by Nick Poff
Rick shook his head. “No, I mean your Mom. That’s the first time in six and a half years I’ve seen her really lose it.”
Ed laughed. “And it took an earthquake to make it happen.”
###
The small-scale quake caused a flurry of local excitement, but soon faded into the past for most people. Ed and Rick, though, would always remember it. “The Great Quake of ’87”, as they referred to it for years to come, would be for them the moment their anticipated “quiet summer” truly began to be a season to remember.
CHAPTER THREE
Ed and Rick were up early the next morning. They had decided the previous evening that a day out of town away from pestering people and cats was not such a bad idea. Therefore, they had planned an impromptu road trip, destination unknown. In addition to the possibility of adventure, it was a perfect day to spend with their new pride and joy, a turquoise ’67 Camaro convertible.
Ed had been in charge of the classic car cruise-in event at Porterfield Days for several years. It had become tradition for both him and Muriel to ride in the first car of the parade, Chad Foster’s Camaro. Ed had been taken by surprise this year when Chad told him he was selling the Camaro and investing in a vintage Corvette. He surprised Ed even more when he said he was giving Ed first refusal on the car, as he knew how much Ed admired it. “It’ll be in safe hands with you,” Chad had said, patting the hood with affection.
Ed talked it over with Rick, and together they gave into the giddy excitement of owning a car they both had wistfully wished for in high school. Chad Foster had led off this year’s parade with his Corvette, followed by Ed and Rick, accompanied by a kiss-throwing Muriel, in a classic car that belonged to them.
Now Ed proudly backed the car out of the carriage house. He hopped out and, with help from Rick, put the top down and secured it. They both jumped in, Ed in the driver’s seat, and Rick next to him with an atlas in his lap.
Ed started the engine. “Where am I going?”
Rick waved toward the street. “Just drive.”
Ed was about to shift into reverse when he stopped and glared at Rick. “Fasten your seat belt.”
“Huh? Oh,” Rick grunted, fumbling for the safety belt catch.
“That damn law goes into effect the first of the month,” Ed said, slipping on his shades. “We might as well get used to it.”
“Okay, captain. I’m secure. Drive!”
Ed backed up, rolled into the street, and peeled out, heading north.
Once they were on the highway Ed slipped a mix tape into the stereo. Ed was proud of his mix tapes of classic oldies, and in honor of the car’s vintage, had chosen a mix of strictly 1967 hits. Ed cranked the volume and hit the gas, his mind actually on a more recent tune, hoping the Porterfield cops were, as The Bangles had sang earlier that year, “in the donut shop”.
Ed cringed as he always did when they passed the site of the car wreck. Two years earlier, Ed and their buddy Gordy had been in Gordy’s car when another driver forced them off the road during a downpour. The utility pole where Gordy’s car had landed still leaned to one side, and the gouge marks from the impact were visible as well. Ed sighed, not about the wreck, but about Gordy, who had moved to Fort Wayne over a year earlier to be with his partner Pete. Gordy and Pete were happy and building a wonderful life together, but Ed couldn’t help but miss the old days when Gordy had been living in the carriage house apartment, always available for help, foolishness, or companionship. Gordy was, as both Ed and Rick often said, not so much a friend but the best big brother any gay man could have.
“Should we stop in Fort Wayne?” Ed asked.
Rick looked up from the atlas, knowing exactly what Ed meant. “Well, this trip is pretty spontaneous. The guys are probably at work. Maybe we can invite them down this weekend.”
“Or maybe we visit them, since we’re the ones goofing off this week.”
“Let’s call them when we get home tonight.”
“Cool.” Cheered by this thought, Ed began to sing along to “Incense and Peppermints”. After all these years Rick was used to Ed’s awful singing voice (in truth Rick’s wasn’t any better), so he knew there would be no complaints. In fact, Rick seemed to be singing under his breath as he studied the map of northern Indiana.
“I’ve got it!” Rick slapped the atlas.
