It was better than being alone.
Arriving home from summer school one afternoon, she found her mother in particularly good spirits.
‘Look at this!’ Shirley Peake called out when Donna entered the trailer. She twirled around, showing off the full skirt of a dress Donna had never seen before.
‘It’s a size eight,’ the woman crowed. ‘The last time I bought a new dress, it was a twelve. Look!’ She showed Donna the tag that still hung from a sleeve.
The tag displayed the price as well as the size, and Donna was shocked. ‘Where did you get the money for this?’ she asked.
‘None of your beeswax,’ her mother replied pertly.
Maybe she’d saved the money she used to spend on whisky and beer, Donna thought. Still, it wasn’t right for her to blow it on a new dress. Kathy and Billy were growing, they needed things. Kathy had been complaining that her shoes hurt.
‘I’m going to that new club on the highway tonight,’ her mother announced. ‘I’ve heard it’s a real singles scene.’
‘Ma! I told you, Ron and I are going out tonight. You said you’d stay home with the kids.’
Shirley’s expression changed. She looked almost furtive.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ she said, before disappearing into the bathroom. ‘It’s all taken care of.’
Wondering what her mother meant by that, Donna heard the sound of a car pulling up outside. She looked through the window. ‘Ma? You expecting someone?’
There was no response. The car door opened, and a man got out. Donna froze. She hadn’t seen him in two years, but her father hadn’t changed that much.
She opened the door.
‘Donna, is that really you?’ he asked. ‘You’ve grown.’
She
stared at him. ‘What do you want?’
Her mother appeared behind her and pushed her aside. ‘Come on in, Martin.’
‘What’s he doing here?’ Donna asked.
Shirley cocked her head towards her ex-husband. ‘He’s taking the kids.’
‘What?’
‘You didn’t tell her?’ Martin asked Shirley.
Her mother shrugged. ‘I thought it would be easier this way. Like pulling a Band-Aid off fast.’
Donna’s head was spinning. ‘Would somebody please tell me what’s going on?’
Martin at least had the courtesy to look abashed. ‘She should have told you,’ he muttered.
‘Told me what?’ Donna practically shrieked.
Finally the story came out. It seemed Martin had settled down and remarried. The woman wanted children but hadn’t been able to conceive. So Martin had decided to take his own back. And Shirley had agreed.
‘It’s better this way,’ she declared. ‘They’ve got a house and a backyard.’
‘And a dog,’ Martin added.
‘And I’ll be able to have a social life,’ Shirley added happily.
Donna stared at her in disbelief. ‘You’re giving up your children so you can have a social life? What kind of a mother are you?’
‘Oh, don’t be so dramatic,’ Shirley snapped. ‘They’ll come back and visit.’
‘We’re just an hour away,’ Martin said. ‘You can visit whenever you like, Donna.’ He shifted his weight from one leg to the other, and looked just beyond his eldest daughter. ‘You know, Donna, I’d like to have you living with us too, but Arlene, that’s my wife, she’s not used to being around teenagers, and—’
‘l have no desire to live with you and your new wife,’ Donna declared coldly.
‘And of course I’ll continue to send your mother money for you,’ Martin continued.
Suddenly Donna felt dizzy. She turned to Shirley. ‘He sends you money?’ she asked in a whisper.
Her mother’s lips were pressed together tightly. ‘Not that much.’
