Little Did I Know: A Novel (4 page)

The first time I had visited the theater I was chasing the plan. An expected brief trip to the Cape to access the situation was short-hopped due to an unexpected blast of winter and its twenty inches of snow. The storm had forced me to spend the night at an almost abandoned beachside motel, the only one whose lights were visible through the whiteout of the late-night blizzard. The following morning, as I drove for breakfast under a warm spring sun, I saw the theater compound all dressed in pristine white and glistening icicles that made the whole place look like it was draped in diamonds.

I wanted to know as much as possible about the theater to be well prepared when I reached out to Barrows. That morning I went to city hall and investigated the place, discovering a great deal about the Priscilla Beach Theatre, which was actually owned by the Barrows Foundation. It was the oldest “barn theater” in the country, staging its first performances just after the Civil War. It had many owners, managers, and famous players throughout its life. As is the norm in show business, it had seen good days and bad, long runs and seasons that never made it to the finish line.

I “let myself in” and inspected the place that very day with flashlight in hand. Immediately, I sensed the ghosts that filled the old barn. I knew at that moment that I wanted to be part of making them all reawaken, breathe again, sing a song, or tell a joke. I intended to bring the building back to life. That particular morning I had no idea how I would do so, but I knew it would all happen.

Suddenly the theater complex appeared on my left. The converted barn was more than a hundred years old. Two colonial farmhouses flanked it, and the compound was anchored by a maple tree surely old enough to have been planted by the Pilgrims. The porch that circled the structure was gray and weathered, the array of Adirondack chairs aged and in disrepair. Paint was a must for all the buildings; they were peeled like a sunburned back. The ocean was a shimmering turquoise blue less than a hundred yards away. The setting was a sepia postcard, with a history that cried out to sit up and sing.

I turned my car into the potholed parking area and sat a while with the motor off. I mused how even at my young age destiny had already altered my path. I had been a star athlete headed to college on a free ride when unexpected events rerouted my course. I was an anomaly, a varsity mainstay who chose to act in school plays rather than sports every day, all day. I was an A-list football star and a close second on the baseball diamond, yet I had angered my coaches by electing to spend hours in the theater rather than also play basketball. The theater bug had bitten me long ago, and although I could have healed and continued with sports, I had pursued this other passion—one that had earned me admittance to Tufts and accolades while there.

Growing up, except for the occasional Beatles or Sinatra song, I listened exclusively to show tunes. Broadway musicals captured my imagination. The medium transcended sports for me. The moments of exhilaration and the way it left me thinking about the talent or the message were elements I looked to explore. And here I was, poised to do so! I had passed on playing ball for a number of small colleges and universities that continued to woo me. As I sat there I felt it was meant to be: I had been injured and it forced me to change my route, and then I had discovered this place.

My reverie was interrupted by a gentleman whose look and garb were from another era. In his midsixties, his face showed he had worked outdoors. He wore overalls and a captain’s sea cap. Offering me a friendly smile he asked, “Can I help you, son? What are you looking for?”

“My future,” I replied.

“Don’t think you’ll find that here. This place is way past its heyday.”

I shrugged. “What is past is prologue.”

“Really? That’s pretty smart talk.”

“Bill Shakespeare said it.”

The elderly man furrowed his brow. “Don’t know the name. Does he live around here?”

“I believe so,” I said. “Perhaps I can make an introduction.”

I smiled, started up the Mustang, and headed out into the hovering honeysuckle-scented eve to find a place to spend my first night in Plymouth. I drove a short way down the road and stopped at the corner. If I turned left I would end up in England. I left the motor running and the car door open, walking a few yards to the shoreline. Finding four pennies in my pocket, I threw each one as far into the ocean as my arm would allow. Each shiny copper coin carried an identical wish. Then I returned to the car and drove away. I turned right, away from the Old Country, and into a new life that beckoned to me under a crisp sky dusted in burgeoning starlight.

