Blinded by the Smoke

By Linda Stefko

Blinded by the Smoke by Linda Stefko is a coming of age story as well as a cautionary tale, and a fictional foray into the lives of middle-class daughters and sons of the late 1960's in western Pennsylvania. It offers strong messages concerning alcoholism, college fraternity hazing, and the Vietnam War. The struggles of Sharon Quinn and her friends mirror a nation caught up in an unpopular war and changing beliefs. Youthful rebellion and new expressions of these beliefs are reflected in their music and culture, led by the pied pipers of rock n roll who brand an entire generation with life's new Top 40 philosophies. After Sharon's boyfriend, Jerry, leaves for Vietnam to serve in the army, she searches for the true meaning of love, belonging, and commitment. Her devotion to Jerry is challenged by a campus charmer named Jim, who adds adventure and chaos into her life. She and her college friends test boundaries and explore freedoms when exposed to the campus party culture common at the time. Some suffer for it. Subplots woven into the college setting involve depression, alcoholism, rape, fraternity hazing, and the meaning of friendship. When at home in Pittsburgh, Sharon is anchored by strong family ties and we glimpse her relationships with her parents, grandmother, and sister. She also develops a bond with an older businesswoman who is wrestling with a long buried secret. While seeking clear visions of their futures, the characters in Blinded by the Smoke experience joys as well as heart-wrenching sorrows. Fifty years later, today's college students face many of the same questions that troubled the youth of the 1960's: Where do I belong? Who can I trust? Should I turn a blind eye to the nefarious behavior of peers and when does it become a matter of conscience? One can be blinded by the sun, by darkness, by smoke, by lies. To see clearly is a matter of perception. Eyes can be tricked and blinded to the truth just as easily as lies deceive the ears. One may look but not see, and hear but not understand. Open the eyes to the heart and protect it, therein lies the truth.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jun 30, 2022
• ISBN: 9781667853291

Book preview

How I hated instruction, and my heart despised reproof.

— PROVERBS 5:12

CHAPTER 1

October 1969

Sharon quinn twirled the ballpoint pen between her fingers, then tapped out the perfectly timed beat, the predictable patterns of a Beach Boys hit, one she had heard a hundred times. Picking up the vibes … the good vibrations … she hummed along as the voices reverberated from the radio, lyrics echoing in her ears. Da da da da da. Tap, tap, tap.

She stared at the blank notebook page. It called to her, beckoning, daring. Waiting.

Her foot tapped, picking up the beat. She began to doodle … the pen moved without a plan, drawing random lines and shapes. Circles … round and round. Aimlessly sketching as she sat at her desk, so easily distracted in the noisy dormitory.

Nervous energy. She drew a row of triangles. Repetition. Patterns. Her mind, her hand, seeking order. Tap, tap, tap.

Shutting down her quest for melodic patterns, the tapping of foot and pen ceased. Defeated. Her ears … her brain … now only registered noise and nonsense. Sharon attempted to filter out the hallway banter that intruded on her thoughts, visualizing herself floating in a sea of chaos.

Breathing deeply, she flipped over the notebook and turned to the next blank page. Time to get serious. She needed to focus on the assignment, composing a poem for her English writing class. Straighten up.

Finally, frustrated by the inability to concentrate, Sharon rose from her seat, turned off the radio, and pushed the door shut. Settling back in the rigid chair, she stretched her arms above her head.

Closing her eyes, the professor’s words echoed in her head. He had urged the class to reach deep into their hearts. He wanted a free verse poem … no rules, the easiest kind of poem to write.

Her brain needed to switch gears from her comfort zone, sketching and designs, to words. Spoken words. Written words. No rules. Just focus.

Okay, here goes. She squeezed the pen and pursed her lips, chewing on the inside of her lower lip. Digging into her heart, she immediately pictured Jerry, his soft hazel-green eyes, that nut-brown wavy hair, his crooked smile. The dimple on one cheek. Jerry Donato was in her heart. Her mind wandered again. He had called last night and promised to drive up to see her on Saturday if he could trade shifts with another employee at the record store.

Think, think. Concentrate. She unwrapped a stick of Juicy Fruit chewing gum and folded it into her mouth. Ahh … she loved that flavor. Years ago, she had learned that popping a piece of gum in her mouth calmed her whenever she felt tense.

As she twirled a strand of hair between two fingers, Jerry’s eyes flashed in front of her face, twinkling when he laughed, full of mischief and possibilities. She pretended his arms were wrapped around her, his mouth on hers. Oh, she loved him so much. Would they be together forever?

