Downtown

by Norma Fox Mazer

  “You’re most welcome,” Martha said and gave me a terrific kiss, right on the mouth. “Now you two hug each other,” she ordered. Gene and I sort of pawed each other on the shoulder, then we shook hands.

  After that the party went on for another hour or so and I drank a couple more glasses of wine. I knew I was drunk, or high anyway, when I noticed that I was feeling extremely happy.

  “Happiness is not my long suit,” I said to Martha. “I am not often happy.” It seemed immensely profound, but Martha laughed.

  “Of course you’re happy. Sixteen is the best time of life.”

  “When I was sixteen,” Gene said, “I was ready to leave home.”

  “For me it was like crossing over the river,” Martha said. “Fifteen was—ugh, I don’t want to even think about it! Miserable all the time. Miserable in that stinky little village of Homers Mills where I lived. But I was made all over, brand new, on my sixteenth birthday. That was when I knew I was going to be an artist.”

  When I went up to my room later, I was still buzzed. I threw my presents down on the desk and stood in front of the mirror to see what I could see. I decided to sing a song. “And what do you think I saw? And what do you think I saw? The other side of the mountain, the other side of the mountain, the other side of the MOUNTAIN,” I bellowed.

  “Hey, what’s going on up there,” Gene called.

  “I’m signing, I mean singing,” I said, sticking my head out of the door. “I’m singing in my magnificent singing voice.” I closed the door. “You are one hell of a singer,” I told myself. “And you are also one hell of a young jackass.” I snorted with jackassy cheer, hee hee hee hee, and fell back on my bed, thinking of the girl with the little gold birds pinned to her ears.

  Seven

  A couple of days later, I stood outside the Nut Shoppe, leaning against the window with my arms folded, trying for a casual I-just-happen-to-be-here effect. A warm wind rattled windows and blew papers down the street. From the corner of my eye I could see the girl behind the counter, waiting on a couple of kids. Any moment now, as soon as I had my opening remarks down pat, I was going to walk into the shop.

  Hi! (Friendly.) My name is Pete. (Informative.) What’s your name? (Nosy! Try again.)

  I saw you working here. (Really observant.) You must get sick of eating peanuts. (Nooo kidding.) Or maybe you prefer cashews? (What is this, a survey on eating habits?)

  Hello. (Good opening line.) You’re new on this job. (Straightforward, anyway.) I want to be your friend. (Beautiful. Three sentences right out of Dick and Jane. From such a sensational beginning, no telling what mad, fantastic conversation would follow. I am sixteen. How old are you? I am a sophomore in high school. What grade are you in?

  I pulled at the still-stiff collar of my new shirt. Usually I wouldn’t wear a shirt this starched. A sacrifice for the Peanut Princess. My jeans were clean, too, and I’d replaced the missing shoelace in my sneakers. What more could mortal man do?

  A woman wearing black trousers tight at the ankles and little strapped high-heeled red shoes passed me. Pretty sexy stuff for old Winston town. Maybe she’d turn back, put her hand on my arm. Hello, there. Wonderful voice, like Meryl Streep. I like younger men.

  I crossed and uncrossed my arms, cleared my throat, peered down at my sneakers. Any moment now, I was going to do it. I was going to walk into the Nut Shoppe and say—something. But just in case the Princess happened to look out the window and notice me, I put on a thoughtful, curious expression. Hi, do you like working downtown? It’s my favorite place. Yours, too? What a coincidence!

  Would a princess be apt to like dirty old downtown? I toed a greasy hamburger paper. On the corner two men were working with jackhammers. A bus huffed past. Probably she hated working downtown. Should I start by telling her I lived downtown, only a few blocks away? Or would it be more urbane and sophisticated to put it down a little? It’s definitely scummy and noisy around here. On the other hand, it’s also not boring. For a parochial little town like Winston, we get quite a mix of characters downtown. And where else can you find so much going on?

