Dividing Line: Stories

By Mary Langton

A young girl in a hurry to grow up. A college student who tests the bonds of friendship. A man shackled by a problem he cannot face. An immigrant desperate to secure the American Dream. A woman whose jealousy prompts a shocking act of cruelty. These are some of the characters that populate Mary Langtons first collection of fiction. Readers of Langtons essays are already familiar with her wit and insight. The stories in Dividing Line once again display those qualities, along with an uncommon understanding of the complexities of the human heart.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jun 27, 2012
• ISBN: 9781477211311

Mary Langton

Mary Langton has been a teacher, a newspaper columnist, and a radio personality. Originally from Queens, she lives in Orange County, New York.

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AuthorHouse™

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This is a work of fiction. Characters and events are products of the author’s imagination, and recognizable settings are used fictitiously.

© 2012 by Mary Langton. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse   06/19/2012

ISBN: 978-1-4772-1130-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4772-1131-1 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012909383

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

The Babysitter

Valentine

Day of the Dead

Scene from a Movie

The Coat

Her Heart’s Desire

The Secret

Interview Room

The Landscaper’s Son

Lenny’s Life

When You

Hear Hoofbeats

Blind Date

In the Basement

Greatest Hits

Dividing Line

Get Well Soon

About the Author

To Dottie Glinski,

a friend in sunshine

and in shadow.

Man plans, God laughs.

—Yiddish proverbw

The Babysitter

It was one of the older girls who told Maggie about it, about how easy it was to get work as a babysitter at the bungalow colony even if you lacked experience and references.

You know that white ranch fence? Susan asked.

Maggie considered the question as she and Susan stood at the top of Maggie’s driveway. Maggie had been retrieving the mail when Susan walked over and greeted her. At fifteen, Susan was three years older than Maggie, so they were not exactly friends. But they were neighbors, and they did talk when they ran into each other.

Susan had her dog, Dingbat, with her. Dingbat was a mutt, part beagle and part spaniel. He got his name from a popular TV show whose protagonist used the word to insult his wife’s intelligence. When Susan’s family first got the puppy, they tried to teach him a series of complicated tricks. When the puppy didn’t grasp the tricks on the first day, his owners decided he was stupid. The dog named himself, Susan liked to say.

Letters in hand, Maggie closed the mailbox’s miniature door. She had in her head a mental image of a ranch fence near the bungalow colony’s large, in-ground swimming pool. Could that be the fence Susan referred to?

By the casino, Susan clarified. She was referring to the large building—a barn-like structure with a stage at one end—that was a fixture of every colony. It’s name—casino—was a misnomer, since there were no slot machines or roulette wheels inside. It was outfitted instead with several long, cafeteria-style tables, and served as both meeting room and entertainment center, a place where residents gathered to watch movies, play bingo—the only gambling that took place—and enjoy skits put on by their fellow colonists.

Yes, Maggie said, calling to mind a second ranch fence. It stood between the casino and a rural, sidewalk-less road similar to the one that skirted Maggie’s driveway. I know where it is.

Just wait there any night around seven o’clock. That’s when the mothers come looking for babysitters so they can go to the casino. But they like us to be at least fourteen. How old are you? Thirteen, right?

Twelve.

That’s okay. You’re tall. You look fourteen. You can work every night of the summer, if you want. They pay pretty good, too. And the weekends are the best, because that’s when the husbands are up from the city. They’re feeling no pain after a night at the casino, if you know what I mean.

Maggie didn’t know what Susan meant, and decided to keep her ignorance to herself. But then Susan added, One time one of them got so drunk he paid me with a twenty-dollar bill, thinking it was a five.

Susan laughed at the memory. She gave a little tug on her dog’s leash and said, Better not drink, Dingbat. It might make you even dumber.

Maggie was sure that if any customer ever made a mistake like the one Susan just described, she would point it out and return the larger bill. Something told her, though, that she should not tell Susan this. Something told her that Susan would laugh and tell her to grow up. She kept silent.

She and Susan talked for a few more minutes, mostly about a vacation the older girl’s family would soon embark on. Then Susan said, Okay, Dingbat. Time to go home. Think you can find it? and she and the dog made their way down the road at a leisurely pace.

