Chapter 3

Saturday was too far away for John. Wednesday night he drove downtown to Carol’s neighborhood, got out and began walking, looking at the store fronts. He was searching for second hand shops, for the second hand shop to be exact. He could have called and asked either Rita or Carol herself where it was, but for some reason he wanted to find it himself. His task was complicated by the simple fact he wasn’t too sure just what she meant by second hand shop. He passed several pawn shops, costume shops, and just plain junk stores that could have qualified. Finally looking in the window of one he caught a glimpse of the blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail. He knew he’d found the right place.

Opening the door, he went in and looked around. It seemed to be an eclectic assortment of used merchandise; reusable clothing, old hand tools, serviceable housewares, etc. But, mostly he was looking at the blonde ponytail with the darker streaks running through it. She turned her head looking over her shoulder to see who’d come in. Recognition was almost instantaneous; she broke into a wide smile.

“John, what are you doing here?”

“I was looking for some, ah, new spats and this looked like the place to find them. White ones to go with my brown Florsheims, the old ones are really looking ratty. Got any in stock there, my good woman?”

“Afraid not, wrong store, wrong century, we’re all out of spats. We sold the last pair we had sixty years ago, to Fred Astaire, I believe.”

“Ah, damn my luck. Well, Fred probably needed them more than me.”

She walked over and leaned back against a table full of kitchenware, her arms folded across her chest. Her lips were pressed tightly together in an obvious attempt to suppress a smile. Tonight there was none of the sadness on her face that he’d seem on Saturday. It did him good to realize she was glad to see him.

“So, why are you really here? On a scavenger hunt or something?”

“Like you don’t know,” he grinned at her, “I wanted to see you. I thought this would be better than a phone call. Did I do wrong?”

She turned her head to the side, smiling broadly now with a kind of silent laugh. When she turned back, still smiling, John was amazed at how her inner beauty showed on her face. She actually looked years younger. He was even more amazed that he could be the cause of such a transformation. He had a giddy feeling deep inside.

“Whatever the reason, I’m glad you came. I’m glad to see you.”

“Are we still on for Saturday?” She nodded her head eagerly. “Good, any ideas where we could go?”

“Sort of,” she said, “a movie works, but I was wondering, do you like to dance, like slow dancing, that sort of thing? I know a place.”

He shrugged his shoulders. In reality, he never was much of a dancer, but he wanted to do something she enjoyed.

“Funny you should have mentioned Fred Astaire, because I ain’t him. So, if you’re willing to put up with my awkward leads and getting your toes mashed occasionally, I’m game.”

“No, I don’t want to force you into doing something you don’t like.”

“Are you saying you won’t work with me? Because now I’ve suddenly got this great desire to improve my slow dancing skills. Do you really want to deny me that?”

“OK, if you put it that way, that’s we’re headed. Just tell me, how bad are you? Do I have to go out and get a pair of steel toed pumps to wear?”

“Well, I don’t know if you have to go looking for some, but if there’s a pair in here in the clothing section, it might pay you to grab them, just in case.”

“All I can say,” she said, shaking her head, “is this could be interesting.”

Saturday night, they went to a small Italian restaurant that Carol knew. She insisted that they go somewhere less expensive. It was actually a good idea, spaghetti and meatballs washed down with a sound Chianti costing less than one of last week’s steaks. It was a very satisfying meal. Of course, John probably would have enjoyed a Spam sandwich if he was eating it with Carol.

From there she led the way to a bar several blocks away. From the outside it looked like any other bar, but once inside, behind the narrow barroom, he could see the back room. Expanding into the neighboring establishment, it was much wider than the bar area. In the dim light he could see couples dancing. He’d been expecting a much bigger place, not that he minded, as long as he was with her.

“Get us a couple of drinks, wine for me,” she said, “I’ll head back and grab us a table.”

Ordering the drinks, he made his way into the backroom with them, then he stopped and looked around for her. The center of the room was open for dancing, chairs and small tables were scattered around the perimeter. In some places two or three tables had been pushed together to accommodate larger groups. When he spotted the two arms waving back and forth trying to get his attention, he headed in her direction.

He sat down and placed her wine in front of her. He took the glass that had been placed upside down over the neck of his beer bottle off and pushed it aside, deciding he’d rather drink from the bottle. He hoped she wouldn’t think he was being crude, but it seemed stupid to him to bother with such a small glass. He needn’t have worried; she never noticed one way or another.

“Do you come here often?”

“No,” she replied, “hardly ever, but sometimes Rita and I drop in, hoping to meet somebody, that never happens.”

“Really? I would have thought guys would be all over you two.”

“No, I mean there’s a lot of horny guys in the bar that come looking for an easy mark, a quick jump, but you get enough of those people when you work at a strip club. I don’t think I’ve ever met anybody nice here, someone you wanted to get to know better. Don’t get me wrong, there are a lot of nice guys here, but they usually come with someone.”

“I can see you’re point.” He raised his bottle and took a drink, then second guessed himself; he felt like a slob. Taking the glass and, tipping it slightly, filled it. Manners had won out.

“I’m a little disappointed,” she remarked, “on the weekends, they often have live music. Nothing fancy, usually a quartet or a piano player, but tonight we have to listen to canned music.”

“I don’t see that as a problem, I came here to be with you, not some string quartet.”

“You silver tongued devil,” she leaned forward on the table, “where the hell have you been all my life, and more importantly, why hasn’t somebody grabbed you up for her own?”

