Wanting Rita (6 page)

Her father had been a doctor on Long Island; she went to the best schools and the best country club dances. Her passion now was the flower and vegetable gardens that surrounded the house and the pond. She collared Judy and me on late autumn mornings to help plant crocus and daffodil bulbs and yanked us out of bed on early spring mornings to hoe, plant seeds and pull weeds. Dad built the rose trestles and designed the rock gardens by the pond. We all pruned the blackberries and raspberries, and then picked them in August. Dad grumbled away from his newspapers and biographies of Washington, Hamilton and Lincoln to help plant string beans, cucumbers, radishes and tomatoes, and he never missed an opportunity to say, “Catherine, we can hire people to do this, you know.”

She never responded. She just kept on working.

There was no secret that Mom disliked Hartsfield and wanted to move closer to New York. It was no secret that the gardens were her therapy and she let everyone know it. “How did I wind up in Hartsfield” was one of her monthly mantras, when the weather was dreadful, when she was bored or when she and my father had jousted over shopping, vacations or politics. It was effective ammunition that consistently sent my father into a frustrating silence.Dad was efficient, deliberate and suave, looking like one of those actor doctors on TV, advertising insurance or antacid, giving off a distinguished calm and trustworthy comfort. He had married late and was 16 years older than Mom. He had a broad face, steady dark eyes and brush strokes of gray above the ears and at the temples. He never hurried, seldom raised his voice and always held himself proudly erect and appropriately serious, as if he was one of America’s founding fathers who had to keep up appearances for all of posterity, forever and ever. Amen. He was what was known as a “stuffed shirt.” He was 58 years old. Mom was 42.

He had inherited the house, some real estate and the family accounting business, as well as a substantial amount of money from his petulantly stern father, with the proviso that he live in Hartsfield and in that house. So that’s how it was. Mom died in Hartsfield but was buried in Bayshore, Long Island, because that was her wish.“So where are you taking Rita, Alan?” Mom asked.“We’re just going to drive around, I guess.”“Drive around,” she repeated, distastefully. “Alan, you must have some goal in mind. Some specific planned destination.”I raised my impatient eyes to hers. Mom always dressed expensively and impeccably. She wore a blue silk blouse, pearl earrings and black woolen pants with heels. She firmly believed that women should always wear heels. I never, not once, saw her in sneakers or flat shoes. I reasoned it was probably because she was 5’ 1”. Even when she worked in the gardens, she wore a stylish shoe with a slight heel.“Maybe we’ll go to a movie.”

My father mumbled something at the TV.

“Alan,” Mom continued. “Rita is a very pretty girl, and I’m hearing that she dates a lot of boys.”

“Yeah… I know.”

Mom looked at Dad, who was fixed on the TV. “Richard.”

He pulled his face toward her with difficulty, and with some irritation. “Yes, Catherine.”

“Judy called last night. She’s dating a nice boy, a minister’s son, and he’s also majoring in accounting.”

“Yes, I talked to her. She wants to bring him for Thanksgiving. Her tuition has gone up 10% over last year. Can you believe that!? Ten percent!” The sudden remembrance assaulted him anew. The TV suddenly took a subordinate position. He wanted to expand his indignation.

Mom wasn’t having any of it. After a sip of her wine, she continued. “Well, anyway, Judy told me that Rita’s father has been in prison. Is that true?”

Seeing he’d lost, Dad’s beady eyes went back to the TV. He cleared his voice. “Yes. But you won’t read about it in the local paper, because they won’t print it. Not now anyway, with Rita Fitzgerald becoming the darling of the town. No one has seen him in two years or more.”

“I’m not dating her father,” I said.

“Don’t be a smart-aleck,” Dad said. “Your mother has a right to be concerned, Alan. This town always gets caught up in some kind of new distraction. Rita Fitzgerald wins a local beauty contest and the next thing you know, the town’s all caught up. Caught-up.” Then, some urgent thought turned Dad’s head toward me. He stared strangely, as if he’d just realized that 2 + 2 actually equaled 3. He took off his horn-rimmed glasses. “Alan…why is Rita dating you?”Mom slammed down her fork. “What does that mean, Richard?! That Alan is not good enough for Rita Fitzgerald!? Pahleesseee.”Dad recovered brilliantly, with a couple of slow blinks and a thoughtful sip of the Bordeaux, carefully chosen from the basement wine cellar. The mahogany wine racks, that were a full 13½ inches deep and finished in a rich oil stain, occupied a lot of Dad’s free time and contemplation. Dad spent most Saturday mornings studying
Wine Spectator
magazine, planning future purchases, or carefully examining the cooling unit, insuring the display was at 20 degrees and steep enough to keep the wine from touching part of the cork. With the eye of a detective, he scrutinized the racks for any signs of decay and mildew. The wine cellar: Dad’s escape from it all.