I pulled up to the office of the Garden’s Beach View Motel. I awarded it my business over the others I’d passed because its sign offered the cheapest option. The place could have been any motel on the side of any highway, filled with patrons on their way to somewhere else. Garden’s might persuade you to stay longer, however, with its clear view of the glittering phosphorescent ocean. Guests had exclusive access to the beach through an old rickety staircase that led from the top of its bluff to the sandy shore a hundred feet below. What really made me feel at home, though, was the warmth and beauty of the surprisingly lovely desk clerk. Her name tag read
VERONICA CHAPMAN
.

Veronica was listening patiently to a disgruntled couple in their early sixties. Their complaint centered on the loss of several quarters in the vending machine.

“What do you intend to do about it, young lady?”

“Sir,” she said with a friendly smile, “how many quarters did our hungry soda machine eat today?”

“At least six,” the gentlemen stated with little grace.

“Perhaps eight or even ten,” his wife added, equally unhappy.

“Why did you continue to feed the monster after he ate your first few quarters?” Veronica asked. “Were you just being optimistic or were you hoping to help him put all his little soda people through college?”

The wife scowled at this comment. “This is no laughing matter, miss. In fact it’s theft, and we want something done immediately.”

“I’ll handle this, dear,” interjected the husband sternly. He turned his attention to Veronica, who remained smiling and winning. “This is no laughing matter, miss. In fact it’s theft, and we want something done immediately.”

You had to laugh, but Veronica didn’t. Instead she took charge. She opened the register and counted out twelve quarters. She walked purposefully from behind the registration desk and across the small lobby to the larcenous soda machine. She chanted some rather sweet lyrical melody, then struck the demon three times in the chest with her right hand and followed with a short kick to its oft side.

“You wanted a Fresca, ginger ale, and a Tab?” It was a more a statement then a question, for as she spoke the recalcitrant vending machine quickly delivered one of each soda. Veronica handed them to the increasingly bemused couple.

“Mr. and Mrs. Stewart, you know you’re my favorite guests and I want your stay here to be the best. Please take this note to the Garden Diner and they’ll give you a free dessert as a gesture of our appreciation for your business. Try the banana cream pie. It’s fattening but worth every single calorie.”

She opened the closet door to the right of her station and disappeared for a full count of three. Upon her return she carried two huge, luscious terry-cloth bath sheets and handed them to her now happy patrons. “Don’t tell the boss—this has to be
our
secret. These towels are from the Ritz-Carlton in Boston and I want you to feel like our little beachside stop is your five-star home.”

The Stewarts were grinning from ear to ear.

“You’re such a dear,” Mrs. Stewart said. Then to her husband, “Isn’t she dear? Give the young lady something for her kindness, Henry—and be generous.”

A very pleased Henry gave Veronica a crisp ten-dollar bill, and she thanked him with a lingering kiss on the cheek. He blushed and he and his wife left happy as a pair of Cape Cod clams. They had forgotten their twelve quarters and were light ten dollars, yet they were both in love with the enchanting Veronica Chapman.

I wanted to know this girl.

Her looks only threw fuel on that fire. She was more than pretty. You might describe her as ethereal: perfect skin, long, luscious blond hair, and stunning deep blue eyes that spoke to you, saying, “This was the place you had to be.” She was close to six feet tall and could have been a swimsuit model had the opportunity presented itself. She wore her hair up, held by a shiny lilac pin. Her sun-kissed shoulders were toned, long, and lithe. The slightest of spaghetti straps kept her modesty in check, as her jonquil sundress offered just a hint of cleavage and the promise of more. Her lips had a shine to them that shouted, “Kiss me.” The scent of fresh-picked strawberries hovered about her.

After waiting for a beat or two, I finally caught her eye. “That was amazing,” I said. “It seemed eerily practiced: well rehearsed, almost frightening. By my count, you just sold three sodas for thirteen bucks plus what the machine ate. That’s quite a haul.”

“I know.” She almost giggled. “It seems to work out that way more often than not. I don’t plan on it. Just takes a life of its own, I guess.”

She smiled and the birds sang sweeter and the sun beamed brighter. Our eyes met and lingered. Finally, I found my voice and asked her for a room. “Something simple and inexpensive,” I requested.

