Fifty-One

This is written as part of norafares and Bebop3's "50 Ways to Leave Your Lover" event.

To be up-front, it's not a quick story and the young woman who is the protagonist is pretty damaged. So, if you're looking for a quick hit of romance or sex, this might be one to skip over.

For those for whom the nonexistence of cellphones, let alone the internet, is something found only in historical fiction, I guess this is historical fiction. For others, maybe there'll be a tiny moment of "remember when ..."

And, if you are unfamiliar with the Garden State and note an occasional complete lack of grammar on my part, it's a New Jersey-ism to replace "to" or "at" with "down" when referring to the Jersey Shore. It's "We're going down the shore" or "We were down the shore."

--C

"Tell me about these tapes that are so important," I bluffed. I was keeping my voice low given the speculative glances around the restaurant.

Speculative because I was a topic among the women in town. "It's in the blood, you know," I had heard whispered, a concept so Victorian that my mind boggled at the whisperer's idiocy. "Her mother was ..."

I wasn't literally the daughter of a whore. Should one show up in town, the righteous citizens of this little corner of suburbia would drive her back into the darkness in a heartbeat. Kayla Matyas, three years older than I and desperate to pay for diapers and formula, pulled a few tricks in the convention center bar one weekend. Word got out.

The result? Two speeding tickets, a car towed for a minor parking violation, and a citation for jaywalking -- Really? Have you EVER heard of one of those? -- all within five weeks. And the anonymous call to Child Services that I heard found nothing but surely put Kayla's name on a list somewhere. Let's not mention the snubs and sneers. Five weeks of hell and then it stopped because, in six, Kayla fled, headed for the big city.

A few Jacksons for an hour on her back was deemed unacceptable, even in a town where we all knew certain women who spent years on their backs for the sole purpose of the golden payout that came with, "He was a good man. We're sorry for your loss."

I hoped to hell Kayla didn't pay those fines with anything more than a finger in the air behind her as she left.

But my mother was branded with that label because she committed the cardinal sin. Not adultery ... notoriety. Keep your illicit fornication clandestine enough that it was only a morsel of gossip for the tea-with-brandy set and you were publicly treated as immaculate. Even a discreet trip to family court because mommy's friend was a little too friendly or due to daddy's oh-so-personal assistant was overlooked because of the operative word: discreet.

Something public? Perhaps you're not our kind, dear.

Sins of the mother aren't automatically sins of the daughter, and I wasn't particularly indiscreet. But neither was I a nun, so looks and whispers followed me.

I could see them now across the restaurant -- Chez Emerick's, such a pretentious name and not even good French -- looking while pretending not to. Jack had picked the place. "How about that bistro-y place off West Main? You'll see that I'm harmless."

Half-panicked, I had nodded and bitten back my real reply, which would have run along the lines of, "How about somewhere with real food?" Instead, my mind shied away from the danger this guy represented and focused on trying to see how many lips seemed to be forming my name to go along with the glances.

Jack played along with my pretense. "The one we have shows Augustus Winterthorne II -- power behind the throne in the state and rumored to be on the throne come next election -- engaged in acts of a very adult nature."

Years back, during tenth grade, I had a crush on Stanley Harmond.

By the summer after junior year, I knew it was true love, tentatively declared and even more tentatively acknowledged between two utter wallflowers in a rush of Labor Day candor helped along by beer.

Months later, I was forced to concede that, true love or not, it was also rampant hormones. The mildly interesting rubbing down there was suddenly becoming all-consuming. Stanley's face plus the tantalizing half-glimpses gazing up from sunbathing at a boy in a loose bathing suit ... they had a role in that.

And then came the day my father went apeshit on me. "Lila!" The tone pulled me up short. Within moments I learned that a report had filtered back to him -- I was sure of the culprit, but let's hold that thought for a moment -- about a backseat make-out session. "I won't have my daughter behaving like a tramp. You will not see him anymore! Is that perfectly clear?"

"All it was was one kiss!" I protested. That was a mistake as it turned out. First, he was better informed than I knew. Second, a bad day at the office meant the occasional beer with his buddies in the train's bar car had turned into noticeably more than one Scotch today. The slap came out of nowhere.

