by Pamela Morsi
Claire did not even smile and she wasn't about to be put off by her aunt's feeble attempt at humor.
"I don't want to know about all young girls, Aunt Gertrude. I want to know about you. Didn't you dream about falling in love?"
Gertrude cleared her throat. She was obviously very uncomfortable with the subject. "Well, of course I thought about it upon occasion," she admitted. "But nothing really ever—" She glanced up nervously and gave Claire a long, rather pained look. "Don't you think that this sort of thing would be better discussed with your mother?"
"What on earth could Mama know about love?" Claire asked, her eyes wide with sincere surprise. "She married George Barkley!"
Gertrude appeared slightly aghast at her niece's words, then her expression softened. "What a strange thing for you to say, Claire," her aunt scolded. "I can only count it as the foolish words of youth. Your parents are very much in love and have been since they were your age."
Claire gave her a doubtful expression. "Mama has nothing on her mind but Lester the Pester. And Papa—" She rolled her eyes. "He certainly doesn't strike me as having ever been an ardent swain."
Gertrude laughed good-naturedly. "Oh, but you don't know him as well as I do," she said. "Your father was quite the lovelorn romantic in his youth."
Claire shook her head, disbelieving. "I suppose that's why he's so grouchy now."
Gertrude's good mood vanished almost immediately and she looked uncomfortable once more. She answered slowly as if carefully choosing her words. "I'm sure it's upsetting to you the way your father flies off the handle at everything. But it's just his way."
"His way is certainly what he gets around here," she answered. "I hate how he tries to tell you what to do all the time. Mama apparently doesn't mind, but he's got no right to treat you like . . . like ..."
"Like a sister?" Gertrude asked softly. She wrapped a loving arm around Claire's shoulder. "Your father is just very worried about this election of the Crusading Knights of the Mystic Circle. He's wanted to be Sublime Kalifa for years now. It really means a lot to him." Gertrude patted her comfortingly. "And, honestly, I think he might have been elected last year if I hadn't decided to wear that split skirt and ride astride at the Founder's Day Parade."
"It was a beautiful skirt, Aunt Gertrude," Claire told her, quickly rising to her defense.
Her aunt smiled broadly at her. "Oh yes, I thought so, too, and you know I don't mind at all tweaking the noses of the gossips. But I should have remembered that ultimately everything I do comes to rest on George's shoulders," she said. "That's what happens when you are the head of the family. And that's why the rest of us must try to be as very understanding as we possibly can. Your poor father has had all of it to contend with since your grandfather died."
"I still don't like him telling you what to do," Claire said.
Gertrude leaned closely and spoke conspiratorially. "Well, darling," she whispered, "if it will make you feel better to know it, I hardly listen."
Claire laughed with her aunt, delightedly for a moment before realizing that she had been very cleverly led away from the subject she wished to discuss.
"Oh, Aunt Gertrude, you've made me forget what I am about," she said. "I want to hear it from you. I want you to tell me about falling in love."
Gertrude smoothed the hair from the young girl's face and looked into her eyes for a long moment. “Truly," she told her. "I'm sure I know nothing at all about it."
"Of course you do," Claire insisted.
Gertrude shook her head determinedly. "Falling in love is a bit like catching the chicken pox. Most everyone does, but it's not something that you can make happen." She hesitated just an instant too long before adding, "And when it is going to happen, there is really nothing you can do to avoid it."
Chapter Thirteen
"HURRY, AUNT GERTRUDE, the game is almost ready to start," Claire declared as the two women made their way through the crowd gathered at the side of the open field near the high school.
The day was chilly and gray and threatening rain. The people present looked almost as dreary as the sky overhead.
