Hey, Dollface

by Deborah Hautzig

  “Mm-hm.”

  “She takes Qualudes. I didn’t even know what they were.”

  “Well, Lucy Jenks gets stoned every day before school,” Chloe said.

  “You’re kidding! I’m naïve, you know that? I thought she was just a complete blockhead, her mouth always hanging open and her eyes half shut and giggling at nothing all the time. How’d you know?”

  “Everyone knows it. Val, I don’t want to take that stupid bus.”

  “Come home with me,” I offered.

  “Can’t.”

  I knew she couldn’t be persuaded. I looked over toward the fountain at the scattered drunks. “Let’s go.” We got up. “Chloe, suppose we get raped?” I rasped.

  “No problem,” Chloe said offhandedly. “Nobody will rape us. We’ll pretend we’re gay,” she said, and we elaborately put our arms around each other.

  “Maybe some creep thinks it’s kinky to rape lesbians,” I whispered.

  “We’ll take our chances.”

  “Chloe, there’s this cemetery down near Wall Street I’ve never been to. It’s supposed to be really neat. You want to go with me sometime?”

  “Oooh, sure. Next Saturday, maybe.”

  “Saturday—rats. I’m babysitting for Jason.” I’d just begun babysitting regularly for Janet Elgin two nights a week, but she needed me that Saturday so I’d said yes.

  “Well—another time, then.”

  “Sure.” We got to Eighth Street.

  “Val, I turn here.”

  “Okay,” I said, disengaging myself.

  “Val? Will you always be my friend?” She looked frightened suddenly. I saw it in her eyes.

  “Always. Absolutely-positively-no-doubt-about-it-forever.”

  “Good,” she said softly.

  “Chloe? You know, Jason’s father was acting funny the other night.”

  “How?”

  “I’m not sure. I’ll call you on Monday if anything happens.”

  “What, what?” she asked, wildly curious.

  “He kept finding excuses to touch me.”

  “Where?”

  “My hard-to-miss chest,” I said, as she took in her breath and gave a long, low hoot.

  “Pervert! How old is he?”

  “Forty-five.”

  “Jesus, kid.” She glanced at her watch. “Wow, it’s late. I’ve got to go.”

  “Be careful.”

  “Me? Ha! You better keep me posted, dollface. I want to know every gory detail.”

  I waved and stood watching her run down the block till she rounded the corner, wondering if Dr. Elgin really was thinking of trying anything. Then I turned and ran to the subway as fast as I could.

  5

  I’d only begun babysitting for the Elgins that fall. Janet Elgin was divorced, in her thirties and neat-looking. Jason, a mature eleven-year-old who claimed to have been a marijuana smoker since the age of six, spent Monday and Thursday afternoons and part of the evenings with his father. Janet somehow managed to arrange her social life in such a way that she had dates every Monday and Thursday, so I had a nice steady job right in the building. Dr. Elgin, who was in the midst of his third marriage with a baby on the way, would bring Jason home around 8:30, and I’d be waiting to take over.

  The apartment fascinated me. In the living room there were bamboo screens draped with antique shawls and lace and Kate Greenaway-type hats with feathers, and two couches strewn with furs and oriental spreads. On the walls hung pressed flowers, framed, which Janet had collected. There were shelves filled with antique toys, and dozens of antique soldiers made of painted lead, and there were tiny pewter geese on the tables. There was a collection of colored glass mushrooms on another shelf near the window and I thought how nice they must look when the sun was setting. One night Jason took down a small laquered box from a high shelf and opened it for me, revealing a round glass eye.

  The kitchen had a large butcher-block counter to sit at, and there were lots of spices and herbal teas in the cabinet. Vegetables hung in wire baskets, and there was a wooden salad bowl on top of the refrigerator with a constant supply of pretzels and sourballs. Janet’s bedroom was off the kitchen, with lace drapes substituting for a door. She had a huge bed which took up most of the room, two tiny tables with open art-deco boxes overflowing with beads, and one small Tiffany lamp. Jason’s room was in the back. He had a drafting table with small bottles of model paints lined neatly along the edge, a big electric train set, an aquarium which gave off a dreamy green glow and was filled with exotic-looking fish, a poster of Dracula, and a bed.

