All American Boy (28 page)

“Oh, no. I couldn't.”

“Why not?”

“What if I lost it?”

“Regina, you're very responsible.”

“No. I couldn't take that chance.”

Ruth's eyebrows fuzz together. “All right. But don't blame me if the heavens open and you end up looking like a sick alley cat.”

Outside, a heavy gray rain shadow looms over Main Street. Regina says good-bye to Ruth and sits on a bench waiting for the bus, breathing in the cool, damp air. Passersby walk quickly, glancing up at the gathering clouds.

Regina studies her hands. She's bitten the nail of her right index finger down to the quick. It helped in typing, but it hurts her now.

The bus pulls up and throws open its doors to her. Regina steps inside, depositing her coins and sitting up front. Her feet hurt. She'll soak them tonight. That'll be nice.

At least she'll make it back in time for dinner. Often she missed the meal Mrs. Unwin, her landlady, served, and she'd have to eat it cold in the kitchen. “I serve a hot meal in the dining room promptly at 5:30,” Mrs. Unwin had told her on the day she moved in. “I can't keep cooking all night. If you're going to be late, you might want to eat out. Or else have the meal cold in the kitchen.”

Regina can't wait to get to her room. It's small, but she's glad it's small. It's nicer that way. It reminded her of her room at the spa, which she had come to love. She'd covered the walls with photos clipped out of magazines: sailboats and flowers, kittens and angels, movie stars and goldfish. All the other people at the spa knew she collected pretty pictures, and sometimes they'd give her ones they found. Even Howard Greer gave her a picture once: Grace Kelly in a white dress and pearls. Regina pasted that one directly over her bed.

Of course, at Mrs. Unwin's house, she couldn't paste anything on the walls, but she liked her room just the same. She had a firm mattress on her twin bed, a chair, a table, and a two-drawer bureau. It was in the rear of the house, where she had a view of the backyards of the houses on the other side of the block.

At night sometimes she'd sit and watch from her window as an old black man played his flute on the porch of a second-floor apartment. His music was always so soothing to Regina. He played for hours at a time, rarely stopping for breath, his eyes always closed. The sound of the flute lilted gently across the quiet neighborhood. It seemed to touch everything, to give life even to inanimate objects, like a clothesline pole or a rusted old wheelbarrow. Against the night sky the trees danced, waving their arms against the face of the moon. The curtains at her window swayed gently in time with the old man's music. Regina sat there transfixed, blissful, at peace. And then the old man would stop, tired, letting out a long breath and running his hand over the white bristles on his head. Regina would be drifting off to sleep, her forehead pressed against the windowpane.

But some nights he didn't play. Sometimes Regina waited for him by her window for hours, staring at the stillness of his back porch. Sometimes she fell asleep waiting for him, and she'd wake up in the middle of the night, her neck hurting as she slept against the wall.

The bus screeches and jolts her. Regina stands, taking her transfer and hurrying off at Buckeye Street, where she waits for the bus to Dogtown. She could walk home from here, she knows, but it looks like rain.

She sits down on the bench. She's alone. Regina closes her eyes and pushes her hands deep down into her pockets. It's getting cold.

Then she hears a fluttering beside her. She opens her eyes, just a bit, and realizes she's
not
alone. A woman sits next to her on the bench, reading a newspaper. Where did she come from? Regina could have sworn there was no one on the bench when she sat down. How long has she been there? Regina can't see the woman's face hidden behind the newspaper. But her nails are neon pink.

Regina quickly glances up at the sky. The rainclouds are heavier now, and the air is thick and damp. It's dark, darker than usual for just a little after five.

She jumps a little at the sound of newspaper rustling. The woman's eyes meet hers over the paper. Regina nods, and she thinks the woman smiles, although she can't see her mouth. Just her eyes.

She remembers Rocky's eyes, how you could tell she was smiling even if you couldn't see her lips.

“She was driving,” Aunt Selma told Regina. “She must have skidded in the rain. That's all they can figure. But she was killed instantly, they say. She and Chase both.”

“Excuse me, but are you going into Dogtown?”