"If you ever lie to me again ..." the voice was all the more threatening for being coldly quiet. "It wasn't one, and it wasn't just a kiss. I heard."

Stunned, I held myself half-supported against the back of the couch with one hand. The other cupped an aching cheekbone. In eighteen years, he'd never hit me. My mind desperately scrabbled for something to latch onto other than the fear. Thank God it was just a hand underneath my sweater.

"The two of you may technically be adults, but you" -- a finger stabbed in my direction -- "live under my roof and I pay for everything. You will do what I say or else. If you run into him, you'll be polite, nothing more. If he asks to see you privately, you will inform him that I've forbidden it.

"If he comes over here with his father you will stay with the real adults or excuse yourself and go upstairs." His dad had a landscaping company and offered gardening suggestions and help from time to time, although Mom rolled her eyes and thought him far too starchy with his endless advice.

He started to turn away, then swung back. "I expect you to date young men of the right sort, which he is not, and behave appropriately, which you did not. If you can't manage this on your own, then I will step in. Is there anything about that which is unclear to you?"

I shook my head. He nodded and stalked away. I fled to my room and sobbed the night away, ignoring my mother's tap on the door.

But teenagers, technically adult or not, have short memories. And teenagers aren't famous for obedience. Besides, parents are stupid; all teenagers know that fact. And so, the clandestine meetings took place. And, one afternoon, two towns away, in the no-tell White Deer Motel, we relieved each other of our respective virginities.

I had planned it. No shaky anxiety on his part nor wincing sore-please-stop on mine was going to mar prom night come June.

He and I would go with other dates as beards and be seen by peers and chaperone parents alike. Then we'd leave, separately and at different times, for a night ostensibly spent by me down the shore with girlfriends, by him at a friend's cabin in the Poconos.

In reality, my plan was the Hyatt for the kind of night that two well-practiced lovers might have. A night that would be both immediate gratification and long-term promissory note. I hoped a summer of paying dividends on that note would keep him out of the clutches of college girls until Thanksgiving break. I was hung up on this boy something wicked and couldn't bear the thought of losing him.

And hence the White Deer Motel, because to be well-practiced lovers demanded practice.

That afternoon hurt, but I had come informed via copious, surreptitious browsing of The Joy of Sex in Barnes & Noble. I knew things would get better another day. But now that his first-time apprehensions were laid to rest, no pun intended, I had to guard my flank. I knew there were others among the extended crowd we hung with who desperately wanted a boyfriend, and they might be willing. He needed to be solidly imprinted, like a baby chick.

And so, after that first brief encounter and then a shared shower to wash away the hymenal evidence, I knelt before him -- my first time for that act too -- and then drew him onto the bed for a second round with false expressions of delight and true expressions of willingness. As I did, I urged him to, "Take your time and enjoy it," instead of admitting the real reason I wanted him to go slowly.

And unwittingly sowed the seeds ... for even though my reading had hinted, I didn't quite anticipate the change in stamina of a man who had recently climaxed. Stanley inadvertently compounded the trouble with an eagerness to show me that he was as cool as I was, that dining at the Y was the right response to my hummer. And I didn't hate that. Total understatement. Do that some more, Stanley.

So that afternoon, which was supposed to end around four thirty, ended quite a bit later. And neither of us considered the effects of rush hour. We pulled into the driveway and caught sight of a man fifty yards away, a man who had taken the early train home that day and was now walking up from the station.

With a quick, meaningful glance at each other and a fearful, "Pretend you don't see him!" we fled inside. Mr. Harmond was on the patio, wrapping the hydrangeas in burlap while Mom puttered in the kitchen.

Stanley slid open the patio door. "Dad, you sent me to get twine," he said urgently, gesturing at the roll on the picnic table. "On the way back, I saw Lila walking home from basketball practice and gave her a ride."

Mr. Harmond looked startled. His eyes traveled from Stanley to me, judging and guessing.

Meanwhile, Mom lit into me. "Where have you been? I expected you home hours ago. I've been worried sick. All I've been able to think about is you lying in a ditch somewhere. I've called every--" Hearing Stanley's words, her brow furrowed. "Basketball? I thought today--"

The sound of the front door crashing open cut her off.