  I really loved going there. I spent a lot of time looking through Janet’s sketch books, which contained page after page of intricate ink drawings of flowers. But the last two times I’d gone, Dr. Elgin had behaved differently. He’d lingered after Jason had gone to bed, for one thing. And he looked at me differently. I’d had a pretty bad cough, and on Thursday he offered to listen to my chest. I let him thump around my back a little. I felt strange being around him that night; for some reason he made my heart race.

  On Monday night, Jason went to bed and I was just getting up to make sure his lights were out. Dr. Elgin, who was sprawled on the other couch, put out his hand to stop me. I looked down at him. His hand was on my knee. He asked me if I’d bring him some water and I said of course. Then he ran his hand very slowly up my leg and said in this low, oozy voice, “You have nice legs.” I was shocked when I saw where his hand was going and hurried off to the kitchen, saying, “Thank you,” and blushing.

  He said he wanted to make a phone call before he left. We sat across from each other as he talked. At first he just stared at me, and I couldn’t help staring back. Then he pulled his chair in closer and our knees bumped suddenly. A squiggle of mysterious joy went racing through me like a hot-line. This, I thought, is terrible. Her lecherous ex running up her phone bill and dying to get his hands on me. He started playing with the shawl I was wearing. I always wore one of Janet’s shawls when I went there. Then he held my hand tightly, and loosened his grip and tightened it over and over as his thumb swerved and drifted and created a whirlpool on my wrist. It was hypnotic. I sat, mesmerized, and then he hung up the phone and looked at me.

  “You know,” he said, “you have nice hands. They’re small and cool. . . .”

  “My mother says,” I said slowly, “that shaking hands with me is like shaking hands with a dead fish.” Plunk. Congratulations, Val!

  “Well,” he continued, undaunted, “you tell your mother that—no, don’t tell your mother anything, or I won’t ever do it again.”

  I smiled as seductively as I could and said, “Don’t worry.” He stood up and looked at my face.

  “You know what?” he said, cupping my chin and tilting my head up.

  “What?” I whispered, wondering what force it was that kept me from pulling away.

  “You have a beautiful mouth.” He placed three fingers on my lips and ran them back and forth. We walked over to the door and he turned and drew me to him, putting his arms around me.

  I didn’t know myself anymore and wondered where I’d gone; I felt like an onlooker, watching two strangers. I put my arms around him and let him hug me and rub his cheek against mine. It felt like sandpaper. Then he left, and I glided, stupefied, to the telephone to call Chloe.

  “Well?” she said.

  “Mm?”

  “Oh, my God, what did he do?” she said breathlessly.

  “He touched me.”

  “Where?”

  “Um—let’s see. My right leg, my left hand, and my lips,” I told her. “Chloe, how come when he touched my hand it was so—incredible?”

  “Is he good-looking?” she pressed, ignoring my question.

  “He’s the sexiest man I’ve ever seen. And he doesn’t look any forty-five, either. And you know what he did before he left?”

  “Wait, wait, tell me from the beginning. Tell me exactly what happened,” she ordered, and I did. When I finished, she said, “Wow.
Val, this guy is sick.”

  “You mean, to want me?” I said defensively.

  “No, you jerk. I mean, think about it! His son in the next room, his third wife—third—pregnant, and forty-five years old!”

  It did sound pretty ghastly. “Yeah, he is, I guess.” I thought for a moment and then said anxiously, “Chloe, how come I liked it? How come I let him? I didn’t mean to let him, but suddenly there we were! He makes me feel like—like pudding. Oh, I don’t know! Tell me!” I pleaded.

  She just sighed. “When’re you going next?”

  “Thursday.”

  “Oh, boy.” She giggled.

  “You’re some comfort!”

  “Listen, Val, don’t let him sweep you off your feet,” Chloe said. Then she said cautiously, “You—don’t want him to, do you?”

  “No-o,” I said slowly. “I feel creepy about the whole thing. This isn’t very wholesome, is it?” I laughed weakly. “Do you think he’s damaged my frail soul forever?”

  “No, but watch it. I’ve gotta go, kid.”

  “Okay.” Christ, I said to myself.

