Summer Girls, Love Boys

by Norma Fox Mazer

  Mary didn’t go back to see Bobby for a week. When she did, Mr. Nicholes was there again, this time weeding the garden. He stopped what he was doing to talk to her. “Nice to see you, Mary. How about a Coke? It’s a real dog day.” He went into the house, and Mary sank down on the steps. Mr. Nicholes was different, not like a teacher and not like a father, either. He was most like another kid, but older, with good manners.

  Mary’s grandmother in New Mexico was sick. No one to care for her except Mary. All flights were booked! Fortunately, a small, privately piloted plane was available. By an incredible coincidence, when she boarded the plane, she found Mr. Nicholes on it. Well, he said, his face lighting up, this is a piece of good fortune!—

  “Doing anything special this summer?” Mr. Nicholes sat down beside her on the steps. He handed her a frosty bottle. He had a strong, sweaty smell.

  “Just my music and—no, nothing special.”

  Over the rugged Grand Tetons, the plane was suddenly engulfed by a storm, a swirling mass of ice and snow. The pilot was flying blind, and … crashed. Only Mary and Mr. Nicholes survived. Alone, in the vast frozen wilderness, with nothing but the few pitiful things they salvaged from the wreckage …

  “You should do something special, Mary.” Mr. Nicholes leaned against her. “It’s summer! Vacation time! Va-ca-tion!” He made a sorrowful face. “All year, classrooms, paper work, now it’s summer again and, guess what, Mary? I still can’t get away from classrooms and paper work. Don’t you feel sorry for me, Mary?”

  After that day Mary always hoped Mr. Nicholes would be home when she went to Bobby’s house. But when he was, she never knew what to say to him. With Bobby, though, she was bold, she danced around his room and sang the motorsickle song in a silly Arlo voice.

  One hot day when she walked over, neither Mr. Nicholes nor Bobby was home. She sat on the steps for a while. Marigolds, like hot orange suns, bloomed near the house. Mary walked to the backyard where there were a lot of overgrown bushes and sat down under an enormous old lilac. The sun came dappled through the heart-shaped leaves, the insects sang their piercing song. How slowly time passed. How long the summer seemed. She was fifteen and nothing had changed. Would sixteen be better than fifteen? She yawned with dread. Perhaps they would still say to her, Anyway, you’re only sixteen. Would she have to wait still longer, and longer, and longer for her life to begin?

  Mary Lewisham, world-famous correspondent for the biggest newspaper in the United States, was on her way to Europe on an ocean liner. Mr. Nicholes happened to be on the same ship. Mary Lewisham often saw him standing at the ship’s rail, gazing into the distance. She thought of speaking to him, but, of course, respected his privacy. His eyes were deeply sad. Midway across the ocean, a storm came up, hundred-foot waves battered the ship, and the order came to abandon ship. In the panic Mary Lewisham and Mr. Nicholes were outstanding in their efforts to save others. They were the last ones to leave the stricken ship for a life raft, and—

  “Hi, there, girl.” Mr. Nicholes stood over her, hands on hips. “What are you doing hiding out here?”

  She stood up hurriedly, brushing off bits of grass and twigs. “It was so hot,” she said breathlessly.

  “It was so hot,” he mimicked, smiling. “Come on in the house.” And then, casually putting an arm around her shoulder as they walked toward the house, he said, “You are a very, very pretty girl. Do you know that?”

  Her throat clamped, she felt the same surge of danger and elation that had gripped her on Bobby’s cycle. (Oh, she might have been killed! Anything could have happened! And, even so, she had kept her eyes open.) In truth, Bobby hadn’t done anything that reckless. Still—how satisfying to remember those moments.

  “What’ll it be, Mary?” he said in the kitchen. “Coke or orange juice?”

  “Orange juice, please.”

  Mr. Nicholes poured juice into the blender, whipped it into a creamy froth, and filled two tall glasses. He added vodka to one glass, then held the bottle over the other. “You?” he said, smiling. Mary stared, blushed, and shook her head.

  Mr. Nicholes clinked his glass against hers. “Well, here’s to cooler weather, Mary.” He leaned against the cupboard and his shoulder touched hers.