In her navy blue middy sweater and shepherd-check skirt, Claire looked very much like every other young female in attendance. Gertrude, on the other hand, was sporting a new three-piece-style afternoon costume that was more chic and fashionable than anything heretofore seen in the town of Venice. The bright rose-colored linen jacket and skirt with the candy-striped collar and cuffs stood out among the more primly dressed matrons in their gray silks and serges. And the trim little boyish cap with the bright pink aigrette only drew more attention to her short-cropped curls. It was a little extraordinary for football game attire, but Claire had begged her to chaperone the victory dance afterward, and Gertrude couldn't really attend such a function without a little bit of style.
The young woman continued to weave through the crowd.
"For heaven's sake, Claire," Gertrude called out. "Where are you going? We can see perfectly well from here."
Claire stopped only to glance around once more, then, apparently sighting a spot she liked better, hurried on. "Over here, Aunt Gertrude, this is terrific," she said.
Gertrude somewhat unwillingly followed her niece to the very front row of the crowd, standing only just to the right of the circle of congregating players. The area was mostly men with their smelly cigars and for the life of her, Gertrude couldn't see what made this place better than one a little farther to the edge. She was about to say that very thing to Claire when she spotted Mikolai Stefanski beside her.
"Well, hello," she said, a bit surprised. It wasn't that she hadn't known that he would attend his son's football game. But the two rarely saw each other away from their own gardens. Now they found themselves thrown into conversation several times within the same week.
Sedately dressed as any businessman present, he bowed slightly. "Good afternoon, Miss Gertrude."
With the warmth his presence was known to bring stealing over her, Gertrude deliberately sought an expression of nonchalance as she glanced around at the crowd.
She found that many of the gentlemen and most of the ladies dressed soberly in clothing to match the darkening skies were staring at her.
She smoothed her skirt. "It seems I am a bit overdressed for this occasion," she said to Stefanski. "Even when I don't mean to draw attention, it seems that I do."
He too glanced around the crowd before returning his gaze to her. His expression was warm, but the lines of his face were straight and sober. "Not overdressed, Miss Gertrude, a ray of sunshine on this cloudy day."
Gertrude laughed at his rather poetic compliment.
"Why thank you, sir," she answered with playful exaggeration. "As always, you are more than a friendly neighbor, you are my knight gallant."
He smiled then, broadly. "I am a man who can appreciate a lady in a pretty dress," he answered.
Gertrude was pleased. The "pretty dress" was the latest couture creation and she had paid dearly for it. It had come all the way on the train from a New York mail-order house. She had thought herself quite the fashion rebel when she'd put it on this morning, and looked forward to being the most dazzling chaperone at the high school dance. The dress had earned her Mikolai Stefanski's smile. If she never wore it again, it was worth the price.
"I look rather like the goldfinch among the sparrows," she admitted, blushing as she glanced once more at the row after row of ladies and gentlemen dressed in gray and brown.
Mikolai answered her words with frank solemnity. "You look the goldfinch, Miss Gertrude, because you are a goldfinch. And a goldfinch is always a welcome sight, Miss Gertrude. I would not wish such a bird to hide itself in feathers meant for sparrows."
His compliment was made without the least bit of smile or gesture to indicate it as flattery. Gertrude felt a flutter in her heart. How could a woman not be in love with this man? The thought was as natural as it was startling. Her heart pounded. She shouldn't be thinking such things. Not i
n public, not standing next to him.
"Thank you very much, Mr. Stefanski," she said, her tone overly proper and her expression sober. "As always, I value your opinion."
Mikolai glanced at her, obviously puzzled at her abrupt change in behavior. He cleared his throat unnecessarily and gave her the very slightest of nods before turning his attention back to the empty field before them.
Gertrude did the same. She straightened her striped collar and brushed her striped cuffs, her cheeks glowing. For some inexplicable reason, Claire scooted over, forcing Gertrude to stand even closer to Stefanski. She could hardly move without brushing against his coat. In her current state of mental agitation, that should be avoided at all costs.
