Easier Said Than Done

By TJ Anthony

It’s the summer of 1981. Soon, we will celebrate Princess Diana’s royal wedding, and MTV will launch us into a new music era. However, those events will be mere footnotes in a story that is brewing in a small town in southern Illinois. Laura Hall and Blake Roberts will experience a connection that will turn their worlds upside down.
Laura is a recent high school graduate who desires more. Internally, she is juggling peer acceptance, Christian values, her mother’s incessant guidance, and stifling loneliness. Blake’s interest provides an opportunity to change her life’s direction. In order to open her heart to love, Laura will need to unleash her dreams, confront her insecurities, and accept an imperfect attraction.
Blake is a college student with a promising future. He is earning a degree at a fine university, plans to get engaged to his high school sweetheart, and is returning to competitive athletics. He is unprepared for the turmoil that an unforeseen relationship will bring during his summer break. Blake’s path to new love will challenge his maturity, past choices, and the authenticity of his feelings.
With both Laura and Blake narrating this roller coaster romance, you have the front row seat on a ride that pits peace, courage, and allegiance against chaos, cowardice, and infidelity. It’s a race against the clock as Laura’s Motown innocence collides with Blake’s rock ’n’ roll recklessness. Their journey will challenge your definition of love and expose the gap between wants and needs. In the end, you will agree that falling in love is easier said than done.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jul 21, 2020
• ISBN: 9781663201041

TJ Anthony

TJ Anthony was raised in a small town when families were large, a bicycle and rabbit’s foot were childhood necessities, and everyone attended church in their Sunday best. Back then, TV programs were wholesome (on all 5 channels), FM radio was the rave, and the internet and smart phones did not exist. Without all the distractions, it was easier to cultivate personal relationships. He was fortunate to fall in love and have his heart broken a few times as he grew into an adult. With each failure, TJ Anthony learned more about love and relationships. He discovered that no two people define love the same way and that one’s sweetheart’s ability to fit one’s definition ultimately determines whether the romance will survive. "Easier Said Than Done" was written for his children in hopes that they would realize that love is more than just a means of fending off loneliness. True love is personal, complex, and one of life’s greatest experiences. He prays that when his children stumble upon that special someone, they have the good fortune and fortitude to capture their love.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1: HAIL MARY

Laura

Friday, June 12, 1981, 10:07 p.m.

D espite graduating from high school last month, I once again find myself speeding along a narrow roadway in rural Illinois on a Friday night. Knee-high corn borders both sides of the road against the backdrop of a moonlit sky. This could be romantic except that we’re all drinking cheap beer, mind-numbing rock ’n’ roll is blaring from the radio, and our chariot is an old Plymouth Valiant. I promised myself I wasn’t going to party like this again, yet here I am.

Jill and I are double-dating. More accurately, Jill is with her boyfriend, Frank, and I’m babysitting one of his friends in the back seat. Jill still isn’t allowed to date alone, and her mom only trusts me to keep her out of trouble. So, as usual, I’m stuck with whoever Jill or Frank have dredged up for me.

For the last couple weekends, I’ve been paired with Allan Durst. He is barely tolerable for a guy buying beer and an occasional burger and fries. Like most guys I’ve dated from Claybell High School, he’s crude and single-minded and dresses poorly. In that respect, I guess he’s average; however, I’m tired of average. I want more.

The hard rock has Frank behaving like a macho, macho man tonight. He’s gunning the engine and squealing wheels in sync with the music as if he’s part of the band. It doesn’t help that Jill encourages Frank’s childish behavior with her giggles. I’m not sure if she’s fearless or dim. Since she’s my best friend, I’m giving her the benefit of the doubt.

Given the way Frank is driving, he’s likely to get us busted for speeding and underage drinking. Either offense would thrill my mother. If we manage to avoid arrest, we will eventually make it to a county fair.

Allan grabs a beer from the carton at his feet and asks if I would like another. I sigh and shake my head at his transparency. He’s been pawing my thighs and waist all evening. When he’s not petting me, he’s fiddling with my bra strap through the back of my blouse. I guess he thinks he’ll magically incite desire, in place of annoyance, if he unhooks the clasp. I’m not sure what his hurry is anyway. I barely have a handful.

Allan moves the unopened can closer to me so that I can push it away. Give me a break! I’ve still got half to go on this one.

To make matters worse, Allan is obsessing over me. It’s gotten so bad that I’ve got my mom screening his phone calls. He’s not entirely to blame for his heightened interest though. I made the mistake of making out with him last weekend. Although I blamed alcohol for the incident, I’m beginning to think it was desperation. I’m desperate for a real relationship. I’m desperate for there to be something more in my life than just my image staring back at me in the mirror. Allan isn’t the answer though. He’s part of the problem.

Undeterred by my subtle hints, Allan snakes a hand around my waist and pulls me close. I push his hand away with my elbow, yet he continues his clutch. Frank makes a sharp left turn, which presses Allan against me more tightly. As we mash, the moron takes the opportunity to cup my left breast.

I squirm more forcefully to dislodge his hold. Unfortunately, my movements don’t discourage his advances. In disgust, I gulp the rest of my beer, crush the can in my hand, and let out my objection. Allan, get your damn hands off me! If you haven’t figured it out, I don’t consider you a boyfriend. I’m only dating you as a favor to Jill. Now back off and give me some room!

My tone provokes a sharp look from Jill in the front seat. Unsure of what was said—yet cognizant of my attitude—Jill speaks loudly over the music. Hey, guys, be cool. We’ll be in O’Fallon playing games in less than fifteen minutes.

Allan recoils from my objection. While he pouts, I take the opportunity to pull a cigarette from my purse and light up. I take a long, refreshing drag as I enjoy my newly acquired elbow room. It’s liberating; however, I can’t help but steal a glance to see what harm I’ve inflicted. Allan’s expression is a mixture of hurt and confusion. I momentarily pity him before I chase that misdirected guilt away with two more puffs.

