Heyvin!

By Nan Grossbarth

Life can turn on a dime. Just ask Wendy Shaw. Once she had it all and knew where she was headed. Then, in an instant, it was all yanked from beneath her and nothing was ever the same again. Only with the help of a couple of unlikely people is Wendy able to survive that fateful day when everything she knows and takes for granted was snatched away.

At 17, Wendy Shaw has it all the right boyfriend, the perfect best friend and a great life they all share in the marching band. But that day Vince DeMaio appears, a stranger whos going to teach them how to march, changes everything. That he cant stop staring at Wendy is beginning of nothing every being the same again. And when her best friends boyfriend turns into a crazy person, things really take a turn for this being the year that someone is not going to come out alive.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jan 28, 2013
• ISBN: 9781481707602

Nan Grossbarth

After 26 years of teaching, Nan Grossbarth is enjoying being alive in suburban New Jersey and working on her next novel.

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© 2013 by Nan Grossbarth. All rights reserved.

Cover photo by: Nan Grossbarth

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 01/22/2013

ISBN: 978-1-4817-0761-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4817-0760-2 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013900882

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Contents

COMING HOME

January

BAND CAMP

the last week of August

FOOTBALL SEASON

September

WINTER JAZZ

December

SPRING BAND

March

FULL CIRCLE

January

in loving memory

Martin B. Grossbarth

(1928-1994)

COMING HOME

January

W endy Shaw sat at the bar and wondered what the hell she was doing in New Jersey. What did it matter if the son-of-a-bitch was dead? She ordered a Jack Daniel’s, admitted that it did, and noted that Olivia was late. So what else is new? Wendy asked herself. She looked into her glass and studied the amber liquid as if it would reveal her fortune. She frowned and put the glass down with a soft thunk against the bar. Even then, she could smell the fumes; she closed her eyes for the moment as if that could block the memories.

The bar was circular, and Wendy sat opposite the door, half-hidden in the crowd because retreat was her specialty. Didn’t she leave this place twenty-two years ago, swearing she’d never come back? Then what the hell was she doing in this godforsaken town in this godforsaken state? Because, truth be told, she needed to make sure that bastard was finally dead. She owed it to all that was holy—herself, her sanity, and… her thoughts veered off, refusing to throw salt in a worn-out wound. Nevertheless, this afternoon, her first few hours back in Springfield, she sat, perched on a bar stool, leaning forward, tied to the past like a dog on a leash. Stuck here, she could do nothing but pull at the strap, choking herself in the process, while she tapped her fingers against the bar and stare at a drink she’d only ordered for old times’ sake. Occasionally, she’d lift it, swirl the bourbon around the glass before putting it down again, scowling at it as if that could hurt its feelings.

While she waited, she rested her chin on her hand and stared into the past. Spence had warned her, before she left home, not to come back here. They spoke about it for days, debating back and forth without arguing. They never fought, not in all the time they’d known one another and that had been almost thirty years. Wendy smiled whenever she thought about Spence, and she smiled now. He had simply been there. Not like that Jimmy Springer whom she had dated for two years while they were all in high school. What had Spence said about Jimmy? He was the boy who had everything but didn’t know what to do with it. Wendy sighed and looked at the bourbon again. She wondered what happened to Jimmy. Thinking she’d have to ask Olivia—she kept up with people—if she ever got here. She’d also have to ask about Vince. He’d been there for Wendy that day in a way none of her friends could have been. Jimmy had been too scared, Spence in too much pain, and Olivia just didn’t know. But Vince with his blue eyes that flashed and sparkled like blue diamonds… Wendy’s thoughts faded again as she frowned at the drink she’d only ordered to honor his memory because she hated the taste of bourbon.

