St. Patrick's Bed (Ashland, 3)

by Terence M. Green

  Yet what was its life span? Seventy years? Eighty? Like a person's: birth, development, excitement, expansion, set- ding, then decline.

  When I was a kid in the 1950s, I always wanted my parents to take me to a drive-in movie. It never happened. They would just chuckle when I mentioned it. It wasn't something they could relate to. I guess there's no better way to build an obsession.

  The first one I ever managed to get to was with my older cousin Jo-Anne—Eleanor's daughter—and her boyfriend (later husband) Bob. They were teens and my brother Dennis and I were six and eleven. It was summer vacation, near Bancroft, Ontario, some 160 miles northeast of Toronto, where Jo-Anne and Bob lived. Just outside of town, you turned off at Bird's Creek, onto a dirt road.

  The Bancroft Drive-in. I loved it—a horror double bill. On a hot July night, Dennis and I sat in the dark, in the backseat of Bob's car, enthralled.

  Last summer, when Jeanne and I were visiting a friend who has a cottage in the area, I detoured down that road just to have a look. The road is paved now, and there's no sign of the drive-in theater. It's gone. Vanished. Not abandoned or grown over, just gone. Houses line the road. After more than forty years, I couldn't even determine where exacdy it had been. I even wondered if I'd imagined the whole thing.

  But I didn't. It's still there. I know it is. Like my '60 Chev, like everything else that ever existed, it's all there. Because it happened. Because I was there. Because it's inside me.

  I remember a summer evening in my teens, cruising around Toronto in my father's car with my buddy, Joe. We ended up on Kennedy Road, north of Eglinton, near the Scarboro Drive-In.

  Summer '61. I was seventeen. Mantle and Maris each had thirty-five home runs by mid-July, and Ford Frick, Commissioner of Baseball, ruled that for either of them to beat Ruth's record of sixty, they had to do it in 154 games, instead of the new, expanded 162-game schedule. Gus Grissom was pulled from his Mercury capsule The Liberty Bell in the Atlantic near Grand Bahama Island, just before it sank three miles to the ocean floor. The baseball Leafs were probably playing the Buffalo Bisons down at the old stadium near the foot of Bathurst. I think that was also the summer that Cupcakes Cassidy was at the Casino ("Tops in Variety and Burlesque") at Queen and Bay.

  If I'd stayed home on a Saturday night, I'd end up sitting with family—Mom, Dad, Nanny, maybe Dennis too—all compromising on acceptable fare on the RCA black-and-white: Gunsmoke at eight; LawrenceWelk at nine. My only hope was talking them into switching from good old Lawrence at nine-thirty to Have Gun Will Travel. Now that wasn't bad.

  Anyway, the Scarboro Drive-in while cruising. From the Terrace was playing. Adult entertainment. I don't remember the second feature.

  We didn't drive the car in. We parked it on a dirt road and went in on foot, across fields, through ditches, over a barbed-wire fence—all in the dark.

  I remember my feet were soaked, that Joe fell on his back, his leg hooked onto the barbed wire, that even as we were doing it, we knew it was insane.

  Why did we do it? Because we were seventeen. It was wonderful.

  That was my second time at a drive-in. Under the summer stars, beside a speaker post at the rear of the lot, we sat down on the grass, ate popcorn from the concession booth, and watched Paul Newman and Joanne Woodward.

  II

  After I got my own car, the Chev, I tried taking girls a few times. The North-East. The Dufferin, the Scarboro, the 400, the 7&27. Most of my dates thought it was kitschy the first time, but I can't recall any enthusiasm for a second visit. I took Fran, my first wife, once. She didn't like it. I began to think I was the only one who liked them.

  I gave them up for years. Until Jeanne. She liked them. Adam liked them. We had fun.

  By then, there were only two left: the 400 and 7&27. Now, they're both gone too.

  "Did you ever go to the drive-in back home?" The first time I asked her, we were driving down the 400 into the city. You could see the multiscreen complex off to the west.

