Читать книгу Sixty Shades of Love - Darlene Matule - Страница 7

“It’s been sixty years since our first date,” he exclaims.

“Sixty years? Impossible!”

And I remember . . . From April 15, 1955 to now. Dancing to dreading. Sunshine to snowstorms. And everything in between.

We met on a dance floor.

How do I get rid of this guy? I wondered. At a college mixer, stuck dancing with a Central American foreign exchange student who smelled like he’d lived in his skintight chartreuse shirt for a month. Who’d been holding me possessively close for three dances.

I looked for an out.

His greasy friend still stood at the edge of the dance floor, undressing me with his eyes, drool edging down his chin. Waiting for his turn? I cringed, desperate to get away.

At the end of a two-step, I felt a new, larger hand on my shoulder. Heard a different voice ask, “Wanna dance?”

I turned. Saw his fingers reach for mine. Fingers I would soon learn could stop a 95 miles per hour baseball as it tore into third base. I moved toward him. Smelled the scent of Old Spice. Felt him put one hand on my waist as his other gently laced our fingers together.

To the strains of I’m in the Mood for Love, he expertly guided me across the dance floor.

When the music ended I hung onto my savior. Quickly, the band began a jitterbug. Before I could tell New Guy I didn’t know how to fast dance, I found myself in the middle of the floor—dancing—having fun.

We danced together until the music stopped at midnight.

Thinking New Guy (I still didn’t know his name—he hadn’t asked me mine) would ask me out for a Coke, I was disappointed.

New Guy said, “My friend John is coming to pick me up. His wife’s gone, and I promised to go to Luigi’s with him after the mixer.”

So much for that, I thought. But The Squeezer had disappeared. I thanked my lucky stars.

I went to 24 Flavors with some girlfriends, had a cherry milkshake, and went back to the dorm. I had a hard time falling asleep.

The next morning Margaret, an upper classman, stopped me at breakfast and asked about my “date.”

“No date,” I said. “Don’t even know his name.” I told her what New Guy had saved me from. We giggled.

“Just so you know for later,” she said, “his name is Steve Matule. He’s a junior at Gonzaga. Supercharged the baseball team last spring. Set a Gonzaga batting record. Nice guy.”

Later that morning, I went downtown on the bus with some girlfriends. We had lunch. Shopped at The Crescent. I reveled in the whole floor of fabric available for my new project. (Back home in Montana I’d had to order special material from St. Louis or Seattle.) Then we saw Leslie Caron in the new movie, The Glass Slipper.

When I got back to the dorm, my phone was ringing.

“Hi, this is Steve Matule.”

Glad I’d learned his name, I said, “Hi.”

“How’d you like to go see Billy May with me tonight?”

Now, I was an unworldly, not quite nineteen-year-old college freshman. My only dates since I’d come to Spokane in September had been with my high school boyfriend who’d quit school at the end of the first semester and gone back home to Montana.

I asked, “Who’s Billy May?”

For a full minute, I heard silence. Luckily, he patiently explained. “Billy May has a Big Band. He’s playing tonight at Natatorium Park.”

I wavered. I had full intention of beginning my long-put-off English project that Saturday night.

“I’ve got to start a term paper. I’m already late.”

Another moment of silence.

“We’d be going with your friend Midge Bird (a popular upper-classman) and Jerry Lehigh,” he encouraged.

I took a big breath.

“What time?”

When he arrived at 7:30, I was wearing a royal blue taffeta dress and blue suede high heels.

We danced every dance. He twirled me around the floor. I followed his lead. Had the best time I’d ever had in my life.

After the music ended, Steve took us all to dinner. The service was slow.

“We’re going to miss our deadline,” Midge worried.

“No problem,” Steve said. He called our house mother, Mrs. Smith, who said, “Have fun. I’ll wait up for the girls.”

My life changed that day—April 15, 1955.

Steve managed to see me at least a few minutes every day the next week. For a milkshake. A stroll through the Gonzaga campus. A milkshake. A walk down to the nearby Spokane River. A milkshake.

But by late that Saturday afternoon, Steve still hadn’t called to invite me out that evening. And I thought he was interested, I agonized. I knew I was.

So when, at the last minute, my friend Monica asked if I’d be her boyfriend’s brother’s date to a Gonzaga mixer, I agreed. Not much fun, I told myself afterwards. The only good thing that night had been the root beer float my date bought me afterwards at the A&W.