Wendy looked away from the window. She’d been with Spence since their senior year in high school. Their relationship was just about the only good thing to come out of that year when Wendy and Spence’s friend—not their beautiful twenty-one year-old daughter Leah—had died. Wendy sighed again. Not that they hadn’t wanted children, but their daughter had been a surprise. And when they learned of her gender, Wendy remembered, she and Spence looked at one another and said, Leah. There was never a doubt. And when their son came five years later, they knew to name him Dave. It was a happy, loving, wonderful life. She had a great family and successful career. Wendy sat and wondered what she was doing here, dredging up the past. Couldn’t she let it go? Spence had asked her that very question at least a dozen times in the past six days. And ultimately, the answer was, of course, no. Besides, she’d said, this gave her a chance to see Olivia. To which Spence could only say, Give her a hug and kiss for me.

Through the window, Wendy could see the tiny parking lot as she studied every soul who walked in. But none were Olivia, the one who’d called and sent the e-mail with Chet’s obituary. Wendy stared hard at the door, her heart working intensely as she thought about what the faceless desk jockey had written about that jerk. Anyone who read the notice would think Chet Kimball had been a saint and deserved to sit at the right hand of God. Wendy took a deep breath and blinked rapidly several times to clear her vision. Let it go, she told herself even though she knew it was useless. This ancient history was like fungus; it kept coming back, kept creeping into the corners of her mind. She glanced away from the door and looked at the rows of liquor bottles standing at attention on the island in the middle of the bar. Not too far to the left sat a man next to a woman he was obviously trying to pick up. Wendy sighed and crossed her legs. She was a beautiful woman with dark, reddish brown hair with wisps of grey and little tendrils that curled around her face. Her dove grey eyes watched the couple a moment before turning away. She missed Spence already and almost wished she’d never come here.

Outside, Wendy could see Olivia hurrying across the macadam at last. She’d be crinkling her nose; Wendy knew the smell of wet pavement had always turned Olivia’s stomach sour. She’d known Olivia so long and so well; she knew she’d be pushing her salt-and-pepper hair from her eyes, hair that she pretended was a seventy-five dollar frost job. Wendy also knew that Olivia could never get anywhere on time. With two young daughters of her own, Olivia was often a little frayed around the edges of her personality. Wendy smiled to herself with the knowledge that Olivia would be concerned about her, almost as if Wendy was Olivia’s third child. It had come to that, ever since 1975. Anger and grief stabbed at Wendy. She closed her eyes tightly for a moment as if that would stave off the heartache—as if it ever did.

The sound of a heel on the hard floor just then jarred Wendy out of her reverie enough to hear Olivia say, Just tell me one thing, as she pushed her trench coat aside and heaved herself onto the bar stool beside Wendy, what are you doing here? I thought you were going to meet me at the house.

Wendy stared into her drink as if she didn’t hear; her thoughts, however, galloped like a spooked thoroughbred. She was well aware that Olivia was about to switch into her mother mode; she always did that when Wendy turned inward. And Wendy always lost her focus whenever she thought too deeply about this town and that last year in high school. But she needed to be here. She had to make sure that loser was really stone-cold dead. If nothing else, she owed it to Leah.

Wendy, Olivia said softly. Wendy could feel Olivia’s gentle touch on her arm, just about the elbow.

Wendy hadn’t come back to Springfield in over twenty years, and even now it was only for the funeral. Yet, it was still hard for Wendy to admit she was here. She stared into her drink and felt as though she’d been pulled into a time warp.

Quietly, Olivia said, So what are you doing here?

It’s the memories, Wendy answered, still searching for her fortune at the bottom of her glass. It’s all just memories.

Wendy could tell Olivia was at a loss for words. Memories? About Chet Kimball? More like nightmares, if you ask me. The kind where you wake up in a cold sweat, and you seriously wonder if you’ve wet the bed. To the bartender, Olivia said, Dewar’s—rocks—with a splash and a twist.

Wendy swirled her bourbon around in its glass and waited for Olivia to go on, knowing that once she got revved up there was no use trying to stop her. A mental smile to herself, Wendy recounted many late night phone conversations screaming at one another, not in anger, just venting frustrations that had piled up over the day.

