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Summer Love

Page 7

by Annie Harper


  Jack lifts his head only when he is finished. His family’s plates are still untouched, and the pity and concern mapping their faces is enough to make his stomach churn. A frown knits his father’s graying eyebrows.

  “May I be excused? It’s been a long day, I’m quite tired,” Jack says.

  His mother does not utter a word, merely nods and allows him to rise from the table.

  Jack tries to think back to his afternoon with Richard, to relive every brush of fingers and fevered kiss, but other thoughts keep intervening. Richard will be expected to enlist, too. He doesn’t know if that makes it better or worse. If they were to end up out there together, would Richard hold him if he were frightened, kiss him if he were wounded, soothe him to sleep? Would they dare risk it? Could others be trusted to turn a blind eye in such circumstances?

  Jack sits perfectly still on his bed with his knees tucked up to his chest as this whirlwind of thoughts circulates, faster and faster, blurring together and falling apart at the seams. Tom nudges at his toes but slinks away when he receives no response. Jack hears a roaring in his ears, and his skin feels hot and cold all at once. He barely registers the knock on the door and breaks free from his cycle of worried thought only when his sister enters the room. “I don’t want to talk about it, Liza.”

  She slips into the room and shuts the door behind her, pout­ing. “Don’t be a spoilsport. I’ve been just dying to hear about your date since you walked through the door.”

  Jack feels as though a warm breeze has just washed over his shoulders, and the untarnished memories of his day with Rich­ard return. He smiles and pats the space next to him. “He’s even dreamier than you could imagine.”

  Eliza grins.

  * * *

  Jack spends less and less time at the shop, but for one reason or another, his father doesn’t complain. Maybe he’s trying to adjust to running the business by himself again, if—when—Jack has to leave. Or maybe he pities him, wants him to spend whatever time he has left just being a twenty-one-year old in the summertime. Whatever the motive, Jack doesn’t question it but revels in the luxury of spending his mornings ambling down by the river, slowly making his way toward Richard’s house in time for him to return from giving his morning lesson. The basket on his bicycle is always stuffed with sheet music, lines and dots and squiggles that are all but incomprehensible to Jack.

  Richard has tried more than once now to sit Jack down at the piano and teach him where to place his hands and how to press the keys; he has tried to guide Jack’s fingers through a basic jingle. But Jack fumbles, and gets frustrated, and, in truth, has no interest in learning how to play. He would far rather just watch Richard.

  They pass many an afternoon with Richard playing melo­dies at the piano while Jack lies on the floor, hands folded over his torso, and just listens. Richard can convey a million feel­ings and thoughts in the music and, when playing, often falls uncharacteristically quiet and allows the notes to speak on his behalf.

  “Do you think it’ll be different one day?” Jack asks one overcast Wednesday afternoon, as gray clouds gather thick in the sky. His eyes trace the faded marks and cracks on the ceiling, ones he’s surprised he hasn’t memorized by now. Richard continues to play something Jack can’t place—but then, he doesn’t know much about music. Jack leans on his elbows and looks at Richard’s pro­file, at his head bent slightly in concentration. “Do you imagine that one day I might be able to walk down the street holding your hand, just as you might hold Julie’s?”

  Richard doesn’t say anything, but the music shifts, its tone lightening into something almost jovial from its previous reflec­tion of outside elements. Jack sighs and lies back down, a smile playing on his lips. “Mm. I hope so, too.”

  If Julie notices anything, she doesn’t comment, but treats Jack with all the fondness of an older sister. She has a habit of walking into Richard’s house unexpected and unannounced, sometimes bearing home-baked goods—more than enough for all three of them. She feigns surprise, but it seems she is less and less nonplussed to find Jack there.

  One day she enters so quietly—altogether unlike her—that they do not hear her approach until the door to the liv­ing room clicks open. The book between them is inno­cent enough; Jack has been reading Richard some of his favor­ites from the John Keats collection he brought over this morn­ing. As the afternoon has ticked by, concentration has wan­dered some­what, and had they heard Julie so much as a moment later—

  Even now as she stands poised and silent in the doorway, she must see where their ankles touch, where Richard’s shirt collar gapes, must notice the flush of Jack’s lips, as deep as the color in his cheeks. “I brought scones,” she announces. “Richard, dig out some jam, won’t you?”

