Little Did I Know

by Mitchell Maxwell

  I told myself to relax, but I felt overmatched. What was expected of me at noon tomorrow? I thought about my father and where he was at my age. Six thousand miles from home in a bunker somewhere in Europe. He had real problems, true stakes. Freezing his ass off and eating K rations. There was no pink-lip-glossed beauty offering herself to him. It made me feel guilty and spineless. I had a buzz from the alcohol, or her kiss, or her perfume, and a seemingly endless walk in front of me. I found a beachside pay phone and asked the operator for the local taxi company. She gave me the number for Garden Cab, I dropped a dime and ten minutes later a beat-up Chevy Impala drove up to meet me.

  My driver was a heavyset man in his midfifties sporting a long ponytail, tattoos, and a belly that made you wonder when the baby was due. His cab smelled of stale cigarettes and beer. It was a short ride home; I managed with the windows down.

  I retrieved my key from the front office. Surprisingly, Veronica was still manning the fort, and she greeted me with a big friendly smile. Noticing that I was drunk, she came around from behind the desk and steadied my walk with her arm firmly placed behind the small of my back.

  “Quite a night, handsome,” she said. “There’s a whole summer ahead.Pace yourself. You can’t live it all at once.”

  I said something dumb and obvious about her being “really hot,” as if she had never heard that before. She helped me climb the steps to my room, opened the door, and navigated me to the side of the bed. Veronica pulled off my shoes, arranged the pillows under my head, and headed out.

  Before leaving the room, I stopped her with a question. “Why is someone as pretty as you working at this crummy hotel?”

  “Why are you staying here?”

  “Because I have no money and you are the desk clerk.”

  “That’s sweet. So if I wasn’t attractive it would be all right to work here?”

  “Yup. I mean nope, don’t I? It’s just that people like you seem to have it easy. And you’re really pretty.”

  “People like me? What does that mean exactly?”

  “You are extremely attractive.” I slurred this.

  “Did you just say I looked like a tractor?”

  “No, you’re pretty. If you were a tractor, you’d be a pretty one.”

  She paused for a long time. “I’m working here because I need the money for school. I work at the front desk so I might get the chance to meet someone like you.” She said this with her tongue firmly planted in her lovely cheek.

  “If I had any money, I would give it to you,” I said.

  “Why would you give me money?”

  “Well . . . because . . .”

  “I’m pretty?”

  “Yup.”

  “Then you’re a dope.”

  “Yup,” I said proudly. “Hey, where are you going to college?”

  She sat at the very end of the bed. “I’m going to Boston University to become a shrink. I just finished two years at community college and worked here and at odd jobs to save as much money as I could. I like to watch people and their behavior. I think this’ll make me a good shrink. I can tell things about people just by looking at them.”

  “Like a fortune teller?”

  “If you’d like to look at it that way.”

  “My fortune says you want to kiss me, right?”

  “See, I knew that about you: that you were an unabashed flirt.”

  “What else?”

  “You’re ambitious and on a mission. You’re a person who chooses life rather than allowing it to choose you.”

  This inebriated silly exchange had taken on new depth. “We are both too young to think those things, to figure it all out so quickly.”

  “You’d be surprised. Our lives are there for us to make something of. To do less is a disappointment.”

  “Have you read The Fountainhead?”

  “No, do you think I should?”

  “Yes, I most definitely do.”

  She looked hard into my eyes, as if trying to figure something out. “So will you kiss me?” I asked.

  “No,” she replied very quickly and with absolute certainty.

  “But everybody kisses me. It’s like a ritual, maybe even a tradition. Why won’t you kiss me?”

  “Because everybody kisses you.”

  “That’s a real shame because you’re such a pretty tractor.” I began to wonder if the room rate was going to go up if I didn’t stop talking.

  “And although there is a certain charm about a drunken flirty lug, it’s fleeting and I’m better than that.”

  “That is so wise,” I said, sadly knowing she wasn’t going to change her mind.

  “No more trouble for you tonight, big boy. Lights out till morning.”

  She got up from the bed and left immediately. I lay there, unable to let the day or thoughts of her end. After a while I noticed there was a phone on the bedside table. I picked it up and was immediately connected to Veronica at the front desk.

  “You’re supposed to be asleep, Mr. August,” she said kindly.

  “Just one thing and then I’ll be good,” I replied. “Could you connect me to long distance?”

  I waited a brief moment, then gave her the number of my dad.

  5

  My father picked up on the third ring. “Dad, it’s me. Sorry, I know it’s late.”

  “Sammy, we’ve been waiting all day to hear from you. You okay?”

  “I’m good. Tired, but good.”

  I brought him up to speed, but I didn’t want to sound too self-indulgent. My father had been struggling in his work over the past years, yet he remained strong and good-humored. He always assured my family that the worst had already happened, and better things were coming. His optimism always got us through, and it rubbed off on me. I had always been fearless, but the encounter with Mrs. Barrows made me feel cheap and vulnerable; I needed to reach out to my dad for advice.

  I could see him smiling through the phone. “You have your whole life ahead of you. Don’t use up all your adventures in one day.”

