Little Did I Know: A Novel (11 page)

The most compelling discoveries were about the Priscilla Beach Theatre. The last two management teams that had rented from the Barrows Foundation had arrived with little fanfare and begun their seasons with good notices. Yet they had been forced to close before the calendar turned from August to September, without explanation. The only comments we could find were terse quotes from Barrows that spoke to his “disappointment and dismay” over “the dire financial mess” left in both situations.

Dusk had settled in. The bar had filled up and the conversations were animated and friendly. As we packed up our things for our rendezvous at Souza’s, Doobie walked over to our table. He was a hulk; he had smoker’s teeth and heavy skin. His voice was much higher than his bulk would suggest, making him sound a bit like Felix the Cat. After we made the appropriate introductions Doobie said, “Guys, I am here every night till after two. I know everything that goes on in this town. You talk to a lot of loose lips when you tend bar. You need something, you reach out. Anything, anytime.”

He offered his hand and we shook. His grip was strong; I felt some of the small bones just below my wrist shatter and go numb.

“Don’t be strangers. The drinks are on me, and don’t leave a tip. I own the place.”

S
ouza’s was located in the heart of downtown Plymouth. The wharf was a concrete waterfront where blacktop abutted once-blue water marred by carelessly discarded trash. Although no longer pristine and shrouded in tourist tackiness, the wharf still had its appeal; its energy, history, and promise of excitement overcame the lack of picture-postcard perfect. Myriad visitors walked in couples, foursomes, or larger random groups that were liquored up, a moment away from some sort of scene. By eight o’clock the families had come and gone, and as the evening turned late the wharf became more Pottersville and less Bedford Falls. The crowd encompassed a full spectrum of patrons. There were young, pretty people. Girls with bouncing hair, fetching sun-kissed cleavage, and smiles that radiated joy. The young men who accompanied them were fit and buffed, with biceps that burst from their short-sleeve T-shirts. They were stylish with hair combed and sneakers that spoke of the day’s trends. As they held hands or walked arm-in-arm with their girlfriends, an unconscious musical nod of their heads said, “I got it! Life is sweet.”

Yet there were just as many overweight, middle-aged couples and groups of friends whose bellies were round and full, stretching their shirts to the point of distortion. The women who walked alone had gone to seed as well, strolling with big, expanded bottoms, waddling toward their next stop with no concern about how they’d look in a swimsuit when the summer heat arrived.

The wharf had the vibe of a seaside state fair, churning out a medley of scents: fried fish and crustaceans, beer, and funnel cakes fresh and sweet covered in powered sugar. It was a place that stayed open late and grew more festive and raucous with each passing hour.

Souza’s was the size of a football field. It could have been an army mess hall or summer camp cafeteria. Dozens of family-style tables lined the utilitarian dining room. Ceiling fans whirled above and the sliding-glass doors opened to what had evolved into a perfect early-summer evening.

The family-owned restaurant boasted the finest lobsters on the Cape. What it lacked in style it made up for in cleanliness and service. When you entered the place there was an enormous tank filled with hundreds of black lobsters, some so large they looked like they belonged on the set of a sci-fi movie. Souza’s menu was limited, focusing on its specialties. They steamed, stuffed, and broiled lobsters, serving them with steamed clams, corn on the cob, and Indian pudding à la mode for desert, topped off with iced pitchers of beer that kept the patrons jocular and happy.

Secunda and I parked the car in the public lot about a quarter of a mile from the restaurant. From there it took us fifteen hard-fought minutes to work through the evening crowd. We arrived at our destination at eight sharp. There were fewer than ten empty tables; the other two hundred were all active and buzzing.

We quickly spotted James and JB. James was drinking beer and JB was smoking, her eyes looking furtively for the arrival of Officer Tom. I chatted with Secunda, who insisted on waiting up front to greet his date. I reminded him that he didn’t know what she looked like, and he reminded me that he was an expert at sighting slutty girls.

I saw JB waving enthusiastically to Officer Donahue. He looked quite handsome in a pale-yellow cotton button-down, which he wore over faded Wranglers and finished off with white basketball high-tops. I imagined her having visions of what to wear on the day he was promoted to detective or on their wedding day as she patted the seat next to hers, inviting him to sit close by.

