The Palmer Pool

22 | In the Wind

I woke with a throbbing head and dry mouth.  I stretched and yawned loudly before realizing that I was still on the couch in the Harrison's living room. Church bells chimed in the distance. I heard footsteps nearby and pulled the blanket up to my eyes and shrank into the scratchy cushions even further. A white mug appeared in front of me on the coffee table.

"It'll make you feel better."

"Yay," I croaked.

When I looked up to thank Pete, I flinched when I saw it was actually Frank standing over me. A trace of amusement flickered on his face before he walked away.

I sat up, still in Joan's party dress, and sipped the coffee. It tasted like hot, burnt dirt water. I rubbed my constricted waist and remembered my duct tape girdle.  Pete appeared in the hallway in a fresh dress shirt and pants. He looked into a mirror on the wall, focused on completing the knot in his tie.

"Where are you going?" I inquired groggily.

"Mass," he said quietly.

"What?"

"Mass. Church."

"Why?"

"Because it's Sunday." He leaned his palms on the back of the couch and said in a low voice, "Might be best to pretend you're still sleeping. We'll be gone an hour. I'll leave the door open some so you can get out. I'll pick you up...how about in front of the school?"  Sylvia's heels clunked on the hardwood stairs. I flopped back down on the couch, covered my head with the blanket and laid still.

As I listened to the family car roll down the gravel driveway, I tortured myself imagining the girl Pete would fall in love with and marry. She would go to church every week, her white-gloved hands holding her hymnal high even though she had the songs memorized. She'd own all the proper, complicated underwear:  a crinoline and a girdle and stockings.  She'd say 'gosh darn' when she was at her most pissed off and cook wholesome, well-rounded meals every day. And just by being with Pete, even for a few days, I could have been keeping him from her, whoever she was.

Before slipping out the door, I peeked in the kitchen hoping to find some leftover breakfast sitting out, but there was no food to be found. I walked to the pool to change into a different dress, but it was closed. So I waited for Pete on a bench in front of the high school.

"Alright, let's get out of here," he said when I slid into the passenger seat.

"Where are we going?"

"To the city."

"What city?" I asked with unease.

He laughed. "Detroit."

"Why?" I inquired in the same tone that I had used earlier that morning when he said he was going to church.

"You'll see when we get there."

Soon I realized how I missed passing over the expressway on the way to my dad's house the first afternoon I spent with Pete. There was no expressway. We traveled straight down Gratiot Avenue, watching farmhouses, deep red and whitewashed barns, and flat green fields pass by for the majority of the trip. Pete's truck never reached a fast enough speed to force us to roll the windows up, and I smiled into the warm breeze snapping at my face and hair. Between the rumbling of the engine and the wind whipping through the cab, it was too loud to talk much. We kissed at every stoplight.

Gone was the seemingly endless corridor of strip malls and fast food restaurants on the way to Detroit. We passed through a few small town main streets and suburbs and when we reached the city the change was abrupt.

Eventually Pete pulled into a parking lot and we got out of the truck. I hadn't paid attention to the front of the building we were standing behind, and he caught me eyeing the nondescript burgundy building with trepidation.