Authors: Rosemary Fifield
He
reached up and took her hand in his. “We’ll have lots of time,” he said. “Or,
at least I hope so.”
A
pang of fear shot through her at his words. He might be referring to the hope
that things would work out between them, but she suddenly remembered Vietnam
and his potential to be drafted.
He
caught the change in her immediately. “What’s wrong?”
Connie
shook her head. He didn’t need to know what was darkening her thoughts.
“Nothing. You’re absolutely right. We’ll have lots of time.” She reached out to
cover his hand with hers. “Let’s walk to my house. I know your car’s here, but walking
will give us a little more time together.”
Chapter
Thirteen
Monday,
October 21
“I’ll
drive,” Greg said. He was standing on the curb beside his Mustang, watching her
as she approached from the house. He held the door open, and she slipped
inside, lowering herself into the bucket seat, piling her books onto the long
denim skirt covering her lap.
“How
was your weekend?” he asked as the car pulled away from the curb.
“Good.
How was yours?”
“Okay.”
He drove silently for a while, and Connie spent her time looking out the side
window at the houses they passed. It was going to be a very long ride.
“I
only want to bring this up once” he said, “and then I promise not to anymore.”
Connie
kept her face to the window. She should have known better than to think he’d
leave it alone.
“I
overreacted, and I’m sorry,” he said. “I want to just forget about it, and I
want you to forget about it, too. I don’t care that your sister’s boyfriend is
black. And I understand why the Kake Walk would piss him off. I just want us to
go back to where we were. Can we do that?”
Connie
spoke slowly and carefully. “We need to go back to being friends who carpool,
and that’s all. I don’t want to lose you as a friend, but I think it’s a
mistake to go beyond that.”
“I
don’t.”
“Well,
I do. It makes things awkward, like now.”
“I’ll
do what you want, Connie, and I’d rather have this than nothing, but I don’t
understand why we can’t go back.”
Connie
kept her face turned from his. “Because I’m seeing someone else.”
Greg
was silent for a long moment before he said, “That was quick.”
“He’s
someone I’ve known for a very long time.”
“Then,
why now? Just a coincidence?”
Connie
closed her eyes, as if that could block out the pain in his voice. “He asked me
out the night you came over for dinner, and I said no. Then he asked me out
again this past weekend, and I went.”
“And
that means I can’t see you now?”
“You’ll
see me every day.”
“You
know what I mean.”
Connie
let out a long sigh, then turned toward the windshield, still avoiding his eyes.
“You said you’ll do what I want. What I want is to have some space. And if
that’s not going to work for you, I understand. I can drive myself.”
“I
don’t want you to drive yourself. And I won’t bring it up again.”
After
a few minutes of uncomfortable silence, Connie reached for the radio and turned
it on. They rode the rest of the way without speaking.
Over
the next two days, things between them improved. They talked about class work,
argued over presidential politics, agreed that George Wallace was not a viable
candidate, and discussed the outlandish marriage of Jackie Kennedy to some old,
rich Greek guy. Neither of them brought up the two American athletes who gave
the black power salute while standing on the winner’s podium at the Mexico City
Olympics. Civil rights and associated topics remained off-limits.
They
were talking about the army sending guys back to Vietnam for involuntary second
tours when Greg pulled up to the curb in front of Connie’s house on Wednesday
evening.
“Who’s
that?” he asked as Connie bent over to retrieve her purse from the floor.
She
looked up to see Paul approaching them from across the street where his car was
parked. He was scoping out the red Mustang, and a small smile lit his face as
he looked it over. Before she could reply, his gaze shifted upward to the windows,
settling first on Greg and then on her. His smile widened for a moment, then
toned back, as though his delight at seeing her had been tempered by the
realization that she was riding with another man. “That’s Paul.”
Greg
watched Paul walk around the hood of his car. “Is this the old friend?”
Instead
of answering, Connie opened the door and stepped out onto the sidewalk. She
grinned at Paul, and he grinned back at her as he approached. He stepped up and
gave her a kiss full on the mouth, his hands gripping her upper arms as he
looked into her eyes. “I like your wheels. Who’s the guy?”
Greg
remained seated in the car, watching them, and Connie bent to look through the
open door at him, grabbing Paul’s arm and drawing him down with her. “Greg,
this is Paul Cefalu. Paul, Greg Fairchild. We carpool.”
Paul
reached into the car to offer his hand, and Greg shook it. Greg’s face was
solemn and his eyes hard as he withdrew his hand, then looked at her. “See you
tomorrow,
carpool buddy
,” he said, his voice heavy with sarcasm. She
closed the car door, and he drove away.
“Is
that your friend from UVM, by any chance? The one you made spaghetti and
meatballs for last week?” The smile on Paul’s face had lost its warmth.
“Yeah.
It was a thank-you for driving me.”
“So,
your carpool only goes one way? He does all the driving?”
“No.
Sometimes I drive.”
Paul
took the books from her arms and held them under one of his as the two of them walked
side-by-side toward the stairs. “Then, does that mean he owes
you
a
dinner now as a thank-you for driving
him
?”
Connie
laughed in an effort to break the budding tension. “Not really. What do you
want to do this evening?”
Paul
gave her a suggestive smile and raised one eyebrow, and Connie laughed again. “How
about starting with dinner here?” They paused, face to face, beneath the
stairwell. “I asked my ma this morning, and she said that would be fine.”
