Wanting Rita (17 page)

I seized the opportunity to strike. “Of course you do.”

She threw her head back, insulted, and all that wonderful hair bounced, instantly, bringing back the night of love, and with it, a torment of desire. “Alan James!”

I shrugged. “What do I know?”

“Stop it!”

I felt unexpected and unwanted tears. I fought them.

“Alan James, please look at me.”

I didn’t.

“You knew about Dusty, didn’t you?”

I ignored her.

“Alan James…I need to explain something to you so you’ll understand.”

“I understand,” I said, evenly.

“No, you don’t. Look…I’ve got to…”

I cut her off. “I don’t want to hear it, Rita. I mean, I don’t even know who the hell you are. You could date me, too, you know! It doesn’t just have to be Dusty…”

“Okay, fine with me! Fine! I will. But can you accept that?”

“Hell no!”

“I knew you’d say that! You’re just so damned uptight about everything!”

“I’m sick and tired of hearing you say that!”

“Okay, be flexible.”

“Not with Dusty! And I guarantee that within a week you’ll be going steady with him! You won’t be dating anybody else! Not even the asshole D. J. what’s his name!”

Rita fumed. “So that’s your choice then?!”

I shook my head, vigorously. “Yeah, right! My choice. I’m supposed to sit around on Friday or Saturday nights while you go out with Dusty? No way! No damned way, Rita. Anyway, you’re just kidding yourself.”

Rita tried another approach. “Alan James…Don’t complicate it.”

“You’re complicating it! I say simple, like you and me! Simple! Go steady with me. Simple!”

She looked past me toward Dusty and I knew the answer.

“…You’ll always be my best friend, Alan James.”

“Oh, bullshit! Just bullshit, Rita! You’re like, I don’t know, so full of yourself! I thought you were more than that, but you’re not! You’re just another airhead blond bimbo!”

She drew back, not angry, but wounded. She slumped. “…Okay…okay.”

I jumped up and went to the cashier. I asked for the check and paid it. It seemed to take forever. When I returned to the booth, I didn’t sit. “I’ll take you home,” I said, feeling a debilitating melancholy.

She averted my eyes, slid out of the booth and stood. I walked ahead of her with a dignified restraint, out of Jack’s, across the parking lot, picking my way through swaying, delirious crowds, across the road, where the weary security guard was now directing traffic.

The drive to Rita’s home was short and quiet. Rita asked one question. “Can we still meet to discuss our writing?”

“No! I’m tired of writing. I’m tired of reading. I’m tired of the whole damned thing!”

I found a parking space two doors down from her house. I didn’t turn off the engine. I didn’t get out.

“Alan James…I want you to know the truth.” She drew a breath. “Dusty and I went out last night. He called late. My father had left to meet some old friends with my mother. So…we went out.”

I stared ahead.

“He’s breaking up with Amber.”

It was a punch in my aching heart. So I attacked. “Did you take him out to the lake?”

“Don’t say that, Alan James. Please don’t. I’ve never taken anyone else out there but you. Never… Don’t hurt me like that.”

“Hurt you!! Yeah, right.”

“It’s true, Alan James!”

“Fine, so it’s true.”

“Alan James, listen to me…”

I interrupted, refusing to face her. “Just get out, Rita! Just get out of the car!”

She sighed deeply. She left me, closing the door softly, walking wearily toward the house. My foot came down heavy on the gas and I shot away, tires squealing. But I didn’t go far. I drove around the block and parked a short distance up the street. I waited. I waited an hour. At 11:36, Dusty’s Mustang came purring down the street and stopped. Rita appeared from the shadows and entered the car. They drove away. I followed them as far as Crystal Lake, then turned around and began the endless ride home.

Four days later, in the cafeteria, I overheard Dusty telling some friends that his two right tires had been punctured by, what appeared to be, an ice pick. He was furious and was blaming it on Amber. I grinned darkly. I’d figured he’d think so and I also figured that Amber, delighted by the accusation, but disappointed that she hadn’t thought of it, wouldn’t deny it. She soon spun out an entire short story around the savage act and, for the rest of the year, she became a person of influence, trust and secret confidences for many girls in the junior and senior classes. I don’t even think Rita suspected me. Maybe. But I don’t think so.

