“I’m sorry, Martin.”
“It’s okay,” he said. “But you’re not handling it right.”
“I… I don’t know what you mean.”
He stopped under a streetlight and turned to her. “I may not know much,” he said, “but I’m the world’s greatest expert on people talking about me. I grew up on it.”
She didn’t speak.
“With parents like mine, people never stopped. It’s not easy being the kid of the town drunks.” He stopped suddenly, his voice tightening.
“I’m sorry, Marty,” she said.
He shook his head, blinking his eyes. “I learned when I was very young how to deal with it. You know what you are and you have to hold your head up no matter what people say. That’s what I always did. After a while it got so that they didn’t matter anymore. I knew I was doing right.”
“It’s different when you’re a girl,” she said. “No one comes right out with anything. You don’t have a chance to fight back.”
“It’s the same with me,” he said. “Do you think anyone comes right out—hey, your father’s the town drunk? Nohow. Instead they whisper and look until you wish they would come out with it so that you could say something instead of having to sit there and pretend that nothing is going on.”
She nodded, remembering what her mother had said about his coming from the wrong kind of people the first time he had come to see her. “I can’t get used to it,” she said. “I always have the feeling that they’re looking right through my clothing. I just know what they’re thinking.”
“But you know what you’ve done,” he said. “That’s more important.”
“I haven’t done anything,” she said. “That’s what makes it so terrible.”
“No,” he said with knowledge beyond his years. “That’s what makes you right and all the other wrong. And when you know that, ain’t nothing anybody can do to take it away from you.”
***
She turned the corner in front of the drugstore. The boys standing around the door suddenly fell silent but separated to let her pass. She could feel their eyes following her to the counter.
Doc Mayhew came from the back. “Afternoon, JeriLee,” he said. “What can I do for you?”
“Toothpaste, mouthwash, deodorant,” she said.
He nodded and quickly placed the packages in front of her. “We have a one-cent sale on Love-Glo cosmetics,” he said. “Buy one lipstick and get the second for only a penny.”
She shook her head. “I don’t think so.”
“It’s very good,” he said. “You ought to try it. Just as good as Revlon or Helena Rubinstein or those other fancy labels.”
“Maybe next time,” she said. She took out her list. “Aspirin too, please.”
He picked up the bottle from the shelf behind him. “Love-Glo has eye shadow and nail polish too. Same deal goes.”
“No, thank you, Doc.”
“Sale’s on only till the end of the week.”
She nodded. “I’ll mention it to my mother. Maybe there’s something she might want.”
“Do that,” he said pleasantly. “Charge or cash?”
“Charge, please.” She walked over to the magazine rack while he was writing up the sales slip and picked up a Hollywood magazine. There was a picture of Clark Gable on the cover. Idly she leafed through it. Out of the corner of her eye she could see the boys outside still watching her.
“All ready now, JeriLee,” the druggist said.
She put the magazine back on the rack and picked up the package from the counter. The boys parted again to let her go by. She acted as if she didn’t even see them. She was almost at the corner when they caught up to her.
“JeriLee,” one of them said.
She stopped and looked at him coldly.
“How you doin’, JeriLee?” he asked.
“Okay, Carl,” she answered shortly.
“Not workin’ out at the club no more?”
“No.”
“Good.” He smiled. “Now, maybe, you’ll have some time to give a local guy a break.”
She didn’t return his smile.
“Never could understand why the town girls all run after those city people.”
“I don’t see anybody running after them,” she said.
“Come on, JeriLee. You know that I mean.”
Her eyes were steady. “No, I don’t.”
“They ain’t the only ones who know how to have fun. We don’t do so bad, do we, fellas?”
There was a general chorus of agreement from the other boys. He looked at them, smiling. Emboldened by their support, he turned back to her. “What do you say, JeriLee? Suppose we take in a movie one night? Then maybe take a ride out to the Point? I got wheels.”
“No,” she said flatly.
He stared at her, suddenly deflated. “Why not?”
“Because I don’t like you, that’s why,” she answered in a cold voice.
He grew angry. “What the matter, JeriLee? You like niggers better?”
Her slap took him by surprise. He caught her hand angrily and held it so tightly she felt the pain shooting up her arm. “You got no right to be so snooty, JeriLee. We know all about you.”
She stared into his eyes, her face white. “Let me go!” she said through clenched lips.
He dropped her hand abruptly. “You’ll be sorry,” he said.
She pushed her way past them and managed to hold her head high until she turned the corner. Then she felt herself begin to tremble. She put a hand against the wall of the building to steady herself. A moment later she drew a very deep breath and began to walk again. But she could hardly see where she was going. She was almost blinded by her tears.
It was the next day that the graffiti began to appear on the fences and walls near her home: JERILEE FUCKS, JERILEE SUCKS.
Chapter 17
JeriLee and her mother turned the car into the driveway just as her father and brother finished painting the fence. They got out of the car. Veronica looked at her husband. “The fence didn’t need another coat,” she said.