Ed jumped. “Got what? Did you kill a mosquito?”
“No, I know where we should go. Spruce Lake! I was thinking about Gordy, and it popped into my mind.”
“Yeah!” Ed said enthusiastically. “Let’s do it. I’ll head for the interstate.”
###
Spruce Lake was located just beyond the state line in Michigan. Six years earlier, Gordy had decided Ed and Rick needed a weekend alone and had handed them the keys to his dad’s fishing cabin. It was during that rainy March weekend on the deserted lake they had made a serious commitment to one another and had begun to plan for their lives together.
Now on a sunny day in June Ed carefully nosed the Camaro along the rutted gravel road that led to the Smith cabin. When he spotted it he slipped the car into neutral as they both silently gazed at a memorable pit stop on their journey together.
“It looks smaller than I remember,” Rick commented. “Is that a clichéd thing to say, or what?”
“Yeah,” Ed said. “Shabbier, too. How much you wanna bet Gordy’s dad is still talking about how much he needs to give this place a coat of paint every time he’s here?”
Unlike their previous visit, there were plenty signs of human activity. They could hear shouts and splashing from a nearby swimming spot, and the roar of a speedboat echoed across the water.
“You want to get out?” Ed asked.
Rick made a face. “Naah. It doesn’t seem the same with all these people.” He grabbed the windshield and pulled himself up for a better view. “Let’s drive over to the other side and explore the area where all the spruce trees are. We were going to hike there the last time, but it was too muddy. Remember?”
“Okay.” Ed put the car in gear and with Rick as navigator made his way through a maze of narrow access roads to the far side of the lake. Underneath the towering spruce and second-growth white pine they found a cluster of more substantial lake homes and cottages. Ed was looking for an unobtrusive place to park when Rick pointed to a somewhat rundown cottage with a FOR SALE sign near the road. Ed pulled in the driveway next to a car shed covered with blooming honeysuckle.
Rick looked from the cottage to Ed and grinned. “What do you think, baby?”
Ed chuckled. “Someday, darlin’. Not today. We’ve got a lot more real estate now than we did then.”
“Yeah,” Rick said. “Funny to think, though, that when we were here the first time we had no idea we’d end up in a place like Penfield Manor. A lot has happened since then.”
“Most of it good,” Ed murmured.
Rick’s warm and tender smile spread across his face as he turned to Ed. “That’s for sure.” He pointed toward the lake. “Still, I say there’s nothing wrong with pretending. What do you say we take a stroll down to that dock like a couple of prospective buyers?”
They got out of the car and made their way across the weedy ground to a weather-beaten dock in front of the cottage. They tested the boards, and, determining it was sturdy, walked to the end and sat down with their legs just above the water.
Ed lifted his face to the sun and inhaled the fresh water scent. He sighed, filled with contentment for the day, the place, and his companion.
Rick took Ed’s hand and brushed a finger across the gold ring there before he gently linked their fingers together. Ed smiled, feeling the same warmth and security he always felt in Rick’s soft but strong grip. Their clasped hands had come to symbolize their mutual love and dedication without the unnecessary words. It was true that six years into their relationship they had to work at the passion and the romance, but in their quieter moments the union of their hands was enough to remind each of them of their
commitment and the genuine affection they had for each other.
Rick pointed across the lake. “I recall,” he began teasingly, “an earnest young handyman carving into the wet mud at the water’s edge a message saying he would love me forever. How’s that going for you?”
Ed chuckled. “Even better than I expected. How ‘bout you? I recall an intense young mailman asking me to marry him. Any regrets?”
“Nope!” Rick gave Ed’s hand a hard squeeze and then let go so he could lean back on his hands. Ed went one step further, lying down with his hands clasped behind his head.
Ed listened to the water lapping against the dock and thought how nice it was to just relax and enjoy. Still, something had been nagging at him the past few days, and he decided now was as good a time as any to tell Rick about it.
“I have a confession to make,” Ed said abruptly, breaking the silence.
