Girl in the Red Pinafore

By John Mangano and Jane Mangano

In a near death experience Vince meets with his lifelong idealized image in a supernatural plane. She guides him thru a complete review of life in preparation for what?
While he moves to career success to establish a love life. His pre-conceptions help him at times and almost sink him at others. Linking with women of ability keeps him on a fast track. And then there is Yvonne-a once in lifetime dynamite package who could hold any mans attention. Steamy at times, normally calm investigations are peppered with violence, sex, psychological overtones and ultimately love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Apr 12, 2012
• ISBN: 9781469193854

John Mangano

ABOUT THE AUTHOR In a professional career I held such titles such as Operations Manager, Plant Manager-VP Operations. And I lay claim to technical degrees, design innovation and a lifetime of technical writing. I won’t because that’s not what came to count in my later years, nor does it begin to account for a fascination with romance-erotica; unless you understand how much of that I hacd to give away to achieve what success I had, the mistakes I made later trying to fill the gap, and the final revelations that made a solid romantic/erotic combination I could have missed.

Book preview

Prologue

Where am I? Vince was asking himself, his silent question contrasting the rush of sound like a freight train coming at him in the pitch black, not even announcing its incoming direction. He was close to panic, gliding swiftly through darkness, looking for light-a way out in a desperate search. He was groping like a blind man in a strange place, hoping the next thing he ran into or touched would tell him where he was. A voice; Yvonne was trying to pierce the shroud of darkness surrounding him, in distress herself, knowing they would escape the darkness if they could only find each other.

*     *     *

He watched as the dress she was wearing transformed from a plain and uninspired old fashioned pinafore style, complete with what he had falsely called epaulets at the shoulder; into a form fitting sheath type bodice augmented by wide straps crossing her shoulders, dated by a 1950’s look. Brass buttons strategically placed were offset by the red-now deep maroon-color of the dress. The skirt billowed out to accentuate her femininity. The dress morphed from plain to thicker and warmer cloth. Contrasted by a fluffy white blouse, it turned her torso into a striking and attractive vision.

Her ivory complexion carried a rosy tint in her cheeks bursting out of the forming picture. Her face was in transition from a wavering mirage to an angelic roundness with large dark brown eyes that drew his attention. The jet black hair worn at shoulder length would capture his attention, but his focus was repeatedly redirected back to mesmerizing eyes. The vision was completed with red shoes and white socks, the socks bobbed, turned down to reflect an era from his youth.

The image was impressive enough, but what caught his attention now was her demeanor; what she projected. There was an overwhelming innocence about her despite a complete embodiment of sexuality. At one time in his life she was only interested in the welfare of her creator: him. And at certain times in his youth she was his only soother and protector, called up at times when he felt least able to sort out the growing powerful feelings as he moved about in the puzzling world of the opposite sex.

Vince was so intent watching the detail that he had temporarily set aside recognition of who and what she was. When satisfied that the last revelation was complete, he asked, What are you doing here? She smiled and said: Then you recognize me? Of course I do! was the reply. But you are a figment of my imagination. You’re not real. You are someone I created years ago. Another smile, this time with even more warmth and compassion Vince found so familiar.

*     *     *

His passion subsided slowly as he apologized profusely for his inability to carry through. I’m sorry, I really love you and did a piss poor job of showing it. You are incredible. I wanted this first time to be—. She put her finger to his lips to gently shush him. She was telling him it was flattering to her, it sometimes happens, and most of all he had all night to redeem himself.

As Vince looked into her eyes to sense the sincerity of her words a flash of recognition hit him: haunting eyes, black hair and ivory skin? He quickly moved through a comparison with his ideal. The clincher; here she was assuring him everything would turn out well. My god, she’s the pinafore girl! I’m going to make love to my pinafore girl! His expression concerned her to the point of asking him if he was all right. All right? he exclaimed with no hesitation; It’s so far beyond all right that I can’t begin to describe it! To her it was a perfect answer. The next kiss was slow and deep.

