Back to Jerusalem

by Jan Surasky

  “Well, since he broke up with Janey Masters, he’s been playing the field. I think he’s asked everybody out on the cheerleading team but me.”

  “That’s okay, Jenny. You should be playing the field yourself. You’re too young to be attached to just one boy.”

  As they reached the greenhouse, Aunt Gert opened the door, letting Jenny in first. As Jenny entered, the scent of rose blossoms filled the air, the powerful aroma enveloping all her senses. The orchids, elegant in their pots, added a rare beauty to the sunlight sparkling along the panes.

  “Aunt Gert, they are beautiful.”

  “Everyone should be surrounded by beauty, at least for a little while. But, between Mother’s Day and prom night I shall have to part with most of them,” she laughed.

  “What should we do first?”

  “I think we’ll take the delphinium and the lilies and plant them in a small garden of their own near the bench and the rock garden. There’s plenty of sun there, and they won’t hide the annuals we’ll plant in the big garden come summer.”

  “Okay, Aunt Gert, I’ll take the pitchfork and the trowel.”

  “And, I’ll take these flats. The colors should blend, the blues of the delphinium and the oranges, the red, and the yellows of the lilies.”

  “They’ll be beautiful, Aunt Gert, as long as Chaucer doesn’t dig in that garden.”

  “Oh, he’s an old dog now, Jenny. He doesn’t do much digging,” she laughed.

  “Jenny, maybe we can do your hair after we plant. How would you like to wear it up in a French twist? I have plenty of combs and bows and ribbons, and maybe we can add a fresh rose from the greenhouse.”

  “I’d like that, Aunt Gert. Show me where you need me to turn the dirt over, so I can get back before Mother starts to worry that I’ve stood up Bud.”

  Early afternoon saw the end of the planting and aunt and niece headed back to the old, frame farmhouse. “This house must be a hundred years old, Aunt Gert,” said Jenny, as she hopped the stairs to pull open the old, bent screen door, which creaked though Aunt Gert oiled it on a regular basis.

  “One hundred and forty years old, to be exact,” she laughed. “I guess I’ll have to get Hyman Phillips over to fix that screen door when I get to it.”

  Inside, Jenny saw what she had seen ever since she could remember. The couch with the plaid, cotton slipcover, the big, plush chair, and the rocker. A few paintings on the wall done by an old friend of Aunt Gert’s, a floral still life, horses in a pasture with a red, wooden barn in the background, and photographs everywhere. Old photographs. One of Mother and Aunt Gert in a formal pose, both in lacy dresses, another of their parents with Aunt Gert as a baby and Mother as a toddler. A number of Jenny, as an infant in a woolen cap, playing hopscotch, her hair in pigtails, jumping rope on Aunt Gert’s front lawn with Chaucer nipping at the rope as it hit the dirt.

  Then, there was a small, round table, covered with a lace tablecloth, devoted to photographs of Rafe. Rafe at the senior prom with a beaming and beautiful Gert, Rafe looking out of a fighter jet in Korea, his helmet and goggles covering most of his features, Rafe looking out of a Piper Cub on the runway he used over at the Tewksbury farm, the whistle-clean milk tanks and the twin silos in the background.

  “What was Rafe like, Aunt Gert?”

  Gert stopped, her feet rounding the corner toward the old, linoleum kitchen floor, her hand poised to raise the lid of the cookie jar. Her face took on a look of both sadness and joy. “Well,” she said, “he was handsome. The handsomest boy I ever saw before or since. But, it was more than that, Jenny. He had heart, and sensitivity, and dreams. So many dreams. We were going to share a life together and we had it all planned.

  “He always wanted to fly, ever since he was small. And, when he finally got his pilot’s license, he was so excited. We would fly to Geneva, hitch a ride into town, and stroll the city streets. We even flew to Niagara Falls once. Flying was his sense of freedom. And, he wanted to show me the world.

  “We planned a life together. We would buy this farm, put an airstrip on it, and Rafe would haul freight and maybe some passengers. I would rent out the land and teach the girls at Keuka College. We had a name for the farm. We were going to call it Windborne Acres. We even made a sign for it one night, one silly night, bright red paint on a piece of old barn timber. I still have it in the attic,” she laughed.

