"Where did you say your mom went?" Peter asked as they walked into the darkened kitchen.
Mr. Chips, the family cat, purred as he weaved in and out of Cindy's ankles. She bent down and scratched his head. "New York City," Cindy answered, and straightened herself. "She went with her new boyfriend. They're going to see a musical starring Lauren Bacall."
"It's too bad she had to miss graduation."
"Yeah, but it's no big deal. She thinks this guy could really be the one, so..."
Cindy grasped a lock of her long hair and twirled it around her finger. "And she felt really bad about not being here. She asked me if I minded and everything. Besides, it's not like I was on the honor roll or anything."
"What about your dad?"
"He's got a whole brand new family," Cindy said. "He doesn't exactly have time for his old one."
Peter felt sorry for her and a little guilty that he had brought up a subject that dampened Cindy's mood. "Hey, you've still got me," he said, and caressed her arm with one hand.
"Not for long. In another couple of weeks you'll be gone too."
"Yeah, but I'll be back."
"Right, in three years. And that's if you come back. What if you end up like...Oh, Pete, why? Why did you have to go and do it?"
Peter tried to take her in his arms, but she pushed him away. "I can't explain it, Cin. It's just something I needed to do."
"You didn't even tell me...me."
"I'm sorry. I should have told you, but I was afraid you'd get upset and try to talk me out of it. I didn't even tell my family. Chip was the only one who knew."
"Chip? You told Chip O'Connell, but not me. That's just great. I'm supposed to be your girlfriend, remember?"
Cindy folded her arms and turned her back to him. Peter put his hands on her shoulders, but Cindy shrugged him off and stepped away.
"I was thinking maybe you could be more than that," Peter said.
"More than what?"
"More than my girlfriend. I was thinking maybe we could get married when I come back."
Cindy turned around to face him but kept her arms folded. "You expect me to sit around in this shit hole and wait for you while you're in Vietnam for three years?"
"No. Listen, it won't even be half that. I'm going to be training in Georgia for a few months before I ship out. I'm sure I'll get some time off. I can be home in less than twenty-four hours by bus, or you could even take a bus down there. And then when I go to 'Nam? It'll only be for twelve months. That's it. We could be married in less than eighteen months, and then wherever I'm posted after that, we'll go together. It'll be an adventure."
Cindy unfolded her arms. "What happens then?"
"Well, after that we could live in Boston. I could go to Berklee on the GI Bill and play music on the side. Maybe you could go to Beauty School while I'm away, just like you talked about. And then you could get a job as a hairdresser in Boston."
"And what about after that?"
"After that? I don't know, Cin. After that we can do anything you want, live anywhere you want."
Cindy looked down, raised her right foot onto its tip-toes and watched her knee as she shifted it from side to side. "California?"
"California? Sure, if that's where you want to be."
Cindy looked thoughtful, and then a coquettish smile lit up her face. "Did you just propose to me, Peter Ahearn?"
Peter chuckled. "Yeah, I guess I did."
He furrowed his brow. "Don't worry, Cin, everything's going to be fine, and we're going to be really happy."
"I haven't said yes yet. Let's do another joint while I think about it. Pot either makes me really horny or really paranoid. Tonight it's making me really horny."
That night they would be able to make love on a bed for the first time. Before, sex had taken place mostly in the back seat of the Ahearn Buick, a few times in the backstage area of the high school auditorium, and once, at dusk, in the woods near the Hollistown Harbor reservoir where dozens of mosquitoes had feasted on Peter's back while he thrust to satisfaction.
They began on the couch and had removed each other's clothing when Mr. Chips leaped onto Peter's lap and pierced his thigh with an errant claw. Peter cried out. He instinctively withdrew his hands from Cindy's body and cupped his shrinking erection.
"Jesus."
"Chips," Cindy scolded. She tried to lift the cat, but his claw was still imbedded in Peter's thigh.
"Ow, ow, ow," Peter cried.
"Be nice, Chips. Time for you to go outside, anyway."