The next morning I got an early phone call. “How about watching my baseball game today? Afterwards we can take a ride around town. I have John’s car for the afternoon.”

I watched the game. Rather boring. Enjoyed the car ride through the north side of Spokane.

As we were driving back to college down North Wall Street, we saw a sign.

Bern Thera Terrace—New Homes for Sale

I loved houses—had already been planning the dream home I’d move into someday. (Old Boyfriend had been drawing the floorplan for our first place when he decided to quit college.)

Steve and I walked through a two-bedroom model. Daffodils graced a clay pot by the front door. The kitchen had aqua steel cabinets—my favorite color. We both oohed and ahhed.

Steve dropped off John’s car at Wes’s Gas Station (where John worked part-time to feed his three kids and wife), and we took a side trip down by the river. On the way back to my dorm, we stood under a flowering tree for a moment. He bent toward me. Paused. Then kissed me right on the lips. It was magic.

I got back to my room, took out my Smith Corona portable, and began writing. Before dinner, I’d already finished the shell of my term paper. The words sped from my brain to my fingers and onto a blank sheet of paper—as fast as Morse code clicks turn into a telegram.

One evening after dinner Steve stopped by my dorm. “Wanna go for a walk?” he asked.

By that time, I was ready to go (almost) anywhere with the six-footer who was fast becoming more important to me than my studies.

We ambled down Boone Avenue toward Gonzaga, took a left in front of DeSmet Hall and another onto DeSmet Avenue. In those days there were one-family residences lining the north side of the street. As we walked by a story-and-a-half white house, a classmate of Steve’s came out.

“Just want you to know I’ll be voting for you tomorrow, Steve,” the guy said.

“Thanks, I appreciate your support,” my date replied.

And that was how I discovered Steve was running for Senior Class President.

Here I was—a mere freshman, so shy I had a hard time talking to people to whom I hadn’t been formally introduced. And someone so popular he was in contention for one of the most prestigious offices in the college hierarchy was pursuing me.

Wow!

For the past couple of weeks I’d been cataloguing the qualifications I wanted in a husband. Nothing like being prepared, I’d told myself.

I thought of my parents’ marriage.

My daddy was the best father! My girl-friends bragged about him to me. “He’s so handsome!” Julia said. “He’s so patient,” Phyllis confided when Daddy dug her family car out of a snowdrift and never even raised his voice in the process.

But my mother was boss. She’d say “Jump” and he’d say “How high?”

Daddy wasn’t hen-pecked. Just selfless.

Being in a love-hate relationship with my mother, I decided I wanted a “take charge” husband. Did I see a lot of my mother in myself and want to remove that curse in my own marriage? Perhaps. Whatever . . . I’d chosen to look for a leader in a husband.

Is Steve the one? I wondered as we walked hand in hand toward 24 Flavors.

When we arrived, Steve ordered.

“A cherry milkshake for my girl,” he said without even asking me what I wanted.

Hmm, I thought. I liked having a strong man take charge of my smallest want.

The next Saturday night was Gonzaga Prom. Steve arrived at Marian Hall (this time he didn’t assume—he’d asked) with a gorgeous orchid. (It was my first-ever orchid—I was impressed!)

I wore an aqua net and taffeta ballerina strapless formal.

We were double-dating with Steve’s friend Dirks and his date Pat. Any worries I had about going to Prom with an “older man” (Steve was already 21) were quelled. Pat had gone to Glasgow High School—she’d been a senior when I was a sophomore—a nice girl my mother said.

Dirks had the car—he drove. Steve and I got better acquainted in the back seat.

Minutes after we left Marian Hall, Dirks stopped. I looked out expecting to see a big building—The Spokane Club—the prom site.

I saw a big building all right—but the flashing sign in front said Carlton Hotel.

Oh my gosh! I thought. What have I gotten myself into?

I looked at Pat. She smiled at me, as if everything was normal.

We all got out, entered the lobby, got into the elevator. My heart was beating a mile a minute.

I started saying Hail Marys. Silently.

Now I can’t say my mother had warned me not to go to hotels with dates. “Be a good girl” had been the extent of my sex education at home.