Realizing that Allan’s stupor will throw a damper on everyone’s evening, I attempt to break his funk by meeting his eyes and offering a curt apology. I expect Allan to return a polite smile. Instead, he posts the undignified look of a whipped puppy. Thank God I didn’t mention that he was a lousy kisser.

As I consider my next move, Allan’s face takes ill. His right hand works slowly toward the window crank while his eyes trace the window frame nervously. After analyzing his movements, I call out to Frank, Slow down. I think Allan is going to be sick!

Frank responds by letting off the gas pedal. Coincident with the deceleration, time begins to warp. Allan’s movements slow, and my cigarette smoke freezes in the air in front of me. Images outside his window advance like a grade school slide presentation. While I try to comprehend this visual aberration, Allan grabs the door handle and hurls himself out the door.

Oh crap! The noise from the open door validates an image I have trouble believing.

Persecuting words accompany Jill’s petrified face as she realizes that I am sitting alone. What the hell did you do now?

As soon as the vehicle skids to a halt, Jill and I jump out and race toward the earthen ditch where Allan has landed. Farm dogs bark furiously in the distance as we scramble into the darkness. The extent of Allan’s injuries and the angry animals are the least of my fears though. I wonder how we will explain this to the police, what I will tell my mom, and whether everyone will blame me.

As we close in on the body, Frank throws his car into reverse and accelerates backward. When he arrives at the impact point, his backup lights illuminate fresh wounds across Allan’s arms and forehead. His jeans are torn at the knees, while a soiled stocking peers at us from a pant leg.

Incredibly, Allan lifts himself onto his hands and knees and begins to crawl toward the road. He is like a prize fighter scrambling to recover before the count of ten. Although he might make it, it will be a miracle if he isn’t seriously injured. Before we can assess his condition, Allan coughs deeply and loses his cookies on the roadway.

With a puddle of puke in front of him, he begins to groan for my forgiveness as if his deed was a premeditated show. Although I’m relieved that he is alive, this carnival sideshow leaves me tongue-tied.

Sounding like Rocky Balboa, Allan humiliates himself further with a profession of love.

I can’t believe this loser thinks his suicide attempt will make him more appealing. First and foremost, I’m not going to shoulder the blame for this lunacy. Second, his profession of love is a well-worn Hail Mary play. It means nothing to me. Instead of sympathy, his words incite anger. My response comes instinctively. Not a chance, retard! You need to get a life. One without me!

I step back and allow Frank and Jill to assist the fool to his feet. They brush the dirt and gravel from his back and examine the wounds at his knees and elbows. Although some of his cuts ooze blood, amazingly, no bones protrude. The bump on Allan’s forehead and his slurring speech are troublesome though.

Allan barely makes it through the passenger side door before he falls awkwardly onto the front seat. Frank turns to me and suggests what I fear. I’m betting he has a concussion. We should take him to an emergency room.

I reluctantly nod and hop into the back seat, where I’m met with Jill’s admonishing stare.

Although potential alibis race through my mind, I know it’ll be impossible to disguise what has transpired. The cops will blame the beer. My mother will blame my company. And my Savior will chalk this up as another example of my general disregard for others’ feelings.

Unfortunately, this is not a dream. This is my life.

CHAPTER 2: KING OF THE HILL

Blake

Saturday, June 13, 8:10 a.m.

G reen Hill is not a mountain; however, few would attempt to walk up it, let alone try to pedal up its ridiculously steep incline. When I first started bicycle racing four years ago, this hill was symbolic. Each time I scaled it, the feat was a declaration that I was a serious male cyclist.

Just the sight of this hill gives me cause to rethink my route today. I can skip the left turn ahead and continue riding south on Highway 126 through the village of Mapleton. There are plenty of other ways to get to the farm roads surrounding O’Fallon that don’t involve a heroic effort. However, if I am ever going to seriously compete again, I need to ramp up my efforts.

I check the traffic behind me, give a hand signal to the left, and drift to the center of the roadway. I shift to my lowest gear, note the second hand on my watch, and make the abrupt left turn into the steep incline. With each pedal stroke, I build momentum.

He wants to dream like a young man,

With the wisdom of an old man.

He wants his home and security.

He wants to live like a sailor at sea.¹

When I’m struggling up a steep hill like this, Bob Seger’s Beautiful Loser comes to my lips. The rhythm of the song matches the cadence I can stomp when I’m standing on the pedals. Rhythm and concentration are the keys to conquering these climbs. If you breathe too rapidly, you’ll get that crippling pain in your side that we’ve all had when running a long distance. My secret to avoiding the cramp is to take long, slow, deep breaths. Eventually, song verses replace my audible exhales. On hills, it’s Beautiful Loser. On long, flat stretches, when I’m pushing a big gear, Seger’s Travelin’ Man usually sneaks in.

As I reach the summit, the watch mounted on my handlebars validates my gains in fitness. My aggressive training over the past couple of months is paying off.

This morning, I’m traversing my favorite training route. It takes me from my hometown of Claybell to the footsteps of Green Hill in Mapleton. Following the steep climb, I’ll wind my way through tree-lined roads toward the farmland around O’Fallon. After a trek through the countryside, I’ll return home via the rolling hills south of Claybell. The twenty-five-mile route takes me roughly seventy-five minutes to complete. When I’m in top form, I can average better than twenty-one miles per hour on this circuit. Lately, I’ve been averaging twenty.

Although it’s premature for me to compete in races this summer, my goal is to be prepared to race on campus this fall. It’s only a fantasy if I don’t hit the roads every morning. Racing demands hard work, perseverance, and pain. There is no substitute for those ingredients. You have to put in the miles every day, and they can’t be joyrides.

Despite the rigors, I genuinely enjoy cycling. It gives me the peaceful escape I need to gather my thoughts. Although some might find these lightly trafficked rural roads boring, there is variability and intrigue if you look. I often wonder what stories these roads would tell if they could talk. On weekends, they get littered with beer cans from teenagers offloading their evidence. Then, before Monday afternoon, a Good Samaritan picks up all their cans. I suspect that he or she is collecting aluminum for cash; however, only the road knows for sure.

