The Fifth Stage Part 1

The Fifth Stage.

BLUE FEATHER BOOKS, LTD.

by Margaret A. Helms.

CHAPTER 1.

I was born two months before my eighteenth birthday. Sounds silly, but that's how it felt at the time.

On a rainy October afternoon, what seemed like an innocent conversation twisted into an incident that shattered my hazy existence and blinded me with the trutha painful truth at the time, and a sometimes infuriating fact even now.

Until that day I had lived a textbook childhood, but what else would you expect from a girl delivered in the sixties who grew up in a sleepy mid-South town that barely managed its own ZIP code? Franklin was the kind of place where people left their car windows rolled down at night, and most folks didn't lock their front door because they couldn't remember where they hid the key.

Franklinites were in a self-induced trance, perhaps a time warp.

They were happy to have one movie theater, two red lights, and four town cops. Life seemed simpler that way. In a time when disco sucked and kids in far-off places like Seattle and New York were piercing their ears with safety pins and snorting cocaine, the most incorrigible teenagers in Franklin were still smoking homegrown weed and hurling rotten eggs at the high school princ.i.p.al's house.

My family was placid, even by Franklin standards. Our house was like any other in town, no better, no worsered brick with white painted eaves and shutters. Like most homes of that time, the family room centered around a nineteen-inch color TV. Our set had vertical control problems and a glitch in the picture tube that made Bonanza's Lorne Greene look nine feet tall as he rode his trusty steed across an eggplant-colored prairie.

My dad used to say he didn't get his first remote control television until 1985, but if he were alive today, I'd beg to differ. In our house, I was the remote. From the time I was big enough to reach the dial, I'd stand for what seemed like hours, turning the big silver channel changer to one station, then the next while Dad reclined in his easy chair, directing me with "Okay, go on, next, go back." If we'd had more than 1

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four channels, I would've been in prison for murder by my twelfth birthday.

Other than the occasional channel conflict, we got along pretty well. A fine, upstanding family, the folks around town called us. Mom's full-time job was keeping house and raising my brother, Robert, and me.

Dad went to work every morning in a coat and tie and came home each evening to a warm dinner. Four more kids and a live-in maid and we would have been a regular Brady Bunch.

Robert was the ultimate example of a Brady boy: considerate and compa.s.sionate, but likely to break a vase once in a while. I didn't feel like a Brady girl thoughnot perfect like Marsha, a bit more unsettled than Jan, and never a cute, lispy cherub like Cindy.

With barely two years between us, my brother and I shared our mother's steel-gray eyes and abundant blonde hair, the only remaining and slightly-diluted traits of a Swedish ancestor long buried beneath our mongrelized family tree.

"I'd swear them two was twins," the waitress at Woolworth's lunch counter would whine between gum-pops. "Why, they're the spittin'

image of you, Maureen."

Mom would pay for our milkshakes and thank her for the compliment, but Robert saw red at the comparison. He couldn't stand that I was nearly as tall as him and could win two of three falls in our daily wrestling contests. After a while, he started calling the waitress Babbling Betty, but I liked her. Her friendly eyes reminded me of Miss Ann, our Sunday School teachera trashy, trailer-park version with a half-smoked Lucky dangling from her lips, but Miss Ann nonetheless.

In our earliest years, Robert and I were constant companions. We would run barefoot through dew-covered gra.s.s, chase lightning bugs to the point of exhaustion, and tumble into Dad's ratty old hammock. We'd giggle and tickle each other breathless and finally succ.u.mb to weariness and the muggy summer heat and allow the man in the moon to lull us to sleep.

Eventually, Mom's voice would come booming out the back door.

"Robert! Claire! You can't sleep out there all night. Go brush your teeth and get ready for bed." We'd stumble to the bathroom, and Mom would stand over us like a vulture over roadkill as we washed behind our ears.

"My children won't go around nasty," she'd say, making certain we did a proper job. "People will think I don't take care of you."

Then she'd march us to our rooms and tuck us in with a kiss. Even now I can't go to bed without was.h.i.+ng behind my ears and brus.h.i.+ng my teeth.

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In later years, Mom often found us in Robert's room with Fleetwood Mac, Kiss, or Foreigner alb.u.ms blaring as my brother filled me in on the intricacies of being a teenager. We'd sit by his stereo while he shared a gold mine of adolescent wisdom, deftly guiding me through the roughest parts of life. He cautioned me about Mrs. Johnson, the worst algebra teacher to ever touch a chalkboard, warned me to never eat pinto beans in the high school cafeteria, and told me to always stay clear of the kids who hung out in the smoking zone.

But days like those have a way of sneaking past you, and before you know it, the mystical years are gone. By that October afternoon, Robert had been away at college for two years. There was no one for me to turn to, no one to confide in, but I'm not sure even my brother could've helped me with my quandary.

