The Test Page 3

  “You don’t understand anything.”

  I don’t remember getting to my feet, but I was standing now, my head was pounding, and my finger was jabbing the air in his direction, and I was out of control.

  “I love her. And you don’t own me. And you can’t tell me what I can do, or who I can see.”

  Dad wanted to smack me. Bad. He would rant and rave, but for all his faults, the man never raised his hand meaning to really cause pain.

  “No? No one can tell you anything, huh? You’re a real wise guy, aren’t you Jack?” He pushed away from the table. His chair flew back, smashed against the stove and flipped onto its side scaring us both.

  “You could’ve been killed, tough guy. Dead!”

  He let “dead” hang in the air for effect. It lowered the temperature in the room a few degrees. We stared each other down, breathing heavy.

  “Your mother and I are on the same page here. We forbid you to see Vida again. It’s over. Finito.”

  I stood my ground on shaky legs.

  Dad shook his head in disgust and stormed out of the kitchen, ignoring the overturned chair, knowing the conversation had taken a dark turn.

  •

  I napped most of the day, my head throbbing, in some serious pain from the stitches and still a little jumpy from the attack. Around three in the afternoon the doorbell rang. Mom was at the A&P, and I was alone in the house, so I hopped off the couch and when my head stopped spinning, cautiously opened the front door.

  Vida was standing on the other side of the glass storm door looking worried, and her sister Angela was by her side. I wanted to grab her in my arms and make sure she was okay, but all I summoned was an awkward smile.

  Our house on Coolidge Avenue was a ’50s-built, split-level with modern brick steps and black wrought-iron railing leading to a small porch and the front door that opened into the living room. We decided to sit on the stoop.

  I could see Mrs. Hagstrom across the street staring out her picture window. I waved and she hid behind her curtains. That’s not all she hid. We all knew the reason she spent so much time in her basement laundry room. Her stash of Bombay Gin was tucked in the linens.

  Mr. Hagstrom, Bernie, was the president of my parents’ investment club and the main instigator who sought promises from all the members, all of my parents’ friends, to never sell to blacks.

  Then I saw Mrs. Damiani peeking out of her window. She was a meek, underweight, wisp of a woman who we all suspected was abused by her husband.

  Mrs. Gabler, the neighborhood gossip from next door, suddenly appeared in front of her house and started weeding her barren lawn, pretending not to notice us sitting there, but keeping us within earshot.

  I showed off my battle scars to the girls, who offered the right amount of concern. I assured Angela I wasn’t going to pass out on the stoop. She thanked me profusely for taking care of her sister, and then had the good grace to move away and allow us some privacy.

  “I am so sorry, Vida. I want to apologize for the entire town. I would have called you last night, but it was so late and Gene said you were okay. But I was worried you were scared and, when I called this morning, your mother wouldn’t let me talk to you, and I’m really glad you’re here.”

  “My mother had a heart-to-heart with me last night.”

  Not the response I expected. “My father grabbed me this morning. It was awkward,” I countered.

  “Hmmm,” she said. “I was worried about you too. Oh, the twins send their best.”

  “That’s good.” I wasn’t the most sensitive kid on the block, but I was feeling some distance and my stitches were starting to throb.

  “I heard you got in trouble.” I went on, trying to read her mind. Not knowing where the conversation was headed. “That’s not right,” I said with some passion. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “Mom reminded me of the sacrifices she and my father made to move us out here.”

  “Yeah? Okay?”

  “They’re both from Texas.”

  “Yeah?”

  “And they’ve had a lot of bad experiences with racism.”

  “Yeah, but…”

  “They just want to protect me.”

  “This isn’t Texas. That’s their experience, not yours.”

  “How would you know?” Vida snapped with a jolt of anger that straightened my back.

  “Alright, I know what happened last night was scary. But I’m willing to take the chance. You said it yourself: people can change.”

  And then she dropped the bomb. Loud enough for her sister and Mrs. Gabler to hear. Beautiful Vida quoted her mother, and ironically my father.

  “I think it would probably be best if we didn’t see each other again, Jack.”