Some days the litter is more interesting than others. I’ve ridden by hats, socks, and red, lacy panties. It’s anyone’s guess why they end up in the ditches; however, I have my favorite theories. Up ahead, there is a lone tennis shoe lying on the shoulder. I’m sure someone got home last night and missed that.

These rides provide more than mysteries to ponder. I’ve written essays in my head, solved math problems, and devised practical jokes on these roads. Today my focus is my impending marriage proposal to Megan. If events unfold as planned, it’s just a week away.

Although I’m excited about our future together, I am a little apprehensive. It’s not that I don’t believe in marriage. It’s just that my courtship with Megan has had its share of downers. I’m convinced, though, that those events don’t really matter today. As Shakespeare wrote four centuries ago, The course of true love never did run smooth.² I shouldn’t expect anything different in 1981. The most important thing is that we always find a way back into each other’s arms.

Our marriage will be more than just the bonding of hearts. For me, this marriage will be admission into a close-knit family. And that’s a premium. I understand that love or infatuation or whatever you want to call it can last only so long. One person cannot make your life complete. The key to happiness is a tight and supportive family like Megan’s.

Despite my trepidations, I know that everything will work out. It always does. My life has been charmed that way. As long as I do what is right, things seem to fall into place. It’s part of my faith that God takes care of those who try to follow an honest path.

Marrying Megan is one of those proper paths. One should marry the girl he is intimate with. Admittedly, my Catholic catechism taught me that you marry the girl first. However, I’m doing the smart thing. With the odds of divorce at 50 percent nowadays, you must make sure you’re compatible in all the key areas. Through this marriage, I will make Megan an honest girl and make God and family proud.

I’m on the flats now and have a nice tailwind. It’s time to put the chain on the big ring and drive hard. I can best twenty miles per hour if I hoof it.

Women have come, women have gone,

Everyone trying to cage me.

Some were so sweet I barely got free,

Others they only raged me.³

CHAPTER 3: NEW LIFE

Laura

Saturday, June 13, 10:06 a.m.

"G ive me a break, Jill. I can’t help it that he had a death wish. I shake my head in disbelief, thinking about last night’s events. Did he really think I’d fall in love with him if he jumped out of a moving car? He’s a psycho!"

A smile breaks across Jill’s face. Nonetheless, she scolds me, You could have let him down a little easier. He nearly killed himself!

Since our conversation is getting more incriminating, I step off the concrete stoop outside the front door of my house and walk Jill toward her car. Using more discretion in my voice, I continue, Man, all I did was point out that our relationship was not romantic.

For you.

That’s what matters to me, I reply sarcastically.

Since when did you start getting so vocal?

When he started feeling me up! I’ve had enough of guys playing touchy-feely with me. It’s about time I stood up for myself.

Jill nods her approval to my words.

And while we’re at it, Jill, it’s time you got a new patsy. You’re using me so you can fool around with Frank. It’s reached a point where it’s demeaning.

Hey, soon I’ll turn eighteen, and I won’t need—Jill interrupts herself in order to soften the blow of her words—you to chaperone. Until then, you can always find a better date. Lots of guys want to date you.

Jill is partially right. Even though I don’t have all the physical assets that she has, most guys find me attractive. Regrettably, I have never been able to catch the eye of those I’m interested in. Ever!

I voice my displeasure. The ones asking me out are usually morons. All they want to do is neck and feel me up. Raising my hands from my sides, I deliberately cup my breasts to emphasize my point. Is that all dating is about?

Just about, Jill declares. Her face tightens the way it always does right before she admonishes me. Chill out, would you? We’re just hanging out, drinking a few beers, and having some laughs. Why do you have to take everything so seriously? You are so like your mother. Relax and enjoy life for a change.

Jill is probably right. I sigh audibly to acknowledge her wisdom.

Jill says, Why don’t we hang out in front of Kiel Auditorium tonight and see if we can pick up a couple of free concert tickets?

I told you I wasn’t going to do that anymore. It makes me feel like a whore. Mimicking our sales pitch, I place one hand on my hip while my other one makes small circles above my head. I ask, Hey, guys, got any free tickets? Now using a low and crude voice, I imitate a typical response, Sure, baby, if you show me a good time.

Jill stops my act by showing me her palm. Admit it. Eventually, a couple cute guys pony up. We sit with them a while, drink their beers, see a good band, and then vanish. What’s not to like?

Man, you’ve got to be kidding. High school is over. We need to grow up and meet some mature guys.

I let that thought sink in for a moment before I lower the boom. Anyway, Mom’s been pestering me to get a job this summer.

Laura, last time you did that, I sat at home most of the summer. Don’t do that to me again. You just need to relax. Jill smiles broadly. You’re upset because you nearly killed someone last night.

Fearing that this conversation isn’t going to end anytime soon, I point out, I’ve got to pick up my little brother from football practice. We’ll have to continue this later. Give me a call after one o’clock. Now using my own hand signals, I raise my index finger to her. And if Mom or Jennifer answers, don’t say a word about our emergency room visit. Mom already senses that something happened last night, and I don’t need her hassles.

CHAPTER 4: HOT WHEELS

Blake

Saturday, June 13, 1:18 p.m.

A fter returning from my morning ride, I got a call from Megan’s father. It’s unusual for Lou to call me from work, and it initially sent fear through my veins. I had planned to talk with him soon but not for his stated purpose. Given the unique opportunity he posed, I eagerly accepted his invitation to visit him at Wheaton Oldsmobile.

Wheaton Olds is located roughly fifteen miles from my home. To get to Lou’s place of employment, I would normally ride my bike. Fortuitously, my brother, Devin, was headed to Wheaton and gave me a lift. Although I’m on my own to get home, having attended nearby St. Anthony’s Catholic High School, I know that I can get back to Claybell by bus, thumb, or foot if need be.

