Book Read Free

Welcome to the Greenhouse

Page 21

by Gordon Van Gelder


  “Where exactly is the water?” Alan asked, looking for it, hand cupped above his eyes.

  “I dunno. It was here the last time I went for a dip.”

  In the distance, dissolute half-dressed figures shuffled around in uncertain groups.

  “I bet that’s where the water is,” said Marion. “Let’s go see.”

  On the lifeguard stand, a blond, burned teen was screaming into a bullhorn. “Riptide! Riptide! Everyone out of the water! Everyone out!”

  Marion and Alan ignored the warnings and strolled together across the sand, sidestepping floundering fish and seaweed salads. The fish that no longer flopped put up a stench. Marion could feel the broken snail shells and jagged rocks even through her flip-flops.

  It was a long hike, but finally they reached the water’s edge. Nobody was actually swimming, since the water was only ankle-deep, but a few members of the small fry set were splashing around in the brine. The water smelled like a musty basement.

  “I didn’t really feel much like swimming anyway,” said Marion as her hydromatic suit clicked into overdrive, cool water rushing over her shoulders.

  “Let’s get some ice cream instead,” Alan said cheerily.

  Marion liked his attitude. Anecdotally speaking, swimming was one of the most dangerous activities on the summertime hit parade, right behind Jarts. Marion realized it didn’t matter if the lake was drying up or not. It was summer and there was love in the air. A love that would never wither, as long as the weather stayed torrid anyway.

  At the snack shack, another smiling boy of summer was stationed at the counter with a slushee. Ken? Ben?

  “Friend of yours?” Alan asked.

  “Oh, just someone I know from work,” Marion lied. Stan? Can’t swing a dead fish without hitting one of them, she thought.

  They sat on a bench and attacked their ice cream, she peppermint bon bon, he Neapolitan. She wondered what that said about his character. Only good things. He was flexible and willing to look at other people’s points of view. He wasn’t stuck in a rut. He was adventurous.

  “The only thing sweeter than this cone is you,” said Alan, offering her a lick.

  “Oh, you’re a dear.”

  “Prettiest girl on the beach.”

  “Oh my.”

  “I can’t believe we found each other.”

  “I certainly never expected it.”

  But Marion expected it all, including, at date’s end:

  “Will I see you again?”

  Talk about a no-brainer.

  So they did, and after their third date, Marion dropped a pair of ice cubes down her shirt and called it a day. The fall issue of Flair magazine had just arrived, and she hopped into bed and began to browse through its stylish pages.

  “Fifteen Top Makeup Tips for Hiding Skin Cancer Scars”

  “Heat Stroke CAN Make You Look Younger” “Summer Fling or the Real Thing?”

  That last one was a quiz. Maybe it was too early, but Marion wanted to see where Alan stood, clinging to the possibility that he might be more than he appeared to be.

  Q: Do you know your summer love’s last name AND how to spell it?

  Yes

  Yes, but I’m not sure how to spell it.

  X No

  Q: Do you know your summer love’s birth date?

  Yes

  I know the month and day but not year .

  I know the month but nothing else.

  X No

  Q: Do you and your summer love have any hobbies in common?

  Yes

  No

  X Not sure

  Q: Can you name your summer love’s three favorite things?

  Yes

  X No

  I think so, but I’m not 100% sure.

  And about thirty more head-scratchers.

  Marion tried to give herself the benefit of the doubt, but couldn’t imagine many of those negatives flipping to affirmatives anytime soon. She expected the sweet-as-ice-cream phase to plod on for some time.

  Her score of twenty put her firmly in the Major Fling category. She wasn’t surprised, although she always fostered hopes that her latest summer love, the airy confection of the world of romance, would turn out to be something more filling.

  How many dates were left in this fling? It was hard to tell. You couldn’t judge anything by the weather. The summer swelters were a life sentence.