1

Listen to him, Vince exclaimed to himself as he listened to the preacher drone on about the glory of heaven. Streets paved with gold, angels flying around with harps singing praises, eternal bliss. How the fu—WHOOPS; what does he know? One thing he did hear that he liked; he would be seeing loved ones again in the afterlife. As to the rest of the message he was thinking WHAT A BUNCH OF CRAP. He turned to Yvonne to whisper it-just a little too loud. He knew it was the wrong thing to blurt out as he watched the displeasure showing in her facial expression and her stiffened posture.

She appeared to be paying rapt attention to the preacher’s words. Are you buying this bullshit? he thought. Yvonne’s right leg had crossed her left leg below the knee, awkward for her but inviting to him. He studied the calf and leg as it was engaged in almost imperceptible agitated movement. Over what? he thought, knowing full well but nonetheless not letting on. In a short time he would be in his car with his wife and she would give him hell, not for what he said, but for saying it too loud with accompanying facial expressions sure to piss off somebody sitting close by-Yvonne did care about that; his seeming lack of social graces. He would prepare for a critique from her later; for now he reached out to soothe and calm her foot, perhaps to quiet her agitation or perhaps just another excuse to touch her. He knew that they would settle the concern quickly and move on to enjoy yet another pleasant Sunday afternoon when they were home.

That evening the doorbell rang; it was Ken and Sandra from next door, a surprise visit but welcome nonetheless. The men settled in front of the TV as the women moved into the kitchen to talk. After a fashion Yvonne was back in the living room to say Honey, can you and Kenny run to the store? We have very little in the way of snacks and Sandy and I are both hungry for milk shakes. We need ice cream. With protest, more in pretense-they liked the proposed snack-they made their way out the door, grumbling the whole time.

They were quiet in the car until Ken opened with Jesus, your Yvonne is attractive even in casual clothes. How in the hell did you get so lucky?

I’ve told you before Vince retorted, We were work partners at Graham Corporation.

Kenny was thinking, Work partners? That doesn’t explain squat. He’s said that before. Damn it, I want to know how they fell in love. I want to know how and when he got into her pants. Kenny had to do what he did the last time; close off while wishing to hear something lascivious so he could picture he, Kenny, doing it to Yvonne. He knew better than to try anything with Yvonne; it would start a contest as to which of the three offended parties would destroy him first. But he had free rein in his imagination.

There would be no chance of Vince spilling any of what Kenny wanted to hear. Even as Kenny had goaded in the past with innuendo about he and his wife, hoping Vince would respond in kind, he was always disappointed. But Vince couldn’t help thinking of first times; the first time he laid eyes on her in his office, so stunned and mesmerized that he had to come off as a buffoon, the evening that followed where he partially redeemed himself, the pure electric of making love months later, the painful break, the arduous journey to reunite. It was a hell of a story-and much too personal to share with anyone except Yvonne.

Kenny sensed a reticence once again, a reluctance, a protective stance, a defense of what he and Yvonne considered sacrosanct, a reverence for their privacy. Kenny decided to save himself time and frustration by moving the conversation in a direction he thought Vince might answer him.

Sandy and I think you two are an enigma. These are nice houses we live in but it’s obvious you can afford better.

We’re doing all right. Vince responded We like it this way. Just enough to keep us focused on our work. Beyond that, money doesn’t do that much for us.

Kenny shook his head in friendly envy, knowing what he and Sandy would do if they had their resources: Cut the crap. I’ve heard about you and Yvonne writing checks for thousands of dollars for charity or to bail out a friend.

Never that much and personal choice as to when to write one. Vince responded.

Ken wouldn’t let go but Vince wasn’t offended; Your job must really pay well but isn’t it dangerous as hell? I’ve seen you come home with serious cuts and bruises. Is it really worth it?

