Chapter 20B

I had a few disastrous flirtations. The Brothers held a sophomore class prom. Those who couldn't find a date could get one through Brother Lawrence's contacts with the Catholic girls' schools in town. At first, my sister was going to fix me up with a blind date. After meeting several of her girlfriends I decided I'd be better off with pot luck through Brother Lawrence. How bad could it be, I told myself, after some of my dates in New York?

But trying it was. Being driven to and from the dance by my mother helped little. I was already eligible for a driver's permit, but no one would allow me to drive a car without insurance. The girl had been in plays at Saint Agnes Academy for Girls -- apparently, this was her sole qualification for being picked by Brother Lawrence. Other than her drama interests, we had nothing in common. She was, I discovered, a local glamour girl from a relatively wealthy family. Her major social interest was hero worship, and all heroes were varsity football players. I spent the evening introducing her to my classmates, and she spent the evening traipsing about the dance hall floor with them.

It actually made little difference to me. Beyond a basic sexual titillation, I had no interest in her or any other girls. My sole interest was to save money and, hopefully, leave home -- and, definitely, to make it to New York. At the Liberty Cash Grocery Number 23, Charlie himself couldn't fire my interest in his numerous female contacts.

On my sixteenth birthday I received a driver's permit. My stepdad refused to allow me to drive the family car, but to me the permit meant I was one step closer to independence. I began planning the next step, which would be to buy my own used car. Of course, that wouldn't be legally possible until I was eighteen. But for several nights for weeks I stayed up late, calculating the possibilities: the time required to save a little more for trips to New York; saving for a future car of my own; perhaps getting someone else to let me use their car for a larger, more lucrative paper route; or using someone else's car to get me to a better job after school. But at my age, I would find few jobs that paid as well as the one offered by my Uncle Vic.

For the time being, the driver's permit allowed me to drive my Aunt Frances' or my Grandpa Joe's car. During my weekend stays with them I began taking them to work and picking them up at night now and then, or making short drives to cafe supply houses.

Finally, with all the time and running around I spent at the Tremont, Aunt Frances decided I should have my own car to drive. She proposed this one night when I was having dinner with her and Grandma Nifa and Uncle Johnny.

Sitting across the table from Uncle Johnny, Aunt Frances began the conversation with him the way she usually did. She said, "Johnny?"

"What, Frances? I'm right here."

"I been thinkin'. Speedy ought to have his own car."

"He ain't old enough to own a car, Frances."

"For the Tremont. He has to go back and forth, and he keeps driving my car. Or Joe's."

"But he's too young to own his own car, Frances." He sliced his veal and took another bite.

Aunt Frances sat looking at her glass of water. The she said, "I could get a used car wholesale from his Uncle Jimmy, and I could own the tags. Speedy could drive it. That way, he won't wreck my car."

Uncle Johnny shrugged, chewing. "Sounds arright." He looked at me across the dinner table. "How 'bout you, Little Beaver? Sound arright to you?"

I nodded. "Okay with me." I wasn't about to pose an argument of any kind.

Uncle Johnny wheezed a little laugh. "I figured you'd say that."

Aunt Frances said, "That's what we'll do, then. I'll get a car from Jimmy. Speedy can drive it to the Tremont." She looked at me, and waved her fork at me. "That way, you won't wreck my car. You can wreck *your* car!"

Uncle Johnny smiled at her. "Whatever you say, Frances."

The car Aunt Frances bought was a 1953, fire-engine red Ford. A straight-stick with a great radio. It was in tip-top shape. She bought it from an uncle in the used car business for eight hundred bucks. As soon as it was delivered she brought it to another relation in the auto body business who repainted it a less glaring, glossy dark blue enamel.

Now I had money from three jobs. I was sixteen with a driver's permit. I had more time on my hands, unfettered by bus rides and scurrying all over town for a car to borrow for work or restaurant errands or social life. Or, on far too few occasions, theater. And I'd be able to date without a chauffeur.

