“Marilyn!” Alice cried when the car pulled into the driveway. The former school classmates hugged for several seconds in the driveway. “I’m so glad you’re here! It’s been forever!”
Marilyn noticed that Alice seemed only slightly different than she remembered. She had grown a bit taller, and her light blonde hair had already bleached out a bit from the sun. Her skin was bronzed from laying out in the sun.
Mr. Broadman welcomed Mr. Coolidge with a handshake and an invitation inside for a cold drink, which he accepted. The gentlemen retired to the back of the house, where there was a wet bar. Mrs. Broadman greeted Marilyn and Alice inside the doorway and offered her help carrying Marilyn’s things upstairs to her room.
Marilyn’s room for the summer was a tidy but warm yellow perch at the back of the house, over the kitchen downstairs, with a view down of the sea about a hundred yards away. The furniture was mission style cherry: a vanity and mirror on one side of the bed, an armoire caddy corned on the other, and a decently sized writing table beneath the single, large window. Alice’s bedroom was next door. There were two other bedrooms on the second floor, one of which would be occupied by Mr. Coolidge for a night before he returned to Confluence. Mr. and Mrs. Broadman stayed on the first floor.
Alice chatted nonstop as Marilyn unpacked her things—mostly about her first year at Meredith College in North Carolina. “There’s not much to do in Raleigh, especially out where we are, but it’s a lovely group of girls. We all get along perfectly, and on Friday and Saturday nights, we go to the parties at N.C. State with all the farm boys. It’s a real riot.”
“I still cannot believe you wound up at that school” Marilyn said, grinning. “Of all the people to go and live in a place like that! Who on earth entertains you?”
“You should talk, Mrs. Mawr,” Alice kidded back. “Have you learned to crochet yet?”
Mrs. Broadman returned to their room to let them know that dinner would be at six thirty. “Come on,” Alice said, “let’s go sit outside while the adults plot.”
The Broadman House was once the original Broadman Inn. The original design featured eight bedrooms (the four original rooms upstairs, and four downstairs where there is now a parlor, piano room, and bar area), and the business operated as a bed and breakfast of sorts for folks traveling up the coast. When Mr. Broadman inherited the Inn from his parents, he set about designing and constructing a more modern hotel across the yard from the house, which is where the new Broadman Inn now sits. The Broadman House remains a taste of Victorian grandeur. A shaded porch wraps front and back, and a terrace off Alice’s bedroom on the side of the house commands a breath-taking view of the coastline south toward town.
As Coulter Point became more popular as a vacation destination, and tourists began booking the rooms solidly through the summer season, Mr. Broadman added onto the new building, and later, when Alice was in grade school, he bought the restaurant that had been built just down the road. Just a few years later, he purchased several houses nearby and turned them into guest cottages. Business boomed, and the Broadman family quickly became the single largest property owner on the point.
Still, the Broadman House had its own domain in the compound, and a small forest of oak trees in the front yard shielded it from the view of the new hotel. The girls wandered out to the back porch and sat on wicker chairs facing the Atlantic.
“I cannot tell you how thrilled I am to have you here,” Alice said. “There’s never anything to do here in the summers anymore. I can only play so many hands of bridge with Mother and her friends before I begin to feel stir crazy.”
“Well, I don’t doubt that,” Marilyn said. “I must warn you, though, I’m not much of a bridge player.”
Alice giggled. “My goal is to avoid playing a single hand of bridge this summer. But I do have another plan for us, and it’s more fun.”
“What’s that?”
“Let’s work at the restaurant this summer. We’ll be hostesses. My father said it’d be alright, but he probably won’t pay us.”
“You’re asking for free labor?”
“I’m offering free access to boys and booze,” she laughed. “There’s a bar inside the restaurant with the most gorgeous boy you’ve ever met named Billy. And there are the boys in the kitchen, too, who are incredible fun to be around.”
Marilyn grinned. “I can’t believe you’ve asked me down here to spend the entire summer getting into trouble with you. This isn’t the Alice Broadman I remember from school. Aren’t you supposed to be taking lessons on good posture?”
“The hell with that!” Alice said. “Bo-oor—ring!”
“Besides,” she continued, “my parents have given me full reign of the whole place, and they don’t care if I’m out late at the restaurant. It’s the perfect excuse to see boys!”
“You’d better tell me more,” Marilyn said.
“Okay. The one I want to introduce you to first is a boy named Charlie. He’s a tall, brooding hulk of a man. He has the most amazing arms you’ve ever seen. Now, Charlie lives here year-round, and his dad is a fisherman, and sometimes he has to go out with his dad to help with the catch, and The Red Scare gives him a hard time—"
“The Red Scare?”
“Mr. Moscow. That’s the manager of the restaurant. He’s kind of a hard ass, but everybody stays in line when he’s around. Anyway, Charlie works out on the boat with his dad sometimes, so he’s got this wonderful dark tan and dark brown puppy dog eyes. You are going to fall for him, I promise.”
“Surely you’ve claimed one of these boys for yourself.”
“Of course,” she said. “Naturally, I’ve picked out one of the bus boys. He is adorable, and he has shaggy blonde hair. He plays in a band!”
“Oh my Lord, you’re dating a musician.”
“We’re not dating!” Alice said, her voice lower. “And don’t say it so loud—my parents would completely panic if they knew I was hanging around the hired help.”
“Okay, so what do you call it?”
“We’re talking,” Alice said. “And drinking together! These boys are all a great time. You are going to love it here!”
Monday, September 27, 2010
Monday, September 20, 2010
A Brief Trip Home
Marilyn left her lunch with Victor Salarino relieved and excited about the summer.
She also felt uneasy.
“What I am doing is, simply, deceptive,” she wrote in her journal. “It is obvious that my parents do not approve of my having anything to do with Victor, and though I haven’t exactly promised them that I wouldn’t see him again, they are certainly under the assumption that I am taking the train home and leaving Victor in New York.”
“Instead,” she paused, taking time to doodle a long ellipsis at the bottom of the page, each circle darkened with thought.
She also felt uneasy.
“What I am doing is, simply, deceptive,” she wrote in her journal. “It is obvious that my parents do not approve of my having anything to do with Victor, and though I haven’t exactly promised them that I wouldn’t see him again, they are certainly under the assumption that I am taking the train home and leaving Victor in New York.”
“Instead,” she paused, taking time to doodle a long ellipsis at the bottom of the page, each circle darkened with thought.
***
Alice was thrilled to welcome her friend to her family’s summer home, and she wrote to Marilyn, asking her to join her in two weeks. Marilyn’s parents had sent her to Coulter Point with Alice a couple of times before, and had no problem with her summer plans. That left just ten days that Marilyn had to endure being at home.
Surprisingly, they weren’t terrible. Marilyn’s father didn’t bring up the subject at all, and her mother left her alone for the most part. She had a habit of alluding to the incident on the sailboat in subtle ways, which Marilyn found annoying, but there was nothing to do but wait. By the end of the month, she would be at Coulter Point, away from Confluence and away from her parents, and there she would be free to see Victor as many times as he cared to make the trip.