Dad took another taste of the wine, as he considered his response. “Catherine... I only meant that Alan hasn’t dated much.”

“One date,” I clarified. “Edna Thomas. But we went out twice.”My father seized on the idea. “Yes, Edna Thomas. Edna is a nice girl, but hardly a beauty.”

“She has a nice body,” I said.

Mom gave me a disapproving glare. “Nice body? Come on, Alan. You’re intelligent enough to find more respectful words when describing a woman.”

“Okay, she’s nice. Her body speaks of Venus and Aphrodite.”

“Very funny,” Mom said, not amused.

“And she’s the best debater on the team,” I added. “But, Rita Fitzgerald, she isn’t.”

“There’s nothing wrong with having good looks, Catherine,” my father said, with a quick, playful wink. “Nothing at all.”

“Good looks are only part of it, for God’s sake!” Mom said, sharply. “Edna is a wonderful girl who has a very bright future ahead of her. Doesn’t that count for something? Are good looks the only criteria for whether a woman is a worthy topic of conversation, whether she should be dated, or whether she has any real worth at all in this male-driven, male-dominated, male-drenched testosterone world!? Give me a break, Richard!”

“Of course not, Catherine,” Dad said, lowering his voice to cool the atmosphere. “Of course Edna has worth. She’s a fine girl, and her family has a wonderful college fund for both her and her brother, Bert. I only meant, well…” Dad sought words. “I was only saying that Alan is careful about who he spends time with. Rita Fitzgerald doesn’t seem to be the intellectual or scientific type.”Mom said, “Well, I’d never even heard of the girl until last year. Her father, yes, although I didn’t know the details.”

I took a long drink of milk. Mom was waiting for me to give an explanation, so I did. “I heard she was kind of ugly until her sophomore year. Then, I don’t know, something just happened. She just turned gorgeous.”

“What you’re really implying is that you boys finally grew up,” Dad said, with authority and proud wisdom, as if he’d just cracked the genetic code.

“Rita’s smart and she’s a great writer,” I said. “And, hey, she’s like the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.”

“Her beauty will come and go like pride before a fall,” Dad said, going back to his wine and the TV.

I thought that cruel, but Mom didn’t respond. She seemed disgusted with us both. She shook her head and turned toward the lace curtains, as if to summon patience. I followed her gaze, past the curtains, where darkness had already descended and the distant comforting orange glow of the streetlights was visible. “So that’s why you’re dating Rita, Alan?” Mom asked, quietly.Dad’s ear was cocked my way.

“Yeah. Because she’s gorgeous, she’s smart and she said she’d go out with me. Hey, I think all of those are really good reasons.”Mom was circumspect, but satisfied. “Okay, fine. You’re 17. You’re old enough to make your own decisions.”

We went back to our solemn dinner for a few minutes. The TV flickered with images of the racing IPO market, and then something about a stock market bubble. It annoyed my father.

“Blast it!” he said. “I told you, Catherine. I told you that this whole internet thing, with its IPO’s popping up everywhere, is just a disaster waiting to happen. Mark my words, Catherine! I’ve been telling my clients this for weeks now!”

My mother ignored him. “Alan,” my mother said, staring at me with renewed intensity. “Sometimes girls date boys for a variety of reasons. Sometimes, mistakes can happen.”

I knew exactly what Mom was getting at, but I played dumb. It didn’t matter why Rita had said she’d go out with me: because I was rich or smart, or because of my family name. The fact was, she’d said she would go out with me. The most popular and beautiful girl in town, or most probably in the entire state, had said she’d go out with me!

