Adirondack Audacity (16 page)

“City boy,” I
tease. “You’d be lost if I disappeared,
leaving you all alone in the big bad woods.” With an
impish grin, I turn, running down the hill, dodging
branches in a weak attempt to lose him.

“Hey, wait for me,” he yell
s, chasing after me in hot
pursuit. With a burst of speed he lunges, grabs my waist,
and lifts me off the ground.

“Put me down,” I
protest, squirming in his arms.
“Remember, I’m only a part time City Boy. My mia
bella,” he leans me against a tree. I feel the rough bark
through my wool jacket. Shoving his gloves in his
pockets, his hands warm my cold cheeks, and slowly his
lips lower. Gently at first, then with increased intensity
devouring my lips, his mouth traces the warmth of his
hands along my cheekbones and down my neck. Pulling
the hat from my head, his hands run through my hair
catching the lingering rays of afternoon sun. His breath
glazes my hair as he whispers in my ear, “Elle, I can’t tell
you how you torment my dreams.” Strong, sinewy arms
gather me close, the warmth from our bodies dispelling
the chill of November air.
“I’ve missed you,” he says, stopping, his gaze wanders
up and down the length of my body. “Did you get
smaller?” His voice tinged with amusement as he gathers
my compliant body in his arms.
“No.” I reply. “You grew into a Latino version of the
Jolly Green Giant.” I laugh, leaning back to look up into
his face. “Look at you, you’re huge.” His chin rests gently
on top of my head. My mouth posed at the hollow of his
neck allows me to place small kisses along the curve of
his collarbone. His hair having lost the gold sheen of
summer is darker, longer, brushing the collar of his plaid
flannel shirt. I gather it up in a ponytail, luxuriating in the
silken feel teasing at my fingertips.
“Oh, before I forget, I brought you something.” He
taps his chin playfully. “Let me think, where did I put it?”
“Really? You didn’t need to bring me anything.”
Looking skyward, he shakes his head as his right hand
reaches into the front pocket of his jeans…….those jeans
so tightly stretched across his slender hips, and he
extracts a small manila jeweler’s envelope. “Sit down,
Mia,” he points with boyish eagerness to a tree stump.
He shakes the envelope and a shiny object slides
into his fingers. “Close your eyes and hold out your
hand,” he instructs, placing a soft kiss on my forehead.
Slightly suspicious, I cocked my head to one side, but
dark eyes shuttered by long fringed lashes give no clues.
“This had better not be a frog or snake…”
“Seriously, look who you’re talking to….I don’t do
slimy things.”
“They’re not slimy.”
“Be quiet and close your eyes.”
With eyes closed……he places a delicate object with
a chain in my hand, my fingers close around the gift as he
whispers, “Okay, open your eyes.”
Resting in the palm of my hand is a delicate silver
chain with a small heart-shaped locket, the etching on the
outside of the locket shines in the weak sunlight. A gasp
of astonishment escapes my lips at the beautiful
workmanship lying in my hand. The locket looks antique.
“Oh, Vic, this is beautiful.” I turn the locket over
examining the clasp, “Help me put it on.”
“Here,” he takes the piece and the hinge springs open
revealing two miniature pictures. “You, on one side of
the locket and me on the other side, two hearts come
together as one.” He turns the locket and the words
Cor te
reducit
are inscribed on the back. “It belonged to my
grandmother on my father’s side.”
“Oh, Vic, I can’t accept this, it belonged to your
grandmother.” I shake my head vehemently. “It’s too
precious. What if I lose it or something? I’ll be afraid to
wear it.”
He holds up a hand to silence me. “Mia, mia, it is for
you. It’s mine to give. Please accept it.”
I tuck a lock of hair behind my ears. “Thank you.” I
say softly, rubbing my finger over the raised surface of
the engraving. “What do the words mean?”
