Corn Rose: A Novel

By Karen Ross Epp

Rose Calamia is a first generation Italian American working girl in a 1945 aircraft plant, when she meets Iowa farm boy, Jack Conner. Jack has recently been discharged from the Army and is still licking his wounds from an all too familiar war time casualty--a Dear John followed by divorce. When their love affair leads to a wedding and a move to Jack's home community, Rose is totally unprepared for the life that awaits her in rural Iowa.
Ever the sheltered daughter and sister in a family steeped in old world traditions, Rose is exposed to Jack's world which is the polar opposite. Living with her in-laws for the first few months of marriage, Rose is homesick and unsure of her hasty decision to move back to the Midwest with her husband of three months. On top of all the other adjustments (no modern conveniences like electricity and indoor plumbing) Rose harbors a secret, her pregnancy.
Her mother-in-law, Bess is determined to sabotage Jack's marriage to this skinny foreigner and city gal, whose skin is dark and ways unlike any she's familiar with. Rose's determination to endure and love her husband is tested when she is called home for her mother's funeral. Once back in warm, sunny California -- Iowa, Jack, and the harsh Midwest seem worlds away. Rose has to decide if what she wants is in Iowa with her husband or in the comfortable surroundings of California and family --and an old flame who awakens her heart in ways she thought were dead.
Rose's struggle, like so many women of her generation, is a tug-of-war between what is expected and what desires are left over for her in the ash-heap of duty and subservience. Rose's final decision will test her character and surprise her harshest critiques.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: May 21, 2013
• ISBN: 9781481736909

Karen Ross Epp

Karen Ross Epp holds a Bachelors degree from Bethel College in North Newton, Kansas and a Masters in Curriculum and Instruction from Wichita State University in Wichita, Kansas. Karen retired from teaching at the middle school level in 2004. Karen was born and raised in the rolling hills and farm country of southeastern Iowa, near Mount Pleasant, until she left for college and marriage. Her love of family and history prompted Karen to preserve and honor not only her brother’s memory, but all men who served so bravely with him and have a story to tell. Karen lives with her husband, Regionalist Artist, Phil Epp, in rural Kansas at the edge of the Flint Hills.

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Prologue

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Twenty-one year old Jack Conner took a long drag on his cigarette and then flicked it into the receding tide. He’d get a royal ass chewing if the Army brass caught him smoking out here on patrol. Anti-aircraft guns, stealthily camouflaged as houses, lined cliffs above the shore adding support to GIs on patrol. An M1 rifle rested against Jack’s shoulder like an old friend as he walked a stretch of Venice beach. Like I’m gonna be able to stop any Jap sub, if they’re really out there!

The military and civilians alike were on edge since the attack on Pearl Harbor. The Japanese had been shelling ships along the coasts, and swimming or even wading on the beaches these days was discouraged.

The salty air stung Jack’s nose as he inhaled the surf’s breeze. He took out another cigarette. I should quit, he thought, as he lit up again and looked around suspiciously for anyone who’d snitch. The heavy scent of marine life filled Jack’s senses—mist and fog rolled in—the sound of the surf was his only company tonight. Jack always dreamed of seeing the ocean, but this wasn’t what he had in mind. No, this was a far cry from lounging in the lazy California sun, watchin’ good-lookin’ dames walk by in their bathing suits, he thought.

He’d ship out in a few days, probably to France, or Italy. Damn, how’d I git this far? His brother Carl was already in Europe, assigned to an Army Ordinance Unit. He’d been there for three years. Maybe they’d cross paths somewhere, but Jack doubted it.

Either way, it was going to be hard on their mother, with both of them gone and in harm’s way.

Jack squinted trying to clear his vision. He had lost the sight in his right eye when he was seven—a freak accident. A school chum retaliated when Jack teased him about having a crush on his sister Betty. A snowball, tightly packed with a rock in the center, cost Jack dearly on that bitterly cold January morning. His right eye had swollen until it bulged out of its socket. His mother did her best, but without adequate medical attention, his vision in that eye was lost. I shoulda beat the shit outta that little son of a bitch! Jack ground out his last cigarette in the sand. It still pissed him off to think about the accident. Even with the disability, the draft board chose officially to disbelieve his story and proclaimed him fit for service.

