She set the picture back in its place on the dresser. Lightly she touched the delicate Hummel shepherdess that stood next to it. The figurine had been a favorite of her mother’s, brought down from the attic by her father as a special gift for Lindy’s twelfth birthday. The little porcelain girl with her peasant dress and delicate crook always seemed to bring her mother closer.
Elizabeth Grant had died of lung cancer when Lindy was six years old. Her father talked about her only rarely, but Lindy could tell they had been very much in love. Old photographs showed them as a strikingly handsome pair. Had they once, back in the thirties or forties maybe, been known as the Perfect Couple?
Lindy Grant, one half of Wolf River’s Perfect Couple of the sixties, was starting her senior year, and she was troubled by strange new feelings. It seemed to her that somehow during the summer she had outgrown her classmates. Not physically so much as, well, emotionally. They had all come back with the same flighty attitudes they had last year — concerned with their complexions, the hot new records, the football game, who was going with whom, and, of course, their cars.
It wasn’t that Lindy had completely lost her interest in these pursuits, it was just that they didn’t seem so all-consumingly important.
The influence of her gentle, educated grandmother, with whom Lindy had spent the summer in Boston, may have had something to do with her intellectual growth. She had taken her granddaughter to the ballet, the theater, and a Red Sox game in Fenway Park. Lindy began to understand that there was, after all, life beyond high school. Things were happening in the world that made shaking a pair of pompons seem just slightly ridiculous for anyone past puberty. A man had walked in space. Live television pictures were beamed from the moon. Rumors circulated that more American boys would be sent to that peculiar conflict in Vietnam. Nobody at Wolf River High seemed to care.
Lindy sighed. She felt old. By the time she graduated next June she would be seventeen. Childhood was behind her.
She returned to the mirror and leaned close to search for some new sign of maturity or wisdom in her face. The skin was clear and unlined, the pale blue eyes bright and arresting. The glossy black hair fell to the nape of her neck in soft waves. And the teeth, of course, were still perfect. Nothing there really to mark her new awareness of the world. She sighed again and put the heavy thoughts out of her mind. Plenty of time for that stuff.
She left the mirror and crossed the room to her record player. She selected a single by the Mamas and the Papas, dropped it on the spindle, and flopped down on the bed. She hugged the well-worn panda and listened to “California Dreamin.”
What would it be like to live in California, she wondered, her newly acquired world-awareness slipping away. Could it be as dreamy as they said? It couldn’t all be surfing and beach parties. But at least it would never be boring.
California was closer to where things were happening. Important things. The young people out there would surely be more aware of world events than they were here in the middle of Wisconsin. It wasn’t as vital as New York or Boston, maybe, but the climate was a lot nicer.
Lindy let her fantasies take over as she thought about what a high school in Santa Monica must be like. Were all the girls blond, long-legged, and tanned to a beautiful creamy beige? Were the boys all dreamboat surfers and bongo players? She raised up on the bed and stuck out her tongue at the mirror. Of course not. That was just those silly beach party movies. Still, it would be kicks to live there.
A soft knock at her door.
“Come in, Daddy.”
Wendell Grant at forty-seven was still a remarkably handsome man. He was straight and slim, and his hair was the same sexy shade of gray as Cary Grant’s in North by Northwest. He smiled at his daughter, and Lindy felt the familiar little ache of pride.
“Busy?”
“I was just playing records.”
“So, let’s have a look at the sweater.”
She held it up in front of her, kneeling on the bed.
“Terrific, honey, you’ll knock ’em dead on the ski slopes.”
“Daddy, you know there aren’t any ski slopes around here.”
“Oh, right. Well, you’ll knock ’em dead anywhere you wear it.”
Once again she felt a whole lot better about the sweater. It would look terrific.
“I stopped in to say good-bye,” he said. “I’ve got to go up to Shawano, honey. There’s a county committee meeting, and I might be late getting back.”
She frowned. “You have to work on Saturday?”
“Judges don’t have a union,” he said. “Ida will fix you a nice dinner.”
“I don’t need any dinner. Roman’s coming over. We’ll get something downtown.”
“Isn’t he in training? I thought you guys had a football game next week. Clintonville, isn’t it?”
“They don’t put football players ‘in training’ anymore, Daddy. Besides, Roman’s in great shape. So he says, and maybe he is. He worked all summer on some kind of construction job in Madison.”
“Good for him. What’s going on downtown tonight?”
“Nothing special. We’ll just cruise around.”
Wendell Grant shook his handsome head. “I’m darned if I can see what kick you kids get out of driving all the way up Main Street then turning around and driving all the way down Main Street.”
“It’s Saturday, Daddy. Everybody does it.”
“Oh, well, if everybody does it, what the heck. Have a good time.” He winked at her. “And don’t get arrested. It would look bad for a judge’s daughter.”
He left her with a smile. He was right of course, she thought. Cruising was stupid and juvenile, an excuse for the boys to show off their cars and for the girls to wear the pretty new clothes they’d bought over the summer and fool around with the boys. It was all so very high school. But it was the first Saturday of the term, and everybody would be there.
