Hey, Dollface

by Deborah Hautzig

  In the late afternoon, Ian hitched back to Southampton and I walked back through Easthampton, past the white picket fences and big white houses with deep, cool, lush trees lining the street, and big bushes of blue hortensias in the yards. I finally got a ride back to Amagansett, and suddenly I knew I was going to be sick. Instead of going back to the Baskwells’, I went to the Farbers’ house, where Anne lived, and knocked on the door. Mrs. Farber answered, and I said, “Can I please throw up in your bathroom?”

  I must have looked really green, because Mrs. Farber wordlessly took my bag and ushered me into the bathroom. Afterward, I fell asleep on Anne’s bed, resolving never to eat salami again, and when I woke up I felt much better. We all sat in the living room and talked.

  Anne, as I said, was nice and kind of quiet. But Mrs. Farber was great, and she hated the Baskwells. She was as sarcastic, cynical, and bitchy as I was, and we had a blast.

  “I can tell them and their friends a mile away,” she said.

  “Oh, yes, because they’re all in their identical wugged-beachy-casual-outfits—”

  “Carefully casual, of course.”

  “Of course. And they don’t wear things because they like them, they wear them because they’re ‘in.’ ”

  “Even if it looks terrible!” Mrs. Farber said, laughing.

  “The men’s trunks are too small, and the women—”

  “They all wear those disgusting skin-tight terry things,” she said. “And they all sit on the beach and discuss their tennis clubs and plastic surgery and compare anklets. Very chic.”

  “Mm-hm.” We knocked the kids, we knocked the Baskwells, we knocked everything.

  “I’m going to quit,” I told them gravely.

  “When?”

  “I told my father I was going to tell them some story about a sick relative, and he just said to tell him when to get me.” I had told Mom and Dad about the Baskwells; when I told Mom about the Dristan, she let me talk to Dad while she went to pour herself some vodka. Mom absolutely never drinks. I couldn’t even bring myself to tell her then that, not only was I a zookeeper for three satanic peewees, I was a housekeeper, too; I finally told Dad when I was getting desperate to cut out.

  “Why don’t you tell them the truth? Those kids need three mothers’ helpers!” Mrs. Farber was saying.

  “I’m scared.”

  She rolled her eyes.

  * * *

  I called Dad the next day to confirm my plans; he would come on Saturday to get me. I told the Baskwells my story and they seemed to believe me, which was pretty amazing since it was the most transparent-sounding excuse I’d ever given. They were a little upset, because of the inconvenience, and began hunting immediately for a replacement for the remaining week and a half. As soon as I told them I was leaving, I began feeling better; for a while I’d toyed with the idea of getting Stevie run over by a truck or suffocating Lilli, but I didn’t care anymore. I didn’t have long to go.

  On Thursday night, I went out to the beach. A bunch of boys were having a beer-drinking contest near where I usually sat, so I began walking. After a while I took off my sneakers and tied them together, carrying them over my shoulder. I walked a long way; it must have been close to midnight when I stopped at a little spot in between two dunes. There was a lot of wood lying around, pieces of broken fences and driftwood, and I threw down my sneakers and began making a small pile. Then I searched around and found several large rocks and placed them in a circle, digging a little pit inside and putting all the wood I’d collected into it. I found a book of matches in my back pocket and after fifteen minutes I had a fire. It was small at first, and crackled like a bowl of Rice Krispies in the wind. Then the flames began to shoot up, and I lay on the sand staring into it, thinking. Chloe, Chloe, Chloe—do you hate me? Am I terrible? You looked so innocent lying there in the morning . . . did I corrupt you? No, I thought, and then: if I had it to do all over again, I would do it the same way. Will you still run away and be a gypsy with me? I’m a captive princess, I thought, my eyes fixed on the licking tiger flames. And so are you. I see you dancing in the firelight on the empty beach; it’s where you belong. Did I do something wrong? Why didn’t you call me? Do you feel guilty, too? Or just scared of me? You’re never afraid. How can I face Garfield without you?

  After I don’t know how long, I got up and took off my clothes. It’s now or never, I thought, taking a deep breath. I ran naked into the black, roaring sea and looked down at my body, bobbing like so many globes. I’d never gone swimming at night and had always wanted to try it. Soon I was running back to the fire, which was slowly going out, and shook myself quickly before I began getting dressed. My arms and legs were covered with goosebumps. I looked down at my breasts in the light that was left and thought, they’re not ugly. They’re beautiful Oh, phooey, it’s just the lighting, I told myself firmly, and put on my shirt. I half ran back up the long beach to the house. It was even farther than I thought it was, and I crept into my room quietly, stripped, put on a nightgown, and went straight to sleep.

  That night, I had a dream. It was so startlingly vivid, it frightened me. I forgot most of it as soon as I woke up, but the end of it stayed with me, coming to me again and again all day. Chloe was kissing me on the lips.

  I had to talk to her; I couldn’t put it off anymore. I waited till late afternoon, and when Lilli was napping and the others were out at the beach, I called her house. There was no answer. I got the number of Mr. Fox’s law firm and they gave me a number in Connecticut where I could reach her. I thanked them, and dialed the number they’d given me. I held my breath, and Chloe answered the phone.

  “Chloe?” I said hesitantly.

  “Val?”

  “Chloe?”

  “Val!”

  “Oh, Chloe-Chloe, I had to call you, I got your number from someone at the firm—is it okay?”

  “Yeah—where are you?”

