SERIES: Always Watch The Clock

UNIVERSE: Always...

AUTHOR: Missy

EMAIL: None

PART: 1 of 1

RATING: PG-13 (Adult thematic material, language, sexual situations)

PAIRING(s): LDF/LK; SF/CR; RL/AS; FD/EB AF/OC; H/E (See Notes)

DISTRIBUTION: To Myself so far; any other archives are welcome to ask, but disclaimers must be included, my email left intact. send a URL, and provide full disclaimers as well as credit me fully. Please inform me if you are going to submit my work to any sort of search engine.  Please do not submit my work to a search engine that picks out random sets of words and uses them as key words, such as "Google"

 Please contact me in order for this story to be placed on an archive, or if you want know of a friend who would enjoy my works, please email me their address and I will mail them the stories, expressly for the purpose of link trading. MiSTiers are welcomed! Please do inform me that you'd like to do the MiSTing, however, and send me a copy of the finished product. I'd also love to archive any MiSTings that are made of my work!

CATEGORY: Romance, Drama

FEEDBACK: PLEASE?!

SETTING IN TIMELINE: California, Post-I Do, I Don't

SEQUEL TO: Ever After, Always A Bridesmaid, Always Prepared, Always a Mess, Always Apologize First, Always a Challenge, Always Too Much Lasagna, Always There For You, Always About You, Always Looking In Higher Places, Always Something Else, Always Hide Your Waterballoons, Always Safe, Always Calm Before a Storm, Always Say You Love Me, Always Kiss Me Goodnight, Always Remember Walking in the Sand, Always Something There To Remind Me, and Always Ring It In.  Twentieth in this continuity!

SPOILERS FOR:  The entire universe, I Do, I Don't.

SPOILLER/SUMMARY:  New Year’s Eve 1965 means the promise of a fresh start for our three couples, one of which learns something new about old friends of theirs and another of which faces the challenges of a change in class.  The third couple tries to revisit their old selves, war wounds or not.

***

“Ba-NANA, OH BANANA!”

“Thank you –“

“BA NA NA!!!”

“I don’t think we’ll need you to-“

“NAN!”

Laverne cast a quick sideways glance at the stage, wicked the countertop one more time with her old teeshirt rag, then took a step back and admired the hard work that she and Lenny had put into the place.

It had taken a week- from escrow to turnover – to get things ready for their New Year’s Eve opening night.  The first thing they had done was sand-blast and varnish the tables and chairs a darker, nearly black shade.  Then they had carefully re-arranged the seating- a ring of six tables surrounded the stage, another ring of twelve extended from the reception desk on either side, ending where the coffee bar was located.  They had bought their reception desk at a fire sale – it looked smoky and gave the place a professional atmosphere.  The phone had just been hooked up and it sat regally, poised to take in questions.  Each table bore a midnight-blue jar of pussy willows and a handwritten menu, dark wine colored place-settings and napkins.  She and Lenny had polished everything until it shone, washed the brass fixtures until they glowed, rinsing again and again the gigantic coffee urn until it brewed a sweet-tasting but strong cup of joe. 

The rest had all been details.  Buying quantities of red mock-velvet from Woolworths and, using Laverne’s home economic training, making them into curtains, then turning the rest into decorative drapery to class up the bare brick wall.  Turning cheap cotton ballast into napkins.  Scrounging through five-and-dimes, flea markets and swap meets for coffee cups, glasses, saucers, plates, mugs, silverware, decorative art deco-esque wall sconces, and a starving-artist quality oil painting to hang behind the bar.  The final purchase had been two couches, two easy chairs and an end table, all colored red and all sale items from the closing Brad Street Burlesque house.  Laverne smirked as she remembered Lenny’s almost misty nostalgia at buying them.  They’d hammered wheel struts into their bottoms so that folks could comfortably pivot themselves around to face the stage – or, more accurately, so she and Lenny could vacuum everything easily.  They had spent the previous day carrying everything belowground, then carefully arranging them in a social way at the center of the room around a magazine-covered coffee table.  It was more fun than modernizing the dishwashing equipment, dealing with the health inspector and waiting patiently for a liquor license.  Haggling out a contract with Laverne’s cousin Freddy to use some of his pastry dishes, splitting the profits fifty-fifty, and then using his supplier to buy the best Columbian roast and an array of Italian syrups to flavor their coffee hadn’t been any easier, either.  They’d bought dairy-fresh cream, butter and milk from his supplier as well, as well as fresh honey and sugar.  They’d also contracted with a local small business for jam and preserves.  The brand-new mini-fridge under the bar rattled with all of these provisions, the bar with soda and beer fresh on tap.  Ice maker whirling away as it froze.  Laverne struggled to think of what they’d forgotten, but her copious listmaking had kept her and Lenny on-task when they’d have usually drifted away.