Cindy cradled the cat's body with one hand after she had detached it from Peter. "You love me, don't you, Chips?" She asked as she carried the animal through the kitchen and gently released him on the back stoop.
When Cindy returned Peter was massaging his thigh with his fingers. She knelt between his knees. "Oh, poor baby, did that bad kitty hurt you? Let me kiss it and make it better."
She bent forward and kissed his upper thigh. Peter felt her warm, heavy breasts brush against his legs, and he sighed as he leaned his head back on the couch and closed his eyes.
"Come to bed," she whispered.
Moments later they were kissing on her mother's double bed, their limbs entwined. Peter felt her slick wetness on his thigh.
"Tell me you love me," she said.
"Of course I do."
"Say it."
Peter had learned early on how important this was to Cindy. They'd been "going out" for barely a week when she had first whispered Tell me you love me, even if you don't while they made out at the rear of the Bijoux Theatre. Peter had sensed yearning in her request and, feeling sorry for her, he had complied. But a lot had changed since then. Cindy had captivated him. She was the most exciting person he'd ever known.
"I love you," he whispered, meaning it.
Cindy smiled. "Be right back," she whispered as she tiptoed from the bed. She opened the top drawer of her mother's dresser, rummaged beneath the underwear, and came up with a condom. She ripped it from its foil envelope as she walked back to the bed, and then unrolled it over his hard length. Peter raised himself up on one elbow.
"No. Lie down. I want to be on top of you," she said. She sat astride him and guided him inside her. Peter held her hips and began to thrust, but Cindy leaned in and whispered to him. "Just stay still, and let me do the moving, okay?"
"Okay," he breathed.
Cindy rested her hands on Peter's shoulders and hung her head. Her blond hair brushed against his chest and ribs as she moved—not up and down as he'd expected, but slowly back and forth.
After a time, he grasped her hips and had to restrain himself from an almost overpowering urge to pound into her with all his might.
She leaned in, gently nibbled his earlobe, and started to move again, faster this time.
And she ground on him with more pressure now, rubbing herself against him faster and faster. Her heavy breasts bounced in time with her movement. Her breathing became quicker. She began to emit a tiny moan with each breath, barely audible until their volume and tempo grew with the rhythm and intensity of her movement on him.
And she rubbed against him—
And she rubbed—
And she rubbed until—
Her whole body trembled—
She whimpered...and collapsed onto his chest, her body limp. He held her tightly and felt the pounding of her heart. From time to time she quivered, and moaned softly as she did.
After several minutes, she lifted her head, laced her fingers together on his smooth chest, and rested her chin on her knuckles.
"Maybe," she said, peering at his face.
"Maybe?" Peter cocked his head.
"Maybe, I'll marry you."
Chapter 20
April 3, 1971
AT LOGAN AIRPORT in Boston, a large group of Peter's family and friends gathered at the arrival gate.
Cindy stood front-and-center, and wore her engagement ring. Her face displayed practiced expressions that Marybeth attributed to the
viewing of too many soap operas: lip-biting apprehension, eye-squinting concern, and head-tilting adoration.
The only authentic emotion to register on Cindy's face was one of wide-eyed revulsion that flitted across her features when Peter first walked into view.
Peter wore his dress green uniform. The empty bottom of his left coat sleeve was folded up and pinned to its inseam, and his left eye was covered with a thick bandage.
The contingent of family and friends clapped and cheered, and some held up homemade signs that said Welcome Home and Our Hero.
Cindy quickly recovered and reverted to her soap opera repertoire. She ran to meet Peter—Marybeth was certain that she would have run in slow motion if she could have managed it—and they fell into an awkward embrace. Peter held her as best as his injury would allow him and leaned in to kiss her. But his gauze-covered, protective metal eye-shield poked her cheekbone, startling them both and causing the botched kiss to end in nervous laughter.
§
Almost everyone agreed that Peter wasn't the same after returning from the war. He was quieter, more withdrawn. But Marybeth felt differently. She thought that Peter was adapting to his injuries and responding to therapy rather well, and that his spirits were about as high as could be expected, under the circumstances. His low points seemed to come, she noticed, after those times he'd spent alone with Cindy. And then, almost two months after he came home, insult and injury collaborated to take an even greater toll on him.
