February the Sixth

All Rights Reserved © 2003 by David Waters

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher.

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ISBN: 0-595-27614-8

ISBN: 978-1-4620-7508-9 (ebook)

Printed in the United States of America

This book is dedicated to four teachers, Philip Burnham, Jack Earle, J. Carroll McDonald, and Jose Ordonez, who showed me what could be done in my green years, and stayed in my mind through forty years of teaching.

My thanks also to Jonathan Cullen and Norval Rindfleisch for their help in editing and their perceptive suggestions.

Contents

FEBRUARY THE FOURTH

FEBRUARY THE FIFTH

FEBRUARY THE SIXTH

He came off the curving ramp of the interstate at a more sedate pace than he might have used thirty-five years ago. Was he a better driver than he had been as a teenager, or just more cautious, he wondered? Of course, the interstate hadn’t existed when he was a student at St. John’s, and his father did all the driving. Perhaps, after his graduation, he had driven the station wagon south towards what had beckoned as a permanent summer, but his memories of this place were not those of driving. Nevertheless, he had taken the first exit for the town because he had remembered the old route, 3A.

In the clear coldness of the February evening, he slowed down, searching the tired gray buildings for something familiar. There had been an old garage on the right at a slight incline, with a disused camper that had sat there for most of his four years. Some of the houses were turn of the century buildings and they would still be there, but nothing was distinguishable. As the overhead streetlights began to appear, he remembered that 3A was a fork road, joining the main Route 3 at the southern end of the town. Now he was approaching a small traffic circle, and he swung the rented car around the empty rotary and past a light which turned to green as though the town were welcoming him back.

On the main road he began to pick up some landmarks. An additional traffic light and a large, windowed Firestone station were new, but the comfortable width of the road was the same. The old Howard Johnson’s had gone. The small steepled church still stood on the raised ground above the street to his left, with the Mitchell Funeral Home a hundred yards beyond it, white painted and prosperous, as it had been always. He glanced in the rear view mirror, but there were no vehicles behind, so he slowed. In another four hundred yards he was surprised to see the same small, red-bricked movie theater. In these days of malls and multiplexes, surely a building of that vintage and economy would not have survived. The Regal or the Regent? He wasn’t sure. But the neon lit sign glittered above the building, advertising the new Clancy movie, so obviously the place still functioned as did the smaller stores, none of which he remembered except as shops he never visited.

He came to the traffic light where one turned left on Route 9 for all the small towns that began with H, Hopkinton, Henniker, Hillsboro. Down the hill to the right had stood the station for the Boston and Maine-long since departed with its service terminated even while he was at school. For years the stone building had remained as an unnamed memorial; now there seemed to be a shopping center or some collection of trendy stores. He couldn’t believe how sparse the traffic was in the main street.

There had been no by-pass in the late 50’s so all the vehicles from Boston and Manchester had rolled through the city. But tonight there were no people. A few dry flakes drifted across his windshield, but it was too cold for snow. A full moon had made its appearance over the hills as he dropped down the interstate into the town. It promised a good New Hampshire night of that still coldness he remembered so well—a below zero night, a three dog night (although his understanding of that phrase, he realized, had come ten or fifteen years later), a night where one’s nostrils froze, with almost a healthy sense of well-being, if that wasn’t a contradiction. Still the cold was nothing new for late shoppers or diners.

The red glow of the traffic light reflected from the hood of the rented car. He adjusted the heater and pressed the search button on the radio, since the Boston station was fading from contact. When the light changed for northbound traffic, he eased the Pontiac gently forward. He could have turned for the school and the Baker Guest House, but he needed a meal by himself. If others had come back for Woods’ service, he didn’t feel like meeting them this evening, alumni or the older, retired teachers who might remember him. He would prefer a quiet meal in town, where perhaps he could find a copy of today’s New York Times. At home he still enjoyed the chance to read the Western edition.

He shook his head with a slight smile. He was drifting into a nostalgia; perhaps that was inevitable after a return of this sort, his first visit in thirty five years. But he was surprised to feel some of those sensations that he associated with schooldays-a nervousness in the stomach, an uneasiness, although he had quite enjoyed the rituals. Perhaps the mind retained memories of a place, and it retrieved from something more enduring than a computer file the record of a restricted freedom, a transcript of work and constant requirements, a pressure to succeed with a college goal one couldn’t finesse. Whatever. A good meal would help him to relax.