“Oh, shit. Who is he?”
Ed sat up and gave Rick a playful shove. “Yeah, right! No, I was looking forward to a quiet summer as much as you, but I have to admit something; I keep thinking about Evie Fountain’s house.”
Rick’s hands slid out from under him as he began to roar with laughter. “You too? Shit, I’ve been thinking about it too, but was afraid to say anything!”
Ed laughed with him. “Great or crazy minds think alike!”
“I vote for crazy.” Rick sat up and faced Ed. “What are you thinking?”
Ed shrugged. “Oh, just wondering if it can be restored. And I hate to admit it, but I’m dying of curiosity about the interior. Who knows how Evie lived or what she did? She’s pretty much a mystery.”
“Yeah,” Rick nodded thoughtfully. “I’m with you on all of that. I’ve also been running some hypothetical numbers in my head, wondering just how dirt cheap the price may be, and whether it would be worth the investment.”
“It wouldn’t hurt to look into it,” Ed said.
Rick snickered. “Famous last words! You’re right, though. Hell, we don’t even know if it’s for sale, but now that I know we’re both batshit crazy curious, I can promise you I’ll find out first thing Monday morning when I’m back at work.”
“Cool,” Ed said and sighed. “What is it about open water that makes a person hungry? I know it’s early, but I could go for lunch.”
“Well, it’s early, but we don’t know where we’re going, so I’m guessing by the time we get there it will be lunch time.”
“Some out of the way roadside diner,” Ed said, rising to his feet.
“Yeah, the kind with a counter and twirly stools.”
“And one of those big lemonade dispensers with the swirly wand inside.”
“And a doughnut display case,” Rick said excitedly, “with doughnuts made at four this morning.”
“Doughnuts the cops haven’t picked over yet.”
“And a waitress named Wanda.”
“Wanda?” Ed asked skeptically.
“Well, I’ll settle for Helen, or maybe Marge.”
“Okay,” Ed said, pulling Rick to his feet. “I’m sure I can at least find you a Helen.”
“Ah,” Rick said dramatically. “Is there no quest too mighty for the handyman I love?”
“Not for you, darlin’. As long as it’s for you I’m all in.”
###
And so, come Monday morning, Rick returned to work with the look of a man on a mission. Ed had a mission of his own – catching up on a week’s worth of pleas from his most dependent clients. By late afternoon he’d attended to most pressing items on his “to do” list and was busily ensconced in his carriage house workshop. One of his new Doster Meadows clients had persuaded him to build a wall storage unit for their living room. The price was right, and it had been some time since Ed had undertaken any kind of woodworking project.
He had Muriel for company. She was parked on the counter, swinging her sandaled feet and scribbling furiously on a notepad in her lap. Muriel lived alone in the big old Weisberg house on Oak Street, and when she grew a little too weary of her own company she decamped to Penfield Manor to, as she put it, “refresh my skills in human interaction”.
Muriel had given up a busy life in Chicago for the quieter pace of Porterfield when glaucoma had robbed her of her peripheral vision. She could see, she said; she just had to work at it harder than everyone else. She kept herself busy with volunteer projects. She was an invaluable assistant to Ed, handling myriad details during the build up to the annual Porterfield Days celebration. She had been a huge asset to Rick’s committee for Penfield Park, cutting through bureaucratic red tape with her laser-sharp skill and wit. She’d nagged and cajoled friends and associates of her late father, Dr. Nathan Weisberg, into contributing time and money for the project as well. Some of her written pleas were published in the Porterfield Courier, thanks to her old friend and classmate Rupert Fry, now editor-in-chief of the town’s newspaper.
It was Rupert’s idea that an essay about her father’s importance to Porterfield and his sense of civic duty would bring even more assistance to the park project. Dr. Weisberg had been the town’s leading family practitioner, admired and respected by more than one generation of Porterfielders. Muriel was immediately at her word processor, composing an evocative and sentimental essay about her father. Once published in the Courier it was universally praised, and indeed it brought in additional donations for the Penfield park project.