So, here he was, two thousand miles from home, missing his family on this quiet night, on this lonely beach, protecting his country.

Chapter 1

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RURAL IOWA, MARCH 1946

Rattling along as if in a strange vibrating machine, Rose scanned the landscape framed by the Buick’s window. She searched the stark scene for something recognizable. There were no light poles, palm-lined streets or quaint bungalows one-after-the-other. All that lay before her was a bleak expanse of monochromatic hills, dotted by bare trees and plowed black earth. Heavy spring rains had turned the roads (if you could call them that) into a quagmire of brown muck. With Jack, her husband of three months, they made their way across the countryside.

Beyond each hill, reality sank in. So this is Iowa! The place Jack had been talking about all these months. A place far removed from the likes of her home in Los Angeles. There were no motorized sounds piercing the air, no horns honking, no sirens wailing—nothing of the hustle and bustle she was accustomed to.

He’d told her about the slow-paced life people enjoyed here, where men hunted, worked the land and enjoyed the dominance that their society provided. Where sturdy women bore children, kept the house, helped in the fields alongside their men, and from what she gathered, kept quiet. Electricity, indoor plumbing, telephones—all the rage in LA—were probably several years away for Jack’s folks and others tucked away in these rural hamlets. When Rose asked Jack what they did for entertainment, he had responded, Oh, church. Revival meetings. Card games in the back of the mercantile. Dances at the Legion Hall. Stuff like that.

Jack glanced over at her, giving her that cocky grin which had drawn her to him in the first place. He was anxious for her to meet his folks and show her the life he’d left behind, a life spent on the rich bottom land that skirted the Fox River.

This land had provided for the Conner family through the good and lean years. Jack had told Rose on their very first date how much he missed it. His argument for moving back was that Los Angeles and California held little promise or opportunity for him. He was tired of work at the factory where he and Rose had met. The long hours indoors doing the same thing, day-in-and-day-out, wasn’t what he wanted for his future.

Rose had been apprehensive about the move. It was so soon after their marriage. But she’d been taught that a woman’s place was beside her husband, so she’d made the choice to follow her man.

Her mother’s grief-stricken face reappeared in her mind along with the memory of how she’d clutched a handkerchief to her breast, as though she would succumb at any moment, finally raising her arm and waving the hankie as Rose and Jack drove away.

Sophia Calamia had sobbed in her broken English, Rosa, how can you leave me?

Rose reasoned that her mother’s anguish was intensified because of her sister’s death. Carina. How Rose missed her. Always the levelheaded one in the family, Carina had also been painfully shy. Keeping to herself most of the time, she’d seldom socialized and rarely dated. The only activities Carina had truly seemed to enjoy were church meetings, during the week in addition to Sunday. She’s a saint! their mother had often remarked.

Carina had taken care of most household duties—ironing, washing, cleaning, and mending. She was the one who’d kept Rose and the rest of the family in freshly laundered clothes. One of her tasks was the family’s dry cleaning. She had spent hours on the Calamias’ enclosed back porch, cleaning their woolen suits, sweaters, and dresses in benzene, a colorless flammable liquid used in dry cleaning.

As a result of such prolonged exposure to the benzene, Carina had begun suffering severe migraine headaches. Unaware of the hazards of this toxic chemical, her fate was sealed. As the years passed, the pain had become debilitating and she’d developed an inoperable brain tumor. No one, in the 1940s, could have imagined the true culprit of her suffering. Her frail health, Rose had always reasoned, was the cause for her beloved sister’s reclusiveness.

Rose was jolted back to reality as Jack stopped the car and pulled the hand brake.

Why are we stopping?

He looked at her. Rose, we’ll have to walk the rest of the way. I don’t think we can make it in the car. The mud is too deep!

She looked at him as though he had asked her to carry the car. What do you mean—walk? How far is it?

Opening her door, Rose stood on the running board, her eyes darting around. She took in their surroundings, the muddy road that stretched out before them.

