Jag. Though we were on the summer’s downside peering into very early fall, the town, like so many in the area, bustled with visiting pink and green clad boaters. Very different from the snowy winter when the population shrunk to a fraction of its summer size—which was exactly how the ritzy year ‘rounders liked it.
With five to go before the train’s arrival, a silver and black Cherokee double parked in the station’s lot. My eyes combed the slow moving traffic, but no one stopped or even looked for a parking place. I reached into the back seat, grabbed the binoculars, and checked for anyone staked or suspiciously loitering. Nothing caught my eye. Manny’s heavily tinted car windows kept me well hidden so, when the train pulled in, I focused the glasses toward the platform.
Lou bounded out of the last car wearing pleated linens and a white windbreaker. When he turned in my direction I saw the bright multi-colored shirt and dark suspenders—a long reach from his typically tired threads. My stocky father-in-law looked downright sporty. He also looked as if he had lost weight.
Lou paused at the edge of the platform. For a brief instant I grew paranoid about my tinted glass protection and slumped in my seat. By the time I lifted my head Lauren had joined him. I raised my glasses and watched up close as Lou unzipped his overnight bag and pulled out something white and cylindrical. He unrolled and shaped it into a large brimmed Panama which he handed to Lauren who clapped her hands, kissed his cheek, and plopped it on. The two appeared oblivious to the surrounding foot traffic. When I saw Lou reach back down into his nylon bag, I once again scanned the entire area and, once again, came up empty. Lou didn’t; when I turned back to the station a plum beret perched jauntily on his head.
Pleats, thinner, a lilt to his step, and a fucking beret. I huffed and puffed on my cigarette until they left the quaint station. Then I started my engine and concentrated on my job. I knew where they were going, but wanted to see if anyone else was curious.
No one was. I looked around again to make sure no one had their eyes on me before pulling out onto the street. The Hats were on their way to Rockport, an artsy/fartsy town on the tip of Cape Ann, Cod’s smaller sister. If Magnolia was busy, Rockport was going to be tourist hell. There’d be no way to use the car as a blind so I’d have to pick them up on foot.
By the time I passed the fishing wharfs in Gloucester, all trace of my buzz was gone. The day remained bright and beautiful, but my mood was darkening. The shock at seeing Lou decked out in colors had evaporated. Now I just felt tired, torn, and an odd, forlorn sadness.
I pulled into a parking space about eight blocks from Rockport center, retrieved a beer from the cooler in the trunk, and retreated inside the dark interior. The town was dry and I didn’t want to flaunt the law. Or carry a brown paper bag. I finished the Bass, smoked the roach and, finally, unable to stall any longer, kicked myself out the door.
My pace quickened as I approached the pedestrian swamped town center. The crowd was even larger than I’d anticipated and, for a moment, I worried about locating the lovers. An irrelevant concern since my eyes locked onto Lou’s plum beret and Lauren’s Panama the moment they bobbed out of a two hundred year old doorway. I controlled my claustrophobia and plunged deeper into the moving mass, one eye on the hats, the other on the surrounding crowd.
Lou and Lauren rambled up the narrow winding street. The painted colonials housed art galleries, pseudo-scrimshaw shops, t-shirt concessions, and salt water taffy “factories.” Our country’s forefathers couldn’t have built a better outdoor shopping mall if they’d had blueprints. How wonderful it was that we lived in the age of recycling.
Store after store was jam packed with Bermuda shorts. The air overhead reeked thick and tangy with an odor war between the salty ocean and a mélange of perfume, pizza, and fried dough. I stayed far behind the strolling couple, continually monitoring the flow for anything the least bit unusual.
But the only thing extraordinary was the old clapboard buildings’ ability to absorb the crush of shop-’til-you-droppers.’ Lou and Lauren sauntered in and out of different stores, her stylish leather sack swelling after each stop. More than once I saw Lou fiddle with his wallet. Eventually, they broke free of the swarming crowd and walked hand-in-hand toward the public benches overlooking the ocean. I ducked into a tight doorway and kept watch until I was sure no one followed.
There was no reason to hang around, but oddly, the unending mass shopping bags had triggered my own acquisitiveness. After a few long, madness induced minutes resisting the lust to consume, buy, steal, something, anything, I slowly trucked back to Manny’s car.
Nothing occurred on my guard, unless you counted the last second decision to bypass their exit and scoot to Bill & Bob’s Roast Beef in Beverly. Lauren ran in and brought out a large bag of what I presumed was cooked cow. But once she drove to her house, my evening, night, and early morning were spent reading Macdonald and a backlog of sports pages.
By the time I returned to my apartment I was stiff, stuffed, and drained. And felt even worse after the telephone rang early the next morning.
“Where the hell were you last night?”
“Oh, Christ,” I groaned. “I forgot to leave a message.” I unscrewed my body from the couch where I’d fallen asleep and groped for a cigarette. “I’ve been stalking Lauren—shit, somebody has to. Got home about four.”
“Why didn’t you come here?”
“I didn’t want to disturb you,” I lied. I’d forgotten more than the message; I’d forgotten she was home.
“So we’re not going to see each other until you’re finished?” Boots’ voice was strained.
“No, I’ll come by tonight.”
“Why will this night be different?”
“I won’t be spending most of it in Manuel’s car.”
“What happened to the B.M.W.?”
“Too easy to recognize.”
“So you decided to take Lauren seriously.” Boots sounded satisfied despite herself.
“I did what I said I’d do.”
“Well, that’s a start,” she said.
I crushed the cigarette, glanced at the time, and realized I wanted off. “Boots, I overslept and I’m running late. I’ve got to hit the street.”
“Hit it once for me,” she said, feigning humor. “What time will you be here?”
“Between eight and nine. Don’t wait to eat.”
“I’m waiting to talk, not eat.”
“What does that mean?”
“You’ll find out when you get here,” she warned before hanging up the phone.
I thought about calling her back. Then thought about having forgotten her return and my immediate relief when the phone went dead. I didn’t understand what was happening between us, but I didn’t like it.
The conversation with Boots later that night did little to clear up my confusion.
“This