Olivia bowed her head before raising it again, flipping the hair out of her eyes as she did so. The man was a slug, a worm, Olivia paused for breath, an anus. No, that’s not right. An anus, at least, has a purpose. Turning to Wendy, she said, Not that I’m anything but thrilled to see you, but why are you here for Chet Kimball, the world’s largest, most deeply infected hemorrhoid? Instead of waiting for an answer, she paid the bartender for her scotch and immediately took a healthy sip.

I want to make sure the son-of-a-bitch is dead.

Well, I could have told you that.

No, Olivia, I have to see it with my own eyes. After what he did—

Exactly what did he do? Besides date Leah, I mean. Olivia adjusted the folds of her coat and drank some more scotch.

Wendy made a face and sighed. It’s been so long ago that I almost feel stupid hanging on to it. But I just need to put it end to it already. Be patient with me, Olivia. I’ve been waiting a long time for this. I just have to make sure he’s dead, and this is really over. She owed it to her lost friend Leah. And she owed it to herself, when she was able to admit it. She’d wasted too many years of her life devoted to the past. It was time to move on.

You know— Olivia started.

I know. You’ve gone above and beyond the call of duty on this one. But suffice it to say that I’ve got issues, you know? And it’s not like I’ve actively hated him for the past twenty-two years, but I do feel like a large part of my life just stopped in high school. I mean, look at me. Here I am—forty years-old for heaven’s sake, and I dress like I’m still in high school.

At least you cut your hair.

Believe me, I only did that in a moment of clarity. One in over twenty years. She pushed her drink away. Jesus, I’ve become so pathetic.

Yeah, but in a fun way. Olivia shifted her weight and leaned her chin against her left hand.

Wendy rolled her eyes and laughed.

"What did Spence say about coming here?

That I should have let it go years ago. But if I wanted to come, he’d support me and that he loved me.

Olivia smiled. I always liked him. And I get to see you for a couple of days.

Well, that’s what I told him. Wendy sighed.

What?

I was just thinking that someone once said life was like high school without the bells. I think that’s probably true. Wendy picked up the glass of bourbon again but put it down without drinking. What can I tell you? I’m a mess. I’ve always been a mess. Maybe this will help straighten me out.

Olivia looked at her funny. If you say so.

Wendy smiled and got off the stool. She glanced away and imagined that she could see Vince at a corner table. His ghostly image raised its glass and winked at her before fading away. Wendy suppressed a smile.

As she picked up her old, worn green canvas knapsack, she heard Olivia say, I can’t believe that’s all the luggage you brought.

Wendy zipped up her black leather jacket and said, I carry enough excess baggage. Thanks just the same.

Once outside, they paused.

You won’t follow me home. The spare room’s all set up for you.

Wendy shook her head. No, thanks. I know I said I’d stay with you, but I’ve done the diaper-toddler thing. I’m just not up for it this trip. I’ll see you at the church tomorrow. She put her arms out and hugged Olivia tightly and kissed her cheek. That’s from Spence.

Olivia smiled and walked toward an old Toyota station wagon while Wendy walked toward a massive Harley-Davidson.

A noise from behind grabbed her attention. Wendy heard Olivia say, Don’t tell me you actually rode that thing all the way from Vermont.

You don’t know what you’re missing, Wendy called over her shoulder.

Olivia laughed. Once was more than enough, thank you very much.

Wintry air bit into Wendy’s face with sharp little teeth as she rode through Springfield. A light mist covered everything with tiny bubbles of opalescent water, and pale grey clouds hung like drapery as Wendy meandered around town, memories ricocheting off the edges of her psyche. She had grown up in a respectable neighborhood, a tree-lined lane that up until the Second World War had been all forest. Today she rode slowly past the fine-trimmed lawns and remembered her dad telling her about hiking here in the 1930s with his scout troop, giving Newark boys a day in the country. Now the neighborhood was the quintessential suburb with its cookie-cutter houses and perfectly sculpted front yards that no one was ever allowed to step on. Wendy passed the house she’d grown up in and wondered about the people who lived there now since her parents had died. She wondered too, as she often did, how life would have been if her brother had survived Vietnam. Shaking her head to scatter the thought like bread crumbs for birds, Wendy rolled past the playground. When she and Leah had been in grammar school, there had always been someone playing basketball, or so it seemed. But today it was deserted like everyone had moved away or died.