"Basketball," I said firmly, daring her to contradict me. It would explain my slightly disheveled look. Turning, I headed quickly for the front.

"Dad," I stage-whispered in a preemptive strike. "You told me to be polite. When he offered me a ride after practice, I told him as long as we were coming straight home."

When he checked himself at this unexpected sally, I pressed, "I've been telling him I wasn't interested anymore. I just make up excuses when I have to, but today no excuse seemed reasonable, and it was only from the school parking lot."

The tight eyes studied me for what seemed like an eon. The slight glassiness tipped me off. Oh fuck. He's been drinking again. Why is it always on these days? Except, of course, it wasn't just these days. The drinking was a couple of times a week now.

He moved to the kitchen and I followed.

"Hi, honey. You're home early." Mom said to him with a quick peck on the cheek. She turned to me. "How was practice, sweetie?" To my eyes, her fluster at my lie was apparent. I hoped it was only to my eyes.

"Good to see you, Adam." Mr. Harmond's nod was friendly. "It's been a while."

"Lee." Dad's greeting was polite on the surface, but I could hear the tightness underneath. I watched his eyes traverse the room until they found Stanley. In my imagination, that stare lasted for minutes. "Stanley, why were you at school that late?"

"Hi, Mr. Burhan. I ran out to get some gardening twine for Dad." He pulled the roll of green synthetic string out of his backpack. My peripheral vision could see its absence on the patio table. I was so utterly proud of Stanley at that moment. "I was coming back that way and saw Lila walking."

Dad was silent for another small eternity.

"Adam," Mom said, "tonight's the Booster Club meeting. Do you want to go?"

"No." Curt. Final answer.

She sighed. "Can I take your car?" The temperature light on hers had come on two days ago, and the shop appointment wasn't until Friday.

"I need it. Just stay home."

I could see that Mom wanted to say something. She'd knew he'd had a drink or two as well as I did. I also could see that she recognized his mood.

She sighed again. "I can't, honey. I'm a committee chair." She turned to the Harmonds. "Could one of you give me a ride in half an hour or so? I'll catch a lift from someone else to get home."

"How about we go now, and we can drop our stuff on the way?" Mr. Harmond said.

Mom made a sound of protest and gestured at his work.

"I'll finish the bushes some other day, but it has to be soon. The frost will be here any day and that will--" He broke off at both of my parents' expressions of impatience and turned to his son. "Stanley, help me load all this in the truck" -- he gestured toward the tools, rolls of chicken wire, and bags of mulch -- "then come along and unload. We'll come back for your car." He glanced back at Mom. "It's no problem. We'll be outside."

Dad said nothing, watching the two slip out the sliding door. Mom retrieved her coat and said to me, "Lila, I made dinner. It's in the oven." She avoided looking at my father, still uncomfortable to my eyes. Jesus, Mom. Can't you even fake normality for ten seconds?

The paternal gaze traversed one more time like a gun turret seeking a target. The anger was almost a physical heat. "I'm going to change." He left.

"Lila--"

"Later, Mom. When we're alone."

She hesitated, then nodded and followed the Harmonds out.

"Lila!"

I emerged from my room where I was changing out of school clothes to answer my dad's call.

"You had basketball practice today? Since right after school until now?"

Oh God, oh please don't let him have called another parent to check. Why would he do that? Does he even know another parent's number? Oh God, PLEASE! I'm begging you. "Yeah."

The burning gaze riveted me to the spot. Please! I didn't want to be hit again. For one second, I had this terrible notion that a trickle of blood was running down my leg, God revealing what I'd done, bringing out the wrath I could see coiled. Please don't hit me. Please. He was capable of it; I could see that in his eyes.

Without a word, he turned on his heel.

I never heard him leave the house. It wasn't until I called him for dinner and got no answer that I went upstairs to knock lightly on his door and, hearing no response, opened it. I saw an empty room and my terror over being found out yielded ... first to puzzlement and then to fear because I knew. He's gone to find Stanley.

Unable to act, petrified, I sat there for what felt like a lifetime until the doorbell rang.

"Miss Burhan? I'm Sergeant Stuart Nagle and this is Officer Emily Barr. We need to speak with you. May we come in?"

