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Chapter One
My life before August 12, 1963, had flowed tranquilly toward the senior year that lay just ahead. Beyond high school glistened State U. and the college degree that would allow my mother and father to heave a sigh of parental relief, assured that their eldest would never stand in a Depression soup line. Everything seemed to be under control.
At 11:20 that morning, I returned Mildred Geller's lawn mower to her yard barn and climbed the steps to the back porch of her white frame house. The stout and silver-haired Mrs. Geller—eighty-two but easily my feistiest client—burst through the screen door, bustled to the edge of the porch, and peered left then right across her lawn. She wheeled, frowning up at me over pearl-rimmed half glasses. “I suppose that will do. How much do I owe you?” “Three dollars, Mrs. Geller.” She crossed fleshy arms. “I’ll give you two.” I stared her down, trying to be serious in the midst of a ritual that she enjoyed. “Nope. Three bucks it is.” Her blue eyes twinkled as she pressed open her coin purse. “Good for you, young man. Stand your ground.” I smiled at my self-appointed mentor, the once legendary haggler who had run Geller Thrift until her husband’s stroke in ’57. “Just like you taught me, Mrs. G.” After washing up and downing the sandwich and milk that Mrs. Geller always served me, I began the seven-block jog along the tree-lined sidewalks that led toward home. As I chugged down Clifford Street, wearing my gray Taylorsburg Athletic Department t-shirt and shorts, a creaky voice shouted, “Getting in shape, Glenn?” I turned and spotted Mr. Hanson, once my dad’s high school algebra teacher, peering off his porch. “Yes, sir. It’s going to be a great season.” In fact, I jogged mostly because I had no car and a high-school jock couldn’t risk being seen on a bicycle. I dashed up the front steps of our white multi-gabled two-story—built in 1904 by my Grandfather Sorensen—and banged through the front door. Fourteen-year-old Beth was in the living room, comfortably curled up on the overstuffed couch that had been rattling around the family since before World War II. I spoke toward dark curly hair. “Hey, sis. I’m in and out. Jimmy’s picking me up.” Beth didn’t look up from her book. “Going to the pool?” “After some basketball.” “Okay, I’ll see you there.” Now she glanced up, her mouth a playful smirk. “But don’t worry, I’ll pretend I don’t know you.” I grinned at the saltier of my siblings. “You can pretend you know me, baby sister.” I filled a thermos with ice water and headed for the front porch to wait for my buddy Jimmy Abbott. At 11:50, the rumble and roar of dual glass-packs filled the neighborhood, amplified by two or three hundred decibels of Surfin’ USA. Mrs. Fenwick, our neighbor across the street, looked up from pruning her shrubs, glared in the direction of the ruckus, and shook her head—no doubt appalled by the way today’s youth disturbed the peace. I sauntered to the sidewalk as Jimmy’s burgundy blur screeched to a stop in front of our house. As I slid onto furry cream seat covers, Jimmy gave me a sideways, “Hey, man,” and sent the ’56 Mercury roaring up North Street under the canopy of oak, elm and maple that towered over most of Taylorsburg. We talked baseball scores and summer heat until Jimmy spotted the Leyland sisters sunbathing in their side yard. He shifted to James Dean cool, slouching lower as he tapped his steering wheel to deliver his trademark two beeps. Katie and Julie sat up, waved, and smiled. We returned the smiles, coolly, while Jimmy muttered under his breath, “Damn. Four great knockers all in a row, but don’t mention to Judy that I said so.” Inspired, Jimmy spent a minute or two marveling about the responsiveness of Judy Vickers’ breasts. I listened attentively but felt the gnawing anxiety of semi-reluctant inexperience. I hated that feeling, but Mom preached often on the virtues of inexperience. At town’s edge, we drove past the cemetery’s long rows of flowered headstones then into the heavily wooded fifty-five acres of Tilton Park. The newly paved basketball court stood at mid-park, surrounded by three shelter houses and a bevy of picnic tables and stone cooking grills. The farm fields that encircled every part of Taylorsburg—mostly corn and soybeans this year—stood just beyond the baseball diamond to the north and the fence-enclosed community pool to the west. When Jimmy and I pulled up to the court, Chad Taylor and Steve Myers were already hard at it, shirtless, sweat glistening on lean, muscular bodies. Jimmy and I strolled onto the court and challenged them to a game of two-on-two—a classic example of good news and bad news. Chad Taylor was our clean-cut valedictorian-to-be and a solid small-town center, but he shot hoops at mere mortal levels. Steve Myers