But I knew what could happen. There’d been an instance in Glasgow where a local girl and her sixteen-year-old customer were arrested at the Roosevelt Hotel. She was sent to the Montana State Girl’s Reformatory, and the guy ended up in the Boy’s Reformatory in Miles City. They hadn’t been playing tiddlywinks.

We heard music and lots of voices as we exited the elevator. Dirks and Pat walked down the hall like they were going to English class. Entered a room and disappeared.

Thank goodness it wasn’t the first time I’d worn three-inch heels. I’m sure my knees were shaking.

Steve waited at the door like the gentleman he was and motioned me inside.

With one last check as to how many doors the elevator was from where I was entering—ready for a quick getaway—I swallowed. Took a right.

“It’s about time,” said a friend of Steve I’d met before but couldn’t name. “I pour the first drink, but after that you’re on your own.”

The room was filled with couples talking and drinking and having fun.

(I never told Steve until after we were married how scared I’d been by my experience at the Carleton Hotel. He was amazed. The guys always rented a hotel room for a before-prom party—it was standard procedure.)

About an hour later we ended up at the real destination—The Spokane Club.

We danced and danced and danced. I floated in his arms.

A week later—Holy Names Prom—wearing another orchid on my wrist, Steve guided me through the French doors of the Spokane Country Club. We danced under the stars. I felt like Ginger Rogers—Steve was Fred Astaire.

The next Saturday, we went to downtown Spokane to watch the Lilac Parade. I’d never seen such a sight before—float after float of flowers and pretty girls dressed in shades of lavender. Dozens of bands.

Afterwards, we met Steve’s cousin Nick and his wife Virginia. They treated us to a hamburger lunch at Knight’s Diner.

Darlene and Steve at Gonzaga Prom three weeks after their first date

Sunday was Mother’s Day. Steve and I joined Jerry and Midge. In a rented motorboat, we swished back and forth on Hayden Lake in nearby Idaho.

“There’s Bing Crosby’s cabin,” Jerry said.

Some cabin, I thought. It looks like more like a mansion to me.

Steve entertained us with stories about Mrs. Lemmon—who cooked at Holy Names College for the nuns and students during the school year and for Bing at his summer place every June, July, and August. She spoiled Steve and Jerry serving them the special food the nuns ate in the kitchen while the girls in the dining room ate regular.

After stopping the boat at a deserted dock, the guys tied up the boat, and we two couples parted on the shore.

It was May. Romantic . . .

Almost dark by the time we got back, Jerry let Steve and me off at the corner of Boone and Superior. We took the long way home. Through Mission Park.

I wasn’t expecting what happened next. Hadn’t an inkling. Not a hint.

With just three weeks since our first dance, our first date . . . With only a score or so of kisses—exciting but chaste . . . With me not-quite-nineteen and Steve just-turned-twenty-one . . . He asked, “Will you marry me?”

In shock, I didn’t answer immediately. Not “Yes.” Not “No.”

The next three weeks are a blur. I only I remember three things for sure from that time: It never rained; Steve and I spent every single spare minute together; I got an A+ on my term paper.

Then I said “Yes.”

After a whirlwind of changed plans, I got into the back seat of Steve’s friend Marty’s car and headed to Butte, Montana to meet the parents of my new fiancé.

My eyes were closed. I felt the circular motion of his finger on my palm, the pressure of his touch, the heat of his lips on mine.

I was floating in the backseat of a ’50 Studebaker. In ecstasy, I opened my eyes. Surfaced to hear him say, “There’s Butte,” as Marty drove down the hill and Highway 10 wound toward what has been called “The Richest Hill on Earth.”

As we approached the city that May evening in 1955, it felt as if we were on a space-ship ducking through the Northern Lights on our way to a rendezvous on Earth.

“You never told me Butte is beautiful,” I chastised him.

“I didn’t know,” he confided.

He kissed me quiet.

That night I slept in a house on Grand Avenue, in a double bed, crammed between my friend Colleen and her soon-to-be niece. I dreamed of wearing a white satin wedding dress, saying, “I do,” kissing Steve on the altar of St. Raphael’s Church in front of God and everyone.

The next morning he arrived in his parent’s car and drove me up the Hill.

Having lived on the prairie of eastern Montana for eighteen years, I thought I’d seen barren hills. I knew at that moment, I’d no idea what barren meant before. The Great Plains had not prepared me for the nothingness. As Steve gave me a guided tour through the once thriving metropolis, I saw what the locals apparently didn’t—Butte was dying.