The Puritan on Main Street, where the locals used to gather, had disappeared. A sporting goods store seemed to be in its place, but he couldn’t recall exactly where the Puritan had stood. The moon had now appeared above the level row of three storied buildings, and he cruised along the empty street, looking for another place to eat. The good restaurants were almost all off the beat these days, known by word-of-mouth and accessible only by foot down unfamiliar side streets. Perhaps he ought to ask. It was really strange, he thought, but there wasn’t a soul in sight, and the one car he had seen had turned away at the light. The kind of traffic he prayed for on a Friday on the Bay Bridge, but, perversely, a little frustrating for him now.

The local radio station was into a burst of songs, without a break. Songs, numbers, five in a row, without commercials, oldies apparently, because Ray Conniff was followed by Nat King Cole. An anachronism? No, not an anachronism. He had a sudden and clear image of Phil Woods in a sophomore English class, defining the term. Phil used to insist that the object had to appear earlier, like a wrist watch in Victorian England or a cigarette in the Middle Ages. He had always enjoyed Phil’s classes. More wit than pedantic humor, and always something to keep you alive.

The disk jockey was talking again-some movie music from Marjorie Morn-ingstar, a love song. He remembered that. Natalie Wood and Gene Kelly. He’d had a crush on her, but she’d gone, too. What was the station he listened to all the time? It was a powerful one, out of Boston. WBZ or something. He remembered a promotion and an interview with Tab Hunter of all people, when Tab had made some hit record, something out of the usual for Tab. Whatever happened to Tab Hunter, he wondered? Curious what people and occasions the mind brought back, and what the brain couldn’t retrieve.

By now he had almost left the main part of town. There were traffic lights and a new interchange for the interstate, and some dull looking condominiums that hadn’t existed in architects’ minds in the 50’s or 60’s. He didn’t want to take a chance and drive out into the country again, especially on this most deserted of nights. He pulled the car over, checked the empty road, and made a slow U turn. Surely something had to be open or someone around to ask. On his right he saw the lights of a store, and he pulled the car into the empty curb and cut the engine. The radio remained on with the uncomplicated harmonies of the Four Freshmen, and a variety of blinking lights from the dashboard. He stretched in a slow, gentle movement. These days after a hundred mile drive he needed to ease his back.

The moon cast a clean light on the low piles of frozen, February snow making a black ribbon of the scraped sidewalks. The interior warmth of the car lulled him into a sense of inactivity, and he wasn’t eager to open the door and face the chill. Just up the road an old Chevy had parked, head to the curb, and the bright moonlight gave the tired, green paint an almost polished, fresh look. It was a ‘55 Chevy. He remembered the model because his mother had driven one, and he had taken some lessons in it. This car must be carrying an antique license plate because it was all letters and numbers and no slogan Live Free or Die like the other New Hampshire cars. When had that slogan come in? He focused his eyes sharply to see if he could read a date, but he couldn’t even read all the numbers in spite of the moonlight. Now that was a logical progression in time-his deteriorating eyesight, although he could still do all right with the long distance stuff.

In the rear view mirror, some distance back up the road, he could see a man, dressed only in a jacket and scarf in spite of the cold, and moving briskly down the sidewalk towards town. So there were people. The sight encouraged him to tackle the ignition key release and the small switch he suspected was under the steering column. He felt but couldn’t find any appropriate knob. The interior light button, although it darkened or brightened the dashboard, did not seem to affect the overhead light. He was used to his Legend, where he knew all the dials, and everything worked. He propped open the door to give himself some light, but the switch or the secret still eluded him, and some gentle turns and pushing movements did not release the key. Not that it mattered. In this deserted town, no one was going to steal the vehicle or the Four Freshmen. He made sure that he wasn’t going to lock himself out and climbed stiffly from the car.

It was cold. He could feel the tingling sensation in his nostrils. The store was a small, all purpose grocery, probably like a Time Saver, staying open later than those in the town and competing bravely against the big supermarkets like sparrows pecking away at the edge of a flock of crows. He looked at the name. Wilson’s. He stopped in amazement, rubbing his bare hands for warmth. This was the store he used to visit whenever he and his friends could get into town. They could buy bread, and cookies, and cokes, and those cheap novels and the early girlie magazines that he had browsed through, reluctant—or ashamed—to buy. Wilson’s. It was an easy walk from the center of town, or by car with a teacher who needed a beer or some milk for the dormitory. He looked around eagerly for someone with whom he could share his discovery, but there was no one. The jacketed man had stopped for a moment a hundred yards up the road. In the moonlight, more revealing than ever, nothing moved, and apart from the stationary Chevrolet and the strains of the radio from the interior of his car, the street gave the appearance of an abandoned movie set. But the store had lights with a posted ‘Open’ sign. A woman was standing behind the counter with her back to the door. She would know about a restaurant, at least. He swung open the outer screen.

