Prologue
I was tired. I had been traveling almost nonstop for 60 hours. After an early out notification at my base in northern Japan I had been on a military plane to Tokyo, then the long flight from Tokyo to San Francisco via Hawaii. Then the requisite six hours of paper signing to get me out of the Air Force. Finally the long Greyhound bus ride back to Denver. Now I was out of the cab and walking the last few blocks, my duffel bag on my shoulder, to a house I hoped I remembered.
Okay, let's back up a bit.
The year was 1972 and I was 24 years old. I had married fresh out of junior college, had the marriage fail while stationed in Japan, had no ties in Illinois where I had lived with my father for a few years after my mother died young, and so now I was ready to be a serious student if I could just get into college in my home town.
My hope, as I walked that last couple of blocks, was that Marge and Si, my mother's friends and my fairly regular babysitters when mom was out, would have a room I could rent. I didn't want to live in a dorm after 4 years in the Air Force, certainly wasn't willing to put up with any bullshit hazing from a fraternity, and just needed a place to live. I knew that their sons had moved out so I figured they could probably put me up.
If they still lived there.
And if I could find the house.
I was walking down south Ogden Street, stretching my memory back a decade.
And there it was.
I walked up the three steps to the porch, took a deep breath, and rang the doorbell.
I recognized her as soon as the door opened. She was short and round and buxom. Her hair was now a coppery red, not the simple brunette I remembered. Her face was round and, not pretty or cute, but attractive, with big eyes, a button nose, and a very generous mouth with full lips.
I just stood there waiting and wondering.
And then I saw the recognition dawn on her face.
"Davey?!" she said, opening the screen door and taking a step closer.
I grinned. "Margie," I said, as far as I knew the only one who called her that.
She slapped me across the cheek. Not hard, well, not hard enough to leave a bruise. But definitely hard enough to string.
"Eight years and not a word?" she yelled and then that generous mouth spread into a smile, revealing her slightly buck teeth.
And she took the final step between us and hugged me.
I couldn't help but be aware of the softness, the warmth, the pure femininity I was holding.
"Okay," she said, breaking the hug, "come in and tell me what's been going on."
I followed her in, dropping my duffel inside the door and heading to the kitchen. At the kitchen table, where I had eaten so many breakfasts, she offered me iced tea and the ever-present bowl of cucumbers and sliced onions in vinegar that was in the refrigerator.
I gave her a brief rundown of my life. After we buried mom, my dad took me back to Chicago where I finished high school, much to my surprise, and junior college. Got married young and dumb. Got drafted and opted for the Air Force. Did my trick for my country.
"And now here I am," I concluded, "kinda hoping you and Si would rent me a room while I get situated and start back to college."
As I finished the sentence I saw that her eyes were red and she was starting to tear up.
"What?" I asked, reaching across the table and touching her hand.
"Oh honey," she said, wiping away a tear, "Si died three years ago."
"Oh fuck," I said, forgetting I was a civilian again, "I'm sorry. I didn't know."
"Of course you didn't," she said, managing a wan smile.
It turned out Si, whose real name was Fred but nobody called him that, worked at a factory making truck flooring and in one of those freak accidents that can happen, a load of finished flooring material had fallen on him, killing him instantly.
She shook her head and wiped the tear.
"Of course you can stay here honey," she said, "as long as you need to."
I smiled and said, "okay, show me where to sleep and I'll shower and take you to dinner to celebrate my new landlady."
She giggled and led me down to the bedroom I had actually used in the past.
I did as I had said I would. I showered but didn't shave. At that time I figured the Air Force owed me four years of shaves and haircuts and I damn sure intended to collect. I dressed in my best civvies, figuring I was probably no more than two years out of style.
When I walked into the living room she had obviously cleaned up too. And she looked stunning. She was in a bright print blouse with a skirt that ended just above her knee but had fringe for an added couple of inches of modesty. The blouse, I could not help but notice, was unbuttoned at the top three buttons and a very generous expanse of blue-veined cleavage was on display. The outfit enhanced rather than tried to hide her size, and she was a big woman. Medium-high heels with bright red toenails peeking out did good things for her legs.
I stopped and looked.
Okay, I stopped and stared.
It tickled me that she actually blushed.
"God Davey," she said, giggling, "take a picture, it lasts longer."
I smiled and said, "you are stunning."
I liked that she blushed and then giggled, giving me a glimpse of the beautiful 18-year-old bride she had once been.
She stepped forward and took my arm.
"Okay boarder," she said, "where shall we go?"
I laughed and said "Margie, I haven't been in Denver in a decade. I doubt if any of the places I went to when high school friends and I were riding around even exist any more. But mostly what I would like after three years of rice and fish is a meatloaf."
She laughed, that rough-edged belly laugh I remembered, and said "I've got just the place."
She led me to the small garage and I had to laugh. The 1957 Chevy 210 that they had bought new was still there.
She grinned and said "hey, it works. Wanna drive."
"Ummmm," I said, "I've been driving on the wrong side of the street for three years. I'd better acclimate before I try that. Besides, I don't have a driver's license."
So I settled for opening the door for her and then running around to the passenger side and getting in.
The old car started and ran fine, the six-cylinder engine pulling strong and she handled the stick shift well.