  If Jack lets himself believe that she knows nothing, he only feels guiltier. He doesn’t discuss this with Richard, doesn’t want to push more weight onto him.

  Eliza tries to discourage him from this attitude. “I’ve never known you to be selfish, Jack. I think you have every right to be that way for a change.” She pauses, avoiding his gaze. “Especially now.”

  Jack doesn’t relish the idea of being selfish, but he understands Eliza’s concerns. In the newscasts the word “enlistment” has changed to “conscription,” and his age is the peak of the most-wanted bracket. Every day he wonders if today will begin his uncertain future, but every day nothing happens. Even then, relief does not quite sink into his bones. Richard says he dislikes the idea of inevitability, firmly maintaining his “if, not when” stance in all discourse. Jack smiles sadly: if or when, he doesn’t suppose he has much choice.

  “I suppose not,” Richard says and sighs. “But it’s nice to believe that one might.”

  * * *

  On Monday, September fourth, 1939, the day after war is declared, Jack receives a letter. He fears marching orders but, rather, it is an invitation to a dance being held by the local church. They’re calling it a sendoff, but they mean farewell: one last chance for the girls to dance with their toy soldiers, before they begin to play a game they can’t possibly know how to win. The invitation is unsigned, but Jack suspects that it is Julie’s doing. His mother leaves him no choice about his attendance—he finds a shirt and his father’s tie laid out on his bed before dinner.

  Kathryn plucks a flower from the rosebush outside the house as he leaves, snapping off the thorns before giving it to him. “For whichever young lady it is that you’ve been spending all this time with.” She smiles encouragingly.

  He twirls the rose between his fingers as he walks, and the evening sun makes its petals glow.

  The church door is propped open when he arrives, and the band has started. Jack hears chatter and laughter, not the somber sounds of a subdued affair that he had feared. His feet freeze to the top step.

  “Psst!” Richard’s head pops up from the greenery at the side of the church. He offers a wide grin and his hand, to help Jack down to his level.

  “This is from my mother.” Jack holds out the rose, its stem a little bent from where he’s fiddled with it on the walk.

  Richard chuckles and tucks it into his shirt pocket as best he can. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think your mother rather liked me,” he teases, taking Jack’s other hand, too.

  They stand there together and Jack wonders whether this will be the last memory he will hold of this man, who has come to mean so much—if this moment of seclusion is for their own farewell, away from the eyes of others who would not understand.

  “Julie will be missing you,” Jack murmurs, nodding toward the church. Prolonging the inevitable isn’t going to help, Jack knows that much.

  “No, she won’t be.” Richard clears his throat. “I believe she came with her cousin. He’s been in training since April—he’s to be an officer.” Richard pauses, but Jack waits for him to con­tinue in his own time. “She came to me yesterday. After the announcement. She wanted to part on good terms, no matter the outcome. To say that she understood I coul
d never give her my heart the way she wanted me to.” He smiles. “And she wanted me to send you her best wishes and her love.”

  Jack can’t help but laugh softly, for he should have known that Julie would be too smart not to see and understand, just as Eliza has always done. Acceptance is a kind of love that Jack is pleased Richard, too, gets to experience—not least when it gives them tonight, together.

  He pauses in thought, frowning. “We can’t go in.”

  “No. We can’t,” Richard agrees, and then grins just a little too widely. He tugs on Jack’s hand, and the two of them round the back of the church.

  The church casts a shadow over a wide field, which is secluded from the road and not visible from inside. The band can be heard; the music is accompanied in a softer tone by the voices of their peers. The latter wane as they walk farther out, but the music remains, almost unaltered by distance.

  Richard lets go of Jack’s hands, takes a step back, and gives a small bow. “May I have this dance, Mr. Harrison?”

  Jack glances back toward the church; the proximity makes him nervous. But when he turns back to Richard and sees the hope in his eyes, he cannot understand his own fears. He may die tomorrow or in a year. He may return to England in full health and die an old man. But he will never have this night again.