She looked at Jack with disbelief. I’ve got my new coat on… and heels! She stretched out her arms so Jack could appreciate her inappropriate attire.

Already out of the car, Jack stood with his hands on his hips. Now look, Rose, you’ll just have to take it off and walk. You’re not in California anymore!

Well, I know that, Jack, but you don’t really expect me to walk all that way! I’ll be a mess when I meet your parents! What will they think of me?

He tapped the end of her nose. I reckon they’ll think you’re beautiful. Now c’mon, Goddamn it! Don’t be a baby!

Rose winced. I hate it when you swear! Her strict upbringing and compliance with the commandments made Jack’s cursing even more offensive to her. You look mean when you do that. I don’t like it!

There were things about her new husband—like his language—that were unsettling to Rose. She sensed an undercurrent of anger simmering just below the surface.

Okay… please get your pretty little ass down here… and get movin’!

Jack!

Jack smirked and lifted his arms. What? You wanted me to talk nice.

Oh you’re impossible!

Rose shifted her gaze back to their surroundings. This place was remote—backwards looking. Are there no paved roads around here? Jack had mentioned that his parents didn’t have electricity. Her mind raced. Oh . . . my . . . God! I’ll bet they don’t have an indoor toilet, either!

She took a careful step out of the car, and instantly found herself ankle-deep in mud—sticky, stinky, sucking mud. When she tried to take another step, the suction held her fast. She fell backwards with a feeble squeak. Spread-eagled on her backside, and in shock, Rose thought she might burst out in tears. Jack, however, threw his head back and out came that hearty farm boy laugh.

She scowled back at him. Of course he’d think it was the most natural thing in the world to be, as he put it, up to your ass in mud!

Huge chunks of bottomland clay fell from Rose’s fingertips as she lifted her hands out of the mire. When she tried to shake off the mess, some of it flew back into her hair, clinging to a ringlet in front of her eyes. The sensations and smell were totally foreign to Rose. Raised in the city, she’d not had an occasion to wallow in the mud.

Jack leaned forward and grabbed one of her hands then yanked her up out of the mud. She fell forward into him, almost knocking them both over in the process.

He smiled down at her and cupped her chin.

C’mon Rosie, let’s get goin.’ We’ll getcha cleaned up once we get to the house. You’ll be as good as new! She knew he was trying to lighten her mood.

With a mischievous grin that made his eyes crinkle at the edges he pinched her bottom and whispered an innuendo about helping her take a bath. Rose knew she could have been covered in cow manure, and he’d still get riled up for her.

How can you be thinking of sex at a time like this?

Oh, I think about it all the time, Rosie!

Remembering their wedding night, Rose recalled that same grin. He’d taken her in his arms and gently lowered her to their bed. She’d felt hot and cold, nervous and excited, at the same time.

She’d been a virgin: the bloodstained sheet was proof of that. Important proof, Rose had learned, as in the old country it was tradition to show the virginal evidence the next day. When she had told so to Jack, he’d replied, in no uncertain and colorful terms, that that was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard.

Her new husband had tried to be gentle and tender with her. It was a sweet and erotic memory that made her feel truly like a woman. Jack had done that, and much more, to and for Rose since they’d met.

So Rose had insisted they wait until they were married. Jack had said it didn’t matter, but she knew the gossip that plagued girls who’d gone all the way with a boyfriend. Boys don’t respect girls who go all the way!—Her mother’s words kept her in check.

Was it painful? he’d asked, once they lay beside each other in the dark. Rose hadn’t been sure what she was supposed to feel. Even though he had tried to be tender and take things slowly, it had been all he could do to hold back.

While it had hurt, the experience was one that had made Rose feel truly like a woman. Jack had done that for her in so many ways, not just sexually, since they’d met. He had a way of bringing out a rebelliousness she hadn’t allowed herself to indulge before him.

Still, she wondered if marriage to Jack would actually allow her the freedom she now longed to experience after years in an over-protective family. She liked feeling protected by Jack, but sometimes she also felt controlled by him. She wasn’t sure she liked that.