Wendy left her street and headed for Mountain Avenue to ride past the high school. The red brick building with the white trim had been like home once upon a time. Now it seemed like she hadn’t been back in a hundred years. It felt as though she’d dreamed it all—the marching band competitions, the concerts, Vince, even Leah. She rode past Jonathan Dayton Regional High School and made her way to Meisel Avenue. When she reached the field, she pulled over and stopped. Wendy gazed out across the empty field and remembered the miles she’d marched, the people who’d been her friends, and Vince with his arms flailing and his voice on the breeze. She could almost hear him now.

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The following morning Wendy followed her friend into the church. Olivia took a pew about halfway up on the right, but Wendy continued walking toward the open casket. When she got there, she leaned over and looked at Chet. He looks like he could be sleeping, the bastard. I hope you burn in hell! Sneaking her hand into the coffin, she gave the upper arm a hard poke. The body remained motionless. Good, Wendy thought, stay that way. She turned and walked back to Olivia just as the minister took the pulpit.

Wendy got as comfortable as she could on the hard pew as the minister called in Chet’s family. But instead of listening to the beginning of the service, Wendy thought of all the people who had sat in this church over the centuries. The church had played a pivotal role in the American Revolution, and she thought of what it must have been like to have the good Reverend James Caldwell shout, Give ‘em Watts, boys! as the British burned down the church, the town, the surrounding five miles or so. It was local knowledge that the church had been rebuilt after the war. As the pastor rambled on, Wendy tried to imagine the ladies in their bonnets sitting next to their men, the styles changing with the decades.

When Wendy focused on the service again, her skin began to itch as she fought to keep herself from screaming, Liar! at the eulogy. The words painted that son-of-a-bitch as a mighty oak cut down in its glorious prime. Shaking with rage, Wendy clamped her hands into fists and stared at the man weeping copious tears for his fallen son. As if he hadn’t a clue how morally repugnant Chet had been, the time he spent in jail, the pain he inflicted on Leah.

She took a long, slow, shuddering breath to steady her nerves and to keep herself from running from the church, screaming vicious epithets at a corpse that could not hear the words. A squeezing of her hand made Wendy turn towards Olivia’s face full of concern and friendship. Smiling weakly, Wendy turned her thoughts away from the deceit spewing from the pastor’s mouth. It was one of life’s great ironies, she thought, that a person could be a total shit in life, dumping on everything and everyone. Then, when the lifelong creep died, the same dumped-on people crawled out of the cracks in society, boohooing the untimely passing of a so-called fallen hero when what they should have done was stand up and cheer, Thank Jesus, he’s gone. Should’ve died years ago. The hypocrisy nauseated Wendy.

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Olivia, I know you think I’m nuts. Wendy’s own words after the service echoed in her head. But I need to ride and go deal with this day by myself.

You’ll be careful? she asked like the good mother she was to her own daughters.

Yes, yes, of course. Aren’t I always? Wendy strapped on her helmet. I’ll call you tonight—okay? She started up the engine and roared away without waiting for Olivia’s response because it would be okay. It always was.

Even though she wanted to go to the reservation for old times’ sake, she rode up to the Top of Springfield where Jimmy Springer had lived, looked at the house and wondered who lived there now as she rode past. Wendy and Jimmy had been together so long people assumed they’d get married some day. But then Leah decided Chet should be her boyfriend before she ran into fate that November day in 1975. It was an ugly memory, and Wendy forced it from her mind as she made her way into the Watchung Reservation.

