Pleats, thinner, a lilt to his step, and a fucking beret. I huffed and puffed on my cigarette until they left the quaint station. Then I started my engine and concentrated on my job. I knew where they were going, but wanted to see if anyone else was curious.

No one was. I looked around again to make sure no one had their eyes on me before pulling out onto the street. The Hats were on their way to Rockport, an artsy/fartsy town on the tip of Cape Ann, Cod’s smaller sister. If Magnolia was busy, Rockport was going to be tourist hell. There’d be no way to use the car as a blind so I’d have to pick them up on foot.

By the time I passed the fishing wharfs in Gloucester, all trace of my buzz was gone. The day remained bright and beautiful, but my mood was darkening. The shock at seeing Lou decked out in colors had evaporated. Now I just felt tired, torn, and an odd, forlorn sadness.

I pulled into a parking space about eight blocks from Rockport center, retrieved a beer from the cooler in the trunk, and retreated inside the dark interior. The town was dry and I didn’t want to flaunt the law. Or carry a brown paper bag. I finished the Bass, smoked the roach and, finally, unable to stall any longer, kicked myself out the door.

My pace quickened as I approached the pedestrian swamped town center. The crowd was even larger than I’d anticipated and, for a moment, I worried about locating the lovers. An irrelevant concern since my eyes locked onto Lou’s plum beret and Lauren’s Panama the moment they bobbed out of a two hundred year old doorway. I controlled my claustrophobia and plunged deeper into the moving mass, one eye on the hats, the other on the surrounding crowd.

Lou and Lauren rambled up the narrow winding street. The painted colonials housed art galleries, pseudo-scrimshaw shops, t-shirt concessions, and salt water taffy “factories.” Our country’s forefathers couldn’t have built a better outdoor shopping mall if they’d had blueprints. How wonderful it was that we lived in the age of recycling.

Store after store was jam packed with Bermuda shorts. The air overhead reeked thick and tangy with an odor war between the salty ocean and a mélange of perfume, pizza, and fried dough. I stayed far behind the strolling couple, continually monitoring the flow for anything the least bit unusual.

But the only thing extraordinary was the old clapboard buildings’ ability to absorb the crush of shop-’til-you-droppers.’ Lou and Lauren sauntered in and out of different stores, her stylish leather sack swelling after each stop. More than once I saw Lou fiddle with his wallet. Eventually, they broke free of the swarming crowd and walked hand-in-hand toward the public benches overlooking the ocean. I ducked into a tight doorway and kept watch until I was sure no one followed.

There was no reason to hang around, but oddly, the unending mass shopping bags had triggered my own acquisitiveness. After a few long, madness induced minutes resisting the lust to consume, buy, steal, something, anything, I slowly trucked back to Manny’s car.

 

Nothing occurred on my guard, unless you counted the last second decision to bypass their exit and scoot to Bill & Bob’s Roast Beef in Beverly. Lauren ran in and brought out a large bag of what I presumed was cooked cow. But once she drove to her house, my evening, night, and early morning were spent reading Macdonald and a backlog of sports pages.

By the time I returned to my apartment I was stiff, stuffed, and drained. And felt even worse after the telephone rang early the next morning.

“Where the hell were you last night?”

“Oh, Christ,” I groaned. “I forgot to leave a message.” I unscrewed my body from the couch where I’d fallen asleep and groped for a cigarette. “I’ve been stalking Lauren—shit, somebody has to. Got home about four.”

“Why didn’t you come here?”

“I didn’t want to disturb you,” I lied. I’d forgotten more than the message; I’d forgotten she was home.

“So we’re not going to see each other until you’re finished?” Boots’ voice was strained.

“No, I’ll come by tonight.”

“Why will this night be different?”

“I won’t be spending most of it in Manuel’s car.”

“What happened to the B.M.W.?”

“Too easy to recognize.”

“So you decided to take Lauren seriously.” Boots sounded satisfied despite herself.

“I did what I said I’d do.”

“Well, that’s a start,” she said.

I crushed the cigarette, glanced at the time, and realized I wanted off. “Boots, I overslept and I’m running late. I’ve got to hit the street.”

“Hit it once for me,” she said, feigning humor. “What time will you be here?”

“Between eight and nine. Don’t wait to eat.”

“I’m waiting to talk, not eat.”

“What does that mean?”

“You’ll find out when you get here,” she warned before hanging up the phone.

I thought about calling her back. Then thought about having forgotten her return and my immediate relief when the phone went dead. I didn’t understand what was happening between us, but I didn’t like it.

The conversation with Boots later that night did little to clear up my confusion.

“This last week reminds me of the way we used to be and I hate it,” she said, her wide eyes drawn into slits.

“C’mon, Boots, I haven’t been that much of a fuck-up. I followed your advice, that’s all.”