Jack could see the apprehension in her face, even as she smiled up at him. From his six-foot-four vantage point, he bent down to his just-over-five-five wife and planted a light kiss on her forehead. Oh, but he loved everything about her. How did I get this lucky? He shook his head.

Taking a bandana out of his back pocket, Jack wiped as much of the mud from Rose’s hand as he could. Then he wrapped his arm around her waist, and they began the quarter-mile walk to the Conner farm.

Chapter 2

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LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA, DECEMBER 1945

Jack took an elbow in the ribs; Johnny Castro prodded him then pointed with his chin as the raven-haired beauty strolled slowly by. She walked with confidence, seemingly oblivious to the stares of the line workers. They’d seen her a lot lately, now that she’d moved up to work in the office.

What a rack! A not-so-muffled catcall came from one of the line workers as Rose passed.

Jack gave him a Back off, asshole! look.

I’ll betcha five bucks you don’t have the balls to ask her out! Johnny said. He knew Jack had been admiring the girl for quite some time and he also knew how to stir things up.

Johnny was about 5-10, shorter than Jack and much stockier. The wavy black hair, dark eyes, and gleaming white smile he’d gained from his Mexican heritage got him a lot of action. In that sense he was quite a ladies’ man, in Jack’s opinion, but he was also respectful when it came to women.

Jack slapped his friend on the back. You’re on, John.

He took a deep breath and then whistled.

Rose, dressed in slacks and a snug sweater that flattered her generous breasts and slender hips, kept walking, lifting her chin a little higher.

See, she won’t even look at ya… farm boy! Johnny chided. He knew how far to push his friend without getting a fist in his face.

In contrast to Johnny, Jack was tall and lean, with rope-taut muscles—farm work had made him strong. Because of this, while he lacked the street smarts Johnny possessed, he could take care of himself when times called for it.

Rose had caught Jack’s eye from the very first time she strolled past his workstation, leaving the subtle scent of perfume in her wake. She wasn’t a typical all-American pinup girl, no, she was exotic, and he liked that about her. She was different from anyone who had ever attracted him, and that was intriguing: like a forbidden fruit, he had to have a bite.

With a quick side-glance, Rose noticed the tall man whose eyes were locked on her as if she were in his gun sights.

She was just leaving the material control office where she worked, the day’s invoices tucked under her arm. Her long hair, done up in a pompadour, gleamed under the strong factory lights. She didn’t fancy herself beautiful, but she did take care of what she had: wavy black hair, smooth olive skin, and sparkling black eyes she inherited from her Sicilian parents. Her brothers often teased her, though, about what they referred to as her bird legs. It was the one part of her body she wasn’t proud of.

Jack watched her stroll past. He tried to imagine what she looked like under all those clothes, how she smelled, and what her kisses would taste like.

All the guys had noticed Rose. Her name was often called over the loud speaker—Rose Calamia, report to office or Rose Calamia, report to material control! Jack had smiled to himself when on one occasion a coworker had asked Rose, Are those real? referring to her ample bosoms.

She had just smiled, and said, What do you think? and continued walking. Rose was naive, she knew that, but she knew a wolf when she saw one.

She’d learned a lot from having two brothers at home who exuded testosterone.

She wasn’t sure about this tall one who stared at her. Oh, he was handsome, she was sure of that. There was something about those eyes—blue, deep and brooding. She’d first noticed him as one of the new hires who operated the drop hammer on the line. Word traveled fast in the plant, and rumor had it he’d been in the Army but was discharged for some medical reason.

Well, he appears to be healthy to me. He can look all he wants, I’m not about to give him the satisfaction of appearing interested. Anyway, Mama won’t let me date boys outside her circle of friends or the neighborhood.

Jack watched as Rose closed the office door with a shapely hip, hand keeping a careful grip on the stack of papers she carried. She thinks she’s bein’ all cool and highfalutin’. He sensed she was aware of him. Hell, I’ll give it another shot. What do I have to lose?

Johnny’s eyes widened as Jack pushed off the machine he’d been leaning on and moved toward Rose with his John Wayne stride.

