Learning to Live Again Read online

  “Let’s go see.”

  They discovered The Paddock was no longer in business and finally settled for a Pizza parlor on Main Street, just a half block from the movie theatre.

  “There used to be a great pizza place on the other side of the river, on the way to Claremont,” Sam mused over the menu. “The people were Greek. Wonder if that place is still there.”

  “I don’t recall seeing it, but then I don’t go to Claremont often. I drive that old clunker of mine as little as possible. Greek? Is the pizza different?”

  “Yeah. You have to ask for sauce if you want it. But the crust is out of this world, and the cheese is some special import. The owner didn’t speak English. The wife interpreted as best she could. Sometimes you didn’t get exactly what you ordered, but what you got was good anyway.”

  They ordered a large with everything but anchovies and waited. The waitress brought them each a draft. Silence hung like a heavy shroud, making the room uncomfortably airless.

  While Margie pretended interest in a family sitting in the booth across from them, Sam’s eyes rested on her face, on the gentle countenance that seemed to emanate from within. He couldn’t help but compare the difference in emotions evoked by what had suddenly become the two women in his life. And when exactly had that occurred, he wondered. When he watched her dance? Or when he caught her peeking over the soda machine?

  Karen. Envisioning her was tantamount to calling upon what he thought of as his basic male instincts. Lust, possessiveness, pride, vanity, and competitiveness came to mind. Where was love in this picture? Had he ever really been in love with Karen? Would he know love if it bit him?

  Was he falling in love with the woman sitting across the table? He felt a compulsion to protect her, but from what he wasn’t sure. And to be the cause of her smile. He wished to make her laugh and watch the dimple appear in her left cheek.

  “So, what do you do in North Carolina?” Margie’s voice broke into his reverie.

  “I’m a design engineer. Electronics. Before I was forced on this extended vacation, we were developing a new type communication device. It will radically change the scope of telephone communications.”

  “Sounds terribly important.” Margie took a sip from her mug.

  “Yeah, well, Motorola’s working on a prototype that sounds very similar. My company put the project and my promotion on hold until after the first of the year. Budgets, politics, and horse manure. Today you’re a hot shot, tomorrow you’re dispensable baggage.” Sam raised his mug and flashed her a grin. “Welcome to corporate America.”

  “You used to work for Vermont Research, someone said.” She cleared her throat, rolled the corner of the napkin under her mug with her fingertips. “I guess the job in North Carolina was a lot more money, or a career move?” She rolled her eyes and grimaced. “I’m trying to ask why you left Vermont, but it’s really none of my business. You don’t have to answer.”

  “Karen, my ex, was offered a job at Arthur Anderson in Charlotte. They’re what was known as one of the ‘big six’ CPA firms in the country before the Enron scandal. Anyway, their Charlotte branch offered her a position in their auditing department. It meant everything to her career to have a track record with one of the big firms. As for my career, I actually took a cut in position, but a raise in pay. I was head of my department at VRC, I’m still trying to head a project at Digitronics.

  “Wow. Now, I’ve heard of Arthur Anderson. He ran for Congress two years ago, didn’t he?”

  “That was Andrew Anderson, and not the same deal at all.” Sam laughed. “I can see you’re going to be a hard one to impress.”

  Margie’s face grew red, setting her cheeks on fire. “I know what a CPA firm is. I do file a tax return every year.”

  “I hope you don’t hire Arthur Anderson to do it.” Sam reached over and touched her hand. It was soft as a baby’s and he wondered why it didn’t feel rough from kitchen work. He turned it over palm up and stroked the flesh with his thumb. “How come your hand is so soft? Like the belly of a puppy.”

  His touch couldn’t have felt more intimate had it been on her breast. Prickles ran down the length of her, and her throat strangled a gasp. She shook her hand free and, not knowing what else to do with it, put it in her lap. The pizza arrived then, putting a curtain over the frenzy of emotions Margie struggled to hide.

  “This is really good pizza,” she said, not tasting the bite she was chewing.

  “Not too bad. Next time I run into Claremont, I’ll check on that Greek place.”

  The beer was making her light-headed or was it his eyes watching her?

