The strange thing about people who seem instrumental within a community, who seem like pillars whose absence would surely cause irreversible discord, the ones you just don't know what you'd do without. . .those kinds of people fade away just as quickly as anyone else.
Such was the case here in Confluence when Marilyn Coolidge left for Pennsylvania. Mr. and Mrs. Coolidge held a debutante ball of sorts at their home, although from what I understand it was just as much a going away party for Marilyn as it was a ball for all of her classmates. They all wore dresses, and there was a small band to play music, but as the summer evening wore on, the adults mostly left, and the teenagers all changed clothes and slid into different corners of the night for the evening. Two weeks later, Mr. Coolidge drove Marilyn to Bryn Mawr, and that was that.
Before long, the burning crest of August slid into the cold crisp of fall. A new crop of students appeared just as quickly as Marilyn and her cohort had disappeared. The varsity football team was quite good that year (12-2, quarter finals of the state playoffs), and the town's attention turned elsewhere. Life went on quite quickly.
Of course, when Thanksgiving came, everyone was pleasant and glowing to see young Marilyn back for the fall break. "My, how she had grown up," Mrs. Cooley, my landlord, recalled. "She arrived at the train station on a Tuesday night, and Mr. Coolidge drove her home--but not before they both stopped downtown."
"I remember seeing her in her college clothes. Her face had a new sophistication; her hair was different, her eyes were different. She seemed immensely mature and grown up. It was as if, in the four months passed, she'd transformed into a young woman."
The boys in town noticed, too. Marilyn had taken up piano lessons at college, and during the evenings she would practice on the family's grand piano in the front foyer of the house. There was a large bay window looking out onto the yard, and in the dark of night, you could see Marilyn on the bench, working her way through a sonata or concerto. Whenever she appeared, the traffic on Westside Avenue increased dramatically--suddenly, every boy had to walk the family dog, or go for a run, or even take their father's car to the filling station to make sure it had plenty of fuel for the next day--not that there was a filling station anywhere near the Coolidge house, or that it mattered. Every night, one by one, they would file down the sidewalk, their feet forward but their heads turned sharply, watching Marilyn as she sat, erect, her hands softly negotiating the keyboard, her curly hair glowing in the lamp light.
Five days later she was off again to school, and soon our minds went elsewhere once more--until Christmas, when it all repeated again, and then again at Easter.
Easter was different, though. Marilyn had met a young man who taught at the high school near her college. She came home on Good Friday, and by Easter Sunday, the Lord had risen and the whole town knew Marilyn was dating someone. The evening piano practices continued, but the boys walked by with less frequency--and less hope.
But, as college romances often do, the courtship between the teacher and the tenacious girl ended by summertime, and when Marilyn came home for the summer break, hope had sprung eternal once more for the eligible young men of the town. To make matters even more tempting, Marilyn took a job at the country club instructing young girls on playing volleyball. Never before had a 12 year-old volleyball scrimmage in the yard attracted such a crowd.
And, I seemed to sense from the several who have told me these stories about Marilyn, she occasionally fanned the fury of boys following after her. It must have kept things interesting. One afternoon, a young girl on the team served the ball directly into the crowd, and Marilyn ran over to the young man who'd caught the ball--tripping just as she arrived in front of him and falling into his lap. She recovered quickly, kissed him on the cheek, and dallied away with the ball. The kiss caused a bit of a stir, and Dean May, the club's director, asked her politely to refrain from such behavior in the future.
Perhaps she dated one of the boys in town. Perhaps not. I'm guessing I could paint pictures of Marilyn being taken to Mary's for a soda or cheeseburger. I'm not entirely sure. But that summer folded back into the next fall, and the entire cycle started over. Marilyn was successful at college. She was elected head mistress in charge of the honor council. Her grades were good. She took a liberal arts coursework and concentrated on social work. Every visit back to Confluence, she appeared more as a lady and less like the spindly-legged, adorable girl remembered from her school days. There is a picture of her and her mother in front of the church, dated in early June of her junior year. She is tanned, trim, and stunningly beautiful.
During her final semester in college, Marilyn decided to take an independent study in New York City. And it was there, later that spring, that she met Victor Salarino.
to be continued...
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