Mom looked at me, affectionately, with a parent’s concern. “Boys can make mistakes, too, just as easily as girls. It is so easy to make the biggest mistake of your life, Alan. A mistake that can literally ruin your life. So, needless to say, stay away from drugs, alcohol and anything else that you know is morally and ethically wrong.”

Mom gave Dad a knowing glare. “One mistake, a decision made in haste, an act that may only last a few minutes, can completely alter your life and cause you to regret it for the rest of your life. Remember that when you’re with Rita tonight, Alan. She is a very pretty girl.”

Chapter Four

An hour later, I was at Rita’s door. It swept open and Mrs. Fitzgerald appeared. Time had passed heavily upon her. Her untidy mop of gray hair and long bony face lent a harshness; her stooped shoulders suggested burdens and worries and a sense that life had the daily habit of victimizing her in a variety of creative ways. When she spoke, her voice was thin; she clipped her words, as if flinging them out like little darts.

“Rita will be down soon,” she said curtly. She did not ask me in, so I stood on the porch like a delivery boy, waiting for a tip.

She tried to ignore me, pitching her gaze over me, around me and back into the house, where I heard the blurring voice of the TV. She stuffed her hands into her pale, blousy blue-patterned dress pockets. I did not understand how such a beauty had come from such remarkable homeliness.

I stepped back, hearing the soft creaking wood beneath my feet, struggling not to notice the cracked and peeling paint; the streaming rust stains from a faulty gutter. The night wind was damp and smelled of burnt leaves.

“Why are you going out with Rita?” Mrs. Fitzgerald asked, pointedly, in a low even voice that nearly fell into a course whisper.

The question jarred me. “Why?”

I thought, why is everybody asking me the same damned question? It seemed so obvious. “Why am I going out with Rita?”

“Yes.”

“…I… like her.”

“Do you?” It wasn’t a question. It was a challenge.

“Yes.”

I adjusted the collar of my denim jacket, hoping the conversation would shift to another subject.

“Have you always gotten what you wanted?” she asked. Her voice took on a grinding quality that unnerved me.

I couldn’t think of a response. “I like her stories,” finally emerged, as I glanced expectantly toward the pale second floor window, wishing Rita would hurry. “I like her.”

In the uneasy moment, I heard the agitated raspy bark of the dog next door. He didn’t seem to like me either.

“Rita dates a lot,” her mother continued, in a supercilious tone. “Many boys.
Handsome
boys.”

“Yeah… I bet.”

“A photographer from a Philadelphia magazine is coming to take a whole bunch of pictures and she’s going to model a new line of clothes for Clayton Stores all over Pennsylvania. On television.”

“That’s great,” I said, rocking on my heels. “Nice.”

“She’ll be in the state pageant, too.”

“Yeah, I heard that.”

She still wasn’t looking at me. Her tone turned ugly. “Why is Rita going out with you?”

This time, the question really irritated me and my voice rose with emotion. “How the hell should I know!? Ask her!”

“Don’t talk to me like that!” she snapped.

“Well, why don’t you ask your daughter, Mrs. Fitzgerald? Ask her. Not me!”

“I don’t need to ask her!” She yanked her bony hands from her pockets. They clenched into fists. “You and your family…so much money. Your mother so snobby, your father, so special with his expensive suits and gold watch. Walking around like they own the town. Walking around looking down their noses at us. Now you want Rita. Rita…my daughter. My daughter! You think just because your parents have all that money that you can have anything you want, don’t you?!”

Her face was raw with accusation.

There were many things I wanted to spit out, but I kept quiet. I drew a hot breath, just as I heard Rita’s quick footsteps clicking down the wood stairs. When she stepped onto the porch, trading glances with us, Mrs. Fitzgerald suddenly expanded with importance, gaining two inches in height. She moved aside adroitly, allowing Rita to pass under the amber glow of the porch lamp. Studying her daughter, Mrs. Fitzgerald was suddenly transformed into near attractiveness. For a brief moment, I saw her drowning in glory, like a woman having a religious experience. The transformation was startling. She crossed her thin arms and viewed her statuesque enameled girl, dressed in a taut ruby-red blouse, dark pants, and two-inch matching red heels. Her hair, lush and shimmering, was twisted up and artfully tied with a golden silk scarf. Giving off perfume, Rita presented her face to me and smiled warmly. I shuddered with a man’s desire.