Chapter One
1959
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| It's All In Your Mind by Ann Herrick |
If I had to pinpoint exactly when I
started denying reality, I'd say it was the night I went to The Exit.
"Turn off the engine, and let's
go in," Caprice said.
"I just want to hear the end of
'That'll be the day.'" I did like the song. But what I really wanted was a
few more seconds to gather myself. The dingy building with the dim light
struggling to shine through the grimy windows was not exactly in New Haven's new Urban
Renewal. "Are you sure it's okay for us to be here?" A mist of cold
sweat formed on my brow as I watched people filing in. "Everyone looks...older. What if they throw us out?"
"Vija Skalbe, would you cool
just it for once? It's a coffeehouse, not a bar. No one here is over twenty.
Trust me." Caprice snorted her snide, stifled laugh. "You'll be glad
I dragged you here."
I doubted that.
Caprice lit a cigarette the second
she stepped out of the car. "Just this one," she said. "I'm
trying to quit."
I'd told her Karl had warned me not
to let anyone smoke in his car. I took a deep breath as we went inside and
ordered coffee from a rough-looking guy with a Frankenstein forehead. Caprice
pulled me toward a mushroom-sized table near the low platform that served as a
stage. I sat down and wrapped my hands around the mug of acrid liquid. Caprice
drank hers black. I had enough cream in mine to turn it white, but still could
hardly stand to swallow the bitter taste. My folks loved the dark brew, but my
coffee-appreciation gene must have been recessive.
Blue smoke hung in the air from all
the people puffing on cigarettes. One girl with long black hair touched a black
cigarette holder to her lips, and blew a thin stream of smoke that swirled in
the hazy light. Her over-sized black sweater hit mid-thigh on her
black-tights-clad legs.
I slid my feet under my chair,
pushed myself close to the table, and tried to hide. As usual, I didn't quite
fit in. Ever since my family moved to Connecticut
from Latvia
when I was eleven, I had one foot in each country. I wanted both feet planted firmly
on American soil. But my parents constantly reminded me that our roots were in Latvia.
I'd asked Caprice what I should
wear, and all she'd said was, "Something somber." My black pleated
skirt and mustard-colored sweater with matching cardigan turned out to be as
out of place as I felt. I should've guessed, since Caprice had been wearing
mostly tight-fitting black for the past two years. Her white lipstick, however,
was new. Not a look out of Seventeen. Not that I was either. I tried to follow
the latest fashions, but seemed to latch on to them just as they were ending. I
was not what you'd call hip.
During most of the week The Exit
held readings. "Beat" poetry, radical writers such as Jack Kerouac,
that kind of stuff. I'd read On the Road.
I lost track of how many times the characters drove back and forth across the
country on the open roads. I wasn't sure there was any purpose to it, but I
envied them their freedom. My parents viewed American coffeehouses with
profound suspicion. They would be appalled if they they'd known I was here.
On Fridays, however, all sorts of
music, was featured. I liked music, and that was one reason why Caprice was
finally able to strong-arm me into going.
Caprice and I had become friends in
the middle of sixth grade, soon after I moved to Chatfield. I was extremely
shy. She lived just a block away then, and we found ourselves walking to and
from school together, and something clicked. She helped me with my English, and
radiated confidence. I admired people with confidence. Caprice enjoyed coming to my house where
there was a father and a brother. She had neither. She liked bugging my
brother, Karl, and he liked to tease her. Caprice and I became best friends.
For a long time she was my only friend, and even now I was not what you'd call
popular.
Caprice and I even had a ceremony to
make ourselves Spit Sisters. We were both too chicken to actually cut ourselves
in order to become Blood Sisters. So, instead, we spit into each others hands,
rubbing them together to "absorb" the saliva. We figured one bodily
fluid was as good as another. We cut a lock of each other's hair and clipped
the tip of each other's pinkie fingernail. We dug a hole and buried the hair
and nails. Then we marked the spot with a pile of round rocks we'd collected
from our back yards.
We started to drift apart in junior
high. When we started high school, Caprice announced that she'd dug up our hair
and fingernails and scattered them. She didn't want to be Spit Sisters any
more.
This spring I turned seventeen and
my brother joined the Navy rather than wait to be drafted. He left his old
Chevy in my care. That's when Caprice started getting friendly again. Maybe it
was our history together, as well as the car, that renewed her interest in me.
We certainly weren't in the same circle. Of course, my circle was much smaller
than Caprice's, so I was more willing to adapt. I struggled to find my place in
the world.
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| Ann Herrick |
"Well, Vija..." Caprice
lifted an eyebrow. "What do you think?"
"What do I think about
what?"
Caprice let out a loud sigh.
"What do you think about 'The Exit?' Is this a cool place or what?"
