He was coming out of the grocery store, his arms full of paper or
plastic, when he saw the people lined up along Main Street. They were
three deep in places. Most were standing, some were sitting
comfortably in lawn chairs, others were sitting on the curb. Some
fanned themselves to ward off the early July heat, others were
ignoring it. All of them were periodically glancing expectantly
toward the west.
Andy Agnielli saw the balloons, he
smelled the diesel fumes wafted on the minimal summer breeze. In the
distance he could hear the muffled rumpetty-bump of a marching band.
He quickly stashed his bags in the back of his car, knowing the ice
cream wasn't going to survive the experience. He went to join the
others on the curb. In the fullness of time, which wasn't too much
time, the parade was upon them. He gawked and he waved and sometimes
he cheered along with everyone else.
There is no purpose
to a firemen's parade except to have a parade. It is not even,
despite the proximity of this particular Big Parade to the 4th of
July, despite the flags and the bunting on display, an essentially
patriotic event. Many places have their parades in May or June or
August. Some places even have them in September. Usually a politician
or two will make an appearance, riding in a convertible next to or
following Miss Green Bean or Miss Pork Barbecue, waving to what they
fondly imagine to be adoring crowds. But even that isn't really
necessary.
What's essential to make a Big Parade is fire
trucks: pumpers, ladder trucks, crew trucks, utility trucks, boats on
their trailers, tankers, ambulances, all manner of vehicles. Fire
companies from miles around send their equipment, polished and
spiffy, to show off. Manning the machines are the volunteer
firefighters, the guys and girls who put in hours of training, some
of it grueling and dangerous. In return they get the privilege of
riding the trucks to fires and emergencies in return for no pay and
little recognition. Without the trucks, without the firefighters, the
parade would be pallid and flavorless. You might as well stay home
and watch game show reruns on the teevee.
Even the
purists will admit, however, that a parade isn't a parade with only
trucks and ambulances and a few police cars and politicians and
beauty queens, even though the firemen dutifully blow their sirens
and wave to people and make goo-goo eyes at the girls as they go by.
If the trucks are the meat of the parade the potatoes are the
marching bands from the local schools. They march and they play the
theme from "Star Wars" and they sometimes still play
"Fanfare for Trumpets." The best ones wear uniforms in
styles which haven't graced a battlefield since 1814.
Helping
with the marching are the civic organizations: the Lions, Rotary,
Kiwanis, Optimists, maybe the Elks and the Moose. The excitement
crests when the Shriners put in their appearance, wearing their
fezzes and riding their motorcycles and showing off with the best of
them.
Topping it off, like the cherry perched atop the
whipped cream, there are pom-pom girls. They range in age from
pre-school to the upper reaches of junior high. There is no utility
to a pom-pom girl other than to look pleasant. They may carry actual
pom-poms or they may carry batons. Sometimes all they do is wave
their hands. They serve no more useful purpose than a vase of
flowers. Agnielli always wanted to hug them, all of them at once.
Firemen's parades aren't patriotic, perhaps, but that
statement is meant only in the finicky and literal national sense.
The parades are the expression of a community's pride in itself. The
hulking vehicles are community vehicles, paid for with a combination
of tax dollars, bingo games, bake sales and teen dances. The people
manning them are community men and women, who live there and have
jobs there. Most of them were born and raised there. They devote
their time to doing the training, to keeping up the trucks, and to
rushing to fires and emergencies. The civic clubs are the village
elders, men and women who raise money for all the good causes anyone
can think of, and some that nobody's thought of before. While they do
it they're getting together to play cards and have a few beers and
maybe do a bit of mutual back-scratching. The marching bands are
community kids, and the pom-pom girls are community daughters. We put
them on display so we can admire ourselves in the purest and most
parochial sense of patriotism.
And so the parade: like
Grandma's apple pie the recipe barely changes as the years go by. The
trucks pass, lights flashing and sirens sounding. The bands march and
play, usually in tune. The Shriners go by, portly men wearing funny
hats riding miniature motorcycles, followed by more portly men on
full-size motorcycles. The pom-pom girls march, often in step. Dogs
howl, singing along with the sirens. Sometimes they run alongside the
trucks, enormous doggy tongues hanging from happy doggy mouths,
woofing and barking. Toddlers holding Mommy's hand stick plump
fingers into mouths full of baby teeth and think "Wow! That's
pretty neat!" Hat sellers and trinket salesmen will be happy to
sell you things you don't need. You know you'll put them aside
somewhere in the back reaches of the closet, but that you want them
because you don't want to forget that you went to the Big Parade.