The point was a lengthy trip away from New York, which somewhat concerned Marilyn, but Victor had promised at least one weekend with her. Her heart raced every time she thought about it.
There was an incident at church, though, that added credibility to her parents’ anger. Pastor Roberts ended the service with the traditional time for announcements. Helen Daugherty stood up to announce that the Confluence Women’s Club was looking forward to extending invitations to several young women this summer to join the club for a reception and begin the year-long process toward membership. And then, she went on to read a list out loud that included all of Marilyn’s classmates—but not Marilyn Coolidge.
As they left the receiving line afterward, Marilyn’s mother approached Helen.
“Why, Mrs. Coolidge,” she smiled. “Good afternoon.”
“Helen, dear, it seems you’ve made an omission on your list of young ladies to invite to the club.”
Marilyn wanted to shrink away, but her mother had firmly taken hold of her wrist.
“I’m not sure what you mean,” Helen said.
“You know right well what I mean, Mrs. Daugherty.”
There was an uncomfortable silence. “Mrs. Coolidge,” Helen said quietly, her eyes looking away from Marilyn and her mother, “our club is selective. We are a small group. We can only accommodate so many new members every year, and there were several young women who did not receive invitations.”
“Mrs. Daugherty, I would normally have thought this list and your reading it in front of God and everybody was a simple act of error, but given your willful ignorance on this subject, I can only assume you are acting in a very distasteful way. Marilyn deserves an invitation.”
“I cannot,” Helen replied firmly, her voice even quieter. “We have strict standards of character for our members, Mrs. Coolidge. You of all people should know that—you wrote our Code of Matronly Conduct, after all.”
Marilyn and her mother walked home from church in silence. Once they were inside, she spoke up. “Thank you,” she said, touching her mother’s arm. “You were awfully kind to have defended me.”
Her mother’s lips drew tight. “I shouldn’t have had to in the first place.”
But that was all; Marilyn’s mother retreated to her bedroom to change for lunch, and when they took their meal, nothing more of the matter was said.
“My home no longer feels like home,” Marilyn later wrote in her journal. “And that worries me. A person needs a place to go where everything feels all right, where she feels safe and well. This town doesn’t seem to recognize me anymore, and I don’t feel like I know it either.”
Two days later, Mr. Coolidge packed his daughter’s suitcases into the car and drove her down to Coulter Point.
“Helen, dear, it seems you’ve made an omission on your list of young ladies to invite to the club.”
Marilyn wanted to shrink away, but her mother had firmly taken hold of her wrist.
“I’m not sure what you mean,” Helen said.
“You know right well what I mean, Mrs. Daugherty.”
There was an uncomfortable silence. “Mrs. Coolidge,” Helen said quietly, her eyes looking away from Marilyn and her mother, “our club is selective. We are a small group. We can only accommodate so many new members every year, and there were several young women who did not receive invitations.”
“Mrs. Daugherty, I would normally have thought this list and your reading it in front of God and everybody was a simple act of error, but given your willful ignorance on this subject, I can only assume you are acting in a very distasteful way. Marilyn deserves an invitation.”
“I cannot,” Helen replied firmly, her voice even quieter. “We have strict standards of character for our members, Mrs. Coolidge. You of all people should know that—you wrote our Code of Matronly Conduct, after all.”
Marilyn and her mother walked home from church in silence. Once they were inside, she spoke up. “Thank you,” she said, touching her mother’s arm. “You were awfully kind to have defended me.”
Her mother’s lips drew tight. “I shouldn’t have had to in the first place.”
But that was all; Marilyn’s mother retreated to her bedroom to change for lunch, and when they took their meal, nothing more of the matter was said.
“My home no longer feels like home,” Marilyn later wrote in her journal. “And that worries me. A person needs a place to go where everything feels all right, where she feels safe and well. This town doesn’t seem to recognize me anymore, and I don’t feel like I know it either.”
Two days later, Mr. Coolidge packed his daughter’s suitcases into the car and drove her down to Coulter Point.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
A Last Lunch
One of the many quirks of small towns like Confluence is that the residents here all seem to vacation in common places. Rest assured, we don’t all go to the same place together, but many folks enjoy their summer sojourns on Coulter Point. There, they own or rent houses, spend a week or two away from our village here, and relax.
I’ve been out to Coulter Point a few times. It’s an old fishing town filled with cedar-shingled houses weathered gray by years of exposure. Most of the places there are modest in comparison to some of the beach mansions I’ve seen, and they all have a fair spit of land to call their own. The village sits on the land side of a peninsula, and the houses extend outward into the bay like an upside-down comma. You can drive there in just a few hours.
As Marilyn’s semester in New York came to an end, she felt more and more dread about returning to Confluence. Her father’s letter, as well as the last phone call with her mother, assured Marilyn that her parents were disappointed with her. Besides, she was turning twenty years old this summer. What on earth would a woman her age do around town? She certainly didn’t want to face two months of living with her parents, dreading whenever the subject of Victor Salarino came about.
“I cannot help but question the decency of a man who would roll about on the deck of a boat with you in broad daylight,” her mother had said on the telephone. “Did you know that people still ask us if you’re running around with that hooligan?”
“He’s not a hooligan, Mother,” Marilyn replied. “He’s a good man, and he’s quite responsible. I’ve explained the entire situation to you before. He practically saved me from going overboard!”
“Well, you had no business gallivanting around on a sailboat, anyway!” she said. “Of all things! We told people you were there to learn and study. We expected you to be studying, to be behaving, and then you show up in the gossip pages with some New York playboy.”
And on her mother went. They had raised her better than that. This was no way of acting like a lady. There was a reputation at stake—the whole family looked bad because of this. They were embarrassed. Marilyn had made them look like liars.
So it was with great relief to Marilyn when a letter arrived from one of her oldest friends from Confluence, Alice Broadman. It read:
Dear Marilyn,
How are you? When are you coming home for the summer? The terms at Meredith end early, and I’ve been home for a week. It’s awfully boring here in town.
Anyway, I wanted to ask: won’t you come to Coulter Point with me this summer? My family will spend the whole season there, and I know it would be fun to spend the time with you. Write back.
Love,
Alice
Marilyn didn’t hesitate to go directly to her desk, pull out her stationery, and respond immediately. Nothing could be better, she said. With that looming and awkward matter out of the way, Marilyn faced another before she left New York: what to say to Victor. They had arranged a lunch together on the Saturday before she left for Confluence.
It was already summer-hot when Victor picked Marilyn up in his convertible. They decided on a favorite restaurant called Wyatt’s and sat at a table on the sidewalk. Victor ordered a steak sandwich, and Marilyn had a cold salad.
If you’ve ever had a lunch like this one, in which two people sit and attempt to delay an uncomfortable conversation, you’ll know that it wasn’t until the waiter brought the check that either of them brought up the simple subject that Marilyn was leaving New York in less than a week.