The members of John Ahearn's local Veterans of Foreign Wars (VFW) Post were very supportive of Peter They had insisted that he lead their contingent in the Gloucester Memorial Day Parade. Peter's family were hopeful that it would give him the boost he needed to break out of his funk.
Clad in a black eye patch and dress greens with the left sleeve pinned up, Peter sat atop the rear seatback of a forest green 1970 Cadillac Convertible Deville. As the open car rolled down Main Street, which was colorfully decorated for the occasion, Peter smiled self-consciously and waved to the crowd.
Though the procession started out peacefully, 1971 was the height of the anti-war movement, and halfway through the parade, a cry of "Tin Soldiers. How many more?" was heard above the cheers. A barrage of tomatoes flew from the sidelines. One found its way onto Peter's lapel.
Like Secret Service agents, the VFW marchers—most from World War II, some from World War I, the Korean conflict, and the Vietnam War—closed ranks around Peter and scanned the crowd for the tomato-wielding assailants. Peter searched the crowd too, but not for his attacker. This was the part of the procession route where Cindy had said she'd be watching the parade.
A middle-aged spectator sprinted from the sidewalk and removed her cardigan. She used it to blot tomato from Peter's face and uniform, and then smacked a kiss on his cheek and rejoined her cheering friends. Peter wished it had been Cindy.
Then he saw her or, rather, the back of her as she turned and snaked her way through the crowd of spectators, and then vanished.
That evening Cindy reappeared at the VFW picnic. Peter was huddled with a half-dozen other veterans. He had just taken a sip of draft beer from a large paper cup when Cindy tapped him on the shoulder. He turned and smiled at her.
Cindy placed her engagement ring in Peter's coat pocket, said "I just can't deal," and walked away.
§
After several months of trying to help his troubled son, John Ahearn had wearied of the inevitable snapping and snide remarks that came from Peter's mouth whenever a suggestion about work or school was made. So, it was warily that he had approached Peter one morning.
"Pete?"
"Yeah?" Peter answered without taking his eyes off the television.
"You remember my friend, Ed Boino?"
"No."
"Sure you do. He's the light keeper up at Rose Hip Point. Remember, we used to go up there sometimes when you were little?"
"No."
"Well, he remembers you. And, as it happens, he's getting ready to retire. It's a civilian job that comes under the Coast Guard. Ed says he'd be happy to arrange for you to be his replacement.
"It's kind of isolated up there, but it's good-paying government work, and your mom and I would come up and visit you a lot. I know Marybeth would too."
John Ahearn pursed his lips and awaited the tirade.
Peter stood, took one step toward his father, and then stopped.
Chapter 21
June 3, 1972
RENIE RAPOSO HELD her Admiral portable radio in one hand and tucked a sketchpad, with two charcoal pencils inside, under her arm. "American Pie" had been popular for months, and even Mamãe was not immune to humming along.
"If you're going to the lighthouse, will you take this fish stew to Mrs. Gallagher and return her pie plate?" asked Mamãe. "And don't forget to tell her how much we enjoyed her rhubarb pie."
Renie rolled her eyes.
"Don't be that way, Renie. Look, I've put everything in a bag for you, and there's room for your sketchbook too."
Renie took the bag and headed for the back door. Mamãe tapped her own cheek with her forefinger. "Aren't you forgetting something?"
Renie plodded back and pecked her mother on the cheek. She left the house and headed for the road that ran past their cottage and ended at the lighthouse. Rose Hip Point Lane consisted of two parallel dirt tracks with a wide strip of crabgrass growing between them. Renie walked along the left track.
She would graduate from junior high school the following week, but she'd already decided to be "out sick" that day. Mamãe had made her a new dress to wear for graduation, but the hem was hopelessly low and out of style. Most of the girls she knew would be wearing mini-dresses, and a few would even don hotpants outfits. Besides, no one would notice she wasn't there until she didn't come forward to receive her diploma. Even then they would just shrug and move on to the next graduate. She told herself she didn't care.