was six-five and a powerful, smooth-as-silk basketball machine already being scouted by major colleges. Steve was also an annoyingly good looking guy, with the kind of wavy black hair, chiseled features, and clear blue eyes that several young ladies had found irresistible, by his account anyway. For the next two hours, the group that pompously called itself The Bulldogs Four played two-on-two, rotating sides, battling each other as if our lives depended on it. As usual, several townspeople spent their lunch periods on the benches that surrounded the court, cheering us on and chatting with us during our breaks. Shortly after 2:00, we walked the quarter mile to the community pool, our town’s favorite hot-weather gathering place. We showered, suited up, emerged onto scorching concrete, and swaggered four abreast around the pool’s perimeter, nodding and exchanging greetings with basketball fans young and old. The place was jam-packed and pulsating: moms trying to track squealing children, junior high kids barking obnoxiously, and we high schoolers striving mightily for cool. We found a campsite in the grassy belt outside the concrete, dove into the water to cool off, and settled onto our blanket for a game of penny ante poker. Several hands later, Jimmy Abbott glanced over my shoulder. “Don’t look now, but here comes the gangster’s kid.” Steve Myers, sitting to my right, shook his head and muttered, “Ah, Amy the ice lady.” I just sat there arranging my cards. Although my back was turned, I knew they were talking about our rumor-plagued classmate Amy Rivera. I had seen her around school but had spoken with her only once in my entire life. Then the hand touched my shoulder. A voice spoke softly from near my right ear. “Excuse me, Glenn, could we talk for a minute?” My stomach jumped instantly. I felt my throat tighten. What is she doing? Why here, in public? Can I duck by saying I’m too busy to talk? Hell, that won’t work; I’m playing penny ante poker. With no place to hide, I turned and squinted upward into deep green eyes framed in rich auburn hair. “Sure,” I said, with all the nonchalance I could muster. “Let me finish this hand.” “Okay, I’ll be over there.” She gestured toward the other side of the pool. I nodded and turned around to stare at cards that suddenly all looked the same. Chad Taylor chuckled. “Well, well, Mr. Sorensen. What have we here?” Before I could admit to my own bewilderment, Jimmy Abbott whistled softly, again focused behind me. “That, my friends, is one excellent bottom half. What a waste.” I glanced over my shoulder in time to watch Amy stroll by the kiddie pool, and I drew in a quick breath. She wore a brilliant white two-piece swimsuit. Auburn hair fell in waves to mid-back and swayed in graceful unison with a stunningly well-formed backside. The tone and tan of long legs contrasted beautifully with the high-cut bottom of her suit. During school days, I had admired Amy Rivera from a safe distance, fascinated that a person so sophisticated lived in a place like Taylorsburg. But this bit of admiration was causing my stomach to churn. I turned, exhaled audibly, and tried for businesslike, “Let’s play cards, guys.” Chad Taylor laughed out loud. “Right now, my friend, you couldn’t tell an ace from your elbow. What the hell is this about?” I folded a hand that included two tens, maybe more. “No clue, but I guess I’ll find out.” As I lifted myself off the blanket, Steve Myers said, “Watch out, man. She’s a weird lady.” I hesitated, aware that Steve might have relevant knowledge—during our junior year he had boldly disregarded the rumor mill and dated Amy Rivera for a couple of months. But stopping to explore Steve’s definition of weird lady felt wimpy, even downright cruel if she was watching me from across the pool. Still, I stood frozen for a long moment as I visualized being chewed up and spit out by the town gossips. Finally, curiosity defeated apprehension. “Okay, guys. I’m sure this won’t take long.” I walked around the pool and spotted Amy sitting alone at a green picnic table beside the perimeter chain-link fence, almost directly opposite our card game. As I drew closer, weaving past sunbathers’ blankets and towels, she turned toward me with just the faintest hint of a smile, but the green eyes had an oddly faraway look. I slid onto the bench opposite her and delivered a reasonably casual, “What’s up?” Amy closed her eyes and winced as a slight shudder rippled through her. When her lids lifted, she focused on me, but gradually. She spoke softly. “Thank you.” I shook my head involuntarily, aware that I had been searching her face intensely, looking for answers to the riddle of those few seconds. “Thank you for what?” “For not treating me like a poison snake.” I knew what she meant, and my mumbled response included an odd sense of guilt. “I don’t