After the parade the trucks are parked and the carnival
officially begins. Sometimes there's a speech, sometimes a gate
symbolically opens. Sometimes the beginning is simply the grills
firing up. The visiting firemen... Well, they visit each
other. They eyeball each other's machinery with a critical eye. They
argue the merits of Seagraves versus American La France or Pierce,
sometimes lamenting the passing of Mack. They drink rapidly warming
keg beer out of plastic cups. They swap stories, many of them tall,
and they flirt with the local girls or boys, depending on gender and
preference. Agnielli couldn't begrudge them any of that. Certainly
they earned it. They worked hard enough.
The brown-haired
girl sat on the edge of a picnic table. She was one of a group of a
half dozen firefighters. She held her cup of beer and she was
laughing until the tears ran at a stocky, mostly bald man's joke. She
wore blue shorts and a tee shirt with the Company 19 logo on it. She
had great, expressive brown eyes and a lissome figure. She had a scab
on each knee, bruises on her shins, and a smile that made Agnielli
think she'd been a pom-pom girl when she had been smaller.
He
liked her instinctively. It was like catching a glimpse of an old
friend across a crowded room.
Firehouses make a significant part of their disposable annual
budgets at their carnivals. The amusement companies work their areas
in rotation, famously unexcited about any one carnival or fair. They
bring an assortment of rides that includes the ferris wheel and the
merry-go-round, some tame roller coasters, and lots of kiddie rides,
all of them more or less traditional. The firefighters make almost no
money from this part of the carnival. The rides are mere come-ons,
meant to show bright lights and music, to draw crowds.
The
crowds come for the bright lights and the rides but they stay to eat
funnel cake and cotton candy. They stand in line and shell out
willingly for barbecue and pit beef sandwiches and french fries and
hot dogs. They wash them down with half gallon soft drinks, and then
they eat soft ice cream for dessert, which often ends up running down
arms as it melts in the summer heat. There are pizza and peanuts,
snow cones and chili, all available to tempt the hungry reveler and
empty his wallet. A good carnival can be smelled from six and
sometimes ten blocks away, depending on the wind. Each food item sold
brings with it a large profit margin. The profits translate into new
boots and gloves and fireproof coats and helmets and air bottles for
the firefighters, and into oil changes and filters for the
trucks.
Even more profitable than the food are the games
of chance and skill: ring toss, great roulette wheels, balloons
waiting to be pierced with darts, over/under tables, sometimes
chuck-a-luck or even staid bingo. Once the relatively small
investment is made in the games' hardware -- leased from the carny
company for the life of the carnival -- everything is profit. Hurry,
hurry, hurry! Step right up! Only a dollar!
King of the
attractions is the venerable dunk tank. This consists of a steel
target on a swing arm. When struck by a baseball with sufficient
force the swing operates a trap mechanism that will drop whomever is
occupying the seat of honor into a large tank of water. The occupant
-- sometimes a local notable, but more usually one of the
firefighters -- can count on going into the tank at least once and
sometimes a half dozen times in a half hour.
The dunk
tank is in practice a game of chance, not skill. Most people can't
throw a baseball very accurately, especially at close range. If they
could, the dunk tank would be sadly predictable, even uninteresting.
That is especially true when the throwers are young men trying to
impress each other and the girls around them.
Just to
shade the odds a little more, the occupant of the seat of honor by
hallowed tradition invites the young fellows to throw wildly by
subjecting them to a constant stream of verbal abuse. They belittle
their ability to hit anything at all, much less a 15-inch metal disk
with a target painted on it. The prospective dunkee is allowed, even
encouraged, to comment on the thrower's looks, manner of dress, hair,
grooming, shoes, and even odor. The more abusive the verbalization
the less likelihood there is of getting dunked. On the other hand,
the more abusive the verbalization the more satisfying the occasional
dunk becomes to the dunker. The dunking tank, like so much of life,
represents a trade-off.
