Terry, Juan, and I stiffly get out, stretch our legs, and scope out the neighborhood.
“Hand me my sweater,” I ask Terry. “I’m freezing.”
There is a light mist in the air that you can see under each streetlamp when you look up and down the block. A heady, perfumed scent wafts from the flowers of the giant trees, and their shadows line the darkened street. It reminds me of the honeysuckle in our New Jersey backyard, and compared to Florida’s streets, this one is quiet except for the noisy chirping of the crickets. Night is different here too, I think, shivering, as Terry and I venture a few houses down the block.
“Come on,” Dad calls out, waving us back. Terry and I race to catch up with Dad and Juan. Dad checks his bandages, and I comb my hair before we walk up to Harriet’s cottage together.
Marty is at the front door. “Come in,” he invites us.
We walk single file past Marty into the living room of the small, one-bedroom cottage.
Harriet, a short, mousy-haired woman in her early thirties, gets up from the couch to greet us. Her brown eyes sit close together over her sharp nose, and they are very red. The room smells of pot as she says with a dry mouth, “Hello.” It seems Marty has smoked one with her while we waited outside. Leaning on the fireplace mantel so she won’t lose her balance, Harriet says, “So, Marty tells me you guys need a place to stay for a while.”
“Uh, yeah,” Dad answers. “Uh, for a couple weeks, maybe. Just till we get on our feet.”
She seems to study us for a long time, especially Dad, and in the haze of her high, she finally smiles at him and says, “Well, I guess some of you can sleep on the floor. The couch is a sleeper,” she adds, slurring her words and losing her grip on the mantel. She grabs at it again awkwardly. “But I gotta clear it with the manager first.”
“Oh. Yeah. Right, that’s cool,” Dad says. His hands are in his pockets, and he’s looking away so she can’t stare at his face too long.
“It will take just a minute,” she says, walking over to the phone and dialing with difficulty. We hear her ask someone on the other line to come over, that she wants to talk, that it is important. “No, you gotta come over,” she insists. “Bye.” She turns to us, grinning, and says, “He’ll be right over.”
“Right over?” Dad is nervous. He is tired and dirty after the long drive and not prepared for an official meeting with the manager.
“Yeah, he lives just across the courtyard.”
Knock, knock, knock. We hear three sharp raps on the door. Harriet wobbles over to answer, already knowing who she’ll find. “Come in,” she says with a mischievous smile, standing back to let the manager inside.
“Hi there!” a tall, gawky man booms out as he strides into the room. He appears to be in his thirties. He has large, intensely blue eyes and dirty blond, curly hair so long it lies in a floppy Afro. His face is ruggedly handsome, even though it is thin. He is shirtless but wears Levi’s cut off just above his knees and white tennis shoes. The air charges up when he enters the room, and instantly he has everyone’s undivided attention.
Harriet introduces us. “Hi, John! This is Wayne, his daughters, Dawn and Terry, and Terry’s boyfriend, Juan. And, of course, you know Marty.” Then, addressing us, she says, “This is John. The manager.” She sounds slightly goofy with her slurred formalness.
In two long steps, John walks straight over to my father with his hand extended. “How you doing there, Wayne?” he says with a bit of a cowboy lilt to his voice. He looks Dad directly in the eyes, never once flinching at his appearance.
“Hi.” Dad shakes his hand, and I can feel his unease.
“Hey, Marty.” John nods in his direction.
Marty returns the nod.
I wait for John to acknowledge the presence of Terry, Juan, and me, but he avoids our eyes and scans the room without a comment. How rude! I think to myself.
“Uh, can I see you in the bedroom please, John?” Harriet asks, distracting me from my mounting dislike for her manager.
“Yeah, sure,” he answers quickly, heading for the room in the back.
“Come on, Wayne. You too, Marty,” Harriet says, and they disappear down the hallway, leaving us wondering what will happen, and me still smarting at how rudely we have been ignored.
After a half an hour or so, John comes stumbling out of the bedroom laughing and exaggeratedly falling into the walls. “I’ll see you later,” he calls out behind him, rolling with laughter. “If you need anything, just let me know. You got my number!” He turns toward the living room with a big, short-toothed grin on his face and then walks directly past us into the kitchen, again without acknowledging our presence.
At the sink I hear the clanking of a glass, then water coming from the tap, and I think, What a jerk! Terry and I turn our backs to the kitchen, as if to say, We don’t care about you either. We stand facing each other by the mantel where Harriet had retrieved her balance.
Still laughing boldly, John heads for the front door to leave. Then suddenly, he spins around, looks directly at me, and asks, “How old are you?”
I’m taken aback by his lightning-quick move and personal question, and I snap as if I’ve been attacked, on the edge, as I was in Carol City. “Fifteen. Why?”
“Mm, mm, mmp. Too bad!” He grabs his chest dramatically and acts disappointed.
“What?” I’m taken off guard, then instantly incensed.
John smiles wider than I ever thought anyone could and winks a big blue eye at me. “Too young!” Again he turns on his heel and pushes through the screen door, roaring laughter to the night sky and all the way to his cottage.
“What… a… creep!” I say with disgust, wanting to scream at him. “He has no idea. Young, my ass,” I add, fiercely blushing.
“Uh-oh, Dawn.” Terry sounds worried.
“What?” I snap, not sure why I am so upset.
“He likes you.”
I blush even harder.
CHAPTER FOUR
Too Young
Sun filters through the blinds, lighting the hardwood floor of the cottage at 1010-A East Acacia Avenue. Lazily, I open my eyes and scan the room. Sleep blurs my vision as I stretch and remember Harriet’s cottage… and John. What nerve, I think, reminding myself that I am angry. A huge, unfamiliar green lump lies at the threshold of the front door. I stare mindlessly at the sunlight that moves up and down the green surface for a while, wonder what it is, then notice a stringy brown something that resembles hair. It must be Juan and Terry in their sleeping bag; I am happy I didn’t have to sleep on the floor. I roll over and stretch again, feeling my bones appreciate even the lumpiness of the mattress beneath me. I roll onto my side to see Dad sleeping next to me on the pullout couch, his bandages intact. He must have stayed up late to party, I think.
I suddenly have to pee. In my oversized T-shirt and underwear, I scope out the area for the bathroom and tiptoe quietly around the slumbering green lump and the various sofa cushions strewn about on the floor.
I linger in the bathroom; the pink and black tiles feel cool against my feet and the fifties-style sink dispenses a stream of cold water that I splash on my face. Towels and clothing I recognize as Marty’s and Harriet’s litter the small space, and the heavy smell of their muskiness permeates. Softly I tiptoe back to the couch and pull on my pants.