Hey, Dollface

by Deborah Hautzig

  “Well, I’m not going if you’re not,” I said, a little disappointed. I picked up a pebble and tossed it over the edge of the cliff.

  “Don’t worry, dollface. You know what it’ll be like. Stick with me. Let Patty and all those other morons knock themselves out.”

  “Okay, okay,” I said glumly.

  “Hey, Rodney asked me out again,” Chloe said brightly. Rodney was the pimply, rich brother of a friend of Julie’s. He was always asking Chloe to go out with him and once in a while she gave in.

  “Are you going?”

  “Yeah. He’s taking me out to dinner.”

  “You’re mean. You don’t even like him.”

  “Oh, he’s not so bad. He’s actually sort of nice when he’s not acting like Mr. Know-It-All. He can’t help the way he looks. And he always takes me to great places.”

  “Well, see? At least you’ve got old Rodney. You should come to the dumb dances and find me some faithful ugly nice guy.”

  Chloe laughed. We lay down then and dozed off for a while, and when we got up Chloe wanted me to take some pictures of her. She posed, brushing her hair back dramatically.

  “Do I look like a Renoir?” she queried.

  I eyed her critically. “Nope. Those women were built like dairy cows.”

  “Thanks!” she said sarcastically, and pouted, crossing her arms over her chest. I pouted back at her and we both laughed. Chloe leaned her chin on her hands. “Val, I wish my parents would get divorced.”

  “What?” I said, aghast.

  “Well, I do.”

  “Listen to her,” I said to an invisible audience. “Entire books are written about miserable kids learning to cope with broken homes and trying to get their parents back together, and she’s wishing her parents would get divorced.” I couldn’t imagine anyone wishing something like that. I remembered when I was little how scared I got whenever Mom and Dad had a fight. I’d go to Mom and say, “You’re not getting divorced, are you?” and she’d laugh and say, “Of course not!” I worried about it anyway and always felt relieved when they made up.

  “If they did, I’d live with my father,” Chloe was saying. “We’d get a neat little apartment in the city so I could see you all the time. I wouldn’t have to worry about taking that stupid bus.”

  “Do you think they ever would get divorced?”

  She got up and walked to the edge of the cliff and sat down, dangling her feet. “No. One time I thought they were going to separate. They didn’t, though.”

  “Chloe, I bet they love each other.” I went over and sat beside her. “Really. I bet they do. You never know about people, even if you live with them and you think you know them.” I thought of times when I’d catch Mom and Dad looking at each other in a funny way or talking about stuff they did before I was born, and it made me think, There are whole sections of them I’ll never know, no matter how old I get. “Chloe, it’s true,” I said, as she stared off silently. “I used to think I knew my mom better than anyone did, even my father. But there are some things I’ll never know about her that he does. I’ll bet your parents love each other deep down. Maybe I’m naïve.”

  She looked at me gratefully. “Maybe you’re right. It’s just so hard sometimes. I mean, my mother’s so irritable, and my father just listens to her. I think my mother resents having to work, you know. I think she thinks she should be able to sit back and have things given to her.”

  “Yeah, I noticed that. She’s got nerve, expecting your father to pay for everything.”

  “But she’s under a lot of pressure, too, you know. With a job and two kids and all,” Chloe said.

  This was the first time I’d heard her defend her mother. “Yeah, she is,” I agreed hurriedly. “Anyway, just cause people act a certain way doesn’t mean they feel that way. I’m always bitching at Ben, but I don’t hate him.” She turned to me and took my wrist in her hand, squeezing it. Chills ran up and down my back.

  “You’re better than a shrink, kid. You know, I’ve never talked to anyone the way I talk to you.”

