THE SATURDAY NIGHT BEFORE EASTER SUNDAY
BY PETER FARRELLY
Elmhurst
After graduating from Rollins in ’74, Roger Tenpenny returned to Rhode Island with the understanding that he would never have to work or worry a day in his life. At twenty-one, he’d kicked off a trust that the men at Industrial National Bank quipped could support the lives of one hundred ne’er-do-wells. Owing, however, to an astonishing four divorces in fifteen years, and several business misfires, all the money was back in circulation before Reagan was steered out of office. Although Tenpenny considered himself a private person, the divorces were the one thing he wore on his sleeve. Most were stunned to meet a four-time loser still in his thirties, but Tenpenny had discovered that a certain set found this odd fact charming, and naturally that was the crowd he played to. When asked why he would possibly marry a fourth time, he always responded with the joke: “I missed the cheating.” This could be counted on for a laugh, but stung him in a place that most were unaware, for the truth was he had been the fucked-over one at least twice.
Like many multiple divorcées, Tenpenny had bouts of unbridled optimism, and he was in such a frame of mind in March of ’92 when he met his neighbor Ellie. Although he was still doing time in the Elmhurst section of town—a triple-decker neighborhood filled mostly with Providence College students—the tide had turned in his favor. Almost free of his marital debts—for the blessed fact that there were no children in the mix—he felt chipper enough to write a couple long letters to old girlfriends, shots in the dark. He’d even begun to outline a business plan for a chain of sporting goods stores that catered to women only. (No one had ever done that before, as far as he could tell.) Even this blue-collar street gave him comfort, as it protected him from running into anyone of importance. Once he’d righted his ship, he’d make a triumphant return to Newport and the people that mattered.
Tenpenny was parking in front of his apartment when he spotted his neighbor walking back from class with a friend. Ellie had moved in beneath him just after Christmas, and, from the lack of visitors, he’d assumed her to be a transfer student. Though clearly attractive, the silver light of winter had disguised just how so. He’d watched her come and go for two full months with nothing more than businesslike nods. Then a bright yellow spring arrived and as layers of wool and down were shed, her breasts seemed to thaw and expand, and—well, that was enough for him.
“See you on the Saturday night before Easter Sunday!” Ellie called to her friend heading away down the hill.
“What did you say?” Tenpenny asked as they were converging in step toward the house. “Did you say the Saturday night before Easter Sunday?”
She looked at him oddly.
“I’m sorry, did you just say those words—the Saturday night before Easter Sunday?”
“Um . . . yeah.”
“That’s the name of my book! How weird is that?!”
It was a crazy lie, a stupid lie, the kind of lie that good liars rely on. She gave him a hesitant, uncertain smile. “You’re a writer?”
“I mean, it’s weirder than you even know. I’ve been having second thoughts about that title ever since I started getting offers from the houses, and I’ve been struggling with maybe changing the name. You know, is it too oblique? Too confusing? Maybe it doesn’t say enough? But this is like a definite sign! I’m not changing it—that is the title, that should be the title, I think it’s a great title.”