Читать книгу SQUIRRELY - John Mahoney - Страница 8

“What are you so happy about?” Go-Go asked me as we stood at the face up table.

“Huh? You talking to me?”

“Something ain’t right about you, man. I’ve been standing here watching you. You’ve had a smile on your face for the last ten minutes.”

“There’s nothing wrong with me.”

“You ain’t smokin’ the weed, are you?”

“Hell no. I just feel good, that’s all.”

Mel Duckworth, standing to my left, joined in. “You musta got laid last night. Huh, Mac?”

“Shut up, you moron,” I said to Duck.

“Who is she?” Go-Go asked.

“Who’s who?”

“The girl you’re in love with.”

“What makes you think I’m in love?”

“Hellfire, boy,” Duck said, “for the past couple of weeks you’ve been happier than shit. Now, tell us her name.”

“Her name’s Nancy. Nancy Marshall.”

Duck and Go-Go laughed.

“What?” I said. “What’s so funny?”

Go-Go leaned over so he could see Duck’s face. “Our boy’s in love, Duck.” Go-Go pinched my cheek. “Ain’t you the bad little boy.”

“Peck the Bad Boy,” Duck said. “Why’ja wanna go ahead and fall in love for anyway? Don’tcha know girls ain’t nothin’ but trouble?”

“Yeah,” said Go-Go. “Say adios to your freedom.”

“You guys are full of it,” I said. “If it’s so bad then how come you two are married?”

“I hope you ain’t talkin’ about marriage,” Duck said.

“Well what if we are?”

“How long have you known this girl?” asked Go-Go.

I shrugged. “Couple of weeks. We’ve been dating two weeks, so what?”

Go-Go and Duck exclaimed together, “Two weeks?”

“Boy, you are crazier than shit,” Duck said.

Then Go-Go said, “Don’t be talking about marriage yet, Mac. You hardly know her.”

“Yeah,” Duck said, “you gotta form what’s called a relationship first.”

“We have a relationship,” I said defensively.

“No, man,” Go-Go said. “Just because you play tonsil hockey at the drive-in every Friday night doesn’t mean you have a relationship. Building a relationship is like building a house. You build a house piece by piece. You take measurements, you make adjustments, you take out the stuff you don’t like, and keep the stuff you can live with. When the house is all finished, you double check to make sure everything is right. Make sure all the plumbing works, the roof don’t leak, the paint is dry. When you’re satisfied you can live in that house for the rest of your life, you move in.”

I looked at Go-Go, then turned to Duck.

Duck said, “Kinda brings a tear to your eye, don’t it, boy?”

We all laughed, and from somewhere on the workroom floor came the voice of Mr. Dell.

“Less talk, more mail!”

There was a school in New York that actually taught people how to hang wallpaper. When Nancy went to enroll she found out she’d be the only girl in the class. I told her not to let that bother her, but it did. So instead, she took a job at Skinner’s Paint and Wallpaper store in Maplewood. It was hard work moving those paint cans around, especially the five gallon containers. She stocked the shelves, swept the floors, and made deliveries. I noticed after a couple of weeks that her arm muscles became more defined, and I could tell she was stronger by the way she hugged me.

She never complained about any of her duties. In fact, she had such a positive attitude, that she convinced Mr. Skinner to teach her everything he knew about the paint and wallpaper business. Mr. Skinner was a white-haired cherub who became Nancy’s mentor.

If paint-mixing was a science, then Mr. Skinner was the Professor of Paint. He knew everything about blending colors. He could match your walls with any piece of furniture in you house; he instantly knew what colors of paint he had to mix to match the paint chip you brought him. He knew of Nancy’s plan to become a home decorator, and he never tried to discourage her from following her dreams. He also had no qualms about sharing his knowledge with a young female apprentice. Nancy loved him for that. She told me often that working for Mr. Skinner was the best education she ever received, and she got paid to boot.

Nancy and I saw each other every night. But because of our work schedules, the only full day we had together was Sunday. We tried to go to a different place every Sunday, but during the Summer our favorite place to go was the Jersey shore. It was a seventy mile trip south on the Garden State Parkway to our home away from home, Seaside Heights. We always arrived early to assure a parking space close to the beach. We’d spread a blanket close to the water so we wouldn’t have to step over people as the day progressed. Nancy looked great in a two-piece swimsuit, and I have to admit, I had a hard time keeping my hands off her even in public.

The boardwalk in Seaside Heights was not a quiet place. Its entire length was like a circus, with arcades, wheels of chance with their cajoling barkers, cotton candy, saltwater taffy, candy apples, pizza, ice cream, and our particular favorite food item, sausage sandwiches replete with onions and peppers.

We often stayed late, joining the flood of people who moved from the beach to the amusement rides on Casino Pier. Nancy’s favorite ride was the vomit-inducing Tilt-a-Whirl. Mine was the ride through the darkened fun house, where I used every opportunity to feel her up.

When we weren’t at the beach our next best place to hang out was South Mountain Reservation in South Orange. It was a two thousand acre wooded sanctuary for birds, small furry animals, and the terminally horny. There were plenty of quiet places to park, to spread a blanket, or just walk. And the back seat of the ol’ Chevy was a great place to watch the submarine races.