Vince responded, Keeps the adrenalin going and both Yvonne and I seem to need that; and it’s something money can’t buy. He didn’t add that he had slowed down considerably on the number and type of clients since he moved his business.

Kenny was on a roll; And her, giving up a career like she had? It’s a wonder she hasn’t taken a club to somebody just to break the boredom.

She didn’t give it up. She’s just slowed down. She hired an assistant and it’s working out. Vince was pulling into the convenience store parking lot.

Ken stood outside as Vince went in to scoop up supplies and pay the store clerk. Ken decided he had asked too many personal questions and was silent on the ride home. Vince was relieved; he’d been queried like this before and was just one time short of telling Kenny not to bring it up again.

In five minutes he was parking in his driveway. As he closed the car door he was startled by a voice from the side of the house Vince Onorato not as a question-more to get Vince’s attention. Vince turned to face an emerging silhouette. He was wary, buying time by answering slowly Yes, and who are you? Even as he said it his instincts were telling him Oh Jesus, wrong answer. I should have said no. Run Kenny he yelled to Kenny who was halfway up the sidewalk when the stranger pulled and leveled a gun. Ken froze. Vince’s worst fear was confirmed when he heard the stranger say I have a message for you from Steve Kandler.

Vince had been a trouble shooter for the last few years, an investigator with good instincts, having removed himself from many a close jam when he got too close to his quarry. Now he had two lives in the balance. A quick surge of adrenaline; he rushed his opponent, yelling to distract him, swinging the bag with two half gallon ice cream cartons inside in an underhanded arc. As he let loose it was now a formidable projectile producing a mixture of dull thud and crinkling paper as it smashed into a face Vince could hardly see. It knocked the stranger off balance and deflected the gun shot; not quick enough; Vince felt a burning pain in his stomach. He staggered as he kept a determined advance. A second shot-to where he couldn’t tell-another wave of pain. Vince’s punch to the solar plexus was enough to cause his assailant to drop the gun. Wounded as he was he could see only one alternative. Vince’s hands went to his head. With a firm grasp, he twisted sharply and heard the snap of the neck bone. His attacker dropped to the driveway.

The scene around Vince swirled as he staggered. He reached out to lean on his car, unsuccessful as he fell backward into the grass. Kenny was approaching him, yelling for help. He heard concerned voices coming from the direction of the house, but they sounded like they were moving away from him-he was losing consciousness. In less than a minute he had drifted away, not sure of where-only aware he was surrounded by ominous darkness.

Where am I? Vince was asking himself, his silent question contrasting the rush of sound like a freight train coming at him in the pitch black, not even announcing its incoming direction. He was close to panic, gliding swiftly through darkness, looking for light-a way out in a desperate search. He was groping like a blind man in a strange place, hoping the next thing he ran into or touched would tell him where he was. A voice; Yvonne was trying to pierce the shroud of darkness surrounding him, in distress herself, knowing they would escape the darkness if they could find each other. Just her voice had him struggling for consciousness.

*     *     *

He was gaining consciousness. Where was he? What was happening? Why was he hearing muffled voices without being able to see anyone? A jump registered on the blood pressure monitoring device attached to him, the beeps growing louder and closer together.

Urgent calls for a doctor echoed in the hall from the PA system. His attempts to break through the confusion were met with pleas for him to relax. He heard her voice much closer now-it was Yvonne, a very upset Yvonne. She had hold of his hand as she had before, but now he could feel the tug as if she were pulling away, her grasp tightening. His brother Santo had his hands to her shoulders, trying to gently pull her away; Let the doctor do his work. Santo admonished, said more in compassion than mandate. Yvonne turned and threw her arms around Santo’s neck, crying; Santo, why now? Just when we’re breaking into the clear.