The place had character, she reasoned – and she and Lenny had done everything they could to sharpen its charm.  They had spent the last of the profit they’d made in the turnover of Dead Laslo’s to Emmy on some festive decorations for the night’s celebration –glittery garlands and Christmas lights, all kept carefully in-line with local fire codes - and a night’s pay for the prospective band. 

Her husband sat at the front table, scratching away at a call sheet with his first communion pen.  Auditioning acts for their first week in business had proven more arduous than he imagined, and they were down to deciding between a week of open mike nights or letting Lenny himself play all night.  Considering how large the crowd they expected the later seemed like less of an option – she needed him to help her tend bar and wait tables, even though the idea of him trying to balance a tray on his shoulder made her nibble her lip in worry.

“Number 12, you’re on…” Lenny called.

The two women occupying the stage were sort of scruffy, Laverne thought to herself.  The taller one had a faded white poncho with cigarette-yellowed edges, her jeans torn across each knee.  The shorter one’s rounded figure was masked by a red cape and an old tank-top, her long blonde hair shadowing her features.  Her impression softened when their sweet harmonies filled the air.  They began together, met each other in the choral harmony, then rhythmically chugged to the conclusion.  The effect was pretty, like snow drifting alone through the night sky.

Laverne had begun the short trek from around the bar to Lenny’s position, but he had jumped to his feet, was eagerly shaking their hands.  “That was wonderful, wonderful – can you start tonight?  We can’t pay you much, but…”

“It’s cool, man - we’ve been busking at the Shop and Save all week.  Be nice to be out of the cold.”  The taller one was cool as ice, her red hair flipped back behind her ears.  “How much are you offering?”

“A hundred bucks to split.  But we’ll let you pass the hat for tips.”  Lenny sounded vaguely abashed by his confession.  “But if we get lucky and things take off, pay’ll go up.”

“Sounds cool,” she shrugged. 

“Fuckin’ wicked,” the other said. 

“By the way, she’s Susan,” the redhead explained, “I’m Mary Ellen.  Bill us as The Birds of Paradise,” she smiled, offering him some hand-printed leaflets bearing carefully-copied logos.

“I can do that,” Lenny said.  Laverne watched another round of handshaking before the two women bent to their amps, getting ready for a soundcheck.  They’d be playing from eight to one that night – and they hadn’t even balked at the idea of such a long performance at such short notice.

Lenny collapsed against the coffee bar, a small smile on his face.  “One thing down, two more thingies to go.”

“Only one more,” she pointed toward the spiral staircase, and the fluffy yellow skirt of his sister as it descended into the establishment.

Lenny stifled a smile behind his long fingers at the sight of Emmy.  She was dusted all over with a bright white cloud of paint, wobbling toward them on a broken heel.  Mikey was at her side, accompanied by a shorter, bespectacled young man with milk chocolate-colored skin.  Emmy gave Mikey a friendly nudge toward the couches.  “Remember, boys – homework first!”

“And after you finish that, I got a little something you can do,” Lenny said, picking up a box of markers and a ream of brightly-colored pasteboard – putative signs for the BC’s opening night.  He ambled over to babysit and instruct, leaving Laverne to watch him with an amused eye.

“Don’t try to help them with their math!” Emmy yelled to her brother, then turned back to Laverne, “he’s awful at math.”  Emmy heaved a little sigh.  “How convenient.  I wanted to talk to you alone, Laverne.”

Laverne snorted incredulously at the notion.  “No, Emmy, me and Len ain’t having a baby yet!”  This had become his sister’s latest refrain – once a point an insinuation about the purity of their marriage, now a “hint” that Laverne somehow wasn’t living up to her duty as a woman by providing the next Kosnowski heir posthaste.  A tiny smile curled Laverne’s lips – Emmy didn’t want to know how well she’d been satisfying Lenny every night….Laverne bit her lower lip and straightened her shoulders.  Babies weren’t in the cards for them yet, and wouldn’t be until they had an apartment and a steady income. 

“Not that,” Emmy sighed.  “And…” she bit her lip, “I’m sorry for teasing you lately…”

“Lately?”