“I’m going to miss this, Victor,” she said to him. “I’m going to miss coming here for lunch, and I’m going to miss having lunch with you.”
Victor nodded and wiped his chin off with his napkin. He took an extra moment to fold it carefully before he placed it on the table. He was thinking through what he would say. Finally: “I’m going to miss having lunch with you, too.”
Marilyn waited for a few seconds to gather a bit of courage. “You know, Victor, I---“
“Before you say anything else,” he interrupted, “would you mind if I tell you something?”
She smiled. “Not at all.”
“I’ve had a wonderful time with you the last few months, and I want you to know that I care about you a lot. I know the entire mess with your parents has been rough on you, and it’s my fault. I’m sorry about that.”
“Don’t be sorry.”
“Well, I am. It would be rough on me, and I know it’s a mess for you. I’ve never met your mother and father, but I’m quite sure they don’t like me.”
“But if they only got to know you—“
“If they only got to know me, I’m sure things would be worse,” he grinned. “So we’re here now having lunch at our favorite place, and we’ve got this awful thing lurking about with you going home, and I want to save you a bit of trouble.”
He paused to let the waiter clear their plates. “If you want to get back on the train home and take the memories of a great time in New York with you, that’s fine. I will try to be the gentleman that nobody in your family could possibly imagine me to be, and I will let you go.”
Marilyn felt the pit of her stomach drop a bit. “I’m not sure that’s what I want.”
“Me either,” he said. Suddenly he laughed. “But I’m not sure how on earth this would ever work out.”
She reached across the table for his hand. “Victor, I’m not going home this summer. I’m going out to Coulter Point with a friend of mine and her family. I’ll be there by the first of June.”
When Marilyn had sat down at this restaurant table, she had carried with her the difficult understanding that when they left, she and Victor would part ways. A springtime romance would only be that, and nothing more. She had been careful all along to keep her emotion in check, to remind herself to feel strong, to leave with a calm face.
Suddenly, though, she wasn’t so sure of herself.
Victor smiled. “Really? Couldn’t bear the thought of your mother and father pressing you all summer long?”
“Oh dear,” she said.
“No summer volleyball leagues?”
“Well, I’m sure they’ll have games organized at Coulter Point.”
“What will you do all summer? I know you—you’re not the kind to just lollygag about on the beach. I didn’t know people still went to Coulter Point.”
Marilyn felt her face flush with the slightest embarrassment. “Of course people still go there.”
“There’s nothing to do!”
“But isn’t that the point?”
Victor laughed and rolled his eyes. “I’d go a bit crazy there, I think.”
“You might if you had to stay there all summer long,” she conceded. “My friend Alice’s family owns an inn on the point. They don’t live there or run the place, but they do spend summers living in the main house. Why don’t you come out and stay a couple of days?”
“And what exactly would I fill my time with?” Victor asked.
“I imagine you could take me to lunch,” she said.
I’ve been out to Coulter Point a few times. It’s an old fishing town filled with cedar-shingled houses weathered gray by years of exposure. Most of the places there are modest in comparison to some of the beach mansions I’ve seen, and they all have a fair spit of land to call their own. The village sits on the land side of a peninsula, and the houses extend outward into the bay like an upside-down comma. You can drive there in just a few hours.
As Marilyn’s semester in New York came to an end, she felt more and more dread about returning to Confluence. Her father’s letter, as well as the last phone call with her mother, assured Marilyn that her parents were disappointed with her. Besides, she was turning twenty years old this summer. What on earth would a woman her age do around town? She certainly didn’t want to face two months of living with her parents, dreading whenever the subject of Victor Salarino came about.
“I cannot help but question the decency of a man who would roll about on the deck of a boat with you in broad daylight,” her mother had said on the telephone. “Did you know that people still ask us if you’re running around with that hooligan?”
“He’s not a hooligan, Mother,” Marilyn replied. “He’s a good man, and he’s quite responsible. I’ve explained the entire situation to you before. He practically saved me from going overboard!”
“Well, you had no business gallivanting around on a sailboat, anyway!” she said. “Of all things! We told people you were there to learn and study. We expected you to be studying, to be behaving, and then you show up in the gossip pages with some New York playboy.”
And on her mother went. They had raised her better than that. This was no way of acting like a lady. There was a reputation at stake—the whole family looked bad because of this. They were embarrassed. Marilyn had made them look like liars.
So it was with great relief to Marilyn when a letter arrived from one of her oldest friends from Confluence, Alice Broadman. It read:
Dear Marilyn,
How are you? When are you coming home for the summer? The terms at Meredith end early, and I’ve been home for a week. It’s awfully boring here in town.
Anyway, I wanted to ask: won’t you come to Coulter Point with me this summer? My family will spend the whole season there, and I know it would be fun to spend the time with you. Write back.
Love,
Alice
Marilyn didn’t hesitate to go directly to her desk, pull out her stationery, and respond immediately. Nothing could be better, she said. With that looming and awkward matter out of the way, Marilyn faced another before she left New York: what to say to Victor. They had arranged a lunch together on the Saturday before she left for Confluence.
It was already summer-hot when Victor picked Marilyn up in his convertible. They decided on a favorite restaurant called Wyatt’s and sat at a table on the sidewalk. Victor ordered a steak sandwich, and Marilyn had a cold salad.
If you’ve ever had a lunch like this one, in which two people sit and attempt to delay an uncomfortable conversation, you’ll know that it wasn’t until the waiter brought the check that either of them brought up the simple subject that Marilyn was leaving New York in less than a week.
“I’m going to miss this, Victor,” she said to him. “I’m going to miss coming here for lunch, and I’m going to miss having lunch with you.”
Victor nodded and wiped his chin off with his napkin. He took an extra moment to fold it carefully before he placed it on the table. He was thinking through what he would say. Finally: “I’m going to miss having lunch with you, too.”
Marilyn waited for a few seconds to gather a bit of courage. “You know, Victor, I---“
“Before you say anything else,” he interrupted, “would you mind if I tell you something?”
She smiled. “Not at all.”
“I’ve had a wonderful time with you the last few months, and I want you to know that I care about you a lot. I know the entire mess with your parents has been rough on you, and it’s my fault. I’m sorry about that.”
“Don’t be sorry.”
“Well, I am. It would be rough on me, and I know it’s a mess for you. I’ve never met your mother and father, but I’m quite sure they don’t like me.”
“But if they only got to know you—“
“If they only got to know me, I’m sure things would be worse,” he grinned. “So we’re here now having lunch at our favorite place, and we’ve got this awful thing lurking about with you going home, and I want to save you a bit of trouble.”
He paused to let the waiter clear their plates. “If you want to get back on the train home and take the memories of a great time in New York with you, that’s fine. I will try to be the gentleman that nobody in your family could possibly imagine me to be, and I will let you go.”
Marilyn felt the pit of her stomach drop a bit. “I’m not sure that’s what I want.”
“Me either,” he said. Suddenly he laughed. “But I’m not sure how on earth this would ever work out.”
