If the kitchen is the heart of the home, then the McKee heart is definitely loony. At least one of them anyway. It didn't take much guesswork to figure out who had decided to cover every available surface with our neighboring state's bird: loon dishtowels, framed loon prints, loon wallpaper borders, loon candles, carved loons sitting on artfully distressed wooden corner shelves.
The plaid burgundy and forest-green color scheme was aggressively Minnesota Rustic. The few pieces not loon-encrusted were obviously ancient, or made from rough wood and punched tin. Stu now sat at the kitchen table, a piece so purposefully shabby that it must have cost a fortune in a Minneapolis furniture store.
After restraining and calming Doug, both Neil and Ron had offered to drive Stu home from Jackson's. Instead, I brought him home in his own pickup, and intended to walk back to the trailer as soon as he was settled (and I had a chance to peek furtively at the rest of Renee's design scheme).
I'd finally located the refrigerator, nestled inside a large wooden cupboard, successfully camouflaged from the twentieth century. "Here." I handed Stu a loon dishrag wrapped around a couple of ice cubes. "Hold this on your eye. It'll keep the swelling down."
Stu's left eye was swollen almost closed, a bruise just starting to tinge the outer edges purple. "I feel like such an idiot," he said, gingerly touching his face with the ice pack.
"Why?" I asked. "You didn't start the fight."
"I didn't finish it either," he said ruefully. "I can't believe that son of a bitch dropped me with a single punch."
"You weren't expecting it. Reasonable grownups don't settle their differences with their fists." I inspected the rest of his face for damage. "I think you're more upset that you didn't get a chance to swing back at him than you are about being hit."
"I suppose you're right. It wasn't exactly the evening I'd pictured for us. Pretty pitiful first date."
I pulled out a chair and sat at the table, smoothed the hair out of his eyes, and shrugged. "I like playing Florence Nightingale."
He slumped back and closed his other eye. We sat in silence a minute or so. Stu had been too upset, or embarrassed, to talk during the ride to his house. I watched him a moment, then asked the question that had been on my mind for the past hour.
"What set Doug off in the first place?"
He sat motionless. "You know how Doug is."
"He doesn't seem to have changed much from high school," I said. Doug had been a hothead and a bully then too. "So, he just suddenly decided to poke you one in the snotbox, huh?"
"Something like that," Stu said quietly.
I supposed Doug had been saying more unpleasant things about Renee. And me. I am a pacifist by nature, but if I'd had to listen to him much longer, I'd have taken a swing at him myself.
Stu didn't seem to want to elaborate.
"You think the superintendent will come down on him for this?" I asked. "Everyone's gonna hear about it."
"Yeah, I know. But he's got the football team winning for the first time in a decade. They'll just be relieved that my eye didn't hurt his hand."
"I heard he's rough on the kids too, yelling and shoving and things like that," I said, repeating some cafe gossip. "Especially Cameron."
Cameron Fischbach was Doug and Debbie's oldest son, due to start his senior year in high school He was the team's star tackle.
"Every coach is rough on every kid, Tory," Stu said, smiling, opening his functional eye again. "And it's especially hard to be the coach's son. But believe me, none of 'em care as long as they win."
"If you say so," I said doubtfully. I've never been a coach worshipper, and could not imagine why anyone would risk public humiliation and abuse for the greater glory of a team. "Well, I'm just glad that Presley is still in junior high. I bet Doug self-destructs before he makes it to high school."
"We can only hope," Stu said. "My face can't take many more meetings with Doug Fischbach."
I sat back in the chair, looked up, and noticed, for the first time, that the loon on the corner shelf above the table was really a telephone. A coiled cord snaked out from under its tail, and a small red light flashed on and off in the base.
"I think you have a call," I said to Stu. "Your bird is blinking."
He craned his head up and squinted at the phone. "Damn answering machines are more trouble than they're worth." Without standing, he reached overhead and punched a button.
I heard the soft whirring of the tape rewinding and the click as it prepared to play.
"Hi Dad," a small voice said. "Mommy said I could call you, but you're not home. I got to go swimming today and we're gonna go buy school clothes tomorrow. I really love it here—there's lots to do. Mom says to tell you to call if you get home early. Love you."
It was Stu's five-year-old son, Walton—who was also living in Minnesota with Stu's wife. I'd only met him once, and managed to forget his existence most of the time.
Without looking at me, Stu said, "I suppose I better call them back. It's not that late."
