Prologue
I was tired. I had been traveling almost nonstop for 60 hours. After an early out notification at my base in northern Japan I had been on a military plane to Tokyo, then the long flight from Tokyo to San Francisco via Hawaii. Then the requisite six hours of paper signing to get me out of the Air Force. Finally the long Greyhound bus ride back to Denver. Now I was out of the cab and walking the last few blocks, my duffel bag on my shoulder, to a house I hoped I remembered.
Okay, let's back up a bit.
The year was 1972 and I was 24 years old. I had married fresh out of junior college, had the marriage fail while stationed in Japan, had no ties in Illinois where I had lived with my father for a few years after my mother died young, and so now I was ready to be a serious student if I could just get into college in my home town.
My hope, as I walked that last couple of blocks, was that Marge and Si, my mother's friends and my fairly regular babysitters when mom was out, would have a room I could rent. I didn't want to live in a dorm after 4 years in the Air Force, certainly wasn't willing to put up with any bullshit hazing from a fraternity, and just needed a place to live. I knew that their sons had moved out so I figured they could probably put me up.
If they still lived there.
And if I could find the house.
I was walking down south Ogden Street, stretching my memory back a decade.
And there it was.
I walked up the three steps to the porch, took a deep breath, and rang the doorbell.
I recognized her as soon as the door opened. She was short and round and buxom. Her hair was now a coppery red, not the simple brunette I remembered. Her face was round and, not pretty or cute, but attractive, with big eyes, a button nose, and a very generous mouth with full lips.
I just stood there waiting and wondering.
And then I saw the recognition dawn on her face.
"Davey?!" she said, opening the screen door and taking a step closer.
I grinned. "Margie," I said, as far as I knew the only one who called her that.
She slapped me across the cheek. Not hard, well, not hard enough to leave a bruise. But definitely hard enough to string.
"Eight years and not a word?" she yelled and then that generous mouth spread into a smile, revealing her slightly buck teeth.
And she took the final step between us and hugged me.
I couldn't help but be aware of the softness, the warmth, the pure femininity I was holding.
"Okay," she said, breaking the hug, "come in and tell me what's been going on."
I followed her in, dropping my duffel inside the door and heading to the kitchen. At the kitchen table, where I had eaten so many breakfasts, she offered me iced tea and the ever-present bowl of cucumbers and sliced onions in vinegar that was in the refrigerator.
I gave her a brief rundown of my life. After we buried mom, my dad took me back to Chicago where I finished high school, much to my surprise, and junior college. Got married young and dumb. Got drafted and opted for the Air Force. Did my trick for my country.
"And now here I am," I concluded, "kinda hoping you and Si would rent me a room while I get situated and start back to college."
As I finished the sentence I saw that her eyes were red and she was starting to tear up.
"What?" I asked, reaching across the table and touching her hand.
"Oh honey," she said, wiping away a tear, "Si died three years ago."
"Oh fuck," I said, forgetting I was a civilian again, "I'm sorry. I didn't know."
"Of course you didn't," she said, managing a wan smile.
It turned out Si, whose real name was Fred but nobody called him that, worked at a factory making truck flooring and in one of those freak accidents that can happen, a load of finished flooring material had fallen on him, killing him instantly.
She shook her head and wiped the tear.
"Of course you can stay here honey," she said, "as long as you need to."
I smiled and said, "okay, show me where to sleep and I'll shower and take you to dinner to celebrate my new landlady."
She giggled and led me down to the bedroom I had actually used in the past.
I did as I had said I would. I showered but didn't shave. At that time I figured the Air Force owed me four years of shaves and haircuts and I damn sure intended to collect. I dressed in my best civvies, figuring I was probably no more than two years out of style.
When I walked into the living room she had obviously cleaned up too. And she looked stunning. She was in a bright print blouse with a skirt that ended just above her knee but had fringe for an added couple of inches of modesty. The blouse, I could not help but notice, was unbuttoned at the top three buttons and a very generous expanse of blue-veined cleavage was on display. The outfit enhanced rather than tried to hide her size, and she was a big woman. Medium-high heels with bright red toenails peeking out did good things for her legs.
I stopped and looked.