To Agnielli's delight, the
occupant of the seat of honor on this, the last evening of the
carnival, was the brown-haired girl he had seen the day the carnival
began. She had been into the tank at least once already. That was no
surprise. With enough balls thrown in the general direction of the
target there was always that statistical chance she would go into the
water, if only by accident.
Her clothing still wet and
her hair recently wrung, she was now belittling the throwing arm of a
young fellow in his 16th or 17th summer: "I've seen you throw!"
she hollered. She had, Agnielli considered, a nice voice, if a bit
loud. "I'm not worried! Anybody got a good book? How about
today's paper? I'm not goin' into the tank this time!"
The
lad threw, a good hefty throw that missed the painted target, though
by something under the mile she had recently predicted. His face
turned red as his friends laughed and she asked him if he really
called that a throw. He mumbled something about not being warmed up,
sounding sheepish. He dug deep and he spent another dollar, getting
three more balls for another try. He missed on all of them, to
general derision, because he was throwing much too hard for the short
range. By the abject end of it he expected to miss and he met his
expectation.
Agnielli stepped up next and he parted with
his own dollar. He approached the length of once-white tape on the
ground and the girl immediately laid into him with the sharp edge of
her tongue. She could see, she told him and the crowd around him,
that he was half blind. He should be wearing a hat to cover his
funny-looking hair. Even if he did hit the target it wouldn't be hard
enough to dunk her. He should just give the balls to somebody else
before making himself look like a goof. How about that 10-year-old
over there? He was a better pitcher...
He threw the first
ball, a careful, wide 3/4 arm throw, rather than overhand. He threw
gingerly so as not to twist his back unduly. The ball came spinning
off the tips of his fingers, curved slightly despite the short
distance it traveled, and hit the target dead center and at good
speed. The girl dropped into the water to general applause.
"Awwww!
Cindy got wet!" someone laughed.
"Cindy?"
Agnielli thought. Well, there were worse names for girls to carry
around. Better ones, too, though he supposed she was stuck with the
one she had.
She scrambled from the tank, graceful as an
otter. She resumed her seat, pulling her hair out of her face and
dripping water. She was wearing her blue firehouse shirt and shorts
outfit over a one-piece bathing suit of modest cut. He thought it
showed good sense on her part.
"Pure luck!"
Cindy scolded. "You couldn't do that again in a million--"
He
hit the target a second time, again putting the force into his arm
and shoulder rather than his back. She went back into the tank with
her mouth open, to more laughter.
She came out
sputtering, but she came back for more. "Two in a row!" she
said, as she resumed her seat. "Lightning does strike twice! Can
you--"
He dunked her again, this time before she had
even managed to properly seat herself. He smiled and waved as she
took her seat again and she gave him a worried look as he made as
though to buy more balls.
Instead, he left the dunking
tank for awhile, walking gingerly and a little stiffly. He had done
his pitching for the evening and his battered body would be indignant
about it in the morning.
For now he wandered around and
he enjoyed the carnival crowd. He admired the children with their
happy smiles. He admired the young mothers, the fathers shepherding
their families, the grandparents with favored grandchildren in tow.
Best of all was watching the teenage boys strut and be unimpressed.
Their carefully bored expressions told the world they'd seen it all
before. Between the ages of 12 and 20 one is not expected to laugh,
chuckle, giggle or cheer. Enthusiasm is for chumps. All must be
studied nonchalance, occasionally punctuated by a tired sneer. Having
a good time when a teenager is just too uncool.
His
teenage years safely and permanently behind him, Agnielli didn't mind
lacking cool. He wore his contentment like a cloak, his good humor
like a high silk hat. He could have a laugh ready at a moment's
notice. This was a nice town, he had discovered, and it was full of
nice people, even the teenagers. And life was overflowing with
risible subject matter that had gone right by him when he'd been half
his present age.
He waved to the kiddies as they went by
on the merry-go-round and he admired the bravery of the couples on
the Ferris wheel. Possessed of an imagination that was often far too
vivid, he wasn't fond of heights, especially not when swinging back
and forth in a seat that simply felt insubstantial. He
watched the boys at the shooting gallery, mentally critiquing their
stances and the way they held their weapons. He watched the teenage
girls traveling in little packs. He had never managed to figure
whether that was for their own protection or to provide sufficient
weight of numbers to bring down a fellow they fancied. To stay on the
safe side he kept his distance, despite the fact that he was too old
and stringy to draw their attention.