“Some boys painted dirty words on it, Ma,” Bobby said.
Veronica looked at John. He didn’t speak. His eyes squinted against the sun. She heard JeriLee come up behind her. “Let’s go inside,” Veronica said quickly. “I’ll make some coffee.”
He nodded. “Bobby, put the paint back in the garage,” he said. “And don’t forget to rinse out the brush.”
“Okay, Pop.” The boy picked up the can of paint and cut across the lawn to the garage.
“What happened?” JeriLee asked.
“Nothing,” John said.
She looked at the fence. The paint had not yet dried and the letters beneath the white were still faintly visible. Her face tightened.
“Come inside, dear,” her mother said.
JeriLee stared at the fence. “Did you see who did it?” she asked tautly.
“No,” John answered. “Lucky for them that I didn’t.” He took her arm. “A cup of coffee wouldn’t do any of us harm.”
Silently she followed them into the house. “I don’t think I want any coffee,” she said. She looked at her father. “Could I have the car for a while?”
He glanced at his wife. “Sure,” he said.
“I left the keys in the dash,” Veronica said. “Be careful. There’s a lot of maniacs on the road today.”
“I will, Mother.” She went to the door. “I just want to go out to the beach for awhile.”
They heard the car pull out of the driveway. John looked up at his wife. “They’re crucifying her.”
Veronica did not answer. She put the coffee on the table and sat down opposite him.
“I don’t know what to do anymore,” he said.
“There’s nothing you can do,” she said. “Nothing anyone can do. It will just have to pass.”
“If just once we could catch them at it. We could make an example of them.”
“Anything you do will o
nly make it worse,” she said. “We’ll just have to be patient.”
“I can wait. You can wait. But what about JeriLee? How much more of this do you think she can take before she breaks down completely? Already she’s stopped seeing her friends. She won’t go out anymore, won’t do anything. Bernie says she won’t even go to the movies with him. School opens in four more weeks. What do you think will happen then?”
“By that time it should be over,” Veronica said.
“And if it’s not?”
The question went unanswered as they both silently sipped their coffee.
***
She stopped the car at the far end of the Point overlooking the Sound and walked down to the beach. It was a deserted rocky section, much too rough for swimming. She sat down on a rock at the edge of the water and stared out at the sea.
A sailboat was tacking into the wind, its snow-white sail billowing against the blue of the water. Idly her eyes followed it until it disappeared around the Point.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?”
The sound of the voice behind her made her jump. She turned around.
“I didn’t mean to startle you,” the man said. He paused, staring at her. “Do I know you? You look familiar.”
“We met once, Mr. Thornton,” she said. “On a bus.”
“Oh, yes.” He snapped his finger, remembering. “You were the girl who wanted to be a writer.”
She smiled. He did remember.
“Do you still take the same bus?” he asked. “I haven’t seen you on it recently.”
“School’s out,” she said. “It’s vacation time.”
“Of course.” He looked at her. “How’s the writing coming on?”
“I haven’t been doing much lately.”
“Neither have I.” He smiled. He looked out at the water. “Do you come out here often?”
“Sometimes. When I want to think.”
“It’s a good place for thinking,” he said. “There’s usually no one around.” He fished in his pocket for a cigarette and took one without offering the pack to her. He lit the cigarette, inhaled deeply, then coughed and threw it away. “I’m trying to give up smoking,” he said apologetically.
“That’s a funny way to do it,” she said.
“I figure if I light one and inhale very deeply, I cough. That makes me realize what it’s doing to me and I throw it away.”
She laughed. “I’ll have to tell my father to try that one.”
“Does he smoke much?”
“Too much,” she said.
“What does he do?” he asked.
“He works in a bank,” she answered.
He nodded absently, his eyes looking beyond her to the sea. She turned following his gaze. The sailboat was coming back.
“Walter!” The sound wafted down on the wind.
They looked back. There was a woman standing at the edge of the road on the crest of the hill overlooking the beach. She waved.
He waved back. “My secretary,” he explained over his shoulder. “What is it?” he yelled.
“London is calling,” the woman shouted back. “I came out in the car to get you.”
“Okay.” He turned to JeriLee. “I have to go. Will you be out here again?”
“Probably.”
“Maybe we’ll see each other.”
“Maybe,” she answered.
He looked at her peculiarly. “I hope so.” He hesitated a moment. “I have a strange feeling that I intruded on your thoughts. That you wanted to be alone.”
“It’s okay,” she said. “I’m glad I saw you.”
He smiled and held out his hand. “So long.”
His hand was firm and warm. “So long, Mr. Thornton,” she said.
He turned and stared up the dunes toward the road, then stopped and looked back. “You never told me your name,” he said.
She looked up at him. “JeriLee. JeriLee Randall.”
