Reckless Point (7 page)

Polaris Lane was an afterthought, an outgrowth of CPV proper when all the servicemen returned from their overseas trauma and poured into a newly optimistic nation which gladly made room for them.   

Building was on everyone’s mind.  It seemed the likeliest solution to years of war and deprivation, of loss and grief.  B
uild homes.  Build businesses. Build families. 

Alan Durant was only sixteen years
old when the conflict known as World War II came to its bloody finality.  His elder brother, Anthony, the winning golden boy who was to inherit Durant’s Drugstore and marry the prettiest girl in Berkshire County, died along with most of his platoon trying to storm a French beach in the midst of unimaginable chaos. 

Several years later, the moment he was legally able,
Alan married Grace Franco, the pretty middle daughter of a local house painter.  It made my heart hurt to consider the hopeful wonder with which they must have regarded the future.  Things had been bad.  Having sent an unusually high percentage of sons off in uniform, not a family in Cross Point Village had been spared some level of direct or indirect tragedy.  But ahead lay a high road of happiness.  They had only to travel it. 

My parents lived in my father’s bo
yhood bedroom for the first three years of their marriage as they saved for a home of their own.   It must have been rather uncomfortable for a pair of ardent newlyweds to exist under the nose of my nosy grandmother, Fay Durant.  And I’d always known there was a minor disagreement regarding religion.  The Francos were deeply Catholic, attending the modest church at the far south end of Main Street from the day it opened its doors. 

The
Durants, on the other hand, were shrugging Congregationalists who remembered to attend services on Christmas and sometimes Easter.  Clayton Durant stood behind the counter of Durant’s Drug Store like his father before him, expecting his son would follow.  He never really got over the loss of his eldest, favored boy, keeping a large framed picture of Anthony Durant behind the sandwich counter.  It was still there and throughout my childhood I remembered looking into the handsome, serious face under his serviceman’s cap as I sipped endless fountain sodas, not realizing until much later how young he was, how tragic it was. 

Clayton suffered a major stroke in 1951.  One moment he was polishing the new chrome-embellished stools, whistling
Sixteen
Tons,
and then next he was on the floor, never to stand again.  It might have been easier if he died then but he did not.  Instead he remained in a largely vegetable state for another six years in the house on Elm Street under the weary care of my grandmother. 

The
custom built houses all went up within a nine month period, but my parents were the first official inhabitants of Polaris Lane.  It was on the far south end of town, though still less than a mile from Main Street.  Grace sewed curtains and pillow shams.  She embroidered dish towels and crocheted doilies.  Alan of course became the proprietor of Durant’s Drug Store.  It wasn’t like what people think of today when they visit the drug store.  It wasn’t just aisles of shampoo and antacid.  The merchandise ranged from children’s aspirin to hand quilted toaster covers.  The counter served a short list of sandwiches and the soda fountain was a popular hangout for the high school crowd. 

I assumed my parents were happy.  The albums I idly paged through as a child were full of black and white pictures with small date stamps.

May 1952:  Alan and Grace in front of their new home, still bare of any landscaping.  They grinned radiantly, Alan’s arm hung lightly around his wife’s shoulders. Grace wore the knee length sort of
I Love Lucy
dress I’d always coveted. 

September 1954:  Alan
and Grace in the backyard of 16 Polaris Lane.  They were clad in worn gardening clothes and bubbled over with laughter as they regarded the meager rose garden at their feet. 

February 1957: 
Alan and Grace bundled up in front of Durant’s Drug Store, celebrating the new store sign, which was illuminated at night, a triumph of modernity.  Again, Alan’s arm circled his wife’s shoulders and her gloved hand reached across his chest, resting over his heart. 

Only one thing was missing from their
early smiling photos.  The thing which was ever present in everyone else’s, even securing a generational moniker celebrating the abundance.  Babies.

I was about nine years when I got around
to puzzling through the math and asked my mother, “Why did you and Daddy wait so long to have kids?”

Her eyes clouded over for a moment as she p
aused from the task of shaping hamburger patties between her rosy palms.  But her voice was light. 

“We were enjoying just being married, I suppose.” 

I frowned.  “But didn’t it get boring?”

Grace squinted a little too intently at a round patty as she slid it onto a waiting plate
.

“No,” she finally said. 

I was haughty, still so young I thought there was only one path.  In play, my dolls always spawned very large families and were great company for one another.   “Well
I
would be bored!” 

My mother’s face flashed with irritation, confusing me. 

“Sometimes babies will surprise you,” she said softly.  “Or not.”  Then she righted herself, brightening.  “Besides, everything turned out okay.”  She kissed the top of my head.  “I’ve got two perfect darlings.” 

