2021
Rikki, Don’t Lose That Number d av i d d a n i e l
~1~ We were a small, tight-knit crew of nine, linked by the dance that is youth. When high school graduation came, we didn’t want us to end. That autumn I went off to a small Christian college not far from home. The one who kept in closest touch was Erika—Rikki, as we called her. Small, quick, with tortoise shell glasses that sat on her freckled nose, and high levels of energy and humor, we thought of her as “interesting” more than pretty. We agreed she might have been the most successful of us in college had she chosen to go. Instead, she continued to live at home and took a job in town as night clerk at the Cape-Way Motel, so named because it was on the old route to Cape Cod. The work suited her, she said; it was quiet and gave her time to read. What she didn’t say (but I suspected) was that the job kept her out of the house where warfare between her mom and stepdad was constant. “God, they give me headaches,” she confessed. By simple proximity I was her link with our old crew, and she was mine. She worked nights, and some days would take a bus over to visit me. We’d sit in the campus snack bar and relive the adventures we’d all shared. One time we went over to Wonder Bowl on the Southern Artery and rolled a few strings. Neither of us broke 100. Without the routines and the people that had knit high school days together, things weren’t the same. Phone calls and occasional letters among the rest of our group dwindled. When I’d complain to Rikki that life had grown too complicated since graduation, she pointed ahead to the holidays. “Everyone’ll be home, and things will be great again. You’ll see.” It was something to hold onto. I was restless and growing bored with college. I sensed the war going on in Southeast Asia was contributing to my malaise, but my student deferment was keeping me out of the draft. In mid-October, Rikki had an idea. We were in my dorm room, sitting on my bed (with the door open, as campus rules required) eating pizza. “After everyone finishes college, and that includes you, Dave”—I’d never been a scholar, and she was on my case about not studying enough—“depending on what money we can pull together, we should buy a small island and all go live there.” “An island.” “Maybe in Maine. All of us together, the whole crew. And if people have girlfriends or boyfriends, they’re welcome too.” It was a nutty thought, of course, and yet I was comforted by it. I put my arm around 132
The Lowell Review