Eventually he drifted
back toward the dunk tank and saw that there was a new occupant in
the seat, a young man, as yet unsoaked, wearing a Company 19 tee
shirt and ugly white shorts that fell halfway down his calves. He was
belittling a burly 12-year-old who had a mean look in his eye.
"Little League all-star material," Agnielli thought, as the
lad tucked his chin and burned one at the target that, had it struck,
would have left a dent in it.
He looked around and saw
Cindy coming out of the firehouse, her hair damp, her clothes dry.
She recognized him as he approached and she gave him a pleasant but
wary smile. "I'm done for the day," she told him. "I'm
not going back into the tank!"
"It would be more
enjoyable to buy you a hot dog than to dunk you," he suggested
by way of a peace offering.
"What're you?" She
asked. "A professional baseball player? They brought in a ringer
on me? Did Yorty pay you to do that?" Her voice was much nicer
without an overabundance of decibels, he decided.
"Nope.
I'm just a pretty good ball tosser who happened to be wandering by,"
he told her modestly. "You're a good sport."
"I'll
take a hot dog, thank you. You didn't make it easy! The least you
could have done was let me finish what I was saying!"
"I'm
Andrea Agnielli," he introduced himself as they got into the
short line to buy tickets. "My friends call me Andy. I couldn't
see an end in sight to what you were saying."
"I'm
Cynthia Hodges," she acknowledged. "My friends usually call
me Cindy. But I hate it. Andrea's usually a girl's name in these here
parts."
"Andrea Doria wasn't a girl," he
pointed out. "I'm originally from Italia, where it's a boy's
name. And what's the matter with 'Cindy'?"
"I
thought Andrea Doria was a ship that sank long before I was born?
It's all the 'Cindy' names, not just 'Cindy.' I hate them all,
impartially."
"The ship was named after a fairly
ferocious condotierre, a mighty sea-farin' man just like me.
His middle name was 'Ruthless,' if I recall correctly. You hate all
of them?"
"'Cynthia' sounds snooty and 'Cindy'
sounds like an insipid blond who drives a Corvette because she puts
out, and 'Cyn' sounds like somebody who shouldn't be allowed in
church. And there was Andrea Cavalcanti, pawn of the Count of Monte
Cristo. So what're you doing here? You're not local. You're just
passing through? Here today, gone tomorrow?"
"Not
passing through that quickly. And I'm not Benedetto, at least I hope
I'm not. And Andrea Bocelli sings better than I do, though not by
much and I have better delivery than he does. I've got a project that
I'm working on but I've got to see if it's possible to get all the
pieces together and make them fit. Otherwise it'll flub. If I can
make it work I'll be here for awhile, maybe for years, maybe for
good. You can't use your middle name?"
She made a
face. "It's 'Lou.'"
"You had cruel parents,
Cindy Lou," he sympathized. "I think I'd name you
'Phoebe.'"
They got hot dogs and lemonade, paying
with the tickets he'd bought. The dogs were tasty, grilled almost
crunchy on the outside, hot and juicy on the inside, made from actual
meat that used to moo rather than from vegetable by-product or aged
hens and broth. The buns were fresh without being mushy. The
lemonades were almost large enough to bathe in.
"'Phoebe'?"
she asked, swallowing a generous chunk of hot dog tinctured with
mustard and chopped onion, her voice curious.
"From
the Greek. It means 'beautiful,' but it's applied to divinities:
Phoebis Apollo, for instance. The goddess Artemis also sometimes went
by 'Phoebe.'"
"Awww. That's nice. It's not
accurate, but it's nice. So what kinda project are you working on,
Mr. Agnielli?"
"There's a dead factory here in
town that I'm looking at. It's been empty for years. I'd like to see
if I can get it running again, but that involves finding out if it's
falling apart yet, then why it went under in the first place and then
getting it at the right price if I decide to buy. And I've got to
find out why the other furniture factories in North Carolina are
going under, one by one. And you're right. You're not a divine
beauty, but you're pleasant, which is even better. You have a face
that's made for smiling. I noticed you the day of the parade."
"I
don't know why they're closing. But if you can get the factory here
running again everybody'll be your friend forever. I was just a
little girl when it shut down, but the place hasn't been the same
since. I saw you after the parade, too. And I don't know if I like
you. You should never tell a girl she's not beautiful!"