  “Now, we should drink our lemonade so we can do your hair up. First, we’ll wash it in a lavender shampoo, then put you in a towel and let it dry while we search through the drawer for combs and bows. Oh, Jenny, you’ll be the hit of the game.”

  “Thanks, Aunt Gert.”

  The afternoon flew, the two chatting and giggling as Gert fashioned Jenny’s thick, chestnut mane into a perfect French twist, complete with the scent and the brilliance of a deep, red American Beauty rosebud, held by an antique tortoiseshell comb.

  As she hugged her aunt goodbye, Jenny hopped on her bike, pedaling faster as she saw the sun quickly disappearing behind the horizon of the trees in the distance over the open fields. The Martin’s fields were empty, a light in their kitchen as the family sat down to supper. She must hurry. Mother would be anxious.

  Chapter Four

  The Penn Yan Dundee Central gym was abuzz with excitement as the home team prepared to take on their biggest rival, Geneva Central. A city, Geneva had always had a larger pool of talent to pull from, and their part-time faculty coaches had access to Hobart College and the tips of a full-time coaching staff. But, Penn Yan had spirit. And, tonight’s game would decide which team went to the sectional playoffs.

  Jenny was glowing as she walked in with Bud Anderson, a pink carnation he had bought her for no particular reason adorning the light, blue sweater she had chosen to wear over a pale, pink blouse which topped her jeans, to ward off the chill of the evening.

  They had driven to the game in a fire-engine red Corvette which Bud had chosen from his father’s lot. He had arrived on the dot of seven to pick her up, a sign which Mother chose to interpret as an omen that the blond, muscular, local football hero favored Jenny.

  As they entered the gym, people everywhere vied for Bud’s attention, calling out a “hey, Bud” or a “how’s it goin’” to attract a notice. The girls he dated either looked down demurely into their laps or called out a flirtatious “hi”, either boldly or punctuated by a long, loud giggle. The boys, especially the jocks, hustled each other for a chance to come over and slap him on the back, give him a high five, or reach out for a manly handshake. Mr. Pritchard, the biology teacher and football coach, already seated in the bleachers with his new, young wife gave him a nod and a dazzling smile.

  “Hey, Bud, what college you gonna play for?” or “You gonna make it to All-American?” followed him as he turned to Jenny, a grin still on his face, taking her hand to lead her up the stairway between the rows of bleachers. “How’s this?” he asked, as he found an empty spot in the second last row, next to Dotty Thatcher and her date.

  “This is great,” she answered, as she climbed in ahead of him to take her place next to Dotty, relieved that she would have someone to talk to if Bud got engrossed in the plays with his buddies around them. Dotty introduced them to her date, a freshman from nearby Syracuse University College of Forestry named Jason, which interested Bud, because he was still deciding who he would play football for, and Syracuse was near the top of the list.

  “You like basketball?” Bud asked.

  “I like football better,” said Jason. “But, where I come from, hoops is an in sport.”

  “Where you from?”

  “Short Hills, New Jersey. We used to play Chatham. We were big rivals.”

  Immediately, Bud’s ears perked up. He might be from a small, downstate town, but he knew wealth when he heard it. His father had dealt with a few Short Hills buyers hoping to get a better price from a dealer along the economically depressed southern tier.

  “What say we go out for a burger and a malt or something aft
er the game?”

  “Great,” said Jason, reaching over for a handshake.

  As they chatted over the noise of the crowd, a cheer went up. The home team had run onto the court, their shiny royal blue and white tank top jerseys sporting the school colors, their jog onto the court a show of confidence. Quiet followed the entrance of the opposing team, the few boos sent up by an unruly few silenced by the glare of the principal, and a raucous set of cheers and whistles from the few Geneva students who had given up a Saturday night on the town to follow the team.

