My First Time, Or When Summer Vacations Go Horribly Wrong --- It Was Heaven and It Was Hell

THE OUTLET

 Vickie sat in the bow.  Her tanned thighs rippled as she dipped her toes into the water.  Her hair streamed like golden thread spun from sunlight.  The blue of her eyes penetrated my soul, as did the musk of her perfume.

"I bet you've never kissed a girl," she said.

"Have so."

"A chest-squashing, tongue-sucking, breath-stealer that turns your knees to jelly?"

Vickie was 17 and from Chicago.  I was 15 and until this week hadn't left rural Iowa.

        "Park this boat.  I'll teach you."

 

        Feather Lake is long and curved.  Its jagged shoreline has hundreds of secluded coves, perfect for fishing or kissing lessons.  

        I like to fish, but I'd never seen a walleye built like Vickie.  I had loved her from hello.  

I selected a heavily-wooded inlet, which I later named "Paradise Cove".   

 

        It was our first family vacation and it was our last; it was heaven and it was hell.

        I came home from my paper route on a rainy spring night.  Laughter, and the aroma of mother's dumplings, attracted me to the dining room.  My sisters were bouncing. Father waved papers over his head.   

        "We're going on vacation," he said, "thanks to your auntie-a week in Wisconsin."

 

        At age forty, Aunt Maurine had married a wealthy Texas banker.  To celebrate, she had reserved a resort on Feather Lake. 

               

        Before dawn July 10, 1950, seven of us boarded the rusty ‘41 Ford panel truck that father used in his electrical business.  Mother had covered the plywood floor with pillows to soften our 400-mile ride.

        My sisters and I sprawled in the back and tried not to touch.  We inhaled dust and exhaust fumes.   We endured the jolts and rattles triggered by each bump.  In 1950, bumps were plentiful and you might average 40 mph.

        The open front windows provided scant relief from the heat that rode the gritty wind.

        It was dark when we untangled our sweaty bodies and collapsed into our bunks.

 

        Early the next morning I walked to the lake.  She stood at the end of the dock in shorts and a skimpy halter.  Her eyes examined me.

        I expanded my chest and walked tall.  My heart hammered.

        "Wow," She squeezed my bicep, smiled, then slumped onto the weathered bench.  I sat and untangled my fishing gear.

        "I'm Vickie."

        "Tony."

        We shook.

        "You got muscles."

        "Been balin' hay."

        She had vacationed here for years, would enter college in September and had a younger brother and sister.  Her mother was dead.

        "It's my last vacation," she said.  "They're usually boring, but this year I'm going to have fun…shoot the moon."

        She wrestled a small bottle of clear fluid from her pocket. 

        "What's that?"

        "Vodka.  Got Camels hidden in my room.  Dad's a minister; he'd kill me if…"  The words faded.

        Vickie's thigh pressed mine.  It sizzled where we touched.  She sipped, then passed the bottle.  I swallowed a thimble-full.  A torch ignited in my throat; flames trickled into my stomach.  I sucked air.

        "I can get more."

        "Great."

               

        I fished and memorized her breasts as we laid our simple plan.  We would rent a boat and disappear, ostensibly to fish, but in reality to play.

        "You skinny-dip?"

        "Of course," I laughed.  "All the time."

        My thigh was medium-well when we finished.  I scurried to the rental office.

 

        "Boat'll be ready at daylight, son," the fat man said.  A soggy black cigar dangled over his lip like a fat, dead worm.

        "Thanks," I said.  "Say, what's skinny-dipping?  Is that like chewing tobacco?"

        Laughter thundered from his quaking belly.  He doubled over.  The cigar plopped on the floor.  His eyes watered.  He clamped a handkerchief to his face.

        He still cackled as I exited and reunited with Vickie.

        "What was that about?"

        "I know some jokes," I smiled.

 

        We chugged into the cove, pushed aside a branch and entered a "room" the size of a tennis court. The smell of juniper and perfume still lingers in my memory.  The still water mirrored steep banks thick with evergreens.  Our ripples transformed the image into a shimmering impressionistic panorama. 

        "Perfect," she murmured.

 

        Before I could drop anchor, our lips were smashed and her tongue played ping-pong with my tonsils.  She nearly sucked my tongue out by its roots.  We kissed, squirmed and wriggled until my lips burned.

        Then she placed my hand on her breast.

        Jesus, did this necessitate a comment?  If so, what?  My mind whirled like slot machine reels.

        "These are so soft," seemed stupid. 