  “I saw you dancing from my bedroom window.”

  She waited for him to say something more. When he didn’t, she looked up from the safe spot on her plate. She thought he would be grinning, or something, but his face was pensive.

  “What’s the score with you and your doctor friend?” Sam wiped his mouth with the paper napkin and sipped his beer. “You dating him, sleeping with him?”

  Margie’s mouth opened, but no words came out. She felt the heat in her cheeks. With great care, she laid her fork next to her plate and measured her response.

  “We had one date only. You see, he had this idea that since I worked in a diner and was this poor single mom, I’d be so thrilled with such an important man taking me out, I would be more than willing. The evening turned into a wrestling match and I told him I would never accept an invitation to go out with him again. He’s apologized to the point of embarrassment to the both of us, begged me to give him another chance, but I’m not interested.” She sighed as if the story had left her exhausted.

  Sam smiled with eyes a-twinkle. “I’m afraid you’ll have to coach me, ma’am. I’ve been fifteen years out to pasture and don’t know this decade’s rules of dating. If I step out of line just hit me over the head. I’ll catch on.” Sam dug his wallet out of his pants pocket. “You ready to go to the movies?”

  ******

  Sam parked the car and this time ran around to the passenger side to open the door for Margie, but she was already out and closing the door. He grabbed her hand in his big paw and started walking toward the theatre.

  “It’s okay, me holding your hand, isn’t it?”

  “You’re laughing at me,” she said smiling up at him.

  He gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “Heck no, I’m tickled to death you’re not sleeping with him.”

  ******

  “You’re bored, aren’t you?” Margie watched Sam stare at the screen. His arm rested on the back of her seat. He’d bought them sodas and his was wedged between his crossed legs. “I should have let you pick the movie. Lady and the Tramp isn’t exactly a man’s movie.”

  His arm moved to her shoulders and he gave her a hug. “I’m a sucker for Disney movies. Bambi’s my all time favorite, but Aladdin’s a close second.” He kissed her cheek. Just a peck. “Don’t you let that get around now.”

  ******

  “Oh, Sam, I loved it. Thanks so much for taking me,” Margie said as they wended their way from their seats and up the aisle.

  “My pleasure.”

  They recounted their favorite parts, giggling like kids on the drive home, Sam enjoying Margie’s every animated gesture. She had an innocence about her that captivated him, and almost made him ashamed of the man’s desire building in him until he reminded himself she has a son, for crying out loud, and that was no Immaculate Conception. And she danced for him. A wild, sensual dance.

  He parked outside her house, behind the ancient Chevy coupe in her driveway and turned in his seat. “That dance you performed for me was a real turn … I mean, certainly got my attention.” He pressed his hands together making a steeple. “Where do we go from here?”

  He couldn’t see her expression in the dark interior of the car despite the yard light apparently turned on by Peter, but he sensed her discomfort.

  “I’m sorry if you thought I was dancing for you …” Her voice quaked and she was gla
d he couldn’t see her blushing. How could he say such a thing, even it was the truth? “I dance like that quite often. To relieve stress. Also, it’s good aerobic exercise.” She looked at him again expecting to see a grin, but instead she saw him studying her from behind the fingers held to his lips.

  He moved his hands and gathered up hers, enfolding them with a tender gentleness. “I’m bewitched, my dear lady. Where do we go from here?”

  “Where do you want to go?”

  “We both know the answer to that. Where do you want to go?”

  Margie pulled her hands from his and placed them back in her lap. “To the moon,” she said, turning her face to the yard. Tears pooled in her eyes, making her feel foolish. “I want to meet my knight in shining armor, fall desperately in love, and be loved and cherished for the rest of my life.” She swiped angrily at her eyes. “I’m going in now. Good night, Sam.” He grabbed her hand on the door handle, preventing her from opening the door.

  He tugged at her chin, coaxing her face to turn and look at him. He brushed her wet cheeks and her mouth with his lips. “What happened to you?” he whispered. “Who hurt you? Peter’s father?”

  Her lips trembled as she shook her head from side to side. “You don’t want to know, Sam.” Tears were flowing now, a steady rain. “I’m a bad person. I don’t deserve my knight.”

