Chapter 1

She was the girl who I swore went to grade school with me. She arrived mid year in the class room as the teacher, our favorite nun, seventh grade, introduced her. She seemed extremely shy and something of distrustful.

A totally new school environment - she never spoke to anyone. I used to think about her and wonder why someone alluringly attractive was what seemed so distant. But I was also one of the shy ones lacking self esteem and I would never approach her.

Her dark eyes were daggers, piercing. You had to wonder what she was thinking. Of all the kids in grade school she is the one who haunted me the most throughout time.

Her children now were part of a special program designed for parents who wanted to be more involved in their kid’s education. We’re talking, since grade school, a span of years something like 25 since I’d seen her. But I could tell it was her, those eyes.

She had married a person who I knew I went to high school with; if not him per se his family. His brother had married my high school best friend’s older sister. She, Kathy, thought it funny to chase me around their house demanding kisses and she knew shy - I was deathly afraid of that. We had history, everyone, in some manner, but I had left the region for several years not ever really intending to return. Yet I did. After college, after a war, I was back home, married with kids and earnestly self employed.

Her husband was outspoken and aggressive, a business type. Seemed odd, the combination of personalities. In school my son became best friends with their daughter and the joke developing was how they, third grade, were in love. Funny, how the web entwines.

My wife was very involved in the school program which brought parents together in that style of education and I was not nearly as involved, still shy, too busy in business myself. My involvement, although more than normal parental involvement, was geared to my wife who didn’t work outside the home. I attended meetings and helped out where I could but was always nervous about being too social, just my own tick. I always failed terribly at conversation.

However, I also wondered about her and how she had managed to marry with such an aggressive and well known character. But those dark eyes were entrapping.

Oddly, all these years past, another kid from grade school, of course now grown, happened to have kids in the same special program of enhanced parent involvement. This guy was a noted problem child in the early grades, a source of ridicule because he was emotionally ill fit and too young for the grade level.

As I looked at him I couldn’t get that image out of my head, a class time yowl that broke up the curriculum. Uncontrolled bodily functions, how could I possibly not remember him. But there he was from my past along with her, another odd combination. And unlike wanting to talk to her I wanted to avoid any familiarity with him, he possibly remembering me. I was too shy to embark on that.

None of us lived anywhere near our old haunts.

The kids in the program were to bring their bicycles together for a ride down a new bike trail in the agricultural district that ran down through wine country. It was a long ride and I volunteered our flatbed truck to load up bikes for the trip to the trailhead. I would wait with the truck for the return of the cyclists so we could haul the bikes back to school.

Our old truck was a 1936 International that my partner and I had restored and retrofit with late model Chevrolet running gear. We used it for fun, for parades, used it for the apple crop at our commercial orchard and occasionally for hauling scrap metal to recycle.

I sat leaning on the bed, a beautiful day to be there, just relaxed with my eyes closed when someone started talking to me. “What do you use this truck for?,” was the question. I opened my eyes and there she was. There were only two parents left behind with the teacher, Mark. I thought I was the only parent waiting but no. It was her.

I’d not ever had an occasion to speak to her even as a kid. I didn’t even remember her name other than her husband’s surname. Funny how memories rushed back at me in the moment. And she had those dark eyes, beautiful.

I probably stumbled/stammered but said, “Oh ... just whatever we need at the time.” “But, what you do use it for?” “Uh, we haul apples.” Her question repeated again and I looked puzzled as I glanced at Mark, the teacher. He returned my puzzled look. “We sometimes haul scrap metal for recycling,” I added like a question as if I was asking her permission. She looked upset. So, I was upset with a rush of shy hitting me square in the gut.

I looked at Mark and he kind of smirked and she seemed irritated so I just stared at her waiting for another question, repeated. That was a protracted embarrassment I didn’t deserve or knew how to deal with. She looked even more angry and I finally kind of shrugged shoulders, smiled and closed my eyes again. I was hoping she would disappear like magic. The girl who haunted me since grade school was scaring the shit out of me.

She turned around and stood at the end of the flatbed with her arms crossed and I was thinking about asking her if she in fact was the girl I went to grade school with. But, of course, I was too shy, the awkward object in the company of a beautiful angry woman.

I hoped the cyclists would please soon arrive back and break the spell, no idea what information she was wanting me to give her. I wondered if she in fact remembered me, was just trying to break the ice. Whatever, the ice was colder than ever before and a new ice age had begun.

She was married to a wealthy guy and they as a family would eventually open up a winery, a chateau, a tasting room among the other wineries in the valley.

We had gained quite a bit of fame with our orchard featuring forty varieties of apples, heritage and new varieties, all. The local press and television featured us time and again and when we joined in on a school function at the winery her husband approached and began to make a big deal out of the notoriety we received. Of course I was embarrassed to be made note of, especially because the showman he was just wouldn’t give up. But I noticed his wife paying attention in the distance.

After we had spent time with the group and were about to leave she came up to me and began to talk. It was just light conversation, the kind I was terrible at. But probably because of the all the notice we had gathered with her husband’s unrelenting praise, I had a burst of bravery. I asked her where she went to grade school.

She mentioned one I’d not heard of but then on thinking for a moment said she had changed schools, seventh grade. It was the school I went to and I told her I remembered her when the nun brought her into class that first day. She was a combination of contemplative and possibly shy on that note. “You remember!” she announced quite factually, as in noting, not asking.

“Yes,” I said. “There was something unique about that,” I stopped short thinking I was getting personal already. “I was an abused child you know, she said.” She stared at me for moments and as usual my conversation skills died. I didn’t know what to say. “My mother died at child birth and my father was having an affair with another women. He brought her into the home and she hated me. I’ve never been able to shed my past.” “Oh, I’m sorry,” I said.

I wanted to apologize for being so personal but just hung my mouth open and stopped talking.

I looked down and memories rushed me more. “You were an abused child too,” she said. I looked her in the eyes and I’m sure my mouth was half open in awe again. “How do you... , what?” “Your mother. She was beautiful. She was abused and that spilled over into your childhood as well. We share the experience, the hatred. You understand.”