  “You’ve been talking with the blonde?” I asked. “She just told me the same thing before I called you.”

  “But for different reasons, my son. Her agenda is much different.”

  “What’s her agenda?”

  “The answer is the joy of being you. Youth allows you to find out.”

  “So what do I do tomorrow?”

  “Don’t rush into things. Just wait and see where everything goes.”

  From where I was standing, though, there were only two choices: either I slept with the wife of a powerful man who could launch my theater career or I drove out of Plymouth without any other prospects. Even if I did sleep with her, it didn’t guarantee I would have complete control of the theater. She could always use our affair as leverage to get other things from me, or her husband could drive me out of town if he found out.

  “Dad, we both know what’s going to happen.”

  “No, we don’t. Perhaps we think we do, but in truth we don’t.”

  “I don’t want to be some asshole who doesn’t think of consequences until I’ve already screwed up or hurt someone. I want to do what’s right.”

  “You have to play the entire game and make your decisions as you move ahead. Take charge of the situation and don’t let anyone force you to do anything that makes you uncomfortable. I know you—you don’t make bad choices. Trust your instincts and you’ll know what to do.”

  “Okay, Dad. I’ll keep you posted.”

  I hung up the phone, turned on the TV and watched highlights of the Red Sox beating up on the Indians earlier in the day. I dozed off before I heard the final score.

  6

  The next morning I headed toward the beach and quickly found my stride. My legs felt strong, and as I ran along the beachfront my feet made a
rhythmic, percussive sound on the damp sand that drowned out any of last night’s doubts. I thought of all the women I’d slept with in college, and how none of them offered the allure, adventure, or adrenaline of Lizzy Barrows.

  She was the unknown, charged with fire, chaos, and bliss—a dangerous but enticing cocktail.

  When I returned to the hotel the morning clerk handed me an envelope from Mrs. Barrows. “Thanks. Do you think it might be a letter bomb?” I asked.

  She laughed. “I make no promises, but if so, rest assured I’ll let your parents know what happened to you and why you won’t be home for dinner.”

  “Much appreciated. Good to know.”

  The envelope contained a brief letter from the Barrows Foundation stating its willingness to lease the Priscilla Beach Theatre to me and to fund the theater program with fifty thousand dollars. It was signed by the president of the foundation, which according to the expensive letterhead, was Lizzy Barrows. I reread the letter to make sure I hadn’t misinterpreted it. I didn’t find any of the stipulations for the lease or the money objectionable. Just then the last clouds outside my motel window disappeared, and my room flooded with a bright, beckoning light. “Okay,” I thought, “if that’s not a sign . . . ”

  I got in my Mustang at just after ten-thirty. I thought I’d grab a quick breakfast to steady my nerves and calm my stomach. I pulled into the Garden Diner up the road, taking a seat alone at a booth near the window. A friendly waitress took my order of orange juice, fried eggs, corned beef hash, and dry English muffin. The food arrived quickly, but my mind was elsewhere and I didn’t taste a thing. I perused the newspaper someone had left at an adjacent table. The Yankees had won yesterday with Munson hitting a grand slam, while Catfish had won his seventh.

  I paid the bill, left a reasonable tip, and returned to my car. I headed over to the Barrows’s mansion with time to spare. The sun had burned off the morning rain, leaving the grounds as green as a fairway. The air smelled of fresh-cut grass, rich topsoil, and honeysuckle. There was a wisp of a breeze that offered just a scent of the ocean down below. There was one car in the driveway, a bright-red two-seat Mercedes that must have just left the showroom. To my surprise the door was ajar, with a small note on scented paper taped prominently over the doorbell:

  Auggie,

  I am on the back deck. Let yourself in and meet me there. Don’t worry, I won’t accuse you of breaking and entering; it’s safe in that regard.

  L.

  I entered the quiet house and made my way to the back deck. I was amazed by the enormous size of the home. The vaulted ceilings made me appear small and insignificant. I found the deck and watched Lizzy quietly. She was wearing a two-piece bathing suit with a revealing halter top that dramatized the unforgettable line of cleavage that had fired up my imagination the previous afternoon. A thin sarong wrapped around her hips, gradually revealing the muscular outline of her long tanned legs. She let her hair cascade sensually over her smooth bronze shoulders, making her body even more desirable. I could barely keep a clear head. I tapped on the glass door and was enthusiastically received.

  “Prompt as usual,” she said as she greeted me with a smile and a chaste kiss.

  “I like being on time. It shows respect. In the theater it‘s often said that if you are five minutes late you must multiply the minutes by the number of people waiting for you. That adds up quickly. I’d rather be early, in fact. For all you know, I could have been loitering for some time on the grounds.”

  “Security would have picked you up, but I slept with the judge a few years back and you’d be out on bail in no time.”

  “Fortunate for me.”

  She offered me a seat on a redwood chaise with a blue canvas cushion. Then she pulled a bottle of chilled Krug from the ice bucket nearby, filled a glass for me and topped off her own. She wore no makeup and was absolutely ravishing. I wondered if God was on the Barrows’s staff as a lighting designer. Mrs. Barrows would have been a sight in a blackout, but here in the noonday sun under a cloudless sky, it was hard not to stare. Or run away.

