“Have you ever told him that?”
“Not really. We don’t talk much.”
~~~
Gay Nineties Pizza Parlor had beaten the system. In 1965 its permit had been approved as a nod to the flatlanders that the Town Council occasionally felt compelled to bestow. They let them have their pizza joint, on the outskirts of town, but hadn’t figured on the possibility that folks from the hill might take a liking to it as well, or that Rita Williams, the proprietor’s wife, would come up with a sausage, onion, and cashew pizza that would be the hit of the county. Unlike other restaurants in town, Gay’s, as it came to be called, regularly saw customers from up the hill and down dining side by side. Aunt Judith, who never ate there herself, often sent Mr. Theo down to pick up a Rita Special.
When Sarah entered the restaurant and saw her cousin sitting with some friends, she smiled and waved. Veronica smiled and waved back. Then she saw Mack…with Sarah. The smile disappeared, she stared intently, and then she left the restaurant, walking right past them without saying a word.
“What’s that all about?” asked Mack.
“Uh…I don’t think Veronica expected to see you and I here…together.”
“Oh. I see. Is she going to be ok?”
“Yeah. You may have to turn on some extra cowboy charm tomorrow, but I think she’ll be ok.”
Mack found them a table in a quiet corner where Sarah went to work trying to explain the Rita Special to a strict pepperoni pizza kind of guy. When the word “cashew” entered the conversation, he shook his head doubtfully, like he’d just heard blasphemy, and began a squeamish protest. By the end of the meal, though, he’d become a convert, as expected. Besides the philosophy of pizza, they continued their running conversation about the characters at the barn—the four legged kind, both dog and horse—and then they talked about anything and everything else that came to mind. Sarah admittedly did most the talking, but that didn’t change the fact that they had the easy, casual look of best friends.
And when Sarah wasn’t talking, or listening, she was trying not to think about how much she liked him.
On the way back up the hill, Mack reached over and took her hand into his, didn’t say a word, just held her hand. After a while Sarah said, “Did we just have a date?”
“That? Not that. Our first date’s going to be more special than that. You just wait and see. That was just the little thing before the thing.”
“‘The little thing before the thing.’ I’ve heard about those before,” said Sarah.
Mack laughed. She liked making him laugh.
He kissed her that night, before she got into her car to drive home. She smiled all the way down the hill and couldn’t wait to tell Mom all about her wonderful day.
Mom liked Mack because he worked hard and had manners. And because he didn’t come from a rich family in Prospect Park. She said money did things to people and that’s why she never cared for any of the boys Sarah had dated from school. They acted too sophisticated. She called them “penthouse bachelors with pimples.” And she especially didn’t like any of the boys Aunt Judith liked to tout. So she took a natural liking to Mack. Not that she stopped doing annoying things, like repeatedly asking if Mack believed in God and if he went to church. She was still Sarah’s mom, after all. Truth be told, annoyances and all, Mom had never stopped being Sarah’s most trusted confidante, especially when it came to sensitive topics like Mack Brimwahl.
On this night, though, when Sarah saw her mother waiting for her just inside the doorway, with red eyes and a sad face, Sarah knew they wouldn’t be having their usual “Sanka After-Dinner Coffee Hour.” Lately Mom hadn’t been feeling well, which had worried Sarah, but now she looked especially unwell. The first clue as to the reason for this came when Mom said, “Your Aunt Judith just called.”
“Oh, is that all?” said Sarah. “I thought something serious had happened.”
“She’s going to fire Mack Brimwahl.”
“Fire….For what?”
“For taking liberties, as she put it, and for not knowing his place. She said that Veronica saw you and Mack out on a date.”
“We had a pizza after work. That’s it. And what business is it of hers anyway?”
“I tried talking to her, but she’s still going to fire him. Maybe you should go see her in the morning.”
Sarah had her speech ready the next morning when she drove up the hill and found her aunt waiting for her in the sitting room. She looked almost as bad as Mom had the night before, only instead of sickly, she looked mad, and tired, like she’d stayed up all night cursing Sarah’s name. It didn’t matter. Sarah loved Mack and she said it straight to her aunt’s face. She loved him, knew it with all her heart, and would give up everything for him. “Even life itself!” she said with a flourish.