        Perhaps it called for nonchalance.

        "Great weather."

        I opted for silence.  Besides, my tongue was in a Hoover, and words require breath; I had none.  

        Hours later, we left Paradise Cove, my body limp as raw bacon, my brain in a blender.  I had acquired my PHD in anatomy, learned to drink, inhale, kiss underwater and discovered that skinny-dipping and snuff are unrelated.

 

        That evening Vickie went to cabin 7; I joined my family for a potluck in the community room.  Aunt Maurine spoke, then hugged each of us. "I hope you have fun," she said.  Vickie peeked in twice.  My heart jumped.

        What was left for me to learn?

 

        Next morning, Vickie applied the educational principles of repetition and reinforcement.  She was cotton-candy one moment, bronc rider the next.  We swam, talked, smoked, sipped vodka and even fished, lest we trigger suspicion by returning fishless.

Sometimes, we snuggled in the boat and said nothing.  In the silence, I felt her thoughts, deep thoughts, followed by tears.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing you can fix, Tony"

We explored the lake.  Vickie loved The Outlet, where rapids churned through boulders in a narrow channel of spitting turbulence.  Fifteen feet below, in a foaming tumult, Feather Lake became Pine Lake.  A rusted safety cable spanned the water above the rapids.

        A fallen pine bridged the Outlet's torrent, its trunk bleached bone-gray by the sun and slickened by the feet of countless daredevils.

        "Beautiful," Vickie said.  "I'm going across on the tree."

        "Like hell."  We roared away.

        We returned to the Outlet frequently, beached the boat and walked to the steep path beside the falls.  Vickie was mesmerized by the roaring tumult.

               

        As the days passed, a cloud darkened my soul.  It was sadness, guilt, fear that I wouldn't see her again.  By Friday, my heart ached like a bad tooth.  Vickie also hurt.  She was silent during the trip and crying when we anchored.

        "Just hold me," she said.

        I had no clue how to respond.  We slid down in the boat.  Her words erupted…between sobs.

        "I can't go home…just can't…"

        "We leave Sunday."

        "No…don't leave me…" She wiped tears.  "Let's run away…tonight…vanish."

"How?"

"We'll steal a car."

"Steal a car?"  I nearly vomited.

        "Would you, Tony…steal a car…and go with me?"

        "You're kidding."

        "You're all I've got…I love you."  She pulled away.  "Take this…it was mother's."  She transferred a gold ring from her hand to mine, then put her head on my chest and shuddered.  The ring felt hot.

        "OK, Vickie."

        "You'll…run away…with me?"

        "Yes."  My heart hammered.

               

        For an hour, she berated herself.  She was: stupid…ugly…didn't deserve to live…no one would forgive her.

        "That's nonsense.  You said you have a scholarship, you are the prettiest girl I've seen and your dad's a minister.  His job is forgiveness."

        "In your dreams.  My dad's a…," she stopped herself.

        Her tears subsided.

        She squeezed me. 

        "How many children do you want, Tony?"

        "Shit, Vickie, I'm in tenth grade."

        "I have a dream, Tony," she whispered.  "A white house in a village…my children…under an apple tree…a garden…beans…corn.  I've cared for my brother and sister since mother died, but…I want my own kids…a husband like you…to cook for…to love…that's all I want."

        "Car thieves live behind bars…"

"I know, Tony, It's a stupid plan.  But I can't go home…I can't go to college."  

"Of course you can."

"There's more…it's a mess…I only want kids…real love…an apple tree…we have one behind the parsonage…it was my hiding place."

 

         Suddenly she rose.

        "Take me to the Outlet."

               

        I anchored to the safety cable.  We walked to the rapids and slid down the steep, uneven path to Pine Lake.  Then we retraced our steps.  She squatted, elbows on knees, chin in hands and rocked, her eyes studied the water.  Above the roar, a low droning hum vibrated from her chest.  I could have been on the moon.  I sat and counted the boats below the Outlet, obviously a favorite fishing spot.

 

I sensed movement, snapped my head in time to see her sprint to the tree.  I stood, lost my footing, skidded five feet before I got stopped, clawed up the trail.  But now she was out over the water. 

"No, Vickie."

"Stay back."

Her voice was hard as the boulders below her, but her expression was relaxed, peaceful.  She studied the water. 

"Please, Vickie."

Then her eyes found mine.  She blew a kiss, smiled and said, "I love you."

With her hands in the prayer position, she fell forward, head-first into the rocks.

