Seventeenth Summer (29 page)

I looked at Jack but said nothing for I didn’t want to go in, either—women like that frighten me. Around us people who had heard the girl call to Jack stood waiting, staring curiously to see what he would do.

His face was dark and angry and he muttered to Fitz, “Shut up and get out of here.” Fitz looked at him open-mouthed and then followed us through the crowd.

“Gee, Jack,” he said in a puzzled voice when he caught up to him, “I didn’t want to get you mad. I didn’t think—”

“Let’s just forget it,” Jack answered abruptly.

“But, gee, Jack, all I said was—”

“Skip it, Fitz, will you?” and Jack turned and walked the other way.

After that the evening was spoiled. Fitz kept trying to explain that he really hadn’t meant anything and Jack kept saying that was all right he wasn’t angry; and yet all the time he was scowling and walking along stiffly with his hands in his pockets, hardly looking even at me. Just to break the tension, I suggested we go up in the Ferris wheel. In the seat above us, Fitz kept rocking till Margie squealed in fright but Jack just sat beside me, looking down and saying nothing. Beneath us the people were only round, dark heads and the lights were strung in bright necklaces around the booths and tents. We
could look out past the fairgrounds to the highway where the car headlights were creeping in a bright line and the whole scene below us looked like a needlework picture in black and yellow.

Back on the ground we walked past a fun house with ugly pasteboard faces stuck on the front of it. Inside, the people’s shrieks and laughs were muffled by the walls.

We passed hot-dog stands, and popcorn stands that smelled deliciously of hot butter, and a lemonade booth with lukewarm lemonade in a huge glass barrel, floating with lemon rings; and we stood watching the merry-go-round with bright, dappled horses, shrilling out its loud, up-and-down music. But the fair wasn’t fun anymore. Jack wasn’t enjoying it and he showed it. His hands were still jammed in his pockets and he hardly heard me when I spoke to him.

The crowds, jostling and pushing, were suddenly annoying, while earlier in the evening they had all been part of the fun of the fair. Sometimes large families brushed past, all the children holding hands and gaping, trailing along in a line, their faces solemn with awe. Jack tripped over a taut rope from one of the tents and swore under his breath. I had never heard him swear before.

We were swept with the crowd before a large, open-faced tent where the barker was yelling, “Three balls for a dime, ladies and gentlemen. Three balls for a dime, ten for a quarter. Step right up and try your luck!”

At the back of the tent white wooden milk bottles were pyramided on a box and along the sides of tent were shelves lined with canes, dolls, and fancy candy boxes for prizes. A fat man was throwing balls when we came, puffing as he threw, and his wife stood beside him, holding his coat and laughing till she shook. She was as fat as he was with cheeks like pink marshmallows.

“Fitz, win me something,” Margie cried, in her petulant going-steady voice. “You used to play baseball a lot.”

“All right, honey. You pick out what you want. Give me three balls,” he said to the man. Margie and Jack and I stepped back to give him room.

With the first three balls he tried too hard and his aim was bad. He tipped over one bottle and the other two balls bounced off the canvas back of the tent. “Give me three more,” he said, trying to be casual, “I didn’t know those balls were so light. But I think I’ve got the hang now.” He took three more and wound up carefully before he threw them. It looked so easy, watching, but this time none of the balls even hit the box. His neck was dull red.

“Gimme ten,” he said, sullenly, fishing in his pocket for a quarter.

We all stood waiting while he rolled the ball around in the palm of his hand, winding up slowly, and threw. This time he knocked two of the end bottles down and his face relaxed and with four more balls he knocked down the other six bottles. He was grinning now and Margie was smiling in a sort of relief. “What do I get?” he asked the man.

“Eight bottles with five balls will entitle you to a genuine gold-headed cane,” the barker answered pompously, taking a little wooden cane off the shelf and handing it to Margie. It was enameled red with a gilt top tied with a piece of braid and she stuck it under her arm like a drum major, beaming at Fitz.

“What are you going to do with the other five balls?” I asked him.

“Jack, why don’t you try throwing,” he offered generously. “Get a cane for Angie, too.”

“No, thanks,” he said. “Not in the mood.”

“Go ahead, Jack,” Margie urged. “If Fitz can do it you can….”