  Months later, mere shadows of their former selves, Mary and Mr. Nicholes were rescued. Reporters surrounded them. How did you survive such incredible deprivations? I, said Mr. Nicholes, could never have made it without Mary Lewisham. She was my comfort throughout. She was magnificent. She was—

  “Tell me, Mary. What do you see in that son of mine? I can’t talk very easily to the fellow.”

  “Bobby is very sweet,” she said softly.

  “Also very lucky,” Mr. Nicholes said. “Don’t you agree? He’s got a very pretty girl friend—you know about Corky, Mary?—and another extremely pretty girl at his beck and call.” Mr. Nicholes leaned toward her. “What are you thinking, Mary? What a mysterious expression!”

  His face was now so close to hers she felt as odd as if she had been playing statues and had just been violently whirled. “Oh, Fifteen,” Mr. Nicholes said, and with a sigh he kissed her. There was a sweet oily taste on his lips. Dazed, Mary thought of marigolds, their blazing centers.

  The front door slammed and Mr. Nicholes moved away from her and opened the refrigerator. “Want a Coke now, Mary?”

  He held out the wet bottle and, from habit, from long years of training, she responded politely, “No, thank you.” A shudder passed over her and she bolted from the kitchen. In the hall Bobby was taking off his helmet.

  “Hi,” he said. “Just come over? What’s the matter? You look weird.”

  She gave him a stunned smile and, walking out, closed the screen door carefully behind her.

  That night, Mary and her parents ate in the China Doll Inn. “Let’s have egg roll and spareribs tonight,” her father said. He and her mother discussed the meal. “Do you feel like egg roll tonight, Mary?” her mother asked.

  And her father playfully said, “She looks like a little egg roll. But don’t tell her I said that!”

  Her mother laughed and tapped her father’s hand. “Now, Poppy!”

  It was as it always was. As it always had been. But how strange Mary felt. The light in the restaurant was queer, a kind of greenish light, as if they were all underwater. And Mary felt heavy, even weary, as if she had been swimming through murky water for a long time. If her mother knew what Mr. Nicholes had done, she would willingly beat him with her clubbed knuckles; she would, in Mary’s defense, tear out his hair or scratch out his eyes. And what did I do in my defense? Mary thought. The question surprised her and made her heart pound anxiously.

  “Are you going to finish your rice, Mary?”

  “More tea, Mary? Wasn’t that good, though!”

  “Yes … yes …” Mary murmured. The air was so thick and green, yes so very like water … and her arms felt so heavy …

  She was swimming, stroking strongly, when a frog—quite an enormous ugly creature—swam up beside her. The frog had staring yellow eyes that looked at her boldly. Don’t you recognize me, Mary? the frog said. Good heavens, it was Mr. Nicholes!

  “Fortune cookies, fortune cookies,” her mother said. “Is everybody listening? This is my favorite part of the meal.” Fumbling a little, she broke open the crisp shell.

  The frog followed Mary as she scrambled up on shore. Go away, she said. Scram! Vamoose! You are ugly. But the frog stuck with her, looking at her from yellow eyes. Suddenly he leaped at her. Mary was taken by surprise, but reacted fast, moving nimbly out of his way. The frog leaped for her again. Why, no, you don’t, Mary said. And jumping into the air, she came down foursquare on top of the frog. Mary, Mary, the frog gurgled, help, Mary, you’re squashing me! Mary … Mary … Ma … r … y …

  “Read your fortune, darlin’,” her father said, nudging Mary.

  She unfolded the slip of paper. “Patience. In time the grass becomes milk.”

  “That’s all right if you w
ant milk,” her father said. He and her mother laughed with pleasure at his joke.

  And Mary, looking from one to the other, thought, So much sadness of things. So much sadness of things. She didn’t know where the thought had come from, only that she ached for them: she loved them so, yet did not love them as she once had, and could not, and would not, not ever again. And ached for herself, too. To still be fifteen—oh! To still be fifteen!

  At home she closed the door to her room and took up the scissors and, cropping mercilessly, cut her hair. Cut all the long, dark, silky strands till they lay in piles around her on the floor, and her face emerged, nothing now between her and the world but a ragged head of hair.