A sickening thud, a red spray and then the foam on Pine Lake turned pink.

I slid down the path.

"No.  No.  No.  No."

I plunged into Pine Lake and thrashed through the foam, clawing for an arm, leg, wrist, a clump of golden hair. 

The fishing boats roared. 

I went deep.  My arms flailed.  I had to find her.  The current drove me out and downward.  My lungs were on fire. The water grew frigid.

The stolen '49 Ford was panther quick.  I slid the corner doing 60, only one hand on the wheel.  Gravel spewed thirty feet.  Sirens screamed from our roiling dust cloud.  Two spider-webbed bullet holes scared the windshield.

"Give it hell, Tony."  She squeezed my right hand.

She'll never have her white house now…

"Give it hell, Tony," she wailed.

"Please it hell, Tony…"

That didn't make sense.

"Please get hell, Tony…"

"Please get well, Tony."

My eyes opened.  Mother squeezed my hand.  The faces came into focus.  My father, my sisters, aunt Maurine, and one face I didn't recognize, a stubbled clump of burned leather that I later learned belonged to my rescuer.  White hankies flashed up and down like semaphore flags.  They harvested a generous crop of sister tears.

Mother kissed my hand.  "Thank God," she wailed.

They found Vickie the next day two hundred yards below the falls.  We stayed until Wednesday.  Aunt Maurine paid everything.  The sheriff quizzed me three times.  Reporters buzzed like flies.  Our photographs appeared in papers across the nation, including the Des Moines Register.  The ride home was the longest of my life.  Constant thoughts of Vickie, a blend of love, guilt and grief, sat like a bowling ball in my stomach for nearly two months before gradually dissolving to a tolerable size. 

The papers dished the news in sporadic agonizing jolts, like horse kicks to my chest.

First, the cause of death was undetermined, either accident or suicide.

A few weeks later, the autopsy disclosed that Vickie had been three months pregnant.

In November, authorities placed Vickie's siblings in foster homes.

Two weeks later, Vickie's father was fired.

Just before Christmas, he was arrested on undisclosed charges.  He was released to await trial, but the next morning his frozen body was found hanging from the apple tree behind the parsonage…Vickie's hiding place.

 In January, I received a large envelope from Feather Lake Resort with this note:  Dear Sir: We found the enclosed letter and package of cigarettes in a mattress in cabin 7. 

Inside the large envelope was a small one addressed to me.  I opened it.

 

July 14, 1950

 

My precious Tony,

 

Please forgive me.  If I were God, I would raise your children in a white house with an apple tree.  I am gone, but my love for you will endure until the stars fall.  There is much I couldn't tell you.  Only that my life is a mess.  Please don't forget me.  

 

Forever, Vickie.

 

It has been fifty years.  I have a loving wife and grandchildren.  Coincidentally, our house is white with an apple tree.  I still have the ring in my jewelry box.  My wife asked about it once.  "A gift from a friend," I said.  I can still see Vickie's last smile.  And after fifty years, I occasionally slip the ring on my finger.  It is still hot against my skin.

 

Marty RicKard Bio

Marty RicKard attended William Penn College, Iowa State University and University of Southern Mississippi, from which he holds a BS degree in journalism and photojournalism.  He also has a Masters Degree in photography, in addition to the Craftsman, CPP, and A-ASP degrees.  Marty spent two years as a technical writer for White Motor Company, and has worked for the Charles City Press, Mason City Globe-Gazette, and Davenport Times-Democrat.  He was co-owner of the weekly New Sharon Star, where he was twice named Iowa Master Columnist for his article, which was syndicated in twenty Iowa newspapers.  For more than a decade Marty's regular column appeared in the Professional Photographer magazine.  He has been published in many other magazines and newspapers, including Writer's Digest, Writer Advice, Golf Digest, Resource Magazine, Picture, Range Finder, and Darkroom. In addition to his writing credits, Marty has won numerous photography awards, has lectured in 48 states, and has traveled internationally as lecturer, and judge.  He was one of thirty from the U.S. to participate in the first cultural exchange with China in 1986. He currently is a regular columnist for Lens Magazine, and a full-time writer of fiction and poetry.  He is the author of two poetry books and one volume of short stories.  He is an entertaining speaker.

» left by Susan Thom

3 years 283 days ago.
174 fans.

hi marty, wow! this was a really interesting, well written article that drew me in and made me wish i could read faster. i felt the story, no doubt about it. wonderful job, best regards, sue i just want to cry for vickie, and tony, but especially, vickie!

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