Wheaton Old’s property consists of a showroom and a detached service garage planted in a field of new Oldsmobiles. From the roadway, the sprawling, single-story, glass showroom looks like an island floating in a sea of shiny, American beauties. I weave my way through the montage of shiny chrome and color en route to the showroom’s entrance.

As Lou mentioned, an older, two-door Cutlass is parked in his usual parking spot under a large oak tree. Before I can reach the shade, Lou walks outside to greet me. He points toward the gold-colored Cutlass and dives into his sales pitch. This is it. It’s a ’72 Cutlass with only sixty-one thousand miles. The Service Department tells me it’s mechanically sound and the tires look pretty good. It’s a little rough in the interior; however, she has plenty of ride left in her. For five hundred bucks, you can’t go wrong.

Without hesitation, Lou walks to the front of the vehicle, reaches under the front bumper, and pops the hood open. I approach and cautiously peer inside.

Lou, this is sweet! A ’72 Cutlass with a Rocket 350. Unbelievable! Two- or four- barrel?

I don’t know. Take off the air filter and let’s have a look.

I reach over to twist the wingnut off the circular filter cover and ask, Where did you come up with this?

This came in on a trade for a new Delta last night. The gal had obviously come into some money, so I didn’t have to give her much for it. I immediately exercised my right to purchase it at trade-in value. I had you in mind.

After examining the air intake, I report that the two-barrel carburetor should help the gas mileage. I return the filter cover, close the hood, and examine the rest of the car carefully. I suppose it looks like I’m setting up a difficult billiards shot. Internally, though, I’m overwhelmed.

Taking the next prompt from Lou, I open the driver’s door and sit down on the split bench seat. I place my hands on the steering wheel and wrap my fingers around it. It feels wonderful. It feels right.

Lou steps toward the driver’s door and hands me two worn General Motors keys. Take it for a ride and see what you think. In fact, why don’t you drive over and show Megan? She’s at home. I just spoke with her.

I insert the rectangular key in the ignition and turn it clockwise. The car roars to life. It has that hollow rumble that only a Rocket 350 engine can produce. It’s music to my ears. Devin will approve, and Megan will be pleased. The days of her ferrying me around will soon be over. I have my first wheels! I have real freedom now! This is going to be a great summer.

CHAPTER 5: LOVE DON’T COME EASY

Laura

Sunday, June 14, 7:15 a.m.

A n old Supremes’ hit is playing from the clock radio next to my bed. The beat is uplifting, yet the words make me sad.

I need love, love,

To ease my mind.

I need to find, find,

Someone to call mine. ⁴

I get out of bed and find the bathroom empty. I can smell the scent of Jennifer’s shampoo in the humid morning air. She is ahead of schedule this morning in our race for nine o’clock church services. This is fortunate because I need her shoulder to lean on prior to services. I head to the kitchen to find her.

Jennifer and I live in a small, single-story house with our younger brother and parents on Red Rose Lane in the city of Claybell. Claybell is a small town in southern Illinois that was settled by Italian and German coal miners in the late 1800s. While the town has undergone many transformations since its inception, it is basically a bedroom community for nearby St. Louis today.

Our modest house is located on the northern edge of town. The full-grown trees that line our simple tar and chip street reflect the maturity of our quiet neighborhood. Most of the surrounding homes are plain, three-bedroom rectangles with a single attached garage. Almost all the homes in our subdivision have flower gardens reflecting the floral names of the surrounding streets.

Although our dwelling is not modernly furnished, it is well furnished. The bedroom that Jennifer and I share is cramped with two twin beds, a nightstand, and a generous makeup dresser. Our parents and brother, Jimmy, occupy the other two bedrooms. Luckily, the home has two full bathrooms. Jennifer and I share the smaller of the two.

From the bedrooms, a short hallway leads into a large living room containing a La-Z-Boy, a sizable upholstered sofa, a coffee table, and a console stereo/TV. The wide coffee table greets you with an assortment of magazines. It invites you to sit and read for a spell. Mom likes it that way.

The living room connects directly to the kitchen. This gives our home a casual appearance. Adding to the informal atmosphere, Mom uses the living room to sew and fold clothes.

Jennifer is two years older than me. She graduated from Claybell High in 1979 and is now well on her way to an economics degree. I just graduated from Claybell and am considering a secretarial career.

Even though Jennifer and I are both blessed with similar intelligence and looks, our approaches to life are polar opposites. Jennifer is assertive and self-driven, while I’m guarded and shy. Whereas Jennifer is a born leader and knows what she wants, I prefer to follow the crowd and take what comes my way. Of course, Jennifer’s style has its advantages. She has always had a steady boyfriend, whereas I’ve had difficulty dealing with guys.

I enter the kitchen and find Jennifer finishing her toast. As I pour a glass of orange juice, Jennifer signals that she is headed back to the bedroom to finish dressing. I grab an English muffin and follow.

I perch myself on the edge of my unmade bed as Jennifer sits at the dresser fixing her hair. I question her directly. Jenn, how did you get so lucky to find a guy like Joe?

Actually, he found me, Jennifer reminisces, when I got my senior pictures taken. He was the photographer’s assistant. When I picked up my proofs, he asked me out. Jennifer pauses to think over the courtship in her mind. Her brow furrows under her blonde bangs, and her salmon lips purse for a moment before she smiles and exhales. Hmmm. Eventually, everything fell into place.

Jenn asks, Why do you ask? Are you having guy trouble?

Trouble finding a decent guy. More accurately, trouble finding a guy who interests me. Do you realize that I made it all the way through high school without a real boyfriend?

Jennifer brushes her long hair as she speaks kindly. I think that love finds you. The harder you look, the more likely you are to miss it.

I’m not talking about love necessarily. I’d be happy with just a meaningful relationship. One where a guy is interested in what you like to do in your spare time and can look into your eyes for more than a second.

After a few moments of silence, Jennifer asks, What about this Allan guy who calls twice a day?

You mean who used to call. He jumped out of the car when I broke up with him on Friday. While it was still moving!

Jennifer’s innocent face puckers with concern. Did he get hurt?