"Want
to have dinner tomorrow?" he asked.
"I'll be in
class. Got a test coming up. How about the day after?"
"Tuesday's
fine," he agreed.
"You're not gonna buy me
another hot dog, are you?"
"My time is your
time. You may have another dog if you want it, now or then. Or you
can pick a restaurant."
"Someplace where I don't
have to look up at the menu, then."
Agnielli was prompt picking her up. Cynthia paused and briefly
inspected herself in the hallway mirror before she walked out the
front door. She decided that she approved, even if he didn't think
she was beautiful. It was nice to occasionally dress in blouse, skirt
and heels. It gave her a welcome break from her workaday tee shirts,
pants and sneakers. It reminded her that she was a girl, a fact in
which she occasionally took a certain amount of pride.
She
made sure she met him outside the house, as far up the walk as she
could. She wanted to make sure not to inflict her mother on him. She
was pleased when he held the car door for her. He was wearing a
jacket and tie and driving a slightly battered but sparkling clean
five-year-old SUV. "The Village Grill's supposed to be the best
restaurant in town," she told him. "At least everybody says
it is. I can't vouch from experience. Is that okay? Or we could go to
Mike's. It's cheaper."
"I haven't been to either
yet," he said noncommittally, "so I'll have to trust you.
Whichever has the best food."
She took him at his
word and went with "best" rather than "familiar"
and "cheaper." Mike's was where the firefighters from
Station 19 hung out. It was distinguished for its reasonable prices
and large portions, rather than for its quality. The most popular
item on the menu was the hamburger steak, with Mike's home-made dark
brown mushroom gravy, piles of fried onions and a small mountain of
fries. Mike kept Tums set out next to the cash register in a bowl
like they were after-dinner mints.
The Village Inn had
been open for about a year and she hadn't been there yet. Everyone
she talked to said it was excellent, the best restaurant in town, if
a little pricey. She didn't do pricey well so she routinely stuck
with Mike's and with fast food when she didn't live on salads from
the grocery store.
She gave Andy directions and there
wasn't much of a wait since it was a Tuesday evening. There was a
parking place open directly opposite the front door. Inside, the
hostess seated them without them having to wait at the bar.
"What
do you like to eat?" he asked as he held her chair for
her.
"Depends on what day of the week it is. One day
I like sea food, the next day I like pork chops and the day after
that I'm dying for a steak. This might be a sea food day. How about
you?"
"The usual things: owls, chipmunks,
anything that's made it onto an endangered species list, things that
fit in my mouth..."
"So is Italian food at the
top of your list?"
"Most of the time I avoid it
in restaurants. When I don't I'm usually disappointed. Most of it's
red sauce and too sweet, all overcooked except for the sauce, which
always seems to need another couple hours to simmer. I cook pretty
well, and if a chef can't cook better than me why should I give him
money?"
The middle-aged hostess who seated them was
replaced by a young woman in a snow-white blouse and black polyester
pants. Her name, she explained listlessly, was Melissa. She would be
their waitress that evening. The girl filled their water glasses and
presented them with oversized menus inside imitation leather covers.
For some reason the Village Grill had a large selection of Caribbean
food despite the fact that none of the clientele looked particularly
Caribbean. Cynthia ordered cautiously, trying to avoid the expensive
side of the menu and anything with "jerk" in its name. It
turned out to be a fish night for her.
Andy asked their
waitress if the conch fritters were any good and Melissa admitted she
had no idea. She'd never tried them and didn't even know if they had
any in the kitchen. He erred on the side of caution with roast
chicken and some sort of rice dish on the side.
Melissa
left them alone and Cynthia took the opportunity to sound Andy out
about himself. She was curious about a fresh face in a small town
where she'd grown up knowing most of the fellows.
He
admitted he had been born in Italy, near Milan. It was an industrial
and commercial city in the north of the country. He had come to the
U.S. when he was just about to start grade school. His father was an
engineer, of the mechanical variety, who had worked for several
different companies. That meant Andy had grown up in several
different states, all in the north or the midwest. His father had
then run his own company for awhile, in Virginia, sold it, and he was
now teaching at a university. His parents had divorced before he and
his father left Italy. He'd had little to do with his mother since
then, despite the fact that she and his father maintained friendly
relations. The intervening ocean had something to do with it, he
thought.