It wasn't like I didn't suspect something. I was innocent and sheltered maybe, but not stupid. Actually, by the time I turned seventeen, I was beginning to wonder about myself. Something didn't seem right. I was preparing for my senior year in high school and, to my chagrin, hadn't developed the desire to date boys. I hadn't experienced the white-hot flash of hormones my girlfriends so vividly described and couldn't work up a giggle-fit about the captain of the football team if my life depended on it. I never sneaked out for a late-night cruise to lovers'

lane with a guy from Lit cla.s.s and had refused at least five invitations to join the gang for a skinny-dip in Johnson's pond. For some reason, I didn't have the desire to wallow around with some guy like a couple of night crawlers in a bait bucket.

That afternoon in October, I found out why.

CHAPTER 2.

I'm on the verge of forty now, and memories of my youth are starting to haunt me. Long-discarded events tiptoe around my brain, reminding me of where I've been and what I've done, but those recollections don't feel like warm sentiments to cherish in my approaching middle age. They are too vivid, too real.

It's as though I'm going through the maze of discovery again and finding the second time around more difficult than the first. This time I'm staring middle age right in the face, single for the first time in two decades, and more apprehensive about my future than I was at seventeen. It's only a thirty-minute drive to my hometown, but the person I used to be seems a million miles away.

To anyone who doesn't know my story, I might appear to be the picture of success. I have a closet full of designer labels, there's plenty of cash in my wallet, and my investment portfolio befits someone twenty years my senior. But when I'm alone at night and I look into my bathroom mirror, the eyes staring back at me seem jaded, the blonde hair falling around my shoulders is showing signs of gray, and the lines around my lips look deeper every day. What happened to the sneaker- clad kid with the sparkly eyes and fair skin, the girl who didn't have two cents to rub together? That kid had guts. I'm not sure I do.

It seems my life has degenerated into a series of rituals. I get up. I go to work. I go home. At first the pattern kept me grounded, it made those first days alone easier to get through. But the days turned to weeks, the weeks to months, and so on, till there was so little variation that I could operate blindfolded. But over the past few months, I've made a slight modification to my routine. I've taken to dining at a local restaurant three or four nights a week.

Choppy's is one of those middle-of-the-road eateriesnot fancy, but above average. You can get a huge salad, a burger, or a decent steak and won't feel like you've been robbed afterwards. The restaurant is pretty common in appearance. There's an elevated bar area tucked into the far corner, flanked on two sides by rugged brick walls and on the 4

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third by a row of high-backed booths. Someone did put some original thought into the placement of the main dining tables. They're far enough apart to afford private conversation, but close enough together to maximize seating. All in all, I could go to any of a dozen restaurants in town and get the same atmosphere and the same food, but something else draws me here.

You see, I have a crush on the manager, Rebecca Greenway. I don't know much about her, only that she's the owner's daughter. She runs the place now that her father has remarried and spends his time traveling with his new wife. Most of the time Rebecca works in her office, hidden behind a plain door with her name engraved on a bra.s.s plaque. No one would know she was in the building if she didn't make an obligatory appearance during the lunch and dinner rushes. But when she does emerge, she makes quite an impression. Her makeup is applied with a master's subtle touch, her expensive skirt is fresh from the cleaners, and her modest gold earrings bobble about the curve of her cheek. She meanders from one table to the next, flas.h.i.+ng genuine smiles and making sure her customers are happy.

It's hard to explain this infatuation. Rebecca is at least ten years younger than me and probably not into women, but somehow, she seems to know what goes on inside my head, how my heart starts to pound when she looks at me. She has to see it on my face, hear it in my stuttering. Maybe it's my imagination, or just wishful thinking, but sometimes she seems to straighten her hair and make sure her blouse is open just right.

You'd think that at my age, I'd be too mature for this adolescent ogling. But you'd probably also think that after being single for nearly three years, my loneliness would've faded and the remorse would've withdrawn into the distant recesses of my memory. You'd think that by now I wouldn't miss my lover so much. But when I leave the office and head for home, I get a gnawing in my stomach and my head starts to feel like it's in a vise. The closer I get to my mostly-unused, too-expensive house, the tighter the vise gets.

Somehow, that feeling eases up when I wheel into Choppy's parking lot. As I touch the door's bra.s.s handle and see my cloudy reflection in the etched gla.s.s, the knots in my guts loosen. The sickness is almost bearable when I catch a sniff of fried onions and searing meat from the kitchen and hear grumbling voices around the bar. But when I see Rebecca, it goes away. For the first time in three long years, I am peaceful.

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I have to see Rebeccafor health reasons, of course. I have to latch on to the instant when that little dimple burrows into her right cheek, have to watch her saunter up to my table and say, "Hi, Claire. How's it going today?" and see the wink she gives me when she walks away. I record these things in my memory and replay them when the walls of home start to close in.

Is there something wrong with me? I eat at a restaurant I'm not that fond of almost every day so I can look at a woman I'll never have.

Maybe I'm a stalker. Will something snap and cause me to crawl through her bedroom window and force myself upon her? Will my inner ma.s.s murderer spring to the surface and disembowel her on Valentine's Day?

Nah, not my style. I don't want anything from her that she can't give. I like to be in the same room, that's all; nothing sinister about that.