That son of a bitch . . . he’s going to ask her out! The farmer has balls after all! Johnny watched, shaking his head and trying to control the smirk on his face. Man, this is gonna be good!

Rose caught a glimpse of the tall, lean man walking toward her. Oh, no! What does he want? What will I say? He’s so . . . so tall! Oh, my God . . . She shook her head. Get a hold of yourself!

Sweat trickled down her back. She’d never felt so nervous, so vulnerable. The papers she carried almost slipped from her grasp. This is no time to show your clumsy side, Rose. Unlike some of her girlfriends, she wasn’t good at flirting and making small talk with men. Oh, sure, other guys had made passes at her, but she just laughed it off—ignoring their advances.

But this one was different. This one intrigued her, and now he was moving with purpose.

Stopping once they stood toe-to-toe, Jack blocked her way.

Hey, I’m Jack. Y’gotta a minute? She looked up at him, wide-eyed.

Jack’s hands suddenly felt cold and clammy. I… uh… would you like to go out sometime? He barely managed to spit out the words.

What kind of a dumbass approach was that? Smooth, Jack. Real smooth. She probably thinks you just dropped off a turnip truck. And she’ll probably slap you.

Jack looked back at Johnny, whose smirk had turned into a full-blown grin behind the hand he’d brought up to his face. Hiding his amusement was Johnny’s only shot at not getting sucker punched once this little scene was over.

Jack scowled at him. Man, I’ve played right into Romeo’s plan. I’m gonna kill that Mexican when I get out of here.

Rose tilted her head back a little more and looked up into Jack’s eyes. He’s like a California redwood—HUGE! She liked what she saw.

In one breath she blurted, Oh, I’d like that—where—what time? I mean—Oh, I’ll have to think about it. Well, sure, that’d be nice. She refilled her lungs and started to panic. Mama won’t approve, not to mention my brothers. They’ll kill this guy first, and ask questions later.

Jack looked as dumbstruck as Rose.

Did you say yes? I mean—Really? That’s great! Uh, where do you live? And, oh! I guess I should ask your name.

Jack knew her name all right, but thought it only polite to ask.

Her mouth was dry, and the words seemed to stick in her throat.

It’s Rose… Rose Calamia. I live, uh—over on Avenue 34. Do you know the Five Points area?

No… ’fraid not. He nodded toward his friend. But maybe my buddy Johnny knows. He’s from around here.

Raised in the Midwest, Jack hadn’t had a lot of exposure to Mexicans, or people of any other races for that matter. But Johnny had proved to be a good friend from the very first day Jack had hired on following his discharge from the Army and the painful ending to his first marriage. California was worlds apart from Iowa, and Johnny had helped him those first weeks on the job. The smooth-talking friend had gotten him out of some close calls. Guys who thought they could put one over on a dumb plowboy soon backed down when Johnny stood up for his friend. Jack was glad he’d been able to return the favor once, when his size had helped them turn the tables on thugs who’d tried to roll them for their paychecks.

Hey John, c’mere. Wantcha’ to meet Rose.

Johnny looked at Jack, whose crooked grin said it all. Well, big shot . . . pay up!

If Johnny had to share his friend, it might as well be with a girl like Rose. She was special: word had gotten around that she wasn’t easy. And though she’d remained guarded, she had always treated him with respect. Johnny knew his place—mixed dating didn’t sit well with Gringos or Wops. You could get yourself killed with a wrong look. Maybe things would be different someday, but for now, he was happy at least his friend could be with someone like her.

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Smitten, Jack and Rose began seeing each other on a regular basis. They stole glances and smiles at work, trying not to make it too obvious that they were involved, as fraternizing with fellow employees was discouraged. Neither wanted to take the chance of losing their jobs. Now that the war was winding down, a buck-ten an hour was a decent wage. Soon the jobs would be going to GIs coming home from Europe and the Pacific. Women, who’d been lured into the work force by the call to do their patriotic duty and support their men overseas, were now told they’d be going back to their kitchens when it was all over—back to being wives and mothers.

