Little Did I Know: A Novel (7 page)

She shook her hair back and smiled a dazzling smile; she looked like a cat purring with contentment. “No secrets to be kept, Sam. I’m flattered you would like to take me out, but I regretfully pass.”

“Why pass?” I implored. “And with regret!”

“Because the regret in saying no is finite rather than the long-lasting kind I fear would occur if I gave you the opportunity to work your charms on me.” She said this with a slight giggle, then her face flushed.

“I promise I won’t be charming. I’ll be the opposite. I’ll be the anticharm, the antidote to charm, the abolishment of charm. I will have charm removed from the dictionary. Really, trust me.”

She tilted her head. “That’s charming. You just can’t help yourself. You’re like lighting a match in a room filled with gasoline. So . . . no.”

“Okay then, Ms. Chapman. I won’t be showering for the rest of my stay. I’ll make you dislike me enough to go out with me.”

“Now, that’s a novel approach. Have a good night, Mr. August.”

Veronica leaned across the front desk and gave me a sisterly peck on the cheek. She smelled like strawberries and looked good enough to eat.

I was speechless. I hovered for a moment thinking of something clever to say, but she went back to work, clearly not interested. I thanked her sincerely for the deal on the room and left.

I paused a moment in the parking lot. I realized that within a few days I would never see Veronica again. I could live with that. There were other fish in the sea. I mean Plymouth
was
a seafood town.

Why did that ring hollow?

I took the stairs to my room two and three steps at a time, then opened the door. I grabbed my old football canvas duffle bag with the words
South High 1972 Unbeaten Division One Champions
stenciled in cursive on the side. I threw in some clothes, my toiletries, and the novel I had been reading for the fifth or sixth time:
The Fountainhead.
If Salinger’s
Catcher in the Rye
, with its rebellious overtones, was the book for junior high school, then
The Fountainhead
was my book for college; it identified my road to individualism, integrity, and the pursuit of brilliant, pristine artistry. The lead character in the novel, architect Howard Roark, was an inspiration. Roark lived his life with grit and conviction. He believed that

men have been taught that it is a virtue to agree with others. But the creator is the man who disagrees. Men have been taught that it is a virtue to swim with the current. But the creator is the man who goes against the current. Men have been taught that it is a virtue to stand together. But the creator is the man who stands alone. The artist is life. Those who live off his ideas and his toil are second-handers living a second-hand life, not their own.

When his work was betrayed, Roark did more than simply complain. He destroyed his building, as it no longer reflected his vision or integrity. An artist’s work must be accepted on his own terms. He had the great courage not to care if others embraced him. Each time I read the book I wanted to howl at the moon and say, “Let me be Howard Roark for a single day and I will be closer to being a true artist.”

I called the front desk. “The answer remains the same, Mr. August,” Veronica said in what surely sounded to me like a smoky, throaty, just-been-fucked voice.

“Do you sound that way with everyone?” I was forced to ask.

“What do you evea mean?” she replied. Mellifluous to be sure. My libido was clearly not broken; it had been reignited by the charms and rejections of Veronica Chapman, the blond goddess shrink-to-be. Maybe she’d continue to drive me crazy and I could make an appointment with her.

“Please connect me long distance to Boston,” I said, and then I gave her the number for Secunda.

The phone rang twice and Secunda picked up with a gruff hello.

I
had met Secunda, also known as Josh to our friends, during my second year at Tufts. He was a senior finishing up his sixth year while assuring his wealthy parents that he would graduate before the seven-year itch sent him out to pasture. Secunda was many things, one of which was a bit of an asshole. To say that he was unique was to suggest Willie Mays could hit a little and Monet had somewhat of an affinity for lilies.

Josh’s real name was Albert Feldman, a moniker he grew up hating as it was devoid of poetry and lilt, particularly for a short, stocky Jewish kid. So he changed it to Secunda. Other than being vertically challenged at just shy of five feet eight inches, Josh had grown up quite handsomely. He looked like a young Anthony Quinn in
The Guns of Navarone
and managed to pull off the kind of goatee worthy of Errol Flynn in
The Adventures of Robin Hood
.