"Then what?" she asked. "What'd
you do when you grew up?"
"The usual boring
stuff. Went to school. Got a degree. Joined the Marines. Got out. Got
a job. Made some money. Retired."
"Retired?
You're... what? 35?"
"Just turned 32. I've had a
hard life. I've spent the past year living in a little house down on
the shore, mostly fishing. Sometimes drinking beer and scratching
myself. Occasionally thinking."
"And you thought
about raising a factory from the dead?" she asked. "Doesn't
that take a bunch of money?"
"My own and what I
can finance, most likely. And lots of time and attention." He
shrugged. "We'll see how it works out. It may come to nothing,
not happen at all. At this point it's no more than an idea and I
might end up doing something else entirely. Maybe I'll become a hobo
or join a commune or learn to drive a truck. Maybe I'll become a
Doctor of Philosophy and hang out my shingle and philosophize. I've
got lots of productive years left, lots of things I've never done.
Some of them are even worth doing. But you're much more interesting
than I am. Better looking, too. How about you?"
She
waved a hand, dismissing the subject of herself. "You sure
called that one wrong. I'm boring to the core. You'll be
disappointed. Born here. Raised here. Never been much of anywhere
else but here. Joined the fire company when I was 15. Graduated high
school, couldn't afford college so I worked some, waitressing and
retail and landscaping, until I had a bit put aside. Now I'm going to
junior college part-time at age 24."
"Studying...?"
"Criminal
justice, since I couldn't think of anything better. I had a fantasy I
might become a lawyer. Now I figure maybe I can get accepted to state
Highway Patrol if I get good grades. They're pretty picky."
"Why's
law school a fantasy?" he asked.
"It takes money
to go to school," she explained. "My parents are divorced,
too, and my Mom works retail. I can't see loading myself down with
debt, so I go as cheap as I can. When I run out of money I work some
more. I'm about to finish my two-year degree after only seven years,
but it'll be mine, free and clear."
"Good for
you. That's a rare approach these days. Do you still see both your
parents?"
She shook her head. "My dad's the one
who's out of the picture. He quoted Davy Crockett to my Mom and left
the both of us. I was maybe four or five. She was searching for
Mister Right back then so I can't blame him for walking away. Once
you get married you should stop looking and concentrate on what you
have, in my not so humble opinion. Mother's always on the hunt. She
can't help herself. It's like an obsession: the next one's going to
be better than the one she's got."
"'I am
going to Texas and you can go to Hell,'" Andy quoted. "And
that was it? He just walked away from you? That'd be hard for lots of
people to do."
"Look around you. It happens more
often than you'd think, just maybe not with the warning. I've got
four good friends in the same boat. From what you just told me it
happened to you. And I can't really blame him. Mother discouraged him
from keeping in touch. She was done with him and she didn't make it a
secret. So he put lots of miles between them when he was
discarded."
She had a bit more wine, then continued,
even as she wondered if she was confiding too much too soon. Normally
she didn't blab about her personal life, especially on a first date.
But for some reason she pushed on relentlessly: "I don't like
her very much, even though I feel sorry for her. She's more like a
combination room mate and bad example than a quote 'mother' unquote.
The firehouse is where I feel at home. It's where I go when things go
wrong or right, when I'm really happy or really miserable. It's my
real family, kind of like having 20 or 30 brothers and
sisters."
"That happens sometimes," he
agreed. "I often felt like that in school and in the Marines.
Except that I always had my father to go to as a last resort,
regardless of how screwed up anything else might become. He's like
the rock of Gibraltar."
"Lucky man," she
said enviously. "So why do you say I'm not beautiful?"
"That
bothers you?" His voice was mildly surprised. "It really
shouldn't. Beauty is perfection. It can be boring and it's often
forbidding. You're neither boring nor forbidding, so you can't be
beautiful by definition."
"Telling tall tales is
an art form around here, you know," she said, warningly.
"I
seldom tell tall tales," he told her piously, "and when I
do I always preface them with 'There I wuz...'"
She
looked at him doubtfully, trying to discern how firmly he was pulling
her leg.