“The words are in Latin, translated it means, the heart
leads you back.” He takes the locket from my hand and
his fingers undo the top buttons of my blouse, leaving a
trail of heat between my breasts. Holding up the silver
locket from his grandmother, he says, “My heart will
always lead me back to you.” The words weigh heavy on
my chest like an unspoken vow. Quietly, I take the chain
and slip it over my neck, holding my hand over his heart
and say, “I will wear it always.” Our lips meet, forging a
pledge.
Snowflakes like soft white petals fall from the sky
landing on our cheeks, with infinite care he kisses each
melting flake, sending sparks through my body where
cool diamonds lay. With my face in his hands, his kisses
deepen, in a voice hoarse with emotion he says, “I love
you.” And while daylight fails and night falls, the
snowflakes drift and blow, lift and fly, I tenderly kiss the
inside of his palm, our eyes lock, “And I will always love
you, Vic.”
…
The next day after dropping Vic off at the bus
station, Gran’s face is inscrutable on the drive home,
neither of us talking. The sun makes a feeble attempt to
break through the clouds, reflecting the mood in the car.
Instead of taking me home, Gran turns down the
short dirt road leading to her house. Sighing, I stomp up
the steps leading to the porch, prepared for a lecture.
Picking up Sasha, Gran’s calico cat, I flop into a chair
next to the fireplace. Without a word, Gran goes to the
sink fills the teakettle, and places it on the stove to boil.
Then she covers the kitchen table with a lace tablecloth
and tea set, complete with matching plates, cups, saucers,
creamer and sugar bowl. When Gran decides it’s time for
a serious discussion, nothing but the best china and linen
will do for the occasion. As I watch her boiling the water,
measuring the cut tea into a teapot, I know……it’s talk
time…….
“Ellen, stop pouting and come over here. I want to
talk to you before I take you home to your father,” she
calls over her shoulder, pouring hot water over the tea
leaves.
“I’m not thirsty.” I tickle my face with the long hair
of the cat purring on my lap, avoiding her eyes.
“Get your ass over here now and I don’t mean
maybe,” She stands in the doorway between the kitchen
and living room, arms akimbo on her hips, a damp spot
darkening the front of her gingham apron.
Crap and double
crap.
“Fine,” I capitulate knowing I’m defeated, so why
argue.
“Let’s not beat around the bush and come straight to
the point. You’ve got it bad.”
“Pardon me, I’ve got
what
?” I pause in mid-stream of
pouring tea into my cup. What does she mean I’ve got it
bad? What does she know?
“Two seventeen year olds, so totally in love any blind
fool can see it a million miles away, that’s what,” she
shakes her head. “Ellen, you must listen to me very
carefully. I don’t want you to make the same mistake I
made when I was your age.” She points to a picture of
her and my grandfather taken long ago in front of an
antique car. She pauses, taking a deep breath, “I met your
grandfather at a local town dance when I was seventeen
years old. Everyone went to the dances back then. We’d
dance, steal a nip of hard cider or whiskey out behind the
town hall and maybe engage in some mild flirtation. Your
grandfather was so handsome, full of energy, and older
than me.” She pauses lost in memory. “I was mad about
him and my parents hated him. He was not from around
these parts, worked for a German farmer the next town
over. I would sneak out and meet him at night. I didn’t
care. I was that much in love with him. And before I
knew it, I was pregnant.” Here Gran stops her narration
at my gasp of surprise; her story registers a shock wave
through me.
“By then I was eighteen, still too young.” She holds
up her hand to forestall any questions until she finishes
speaking her piece. “In my day there was no birth
control, abortion, or placing a baby out for adoption. My
father marched over to the German farm house with a
shotgun in his hand telling your grandfather to do his
duty as a man and marry me.” She rose from the chair
going to the cabinet in the dining room returning with a
picture of their wedding day in her hands, placing it on
the table in front of me. I stare into the rigid faces of my
grandparents looking for the signs of joy and happiness
that should be evident in their wedding portrait. There
were none.
“Something went sour after our wedding and the
birth of your father, the passion leaked out of our lives.
We had very little in common; eventually drifting apart,
living separate lives. Divorce was not an option. Sad to
say, it wasn’t a happy marriage.”