He took the balls from the man and eyed the milk bottles carefully. His fingers were supple on the ball and he weighed it casually in the palm of his hand before he threw. His aim was sure and easy and three end bottles toppled and with the next ball the center bottle supporting the rear and the last four bottles rolled off the box.

“Well, good for you,” Margie said, tonelessly. And Fitz slapped him on the back.

Even the barker looked surprised. “You just shouldn’t throw so hard,” Jack explained to Fitz. “Those balls are light and so are the bottles.”

“I guess you win,” the man said and took a doll from the top shelf. Jack handed it to me. It was a kewpie doll with feathers glued on behind so they stuck out around its head like a peacock’s tail.

“Maybe Kitty would like it,” he said, and, “Thanks for the
balls,” to Fitz. Margie was annoyed now and trying to smile through a pout. She was annoyed because Jack bad thrown the balls better than Fitz and because he had won a doll for me with Fitz’s balls, and her lower lip stuck out like a sulky baby’s.

We turned away from the tent and Fitz went to take her hand but she pulled it away in irritation. “I can walk by myself,” she said.

Everyone was so cross by now that I suggested we go home, but Fitz burst out, “We haven’t had anything to eat yet! What’s the matter with you, Angie? You don’t want to eat or go into sideshows or anything.”

“Leave her alone,” Jack said. “You’re in a worse mood than I am, Fitz,” and they looked at each other crossly. Suddenly Fitz reached over and gave him a playful punch in the ribs and Jack poked him back and they laughed sheepishly.

“If you two boys don’t mind, I wish you would excuse us for a few minutes,” Margie said primly. “We’ll meet you somewhere, in a little while.”

“Sure,” Jack assented. “And we’ll meet you … where, Fitz?”

“Make it in front of that hot-dog stand by the main gate,” he answered. “Don’t get your faces too painted up,” he added teasingly, trying to catch Margie’s eye, but she wouldn’t look at him.

“Come on, Angie,” she said crossly.

I turned back as we went and saw the fellows walking toward the shooting range where little mechanical ducks floated by on a revolving belt as targets, and I wanted secretly
to go back to watch to see if Jack was better at rifle shooting too. Margie turned toward the Fine Arts Building where the 4H exhibits were on display. “I didn’t really want anything,” she explained. “Just wanted to get away for a few minutes.” Her mouth was still twisted into a discontented pout and she tossed the gilt-topped cane away under one of the booths. “Too much bother to carry,” she said.

We looked with mild interest at the sewing exhibits lined on the walls, pinned with yellow and blue prize ribbons. There were gingham aprons with carefully ironed frills, fancy square-legged pajamas, and gingham dresses with stiff puffed sleeves and sashes of the same material. Margie sniffed in derision. She reached over the railing to look at the ruching around the neck of one of the dresses and a woman with a large, toothy smile came over, saying with elaborate politeness, “Mustn’t touch, girls!”

“Who wants to touch her old stuff?” Margie said under her breath, as we walked away. “Let’s get out of here.”

We went into the Produce Building next door that was bright with the colors of curved yellow squash, scrubbed brown potatoes, and shiny jars of honey arranged on display. There were shelves lined with boxes of red and green apples arranged in designs and little early pumpkins with skins like orange wax, and the whole room had a sweet, clean smell like summer clover. But neither of us looked at the displays for Margie was thinking about something—I could tell by her restlessness—and she walked along listlessly, her thoughts far away. I had
learned to know her so well during the summer that I knew something was wrong. And I knew if I waited patiently she would tell me when she was ready.

And just as I thought, she turned to me in a few moments. “Angie,” she said, “I’ve been thinking about you all day. Fitz was telling me last night about Jack’s going to Oklahoma and everything. I knew that you were going away to school, but doesn’t this make things different?”

“It makes some difference, Margie, but what can we do? I have to go to school—in fact, I want to very much—and Jack naturally has to go where his family goes, so what
can
we do? I don’t know just what you mean at all.”

Her voice was irritated. “It’s just like I said early this summer—you don’t think like other girls and it makes me mad ‘cause I can’t figure you out. You never seem to ‘worry’ about Jack and try to do anything about it…. It seems to me that if you liked him like he likes you, you’d worry more about his going away.”

