Page 3 of The House on Haven Way

When I was running with the Hellcats, I wouldn’t have missed a chance to score. When I was in Korea, near any decent base with some female traffic, I wouldn’t have hesitated.

Because I was young and stupid and always pulled back at the last second so I didn’t end up with little Johnnys in the Pacific or shaming my mother in Brooklyn.

And now...

I gotta house. Gotta job at Manny’s, and he’s a real decent kind of guy, the guy who oughta be married with three kids, and who volunteers at the church pancake breakfast.

When I’m kissing Nancy, I suddenly don’t think about just one quick night. I think about how I’d like to have something more than that—someday. Maybe someday soon.

I keep it in my pants, and I save up memories of soft breasts and soft lips for my hand to remind me of later that night. “See you again tomorrow?” I ask between kisses that make me dizzy.

“Mm, yes. But we don’t have to go already, do we?”

I look at the quiet sex kitten above me. “No. We can stay as long as you want.”

September 16th, 1954

“You’re not really gonna do it, are you, Miller?”

“What’s it to you, Rogers?” I pull out the baked ziti that I’m gonna serve to Nancy tonight. I’m gonna propose. We’re gonna go “all the way.” We’ve been rounding the bases for weeks, but I never head for home.

I don’t know why, since I’ve already decided she’s a keeper. Nance is perfect. She’s quiet, but she’s smart as a whip, pretty, and she’s not Mary Beth in poodle skirts with a rosary around her neck.

“I don’t think you’re in love with her. I think you like her, sure, because who wouldn’t? She’s funny, and sweet, and cute as a button. Pretty. That hair... Men would bite off doorknobs to wake up with that hair on the pillow beside them.”

I give Rogers a look and rip open a pack of Bisma Fizz and drop the powder into the glass of water next to my plate. I’ve been feeling more and more antsy in my guts this past month, and I finally talked to my older brother about it—the smart one. He diagnosed me in seconds.

Guilt. You’ve got guilt because you’re sinning with a nice girl that you oughta marry and do right by. You’re feeling like shit because you oughta make it legal, and you’re out here, keeping your options open.

His prescription? Get a good gold ring, bake a good Italian dish with Mama’s recipe, and get down on one knee—then make sure the wedding is in the next couple of months so your pecker doesn’t pop off and your blue balls don’t turn into bowling balls.

“The way you talk,” I stop, swirl the powder into a cloudy mess at the bottom, then drink it all down as the stabbing pain gets sharper, “you oughta marry her.”

“Well, someone other than you should. I don’t think you love her. I just think... I think...”

“I think things fell through with you and that pretty brunette nurse last month, and ever since then, you’ve been eating every meal over at Jack’s, making puppy eyes at my gal.”

“I swear I haven’t. I promise, Johnny. But she is an awful nice kid.”

“Kid? She’s twenty-two. Two years younger than me. I’m not some dirty old man snatching up an ignorant little girl who don’t know better. Believe me, Harry, she knows plenty.”

Harry looks at me, and something in his eyes makes me stop.

I don’t know that look.

I know a lot of looks. Lived with three brothers and a father who weren’t shy about telling me exactly what they were thinking, and a lot of times, the conversation started without a sound, just with a lip or an eyebrow.

Harry’s face is all tight. Unreadable. Closed for business.

“Oh. It’s like that?”

“Well, it’s like... You know what it’s like. I remember damn well that story you told me about the WAC you picked up in Honolulu.”

“And I remember that girl in Bensonhurst who almost broke your leg when you tried to fuck her when she was in her roller skates. We talked a lot in the last three months, but you don’t talk about Nancy like you love her. Or even like you want her. It’s like... It’s like you found a good shoe and it fits, but it’s not the pair you had your eye on. No, it’s like you want that Bel-Air in your drive, but you’ve got someone’s old Studebaker. It’ll do. It’s working. It’s gonna get you where you wanna go.”

“You’re talking about my woman like she’s an old junker?” I hiss, rubbing my side.

Harry’s eyes are cold. “You sure that she’s your woman? Maybe she’s supposed to belong to someone else.”