  She raised her glass. “To you, Auggie. To our summer together. To your wants. Whatever you’re looking for, I’ll help you find it.”

  We clinked glasses and drank.

  I looked away and saw several sailboats on the horizon. I decided to say something before the silence became uncomfortable. “I wanted to thank you for last night. Also, thanks for the papers this morning. I’ve gone over them a few times and spoken to my dad. I’m ready to sign.”

  She took the envelope from me and removed the papers. She perused them quickly, not reading a word. Then, using the railing as a writing surface, she signed her name and turned to me. “Now you.” She offered me the pen and watched me intently as I signed.

  “Congratulations, Auggie. Now the pressure is on you to deliver. Your ship has come in—and in Plymouth that means a bunch. Let’s celebrate.” She emptied the bottle of champagne in our respective glasses and drank. I watched her arch her neck as she drained the last drop of alcohol in her crystal flute. She poured me another glass, and I began to feel warm and flushed. “I have your check upstairs in my bedroom; why don’t you come with me . . .”

  “If it’s all right with you, Mrs. Barrows, I’d prefer to wait down here. I’m feeling a bit lightheaded and I might not make it safely up the steps.”

  “Suit yourself,” she said as if I had a third eye. “While I’m gone, pop another bottle.”

  She walked off the deck slowly but deliberately. I watched her narrow ankles disappear up the stairs. I sat there thinking how I didn’t even like champagne, and how one bottle of this stuff cost more than my car. I was a bit reticent to see where a second bottle might lead, but I was beginning to lose control of my head. I needed to pace myself so I could play the entire game. For the moment I wasn’t winning, but I certainly wasn’t losing either. I wrestled with the cork, which exploded out of the upright bottle sounding as if I’d pulled the trigger on a snub-nosed 38.

  Lizzy returned. “What you shooting at?” she asked coyly.

  “Doubt and insecurity.”

  She was now wearing a red silk robe, partially open, with a matching sash. The swimsuit was gone, and if the robe slid any further she would be wearing nothing but a smile. She took a long drag from her cigarette and blew perfect smoke rings into the air.

  “Doubt and insecurity?” she said. “What the fuck? Here’s your check—now don’t screw things up.” She finished her cigarette and flicked the butt into the ocean a hundred feet below. Classy.

  I took the check and held it away from me to admire the five numbers to the right of the dollar sign. All those zeros. My dream was starting to come true.

  She filled the flutes again and asked me to sit next to her. Then she opened her robe and placed my left hand softly on her breast. She pressed her lips on mine and moved my hand down toward her navel. I was quickly aroused and began to lose control of my thoughts.

  She kissed me again, this time practically demanding a primal response.

  Remember, I told myself, play the whole game.

  I jumped off the chaise. My boner was pressing uncomfortably against my jeans. The scene was comical, but as real as one could imagine; I felt like Jerry Lewis. I was afraid to move too quickly as I might stumble, fall on my boner and break it

  “What is this all about?” I said to her. “Do you believe in my project or do you just want to fuck me?”

  Lizzy cornered me against the deck railing. She moved in confidently for the kill, then stopped about a foot away from me and let her robe drop onto the floor. “Breathe, lover. Grab the champagne and meet me upstairs. You need to thank me properly.”

  I said nothing as she climbed the grand staircase to her bedroom.

  I thought of the talk with my dad. The alcohol made me feel brazen. I wasn’t afraid of this woman. I picked up her robe; it smelled of lilac and smoke. I collected my thoughts, found the envelope in wh
ich I had brought the contracts, and took a moment to write Mrs. Barrows a note:

  Partner,

  Thanks for the dough. I was advised not to live my entire summer’s adventures in a single day. Maybe dinner and a long talk will help my reticence disappear, but for the moment we have work to do. You may think I am an idiot but for now, see you, doll. Good luck to us both.

  PS: Put some clothes on. I wouldn’t want you to catch cold.

  I left with the check folded in my breast pocket. I drove to the Plymouth Savings Bank to open an account and make a $50K bet on my dream. Mrs. Barrows would have to wait at least until the check cleared before we could resume our cat-and-mouse game. Next time, I might even let myself get caught.

  7

  The Plymouth Savings Bank, established in 1806, was built of stone. It reflected the no-nonsense Puritan values of hard work and innate strength.

  It sat high above the knoll as if keeping an eye on the denizens of the village and their money. The leaded-glass windows, placed in an orderly fashion across the facade of the building, had tinted panes that cast a prism effect on the steps leading into the offices.

  I went to the bullpen, where Mrs. Saunders greeted me. She was a gray-haired woman approaching fifty. Her navy-blue suit made her look attractive and slender. It came adorned with a name tag above her left breast pocket. Her lapel had the bank initials PSB embroidered next to the emblem of a pilgrim. She quickly extended her hospitality and offered me the chair next to her desk. Her eyes widened when I told her I wanted to deposit $50,000. I quickly signed a multitude of forms for setting up the account, then handed Mrs. Saunders the check. I saw her wide, happy eyes narrow in disappointment.