Welcome to the Greenhouse (22 page)

Maybe they got arrested. For loitering. Or littering. Or loving her too much.

It was strange being here again. So much happened since her last fiasco of a visit. So much had happened, but nothing had really changed. She drew near one of the tents, a smaller Aztec-blue model, took a deep breath, and poked her head in. At first she felt funny about it, almost like she was intruding into someone’s private domain. Until she realized it was probably their most common fantasy.

Nobody home. A red sleeping bag, and a metal coffee cup on a small folding table.

She didn’t try her luck again. She roamed through the camp, looking for loves.

There was a bulletin board on a pole outside one of the tents. A handwritten chart, with a series of names, all close to her heart, on the horizontal plane, and a string of numbers and month abbreviations in vertical columns. Check marks where the two values intersected. Marion mulled, trying to decipher them. It was a schedule, she decided. They didn’t want to overwhelm her, make her feel hemmed in. So one or two boys of summer at a time, in shifts, while the others worshipped her from afar, until it was their turn.

As she took a corner, stepping around a picnic table, Marion stopped, listening. Voices were coming from a large military-style tent across the way. The screened front entrance was open, but she ducked around the side instead. There she found a window and peeked in.

It was a mess hall tent, with long tables and folding chairs. A counter on the far end featured a coffee urn and cups, plates of pastries and fruit on the side.

The tables were arranged so that the group of perhaps twenty-five men were sitting in a circle. She recognized the faces, every last one.

They stirred up memories, moments caught in time. They were part of her life, even if they were just summer flings.

In the middle of the circle stood Marion’s very first boy of summer, Chip. Chip. She smiled at the sight of his face. Blond hair, decent build, dimples, etc. She had run into him occasionally since she let him loose, although not for a couple of years or so. He looked older, some silver in his sideburns, crinkles in the corners of his eyes, his stomach battling with his belt for supremacy.

“… she doesn’t like daisies,” said Chip, holding a sheet of paper in his hand. “Perhaps change it to violets.”

“But what rhymes with violets?” someone in the circle said. It was Dwayne, a summer love from earlier this year.

“’Regrets’ might work here, although it’s not really clear. But I think the larger problem with the piece is the form you chose. I would recommend rewriting it as a heroic couplet, and see how that goes.” He shuffled papers. “Next up? Anybody? Ah, the newcomer. What was your name again, my friend?”

“Alan.”

“Alan. You are so close to her yet. Your feelings for her must be very strong; she’s not someone you will soon forget.”

“That’s why I needed to put my feelings for her into words.”

“You’re halfway to success in the poetry game, so go right ahead, we’re all the same.”

“It’s sort of a haiku.”

“Whatever works for you works for us, too.”

“It doesn’t rhyme.” “Oh…”

Alan shut his eyes and began:

“I call this poem simply, ‘Marion.’”

Chip picked up something from a table. Something on a stick. Marion had seen it before. It was a head shot of herself affixed to the end of a wooden dowel. He held it up to his face like a mask. On her only visit to the camp there had been a dozen mock Marions running around, maybe more. Like a funhouse mirror, only the faces in the mirror didn’t stay where they belonged. Like the images had stepped out of the mirror and demanded to be recognized. It would have been sweet if one stopped to think about it, which she didn’t, because she ran away like she was on fire.

Sweet, she thought sourly. And how did I react? Like a Grade A government-inspected ratfink.

“Don’t close your eyes,” said Chip. “Open them and speak to me from your heart.”

Alan cleared his throat…

“Who moved the parking lot

“Flopping fish fail

“To dampen my love for you.”

Silence gripped the room, then Chip said, “Shit, Alan, that’s deep.”

The other boys of summer applauded mightily.

Marion moved away from the window, to the front of the tent.

“Now this demonstrates an important point,” said Chip. “Technique is important, but you have to pour your soul into your writing. You have to really mean it. You can just go the moon, June, croon route, but that doesn’t make your poem come to life. The quality of your writing is a reflection of what you feel inside. Don’t be content with trodding where others have trod before. Do you know why? In spite of the fact that we are all crazy about Marion, each of us has had his own unique and special experience with her. Each of us has a secret Marion place inside himself, a place that nobody else knows about, and that’s what you have to bring out in an interesting and meaningful way. Now, let’s go on to the next poem, this one’s by Jim…”

The bard got to his feet.