Secunda always wore suits. These usually reflected his dark mood—navy blue, black, brown—in a fabric to match the season: linen for the summer months, light wool for the spring and fall, and heavy cashmere in the winter. He wore expensive shirts buttoned to the collar and finished off each outfit with boots that added nearly three inches to his height. He spent hours in the weight room and boxed semipro every weekend at a thirties gym in South Boston. He had the anger and menace of an Irish cop with a right cross to match. Secunda was spoiled and he let everyone know it. He drove a red Alfa Romeo convertible and ate at Boston’s best restaurants, flashing his gold Amex card like a magic wand.

His extravagance was complemented by his talent. He played the trumpet like Armstrong, sang like Paul Robeson, and could interpret a character on stage with the instinct and charisma that only God could bestow. With women Secunda was always in demand. He regularly showed up with yummy eye candy on his arm. He was the envy of many. His relationships were monogamous, intense, and all too brief for the women he dated. He was often off wooing the next heart while the one left behind was still breaking. He was also indispensable to my project.

“The eagle has landed,” I said thinking myself rather clever.

“What?” asked Secunda.

“The eagle has landed!”

“Okay.”

“Neil Armstrong said that when he walked on the moon.”

“So?” He was clearly baiting me.

“So?
That was a good thing, and what’s happened here in the last twenty-four hours is that the plan is working.”

“Why didn’t you just say that instead of all this moon stuff?”

“Secunda! The plan is going to happen!”

“Good for you, Sammy.”

“That’s it? Good for me? I’ve been here a day and it’s already coming together.”

“That’s the curse of being a superstar, Sammy. No one expects any less. I’ll be there tomorrow. Where are you staying?”

“Garden’s Beach View Motel. It’s at the intersection of 3A and Rocky Hill Road.”

“It must be cheap. I don’t lodge cheap.”

“It’s cheap, not diseased.”

“Be nice and I’ll buy you a lobster tomorrow night.”

“Deal.”

“I’ll be there by noon. I’m going to bring JB and James. If the ‘plan’ is going to happen we have to keep them in the loop. Know anybody who can find me a date? I can’t just break bread with the three of you. I imagine some attractive woman there wants a lobster.”

“Noon at my motel. I’ll work on the date. Have James bring his tool kit. And stop on the way down and pick up some high-beam flashlights. I’m going to eat a five-pound lobster, by the way. Do you know why?”

“Because
the eagle has landed!!!
” we both screamed through the phone with unbridled joy.

“Noon tomorrow, Sammy.” And then he was gone.

A moment later I picked up the phone to speak to Veronica. “Yes, Mr. August. May I help you?” Why did she always sound as if she was flirting?

“Veronica, I know this is short notice, but I’ve had a change of plans. Would you please reconsider and let me take you out?”

“You know, Sam, I’m not the only fish in the sea. You’re in Plymouth and it
is
a seafood town.”

Now that was weird
, I thought.

“Sam, drive into town. You’ll find a date in a heartbeat. You’re adorable, but I’m just not in the market for what you are selling.” She said this so sweetly. I liked her. I really did.

“Okay,” I said with resignation. “Where do you suggest I start?”

“Stay away from Lizzy Barrows.”

I thought she was going to say more, but she remained silent.

Then just before I hung up she added, “Try the White Cliffs. It’s always full of surprises. Ask for Sidney. I’ll call him and tell him to buy you a drink. Go have fun. You’re over twenty-one and there are girls everywhere. You won’t be lonely for long.”

The phone clicked and I had no time for rebuttal.

My day had been a roller-coaster ride of emotions and events. A shower refreshed me and gave me a second wind. I dressed in my one pair of blue jeans, well-worn sneakers, and red alligator shirt. I grabbed a white hooded sweatshirt that said
TUFTS
across the front. I realized as I checked my hair in the mirror that I looked a bit like the American flag.
Oh well, it’s Plymouth.