Lindy didn’t care about the flirting of fooling around. As the most popular girl in her class every year since ninth grade, she could have any boy she wanted. And she already had the prize catch of Wolf River High. Roman Dixon had been her acknowledged steady since she was old enough to date. The perfect couple — handsomest boy, star of the football team, and the prettiest girl, queen of everything. It was like a movie. It had been natural and inevitable. And it definitely had its advantages. Being known as Roman Dixon’s girl saved her the trouble of fending off the creeps. Then there was knowing she was envied by every other girl in school, and that was a treat to be savored.
Roman might not be the brightest thing in pants, but he was easily the best-looking boy she’d ever seen, and he treated her well. Sometimes he got a little too eager with his hands. She let him get inside her blouse, but drew the line when he started going for the goodies down below. He was hot to go all the way, but he didn’t hassle her about it.
Going all the way was something she had thought about a good deal during the summer. She had more or less decided that this year she would give in. It would be a nice farewell gift to Roman. She might even enjoy it, and it would save her the embarrassment of entering college next fall as a virgin.
She took the Mamas and the Papas record off the turntable, holding it carefully so as not to put fingerprints on the grooves, and slipped it back into the cardboard envelope. She slid the album into its place with the rest of her records and, with a last approving look at herself in the mirror, went downstairs.
• • •
Ida Krantz had been with the family eight years. After trying hard to be father and mother to Lindy after his wife’s death, Wendell Grant was vastly relieved after two years to take the bony, capable woman into his household and let her assume charge of the domestic affairs.
For her part, Ida had come gratefully to work on Elm Street after her drunken bully of a husband fell asleep on the railroad tracks and failed to wake up at the approach of the 11:10 from Milwaukee. She had taken over as surrogate mother to the household, pulling togeth
er the pieces of the broken family.
Ida stood now at the foot of the stairs as Lindy came down. Her long bony face was tight with disapproval.
“Aren’t you going to wear the rest of that skirt?”
“This is all of it, Ida.”
“Does your father know you go out dressed like the town tramp?”
“Hey, this is nothing. The kids are wearing them up to here in the big cities. Miniskirts, they call them.”
“I could think of a better name.” Ida changed the subject. “Your father says you’re not eating at home tonight.”
“I’ll get something downtown.”
“A McDonald’s burger, I suppose. With greasy French fries and one of those pasty milkshakes.”
“The fries aren’t greasy, the shakes are thick,” Lindy said. “Besides, a government report came out last week that said McDonald’s burgers are more nutritious ounce-for-ounce than wheat germ and alfalfa sprouts.”
“I don’t believe that for a minute,” said Ida, her frown slipping a little.
“Well, it was worth a try.” Lindy grew serious for a moment. “Ida, do you think Daddy has somebody over in Shawano?”
“Has somebody?”
“You know. A girlfriend.”
“I’m sure I wouldn’t know. Your father’s private life is his own business.”
“Come off it. You’d know if anybody did.”
The thin woman sighed. “As far as I know your father is not dating anybody seriously at the moment. Not here or in Shawano or anywhere else.”
“I didn’t say anything about ‘seriously.’ ”
“If you want to know about your father’s love life, ask him.”
“I have, but he’s not ready to talk to me about it.”
“Then I expect when he’s ready he’ll let you know.”
“I wish he would find somebody. Get married again, even. Do you think he’ll get married again, Ida?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised.” She started for the kitchen. “I’ve got things to do. Say hello to Mr. Wonderful for me.”
Lindy caught up with her and gave her a quick hug. “Roman likes you, too.”
“There’ll be cold cuts in the fridge if you’re hungry when you come in.”
Lindy fluffed her hair one more time and went out to the front porch to wait for the other half of the Perfect Couple.
CHAPTER 4
ROMAN
Roman Dixon stood out on the lawn in front of the white frame bungalow with green shutters where he lived with his parents. At six-feet-one, Roman was four inches taller than Howard, his father, who stood next to him. The family resemblance was there in the strong jaw, but Roman’s hair was thick and blond where Howard’s was black as coal dust. Roman had the lithe body of an athlete; Howard was still solid but had too much belly. The father’s eyes were squinted and faintly bloodshot; the son’s were a clear gray that gave him the look of being more intelligent than he really was.
Roman shifted nervously from foot to foot while he tried to hold on to the attentive expression he assumed when his father launched into a lecture. Roman was anxious to knock off the chatter, get into his candy-apple Chevy, and get downtown where things were happening. He wanted to pop in an 8-track cartridge, roll down the windows, and give everybody an earful of his new sound system. It had cost almost a thousand dollars, even putting it in himself, but it would be the best and loudest in town, and that made it easily worth the money. He was fairly itching to get started, but he knew the old man had to get in his say, so he held his impatience in check.
“You’re not going to be doing any drinkin’, are you Romey?”
“Hey, no way, Pop.”
“Look, I know you put away a few beers last summer while you were working down in Madison.”
“Just a couple of times,” Roman said. “After work with the guys.”