  Their next date, at the municipal go-kart track, was romantic as hell. As they took a break from the races and shared a Yoo-hoo, she quizzed him.

  “What’s your last name, Alan?”

  “I like it when you say my first name.”

  Birth date?

  “Younger than you think, old enough to know better!” Hobbies.

  “Seeing you, babe.”

  Three favorite things.

  “Marion, Marion, Marion.”

  Around and around and around they went.

  Can’t beat a twenty with those answers, Marion thought, leaning into a turn. Major Fling confirmed.

  After they had a post-racing snack at Bunny’s, Marion asked her summer love to turn down a side street, which took them past the camp, not far from her house.

  “Stop here,” she said.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Thank you for a lovely day.” She kissed him quick as she opened her door.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I can walk home from here. It’s just around the corner.”

  “But why didn’t you let me drop you off there? It’s getting dark out.”

  “Because you need to be here.”

  He looked like he didn’t know his last name.

  “Here” she said, pointing at the grouping of tents in the vacant lot.

  She touched his cheek, trying to wash the confusion from his face.

  “Just walk over there and see what you find. Talk to the people.”

  “Are you dumping me?”

  “Trust me.”

  “Can I see you again?”

  “I don’t think there’s any doubt about that.”

  She left him then, glancing over her shoulder as he exited his heap and cautiously approached the camp.

  Soon, he would understand.

  Back home, the guilts got Marion even before she kicked off her Vans. She didn’t enjoy tommy-gunning a summer love at the knees, but in the long run, for her sanity’s sake, it was the only way to fly.

  More remorse as she headed upstairs, wondering what Alan would find, knowing that she had only visited the camp that one time. Which was one time more than she could handle. Which was why she had never gone back. Nobody could blame her for not going back, after what she saw. What she saw nobody should have to see, even someone who had seen it all.

  Up in the guest room window, Marion regarded the night. She could see the lights of the camp from here, hurricane lamps on poles. A few shadows moved about, too far to make out any details. The details didn’t matter; it was the big picture that told the real story. Safer just to look at the big picture, too. Didn’t get your hands dirty that way. Didn’t get your heart mussed up.

  In the distance, a sign of lightning. Not a bolt, just a flash on the bellies of dark clouds. Marion grew hopeful at the prospect of a cool front strong enough to break summer’s back. Could it really be possible? Marion could scarcely remember the last time it rained. It was during Craig; on their first date they had taken a walk in the wet stuff. But that was eons ago.

  All night Marion kept a vigil as the storm moved in. It began to sprinkle, then when the rain went steady she rushed outside and danced the Frug in her front yard. A boom of thunder sent her scurrying back inside. She followed the rest of the action from her bed, watching in wonder as the storm rolled through town. When the worst had passed, she slept, feeling a cool, rain-soaked breeze wash over her.

  In the morning, though, the heat was on her again like a tiger. It crawled in her open window and was at her throat before she could react. Groggy, she fought her
way to the window and slammed it down to the sill. She shut her eyes, the heat trying to get at her through the pane. Was the rain just a dream? she wondered.

  Marion thought about the boys of summer, in the camp. They were still in her heart, every one of them. She wondered if they survived the storm, if their love saw them through. Those tents couldn’t hold their own against a gale.

  It’s not a dumping ground, she kept telling herself as she bravely went to the front door, pushing her way into the stifling air. It’s a camp. A convention. A Happening.

  Marion expected to find a boy of summer on her stoop, and was oddly disappointed when not only the stoop but the street was unoccupied.

  When she arrived at the camp, she felt relieved at the sight of an intact collection of multicolored tents of all sizes and configurations arranged like the streets of a town. The camp had rode out the storm, but there didn’t seem to be anybody around.

  Maybe they’ve had enough of me, she fretted. Maybe I’ve been taking them for granted for too long. Maybe they decided to get another girl. Wiping the sweat from her upper lip, she was chilled by the thought. An endless summer without a summer love. What kind of life would that be? But maybe, she thought, if I no longer had a summer love, I would find a love that would last forever. But the boys of summer had been part of her life so long that it was hard to imagine loving any other way.