  I felt sick to my stomach. If I heard that phrase one more time, I was going to scream. She read my pain and instinctively reached for me until her sister cleared her throat and Vida’s hand snapped back like a cobra.

  I was speechless. And then they were gone. Just like that. Walking stiffly, back down Coolidge Avenue, out of my life.

  I was an empty shell. Fourteen and broken. My head pounded, my ears rang, and I struggled not to tear up in front of the neighborhood bigots, gossips, and fools.

  “I hope you’re all happy!” I roared as curtains were drawn across the street, and Mrs. Gabler disappeared faster than a paycheck in Atlantic City.

  •

  I was sitting in front of the television, propped up on the couch nursing my wounds, staring at the local news, when my mother walked through the front door, arms full of grocery bags. You could always tell when you were in trouble with Mom by her posture. I felt the freeze before she opened her mouth, so I didn’t bother to get up to help. I had a good idea what was in store.

  “What were the girls doing here?” she asked, trying to keep it light.

  “The girls?” I fired back, playing dumb.

  “Don’t be a wise guy, Jackie. You know who I’m talking about.”

  “Oh…Vida and her sister? How did Mrs. Hagstrom get to you so soon? Did she send up smoke signals?”

  “You’re causing us a lot of grief, Jack. I thought you and your father settled this.”

  “No, nothing’s settled.”

  “They already want your father out of the investment club. You know how Bernie can be. Keep it up and we’re not going to have any friends left.”

  Mom walked out of the kitchen and flashed those wounded eyes that tore at my heart and left me guilt ridden.

  •

  Mom was miserable in her marriage; that was clear to all of us. But nobody blamed her. Our father had anger issues. He was the poster boy for emotional abuse. She was the bright light to my father’s dark side.

  The only time Mom was at ease, lately, was when she was hosting a bridge party, and Frank Sinatra was spinning on our Zenith high-fidelity stereo.

  Or when Pete La Mont came to visit.

  Pete was a pilot for TWA who professed to be friends with both Mom and Dad. He and his wife played golf with my parents on the weekends, but I never bought his act. Something didn’t ring true. His smile came too easily and there was always some lame reason for him stopping by the house alone.

  Bobbie confided in me that she had a sneaking suspicion they were having an affair. Well, that was way too much information for me to process, so I made myself scarce whenever the glad-hander showed up at the front door.

  My parents weren’t the only married couple in the neighborhood with problems. I only knew one family in a three-block radius whose lives were as perfect as the manicured lawns in front of their upper-middle-class homes.

  •

  Every Easter and Christmas our family would drive down to Miami in our purple-and-white Desoto station wagon to visit my Mom’s parents for the holidays. In the late 50s and early 60s, when we’d pull into a gas station in Georgia or the Carolinas, we were confronted with a “Whites only” water fountain and a second fountain that read “For Coloreds and I
ndians only.” The whites-only was new and clean and the other was a hot, rusted mess.

  My Nana was first-generation Polish, a tiny bird of a woman, with dangerously thin brown curls on her head from too many Toni Home Perms. She taught her parakeet how to say the “Hail Mary,” made orange rind candy, and taught us how to open a coconut with a screwdriver.

  When I was eight, she caught me experimenting with dog biscuits. They smelled good, came in cool colors, and Duke, our miniature collie, loved them. I was in the kitchen nibbling on a green one, when Nana walked in. Horrified, she told me Negroes made dog biscuits with their bare hands.

  I didn’t understand the racial implications as a child, so I didn’t get her point. So what, I thought. I ate a few more, decided I liked Oreos better, and broke myself of the habit. Good dog.

  I didn’t know any Negroes, as most people called them back in the day. Baldwin was lily white and, since we never had any discussions, political or otherwise, at the dinner table, I had very few pre-conceived notions about race.

  Until I saw Vida. And by then, it was too late. I was head over heels in love.

  And now, at the ripe old age of 14, I was disappointed with my parents on a fundamental level. Long Island was still deeply rooted in the 1950s and holding on for dear life, but that didn’t mean my parents had to be. Things were changing, whether they liked it or not. I wanted them to have the courage to change, too.