Bye, Dingbat, Maggie called after them. The dog turned to look at Maggie and wagged its tail. It occurred to Maggie, not for the first time, that Dingbat didn’t seem stupid. He responded to his name, and that had to count for something.

Maggie knew the hardest part would be convincing her mother to allow her to work at the bungalow colony.

I don’t think it’s a good idea, her mother said when Maggie broached the subject a few days later. That place is at least a mile from here, and you’d have to walk home in the dark.

But that’s what’s so great about this, Mom. I can walk home from there. I don’t need a ride. She left unsaid what she was thinking: it had been a full year since Maggie’s father died from a massive heart attack, and her mother still had not gotten her driver’s license. Apparently, it cost a lot of money to drive a car. You had to have insurance, which was expensive.

Maggie, be realistic. You know how the dark scares you. Besides, the bungalows don’t have telephones. I like for you to be able to reach me when you’re babysitting, in case something comes up that you’re not sure how to handle.

I’m not afraid of the dark anymore, Maggie protested. And nothing’s going to happen. God! You act like I’m a little kid.

Why can’t you keep babysitting in our neighborhood?

Because there’s not enough work here. I sometimes go weeks without a job. At the colony, I can babysit every day.

Believe me, Maggie, you are not going to want to work every day of your summer vacation. That will get old very quickly.

No it won’t. I swear.

Her mother sighed. Tell me again who you’d be working for.

Whoever hires me. I told you, that’s how they do it. You just go to the casino, and anyone who needs a babysitter comes and gets one.

Her mother gave her a look that was part skeptical, part judgmental. These mothers hire babysitters they don’t even know?

Yes, because it’s 1973, and not everyone wants to live all scared and worried all the time. That’s bogus.

Maggie had recently learned the word bogus and liked to use it whenever the opportunity presented itself. She’d first heard it from Susan’s older brother, Chip, who claimed that high school was bogus, Vietnam was bogus, Nixon was bogus, and his own nickname was bogus. It was short for a chip off the old block, and since his father was also bogus, he would not use a nickname that associated him with his old man. He no longer answered to Chip, and made everyone call him Thoreau, which was apparently the name of someone who wrote a book that Chip and his friends thought was brilliant.

In the end, her mother relented. Not because I’m thrilled with the idea, but because I can see you won’t give me a minute’s peace if I don’t let you try it.

That evening, Maggie dressed carefully. She put on her white bell-bottom hip huggers, then added the macramé belt she’d made herself. Instead of a T-shirt, she wore her blue blouse, the one she saved for special occasions, and rolled up the sleeves to just below her elbows. She lamented her lack of earrings, but it couldn’t be helped. Her mother, always treating her like a baby, would not let her get her ears pierced until she turned sixteen. Still, she thought the outfit made her look older, especially after she pulled out the two rubber bands that held her pigtails in place and shook her long blond hair loose. She put on her white Keds and left the house.

She enjoyed the walk to the bungalow colony. It was still warm after the hot day, and she could smell the remnants of several barbecues. The day had been clear, but clouds were starting to form, and the night would be overcast and starless. In the mountains, in early summer, the purples and yellows and blues of the wildflowers were at their most glorious. Maggie thought of how she used to pick bunches of those flowers for her mother. She would wrap a fistful of stems in tinfoil and proffer her gift while her mother exclaimed that nothing more beautiful could be found at a florist’s. Of course, Maggie hadn’t done that in a long time, since it was the kind of thing kids did, the kind of thing she had left behind.

As she walked, Maggie thought about all the money she would make this summer. It was important to have money; everybody knew that. She would use hers to open a bank account, a real one, the kind with a passbook that told her how the savings were adding up. She would stop using her piggy bank, which she had made out of a coffee can years before. It was covered with pink construction paper and glitter, and while it had served its purpose, she had outgrown it. She would also give some of her earnings to her mother. It was only right, and the money would help pay for the car they would have to buy when her mother got her driver’s license, which Maggie hoped would happen very soon.

