Adirondack Audacity (15 page)

“
Welcome home, Ellen,” my stepmother, Helen, says
without a trace of warmth in her voice, turning her cheek
so I can dutifully kiss her. “It is certainly good to have
you home after your little vacation to the mountains.
Starting tomorrow we’re cleaning the house from top to
bottom. It’s entirely too much work for me. I’ve been
patiently waiting for you to come home from all that
camp foolishness.” In a snit of jealousy, she pulls my
brothers away before I can hug them. “Boys, leave your
sister alone, I’m sure she’s too grown up from her camp
experience to want your attention.” She says
camp
, as if it
were a dirty word. As I look at my brothers’ sun-kissed
freckle faces, I realize how much I’ve missed them. I do
want their attention. At one time we were everything to
each other.

As my father extends his arms to hug me, Helen
commands, “John, get Ellen’s bag so we can head for
home.” She nods to me. “I told your grandmother not to
come knowing you would be too tired from the bus
ride.” And like three little puppets on a string, my father
and brothers jump to do her bidding. My heart sinks,
some things never change…..

Helen took my camp wages, except for the money I
hid. I told her Mr. and Mrs Erhart charged us room and
board. The rest of the money she placed in a bank
account she called my “rainy day” nest egg. I call it
…..robbery.
When I protested, wanting to put the money
into a college fund, she sniffed and said that would be a
waste. What did I need with college when I could finish
high school with a secretarial degree, find a good job and
maybe get married? She said it so eloquently, “Even if
you do look like the scarecrow from the
Wizard of Oz,
Ellen, I’m sure some man will want you. Saving your
money will help make you more desirable. Heaven
knows, it won’t be your looks.” That statement had me
staring at the mirror for a half hour, examining every
angle of my face.
Scarecrow?
I’m not that tall. I always
thought I resembled Glenda, the good witch. As a little
girl I’d dress up in my princess outfit and tiara, and
spread good will with a wave of my wand. I know who
Helen resembles…….and it ain’t no fairy godmother.

What Helen
doesn’t know is…..I’ve combined her
secretarial courses with college entrance courses at
school. I have my father sign my report cards because he
never looks at them. Vic and I plan to find schools near
each other, use our saved money and take out loans for
the rest. This summer taught me I can survive…and
thrive away from my family. I’m stronger than I thought.
She forgot the scarecrow had….brains.

I set up a P.O. box at the post office where Vic could
send letters and avoid the spying eyes of Helen. Twice a
week I stop on my way home from school and pour over
his letters about life in Mexico. A large manila envelope
arrived a few days ago, inside was a letter and several
photographs from the summer. He didn’t send the ones
from our last day in the field of black-eyed Susans. Thank
God, all I need is for someone to see me butt naked in a
field of daisies. There are no words to explain what you
were doing naked in a field with a teenage guy carrying a
telephoto lens. Thankfully, he only included group shots
and photos of us jumping from the cliff. I don’t think
Helen cares if I try to kill myself.

In October I write telling him I may have mono, the
kissing disease. What a joke, no kissing going on for me
this fall. Everyone at school has it, I’m sure that’s why
I’m so tired. I just wore myself out between school,
sports and helping around the house. I’ve never been so
tired in my life, luckily my volleyball season is over and
Helen declared the house clean. I would yell,
yippee
……if
I weren’t so tired.

At the end of the month, at dinner one evening,
Helen casually mentions my brother Rory has a hockey
tournament in Pennsylvania the weekend of November
15th. An idea bursts in my head like a Fourth of July
fireworks display. Vic’s school is on holiday that week,
something about the patron saint’s feast day. He was
hoping to come back to New York to visit his mother.
The timing is perfect. No one knows about Vic, not my
friends at school, certainly not my father or Helen, not
even Gran. I can’t bring him to Helen’s house and the
thought of meeting him in a hotel is gross...it’s time to tell
Gran.