“Marion, Oh Light of My World,

“Every Time I See You,

“The Flags of My Heart Unfurl…”

“Stop it! Just stop it!” Marion cried, bursting into the big tent.

As one, the boys of summer turned to her.

As one, their faces lit up with delight.

As one, they rose and came to her.

She held up a definitive hand. “Stop.”

They obeyed.

“We need to have a talk,” she said quietly.

Their eyes dropped, their chins hung low.

“This is all very flattering, of course. What girl wouldn’t want to be thought of so highly… by so many of you? But I think it’s time we found someone else. It’s time we got back to living our own lives. Summer’s over, you know?”

“Then why are you sweating?” Chip asked.

The boys of summer perked up, hope in their eyes.

“Chip…”

“Marion, oh light of my life,” Jim began reciting, and at once, as if a switch had been thrown, all the boys of summer spoke with deep sincerity the words they had written.

It was cacophony. A poetry fusillade. Marion jammed her hands against her ears and insisted that they cease, but her voice was lost in the waves of ear-piercing adoration.

Marion ran.

She ran like she did the first time she visited Camp Marion. Panicked, embarrassed, frightened.

She ran home, the boys of summer giving chase. When she reached the safety of her house, she slammed the door shut, flipping over the security lock. Then pulled shades and drew curtains. Turned off the phone and punched on the TV. Only then did she dare nudge the edge of the heavy red drapes shielding her front window.

The boys of summer were everywhere—in the driveway, on the lawn, at the door. They looked happy, but in a strange, frenzied way. They were all reciting their verses using their outdoor voices. It must have been the heat. It must have been something she said.

Marion didn’t know what to do, so she powered up her phone and made a call.

“Nine-one-one. What’s your emergency?”

“Uh, there are people outside my house.”

“Prowlers?”

“Not exactly.”

“You know these people?”

“Well, yes.”

“Who are they?”

“They’re all sort of boyfriends, I guess.”

“Are they threatening you?”

“They’re reading me poems.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am. Could you repeat that?”

“Poetry! They wrote love poems to me and now they’re standing outside my house reciting them, all at once!”

“I wish my boyfriend would write me a love poem.”

“You don’t understand! I don’t want them here!”

“No, I understand. But do you? Listen to me: You need to cherish these fellas. True love is so scarce in this world that you have to nurture it when you find it. Don’t throw it away. Don’t shut the door. And most of all, don’t call nine-one-one.”

“I’ll get a restraining order!”

“Cherish them, as they cherish you.”

“I’ll write my congresswoman!”

“There’s no excuse not to love…”

Marion hung up, royally steamed.

And then she fell to her knees, sobbing. Deep, heart-shuddering sobs. She felt ashamed for calling the cops. She didn’t what else to do. She didn’t want to hurt her boys of summer, but she couldn’t go on like this. The only thing more unbearable than the heat was the love. She had to escape, get away…

The boys of summer swarmed her car as Marion backed out of the driveway. On the roof, the trunk, the windshield. Leaving lip marks and teardrops. They scattered helter-skelter as she hit the curb at the bottom of the blacktop. She sped off without looking in her rearview mirror.

The miles burned away. The other cars were just props. She was flying. Soaring far above her troubles, her life.

When the sky took a determined step toward darkness, Marion stopped. She didn’t know what town she had landed in. It looked like any other town. It was as hot as any other town. Maybe hotter.

Marion hadn’t hydrated since she left, so she found a local java shop called Bloomer’s Beans and went in for an iced coffee. A musician in a bolero hat and sunglasses was strumming a guitar, flamenco-style, on a squat stage in the far corner of the bistro. The joint was solid hipsters. After Marion got her beverage, she glanced at the bulletin board. A new town, but the notices were pretty much old news. Used ski equipment for sale, air conditioner repair services, midnight garage sales.

As she turned to find a seat, she noticed a young man sitting by himself at an orange table by the flyer-covered front windows. Nice-looking. No, very nice-looking! Marion kept staring at him, and when he finally noticed and their eyes met, she smiled.