Okay, I stopped and stared.
It tickled me that she actually blushed.
"God Davey," she said, giggling, "take a picture, it lasts longer."
I smiled and said, "you are stunning."
I liked that she blushed and then giggled, giving me a glimpse of the beautiful 18-year-old bride she had once been.
She stepped forward and took my arm.
"Okay boarder," she said, "where shall we go?"
I laughed and said "Margie, I haven't been in Denver in a decade. I doubt if any of the places I went to when high school friends and I were riding around even exist any more. But mostly what I would like after three years of rice and fish is a meatloaf."
She laughed, that rough-edged belly laugh I remembered, and said "I've got just the place."
She led me to the small garage and I had to laugh. The 1957 Chevy 210 that they had bought new was still there.
She grinned and said "hey, it works. Wanna drive."
"Ummmm," I said, "I've been driving on the wrong side of the street for three years. I'd better acclimate before I try that. Besides, I don't have a driver's license."
So I settled for opening the door for her and then running around to the passenger side and getting in.
The old car started and ran fine, the six-cylinder engine pulling strong and she handled the stick shift well.
She turned on the radio and I was happy that she had a classic station on, what we would call "oldies" today. Before long I was singing along with Ricky Nelson whining about the travails of being a teenage idol.
"You have a nice voice," she said.
"Thanks," I said, "we had a band on the flight and I did some playing and some singing. I like to think we were actually pretty good."
The restaurant was in one of those little strip malls that used to be so common. The sign said simply "Ann's" and when we went in an extremely round and quite pretty woman came around from behind the counter - the place had an actual lunch counter - and wrapped Margie in an embrace.
"Where have you been hiding honey," she said, holding Margie at arm's length.
"Oh, you know, out and about," Margie said and then, "Ann, meet Davey, an old friend, and my new boarder."
Ann, it turned out it was Ann, looked me up and down and then turned to Margie and grinned.
"I can see why," she said and turned to me wrapping me into a great pillowlike hug.
"Ummmmm, pleased to meet you," I managed when she released me.
Dinner was a delight. We talked like old friends catching up. We laughed a lot.
The meatloaf was excellent with a hint of some kind of cheese mixed in. Mashed potatoes and corn, the potatoes swimming in a good brown gravy, completed the purely American "home-cookin'" dinner. The wine, definitely not American, was some of my favorite, a house Chianti so dry you wondered if you could remove paint with it. I loved it.
When Ann handed me the check she gave a little wink, told Margie how good it was to see her again, and went back behind the counter. When I looked at the check I was surprised to see a little piece of what I took to be register paper stuck to it with a little piece of tape. It had a phone number, the words "call me," and a little happy face made out of a heart. I looked up and she smiled and put her forefinger to her lips in the universal "shhhhh" sign.
I grinned back.
I was a bit tipsy when we left. Not drunk, but it had been a long week, and the alcohol was hitting me.
When we got home she kissed me, a chaste mother-son kiss, and I headed for my bedroom.
I did my four years in the Air Force, but I never put myself in the same league as those who actually pull triggers. My job was in Air Force intelligence (and no it's really not an oxymoron) monitoring what was going on with the Chinese missile program and the sum total of my trigger pulling had been a one-day event during basic training when we ran the obstacle course, ate in a field kitchen, and checked out on the M-16. I fired all of 50 rounds during my four years in the military, none in anger. Nevertheless, anyone who has ever been through basic training sleeps pretty much at will, but wakes easily.
I woke, listening. Wondering what woke me.
Then I heard a little creak in the floor.
"Davey," she said, softly, "can I sleep with you?"
I rolled up on my elbow and pulled back the sheet, all I needed on a warm night, and patted the mattress in invitation.
"We don't have to, you know," and I could almost hear her blush, "do anything. It's just been so long since I slept with anyone."
I patted the mattress again and felt the bed sag as she laid down next to me.
When I touched her there was nothing but skin.
"If you don't want me," she said, "I understand."
Which made me laugh.
"Margie," I said, touching her cheek lightly, "I've had a crush on you since puberty struck and I've been in lust with you since I saw you earlier. If you want to," and I chuckled, "do anything, I'm in."