“Yes,” Regina says, her eyes still caught by the woman beside her. “I am.”

“I was worried I'd missed the bus.”

“Yes, I was wondering too.”

The woman shivers. “Well, another comes in a half hour, but it looks like rain.”

“Yes, it does.”

The woman looks back down at her paper. Out of the corner of her eye, Regina studies her. She likes the woman's clothes. She wears a brown dress suit, the jacket with broad, padded shoulders. Her shoes have high heels and an ankle strap. She has red hair, hinting at blond, done up in a sweep in front and long in back. A strand of hair has fallen in front of her eyes, and she absently pushes it away. Regina follows the woman's pink nails as they cross her face and come to rest in her lap.
She's no typist
, Regina thinks.

A soft mist kisses her cheek. Regina looks up quickly, but the rain is teasing her. The woman does not move.

She smells like Rocky, too. Her perfume is the same. Lilacs.

“She was drunk behind the wheel,” Uncle Axel snarled, seeming to delight in giving her the gory details of her sister's death. “She was drunk when she wrapped her car around that tree.”

“She was not!”

“Oh, yes, she was. She was wild. I always knew that girl would come to no good.”

“You're wrong! Rocky wasn't wild. She was—”

“And he was going to leave her, that college boy. That's why she was drunk. They were fighting. She knew his rich daddy didn't want him hanging out with some floozy who—”

Regina covers her ears, as if that will block out the memory. It was the slick roads. That's why Rocky's car went down the embankment. That's why—

She realizes the woman next to her is staring at her. Regina smiles awkwardly, dropping her hands from her ears.

The woman folds her newspaper in her lap. “Do you live in Dogtown?” she asks.

“Yes, I do.”

“Funny name for a neighborhood, isn't it? But that's what everyone calls it.”

“Yes, everyone does.”

“I just moved up from the city. I'm staying with a friend until I can find a place. How long have you lived in Dogtown?”

“Oh, just a little while.”

“Where are you from?”

Regina hesitates. “Well, I was born here. Brown's Mill. But I—I only just moved to Dogtown.”

The woman lights up a cigarette. Regina watches her every move: striking the match, inhaling the smoke, letting it out through her nose.

“I'm originally from the city. Lived there all my life. I moved here to start over.” The woman sighs, crossing her legs. “Everyone starts over at least once in their lives, don't you agree?”

“I suppose so.”

“It's not a bad place, except when the swamps get a little rank.”

“I lived in the city for a while,” Regina tells her.

“Oh, really? When was this?”

“During the war.”

“What did you do there?”

“I was a singer. I—well, my sister and I—we sang at a nightclub.”

“That's swell,” the woman says, exhaling smoke. “But you came back to Brown's Mill?”

Regina looks up at the sky. “It does look as if it's going to rain.”

“I'm Theresa Santacroce,” her companion says, green eyes looking over at Regina from under long lashes. “Call me Terry.”

“I'm Regina Gunderson. My sister used to call me Gina, but nobody ever does anymore.”

“Well, I'll call you Gina. How about that?”

Regina laughs as she shakes the other woman's hand. Terry's face is tanned, an Indian summer tan, and Regina pictures her walking through the city, taxicabs honking, people scurrying by, her eyes closed and her face lifted to the sun.

“I like your shoes,” Regina ventures.

“Do you? Oh, thanks. I was in the city last week and got them. Do you ever go into the city anymore?”

“No.”

“Oh, we must go sometime. My friend doesn't like to go shopping, and she never leaves Brown's Mill. Can you
imagine
?”

“Oh, no!” Regina laughs. She hardly notices the light tickle of raindrops all at once on her face.

“Ooops, here comes the rain,” Terry says, and pops open her umbrella. It makes a little
poosh
. Regina shrugs helplessly.

“Here, share mine,” Terry offers, patting the spot next to her. Regina slides over on the bench, finding dry protection under Terry's umbrella.

“It was sunny this morning,” Regina says, smiling so hard her face feels funny.

“Such strange weather we've been having,” Terry says, and they both giggle.

“I think the heavens are going to open up,” Regina says. “What do you think?”