Convincing Gran to let Vic stay for the weekend
while my family travels to the hockey tournament
was……a piece of cake. Barely able to contain her
curiosity, she readily agreed to the visit. And in her no
nonsense, blunt vernacular she said, “You tell lover boy
to get his ass up here so your grandmother can meet
him.” She has such a way with words, it just warms my
heart.

So on a cold November day, the rain drumming
against the pulsing windshield wipers, we drive to the bus
station. Graciously, Gran waits in the car while I go meet
Vic. The large white clock on the wall shows I’m fifteen
minutes early. I pace back and forth by the arrival dock
for the bus, my stomach a twisted coil of nerves, hands
thrust in the pockets of my jeans, staring anxiously at the
arrival ramp. Imagining our reunion, I see myself running
to him in slow motion like in the movies, flinging my
arms around him, embracing him with a mad passionate
kiss. That was my image until I see him get off the
bus…….he stops half way down the steps, scanning the
waiting crowd for me. Our eyes meet, his dark eyes glitter
hungrily. I blush and he still stares. A crooked smile plays
across his face.
Holy cow.
He’s grown taller, he’s now
maybe, six two, six three. Skin tanned, carrying a hint of
bronze left over from the summer. His hair so long it
skims the collar of his black leather jacket, unzipped
showing the denim work shirt layered over a white Tshirt. His worn jeans slung low on his hips are cuffed
over scuffed hiking boots. He looks….
fantastic!
Kind of
that “dirty” boy look with the wrinkled worn clothing,
shaggy hair, day old growth of beard, a look that is so, so
sexy. I can’t move. I’m paralyzed with the thought…this
is him……he is gorgeous….and he is coming home with
me
! He smiles, waving as he trots across the station
zigzagging around people toward me. I just stand there,
rooted to the spot with a silly grin plastered to my face.
Dropping his backpack at my feet, he’s so close, but he
doesn’t touch me. His proximity is overwhelming,
exhilarating. The familiar pull is there, all my instincts
goading me toward him, staring at the patch of skin
showing in the V of his shirt, I bite my lip, helpless,
driven by desire. I want to taste him there.
Damn him.

He sweeps me up in a huge hug. I reach up, diving
my fingers in the unruly waves of dark hair at the base of
his neck, pull his head down to meet my lips, blushing at
the brazen intensity of my kiss. The sight of two
teenagers kissing draws stares of amusement and some of
outrage. I don’t care who sees us kissing and less of their
opinion……until I hear behind me, “Et, hm, I was
wondering if there was a problem.” Turning in Vic’s
arms, my stomach drops, it’s my grandmother, looking
both amused and outraged at the same time, if that is
possible.
Oh, I am so screwed….

Before I
’m able to gather my wits, Vic extends his
hand to Gran with courtly grace and Old World charm
saying, “Hello, Mrs. McCauley, I’m Vicente Rienz. Thank
you for your hospitality and allowing me to stay with you
for the weekend. I am honored to be invited.” His accent
seems even more pronounced than usual. “Call me Vic.”

I look at him in alarm, who is this Spanish grandee
straight off the hacienda trying to charm my
grandmother. And charm her he does, I watch in
amazement as my sixty-eight year old grandmother melts
beneath his gaze.

“Hello, Vic
. I’m Ellen’s grandmother, Gertrude, but
everyone calls me Trudy, you should too.” Gran accepts
his outstretched hand, sizing him up for character
content and flaw. Their eyes meet over the handshake,
acceptance and approval sealed with a nod.

Gran’s house is a small red cabin at the base of
a
steep hill. In the summer, the surrounding gardens are
glorious with flowers. Now, the small porch sadly
overlooks the remains of her flowerbed, only lifeless
stalks of seedheads encased in frost hold promise of
spring and life again. The entrance to the house is
crammed with pots of geraniums to “winter over” on
window ledges. Gran directs Vic to leave his duffle bag in
the living room where a fieldstone fireplace dominates
the room under a ceiling of exposed beams. The room is
rich in color, wood paneling mellowed over the years to a
reddish cherry hue. Plaid fabric on the couch and chairs
harmonizes with pillows and rugs covered in matching
earth tones make for a cozy retreat from the weather.