I artfully avoided Rita for the rest of the year. She and Dusty became a steady thing, just as I had predicted. I caught her eyes twice during my valedictorian speech, saw pride for me in them, but I quickly looked away, over her head, over everyone’s head, just as I had been instructed to do by Ms. Lyendecker.

I saw Rita one last time before I left for college. It was late August, right after a heat wave and a pounding rain the night before. The air was fresh and cool, the sun brilliant. I spotted Dusty’s car and followed it out to Crystal Lake. I followed them as they left the car and took a stroll in the woods. At some point, Rita separated from him and I trailed her.

I hid behind a thick oak and, with tense fingers creeping along the ridges and canals of rough bark, I stealthily angled my head to watch her. On the worn path, sloping down toward the lake, she wandered, subdued and unhurried. She brushed a patch of sunflowers and lingered under stirring elms. Cicadas scratched at the air, sounding like little maracas. Rita seemed to draw the sun to her face and bare tanned shoulders; seemed to unite all the glorified elements of late summer into a focus of awe and worship. In the yellow strapless sun dress and matching wide brimmed hat, she ambled under trees, through liquid currents of dappled sunlight and shadow, lifting her perfect nose to the softly scented breeze, pausing with closed eyes to merge with fading summer’s grace.

The impulse to rush to her was sharp and hurtful. I could beg. I could demand, cajole, pour out my feelings and say, “I know I was just like all the others, but I really am in love with you! I’m different! I’m better! I’m better than Dusty, because I’ll always love you better than anyone or anything else! Rita, I’m up at night wanting you. I spend my days wanting you. I’ll always want you!”

When Dusty came into view, stepping heavily, arms sweeping elegant branches aside, calling for Rita, the magic of the day fled. Birds screeched and scattered. The sun hid behind a cloud and the light paled. Rita’s eyes opened, searched and found him. He advanced toward her. She smiled, faintly.

I felt a cruel sadness. I watched them retreat, hand in hand down toward the lake, past a low horizontal limb. They edged around it into shadows and faded from view.

Part Two 
Transitions

Chapter One

Howard Fry was a stout man in his late 40’s, with a heavy face, sad-looking mustache and patchy dark hair. His overlapping stomach and reddish face suggested a love of spirits. His dark pants sagged; his green and white cotton sweater, with an embroidered pine tree in the center, was too tight, and not particularly flattering. He didn’t inspire confidence. He was the estate auctioneer.

“How do,” he said, with a firm hand shake. He entered the house, immediately sweeping the place with his appraising eyes. “Nice… Real nice. Sold one like this up north about, oh… six months ago. Got a damn good price. Everybody was happy.”

I closed the door behind him. “How long did you say you’ve been in business, Mr. Fry?” I asked, as casually as possible.

He nodded, tightening his mouth. “Yep, yep, yep,” he said, rapidly. “Yep. Nice place.” He gave me a quick, but thorough look, the same look I’d often given elderly patients when they said, “You look too young to be a doctor.”

“Like I said on the phone, Dr. Lincoln, we’ve been doing business since 1937. You said we’d been recommended to you?” he asked, narrowing a keen eye at the antique card table in the living room.

“Yes,” I answered. “My wife’s father. He said one of his friends sold a home through your company.”

“Name?” he asked.

“Martin Long Hanson. Upstate New York.”

“Yep, yep, yep. Remember them. Good price on that house. Damn good price. Yep.”

He pointed to the card table in the living room and crossed the wine-colored carpet for a better look. “Now that’s a beaut… Yep. My partner, Cindy, will be here soon. She’s the real expert on antiques. What is it?” he asked running his hand across the smooth satin finish.

“Eighteenth century Anglo Indian satin wood. My mother loved it.”