She had never been good at planning ahead or predicting the future. Her throat tightened, she blinked, a solitary tear leaked from the corner of one eye. What in the world? What is happening? Mom always said Sharon was too ornery … too stubborn for tears. Maybe Jerry Donato had brought out the tenderness in her heart.

Hmm … or maybe writing poetry was just downright painful. Ugh. Inner thoughts laid bare. Ugh. Retrospection. Introspection. Ugh. Dreaming of the future. Nope. Emotions connected with life and love. Sappy. Okay, okay. It all sounded poetic. Maybe a little corny. Stop procrastinating.

She began to write, from the heart.

To be nineteen, away from home,

Full of life, free.

So many questions. So much to do.

Finding my place.

Where do I belong, and with whom?

Look in my eyes as I look in yours.

Do I see the true you, or just my own reflection?

Am I discovering the depths of your soul, or is it a mirror?

Me and you.

Or do I stretch my wings to fly away?

Not knowing where I will land.

Losing my way, risking it all.

Is it better to be safe … or brave and free?

It was a start. Sharon breathed a sigh of relief, aware that the feeling was temporary. No, she wasn’t finished with the poem but closed the notebook anyways … to be continued later. It was too hard, transferring private, innermost thoughts to paper. Now she could retreat back to her normal habit of burying uncomfortable feelings that introspection unleashed.

Never one to keep a diary, she didn’t understand her sister’s fascination with examining one’s emotions. Carolyn loved words, whereas Sharon was a visual person, gravitating toward pictures. Her truth could be found by the eye … by seeing. The eye doesn’t lie, right?

She glanced at her wristwatch. Oops, gotta run.

Sharon had promised to meet Janet for dinner at the cafeteria. Quickly grabbing a cardigan, she locked her door and flew down the hallway toward the elevator.

When she stepped out into the cool air, dry leaves swirled around her leather loafers. She quickly made her way up the hill toward the modern, glass and brick cafeteria building while the wind whipped her pleated skirt against her thighs. Usually clad in blue jeans, Sharon had dressed up for her afternoon classes, since it was her turn to deliver a speech in front of twenty classmates … another challenging assignment. Ugh. More words. She breathed a sigh of relief. The torment was over.

As the roommates stood in line with their trays, Sharon said, Jan, thank God we were allowed to have notecards to help with our presentations or I would have frozen and forgotten everything. I was a nervous wreck.

Janet laughed, the sound drowned out by the clattering of dishes and silverware. I’m sure you did fine, although using the war in Vietnam as your subject matter is pretty boring stuff. Probably half the class fell asleep once you started to talk about Lyndon Johnson and Richard Nixon.

Well, that’s okay with me. If their eyes were closed, at least they weren’t staring at me. But seriously, the professor seemed interested, and I know a lot about the war since Jerry talks about it every time we’re together.

The following day after their classes, the two girls stretched across their quilted bedspreads in the Baxter Hall dormitory room. Comfortable with each other, this was their second year rooming together. Sharon said, I’ll be glad when I’m finished with all these required courses, like public speaking. When am I ever going to need something like that? I just want to bury myself in art classes.

I think they just want to turn us into well-rounded people, said Janet. I always complained in high school when I had to take Latin and algebra.

Yep. Me too.

They attempted to read but mostly just listened to music. The Rubber Soul album by the Beatles played three times on Sharon’s record player. Janet said, I’ll be going home for the weekend, so if Jerry’s coming to visit on Saturday, you two will have the room to yourselves. She winked at Sharon.

Janet Wilson’s home and her boyfriend were in the town of Erie. Her dad didn’t mind coming to get her on Friday afternoons since Crawford College was only an hour away. Her parents freely admitted they missed their only child terribly, all sixty inches of her. They doted on their daughter and their devotion was understandable. The girl was easy to love. Although petite in stature, she was a dynamo, full of fun, quick to laugh, and not the least bit shy.

Gazing in the mirror above her dresser, Janet brushed the dark brown hair that framed her round face, flipping up the ends at her shoulders. She peered over the top of tortoiseshell rimmed glasses and confidently announced, My dream is to be a kindergarten teacher, marry Joey, and have five kids … in that order. Janet was a planner.

A natural entertainer, she often performed an admirable impression of rock singer Janis Joplin … belting out Piece of My Heart in the shower with such gusto that her voice could be heard down the hall from the communal bathroom in the center of their dormitory floor.

