body, and thick chestnut hair falling below her shoulders, framing an
oval shaped face with expressive long-lashed tortoiseshell eyes, a
straight nose and a wide mouth concealing a dazzling heart-warming
smile.
Lauren Roberts was one of the most popular girls in school. Everyone
liked her, even the teachers.
She was standing in the school yard with her best friend, Meg, when Meg
nudged her conspiratorially and whispered, "Here he comes. You'd
better watch out!"
"He" was Stock Browning-Bosewell High's very own football star.
Lately he'd been noticing Lauren in a big way.
Lauren frowned. "Shut up," she muttered. "He'll hear you."
"So what?" replied Meg, tossing her blond curls. "I bet he's going to
ask you out."
"No, he's not "Bet he is."
Stock walked like a cowboy, with a wide-legged rolling gait. His hair
was white blond and crew cut, and his eyes a Teutonic blue. Big and
tanned, he was well aware he could get anything or anyone he wanted.
It helped that his father owned Brownings, the only department store in
town.
"Hiya, Lauren," he drawled, stifling a strong desire to pat his crotch
-snug in track suit pants.
It was the first time he'd called her by her name, even though they'd
attended the same school for years.
I guess sixteen must be the magic number, she thought skittishly.
"Hello, Stock," she responded, wondering, as she had many times before,
where his parents had come up with his name.
"How bout you an' me taking in a movie?" he suggested, getting
straight to the point.
Lauren considered his invitation. In a way she was flattered; after
all, Stock Browning was looked on as the catch of the year. But then
again she didn't-like most of the other girls in school-feel "that way"
about him. He wasn't her type.
"Hmm . . ." she said, caught off guard and stalling.
He couldn't believe she was actually hesitating. "Is that a yes?" he
asked.
"It's a when," she replied carefully.
His eyes narrowed. "When what?"
ten childless. Just when they'd given up hope, along came Lauren.
She had received nothing but their love and devotion-it would be hard
to find a more united family. So it came as a shock to discover that
no, her parents did not agree with her. They considered Stock a very
nice boy with a bright future, and certainly a suitable candidate for
their only daughter to go out with.
Lauren was crushed at hearing they felt that way. "I'm not dating
him," she said stubbornly, before rushing up to her room.
Twenty minutes later her father knocked on her bedroom door.
Phil Roberts was a pleasant-looking man with sandy hair parted in the
middle, a small mustache and a weak chin. "Lauren, dear," he said
soothingly. "We want the best for you, surely you know that?"
The best? Don't you mean the richest?
"Yes, Daddy, I know."
Phil paced around her room, uncomfortable and ill at ease. "Spend an
evening with the boy, give him a chance."
A chance at what? Her virginity?
"Okay, Daddy. Maybe," she mumbled, noticing that tonight her father
looked tired, and she didn't want to upset him.
"Good girl," Phil said, looking relieved.
Meg was right, it didn't take Stock long to ask again. A few days
later he invited her to his cousin's twenty-first birthday party.
"Black tie," he announced grandly.
"I don't have a black tie," she dead-panned.
He didn't laugh. Bad sign.
"I'll pick you up at six-thirty," he said, patting his crotch-obviously
a favorite habit.
Her parents were suitably pleased.
"We'll go to Brownings and buy you a new dress," her mother said.
On the appointed evening Stock turned up washed and brushedbristly
blond crew cut, reddish tan, well-fitting white dinner jacket.
Her parents were impressed. In fact she'd never seen her mother so
giggly and girlish as she lined them up for a series of quick
snapshots.
Lauren's new dress was sludge green. She hated it. "Made in New
York," the saleslady had pronounced in hushed tones. After that her
mother had refused to look at anything else.
Stock put his arm around her for the photographs. She felt the heat
"When did you have in mind?" she asked, trying to keep it light.
Goddamn it! Was she being difficult? Any other girl would be singing
at the chance of a date with him. "Tonight. Tomorrow night.
Whenever you like."
I'd like you to leave me alone, she decided. Even though she didn't
have a boyfriend she was not interested in dating him. Absolutely
not.
He was too full of himself by far.
"Well?" He towered over her, and she couldn't help thinking of his big
sweaty body pressing down on hers if they ever did it. Not that she
had any intention of doing it. Not until she was married to the man
she loved-whoever he might be.