Several girls were sitting on the ranch fence in front of the casino when she arrived. Maggie guessed they were all older than her. Susan was not among them; her family had left for their weeklong vacation. The other girls were not familiar to her, and probably lived in the colony. Their number dwindled as mothers came by in search of sitters. She realized that some of them must have worked for the same families in the past; she often heard the two sides greet each other by name and ask how the winter had been.

By eight o’clock she still hadn’t been hired. She began to worry that no one would approach her. She alternated sitting on the ranch fence and standing beside it, changing every few minutes. To distract herself, she stared at the banner over the doorway of the casino. She was reading CASINO NIGHTS, SUMMER OF 1973 for at least the twentieth time when she heard someone say, Excuse me.

Maggie realized the woman was speaking to her. She turned toward the voice. Maggie was not good at estimating people’s ages, but the woman looked young, as if she might be in college. But if she had kids, she was probably older than that.

The woman was deeply tanned and wore a peasant blouse, white shorts, and brown sandals. Her thick black hair flowed down her back in a loose braid. Some strands had come loose from the braid and framed her face.

I’m Deborah, the woman said. Her smile revealed white, even teeth. She removed the sunglasses she was wearing, exposing brown eyes and making Maggie think of Ali MacGraw. I assume you’re looking for a babysitting job.

Yeah… yes. I’m Maggie.

How old are you, Maggie?

I’m fourteen, Mrs… . um . . . She floundered. She was not used to lying, especially to grown-ups. She was also not used to calling them by their first name. Her mother didn’t permit it.

The woman laughed. Deborah is fine. You’ll make me feel old if you call me Mrs. Stewart.

As they crossed the street that separated the casino from the bungalows, Deborah explained that her two boys, Davie and Sam, aged seven and five, were already asleep. The swimming pool just wears them out.

They reached the other side of the street and had walked about fifty yards along a paved path that was not quite wide enough to accommodate a car when Deborah turned toward one of the white bungalows—they were all the same color, and received a fresh coat of paint shortly before Memorial Day each year—and led the way to the front door. Maggie noticed the number six attached to the top of the frame. Every bungalow had its own number, as if they were houses on a street, only much smaller.

They entered the compact living room. To the right was a couch. A coffee table was in front of the couch, and a bookcase consisting of two shelves was squeezed between one arm of the couch and a wall. Off to the left was a kitchenette dominated by a small Formica table and four chairs. Connected to the back of the living room were two bedrooms. Deborah pointed to the one on the right. Here are the two angels, she smiled. Of course, they’re only angels when they’re asleep.

Maggie peered into the wide-open door. The curtains were drawn in the bedroom, but light spilled in from the living room and allowed her to make out twin beds. Each held a small figure, splayed out and breathing deeply.

My kids are used to babysitters, Deborah continued, so don’t worry if they wake up. They know I’m at the casino. Help yourself to whatever snacks you can find, and give me a shout if you need anything. Then she was walking out the door while putting on her sunglasses—the kind Jackie O. wore—even though it would soon be dark.

The bungalow was very quiet. There was no television set, so Maggie looked around for something to read. The two-tiered bookcase was filled with books. She examined a few of the titles on the top shelf: The Terminal Man. The 158-Pound Marriage. The Gulag Archipelago.

She lowered her gaze to the bottom shelf and was thrilled to see what must have been the entire Hardy Boys series. She was amazed that anyone could own all of them. She pulled one off the shelf, sat on the couch, and began to read. She lost all track of time—and of where she was—as she joined the intrepid Joe and Frank while they tried to find a wealthy man’s missing grandson, whose disappearance seemed to be connected to a cabin owned by the grandfather.

Her absorption in the story was so complete that the knock on the wood frame of the screen door startled her. She jumped up, heart racing. On the other side of the screen, looking in at her, stood Steve, a boy who lived on her street, in the house next door to Susan’s. He was fifteen, and had a stocky build. She’d heard some of the older kids laugh about him behind his back and say he spent more time in the principal’s office than in the classroom. Maggie disliked him, although other than calling her Mags, a nickname she detested, he’d left her alone.

Hey Mags, he said. Heard you might be babysitting around here. Whatcha reading?

She tossed the book onto the couch dismissively, as if she hadn’t spent the last two hours enthralled by it. Nothing. I just read some of it to the kids.