I snorted, rolling my eyes toward the window as Tony ran past
down the middle of the street, hooting and howling and raising general hell with the pack of prepubescent hoodlums he was always leading around.  “Tony?  Perfect??”

My mother frowned slightly and looked out the window to see
her son wrestling Marco Bendetti on the sidewalk.  “Tony is Tony,” she finally said. 

I stared out the window, watching with fas
cination this rough male play as Tony wrenched Marco in a headlock and was pushing him cruelly into the concrete.  The rest of the boys looked on, elbowing one another and laughing. 

“Give!” Tony demanded.  “Give!” 

It seemed Marco would have no choice.  He was in my class at school but I wasn’t sorry to see my older brother getting the better of him.  My cousin Krista and I agreed Marco was a flat out jerk, always rolling spitballs between his teeth and checking out girls’ underpants on the jungle gym. 

“Give!”
  Tony growled, tightening his hold with a knowing grin. 

And then, with a suddenness which made me gasp, Marco tucked his head low and rolled into Tony’s abdomen, flipping my brother onto his back there on our front lawn. 

I couldn’t see Tony’s eyes as he lay there flat for an astonished second but I knew his anger would already be stewing.  Reluctantly, I allowed a flash of admiration for scrappy Marco, who peered at Tony casually and finally stretched out a hand, a ‘Hey, we’re still friends’ gesture which Tony rewarded by springing to his feet and popping Marco in the mouth. 

My mother had seen enough.  She slammed the plate of hamburgers on the counter and tore out
of the screen side door, with me close at her heels. 

“Anthony Durant!” she screamed with her hands on her hips.  “You apologize to that boy and get in here this instant!” 

Tony, age eleven, glared at our mother with utter contempt.  He spit into the grass and stalked away. 

My mother was beside herself.  “Goddammit, Tony!” she screamed with an uncommon display of temper.  Tony did that to people.  “You just wait until your father gets home!” 

It was futile. Tony had already rounded the corner.  There was no justice which could
be meted out which he was frightened of. 

Grace Durant’s head dropped and she stared at the spot at the end of the driveway where she and my father had scraped their initials in wet cement eons ago.  “Shit,” she said softly, and then, with her hand at her mouth, brushed past me and back into the kitchen. 

The other boys had followed Tony, as they always did.  All but Marco, who wiped away the blood trailing from his lip and stared at me.  We regarded one another for a long silent moment before he gave his mouth one final swipe with the back of his hand and slowly walked across the street to his own house. 

I watched him as my mother slammed her way angrily around the kitchen, taking out her parental frustrations on the dinner preparations.  I knew there was likely no one home at Marco’s house.  His brother, Damien, was a whole five years older and off following his own mysteries.  His mother would of co
urse be slaving away at the bar she owned.  A twinge of pity touched me and I briefly considered asking my mother if maybe we should invite Marco to dinner.  It would be the sort of thing she would usually think of herself. 

But then I remembered that I really didn’t like Marco very much so I returned to the kitchen and quietly helped prepare the salad, dreading the hour my father and brother would arrive home and continue their perpetual war.  

And Marco?  I may have felt briefly sorry for him, but that was all.  He was not my friend. 

Marco rang the front doorbell promptly at 6pm.

I started for the door but my father threw me
a warning look and beat me to it.  This was his house.  And he would be the one to greet anyone who crossed the threshold. 

Part
icularly anyone who was messing around with his only daughter. 

“Marco, come in,” my father said, managing to keep his tone polite. 

“Hello, Mr. Durant.” 

To my shock, Marco was not only neatly combed
, freshly shaved and tucked in, but carried a small bouquet of flowers in his hand.  My mother, who emerged from the dining room wiping her hands on her apron, was charmed. 

“Daisies,” she grinned, touching him lightly on the arm in appreciation. “Dinner is just about ready.  Alan, would you mind opening a bottle of wine?”

“Meatloaf and wine?”  I asked, wrinkling my nose.

Grace waved her hand.  “Oh I didn’t make meatloaf after all.  Marco, I hope you like ravioli.” 

He smiled.  “I love ravioli, Mrs. Durant.” 

For a moment Marco and I lingered alone in
the living room together. Each time I observed him in the small home of my childhood, the larger he seemed.  His short dark hair had been slicked back and his plain blue shirt was neatly buttoned.  I started to let my gaze travel lower, past his belt buckle, then stopped myself, blushing.  Despite everything we’d already done, we were about to sit down to a family dinner. It seemed wrong somehow to fixate on the shape of his dick in such context. 