Santo knew exactly what she was saying; he had watched the drama; a powerful once-in-a-lifetime romance turning sour, a painful separation, growing apart for what they thought was good reason, then watching them repair the mistake, needing the separation to know that there was no one else they’d rather be with. They had lived together and then married. Her early pregnancy, once a point of contention during their courtship as to when to start a family, had been settled to the delight of both parents.

Santo was guiding Yvonne out of the room. He looked at Yvonne, tired and weak, in one of those rare occasions when she didn’t have command of herself let alone the situation. Vince had actually shown the first positive sign that he had plenty of fight left. Yvonne had interpreted it as some kind of farewell death throe. He’s fighting to come awake. Santo assured her. That’s a good sign. He wanted to believe it himself, even as he felt the cold chill to acknowledge that he too feared it might not be true. Vince’s struggle for lucidity would be short-lived. He didn’t feel pain this time-only the onset of darkness.

Then in a flash both the light and his consciousness came to startling life. The pitch black was now a brilliant white panorama. To his right he saw a theater-like screen. The screen itself was innocuous but he became alarmed when his desire to view it closer resulted in a physical force trying to draw him into the scene on the screen. The picture on the screen was of the room where he lay. Everything was crystal clear, detail so discernable that 20/20 vision couldn’t account for it. No! It went beyond. His focus was augmented with telescopic power, drawing the size of an object large enough to absorb all the detail he wanted. His hearing had transformed; he could adjust volume by thinking about it. He could also add or subtract color as if he was equipped with the ability to modify contrast and brightness. He was totally absorbed in examining each and every object in the room in minute detail. When he focused on the bed he saw his wife and an aide close by his motionless body in the bed.

He was still playing with his enhanced powers when something else captured his attention. Another image was forming to the left of the screen. In slow motion, the detail filled in. It was a girl, a young girl-maybe eighteen. The red clothing was taking shape on her torso, followed by the forming outline of the most beautiful skin and jet black hair he had ever seen.

He watched as the dress she was wearing transformed away from a plain and uninspired old fashioned pinafore style, complete with what he had falsely called epaulets at the shoulder; into a form fitting sheath type bodice augmented by wide straps crossing her shoulders, dated by a 1950’s look. Brass buttons strategically placed were offset by the red-now deep maroon-color of the dress. The skirt billowed out to accentuate her femininity. The dress morphed from plain to thicker and warmer cloth. Contrasted by a fluffy white blouse, it turned her torso into a striking and attractive vision.

Her ivory complexion carried a rosy tint in her cheeks bursting out of the forming picture. Her face was in transition from a wavering mirage to an angelic roundness with large dark brown eyes that drew his attention. The jet black hair worn at shoulder length would capture his attention, but his focus was repeatedly redirected back to mesmerizing eyes. The vision was completed with red shoes and white socks, the socks bobbed, turned down to reflect an era from his youth.

The image was impressive enough, but what caught his attention now was her demeanor; what she projected. There was an overwhelming innocence about her despite a complete embodiment of sexuality. At one time in his life she was only interested in the welfare of her creator: him. And at certain times in his youth she was his only soother and protector, called up at times when he felt least able to sort out the growing powerful feelings as he moved about in the puzzling world of the opposite sex.

Vince was so intent watching the detail that he had temporarily set aside recognition of who and what she was. When satisfied that the last revelation was complete, he asked, What are you doing here? She smiled and said: Then you recognize me? Of course I do! was the reply. But you are a figment of my imagination. You’re not real. You are someone I created years ago. Another smile, this time with even more warmth and compassion Vince found so familiar.

And just where do you think you are now? In my imagination? Vince responded. Can’t be. I can see things so clearly. Right now I’m looking at the white board on the wall. Someone has written January 23, 1977 at the top in green pen. Right below is the name of the nurse on duty, Nora. And below that is . . . . I believe you said the girl, and it proves what? The reply: It proves I’m in some afterlife condition, somewhere between life and death. Or am I dead?