She reached across the table for his hand. “Victor, I’m not going home this summer. I’m going out to Coulter Point with a friend of mine and her family. I’ll be there by the first of June.”
When Marilyn had sat down at this restaurant table, she had carried with her the difficult understanding that when they left, she and Victor would part ways. A springtime romance would only be that, and nothing more. She had been careful all along to keep her emotion in check, to remind herself to feel strong, to leave with a calm face.
Suddenly, though, she wasn’t so sure of herself.
Victor smiled. “Really? Couldn’t bear the thought of your mother and father pressing you all summer long?”
“Oh dear,” she said.
“No summer volleyball leagues?”
“Well, I’m sure they’ll have games organized at Coulter Point.”
“What will you do all summer? I know you—you’re not the kind to just lollygag about on the beach. I didn’t know people still went to Coulter Point.”
Marilyn felt her face flush with the slightest embarrassment. “Of course people still go there.”
“There’s nothing to do!”
“But isn’t that the point?”
Victor laughed and rolled his eyes. “I’d go a bit crazy there, I think.”
“You might if you had to stay there all summer long,” she conceded. “My friend Alice’s family owns an inn on the point. They don’t live there or run the place, but they do spend summers living in the main house. Why don’t you come out and stay a couple of days?”
“And what exactly would I fill my time with?” Victor asked.
“I imagine you could take me to lunch,” she said.
Friday, August 20, 2010
Sailing Apart
After she woke up in Victor’s downtown apartment, Marilyn felt it was safe to say the two were an item. “I enjoy his company very much,” she wrote in her diary, “but I’m wary of how easily he talks me into things.”
There was an instance of this occurring when Vic asked her to accompany him on a boating trip down the Hudson. A friend of his had bought a thirty-seven footer named Cesario, and he needed to bring it down river to be docked at the athletic club where he was a member. Marilyn, though athletic and fit, wasn’t much of a sailor, but she agreed to make the trip.
Marilyn Coolidge was used to being around wealth. She had seen her share of country estates and summer houses and stables. Her father rarely indulged his family with extravagance, though, and most any pleasures of travel came thanks to the kindness of family friends. What her father successfully avoided, and what he had an extraordinary distaste for, was publicity. He avoided the Confluence Spectator’s reporters (both of them) whenever he argued a case in the downtown courthouse. He wrote more than once to its publishers and editors following a couple of filler stories regarding the goings-on in town, in which it was reported that the Coolidge family served on the Confluence Presbyterian finance committee.
So it was with a natural uneasiness that Marilyn regarded a photographer accompanying them on the trip—-even though he was there to take pictures of the boat’s new owner, who was well-known in Manhattan gossip. Still, the weather was lovely—-sunny and warm—-and Vic brought her a drink to help her relax.
More than once she caught Victor eyeing her; she wore a bathing suit and a white, cotton wrap. Her tan legs shone in the light. And the Hudson was breathtaking. Marilyn had never been down the valley before.
The boat’s new owner had brought a lady friend, Annette, and she made a fair amount of conversation with Marilyn. The quartet and the photographer took a picnic lunch on the deck, sandwiches, fruit, and wine. Marilyn noticed that Vic had a natural sense around the sailboat, fixing ropes with ease and keeping his balance from bow to stern.
As the Manhattan skyline came into view, she walked up to the bow to sit with Vic, who was sunning himself and finishing the wine. He wore dark aviator sunglasses, the kind pilots wore in the war.
“What do you think?” he asked her.
“I think I could get used to this,” she said. The boat squared on a swell, and water sprayed up on their legs. She laughed.
“I’m very glad you weren’t waiting for someone,” he said a minute or so later.
“I’m sorry?”
“At the bar in Washington Square,” he said. “I’d watched you for a while before I’d worked up the courage to go over and introduce myself. I just knew that as soon as I walked over and sat down beside you, another man would’ve come along and we really would’ve had a start.”
She caught his eye behind his glasses. “I’m glad you sat down,” she said, reaching over to rub his leg. I’ve had an awfully fun time with you.”
Just then, the boat lurched over a swell from a passing cargo ship, plunging deep into its wake before climbing back out of its trough. The bow pointed skyward before slamming down straight on the water, and in the process Marilyn was tossed up in the air—-and toward the rail. Quickly, though, she felt the firm hold of Victor as he grabbed her mid-air and pulled her down onto his lap. The result, with Victor prone on the deck and Marilyn sideways on top of him, made a perfect picture, and the photographer quickly snapped it.
That very photograph, which would later run on the back page of the newspaper with a feature story on the sailing socialite, begat two important things. First, it announced to tens of thousands of readers that the youngest son of the Salarino family—-himself, no doubt, the focus of occasional rumors from the nouveau riche realm-—had found himself a girlfriend with an impressive pedigree to boot. And second, it earned Marilyn a harsh rebuke from the administrators at Bryn Mawr, who warned her that the scandalous behavior she portrayed in the newspaper picture was unbecoming of a young lady of her stature. From that point, her social freedoms were quite limited.
“Embarrassing as it is,” she confided to her journal, “it’s turned my life awfully boring.”
Having been found unfit for duty, the lady who ran the house, Madam Harrison, was relieved of her duties, and her replacement, Mrs. Allison, watched after the girls with a much less forgiving eye. Soon, Marilyn felt that her mistake had inadvertently brought a burden on all of her housemates.
She still managed to see Victor, but her visits were relegated to the daytime hours. As tempted as she was to cut classes, she knew it would irritate the situation further, and the punishment, as she had been assured by the dean of students, would be far worse upon a second offense.
“I am a hopeless schoolgirl, and I’m afraid that I’ve taken quite a liking to Victor at exactly the wrong moment,” she wrote. “I find myself daydreaming about him often. It doesn’t help anything. We have managed to see each other at lunch at least three or four times a week. One afternoon, he took me to the park, and we kissed for an entire hour. Every time he has to drop me back for classes, I feel crestfallen.”
“To make matters worse,” she continued, “my father let me know in a letter today that the Dean told him all about the newspaper story and picture. I could feel the disappointment in his words in my very own guts.”
And so it was that Marilyn’s time in New York, which had started with great anticipation and excitement, quickly grew to a close with the competing feelings of boredom and longing. She ate her suppers alone in her room, heartbroken and lonely. The noise from the streets outside only deepened the feeling that she was missing out on so much, that on just the other side of the glass, there was a life waiting for her.
There was an instance of this occurring when Vic asked her to accompany him on a boating trip down the Hudson. A friend of his had bought a thirty-seven footer named Cesario, and he needed to bring it down river to be docked at the athletic club where he was a member. Marilyn, though athletic and fit, wasn’t much of a sailor, but she agreed to make the trip.
Marilyn Coolidge was used to being around wealth. She had seen her share of country estates and summer houses and stables. Her father rarely indulged his family with extravagance, though, and most any pleasures of travel came thanks to the kindness of family friends. What her father successfully avoided, and what he had an extraordinary distaste for, was publicity. He avoided the Confluence Spectator’s reporters (both of them) whenever he argued a case in the downtown courthouse. He wrote more than once to its publishers and editors following a couple of filler stories regarding the goings-on in town, in which it was reported that the Coolidge family served on the Confluence Presbyterian finance committee.