“Sure, I know that. And I’m nobody to be saying you should be a temperance freak or anything like that, but that was different. It’s football season now. You’re supposed to be in training, and the scouts are watching you. I mean, I know for a fact that both Illinois and Ohio State and at least one from the west coast are in town right now. Those guys watch both how you play on the field and what you do off it.”
“Don’t worry, Pop. I don’t mess with anything during the season.”
“I’m just thinking about you, Romey, you know that. You got a chance to do something with your life. Play some football, go to college, get an education. If I’d gone to college when I got out of the Navy I’d be something besides a friggin’ factory hand now.”
“Pop, you’re a foreman. You got factory hands working for you.”
“I still carry a lunch pail, son. I don’t want to see you do that. Not ever.”
“Don’t worry, Pop.” Roman stole a glance at his watch. Everybody would be cruising Main Street by now. Lindy Grant would be waiting for him. He remembered that he’d also promised to pick up Alec McDowell. Sometimes Alec could be a pain in the ass, the way he was always sucking up, but he was smart, and he came up with some fun ideas.
Roman would have liked to tell the old man to bag the lecture, but he knew better. Howard Dixon could still deliver a powerful punch if you got him pissed. Especially when he was drunk.
Happily, today the old man was sober, but when he got in one of his buddy-buddy moods he was almost as hard to take. Roman was relieved to see his mother come out of the house and walk toward them.
Fran Dixon was a plump woman with tired eyes who still carried traces of the pretty girl she had been. She said, “Howard are you going to keep the boy standing here all day? He wants to be off with his friends.”
Roman grinned gratefully at her over his father’s shoulder.
“Just havin’ a little man talk,” Howard said. He clapped his son on the shoulder. “Go ahead, Romey. Have a good time. Give the girls something to talk about.”
“I guess I don’t have to expect you home for dinner,” his mother said.
“I’ll get something downtown.”
Howard frowned as though he wanted to say something more. He finally settled for, “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
“That gives me plenty of room,” Roman said in the ritual answer.
His father gave him a playful shove toward the car while his mother looked properly vexed.
Roman climbed gratefully into the Chevy, revved the sweet-running engine, and eased up on the gas, loving the baritone burble of the twin pipes. He took off, careful this time not to burn rubber, and waved back at his parents, who stood in the front yard watching him.
As soon as he was around the corner Roman popped in a Beach Boys cartridge and turned the volume up. He rolled down the window and let the mellow harmonies escape, even though the sounds were wasted in Grover’s Meadows, the small tract where the Dixon family lived.
The Meadow, as it was now commonly called, had been named for himself by the developer who had built the tract homes there in the early 1950s. Fifteen years later some of the houses were beginning to show signs of age, but most, like the Dixons’, were neatly kept up.
The Meadow was home to many of Wolf River’s smaller merchants and the higher-salaried workers at Allis Chalmers and the glove factory. Although it was several cuts below Elm Street and the Hill, it was a respectable place to live, and Howard Dixon had worked hard to make a home there for his wife and son.
ALEC
At the very edge of the tract, in a house a little smaller and not quite as neat as the Dixons’, lived Phelan McDowell, editor of the Wolf River Chronicle, his wife, Trudy, and their son, Alec.
The Chronicle did not publish on Saturday, but Alec’s father was down at the office as usual, putting together the features for the Sunday edition. His mother clattered away in the living room at the old Underwood, finishing up the fashion column she did weekly for the women’s page.
Trudy McDowell did much of the feature writing for the paper, mostly without a byline and wi
thout pay. Her regular work included the cooking column, social announcements, the Laff-A-Day feature, and the club news. Usually on a Saturday Alec would be helping out — proofreading, checking facts, and running copy down to the office on his bicycle, which he especially hated. However, since this was the first big Saturday of the school year, he had been given the day off.
Alec sat outside on the front stoop waiting for Roman Dixon. He was wearing the new red-and-white satin jacket he had bought with the money he was paid for his summer job at the Chronicle. He didn’t much like working with his father, but the alternative would have been to hire out as a farm hand, which meant getting all dirty and physically tired.
The jacket was a size too large, but Alec had bought it that way on purpose. It was his hope that it would give the appearance of bulk to his narrow shoulders.
As he waited, Alec ran over in his mind a set of stock responses to Roman’s descriptions of how great he was going to be this year on the football field. The hell of it was, the guy was good. He was the star of the team, and nobody knew it better than Roman. Still, he enjoyed having Alec around to agree with him.
Worse than listening to the jock heroics, Alex would have to hear about Roman’s mostly imaginary sexual exploits. Roman Dixon was a dumb, conceited asshole, but he was popular. And he drove that fabulous candy-apple Chevy. When you didn’t have a car of your own, and lacked the looks or the money or the athletic ability to be a part of the in-crowd, you did what you could to get close. What Alec McDowell did was kiss Roman Dixon’s ass.
Alec’s mother came out of the house carrying a sheaf of copy paper. Alec hoped she was not going to ask him to take it down to his father on the detested bicycle. How many high school seniors rode bicycles, anyway?
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