  She pulled up her arms to hide her face behind, but he allowed her no barrier. He wrapped her arms around his chest, giving himself to absorb her misery. She cried into his sport coat. Always ready with a handkerchief, he wiped her face and told her to blow her nose.

  “Now, let’s hear it. Who did you murder?”

  She giggled in spite of herself and inhaled a deep quivering breath. “No one,” she managed to say.

  “Ah. Not murder. What then? Robbery?”

  “No. Sam, this is silly.” She thought a minute. “Actually, it was robbery. Yes, I’m a thief. I stole my mother’s boyfriend, Peter’s father. My stepfather.”

  Sam pressed his forehead against hers, his hands on her shoulders and looked deep into her eyes. “Something’s missing in this story, little one. How old were you? Fourteen, fifteen? And this stepfather, how old was he? Come on now, what’s the whole story? Never mind, let me see if I can guess.

  “He tried to ignore you, but you couldn’t keep your hands off him, right?”

  She smiled. “No. Mom was working, he wasn’t. It started with him tickling me one afternoon. He kissed me and told me he was in love with me. He said I was the reason he stuck around, not Mom. He’d been drinking and sometimes when he drank he got mean—broke things, you know. I was afraid of him.” She sighed, turned her head to stare unseeing out the window. “I’ve never told this to anyone before. I don’t know why, but I want you to know about me. The truth, I mean.”

  Sam leaned an elbow on the dash and waited for her to gather her thoughts.

  “They’d start arguing and throwing things, then pushing and slapping. Finally, he’d knock her down, kick her and leave, but he’d always come back, say he was sorry. She’d take him back.” She turned her face to Sam. “When I told them I was pregnant, my mother said it was all my fault. She said I was jealous of her. She called me names, told me to go to social services and get on welfare. She grabbed my arm and ran me out of the house. ‘Don’t you ever come back here,’ she screamed at me. I went to my Grandma’s where I lived until she died. Then I packed everything Peter and I owned into Grandma’s car and drove until the car broke down—here.”

  “Does Peter know?”

  “No. Grandma told him his daddy was a war hero. Peter believes his daddy died in Desert Storm.”

  Margie’s conscience wouldn’t let her off the hook. She had left out the crucial point of her story, the reason for the guilt she’d carried like a heavy backpack for fifteen years.

  “My mother was right, Sam,” she said with her hands hiding her face. “I was afraid of him, but I loved him too. He made me feel special. I believed he loved me. Those months I was pregnant with Peter I thought I would die of a broken heart, and shame. I called my mom several times, but she hung up as soon as she heard my voice.”

  Sam gathered Margie in his arms and held her tight against him. He didn’t know what he could say to relieve her pain, so he just sat there, lightly rocking and holding her. But self-righteous anger raised its ugly head inside him and he had to lash out or burst.

  “Damn it, Margie, don’t you know your mom was supposed to protect you? That was her job, her God given responsibility. She kicked the wrong person out. It wasn’t your fault, baby. You were just coming into womanhood and that … that scum took advantage of you. So help me, I’d like to tar and feather the two of them.”

  And then he kissed her, gently at first. She moaned softly which brought out the pent up passion he’d been holding inside. Anger within him for her and for him exploded in that kiss as if the act of it could erase the ugliness and the suffering. But the scent of her and the softness of her lips crushed under his, penetrated his psyche. He pulled his face away suddenly afraid he was hurting her.

  “I’m too rough,” he said in a voice hoarse with emotion.

  “Don’t stop.”

  “If I don’t, I’ll be on you like a hungry bear on honey and I don’t think this is the time or the place for it.”

  CHAPTER X

  Peter listened to Mr. Carlisle explain the algebraic equations on the board, but he didn’t hear. That’s not exactly the case. Peter heard. His brain wasn’t digesting. He was bored. Peter was a math whiz. He knew how to do the problems, blindfolded. He did not need this review for semester exams. Lisa Heathro sat in front of him in algebra. The sex symbol for the ninth grade junior high studs needed all the review she could get. In fact, she needed to cheat to pass the course, Peter told himself.