So it was with a natural uneasiness that Marilyn regarded a photographer accompanying them on the trip—-even though he was there to take pictures of the boat’s new owner, who was well-known in Manhattan gossip. Still, the weather was lovely—-sunny and warm—-and Vic brought her a drink to help her relax.
More than once she caught Victor eyeing her; she wore a bathing suit and a white, cotton wrap. Her tan legs shone in the light. And the Hudson was breathtaking. Marilyn had never been down the valley before.
The boat’s new owner had brought a lady friend, Annette, and she made a fair amount of conversation with Marilyn. The quartet and the photographer took a picnic lunch on the deck, sandwiches, fruit, and wine. Marilyn noticed that Vic had a natural sense around the sailboat, fixing ropes with ease and keeping his balance from bow to stern.
As the Manhattan skyline came into view, she walked up to the bow to sit with Vic, who was sunning himself and finishing the wine. He wore dark aviator sunglasses, the kind pilots wore in the war.
“What do you think?” he asked her.
“I think I could get used to this,” she said. The boat squared on a swell, and water sprayed up on their legs. She laughed.
“I’m very glad you weren’t waiting for someone,” he said a minute or so later.
“I’m sorry?”
“At the bar in Washington Square,” he said. “I’d watched you for a while before I’d worked up the courage to go over and introduce myself. I just knew that as soon as I walked over and sat down beside you, another man would’ve come along and we really would’ve had a start.”
She caught his eye behind his glasses. “I’m glad you sat down,” she said, reaching over to rub his leg. I’ve had an awfully fun time with you.”
Just then, the boat lurched over a swell from a passing cargo ship, plunging deep into its wake before climbing back out of its trough. The bow pointed skyward before slamming down straight on the water, and in the process Marilyn was tossed up in the air—-and toward the rail. Quickly, though, she felt the firm hold of Victor as he grabbed her mid-air and pulled her down onto his lap. The result, with Victor prone on the deck and Marilyn sideways on top of him, made a perfect picture, and the photographer quickly snapped it.
That very photograph, which would later run on the back page of the newspaper with a feature story on the sailing socialite, begat two important things. First, it announced to tens of thousands of readers that the youngest son of the Salarino family—-himself, no doubt, the focus of occasional rumors from the nouveau riche realm-—had found himself a girlfriend with an impressive pedigree to boot. And second, it earned Marilyn a harsh rebuke from the administrators at Bryn Mawr, who warned her that the scandalous behavior she portrayed in the newspaper picture was unbecoming of a young lady of her stature. From that point, her social freedoms were quite limited.
“Embarrassing as it is,” she confided to her journal, “it’s turned my life awfully boring.”
Having been found unfit for duty, the lady who ran the house, Madam Harrison, was relieved of her duties, and her replacement, Mrs. Allison, watched after the girls with a much less forgiving eye. Soon, Marilyn felt that her mistake had inadvertently brought a burden on all of her housemates.
She still managed to see Victor, but her visits were relegated to the daytime hours. As tempted as she was to cut classes, she knew it would irritate the situation further, and the punishment, as she had been assured by the dean of students, would be far worse upon a second offense.
“I am a hopeless schoolgirl, and I’m afraid that I’ve taken quite a liking to Victor at exactly the wrong moment,” she wrote. “I find myself daydreaming about him often. It doesn’t help anything. We have managed to see each other at lunch at least three or four times a week. One afternoon, he took me to the park, and we kissed for an entire hour. Every time he has to drop me back for classes, I feel crestfallen.”
“To make matters worse,” she continued, “my father let me know in a letter today that the Dean told him all about the newspaper story and picture. I could feel the disappointment in his words in my very own guts.”
And so it was that Marilyn’s time in New York, which had started with great anticipation and excitement, quickly grew to a close with the competing feelings of boredom and longing. She ate her suppers alone in her room, heartbroken and lonely. The noise from the streets outside only deepened the feeling that she was missing out on so much, that on just the other side of the glass, there was a life waiting for her.
Thursday, August 5, 2010
Becoming Lovers
Marilyn had never felt so drunk in her life.
It had started with a drink with Victor two hours ago at dinner. He'd picked her up in a flashy convertible, and they'd sped off to a restaurant she'd never heard of, and before she knew it, she'd had one glass of wine, and then another, and then a third, and that was enough to put her on her way.
She fought off the urge to panic, but the sense that something was very wrong overwhelmed her. Everyone at the bar was smiling at her. Victor was telling jokes. She heard every fourth or fifth word, and she smiled and tried to keep her eyes level and laugh when everyone else was laughing. It worried her that she might be part of the jokes.
But Victor wouldn't do that--he wouldn't make fun of her. She was his date, and this was their third or fourth date, or something like that anyway. Marilyn tried to slow her mind down long enough to count their dates. The room spun when she closed her eyes. She tried instead to count how many drinks she'd had.
Then there was an arm around her waist, and it was Victor's, and through the wine sloshing through her brain she heard him say she was awfully pretty. He held her hand as she stood up and pulled her close so she wouldn't wobble. That felt good, she thought. It made her feel better.
The car was a few blocks away, so they began walking down the sidewalk. The city seemed like an underwater electric show. Marilyn saw two men approach them. Neither looked safe. She heard one of them ask Victor for some money, and Victor smiled and motioned to her, and told them tomorrow night maybe. They didn't look happy, but they kept walking. When Marilyn and Victor reached the corner, she looked back to make sure the men hadn't followed them.
"Don't worry," she heard Victor say.
"I think they're following us and I don't know how much they'd want anyway," she slurred.
"Marilyn," he said, and when she looked up, he kissed her, and suddenly everything sped back up again--the street, the noise, the blinking lights--as if someone had pulled the drain plug on her drunkenness. The glimpse of lucidity turned into a high.
And then they were back in the car, and she remembered seeing Times Square, and she remembered feeling like they were going somewhere new, and then she remembered this was where Victor lived.
It had started with a drink with Victor two hours ago at dinner. He'd picked her up in a flashy convertible, and they'd sped off to a restaurant she'd never heard of, and before she knew it, she'd had one glass of wine, and then another, and then a third, and that was enough to put her on her way.
She fought off the urge to panic, but the sense that something was very wrong overwhelmed her. Everyone at the bar was smiling at her. Victor was telling jokes. She heard every fourth or fifth word, and she smiled and tried to keep her eyes level and laugh when everyone else was laughing. It worried her that she might be part of the jokes.
But Victor wouldn't do that--he wouldn't make fun of her. She was his date, and this was their third or fourth date, or something like that anyway. Marilyn tried to slow her mind down long enough to count their dates. The room spun when she closed her eyes. She tried instead to count how many drinks she'd had.
Then there was an arm around her waist, and it was Victor's, and through the wine sloshing through her brain she heard him say she was awfully pretty. He held her hand as she stood up and pulled her close so she wouldn't wobble. That felt good, she thought. It made her feel better.