“One did, grabbed me up, chewed me up, then spit me out. It wasn’t a pleasant experience.”

“Her loss. But, let’s find out if you’re as bad a dancer as you’ve been saying.”

He was glad she didn’t press him farther about his ex-wife. He didn’t like talking about it. It was funny, she didn’t have any trouble talking about the tragedy that had been her earlier life, but he didn’t want to tell about his one real failing. It wasn’t lost on him and he was somewhat embarrassed by that fact as she led him out onto the floor.

It was apparent to him that she was expecting the worst in the first dance. Fortunately he didn’t deliver it but did an adequate job. His biggest problem was a lack of confidence, he was unsure of himself. Still he led her gracefully, managed to not step on her toes or cross her up. At one point she looked up at him.

“You’re not doing so badly.”

“Not doing real good either.”

“Nonsense, you just need practice.”

They returned to their table at the end of the song and quietly sipped their drinks.

“Do you mind if I ask you something?” Her voice was low.

“No, go ahead, anything.”

“You mentioned your ex-wife, what happened there?”

“Nothing really, maybe everything, I’m not all that sure. Bottom line is, I married her because she was good looking, she married me because she thought I had some kind of a big future. We were pretty much a mismatch. She tried turning me into something I wasn’t. I didn’t like that and rebelled. We fought a lot, then got divorced; end of story. The big problem is, it left me leery of getting too deeply involved with anyone again.”

After he finished, he realized that telling a woman he was interested in and cared for that he was afraid of committing himself to a long term relationship wasn’t the wisest move he could have made. And the problems of his marriage were petty compared to what she’d endured.

“It sounds silly, I know. But, that’s the way it was. After the divorce I kind of crawled into my shell.”

“I don’t think it’s silly. No one should try and force to be something you don’t want to be. What was it she wanted to turn you into anyway?”

“God damned if I know. I’m a school teacher, nothing more, nothing less. Granted the type of school I work at pays better than I’d get in the public sector, but I’m still a teacher, period. Never claimed to be anything else”

They sat out a couple of songs before taking the floor again. That was the pattern for the night; getting up to dance every third or fourth song, sitting back and watching the others in between. John would get up and go to the bar to refresh their drinks as needed.

Finally as they danced to an instrumental version of “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes” he kissed her on the cheek. Surprised, she looked up at him and he kissed her lightly on the lips. She broke into a smile and laid her head on his shoulder. He felt her arm around his waist tighten as she pulled herself closer to him. He rested his cheek in her hair as she moved her hand from his and draped it over his other shoulder. They clung to each other, looking like two hormonally driven teen agers at a high school dance, rocking back and forth slowly to the rhythm of the music. They weren’t dancing so much as making love, both wishing the song would never end.

The song did end, and they returned to their table, both knowing something had happened. There was no longer any doubt in their minds about whether they liked each other, now it was a given. The question now was how far did they want it to go. Both had been burned in the past by false loves and neither wanted it to happen again. But the difference was apparent, there was no more feeling each other out emotionally, now they talked as if they were old friends rather than two people who had only met two weeks earlier. They were completely comfortable together.

He walked her home that night hand in hand. There could be no doubt in the minds of any who saw them that they were a couple. At her door the scene was similar to the one last week, a passion filled good night kiss that left then both breathless and somewhat frustrated. John had decided to himself that he wasn’t going to try to take this to the next level until he felt it was right. Carol herself wanted to wait; to be sure he wasn’t just looking for a quick lay. It wouldn’t have bothered her that much if he did, but she wanted to find out, to know for sure.

Within a week, they no longer had to ask if the other was available on any given night, they knew each other’s schedule. The question was no longer “do you want to go somewhere” but “what do you want to do tonight”. They were spending more and more time together, becoming closer, but still neither made any move towards the bedroom. They were like two adolescents, sex was on both their minds, but both seemed to be afraid to mention it. Neither wanted the other to think that’s all they were after.

It was during this period, as they grew more at ease with each other, that Carol began to talk more openly about her past. Mostly it was about specific incidents, conversations, and the like, but slowly she began to open up about how far she had sunk during that period. Some of it came as a surprise to him. Perhaps shocking would be a better word. It was after dinner one night that she made one of those revelations.

It had been a pleasant meal, he’d made a cold pasta salad and it had gone well on a hot humid night in the city. After they’d finished eating, Carol leaded over the table on her elbow. Her chin rested in the palm of her hand while she looked down at her plate. Her other hand pushed the handle of her fork back and forth where it stuck out over the edge of the dish. She seemed lost in thought.

“Look, there are some things you should know about me”

“Such as?” He thought he’d already heard all there was to hear.

“When I went through my bad years, I posed for a lot of nude photos.”

“Well, yeah, you told me that. At those photo places, right?”

“No, I mean professionally. You’d pose for a real photographer, get paid, and the pictures belonged to him. He would, I guess you’d call it broker them out to things like the cheap skin magazines and these pulp sex newspaper things. They were the worst. Open them up, and there’d be a big headline, “MOM SEXES HER THREE SONS” above a pornographic incest story with my picture, naked as the day I was born next to it. It looked like I was the one who was screwing her kids.”

“Not so bad, I wouldn’t mind seeing then actually.”

“You’d be able to see me in my brief big breasted days, and after I had the implants removed. You could make comparisons.”

“I like the way you look now.”

“Sweet, but the thing is, those pictures are out there and they can turn up any time. I thought you should know that.”