On the other hand, Sharon Quinn was not one to sing in the shower. At five foot eight, she towered over her roommate. Not a planner, her only goal at the moment was to have the ends of her poker-straight dark hair reach her waist. Parted in the middle with wispy bangs, there was a slight resemblance to Cher from the singing duo Sonny and Cher. The same straight nose and slim build. However, Sharon was not gifted with a decent singing voice.

Janet insisted, Deny it all you want but, yes, you do look like Cher.

No way, but I hope you know that you’re a dead ringer for Gidget. That’s a compliment, Sally Field is cute.

And short. At least you didn’t say the Flying Nun!

Supposedly it’s a compliment if you’re told you resemble a famous star, said Sharon, but she had never been impressed by celebrities. It’s silly to glorify them. After all, they’re just regular people … with perhaps some luck and talent in their stars.

I guess you have to live in California to become famous. I never knew anyone famous. Nobody from Erie or Crawford is a star.

Well, no matter where they’re from, they’re just regular people. They still put their jeans on one leg at a time, just like us commoners. And all their money and fame probably causes them a lot of problems.

But how do people become famous? I think you have to be extremely talented or beautiful or smart. Maybe a combination of the three.

Or lucky! Or maybe do something notorious or criminal. My dad says sometimes it’s who you know, not what you know.

Although, whatever one’s talent is, Shar, or who you know, there still has to be passion and a drive to achieve.

Yep. That’s a no-brainer.

Art was Sharon’s only passion, the only reason she had even considered attending college. She had already taken classes in color theory, design, drawing, and painting but wasn’t sure of a career path. She tended to roll along without a plan … her usual way of navigating through life.

Even though the personalities and interests of Sharon and Janet were more different than alike, they complemented each other. Subsequently, their friendship had blossomed since they were assigned as roommates their freshman year at Crawford State College.

Both girls were the products of middle-class Catholic families, raised with similar standards and views of the world. Although Sharon grew up with a sister, Janet had always wished for one. Sharon was used to being part of a pair, part of a team. They might have appeared to be a mismatched pair, but under the surface, they were kindred spirits, comfortable with each other’s company.

Bam, bam, bam! A loud knock on their door startled both girls. Phone call for Sharon!

Janet slid off her bed and pulled the door open as Sharon yelled, Thanks, Dee.

Donna Gronski and her roommate Gretchen Schmidt, also known as Dee and Gee-Gee, lived across the hall and were the self-appointed social coordinators of the sixth floor of Baxter Hall. They felt it was their duty to inform the other girls about fraternity parties on campus. They had requested a room close to Sharon and Janet, since the girls had all become close friends as freshmen, along with Kathy and Pam, the two studious girls next door to Sharon and Janet.

Sharon rushed down the hallway to where the pair of pay phones were mounted on the wall next to a drinking fountain. Grabbing the dangling receiver, she couldn’t help but smile when she heard Jerry’s deep, buttery voice and familiar greeting. Hi, babe. He was able to trade his weekend shift at the record store and would be coming to see her on Saturday.

Groovy. I’ll be waiting.

The next day Sharon sat cross-legged on her bed with pillows propped behind her back, yellow highlighter in her hand, scanning a history textbook. Finally, her name boomed over the intercom in the hallway. Sharon Quinn, you have a visitor in the lobby. She threw down the book, quickly gave her hair a few long swipes with a hairbrush, and grabbed her suede shoulder bag.

Stepping off the elevator, she spotted Jerry Donato waiting by the front desk. Her heart skipped a beat when she caught sight of him. His wavy hair fell haphazardly across his forehead and curled over the tops of his ears … and that rugged muscular build reminded her of when he played football in high school, back when she was just another student in the stands.

His face lit up, and he enveloped her in a bear hug, kissing her cheek. He planted a long, sloppy kiss on her mouth which caused her to giggle from sheer delight, even though the sign on the wall read: No PDA permitted. Public displays of affection in broad daylight were frowned upon by the resident assistants who worked the desk in the lobby. Sharon figured those straightlaced upperclassmen probably were just jealous.

She comfortably slipped her hand in his as they walked toward the double glass doors of the brand-new eight-story brick dormitory. It had been two weeks since the last time he had made the hour and a half drive to her campus nestled in the rolling hills of western Pennsylvania.

I hope you’re hungry, said Jerry when she stepped into his midnight-blue Chevy Chevelle coupe, a secondhand vehicle he had purchased when he began working full-time at National Record Mart in downtown Pittsburgh.

After finishing his sophomore year at the University of Pittsburgh, Jerry had decided to take time off from college. Unsure of a major, he had been leaning toward premed but wasn’t confident he could compete academically or finance his childhood dream of being a doctor.