  Now, Lisa was the all-time jock of English composition, and Peter had offered to exchange his talents for hers, tutoring each other. He really didn’t imagine in his wildest dreams she’d take him up on his suggestion, but it gave him the chance to entertain himself by irritating her. “Oh, Peter, you must be joking. Seriously, think about it. Why would I consider you tutoring me when I have Joe Piccolo?” She shrugged her shoulders as if stupefied by her own question.

  This was news to Peter. Lisa Heathro and Joe Piccolo? He wondered if Joe would be as shocked as he at the news. He knew Lisa had a thing for Joe, but could it be? Did Joe Piccolo? Never happen! Peter had heard the rumors about a certain teacher, new and recently divorced, and old Joe. Lisa was just not—what was the word? Not mature enough.

  “Piccolo’s sixteen and on his second year as a sophmore,” Peter suggested as explanation.

  “Piccolo’s a jock. A hunk and a jock. What is Peter Merryhill? What is Peter Merryhill?” Her eyes said he was a nothing. Just a person that didn’t register on the list of real people.

  “Someone that can tutor you through a passing grade in algebra.” He almost said, “Piccolo couldn’t tutor a baby through the alphabet,” but gave the almost outburst some thought and bit his tongue. Honestly, who knew what Piccolo could do? “I could use some help in English, specifically grammar. More specifically a term paper due in four weeks. Anyway, it was just a thought, like maybe we could help one another. I wasn’t coming on to you or anything.”

  “Hmmm. I wonder. I mean, you stare at me until I have holes in my head.” She shook her mouse-blonde curls, apparently rethinking what she had just said. “Not holes. I mean like flirt? At least I think you’re flirting. If you’re not then, I don’t know what you’re doing. Why don’t you tell me what exactly it is you’re doing.”

  “What?” Peter’s face became a mask of incredulousness. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. And the definition of a ‘jock,’ if I’m not mistaken is an athlete. Piccolo does not qualify.”

  “Right. Forget it Merryhill. Just forget it. To tell you the truth, I wouldn’t get involved in any way with some guy with the name Merryhill. What kind of name is
that anyway?”

  “Actually, Merryhill is not my real name. It’s my mom’s name. She thought it would be easier for school records and such if we both had the same name. My real name is Gear. Peter Gear.” He said the name with the P.I. flourish it deserved. If the rise in Lisa’s eyebrows was any indication of the impact such a name conjured, he could answer the Shakespearean question: Would a rose smell any different by any other name? Well, something like that. Yeah! It would smell any way you wanted it to.

  “Gear? Gear! You’re related to the Gears? Is that why your old lady came to Green Mountain?” Lisa seemed to put this information into the terminal of her mind. She said, “Sam Gear is your father? No wonder his wife divorced him! No wonder Allison Gear bends over backwards to help your mother. NO WONDER.”

  Fear enveloped Peter like a blanket. A heated blanket. “Shhh!” He pressed a finger to his lips then waved his hand as if batting flies. “It’s a secret. Only you know. Please, Lisa, I only told you because I felt … Well, I thought you’d understand.” Understand what? Peter wasn’t sure. “Promise me you won’t tell anybody. I mean … . Please promise.” Peter couldn’t believe he’d verbalized his day dreams aloud. As if dreams came true with the telling. He should tell her he was joking, that his name was Merryhill, after all. But how could he? She’d know what a dweeb he was. What a wus. Well, who was to say it was his fault if a rumor got started. He didn’t say he was related to the Gears of Green Mountain, Vermont.

  Peter thought about the implications such a rumor could cause. And the more he thought about the student body at large thinking Sam Gear was his dad, the greater he felt the expansion in his chest. It was uncanny how he felt himself bloom from a skinny fourteen-year-old nobody, Merryhill, to a broad chested son of Gear, Sam Gear. Sam took on a new light. He wasn’t the nosy old guy who asked too many questions. He was a dad. A concerned citizen that insisted on the very best for his son—the best from the government, or the school his son attended, or his son’s employer, or—everything. Peter smiled all day. A smile that emanated from somewhere deep in his belly transformed his normally somber face to that of a more typical fourteen-year-old boy. The transformation was not lost on Peter’s teachers.