  Maybe they got arrested. For loitering. Or littering. Or loving her too much.

  It was strange being here again. So much happened since her last fiasco of a visit. So much had happened, but nothing had really changed. She drew near one of the tents, a smaller Aztec-blue model, took a deep breath, and poked her head in. At first she felt funny about it, almost like she was intruding into someone’s private domain. Until she realized it was probably their most common fantasy.

  Nobody home. A red sleeping bag, and a metal coffee cup on a small folding table.

  She didn’t try her luck again. She roamed through the camp, looking for loves.

  There was a bulletin board on a pole outside one of the tents. A handwritten chart, with a series of names, all close to her heart, on the horizontal plane, and a string of numbers and month abbreviations in vertical columns. Check marks where the two values intersected. Marion mulled, trying to decipher them. It was a schedule, she decided. They didn’t want to overwhelm her, make her feel hemmed in. So one or two boys of summer at a time, in shifts, while the others worshipped her from afar, until it was their turn.

  As she took a corner, stepping around a picnic table, Marion stopped, listening. Voices were coming from a large military-style tent across the way. The screened front entrance was open, but she ducked around the side instead. There she found a window and peeked in.

  It was a mess hall tent, with long tables and folding chairs. A counter on the far end featured a coffee urn and cups, plates of pastries and fruit on the side.

  The tables were arranged so that the group of perhaps twenty-five men were sitting in a circle. She recognized the faces, every last one.

  They stirred up memories, moments caught in time. They were part of her life, even if they were just summer flings.

  In the middle of the circle stood Marion’s very first boy of summer, Chip. Chip. She smiled at the sight of his face. Blond hair, decent build, dimples, etc. She had run into him occasionally since she let him loose, although not for a couple of years or so. He looked older, some silver in his sideburns, crinkles in the corners of his eyes, his stomach battling with his belt for supremacy.

  “… she doesn’t like daisies,” said Chip, holding a sheet of paper in his hand. “Perhaps change it to violets.”

  “But what rhymes with violets?” someone in the circle said. It was Dwayne, a summer love from earlier this year.

  “’Regrets’ might work here, although it’s not really clear. But I think the larger problem with the piece is the form you chose. I would recommend rewriting it as a heroic couplet, and see how that goes.” He shuffled papers. “Next up? Anybody? Ah, the newcomer. What was your name again, my friend?”

  “Alan.”

  “Alan. You are so close to her yet. Your feelings for her must be very strong; she’s not someone you will soon forget.”

  “That’s why I needed to put my feelings for her into words.”

  “You’re halfway to success in the poetry game, so go right ahead, we’re all the same.”

  “It’s sort of a haiku.”

  “Whatever works for you works for us, too.”

  “It doesn’t rhyme.” “Oh…”

  Alan shut his eyes and began:

  “I call this poem simply, ‘Marion.’”

  Chip picked up something from a table. Something on a stick. Marion had seen it before. It was a head shot of herself affixed to the end of a wooden dowel. He held it up to his face like a mask. On her only visit to the camp there had been a dozen mock Marions running around, maybe more. Like a funhouse mirror, only the faces in the mirror didn’t stay where they belonged. Like the images had stepped out of the mirror and demanded to be recognized. It would have been sweet if one stopped to think about it, which she didn’t, because she ran away like she was on fire.

  Sweet, she thought sourly. And how did I react? Like a Grade A government-inspected ratfink.

  “Don’t close your eyes,” said Chip. “Open them and speak to me from your heart.”

  Alan cleared his throat…

  “Who moved the parking lot

  “Flopping fish fail

  “To dampen my love for you.”

  Silence gripped the room, then Chip said, “Shit, Alan, that’s deep.”

  The other boys of summer applauded mightily.

