The librarian rose to her feet and led Connie toward the rows of cabinets comprising the card catalog. “They’re a small band native to the area around Lake Champlain and the Connecticut River valley in Vermont and New Hampshire,” she said. “Basket-makers. Their language is a form of Algonquin.” Her thin fingers flipped through the cards inside the little wooden drawer she had chosen. “They don’t have their own reservation like the Indians in Maine. I don’t believe they’re a recognized tribe.” She shook her head. “Sorry. I’m not finding anything specific to the Abenaki.”
She moved to the far end of the row, and Connie followed her.
“Wabanaki is the general name for the nation that includes the tribes in Maine, like the Passamaquoddy and the Penobscot, as well as the Eastern and Western Abenaki.” She flipped through cards as she spoke. “Of course, some people say there never really was a native population here, just nomads passing through. Gypsies, they called them. Or Pirates, if they lived on the lake.”
“That sounds derogatory.”
“It was. Still is. Typical Caucasian attitude toward any native population. Yankees are still fighting the French and Indian Wars.” The librarian shook her head again as she pushed the drawer shut. “I’m sorry. I’m not finding anything. If you want, I can look into resources in the state library system, or maybe even borrow something from Dartmouth College. They have an extensive collection of material on American Indians. Is this for a class?”
“No, it’s personal.”
“I see.” The librarian studied Connie’s face as though it might explain the source of her interest in the topic. “Then, as you probably know, the Abenaki have pretty much gone underground in Vermont.”
Gone underground? “What do you mean?”
The woman gave her a quizzical look. “The Eugenics Survey?” She apparently expected the phrase to have significance for Connie.
She had heard the term before, but where? In genetics class? If so, she had completely spaced during that lecture. “I don’t know what that is.”
“Oh.” The librarian’s face closed off; her interest in the topic had dissolved. “Well, I’m afraid I can’t help you.” She looked past Connie toward her desk. “I have others waiting for me. Good luck with your research.”
“Thank you.” Connie watched her walk away, then glanced at the clock. Her next class would start in ten minutes, and she needed to move on. She would have to come back later to find information on eugenics surveys.
***
Tuesday was election day. Stoneham’s polling place opened at eight a.m., too late for Greg to vote and still get to his first class. Connie drove, and she teased that she was going to make sure they were late that evening. That way he couldn’t reach the polls in time to cast his ballot for Richard Nixon.
“You’re just sore because you can’t offset my vote with one of your own, little girl,” he said.
“Gianna will. She’s going at eight on the dot to vote for Humphrey.” Connie glanced at him. “You know, being the old fart you are, why aren’t you a year ahead of me in school? What did you do— goof off for a year?”
He smiled. “I stayed back in fifth grade.”
“Really? How come?”
“Rheumatic fever. I missed a lot of school.”
Connie thought about that for a moment. “That’s why you have a heart murmur?”
“Yup.”
A wave of maternal affection washed over her; he had been a child with a potentially fatal disease. “Did you live in Stoneham then?”
“No. We moved here when I was fourteen.”
Connie considered this new information. “So then, we graduated the same year. Why didn’t I know you in high school?”
“I went to a private school.”
“Oh.” She had never known anyone who went to a private school. “Where?”
“Massachusetts.”
Connie couldn’t imagine such a thing. “You lived there? Wasn’t that hard, being away from your family?”
Greg shrugged, his gaze on the road straight ahead. “We all did it.”
“Your sister, too?”
“Yup. My brothers went to military school. I would have, except for my heart condition.”
Just thinking about boarding school made Connie feel uncomfortable. “I could never have done that. I’d have died being away from my family.”
“Your family’s different than mine.” His words were devoid of emotion.
Connie wasn’t sure if he inferred something good or bad. “How’s that?”
“They just are. I could see the affection in your family, the way you get along with your sisters and your parents. I don’t have that.”
“Why not?”
“My parents are old-money Yankees—born and bred to be stuffy.”
Her thoughts traveled to her conversation with the librarian the previous day. “Someone told me that Yankees are still fighting the French and Indian Wars. What did she mean?”
“Probably that Yankees have an inborn dislike for Canucks.”
Connie scowled. “You mean French Canadians?”
Greg laughed. “You’re not a hockey fan, are you? There’s a Vancouver team in the Pacific league that calls themselves the Canucks. Canadians call themselves Canucks. It’s only a derogatory term if you want it to be.”
“Whenever I hear it, it’s not a compliment.”
“That’s probably because when you hear it, it’s from a Yankee, and it’s not meant to be a compliment.” He watched her with interest. “Still fighting the French and Indian Wars. I like it.”
Connie glanced at him. “Did you mean what you said to David about wanting to live in Boston some day?”
“Yeah. I like Boston a lot.”
“Why didn’t you go to college there instead of UVM?”
“It’s a long story, and not very interesting.”
His answer didn’t ring true, and his evasiveness bothered her. “But if you don’t like your family, why do you live at home? Why don’t you at least live on campus?”
Greg turned mischievous gray eyes on her. “If I lived on campus, I couldn’t ride with you.”
He was good, she had to admit.