  “Hey, Whit, go for it,” yelled Bud, cupping his hands around his mouth for effect. Charles Whitfield, III, at nearly six feet four the Penn Yan center, son of one of the few wealthy entrepreneurs in Yates County, who had made his money first taking a gamble in the futures market and then selling produce and hogs wholesale to national chains, and one of Bud’s best friends, was on the court to prove to his domineering father that he had the guts to be a Whitfield, too. His father sat in the back of the stands, squelching his obvious pride with an empty stare and a slight mocking curl of his lips. Bud had bet a pile on the game and Penn Yan’s winning the pennant.

  As the ref threw up the ball to signal the start of the game, Geneva’s center, with an inch or two on Whitfield, raised his arm to send the ball flying over Whitfield’s head and into the hands of the waiting Geneva forward, who swiveled to score for Geneva. Applause and wild whistling from the Geneva contingent. Silence from Penn Yan.

  As the game progressed, Bud continued to take bets from his friends around him, raking in a lot of money for the team. Jenny and Dotty caught up on gossip in between cheering their school team and bending Jason’s ear with the attractions of Penn Yan. Dotty had dated Bud in their junior year, but she had long ago lost interest and was obviously on to a more sophisticated and wealthier catch.

  Bud turned to Jenny. “How about having a few of the guys on the team join us after the game? We could all go down to The Captain’s for a burger and then maybe we could take my dad’s boat out. It holds at least fourteen.”

  “Great,” she answered, trying to feign enthusiasm. She didn’t know what she would say to these boys, since they seemed to snub her in the halls, certain they were on to fame in college basketball. But, she thought Jason would enjoy it. She was more at home with the football team. They had been together since freshman year, her as a cheerleader, them just happy to be junior members of a team they aspired to be on since grade school, with college dreams way off into the future.

  As they spoke, cheers went up making further conversation nearly impossible. Bud leaned forward, slapping his friend Dan Watson sitting in front of him squarely between the shoulder blades. Penn Yan had scored, bringing the now hefty score to a tie.

  Whit now stood before the basket for two foul shots. The gym was hushed, the center eyeing the basket as he calculated the distance and the aim. The first, a rim shot, dropped in as the crowd collectively held their breath. The second, a clean shot, passed through the net to give Penn Yan the lead, giving the crowd another reason to scream. Then, half-time.

  Bud took Jenny’s hand as they made their way to the once polished gym floor, now filled with the scuffs of a very close game. “Would you like a coke, Jenny?” he asked, as he made his way from corner to corner to get commitments from buddies to meet at The Captain’s following the game.

  “Sure.”

  Standing by the coke machine as he handed her a can and went after his own, she wondered whether a boy like Bud had ambitions of his own.

  “Bud, what will you do when we graduate?”

  “Oh, I’ll go to college, play football, then come back and work in my father’s dealership,” he answered fairly quickly. “That’s been the plan since I was probably two.”

  “Don’t you have anything to say about it?”

  “I don’t mind,” he laughed. “I kinda like it. I’ve been hanging out there since I’ve been nine. And, I think I’ll own my own agency by the time I’m twenty-five. And, then, I’ll branch out. Maybe into Elmira or Corning. By the time I’m my dad’s age, I expect I’ll be big in the southern tier car business.

  “The car business has its perks. If you’re big, you work hard, but you get to party hard, too. A lotta glad-handing in car sales. I expect to make a lotta contacts both on the football field and off. Did you ever think about that way of life, Jenny?” he asked.

  “Not really, Bud,” she said, the color creeping up around her cheeks as she penetrated his meaning, looking away as she tried to change the subject. “All I’ve wanted to do is go to art school.”

  “Just the same, you’d make a really good partner in the auto game. You dress well, you’re a good looker, lotsa poise. That’s what guys look for.”

  “Thanks, Bud, but I think I’ll stick with my original plan,” she laughed. “It looks like everyone’s going back in for the second half,” she said, choking down the last of her coke and throwing the can in the wastebasket as she headed back to the gym. Bud followed, greeted by a few “See ya at The Captain’s” as they climbed the bleachers back to their seats.

  The second half gave Geneva a second wind, and despite the slim Penn Yan lead, a chance to defeat a team they had always thought of as country bumpkins. The score was a disaster, 56-28, taking the city-bred team to the playoffs and a chance for possible national attention. Penn Yan was going to need a big morale boost in the hours following the game.