  “Oh, dollface—I told you you’re irresistible!” she chided.

  “Oh, sure. Kiss me dahling before we part,” I swooned. I heard a noisy kiss and then the receiver rattling.

  Thursday night, Dr. Elgin stayed to make phone calls again. I hadn’t been listening to what he was saying, but I caught the last snatch of it. He was telling someone he’d bring her over some pills and said, “If you take these and smoke, you’ll get high as a kite.” I stared at him hard but he didn’t seem to notice. I walked him to the door, and he stopped and turned to kiss me. I let him kiss me once. Afterward I remembered his remark on the phone and said jokingly,

  “I didn’t know you made house calls.”

  His expression became a slight smirk. “Well, you don’t think you’re the only one, do you?”

  I looked away quickly, not knowing what to say. I wanted to yell, I’m not one at all! And then it dawned on me that I was angry. I looked back at him and thought, you royal creep, I can’t stand you. Out loud, I just said good-bye.

  I’d barely sat down on the couch when I heard keys grating in the lock. Janet came in. I had a dumb expression on my face; I could feel it. She gave me a strange look, and it occurred to me they must have passed each other. She leaned down and picked up the shawl which must have dropped from my shoulders while we kissed. First she asked me if I was taking drugs. I laughed and said of course not. That’s how out of it I look? I wondered. And then somehow she knew.

  “Are you having an affair with Robert?”

  I was horrified. “No!” Her eyes narrowed. “I’ve never—had an affair with anyone,” I said, thinking: An affair is when you sleep with someone. Therefore this is not an affair.

  “He’s after you, isn’t he? Yes, you’re his type,” she said, eyeing me critically as she sat down across from me.

  “Well—” I hesitated. Me? Someone’s type?

  “Look. I don’t care what you do with him, I really don’t. But not here. Jason could get up at any moment.”

  “I know,” I said apologetically, feeling guilty as hell.

  “Listen, it’s not your fault. My God,” she said, more to herself than to me. “Well, yes, I do believe he would. That’s just like him. With his son fifteen feet away. Jesus. I don’t want Robert coming up here anymore.” I felt almost relieved. “I’m going to tell him to send Jason up in the elevator alone.”

  “Okay. That’s fine with me,” I said. “I’m sorry. He’s—”

  “Yes, he’s very persuasive.” She nodded. “And very attractive.”

  “Yeah, he really is a killer,” I said, marveling at our conversation.

  “He’d be very bad for you.”

  “Yes. Yes, I know,” I answered, realizing it as I said it. “You got me off the hook.”

  “Valerie, you don’t need me or anyone to do that for you,” she said flatly, and patted my arm as I left. “See you next week.”

  I let myself into our apartment quietly and took off my shoes. I heard Mom in the kitchen.

  “Val?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You’re home early.”

  “Yeah. Janet came early,” I said, feeling impatient. I had wanted to just go to my room and shut the door and brood.

  “Mm, too bad. Didn’t earn much tonight, huh?”

  “Nope.”

  “Come sit with me in the kitchen while I fix something up for Daddy.” I went into the kitchen and sat down on the washing machine. Mom looked like she’d been hit. She’d looked like that ever since Grandma died; like a light in her went out. Losing your mother must be the worst thing that could happen to anyone, I thought. She looked so defeated and sad I couldn’t walk out on her. I pulled my feet up and wrapped my arms around my legs.

  “Where’s Ben?” I said.

  “Asleep.”

  “When’s Daddy coming home?”

  “Around eleven.” He was away a lot; he taught cello out of town and went on concert tours. “Oh, Valerie, did I tell you about Mrs. Dresner?” I perked up and smiled wickedly, glad to escape my thoughts. Mrs. Dresner lived way up on the fourteenth floor.

  “No, what?”

  “She accused Elmer of poisoning her groceries.” Elmer was the doorman. I gave a whoop of laughter as Mom tried to suppress a smile. “Don’t laugh. She’s a poor, sick old lady. She must be eighty.” She turned back to the stove. “When I asked Elmer about it, he said the latest is she turns up in the lobby at three in the morning all dressed with a pocketbook, saying she’s going shopping. Elmer said, ‘She’s such a trial for the night doorman.’ ”

  “And are the Johnsons still climbing through a secret doorway in her bedroom to spy on her?”

