Eric had been a regular customer at the hardware store for months. He dressed in worn cutoff jeans and loose, baggy T-shirts and sat on the floor of aisle three.
There, he examined actual old hardware items discovered in forgotten boxes under the display shelves. Hinges, bolts, nails and the occasional plumbing fixtures were the usual picks. A long clump of thick blond hair partly shielded his eyes. That, and a lean, wiry figure rendered someone too young to be buying the serious hardware purchased mainly by building contractors.
I observed and noted a mouth that seemed sad, almost, or at best serious, and fingernails that needed a good scrub. I never even rang him up. He always went to one of the guys.
Little did I know that he, too, was noticing me.
A recent college graduate, I had returned to Southampton to work and save money at my family’s hardware store in the heart of a community that raised me. My single-minded aim was to earn enough to move to Northern California. There, among strangers, I would be free to shed my Southampton self and become the real me, whoever that was.
I had two jobs that summer: daily, selling hardware, and evenings, waitressing at Balzarini’s Italian restaurant alongside my best friend, Loie.
Waitressing was just perfect for me. My mother and father raised me in the 1950s and 1960s as a polite and subservient female. They overdid it by creating an ardent people pleaser.
Balzarini’s offered wonderful Italian fare. Loie, my best friend, was hired as well. My plans were unfolding successfully.
We were new to waiting tables at a “fancy” restaurant. Loie had worked summers as a soda fountain waitress through high school. My training came via a work job as a head waitress in the dining hall for 400 students at boarding school. As lunch captain, I roamed the large dining hall, making sure students brought their trays back and left the tables neat.
At Balzarini’s, spaghetti, penne, lasagna, tagliatelle and ravioli were authentic and delicious. Renato, the owner and chef, sat at the bar sharing friendly banter, while Marge, his wife, kept us in order.
Eric was new to the village and did not have a load of friends. Being shy and reserved, he focused laser attention on his major project: renovating an enormous rundown village Victorian into a co-op apartment house.
Eventually, we were introduced at a dinner given by a good friend of mine who was his tenant and sensed a mutual attraction. Little did she know there was already one brewing.
Days later, I encountered Eric at the greeting card store. As we said a hello, a petite powerhouse standing nearby introduced herself.
“Hi, I am Doxie, Eric’s mother.”
After a few friendly words and minutes, I left to get back to the hardware store. Immediately, Eric rushed out and invited me to dinner.
Months later, he confessed that Doxie, visiting from Boston, insisted that I come for dinner and told him he’d better catch me while he could.
We began dating and got to know each other quite well and intimately over the next two months. Often, I walked to his cottage behind the building project after work late in the evening. Sometimes, he would come to my apartment, around the corner.
Eric was quiet, shy and a bit of a mystery to me. His laid-back energy, high intellect and understated humor calmed me. My “edge” and outgoing friendliness attracted him. We were well suited.
He didn’t share much about his father, a Nobel Prize-winning scientist. Once, he mentioned his parents’ divorce when he was 11 years old. Later in our relationship, Eric’s mother painted a painful picture in words, telling me that his father turned to Eric as he walked out and said, “Take care of your mother.”
Eric has worn that caretaking cloak ever since, transferring it to me and then our nest as well.
One evening at Balzarini’s, I was busy waiting tables when Marge told me to take table No. 10. It was a table for two in a quiet nook against the east side of the building.
As I approached, it became clear to me why I was given the spot. Sitting there was Eric and an older man with glasses. “Hi, Eric,” I chirped on approach.
“This is my father,” Eric returned as the older gentleman drew a long drag of his cigarette. Eric had not mentioned his father visiting him. Yet, there they were, sitting in silence together.
I took drink and dinner orders. Father ordered veal piccata, and his son, spaghetti and meatballs. Eric had a Coca-Cola, his father, a daiquiri.
They exuded an uncomfortable air, like strangers forced to sit together, looking anywhere but at each other. The ashtray on the table already contained a couple of cigarette butts. No wonder Eric hated smoking.
I kept a distance, allowing their privacy. Little did I know that it was needed.
I continued with my duties, taking charge of four or five tables under the careful eye of Marge. She liked me because I was smart, friendly and efficient. However, she was hard on Loie, for some unexplainable reason. Loie was the most easy-going, cheery person I knew. Marge carried a slight edge of anger and distrust. Perhaps that was it.
Eric and his father finished and left Balzarini’s. I don’t recall what they tipped. I was too busy with my other tables to have cared.
Loie and I finished the evening as usual. We counted our tips, had a small serving of the evening special, and left around 11.
I didn’t see Eric that night or the next. When I did see him next, he explained the unexpected visit from his father. His father had been to the doctor, who told him that he was a prime candidate for a heart attack. For all his brilliance, Eric’s father thought exercise was bad for people. His chain smoking didn’t help, either.
I enjoyed waitressing more than work at the hardware store. It involved people enjoying great food. Who wouldn’t love that?
Eric’s father died from a massive heart attack not long after his visit that summer. Eric went to Boston for the memorial service, arranged through Harvard and MIT.
His father’s many honorable awards from around the world speak of his great intellect, but his legacy as a father and husband could never compare to his son’s.
Hilary Woodward is a resident of Southampton.
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