Jack and Rose’s first date was a night at the Hollywood Legion Stadium for a boxing match. This was a new experience for Rose, who hadn’t been allowed to participate in worldly activities like watching movies or gambling. As they later went to the race track at Santa Anita and to more boxing matches, Jack opened up a completely new world to her, one she had only heard about beyond her cloistered life of family, church and even work. Any guilt she felt was short-lived when she was with Jack. He made everything seem right. Still, she dared not tell her parents about their relationship. Whenever Rose thought she might tell her family about Jack, she simply couldn’t find the right words.

They stole away whenever they could find a moment, taking walks and talking about their future. Los Angeles offered them many beautiful places to nurture their romance, and Jack especially enjoyed their strolls in the park. Loving nature as he did, this was his way of reconnecting with it in the concrete confines of the city. Each park they visited was a plethora of tropical plants, fountains and beautiful architecture. One afternoon, while lying on a blanket under a coconut palm in Griffith Park, they saw a squirrel run from one tree to the next, flicking its tail and chattering as it raced for cover. Jack raised his index finger, holding it as if it were a gun. He took aim.

BOOM! he yelled.

Rose sat up with a start. Why did you do that?

Cause… if I had a gun, he’d be lunch!

You’re kidding, right?

Nope, they’re the best eatin’ there is, and the gravy, he licked his lips, man, it’s the best!

That’s disgusting! She shoved him so he fell on his side. Jack just laughed and gave Rose a chuck under her chin.

Rose favored their trips to Santa Catalina Island. Lying on the beach, away from the watchful eye of her mother, Rose relaxed and dreamt of a future with Jack. He was different from the boys she’d gone out with before, boys her mother had approved of—Italian and friends of the family. He was more mature, she thought.

Her parents had emigrated from Italy. Her mother, Sophia, and her mother’s sisters had worked in sweatshops, as did many young women who tried to make a living in the new country. Although Sophia was from a well-to-do family in northern Italy, all that had changed when she left for a new life in America. After her marriage to Antonio, she stayed at home to take care of her growing family without the benefit of outside help.

A robust woman, Sophia ruled her brood with an iron hand. Rose’s brothers, Gino and Frank, were hardworking young men who made the most of the double standard favoring males at that time. They were spared the early curfews and rigid expectations that Rose and her sister experienced. Sophia doted on her sons, who were devoted to their mother.

Rose’s father, whom everyone called Tony, was known to extended family and close friends as a loving father and husband. Standing only five-five, he was a swarthy man, with wavy dark hair and warm brown eyes. As a young man, he had found work in a pasta factory and had remained there into his adult life. Every day he would cut, shake and separate the long strands of spaghetti or macaroni that hung from a metal bar, ultimately lifting the heavy load to a drying rack. It was backbreaking work, but he never missed a day.

Every night after dinner, he would withdraw to his favorite chair with a bottle of wine and listen to the radio. At times, his heavy drinking turned him into a tyrant. The fact that Sophia was eleven years his senior caused more strife in the bedroom. Many nights Rose would cover her head with a pillow when the loud arguing escaped her parents’ room.

As was the custom, Rose brought her paychecks straight home to her parents, never worrying about providing herself with material luxuries. As a result she was anything but an independent girl.

So her stomach was in knots when she finally got up the nerve to introduce Jack to her family. Fearing the worst, she had been reluctant to invite Jack to her home. She had known her brothers to be protective, and her parents—well, they were from the old country and probably wouldn’t approve of Jack.

Early on in their relationship, Sophia had prodded and probed Rose for as much information as she could. Rosa, who is this boy? Where does he come-a from? He could be a convict for all you know!

Oh, Mama, he’s a nice boy and he has a family in Iowa. You’ll like him!

Sophia harrumphed, I never heard of… this Iowa. Why would he leave-a his mama and family?

Exasperated, Rose responded, Mama, there’s a war on. He was in the service!

Rose knew that once Sophia and the others actually met Jack, they would save their comments, saying nothing in front of him. As soon as he stepped out the door, though, they would let her know how they felt.