I kept my discovery to myself. Steve seemed to love his hometown.

He drove up Arizona Street, turned slightly to the right on the Anaconda Road, and then took a quick left into what seemed to be a dirt field. An ancient log cabin, sod roof and all, stood on the left. He took a quick right and said, “Here we are.”

My intended—the epitome of the fifties Big Man on Campus, who’d just been elected Senior Class President of a prestigious university—had stopped in the middle of a slum and said, “We’re home.”

Right then and there, I thought, Wow! I’ve made the right choice. Steve’s come so far in twenty-one years—on his own. He’s a real keeper!

I was not prepared for Butte. The Flats were a lot like Glasgow, Montana where I grew up—old houses mixed up with a few built after WWII. Nothing fancy, just houses.

My guide to see The Richest Hill on Earth showed me the town. “There’s Meaderville over that way.” Steve waved toward the right. “We’ll have to go eat at Lydia’s. It’s a legend. My cousin George used to have a place down there too—the Savoy.”

Approaching downtown, we saw a couple of big holes between buildings. “Just another fire,” Steve said. “They call it urban renewal,” he laughed—a hollow laugh.

It seemed to me that every other sign advertised a bar. We parked the car and began walking. I was shocked to see drunks staggering from one watering hole to another—at 9 a.m.

Later, as we drove down Park headed out of downtown Butte, Steve said, “Gotta show you the West Side.”

The first site—and I italicize that because at that moment in my life it was the most beautiful house I’d ever seen—was the mansion of Copper King Marcus Daly. With four two-story white columns holding up the third floor balcony, it reminded me of what Scarlet’s Tara must have looked like. (I’d never even seen the movie—just read Gone with the Wind.)

There were two others I’d categorize as mansions—one had belonged to a second Copper King, William Clark, and the third to his son Charles. But there were scores of stately two and three story homes on streets named Gold, Platinum, Silver, and Quartz.

Steve turned down Diamond Street and said, “There’s the house where my special girlfriend in high school lived—her dad was a lawyer for the ACM.” He explained that the ACM—Anaconda Copper Mining—owned every mine on the Butte Hill. “One way or another, the ACM owns this town and everyone in it.”

In awe I looked at my new fiancé and realized another facet of his life.

At dinner that night, Steve’s father said, “Ya show her the West Side?”

Steve nodded.

“Just so you know what Butte’s really like, that’s where the Rich Bitches live,” Steve’s father said, a sneer on his face.

I saw Steve cringe.

Over the years, I learned to treasure Butte, a city where I found no one is judged by where they live, but only how they live. I’ve often said—and Steve agrees—that I understand Butte better than most natives.

During the week I stayed in Butte, Steve kept me busy meeting relatives. His folks were welcoming. Cautiously.

The first thing his sister, Sis, said was, “Those sure are funny yellow shoes.” Then she asked, “When are you leaving?” Oh, oh, I thought.

But I immediately fell in love with Steve’s nine-year-old sister Dorothy Jean—or Dodo, her nickname. I bonded with Dodo as I watched her play dolls with two little friends, Marie and Mary Jo. The nine year age gap made no difference—she was my sister.

Steve introduced me to dozens of relatives (his father had eleven siblings, his mother three).

He took me to The Gardens where we rode the (mini-sized, thank goodness) roller coaster and had ice cream. Together, we dreamed about the old days when the Big Bands played dances at the pavilion. Tommy Dorsey, Harry James, Billy May—Steve had danced to them all.

We went swimming at Gregson.

I wanted to see a mine, so he took me to the Kelley. What a disappointment! We rode an elevator down to a cavern paved in green concrete. Even then I dreamed about walking in mine tunnels dug by pickax or blown by dynamite.

But I’m getting ahead of my story.

That July, Steve rode the bus up to Glasgow with a diamond ring that he proudly put on my finger.

We were officially engaged!

With Steve working in Butte that summer my social life disappeared. We saw each other a total of five days June through August.

Then—in September—Steve got the chance to prove his love.

In late August a bee stung me on my nose resulting in what my doctor called a classic case of HSV-Type 1 (an orofacial disease commonly called a cold sore). I hadn’t gone to the doctor immediately when the tiny pustules began appearing—my father was a big believer in home remedies. By the time I went to see Dr. Smith, the lower third of my nose and face looked like an open sore.