He stood for a long moment registering the name. “Tell them I’ll call back,” he shouted up the hill, then he turned and came back down on the beach.
“Why didn’t you tell me who you were?” he asked.
“You didn’t ask me.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t have to say anything.”
“You’re not angry with me?”
“No.”
“What my son did was unforgivable,” he said. I’m sorry.”
She didn’t answer.
“If you don’t want to speak to me,” he said, “I’ll understand.”
“You had nothing to do with it,” she said. “Besides, I like talking to you. You’re the only real writer I know.”
He fished out a cigarette and lit it. “You really want to become a writer?”
“Yes,” she said. She looked at him. “This time you didn’t throw it away.”
He looked at the cigarette. “That’s right. But this time I didn’t cough.”
“It’s not going to work,” she said. “You won’t give them up.”
He smiled suddenly. “I know.” He sat down on the edge of a rock. “You said you come out here to think. What about?”
“Things.”
“This time, I mean.”
She looked at him. “About going away.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know,” she said. She looked out at the sea. “Anywhere. Just away from here.”
“Have you always felt like that?”
“No.”
“Only since… since it happened?”
She thought for a moment. “Yes.” She looked into his eyes. “Port Clare is a funny town. You wouldn’t know unless you grew up here. You see, everybody makes up stories.”
“About you?”
She nodded. “They think that I…” She didn’t finish.
He was silent for a moment. “I am sorry,” he said.
She looked away but he could see the tears on her cheeks. He reached for her hand and held it. “JeriLee.”
She raised her head.
“I want to be your friend,” he said. “You can talk to me.”
The tears were flowing freely. “No,” she said. “I can’t talk to anyone. There’s nothing they can do to help.”
“I can try,” he said earnestly. “At least I owe you that for what my son did.”
“You don’t owe me anything.”
“Talk to me, JeriLee. Maybe it will help.”
She shook her head silently.
Still holding her hand, he rose to his feet and drew her close to him. “Come here, child,” he said gently, placing her head against his chest. He felt the sobs shaking her body. For a long time he stood there holding her. After a while the tears stopped.
She drew back and looked into his face. “You’re a very nice man,” she said.
Without answering, he took out his pack of cigarettes. This time he offered one to her. She took it and he lit their cigarettes. He inhaled with pleasure. “I really like smoking,” he said. “I think I’ll give up giving it up.”
She laughed. “You are funny.”
He smiled at her. “Not really. I’m just being realistic.”
“Do you really want to help me?” she asked.
He nodded. “I said I did.”
“Would you read something I wrote if I gave it to you?”
“Yes.”
“And you’ll tell me the truth about it? If it’s bad, I mean. You won’t be polite.”
“I respect writing too much to be phony about it. If it stinks I’ll tell you. But if it’s good I’ll say so.”
She was silent for a moment. “There’s something else you can do.”
“What’s that?”
“If you have time, that is,” she said hesitantly. “It would be nice if you went into the bank and let them know that you’re not angry with them because of my father.”
“Is that what they think?” he asked, the surprise plain in his voice.
She nodded.
“I told you that you don’t know this town unless you grew up here,” she said. “That’s exactly how they think. My mother is worried that Dad will lose his job if you take your account away. That’s why she didn’t want to do anything about what happened to me. Dad was angry. He wanted to press charges, but she talked him out of it.”
“Then what made him speak up finally?”
“We couldn’t let Fred go to jail for something that wasn’t his fault,” she said.
He nodded soberly. He was beginning to realize that she was right about his being the kind of town you didn’t understand unless you grew up in it. “Is your father from here?”
She shook her head. “No.”
He nodded. It made sense. “I’ll make time to go down to the bank,” he said.
Her face brightened. “Thank you.”
Suddenly he wanted to meet her father again. “I’d like to have lunch with him if that’s all right with you.”
“That’s up to you. Just going there will be enough.”
“I’d like to know him,” he said. “He sounds like a nice man.”
She looked into his eyes. The words came from a feeling deep inside her. “He’s the gentlest, kindest man in the whole world.”
Chapter 18
Before the summer was over, Port Clare had a new topic of conversation. JeriLee and Walter Thornton. At first they met at the beach, where they’d sit and talk for hours. He was fascinated by her curiosity and insights into people. Her instincts led her to a subtle understanding of motivations that was far beyond her years.
When the weather grew too cool for the beach she began to drive to his house once or twice a week. He read her work and made some suggestions. She rewrote and he explained to her what worked and what did not. Then one day he gave her a copy of the play he was writing.
She asked if she could read it somewhere alone, and he allowed her to take it with her when she left. He didn’t hear from her for three days. Then late one afternoon after school she appeared with the play under her arm.
She gave him the script without comment.
“What did you think?” he asked. Suddenly it was important to him that she like it.
“I don’t know,” she said slowly. “I read it twice but I don’t think I understand it.”
“In what way?”
The Lonely Lady Page 11