“You look nice,” I said, meaning it in every sense. 

Marco’s expression suddenly dropped the patina of politeness as his eyes roamed the length of my body, lingering on my breasts.  I’d fixed the buttons of the blouse I’d worn the day I arrived and paired it with a simple black skirt which reached to my knees.  I’d meant to look traditional, safe. 

But Marco’s burning gaze
let me know that nothing I did or didn’t wear would be safe.  “You look nice, too,” he drawled, spreading his hands over my ass and pulling me so close I could feel his sudden erection. 

“Behave,” I hissed, pushing him away as I
heard my parents arguing over which wine glasses to serve. 

He backed up, his palms out, his expression once again mild and gentlemanly.  “Of course, Angela.” 

I shot him a troubled glance, trying to gauge how much of a game this all was to him.  But he only stared back at me with a slight smile, letting me know I could guess all I wanted.

The dining room was scarcely large enough for a table. During holidays when the center leaf was inserted, it took up nearly the entire room and one had to scrape against the wall just to be seated. 

My mother had placed Marco’s daisies in a crystal vase in the center.  She had gone to some trouble, breaking out the good china and the ancient silver pieces inherited from a great grandmother. 

As Marco made a big show of manners by pulling my c
hair out, I started to feel a little out of sorts.  I’d set my expectations low for the evening, figuring my folks would likely be stern and disapproving, and that Marco would likely be a glib smart ass.  And that by the end of the meal everyone would be equally uncomfortable. 

But
Grace’s face was oddly radiant as she carried a basket of sliced Italian bread.  She seemed to have swiftly recovered from whatever disapproval she harbored toward Marco.  My father followed her into the dining room with a large bowl of steaming ravioli. 

“Looks wonderful, Mrs. Durant,” Marco said in a low, appreciative voice as my father set the large serving spoon in the center of the bowl. 

My father sat down at the head of the table, eyeing his dinner guest with distrust as he unfolded a linen napkin.  My mother sat to his right and I sat across from her.  Marco shot me an uncertain glance and finally sank into the high-backed chair next to my mother. 

Grace Durant laughed merrily.  “I hope your appetite is as hearty as it was when you were a boy,” she said, reminding him it wasn’t the first time he’d sat at our family’s table. 

Marco winked at me and grinned.  “
Improved with time, actually.” 

My father stared into his lap while my mother beamed.
And then I realized what she saw when she looked at Marco. 

She saw a reason for me to stay in Cross Point Village.

For a few minutes there was only the business of serving plates and the passing of dishes.  I glanced over at Marco and noted he seemed to be concentrating on ways to avoid getting any tomato sauce on my mother’s white damask tablecloth.  It actually touched me a little and when he looked up and saw me staring at him, his face wore a boyish intensity which crept into my heart. 

“How is everything
?” my father asked abruptly, his question directed squarely at Marco. 

Marco
looked at him with a touch of confusion.  Alan Durant could have been talking about anything from the ravioli to the Red Sox. 

“You were always a great cook, Mrs. Durant,” Marco said, answ
ering the question in the safest, most indirect manner he could muster. 

My mother was buttering a
slice of bread.  “Thank you, Marco.” 

Marco set his fork carefully in his bowl and cleared his throat.  “Look, I know I should have thanked you sooner, but I know everything you did for my mom.  When she got sick and all.  Your friendship meant a lot to her.  So thank you.” 

My mother’s face softened.  “She was a good neighbor.  And a good woman.” 

Marco swallowed. “I should have been there.”

“You were with her when she passed.”

He frowned into his pasta bowl, his face a mix of pain and frustration.  “Yeah, I was with her then.” 

My father’s voice was unexpectedly cold.  “And where were you before that, Marco?”

“Dad!”  I was shocked.  My father’s manners were ordinarily so impeccable they squeaked. 

Marco met his gaze clearly.  “I was in prison, Mr. Durant.” 

“You knew that,” I accused. 

“Alan,” pleaded my mother’s quiet voice. 

My father lowered his head and let out a deep sigh.  When he raised his eyes again they rested on me for a second before shifting back to Marco.  And I knew he saw the same thing my mother had seen; a reason for me to stay, a distraction
.  Only, unlike her, the concept did not please him. 

Still, he wasn’t willing to wage war over a table full of ravioli.  He took a sip of wine and tried again.  “How are things coming over at The Cave?” 

Marco relaxed visibly.  “Fine.  We’ll be reopening by the end of the week.  Floors were in sorry shape, lighting was shot and the bar itself was chipped in a thousand places.” 

“Boyle boys doing the work?” 