She continued to stall, as she hated hurting anyone's feelingseven
his.
"I don't know, I've got a busy week," she demurred.
Now it was his turn to frown. A busy week! Was little Lauren Roberts
actually turning down a date with him? Surely it wasn't possible?
"Call me when you make up your mind," he said brusquely, and stalked
off.
Meg, hovering on the sidelines, giggled nervously. "You didn't say no,
did you?"
Lauren nodded. "I said no."
"You didn't!" Meg clapped a hand over her mouth.
"I did."
They both burst out laughing and hugged each other.
"Holy cow!" exclaimed Meg. "I bet that's the first no he's ever
had."
"Serves him right for ignoring us all these years," Lauren said.
"You're right," Meg agreed, although if Stock Browning had invited her
out she would be boogeying down Main Street handing out flyers.
"What are you going to do if he asks you again?" she asked
curiously.
Lauren shrugged. "I'll worry about it when it happens, and quite
honestly, I don't think it will."
"It will," Meg said wisely.
"So I'll deal with it." Lauren felt that Stock Browning had occupied
enough of their time. "Let's go get a malt."
That night she told her parents about the encounter, expecting them to
agree that Stock was rich and spoiled and even though he was the son of
the most affluent man in town she'd done the right thing in turning him
down.
Jane and Phil Roberts had been married twenty-five years-the first of
his hand through the thin material of her dress and held her breath.
The rumor was that Ellen-Sue Mathison had been forced to leave town
because he'd gotten her pregnant. And Melissa Thomlinson swore he'd
tried to rape her.
She shuddered.
"Are you cold?" Stock asked solicitously.
"Oh, no, I'm just fine, thank you, Stock," replied her mother,
twinkling gaily.
"Try this." Phil Roberts thrust a glass of champagne drowned in orange
&n
bsp; juice into his beefy hand. "One for the road. No harm, eh?"
Lauren was seeing her parents in a new light and she wasn't sure she
liked it.
Stock drove a sleek Ford Thunderbird. He opened the door for her and
helped her in, trying for a surreptitious peek up her skirt.
"Nice parents," he said, settling behind the wheel.
"Nice car," she responded dully.
"It gets me there."
Not with me it doesn't.
Now that he had her he didn't know what to say, and she wasn't about to
make it easy. She was here under protest, and if he made one wrong
move he'd find himself very very sorry indeed.
Friday morning dawned bleak and icy. The rain beat down relentlessly,
forming a muddy sludge on the ground.
Crammed into the back of a cab between Aunt Franny and his father, Nick
felt the bile rise in his throat. They both smelled strongly of
mothballs-due to the fact that they'd borrowed black clothes from the
neighbors, one of whom, Mrs. Rifkin, had magnanimously decided to
accompany them to the funeral.
Mrs. Rifkin sat in the front of the cab, chewing Chiclets and
attempting to make conversation with the black driver, who was more
interested in breaking the speed limit and dumping them fast. He
sensed a small tip, and nothing pissed him off more.
Franny extracted a half-melted Reese's peanut butter cup from her worn
purse, popped it into her mouth and said to Primo, "Well, now when do
you think you be moving on?"
Great, Nick thought sourly, his mother wasn't even cold and this old
bag was trying to get rid of them. So much for family attachments.
Primo opened his mouth to reply, and the foul aroma of bad teeth and
stale beer wafted in the air, jockeying with the mothballs for
attention.
"What's your hurry, Fran?" Primo asked, letting out a not so discreet
burp.
"Without Mary's paycheck I can't be lettin' you stay. Can't afford
it," Franny stated, munching away.
"So you're throwin' us out? Is that it?" Primo said nastily.
Franny smoothed down the folds of her skirt, rubbing a newly discovered
stain on the cheap material. She was damned if she was going to let
her sister's lazy slob husband live off her. She hated the sight of
his ugly face. "I plan on renting out your rooms, she announced. "The
sooner the better. I-" "Not to darkies, I hope," interrupted a
panicked Mrs. Rifkin, forgetting who she was sitting next to.
The cab careened around a corner, throwing Nick up against his aunt's
ample bosom. He wished he could throw up all over her, the old cow
deserved it.
"An' how about Nick?" Primo asked, as if he wasn't sitting right there
beside them.