"That's okay, I gotta go anyway." I slung my purse over my shoulder. "I have to work tomorrow morning." I turned to leave.
"Don't go," Stu said softly. "Please, this'll just take a minute. Go check out the stereo in the living room—there's a surprise for you."
He grinned carefully, an adorable middle-aged man with the beginnings of a terrific shiner.
I sighed. I truly hadn't planned to spend the night with Stu. A first like that deserved some sort of ceremony—champagne and peignoirs. I didn't even have a toothbrush with me.
"Del will worry if I don't come home," I said, though Del would in all probability not even notice. I eyed him critically. "You don't look like you're up to any extracurricular activity."
"I'm not," he said ruefully, "but sometimes it's just nice to snuggle."
"You sound like Ann Landers," I said, considering the logistics. I'd have to get up at least an hour earlier than usual and sneak back to the trailer to shower and change for work, where the hot topic was certain to be the fracas between Doug and Stu.
"Please," he said again softly, giving me an irresistible puppy-dog look.
"Okay," I said. "Make your phone call."
He grinned like a small boy. "Good. Check out the stereo first. The bathroom and bedroom are just down the hallway. I'll be there quick as I can."
The living room was decorated in Early Lake Cabin, with dark wood paneling and sturdy tweed upholstered furniture. I had to search a little to find the stereo, which was inside a large oak wardrobe. On top was an assortment of James Taylor cassettes still in their store wrappers.
I was touched almost to the point of tears. There was no overlap in our musical tastes—Stu actually liked country; I loved James Taylor and assumed everyone felt the same way.
In the kitchen, I could hear Stu's soft voice, making easy conversation with his son. Not wanting to eavesdrop, especially if he was going to talk to Renee, I unwrapped and plugged Gorilla into the slot, then wandered down the dark hallway in search of the master bedroom to the strains of "Mexico."
In contrast to the other rooms, the bedroom was distinctly feminine—white on white everything—from the bedspread to the lampshades to the scattered area rugs on the oak plank floor. This was the kind of bedroom I would choose, if I had unlimited resources and any skill at combining accessories. Renee's good taste here made me hate the room on sight.
Since Nicky's death, I had forced myself to be unsurprised by waking up alone, to be resigned to the fact that there wasn't another warm body in bed next to me, to sleep without the gentle rhythm of someone else's breathing, someone else's legs to press cold toes against.
Unfortunately, I had schooled myself too thoroughly to forget the lesson quickly. Especially in this room, the undiluted essence of Renee was too strong.
After his phone call, Stu came in, undressed, apologized for "pooping out," kissed me softly, and fell immediately asleep. The cold pack, which he'd been holding on his eye, had slipped and was slowly melting on the sheet between us. I was wide awake.
I snuggled closer to Stu, enjoying the presence of another body in the same bed, even if it was this particular bed. Carefully, listening for a change in his breathing, I slipped a leg over his, and an arm around his middle.
"Night honey," Stu exhaled with another snore.
The sight of Dougie throwing a punch at Stu had triggered my fuzzy memory. I lay next to Stu, trying to sort it out.
We were at the river, of course, in the dark after the 1969 homecoming game. A small bonfire had almost burned out, though it threw sparks into the night air with every breeze. Couples were everywhere, scattered on blankets, talking, laughing, drinking, making out, and maybe even doing a little more than that.
Someone had plugged an eight-track tape of Tommy James and the Shondells into a car stereo, and "Crystal Blue Persuasion" echoed into the darkness over the rushing river sounds.
"Here," Nicky'd said, handing me a Coke bottle, "see what you think of this."
"Thanks." I took sip; it had a sweet, kind of cherry taste. "What is it?"
We had spread a blanket by some bushes. Nick was sitting next to me, his arm settled around my shoulders. I was having a wonderful time being at an actual party with Nick Bauer. Even more, I was enjoying being seen at a party with Nick Bauer.
"Sloe gin and Coke." He grinned. "You can't get drunk on it, it's too sweet." He took a swig directly from a half-pint.
"Okay," I said, and chugged as much as I could without choking. I knew that sloe gin was alcohol, and I also knew that no matter what it tasted like, if it was alcohol, it would get me drunk.
I just didn't care.
With his sparkling brown eyes, curly dark hair, and infectious smile, Nick Bauer was the cutest boy I'd ever seen. And if he wanted me to get drunk with him, that was fine by me.
"Gimme some more," I said, handing the empty bottle back to Nicky, who grinned widely.