“Yes.”

My father nodded.  “They’re good workers.  Fair too.  I’m sure they’re giving you a good price.” 

“They are.  Good thing too.  Damien is driving out here for the reopening and he’ll make me answer for every penny.  Rightfully so,” he added. 

I stared at Marco.  His whole demeanor had changed when he began talking about the bar.  Gone was the lusty playboy I’d been rolling around with.  The bar, the
weight of responsibility, made him serious.  The Cave had been his mother’s whole life since he and Damien had taken off for more interesting places.  Perhaps he felt a moral imperative to treat it well, to make it successful.  Or maybe he saw taking over the bar as his chance to stop fucking around and join the realm of adulthood. 

Either way, observing this whole new dimension of his character was squeezing my heart in the most peculiar way. 

I took a long drink of wine and noticed Marco watching me.  I tried to decipher his look but he only toyed with his glass and resumed eating his ravioli. 

The rest of the meal passed uneventfully, except for a brief hiccup when Tony’s name was mentioned.  And as I watched the downturn of my mother’s soft mouth, I realized what else she saw in Marco. 

If Marco Bendetti, the ultimate bad boy, had reversed his fortunes and, by appearances, turned out all right, then perhaps Tony would as well. 

After dinner Marco helped carry the
dishes into the kitchen.  When we passed one another in the hallway he only smiled at me shyly and took the pile of plates I was carrying.  I put my hands on my hips, staring after him, wondering where the hell this well-mannered guy had come from. 

Dessert was a rich homemade cherry cheesecake.  I was full after one small sliver but Marco, to my mother’s delight, managed to polish off a sizeable wedge. 

As I stirred a cup of coffee my father relayed the regrettable news that the Cross Point Village cannon had been abused again. 

“Damn kids,” he swore, tossing a heaping spoonful of sugar into his coffee cup.  “I tell you, Grace, the things they’re rumored to do on our town’s monument would make your skin crawl.” 

“Is that still a thing?”  I asked, somewhat surprised.

“What?” my mother said, innocently. 

“Ah, nothing.  Just, I remember stories.  From high school.  About the cannon.  Kids used to…” I let my voice trail off, not wishing to inject the pleasant evening with the tawdrier side of CPV adolescence. 

And any
way, Cannon Banging, which was exactly what it sounded like, wasn’t an event I’d scored firsthand knowledge of. 

But there was someone sitting across the table
who had.

Someone whose tasteless nickname was derived from prowess at such activities. 

I dared a glance across the table and saw Marco Bendetti staring at me with scarcely disguised mirth.  I realized he knew exactly what I was thinking.  I quickly used the coffee mug to hide my transparent smirk while trying to listen to my father drone on about historical landmarks and youthful disrespect. 

It was half past eight by the time all the dishes were washed and Marco was
once again warmly thanking my mother for a good meal.  Then he extended a broad hand to my father.

“Sir,” he said sincerely. 

Alan took the offered hand and shook it firmly.  His eyes were narrow as he searched Marco’s face, waiting for a waver or a blink.  But Marco met his gaze and didn’t flinch. 

“Good night, Mr. Durant.” 

“Good night, Marco.  And please.  You’re a man now.  Call me Alan.” 

Marco nodded and turned to me
, maintaining an idyllic air of politeness.  “Nice night out, Angela.  I was thinking of taking a walk into town.  Care to join me?” 

“I would, thank you.  Let me just go change my clothes.” 

“I’ll wait here,” said Marco blandly.  And unnecessarily, I thought.  Until I remembered when I’d left him in the kitchen sweeping up broken glass while I intended to change my clothes.  And how he’d followed me. 

My face was hot as I disappeared down the hall.  It was rather a surreal parody; of course my
father knew Marco and I were screwing around.  Dollars to donuts my mother had grudgingly accepted it as well.  Yet there we all were proceeding with the fiction that a chaste summer stroll was all that was in the works.

I began tossing clothes out of my duffel bag, looking for something comfortable yet sexy and coming up dramatically short.
  Finally I sighed and slipped my skirt off, pulling on a pair of boxy high waist shorts which rolled down to a decent length, even as I reasoned that it didn’t matter a damn bit if Marco saw my thighs because he’d already seen me buck stinking naked and touched every inch there was.

Marco held out his arm as we stepped out into the night and I took it happily.  Once I glanced back to my house and saw my parents silhouetted in the doorway of the foyer.  Their shoulder to shoulder outline was the most familiar thing to me in the world, and with a pang I briefly waved and left them behind.  Although it seemed to me they had always been there, exactly like that, I knew it wouldn’t always be so.