Greg returned his gaze to the view outside the windshield. “I never said I don’t like my family. I just said they’re not the kind of people that you miss. They’re very pragmatic. They don’t expect to be missed.” He glanced at her once more. “How do you feel about Boston?”
“I love Boston. We drive to the North End once in a while for Italian specialty stuff, and I love to walk the Freedom Trail and go downtown. Gianna and Angie and I talked about taking the bus and doing an overnight to go see Hair when it comes to the theater district.” Her voice trailed off as she realized that might be less likely to happen now.
“Hair? I heard they take off their clothes onstage.” A grin spread across Greg’s face.
Connie smirked. “Only when the spirit moves them, and only the guys.”
“Ha!” His gaze rested on her face for a long moment, and a suggestive smile hovered at his lips.
Connie’s mind went on a journey of its own. One needn’t go to Boston to see a guy take his clothes off…
“That’s a funny look,” he said, still watching her.
Connie’s cheeks warmed with the realization that her face may have betrayed her thoughts. “I was thinking the same thing about you,” she said, avoiding his eyes.
He laughed again. “About funny looks or guys taking their clothes off?”
Connie kept her attention on the cars in front of her, flustered now. “You’re distracting me, and the traffic’s picking up,” she said. “Don’t you have something to study?”
Chapter Sixteen
Tuesday, November 5
The entire family sat in front of the television at ten p.m. and even Papa was awake. The polls were closing on the west coast, and it would be hours before all the votes were counted. In the meantime, the election was too close to cal
l, the popular vote for Nixon versus Humphrey continuing to fluctuate as more precincts reported in. Walter Cronkite was talking about exit polls and conversing with reporters on the scene in various locations across the United States, commenting on the voter turnout and speculating on the outcomes in assorted states.
Connie stood up and stretched. She had to go to school the next day, and the not-knowing would go on for hours. She said good-night and was part way into the hallway when a sharp knock on the back door made her jump. Behind her, the footrest of Papa’s recliner made a clunking noise as he left his chair. People rarely came to their door after eight at night and never at ten.
Connie moved aside and let her father pass, her eyes on his back as he crossed the kitchen floor and reached to open the door.
Paul was standing on the porch, breathing vapor into the cold night air. His expression was serious and his tone apologetic as he said something to Papa that she couldn’t hear. Her father nodded, then stepped back to let him in. Paul’s eyes immediately shifted to meet Connie’s, and the look on his face made her heart squeeze shut.
She stared at him as he approached, the tension on his face speaking for itself.
“Have you heard?” His eyes never left hers as he came to stand within inches of her face.
Connie shook her head, too frightened to answer, yet knowing what he was about to say.
Paul stared into her eyes.“They leave for Vietnam the first week in December.”
***
Angie made them cups of hot lemonade, then wordlessly left the room. Connie and Paul sat opposite one another at the kitchen table, staring down at their hands, their knuckles touching as they wrapped their fingers around warm mugs set side by side.
“We have to pray for them,” Connie said, blinking back a fresh wave of tears. She had already cried so hard in Paul’s arms, she couldn’t believe she had any tears left.
“Yeah.” He didn’t sound convinced.
“What else can we do?”
“Nothing. That’s what sucks about the whole thing. We can’t do a damn thing.” He turned his face away from hers to stare off into the darkness outside the kitchen window.
Connie studied his profile. He was so beautiful in a masculine sense, so fresh-faced and full of life, and her thoughts immediately went to the possibility that he could be the next one summoned to go. More troops were being sent every day. The war was escalating.
“They chose this,” she said, hoping to ease her own mind as well as his. “We have to remember that.”
He turned his deep blue eyes on her. “As a last resort. If they didn’t think they’d get called up anyway, they never would have volunteered. Who chooses to go die somewhere when you don’t even know what you’re dying for?”
“They’re not going to die,” Connie said firmly. She stared into his eyes. “We have to stop thinking that way. They’re going to be okay. They might get hurt, but they’re not going to die. They’re going to come home. To pick up where they left off. We have to believe that.”
He looked away from her once more. “I’m sorry I said what I said about Gianna’s boyfriend.”
Connie shrugged. “You said what you felt. You were honest.”
He turned back to her. “So, what happens now?”
“David’s not going to go away. And I’m not going to be put in a position where I have to choose between people.”
“I’m not asking you to choose.” Paul’s eyes held hers. “I mean, there’s nothing to say I’d get along with some white guy that Gianna dated, either. My sister Rita can’t stand her sister-in-law. So what? As long as they don’t move in with us.”
Connie laughed, and he gave her the slow smile that melted her heart and left her light-headed.
“Are your folks still up?” he asked.
“I think they’re in the living room. Why?”
Paul looked contrite. “I should apologize to your mother for not coming to dinner on Sunday.”
Connie nodded. “She’d probably like that.”
They rose from the table together, and he followed her into the living room. Gianna and Angie had gone off to bed, but Papa was watching television while Mamma crocheted something long and lacy out of ecru yarn. She rested her work in her lap and smiled at them as they approached her. Paul leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek, and Connie watched her mother blush. When he apologized for missing his dinner invitation, Mamma dismissed his concern with a wave of her hand. “You come this Sunday.” She wagged her finger at him. “And you don’t say no.”