  “Me neither,” I said quietly. I should tell her about my daydreams now, I thought nervously. I tell her everything else. Why can’t I tell her this? Would she tell me? Our heads were so close I could see the pores on her nose. We stared at each other in silence for a long time. What’s she thinking about? I wondered. Does she touch me just like she’d touch anyone else? No, it can’t be in my head, I thought, remembering the night we slept on the couch. She didn’t fall asleep on me the way she did by accident. No other girl had ever fallen asleep leaning on me the way Chloe did. What would she think if she knew I’d been having weird daydreams about her? Or that I’d thought of touching her? Would she be disgusted, or would she want me to? Suddenly we heard sounds coming from far away: Dad’s car horn. We both jumped, the moment gone. Then we threw our things into our bags, and began a half-run through the woods and down toward the road.

  We came back to New York three days later. We were going to stay another day but the weather turned chilly and damp, and Mom had to get back anyway to finish an article she was writing for some magazine, so we decided to go home. I spent the next day writing a paper on the Italian Renaissance, which had been due before vacation started. I always left papers till the last minute, but once I got around to them, I’d whip them off in one day. I couldn’t stand all the trouble of going to the library and finding all the right books only to have to do it again, so I worked like a fiend.

  Chloe had called while I was out. Mom said she didn’t leave any message, but said she would call back. She hadn’t called by 9:30, so I dialed her number.

  “Hello?”

  I hesitated. “Hi—is this Julie?”

  “Yeah. Hi, Val.”

  “Hi! Hey, I didn’t know you were home! You weren’t supposed to come till next week. When did you come?”

  There was silence for a moment.

  “Val, I don’t know if you know this, but our father passed away last night.”

  My head reeled and I began to feel sick.

  “What do you mean?” I said, my palm sweating on the receiver. Why didn’t Chloe tell Mom when she called?

  “He died in his sleep. He was taking a nap and his heart gave out.”

  “No. He couldn’t have. I mean—Oh, Julie, I—”

  “That’s okay,” she said, controlling her voice carefully.

  Why do people say, “It’s okay”?

  “Where’s Chloe? Was she home?”

  “No. She was with you. She’s out with Mom now.” I held the receiver tightly, unable to speak. “Hello?”

  “I’m here — oh, Julie,” I said again, choking. “When is—?”

  “The wake is tomorrow.”

  Wake? Oh, God, I thought. An open coffin. At Jewish funerals the coffins are always closed. I took a deep breath.

  “Where do I go?”

  She gave me the address of the funeral parlor, and I hung up.

  9

  I put on a dark skirt the next day and went to the funeral parlor. When I stepped out of the elevator, I saw people milling about, and standing in hushed little groups; it all looked like an underwater ballet. I stood awkwardly, not knowing what to do, and then Chloe came toward me. At first I didn’t recognize her. She was wearing a pale silk blouse and black skirt; her otherwise pink cheeks were chalky and drawn, and her eyes were puffy. I was shocked; I’d never seen her like that. She looked so worn, I wanted to scoop her up and tell her everything was all right, but all I could do was stand there helplessly. I glanced over her shoulder, and seeing the open coffin and Mr. Fox’s profile over at the back of the room, I gasped involuntarily.

  “Val?” she whispered, and embraced me. I put my arms around her, feeling her thin shoulder blades beneath her blouse. I saw the coffin once more and shuddered, turning my head sideways so I wouldn’t have to look as the tears began to come. Chloe took my shoulders and held me back.

  “Don’t cry,” she said, brushing at my cheek. I should
be comforting her, and here I am crying, I thought dismally. Her eyes were brimming and she took my hand.

  “Do you want to see him? You don’t have to.” I nodded, and we walked over toward the coffin, stopping a few feet away.

  “He looks like he always did,” I said in a trance. “Like you could just wake him up.” It’s not so bad, seeing him like this, I thought. We stared at him for what seemed like ages, and then backed away.

  “How come you didn’t tell my mom when you called?”

  “I didn’t want her to feel sorry for me,” Chloe said, looking at our feet. “I just wish I could have said good-bye. He was the best. . . .” She buried her head in my sweater and wept silently.

  People kept trying to act as though nothing had happened; they asked Chloe and me about school and all, and Chloe was polite to them, but all I could think of was Mr. Fox lying there like that, only yards away from us. I wanted to pull Chloe away someplace where she could grieve, instead of pretending to be interested in the conversations people kept drumming up, but I couldn’t. I stayed with her for hours. Before I left, I went over to say good-bye to Mrs. Fox.