“Gran, why are you telling me this,” I squirm on the
hard wooden chair wondering how much those shrewd
eyes had surmised about my relationship with Vic.
She folds her napkin into a small square before
looking into my eyes. “I’m telling you to be careful, and
slow down. I’ve seen young people fall in love; it is more
than they can handle at this time in their lives. It takes
maturity and discipline to wait, allow your infatuation to
grow into a deep committed love, a love to last a
lifetime.”
“But people fall in love when they’re young, marry
and live happy lives.” My feelings for Vic vibrating in my
voice, demanding she recognize not all experiences end
like her own.
“I agree, but the advice I’m giving you is to establish
a friendship that you can base a lifetime upon, passion is
a wonderful gift, but passion fades, and needs to be
replaced by real love. Make sure your passion is based on
love not body heat. Look for common interests; learn
about his family, what are his beliefs and values. Talk,
talk, and talk until you can talk no more.” She says
rapping on the top of the table with her fist to drive her
point home.
“You cannot afford to get pregnant,” she says. “I
shudder to imagine what your father and Helen’s reaction
would be to an unwed mother living in their house. You
have to be the strong one, Ellen, you can’t count on Vic
to make a rational decision in the heat of passion.” I feel
her eyes boring into me, and my blood runs cold,
knowing I’ve already let her down. She continues, “I
know I’m asking a great deal of you, but promise me that
you won’t have sex until you graduate from high school
and are out from under Helen’s roof.”
Oh, boy…………
And for the first time in my life, I lie
to my grandmother
.

The slashing snow and rain of December scold in the
dormant days of winter. The bullfrogs retreat to the
bottom of the pond and marsh cattails explode into
powder puffs leaving naked stalks of brown scattered
across the shore. Fallen leaves cast adrift whirl like
cyclones to rend and smash against stationary obstacles in
their path.

Time is running out, time is running out, soon your secret will
be out, out, out…..
I lied to Vic; it wasn’t mono, making me feel so tired.
I’m not feeling better, if anything, I feel worse. Fatigue
plagues my days…….because I’m pregnant.
As much as I try to deny the reality of my situation,
this morning I marked off December 15 on the calendar.
It’s been over four months since I’ve had a period. What
I thought was my menstrual cycle in September according
to a book in the library was called “spotting” and not a
true period.
The cold truth permeates my bones chilling them as
the frost outside the window encases the trees and
grasses in a suffocating hold of ice and snow. Trapped,
my mind not allowing the word to form, even thinking
the word pregnant condones acceptance of the
impossible. How could I have been so stupid? My mind
rails in a tirade of self-recrimination.
…
January ushered in the New Year with a flurry of
blizzards. The winds from the west blowing lake effect
snows off Lake Ontario with a vengeance, dumping five
to seven feet of snow, non-stop for three days. Living in
upstate New York, blizzards are a natural occurrence,
taking place any time from November through the early
part of April. While the storms raged outside, I battle the
need to confide in someone about the baby. Desperate
for help, I decide to tell Gran. As much as I want to tell
Vic first, I need a plan. There must be a way we can
graduate from high school and keep our baby. As
terrified as I am over the prospect of having a child, I
want our baby.
And I had a plan; it was a good plan except for one
major flaw. On the final day of the blizzard, my
independent grandmother decided to climb up and
shovel the snow off her roof. She’s done this for years,
but she turned sixty-eight last July. My father insisted it
was too risky for her to climb up on the roof. He would
do it from now on. Well,….no one…and I mean no
one….tells my grandmother what to do. She climbed on
the roof, slipped and fell. She lay unconscious in the
snow for several hours until a neighbor stopped by to
check on her. He found her lying in the cold and called
the emergency squad. The ambulance rushed her to a
local hospital, where she was treated for frostbite and
spent eight hours in surgery to mend a broken hip and
place two pins in her right leg. The surgeon predicted a
long stay in a rehabilitation facility before she’d be able to
live independently again.