  If she said she hated downtown and loved suburbia, malls and all, would I still want to know her? (Yes.) I’d point out to her that convenient as malls were, they were also phony. Unnaturally clean. Cut off from the weather, with dead air and canned music. The world could come to an end and you’d never know it in a mall, for God’s sake, I’d say. These places are inhuman, I’d tell her. She’d probably never thought about it that way before, and she’d be so impressed with me that she’d want to know my name and …

  And what? What then? If I actually did carry on an entire conversation with her, what was the next step? Ask her for a date? How? I had never done anything like that. I didn’t think I could. No, I couldn’t. How would I do it? Just say it? Say what? I want a date with you?

  Maybe I should start off by asking her where she lived? Was that too personal? Suppose I told her how Gene and I lived right here, right in the middle of downtown. That’s fascinating! she’d say, and then she’d want to know all about me. But I’d be modest. Oh, there’s not much to tell. No, no, I’d rather hear about you.

  A man in a camel’s hair coat walked into the shop. I watched through the window. He was smiling at her, talking … He’d paid for his purchase, but he lingered, leaning on the counter. What was the matter with me? Walk right in. Open your mouth and talk. Come on, you coward!

  What happened then was I heard my father’s voice. Be proud, you’re a Connors. I looked around uneasily, as if the people on the street could hear it, too. And then my mother’s voice chimed in. We love you, darling, but there are so many children in the world …

  I twisted around, walked away. If we could have done it any other way, you know we would have … Leaving you was the hardest part … But we know you understand and you’ll be brave, that’s your contribution to the struggle …

  When had they said that? The first time I saw them after I came to live with Gene? The second time? The third time? Eight years, three visits. Oddly, it was the first visit I remembered most vividly.

  “Uncle” Marti, the same white-haired man who had brought me to Gene, showed up again and took me off on another trip. I think I was very frightened. Maybe he told me he was taking me to Laura and Hal, but if so I didn’t believe him. I’d just about gotten my footing with Gene, and now they were taking me away again. I blanked out, slept for hours. When Marti woke me up, it was dusk and we were in the country, parked in front of a row of little cabins. A sign with a big arrow and a smile face said BRIGHT’S CLEAN MOTEL. TV. VACANCY.

  I staggered after Marti toward one of the little cabins. He opened the door and stood aside for me to enter. Then he was gone and I was in a dark little room with two people I’d never seen before.

  “Pax,” the bearded man said, “it’s Daddy.” But Hal had never had a beard. And the fat, dark-haired woman said she was Laura. Laura, who was red-haired and slender and beautiful? I flattened myself against the door. I knew what it was—it was a trick to make me talk. The fat one pulled off her hair and was suddenly red-haired. She held out her arms. “Baby, baby.” She was crying. I let myself be hugged. I would never tell them anything, even if they hit me with whips and clubs.

  The people sat me down between them and asked me questions and kept hugging me and kissing me, and after a while I knew it was Laura and Hal. I started to cry and there was a knock on the door, Uncle Marti came in, and I was taken away again.

  Now, at the corner by the big clock in front of Winston Savings Bank, I stopped. Out, Laura and Hal, I don’t want you here now. Out. Out. A deep breath, think about the Peanut Princess, only her, nothing else. This isn’t your Pax world. This is you, Pete Greenwood, and you want to know that girl. Go for it.

  I turned and walked back to the Nut Shoppe, loose, not hurrying, resolute this time. Just a moment of hesitation, then I opened the door. The warm odor of roasting peanuts filled the little room. Today, her hair hung loose
around her face and she wore a smock of some pale color. I stared at her, entranced. Then she spoke.

  “May I help you?”

  “Hi.” My hand described a friendly arc in the air. She didn’t respond. The aliens sometimes take awhile to warm up. “I want—uh—haven’t made up my mind yet.” I drifted down the counter, hands in my back pockets, staring at the bins of nuts with an intelligent expression. Almonds … walnuts … raw peanuts … Brazil nuts …

  A woman with an armful of books entered. “A pound of those sugared walnuts, please.”

  The girl scooped walnuts into a white bag and weighed them. The woman paid, took her change, and left.

  “Have you decided?” She wore several gold necklaces and the little gold bird earrings.