Good at handling a crisis, Jerry Donato, steady and solid like a rock, had a calming effect on people who found themselves in stressful circumstances. His younger brother and sister had always come to Jerry for comfort when hurt or upset. He patched scraped knees and iced their bruises. When a teammate on the football team broke his leg during a game, Jerry joked with him while the coaches performed first aid, and Jerry kept his spirits up while they waited for an ambulance.

His teachers and coaches claimed that Jerry Donato had a cool head under pressure. If he studied hard, he could become a wonderful doctor someday. But, that was then and this is now and he hated to burst everyone’s bubble: he just wasn’t smart enough, and he knew it. I’m a realist. Having been a good football player in high school and a B student didn’t mean he could cut it in the classroom in college.

Jerry understood Sharon’s dilemma concerning what career she should be preparing for, since he wrestled with similar questions. He didn’t like to admit that he had been struggling in several classes. It was easier to make excuses.

If I can’t afford medical school, then why bother trying.

He worried about the cost of tuition and his family’s finances, especially when his dad fell victim to company layoffs at the steel mill, which occasionally happened with no warning even though he had been employed there for over twenty years. As the oldest of three children, Jerry didn’t want to be a burden.

Last year, he also confessed to Sharon that his father had been critical of Jerry’s extracurricular activities, which involved marching in peace protests and engaging in sit-ins on the Pitt campus. More than once Mr. Donato had said, Jerry, I’m not paying hard-earned money for you to hang around pot-smoking protestors. They’re just a bunch of candy-ass freeloaders.

Mr. Donato was a traditional card-carrying union member and a proud veteran who had supported the war in Vietnam … well, at least when President Johnson was in office. He religiously watched the news every evening on television and was well aware of the sit-ins and riots on college campuses across the country. He had no use for protestors. Loudly and proudly, he announced, No son of mine better get arrested by the police. Those kids are just a bunch of spoiled rich kids, sitting on their asses while their daddies pay all their bills. I’d like to have them in the mill for just one day and give them a taste of the real world.

Jerry had given up arguing and debating with his father years before. Resigned to just listening, he bit his tongue, especially when Vincent Donato had already downed a six-pack of Iron City beer.

What’s the point? The man has a hard head and isn’t about to start being reasonable because of anything I say.

Sharon felt lucky that she could have discussions with her own father, Michael Quinn, about politics, the war in Vietnam, and the strife affecting the entire country. After Martin Luther King Jr. was assassinated, racial tensions sparked confrontations across the nation. African Americans threw their support behind Robert Kennedy as their last hope, the new savior for the poor and the minorities. Sharon’s dad had been pleased about the possibility of Bobby Kennedy being the Democratic candidate for president. He will get us out of the war and set everybody on the right path.

Her mother and grandmother adored Bobby Kennedy, the same way they had idolized John Kennedy. Gram … Emma Quinn … had often remarked, The Kennedys are the first Catholic family to live in the White House. Gram took great pride in her Catholic religion, never missed Mass on Sunday, and upheld all of the traditional beliefs.

Sharon’s mom, Marlena, admired Jackie Kennedy’s style and elegance. Marlena Quinn had been enthralled by the storybook Camelot intrigue of the family in the White House back in the early sixties and was impressed by Mrs. Kennedy’s skills when she redecorated many rooms in the White House.

The Quinn family had mourned along with the rest of the nation when John Kennedy was killed in November of ’63. In eighth grade at the time, Sharon remembered the photos of Mrs. Kennedy in her pink suit stained with her husband’s blood. Mom had remarked, Jackie has more class in her little finger than most people have in their entire bodies. She knows how to handle a tragedy with grace and strength. We women can all learn from her example. Sharon felt pride when her mother looked at her and her sister, including them as women.

After Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. was shot in the spring of 1968, Americans were again catapulted into a state of shock. Shortly afterward, the national nightmare continued when Robert Kennedy was assassinated. Only five weeks after Dr. King.

That summer, Sharon’s parents had insisted on a party in the backyard to celebrate her high school graduation, but it was a somber affair with lots of political discussions.

Sparked by the two latest assassinations, the summer of 1968 was filled with news of riots in major cities. Television broadcasts and newspapers reported troubling images of fires, lootings, and shootings. After African Americans had lost their two most precious leaders, their devastation and disappointment led to clashes in the streets with the police who believed in the power of their tear gas and wooden sticks. Too much hatred on both sides.

And it got worse. When rebellious college students, demonstrating against an unpopular war, were added into the mix, it was just asking for the whole powder keg to explode. The police believed in force and brutality, anything to keep control and order.