The car was a few blocks away, so they began walking down the sidewalk. The city seemed like an underwater electric show. Marilyn saw two men approach them. Neither looked safe. She heard one of them ask Victor for some money, and Victor smiled and motioned to her, and told them tomorrow night maybe. They didn't look happy, but they kept walking. When Marilyn and Victor reached the corner, she looked back to make sure the men hadn't followed them.
"Don't worry," she heard Victor say.
"I think they're following us and I don't know how much they'd want anyway," she slurred.
"Marilyn," he said, and when she looked up, he kissed her, and suddenly everything sped back up again--the street, the noise, the blinking lights--as if someone had pulled the drain plug on her drunkenness. The glimpse of lucidity turned into a high.
And then they were back in the car, and she remembered seeing Times Square, and she remembered feeling like they were going somewhere new, and then she remembered this was where Victor lived.
***
Marilyn woke up the next morning feeling startled and lost. She didn't know where she was. The doors were in the wrong places. She was alone in bed.
It was a nice bed, though. She realized the clothes she was wearing weren't her own. Slowly, she stood up, and tip-toed barefoot across the rich, shag carpet toward the door. When she pushed it open, she saw Vic asleep on a sofa.
It was a nice bed, though. She realized the clothes she was wearing weren't her own. Slowly, she stood up, and tip-toed barefoot across the rich, shag carpet toward the door. When she pushed it open, she saw Vic asleep on a sofa.
***
"I am ashamed, and yet I am fascinated," she later wrote in her journal. "What would my mother think? My father? Reverend Roberts? Everything that happened last night went against everything I've ever learned growing up about right and wrong, and yet nothing in my heart feels heavy."
"Instead, it all feels right."
"Instead, it all feels right."
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Victor, pt. 3
After Victor Salarino's tour of duty was finished, he went home to New York. He'd been gone for four years. What he found shocked him considerably.
The home he and his mother had shared with her family was filled with another gang of Italians. There was no trace of the Salarinos. He stared for a minute at the name on the door, unsure of what to do. There was a group of boys playing baseball in the street. "Excuse me," he asked one of them. "But do you know where Mrs. Salarino lives?"
The kid looked up at Vic, tall and lanky as he was in his military uniform. He was embarrassed, and looked back down. "They moved," he shrugged.
"Do you know where?"
The boy stared hard at the ground. He didn't know what to say. Finally, he muttered: "The store."
"The store?"
"Mmhmm."
"What store?"
"The STORE!" he insisted.
"They live in the store?"
The boy pointed down the street. It wasn't until then Victor noticed that there, on the corner where Ward's Dry Goods used to be, was a new sign, reading "Salarino's Department and Package Store."
He could hardly believe his eyes.
One day, though, a gentleman arrived asking for Mr. Salarini. Silvo introduced himself as Mr. Salarini, but he quickly discovered the man was looking for his father. Silvo told him that his father had gone to Europe before the Depression set in and had never returned. They had not heard from him in more than twelve years. The man said he was a lawyer from J. Barnes and Holden named Carlton.
"Are you the man of this house?" Carlton asked.
Silvo answered that his mother was still alive, but he was the oldest son still around.
"I think you'll like what I have to say," Carlton said. He went on to explain. "Before your father left the country, he owned half of the Confluence Catholic Beverage Company. Today, he owns the entire business."
Carlton said the other owner had died, God rest his soul, and that the company was therefore transferred in full ownership to the Salarino family.
Silvo knew he and his mother could not run a wine-making business back in Confluence. And the lawyer guessed he might feel that way.
"I have a proposition for you, son, if you're up for it. One of our clients is interested in buying the company from you." He reached into his briefcase and pulled out a calling card. "This is the price he'd be willing to pay."
Silvo nearly lost his balance. He had to stare at the card and count the zeroes twice to make sure it was the number he thought it was. Carlton laughed. "You'd be surprised how well the wine-making business was during the dry years. Your father was smart to have invested as he did, when he did. It didn't hurt that he went into business with a man who had no relatives or children. What do you think, son? Will you sell?"
Carlton paused, and Silvo suddenly felt uncomfortable. Something didn't feel right to him, but he wasn't sure what. He slowly tried to put his thoughts together. "This is quite a sum of money, Mr. Carlton," he said. "But an offer this large could surely benefit from more careful consideration and negotiation."
The smile quickly faded from the lawyer's face. "I'm sure you'd like to take more time, Mr. Salarino. Just know my client's offer has an expiration date."
Silvo wasn't much of a businessman by that point, but he still had an uncanny knack for sensing when he needed to turn an opportunity this way. For a second he panicked--he'd just dismissed Mr. Carlton's, and the thought of all those zeroes walking down the street with him made him feel weak--but soon enough he collected himself and put his head together with a Jewish friend he'd served with who had studied business and law.
Eventually the two worked out a counter offer for Carlton to consider. The sum of money was greater, but in return for the extra revenue, Mr. Carlton's client would make an investment in a new Salarino enterprise, and in return would control ten percent of the company. Silvo went on to buy out his uncle's general store, taking it over and moving the business to a better location and changing it from a general to a department store.
I'm sure that most of this explanation must seem silly to you now, especially if you've been to a shopping mall and seen the gigantic Salarino's department stores anchoring one end or another. Still, it's fascinating that what is now an international company with hundreds of millions of dollars in annual revenue began when Silvo bargained his way out of a wine making business and opened a modest department store in New York.
This was the store Victor Salarino came home to find his family operating when he returned from his military service. Silvo and Mrs. Salarino lived upstairs, on the third floor of the building, and soon Vic joined them. He took up the business, helping Silvo organize the books, streamline ordering, and push merchandise. The influx of Italian-Americans produced plenty of loyal customers to pounce upon the Salarino's imported Italian suits, and soon they began carrying women's fashion as well. Eventually, Victor realized they needed to expand, and with the help of a few additional investors, they opened a second shop, and then a third, and then a fourth. Today, there are more than 600 stores worldwide.
Vic enjoyed running the business, but he also enjoyed being a young bachelor in New York. He had a little bit of money, and he made no efforts to hide that fact. He'd never had much money, in fact, and he didn't know at first how to handle himself.
Furthermore, he'd never had much luck with women. At least, not serious women. He was just a greasy Italian kid who sold cotton candy at Ebbetts Field before he left for the war. Money, however, seemed to help Victor with his pursuits. He could buy his way into classier joints, pay for real drinks instead of watered down junk, and pick up girls in his convertible.
The game, as Vic played it, was relatively simple: stake out a place where the women were good looking, find a girl who looked new, and impress her with the best smoke and mirrors that growing up in New York and having a little bit of money can buy. It worked most of the time. And the girls! Every day, it seemed, there was another busload of them dropped off in the middle of Times Square, all of them doe-eyed and lost and clueless about the city that threatened to swallow them whole.