  Hi! I know you don’t know me, but I want to know you … Hi! This may sound weird since we don’t know each other, but I can’t stop thinking about you … Hi, there. My name is Pete. I thought we should get acquainted …

  “Do you want something?” she said, looking at me suspiciously. Did she think I was a thief? DARING DAYLIGHT ROBBERY NETS SKINNY THIEF 200 POUNDS OF ROASTED PEANUTS. POLICE SET UP ROADBLOCKS.

  “Peanuts,” I said, as if inspired.

  “How much?”

  “What?”

  “How—much?” she said distinctly, and then repeated in a loud voice, “How much? One pound?”

  She obviously thought I was mentally deficient. I tried to retrieve lost ground. “Fabulous!” She stared at me. “Right,” I amended lamely.

  She filled a bag, put it on the counter. I noticed that her nails were bitten to the quick. So, the Princess had at least one bad habit. I picked up the bag and started out.

  “Hey!” she said. “You!”

  I turned hopefully. That bellow wasn’t exactly the sweet tones I’d been fantasizing about, but still, she was calling me. We were getting someplace.

  “You didn’t pay me.”

  I dug in my pocket, spilled change on the counter.

  “I’d have to pay for that pound of peanuts out of my own pocket,” she said. “It’s people like you who make it hard for people like me.”

  “It was a mistake. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

  “Oh, sure.”

  I gave up and went toward the door.

  “Hey!”

  I turned again. Maybe she ought to hire out as a football coach. She would never need a megaphone.

  “You shorted me.”

  “What?”

  “You shorted me.” She held out her hand. “Not enough money.”

  Did she think I’d done it on purpose? Trusting soul. “How much?”

  “Fifty-eight cents,” she said, like a judge pronouncing sentence on a mass murderer.

  You wanted to get to know this girl, Pax? Terrific. You are an astute judge of character. She could really brighten up your life.

  I dug in my pockets and threw change down on the counter.

  We glared at each other. I glared longer. Her eyes dropped first. Ha! Flushed with triumph, I wheeled and marched to the door.

  “Hey!” she yelled for the third time. Big vocabulary, too.

  “What now?”

  “Your peanuts,” she said, holding out the bag, and this time her eyes added, Stupid.

  Eight

  “Hi, Drew!” Wendy Varner, in a short pleated white skirt and a long red sweater, passed us in the hall, smiling, showing gorgeous teeth. “Hi, Pete,” she added in a friendly way, but with a lot less enthusiasm.

  I wondered if I should ask Drew’s advice about the girl in the Nut Shoppe. Despite the—how to say it politely?—unfriendly note on which I had left the shop the week before, I was still thinking about the Peanut Princess. I kept playing over that scene in the shop and making it come out differently. In the new improved version, she was blushing, shy, sweet. I was manly, gruff, in control.

  Hello! I’d like to get to know you and that’s why I’m here. Are you interested?

  From what I’d seen of the Peanut Princess, she would

  1. Annihilate me with a vicious stare.

  2. Bark MYOB!

  or

  3. Call the fuzz and have me arrested for violating her privacy.

  Choose one of the above. Then answer the following questions: Why had I fixed on her? Why did I continue to think about her? If I had to obsess, couldn’t I obsess over someone sweet and pleasant? How about Hitler’s sister?

  In the chem lab, Sharon Karlin perched on the edge of my desk, the better to talk to Drew. “Did you see ‘Three’s Company’ last night? It was a scream. It was humor!”

  Why couldn’t I obsess about Sharon? She certainly looked good enough with those spatters of freckles across her cheeks. Catching my eye, she smiled. She was wearing a white coverall with a polka-dotted handkerchief sticking out of the front pocket. I stared covertly at her breasts. Sharon and I were buddies. About once a week we did our math homework together in study hall. Once she’d called me at home to find out how to work a problem and then stayed on the phone for at least half an hour extra. I could have fallen in love with her in that half hour. The next day I’d wanted to rush up to her and say something terrific, at least give her the sort of bedroom-eyes look that Drew specializes in, the one that says everything without words. Instead, a desperate kind of shyness or fear had gripped me and I hadn’t even talked to her for the rest of the week.

  Today, by the time lunch rolled around, I had made up my mind to give the Peanut Princess another chance. After school I spent just long enough at a meeting of the History Club to keep Totie Golden, our faculty sponsor and my favorite teacher, from sinking into despair. Mrs. Golden was skinny, dark-haired and incredibly intense about history.

