When Enough was Plenty

                                   Chapter 1 He’s Harmless

            Skipping along the ribbon of concrete that split our backyard, pausing to cross the gray alley, rough with stones and persistent potholes, switching to a trot along the Reids’ sidewalk, this one spotted with slabs of irregular slate, past their narrow house with white clapboard siding, whose metal front door, as if added as an afterthought, faced the main artery through town, I slowed and turned left onto the wide sidewalk and arrived in front of Hahnies Drugstore, a pale yellow, unassuming block of concrete, the hub of the town. I hauled on the heavy glass door. To my right was the small alcove where kids were kneeling, surreptitiously reading comic books and wiping the syrupy juice from their chins, the remains of candy purchased with money “borrowed” from the penny jar. We all knew that a stash of titillating rags was on the top shelf, where only an adult could reach. After Friday night movies, kids jostled for places at the long counter and ate dusty road sundaes from cold stainless steel bowls. On Sundays after church, fathers gathered at the same counter, firming up their bets on the upcoming pro baseball games.           

            I made my way to my favorite aisle, the one flanked with funny greeting cards on one side and every imaginable school supply on the other. I perused the pencil boxes, planning a purchase that signaled the advent of the school year. Those with one drawer had a long compartment for pencils and two smaller ones just large enough to cradle a pink eraser and a quarter for lunch.   An additional five crayons and a ruler lay in the two drawer boxes, but the real Cadillac had three drawers that included cryptic tools, whose identities that would be illuminated years later as “compass” and “protractor”. Kerry Dillon, an only child and an only grandchild, placed his deluxe pencil box prominently, like a shrine, on his desk in the beginning of each school year. Furtively, I took one off the shelf and pulled each drawer open and stared at the treasures inside. I would never ask my parents for such a luxury; they believed in austerity. “Enough was plenty,” my dad would say.

            Bikes were in the same category as pencil boxes. The closest I ever came to a new bicycle was a Christmas gift, except that it was a newly painted used bike. I didn’t complain, but it was heavy and difficult to pedal. I could never say that I took my bike for a “spin”. Rides on my bike were hard work. Every hill I pedaled up left me panting and my legs limp.

            Just last week, as I rode to the top of the hill in Plainfield Township, I saw mentally ill William Overbeck.   He was thirty some years old and lived at home with his parents in a small fieldstone farmhouse with a few chickens outside, scrabbling for bugs in the patchy grass, yet free to wander across the road for better pickings. Why was he standing by the gnarly apple tree with his back to the road? As I passed him, he turned. His trousers were unzipped. And before that observation really registered, he reached into his pants and pulled out a rubbery tube of flesh and pointed it at me. I gasped. My lifeless legs couldn’t pedal any faster. My bike wobbled, and for a moment I thought I would fall. Darn heavy bike. With each revolution of the pedals, a familiar pressure behind my nose signaled that tears were increasingly imminent. Each silo that I sighted confirmed that the ride was longer than I remembered. I wished that during previous rides I had noted the number of farms between Overbecks and my house.

            When I reached our white bungalow with Dad’s dental office attached, my bike tumbled to the sidewalk as I tried to extricate myself. Breathless and half sobbing, I ran into the kitchen and relayed the story to Mom.  

            “I could barely get away. The bike is so slow. He could have caught me.”

            My mother listened almost absently to my horrific tale.

“Oh, he’s harmless,” she said, and turned back to her African violet on the windowsill.

            And in the next breath she announced, “Tomorrow we’ll go shoe shopping. Ask your dad what kind of Danish we should bring from the bakery in Easton.”

            I knew that shoes were more than utilitarian coverings for the feet. The most simplistic childhood stories often mentioned shoes as an obvious sign of a person’s background as well as a nuanced description of character.   My father believed, almost religiously, in sturdy, expensive shoes; should be durable and practical and conjure up the spirit of earnestness. Shoes were symbolic; kids who wore fine shoes were well cared for.

            The car ride to Easton was about half an hour; just long enough to peek the anticipation of shopping for shoes. Shopping trips for shoes were bittersweet; summer was ending. Trying to erase the memory of the unzipped incident, I reflected on how much I enjoyed these trips with my mom. I remembered when we bought my shoes for kindergarten; I was so small that I could stand in the front seat with my arm around her as she drove. Now I sat next to her, studying her profile. As usual, I did most of the talking. Every so often she would turn her head and nod. She liked when I talked, and I understood that she didn’t have many words. No judgments. No criticism. I adored her; she was mine.

            We parked the car in one of the two city lots. The attendant, wearing matching khaki pants and shirt with his name on the pocket, gave her a once over. My mother was what my dad referred to as a real “looker”. We walked up the steep incline of Northampton Street, anchored by two large department stores and small specialty clothing stores tucked in between them. Now that I was going into sixth grade, I was no longer relegated to Stride Rite, where parents bought shoes for younger children. Still, my father insisted that shoes have straps or laces, which meant that we would bypass loafers one more time. We settled on a handsome pair of cordovan shoes with two straps. The salesman put my old shoes in the shoebox; and I had the thrill of wearing my new shoes for the rest of the day. As we made our way to the bakery, my euphoria mounted. I couldn’t resist looking down.

            But shopping trips weren’t just about new shoes; we proceeded to a side street, the walk still dotted with old cobblestones that hadn’t been replaced. Even at my age, I knew that the building we were about to enter possessed an antiquity that Wind Gap buildings did not. Straup’s Drugstore, whose glass storefront enticed us with the treasure chest within, was wedged in between federal styled law offices. Lining the long walls were large mirrors, separated by stretches of polished, dark mahogany wood. There were two aisles of shelves, neatly stacked with sundries and medicines. Unlike Hahnies, this drugstore had a pharmacy where a man, wearing a white cotton coat just reaching his knees, talked to customers and disappeared into a mysterious backroom, not only stashed with medicines that doctors prescribed, but perhaps, I imagined, ingredients for secret alchemies. At the rear of the room, patrons sat on round chrome stools embellished with circular ridges at a long wooden counter, kept shiny by yearly applications of varnish. Climbing onto the stool, I took my first rotation, enjoying the varying perspectives. The waitress, wearing a white uniform and a half apron, dutifully admired my shoes. Mom, who always seemed to be trying to lose those last five pounds, ordered her usual single dip of butter pecan ice cream. For me, a shoe- shopping day was celebratory; only a dip of vanilla ice cream, smothered with chocolate syrup and marshmallow, crowned with a swirl of whip cream and a bright red cherry would do.

            Our last stop, the bakery, would mark the end of our sojourn. Stepping inside, the air was moist, warm and redolent with spices, butter and yeast. Tiered artistically, the glass shelves displayed the pastries, stacked on paper doilies.   I reminded Mom that Dad wanted cherry Danish. I pointed to the cupcakes with the fluffy white icing and the pink sprinkles, and the lady behind the glass placed four of them in a   white cardboard box and carefully wound the string around it, completing it with a double knotted bow.

            Whenever I became anxious about the inevitable end of my carefree days, I opened my closet and took out the shoebox. Carefully unwrapping the tissue paper, I lifted the shoes to my nose. For a few moments the smell ameliorated the dread of impending school, and I would be transported ever so briefly to the wonderful afternoon in Easton.