Could be either. But you may have forgotten how you are able to fill in so much with nothing but your imagination. Vince glanced back at the image of the hospital room. It had blurred and voices were muted. Looking back at the image of the young girl, it too was becoming blurred. Her words, almost inaudible when uttered; you must choose quickly.

Split second analysis was nothing new to him. Choose the hospital scene? It might be the only way to stay connected to his life line, whatever that was. Choose the girl? She had formulated in his imagination and he had seen her in cameo appearances in fits and starts-rarely at length-all his life. He sensed he was seriously hurt and perhaps would only be alive for minute or two more so leaving his body seemed to be of little consequence. The hospital scene was drab and morbid, whereas the vision of her was as fresh and new as when he created her. More in reaction than decisiveness he blurted out, I CHOOSE YOU.

The hospital scene disappeared and the girl filled the screen. Now what? he asked. What do you want? Are you taking me somewhere? Again the smile. At one time he couldn’t get enough of her smiles. Now they were irritating, an indication of someone who was clueless and thought everything happens for the best. There was immediate recognition of the thought as she said,

It’s how you created me. And to answer your question, we are going nowhere. You are going by yourself with me to guide the way.

Silence. Then the next question, Why are you here? We have plans for you. Vince brightened; Then I’m not going to die? No. but there is something far more important-how you live from here forward. You have gotten complacent of late. It has dulled you to the real power you had when you dealt with adversity in love and life. This journey will get you back on track. It will have considerable impact on your success years from now. Success at what? he asked. All in good time was the reply. Shall we get started?

He didn’t have a clue as to what should happen next. She came to the rescue. Why not start with when you created me? She had shrunk to human size next to a large blank that stood where the hospital scene had been. His mind moved mechanically back to nine years of age. Why nine and why had it occurred so effortlessly? Images started to dance on the screen. Fascinated, he watched as the images mimicked what he was thinking. He played for a short while, thinking of goofy and absurd things which showed immediately on the screen.

Wow, he said to her, I would have given anything to have a toy like this in childhood-or even last week. It’s no toy she assured him. And the only control you have is to project what already exists in your mind. We should get busy. We haven’t much time. Like a kid who had just been ordered to put away his favorite toy, he assumed a you’re right demeanor and settled down to focus.

Wait! let me check on Yvonne." He focused on the hospital room, waiting for her image to appear. It didn’t.

You can’t go there now and you can’t help her anyway.

Before he could object his mind had been drawn into the scene on the screen. In an instant he was nine years old again, hearing and feeling the sights and sounds that he had all but forgotten. He was on a softball field on a Saturday morning. He scanned the small crowd watching the game in progress. His scan halted when he came to a young girl-his age-standing by his neighbor friend Howard. Who is that? he thought I’ve never seen her at school. Barely at the age to take notice of any girl, he stood transfixed. Straight black hair stopping inches short of her shoulders, a round seemingly angelic face. And those eyes; he couldn’t discern color but they were wide, dark and beautiful even at distance, seemingly too large for the rest of her features. And they were staring at him as she smiled. His friend Will had to shake him to get his attention; You’re at bat, Vincey. Vince had to ask Who is that? I don’t know.’ Will responded. She’s some relation to Howard. She’s visiting from out of town. Don’t even know her name."

He was still looking her way as he stood in the batter’s box. Now the nascent testosterone took over. In an attempt to show off, he decided he was going to hit this ball further than he ever had. He swung so hard at the first pitch that the bat flew out of his hand toward the pitcher’s mound. Serious comments from the infield about possible injury were loud and unkind. The girl he was trying to impress looked away, not as a result of the clumsy swing; she was more disturbed by the ridiculing laughter of the boys around her. Second pitch; now embarrassed and judgment impaired, he swung at a pitch out of his reach. This time there were louder laughs. The next pitch was right on target but he was in no mental state to take advantage of it. A clumsy swing had him missing widely and moving back to the bench to taunts and I-told-you-so’s.