Except that she would like to think that Mr. Alvarez would miss her. Once, when she was young, she had fantasized that he and her mamãe would get married and that Nancy Alvarez would be her little sister. But things had changed. Mr. Alvarez had let his hair grow longer, and his style had evolved from suits into hipper double-knit sport coats and slacks. And as Renie's body and mind matured, she began to see him differently.
While once she had dreamed of sitting on his knee while Mr. Alvarez smiled and read to her, she now imagined that she herself might one day be Mrs. Alvarez. And why not? In less than two years she'd be the same age as Mamãe had been when she married Papai.
One lazy afternoon, in the privacy of her bedroom, she had pictured Mr. Alvarez naked. In her mind, the handsome teacher had posed like Michelangelo's statue of David. And then she had broken into tears and sobbed into her bedspread.
She had started to write her thoughts and feelings in a composition book, which, when not in use, was rolled up and hidden behind a baseboard she had pried loose at the back of her closet.
Mamãe was sympathetic to her mood swings and always tried to talk to her about any manner of things. But Mamãe was over thirty. If she didn't even know what girls were wearing these days, how could she possibly understand what her daughter was going through?
Renie was shaken from her thoughts by a sound she seldom heard on Rose Hip Point—a car motor. When she looked back, she saw a sporty red car coming up fast from behind her. She jumped from the lane and watched as it whizzed by.
The driver's window was all the way down. The car radio and her portable one were tuned to the same station and, for the split second it took for the car to pass, she heard "A Horse with No Name" in stereo. The driver was a young man with wavy blond hair, a cinnamon beard, and aviator sunglasses, and he was steering with his right hand. He didn't seem to notice her. His left arm hung out the window and Renie realized that it ended at the elbow.
§
Peter Ahearn drove his red Dodge Dart the one-mile furrowed length of the dirt road that was Rose Hip Point Lane. He arrived
at the lighthouse more than an hour late.
Ed Boino stood outside the light keeper's quarters, impatiently shifting his portly frame. A patch of thermal underwear showed through on his paunch where a button was missing from his plaid flannel shirt. Peter parked his car on the dewy grass and then sat in it for two full minutes while "A Horse with No Name" finished playing on the car radio.
Finally, Peter turned the engine off and reached for the car door handle with his left hand. But his left hand wasn't there anymore, and neither was his forearm. He cursed and lit a Marlboro, and then reached across his body with his right hand and opened the car door. He climbed out, slammed the door shut with his hip, and dragged on his cigarette.
"Mornin', Pete, good to see you," the old light keeper called out. As he walked closer to Peter, he said, "I remember when your Dad would bring you and May-bet and Tommy up here and we'd play Wiffle ball right here on the grass. Gosh, I guess you've grown a bit since those days. Your dad still brags about you all the time."
Peter's silence caused a look of concern to cross Ed's face. "What kept you, son? Did you have a flat on the way over or something?"
"Nope."
Ed waited for Peter to elaborate. When he didn't, Ed shook his head a few times. "All right, then. Let's not waste any more time. Come on, we'll start in the tower."
Ed walked briskly across the lawn to the tower door. As he put his hand on the doorknob, he turned his head back, expecting Peter to be right behind him. Peter was a good twenty yards away, ambling along as he gazed out at the vast, rolling sea.
When Peter finally caught up to him, Ed let out an exasperated sigh. "You know, Pete, I'm all done here, so I don't much care about your attitude. I'm happy to do your father a favor. But the Coast Guard won't be so forgiving. They'll expect you to be conscientious about your duties. A lot of people will be counting on it."
Peter stared at him through his Ray Ban Aviator sunglasses. Ed shook his head again and entered the tower. Peter flicked his cigarette onto the grass and removed his sunglasses, revealing the black eye patch that covered his left eye. He slipped the sunglasses into his shirt pocket next to his cigarettes and followed the old man into the semi-darkness of the tower. He waited for his good eye to adjust to the dimness, and tucked his long, blond hair behind his ears.
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