“I think they just might,” Terry agrees. There's a moment of silence between them, the warmth of their thighs pressing against each other. “So what do you do?”

“I work for the mayor.”

“Oh, that must be exciting.”

“Not really.” Regina shrugs. “I'm just a typist.”

Terry throws down her cigarette butt and stubs it out on the sidewalk with the toe of her high-heeled shoe. Still holding the umbrella with one hand, she shakes another cigarette from the package. “Smoke?” she asks Regina.

“Oh, no, thanks.”

Terry lights up, inhaling deeply and closing her eyes, then letting out her smoke slow and deliberately, savoring it.

“So,” she says.

“So!” Regina laughs ridiculously.

Terry smiles. “Do you like being a typist?”

“Well, it's all I know how to do.”

“Oh, come on. I don't believe that.”

“No, really. I didn't go to college or anything.” She can feel her outside leg getting wet, so she pulls in farther, closer to Terry.

“But you're a singer. You know how to sing.”

“Oh, yes, but—well—”

“You must have been good if you sang at a nightclub.”

Regina just looks at her. “Oh, well, I guess I …” Her words trail off. “What do
you
do for work?”

Terry takes another drag on her cigarette. “I knock on doors, honey.”

“You're a traveling saleswoman?”

Terry laughs. “I'm a searcher. That's what I am. I knock on doors and see what's behind them.”

“That's an unusual job,” Regina says.

“You think? It's all about believing in yourself, Regina. I knock and knock and knock. My philosophy is sooner or later someone's got to answer.”

Regina laughs. “I guess I'm just not that good at knocking on doors.”

“Give it a try sometime, Regina.”

A gust of wind sweeps rain under their umbrella and wets their legs. They both yelp, pulling even closer together.

“Well,” Terry exclaims, raising her voice, “I think you're right. The heavens have officially opened!”

Laughter again. Regina can feel the warmth of Terry's leg pressing against hers.

The rain pounds hard against the pavement now, splashing onto their feet, making a steady beat on top of their umbrella.

“Tell you what, sister,” Terry says, “if we make it through this alive, what say we stop off for a corned beef on rye at the Dogtown Deli?”

“That'd be swell,” Regina says. She's missed Mrs. Unwin's hot meal by now anyway. Going to the deli would be fun. She would tell Betty and Ruth all about it on Monday morning, just as they'd tell her stories about their weekends. She would tell them how she and Terry ate corned beef sandwiches and maybe a caramel sundae and how they talked all night, laughing and joking—

She feels Terry's hand softly on her knee. She looks down. Neon pink nails on Regina's white knee.

“Real nylons,” Terry's saying softly. “Remember how hard these were to get during the war?”

Regina feels her heart quicken. Terry's hand slides down, around to the top of Regina's calf.

“These feel like
silk
,” Terry says, and she turns her face toward Regina. “Are they?”

“No,” Regina answers quietly.

She hears the scream of the bus as it approaches, its brakes shrieking in the rain.

Terry's still looking at Regina, smiling. “Ahh,” she purrs. “Salvation has arrived.”

Regina stands up abruptly, knocking the umbrella. Terry's hand falls from her leg, thrown to the bench. The rain dances on Regina's head.

“I just remembered,” Regina blurts. “I've got to go back to Town Hall. I've got to wait for
that
bus instead.”

“Back? But why?”

“Because I forgot something. The mayor—I was supposed to—”

“Supposed to what?”

Regina can't speak.

Terry starts to smile, her lips curling to say something, but then she stops, as if she'd changed her mind.

Regina stares down at her wet shoes. The rain pounds at her. The bus splatters through the puddles, coming to a stop in front of them. Its doors are flung open with a squeal of metal, inviting them into the dry comfort within.

Terry looks at her with silent eyes. “Are you coming, Gina?”

“No,” Regina says, her lacquered hair slowly beginning to melt around her face. “I told you. I have to go back.”

Terry nods slowly. Then she turns, almost as if in slow motion, like they do in the movies sometimes, and she leaps like a ballet dancer across the deep dark puddle that separates the bench from the bus.