During the first few months of our relationship we found out a great deal about each other. We had a lot in common and shared the same basic opinions about religion, politics, and sex. I was surprised to know she actually supported America’s role in South Vietnam, while I on the other hand, having been there, realized at an early stage that our country had gotten itself into a futile mess. Sometimes she’d ask me what my life was like in Vietnam, but I always skirted the issue. Maybe after I’ve known her awhile I could tell her exactly what went on, but until such a time when I was sure she could handle the truth, I resorted to saying only, ‘You don’t want to know’. And she usually changed the subject after that. We liked the same foods, soft drinks, and TV shows with one exception: I liked professional wrestling and Nancy thought it was the most base form of entertainment she ever had the displeasure of watching. She preferred to watch any show or movie that had light-hearted, sugar-coated, happy ending romance. We differed slightly in our choices of music, too. I liked Grand Funk Railroad and Black Sabbath, and Nancy liked some squeaky clean newcomer named John Denver. Once, she made me go with her to some out of the way cafe in New York City to see who she called an up and coming recording star—some piano-playing kid from Long Island named Billy Joel. Wherever we went we talked a lot about our future together. Not that we had set a date to get married, but we did express our thoughts about what we expected from each other in a marriage, and what we would give each other. Go-Go was right. Building a relationship was like building a house. And our house was going to be made of brick.

At first, I don’t think Nancy’s father liked me very much. I’m sure he thought Nancy could do better than the likes of me. But he did soften a bit when he found out I was a Vietnam vet, himself being a World War II vet. Both her parents were a little disappointed Nancy was working in a paint store instead of becoming a teacher, and I had the feeling they may have even blamed me for influencing her decision.

I had dinner many times at Nancy’s house. Mrs. Marshall was a great cook and tried to pass on her culinary talents to Nancy, but Nancy, as smart and quick to learn as she was, could never quite grasp the difference between broiled hamburger and boiled hamburger. Nancy’s mother was a lot friendlier toward me than her father. Mrs. Marshall always inquired about my work and health. Just like me, Nancy was an only child, and at the dinner table Mrs. Marshall would sometimes comment on which of her friends already had grandchildren. Remarks like that always brought a smile to mine and Nancy’s face, and choking sounds from Mr. Marshall.

Of course, Nancy and I talked about having children. But we decided that even after we were married we would not have children right away.

One Sunday, instead of taking a ride somewhere we decided to spend the day at Nancy’s house. We soon ran out of things to do, so we thought it would be a good day to change the old Chevy’s hideous complexion. I let Nancy pick out the color, and she went out and bought several spray cans of Forget-Me-Not-Blue. I spent most of the morning masking off the car windows and chrome parts. Then right before lunch we sprayed the entire car in fifteen minutes. Surprisingly, the finished car didn’t look too bad. It certainly looked a lot better than it ran. The engine often backfired when first starting it, and the shock absorbers were in such bad shape, even the flattest roads felt like a wash board. One side of the rear bumper was held up in place with a length of rope, and I used wire to keep the tailpipe from banging against the gas tank.

I let the sun bake on the paint while we ate lunch on the porch swing. Unfortunately, the sun also baked on any hapless insect that happened to land on the car.

As we ate, I noticed some squirrels running about, and I told Nancy I would bring a couple of squirrel feeders on my next visit.

“Squirrel feeders?” she said.

“Yeah, it’s just a little platform I build. You strap it around a tree and put food on it for the squirrels. I have six in my own backyard. The squirrels love it.”

“Well, okay, I guess. But don’t let daddy see it. He’s always complaining about the squirrels running over our roof.”

He complains about that?, I thought. I always liked the sound of squirrels running over my roof.

Whenever Nancy came to my house my mom and dad always treated her like the baby daughter they never had. We’d sit in the living room and my mom and dad would show Nancy pictures of my life in chronological order, beginning with bare ass baby shots.

“And here’s little Mackenzie riding the Merry-go-Round at Palisades Park,” my mom said. “He never went anywhere without that cowboy hat. Oh, and here he is on his tenth birthday. He got that scrape on his chin from falling off his bicycle. Poor little thing.”

Nancy liked my mom and dad, and I was glad because if we decided to get married within a year we’d have to live with them. But if we put off getting married for a year or more, then we could afford our own apartment. When I told Nancy of this option she thought it best if we waited.

I really loved Nancy, but early in our relationship I never actually said the words “I love you.” I don’t know why I couldn’t say it; maybe it was because I had never said it to anyone before and the words just seemed so foreign to me. Nancy was always saying she loved me, and when she did I’d just say, “Me too.” I don’t think I consciously avoided saying the words, they just never came out of my mouth. I didn’t know it bothered Nancy until one Sunday night while we were saying good night on her porch. We had our arms around each other and kissed one last kiss.

“I love you,” she whispered.

“Me too,” I said.

“Me too what?”

“You know.”

“No I don’t know. Tell me.”

“Well, you know I do.”

“Do what?”

“You know.”

“So, say it, Mackenzie.”

“I…”

“Yes?”

“Lub-you. There.”

“Such conviction,” she said with a smirk.

“Well, I do.”

“Well, I want to hear it.”

“Okay.”

“What do you mean okay? Say it!”

I shrugged my shoulders and mumbled, “Loveya.”

She gave me a playful shove. “You’re hopeless. Goodnight.”

“See you tomorrow?” I asked.

“Yes, I suppose.”

“Are you mad at me?”

“No, I’m not mad at you, you dope.”

“Okay, see you tomorrow.”

I walked to my car parked in the street. Nancy was still standing on the porch as I got in the car. I saw her waving her arms frantically. I quickly got out of the car again.

“What’s the matter?” I said.

“I love you, Mackenzie Peck!”

I really wanted to say the words she longed to hear. I looked up and down the street. No one was around. I took a deep breath and held it. I was going to shout out so the the whole neighborhood could hear. I wanted the whole world to know I loved Nancy Marshall of Maplewood, New Jersey. And I wasn’t ashamed to say it. “Me too!”