I couldn’t help laughing at her for she was so cross that her face was screwed up like a Pekingese. “Margie,” I said, “why don’t you worry about yourself? There’s nothing Jack and I can do. How about you and Fitz—you’ve been going together a long time and this is the first fall that you haven’t gone back to school….”

“I’ll work somewhere,” she answered, feeling suddenly important again and fluffing out her hair with her finger tips. “My
dad knows some man in town who’s going to get me a job in one of the department stores … I’d tell you about it, but I don’t know myself for sure.”

“And how about Fitz?”

“He’ll work too, I suppose,” but her tone was disinterested, as if her thoughts were already on something else. “Maybe he’ll just stay on at the fruit store where he is as regular help. I don’t know.”

There was a short silence before I ventured casually, “What’s wrong, Margie?”

She turned on me suddenly, her eyes screwed up. “Honestly, Angie, I’m so mad tonight I could just cry! I should think you’d be able to see it—anyone could see it with any sense! I’ve been getting just a little tired of a lot of things lately and I think I’m just about through.”

“I didn’t notice anything,” I fibbed politely. “Fitz always seemed to be such a nice boy to me.”

She looked at me closely. “I suppose he is nice enough but do you think he has anything else. I mean—personality or ability? Sometimes he seems so dumb—like tonight, not even being able to throw baseballs—that I just hate him. Sometimes I wonder if I haven’t spoiled my chances by going steady … I don’t even think he’s as nice looking as I used to …” She was watching me carefully, to catch any reaction. “What do you think, Angie?”

“The four of us have had so much fun together I thought you liked him real well,” I told her, verbally sliding out from under.

“I haven’t liked him since one night this July when we went for a walk and we stopped for a while to sit on the swings at a grade school playground. After a while we went on the little merry-go-round and he got so dizzy he had to get off. I don’t know why,” she said, “but every time I think of him getting dizzy I get so disgusted I can’t stand to look at him.”

The thought was topmost on my mind, “Why do you go with him then?” but before I could say a word she added, “But a girl has to go out with somebody!”

They had gone steady since the middle of their senior year and she had worn his class ring since March. And they had been out together every night all summer. To realize that the whole thing was a farce was depressing and I didn’t know whether to be annoyed with Margie or sorry for her.

“Oh, well,” she shrugged, “let’s go back and find the fellows anyway,” and her voice was brighter now. She is probably relieved now that she has told someone, I thought. She just wanted to get it off her mind.

“Of course,” she added, in her old matter-of-fact tone. “You wouldn’t mention what I told you to anyone, would you, Angie? I’m not ready to break up yet.”

Jack and Fitz were waiting for us and we all sat down on the plain benches at the hot-dog stand and ordered wieners stuck in crisp buttered rolls, oozing with yellow mustard and tomato sauce. Margie ate three and seemed to feel better afterward. She and Fitz smoked a cigarette before we left and I noticed he was
holding her hand under the counter. I thought then that everything was as it had been.

They had walked to the fair so we were all driving home in Jack’s car. It was parked far over in the grass lot and when we had walked to it, Margie said unexpectedly, “Fitz, why don’t you drive instead of Jack?”

“Instead of Jack!” he asked in surprise. “But why—Jack’s a good driver!”

“Sure,” said Jack. “Don’t you trust me, Margie? I’ve never run you up a post yet!”

“I know it,” she answered calmly. “But I want Fitz to drive this time,” and she opened the door herself to get into the front seat. Fitz looked hurt but said nothing.

Jack just looked at me, shrugged his shoulders, and he and I got into the back seat. Fitz backed out carefully, then went forward so suddenly the gears shrieked. He was angry now but Margie didn’t seem to care. “I’d like to go home first,” she said quietly.

He drove into town and went straight down Main Street turning left and then on toward Margie’s street. His face was stiff and sullen. He pulled up at the curb without a word and went round the front of the car to open her door. She turned, said good night to us, and then they both walked up the front sidewalk without saying anything.

“Hey, what goes on there?” Jack asked me, his voice puzzled. We sat waiting. The porch was screened in and thick with
Virginia creeper vines, and the low hum of voices floated out to us. And then the hum died out. We waited a long time and finally Fitz slammed the screen door and bounded down the steps and into the car.