Stories we tell
We had a long weekend or some sort of break at the University of South Florida, so Steve and I decided to visit his folks in Miami. We rode the old BMW R69-S down from Tampa, about 300 miles. I must have had some sort of luggage, but I don’t remember. (This was 1968 or -69, pre-Women’s Movement, so I was still carrying a pocketbook.)
We got in late, and the house was dark. Steve quietly set me up on the couch with
a pillow and a cover, and went to his room to sleep. Strange house, sleeping in
my clothes, I barely dozed. But I was finally deeply asleep about 6:30 or 7:00
a.m.
“Whose little girl are you?”
I swam my way out of dreamland to see a handsome,
dark-haired man in a red plaid bathrobe standing by the couch. My response
(“I’m Steve’s”) was clearly pre-Women’s Lib; I hastily added, “Steve and
I came down from school last night.”
I struggled to my feet. Well-brought-up young women didn’t
greet strange men on their backs! We went to the kitchen, where he gave me
coffee, bless him. He asked, “Do you want some cold coffee to cool it down?” I
declined. Later, I realized he was using up the leftovers. We do that now,
Steve and I.
We talked for an hour or so until the rest of the house woke
up. I don’t recall what we said; it was probably banal getting-to-know-you
stuff. He read the paper a bit. I met the dogs: Mike, Porkchop, Freckles,
Loopy. (Was this the visit where Mike barked at me and scared me half to death?
Maybe.) And, of course, I met the rest of the family. Steve’s mom, Ray (née
Duey), was welcoming, if reserved. Adele, the younger of Steve’s sisters (both
older than him), was also welcoming and hardly reserved at all.
I had lived, since 1961, in a house of women: my mother, my
sister, me. I was used to quiet. I was used to alto conversation, and silences.
I wasn’t ready for four dogs, a cat or two, chaos, men. I had a hard
time understanding Steve’s dad at first, because he spoke in such a low
register! But I had already decided he was wonderful, a feeling I never lost, despite
all that was later revealed. He was Daddy, and he had stayed, unlike my own
father.
The rest of the visit is a perfect blank. There weren’t a
lot of visits; six months later, I had dropped out of college, and Steve had
moved into my mother’s house. We had separate rooms, but there was a lot of
nocturnal hall-crossing. Six months further on were the holidays, Thanksgiving
and Christmas. We briefly parted; he lived with his folks, I lived with my
sister in Miami not far from his parents’ house. We both worked, me at the
Flick Coffee House and the Honda shop.
In September 1970, I went to work at the craziest job I ever had: Receptionist in the men’s dorm at the University of Miami, from 11:00 pm to 7:30 am.
Steve was drafted into the Army, and soon went to Viet Nam.