With a blow of the whistle, the referee set the large oblique- shaped pigskin ball at the center of the field and the players on both teams hurried to their assigned positions. The young men from Rogers, who had arrived on the morning train, had only their coach and a few parents to applaud them.
The hometown boys, however, were loudly cheered. Gertrude was close enough to hear the coach give them their words of encouragement.
"Remember, boys, no push and pull," he cautioned. "Don't flinch, don't foul, and hit the line hard."
With a clap of dismissal, the Venice varsity hurried out to take their stance and defend their goal.
Gertrude clapped with excited encouragement, though the sound of her cheering was muffled by her white afternoon gloves. She knew most of the boys on the team. Their parents had been her childhood friends and she had watched the progress of their little lives at a writer's respectable distance, keenly observing. If she had had a son of her own, he too might be playing on this team.
The thought was a melancholy one and she pushed it away. And a woman didn't need a son of her own to appreciate the strength and grace of an athlete in his youthful prime.
"For heaven's sake, Gertrude, why did you have to stand this near the sidelines!" The words were spoken in a gruff scold by her brother, arriving late.
Gertrude startled, moving guiltily as far away from Stefanski as possible. "Claire picked this place," she answered quickly. "It seems as good to me as any other."
Barkley huffed, disgruntled. He glanced over Gertrude's head. "Afternoon, Stefanski."
"Barkley," was the reply.
George turned his attention back to his sister. "It's just foolish of you to let Claire make such a decision. You might as easily let Prudence make a choice, neither one of them has any sense at all."
"I like where we are standing just fine," Gertrude lied to her brother. At that moment she wished herself far away from the man at her side. "I think it's, as the children say, terrific. If you don't like it, you can stand elsewhere."
George's cheeks puffed up. "The family should stand together. How else will the head of the family be able to give directions to its lesser members? If you and Claire had waited for us as you should have, this problem would have never come up."
Gertrude's eyes narrowed and she looked downright belligerent. "No problem has come up. Claire and I will stand where we want, and you may stand wherever it pleases you to do so."
George flushed slightly and lowered his voice to a near whisper. "Good Lord, Gerty, don't defy me in public. You know I'm up for Sublime Kalifa. Half of the Knights of the Mystic Circle are probably watching us right now."
Gertrude answered him just as quietly. "Don't tell me what to do, George Barkley, and I won't defy you."
Her brother nodded as if accepting the truth and then he looked at her more closely. "What is this outfit you're wearing?" he asked.
Gertrude was saved answering when Prudence sidled up to her husband, full panic in her voice.
"Little Lester got away from me in the crowd!" she exclaimed. "I can't find him anywhere."
"Mrs. Barkley." George's voice was loud and stern. It was clear that his words were meant as much for the crowd around him as the woman he addressed. "As a wife you are almost totally worthless." The men in that group smiled and nodded to each other in approval of a good and well-done setdown by a man who definitely wore the trousers in his own household.
Prudence was too well bred to give a reply and the two dove off into the crowd to find their missing offspring, leaving Claire and Gertrude to their own devices.
Gertrude stifled the sigh of relief that escaped from her lips. Glancing up, she saw that it had not gone unnoticed by the man at her side.
"George is a little nervous these days," she said by way of explanation.
Stefanski nodded. "Were I voting for Sublime Kalifa, he would get my vote," he said. "The man must have fine qualities for such ladies as yourself and Mrs. Barkley to put up with him all these years."
The foibles of George Barkley had been a shared topic of humor between the two of them for years. Her brother, although being very near their own age, had always acted as if he were from their parents' generation instead of their own.
The teasing quality of his words evoked that friendly, safe feeling. And Gertrude smiled as she turned her attention to the field. She was not about to make a fool of herself.
The young men had taken their positions. Scanning the group, her eyes alighted upon young Teddy Stefanski. Nearing six feet in height and weighing about one hundred sixty pounds, he was one of the larger boys on the team. His knitted team shirt in a lustrous royal blue fit closely along his back and shoulders, accurately portraying his stalwart physique. The same could not be said, however, of his baggy front-laced football knickers that were cut to oversize proportion to accommodate the thick knee pads that were worn for safety.