Time and progress may have changed Springfield, but it still looked the same up in the reservation. Making her way to Surprise Lake, Wendy recalled the times she and Jimmy pawed and groped each other by the glow of his dashboard lights. They’d been one another’s first among the trees and untamed wilderness and joked that they’d canceled out each other’s loss of virginity. But the sight of the lake, a sliver of water left over from the last ice age, just wasn’t the same to Wendy. Too much had happened for her to be the same naive teenager infatuated with the most popular boy in the senior class. She sat, straddling the Harley, and stared out across the lake and the bare trees. For an instant, she saw Jimmy Springer as he had been at graduation that June. He’d strode across the football field to hug her goodbye. His blue robe, unzipped, flapped away from his sides like wings. She once thought they were so grown up, having survived Leah. Looking back at the person she’d been, Wendy saw herself as small and childish, inexperienced and soft. Not that she felt so worldly now, as she gazed across Surprise Lake, but she had definitely reached her tolerance for all the bullshit this life had to offer. And if that didn’t harden her heart, it certainly made it crispy around the edges.

Wendy sighed quietly, a small sound that barely escaped her. Sometimes she thought she’d never gotten beyond what had happened that year with Jimmy and Leah and Vince. Out of the recesses of her mind, where hidden memories live, she remembered how she used to call Vince old man and then laughed to herself. She was now older than he was then. But the laughter faded quickly. Vince had been far more than the drill instructor in the band. He’d been her teacher and, more importantly, her friend. So as she sat at the end of the lake, her engine idled loudly against the quiet solitude of the overcast sky and skeletal trees. There was once a time when nobody and nothing blocked her from being with Vince. Even though he was twenty years older, she knew she had been willing to make a fool of herself over him. Although she loved Spence dearly, she had also, in fact, loved Vince more than she thought she could love anyone aside from her brother, although she knew time, like a fast-paced river, had smoothed the imperfections and human foibles off the edges. Even still, there were days that she cursed the memories and others when she almost fell to the floor and thanked every god and goddess in heaven that at least she’d known him once.

A breeze whooshed through the upper limbs of the trees and turned into a cold gust of wind across the lake that sucked the tears out of her eyes. But she squinted and tightened the scarf around her neck. There was something about the death and decay of January that made her feel down on her luck and fresh out of second chances. The trees rustled again, making her think of howling spirits lost in the netherworld of Dante’s Inferno.

She left the reservation and headed for Asbury Park. One day, during their senior year, she and Spence had taken a ride down the shore. She’d kissed him that day on the boardwalk. And although they’d been friends for years, that was the spark that started the fire.

An hour later, Wendy rode south through what was left of Asbury Park. She parked the Harley by the Stone Pony and got on the boardwalk at Second Avenue and headed north, her shoulders hunched against the cold wind blowing across the Atlantic. Wendy thought the town looked like a war casualty and that she could hear Vince’s grizzled voice rasp, Looks like an old whore with no more fuck left in her. It was a crying shame, the sidewalks where the weeds had sprung up. There was an emptiness that she felt—the boarded-up windows and barricaded doorways. It made the boardwalk seem haunted as if Bruce Springsteen could barge out of Convention Hall where the old Paramount Theatre sat like some old grandmother abandoned on Christmas Eve. Wendy could feel a kind of death around her, spirits in the night, screeching banshees and other hobgoblins. It gave her goose bumps and made her long for Vince because if it hadn’t been for him, Wendy believed she would have followed right behind Leah. Once upon a time, this man had been such a vital part of her life. Now she spent pockets of her days wondering. She had lost track of him shortly after she ran off to college with Spence. Not even Olivia who stayed could tell her anything, not that she ever asked. Still, Wendy sent a silent thank you heavenward, hoping against all reason that somehow he’d hear it whispering on the wind.

BAND CAMP

the last week of August

E very time she turned around, he was there watching. He limped along the sidelines that hazy, humid Monday morning, smoking a cigarette like a deformed James Dean. Wendy Shaw noticed him watching her and the other musicians that made up the Jonathan Dayton Regional High School marching band. The stranger paced up and down the sidelines with a sense of ownership that made Wendy’s skin itch. Something about him that she couldn’t name forced her to dislike him at once. So any time the maneuvers allowed it, she watched this strange man smoking his cigarette between the first two fingers of his right hand, pushing the damp, greying hair from his forehead with the left. He wore a plain, white tee shirt stretched taut across his broad shoulders and thick middle, and a pair of blue jeans. Wendy looked at the man’s bell-bottomed Levi’s and, in this heat, felt her own body temperature rise vicariously, making her hate him all the more.