Paul
put his free hand against her breastbone and gently backed her up against the
wall, then leaned forward and kissed her lips, his palm still resting on her
chest. “That sounds good,” he said, his eyes intent on hers. “And then what?”
“I’ll
leave that up to you.”
They
walked out from under the stairwell and started up the stairs.
“Where
does this guy live?” Paul asked from behind her as they climbed upward.
“I
don’t know. Somewhere on the west side.”
“Fairchild,
right? Is his old man a lawyer?”
“I
guess so.”
“I
might have worked at his house when I was doing landscaping with Frankie’s
brother Mike. If that’s the one, this guy is filthy rich.”
“Could
be. I really don’t know.” Connie paused at the top of the stairs and turned to
look back at him.
His
gaze was on her ass as he stood two steps below her. “I gotta say, I do love
these stairs.” He looked up to meet her eyes and gave her a mischievous grin.
Connie
shook her head in mock dismay, then smiled to herself as she opened the kitchen
door and led him into her house.
Her
sisters acted predictably giddy at having Paul Cefalu at their house for
dinner; even Gianna was on the verge of outright flirtatious. Paul talked
sports with Papa, both of them being Red Sox fans, and he pleased Mamma with
his hearty appetite for her venison stew. When he asked who bagged the deer,
Angie regaled him with stories of her hunting exploits in Swanton.
After
dinner, he wiped dishes while Connie washed, in spite of Mamma’s insistence
that he was embarrassing her by doing dishes when he was a guest in her house.
When he and Connie announced that they were going out for a while, no one
questioned where they were going.
He
escorted her out to his car and drove to the edge of town, then took a country
road that was totally unfamiliar to her. Before long the rare house or
outbuilding to either side gave way to nothing but open fields flanked by the
occasional stand of trees. He pulled into a small turnaround on the side of the
road and shut off the car’s lights. Total darkness surrounded them, except for
the weak glimmer of the waning moon passing in and out of high clouds.
Connie
slid into his arms, and his mouth closed over hers, sending shivers of delight
through her. They kissed until their lips hurt, running their hands through
each other’s hair, pulling each other closer and closer as their breathing
accelerated. When he rested his hand on her jacket, over her breast, she moved
against it to increase the pressure, and when he unzipped the jacket, she didn’t
stop him. His hand moved to cup her breast through her t-shirt, and she leaned
into it, kissing him hungrily, searching for his tongue with hers.
Paul
was the one who ultimately pulled away. “We need to get you back. It’s almost
ten.”
Connie
sat back against the seat, her heart beating rapidly, her breathing uneven. Her
hair was disheveled and her lips bruised; she felt as though she had been in a
car wreck. Her private parts were aching for his touch, even as her conscience
started to kick in. “Is it really?”
“Time
flies when you’re having fun.”
Connie
tucked in her t-shirt and zipped up her jacket. “Where did we go?”
Paul
started the car’s motor. “Come again?”
Connie
turned to him. “When my mother asks where we went, what do I tell her?”
Paul
looked confused. “Tell her we just took a ride. I don’t know.”
“We
just took a ride in pitch darkness when there’s nothing to see.” Connie grinned
at him.
He
gave her his heart-melting slow smile. “I don’t know what to tell you, Con.
She’s your mother.”
“I
guess it shouldn’t matter, should it? We didn’t do anything.”
“Nope.”
Paul turned on the lights and drove the car out onto the road, executing a
U-turn to take them back toward town.
“Thanks,”
Connie said.
“For?”
“Being
a good guy.”
Paul
frowned as he kept his eyes on the road. “Was that such a surprise?”
“That’s
not what I’m saying. I’m saying, you probably kept me from doing something I’d
regret later.”
His
devilish grin returned. “We’ll have plenty of time for that.”
***
Vermont’s
weather turned damp and bleak during the last week of October. Still, neither Connie
nor Greg were ready for the early snowstorm that greeted them after class on
the afternoon of November first.
By
chance, they had Connie’s heavy station wagon, which performed better in snow
than Greg’s Mustang, and when he offered to do the driving, she happily agreed.
“I’m
supposed to go to Mass at six,” she said as he drove out of the parking lot.
“It’s All Saints Day.”
“What’s
All Saints Day?”
“It’s
a holy day of obligation. Catholics have to go to church. If you don’t, it’s a
sin.”
Fat
snowflakes collected at the base of the windshield, and Greg turned on the
wipers. “Like eating meat on Friday?”
“That’s
not true anymore. Only during Lent.”
Greg
glanced at her with an amused look on his face. “When did that change?”
“A
couple years ago.”
“What
happened to people who ate meat on Friday before that?”
Connie
peered out at the road ahead; it looked wet and slippery.“If they died before
going to Confession, they went to hell.”
“For
eating meat.”
She
knew where he was headed. “It was a rule. A law. You followed it if you were a
good Catholic. Like Jews who don’t eat pork.”
“But
now it’s okay to eat meat on Friday,” he said, “and now you don’t go to hell.”
“That’s
right.”
“Did
the other guys get dispensation?”
Connie
smiled. “I don’t think so.”
“Okay.
And what happens to people who kill someone?” he asked.
“They
go to hell.”
“And
hang out with the guy who ate meat on Friday?”
Connie
laughed. “I don’t make the rules. And just so you know, my family still doesn’t
eat meat on Friday. Even though we could.”