“You love him!” shrieked Aunt Judith. “Well! What are we going to do about that? I guess that means it’s ok to throw your life away!”
Sarah had never seen her aunt like this before and quickly realized that she had better stay calm, or the conversation might blow up in her face. She took a deep breath and said…nothing, because Aunt Judith hadn’t finished her tirade on love.
“And here I thought you loved Paul Anka! Or was it Ricky Nelson? No, he was last week. But that’s alright because now you love Mack Brim…Brim…Brimwacker, or whatever his name is. And as long as we’re talking about love, how do you feel about living in a one bedroom fleabag and driving around in a clunky old truck, because that’s exactly the kind of life your prince charming loves! Along with his cheap beer and sheep dogs and baked beans! And six little babies sucking on thumbs and running around in dirty diapers!” That’s when Sarah wondered if Aunt Judith had hit the liquor cabinet a little early.
Despite Sarah’s pledge of composure, Aunt Judith eventually brought her to tears, almost to hysterics. The final straw came when Aunt Judith said that if Sarah didn’t obey her wishes, she’d go out and fire Mack that very minute, and then she’d attach a black mark to his name so big, and so ugly, that he’d never find a decent job in California ever again. And then she’d sell the horses, close up the barn, and send all the dogs, except Rufus, to the pound.
Aunt Judith never lost arguments.
Some weeks later, when Sarah’s eyes stopped looking red, Aunt Judith called her back into the sitting room. She stroked Sarah’s head, kissed her cheek, and held her hand. She wanted to talk some more about love, quietly and calmly this time. She said that there’s a place for love, but that women constantly make the mistake of putting love where it doesn’t belong, ahead of wealth and power and family name. And then, instead of admitting their mistake, these women make up stories about racing hearts and romantic fireworks. They walk down the aisle with duds and then drone on for the rest of their lives about blissful love. The truth of the matter, Aunt Judith assured Sarah, was that love might very well be like fireworks, but she must always remember that fireworks fade away while a good name, from a prestigious family, sparkles forever.
A little over a year later, between Sarah’s freshman and sophomore year in college, Aunt Judith introduced her to Grant Wynnthorpe, oldest son of U.S. Senator Jordon Wynnthorpe, and the most handsome young man Sarah had ever seen.
~~~
Mack knew he didn’t fit in with the big muckety-mucks on the hill. He didn’t even fit in with little muckety-mucks down the hill. And since he’d never inherit a million dollars or swap his cowboy boots for platform shoes, which happened to be in style at the time, or his blue jeans for velvet trousers, also in style, the chances of him ever blending in didn’t look good. At first he didn’t mind. The way he saw it, if a guy worked hard, made an effort to be friendly, and dealt squarely with people, sooner or later he’d make a place for himself. He might look like corn chips next to caviar, but he’d make a place.
And if Mack needed a reason to make it in Prospect Park, he didn’t have to look any further than Sarah Evans. From the beginning, when he saw how she took care of
her aunt and cousin, and the suspicious way she kept tabs on him, he had an idea she might be special. Six months later he knew that “special” didn’t do her justice. There she was, the niece of Judith Newfield, which amounted to royalty in those parts, the granddaughter of a duchess, surrounded by a whole lot of highfalutin nonsense, and it didn’t touch her. He’d seen some arrogance on the hill, and phoniness, and a few people who probably slept with their money, or at least kissed it goodnight, but with Sarah he saw a beautiful young lady who didn’t seem to know the difference between a baron and a bricklayer…or a horse trainer, for that matter. Sometimes he even wondered how much she cared for all that society stuff because whenever they had a big to-do up at the house she seemed to end up at the barn with her horses and dogs. Before coming to Sunny Slope Manor, he’d never seen a woman in a ball gown toss a flake of hay to a horse. He liked it.