  John F. Kennedy was President, and he was asking us to do something for our country, and John Glenn had just orbited the Earth. We were traveling into outer space, but still beating each other up over race. How could that be, I reasoned, even as a kid. It didn’t make any sense, and it hurt that my parents were ignorant.

  I knew the pain was a two-way street, that my parents were just as disappointed in me, but I didn’t give a rat’s ass. I was 14, self-righteous, and firmly believed I was smarter than the herd.

  •

  No charges were ever filed against my attacker, because no one actually saw the football player hit me in the back of my skull. Gene had run onto the scene as I was head butting the pavement, and he meted out some harsh street justice. The local police decided to whitewash the entire incident, and the prevailing wisdom was to leave well enough alone. It would only open a can of worms nobody in town wanted to deal with.

  •

  Wednesday morning I was back in the thick of it. Gene, Fryzel and I always met at Chat N’ Nibbles before school. My second breakfast of the day was French fries and gravy, a cheeseburger, and a Coke. My parents were always amazed that as skinny as I was, I could still pack it away. They didn’t know that every day, I prayed to the gods to let me grow taller. My first goal was to break five feet. Then, if the gods were really listening, breaking the all-important six-foot barrier.

  Murray was the owner of the luncheonette located in a large strip mall that also had an A&P, a Woolworths and the Buttercrest Bakery. It shared an alley with Baldwin Senior High School and, if you were cool, that’s where you ate. Murray with his salt-and-pepper buzz cut, his perpetual five o’clock shadow, and his snarky attitude, was the only man I knew who commuted from New York City to Baldwin on the Long Island Railroad.

  Murray was a contrarian, and a short-order genius. He would broil two pieces of American cheese on either side of an open hamburger bun until the cheese melted, the bun was toasted, and the burger was cooked medium well. He’d top it off with grilled onions and serve up this heaven-on-a-bun, six days a week. He had a gold mine and knew it.

  “How ya’ doin’ Jack?” he growled with a Lucky-Strike-fueled New York accent. “Heard you had a run in with a line backer,” he said, laughing at his own joke. Always cracking wise that Murray.

  I was attacking my plate of food when the bell over the door to Chat ’n Nibbles jingled. The entire joint went still. The glass door opened as Vida, and the twins sauntered in, swished past, and sat in the booth directly behind us. There was no eye contact. Murray broke the silence in the room.

  “Gene, your cheeseburger’s ready. Now, Gene!” Murray wasn’t about to let young love affect his bottom line.

  Gene pushed past me as a quarter dropped in the jukebox and Del Shannon started singing Runaway. He grabbed his food and elbowed me deeper into the booth before nervously chowing down, wiping ketchup on his sleeve. Fryzel couldn’t leave well enough alone and gawked at the girls over my shoulder until I kicked his shin under the table. He would have retaliated, but I pointed to the butterfly bandage on my head and glared him down.

  I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t turn around. I could feel Vida’s presence in the red Naugahyde booth behind me. I sat there watching the beef gravy congeal, and my fries go cold.

  The early crew cleared out at quarter to nine or they’d get reported to the Dean of Students office. I sat frozen in my booth as Chat ’n Nibbles emptied. Toby leaned in and surreptitiously passed me a note as her sister and Vida exited the restaurant. It burned a hole in my pocket, but I didn’t read it until I was safely seated at my homeroom desk.

  •

  Parking Field Five at Jones Beach was where Gene and Fryzel dropped me off at high noon on Saturday, with a sincere promise to pick me up at three. I walked through the tunnel from the parking lot toward the beach and fought the urge to whistle and whoop to get that cool tunnel echo.

  Vida’s note had been very explicit. Meet me at Jones Beach, twelve o’clock, by the flagpole, on the boardwalk, at Parking Field Five. Apparently, she loved the beach as much as I did.