“I admit it wasn’t very mature of me,” she gestured weakly with her hands.  “I’ve been having…difficulties…with Arthur, and I’m afraid I took it out on you.   You understand, don’t you?”

Laverne felt her stomach lurch.  Please don’t ask what I think you’re gonna ask….she mentally begged her sister-in-law.  “Well…”

“I honestly don’t understand that man,” Emmy sniffed.  “He holds open doors for me but won’t pick up the tab at dinner!  He goes on and on about independent chicks!”  She sniffed again.  “How did you handle him when you were together?”

Laverne squeezed her eyes shut.  “Pleasedontaskemesomethingdisgusting…”

“Huh?  Not HANDLE-handle.  I mean how did you manage to get along with him for so long?”

Laverne felt blood rush back to her cheeks.  “Fonzie’s easy to get along with.  He likes girls who ain’t phony.”

Emmaline sighed and shook her head.  “What sort of world are we living in, Laverne?  It’s always ‘Free Love’ this and ‘my rights’ that!  What happened to the world we grew up in?”

Laverne shook her head.  “Emmy, snap out of it.  We were brought up by our dads on the lousy side of town.  That wasn’t exactly the Cleavers and it wasn’t too bad – and what we got now is even better.”

“You know what I mean,” she drew her gauzy white wrap closer around the shoulders.  “I just wasn’t meant to make my own way in this world, Laverne.   I always thought I’d have a nice guy to take care of me, give me a house and a lot of babies,” she smiled, “that’s why I’m really started Dead Laslos back up again.  As soon as Arthur sees what I can do, I’ll turn the place over to him, we’ll get married, and things’ll be like they used to be.”

Laverne nearly chocked on the mouthful of coffee she’d been sipping.  “Are you nuts?!  This is Fonzie!  He hates being tricked!  And besides, he’s got his plate full with Al’s.”

Emmaline slung back her head and let out a deep guffhaw.  “Dear Laverne – you haven’t noticed my charms, have you?”

Laverne dumped the rest of her coffee down the drain of her new stainless-steel sink.  “Emmy…”

“I’m already competing with half of the women in Milwaukee for Arthur’s attention  - and I’m holding it.  All I need to do is raise the stakes a little…”

“I think it’s a dumb idea.  And you’ve got a great chance here, Em,” Laverne urged.  “Don’t you wanna know what it’s like to be your own woman and not be accountable to nobody?”

“Stuff like that is reserved,” she hitched a thumb in the direction of the two raggedly-dressed women on the stage, “for people like them.”

“Watch it, Em,” Laverne said.

“Oh, nevermind,” Emmy sighed.  “I didn’t think you’d understand.  Your situation with Leonard is so different.  So…odd…” She turned and stalked over to the couches, where the three young men were buried deeply in concentration. 

And Laverne was left behind to fume.  Weird was a relative thing, she decided, especially if you were in love with a Kosnowski.

*** 

“…And that’s when I told Gene that I wouldn’t get out of bed unless every red M&M was picked out of the bowl!”

Shirley tilted her head back, managing a loud, fake laugh.  Hopefully, none of the rest of the people gathered around her knew how desperately untrue her reaction was.  A quick glance told her every eye was on Catharine, who was in the middle of an anecdote about a drunken evening at Ciros with Lupe Velez.   

“Excuse me,” Shirley smiled, creeping past a balding grey-eyed character actor whom she vaguely recognized from a bathroom tissue commercial.  He shifted his knees to let her pass and peeped quickly down the décolletage of her good black dress.  The old Shirley would have begged his pardon and demanded redress, but she could easily damage Carmine’s position with the company in a few harsh words.  Best to remain silent as she ducked out to Catherine’s magnificent kitchenette and seek respite from what she couldn’t understand.

Alone in the semi-privacy of the cream-and-black colored room, she picked up a fresh glass of champagne and scanned the living room.  Carmine was quickly identifiable – he sat in a cluster of d-list actors and flirtatious showgirls, all hanging on his latest stories about meeting so-and-so backstage at Camelot.  He caught her looking and winked, a smile dragging across her lips in response.

It didn’t do much to rid her of the vague anxiety she’d felt ever since stepping into Catherine’s well-appointed world.  A valet had met them at the door and taken their coats away to some uncharted universe.  There were four men in tails, circling the room with trays of camembert, snails, caviar, and pate.  People talked endlessly about things she’d studied in books, but Shirley’s knowledge about art history and the work of Marlon Brando seemed to desert her when she had to speak with wit to Steven Sharpton MD from Lust in the Afternoon. 