It also inspired Rupert Fry. He talked Muriel into writing a regular once-a-week column for the paper on subjects of her choice. Her perspective, he flattered her, was not that of the usual Porterfield citizen, and as such would be a breath of fresh air for the small town paper, which, like all small town newspapers, had a tendency to stagnate with unvarying local news and traditions. Muriel leapt at this opportunity, and began turning out all sorts of copy, from thoughtful and descriptive essays about the town and its surroundings, to tongue-in-cheek thoughts on current social mores. The latter sometimes created not a little a bit of titillation among Courier subscribers, and “Muriel’s Musings” became a must-read feature in the Saturday edition of the paper.
Ed and Rick observed all of this with heaps of praise for Muriel and plenty of private misgivings. They knew Muriel had a marvelous way with words and excellent communication skills. However, they also knew that, when provoked, she would defend herself, her loved ones, and her beliefs with an occasional dip into the more malicious words in her arsenal. It was, the men believed, only a matter of time before she seriously angered someone.
And indeed, the shit had hit the fan a year earlier, just after Porterfield Days ’86. Porterfield mayor Grant Latham – long on talk, short on action – had given an over-the-top speech to launch his reelection campaign in which he essentially took credit for all the good things happening in Porterfield, including the park project and the reboot of Porterfield Days.
Muriel was livid. She herself had spent long hours on both projects along with other dedicated volunteers, and knew from hard experience that Grant Latham’s contribution to those and other projects had been limited to indecisiveness and a distinct reluctance to part with even one cent of municipal funds. Her next column was the written equivalent of an explosive device. She stated the facts as she had witnessed them, and then referred to Latham as a “tacky showboat docked in the mayor’s office at the expense of Porterfield’s progress”. She went on to attack the local Republican party machine for grooming “a face but not a brain” to lead the town on behalf of their interests, and strongly implied that when it came to civic duty, Republican vision was limited to new and better sand traps on the country club golf course.
Upon publication the entire town went into an uproar. The majority of citizens, regardless of political affiliation, took delight in Muriel’s public exposure of Republican shortcomings. The head of the county Democrats was heard to say that Muriel had assisted in hoisting the Republicans by their own petard. Diehard Republicans were, of course, furious. They demanded a retraction from Rup
ert Fry and an apology from Muriel. Rupert calmly told them Muriel’s piece had run on the opinion page with the usual disclaimer about the writer expressing her own views, which were not necessarily the views of the Courier. He also pointedly told them he himself had carefully screened the column for any trace of libel before publication and had found none.
Muriel herself was strangely silent. When questioned about this by Ed, Rick, and others, she merely claimed she was weathering the storm. Ed, for one, suspected she was up to something, and waited uneasily for the next explosion.
What finally happened created subdued shock throughout the community, but came as no surprise to Ed and Rick, frequent victims of local prejudice. At a Republican fundraiser held at the Wood Haven restaurant, the long-time head of the party machine provided a vicious verbal assault on Muriel as part of the evening’s entertainment. He summarized his thoughts by saying Muriel, like her father, was nothing but a troublemaking Jew, and like all Jewish rabble stirred up dissension purely for their own profit.
Muriel had once told Ed there was a wide underground river of anti-Semitism in Porterfield. While the fallout of the Republican chairman’s comments was still raining down she privately told Ed and Rick that her father had endured years of anti-Semitic bullying from the man. She had wagered her attack upon Republican hypocrisy would expose it once and for all. “It worked,” she grimly told them.
The results were far reaching. Edith Clayton, the town librarian, quickly created a display of Holocaust memoirs. Children who thought Anne Frank’s story was so much fiction learned the events described in her diary actually happened. The Stratton County Historical Museum held a screening of the movie version of Playing For Time. A local World War II vet who’d been among the first U.S. forces on the scene at Auschwitz wrote his memories of the event, and Rupert Fry published them in a week-long series in the Courier.