  Jack steps forward into Richard’s arms and places his head on Richard’s shoulder as a strong hand fits into the small of his back. They link their other hands together, and their feet sink into the unkempt grass. Crickets chirp nearby, but that and all other sounds are temporarily muted as a plane rushes overhead, flying south over the peaceful evening where Jack, oblivious, dances in his lover’s arms.

  The Fire-Eater’s Daughter

  Amy Stilgenbauer

  Fried food. The air reeked of it.

  Fried hot dogs.

  Fried mushrooms.

  Platefuls of fried dough smothered in powdered sugar.

  The onslaught smelled like a delicious poison, and Ruth wanted to lap up every moment.

  She paused, breathing deeply. Only a year before, these smells had made her queasy. Then, they had brought to mind her utter failure: a misplaced F-sharp and a few nervous wording wobbles during the “Star Spangled Banner.” The missteps not only lost her the title of Miss First Town Days 1954 and a tidy sum of scholarship money, but led to more than one of the judges sug­gesting that she wasn’t quite American enough. Thinking about their words, so casually thrown about, still made Ruth grind her teeth. She was American. She ironed her dark spiral curls daily back then, forcing them straight, just like all the other girls at her high school, and she didn’t speak with even a hint of an accent. Of course, her mother barely spoke a hint of English, but Ruth had been the one judged that day, not her mother. The deep fried cream stick she ate before the judging had been meant to prove them wrong, so it probably went without saying that she threw it up all over the second-place girl.

  None of that mattered now. This year, the smells brought a different picture to her mind: mischievous grey eyes, calloused-but-tender skin a shade of deep olive, crimson lips and eyebrows plucked into a precise arch. Constance Lambrinos, the fire-eater’s daughter.

  Constance had appeared like a miracle seconds after the pag­eant. More than anything, Ruth had wanted to escape. The instant the also-ran girls had been sent from the stage, she had broken into a run, trying to put as much distance as possible between the crowd and herself. But the running hadn’t lasted long. She had never been able to sustain speed over distance, and it had been all over when her left heel snapped, sending her flying forward into the waiting arms of the angel outside the sideshow.

  “Look what I caught!” Constance had announced, her voice a rich alto, like dark chocolate. And the lips that spoke those words… Ruth hadn’t been able to respond. She had been so awestruck by Constance’s voice, her beauty, her sturdy arms gripping her shoulders.

  Yes, a year ago, the festival meant humiliation and defeat. This year, it promised the greatest possible joy.

  Deliberately trying to keep her pace slow, Ruth made her way past the fried food vendors and the men hawking games of chance. “Try your luck, pretty lady?” they called out, but to her, their words were only a pleasant buzz that meant Constance was near once again. All winter, she had dreamed of her face, desperately hoping that, when this day came, Constance would remember their connection. Her hopes were buoyed by the occasional letter, but still a nagging, insecure voice whispered that a girl like Constance had surely found someone else. The two had shared a magical week, filled with long talks about their hopes and dreams and the holding of hands. But, despite the rose-colored haze that had settled over her memories, Ruth couldn’t be sure.

  The sideshow tent, with its bold red and black striped can­vas, was set back from much of the hustle and bustle of the festival’s main fairway. But it still attracted a crowd. Women with their short summer bobs and pastel parasols gasped as a barely-dressed man walked by carrying a massive snake on his equally massive shoulders. A young girl with a long red­dish beard drew japes and snickers from a gaggle of teen­agers. Ruth felt a twinge in her stomach at the sight and hurried on, eyes searching each face for the fire-eater and his daughter.

  She saw him at the end of the row. A crowd gathered, watching the rail thin man tilt his head back and swallow the burning torch. He removed it from his mouth extinguished, then, without warning, opened his mouth, issuing a flame that relit the torch. The onlookers burst into hysterical applause. They begged for an encore. He merely laughed, breathing perfect smoke rings as he did so.