Not really. However, it made me realize that I just can’t be dating guys for the sake of dating them. Eventually, someone is going to get seriously injured. I smile.

How bad was it?

Miraculously, the loser survived the tumble. I’m not sure I’m going to though. I have no future. If I close my eyes and imagine where I’ll be in five years, it’s here! Living in Claybell. Sleeping in this room.

That’s not a fair assessment. You’re going to college. Jennifer continues sympathetically, You’ll meet a guy. As smart as you are, you’ll meet a great guy. Don’t be such a pessimist.

I’m going to Hickey to become a secretary. That’s not college. I won’t meet any guys there. I’m going to live under Mom’s thumb for the rest of my life.

Now just stop it. You’ll do just fine. Be glad that you’re smart enough to sort out losers like this Allan guy.

Waiting for my weak but reassuring smile to return, Jennifer asks whether Allan actually jumped out of a moving car.

I sigh and start filling Jennifer in on Friday night’s sordid details. This will eventually lead me to revisit my feelings of emptiness and my desire to find someone who truly cares about me. I’m afraid I already know what Jennifer will advise. She’ll encourage me to be patient, to pray, and to not hurry love.

CHAPTER 6: SLUMBER PARTY

Blake

Sunday, June 14, 2:30 a.m.

A hand grabs my shoulder and gives it a shake.

A familiar voice inquires, Blake, are you all right? Wake up.

I sit up and look around my dark surroundings. I’m sitting on a thick Zoysia turf near a chest-high hedge. The voice is that of my brother Devin. His Riviera rumbles on the street about twenty-five feet in front of me. I vaguely remember walking home from work, and I distinctly remember having several beers before I left. I reckon I decided to rest on this lawn before walking up the steep hill to home.

Are you okay? Devin reiterates.

I’m just resting.

You’re an idiot. If the cops cruise by, they’ll take you in for underage drinking. Jump in the car and let’s get out of here.

Taking his lead, I stumble to my feet and make my way to the passenger’s side of Devin’s black ’69 Buick Riviera. His Riviera is an awesome machine. It has a black leather interior, a menacing black metallic finish, and a recently overhauled 430-cubic-inch, four-barrel engine. The special five-speed transmission and the Nitro kit feeding the carburetor can turn this beast into a Saturn missile with the flip of a switch.

It probably wasn’t a good idea to crash on the neighbor’s front lawn; however, alcohol is known to impair my judgment. I’m lucky my brother noticed me dozing. I have a big week ahead of me. The last thing I need is a police blotter entry next to my engagement photo in a future addition of the Claybell Herald.

The ride up the hill is short. Devin pulls into our long, wide driveway and parks behind my Cutlass. The driveway flanks our side-entrance garage. To accommodate multiple vehicles, we boys park on the left side, while our parents park on the right of the drive.

I have yet to finalize my car insurance, so my vehicle will sit idle for another day or two. However, it’s emancipating to finally have my own car. In a couple of days, I can drive home intoxicated rather than worry about stumbling home by foot.

Devin and I creep around the back of our brick home and enter through the back door. This is the entrance of choice when it’s late since it’s relatively isolated from our parents’ bedroom. The door opens onto a small landing. Our kitchen is on the right, a half bathroom to the left, and a partially finished basement is straight down the stairs. Devin tiptoes off to the right to make his way to his ground-level bedroom, while I head down to my lair.

I’m comforted that, at this hour, I’m not the last Roberts boy to be getting home. It makes my transgressions seem tolerable. Of course, I don’t know what our parents think. I guess they figure our late-night affairs are out of their control. Nevertheless, if we have awakened the folks, we’ll be sure to hear about it in the morning.

Damn, I mutter. Thoughts of the morning remind me of my church commitment. I descend the stairs and realize that, before I know it, Megan will be showing up to pick me up for morning Mass.

I stagger through the darkness toward glowing red numbers on a pathway I know by heart. Stopping at the clock, I reach to my left and instinctively find the lamp switch on my desktop. With the room now illuminated, I set the alarm and return the clock to the fireplace mantel. In order to shut off the annoying buzz tomorrow morning, I will be forced to traipse ten feet out of bed. That always wakes me up.

Not many college students have the pleasure of a fireplace in their bedroom; however, my bedroom isn’t really a bedroom. It’s half of a basement. Even though my side is finished, it’s wide open with no wall partitions. A freezer, refrigerator, Ping-Pong table, and an old wooden bar share my room. I chose long ago to place my twin bed away from the stairs and near the fireplace. Without central heat feeding the basement, the firebox offers the only hope for warmth when winter sets in.

My bedroom domain is delineated by a large, worn area rug covering the cold tile floor. On it, I have placed a desk, a knockdown wardrobe, a couch, and a twin bed. All the furniture is second-hand. It’s not much, but it was my hideout during high school and is now my home away from college.

The biggest benefit of this arrangement is that it gives me privacy. No one likes to visit the cold, dark, and inconvenient basement. With a bathroom on the laundry room side of the basement and a refrigerator on my side, I essentially have my own apartment and as much or more privacy as any of the other three upstairs bedrooms.

With the alarm clock set and my work clothes shed, I snake between the crisp bedsheets and draw the covers to my neck. I close my eyes and pray that I will have only a mild headache when I wake.

CHAPTER 7: PATIENCE

Laura

Sunday, June 14, 9:17 a.m.

J ack Burnett is our pastor at Pleasant Ridge Baptist Church. In typical fashion this morning, he stands at the pulpit and scans the congregation before he greets us vociferously. Good morning, friends. Praise be the Lord!

Like every Sunday, my family sits in the fourth row to his right. We have sat here as long as I can remember. Mom likes the consistency. I just like sitting at the end of the pew away from my little brother.

Pastor Jack knows Jennifer and me well. We are singers in his choir and regular assistants at church events. He is our minister and confidant. As usual, he greeted the congregation at the front door when we arrived this morning. Not surprisingly, he recognized my funk and offered words of encouragement. He can always read my mood even when I try hard to disguise it. That’s one of his gifts.

