Scotty stared at the obituary and felt his heart break just a little. She'd lived to the age of 75 and built herself a good life filled with children and friends. Her reputation in the legal community was beyond reproach. She'd shunned appointments to the bench to work exclusively on helping abused wives and girlfriends transcend their misery, and reaped boxes of awards and legions of supporters and enemies in the process.
But when Scotty read the name Tammy Schaeffer, he remembered the night of their date. It was a night he'd never forget.
It had been awkward, as dates go. They had known each other for years. She was his big sister's best friend, and they had grown up together. Lila had been his defender, his mom when Mom was gone, but Tammy had explained things to him that Lila refused to. As they all passed through puberty, Scotty had grown increasingly fond of Tammy and suffered bouts of jealousy when she started dating boys her own age. Tammy and Lila had been high school seniors when Scotty was a freshman, so he'd had the benefit of their protection during that dangerous freshman year.
Lila had joined the Air Force after graduation and Tammy had gotten married. By the summer of '67, Lila was a senior airman and striking for staff sergeant, and had decided to make the USAF her life's work.
Tammy had lost her husband, a trucker, in an accident and collected a very large amount of money in a settlement. Far from being the grieving widow, however, she was relieved to be shuck of the abusive sonofabitch. The last of her bruises finally disappeared months after his funeral, but the invisible wounds probably would never fully heal.
She had returned to her hometown and taken her own apartment and decided to go to college to "make something of herself," whatever that meant. But it was summer, yet, and her best friend's dangerously handsome little brother had just graduated high school and in September would follow his sister into the Air Force.
Being eighteen years old in Colorado in 1970 meant one could legally drink three-two beer. It was the weak sister to real beer, and Coors was the only brewer who produced it, so high school seniors and junior college students drank the stuff by the keg. Scotty turned 18 in May, just a couple of days after graduating. He had not yet celebrated either event; Scotty's mom and dad were both working night shifts at the local sugar refinery, and Lila had sent a card from Rhine-Main Airbase in Germany. His birthday found him sitting on the patio sipping iced tea in the late May dusk. He was reading Steinbeck in the fading light when Tammy found him.
"Hey, sport, what'cha doin'?" she asked. He looked up and caught his breath. Her breasts pushed coyly from inside a brown polyester blouse with tan piping. Her perfectly-shaped hips were encased in brown and gold plaid wool bells, and leather boots added an inch to her sinewy height. Her long, dark hair was held back by a simple headband and fell in careless curls down behind her shoulders. Her big, brown eyes gazed at him from behind stylish wing-tip glasses.
Scotty remembered to breathe.
"Nothing. Just waiting for Saturday to get here," he said.
Tammy flopped down into a chair next to him. "What, no birthday cake? No presents? What kind of birthday is this?"
Scotty grinned. "Yeah, well, that's why I'm waiting for Saturday. Mom and Dad are planning a shindig for me. It's gonna' be a real heller."
Tammy laughed at his sarcasm. The Connors were well-known teetotalers, and there was no way alcohol was going to figure into their son's combination graduation and 18th birthday celebration.
"Look, sport, I know you've snuck a few beers before, but how 'bout I take you down to Dagershaw's Den and buy you your first legal beer. It should be on your real birthday."
Scotty glanced up. "You mean, like a date?"
"Sure, why not? My treat."
"Well, I do enjoy being seen with beautiful older women," he teased.
"Think what it'll do for your reputation," she replied. "Scotty Connor, out with the drop-dead gorgeous Tammy Wentworth. You'll be the envy of the whole Class of '67."
It wasn't what she said, but the way she said it. Her voice took on a husky tone, and her lifted eyebrow was more than just innuendo. It carried a hint of promise.
"Sure, I'm game," he said.
And so, they ended up at a table in one of the two taverns in town that served 3.2 percent beer. Tammy ordered a pitcher and two glasses, along with two Dagburgers and fries. They feasted on the greasy confections and imbibed liberally, and when the pitcher was empty and the plates taken away, they sat and talked, awkwardly, until the house disc jockey decided to spin "Hey Jude."
They moved to the dance floor, and when Scotty took Tammy in his arms, he felt her melt into him, molding her body against his. It was something he'd never felt with all the high school girls he'd dated, even with Melanie Sickles, his steady girlfriend their senior year. As they moved slowly around the dance floor, he felt all of her pressing against him; her breasts, her belly, her thighs, all moving with him as if choreographed by some higher power.
Paul McCartney's ode poured from the speakers and they moved in rhythm to the music, the lyrics speaking as if to them alone:
"So let it out and let it in, hey Jude, begin,
"You're waiting for someone to perform with.
"And don't you know that it's just you, hey Jude, you'll do,
"The movement you need is on your shoulder."
Emboldened by the beer and the scent of her Prince Matchabelli Wind Song, he murmured into her ear, "I've always had a crush on you." He regretted the words the moment they left his lips, and he expected her to laugh or otherwise rebuff his pass.
"I know," she said. "And I love it."
He stopped cold. "And I love it?" What did that mean?