To an outsider who wasn’t familiar with Italians, a family discussion sounded like an all-out war. Debates, confrontations and full-blown arguments were everyday occurrences in the Calamia household. Arms would wave, hand gestures would be thrown all about whose turn it was to do the dishes. Rose only hoped Jack would be spared their tirades.

His first visit went well enough. Jack arrived on time with a box of chocolates for Rose’s mother.

Sophia smiled shyly and said, Grazie… molto! Thank you, very much! She accepted the gift, clutching it to her breast, bobbing up and down with approval. Rose’s father and brothers looked on from a distance, sizing up the Iowa farm boy. They politely shook his hand when introduced. True to her expectations, they were reserving their opinions for later, Rose could tell.

A typical ethnic meal of pasta with marinara sauce, Italian sausage, bread and wine graced the table as Jack tried to figure out the menu. New worlds were opening to him as well. He liked the wine and bread, but the garlicky pasta and sauce was not to his liking. He ate it anyway, to be polite. God, I hope Rose never fixes this stuff for me!

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Jack had taken Rose to the horse races at Santa Anita racetrack. They’d spent the afternoon there. Racing was something he enjoyed, often placing bets on a favorite pony, as he referred to the leggy thoroughbreds.

An unusually clear evening, the sky seemed to explode with a billion stars. It’s a perfect night! Rose thought. They’d rolled the car windows down, allowing the balmy ocean air to flow over their skin as they drove along the coast. Rose brushed a wisp of hair from her face and rested her head on Jack’s shoulder.

I could drive all night… in fact, I could stay like this forever, she said. Placing her hand on his thigh, she entwined her fingers with his.

Did you like the races? he asked.

Yes, they’re remarkable… the horses, I mean. Did you win any money?

Just a little… enough to pay for gas.

A sudden POP and a rumbling sound disrupted the calm drive. Damn, we’ve got a down tire. Shit!

Rose sat up straight. Oh no… what time is it? If I’m late Mama’s gonna be mad!

Well, there’s not a whole lot I can do about it! Jack answered, irritated. He got out of the car and walked all the way around to examine the damage and check the spare.

Well, hell! He sighed as he leaned in her window. The spare’s flat too! I’ll have to walk to a gas station, Rose, and see if I can get some help! He looked up and down the long stretch of dark highway hoping for a passing car and a helping hand. There was nothing—just the long expanse of black asphalt that went on for miles.

What am I supposed to do while you’re gone? Rose didn’t relish the idea of sitting alone for what could be hours. Who knows what could be lurking around at this time of night?

Jack chuckled. You’ll be alright until I git back, just lock the doors.

Rose was a little miffed that Jack was so cavalier about her well-being at a time like this—especially on this part of the highway that snaked along the coast.

She pleaded with him one last time as he walked away, Please hurry, Jack. I don’t like this!

I will! He reminded her again, Lock the doors.

Two hours later, he tapped on Rose’s window. She jumped and gripped the screwdriver she’d found in the glove box, before she realized it was Jack. Her heart was still beating fast as she rolled down her window. Sitting alone in the dark had scared her half out of her wits. She also knew it was way past her curfew. Mama’s gonna kill me! I can see her now, sitting at the kitchen table wringing her hands.

A trucker had given Jack a lift back to their car. A burly mammoth of a man who spilled out the sides of his overalls, he held a flashlight while Jack changed the tire, every so often spitting a brown glob on the ground as he did so. Rose caught a whiff of him from where she sat in the car. He smiled at her every now and then, displaying his tobacco-stained teeth—or what was left of them—on a face framed by greasy hair. She was sure he hadn’t bathed in days, maybe weeks! Yeah, this is definitely not where Mama wants me right now.

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Jack watched from the car as Rose made her way to the front porch. She’d stewed all the way home about the late hour and what her mother was going to say. He got the feeling Sophia had an over-active imagination where he and Rose were concerned.

She turned and waved one last time before Jack drove away.

I probably should have walked her to the door and explained to her folks, he thought, but it’s late and she insisted going in alone.

Her mother and father were strict, that was for sure, especially with their youngest daughter. Never mind that she was in her twenties—she was still expected to toe the line as much as ever.

Turning the doorknob ever so carefully,