Pastor Jack knows about my battles with loneliness. In fact, he probably knows my struggles better than Jennifer. Of course, he’s fond of blaming it all on hormones and restlessness. He says that all teenage girls are the same in that respect. Anything can affect your moods: grades, boyfriends, clothes, or even a bad-hair day. Even though he’s probably right, that doesn’t change anything.

Pastor Jack begins his service⁵ promptly. Today I would like to discuss the gift of patience. To facilitate the discussion, he reads from chapter 5 of the book of James and then dissects the words. "In verse 7, James, the brother of Jesus, speaks about a harvest. The heart of the text recounts how the farmer waits for the fruit of the earth. As the farmer is patient, we also need to be patient for our harvest.

In verse 8, James cautions us to be similarly patient for the coming of the Lord. Patient like the farmer who waits for rain and for his seedlings to grow. However, to truly understand the meaning of this text, one must understand what patience means.

Pastor Jack takes a deep breath, points vaguely to the back of the church, and poses a question. What, my friends, does patience mean to you? He gives us a moment to reflect, then continues, In today’s world, one would surely conclude that patience is bad. Let’s face it; we live in a society where we are told that we don’t have to wait for anything. We are told that there is something wrong with waiting. Right?

His question draws nods among the congregation.

I, on the other hand, would argue that patience is good. It is a positive characteristic for one to possess. It enhances the meaning of everything we desire. It is a wonderful blessing bestowed by the Holy Spirit. If you believe this is true, then say amen with me.

Few in the congregation respond. That annoys our minister. He raises his voice. I’m here to tell you that patience is a gift. That patience is something you should seek and master. Pastor Jack shakes his head slowly from left to right. Being patient does not mean surrendering to things as they are. It does not mean that you must resign yourself to negative circumstances. Patience does not mean that you must hold on to hopelessness until you can no longer tolerate it.

Pastor Jack expounds, James did not tell these folks to hang their heads and gnash their teeth while waiting for the Lord to return. He instructed them to wait as farmers for the fruit of the earth—to use the time to prepare their hearts. Patience implies that you must take action.

Our pastor takes another deep breath as he launches additional arguments to fortify his message. He will proceed like this for at least another twenty minutes. His message is hitting home though. I listen intently.

12:45 p.m.

I take my Bible and journal outside and sit on the weathered wooden swing hanging from the old elm tree in our front yard. The swing is my special spot to think in solitude. Here I can get away from my brother, the noise of the TV, and requests from my mom to assist with chores.

The message of this morning’s sermon seems to coincide with the discussion I had this morning with Jennifer. I need to change the direction of my life; however, that isn’t going to be easy. It will require patience and action. Foremost, it will require time to allow God to work His plan for me.

I write the phrase from the sermon in my journal that inspired this visit to the swing. Don’t give up on things that your heart tells you are worth holding onto. This advice makes sense. I can use it to guide me when I become weak and impatient for change. It will be my mantra for the summer.

Ultimately, if my life is going to change, I must change. Simply hanging around Jill and her friends is not a worthy plan for my future. I know I can do better, and with Jesus’s guiding hand, I will.

After some thought, I scribe three goals for the summer in my journal:

✓ Get a job,

✓ Distance myself from destructive influences, and

✓ Land a decent boyfriend.

These seem like reasonable goals. All three require my action. Any of the three will bring goodness into my life. It is time for me to grow up. As my mom keeps urging, I need to take the bull by the horns and be more assertive in my life. It all starts today.

CHAPTER 8: OPPORTUNIST

Blake

Sunday, June 14, 10:01 a.m.

I woke as planned this morning, took a shower, ate breakfast, and still have a few moments to spare before Megan arrives. I’m using this opportunity to read the Sunday Globe-Democrat at the kitchen table. The news isn’t good. Player negotiations are still stalled. It looks like baseball will be on strike for most of the summer. It’s depressing because the Cardinals had a chance to win it all this year.

Megan drives fifteen miles to Claybell to attend church with me each Sunday. It’s not because she enjoys the drive or attending my church. In fact, even though we are both Catholic, she’s a lot less religious than me. Megan attends Mass with me because it’s laying the foundations for our future.

When Megan and I get hitched it will likely be at my childhood parish in Claybell. However, nothing is easy. Monsignor Griffin at Saint Mark’s Catholic Church in Claybell is old-school. If you want to get married in his church, then he expects to see you in his pews, see you taking the sacraments, and know your face and name. Therefore, it behooves us to show up on Sundays and be visible to him.

Megan has arrived and is in a good mood this morning. Her mood reflects her excitement about the future. She knows that I own an engagement ring, and she anticipates that I will pop the question this summer. In fact, engagement is her favorite topic of conversation lately.

Times weren’t always this happy though. Our relationship collapsed along with her grades during Megan’s brief attendance at Purdue University this past fall. As a result, she did not return for the spring semester. Through February of this year, Megan and I were estranged. Around Valentine’s Day, Megan took action to work her way back into my heart by making opportunistic visits to Purdue.

Despite the scarred egos, we have things back on track. In fact, I would venture to say that our relationship has been unusually smooth for the past few months. Megan has been uncommonly optimistic and upbeat as well as considerate of my work schedule and cycling. She’s been a joy to be around.

Megan asks what we are doing after church.

I hadn’t given it much thought, I reply honestly. Still exhausted from last night’s partying, I prefer to relax.

The weather is going to be nice today. How about taking me to Taco Bell and the park? Maybe—her voice quiets—afterward we could fool around a bit.

With those words, I move us from the kitchen into the den to get away from potential eavesdroppers. Although my mom and sister haven’t returned from nine o’clock Mass, my dad and brother are still around the house.

Ever cognizant of the potential for pregnancy, I cautiously question her suggestion. Isn’t it a dangerous time of the month for that?

Megan’s response is quiet and to the point. I said fool around, not score a home run. Her eyebrows arch, giving her a devilish look before she says, You wouldn’t turn down a little fun, would you?