"Before Paris stole her away," he
explained patiently, "Menelaus probably didn't spend a lot of
time looking at Helen, at least not once the honeymoon was over. Men
get used to perfection of feature. We may even get used to it too
easily. Once we get over being stunned all we see is the person
underneath. That's why God made personalities and Man made divorces.
When Menelaus wanted a good time he'd probably send for a favorite
slave girl or a courtesan, somebody with a sense of humor who knew
how to sing and play cards and tell jokes, which I gather Ye Faire
Helen didn't. So you should enjoy being pleasant. Beauty fades,
pleasant is there for the long haul."
She gave him a
doubtful look. "You just tried to tell me I don't want to be
beautiful. Do you sell used cars on the side, too?"
"The
fact that you're not classically beautiful doesn't mean you're not
attractive," he told her patiently. "Far from it, in fact.
Your features are very pleasant, but for true beauty you can't have a
turned up nose. Your face is slightly too round. You show a bit too
much gum when you smile. And if you were mine I'd spank you for that
ridiculous tattoo on your calf."
"Oh. Well.
Thank you most to death, sir. If I were your what?"
"Girlfriend.
Sweetheart. Lover. Wife. It's a desecration to put a cartoony picture
on skin like that. Tweety Bird, fergawdsake? I'm surprised
you didn't turn into a pillar of salt or get carried off by
demons."
"I was 18. My friend Diane got one and
I went with her. It costs a lot more to have them taken off than it
does to have them put on, and getting them put on isn't that cheap.
But I warn you, I'd take grave offense at any attempt to spank
me."
He shook his head, getting her misinterpretation
of his point. "I only have the urge to do you metaphorical
violence. The person or persons unknown who marked you for life,
that's a different story. It's like whittling your initials into the
Piet? What's a good horse whip go for these days?"
He
paused to take a sip of his beer, then went on, his voice patient:
"Perhaps I miss a point or two, but to me it doesn't make sense
to add flaws to the flawless. There's no reason to gild refined gold,
like the man says, or to paint a lily. You have lovely hair and
large, very expressive eyes and beautifully shaped lips. Your hands
are lovely, despite the fact that you've barked two of your knuckles.
You have an eye-catching figure and you're graceful in your
movements. And there may be laws against having skin that perfect.
Shall I get a guitar and sing to you?"
"You
already have, except for the guitar. And you are very nice looking,
too, I might add," she added politely.
He shrugged.
"Middlin' looks, a naturally hangdog expression, enough
intellect to get by. But it's a disadvantage for a man to be pretty
so it's just as well. Why aren't you married?"
"Why,
Mr. Agnielli! This is so sudden!"
He smiled and she
liked his smile. It transformed his face. He was right about the
hangdog expression, but when he grinned he looked like a boy caught
in the middle of doing pleasant mischief. "I'm merely curious at
this point. I'd have thought a pretty girl like you would be busy
living happily ever after."
"Meaning a small
town girl in her middle twenties is edging into the maiden lady
category," she translated. "I'll soon be slightly stale and
start to wither. You're being very polite."
"Your
translation of what I said didn't sound very polite. And I wasn't
even aware that I'd said it in the original. I chose my meaning well,
but apparently I chose my words poorly. Either that or you're putting
your own meanings on my words. I'd hardly consider a pretty girl of
24 to be an old maid."
It was her turn to shrug. "But
I can be, if I want. Getting married isn't the most important goal in
my life. It may not even be in the top ten, or even the top twenty.
"Maybe I grew up to be my mother, only in reverse.
Maybe I've become the anti-Mother, inoculated against her ways by
years of daily exposure. Instead of trying to take all the men in
town for a test drive to find out which one is Mister Right, I grew
up to be real finicky. I'm not real good at putting on airs. I figure
when I do meet the right man I'll know him and things will work and
no lesser man will do. I won't have to stalk him. I won't have to lie
in wait for him. I won't have to pounce. I won't have to take him for
a test drive, either. So far I haven't met him but I'm not worried.
I've got lots of friends and I'm never lonely and I usually have a
good time."
"I guessed that from your face. Your
eyes say you've got a happy soul. Shall we linger over coffee or go
for a walk?"
"Walk. I think I ate too much."
She had barely noticed the process of filling and emptying her
mouth.
She waited while he paid the check and left more
tip than their indifferent waitress rated. When they walked into the
evening air he took her hand. It seemed a natural thing to do.