Becca Page 2

  “It’s possible, but I only work there four days a week now that I’m in college.”

  “What days would those be?”

  “Why should I tell you the days that I’m working there?”

  “Why not?”

  “Okay, I’ll tell you, but so you know what days not to come in.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because when you see me, you might want to hang out and talk—kind of what we’re going here right now. My boss wouldn’t like that.”

  “I’d only come in there to buy stuff. I wouldn’t want to waste your time. And to be fair, I’ll have to ask you to not come here when I’m working here.”

  “If I should ever come back here, it will on a Friday because you don’t work Fridays. And don’t you come into the A and P on Saturday, Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday. Okay?”

  “Got it.”

  “Will you remember? You didn’t write it down.”

  “I’ll remember. And since we’ll never see each other again, I might as well tell you that you were right all along.”

  “About what?”

  “I was ogling you.”

  She nodded emphatically. “I know. And if you hadn’t that would have upset me a lot”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “You’re not supposed to, but I’ll explain. If you stare, it’s impolite. If you don’t stare it’s an insult because a girl figures the guy doesn’t think she’s attractive enough to warrant his attention even though she knows she does.” She giggled and waved her fingers at him. “Good-bye.”

  VI

  It took him fifteen minutes to walk home. The house, a two-story home set back from the street and framed by two large oaks in the front yard, needed painting. A gentle light that flickered occasionally shined through the shades in one of the front rooms. He walked up to the front porch and opened the screen door, which gave an annoying creak. In the living room to his left, the The Tonight Show played on the TV.

  “Is that you, Bert?”

  “Yes, Mom.”

  “How was your night?”

  “Fine.”

  “There’re some sandwiches in the refrigerator.”

  “Thanks.”

  “There’s a letter from Matthew on the table. He’s in bought a house in Tampa. Imagine that. He just received a big promotion and he’s asked me to come visit.”

  “That would be nice, Mom.”

  “Oh, I’m sure he means us, Bertram.”

  “I’m sure he did.”

  Bert hardly knew his half-brothers, but he knew them well enough to know that their absence from his mother’s life was a reflection of their shame and embarrassment caused by her involvement with Bert’s father. Perhaps if Bert did not live with his mother, her other sons would reconcile with her—but as long as he was in her home, his presence was a stark reminder of the anger they harbored for her indiscretion.

  Bert went into the kitchen and pulled the sandwich out of the refrigerator, poured a glass of milk, sat at the table and read Matthew’s short letter as he ate. Afterward he went to the living room to bid his mother good night.

  The touch of his lips on her cheek made her smile, but her son’s unhappy expression disturbed her. She took his hand. “You seem so down all the time.”

  “Sorry…I’m just…I don’t know. I don’t see that anything’s changed.”

  “Things have changed. This is a nice neighborhood.”

  “It’s not the neighborhood, Mom. People look at me—at us—the same way they did at home.”

  “Bertram, this is your home.”

  “You know what I mean. I don’t fit in.”

  She felt her son’s loneliness and it hurt her. He had always considered himself an outsider, on the fringe of belonging. She felt the familiar tug of guilt knowing even her other sons never fully accepted him. She appraised Bertram. Six-foot tall, lean, penetrating hazel eyes, thick curly black hair and a mouth that formed a beautiful smile—or had when he was younger. People said he was beautifully handsome. Such a shame that he did not realize how beautifully handsome he was. Nor did others who looked at him because his handsome features were what set him apart. “I’m sorry, baby,” she said.

  “I wish you wouldn’t call me that.”

  “You are my baby. My last child. You will always be my baby.”

  “And don’t tell me you’re sorry, Mom. You don’t have to apologize to me.”

  “You need a friend, honey.”

  “I had friends before.”

  “They got you in trouble. They weren’t good friends.”

  “Moving out here isn’t going to get me friends.”

  “No, but it will keep you away from your old friends” She paused. “You need a girlfriend.”

  “And how would I find one?”

  “You should go out—talk to the girls. You can’t meet girls at the gas station.” She ran her hand through his hair and that drew a smile from him. His beautiful smile. “Go to a dance somewhere. Make friends.”

  “It’s not easy.”

  “You don’t try.”

  Bert didn’t want the discussion to turn into an argument. He said, “I’m going to bed, Mom.”

  He went to his room, turned on the radio on the nightstand. KDKA was broadcasting a Pirate game from Los Angeles. He listened to Bob Prince’s play-by-play, but he was not hearing him as his mind went back to the conversation with the girl in the car, and heard his mother’s words, “You can’t meet girls at the gas station.”

  VII

  “Where have you been?”

  Becca stumbled on the first step at the sound of the voice that stabbed at her from the dark living room. She turned to face the blackness, knowing that in the corner, in the recliner that faced another corner and the TV, he sat there, feet on the ottoman, one hand curled around a pipe.

  “I asked you a question.” Now the smell of pipe tobacco—Sir Walter Raleigh Aromatic—wafted over her.

  “I was out,” she said, looking up the stairs at the light shining from under the closed door at the top on the right. Mom was in bed watching The Tonight Show.