And this, dear friends, is what Victor Salarino was doing one night many, many years ago when he found his way to the Washington Square Hotel, where he found one of the classiest looking girls he'd ever seen sitting alone--alone!--in the lobby, a girl by the name of Marilyn Edisto Coolidge.
The home he and his mother had shared with her family was filled with another gang of Italians. There was no trace of the Salarinos. He stared for a minute at the name on the door, unsure of what to do. There was a group of boys playing baseball in the street. "Excuse me," he asked one of them. "But do you know where Mrs. Salarino lives?"
The kid looked up at Vic, tall and lanky as he was in his military uniform. He was embarrassed, and looked back down. "They moved," he shrugged.
"Do you know where?"
The boy stared hard at the ground. He didn't know what to say. Finally, he muttered: "The store."
"The store?"
"Mmhmm."
"What store?"
"The STORE!" he insisted.
"They live in the store?"
The boy pointed down the street. It wasn't until then Victor noticed that there, on the corner where Ward's Dry Goods used to be, was a new sign, reading "Salarino's Department and Package Store."
He could hardly believe his eyes.
***
Victor lost one of his brothers, Anthony, when a U-boat sunk the troop ship he was on. His other brother, Silvo, had been wounded mere months after he enlisted when he took a bullet to his hip that shattered the joint. He was sent home.
There wasn't much Silvo could do at first but sit with his mother and worry. Mrs. Salarino read the papers every morning and evening, fretting over every report of casualties. She worked through the day in a factory by the water that had been converted into a production facility for aircraft instruments. Silvo sat at home most days, sitting on the steps and watching people walk by.One day, though, a gentleman arrived asking for Mr. Salarini. Silvo introduced himself as Mr. Salarini, but he quickly discovered the man was looking for his father. Silvo told him that his father had gone to Europe before the Depression set in and had never returned. They had not heard from him in more than twelve years. The man said he was a lawyer from J. Barnes and Holden named Carlton.
"Are you the man of this house?" Carlton asked.
Silvo answered that his mother was still alive, but he was the oldest son still around.
"I think you'll like what I have to say," Carlton said. He went on to explain. "Before your father left the country, he owned half of the Confluence Catholic Beverage Company. Today, he owns the entire business."
Carlton said the other owner had died, God rest his soul, and that the company was therefore transferred in full ownership to the Salarino family.
Silvo knew he and his mother could not run a wine-making business back in Confluence. And the lawyer guessed he might feel that way.
"I have a proposition for you, son, if you're up for it. One of our clients is interested in buying the company from you." He reached into his briefcase and pulled out a calling card. "This is the price he'd be willing to pay."
Silvo nearly lost his balance. He had to stare at the card and count the zeroes twice to make sure it was the number he thought it was. Carlton laughed. "You'd be surprised how well the wine-making business was during the dry years. Your father was smart to have invested as he did, when he did. It didn't hurt that he went into business with a man who had no relatives or children. What do you think, son? Will you sell?"
Carlton paused, and Silvo suddenly felt uncomfortable. Something didn't feel right to him, but he wasn't sure what. He slowly tried to put his thoughts together. "This is quite a sum of money, Mr. Carlton," he said. "But an offer this large could surely benefit from more careful consideration and negotiation."
The smile quickly faded from the lawyer's face. "I'm sure you'd like to take more time, Mr. Salarino. Just know my client's offer has an expiration date."
Silvo wasn't much of a businessman by that point, but he still had an uncanny knack for sensing when he needed to turn an opportunity this way. For a second he panicked--he'd just dismissed Mr. Carlton's, and the thought of all those zeroes walking down the street with him made him feel weak--but soon enough he collected himself and put his head together with a Jewish friend he'd served with who had studied business and law.
Eventually the two worked out a counter offer for Carlton to consider. The sum of money was greater, but in return for the extra revenue, Mr. Carlton's client would make an investment in a new Salarino enterprise, and in return would control ten percent of the company. Silvo went on to buy out his uncle's general store, taking it over and moving the business to a better location and changing it from a general to a department store.
I'm sure that most of this explanation must seem silly to you now, especially if you've been to a shopping mall and seen the gigantic Salarino's department stores anchoring one end or another. Still, it's fascinating that what is now an international company with hundreds of millions of dollars in annual revenue began when Silvo bargained his way out of a wine making business and opened a modest department store in New York.
This was the store Victor Salarino came home to find his family operating when he returned from his military service. Silvo and Mrs. Salarino lived upstairs, on the third floor of the building, and soon Vic joined them. He took up the business, helping Silvo organize the books, streamline ordering, and push merchandise. The influx of Italian-Americans produced plenty of loyal customers to pounce upon the Salarino's imported Italian suits, and soon they began carrying women's fashion as well. Eventually, Victor realized they needed to expand, and with the help of a few additional investors, they opened a second shop, and then a third, and then a fourth. Today, there are more than 600 stores worldwide.
Vic enjoyed running the business, but he also enjoyed being a young bachelor in New York. He had a little bit of money, and he made no efforts to hide that fact. He'd never had much money, in fact, and he didn't know at first how to handle himself.
Furthermore, he'd never had much luck with women. At least, not serious women. He was just a greasy Italian kid who sold cotton candy at Ebbetts Field before he left for the war. Money, however, seemed to help Victor with his pursuits. He could buy his way into classier joints, pay for real drinks instead of watered down junk, and pick up girls in his convertible.
The game, as Vic played it, was relatively simple: stake out a place where the women were good looking, find a girl who looked new, and impress her with the best smoke and mirrors that growing up in New York and having a little bit of money can buy. It worked most of the time. And the girls! Every day, it seemed, there was another busload of them dropped off in the middle of Times Square, all of them doe-eyed and lost and clueless about the city that threatened to swallow them whole.
And this, dear friends, is what Victor Salarino was doing one night many, many years ago when he found his way to the Washington Square Hotel, where he found one of the classiest looking girls he'd ever seen sitting alone--alone!--in the lobby, a girl by the name of Marilyn Edisto Coolidge.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
How One Knows that it's July
The cicadas are waking me up in the mornings these days. I've stopped making a full pot of coffee, because by the time I'm awake and downstairs to drink it, the temperature outside has already pounded the top of my mercury thermometer on the deck, and slurping down a furnace--even a caffeinated furnace--is too much for me to bear.
I'll have a cup or two at the office, or so I tell myself. Jan O'Brien, the lovely woman who works at the post office counter below my little workshop, always has the coffee ready when I come by. I will pick up lunch for Jan once or twice a month (which really only entails walking over to Mary's and bringing it back to her), and somehow, that's enough for her to call it even in terms of providing me with coffee every morning, rain or shine. (Or sleet or gloom of night.)
Except for July, that is. This single month of the year is Jan's vacation time, the four weeks where she allows herself time off to go and travel the world. Jan's sister covers for her. She doesn't make me coffee.
I've known Jan for a good while now, certainly long before I resurrected the Confluence Spectator and began renting the second floor office above her counter. As a fresh out of college boy who was living pretty far away from his parents, I'd send letters home. My parents never liked talking on the phone. Dad usually managed a few words before he passed the phone to Mom. "Here's your mother" became our version of goodbye.