  “Val, we’re so unkind.”

  I nodded agreeably.

  “Hey, Mom, I didn’t tell you. You know what happened in the elevator the other day? Mrs. Dresner looked straight at me and said, ‘Oh! Are you your father’s daughter?’ ” I grinned as Mom looked on expectantly. “So I said, ‘No!’ and walked out of the elevator!” I feel better, I thought. That girl who was kissing Dr. Elgin, that wasn’t me. Or was it? It must have been a part of me; a part of me did want to kiss him. I wonder how often Dr. Elgin has sex, I thought, kicking off my shoes. How often do married people have sex, I wondered. Once a day? Once a week? Once a month? How often do they want to have sex? I wonder how often Mom and Dad do it, I thought. Do they wait till the middle of the night when I’m asleep so I won’t hear the bed creaking? Do they talk at all when they do it? I sat there working up the courage to ask Mom, and finally I said boldly, “Mom, how often do normal people have sex?” She looked ready to pass out. “I don’t mean you or anything. I’m not asking about you, I just mean—people in general. Like people your age.”

  “There’s no such thing as normal, Val,” she said, and got up to rearrange some things on the shelf.

  “Well, for goodness sakes, can’t you give me a general answer? For all I know it’s once a year! If I can’t ask my own mother, who can I ask?” I bellowed, following her into the living room.

  “I’m sorry, Val. You’re right. I want you to ask me. I’m just not very good at discussing these things,” she said weakly.

  “That’s okay,” I said gently, waiting for an answer. Boy, and I thought I’d be uncomfortable. Here I am reassuring her! “So?”

  “Well—two or three times a week is normal.”

  “Two or three times a week? That’s average?”

  “Yes. I’d say twice a week is average.” She jumped up and headed back toward the kitchen, and I followed her.

  “But Mom, is it more for people in their twenties, maybe?”

  “Yes, maybe it is. It depends on the people,” she said. I hate putting her through this, I thought, but there it is. She’s my mother, so I’m supposed to be able to ask her.

  “Well, what about old people?”

  “Not as much. It depends o
n the people. Some people have sex till they’re very old, some don’t.”

  “How come old people do it less? Don’t they want to?”

  “Most people, as they get older, don’t want to as much as they did when they were younger.”

  “Why?”

  “There’s a hormone change.” Oh, I thought. Menopause and all that.

  “But some do?”

  “I expect so.” Well, I thought. I wonder if it’s that nobody wants to do it with a woman who’s saggy and droopy. Will no one want me once I start looking older and have midriff bulge? I saw Grandma once in the shower, and her breasts hung so low I couldn’t believe it. It scared me at the time. Gosh, I hope I don’t wind up like that; but I will. Shit. I wish I were flat, I thought, biting a fingernail absently.

  “It isn’t because no one wants you when you’re all saggy, is it?”

  Mom laughed a little. “Don’t be silly. If two people love each other, that doesn’t matter.” She said it with such purity of conviction it sounded almost beautiful. She sounds so innocent, I thought. She’d only said what I used to think every married person felt, but lately every other movie and book was about people cheating on their husbands or wives or leaving them altogether and maybe Mom was the rarity. I wonder if what she said is true, I thought. Maybe it is. But why are looks so important now? People say they don’t matter, but you could bet your life they were all that mattered at things like school dances. I wish they didn’t matter; they shouldn’t. People shouldn’t care so much, they should look farther than that. But if I was a knockout, I told myself grimly, I wouldn’t be ungrateful. Maybe Mom’s just lucky. I always had these visions about how one day I’d meet the person and we’d just love each other completely and forever and go to museums and concerts and love doing the same things and that would be that. But maybe I won’t meet the person. Maybe he doesn’t even exist! No—he does exist, someplace. But suppose he’s a Russian and we never even get to meet?

  “Mom, do looks really matter?”

  “No! Well, everyone should try to look their best, and that’s about all you can do, but it’s minor.”

  “No, Mom,” I said thoughtfully. “How can someone know you’re terrific and wonderful before they talk to you? They can’t, right? So they have to like your looks before they decide to say hello, right?”