“We only have cheap and cheaper. For inexpensive you have to try the place down the road.” Then she offered me her cheapest room without indoor plumbing. To my delight, though, she was just flirting. She gave me a deal: five nights for $15. Then she offered her hand in welcome. I shook it as our eyes met again and I didn’t want to let go. As I headed out the door, Veronica offered coyly, “I’m here from noon on if you need anything, and my shift ends at ten if you need anything else.”

The girl knew how to work this boy. Rather than stand there speechless wearing an idiot grin, I opted to exit and regroup.

To my surprise, standing outside the office door was the Barrows’s limo driver. He quickly smiled and offered his hand. “I don’t mean to impose, but Mrs. Barrows asked you to join her for a drink this evening and I was waiting for the right moment as not to intrude.”

“I’m in,” I said without hesitation.

We arrived at the Full Sail within minutes. The joint was a beachfront tavern shoehorned at the intersection of Garden Road and Ocean Drive. A Crayola box of painted and faded beach cottages ran the length of the drive, all charming in a rundown sort of way. Even at this late hour, bikini-clad pretty young women cavorted on the beach under the appreciative eyes of young men looking for adventure. Clotheslines filled with towels, sheets, T-shirts, bathing suits, and more created a mosaic of vibrant colors to match the daily sunset and each morning’s dawn.

Kids rode bicycles down the drive, shouting at their friends and making plans. Music filled the air, adding to nature’s natural energy, playing out as life’s soundtrack throughout the day. The waterfront was precious and space was at a premium. There were no cars. People arrived at the Full Sail on foot or bicycle, or in my case chauffeured limo at the request of Mrs. Barrows.

The Full Sail was at peak throttle. I thought, as I looked around, that they must only let pretty people into the place. The tavern was little more than a shack with barstools three deep in front of a simple bar made of a series of varnished two-by-fours held together by nautical hardware. There were small square tables that spilled out onto a deck where at high tide you would feel the splash of a rolling ocean.

Holding court behind the bar was the owner, named Doobie or, for short, Doob (as in “pass the doob”). Doob, who had spent three highly decorated years in and around Saigon, clearly put in hours at the local gym. His Red Sox T-shirt burst at the seams, barely holding his muscles in place. He was friendly and accomplished at the bar, popping beer bottles, mixing drinks, taking food orders, and carrying on four or five conversations with his customers without missing a beat.

There was a small kitchen just to the left of the bar that kept pumping out oceanfront delicacies at incredible speed. Sea-salted spicy fries, lobster stew, grilled corn on the cob, quahogs, steamers, mussels in white wine and garlic, fish and chips, and more, all served with homemade bread and fresh churned butter. Doob’s mother, aptly named “Ma,” was the conductor of this culinary music.

I ordered a bottle of brew and searched for Mrs. Barrows, but found no one who resembled the explosive knockout from this morning. I decided to sit at a table outside, just a few feet from the ocean. Before I could settle in a young woman approached me. She was the essence of understated class. She wore little to no makeup; just a soft-pink lip gloss and something that made her eyelashes fetching yet unworldly. Her light-fuchsia dress stopped at the knee. Her breasts, although covered, were more than enticing. She wore her hair back, held in place by an aqua silk headband, and she had diamond studs in her pierced ears. She held a freshly lit Lucky Strike in her manicured fingers. It was quite clear that Lizzy Barrows was a chameleon.

She sat across from me, and before I could get up she made herself at home. An eager young waiter with
JIMMY
stenciled on his T-shirt brought an iced pink drink in a martini glass. The color of her cocktail matched the lip gloss she was wearing and her drink was garnished with a juicy orange slice suggesting a tribute to the young juicy woman about to drink it. “Jimmy” brought me a fresh beer as well and with his most sincere smile said, “Nice to see you, Mrs. Barrows. Enjoy your evening, Mr. August, sir.” He ambled away like a young puppy as I thought,
There is no “Mrs.” here, just this young lovely babe
, and that “Mr. August” was my father.