Within Close Range: Inspection

Mom and Dad’s bedroom is on the first floor of the house (at the southern end of everything) allowing them to frequently escape to its sunlit, coziness and away from the five, wild seeds they chose to sow.

This leaves the entire second floor almost entirely adult-free, except for the occasional laundry delivery from Mom and the much less occasional visit from Dad – more ceremonial than social – and usually the result of winter restlessness or weekend thunderstorms keeping him from the golf course.

We only know of his plans when we hear, “INSPECTION in ten minutes!” sound from below, at which point all present scatter from the upstair’s common room to our respective bedrooms, where we begin frenzied attempts to hide all clothing, toys, towels, glasses, plates, books and general shit we’ve left strewn everywhere.

Depending on his level of bother, Dad might only scan the surface of the bedrooms and bathrooms. It’s something each of us quietly prays for as he passes dressers, drawers, desks and closets, cluttered and crammed with quickly concealed crap.

If his heart really isn’t in it, he might demand some dusting and vacuuming, to be inspected later – which will likely not occur – and then disappear below. Knowing this, we’ll half-heartedly obey before returning to reruns, twitching on each other, and littering.

However, if Dad’s disposition is grim, he delves further, looking under beds and behind shower curtains, and, if he’s in a particularly foul mood, sliding open a closet door…

At which point, we’re positively doomed.

Within Close Range: The Backyard Ogre

Seeing Dad unreel the hose and stretch it out across the yard from my bedroom window, I throw on my still damp swimsuit crumpled up in the corner and race down the upstairs hall, broadcasting the new development as I pass each bedroom door.

All five of us are soon suited up and scattered along the edges of the backyard lawn, freshly mown and striped like a big, green flag.

Bound by woodlands, lake and home, the Backyard Ogre’s grassy realm is small, but lush and coveted. And crossing it, irresistible.

Standing in the center of his sodded sovereignty, wielding his long, green, garden weapon, the ogre goes about the business of tending his land; well aware of the surrounding interlopers hiding behind large oaks, lawn furniture, and each other.

Taunting him to take aim, we leap and dance and cartwheel across the well-loved lawn, attacking en masse from the front and sneaking up, one by one, from behind. But the Backyard Ogre’s lengthy weapon, and cunning, and speed, make him fearless and formidable.

All are quickly drenched, but delighted by the cool of the spray in the hot summer sun, and by Dad’s massive grin and momentary focus.

Wearing shoes of fresh cut grass, we follow the Ogre, when he deems the backyard fun is over, and heads to the cool of the pool.

Diving in, always slightly aslant, Dad finds his first target, who, giggling and excited, braces themselves for the certain lift that will come from below and hoist them high with his powerful arms, for a glorious, airborne instant before the splash.

Each of us impatiently waiting our turn, of which there are never enough, before the ogre’s off… usually to golf… while we stay behind, water-logged and pruny, but confident the Ogre will soon be back to tend to his kingdom again.

Within Close Range: Ice Cream and Convertibles

“Who wants ice cream?” comes the call from the bottom of the stairs.

I’m first to the car, just behind Dad (who’s more excited than anyone) and quickly take possession of the coveted front seat when Mom chooses a quiet hour alone over a waffle cone.

With all on board, off we go down Shoreacres Road, as the last of the day’s golfers drift down the final, shadowed fairway, toward the old clubhouse at the edge of the lake. Rolling along at country club speed, I look to the trees heavy with green and suck in the waning day, the moist lake air, and the strong, sweet aroma of fresh cut grass and wild, roadside onions.

Once on Sheridan Road, Dad presses the gas pedal and summer soon whizzes past, behind a veil of windblown hair continuously plucked from my inescapable grin. It’s a straight shot to Lake Forest. 

Twenty minutes to ice cream, to Baskin-Robbins in the old, brick building at the corner Deerpath Road – half a block from the theater where, once, waiting in line for a movie, Chris covered my eyes as a streaker streaked by.

We follow the train tracks all the way to town, past The Lantern and the best burgers in town; past Market Square where, in the late summer twilight, people are milling about with happy, summer smiles on their happy, summer faces.