"You'll take him with you," Franny replied, not even considering the
idea of inviting him to stay on.
"He'd be better off with you," Primo insisted.
Franny rummaged for another chocolate. "What am I expected to do with
a sixteen-year-old boy?" she said in an exasperated voice.
Primo wasn't about to drop it. "At least he'd have a home."
Was his father actually thinking of him, or was it the thought of being
free that urged him on?
"Yes. An' extra food to buy. An' clothes, and all that other stuff
young boys need," Franny said indignantly. "No thank you. He's your
son. He goes with you.
Case settled.
Nick leaned forward, trying to stop the despair that was rising up
within him, a despair so great he could barely manage to breathe.
One day his mother was there. The next, gone-just like that. Heart
failure, they said.
Heart failure at thirty-seven years of age? Desertion, more like.
She'd left him alone with Primo because she simply couldn't take any
more.
When they got out of the taxi at the cemetery Primo stood there
fidgeting, until Franny realized he expected her to pay the driver.
She threw him a filthy look.
"Must've left my wallet home," Primo mumbled sheepishly.
"Cheap monkey," she said sourly, counting out the exact fare.
"You always were and you always will be."
The cabdriver snatched the money and zoomed off, fle wheels of his
vehicle splashing them all with mud.
Mrs. Rifkin was not pleased. She sprung open a faded umbrella, all
the while muttering under her breath, "They shouldn't let em drive,
that's what I say."
Nick shivered. How could his mother leave him alone with Primo?
Despair was replaced with anger. He wanted to shout and scream.
If he could have gotten hold of her he would have shaken the life out
of her.
Only it was too late, wasn't it? She was already dead.
A thin man in a shiny gray slicker with a sinister hood announced he
would be escorting them to the grave site. "Is this all of you?" he
sniffed, sounding disappointed.
"Yeah," said Primo belligerently. "Wanna make something' of it?"
The man ignored him.
"We haven't lived here long," Nick felt compelled to explain as they
trudged past endless rows of neatly lined up graves. "My mother didn't
have time to make friends."
"Oh, dear," said the man, with about as much interest as a fish. He
just wanted to get rid of this motley group as fast as possible.
"She was a wonderful woman, though, really wonderful," Nick added,
speaking too quickly, his words tripping over each other.
"I'm sure she was," said the man in the slicker.
Finally they arrived at a freshly dug plot where a cheap wooden coffin
waited to be lowered into the ground.
My mother's in that box, Nick thought, suddenly losing it. Oh, jeer!
My mother's in that box.
And so the short ceremony began. And the rain pounded down.
And Nick didn't know whether he was crying or not because his face was
wet, so very very wet Three days later they left. Franny was relieved
to see them go. Just to make sure, she packed them stale cheese
sandwiches and a flask of lukewarm instant coffee. She stood outside
her house waving them on their way, even though it was still raining
and bitterly cold.
"Fat bitch!" mumbled Primo, as they drove away in the shabby old van
he'd had for ten years.
"Where we going', Dad?" Nick ventured.
"Don't ask no questions an' you won't hear no lies," Primo said
grimly.
"I just thought-" "Don't think," Primo interrupted harshly. "Sit there
an' keep your big ugly mouth shut. Ain't it enough I gotta be
responsible for you?"
There was a thickness in Nick's throat. Oh sure, he was used to
leaving town, abandoning his friends and starting afresh every few
months. But he was not used to being without his mother's
protection.
She'd always been the buffer between him and Primo, and now there was
no one who cared.
"Soon as we get where we're going' 111 look for a job," he said,
staring at the windshield wipers as they worked on the relentless rain,
scratching against the glass with a dull scraping sound.
"Nah. Ya gotta stay in school," Primo said.
"I don't," he objecte
d.
"That's where you're wrong. I made your mother a promise."
"What promise?"
"Mind your business."
Shit! It was his life they were discussing, surely he was entitled to
know? And since when did Primo care about keeping promises?
Primo slumped into silence, his bloodshot eyes fixed on the road ahead,
his big hands clutching the steering wheel.
Nick's mind kept drifting back to his mother being lowered into the
ground, the rain soaking through the cheap wooden coffin. He was
overcome with an unbearable sense of suffocation and loneliness.
Was she cold?
Was her body slowly beginning to rot?