Sharon was surprised that even in Pittsburgh, a city built on strong family and neighborhood bonds, there had been riots. The African Americans who had been displaced by the urban rehabilitation project were still angry over losing their homes and businesses in the Hill District along Wylie Avenue between Downtown and Oakland. They felt as if their voices had not been heard, and it didn’t take much to push them over the edge … from frustration to rage. More fuel added to the fire. And yes, flames lit up downtown Pittsburgh’s nighttime sky, visible from miles away on the hilltops of the suburbs.

By the end of that summer when Sharon was preparing for college, Mike Quinn often voiced his point of view concerning the state of the country. There is no way I’ll vote for that spineless Hubert Humphrey. Johnson is refusing to run for reelection as president and he’s just using Humphrey as a puppet. We need a stronger leader. I’m leaning toward voting for Richard Nixon in November. Girls, what do you think?

Sharon was pleased when her father asked for the opinion of his daughters, even though the voting age was twenty-one. She also recalled how passionate her older sister Carolyn had been, confidently expressing her political views, convinced that her voice carried weight and wisdom since she was a student at Penn State, a major university.

Carolyn agreed with their father. There’s something a little shady about Nixon, but I think he is the better choice. Look how calm he is, much better than that weasel Humphrey. And that’s what we need now … calm in the sea of chaos. Sharon admired Carolyn’s choice of words and wasn’t surprised that her sister aspired to be an English teacher.

When Jerry spent time at the Quinn household, he relished being involved in the political discussions. It’s nice to be able to talk about politics with rational people. My dad just likes to rant about what he believes and doesn’t give a rat’s ass about my opinions.

As they ate cheeseburgers and french fries at Tom’s Diner, the local eatery, Sharon and Jerry blended in with the other customers. The white brick building on Main Street in Crawford was located three blocks from campus. Similar to most small college towns, the diner served as a meeting place for students, visiting parents, and local residents or townies as they were called by the college students.

Sharon dipped a french fry into a puddle of ketchup. She wrinkled her nose at the odor of the grease from the fryers mixed with cigarette smoke, which hung in clouds over the booths along the back wall. Tables for four huddled in the middle of the diner, flanked by a counter on the right with round stools where individual customers sat and chatted with Tom, the proprietor, while he flipped burgers on the grill. Tom’s wife, Annie, prepared food in the kitchen, and several matronly waitresses took orders and cheerfully delivered overflowing plates to the hungry clientele.

Jerry was unusually quiet, and Sharon noticed dark shadows under his eyes. Normally his hazel-green eyes twinkled as he spoke, but today he looked troubled. Sharon placed her hand on his. Is something wrong?

He wiped the condensation from the side of the thick milkshake glass with his forefinger. Not really. I worked extra hours this past week … and my parents have been arguing lately. When they’re fighting, I can’t sleep. I never know what it’ll be like when I get home, especially when Dad’s been drinking. I’m just tired. Sometimes I think maybe I should just join the army or navy … but I can’t do that.

Jerry squeezed her hand and gazed at her with a shy smile. I wouldn’t want to leave you. His lips turned up at the corners, widening into a grin.

Ah, there’s that twinkle, she whispered when dimples marked each of his cheeks. I wish we were older, maybe things would be easier. Lowering her eyes, she shifted gears, moving away from that wistful train of thought, hiding from the future. I know you don’t want to get involved in their arguments. Do they ever say anything to you or your sister or brother about what they fight about?

Nah, I figure maybe it’s about money and their bills. I know the past two years they struggled to pay my tuition. Well, no more. I solved that problem. Now that I’m done with school, they don’t have to worry about it anymore. We don’t talk much, and I don’t want to ask … they’d just say it’s none of my business.

He added, When I play my music, they complain. Dad calls it ‘mindless racket’ and says I should be listening to Frank Sinatra instead of the Beatles and the Stones. And don’t even mention the Doors or Hendrix. Then he just tells me to go get a haircut. That’s always my cue to leave the room.

After they drove back into the parking lot of the dorm, he turned off the engine, put an arm around Sharon’s shoulders, and pulled her closer to him. The piney scent of his aftershave filled the air. She ran two fingers down his cheek. Umm, nice and smooth.

When their lips met, her heart raced. She whispered, Jer-bear, we can have the room to ourselves since Janet won’t be back til tomorrow night. You won’t have to spend money to sleep at the Crawford Motel like last time. In silent reply, Jerry winked and squeezed her thigh, then playfully ran his hand on the denim fabric that hugged her leg. His touch sent a familiar electrifying shiver through her entire body.