  “Ruth?” A sultry voice behind her beckoned. It couldn’t have been any louder than a whisper, but that heavy alto sound car­ried. For a moment, all activity stopped. There was only Ruth and the sound of Constance’s voice. Slowly, terrified that, if she moved too fast, the illusion would shatter and the voice would be gone, Ruth turned. There stood Constance. For a moment, she looked almost identical to Ruth’s memory. Gradually, the magic passed, and Ruth found herself able to see more subtle changes: a small burn scar on her cheek, a new, hopeful light in her eyes. A small part of Ruth had expected that seeing changes in Constance would upset her, but the opposite was true. These changes meant Constance was real and not concocted by her imagination.

  “Constance,” Ruth whispered. She felt a lightness, as though she could float away. “Is it really you?”

  “Of course it’s me. Who else would it be?” Smiling, she took Ruth by the hand, keeping her steady and on the ground.

  “I was afraid—”

  “Don’t be.” Still holding her hand, Constance led Ruth from the tent toward the fairway.

  Ruth was enthralled by Constance’s hands. They were heavily cal­loused from years of carnival setups and teardowns, but some­how still tender and soft. Absently, she rubbed at one of the callouses with her thumb.

  Constance stopped and looked back at her with a smile. Ruth hoped she would say something like, “I missed you,” but her only words were, “Are you hungry?”

  Trying not to be disappointed, Ruth nodded.

  They wove through the crowded fairway until they reached Constance’s chosen destination: a French fry vendor. Ruth had to laugh. Of all the deep-fried items on offer, Constance had chosen the common potato. “French fries?” She asked.

  “Papa’s friends with the vendor. Trust me… ” She gestured something Ruth didn’t understand and received a giant tub from the woman running the cart. Then she proceeded to dose the willowy sticks with vinegar.

  Ruth took one hesitantly, unsure of the vinegar, but, when she popped it into her mouth, she felt a rush of heat and flavor: tangy, salty, savory and somehow also sweet. Only Constance could make potatoes exotic. “That is good.”

  “I told you to trust me.”

  “Does she put magic in them?”

  Constance tsk-tsked and shook her head. “If she did, it would be a secret, now wouldn’t it?”

  Ruth took a few more of the
fries as Constance glanced around looking for a suitable place to sit. There were so many things Ruth wanted to ask her. How had her past year been? What new and exciting (or old and familiar) places had she seen? Her life seemed so mysterious, so glamorous. Ruth had lived in New Philadelphia since she was two years old and could remember little else. Constance, however, began the questioning.

  “What have you been up to, Ruth?” she asked. The look of genuine interest on her face made Ruth shiver.

  “Nothing, really,” she replied, taking more fries.

  Constance raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Nothing? You’ve been in stasis since last July?”

  “No, but—”

  “Good. I do worry about this town. It seems like, every time we come here, it’s stayed exactly the same.”

  “It’s not that bad, is it?”

  Constance scanned the area; her eyes worked like radar trying to pinpoint an exact location. “Those geese!” She cried out, pointing toward a gaggle near the lake. “I could have sworn those same geese were there last year.”

  “All geese look the same,” Ruth replied with a laugh.

  “Not to me.” She tapped her right temple. “I have the eye. I can tell these sorts of things.”

  Ruth didn’t know whether to laugh at that or not. “Maybe they like coming to the festival,” she suggested instead, daring to go on only in a meek, embarrassed tone. “Maybe they only get to see one special other goose each year here… a special goose that puts vinegar on its bread scraps.”

  A faint blush crept over Constance’s face. She smiled at Ruth, but there was a hint of sadness in her smile. Ruth didn’t like to see that, but she didn’t know what to say.

  “Would you like to ride the Ferris wheel?” Constance asked.

  Ruth nodded. “Let’s finish the fries first?”

  “Yes… we know how delicate your stomach can be.”

  As the bright orange Ferris wheel cage door snapped shut, Constance squeezed Ruth’s hand. “I’ve seen a lot of Ferris wheels in my life,” she said, her eyes growing distant. “But this one is my favorite. I think I like it because it has these cages.” She placed her free hand on the wire mesh window. “It makes me certain I won’t fall out.”

 

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