  Gene’s father worked overtime in Manhattan on Saturdays. He was a low-level, white-collar accountant at a high-end firm. Gene cut a key to his car and we would regularly borrow it during the day and pray his parking space would be open before he returned on the Long Island Railroad at six o’clock sharp. We hadn’t been caught yet.

  Jones Beach was a huge expanse of white sand on the south shore of Long Island. Two miles of boardwalk ran parallel to the Atlantic Ocean. Field Five was the main beach with the Deco-styled, brick bath house that fronted a huge public pool with an Olympic diving platform, food concessions, souvenir shops, and a mini band shell.

  I checked myself out in the men’s room mirror before waiting as planned. My vantage point gave me a good view of the entrance, a wide cement walkway that led from the parking area to the water. I checked my watch every 30 seconds, not sure if she would really show up, hoping I wasn’t late, worried I might have missed her.

  The expansive walkway had manicured gardens on both sides filled with vibrant annuals. A blue-tiled fountain bubbled in the center while the Jones Beach Water Tower stood sentry in the distance. The colorful flowers paled when Vida turned the corner and stepped into view.

  It had rained heavily all week, but this afternoon sky was Caribbean blue. Cumulus clouds were etched with a rich dark grey. The ocean air was crisp and clean and redolent of saltwater and seaweed. The expanse of white sand was pocketed with darker brown areas where the rain had puddled, frozen, and then crusted into the sand.

  As the sun peaked through the clouds, Vida’s skin took on the hue of a rich gold. Her perfect eyes posed a question at me as she stepped close and took both of my clumsy hands in hers. Then she closed her eyes.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Shhh,” she answered.

  I didn’t have to be told twice. I could hear the sound of the waves breaking and the shrieking gulls that seemed to be enjoying themselves riding the thermals. I thought maybe she was going to step in and kiss me, but no such luck.

  Vida started to walk backwards. Her beautiful eyes closed. Her face a mask of trust. She pulled me forward, forcing me to guide her, and together we took tentative steps down the boardwalk.

  At first I thought it was goofy, like something my sister Bobbie might have read in one of her teenage magazines. I was nervous. I’ll admit it. It felt like I was being tested.

  And then I realized, I was.

  But as I looked at her face, unencumbered by doubt, my defenses fade
d, leaving me exposed. I started to go with the flow. Vida’s graceful hands were a perfect fit. And I knew damned well I wouldn’t let her fall.

  We moved like dance partners. Past bundled-up tourists with Brownie cameras, women walking dogs with fancy collars, couples in their sweats jogging at a fast clip, and private nurses pushing elderly clients wrapped in woolen throw blankets, happy to be out in the brief sunlight. Their faces darkened when they saw us moving hand in hand and I was glad Vida’s eyes were closed as they were wheeled by. Vida, oblivious, seemed to sway to her own inner music.

  So we glided past the pitch-and-putt course, the miniature golf area with the Dutch windmill. Past the roller rink, the paddle tennis courts, and the swings and seesaws standing still in the fall playground. Past the empty slow-pitch softball diamond and up to the silent, open-air band shell.

  And then, like something out of a Fellini movie, a singular silver-haired couple moved as one across the large open dance floor, practicing ballroom steps they’d been perfecting for 30 years.

  We could have been anywhere. I felt like I was floating. Vida stopped, opened her eyes and folded into my arms. We could have been anywhere, but I was the lucky kid in the right place at the right time. We shared a perfect smile. She leaned down slightly, and we kissed.

  The ocean air stung, but Vida’s lips were warm and soft and inviting. Someone on the planet liked me enough to send me to the moon. For no other reason than I was me. She liked me for myself. What a mind-blowing concept.

  •

  My mother asked me twice if everything was all right that night over dinner, because I couldn’t contain my loopy grin. Bobbie knew something was up but kept her mouth shut. My father was oblivious and started shouting about life in general and then, more specifically, the garage that I hadn’t cleaned out in an entire month of promises. When he realized I wasn’t listening, he started in on my mother about spending too much money on winter coats for Diane and Debbie. Debbie started crying, and my mother started yelling, and my stitches started itching, and I was sure my nervous twitch was back.