It was a gloomy, rainy day in Brooklyn. I skipped the afternoon session and curtailed the evening session at the viaduct. Thanks to the lady who purchased a Nora Roberts novel. She opened it as she was waiting and kept reading as she found a seat and the bus pulled away.
I mentioned Lorraine yesterday. For a brief period her family were my friend Chucky's tenants, four houses down from my own. It was the early '60's. She was thought uncool, called "skeeve" by my friends. It wasn't because she was ugly. She was average-looking, sometimes cute. I think that bit of cruelty may have stemmed from a rumor about her mother. It was said she'd "killed her baby." No one in my circle knew anything about abortion then, which was illegal. I couldn't understand why the woman hadn't been arrested. Anyway, for some reason, Lorraine was sweet on me. She bought me a gift for my birthday, perhaps my 13th. And I wouldn't accept it. I succumbed to peer pressure and put on a show, running away from her, raising the hackles of observers and the ire of the other girls of our circle. The one I loved, Elvira, said: "I'll never speak to you again." The opinions of my friends were of greater importance to me than her love. My mom and sister weren't too thrilled, either. Lorraine was so hurt, and I didn't care. That was then. Through the years I would flush with shame whenever I thought of the incident, one of the most despicable of my life. It was to my great surprise when she approached the floating bookshop one day and purchased Close to the Edge. As soon as she told me her name I looked past the large sunglasses she was wearing and recognized her. She was shocked that I remembered her - and she seemed to have forgotten me, forgotten the incident, though I didn't mention it, of course. Why open an old wound? I was astounded and thought she was perhaps pretending not to recall it. I was amazed at how unfair life could be, how one sometimes received something that was undeserved. If she'd spit at me, I wouldn't have complained. And yet she'd bought my book.
During subsequent encounters she would ask my name, as if she'd forgotten it. I couldn't believe it. Something that had made such an indelible impression on me did not even register on her radar. Although I was glad, I found that my reaction to the thought of the incident did not change. I was still ashamed of how cruel I'd been, and I suppose that is a good thing. I began to see why Lorraine had forgotten it. It may have been only the first of the psychological blows she'd been dealt. She once let drop: "Men are dogs." Yesterday it was: "Life is hard, but you learn how to take the shots." I felt so sorry for her. When she offered a handshake, I impulsively kissed the back of her hand. We fell into an embrace and I gave her a peck on the cheek. "They say everybody needs 25 hugs a day," she remarked as she was leaving. It seemed an awful lot. She must have read it in a book.
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