I was clean shaven, my hair as always was somewhat unkempt, dark, with a soft curl that prevented me from looking too coifed. I smiled, thinking I looked better than good. Plymouth was waiting and I had baited the hook.

I put the top down on the Mustang and headed easily down Route 3A toward Plymouth Bay and the postcard village that surrounded it. I drove past the high school and the playground that bore the name Barrows. I slowed as I passed the tourist places like the Plymouth Plantation, which replicated the original settlement of more than three hundred years ago. The houses were so tiny. Where would someone my size sleep?

It was still early and the wharf was quiet. Neon signs flashed happily and painted the harbor in a prism of color. The restaurants prepared for the onslaught of hungry families soon to arrive, and the bars waited for tonight’s party to begin. I was eager for action, so I headed north looking for distraction and company.

The sky, which had earlier been clear and bright, was now gray and cold. Big puffy clouds were blocking the moon and obfuscating the stars. They looked like huge cotton balls tarnished and covered with soot. Rain was definitely on the way.

I pulled into a local watering hole called the Moondog, basically a doublewide trailer home selling whiskey and beer. I parked in the crowded lot, put the top up in anticipation of rain, and headed inside. I ordered bourbon neat and watched the crowd as if doing research on the human condition.

The Moondog was a relaxed place to see friends and coworkers, but at the same time one could imagine that on summer nights when the hour got late it was an environment that brewed trouble and contempt followed by cheap, petty bar fights. I imagined it peopled by wealthy tourists or the college crowd from Boston or Providence who would arrive in season and go slumming. All pleased and privileged they’d come looking for one-night stands with the local working class. The guys who worked with their hands and backs were fit and strong, willing and desperate. This was also the place to meet the girls that someone like Veronica Chapman went to high school with, who would get naked fast for a guy who a drove a Porsche or flashed the promise of easy money.

I finished my drink quickly. There was nothing here for me, at least not tonight. I decided to try to find Marty Stanhope and query him on the Barrows. I took a deep breath outside the smoke-filled bar, started up my car, and got onto Route 3A heading south in the ebony, rain-filled night.

I drove for the next ten minutes or so, thinking about all the possibilities rattling inside my head. Bonnie Raitt sang softly on the radio; bluesy, sexy, practically promising an imminent tryst and making that sort of thing seem strangely so very important.

I slowed down and turned left in front of a brightly lit sign that read:

THE WHITE CLIFFS

PLYMOUTH’S LUXURY BEACHFRONT HOMES

FINE DINING, LIVE MUSIC

DANCING UNDER THE STARS

I wasn’t going to be doing much fine dining on the cash in my pocket. Still, I proceeded up a long, winding gravel road. Deep, dense woods bracketed each side. The night was black and the only light visible inside my car came from the dashboard.

Then suddenly I arrived at the end of the road and light was everywhere. An enormous glass building seeming to radiate with white heat was perched on the edge of the cliffs overlooking the Atlantic. The place looked like a spaceship about to take off. I pulled up to the valet, got out and tossed the keys to a guy whose name tag read WILLIE. I headed inside.

T
he White Cliffs was Vegas with an ocean as its backyard. The continuous aural din was that of crashing waves rather than slots, yet the crowd and lounge music were a perfect match. The restaurant seats were upholstered in red leather, with black wood and polished chrome trimmings. The half-circle bar was elevated three steps above the dance floor, from where you could see a galaxy of sky; tonight it pelted windswept, angry raindrops against the windows. The drinks were served in big, heavy goblets, and you could nurse one for hours while you looked for a mermaid to wash ashore. Behind the red-vested barmen hung a floor-to-ceiling gilded mirror that doubled the view of the room. There were dozens of booths and myriad tables all dressed with white, starched tablecloths, each adorned with lit candles that reflected like fireflies against the plate-glass windows soaring twenty feet above, abutting the domed top hat of the roof.