Chapter Summary: Peter and a girl named Elise meet by chance one afternoon in early December of 1969.
It was unseasonably cold for the West Coast. True, it wasthe first of December, but the sudden drop in temperature had caught everyone off guard. Peter Tork, not a native to the region, already suffered from the habit of dressing a little too warmly. So, when the climate showed no signs of improving, he hadn't hesitated to dig out his old, green parka. The hood, lined with faux fur, had not come in so handy for years.
It was quite windy, and that was half the problem. Peter had the hood pulled tightly around his face, so that little other than his eyes could be seem from the outside, and everything he saw was feathered and gray.
He was on his way back to the Pad after a trip to the movies. Peter liked to go to the movies alone, although he sometimes felt a little self-conscious about it, perhaps pathetic on the days he was truly lonely. But he enjoyed the autonomy of sitting in the dark theater by himself. Besides, he tended to take an interest in movies none of his friends wanted to see: documentaries, children's cartoons, and the occasional chick flick.
Today, it had been an old silent movie in an art house theater: Fatty Arbuckle's "His Wedding Night," wherein he accidentally married Buster Keaton.
Peter chuckled behind the fabric of his parka.
There was a good twenty minutes of walking between the Pad and any major spot in town. Peter, however, was taking his time, mostly due to the fact that he could barely see. The simple act of crossing the street was a life-risking ordeal. Luckily, there weren't many cars around. It was Sunday, after all, and there was probably some big game on television. At least that's what the world seemed to do on Sundays.
So, when Peter spotted a girl unpacking a yellow Plymouth Valiant full of cardboard boxes, it startled him at little. Actually, she was only struggling with one box: a long, squat one, with an unsteady center of gravity, marked in black marker with the word "CHINA."
He stopped to watch her for a few moments, his head bobbing with the box as it swayed. "Do you need a little help with that?" He had to shout to be heard through his parka and over the wind.
She turned around suddenly, a little too quickly for the struggle the box was giving her. He couldn't see her face and, as she spun wildly, Peter realized she couldn't see him either. The only feature he could make out was her very short, black hair -- boyishly short.
She hesitated for a moment before shouting back a shaky, "No."
Peter took a step closer, tugging down the rim of his hood so his mouth had more room. "Are you sure? That looks a little heavy."
The girl backed away, directing herself toward a building Peter couldn't fully make out. "No. No, I'm fine," she said. "Thank you."
Although she was stuttering, her thanks seemed genuine, so all Peter could do was frown a little and continue on his way, convincing himself that she would have accepted a hand if he hadn't been a stranger. After all, there wasn't anything particularly menacing about a man wrapped up in a winter coat. Still, when he heard a voice crying for him to return, it startled him once again.
Peter turned to see her at the front door of the building, her knees buckling as the box tilted beyond her grasp. "I'm sorry," she called as he ran back. Her voice was still unsteady, but now understandably so.
"C-Could you please help me for a minute. I'm going to drop this."
He caught the loose end of the box just before it crashed into the pavement. Inside, plates and glasses collided with each other, muffled by layers of newspaper.
"I got it. I got it," Peter announced as he raised the box to a level position.
The girl laughed self-consciously. "I couldn't get the door open. Don't let go." She lifted her right knee and rested her end of the box on it, while she began to dig through her pockets.
"Here's the key," she narrated to herself, although loudly enough for him to just make out. "And...open the door. I'm on the third floor."
Peter nodded, without realizing there was no way she could see it, and followed her into the building. He couldn't untie his hood, so he was forced to keep his eyes focused on the steps.
"Third floor?" he repeated.
"Uh-huh."
"I didn't mean to scare you before," Peter said, as they rounded the first landing.
"What?"
"Did I scare you before?"
The girl was quiet for a moment. "No. I'm just, uh, not from around here. Not used to people helping...other people."
"Where are you from?" Peter asked.
"Baltimore." Inside, he could better hear the quality of her voice, which was low and perhaps a little husky. She even had a odd sort of accent, something like a cross between Texan and New England, which Peter could only assume was how people from Baltimore sounded.
The passed the second floor.
"I grew up in Connecticut," he replied with a grunt as they rounded another corner. Actually, he'd grown up all over, but Connecticut had become his short answer over the years. He hardly had to think about it anymore. "But I've been here for a while now. I only live a few blocks away."
By the time the girl replied with a distracted "Oh," they had arrived at the door to her new apartment. Once again, she balanced her end of the box on her knee, while she searched for the right key. Peter stood quietly and waited, his vision almost completely obscured by wispy fur. Once again, the girl started narrating aloud. "Swing around the door. Oh, it's dark in here," she murmured.