He flashed her a quick, knowing grin, which she took as a green light and headed over. “It’s pretty packed in here. Mind if I join you?”

“Sure,” he replied easily, moving his drink to his side of the table.

“My name’s Marion,” she said, settling in.

“Rey.”

“That’s a nice name. Hoo-Rey!” “You make me laugh.”

“You have a nice smile,” she told him. “Your eyes light up in a real wild way.”

“Thank you.”

“I like the music.”

“So do I. That’s Nabetse. He plays here often.”

“Do you want to dance?”

“There is not much space, but yes, let’s dance.”

There was a narrow aisle in front of the guitar player, and this is where Marion and Rey cut a rug, sort of a combination flamenco/mashed-potato, sans castanets. It was fun, she was able to keep pace with him and when the song wrapped up the hipsters howled their approval. Best of all, they held hands on the way back to their table.

Marion felt giddy. “I’m not from around here,” she said, knocking back the rest of her coffee.

“No?”

“I’m from out of town. Like way out of town. Like I needed to get away, so I just started driving… and here I am!”

“Well I’m glad you found Bloomer’s Beans… What are your plans then?”

“I don’t know. I thought I did, but now I’m not so sure.” She looked at him dreamily. “Can I see you tomorrow?”

“That would be very nice. What do you like to do?”

“What do people do for fun in… ha, I don’t even know the name of this burg.”

“Bloomer.”

“Like the coffee shop!”

“We have an amusement park, Bloomerwood. Are you a roller coaster fan?”

“Haven’t done that since I was a kid. It would be a kick to try again. To be young and carefree again, nothing could beat that.”

“Let’s meet here tomorrow morning, say nine sharp? We’ll have a little breakfast, then head on out to Bloomerwood.”

“Maybe not too much breakfast if we’re going to ride the roller coaster!”

“Good one.”

“I can’t wait, Rey.”

Marion found a cozy motor inn to spend the night, her head spinning with her good fortune at having stumbled upon someone as wonderful as Rey. As she showered and got ready for bed, she was in disbelief at her own daring.
What a thing to do!
she thought.
Why did I wait so long?

First thing in the morning she made a return trip to Bloomer’s Beans. She was afraid Rey wouldn’t show, but there he was, already in line, ordering breakfast for both of them.

“Good morning,” she said, squeezing his arm.

“Good morning yourself. Sleep well?”

“Like a dream.”

Breakfast, açai-blueberry organic whole-grain waffles and a bowl of Count Chocula, was divine, and the roller coaster was a scream. The whole day was serious ecstasy. Rey seemed so different, so laid-back, not like the other boys. She could tell he dug her, but it wasn’t in an overbearing, off-the-rails way. It felt normal. It felt right. Everything about him felt right. It made her wonder what she had been missing all these years.

Their second date was a movie,
Battlefield: Hoboken,
one of those summer science fiction disaster blockbusters that seemed to be in the theaters year ‘round these days. Their third rendezvous was an old-fashioned picnic in the park.

As they polished off the last of the cupcakes and kumquats, Marion stretched out on the ground, pretending the dead grass was cool and green. I love the clouds, she thought. I love the birds singing. I love it all so much.

“I wish today would never end,” she said.

“As do I, but we should be getting back,” said Rey.

“Can’t we stay awhile longer?”

He offered her his hands, helping her up. “We’ll go for a nice drive. You’ll enjoy it.”

As they motored along the byways of Bloomer, Marion said, in a contented voice, “What should we do tomorrow?”

“Not sure.”

“I’ll think of something this time.”

“What I mean to say is that I’m not sure tomorrow will work for me.”

“I’m sorry,” Marion said. “I know I sort of skipped out on my life. I can’t expect you to do the same. I’m sure you have to work and stuff.”

“Yes, that too.”

They were silent for a few blocks, then Marion sat up straight.

“Wait a minute, this isn’t the way to the motor inn.”

Rey didn’t respond to her concern.

Marion got scared. She reached for the door handle.

“Don’t, Marion. It’s not like that at all. I live nearby.”