Reaching his arm over the top of the seat, he grabbed a brown paper bag from the back seat. I brought your favorite beverage and a bag of pretzels. And we have our music. I’ll bring some of these records upstairs. He pointed to a cardboard box of 45s and albums in the center of the back seat.

That night they drank Boone’s Farm apple wine and listened to the Doors, the Temptations, and the Beatles. No one disturbed them since Sharon’s wing of the sixth floor was practically deserted. She was fortunate to live at the far end of the long corridor. Across the hallway, Gretchen and Donna’s room was quiet since they were out partying, and Sharon’s next-door neighbors, Kathy and Pam, had both gone home for the weekend.

The following afternoon Jerry and Sharon strolled along Main Street, stepping between rays of sunshine filtering through the tree branches. The streaks of sunlight attempted to heat the sidewalks and warm the cool air of autumn. Their feet moved in unison, dry leaves crunching with each step, as the couple headed to Tom’s Diner where their favorite booth awaited them. During the next hour, they munched on ham and turkey sandwiches while they discussed the pros and cons of America’s involvement in the war in Vietnam.

There is one thing my dad and I agree on, said Jerry. We have to keep communism from spreading around the world. Nixon promised to bring the war to an end. Now that he’s been in office for nine months, I think people are starting to get impatient … fed up.

Sharon nodded in agreement. I know. Look at the protests they keep showing on the TV news. The talking heads say that our troops will be coming home as soon as the South Vietnamese government can defend themselves.

Nope, that’ll never happen. Jerry shook his head. What a crock of bull. If their army can’t win with our help, what makes them think they can win by themselves? They need our bombs, our tanks, our supplies, and our soldiers. This is not going to end anytime soon. Even if we withdraw some of our troops, you better believe that replacements will soon follow.

Reaching across the gray Formica top of the table, Sharon gently rubbed his hand, her thumb caressing the scars, visible reminders of the summers when he had worked with his uncle’s remodeling crew, using hammers and saws. Out of habit, they interlaced their fingers.

Well, I hope you don’t get drafted … now that you’re not in school anymore. And please don’t even think about enlisting.

Jerry’s jaw tightened. The muscles of his face tensed as he stared into her sapphire eyes. Reflections. He saw himself there, just as she saw herself in his eyes. Babe, you’re my future. You’re the only girl I’ve ever loved. You know I don’t talk about love, but I know it’s more than physical attraction and urges. It’s confusing. Hell, life is confusing.

We’ve learned about love together. I don’t mind that you don’t talk about it.

I never talked about feelings at all until I met you. It’s hard for me to jabber on and on like some guys. I don’t have the gift of gab. But one thing I do know … I hate change and uncertainty. And lately, I feel a tidal wave is building and it’s headed straight toward me. It’s coming. No wonder I can’t sleep. He swallowed hard as he earnestly studied her face. Don’t think I’m crazy. But God, I love your eyes … they look like two deep blue pools of water.

He hoped he wasn’t drowning, but his instincts told him the danger didn’t lie within Sharon or his love for her. The danger in his future would be determined by unseen forces in Washington, DC, and beyond.

For the first time in his life, he was scared, and it worried him. Men hide their fears; it had been drilled into him since he was a little kid. He shifted his gaze to their joined hands.

Don’t worry. I know I’ve lost my college deferment but I don’t think I’ll enlist. That would be signing away four years of my life. If I’m drafted, it would only be for two years. Sometimes I get the feeling that my dad thinks I should enlist, although he won’t say it. All those World War Two vets are still so gung ho, drinking their beer down at the Legion but never talking about what they did when they were overseas. Those guys were all eager to go … to go and fight for their country. They were proud. And still are. But this war is different, it’s not supported by the public … the way their war was.

Their interlocked fingers held tight, neither of them wanting to break free.

Do you think he wants you to go to war? Not waiting for him to answer, she shook her head. I doubt it, and your mom wouldn’t want that, but I know what you mean about the men who served in World War Two. My dad and my uncles were all in the Pacific during that war. Thank goodness my dad didn’t enlist in the navy until after Pearl Harbor was bombed. After the war, the government paid for him to go to college.

Jerry said, Well, that’s one advantage to being in the service. Although my dad was around so much bombing and gunfire in Germany and France, he never wanted to go to school when he returned. He was just happy to get a job in the steel mill and get married. He was a few years older than your dad. Maybe he thought he was too old for college.

Sharon’s eyes followed Jerry’s as he glanced at his wristwatch and then the clock on the wall above their booth.