  “Oh, Valerie, are you leaving?” she said in a tired voice.

  “Yes.” I bit my lip for a moment and then kissed her quickly on the cheek. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”

  “Thank you for coming.”

  I nodded, and Chloe walked me to the elevator.

  * * *

  I hardly spoke to Chloe the rest of the week after the funeral. I was afraid to call her house, and she only called me once and hardly said anything. After school started, it was the same; she even seemed to be avoiding me. Whenever I saw her she’d be walking down the halls wearily, as though she’d given up somehow. She didn’t even try to hide if she was out of uniform when Olmsted was around. I went to a couple of dances alone and met a boy whose sister was in our class, and he was actually pretty interesting; I gave him my phone number and he’d called a few times. I tried telling Chloe about him, but she just stared at me, looking so dispirited I wanted to cry.

  One night after Ben went to bed I was sitting in the kitchen with Mom. I’d been feeling sort of grumpy and depressed lately and began spending more time with her, just so I wouldn’t have to be alone. I’d been wanting to ask somebody about my daydreams, and since Mr. Fox died I’d given up on telling Chloe, so I decided to poke around with asking Mom.

  “Ma?”

  “What?”

  “If people think awful things, does that make them awful?” I said.

  “Like what awful things?’’

  “Well, like—like wanting to murder people.”

  “I want to murder people all the time, but that doesn’t make me awful,” Mom said sensibly, lighting up a cigarette. “Everyone thinks things like that. That doesn’t mean you’re going to do it.”

  “Yeah, but—well,” I said, thinking, How am I going to get an answer without telling her anything? “Well, how about perverts? Is everyone a potential pervert?”

  Mom laughed. “What do you mean by perverted?”

  That’s the whole problem, I thought dismally. That’s what I’m trying to find out.

  “Well, like someone who fantasizes about sleeping with a dog, or something,” I said, patting myself mentally for being prudent enough not to say “cat.” Ben and I had been bugging Mom for ages to let us get a cat.

  “Well, I’d say someone who thinks about that is pretty strange,” she said. “But if all the person does is think, he’s not a pervert. Or she. Pardon me. Whoever.”

  “What if the person did it?” I said miserably, knowing I wasn’t getting anyplace.

  “Then I guess some people would call it perverted,” Mom said simply.

  “Well then, how about gay people?” Ah, now I was getting down to it.

  “I don’t know,” Mom said seriously. “I’ve been brought up to think it’s wrong. But who am I to judge? I know a lot of happy homosexual couples.”

  “You do?” I said, amazed.

  “Sure I do. Much better off than a lot of married people, too, I can tell you. I always say, what people do in the privacy of their own home is their business.”

  “But is it perverted?” I insisted.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Oh,” I said, and lost my nerve. I can’t ask her. I can’t ask her about heterosexual people who sometimes have homosexual fantasies. All she’d have to do is look at me and she’d know it was me. Besides, I don’t think I’ve ever had a sexual fantasy, I told myself. I never thought about actually having sex with anyone. All I thought about was touching, and it’s always been with guys, before this. Like Dr. Elgin, or Keith, the first guy who ever felt me up. Now that was fantastic, I thought, remembering. Is that a sexual fantasy? What about when I think about Chloe? How can someone have a sexual fantasy until they have sex and know what to think about? I mean, you have to do it before you know what you’d like to do, I said to myself logically. I hardly even have a frame of reference. Boy, aren’t I intellectual! I came out of my daze, and Mom was staring at me.

  “Thanks, Mom,” I said, feeling embarrassed.

  “For what?”

  “Well, for not dissolving when I asked you all this stuff!”

  “See?” she said triumphantly. “I’m getting better. When I was a little girl, people didn’t talk of such things, and never to their mothers.”

  “Yeah, well, I bet gay couples didn’t roam the streets of Europe, either,” I said. “Not like they do here.”