And of course I wrote letters to other friends, too, friends from college, my old professors, and people I'd met when I did a backpacking trip through the Green Mountains. I would hand write the letters, fold them carefully, and carry them in the back pocket of my blue jeans to the post office.
"Hello, sweetheart!" Jan would say every time I walked in. She said this the first time I walked in, decades ago. She said it to me the same way last week.
She sits on a stool behind the counter, taking envelopes, selling stamps, and chatting with anyone who walks in. She is, silver hair, wire frame glasses, glass bead jewelry and all, the spitting image of an anachronism. This is how Jan O'Brien appeared to me when I first met her, and this is how she looks today. Hello sweetheart, and then it's headfirst into whatever happens to be going on. She is not a gossip, nor is she a tattle. She is simply interested and interesting.
Jan has been around the world more times than I will ever travel in my lifetime. From her own telling it, she sat behind the post office counter long enough, watching with interest as packages arrived from all over the world, each one bearing a stamp or a marking from far away continents, and eventually enough was enough. She began saving her money--and her vacation time--and then she shoved off.
First, it was Ireland, home for Jan's ancestors and home to many of her dreams. Then to Bolivia. Then a string of visits to Asia: Indonesia, Thailand, Vietnam, China, and Korea. She has a fascinating story of crossing the DMZ and entering quite illegally into North Korea. Then hopscotching the Atlantic, back and forth, Chile and France, Venezuela and South Africa, Argentina and Israel.
The particular spring I began renting the office upstairs, Jan was preparing for a trip to Greece. Hello sweetheart, fine how are you, and then began a lovely back and forth of what she was learning from the guidebooks she'd purchased. Over coffee, she would tell me of the things she would like to see. A few weeks later, we began a primer on speaking Greek. She wanted the full immersion experience, and that meant speaking--even primitively--the language.
It was quite the vicarious experience, I'd say, hearing Jan's voice grow eager as each month passed, hearing her gain command of the new words she'd learned, seeing the small ways she prepared herself.
And then, July 1st, she was gone. Always July 1. There is something startling and yet utterly familiar about it. Every year I'll walk into the post office and feel a pit of fear jolt my stomach when I do not hear "Hello, sweetheart!" ring out. I try to hide my disappointment at her sister's perfectly polite "good morning."
This year Jan is off to Sweden. I asked her to bring me back collapsible furniture or meatballs--which ever is easier. The language lessons were quite funny after I showed her a video of the Swedish chef from the Muppet Show.
Even as I write this now from my second floor office and its view of Main Street, the children running with push-up ice cream pops, their mothers strolling slowly behind, it still feels too quiet, too different for my comfort. I am jealous of Jan, I envy her as she boards her trans-Atlantic flight, and yet I cannot help but wonder if this is the same feeling she gets every time I don't show up for work, off on my own trips to visit family or friends in far away towns.
Probably not. But this is how life is, how work and offices make for strange neighbors. How, come July, I have to make my own coffee and suffer three weeks of "good mornings." This is how one knows it's July. And how easy it is to feel excited for August.
I'll have a cup or two at the office, or so I tell myself. Jan O'Brien, the lovely woman who works at the post office counter below my little workshop, always has the coffee ready when I come by. I will pick up lunch for Jan once or twice a month (which really only entails walking over to Mary's and bringing it back to her), and somehow, that's enough for her to call it even in terms of providing me with coffee every morning, rain or shine. (Or sleet or gloom of night.)
Except for July, that is. This single month of the year is Jan's vacation time, the four weeks where she allows herself time off to go and travel the world. Jan's sister covers for her. She doesn't make me coffee.
I've known Jan for a good while now, certainly long before I resurrected the Confluence Spectator and began renting the second floor office above her counter. As a fresh out of college boy who was living pretty far away from his parents, I'd send letters home. My parents never liked talking on the phone. Dad usually managed a few words before he passed the phone to Mom. "Here's your mother" became our version of goodbye.
And of course I wrote letters to other friends, too, friends from college, my old professors, and people I'd met when I did a backpacking trip through the Green Mountains. I would hand write the letters, fold them carefully, and carry them in the back pocket of my blue jeans to the post office.
"Hello, sweetheart!" Jan would say every time I walked in. She said this the first time I walked in, decades ago. She said it to me the same way last week.
She sits on a stool behind the counter, taking envelopes, selling stamps, and chatting with anyone who walks in. She is, silver hair, wire frame glasses, glass bead jewelry and all, the spitting image of an anachronism. This is how Jan O'Brien appeared to me when I first met her, and this is how she looks today. Hello sweetheart, and then it's headfirst into whatever happens to be going on. She is not a gossip, nor is she a tattle. She is simply interested and interesting.
Jan has been around the world more times than I will ever travel in my lifetime. From her own telling it, she sat behind the post office counter long enough, watching with interest as packages arrived from all over the world, each one bearing a stamp or a marking from far away continents, and eventually enough was enough. She began saving her money--and her vacation time--and then she shoved off.
First, it was Ireland, home for Jan's ancestors and home to many of her dreams. Then to Bolivia. Then a string of visits to Asia: Indonesia, Thailand, Vietnam, China, and Korea. She has a fascinating story of crossing the DMZ and entering quite illegally into North Korea. Then hopscotching the Atlantic, back and forth, Chile and France, Venezuela and South Africa, Argentina and Israel.
The particular spring I began renting the office upstairs, Jan was preparing for a trip to Greece. Hello sweetheart, fine how are you, and then began a lovely back and forth of what she was learning from the guidebooks she'd purchased. Over coffee, she would tell me of the things she would like to see. A few weeks later, we began a primer on speaking Greek. She wanted the full immersion experience, and that meant speaking--even primitively--the language.
It was quite the vicarious experience, I'd say, hearing Jan's voice grow eager as each month passed, hearing her gain command of the new words she'd learned, seeing the small ways she prepared herself.
And then, July 1st, she was gone. Always July 1. There is something startling and yet utterly familiar about it. Every year I'll walk into the post office and feel a pit of fear jolt my stomach when I do not hear "Hello, sweetheart!" ring out. I try to hide my disappointment at her sister's perfectly polite "good morning."
This year Jan is off to Sweden. I asked her to bring me back collapsible furniture or meatballs--which ever is easier. The language lessons were quite funny after I showed her a video of the Swedish chef from the Muppet Show.
Even as I write this now from my second floor office and its view of Main Street, the children running with push-up ice cream pops, their mothers strolling slowly behind, it still feels too quiet, too different for my comfort. I am jealous of Jan, I envy her as she boards her trans-Atlantic flight, and yet I cannot help but wonder if this is the same feeling she gets every time I don't show up for work, off on my own trips to visit family or friends in far away towns.
Probably not. But this is how life is, how work and offices make for strange neighbors. How, come July, I have to make my own coffee and suffer three weeks of "good mornings." This is how one knows it's July. And how easy it is to feel excited for August.
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