“Been here long?” I asked as I took a seat next to James.

“About a pitcher’s worth,” he said. He poured me a tall glass. “Catch up.”

I drank thirstily, while thinking about what Veronica would be wearing tonight.

The events of the evening slowed. James and I nursed our beers and talked quietly. Secunda had approached a couple of women mistakenly thinking they might be Kellie. One rejected him with disturbing ferocity. I found myself thinking that we all had different opinions of what slutty might look like, as both the young women he approached appeared more chaste than wild to me.

At our table, JB and Officer Tom were engrossed in deep conversation, and the beer pitchers had been refilled. All the while Veronica remained MIA. It was now twenty minutes after eight.

Secunda walked over with our waitress in tow. Margie was in her early thirties and pleasant looking if just a tad Rubenesque. She had a big, easy smile and wore several studs in both ears. Her hair was piled on top of her head and held in place with a rhinestone-covered clip. Secunda had already won her affection with a $100 tip.

He sat next to me in a mild huff. “The last girl I talked to is entering a convent next month. The first one I approached was four months pregnant and looking for a husband.”

He clapped his hands twice and asked for the attention of those at the table. After acknowledging Officer Tom he got up and walked over to him. With a touch of melodrama he embraced our afternoon nemesis, kissed him on both cheeks, and with eyes locked welcomed him to the festivities. JB shrieked with laughter. Tom, although nonplussed, laughed along and offered his thanks.

Secunda returned to his chair. He looked over to Margie and asked, “What is the house specialty?”

“Um, lobster,” she replied with smiling sarcasm.

He was enjoying himself. “Okay then. Eight three-pounders and something larger for my friend over here.” He pointed to me. “Start us off with some steamers and bring corn with the dinner. Eight shots of Patron, please, with lime and salt, and replenish the beer when you get a chance.” Then he tipped her another C-note.

When Kellie arrived looking cuter than last night, she asked who Josh was. Secunda stood up gallantly and offered his hand.

“I’m Kellie, Veronica’s friend. Sorry I’m late.”

“Well worth the wait,” Secunda said, offering her a seat next to his and introducing her to the table.

Margie brought the tequila and the appropriate accoutrements. She brought new frosted mugs and fresh pitchers of crisp, wheat-colored lager. Then smiling at Secunda, she returned to work.

Veronica arrived a few minutes later and waved an envelope in my face. “I’m late because this arrived just as I was leaving. It’s scented. Here, smell it.” She pushed the package closer to my face. “It appears to be from Mrs. Barrows. Maybe she dipped it in her whore-scented, cheap cologne to give you something to remember her by other than her being an easy, uninspired lay.” She turned to Kellie. “What’s the name of the perfume she wears, Bitch in Heat?”

She dropped the envelope onto the chair next to me and downed a shot of Patron. She sucked on a lime, pursed her lips, shook her mane of blond hair, and came up with a smile. “Hi, everyone.” She acknowledged Officer Donahue with a familial “Tommy” and blew him a kiss across the table. She greeted Kellie with a hug and complimented her outfit. She stood and offered her hand to JB, James, and Secunda, adding a sincere “nice to meet you.” She repeated the tequila routine again and suddenly her cheeks were rosy and all hint of dismay had vanished. I folded Lizzy Barrows’s letter quickly to avoid any further complications and put it in my jeans pocket.

Secunda lifted his glass of Patron and toasted the table: “To new friends, to new adventures. May our get-together be the beginning of something special, something we can share with our children and their children as well.” He took special note of Kellie on that last line and finished with, “L’chaim.” We all drank.

Kellie was a sweet, virginal vision. Sexy, true, but if you told me she had never been kissed, I wouldn’t have been surprised. I wondered what a slutty girl was supposed to look like. Then I again realized how stupid guys could be. If the stupid-guy club needed a leader I would be elected president in a landslide. I drank my beer and waited to see what would happen next.