I was devastated over Gran’s injury and the fact that
now I have no one to trust for help. I feel the bile green
color of the hospital walls close around me, The breath
sucked out of me, my thudding heart rises in my chest
and threatens to choke me. A popular song on the radio
tells the story of a man caught by the law. The jig is up,
captured, branded a renegade, the hang man’s noose
around his neck. I feel the noose slip slowly over my
head. I thought I was frightened before, now I’m
immobilized with terror. Fear for my grandmother’s
health; and fear over my pregnancy makes the blood in
my veins run cold. Like an animal caught in a trap, I
freeze……incapable of thought or action.
…
And the noose tightens around my neck….Helen is
suspicious. Even though I am tall and thin, wearing baggy
sweatshirts and jeans does not conceal six months of
pregnancy. Tonight at dinner with a smirk on her face,
Helen announces she’s made an appointment for me with
Dr. Richards next Tuesday. She claims I have not been
“right” since returning from camp this summer; her face
wears the predatory gloat of a cat ready to pounce on a
cornered mouse. The jig is up …….. she knows. I feel my
cheeks flush with color as I hide my trembling hands
under the table. Mustering my courage, I look her in the
eyes and calmly tell her I would be happy to visit Dr.
Richards.
The bitch.
Her eyes widen in surprise at my
acquiesce. I smile smugly at her though I fear I may
throw up…….all over her favorite table cloth. Serve her
right.
There is no other choice; I need to be out of this
house by Tuesday. To give Helen the satisfaction of a
confrontation is pointless. In this house she is absolute
power, dominating the will of those who lived under her
roof. I’m simply a pawn in her web. I will leave on my
own terms before she makes me abide by her terms. I
have to tell Vic but first….
…
“Burt?”
“Hey, what’s
Happening
?”
“Is this Burt?”
“Of course it is, who else would you be calling at this
number? Who are
You
?”
“Burt, this is Ellen.” I cringe; this is the man who’s
going to be my savior, but just hearing his voice lightens
my heart, even if he still
emphasizes
his words.
“Ellen
Who
? My sixth grade math teacher, Ellen or
my Aunt Ellen with the bad breath or are you, my
favorite Ellen, the little one from camp, infamous
underwear thief?” Oh boy, he knows me too well.
“Burt, it’s your favorite Ellen, you goofball.”
“
Hey
, did you figure out how to make Falafel yet?” I
groan in despair, thinking some things never change.
“No!”
“Well, I guess you’re still my favorite, but you’re on
waivers, maybe my aunt started using mouthwash, so
you’re treading on thin ice. What’s
up
, Kiddo?”
I hesitate; looking out the scratched window of the
phone booth, making sure no one is listening. “Umm, Vic
maybe coming to town over the weekend and we thought
it would be fun to come see you. We thought we’d take
the bus to Ohio if you could meet us at the bus station.
Are you busy this weekend?”
“No, I would love to
See
you.” His voice sounds
puzzled. “Are you sure your parents are okay with this
plan?”
“Oh, yes, absolutely.” I gush. “They thought it was a
great idea.”
Damn.
Too much information, Burt knows
our parents and the idea of them being thrilled over our
little road trip is preposterous.
“Really? The two knuckleheads are traveling alone?
Are
You
okay, Ellen?”
“Yes, yes, just fine. Burt, we would really like to see
you.”
“Okay,” he starts slowly. “
Mi Casa est Sous Casa.
Or
whatever the hell Vic would say in Spanish.”
“Oh, thank you, Burt.” Relief floods through my
voice.
“Ellen, do you want me to come and pick you up?”
Concern clouds his voice. “It’s not a
problem.
I could use a
break from the sabbatical research I’ve been slaving over.
On the Road Again
and all that Willie Nelson bullshit. It’s
not that far from here. I really don’t
Mind
.”
And here on this spot, at this moment, I make a
decision I will regret for the rest of my life. “No, Burt,
really, we’ll be fine. I’ll call when we get close.”