The Palmer Pool

13 | Blue

I reached into the corner locker to hang my wet dress, a sleeveless pale mint green one that was gathered at the shoulders and covered in tiny white dots, and changed into the dry red shirtdress.  Because I was hoping to arrive on a Saturday, I expected the pool to be busy.  So instead of wearing the dress, I rolled it up around a small purse sealed in a plastic freezer bag.

The purse was packed with a new tube of red lipstick, mascara, ballet flats, and a pack of gum.   Then there were the practical items: a tiny flashlight, a lighter, a mini first aid kid, and a folding multipurpose tool. It couldn't hurt to have a knife, pliers, wire cutters, screwdrivers and a bottle opener at all times, even if I might not be able to actually do anything with them.  My dad was really into talking through survival scenarios and it kind of stuck with me.  As I plunged into the glassy water in the middle of the night, I held the whole bundle in my hand, hoping that when I arrived it could pass as a wet towel.       

It worked.  Thanks to my retro bathing suit and my relative calm, as compared to the first couple times I clumsily splashed my way into 1953, my transition was seamless.  I felt pretty confident that I didn't give anyone a reason to notice me as  I climbed out of the crowded pool.   In front of the locker room mirror, I peeled off my new white bathing cap and shook out my dry hair.  I applied some red lipstick, which I immediately regretted when I saw my resting bitch face glaring back at me.  I looked like an angry clown.  After rubbing some of the lipstick off with my finger, I smiled in the mirror.  Maybe it wasn't so bad.  I left it on.

I had a few hours to kill before I could meet up with Pete for the dance, so I planned to explore old Palmer until I found somewhere secluded to nap.  As I turned the corner on my way out of the locker room, I came face to face with Rose, who was collecting admission fees at the entrance.  Her face lit up when she saw me and again I felt stupefied in awe of her.

"Hi!" She smiled warmly.  "Vanessa?"

"Yeah, hi," I said tentatively.

"We haven't officially met. I'm Rose Durand."

"I know," I said, dazed.

"So, how do you like Palmer so far?"

"It's great," I lied to satisfy her.  She would live her entire life in this town after all.  Though even I could admit that 1950s Palmer was kind of charming compared to my version.

Then there was a rumble as a familiar navy blue pickup truck pulled up.  Walter left it running at the curb as he jumped out and confidently approached the pool entrance.  I shuffled backward, wishing I could melt into the brick wall.  But it was as if I wasn't even there anyway because the two of them were in their own world, oblivious to anyone or anything outside of it.

"I have some bad news," he said, "the old man needs the station wagon tonight."

For some reason, it surprised me that his voice was nearly the same.  It seemed strange for someone so young to have a voice with such depth.  It was deep, but clear, missing that gravelly quality from a lifetime of smoking.

"Will we be going to the dance by bicycle?" she teased, leaning forward on her elbows and gazing up at him through her eyelashes.  I definitely didn't inherit my hopeless flirting techniques from my Grandma Rose.  She knew how to lay it on hard, and effectively, if Walt's grin was any indication.

"Well, the good news is that my brother is lending me his convertible."

"Ooo! I guess I'd better use extra Spray Net," she said, patting her hair.

"A whole can!"  He leaned over the counter to give her a quick kiss, then stepped back and admired her.  He was beaming; his face shone with the anticipation of the many years they would have together, and all the possibility that lay before them.  It was simultaneously inspiring and heartbreaking.  "I'll pick you up at seven thirty."