He liked her way with horses too. Of course she had a weakness for rescues and ragtag misfits. She knew how to take abused, untrusting horses that spooked when a fly looked at them, and turn them into comfortable, if not confident, members of a special herd that trusted her as its unrivaled alpha. She didn’t practice horse whispering by design, but definitely had an instinctive touch for the basic principles: bonding and trust.
Just like the dumb farmer who grows the biggest potatoes, Mack had stumbled onto the real deal. And, truth be told, the outside of Sarah Evans looked every bit as good as the inside. And it didn’t matter what she happened to be doing. Tall like a fashion model, and with the slim figure of a serious rider, she could be standing ankle deep in slop, mucking a stall, and still turn heads…in the rain. Her auburn hair, which she wore to just below the shoulders, had just the right body to it: full enough to complement her friendly, innocent face, and playful enough to sometimes fall forward to tickle her attractive mouth and delicate nose. And when it came to her big hazel eyes, he had to be especially careful. No sneaky glances or sideways looks for those eyes, just uninhibited, inviting contact. Mack had gotten lost in them more than once. Embarrassingly lost. But the thing he liked best was her smile. She didn’t wear it all the time like a political candidate, or on cue, like a game show host. Mostly she smiled because she liked people. She smiled at the mere sight of her mother, cousin, or aunt. She greeted friends and neighbors with a smile of genuine fondness. She even had a smile for a certain cowboy. He felt especially partial to that one.
And then it stopped. One day he got tears and sadness instead of a smile. It happened the day after their first kiss, when Sarah made an unexpected morning visit as Mack stood at the tack house workbench repairing a saddle. One look and he knew she hadn’t come to joke about cashew pizza. Without ever looking into his eyes she said, “I’m sorry Mack. It’s not you. I’m sorry.” Then she burst into tears and ran out the door. Mack followed her to the parking area next to the stable where he saw Mrs. Newfield standing beside Sarah’s cream colored Chevy Impala. After Sarah got into the car, Mrs. Newfield held out her hand like a traffic cop and stopped Mack in his tracks. The car screeched away. Mrs. Newfield stared at him, like he’d stolen lunch money from a first grader. Then she said, “You can help make things better Mack, or I can fire you. It’s up to you.”
“I’m listening,” said Mack, even though he had a good idea what she had to say.
“I didn’t invest eighteen years of my life turning Sarah into a princess just to be swept off her feet by an employee who knows a few horse tricks. You’re a good kid Mack, but Sarah deserves better. And she’s going to get it. It’s been decided and there’s nothing you can do. All I need to know is if you’re going to stay or go. And I hope you stay, because I like you, and because it will make the whole thing easier for my niece if she knows she didn’t have anything to do with getting you fired. You have until this afternoon to decide.”
Mack knew the answer. He didn’t have a choice. If he fought he’d end up hurting Sarah, not to mention getting himself fired and never seeing her again.
“I’ll stay,” he said quietly.
“And will you obey my wishes?”
“Yes ma’am.”
And the conversation ended. With no more trouble than it takes to herd a cow through a chute, Mrs. Newfield had put him in his place. That’s when Mack understood that he’d never find his place in Prospect Park, not one that included Sarah, not one worth having.
Sarah came back to the barn three days later, bringing along a quiet sadness. Mack knew he had to make things better for her but didn’t know exactly how to do it. From who knows where he got the idea that he’d help her most if he stayed away. On that first day, with little talk, he politely got her saddle from the tack house, put it on her horse, and then excused himself, saying he had errands to run. She looked confused and hurt but that was to be expected. Wasn’t it? The next day he did the same routine and this time she looked mad. By the third day, when she didn’t bother to even look at him, he knew he didn’t have a clue, so he changed course: he put on a pleasant face and made small talk and even cracked little jokes, as if to say, “Look at me. I can do this and so can you. We can both do it. And everything will be ok.” Sarah responded to the small talk like a robot and didn’t respond to the joking at all. Mack persisted a few more days, until one too many of his comments landed with a thud and Sarah stared blankly at him for the hundredth time. That’s when, as they crossed paths in the tack house, he suddenly blurted out, “Sarah!”
She looked at him, startled.