She wanted to shake herself.  In her Milwaukee youth, charm and pride and her need to marry up had kept her keenly witted and smoothly social.  But now that she had prince charming – now that she had found a bit of a purpose working at Claws N Paws – now that she was a secretarial trainee trying to match wits with the hoi polloi of New York society…

“EE!” an icy but familiar hand wrapping around her waist stifled any further attempt at thinking.  She turned instinctively into Carmine’s embrace and lightly punched his chest.  “You know I don’t like to be scared!”

“I had to find a quick way to wake you up before midnight,” Carmine retorted playfully.  In the living room, Catharine was leading the count down.  When the clock hit midnight, there were hoots of celebration and shouts of joy.  But in the kitchen, Carmine and Shirley heard not a cry from Times Square below them, or the roar from Catharine’s living room.

 ***

“Andy,” Rhonda scolded, pulling her imitation-rabbitskin blanket closer to her chin, “be careful not to spill.” She took the glass of wine he held out and pulled them back enough for him to clamber under them – customarily naked. 

He cocked his head up arrogantly.  “Back in kindergarten,” he bragged, “I was the king of the balance beam.”

Rhonda smiled, “A salute,” she said playfully, “from the queen of the house – at last.”  She tried not to feel so very overjoyed by the fact that Elly Mae and Bubba were now on a train taking them back to Tennessee.  Love them though she may, and write them weekly she would, but Rhonda didn’t plan on seeing either of them again in the flesh  for a very, very long time.

“Salude,” retorted Squiggy, downing the rest of his wine.  He waited for her to finish, tongue practically hanging out of his mouth, and she lounged back to give his eyes better access to her form.  She let out a squawk when he tossed her fine crystal goblet to the floor.  “So how you wanna ring in the New Year?” he wondered, hand creeping up her side.

Rhonda’s skin tingled at his touch, but his hand had tugged away the blankets, leaving her mastectomy scars nakedly obvious.  “Andy…are you sure you want to do this?”

“You gotta be kidding, woman,” he mumbled, staring at her waist and everything lower.

“No, Andy…” her eyes darted down to her bosom, then met his.  “Are you sure you want to do this?” she repeated

His hands brushed over her arm, her bared shoulder – caresses that felt nearly butterfly-like.  The strap of her expensive imported-from-France eyelet-covered white nightgown drooped down and away from her battle-scared shoulder.

Everything happened in slow-motion for Rhonda – not the usual slam-bang tiger bounce that was sex with Andrew Squiggman.  Mermaid-like, they swam around each other, tangling together at the mouth and the pelvis.  She forgot, gradually, what game-playing in the bedroom was and breathed in the second.  They ended up wrapped around each other, sleeping through Dick Clark’s countdown to the midnight hour.

He fell asleep with his hand over her left breast.  She didn’t even notice.

*** 

Laverne poured another ounce of cream into the tall cup of coffee, then handed it away quickly to the closest waitress, Vicky.  “Get these to number three and step on it!” 

The girl gave her a sullen glare but took the cups away.  Laverne regretted hiring teenagers for the forty-millionth time as she whirled around to the pastry case, took out a couple of chocolate-chip cannolis, deposited them on the counter and took five dollars from the fat lady/skinny guy couple. 

Her eyes swept the room as she handed back the change –the room was indeed packed, with most of the regulars clogging the couches and tables.  There were gaggles of college kids limply “dancing” along to the sound of Bird of Paradise covering “Get Together.”  Emmy, a revelation in a tight red dress, was flirting shamelessly with Fonzie and neglecting her duties as hostess, while Mikey and his friend occupied a table, sleepily playing X’s and O’s.

Laverne drifted through the crowd with trays of pastry and coffee, catching snippets of conversation as she passed.  “Che” was holding court in the corner of the room with three attractive young women – she brought them raspberry Viennese tarts.  She had delivered one final tray – of hot tea to Mary Ellen and Susan – when a loud, firm voice cut through the din.

“Hello, I’m looking for my son…LAVERNE?” 

Despite herself, she let out a squawk of pleasure.  “Hilde!”  Laverne squeezed back as hard as she could.  “How’re you doing?  How’s the Pizza Bowl been?”

“You’ve been in town how long and you ain’t been by?  Honey, your Pop’s gonna murder you!”

“Me and Pop ain’t getting along so good.”  Laverne winced.  “How’re you?  I ain’t seen you in years!”