"Sure thing," he said, standing up. "Let me get another Coke from the car."
Del, wearing snug jeans and a poor-boy sweater pulled tight over her hips, sat down on the blanket next to me and watched Nick's retreating back.
"Go slow on that stuff, it'll sneak up on you," she warned, fiddling with the yarn bows tied around her pigtails. "And so will Nicky, if you don't watch out."
"Good," I said. "That's what I'm hoping for."
"Tough talk for a virgin," she said, peering at my face. "Are you sure you know what you're doing?"
"Nope," I said, "but I intend to find out." My mother had dutifully impressed on me that all boys wanted 'one thing only,' but so far no boy had wanted anything from me. If handsome Nick Bauer did, I was determined to grab him before he changed his mind. Besides, I wanted to know if Jacqueline Susann had her facts straight.
"Suit yourself." She shrugged, standing again. An older, out-of-town boy had stepped from the bushes and was obviously waiting for Del to join him. "Be careful, kid."
"Sure," I said.
"What did she want?" Nicky asked, handing me another full bottle and watching Del walk away.
"Nothing much," I said. "She was just trying to talk me out of sleeping with you."
The sloe gin had obviously hit me.
"I see," he said, looking at the bonfire. "And did it work?"
"Nope."
He laughed out loud and turned to me, face close to mine, and said, "You know, I really like you. We're gonna be great together."
"I sincerely hope so," I said, a little dizzy, and not just from the liquor.
Then he kissed me, a wonderful first kiss, the kind that First Kiss Dreams are made of.
I was leaning into the kiss, when a shout and a cry on the other side of the bonfire interrupted us.
Damn, I thought, though I would never have said that out loud. Not in 1969 anyway.
Nick pulled away. Damn again.
A crowd had gathered around an old two-door Impala, cheering and hooting.
"What's going on?" I asked, irritated by the interruption just when things were getting interesting.
"I don't know," he said over his shoulder. "I'm gonna check it out. I'll be right back."
As far as I could tell, the crowd had discovered a couple in the backseat of a car. That probably wouldn't have caused an uproar by itself, if there hadn't been a blond girl crying and shouting, beating hysterically on the hood.
Trying to get a better view, I stood up just in time to see Stu McKee, in a burgundy and black letterman's jacket, pull the weeping Debbie Wetzler off the car and into his arms, where she collapsed, sobbing.
The car door swung open and Doug Fischbach emerged, zipping his jeans. Even from a distance, I could see the nasty look on his face. He stormed around to the front of the car and shouted something unintelligible to Debbie, who buried her face further in Stu's shoulder.
Doug grabbed Debbie's arm and roughly pulled her away. Stu tried to interfere, and through the crowd, I saw Doug take a swing at Stu.
Nick ran back to the blanket. "Come on, you gotta see this." He pulled me up.
"Who was in the car with Dougie?" I asked, panting to keep up.
"That's the good part." He grinned.
From the other side of the car, the door opened and the backseat folded forward. Janelle Ross, hair and clothes disheveled, emerged.
I was flabbergasted.
"But Doug and Debbie have been going together for ages," I protested. The literary world of Jacqueline Susann had not prepared me for real-life infidelities.
"Yeah." Nick grinned salaciously. "But that's not the best part."
We worked our way to the front of the crowd, though the fight appeared to be over already. Stu was sitting in the dirt, and Doug and Debbie were shouting at each other. Janelle leaned against the car and watched the scene impassively.
"The best part," Nick continued, "was what Doug said to Stu just before he hit him."
"And what was that?" I'd asked.
"Tory?" a sleepy voice said.
The bonfire and the river and 1969 faded away. I remembered I was in bed with Stu McKee, in his loon-filled house.
"Sorry," I whispered. "Did I wake you?" I must have been talking out loud.
"Sorta," he said. "I was wondering if you were going to do anything about that..."
"Do anything about what?" I asked, confused.
"That," he said, pointedly. "Or should I just roll over and go back to sleep?"
I realized, with equal parts humor and horror, that as I'd been reminiscing about Nick and Stu and that kegger, I had unconsciously slipped my hand inside the waistband of Stu's shorts.
And woke him up.
"Sorry about that." I laughed softly. "Didn't realize what I was doing."
"That's okay," he said. "I was starting to enjoy it."
"I thought you were too tired for extracurriculars."
"I must have been wrong," he said. "I do believe we could give it a shot."
So we rolled together, a pair of loonies in a pure white bedroom, finding warmth and comfort in each other.