  "Yeah, I went, lots. The Trail Drive-In, about a mile south of Ashland, on Route 60. Right near Crisp's hot dog stand. Crisp's had apple turnovers with powdered sugar and ice cream. Good eatin'. If we didn't go to Crisp's, we'd hit the Bluegrass Grill on Winchester. Get a hot dog and a root beer, or one of their Flying Saucer Burgers, with the special sauce." A smile. "The Trail's gone now. Wollohan's Home Improvements is there." She toyed with her hair, that way she has. "There were others. Flatwoods had a drive-in—The Corral, across from Espy Road. Another one in Summit. Huntington had one—called The East. Had a rising sun on it. I think it's still there. The others, though, like The Trail, they're all gone too." She was remembering more. "Sometimes we'd go farther, make an evening out of it, maybe even a night. But that was part of the fun."

  I brightened. "Where'd you go?"

  "Across the river, into Ohio. The Kanauga, near Gallipolis. Route 7 North, on the Ohio River. About thirty miles." She was warming to it. "Bunch of us kids from Ashland might go in a couple of cars. Sometimes, a lot of the boys would hide in the trunk and we'd sneak them in. That was part of the fun too."

  "Ever get caught?"

  "Nope. Place was started up by a local family after the War—passed down through generations. It's still family owned and operated. Lot of 'em are. We think they knew, but didn't care. I remember Monday night was Carload Night."

  "Most women I've met haven't liked drive-ins," I said.

  "You like 'em?"

  I nodded. "Love 'em."

  "Well, fella," she said, "this is your lucky day."

  I looked at her, at the smile.

  "Again," she said.

  "Others were near Lexington: Mount Sterling, Paris, Stanton, Winchester. Went to the one near Mount Sterling a couple of times, but that was pretty far. Must have been a hundred miles. Besides the Kanauga, we tried the Scioto Breeze, outside Lucasville, north of Portsmouth. Another one near Jackson, Ohio. And one in West Virginia—on Route 35 at St. Albans. That's near Charleston. It's closed now. I heard they turned it into a lumberyard."

  I stopped and looked at her.

  "Yeah?" She tossed the hair from her face.

  "Amazing."

  "What is?"

  I shook my head. "I never thought I'd find you."

  That summer, 1989, after a trip to Boston, on our way back through New York State, we dawdled, enjoyed the drive. Around dinnertime, we pulled off I-90 through East Greenbush, outside Albany, and looked for a place to stay for the night. At the Econo Lodge in Rensselaer, I got out, went inside, and asked the girl at the desk how much.

  "Fifty-four ninety-five. Unless you want the upgrade. It's got a fridge, coffeemaker, hair dryer . . ."

  "How much?"

  "Fifty-nine ninety-five."

  "Upgrade me." She didn't know who she was dealing with.

  I saw it while browsing through brochures and a local newspaper, sitting on the bed in our fabulous room, looking for a place to eat. Jeanne was studying the hair dryer. "The Hollywood Drive-In," I said.

  She turned.

  "Route 66, Averill Park Road, just east of Albany." I looked up.

  A smile. "What's playing?"

  I shrugged. "Who cares?"

  Dinner: at the concession stand, pizza was seven dollars. With pepperoni, it was eight. We ordered it with. After all, I was a guy who had an upgraded room at the Econo Lodge.

  We parked in a rear corner, ate in the car, trying not to get tomato sauce all over ourselves in the dark. Drive-in movies tend not to be first run. The first feature was Rain Man. It had already won the Academy Award, back in March. Great movie. Men after my own heart, going to Vegas, winning just enough to solve a problem, no more. My dream.

  Jeanne came back from the washroom at intermission. "You have to see that one to believe it. I had to line up outside there were so many of us. One woman actually butted in. I let her. I tried to imagine having to go to the bathroom that bad."

  "I understand. I saw the men's."

  Second featur
e was Funny Farm with Chevy Chase. It was a good one to miss. As well as she could with the stick shift between us, Jeanne nestled in my arm. "You ever make out at the drive-in?"

  "Is that a question you'd like me to ask you?"

  She moved slightly. Closer. "I guess not."

  I answered anyway. "A bit. More ambition than success. Callow youth."

  She kissed my neck. "How 'bout now?"

  There were only about a hundred cars in a lot that could hold three hundred. There was nobody near us. The window was rolled down halfway. Crickets, the stars, the smell of a summer night in the country.

  "It's a good time," she said.

  For a minute, I didn't follow.

  "Middle of the month."

  A slow dawning.