“Yep. See why.”

“Mr. Fry…?”

“Howard, Dr. Lincoln,” he said, with a brief grin.

“You can call me Alan,” I said.

“Yep.”

“Howard, once you complete your appraisals, how long will it take to sell the house?”

“Well, shouldn’t take long.”

“Hartsfield isn’t exactly a booming real estate market right now,” I said.

He scrunched up his nose, still studying the place with a sharp shiny eye. I could almost hear the calculator clicking in his head. He was gaining my confidence. “We’ll find you multiple bidders, Alan. Yep. We have lots of sources and, don’t forget, people buy houses for lots of reasons. Now we’ll get you multiple competing bidders, Alan, and that always brings higher revenues. No doubt. Yep. Then we’ll negotiate with a single buyer. After that, non-contingent contracts and 30-day settlements are required, which means a quick transaction for you. Yep.”

When Cindy Purty arrived, I gave them a tour of the house and property. We wandered the grounds under a milky sun. Occasional spears of light shot from hazy broken clouds and bathed the land in a glory of sparkles. The rain had cleaned the world, leaving behind a cool wet wind and a brilliance of light and dark greens. Pink and red tulips flashed. Irises opened. Late daffodils vibrated, shimmered in clusters across the sloping hills, joining daisies down toward the pond.

“My mother planted most of these,” I said. “She loved spring.”

“It’s gorgeous,” Cindy said, shading her eyes and taking it all in. Cindy was in her 30s. She had short red hair, dancing brown eyes and an attractive face and heavy figure. She was friendly and enthusiastic. Whenever Howard said “Yep” she’d say “Yeah.”

Over coffee in the living room an hour or so later, she raved about the English oak cabinet with its 24 compartments and paneled arch cupboard doors. I told her my mother had found it at an auction 12 years back. Cindy said she’d make me an offer for it next week, after she had done some additional research. “It’s perfect for my guest bedroom.”

Cindy was very straightforward and practical. She spoke clearly and carefully. “I do want to stress,” she said, “that I believe, we believe,” she said, including Howard with a quick sweep of her warm eyes, “that you’ll be pleased with the auction price; however, on auction day, the market will ultimately determine what valuation is acceptable for your property.”

“I understand,” I said. “Who actually pays the auctioneer fee?”

Howard spoke up. “It’s paid via the buyer’s premium, which is added to the buyer’s final bid.”

“And the auction will be held here?”

“We hold most auctions on-site, Alan,” Howard said. “On-site, bidders are constantly reminded of the positives, and there are many here. Yep.”

“Yeah,” said Cindy, brightly.

Howard continued. “Which, in turn, can encourage a higher bid.”

I clasped my hands, suddenly sleepy and longing for a nap. “Okay.”

“Will your wife come for the auction?” Cindy asked.

I looked down at my hands. “I don’t know.”

Howard and Cindy left the house, praising the place and reassuring me that I’d be delighted with the results. They were to be in touch next week.

I fell asleep on the couch and dreamt of Rita. The 18 year-old Rita came sauntering toward me along a narrow dirt road, embroidered by tall palms and neon-red exotic flowers. She carried the tanned breeziness of one who has just returned from a full morning at the beach. She was dressed in tight yellow pants, high-heeled sandals and a cream strapless top, within which her breasts were conspicuous and fetching. A yellow wide-brimmed hat was cocked stylishly to one side. Her arms were swinging easily. Approaching me, she smiled warmly, parted her moist lips and lifted her chin in a playful invitation. She paused for a moment, gave a little sigh, and then removed her hat and flung it away. It sailed, like a Frisbee, into the trees, where a startled butterfly fluttered off toward the lake.

“Hi, Rita,” I said, leaning against a tree near the water. “Been a long time.”

“Hey, Alan James. How’s physics?”

“It’s bad, Rita. Real bad. I failed the test.”

“No… not you. You’ve never failed any test.”

“Oh, yeah, Rita. I failed the physical test.”

“Really? The physics of physicality test?”