When I got off the Empire Builder in Spokane that September, strangers were asking me about the terrible accident I’d been in. I was one big scab.

Steve took one look at me, said, “You weren’t kidding—you look terrible.” And he gave me a big kiss like nothing was different.

Oh how I loved that man! Most guys would have asked for their ring back and run the other way at full speed. I had a winner!

College that year was perfect. As Senior Class President Steve had free tickets for everything. Mixers every Friday night, basketball games, concerts, plays, a movie at the COG (student union) every Sunday (if we weren’t doing something more exciting—which we often were). We saw each other every day.

Then there were the big things—The Military Ball, Valentine Gala, Gonzaga Prom, Holy Names Prom.

Steve bought me so many cherry milkshakes at Johnson’s 24 Flavors that the owners of the ice cream shop probably had to lower their income estimates after we left school.

But . . . Now is probably as good a place as any to discuss Steve’s net worth—$0.

I knew he paid his tuition by working in the Butte mines during the summer and delivering mail for the post office at Christmas. That he earned his board and room janitoring at Holy Names. I was really proud of his ambition.

Money was a challenge for him—after buying my ring with most of his summer earnings, Steve still had to finance his 1955-56 tuition and our fun money. So, besides carrying a full load, doing his class president duties, and seeing me, he got two additional cleaning jobs—at Johnson’s 24 Flavors and Drs. Wendell and Nishimura’s medical office. When he slept, I’ll never know.

What I do know is—he treated me like a queen. I doubt a king could have shown his bride-to-be a better time.

In the spring two miracles happened.

My folks sold some property and chose to buy us a car as a wedding present. Wow!

Steve hadn’t even had a jalopy. His folks didn’t own a car until he was a junior in high school.

We basked in our luck.

And . . . We got a house.

At that time we had no idea houses would become our thing. We still chuckle at how much we loved the tiny model home we toured during one of our first dates.

That spring, as we were planning our wedding, we started looking for a place to live. It didn’t take us long to discover—houses were expensive. One realtor actually said, “You two have no potential.” (We fooled him! Eventually.)

But one house builder, after finding we couldn’t afford the down payment for his beautiful new home in the Spokane Valley, offered us a deal.

“I’ve got a two bedroom house I’d like to sell you. Just got it on trade. Six-hundred square feet. Just a block from the Spokane River. Three hundred dollars down and $60 a month.”

We checked it out. Without any furniture—and with stars in our eyes—it looked like a palace. It had those aqua steel kitchen cabinets I’d loved in the model home, a wood-burning fireplace in the living room, and a full, unfinished basement with another brick fireplace.

The kitchen and bathroom were painted the brightest shade of orange I’ve ever seen—like they were the background of two Gaugin frescos. The living room was a vibrant, dark aqua. The master bedroom glowed—chartreuse on the ceiling and shocking pink walls. The second bedroom was all chartreuse.

“I couldn’t sleep here,” I moaned.

“Don’t think I could do anything in this bedroom,” Steve said suggestively.

I blushed.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I know how to use a paintbrush.”

We agreed to paint the bedrooms the first day we got back from our honeymoon.

Yes, we were hooked.

Steve negotiated.

“Save it for us ’til August 26? Wait for the down payment ’til then? First payment on September 1?”

We owned our first home. (Well, almost.)

That summer Steve worked overtime in the Butte mines. As usual, I managed the laundry in my folk’s motel in Glasgow. It was lonely—except for the week before the Fourth of July.

My parents had sold fireworks just outside the city limits since I was in sixth grade. In 1956 they said, “Would you like to share the stand with us this summer? We’ll supply the store and the merchandise. You and Steve do the work. We’ll split the profits—half and half.”

Sounded great to us.

And it was. When we sold the last firecracker, Steve and I divided the silver dollars with my folks and headed for the store. By the time we were done we’d bought a refrigerator, a kitchen table and four chairs, a sofa bed, a rocker, a folding bed, and had a couple of hundred dollars left for our honeymoon. With our shower presents, wedding gifts, and my bedroom set, cedar chest, cabinet-type sewing machine (that looked like a credenza), we were set.

I’ve loved fireworks ever since!