  "And lots of girls get pregnant in the backseat of an automobile."

  Suddenly I wasn't forty-five years old. I was eighteen. We locked the doors, got into the backseat of the Honda, pushed the front seats as far ahead as they'd go.

  "You gotta admit," she said, "it's a perfect spot."

  "It's a perfect idea."

  And we made love. I won't tell you how we did it. I'll let you imagine. But we did it. It was a tribute to our ingenuity. And it was great. In fact, it was incredible.

  Next morning, I had coffee, juice, and the Grand Slam breakfast at Denny's. Jeanne had the Ham 'N' Chedda Omelet.

  Talk about celebrating.

  III

  The Finger Lakes—Seneca, Cayuga, Owasco, and others—are southeast of Rochester, southwest of Syracuse, maybe two hundred miles farther on from our upgraded Econo Lodge quarters. They were only a small detour on the way home, and worth seeing. This time we cranked it up a notch again—to the Holiday Inn in Auburn. $89. We were still celebrating.

  In McMurphy's Pub, downstairs, we sat at the bar and ordered the clam chowder and pints of Guinness for dinner. After eating chili dogs, fries, yogurt smoothies, and Mrs. Field's cookies at rest stops all the way along I-90, it was all we wanted. Besides, we were too impatient. We were on a mission.

  The Finger Lakes Drive-in was on Route 20, just west of Auburn. We'd spotted it late in the afternoon, touring around.

  Bull Durham was a wonderful movie: sexy, smart, funny. We'd seen it last winter, but it was even better now.

  "What do you think of Susan Sarandon?" asked Jeanne.

  "Can't hold a candle to you. You'd have to give her lessons."

  "Good answer."

  "Getting better, aren't I?"

  "There's hope."

  Picture a wooden box office, wooden concession booth, that giant screen, a sloping field of soft grass, a handful of scattered automobiles, that summer smell. It was a clear, dark evening. Stars like diamonds, enough to make you ache.

  We rolled up the windows against mosquitoes, locked the doors, climbed into the backseat, and gave "Crocodile" Dundee II a miss.

  A movie with a Roman numeral in its title, about an Australian who hunted crocodiles. How could we relate?

  Next morning, at the Auburn Family Restaurant, I had eggs, bacon, home fries, toast, juice, and coffee. Jeanne had the same, but substituted sausages for the bacon.

  What can I say? Celebration after celebration. When you're happy, you're happy.

  In Toronto, we went back to work, back to routines with Adam. Jeanne's cycle came and went. I think that was when I started to have some of my night sweats, started to wonder, before I started putting any of the pieces together.

  Like Las Vegas, the Poconos, like Niagara Falls before that, nothing happened.

  IV

  Outside the Belmont Auto Theater near Dayton, in the bright sunshine, I got back into my car.

  TWELVE

  I

  From 675, I drove east out of Dayton along the Yellow Springs Road. A mile farther, near Byron, there were cattle. Suddenly I was in the country. Just as suddenly: a pretty road, lovely homes, horses. Landscaping, three-car garages. Farms.

  Within minutes, Yellow Springs, population 4,600. The main street was artsy, attractive. Ye Olde Trail Tavern Restaurant. Dino's Cappuccinos. Ohio Silver Company. I drove past the Little Art Theater too quickly to notice what was playing.

  Then Antioch College. I got out my pocket guide, looked through it: 325,000 volumes in the Olive Kettering Library; student newspaper: Antioch Record. A small college. Expensive.

  Adam couldn't afford it. I couldn't afford to send him. From what I had seen, neither could his father.

  I got out of the car, stood on the lawn beside the college sign, stared at the oaks, the maples, the building beyond them with its six spires.

  In the house on Maxwell Avenue, we had a small liquor cabinet in the dining room when I was growing up. It was about two feet square, with hinged doors that swung from its middle, and a drawer at the bottom. Inside, in one half were shelves, filled with an assortment of different-sized tumblers for various concoctions; the other half was a space for standing bottles. There were never any bottles. Nobody in my family was a wine drinker. And none of them could handle hard liquor, so there was seldom any in the house. Beer was often plentiful—especially on weekends—but was kept in the fridge or in the cool darkness beneath the stairs in the back kitchen, en route to the basement.