Hilde was shucking her coat off and climbing behind the counter.  “Still waiting tables – got married five years ago and had my boy.  Axel’s in the gifted program at school,” she took a look around Laverne’s coffee service and smiled. “You’ve got a hell of a business going here!”

“Thanks – it ain’t just mine, though…” she snagged Lenny as he ducked back behind the bar.  “Hilde, you remember Lenny – this is Len, my husband.”

“Hey, I remember you,” Lenny said brightly.  “That time Squig got stuck to the floor of the men’s room at the Pizza Bowl you helped me get him off!”

Hilde’s face turned up into a bright smile.  “Took two cans of Crisco and three nails off my hand,” she retorted.  “Can you find my son?  He answers to Axel Gundermeel.”

“I’ll get him!”  Lenny hopped over the bar setup and headed off, bellowing “AXEL” at the top of his lungs. 

“He hasn’t changed,” Hilde noted.  “Do you need any help tonight?”

“Nah, we hired a couple of college kids…” Laverne winced as an alarming crash filled the room, “and you’ve gotta go back to the Pizza Bowl, right?”

“Actually, I’m between jobs…your cousin Peitro fired me.  And Eric Gundermeel – you remember, your Pop got him a job bussing tables.”

“What?!” Laverne gaped.  “Eric’s the best bussboy in Milwaukee, and you ain’t no slouch in the waiting department!” 

“Not everyone’s as cool a cat as your father.  And your cousin sure don’t even come close,” Hilde noted.

“Daddy!” Laverne’s eyes drifted to the staircase, where Mikey’s friend – Axel…Gundermeel?!– ran.  Halfway he met Eric, who scooped him up and began to babble to him in German.

“Hilde,” Eric finally called, “we need to be coming home!”

It all clicked.  Surprise warred with concern and shame in Laverne’s expression, but Hilde patted her on the hand.  “If you can spare the jobs, Laverne…”

Another crash spurred her forward.  “If you can make it in on Monday I’d be glad…”

“Thank you,” she smiled, fetching her coat and rushing off.

Laverne bowed her head, a little awed by Hilde’s bravery.  All of her solemnity was destroyed by a swipe of something cold against the back of her neck.  “LENNY!”

“Here’s mud in your eye,” her husband said, handing her a glass of Shotz.

Onstage, The Birds of Paradise were counting down to the end of 1965.

Goodbye and good riddance,  Laverne thought to herself, remembering Rhonda’s bitter struggle with cancer, Carmine’s near death by firing squad, Anthony, her conflicts with Emmy…

But then again, the year had given her Lenny – the gift of his arms and the shared long nights together and the secret communion of the things they loved in each other.  She turned around in his arms and noticed he was watching her cleavage in the slinky black dress she’d – perhaps unwisely – changed into after they’d spent the afternoon papering the neighborhood with their fliers.  “Ain’t those old news yet?” she asked, tangling her fingers in his hair.

“Never,” Lenny breathed, his lips brushing hers.

Happy New Year!

“Happy New Year, Tigerlily,” Lenny mumbled against her lips.

She answered him by brushing her tongue across his teeth.  The kiss was breathless and hasty, muted not by the fact they were in public but the press of people by the bar, the promise of the next two hours of heady business.

Laverne blocked out the rest of the world, hiding against Lenny’s chest.  Emmy was calling her, cup of coffee outstretched.  

Laverne made a resolution.  1966:  It was sure as hell going to be a better one this time than the last.

***

Shirley listened to the pay phone buzz one last time before hanging it up.  Carmine, who had leaned alertly against the booth, jumped up to greet her as she stepped out onto the street.  “They’re not home,” she noted.

“It’s opening night,” Carmine responded.  “They’ll probably be closing up around two their time.”

She nodded, shivering – it was a chilly two am as they headed back to their little apartment.  “I just wish…”

“It’ll still be a new year when you talk tomorrow.” Carmine reminded her gently.

“You’re right.  I’m being silly,” she tucked her arm in the strong crook of his elbow.  “Well, Mister Ragusa,” Shirley said, “shall we drop in on your parents, or should we head home to celebrate on our own?”

Carmine’s grin was licentious, his response a bear hug that dragged her off of her feet and swept Shirley feet-first through the scattered confetti littering Times Square.   Exhilarated, she shouted and laughed, and fell naturally into his kiss.  Her first thought of the year was decorated with her highest hopes.

Hello, 1966!