Well, speaking of jobs, I have to work the early shift tomorrow at the store. At least I get to listen to music all day. This one guy I work with, Ben, was lucky enough to go to that Woodstock festival up in New York back in August. You should hear some of the wild stories he tells us about it, three days of music and craziness … he claims it was the coolest experience ever, except for the rain and mud. Ben’s obsessed with Hendrix and plays that song ‘Purple Haze’ ten times a day. He smokes a lot of pot and hangs out with a bunch of hippie-types. If he gets drafted, he says that he’s going to Canada.

We have a few hippies here too, mostly on the first and second floors in my dorm. One girl, Rebecca, and her guy … they smoke weed and burn incense in her dorm room. He has long straggly hair, wears this floppy suede hat and sandals, and carries a guitar with him since he sometimes performs at night in the coffee shop in the Student Union. Rumor has it, he’s actually pretty talented.

After leaving the diner, Sharon and Jerry meandered back to campus. They listened to more music in the dorm, then snuggled in the Chevelle in the parking lot until the sun started to disappear behind the tops of the row of maples that lined the edge of the campus. They finally kissed a long goodbye, savoring their final minutes together.

Jerry reached into the glove compartment. Here, babe, take a roll of dimes for when you need to use the pay phone. Tell Janet I said hi … and I’ll let you know about next weekend. He lightly caressed her cheek with his thumb and tucked a long strand of dark hair behind her ear.

Sharon stepped out of the car, stood on the sidewalk with her eyes locked on Jerry’s face, and touched several fingers to her lips, blowing a kiss. She waved as he pulled away from the curb.

Opening her hand, Sharon stared at the green-and-tan paper wrapper that encased the dimes. She remembered her dad saying, Sharon, always keep a dime in your shoe for the pay phone. You never know when you’ll need to call for a ride home. Best to be prepared.

Glancing down at her penny loafers, she chuckled, I really need to replace those pennies with dimes.

CHAPTER 2

November 1969

With five days off from school, Sharon welcomed Thanksgiving break. Holidays were always festive events at the Quinns’ home in Woodbridge, and best of all, she would see Jerry every evening. They had plans to see a movie tonight after he finished his shift at the record store.

Her sister wouldn’t arrive home from Penn State until late afternoon, so Sharon spent several hours organizing a drawer full of old photographs and memorabilia while she listened to the latest Top 40 countdown on her transistor radio.

She sifted through a myriad of images of family members, school friends, and of course, a dozen pictures of Jerry. Holding a handful of photos, Sharon stretched out on her bed, ready to examine memories of years gone by. Familiar sights … home.

Since it was the day before Thanksgiving, Mom was aglow, shining in her glory as the unofficial queen of the holiday meal, planning and cooking food for two days … mixing stuffing for a twenty-pound turkey and baking pumpkin pies. Thanksgiving was her favorite holiday meal, and over the years, she had finally mastered each dish from the corn souffle to the sweet potatoes garnished with tiny marshmallows.

The rest of the year, Mom’s culinary skills were at times questionable. Thank goodness Dad possessed unsophisticated taste buds and an undemanding demeanor, content to be a fan of simple meat-and-potato dishes. So the family ate lots of beef stew, hamburgers, and meatloaf, as well as kid-pleasing delicacies such as hot dogs and cheese macaroni.

The aroma of pumpkin pie wafted upstairs from the kitchen. She placed a hand on her stomach to quiet the rumbling, too engrossed in her walk down memory lane to move.

Gram used to bake up a storm, and Sharon had fond childhood memories of waking on Saturday mornings to the smell of cinnamon buns and apple pies fresh from the oven, but now at the age of eighty-five, Emma Quinn had relinquished most of her culinary duties.

A rumbling of a car engine from behind the house jolted Sharon back to the present. Dad had returned from picking up her sister. Bam, bam. Two car doors slammed shut, then the trunk lid banged.

Springing up from her bed, Sharon flew down the stairs as the back door swung open. A golden bird of happiness, in the form of Carolyn Quinn, swooped into the kitchen like a ray of sunshine. Dad followed behind her, carrying his oldest daughter’s blue American Tourister suitcase.

Mom wiped her hands on her apron, hugged her firstborn, then welcomed Dad with a peck on his cheek. Balance was now restored in the Quinn household.

I’m so happy both our girls are home. Aren’t you, Mike?

Dad nodded in agreement at his wife as she gently rubbed the red lipstick imprint from his cheek with her thumb and handed him a cold bottle of Iron City beer.