  Hard liquor was drunk in bars and cocktail lounges, outside the home, on rare occasions. A souvenir of such momentous episodes was the plastic swizzle stick accompanying the drink. The drawer at the bottom of the liquor cabinet contained dozens. As kids, we could play for hours in that drawer, building with them (more interesting than Lego), lining them up, trading them, organizing by colors, shapes. There were arrows, feathers, sabers, spears, flags. No one minded us on the floor with them; we were quiet.

  When I was between the ages of ten and twelve Nanny took me with her on her annual week's summer vacation to Buffalo. Previously, she'd always gone by herself. The first year we took the bus, the next the train, and finally we flew. Nanny had never been on an airplane, and wanted to try it. It was my first flight too. We couldn't have been in the air more than twenty minutes. It was ninety miles by road, sixty by air across Lake Ontario. On the last trip, she was seventy years old.

  We stayed in downtown hotels with elevators. I bought comic books at outdoor kiosks; we went to movies and ate in restaurants.

  In the evenings, Nanny would take me into a bar or cocktail lounge, buy me a chocolate milk, get herself a Tom Collins, and we'd sit and watch television. Every now and then, a program would be in color, which was astonishing. She told me not to tell anyone that we went into bars on our holidays. I knew that if I kept quiet, I'd get more chocolate milk, the cherry from her Tom Collins, might see more TV programs in color, and pocket handfuls of those plastic swizzle sticks. It was a great deal.

  Like my brother Ron, with Da, at the bootlegger on Sunday afternoons, I was a willing conspirator. And like her father, Nanny wanted only to get away for a brief time, away from it all. Like him, she needed that drink.

  I've lost track of what happened to the liquor cabinet over the years. Someone in the family must have it. The swizzle sticks in the bottom drawer disappeared long before it did. For some reason, though, I feel badly that I don't know where they are. I miss them more than the cabinet.

  From Yellow Springs, I drove down 68 to Xenia, then west along 35 into Dayton. It was two-thirty in the afternoon when I got back into the city. I exited onto Patterson south, trundled along the Great Miami River, saw the University of Dayton Arena on the opposite side. Staying with the river, I segued onto Carillon Boulevard, and within seconds was inside Carillon Historical Park.

  In the park, I saw Dayton history: the Newcom Tavern, a two-story log house with a stone fireplace, preserved from 1796. I stood in front of a 1924 Sun Oil gas station. I scrutinized the 1905 Wright Flyer III airplane, the camera that recorded the milestone initial flight, a drawing table and sewing machine owned by the Wrights. Antique automobiles, a working 1930s print shop, vintage bicycles.

  Sitting on a bench, I s
pread my arms along its wooden back, stared at trees, river, the carillon—the 150-foot granite, steel, and limestone bell tower that stood against the blue Ohio sky—looked around me, realized how pretty it all was.

  My father was not a handsome man. In fact, in many ways he was rather homely. He was about five-seven, thin, balding, wore glasses, and unless he had been drinking, always seemed rather undemonstrative to us. As a kid, watching my mother iron clothes in the kitchen, I once asked her why she had married him. She stopped, looked up, smiled to herself, and said, "Because I love him."

  This was a complete revelation to me. Love was what I'd seen on TV and in the movies: beautiful people, romance, kissing, hugging. I saw no connection between daily events in my home and what I'd seen going on between Gregory Peck and Ann Blyth in The World in His Arms, which we'd all gone to see at the Capitol Theater on Yonge Street.

  Mom had no diamonds, never got a rose. Her wedding ring was a plain silver band that had to be cut off her finger when her hands swelled with arthritis later in her life. Yet it was Dad who pushed for the fiftieth anniversary renewal of vows in 1979 at St. Monica's Church. We stood behind them—Anne, Ron, Judy, Dennis, and myself. Mom's arthritis had her in a wheelchair by then. She seemed to accept it all. But it was Dad, I noticed, who cried. And watching him cry made me cry too.

  When she died, less than five years later, in 1984, he was lost.

  That was the year I went to Ashland. That was the year I met Jeanne and Adam, the year I started my own family, without knowing it.

  I left Carillon Park, sat in a donut shop on Far Hills Avenue, waited for the Delco shift to end. It was four o'clock. One more hour.