  As Bud put his arm around Jenny’s shoulders to lead her down the bleachers, his hand-picked group gravitated to the corner of the gym to choose up rides, the family sedans that needed to be back by eleven weeded out, and those without a place relegated to walking the streets in the balm of a moonlit spring evening. Dotty and Jason chose to ride with Bud, crammed in the tiny space of a double back seat.

  As they neared the water, the moon cast an eerie light on the dock in front of The Captain’s, the restaurant’s excursion boat lashed securely to one of its posts, it’s hull moving back and forth over the top of the gently rolling waves, the noise of the water slapping its sides a predictable rhythm against the stillness of the night.

  “Okay, let’s go for it,” shouted Bud, as he squealed his tires rounding the corner to a parking space set out at the far end of the lot. Dotty and Jason piled out as Jenny pulled the front seat forward, Dotty’s new bob a tangle of disheveled curls, confirming the gossip Jenny had heard that Syracuse boys are fast.

  Bud put his arm around Jenny’s waist as they walked to the entrance of the restaurant bathed in the moonlight of the early spring evening, the stars clear in the sky. The scent of dogwood wafted from the bushes along the back of the old, white building. Bud pulled open the screen door.

  “Hey, Cap’n,” he shouted, “how ’bout a keg?”

  “How about a few pitchers?” returned Jack Harmon, muscular and tattooed owner of the establishment, and “captain” to all who ate there. “You’re father will have my license if I break open a keg for you.”

  “Okay, okay, but wait till I get rich. I’ll have you hauling out kegs for the whole town, especially on St. Patrick’s Day.”

  “I’ll get on it now. But, in the meantime, you kids get over to that table and pipe down. You’re scaring my customers.”

  Bud parked himself at the large table at the far end of the restaurant reserved for after-game get togethers. A few kids were already there. He pulled Jenny down beside him.

  “What’ll it be, Jen? A burger? A pizza? How about a large pizza for the whole table with everything on it?”

  Before Jenny could answer, he turned to the waitress, who was busy serving burgers to the next table. “Hey, Sue, the largest pizza you have with everything on it.”

  “Be right there, Bud,” she shouted, wiping her greasy hands on her already soiled apron. “Only got two hands.”

  Bud poured Jenny some beer. “Drink up. We’re gonna party,” he said. “The team put up a good fight.”

  As he spoke, Whit and two other team member
s, along with the group Bud had gotten together, ambled in, the look of disappointment on their faces almost palpable.

  “Hey, Whit, why the long face? You guys put up a good fight. You know those city slickers practically buy their players.”

  “My dad will come close to disowning me, Bud. Practically my whole college education was riding on this, plus his reputation in the national distribution industry.”

  “Oh, c’mon, Whit, sit down. He’ll get over it. We’re gonna party. You’ll play for Cornell or Syracuse or Hobart or Buffalo. You’re gonna put Penn Yan on the map.”

  As Whit and the group settled in, the more they drank, and the friendlier Bud got to Jenny. To Jason as well. Bud knew who to play to.

  The boat ride was beautiful in the moonlight. But, Bud’s love of speed changed his passengers’ pleasure into near, sheer terror. Jason huddled below, close to seasickness on the fairly calm midnight waters of the small, forked lake that once supplied fish to the Native Americans who named it. Dotty stayed nearby to console him. The rest, filled with beer, silently prayed for land and the chance to throw the rope around a post at the Penn Yan-Dundee yacht club very soon.

  Bud drove Jenny home, his arm around her as they walked the sidewalk to her door, without so much as an attempt at a goodnight kiss.

  “Thanks so much for a very nice time, Bud,” she offered, as she fished for the key in the side pocket of her jeans.

  “Great time, Jen. Maybe we’ll try it again sometime. See ya Monday.”

  As Jenny opened the door, she mentally reminded herself to close it as quietly as she could, putting off Mother’s barrage of questions until the morning.

  Chapter Five

  Jenny was the talk of the school when she arrived on Monday morning. A date with Bud brought a girl to near-celebrity status.

  “What was it like?” asked Caroline Mackey, sidling up to Jenny as they passed in the hall on their way to third period, a giggle barely suppressed behind a big grin.