Connie’s heart dropped. Her mother had no way of knowing that Connie wasn’t planning on going out with Paul that weekend.
He glanced at Connie, his eyes asking the question that hung between them. Connie forced a smile. “Sunday’s fine.”
Paul said good-night to Connie’s parents, then followed her into the kitchen. He took his jacket from the back of his chair and turned to her. “What was it you wanted to do on Saturday? You mentioned something in Burlington, but I can’t remember what.”
Connie shook her head. “La Boheme. I’m going with somebody else. You’re safe.”
Paul stood motionless, his arm partway into his jacket sleeve as his eyes searched her face. “With who?”
“You didn’t want to go, Paul.”
“Yeah, I know. Who are you going with?”
Connie met his unwavering stare. “Greg.”
Paul watched her a moment longer, then finished putting on his jacket, his lips pressed together in irritation. Instead of giving the angry retort she expected, he turned from her in silence and headed for the door. She had been ready for a fight, but now her defiance liquefied into regret. She reached out to grab his jacket sleeve. “Hey, don’t be mad. It’s just two opera lovers going to an opera together.”
He turned to look at her, and the pain in his eyes came as a complete surprise. Stricken, she slid her arms beneath his open jacket and wrapped them around his lean torso, pulling him close and pressing her cheek to his as she gently kissed the soft skin of his neck. “Paul. It’s nothing. You didn’t want to go.”
He put his arms around her and held her tightly to his chest, his face buried in her hair. “I know. I won’t make that mistake again.” He leaned back and put his mouth over hers, kissing her long and slow, ignoring the potential for her parents to enter the room at any moment. The ache in her groin was instant, the longing for his hands to find her most sensitive places an immediate reaction to the intensity of his kiss. She wanted to push him out the door and hurry him down the stairs, then press him against the building beneath the staircase and let him put his hands all over her. She would even guide them to her jeans to find the aching space between her legs that wanted his touch so badly.
“What are you doing tomorrow night?” he asked, watching her as he pulled back. “Are you free?”
“I’ll be free.” Homework or no homework, she would find a way to be free.
***
Connie kept her eyes on the road, refusing to look at Greg as he drove. Nixon had won the election.
“I promise not to gloat,” he said, his grin belying his words.
“I just feel sorry for this country,” Connie said.
Greg laughed. “Come on, it was a landslide. Thirty-two states to thirteen.”
“Electoral college. The popular vote was almost even. It’s such a stupid system,” she said bitterly.
“Look at it this way: it could have been Wallace.”
“No, it couldn’t. I’d move to Canada if that were the case.” Connie crossed her arms over her chest; the whole conversation was irritating her.
“Whew, somebody’s out of sorts today.”
Connie kept her profile to him. She had never expected to feel conflicted about going out with him again, but thanks to Paul, she was second-guessing her decision about Saturday. She liked Greg a lot, and for that reason alone, she didn’t want to raise his unrealistic hopes. The animal attraction she had to Paul—she
recognized it now for what it was—remained strong and healthy and overwhelming.
“My friends are going to Vietnam,” she answered, just to have something to say. “They ship out after Thanksgiving.”
Greg’s voice softened. “I’m sorry to hear that. I didn’t know.”
“Well, of course you didn’t know. That’s why I told you.”
Greg remained silent, and kept his attention on the road ahead.
Connie let out a long sigh and turned toward the window. “Sorry. I don’t know why I’m being a bitch.”
He cleared his throat. “I was sort of hoping our days of facing off were over, but maybe not.”
“You said you didn’t expect us to be on the same wavelength about everything.”
“I said we didn’t have to be on the same wavelength about everything in order to have things work out between us—that our differences actually make us stronger together. I didn’t say I enjoy the pissing matches.”
Her bitchiness got the better of her. “I’m not good at keeping my opinions to myself. Sorry.”
“See, this is what I don’t get.” Greg slapped the steering wheel with his palm. “I don’t even know what I did.”
Connie kept her face away from his. “You didn’t do anything. I’m just crabby. I stayed up too late last night.”
“Watching the returns?”
“Yeah, and then Paul came over to tell me about Nino and Frankie…” Connie bit her lip; she hadn’t meant to bring up Paul.
“Ah, Paul.” They rode in silence until finally Greg said, “If you’re regretting La Boheme, we can cancel. I’m sure I can sell the tickets to someone else.”
Connie did her best to sound noncommittal. “You said you’re not an opera fan. It’s up to you.”
Greg’s reaction made her jump. “No, damn it! It’s up to you! Do you want to go with me or not?”
Connie looked at him in surprise. His face was uncharacteristically dark with anger, and his eyes were flashing. He wasn’t hurt; he was angry, and his anger gave him an alpha maleness Connie had never seen in him before. Their relationship was at risk, and she realize that she cared.
“I do want to go with you.” Her heart ached as she watched him. “But I’m not going to lie to you, Greg. I’m not through with Paul. But if you’re willing to put up with that—”
Hope's Angel Page 18