"Two. One," The blue Conrail engine roared through the crossing. The engineer shouted something. Shannie waved her middle finger.
"Are you crazy?" I shrieked.
Shannie didn't answer, but stood with her eyes closed and her head tilted back, her long hair dancing in the wind. When the last car rushed past, she opened her eyes and smiled. "Thanks Just James," she said.
"For what?"
"Trusting me," she answered.
We stood on the Schuylkill River Bridge trading candy and watching fisherman below. The afternoon sun smiled upon us. Tree's shadows swam in the river. An occasional passing car went unnoticed.
"No," she said.
"No what? " I asked.
"I'm not crazy," she looked into my eyes.
"Okay," I switched my gaze back to the fisherman.
"Why don't you like being called Jim?"
"Would you want through life as Jim Morrison?"
She shrugged, "Why not?"
"It's overrated." I hung over the bridge rail and spit. I watch my loogie tumble before splashing in the river. "Hey look its Jim Morrison, it's the American Poet, live and in person, back from the grave. It gets old fast."
"Yeah but you'd look cute in leather pants," Shannie chided.
I blushed.
"At least you don't look like a blonde Medusa," she tossed her hair with a free hand. I smiled at the river.
That night, I sat in my room gazing at Shannie's house. A naked woman walked across the room, her breasts led the way. Wet lanky hair kissed the small of her back. As fast as the show started, it ended. She turned off the light and disappeared into darkness.
The woman was Shannie's mom. When I met her I blushed. So much for tweed jackets and elbow patches, I thought. She bucked my idea of a college professor's wardrobe. She wore a pair of cutoffs and a small top buttoned at her cleavage. That my eyes were at her chest level made for a great summer of viewing. I was never accused of starring.
Besides the skin, she was the coolest mother ever. She took Shannie and me on adventures. Day trips to the Jersey shore, hiking on the Appalachian Trail, overnight camping trips, she even took us to Live-aid. Shannie's mom insisted on being called Diane. When I called her Mrs. Ortolan she said, "That's my mother's name." Even Shannie called her Diane.
The Ortolan's house was like the library of congress - books were everywhere. Each room hosted a bookshelf, even the kitchen. The only room that didn't have one was the bathroom. "I hope you put the seat back down, we're not used to having a man in the house." Diane delighted seeing my face turn red as I scampered back to the bathroom.