The huge gray pants did, however, emphasize the narrowness of the young man's waist and the attractive curve of his well-muscled calves.
In a flash of nostalgic memory, Gertrude was reminded of the young man's father, who had looked similar so very few years earlier. She turned to Stefanski beside her.
“Teddy favors you so much," she said.
Stefanski seemed surprised at her words and glanced with curiosity at his son on the field.
"Does he?"
"He looks exactly as I remember you on the day you came to town."
"I wasn't aware that you even noticed me way back then," Mikolai answered.
As they watched, Teddy took his place in the line of defense. He reached into the lone back pocket of his knickers and retrieved his leather helmet. He slipped the protective cap on his head and half squatted, hands on knees, ready for the kickoff.
"He looks like me, you think?"
"Yes, very much so."
Stefanski shook his head. "I see only Teodor," he told her.
She nodded. "Yes, I'm sure that's the kind of man you are," she said.
He looked at her questioningly, but Gertrude was saved explanation by the sound of the whistle. The center, Roy Bert Pugh, leaned down into his three-point stance, reaching one arm out into the neutral zone to clasp the football. The opposing team jockeyed for position at the line hoping to lure an overeager Venice man into an early, illegal motion. Their temptation was not heeded by the single-minded linemen.
"Hike!" Paul Parks, the young quarterback, called.
With a flash of movement, the center shot the ball back through his legs at a thirty-five-degree angle, directly into the hands of the quarterback.
Parks, with a casualness that belied the gang of determined young men headed his way, dropped the pigskin to the ground in front of him. The instant that it landed with a plopping sound in the short-cut grass, he kicked it with a powerful whoosh that sent it hurtling over the rush of men coming toward him.
The game was on. As the young men ran and blocked and hit, the friends and family on the sidelines clapped and cheered and hollered encouragement. Gertrude was enjoying the game. It lifted her spirits and made her seem, at least for a short while, a part of something, an accepted member of a kind of community.
When the team managed to hold the line, forcing Rogers into a turnover, Claire turned to ask he
r aunt in giddy delight, "Aren't they terrific?"
Gertrude smiled at the flushed and glowing young woman at her side. "Yes, I think they rather are," she answered.
The varsity almost scored on their first possession, but was held tight by Rogers's goal-line defense. When the ball was turned over, the coach called for suspension of the time clock and the young men all ran to the sidelines to huddle.
The cheering crowd hardly had time to draw a breath when Delfane Ponder, the yell-leader, wearing a team sweater with his navy worsted knickers, raced onto the field. He held his black tin megaphone up to his lips and hollered.
"Who's straight as a shot and sure as a stream?"
The crowd answered, "Our team! Our team!"
"Who's tough as they come and square on the beam?"
"Our team! Our team!"
"Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah rah rah! Venice High School! Rah! Rah! Rah!"
Much shouting and clapping followed this exchange, as much for young Mr. Ponder's way with words as for the young fellows playing football.
When the referee's whistle sounded once more, the young men were back on the field. Within minutes Roy Bert forced a fumble and Clifford Bounty gratefully lay down upon it, recovering the ball.
Without conscious intent, Gertrude's attention was drawn to the silent man at her side. Mikolai Stefanski watched the game with the solemnity of a judge.
"They are really playing well," she said.
Mikolai nodded. "That is good," he said. "I can't always tell if we are winning since the people yell just as loudly when we lose."
Gertrude's eyes widened. "You don't understand the game?"
He shook his head. "I keep thinking I will have Teodor to explain it to me. But when we talk there are always more important things."
Momentarily Gertrude accepted his words with solemnity, then a little grin twitched into the corner of her mouth and her eyes lit up with amusement.