When Carolyn went to shower, Sharon returned to her self-imposed chore of organizing the drawer full of photographs. She studied a black-and-white snapshot of her parents holding an infant and a toddler, her and her sister, taken outside by the front steps of their brick house, which had been built by Sharon’s grandfather way back when her dad, Michael, was little. Dad grew up in this house with his brothers. His two older sisters, Dorothy and Nan, had spent most of their formative years closer to downtown Pittsburgh when the family lived in the Elliott section of the city. Dorothy worked at upscale hotels and had lived in New York City in the 1930s and ’40s, and now both Dorothy and Nan were employed at hotels in Chicago.

Sharon dug out a photo of her fun aunts that she had taken on their last visit. The glamorous pair, wearing fur coats, were adorned with diamond and gold jewelry, no doubt ready to go out on the town. The sisters never said much about their ex-husbands, at least when their nieces were within listening range, even though the women loved to chatter with a martini in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Every holiday was a little more festive when Aunt Nan and Aunt Dorothy were in the house.

Next, Sharon held up a black-and-white photograph of her grandfather, Jack Quinn, standing on the front porch of their home, the sturdy brick house. Emma had asked their son Michael to move his young family in … so he and his wife could help care for the place. Grandpa, the old Irishman, was too proud to ask for help with his house. Gram used to say, That man is as stubborn as the day is long. He died several years ago.

I need a break from the kitchen, Matilda Jane. What are you doing? said Mom, wiping her brow as she poked her head in the doorway. Sharon grimaced when she heard the childhood nickname roll off her mother’s tongue. Sometimes it was Matilda Jane, other days it was Miss Sally Sue. Meanwhile, Carolyn’s nicknames were Kitten and Miss Sunshine. Not fair.

Although to be honest, Sharon would hate to be called Kitten, preferring something like Lynx or Miss Stardust. But, who cares? As long as her mother didn’t call her Matilda Jane in public. After all, to be embarrassed by a parent in front of friends was a fate worse than death.

Mom settled beside her on the bed and gingerly picked up an old piano recital program that sat on top of a pile of memorabilia and papers.

Honey, I hope you’re not brooding … looking at all this old stuff.

Marlena Quinn, always cheerful, had no tolerance for bad moods, brooding she called it. Her motto was put on a happy face, which had been a bone of contention between her and Sharon over the years. Sharon didn’t want to pretend to be happy if she wasn’t. Mom, that’s so fake. In reply, her mother would chastise her. You’ll learn that sometimes women have to pretend. It’s just the way it is.

Years ago, she had arranged for her daughters to take weekly piano lessons from a music teacher who lived down the street. Many times Sharon had stomped her feet and refused to go, once even hiding in a neighbor’s garage for three hours. But Marlena wasn’t going to give up the battle whether her stubborn offspring liked it or not.

No, Mom. I’m not brooding. Just reminiscing. All memories aren’t happy. I’m not you, or Carolyn. Years of piano lessons sure weren’t filled with joy. But I see things differently now that I’m older. I know, I know … I guess that statement is music to your ears. Her mother smiled but didn’t interrupt. I remember you giving me three dollars every Wednesday after school and then I traipsed off to Miss Kunkle’s house for my lesson. It was embarrassing if I hadn’t practiced enough, which happened quite a bit. It must have been painful for Miss Kunkle also, listening to her favorite pieces of music being butchered. She must have really needed that three dollars.

At the time, she didn’t realize that Miss Kunkle was saving those three dollar payments from her students to help pay for her upcoming wedding. After the nuptials took place, Miss Kunkle moved and Sharon never saw her again.

Unfortunately, Mom was tenacious and immediately found another woman in Woodbridge who was willing to give weekly lessons to untalented children.

Mom fingered the program, smoothing the wrinkles. We were lucky to find Mrs. Kowalski. She was an excellent teacher.

The new instructor lived several blocks away. Nine-year-old Carolyn and eight-year-old Sharon walked together along the tree-lined sidewalks that bordered the brick streets, since Mom didn’t want them going alone. They each had to wait quietly and read a book while the other had her lesson.

Sharon said, I was intrigued by Mrs. Kowalski and the way she talked. Remember her heavy European accent? And she was much older than Miss Kunkle. Mrs. Kowalski mentioned that she had been a concert pianist back in Poland before the war. I thought she was regal-looking with her gray hair twisted in a roll on the back of her head fastened with bobby pins. I liked her, but her husband was a bit strange. He would walk into the living room and interrupt the lesson just to ask his wife a question. But she was very patient with him.

Her mother listened with interest even though she knew the story, content that they