Memory

Another story of dad's that was somehow separated from the rest. I like this one very much. I have the sense that he is combining several memories into a fictional story. There was a girl, but I think she was in Georgia, who had nine brothers. There used to be a photo, but I think it was tossed out with some of dad's books, accidentally, of a blond long haired girl wearing a grass skirt, giving the photographer, whom I assume to have been my father, a come hither look. Then in terms of a cruise, the only cruise (other than the one in World War II, which was not a cruise at all) that he took was when I got him a three day weekend one to Mexico. And I know for a fact there was no old love on that trip. But this is a sweet one, I think.

For a while I stood at the prow and watched the cruise ship pierce the waves  I was bored.  An itinerant bartender coaxed me into buying a Margarita, which I drank quickly without appreciable enhancement of my mood.

I made a brief tour of the gambling room, where a deft fingered young woman dealt me two poker hands that cost me fifty dollars in a trice.

I am a quick learner.  I ceded the field, with celerity.  I then felt that the ship was beginning to toss a little, though I could not be sure it wasn't the lavish dessert served at dinner that caused the feeling of motion.

I made my way to the bar where I felt I could commiserate with my distress over a dram or two. There was only one other patron, an elderly woman, bejeweled, wearing a hat which though elegant, was an accessory of another day.  She was sitting before a tall tropical drink.  I had the feeling she had been observing me since my arrival at the bar with intense curiosity.  I was right.

"Sam," she exclaimed, "Is that you?"

I was startled at the ferocity of this greeting.  Then again.

"By Jesus, it is you!" She then picked up her drink, circled the bar and took the stool next to me and repeated the phrase without the sacrilege.

"It is you, damned if you haven't changed a mite.  You still have that scoundrelly look--Warren, Ohio, 1943.  Sam, how could you have forgotten so soon, a mere fifty years ago?"

"Alma," I said, "it's really you."  It was, truly, even under the erosive wear of half a century.  Her gray eyes the same as they were then, quick to laughter, adventurous, even daring in aspect.  I did not concede the "scoundrelly" description.  As I remembered, I was the innocent one.  In my salad years, there was nothing predatory about my approach to women.  I entered into that fray with the conviction that there were two kinds of women, the good and the bad.  She seemed to me to be in the former category.  What else?  She was Italian and she had nine brothers.

"Let me buy you another drink," she laughed. "Let us celebrate an ancient promise you broke fifty years ago."

"What promise?" I asked.

"You never came back," she replied.

"Alma, there was a war going on.  I was on a priority shipping list."

She smiled, leaned over and kissed me on the cheek.  "You were cute enough to eat," she said.  "A shiny new second lieutenant.  We were alone in the bus.  We started kissing in five minutes and necked all the way to Warren."

I recalled the incident, though I can admit, now there was some doubt I had categorized her correctly.

"Now, Alma, be fair.  I never promised anything.  How could I have?"

She laughed and I recalled that deep-throated sound of her voice. "Anyway," she said, "you were a scoundrel.  Remember you told me you could not get a pass for one of our dates and I found you out with that short-skirted Polish girl.  I gave her 'what for'."

Indeed she did though she never confided in me the message that sent the Polish girl from the restaurant premises, so hurriedly that she left her purse on the table.  I thought it a good time to ask.

"Come on, Alma, you can tell me now. What did you say to her that sent her off so fast?"

"Simple.  I said 'If you're not out of here before I count ten, I'll twist your head off and send it to you."

"There, you see," I noted, "You were the aggressive one.  Remember?  In those days a girl did not force herself past a reluctant hotel clerk into a guy's room."

"I never," she protested.

"You did.  Easter morning. The phone rang and the clerk announced, 'There's a young lady who wishes to come up.'  You said you wanted to take me to church for Easter services.  Then you arrayed yourself languorously on the bed.  I was not equipped for 'languorous' in those days.  Besides I wasn't Catholic."

"I did my best,"  She laughed that primordial laugh, "to convert you."

"To Catholicism?"

"That also," she laughed again.

Indeed, she took me to Easter services.  Rather, she paraded me before the faithful, introduced me to the Monsignor and invited me to a home cooked Italian dinner at her aunt's house.

"You said it was a family dinner. But the house was empty except for me and you!"

"How was the dinner?" She laughed.

"Delicious," I said, as indeed it was.

"And the dessert? She laughed once more as surely as Eve must have laughed when she told Adam he surely would not die.

"It was always superb, Alma. I guess there is no harm in a small confession. I really thought seriously about coming back."

She took my hand, held it between her own, and pressed it warmly against her breast. "I waited.  You were a scoundrel.

"Alma," I said, "remember the night you held up your hand to show me your engagement ring?"

"Like it was yesterday," she admitted.

"Whatever happened to the guy?"

"He's downstairs in the cabin," she said.  "He can't stand heights and always gets sick on cruises.  HE came back, so I married him.  It was the proper thing to do."