Outside the security of the snug cabin, gusty winds
out of the west rattle the windows and rain beats on the
roof with the promise of snow by morning. The fire in
the grate glows red, popping and spitting bits of gold
embers against the hearth.

While we set the table for dinner, Gran sent Vic
outside to collect wood from a shed near the old
outhouse, stocking the woodbin for the evening. We
celebrated Vic’s seventeenth birthday with lasagna, tossed
salad, and his favorite dessert……chocolate cake.

Eating in front of the fireplace on the floor, Vic tells
Gran about his life, how his family moves back and forth
between Mexico and New York City. From his duffle bag
he brings out photographs of his family and country
along with the ones taken over the summer.

“These are really good,”
Gran says holding the
pictures up to the light, stopping when she sees one of
me. I’m sitting in a canoe, legs dangling over the edge, a
smile peeking out from under a straw hat. The colors and
composition of the photograph are nearly perfect almost
professional quality. “Do you have any more?” she asks.

Before Vic can answer, I try changing the subject and
suggest, “How about playing some cards?” I’m nervous
some of those “naked daisy day” pictures might be
lurking in his pack. The last thing my grandmother needs
to see is my naked butt in a field of daisies. Jumping to
my feet I say, “I’ll get the deck.” Knowing fully well Gran
can’t resist a game of cards. “You decide what we should
play.”

Vic and Gran’s
eyes light up and in unison they yell,
“Poker!” I groan. I’m a terrible poker player. I couldn’t
bluff my way out of a convent full of nuns. For the next
few hours, Vic and Gran are in their element, dealing
cards, checking their hands, betting, folding, and
scrutinizing each other under hooded eyes, expressionless
faces, impossible to know who’s bluffing who. If my
Grandmother lost a hand, she smacked her cards down
with a resounding
slam
and called him a “horse’s ass.” By
the end of the night he has his baseball cap on backward,
saying to her, “What’s the matter, Granny, ‘fraid to put
your money where your mouth is?” He finishes the insult
by reaching over to steal one of her cigarettes, leaning
back in his chair to blow smoke rings in the air above her
head.

“You,
little shit, take that,” she’d counter, laying
down a winning hand. Banging the table with her fist, she
swept in his dwindling pile of peanuts, the accepted
currency of the night and cackle like an old satisfied hen
on a brood of eggs. At midnight a truce was called, Gran
having the slightly larger pile of peanuts. I vow never to
suggest cards again. Gran asks where he learned to play
so well; Vic admitted the cowboys on the ranch in
Mexico taught him…….and what else did the cowboys
on the ranch teach him? Combat guerilla warfare, drug
smuggling, possibly cattle rustling, counterfeiting……

After Gran goes to bed, Vic and I curl up in each
other’s arms, a movie playing in the background, but
we’re oblivious to the television screen. The hours pass
by, hugging, talking and kissing. At two o’clock in the
morning Gran calls down from her bedroom, “Hey, you
two, how about getting some sleep. Ellen, you go upstairs
to your room. And lover boy, you had better not leave
that couch or your ass will be out in the cold, hitch-hiking
your way home……...no one tells it like my Gran.

A light snow fell overnight, blanketing the grass with
a carpet of white. The temperatures hover in the thirties.
The day is spent hiking and exploring the creeks and
ravines that traverse the steep slopes behind Gran’s
cabin. Not impressed with the tracking skills I learned
from Burt, Vic cringes as I proudly identify fox scat next
to set of paw prints.

“Dog shit, that’s all that is, Elle, you’re not turnin
g
me on with that information.” He wrinkles his nose, a
look of disdain on his face, stepping back as if the
offending scat were something alive.