  * THE MOTORCYCLE SONG by Arlo Guthrie. © Copyright 1967, 1968, 1969 by Appleseed Music Inc. All rights reserved. Used by permission.

  Carmella, Adelina, and Florry

  Mary Beth Lichtow

  Mr. Nalius

  American History, 4th period

  October 10

  ASSIGNMENT:

  AN ORAL HISTORY NARRATIVE

  FROM THE PAST

  COMMENT: My mother talked into our tape recorder about the time she worked in a factory. Then I typed up what she said. It was extremely interesting. Until I had this assignment, I never knew my mom had worked in a factory!

  My other comment is that when I did research for my mother’s Oral History Narrative from the Past, I was really surprised to find out that only 20% of workers in the United States belong to unions. We did a whole unit on unions, so it seems they’re very important. But if 80% of workers don’t belong to unions, they must be pretty important, too!

  (P.S., Mr. Nalius, maybe we can do a unit on workers who aren’t in unions? And if such terrible things still happen to them, as happened to my mother?)

  ORAL HISTORY NARRATIVE FROM THE PAST:

  My name is Zelda Sagan Lichtow. I guess that’s the first thing you’d want to know. I’m married, I have three kids, Susan, Jeff, and Mary Beth, and I work outside our home as a paralegal for Joffrey and Bogardus, who are terrific lawyers and married to each other. I only mention that last bit because it points up the fantastic difference between right now and the time I’m going to tell you about, which is the year 1949. That year I was nineteen and had just finished my first year of college.

  In those days you might, just might, meet a woman who was a lawyer (or a doctor or an engineer) now and then, but most of us went to college to become teachers or librarians or social workers. It’s only occurred to me recently that I have a real interest in the law, which is one reason I’m working as a paralegal. To sort of test the water, find out if I want to go to law school. I don’t want to get off the point of my story, but this is background that I think is reasonably important.

  Another thing about those days is that if you had the smarts to go to college, and if you could get up the money, you generally stayed in college. Dropping out was pretty much unknown, and certainly dropping out and then going back the way a lot of kids do today. In general everything about those days was less flexible than it is now.

  Anyway, that fall when I was supposed to go back to school, I instead went to work as a punch-press operator in a mica-insulating factory. Now, to explain how I happened to go from college student to factory worker when I was perfectly happy being a college student, I’ll have to tell you something personal about a boy I met. Actually I don’t see how I can tell this story without being personal. (Besides, the idea that history isn’t personal is ridiculous. What else is history, except people?)

  Okay, it was 1949. A few years after World War Two, and just before the Korean War, and long before the Vietnam War. A lot less money around than there is now. That’s what I meant about staying in college—lots of people were just too poor to get there. We were on the better-off side of poor. My father and mother had both worked all their lives. I mean my mother had worked outside the home, as well as inside. They had both come from poor families and each had left school early to help their families. Well, you can see why they didn’t want us kids to do that, and they did everything possible to see that we all finished high school and went to college.

  I knew all this, but, no, I wasn’t rebelling when I dropped out to work in the factory. It was just that that summer, while I was working in Rader’s Cut Rite Drugs, I met Eric. Yes, enter Eric! An older man! He was twenty-five, and I was, well, dazzled by him. Maybe you’ll think this is funny, but I’d had only one real boyfriend up to then. My parents had been very strict with me while I was in high school and when I got to college, things weren’t all that much different. Colleges back then looked at themselves as in loco parentis—taking the place of parents, and especially for girls.

  I had to be in my dorm by ten every night and have my lights out by eleven. On weekends I was allowed to stay out till one o’clock, but I had to sign in when I came back. And if I wanted to go someplace for a weekend, say, I couldn’t just go. I needed the permission of my house mother.

  Oh, that was nothing! There were rules and rules for girls. I don’t know if anybody ever wrote them down, but every girl knew these rules by heart, anyway. Such as: You speak in a low voice. You don’t act smart around boys. Let the man take the lead. And don’t, above all, don’t have sex before you’re married. That was the way to perdition. [Laughs] If you could follow all those rules, you were considered a “nice girl” who’d be married before the dangerous old age of twenty-two!