The drum line set the pace with a cadence as the kids marched through their drills. Wendy held her piccolo, chest high, parallel to her body, elbows out straight. Her faded purple tank top clung to her body like a second layer of skin, and her sweat socks fell in bunches around her ankles. Marching in place, or marking time as it was known, sent jolts through her bones, made her teeth rattle and her breasts shake in her bra. She dismissed the idea of what her hair must have looked like—a reddish-brown mop of curls and waves that frizzed a halo around her head whenever she got hot or when there was more than one degree of humidity in the air.

After ten minutes of going through the routines, the musicians came to a halt in two parallel lines with Wendy almost dead center in front. The girls in the band front worked on their new drills on the adjacent practice field with Lorraine their own instructor, away from the stranger. Lucky them, Wendy mused, hearing the front instructor’s distant commands and words of encouragement. Some moments later, Wendy remained at attention, sandwiched between Eric who played the trumpet and Fat Henry on baritone sax. The stranger continued to pace along the sidelines while everyone waited. For a moment he chatted with the band director, a tall, imposing man who struck fear in the hearts of freshmen until he spoke. His was a soft, kind voice that instilled confidence and self-esteem in his students. But the stranger held Wendy’s attention.

When he finally limped out onto the field, the stranger looked like an injured bulldog. He was barrel-chested with an enormous, well-developed torso, but he had a gimpy right leg. Walking the line of musicians, he took one last drag from his cigarette and pitched the spent butt before he inspected the band. The musicians remained at attention as this troll of a man examined the kids who were beginning to fidget under the heat and humidity of the day and this intruder’s scrutiny.

That performance was pure shit. His face flushed a deep red. From where she stood, Wendy could see the vein in his forehead bulging and his blue eyes blazing. The stranger continued to rant, "Where were your goddamned knees? Every single line, every leg, everything absolutely must be in step. Otherwise, you’re screwed. And folks, when you stand at goddamned attention, don’t you dare move! Like this!" He snapped to attention.

Wendy Shaw stood ramrod straight, knowing that, at attention, she couldn’t go anywhere until formally dismissed. But that didn’t stop her from rolling her eyes and scowling. Whoever this guy was, he spoke with such authority, such propriety, that it made Wendy want to scream. The man came on like an unexpected thunderstorm, and Wendy hated him on sight. Fuck you, pal, she thought, You’ll teach us how to march? You can’t even walk straight! She took a deep breath and decided, with calm certainty, that she’d stay out of his way, and he could stay out of hers.

The band director, affectionately known as Mr. A., stood behind the stranger, his arms crossed in front of his chest. It was hard to tell if he was frowning because of his mutton-chop sideburns and mustache, but he was definitely not smiling. Wendy looked away from him and the abrasive stranger, rolling her eyes again. A little voice inside her head warned, It’s going to be a long year. So when Mr. A. finally allowed the kids a break, Wendy hobbled over to the sidelines where Leah waited under the scant shade of a copse of maples.

Leah Hart had been Wendy’s best friend since kindergarten, a time so long ago that Wendy lost the details of their meeting. Not that it mattered now anyway. Leah had always been a beautiful child, angelic almost. And at seventeen, her waist-length blond hair and sky blue eyes made a magnet for every boy at Jonathan Dayton Regional High School. But Wendy didn’t mind. There was far more to Leah than beauty and body. And it was what was below the surface that meant the most to Wendy. They had always been two halves of a whole, and Wendy had her father’s old Polaroids to prove it. Curled black-and-white snapshots of five year-old versions of Wendy and Leah holding hands, smiling broadly with their baby-toothed grins. Wendy had always been the dark one both in looks and personality. If Wendy tended to