  When we had our first club meeting back in September, she told us she wanted to inspire the same love of history in us that had been inspired in her by her high school history teacher, Kenneth Glad. She said his name as though he’d been a saint. “A rare and beautiful man! He taught history with compassion. He taught it with intelligence. With attention to the people who lived along the fringes of the great tides. Our books are full of explorations, war, and revolutions, but as my mentor, Kenneth Glad, often reminded us, never forget, never, never never forget that history is people.”

  That first meeting, when Mrs. Golden had asked us to call her Totie, there had been ten of us. Now there were only three left—me, Bambi Wiurka, and Robert Rizzo. We were a pretty tight little group, despite the fact that we all went our separate ways, not only outside History Club, but even inside it. We were all reading about different periods, different places. Every Monday we got together in Totie’s classroom, and right away the talking and the yelling and the questions started. When our meeting most sounded like a street brawl, Totie just leaned back in her chair and let us go.

  For me, the weekly meetings had come to be glad spots—no pun intended, although Kenneth Glad’s name and presence were invoked so often by Totie that I thought I’d know the short, crew-cut history teacher in a roomful of strangers. Today, though, I really didn’t have history on my mind. After half an hour I slouched out with a wave to Totie. No explanations needed.

  Outside, the sky was big and blue. I had spent the first eight years of my life in a rather large, nearly skyless city that I thought was the entire world; then the next eight years here in Winston, living with a fair amount of sky, lots of trees, and one foot out the door: one foot waiting to be joined by the other foot in a fast getaway the moment Laura and Hal gave the word.

  I jogged the couple of miles downtown, easy going at first, all downhill. Past the worn granite Presbyterian church, a big bunch of little houses with neat neat lawns, past Leon’s Barber Shop, and a wave to Leon, the lizardy barber with his black patent-leather hairpiece.

  A car full of girls went by, their faces pasted to the windows. I kicked my heels up a little higher and zipped past the four corners with four gas stations, held my nose as I went by the pharmaceutical factory that hung a toilet smel
l over the whole area, and clattered over the bridge, below which rushed not water but gleaming streams of cars on the Interstate.

  I had to slow down for the traffic light at Jefferson Boulevard. As I crossed, dodging cars, I memorized three license plates, just for the practice.

  Now came the part when I didn’t feel so lithe and athletic, running uphill. On the last stretch, I checked my time by the red digital clock on the Kappa Insurance Building, Winston’s eight-story skyscraper. I was doing a nine-minute mile. Oh, well.

  I’d left History Club early because of the so adorable Peanut Princess, but instead of going straight there, I played the coward and checked in at Greenwood’s Optometry Center first. Delaying tactics.

  “Your uncle’s with a patient,” Silky said. “Do you want to go to the post office for me?”

  “Yes. No.”

  “Which one?”

  “No, not now. Maybe later. I’ve got something to do. Tell Gene I’ll be back in a little while.”

  The shop where the girl worked was only a short sprint from my uncle’s office. I didn’t run though, I didn’t trot, I didn’t even walk fast. I did cross Water Street against the light. Maybe I’d get hit by a car—then I wouldn’t have to go through with this. Better still, she’d come out of the shop, see me lying bleeding on the street, and realize it was her heartless attitude that had ruined my life.

  I stopped in Frank’s Smokery and bought the new issue of Time. Once, sitting in a hamburger shop with Drew while he talked about baseball, I had idly opened Newsweek (I think it was Newsweek), and there, in the Update section, were little circled head shots of Hal and Laura. FEMMER LAB BOMBERS: WHERE ARE THEY NOW?

  I must have gone into some kind of shock. My head heated up as if I’d been shoved into a pot of boiling water. I dropped the magazine onto the seat next to me. Drew was still talking, but I didn’t hear a word. I had gone deaf. His mouth moved, he jumped up, swung an imaginary bat. I bent furtively over the magazine, staring at the pictures of my parents, my eyes fixed and blurring. The pictures weren’t new to me; in fact, they were pictures I’d seen before in some newspaper article or other.