FEBRUARY THE FOURTH

Mark pushed on the inner door, and the small bell rang quietly, somewhere in the back room. The woman didn’t turn at the sound, and considering the evening hours and the lack of other people, Mark thought her confidence reflected rather well on the security of the town. It wouldn’t be that way at home. When she turned, Mark thought that she looked somewhat familiar, but it was a standard New England face, a little paler than the women of Northern California, a face weathered by the New England winters. He couldn’t remember too much about the couple who had run Wilson’s, but it had been a couple. The woman must have been in her thirties. She had been somewhat nondescript and never too friendly or welcoming to the St. John’s students because they weren’t the same as the regular customers, day in, day out, all year. He remembered the man better, the husband. He had been overweight, hair receding a trifle. In spring and early fall, he always wore T-shirts, and then he would wear a jacket over the shirts when the temperature dropped. Never a proper shirt, and, of course, no tie, like the St. John’s students. He had been more friendly, asking about the hockey games in the winter, and he never worried if Mark was short of one or two pennies. Mr. Wilson had placed a small collection box for charities on the counter near the cash register, and he had hoped that his customers, and certainly the wealthy St. John’s students, would leave some of their change. He got more than his pennies back. But they had been Mr. and Mrs. Wilson, he remembered. If the name of the store hadn’t changed, perhaps this was a daughter or a niece.

Now the woman was looking at him. Mark felt that he needed to buy something more than a New York Times. He saw that the papers were still in the rack near the door. Perhaps she would have some fruit that he could have for after dinner.

You’re a little late, this evening, she said. She spoke without hostility in a matter of fact manner.

Mark looked at the wall clock, just above the counter. It was showing just after six. I’m sorry, he smiled at her. Are you closed? I didn’t realize. It had to be way after six.

Oh no. She shook her head with surprise. Only on Sunday evenings. She looked at him again, more intently. It’s just that you don’t usually come in after six. The students, that is. Not you.

Mark nodded. She must have mistaken him for another customer. What did she mean by ‘the students’? Perhaps she thought he was a teacher at St. John’s, a teacher who didn’t come in very often.

I’m looking for some fruit, he said.

In the usual place, she said, turning away. We have some good navel oranges from Florida, she added. She was busying herself with some boxes behind the counter. We’re out of Hostess cupcakes—the Twinkies. They won’t be coming in ‘til Thursday morning.

Hostess Twinkies. Mark looked behind him, instinctively. Was she really talking to him? Or was it just a New Hampshire staple? Come to think of it, he used to eat those things and rather like them too. They came two or three to a packet, and there had also been apple fruit pies in plastic covers. But he hadn’t thought of Hostess Twinkies in years. They had disappeared with the dinosaur, or at least with the arrival of the California fruit and greens craze. Hostess Twinkies.

No thanks, he said. I think I should avoid the Twinkies.

She looked at him across the aisle where he had just discovered the fruit. I thought you liked them. You always get a couple when you come. Don’t they tease you about them? She had a half smile, as though she were trying to be pleasant, almost talkative, on this lonely evening. Again she seemed familiar—someone in a Berkeley store, perhaps?

I think you have- he began.

And the Senor? she cut in.

The Senor?

Senor Lopez, she went on. "The one who runs. He’s always joking with you.

I really- Mark began again, but he didn’t know what to say. Just for a moment he wondered whether someone was pulling his leg and knew that he or others would be coming for Woods’ service. But it wouldn’t be worth it. The joke would be pointless and one couldn’t set it up, not this way. He steadied himself and returned to the stand with the newspapers, taking a Times, casually. But the lady, whoever she was, was right. The Senor had worked all his life at St. John’s, years of teaching history, years of friendships with students and alumni, and retired by now, if he recalled the school’s magazines. As teacher and friend, the Senor had given him a hard time about the twinkies. He could still hear his joking voice.

He moved to the cash register. Better to back out,