By the end of May I'd had no mail from Martha for nearly two months, except for a very short 'Hello' note on her small, white stationery. It included a photograph of Martha and Ronnie in Central Park, lounging on towels on a sunny day in their swimsuits. I knew Martha was working overtime and had time for little else, as usual; and I was swamped by work as well, not so much by its difficulty as by the time demanded by school and three part-time jobs. So I was writing far fewer letters than before. And I had grown accustomed to expecting infrequent answers.

I was looking at Martha's note and photograph at the dining table when my step-dad Tony happened to approach the table behind me and noticed the photo over my shoulder.

He joked as she sat at his chair, "What you got there? Calendar girls?"

From the kitchen my mother called, "That's a letter from his New York girlfriend!"

"Is that her picture?" He reached out a hand. "Can I look at that? You know I talked to her on the phone, and I got to be honest. I don't remember what she looks like."

I handed him the picture. He moved it back and forth, getting it into focus with his bifocals. "Ain't that her? The blonde lookin' one?"

I said, "Yes. That's Martha."

He squinted at the picture. "Damn. You know, she's a really fine lookin' woman."

My mother added from the kitchen doorway, "Y' oughtta see her sister Evelyn. Now, she's just beautiful."

Tony cocked an eyebrow. "Well, this one here would do. Who's that with her?"

"That's her girlfriend Ronnie. Lives downstairs in her building."

"This Ronnie ain't bad, neither." He smiled at me. "You was runnin' around New York with these two pretty gals?" He handed the picture back to me.

"Yeah, more or less."

He spread his napkin across his lap. "Hell, I wouldn't a come home."

My mother carried a piping hot bowl of cauliflower into the room. "Yeah, you'd a stayed up there, and who'd cook for you?" She set the bowl on the table.

Tony said, "Your mama has a point there, Speedy. Cain't nobody cook like your mama."

Mom took her chair opposite me. She joked, "See? Guess I'm good for somethin', ain't I?"

My step-dad bowed his head, the signal for the grace before meals. He recited the plain, brief prayer, everyone finishing with a sign of the cross, me finishing with something that slightly resembled a sign of the cross, and my step-dad pulled the salad bowl closer to him and began to shovel green salad into his plate.

He asked, "Does Martha cook, Speedy? Up in New York?"

"No, she doesn't know much about cooking. Eats out most of the time."

"She must make pretty good money up there, all that eatin' out."

"No, she just keeps two or three teaching jobs going at the same time. She doesn't make much money at all. She's starting to look for people she can start a business with. Teaching doesn't pay enough."

He frowned at me, passing me the salad bowl. "Don't make much money?"

"No."

"How does she afford that buildin' she lives in up there, with that doorman and all them guest rooms and everything?"

I was stunned at that. I stuttered quickly, "Well, uh, Columbia University pays for most of it. She's, uh, she's on the staff at the university, and, uh, they provide part of the housing expense."

Quickly, I put the picture away and changed the subject to an upcoming wedding. He had almost caught me in the lie Martha had told them about her building! That settled it for me; I had to avoid the subject of Martha and stick to other matters, such as work. And talking about Martha did little to lift my moods.

On a Friday night near the end of May I called Martha's number. She didn't answer. It would have been eight at night in New York. I waited until the next day, Saturday, and called at five-thirty. No answer. Then I spent half an hour in my bedroom going through all the letters to find Ronnie's telephone number. It was a little after six when I called.

Ronnie answered, in the same bored voice. "Hello. This is Veronica."

"Hello, Ronnie."

"Hello? Who's --? Is this --?"

"Steven."

Her voice became warmly happy and affectionate. "Well, my god. Steeeven. Oh god. Oh, how *are* you? Oh, I'm so sorry, how could I forget that soft Southern voice? Well, I didn't really, I suspected it was you, it was just -- Well. How are you, sweetheart?"

"I'm okay. I'm fine. I, uh, I called Martha, but... I thought she might down there tonight."

"Martha? Nah, she's probably out somewhere playing politics."

"Politics?"