What could I tell her? That The Exit
felt like a journey to an alien world to me? That my parents, instead of asking
me the usual twenty questions, would've grilled me with thirty questions if I'd
told them my plans to drive into New
Haven at night. It was only a few miles, but to my
parents it was another galaxy. I told them I was going over to Caprice's. Since
she'd moved across town a couple years ago, it made sense that I'd drive. I
just didn't mention that we were not staying
at Caprice's. "Yeah... It's...cool."
"Maybe we'll meet some
guys."
"Me? Meet a guy? Yeah,
right." I crossed and re-crossed my feet. What if I did meet a guy? Then what! Caprice talked about trying to meet
"men from Yale." Yale! Guys from our own school made me nervous
enough. But of course I couldn't tell Caprice any of that. When she'd been
convincing me to drive into New Haven
and spend the first Friday night of summer vacation at The Exit, she made me
think I'd be a failure for life if I didn't.
Caprice just shook her head. With
her naturally flirtatious manner, she couldn't possibly understand what it was
like to be drab in every conceivable way. Besides, I wasn't interested in just
any guy. I wanted to wait for someone special. Of course, back in junior high
when I told Caprice that, she laughed and said I was afraid of life. Maybe she
was right.
"Cast an eyeball on him."
Caprice gestured toward a lanky, dark-haired guy in a far corner. "He's a
cool cat."
"Um. Yeah." He looked kind
of gloomy to me.
The lights blinked and the room's
discordant chatter turned to a soft murmur.
"Here comes Nolan Shar."
Caprice nodded toward the stage. "I've heard he even plays gigs in Hartford."
"Yeah, I know. You've told
me." A hundred times. As if Hartford
was the center of the music world. Of course, what did I know? Caprice said
this guy was a folk singer. I loved rock n' roll, especially Buddy Holly's
music. He was killed in that awful plane crash a few months ago, and I still
mourned him.
Nolan Shar stepped out of the
shadows, up onto the platform, carrying a guitar. It was rumored that he'd
attended Yale for a semester, then dropped out of school to sing. He was the
kind of guy Caprice would set her sights on. I saw him only from the back, and
took in the sandals, striped shirt, and chinos. A Kingston Trio look. As the
lights dimmed, except for one casting its gentle, muted light on him, he
turned. He looked out toward the audience--and smiled directly at me.
A swath of golden curls fell
casually on his forehead. He moved with nonchalant grace as he placed himself
on the tall wooden stool in the center of the stage. His hands gently cradled
the guitar. He spoke two words. "Aura Lee." Then his long, slender
fingers caressed the strings, and he started to sing in a quiet, yet almost
gravely voice. "As the blackbird in the spring, beneath the willow
tree..."
The music, I realized, had been used
for Elvis's "Love Me Tender." But these original lyrics had a
haunting quality, and filled me with a sense of peace and satisfaction.
"...Yet if thine eyes I see,
gloom will soon depart..."
Every word pulled at me. Or maybe it
was Nolan's voice.
"...Love and light return with
thee and swallows with the spring."
I applauded, too enthusiastically
apparently for Caprice, as her mouth was tight with displeasure. I realized
then that steady, rhythmic clapping was the approved method of The Exit crowd.
Still, in the dim, smoky atmosphere, I allowed myself an intense smile.
Through his set Nolan sprinkled in a
couple of lively songs with high humor. But the general tone of the music was
soft and yearning. After his last song, he simply acknowledged the final
applause with a nod, and put his guitar its case. As the lights came back on,
he stepped down from the stage.
My throat closed as he started
toward the door.
"Nolan,
wait." Caprice's voice shot across the table. She arched an eyebrow.
"Join us?"
Nolan stopped. He looked at Caprice,
then me, then at Caprice again. He shrugged, grabbed a chair from another
table, and sat down.
I stared into his peacock-blue eyes.
I could not open my mouth. Fortunately, Caprice never had that problem. She
launched into a monologue about Chatfield, folk music, and, of course, herself.
Word after word tumbled off her lips, effortlessly, like rain off a roof.
Nolan sat, apparently fascinated,
staring at Caprice, nodding occasionally, tossing out an "mm, hmm,"
now and then. Finally, the flow of words stopped. Caprice reached out and
placed her hand over Nolan's in a possessive gesture. "Can I get you a
coffee?"
Nolan shook his head. "Sorry.
Gotta split." He pulled out a pen, tore off a corner of my napkin,
scribbled a phone number on it, and shoved the piece paper at me. "In case
you'd like to talk some time."
Then he left.
For a second Caprice gawked in
stunned silence. Then she sat bolt upright. "I can't believe he asked you out!"
"He...he
didn't ask me out."
Caprice rolled her eyes. "He
gave you his number. Same thing."
"Yeah, right. As if I'd ever
call him. Girls don't call guys."
"Maybe prissy little girls
don't. But some of us do."
I looked down at the piece of paper
and traced my finger over the number. I folded the paper in half, and in half
again, then tucked it in my pocket.
From the moment Nolan strummed the
guitar I knew he was someone special. I suddenly realized what I'd been waiting
for. I'd always wanted to fall in love with a folk singer.
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