Behind the brightly illuminated windows just ahead, I’m happy to see the ice cream shop crowded. It gives me more time to stroll up and down and in between people to inspect all 31 flavors of colorful, ice-cold goodness. 

Rocky Road, Mint Chocolate Chip, Bubble Gum are almost irresistible, but greedy for more, I order the Banana Royale, with its two scoops of vanilla ice cream, hot fudge, chopped nuts, whipped cream, topped with Maraschino cherry…

…and a dubious look from Dad. 

Eating the bright red cherry staining the peak of the whipped cream pile reminds me of Uncle Louie and his big Oldsmobile, with its massive back window filled with baseball caps; and his massive trunk filled with giant bottles, including the largest jar of Maraschino cherries I’ve ever seen.

Still unopened in our kitchen cupboard.

Loath to re-admit offspring with fast melting ice cream into his always pristine car, Dad leads his troop toward Market Square where we admire the stores from a drippy distance. 

Scanning the dimmed display cabinets and shiny glass countertops of Marshall Field’s Department store makes me think about the deliciousness of Frango Mints, and the distinctiveness of the peculiar, old lady in the first floor makeup department, who looks as if she’s been there absolutely forever. 

She fascinates me. 

Always, always, dressed in black, which perfectly matches her jet-black bob, accentuated with a precisely penciled-in, black as pitch, widow’s peak.

A steadfast fancy from her flapper days? 

Her happy days?

Past the old rec center and the stationary store, I pause at the window of Kiddle’s to dig at the fudge from the bottom of my bowl and marvel at the bicycles and basketballs, the helmets, t-shirts, bats and rackets covering every inch of wall from its old, wooden floor to its elaborate, tin ceiling. (Where someone’s day was made the day Dad bought bikes for all seven of us.)

From here, I set my sights on Market Square Bakery. On the same old, dusty display cakes sitting in the same, old dusty display windows. Knowing well what glorious, sugary delights will soon be baking on the other side of the “Closed” sign, making Mom’s after-school errands bearable. 

Always scanning the sidewalks and the square’s grassy center for a friend among the small crowds gathered around the fountain and benches, relishing the cool of the evening. Delighted by the sight of any familiar face and the feeling of community. Intimacy.  

So I make my Banana Royale last. Savoring every moment in every bite as we round the square and pass a real estate office where lighted photos of formidable houses make window-shoppers dream… big.

As the last of the ice cream disappears, and the end of the fourth side of the square is near, I know we’re almost to the car, but not until we pass my very favorite spot –  Pasquesi’s, now dark and quiet.

Inside, there’s a bell on its door that signals Mr. P. to look up from the back of his simple, splendid, tiny purple lunch counter, as he offers up the best and sloppiest of Sloppy Joe’s, the cheesiest of cheese dogs, and the warmest of warm smiles. 

Greeting all as if long lost friends finally coming home. 

Always making me feel that I belong.

Back at the car and forced to relinquish the front seat for a sibling demanding their turn, I lower myself from the cool, night air and, in the quiet of an ice cream coma, count the streetlights passing above, until the stars and the dark replace them, the crickets’ song grows strong, and my eyes grow heavy.

  

Within Close Range – Dad and the Double Date

Home from college and my dance card empty, as usual, Jean has ignored my protests and arranged a double date with her latest boyfriend’s best friend. So, I’m making my way toward the kitchen to re-hydrate my bone-dry nerves before they arrive.

Dad’s in the den, sitting in the swivel chair with his back to the window, pretending to be engrossed in a book. He’s also pretending not to see me as I slow and look his way. I know he isn’t happy about this evening.

With boys ever at the heels of Chris and Mia, he takes great comfort in my being almost invariably dateless. But really… is he finding “The Gardeners’ Dictionary” so captivating that he can’t even look up at the sound of my way-too-high heels skidding across the floor?

Unbelievable.

Can’t suppress eye roll.

And what about Mom? Still hovering in the kitchen, without a purpose in sight. For god’s sake! This isn’t my first date. I just need to keep moving. Rein in those jitters, drink lots of water, and think happy thoughts.

