I arrived in Charleston Late last night. I experienced apprehension coming down the gangway. Do I love Alice. I think so. I have said the word to Alice on innumberable occassions. We have never lived togethr, only shared a crappy bed in my SRO hotel room. Should I havr called it quits after she graduatred from college and returned home.
No, I do love her, even if I Don't know what love is. Her exile from New York was demanded by her parents. She had no idea what she wanted to do or live. Neither do I, but I love livingin the Village. It has become my home.
I entered the terminal. I had no photo of Alice. In the weeks since her departure I lost memory of how she looked, although I recalled a cat scratch scar on her cheeks. Inside I see her. Diety blonde hair, a warm smile, cute in her white cotton thigh-high shift. Very much like Patricia Neal in HUD. Yes, I am in love.We kissed and embrace with tenderness. Seemingly we have missed each other.
"I'm so glad you're here."
"Me too." I'm actually aglow in her presence and traced the scar with my finger.
Alice pointed at my leather bag. It hasd been my father's during WWII.
"Is that all there is?"
"I travel light." I had learned fhat gift from Alan Lage, an Iowan hippie vagabond who espoused that all we needed in life could be fit into a single bag. I also possessed a guitar.
Alice hooked my arm and we left the terminal as a couple. So far this reunion so good. We walked to the car. A Cadillac. A doctor's car.
LATER
The interstate descended from the airport into the State Capitol. It was late and few cars wee on the road and even less people in the city itself. After the last four years in New York. Charleston seemed so small. Then again so does my hometown. We crossed the Kanawha River to her suburb South Charleston. The river was lit by the chemical factories providing employment to the city other than the coal mines.
"How has it been here?" We have only spoken a few times on payphonea during her absence from the city.
"
"Not much gong on in Charleston. All of my friends have left. Even the ones in college.My parents want me to stay, but I can't stay here. I want to live in New York and I want to be with you," she added almost as an afterthought.
"Same in my hometown." Milton south of Boston had three traffic lights.
The car radio played a country-rock station. WKAZ. Dolly Parton's JOLENE. CBGBs had in on the jukebox. I was in the South. Alice and I sang along to the hit tune. We entered her neighborhood only lit by streetlights. It was the same in my hometown. The only sign of life. the blue glow of TV.
"My brother Bobby is asleep. My father is waiting for us." Alice drove the Cadillac into the driveway of a split-level ranchhouse. Alice parked the car and we stood on the lawn. A ladder leaned against the front. A tarp covered the plants. The shingles were smooth, but flakes of paint were peeling from the house.
This was a big job, but doable, if Alice helped as my assistant.
Her father came out of the house. Bob was tall. We shook hands.
"What do you think?"
"Doable, but we need more drop clothes. I'll start tomorrow, whether permitting."
"Then come inside. I'll make some dinner and you came get washed up in the besement. I got a fold-out couch down there."
Alice and I looked at each other. Separate rooms came as no surprise.
LATER
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