The girl he was trying to impress, now animated, was tugging hard on her Cousin Howard’s arm; she wanted to leave. She looked Vince’s way, somehow trying to convey a feeling of compassion for what had to be humiliating. Vince was too embarrassed to look her way. But as she left the field, the young girl turned around to look at him. As their eyes connected Vince sensed compassion coming from her that felt as if it was closing the distance between them. It was a look as if to say that she wanted to walk over to talk-to comfort him. That was not possible without embarrassing both of them. She moved out of sight.

He was not a ball player of any consequence. He would develop later in his teens, but right now he was younger and less experienced than the other players; he would be next to last to be picked when the boys chose sides. Certainly he could have chosen a better way to gain her attention. But he had no alternative. He was at a loss for words any time he was around any girl let alone one he wanted to impress. He was intelligent and could be entertaining at times, but it seemed to work against him in social situations. He was labeled a geek and worse—felt like one.

A morose young man spent the evening thinking of how it could have been different. It always came out the same. He realized he had put himself in a situation where he had no chance to succeed. Thinking about the girl, he marveled at the warmth she had projected. Now he was imagining her conveying her compassion in an extended conversation. Playing the imaginary conversation over and over in his head brought him the only comfort since the last awkward swing. The pinafore girl was born, although there was no pinafore dress yet and she was nine years old.

Vince had to stop the screen to talk to the pinafore girl. God I forgot how impressed I was with her. I didn’t have the courage to look her up right away and when I did she had gone back to the Midwest. Vince came to sudden attention as he thought Black hair, beautiful eyes, from the Midwest? That wasn’t Yvonne was it? Even as he asked, a picture of Yvonne in her early twenties flashed on the screen.

No that wasn’t Yvonne. And you can’t flash forward like that without losing continuity.

Well it sure looked like she would have looked at her age-and she looks like you too Miss Pinafore Girl. There has to be a connection.

You are the connection. You liked her and designed me from your impressions of her. You were drawn to Yvonne because of the little girl and me.

But where did the pinafore dress come from? And she was cute as all get-out but no sex symbol like you or Yvonne.

The pinafore girl didn’t answer; instead she started the screen moving again. Vince watched as scenes shifted in fast-forward to his father’s gas station that had been sold years ago. He focused on the garage interior. When there was nothing more to reveal Vince wondered why the pinafore girl had picked this seemingly inconsequential scene. Then his eyes moved to the door that separated the gas station from the garage area. Hanging to the left of the door was a calendar. Unlike the walls around it, the calendar had an unspoiled freshness. His first glance noted the date, August 1955. Then his eyes settled on the large picture on the calendar.

A girl. She was holding a beverage and smiling out at everyone. Wow, Vince thought It’s as if she’s looking directly at me. Jet black hair, perfect complexion-ivory skin augmented in the right places by a rosy freshness. The girl conveyed a mixture of health, beauty and interest in the observer. She was dressed in a bright red pinafore and flowery blouse. Consistent with the pin ups of the time, she was well endowed, curving in all the right places.

After just a few visits to the station, the girl in the red pinafore was complete in his imagination.

2

With fast forward and kaleidoscopic visions of significant events, he was now sixteen years old. The intermittent images showed the pinafore girl advancing two years ahead of him; her progression to maturity would stop when she reached eighteen, fully developed physically with an aura close to sainthood.

Vince had been concentrating on the screen, reliving each scene as if he were seeing it for the first time. His screen counterpart couldn’t even think of the pinafore girl during his first serious sexual encounter. It hadn’t been full sex, but enough happened during heavy petting to experience the intensity of sexual release. The girl in the red pinafore was there that night in a dream with one question: Is this what you want? His silent response; Yes, it’s what I want. But idealism hadn’t escaped him. He was reminded when the pinafore girl he was seeing right now looked away from the screen during one of the intense petting sessions displayed.

At eighteen he was smitten by a high school senior. His new steady date