But how can I think happy thoughts when each step on this godforsaken brick floor – now dangerously slippery, thanks to my newly lost ability to swallow – feels like burning coals on my wish-they-were-bare feet?

Through my water glass, I watch Dad slowly swivel his chair around to face the oncoming headlights bouncing off the dimly lit den walls, as the car makes its final turn toward the front circle.

A swivel further left, he can see Jean and our dates get out of the car and step onto the patio, just of few feet from where he’s sitting.

The doorbell’s ringing, but Dad’s not budging.

Passing him on my way to the front door, I can see he’s swiveled the chair back around and is fake reading again (that book might as well be upside down)… still no eye contact.

Unreal.

Can’t suppress eye roll.

Take a deep breath, Anne, and turn the knob.

Jean’s smile is enormous. And frightening. As if there’s something she’s hiding – such as my date being about as happy to be here as I am.

Lame handshake. (What’s this guys name again?)

I hear swiveling. Dad’s up and he’s coming… and passing. No greetings? No teasing?

Unheard of.

(Eye roll mentally happening.)

And why is he stopping at the front hall dresser and pretending to be rummaging for something? What a sham. And now he’s coming back with empty hands?

I can almost hear the growl as Dad passes; keeping his fixed glare, swiveling like the chair, on both males until he quietly disappears.

I hope stepping out beneath the night sky will hide my humiliation and breath new life into this double date situation, but I’m not counting on it.

Is Dad really peeking through the curtains, which he just closed to spy on us? Even from here, I can see him shake his head and call to Mom, “Well, she won’t be marrying THAT one.”

Unlikely.

Can’t suppress eye roll.

Within Close Range – Curfew

Every mile or so, I glance to the clock in the middle of the dashboard hoping it will stop. Stop making me later than I already am.

The final mile along Shoreacres Road, with the windows rolled down to air out the smell of too many Marlboro Lights, I can hear the woodland creatures begin to stir and can smell the morning moisture from the trees and the grass and the great lake.

The last part of the driveway is with car lights off and engine hushed to a gentle roll, to where I park (outside the garage) and tip-toe into the kitchen – straight to the fridge – for an easy fix for the munchies.

With a kosher dill already half-eaten in one hand and leftover pasta in the other, I turn to head upstairs and see a light coming from under the door to the adjacent den. Regularly enraged by city-sized electricity bills, Dad enforces a very strict Lights Off Policy and regularly patrols the house, making sure it’s in full blackout mode before climbing into bed.

Seeing the lights coming from the den means only one thing, Dad is still awake… and waiting.

Perched on his favorite sofa, surrounded by portraits of his five, ungrateful children, he’s been watching for headlights through the large, paned window overlooking the front circle.

Growling at the dark, empty driveway.

My plan is stealth flight, but before I have a chance to make it up the first step, Dad rumbles, strong and low, “Anne Elizabeth.”

“Shit,” I whisper after the half-chewed pickle bite heads reluctantly toward my now knotted stomach.

Setting down the food no longer offering any comfort and opening the door to the den, I see Dad – arms crossed – sitting with his legs up on the sofa. Staring straight into my bloodshot eyes.

“Daughter, do you know what time it is?”

(I certainly do.)

“What on earth have you been doing until five o’clock in the morning?”

And without warning, the truth comes pouring forth. I tell Dad about hanging out with friends and making ribs, and taking those ribs to the drive-in movies to eat while watching zombies.

I tell him about the beautiful night and the roaring fire at the edge of the silky, smooth lake; about the moonlight so bright we could see our toes when wading in the cold, clear water.

I told him everything… nearly… and then I asked, “What are you still doing up?”

Confounded by my truths and the question, having to recalculate his intended tongue-lashing, he replies, “I’m just waiting for your sister to get home.”

Equally confounded by what just happened, already moving swiftly toward the kitchen, I nearly scream from excitement when I call out, “Okay. Good Night.”

Grabbing the pasta from the counter, I head up the stairs, pausing to look for headlights through the hall window, just above where Dad remains on watch, but only see the sky turn brighter through the silhouetted trees.

Mia doesn’t stand a chance.