  Well, of course we all wanted to be nice, but, lord, it was so hard! You just couldn’t be yourself. A little for-instance—I loved wearing jeans. Wore them with the cuffs rolled up and with a big man’s shirt tied at the waist. Well, that was all right for weekends, but for school—forget it! It had to be stockings and skirts and little strings of fake pearls. Ladylike, you know.

  And if you were the least bit plump—and I was, for a while—under that skirt you wore a girdle. Oh! Just thinking of that girdle gives me the willies. A torture garment. As for your—What do you kids call them now? Your boobs—there wasn’t a girl I knew, including me, who wasn’t miserable about what she had. Either too much or too little, according to some mystical idea of perfection. I mean, male idea of perfection! We all felt such pressure to be perfect! And to catch a man! That, after all, was the big goal. Success in life. [Laughs]

  Listen, every night I rolled my hair up on metal curlers and then slept on those hunks of metal. More torture. But, heavens, you couldn’t go to school with straight hair! Everything really was so much more rigid and codified. That’s what appealed to me about Eric.

  To begin with, he looked like an Eric—beautiful, Nordic, Viking type. He’d been in the army, he’d been to college (on the GI Bill), and he’d done this absolutely incredible thing of getting a degree, and then not using it. From college, with his precious bachelor of arts degree, he’d become a bus driver!

  Now this bus he was driving happened to stop right in front of Rader’s Cut Rite Drugs at least four times every day. And he would come in, buy a candy bar, or a newspaper. You know. It wasn’t long before we went from joking over the counter to going out on dates. Oh, I was just dazzled. Eric was different from any of the boys I knew. He had ambition, but it wasn’t the ambition to be a professional and make boodles of money. His ambition was to be a union organizer. And more than that, he had principles. Socialist principles. He wanted to change society. Change people. Change the way things were done. I had never heard such ideas—the workers taking over the factories and having the profits, instead of the owners? And the words he used! Today, everyone uses words like establishment, power structure, and the military-industrial complex. But back then? I’d never heard things like that. Eric’s very favorite word, though, was bourgeois.

  I can still remember his saying to me, “Zel, your father is a worker, but you are bourgeois to your soul.” It was the worst thing he could call anyone! It meant having middle-class values. Being concerned about things like getting a college degree and worrying about my appearance. />
  He was right about me. [Laughs] I was trying so hard to be nice, to get ahead, to do all these things. And what for? According to Eric, so I could leave the working class, which he spoke of as “noble” (as well as “exploited”), and become one of those people who lived a smug, self-satisfied life of materialistic values!

  Furthermore, he said, when you got right down to it, the most bourgeois aspect of my behavior was my attitude about sex. To put it bluntly, Eric wanted to make love, and I was resisting. Naturally! I was a nice girl! Everything I’d been taught was that nice girls didn’t, not until they got married.

  I remember one day, after the usual push-pull, Eric blurting out, “You must think it’s property. You act like an incipient capitalist, hoarding his stake. I guess,” he said, “it’s going to take you a lot longer to get rid of your false bourgeois attitudes.”

  I just didn’t know what to say. I was crushed by his remarks. He sounded so reproachful, so regretful, so sad.

  I’m sure that was the moment when I decided that if I couldn’t live up to Eric’s standards one way, I’d do it another way. I’d find a factory job and become one of the “oppressed masses” he revered.

  My parents were stunned by my decision not to go back to school that fall. But I guess some things never change. When you’re nineteen and think you’re in love, you’re not listening to your parents.

  Anyway, the first place I tried, MIF, Mica Insulating Factory, hired me. Just like that. Couldn’t believe it. Someone from personnel pointed me across a yard to the Women’s Building and told me to find Eddy, the foreman, and give him my hiring slip.

  The Women’s Building was concrete with steel doors. I swear the walls actually quivered from the sound of what seemed to me to be a thousand presses. I found the foreman at the far end of this huge, noisy room near a stand-up desk. He took the hiring slip. “Your name is Zelda?” he shouted. I didn’t like his eyes—they were like little dirty pebbles—and I didn’t like the way he looked me over with those eyes.