It was hours later when the full story finally percolated through the numbness. My father had stood at the entrance of Harmond's Nursery, right where an emerging vehicle would have to stop before turning onto the road, waiting until the Harmonds dropped off their supplies. Then he'd fired a round of buckshot at the windshield, right where Stanley was driving.

Apparently though, nerves or the glare of the headlights had caused him to misaim, and only the edge of the pellet cloud caught Stanley, tearing his shoulder muscle and removing a small portion of his earlobe. The rest of the shot traveled just to the driver's right, killing the person in the middle of the seat ... Mom. Stanley swerved from the impact, and the shot from the second barrel of the over-under traveled into the passenger seat and killed Lee Harmond.

With both barrels fired and no reloads at hand to finish my lover, my father had sunk to the pavement until pummeled into unconsciousness by terrified workers.

I looked around my parents' bedroom from where I lay, inhaling the smell of fabric softener as tears dribbled into the pillow. The appearance of that room and the deathly quiet from the street outside would be etched in my memory forever. The dread of doorbells never faded for the rest of my life. Nothing would ever be the same again.

I talked to Stanley exactly one more time.

Three rings. Four. Come on. Pick up.

"Hello?"

"Stanley, I wanted--"

"Don't ever call me again!" His tone was vicious. "Your father was trying to murder me. He did murder my dad. Just because I fucked his precious daughter. I hate him. I hope they fry him. I hate you."

The connection cut, leaving me in a sobbing heap. Two days later he was gone, swept off by his mother to an aunt's house in upstate New York. I went almost catatonic.

I withdrew from school. Anyone over sixteen could do that in New Jersey, and I couldn't handle the stares and cut-off conversations. I drank a lot. Anyone over eighteen could do that back in 1975, and I couldn't handle the image of my father murdering my mother while trying to murder the boy I loved.

I didn't follow the trial, which was fairly open and shut given the crowd of witnesses, the forensic evidence, and a defendant who wouldn't shut up despite Miranda warnings. I heard all that later; I avoided it like the plague at the time.

I never visited him. He killed my mother. He could rot in hell. I thought he'd rot in prison, but it turned out that something was broken in him and rage had become his default setting. Until Bubba -- I didn't know his real name, so I just called him that -- took exception to it one day and made it the last day of my father's life.

I only got one communication from him in the short time that he survived in prison. It came one week before his death. Coincidence, or did he sense an eruption point of no-return was imminent?

Three sentences. Nineteen words if you count the signature. A pretty small missive to blow a hole in my life the way it did.

I thought he was driving. Only when the windshield broke did I see. I'm sorry about your friend. Dad

The crystalline recollection of lying in my parents' bed floated up. Fabric softener, except my mother's iron-clad schedule called for bed linen changes on Sundays, not Wednesdays. Through the open bathroom door, the toilet seat standing up, in a house whose only male had been well-indoctrinated growing up with four sisters. Mom's towel hanging over the curtain rod to dry, even though she was always an evening showerer. A window cracked despite a chilly November. I saw the room through my father's eyes.

His question about basketball practice wasn't asking if I had spent the afternoon fucking Stanley Harmond. He was asking if I'd been home when Mom was fucking Lee Harmond.

Life changed, as did I. That note was a catalyst, and my life of then burned away along with the twenty-seven drafts of a letter to Stanley that littered the floor.

I didn't listen to advice, especially from my aunts. They were estranged from Dad and lived nowhere near. I could hear the resentment simmering under, "I guess you could come here." I declined.

There was this nice woman, Jean Laskowski. She was a counselor the school sicced on me. After I dropped out, she'd still call every week or two to see how I was doing.

"Why do you care?" My tone was pure confrontation. "I know I'm just a piece of gossip for every woman in this town. The daughter of the mother killed for screwing around."

She didn't take offense. With that unflappable calm she had, she answered, "Because if you don't act when you see something wrong, then you're what's wrong. And those women who are gossiping?" She gave a little grunt that said, plain as day: cases in point.

I drank that in like water to a woman in the desert and resented it at the same time. "I'm not in school anymore. I'm not your problem."

"What does not being in school have to do with it?" she'd asked as if I'd said something ridiculous.