  Marion moved away from the window, to the front of the tent.

  “Now this demonstrates an important point,” said Chip. “Technique is important, but you have to pour your soul into your writing. You have to really mean it. You can just go the moon, June, croon route, but that doesn’t make your poem come to life. The quality of your writing is a reflection of what you feel inside. Don’t be content with trodding where others have trod before. Do you know why? In spite of the fact that we are all crazy about Marion, each of us has had his own unique and special experience with her. Each of us has a secret Marion place inside himself, a place that nobody else knows about, and that’s what you have to bring out in an interesting and meaningful way. Now, let’s go on to the next poem, this one’s by Jim…”

  The bard got to his feet.

  “Marion, Oh Light of My World,

  “Every Time I See You,

  “The Flags of My Heart Unfurl…”

  “Stop it! Just stop it!” Marion cried, bursting into the big tent.

  As one, the boys of summer turned to her.

  As one, their faces lit up with delight.

  As one, they rose and came to her.

  She held up a definitive hand. “Stop.”

  They obeyed.

  “We need to have a talk,” she said quietly.

  Their eyes dropped, their chins hung low.

  “This is all very flattering, of course. What girl wouldn’t want to be thought of so highly… by so many of you? But I think it’s time we found someone else. It’s time we got back to living our own lives. Summer’s over, you know?”

  “Then why are you sweating?” Chip asked.

  The boys of summer perked up, hope in their eyes.

  “Chip…”

  “Marion, oh light of my life,” Jim began reciting, and at once, as if a switch had been thrown, all the boys of summer spoke with deep sincerity the words they had written.

  It was cacophony. A poetry fusillade. Marion jammed her hands against her ears and insisted that they cease, but her voice was lost in the waves of ear-piercing adoration.

  Marion ran.

  She ran like she did the first time she visited Camp Marion. Panicked, embarrassed, frightened.

  She ran home, the boys of summer giving chase. When she rea
ched the safety of her house, she slammed the door shut, flipping over the security lock. Then pulled shades and drew curtains. Turned off the phone and punched on the TV. Only then did she dare nudge the edge of the heavy red drapes shielding her front window.

  The boys of summer were everywhere—in the driveway, on the lawn, at the door. They looked happy, but in a strange, frenzied way. They were all reciting their verses using their outdoor voices. It must have been the heat. It must have been something she said.

  Marion didn’t know what to do, so she powered up her phone and made a call.

  “Nine-one-one. What’s your emergency?”

  “Uh, there are people outside my house.”

  “Prowlers?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “You know these people?”

  “Well, yes.”

  “Who are they?”

  “They’re all sort of boyfriends, I guess.”

  “Are they threatening you?”

  “They’re reading me poems.”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am. Could you repeat that?”

  “Poetry! They wrote love poems to me and now they’re standing outside my house reciting them, all at once!”

  “I wish my boyfriend would write me a love poem.”

  “You don’t understand! I don’t want them here!”

  “No, I understand. But do you? Listen to me: You need to cherish these fellas. True love is so scarce in this world that you have to nurture it when you find it. Don’t throw it away. Don’t shut the door. And most of all, don’t call nine-one-one.”

  “I’ll get a restraining order!”

  “Cherish them, as they cherish you.”

  “I’ll write my congresswoman!”

  “There’s no excuse not to love…”

  Marion hung up, royally steamed.

  And then she fell to her knees, sobbing. Deep, heart-shuddering sobs. She felt ashamed for calling the cops. She didn’t what else to do. She didn’t want to hurt her boys of summer, but she couldn’t go on like this. The only thing more unbearable than the heat was the love. She had to escape, get away…

  The boys of summer swarmed her car as Marion backed out of the driveway. On the roof, the trunk, the windshield. Leaving lip marks and teardrops. They scattered helter-skelter as she hit the curb at the bottom of the blacktop. She sped off without looking in her rearview mirror.

 

‹ Prev