Well, not if you put it like that.

Who loves you more than me, anyway? You’ve never had it so good. Her hands begin to search my chest explicitly. The touch tantalizes me. I am weak, and she knows it.

I turn from temptation and whisper, Careful. My dad is lurking around.

You’re right. Church first, pleasure later.

CHAPTER 9: CHARADES

Blake

Monday, June 15, 5:15 p.m.

I ’m inching my ’72 Cutlass through a shady trailer park on the western outskirts of Claybell. This park is nestled amongst a stand of trees in the shadow of a monstrous, neon Gas for Less sign just yards from the intersection of Bluff and Lebanon Roads. This trailer park is known to be a gathering place for seasonal Fairmount Racetrack workers and other transients in our small town. My soon-to-be fiancée and I are here to return a favor to a friend. I could pick better places to hang out, but it’s not outside my comfort zone.

I point to an unmarked trailer. This has to be Tiana’s trailer. That’s number thirty-four. There’s thirty-six. This must be thirty-five.

Unsure of the neighborhood, Megan inquires, Do you think it’s safe for her to live here? In fact, is it safe for us to be here?

I confidently explain, "Yeah. We’ll be fine. Tiana’s just living within her means. She’s never had any problems here. Let’s just hope that we start out with better digs. Besides, we owe Tiana. Babysitting Adam for a couple of hours isn’t going to kill us. Afterward, we can catch a late movie. Raiders of the Lost Ark is playing at the Claybell Cine."

I park the car and step up onto the rusted metal stoop attached to the burnt-yellow, single-wide trailer. I rap on the steel framed door. Tiana’s son approaches and peers through the screen at us. He relays our arrival. Mama. Friends are here.

Adam is an inquisitive three-year-old boy. He has dark hair and a dark complexion. He might be part Mexican or Puerto Rican. I can’t decide which. Although rumor has it that Tiana got pregnant with him while she was a stripper in Centerville, I consider that vicious gossip. Of course, it didn’t help that Tiana claimed her Caucasian boyfriend at the time was the father. That story worked until the delivery. Adam’s dark hair and complexion gave her secret away, and his would-be father made a quick exit from their lives.

Adam is a cute kid growing up in an unfair situation. Tiana is trying to put her life back together, and he presents impediments. He complicates her work schedule and scares off decent suitors. Nevertheless, I figure his birth may have been the wake-up call that Tiana needed to change the direction of her life. Sometimes you have to count your blessings no matter how poorly they are packaged.

I know Tiana from Salvatore’s Pizzeria. She was one of the original crew when I started there in 1978. She was and still is the best waitress we have. She can charm customers and work the phones like few others can. Her day job is that of a teller at a savings and loan; however, she works two nights each week at Sal’s to make a little extra bread. Although her future is at the bank, it’s always reassuring to have her with us at the pizza parlor on a Friday or Saturday night when things get hectic.

Providing day care for Adam is an ongoing challenge. Tiana’s mother cares for Adam and can accommodate most of Tiana’s work schedule. However, her mom refuses to take care of Adam when Tiana wants time off to play. Tiana wants to have a real dinner date for a change, so Megan and I agreed to spell her tonight.

Even though Tiana is only a couple years older, the teenagers in the kitchen have always looked to her for advice. Megan and I used her guidance when we thought Megan was pregnant a year ago. Tiana provided emotional support during our scare. She’s been a close friend ever since. Hence, I don’t mind babysitting for her now and then. I enjoy little kids, like Adam, anyway.

Like everyone at Sal’s, Tiana has a theme song. Hers is undoubtedly Jefferson Starships’ Show Yourself. Its lyrics challenge the United States to do better. I can’t begin to count the number of times I’ve seen her sing that song in front of the jukebox. It means more to her than a chance to mimic Grace Slick’s vocal range. She finds inspiration in the lyrics.

Although Tiana has honest work now, I still fear that she can’t outrun her past. As we step into her home, I am ashamed to see her sitting on the lap of Clyde Maki at the kitchen table. Tiana’s arms are wrapped around his neck as she is whispering something sultry into his ear. She’s working Clyde for something, and he’s taking her bait—hook, line, and sinker. Regrettably, I know that Clyde is a doper. Tiana can do better and knows better than to associate with him. I can only surmise that her tease has to do with drugs.

On the outside, I’m smiling and greeting Tiana and Clyde as friends, while on the inside I’m shaking my head in disgust. What Tiana needs is a real man who appreciates and nurtures the wonderful person she truly is. Instead, she gravitates to those who exploit the wildness within her. Until she tames that beast, she will never be able to craft a decent life for Adam and herself.

CHAPTER 10: THE GAME OF LIFE

Blake

Tuesday, June 16, 2:00 p.m.

I pull into Wheaton Oldsmobile’s parking lot and park near Lou’s demonstrator. A young salesman looks my way through the showroom glass as if to take dibs on a new customer. Unbeknownst to him, I’m not here to buy a new car. Rather, I’m here to exercise an age-old tradition with Lou.

I’ve chosen Lou’s place of work because it’s nearly impossible to get him alone elsewhere. He spends long hours at the dealership and still needs time to tend a couple of apartments he owns. What free time he does have is coveted by his wife and daughter. In contrast, at work, he is guaranteed to be at his post, ready to greet customers. On a slow Tuesday afternoon, I figure I’ll have his undivided attention.

I walk up the steps to the sprawling showroom and allow the cool-conditioned air from behind the glass doors to draw me in. The showroom within is polished, bright, and populated by brand-new Oldsmobiles positioned about the glossy floor. The overall presentation reeks of prestige, privilege, and luxury. It’s an atmosphere that makes me uncomfortable. The ambiance is far too formal for my folksy purpose.

Soon the young man in the white shirt and black tie accosts me. His greeting allows me the opportunity to pop his bubble. Still, the salesman invites me to shop. I’ll go fetch Lou. In the meantime, feel free to check out the new Cutlass Salon.