"Where do you want it?" he asked, although he couldn't see more than an inch in front of his face. So when the girl told him that he could place it where he was standing, Peter was thankful. They rested the box against the wall and the girl went in search of a working light switch. The only one she found was in the kitchen.
The air in the room was dusty and stale. Peter set to loosening his hood. He untied the drawstrings and slowly pushed back the ring of gray fur. He hummed a low note as he took in the apartment, which was much larger than he'd expected, although still a bit of a dump.
"Are you living here alone?" he asked, glancing sideways at the gray sky through a dirty window.
She seemed to be testing the water faucets in the other room. "No, my sister and my friend are moving in, too. They went out to find something to eat." She still seemed a little nervous and Peter realized that he'd asked an odd question, from a certain point of view. To make up for it, he began to fire off a string of local pizza and Chinese restaurants, so he would seem extra-helpful, rather than like a stalker.
He walked to the entryway of the kitchen, where he found she'd moved on to testing the burners. Finally, he could see her completely. Not only was her hair boyish, but she was a total beanpole -- so thin that she seemed taller than the average height she truly was. Her features, however, were pale and soft, and Peter found himself smiling at her for no excusable reason. She turned to face him and almost smiled back. He realized this was the first time she was seeing him as well.
And then came the awful, sick feeling that always clawed at his stomach when he met a pretty girl: the desire to run out of the room and hide, or maybe throw up. Perhaps both at once. The urge never failed him, so when the words "I should be going, now," slipped out of his lips, well, it was no surprise at all. The girl, however, seemed upset.
"Is everything okay?" she asked, taking the first step towards him she'd taken throughout the ordeal.
"Oh, everything's fine," Peter replied, avoiding her eyes--brown--and fidgeting with the knobs on the stove. The gas flame flickered to life. "Looks like your kitchen works."
"What's your name?" she asked.
"Peter."
"Elise." She lifted a hand for him to shake. Peter rubbed his palm on the side of his pants and allowed her to take it. "You said you live nearby?"
He nodded and took a step backward as he let go of her hand. Before, it had been easy to talk and be friendly: they couldn't see each other. All he'd known about her was that she had a set of china. Now, he had a face and a name, and a...kitchen. "On Beechwood," he answered, backing towards the front door. "You don't need help moving anything else do you?" Peter prayed she didn't.
"Oh. No."
"Good. I mean, well, that's good."
"The girls should be back soon."
Peter bumped into the wall before he found the doorknob. "That's good, too. It was nice meeting you." He took a breath and held it just long enough so that he could muster the courage to wave. She waved back, seemingly amused at his sudden fit of nerves, and a little concerned.
"I'll see you around," she replied, but Peter was already out the door.
~*~*~
Peter unzipped his parka as he pushed open the front door of the Pad. His hair settled at odd angles as the wind was cut off. He shook his head, so that everything fell back into place, and folded his coat over a straight-backed chair. Micky was curled up on the staircase, his face buried so deeply in a magazine that nothing but his hair could be seen. Mike was in the kitchen, staring down into a tall pot of boiling water. Davy was nowhere to be seen.
"Making pasta?" Peter asked as he passed Mike on his way to the refrigerator. He pulled out a bottle of Dr. Pepper and twisted off the cap. He needed something to settle his stomach.
"Doing laundry," Mike replied without missing a beat, of course. He raised a box of capellini and saluted Peter with a wry grin.
Spotting another pot full of tomato sauce, Peter picked up a wooden spoon and wedged himself between Mike and the stove. He sampled and approved. "Where's Davy?"
Mike shrugged, but it was Micky who provided an answer. "Arcade's got a new ticket girl," he replied, turning a page in his magazine. His voice was dry and disinterested.
Peter turned and lifted himself onto the ledge of the counter. "Oh, get this. Some girls moved in a few blocks away."
Micky dropped the magazine an inch and locked in on his friend out of the corner of his eye. "Pretty girls or just girls-girls?"
He took another sip of his soda. He wasn't sure he understood the question. "Well, I only met one. She was pretty." Neither Mike or Micky caught the sudden change in Peter's gaze: his dilating pupils or the glassy stare.
"How many of them are there?" Mike asked, stirring his pasta.
"Three."
"Bum odds."
Micky stood, dog-eared his place in the magazine, and tossed it onto the step where he'd been sitting. "Well, Davy's got the arcade girl, right?"
"Her name's Elise," Peter said, although no one had asked. He hadn't even directed the statement to anyone in particular. Micky glanced at him sideways, beneath lowered brows. His lips parted in a silent smile.