think you’re a poison snake.” A smile played at the corner of her mouth. “That’s good, thanks.” I relaxed slightly, but her eyes suddenly narrowed as if casting a warning. “Coach asked me to be sure you’re practicing your free throws.” “He did?” “Well, are you?” “Yes, but why would Coach—?” Dimples formed. The green eyes danced. “Okay, I made that up to get your attention.” I smiled but almost laughed out loud. Amy Rivera didn’t need an ounce of help from Coach Adamson. “So why do you want my attention?” I asked. “I have a good reason, really. But could we just talk for a while?” I resisted the temptation to look over my shoulder to check for parental spies—sister Beth or little brother Alan being two of several big-mouthed possibilities. “Well, I guess so,” I stammered. “I mean, sure, we can talk for a while.” Her expression relaxed into something like contentment, maybe even appreciation. I felt flattered although a bit embarrassed. Then I fell into deep confusion. The rumor mill firmly believed that her parents should be in jail, suggesting that Amy should be tough and hard-edged. But I heard kindness, maybe even vulnerability, in her voice. The beauty in her face was formed of gentle curves and large, wide-set eyes. Her dimpled smile seemed warm and friendly rather than glamorous, and a few of childhood’s freckles still dotted her nose. She said, “Do you think Coach might use a zone press this year?” Although surprised by a question so technical, I welcomed a softball that let me wax eloquent about the reasons a man-to-man press made sense. While I spoke, her head tilted just slightly sending auburn waves rippling; the green eyes were attentive but alert and quizzical. “But wasn’t Kendall City too quick for our man-to-man last year?” It was a painful, tournament-ending memory. I searched my brain for a learned answer but found myself visualizing falling into the twin green pools of those eyes and likely drowning. “You’re right,” I said, “but this year’s juniors will make us faster and deeper.” She looked down for a moment then back into my eyes, her voice softer, almost shy. “I thought you were incredible in the Pell City game last year.” “You did?” I said, happily amazed. “I mean, why?” “Because you shut down an all-county scorer and their whole offense collapsed.” I’ll admit to glowing a bit about that comment. We defenders rarely received high praise. And, little by little, an amazing thing happened to me. Our conversation began to flow easily, segueing from basketball to my career as a lawn maintenance man. After that we debated whether the British invasion had forever changed the pop music scene. Amy spoke melodically. Her hands moved gracefully. Her head tilted attentively when I spoke. The curves of her bathing suit added scenic beauty, but tastefully, I decided. Her eyes sparkled when she smiled and danced when she laughed. And gradually, the wooded park behind her went blurry; the splashing and screaming behind me magically muted. Ten minutes passed, or maybe thirty. I have no idea. Then she said, “Would you be willing to help me do something on Wednesday?” I blinked my eyes like a guy emerging from deep sleep. Bedlam again reigned behind me. I noticed the aroma of popcorn wafting from the concession stand. “What kind of something?” “I volunteer at the County Home. We need some strong backs to help set up a new wing. It would be great if you’d help.” Although vaguely aware that the decision deserved some deliberation—of parental political issues, if nothing else—I meditated for maybe half a second. “Sure. I’d be glad to.” We made arrangements for her to pick me up, and she formed those dimples again. “Thanks, Glenn. I really appreciate this.” I sauntered back toward my buddies, as casually as possible but apparently not casually enough. Jimmy Abbott started it. “Well there’s a shit-eatin’ grin if I’ve ever seen one. What the hell, Sorensen?” I denied that the grin meant anything at all. “My cause is worthy,” I told them, but the ribbing did not die easily, nor did Steve Myers’ look of concern.
My Grandfather Rowland was a gentle man who taught me that heritage and memories are precious. With his encouragement, I started a daily journal, beginning at age twelve. I wasn’t everyday faithful, but that night I recorded my lawn care jobs and the time at Tilton Park including, Talked with Amy Rivera. Nothing like I expected. Only a little scary. Lie! Scary but nice. Amazing green eyes! Oh yeah, and a pretty helluva swimsuit. Man! Picked me from a pool full of guys. How ’bout them apples? Wonder why me. Don’t be an arrogant ass. She needs help and you’re a softie that’s why. Six or eight other softies will be there Wednesday, count on it. Still, helluva moment there by poolside, Glenn ol’ boy!
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Excerpt: Silent Hero |