There's nothing wrong with stealing a lingering glance and watching her eyes do that little embarra.s.sed waltz when she catches me.

What's the harm in an innocent crush if it keeps depression from driving me insane? Rebecca's safe. She'll stay at arm's length, never offering more than her services as a polite hostess. She'll never feed me all of her, and that's the way I want it. I won't feast and grow fat, only to have my sustenance s.n.a.t.c.hed away.

It's kind of funny how someone like me, who's made a living talking to all kinds of people, can go so blank around this young, s.e.xy woman. Everything I say comes out like a cement-covered marshmallow. Sometimes I wish she wouldn't get too close. With Rebecca Greenway, I'm much more charming from a distance.

Tonight I've finished half of a club sandwich and am waiting on my check when Rebecca approaches my table. She's holding a cup of soup in one hand and a fountain soda in the other. "Claire, I know this is rude, but every table in the place is full. It's about five hundred degrees in the kitchen, and I haven't had a bite all day. Mind if I join you for a minute?" Her eyes lock on mine and a playful smile turns up one corner of her lips.

I gulp down a drink of Sprite and choke out, "Sure," but I've gotten pretty stretched out sitting here alone and can't get my ankles out of her way fast enough. She kicks my leg as she sits down, and I feel an inch-wide snag run up my stockings.

"Oh, G.o.d, I'm sorry." Soup sloshes out of the cup, and she nearly spills her drink. She looks under the table, but now I've got my legs tucked on my side of the booth. "I know I ripped a hole the size of the Grand Canyon. I'll buy you a new pair, promise."

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For once, I'm the one with a little presence of mind. "Don't worry about it. I've got a spare in the car, and besides, I'm going straight home."

"I'll make it up to you. No argument." She wipes up the spill and then watches me as she blows on a spoonful of yesterday's ham-and- bean soup. "How's the salad?" She points her spoon toward my plate.

"Very good, but these sandwiches are so big. Sandy's bringing me a to-go box."

"Size does matter in the restaurant business. Seems like we have to keep serving bigger and bigger portions just to keep up with demand."

She's wearing that green dress with the wide belt that makes her waist look tiny and her eyes resemble the big s.h.i.+ny marbles my brother and I used to fight over in the backyardthe ones with green and gray streaks swirling around all the way to the middle.

I'm swimming somewhere between those eyes when I realize she's waiting for me to say something. So much for my presence of mind.

"Size matters, yeah. Guess that's why Americans have gotten so fat."

"You said it. I'm just trying to keep up with the compet.i.tion." After another spoonful of soup, she adds, "We're using a new recipe for the honey mustard dressing. You should try it next time."

Rebecca looks at me too hard, and I dodge her stare. Any other woman, any client, I can dead-eye all day, but not her. This lady makes me want to crawl under the table and hide. Or crawl under the table and lift her dress up over those shapely thighs. Either way, she wouldn't be eyeballing me. Either way, I could get some relief.

"How's business?" she asks, dabbing her lip with a cotton napkin.

"Not too bad for this time of year. Now that the Christmas bustle has worn off, customers are ready to talk to me again." I adjust my collar and take a sip of Sprite. When did it get so hot in here?

"I don't see how you keep up with your product line. It must be huge." She puts down her spoon and glances toward the bar where Patti, a waitress in tight khaki pants, is waiting for a drink order.

"How many items are on your menu?" I steal a glimpse of her profile. Her features are an interesting mix of hard and soft: straight-line nose and strong cheekbones hiding under an angel's delicate skin. She's no supermodel, but I've noticed that I'm not her only not-so-secret admirer. Some of the other regulars practically salivate when she walks by.

"Hmm... how many items are on my menu?" She calculates in her head, keeping track by tapping her thumb against her forefinger, then the middle finger, and so on. When she runs out of digits on her right hand 8 she stops. "Not counting the bar, about forty, maybe forty-five items.

Why?"

"Your product line is larger than mine. From the smallest home- filing cabinet to the biggest track-rolling system, I've got thirteen basic units. It's the way we configure them that makes it seem like more. We can tailor a complex system from three or four units."

"I see." Rebecca shoots a concerned look at Patti, who still hasn't gotten her order from the bartender. "But slinging hash for less than twenty bucks a plate is a little different than making thousand-dollar deals over the phone."

"Maybe so." It's not really different, but I concede her point. For one thing, I don't want to come off like a know-it-all. For another, it's kind of nice having her think I'm smart. A boring stiff maybe, but smart.

When Rebecca returns her focus to me, a frisky grin prances across her lips. "Maybe you could give me some lessons in business management. This place is driving me crazy."

"Seems like you're running things smoothly."

"Appearances can be deceiving." She winks at me before looking back at the una.s.sisted waitress. "Oh, well, duty calls." She slides out of the booth and grabs her half-eaten cup of soup and empty gla.s.s as she stands. I see her weary smile before she turns away. "Thanks again for letting me join you. Looks like I've got a lot to do before I can go home."

"Any time."

When she walks away, I wonder where home is and who's waiting there for her.

I wonder if she loves him.