  “Of course you were out. I know that. That’s why I didn’t ask if you were out. I asked you where you have been.”

  She said, “I went to Barb’s and then we went to a dance at the Varsity House.”

  “Yes, that’s what Barb’s mother said. You left the Varsity House at what time?”

  “Ten-thirty.”

  “And went straight to Barb’s to drop her off?”

  “Yes.”

  “And came straight home?”

  “Yes. Well, I mean I stopped for gas.”

  “No you didn’t. Mr. Kline said you hadn’t stopped in.”

  “You talked to him? You were checking up on me?”

  “Yes,” he said as if her question surprised him.

  She said through a sigh, “I didn’t stop at the Sunoco. It was too crowded. I went to that small gas station on Allegheny River Boulevard.”

  “Which one?”

  “I don’t even know the name of it. There’s no sign.”

  “Why did you stop there?”

  “I told you, Kline’s was busy and besides the other station is right on the way—”

  There was the Sir Walter Raleigh again, and the sound of the heavy body moving on the chair. “Don’t raise your voice to me, young lady. I’m your father—”

  “I know, Dad, and I think you regret it sometimes.”

  “Don’t say that. I’m just concerned about what you do.”

  “Or what I might do. That’s it, isn’t it?”

  “I have a reason to be concerned.”

  “Oh, here we go again. Let’s not talk about that. Please.”

  “That is why I need to know where you’ve been. You nearly ruined your life.”

  At the sound of the body moving and the heavy footfall, she put a foot on the next riser, but stopped. It would do no good to climb the stairs; he would only follow. She stared up at the
door behind which her mother sat in bed.

  “No,” she said, shaking her head. “You’re wrong. I did ruin my life, and two others. But I had help. You forget—”

  “Don’t you talk to me that way.” The voice moved closer—the Sir Walter Raleigh aroma slipped around her like an unwanted coat. “Don’t you dare try and make any of it my fault.” He said calmly, “It’s a ten minute drive from Barb’s to that station, and a ten minute drive from there to here. Five minutes for gas. You’re missing about a half hour.”

  “I had to wait while the guy finished another car.”

  “So he was busy also?”

  “No. I mean not like Mr. Kline.”

  “Hmmm. But you could sit and wait at this other gas station but not at the Sunoco?”

  “I had my oil checked and my windshield cleaned—I hit a bug—”

  “You’re telling me because you hit a bug it took you longer to get home?”

  “I was talking to the guy there and I guess I lost track of time.”

  “Who was he? What’s his name?”

  Her recollection of the conversation wanted to bring a smile to her face, but she could not do that now—although during her drive home a smile had been there until she opened the front door. She could not get Bertram—Josh, whatever his name was—involved in this, but she could not deny she had spoken to him. “His name was Josh.”

  “You spent a half hour talking to this Josh.”

  “Yes. No. I drove around for a little bit afterwards.” She had even considered returning to the gas station, but she did not. Instead, she drove aimlessly for nearly ten minutes trying to make sense of the conversation she’d had with Bertram. It had invigorated her—and had rekindled a deep feeling of sadness at the same time.

  “He must have been an interesting young man.”

  “He made me laugh.”

  “A joker, too.”

  “Dad, please.”

  “Greg doesn’t make you laugh? I’m not going to apologize about questioning you. You’re just now getting yourself straightened out and I don’t want to think we’re going down the wrong path again.”

  “We? I thought it was all my fault. I’m the one who embarrassed you.”

  “Stop it. You know I won’t have you go through that again.”

  “I’m not whoring around.”

  He removed the pipe from his mouth and jabbed it at her as he spoke. “That was your word, not mine.”

  “But it’s what you think, right? Because that’s what I did.” She sighed heavily. “My leg hurts, I’m tired; I want to go to bed.”

  Two

  I

  Bert’s day started with an Army recruiter trying to talk him into enlisting to avoid the inevitable draft. Enlisting would offer him choices he would not have if he entered the Army involuntarily. Soon, Bert would have to make a choice so he took the recruiter’s card.

  Early in the afternoon, a car pulled to a stop at the pumps and the driver shut off the engine. The man watched Bert as he approached the car from the office.

  “Yes sir?” Bert asked.

  The heavyset driver had a moustache and wire-rimmed glasses. He regarded him curiously for a moment before speaking. “Fill it up,” he said.

  Bert inserted the nozzle and started working on the windshield. The man watched him.

  “Excuse me,” the man said. “Who works Friday nights?”

  Bert paused before he answered. The man looked familiar, although Bert knew he had never seen him before. “The manager usually,” he said.

  “What’s the manager’s name?”

  “Carl.”

  “Did he work last night?” The man’s voice held a threatening tone.

  “No.”

  “Do you know a Josh?”

  Bert felt a quick twinge of apprehension but remained cool and hoped his reaction did not show. The man had to be the father of the girl from last night. Bert could not remember anything that he may have said that would have offended her, and if he had why had she said that Josh had been the one? The girl did not want her father to know she had talked to him. It would be easy for her father to find out no one named Josh worked there.

  Bert said, “Well, Josh doesn’t really work here, but he was helping me last night.”