  “No. It wasn’t the kind of thing you made public if you could help it. I suppose it’s better this way,” she said, looking like a confused child. Well, don’t look at me, I thought, feeling a little resentful. Here I am, this confused kid, trying to figure things out; why should I have to worry that she’s worried because she’s as confused as I am? Are there mothers who know the answers? Nah, I figured. There are just mothers who pretend they do. I just wish she wouldn’t look so vulnerable. I decided to do what I’d been thinking of doing ever since that day on Crow Hill; I’d go ask the biology teacher at school. I didn’t have to take biology till eleventh grade, but I knew Miss Udry from the cross-town bus. It was her first year at Garfield, too, and we’d gotten pretty friendly. When I first met her I thought she was a senior or something, she looked so young. This was her first job. Also, she lived on the West Side and she was Jewish, and I felt a certain kinship when we boarded the bus together. Yeah, I thought. I’ll go to her classroom during prayers tomorrow; maybe she’ll be there.

  “Val. Yoo hoo!” Mom was waving her hand in front of my face. “Come in, Valerie.” I smiled. “How’s Chloe?”

  “Oh, okay, I guess,” I lied. I didn’t want to talk to Mom about Chloe.

  “Is she doing okay? Poor thing,” Mom said sadly, shaking her head. I felt annoyed at her for bringing it up. I’m not being fair, wanting to turn her on and off like that. I ask her all kinds of questions and she’s patient and understanding, and then she asks me about Chloe and I’m thinking, Shut up. I don’t feel like talking about her. What’s the matter with me, anyway?

  “Why don’t you invite her over? She hasn’t been here in ages,” Mom was saying. Ha, I thought. Like I haven’t tried. Every time I asked Chloe to come over she said she couldn’t, she had to stay home with her mother so she wouldn’t have to be alone in the house, or that she had to go to her father’s office to help straighten out his things.

  “She’s been busy keeping her mother company,” I said brusquely, and went off to my room.

  Later on that night I dialed Chloe’s number. I kept calling her as I always had, even though she didn’t call me that much; the problem was she didn’t talk much any more, so I wound up gabbing till I was sick of listening to myself just to fill the silence.

  “Hi, it’s me. Old faithful,” I said.

  “Oh, hi.”

  “Whatcha doing?”

  “Nothing.” There was a long pause. “Cutting up the new Vogue, actually.”


  “You sound enthused.” I heard faint music and voices. “What’s that?”

  “What? Oh, my mother’s just yelling.”

  “Why?” I heard Mrs. Fox in the background, yelling, “. . . crazy nut, what does he think he’s doing, waking up the neighbors, somebody’s going to report . . .”

  “Hey, Chlo! What’s going on?”

  She giggled weakly. “There’s this guy about three houses down from us who plays the bagpipe. He goes into his backyard every night to play. You can hear it all over.”

  “Wow!” I said, intrigued. “What kind of person is he?”

  “Oh, old. Well, not old. Sort of oldish. He has a beard and wears those old-fashioned baggy slacks. I’ve seen him a few times getting his mail. He’s neat-looking—even sexy, in a way.”

  “And he plays the bagpipe? In his backyard? At night? I love it!”

  “Yeah, me too,” Chloe said, sounding a little better. “But it’s driving my mother up a wall. You should hear her carry on about it. It’s really funny.” I heard strains of music through the receiver. “It’s really beautiful, you know? When the moon is out I can see him out my window.”

  “Oh, Chloe, that sounds so positively enchanting,” I said dreamily.

  “I know. I sit by the window whenever he’s out there and listen. It makes me feel—”

  “Like some mystical mysterious girl everyone wonders about?” I suggested.

  She laughed. “Yeah. And then I hear my mother screeching, ‘That maniac, he must be crazy playing that thing in the middle of the night! I ought to report it!’ And there goes the mystery!”

  “Chloe, listen. Can you come over and see me?” I said timidly.

  “Well—I don’t have time right now,” she hedged.

  “Chloe, come on. I never get to see you anymore! Sleep over this weekend.”