I had spent another day and much of the evening driving and hiking up north. Lou, wearing different pleats and suspenders—mercifully sans chapeau—and Lauren, in a hip-hugging short skirt and a fully filled late summer sweater, had romanced their way through another shopping spree, this time in a newly rehabilitated section of Gloucester. I followed them to a small state park where they walked, held hands, picnicked, and kissed. Since I couldn’t enjoy Lou’s happiness, I focused hard on making certain Lauren’s fears were in her head. Unfortunately, I spotted nothing to alleviate the persistent picture of the two of them frolicking and necking. A picture that hadn’t left me in great shape for talking.

“Forgetting to call doesn’t bother me as much as you crawling into a shell, shutting me out again—like the old days.”

“This isn’t the “old days,” Boots. Maybe it’s BWS—bourbon withdrawal syndrome.” Better to discuss that than the way I used to be.

Boots smiled, “You’re being clean?”

“Careful not clean. I’m doing all right. marijuana and beer, no coke and the occasional Turkey.”

“Maybe there is something to your syndrome idea.”

I stood, readying myself for a move to the bedroom, hoping to end all talk. But Boots remained where she was so I sat back down, surprised by a relief rush.

“I don’t think drug withdrawal has much to do with any ‘shell,’“ I said quickly. “I’m not exactly marching to ‘just say no.’ Hell, I’m not even sure ‘shell’ is the right word.” I paused hunting, “‘Distracted’ is more like it.”

Boots shook her head emphatically. “When I brought up buying a television you turned green.”

“It surprised me. I know what you think of the tube.”

“Don’t play dumb,” she snapped. “The conversation was about us, not about televisions.”

“And my distraction is about Lou and Lauren and her imaginary fears, not us. Anyway, if the television was about our relationship, you weren’t exactly Ms. Direct.”

“You’re not the only one who gets the willies about living together.”

Though Boots spoke the words softly, they reverberated inside my head. Loudly.

“It’s time for a real drink,” I said rising. “Do you want anything?”

I half expected shit for scoring whiskey but all I got was, “A glass of white, please.”

I walked into the postage stamp kitchen, poured the Turkey and wine, and started back into the living room. I thought of a funny remark, but kept it to myself. It wasn’t time for funnies. No matter how uptight I was.

I handed Boots her wine, retreated to the glass wall, and stared. Traffic moved slowly due to a concert on the Esplanade.

“Why are you standing there, Matt?” Boots asked.

“Just looking.”

“You don’t have anything to say?”

“Not a heck of a lot. This is coming at me pretty fast.”

“How many months do we have to quibble about interior decorating before it’s apparent we’re really talking about living together?”

I kept my eyes on the trail of headlights. One of our running debates concerned my thirties, forties, fifties taste, versus Boots’ minimalism. “I thought we were discussing aesthetics, not decisions.”

I heard her chair scrape the floor, then felt her hand on my shoulder. “I’m worried, Matt. Everything has been so good between us.”

“Is good between us.” I swung my arm over Boots’ shoulder, pulling her close. “I don’t know how I’d react to living together in the best of times. This stuff with Lou makes it worse.”

“I thought it would help if you got involved.”

“I know you did. I was off the wall about Lauren’s age and kids, but now I’ve had conversations with her about spiritual searchings. She’s even got me spooked, though I haven’t seen anything suspicious. Nothing at all.”

“She’s into spiritualism?”

“Was, not anymore.”

“When?”

“The seventies.”

“So were a lot of people back then.”

“Maybe people you knew. Mine were into sex, drugs, and rock and roll.”

She wiggled out from under my arm. “Two sides of the same damn coin.”

“Lauren still talks the talk. Unseen people pumping her with feelings that aren’t hers. Old New Age gibberish. Next thing you know Lou will be buying free range chickens.”

Boots smiled. “It might help his cholesterol.”

I walked back to the chair and plucked a cigarette from my pack. “I don’t find it funny. The woman says she’s doesn’t have much money, goes on shopping sprees that Lou is likely financing, and you can piss into the Atlantic from her house. The situation stinks, and you wonder why I’m distracted?”

Boots walked over to me, relief flooding her face. “So you’re not getting ready to go AWOL?”

I fought my doubts. “I wouldn’t be here if this was the Army. I’m no fool, Boots, I know a good thing.” Or did I?

Boots smiled though worry flickered in her hazel. “It’s taken both of us a lot of years to recognize a good thing. I just don’t want anything to screw it up.”

“I’m telling you, it’s Lou I’m worried about. I’m watching a guy whose prick is stiffer than it’s been for decades. New clothes, losing weight, smooching in parks, copping feels while they’re walking down the street. He’s wearing a fucking beret.”

Boots tried to hide her pleasure about my description but her laughter lit the room. At least the worry was gone.

“Don’t laugh. After Ian’s suicide attempt I thought Lauren was leading Lou into quicksand. Now I think she’s taking him for a ride.”

“Come on,” Boots said, pulling my arm. “I want to take you for a ride.”

Though I was relieved to stop talking, part of me didn’t want to follow when she silently turned out the living room lamp.