I once asked my mom if our family had ever been hexed. You know, if somebody had a grudge against Mom and Dad and put a curse on their firstborn, which would be me. Condemn him to love a girl forever beyond his reach. I am twenty-three, a lawyer, and have what they call “prospects.” And I have a ‘ea red Ford convertible with the custom skirts, the louvered hood, and the special weave top that most of the guys around here, even the cool ones, envy.
That’s my story. Hers is, she’s been in love with Stu Grant since ninth grade, just the way I’ve been in love with her. He’s big, good-looking, rich, and powerful. He’s also married. Pamela’s convinced he’ll someday leave his wife and take his rightful place at her side.
Right, just like Liz Taylor and Eddie Fisher’ll break up someday too.
She was licking an ice-cream cone. She wore a crisp pink blouse and pink pedal pushers and pink flats. The blouse and pedal pushers had cute little black and white poodles on them. Her golden hair touched her shoulders, and her blue eyes looked fresh and bright.
Everybody says she looks like Grace Kelly, and that’s the neat thing: she does but she doesn’t try to. It comes naturally for her.
Just the way it does for Grace Kelly. If you see my point.
“Hi, McCain.”
“Hi.”
“May I sit down?”
“Nah.”
She looked startled. She’s used to me making a fool of myself around her, so when I do otherwise it shakes her faith in how the universe works.
“No?”
I grinned. “Sure.”
“Oh, gosh, you scared me there, McCain.”
We come from the area of town known as the Knolls, Pamela and I. Worst section in all of Black River Falls. Her grandfather had money till the Depression, which was when they’d been banished from mansion to Knolls. Pamela was raised to believe she was an exiled princess.
Someday she’d have money again and would therefore be restored to the throne.
“What do’ you think of the Edsel?” she asked between licks.
“What do’ you think?”
“I asked you first.”
“I think it’s terrible.”
“Me too. But I saw the Judge a few minutes ago and she loves it.”
The judge she referred to is one Esme Anne Whitney. Before the big war (as distinct from the little one in Korea), the Whitneys owned this town. The city council, the police and fire departments, the newspaper, the school board, the Presbyterian church, and both banks were run by them. Then a yahoo family one generation up from the South-Sykes by name-got lucky working for the army during the big war building airstrips and took over much of what the Whitneys had controlled. Now there was a pitched battle between the two camps. Because my law practice couldn’t support me, I used the private investigator’s license I picked up after graduating from the University of Iowa law school to work for Judge Whitney. If Pamela labored under the delusion that she would someday be a princess, Judge Whitney labored under the delusion that she would someday reclaim the town from the barbaric hordes that had stolen it from her family. She saw virtually all citizens of Black River Falls as unclean, uncouth, uneducated, unappreciative, ungodly, and just about every other un you care to name. It was her often stated wish that the Whitneys would once again reign supreme so the “little people” would have the Whitneys to imitate and aspire to. The beautiful, elegant Pamela Forrest was her secretary.
“She loves it,” I said, “because she used to date one of the Ford boys when she was at Smith and he was at Dartmouth. You know how she thinks.
The upper classes have to stick together. Otherwise all of us Woolworth vulgarians’ll overrun them.”
“She’s a lot nicer than you think.”
“Yeah? When?”
“You should see her on Christmas Eve. Handing out those dimes to little poor kids.”
“Yeah, that probably puts a real strain on her five-million-dollar bank account.”
“She makes sure they’re shiny and new, McCain. She’s a stickler for that.”
“She makes sure what’s shiny and new?”
“The dimes.”
“Ah.”
“She goes to the bank and personally picks out every one.”
“I’d call her a saint,” I said, “if she didn’t hate Catholics so much.”
And that’s when Pamela’s stomach did a flip-flop. Or at least I imagined it did.
A silent Dreamboat Alert had sounded.
That’s what some of the teenage girls at the Rexall soda fountain counter call it when a cool guy comes into the drugstore.
This particular dreamboat was none other than Pamela’s lifelong love, Stu Grant. And he was sans wife today, a fact that Pamela had no doubt noted instantly.
“Oh, gosh,” she said, as if Tab Hunter had just appeared. She handed me her cone. “Here.
Finish this for me, will you?”
She pushed the cone at me before I could say no. Being her slave, I took it. She went to work on herself, using the tools inside the small pink purse slung over her small pink shoulder. She touched up every inch of her lovely face and then jumped up and said, “See you, McCain.”
Yes, I had been cursed. My dad or mom had to have done something to somebody with supernatural powers. Because I just kept right on loving her. No matter what she did to me. No matter how hopeless it was.
After I finished off her ice-cream cone, faintly tasting lipstick on its rim, I just sat and watched and felt good about living here. Most of the people I graduated law school with rushed off to big cities, mostly Chicago, which is only four and a half hours away. I’d spent four recent days there at a law conference Judge Whitney had sent me to, and now I was happily back home. For all its flaws, I love the place.
As if to confirm my regard for the town, Henry chose now to jump up on the bench. With his jaunty sailor’s cap and his bow tie, Henry was looking his best. Henry is a duck, and as far as I know he’s been a duck most of his life, though sometimes you have to wonder, the very human things he does. Maybe he started out as a kid and evolved into a duck. Henry belongs to a farmer who plants corn west of town. He brings Henry in for special occasions, like Edsel Day.
Henry sat next to me and we watched the human parade roll past, the way it’s been rolling past since those French trappers of three hundred years ago came down the
Mississippi.
In their quiet way, the people here are fascinating, and Henry must agree because he sure was looking them over. There, for instance, was the Kennard family: quadruplets. Mother and father run ragged by them but proud all the same. There’s Denny
Farnham. Lost both legs in Korea but came back here and opened up his own service garage.
He takes care of my Ford for me, and it’s damned good care. There’s Mike Braly. He runs a little flower shop and a lot of people whisper he’s a queer because he’s forty-two and never been married and always goes to Cedar Rapids or Iowa City on weekends-meeting other queers, is what some say. But he’s a good guy and just about everybody likes him. And then there’s Tom Holmes. When he was a senior in high school here he ran back an interception forty-eight yards to take us to State. The one and only time we’d ever been to State. It was a real accomplishment for a town of 25eajjj-plus, and even though it happened in ‘df, folks still treat him like a hero. I don’t care much for sports but I respect Tom. His two older brothers were killed in Italy and his dad lost a leg on the railroad where he’d worked as a brakeman, and yet despite those bad breaks Tom turned out to be a prosperous land speculator. And there was Mel Sager, full-blooded Mesquakie, a guitar player who has appeared with Western stars like Marty Robbins and Webb Pierce and Jim Reeves, who comes back to see his mom and his sister three-four times a year. And then there were the high school girls. We seem to get a bumper crop every