Secunda was a terrific host. He got acquainted with Veronica and talked up JB to Officer Tom. He made sure everyone was enjoying the first part of the meal and kept the glasses topped off. Margie buzzed about attending to our needs. Veronica was friendly to everyone—except me. The Barrows note burned in my pocket, but I was afraid to open it before dinner.

Kellie, who had excused herself just minutes ago for reasons unknown, returned all smiles and yummy. As she sauntered back to the table I noticed how her top pushed her breasts up into what was the perfect position. Perhaps it was the tequila, but I thought if I ever developed man boobs I’d ask her where she bought that particular garment.

At her side was a very slender brunette with long, straight hair that reached her coccyx bone. She was pale and wore dark eye shadow and heavy eyeliner. She had a long, lean figure that was extremely attractive if a bit bony for my tastes. She was early twenties, had dark, dark eyes and an easy grin. She wore cutoff denim that made the word “short” insufficient. A black T-shirt that read
CAPE COD WHALERS
was tied above her waist, showing her bare, taut midriff. On her feet she wore white high-tops and no socks.

Her smile suggested she’d had a couple of cocktails. She was open and friendly as Kellie made the social overtures. When it came time for James to be introduced, Kellie announced that Maggie, the brunette, was here as his date. Kellie couldn’t imagine the evening “which was so much fun” continuing without James having someone on his arm. Maggie agreed and began chatting up James. I thought it sweet, yet wondered as I sized up Maggie whether she was really slutty. Then I decided my head would explode if I focused on the issue much more this evening.

Eventually, the table was littered with the remains of eight lobsters whose lives had ended. They died to please us, to sate our appetites, and to act as an aphrodisiac to four young couples. They had fought a good battle and lost. Perhaps they would be honored in lobster heaven. As for us, the evening was just starting.

After dinner I watched everyone at the table. JB was in an intermittent lip lock with our soon to be Boston detective. She was so enamored that she even allowed him to put out her last two cigarettes in the leftover desserts without protest. James and Maggie seemed connected in some cerebral way as they spoke in hushed tones. Kellie was affectionate with Secunda, all within the boundaries of decorum. I still wondered how to get past being just pals with Veronica, which at the moment remained the lost challenge of the evening.

As my gaze moved about the table and I watched the interface between our disparate groups, I was filled with pride. There was no division of class or background or cash reserve. We were all in, new friends high on the adrenaline of serendipitous, unexpected relationships. Then I walked to the end of the table, sat next to Veronica and put her hand in mine. I squeezed it gently and then stroked her hair. She held my hand tightly and rested her head on my shoulder.

Officer Tom refused to allow any of us to drive, so Secunda ordered a fleet of Garden cabs and we made our way down Rocky Hill Road. Our destination was the old barn theater that in essence had brought us all together.

T
he compound looked different under starlight and a clear sky. The dogwood petals were more vibrant, the lush green grass of the parking lot seemed ready to putt for a birdie, the big barn conjured images of theatergoers milling about on the deck discussing the evening’s performance with great enthusiasm.

The cabs pulled into the driveway and came to a quick stop. We jumped out and stood in a circle coupled up and happy. James asked Tommy if he would mind if we broke in. Tommy paused to consider his answer. “Yes I will, but I’m going to be kissing JB over here and that might take a while. Check in with me again in a few days.”

JB shrieked in approval. James grabbed his toolbox and Maggie’s hand and headed toward the theater to “let us in.” This time, if you blinked, you missed his sleight of hand. He turned the lights on and the amber wash in the house radiated romance; all we needed was some music to complete the mood. Secunda and Kellie pushed the piano onto the stage and she sat at the dusty out-of-tune upright and played the ivories. She was good.

While she played a bluesy bit of free-style jazz, we all stopped to take in the magic of the moment. Josh ran to his car and returned with his trumpet in hand. He played a short riff to capture our attention then began a sultry version of Ellington’s “I Got It Bad and That Ain’t Good.” When Veronica asked me to dance, we found our way hand in hand to center stage and began a slow foxtrot that I hoped would never end. Maggie leaned into James’s chest, and with arms wrapped around each other, they moved so slightly it was almost imperceptible. JB sat “fifth row center” next to Officer Tom; they held hands and beamed at the unscripted set of events playing out before them.