Steve began to open the door. Wait, Maggie said, moving to hold it closed. I’m not allowed to have company when I’m babysitting.

Mags, always the goody-two-shoes, he sneered, jerking the door open, causing her to momentarily lose her balance. He brushed past her and entered the bungalow.

Hey! she sputtered. You can’t… you have to leave! The high-pitched sound of her voice unnerved her.

You caaan’t. You have to leaaave, he mimicked, walking toward the boys’ bedroom.

She took a few running steps and planted herself in the doorway, facing him.

Step aside, Mags, he said. I’m just checking the place out.

No. You’ll wake up the kids. She put her hands against the doorframe to block his path. They might start crying, she added quickly, hoping the fear of upsetting the boys would make him leave.

He pushed his long hair off his forehead. If they wake up and cry, that will be your problem, won’t it, babysitter?

She gritted her teeth, trying to look tough. You’re… not… going… in… there.

He looked her up and down, and there was something in his look that shook her to her core. For the first time in her life she was afraid of a boy, of what a boy could do to her if he felt like it.

They stared at each other for several seconds. Then he shrugged and said, Fine. I’ll just look somewhere else.

He wandered into the second bedroom. Maggie felt a rising panic. She wanted desperately to call her mother, but the words the bungalows don’t have telephones echoed in her ears. She thought about running to the casino, but that would mean leaving the boys alone with Steve. So she stood there, frozen. It was a full minute, a minute that felt more like an hour, before she was able to follow him. She entered the bedroom just in time to see him scooping money off the top of the dresser.

Put that back, she protested, as he counted the money in his palm.

Relax. They’re only singles. A couple of fives, he said, folding several bills and putting them in his pants pocket along with some coins. These bungalow-colony people, they’re so stinking rich, they won’t miss a few bucks.

He brushed past her and moved toward the screen door. She was so relieved to see that he was leaving she decided not to fight about the money. She just wanted him to go.

Catch ya later, Mags, he sang out as the screen door slammed behind him. Tonight will be our little secret, and now that I’m rich, maybe I’ll buy you an ice cream some time. His laugh did not sound jovial.

She hurried to the door and secured its hook-and-eye lock with a trembling hand as the bark of his laughter receded.

She moved to the couch and sat down heavily. There was something hard underneath her. She slid over and picked up The Mystery of Cabin Island. The picture of the Hardy Boys on the front, crouching under cover of night, unafraid of the dark while they waited to catch the bad guy, made her want to cry.

She put the book back in its place on the shelf, then walked to the boys’ room. She stood in the doorway and listened. Their breathing was deep and rhythmic, undisturbed by an intruder of whom they were never aware.

She returned to the couch to wait. Shortly before midnight, Deborah returned, sunglasses perched atop her head. Any problems, Maggie? she asked, smiling. It occurred to Maggie that Deborah did an awful lot of smiling.

No, she answered, lying to Deborah for the second time. She was vaguely aware of Deborah thanking her, putting money in her hand, asking her for her phone number so she could call from the casino payphone and hire her to babysit again.

Maggie recited her number mechanically and watched Deborah write it down. She knew, though, that Deborah would never call. She knew the woman would notice the money missing from the dresser, and she knew that nobody hires a thieving babysitter.

She stepped outside, and only the faint glow of lamplight from a few of the bungalows’ living-room windows prevented her from being completely enveloped in darkness. She hurried along the paved path that led to the road and began the long walk home. As she passed the casino, she glanced at it. It, too, was dark, and no sound spilled from the building; no laughter, no music. Maggie realized that everyone must have already returned to their bungalows.

Soon there was no light at all. The glow from the colony was gone, and there were no streetlights to replace it. She walked quickly; then, spurred by fear, she started to run.

Contrary to her mother’s prediction, it was not the dark that frightened her. She feared a world where fathers could die and mothers could not afford to drive, where jobs could be stolen and boys could do as they pleased, where there was not a single thing she could do about any of it. As she ran faster, Maggie felt tears on her face, and she knew that her grief and her terror came from all of the truths she was powerless to change.

Valentine

There was a crackling sound, and then the nasal whine of the assistant principal’s voice came over the public-address system. "Mrs. Kelsey, there is a delivery for