“You’re still my best friend, Sarah. Even if it can’t be anything more than that, I’m still a lucky guy. I just wanted you to know that.”
Without saying a word, she ran up, wrapped her arms around him, and kissed him on the lips. Then she ran to her car and drove off, only to show up the next day looking more like her old self.
Mission accomplished. He’d gotten back the smile. But he had also lied. He’d put a fake spring into his step and had made deceptive small talk. He’d pretended that his heart didn’t have a block of cold, hard sadness strapped to it. He’d called himself lucky when he felt like the unluckiest dog that ever scrounged a dump heap. All lies. All done for the sake of that smile and for the sake of winning back the scrawny corpse that used to be their friendship. It had worked. And if that friendship now had an ugly red barrier, constructed by Judith Newfield, right in the middle of it, it didn’t matter; it was still better than no friendship at all.
Sometime after this, Mrs. Newfield pulled her strings and Sarah started dating Grant Wynnethorpe, son of a senator. Mack forced himself to be happy, telling himself that Sarah deserved a senator’s son, even if this particular one looked like he’d faint if his tennis outfit ever got dirty. Over the months and years that followed, Mack told himself other things that he didn’t really believe. He told himself to believe in that special, unknown girl who had to be out there somewhere waiting for him, even though he never went out and actually looked for her. He told himself to leave Prospect Park…as soon as Sarah went away to college…as soon as she came home for summer vacation…as soon as the newspaper published the news of her engagement to Wynnthorpe…. He never left, preferring, instead, another chance to get lost in those hazel eyes. When Sarah’s mother died, and he saw how it tore Sarah apart, he stopped thinking about leaving altogether.
Chapter 16
On a drizzly day in November 1970, Judith Newfield’s wayward daughter, sixteen years old, smashed her brand new Mustang into a Santa Marcela light pole. The totaling of new cars would become somewhat of a hobby for Veronica, but on this occasion, in addition to wrecking the car, she also managed to get herself arrested when she didn’t bother to conceal a bag of marijuana that had been on the passenger’s seat. The police officer saw the bag and put her in handcuffs. Fortunately, the desk sergeant at the police station recognized her name and took the cuffs right back off. He made an apologetic phone call to Judith and the matter seemed to be resolved…except Veronica still found herself at the police station in Santa Marcela wit
hout a ride home.
The accommodating sergeant offered to arrange a ride with one of the patrolmen. Judith declined. She’d had enough humiliation without putting her daughter on display in a police car as it drove the breadth of Prospect Park. Judith also had no intention of sending Abigail, her usual go-to person, because of the hell-and-damnation sermons that would quickly follow, and not the chauffeur either, who would blab it to the kitchen maids, who would then blab it to other maids from other houses, and before a person could say “stop the press” the thing would be published like a special edition. And, of course, Judith couldn’t go herself, to a place like that, where she’d have to walk a gauntlet of accusatory stares and plebian gawks. No, she’d stay at home with her well-behaved Yorkshire terrier and send someone else to fetch the darling little hand grenade, someone in particular: Walter Tubbs, the unpleasant attorney who smiled too much, the one who used to cart papers for her husband. He’d already proven himself somewhat reliable and, as an attorney, she assumed he knew the meaning of confidentiality. And since he had no social standing whatsoever, if he did happen to let something slip, the damage would be minimal. He was perfect.
~~~
Veronica didn’t expect Mother to come to the police station herself but she did expect her to at least send a human being. Instead she sent a sweaty, fat guy in a wrinkled suit who claimed to be a lawyer. She didn’t know squat about lawyers but she knew lowlife when she saw it. Then he made her sit in the front seat of his skuzz bucket Buick on the drive home. That was freaky, especially when he let loose with the body noises. He bent his big bowling ball head to the left to pop his neck, and then to the right. He popped his knuckles and his wrists, chomped his nails, and belched noxious gas out his potato nose. She clutched the armrest and prayed he didn’t lay down a gasser. Finally they got to Prospect Park, but instead of going all the way up the hill, he turned into the hotel parking lot and parked in the circular driveway by the big revolving doors.
Tea Cups & Tiger Claws Page 19