It was our second dinner at Front & Main in the bright shiny Lockwood Hotel.

It was Sunday, and we assumed incorrectly that Mainers, at least the ones we knew, would all be home at their tables. A new generation, we learned, dines at the bar.

It was packed, and although our tiny table was tucked up against a huge window looking out past their plaza to an unusually busy Main Street, we felt safe.

OK, we’re paranoid. I’ve always been paranoid; it got me safely through Tokyo where everyone, even then, wore masks.

It got me safely through New York and L.A. as well. She goes along with it, to avoid discussion.

As I sipped my Arnold Palmer, a middle-aged couple entered the front door, and stood waiting to be seated.

They were there for a few minutes when the woman turned, looked across the room, directly at me. Our eyes met for three seconds, maybe four.

I whispered and nudged my wife’s arm.

“That woman over by the door, in the blue coat.”

“What about her?”

“Remember the girl I told you about, the teenager from summer stock at Chautauqua, who tracked me down in the city years later, and I never learned how? Well, that girl …”

“You mean my favorite story?” She sighed and went back to the menu.

“I think that’s her,” I muttered. “Could that really be her?”

She dropped her menu. “That was when?

“Chautauqua, summer stock.”

“In the 50s?” She smiled, scanning the entrees.

“Yes.”

She touched my white hair. “I don’t think so.”

OK, it’s not her story; it’s mine, and it’s a sweet, old one.

Halloween in New York, the ’50s, in my new apartment at 274 West 86th St. in Manhattan.

There was a knock on the door. Trick-or-treaters on this street? I peeped through the hole. A girl, too old for candy, maybe not for tricks, maybe just treats.

Keeping the chain on, I opened the door.

There she stood in a blue rain jacket — over a crew sweater, over a white blouse, above a black watch skirt, over black tights — a college costume for Halloween? No, no, no, definitely real college.

Our eyes met, a moment of remembrance floated between us. We smiled. I dropped the chain.

She stood there dripping rainwater on my rug.

“Jerry?” she asked, flashing bright teeth that once, in the long ago, held braces, and opened her arms.

Her smile faded. “You don’t remember me, do you?”

“Time Out for Ginger?” she continued. “Chautauqua Lake? Summer stock?”

In an embarrassing pause, I kept smiling as I gave her a damp hug.

She smiled and hugged me back.

I remembered how we played teenagers in Ron Alexander’s play. She was a real teenager then — 16, maybe 17, or younger?

I was, what? Twenty-two, three? Cast as a teenager, because I looked like a teenager then, as I did for the rest of my 20s.

In that play, she recalled, I kissed her. And she slapped me.

I remembered the slap. She remembered the kiss.

And here she was at my doorstep, a college senior on a wet Halloween, drinking my cheap sauterne, like a scene from a sitcom.

There was a kiss, and another and another. Outside it grew darker. She reached over, took my phone and let it fall to the floor. Her hair was still wet from the rain.

The next morning she took a picture of me on the stoop of my 274 West 86th St. apartment. I still have it somewhere. I looked like a teenager.

Maybe she’s still alive, and will read this and write me, and forgive me for the sauterne and the breakfast eggs. In case this does reach you somewhere, I do remember your name, Miss Vassar. But it will not appear on this page.

The end (of her favorite story.)

J.P. Devine is a Waterville writer. 

Copy the Story Link