  “Do you remember my daughter stopping in here?”

  “What does she look like?”

  “Green eyes, freckles—drives a Mustang.”

  “There was a Mustang in here just as I was ready to close. I was in the office. Josh pumped her gas.”

  The man studied him for a moment. “What’s your name?”

  “Bertram. Oh, man, did Josh say something bad to her? Are you her father?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Josh took a long time and he was talking to her. I’m sorry if he said anything wrong.”

  The man seemed to be surprised at this information, and he considered it before speaking. “I don’t know what they talked about. I just wanted to know if she spoke to someone here.”

  “I’d get in trouble with Carl if he found out I had someone pumping gas who didn’t work here.”

  “So she was here maybe fifteen or twenty minutes?”

  Bert shrugged nonchalantly. “Yeah.”

  The pump clicked off and Bert replaced the hose and took money from the man. “Check your oil, sir?”

  The man shook his head. “No thank you. Oh, one more thing, was she alone?”

  Bert said, “Yeah.”

  The man thanked him and drove off.

  II

  When she entered the house, her mother sprang to her feet and came to her. Her father remained seated, puffing harshly on his pipe. The Sir Walter Raleigh hung heavy in the air. She set down her books and clutched her car keys tightly.

  “Honey,” her mother said and touched her arm gently. “Your dad wants to ask you something.”

  Her eyes went to her father. She tensed. “What’s wrong?”

  Her father lit the pipe, which gave off a pleasant aroma that hung in the air around him for a few seconds before dissipating. He said, “You said you stopped at the Quick Oil station and talked to a guy named Josh last night.”

  “Yes.”

  Her father watched her, as if to catch an expression of guilt or worry. “Are you sure Josh was the name of the guy you talked to?” He stared at her through another smoke cloud.

  She felt her face flush. “Yes.”

  “You sure it wasn’t Bertram?”

  “Bertram?” She tried not to show her worry. “Who’s Bertram?”

  “He was there last night also.”

  She shrunk under her father’s gaze, but said, “You checked up on me.”

  “I did.”

  “So you know I told you the truth.”

  Her father paused before speaking. A cloud of smoke arose from his pipe. “Bertram told me you spoke to someone named Josh.”

  She tried not to show her relief. “So what is this all about then?”

  “I’m not sure I believed him.” Her father took the pipe from his mouth and used it as a pointer. “Listen to me, Becky; I want to know if you were talking to Bertram rather than Josh.”

  “Why?”

  “Did you see someone else at the station?”

  Becca shrugged. “There was somebody in the office.”

  “Did you see him?”

  “I didn’t pay attention. What’s going on?”

  “Bill,” Becca’s mother interceded, “what’s wrong?”

  “There was another young man there last night. He said Josh and Becky spoke.” Bill said to Becca, “I’m inclined to think you talked to Bertram.”

  Becca tried to contain her anger. “Why would you think that?” But she knew the answer.

  “He reminded me of Alex.”

  “What are you talking about? Who’s Bertram? Please stop talking about Alex!”

  “Don’t you raise your voice to me!”

  “Then please stop talking about Alex. It hurts to t
alk about him.”

  “And it should. You would have been living your life in shame right now and you know it.”

  Becca smirked. “But I would have been happy.”

  Her father jammed the pipe in his mouth and composed himself before speaking. “You…disappoint me. You disappoint your mother.” He paused. “You’ll have a much better life with Greg, Becky. He’s the right kind.”

  “The right kind?” Becca shook her head slowly. “The right kind.”

  “He’s a fine young man, and a perfect gentleman. He’s going places. You don’t need to mess around with someone else.”

  “Who am I messing around with, Dad? Just because I talked to a guy at a gas station you think I’m going to mess around with him?”

  “You didn’t talk to Bertram?”

  “If he reminds you of Alex, don’t you think I’d remember?” She felt a flood of emotion when she said the name.

  “Yes, and I also think it would be reason for you to lie to me.” A heavy silence followed for a few seconds, and he said, “I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt this time. But I’d better not find out you were lying to me. I’ll not let you take up with someone—”

  She burst out in sobbing laugh. “Take up with someone. Dad, why don’t you just say what you want to say.”

  “You want me to say it, Becky? You don’t want to hear what I want say.”

  “I’ve heard it before: bitch, slut, whore—” Her father’s hand caught her cheek.

  “Bill! Stop!” her mother shouted.

  “She’s She deserved that!” To his daughter, Bill said, “You don’t ever talk to me that way! Do you hear me?”

  Becca said nothing, but looked at him through a haze of anger and hurt.

  “Are you listening to me?” His fingers touched her under her chin and raised her head.

  “Yes,” she mumbled.

  “I don’t want you to put your mother and me through it again. Do you hear me? Let’s just say this matter is closed, okay?”

  She nodded. Yes, close it. Like all the other matters, they would close this way. Only there was never any conclusion.

  III

  Bert was finishing his lunch when his mother came up from the basement where she had started the wash. She stood next to him, watching him eat, not saying anything for a full minute until he looked up at her.

  “What’s this?” She held the recruiter’s card.