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.