While I wait, I slide a small, folded index card out of my back pocket and look down at my list of arrangements for this coming Saturday. In addition to this visit, I need to pick up Megan’s engraved engagement ring, make dinner reservations at Trader Vic’s, and refine my proposal. Although things are progressing well, this step trumps all others.

When Lou appears, he expresses surprise. Blake, what brings you here today? Is the Cutlass having problems?

Even though Lou and I purchased my Cutlass as is, Lou has enough clout in the Service Department to get most repairs performed under the radar. I can tell from his expression that he is more than willing to spend some of his collateral. I quell his concerns. No. No problems at all. I’ve got another issue to discuss with you. Can we go to your office?

Lou looks a bit concerned as he leads the way to his office. His tentativeness makes me rethink the seriousness of my delivery. I suppose he might fear that I’m here to tell him that Megan is pregnant. That thought gives me a chuckle, as I have often worried that someday I might have to do just that.

Although noticeably taken aback by my privacy request, Lou is the consummate salesman. He sits down behind his desk, folds his hands, and smiles ear to ear. I speak first. Lou, you know that Megan and I have been serious for some time. We dated in high school and college, and, well, we just seem to be inseparable. I’m looking ahead to my graduation in eighteen months, and there’s no guarantee that I’ll get a job in the St. Louis area. It would seem logical that. Well, it seems an appropriate time that. Well, quite simply, I would like your blessing in asking for Megan’s hand in marriage.

Lou’s face lights like a lightbulb. His pleasant smile erupts into an enthusiastic grin. He stands and offers me his hand. Of course, you have my blessing. Emma and I have been praying for this news. He sighs audibly. Oh! We’ve been a little on edge since Megan dropped out of Purdue. This is just great news. Damn good news!

Lou remains standing and continues to pump my hand. Wheels are turning in his head that befit his joy. He inhales and attempts to reign in his excitement. Offering me a seat with his free hand, he returns to his perch. So, what’s the game plan?

Well, assuming that Megan accepts my proposal, I figure we would target a wedding date sometime after I graduate. That gives us more than a year and a half to plan a wedding. With two hundred and fifty miles separating us, I figure we might need a little extra time.

That would mean a winter wedding next year or early in ’83?

Precisely. Or we could wait until the following summer. Although I’m not sure that Megan would find that acceptable.

Lou agrees. No, that wouldn’t sit well with her. We can do a winter wedding. It might be quite nice. Again, wheels are spinning in his head. He pauses to gather more data. When are you going to pop the question?

On Saturday. I plan to take her to dinner in St. Louis and propose over dessert.

Wonderful!

From the look in his eyes, I can tell that Lou is conjuring up a celebration. He lives for family, and this engagement will be significant. Megan is his youngest daughter as well as his last child to leave the nest. He inquires further, Does Emma know?

Of course not.

Well, let’s keep it that way. That silly wife of mine can’t keep a secret. Plus, I want to see the look on her face when Megan walks in wearing a ring on her finger. She’ll be so delighted that she’ll jump out of her skin. Lou smiles broadly and adds, I’ll make sure to have some champagne on ice Saturday night when you arrive.

CHAPTER 11: APPLICATION

Laura

Wednesday, June 17, 3:07 p.m.

S alvatore’s Pizzeria is quiet and lonely as I enter through the double set of glass doors that protects the entrance. Only the buzz from a door monitor in a distant alcove breaks the silence as I stroll toward the cash register at the far end of the room. The dark linoleum floors, rustic wooden booths, antique ceiling fans, and pictures of Italian mafia on the walls give this pizzeria a homey, Italian feel. The atmosphere, though, is nothing like what you would experience on an ordinary evening. Most nights, this place is packed with rowdy teenagers enjoying pizza while music blares from the jukebox. This afternoon, the pizzeria is akin to a tomb.

Before I reach the register, a thin, middle-aged woman pushes through a swinging door into the windowless dining room. She politely acknowledges my interest in the open waitress position and hands me an application. I recognize her as Betty from my many visits to Sal’s Pizza. She is the face that warmly welcomes you most evenings. She is also the face that elicits obedience and guilt in misbehaving teens. Her kind voice instructs me, Please fill out the application and bring it to me in the kitchen when you’re done. Edward, our general manager, is in this afternoon. If I can get his attention, perhaps he’ll come down to interview you.

3:30 p.m.

This application is typical. It requests all the standard stuff: name, address, phone number, and previous work history. The section on educational history amuses me though. Sal’s is notorious for hiring future high school dropouts. My nearly perfect grade point average ought to make their heads spin.

I’m still jotting down references when Betty reappears and sits down in the booth opposite the table from me. Using a motherly tone, she reaches for my application. If you don’t mind, let’s see how you’re doing. There’s a lot of stuff on here that really isn’t necessary.

After scanning my school history, she nods pleasantly and says, If you just graduated, you might know Phil Moore and David Bender from our kitchen.

I do. I know Phil. I’ve had classes with him. Do I need to put him as a reference?

No. We’re really looking for adults there. We just ask for them to be sure that you aren’t scared to have us check up on you. Your two references look very good. You don’t need a third.

As if I’m finished, Betty turns the application facedown on the table and casually engages me. Since you were on the track team, you might know my daughter Gwen. She was a sophomore last year and ran the four-hundred-meter.

Does she have short blonde hair and is kind of quiet?

That’s her.

Sure. Although I ran longer distances, she probably remembers me. Tell her I’m one of the girls who ran the mile.

I thought you looked familiar. I’ve seen you at the meets. You always did well.

Thanks for saying so. However, I was barely average.

So, what brings you to Sal’s Pizza?

I respond to Betty politely. I’ve always liked this place and need to work this summer. I’ve got plenty of experience working around food. So, I figure I can be a decent waitress.

You shouldn’t have any problems that I can see. You’re definitely smart enough. As long as crowds don’t spook you, you might even find it fun. I know I do. With minimum wage and tips, you can do quite well.

I nod cautiously.

"Sit tight for a couple of minutes, and I’ll