  “In Amagansett,” I said, as though I were saying “Japan.” “I’m quitting. I’ll be home tomorrow. What are you doing in Connecticut?”

  “I told you I’d be here, remember? Mom rented a house. Should you be calling me long distance?”

  “You’re damn right I should. Aren’t you glad to talk to me?”

  “Yes! Of course I am!”

  “Chloe, I had a really weird dream about you. I’m almost afraid to tell you.”

  “Don’t be afraid. What was it? Did you murder me?”

  “No,” I said, shifting uncomfortably. “Chloe, I have to talk to you.”

  She was silent. “Yeah,” she said finally. “But not now. When I see you.”

  “Oh, that’s okay,” I said hurriedly. “Whenever you want.”

  “Look, I’m going home on Sunday. Will you be in the city?”

  “Till the end of next week. My father’s picking me up and we’re going to the city instead of straight to Massachusetts.”

  “Okay, how about Monday?”

  “Monday. Sure.”

  “Okay. Monday then. I’ll be over at four o’clock. Look, I’ve really gotta go. I have to wash my hair.”

  “Why?” I said suspiciously.

  “I’m going to play tennis.”

  “With a guy?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Oh,” I said despondently, and stared off at the wall.

  “Val? Don’t sound so sad. I’ll see you Monday, okay. I’m so glad you called. . . .”

  My face lifted itself. “I was afraid I’d never see you again,” I whispered.

  “Oh, sure. Well, you will. Oh—gotta go. Bye.” I heard a loud smack as she kissed me through the receiver, and hung up.

  12

  It was sweltering in the city on Monday, but it felt like paradise being free again. I went out for a while in the early afternoon to buy some food, and the sidewalks seemed to shimmer in the heavy, humid summer haze. Before I went home I went into the park and saw all the kids that couldn’t go away for the summer running around the playground, with bushed-looking
mothers or nannies mopping their foreheads on nearby benches under sickly city trees. Soon I turned back and trudged up the hill with my grocery bag, wondering nervously what Chloe and I would say to each other. Dad was out and wouldn’t be home till late, and I was glad. Boy, if he knew what Chloe and I had to talk about, I thought; would he ever be shocked!

  I spent the rest of the afternoon in the house, tinkling on the piano, turning the TV set on and off, trying to read magazines, but I couldn’t concentrate. At 4:30 the doorbell rang, and I ran to answer it. I flung open the door, and Chloe was standing there wearing white linen pants I’d never seen before and a blue shirt. She had a suntan and looked great. I stared for a moment, thinking how much older she looked than when I’d met her that day in the bathroom, and then I said,

  “Hi. Only half an hour late! Congratulations.”

  She picked up her bags and came toppling in, kissing my cheek.

  “Now, don’t be catty, Val. I couldn’t help it. See, I had to—”

  “Don’t worry, it’s okay. Come on.” We went into my room and Chloe dropped her things and sat down on the radiator by the window. “Want something to eat?” She shook her head no. “You look great. What’re you all dressed up for?”

  “I’m meeting my mother for dinner downtown.” There was an awkward silence, and finally she squealed, “Well, aren’t you glad to see me?”

  “Christ, I’ve been wanting to see you ever since—” I stopped, and looked at my feet uncertainly. “How come you never called me after I slept over?”

  She gazed at me warily and shrugged. “How come you left before I woke up?”

  “Chloe, remember what we—what we were doing—”

  She gave a harsh little laugh. “As if I could forget!”

  I attempted a smile and failed. “Well, Chloe, I—” I knew I was going to cry. She got down on the floor with me and poked my nose gently.

  “Whatsa matter, dollface?”

  I hid my face in my hands. “Get away! I’m not a doll, I’m me and I’m awful and I’m sorry!” Two tears squeezed out, and I wiped them away and looked at her. “Chloe, your mother saw us.”

  “I know.”

  My head began to spin. How could she know?

  “I was awake, too. I didn’t want you to know. I was—scared. That’s why I didn’t call.”

  “You were scared of me,” I said, more to myself than to her. So I was right; I had scared her.

  “No.”

  “Of your mother?”

  “No, Val—of myself, I guess.”

  I began fiddling with the fringe on my bedspread. “Did your mother say anything?”

  Chloe got up and sat back down on the radiator. “No. Not a word. That’s what was so creepy.” All this time I’d been worried Mrs. Fox had forbidden her to see me again, and she hadn’t even mentioned it! “But you know what she did do?” I raised my eyebrows questioningly. “She found that box with my beautiful-lady collection under my bed and she threw it out.”

  “She—what? What did she do that for?”

  “She said, ‘What kind of a girl are you?’ She made me feel like some sort of pervert for collecting them. She doesn’t understand. But she wouldn’t have done it if she hadn’t seen us. She thinks we—you know,” she said haltingly.

  “She thinks we made love, doesn’t she?” I said acidly. “She must love me now. Christ, she’ll never want me over again. Oh, Chloe, can’t you tell her it isn’t true?” I said, feeling like a hypocrite and hating myself for it the instant I said it.

  “And—and what if it were true?” Chloe said defiantly.

  I could see her lip tremble slightly. “What do you mean?”

  “Well—look at all the men and women having sex who don’t even like each other, let alone love each other. Isn’t that the real sin?”

  “Yes,” I whispered, holding my chin up. “Yes, that’s the sin. And how would your moral mother feel about that?”

  “I bet my mother thinks sex is sinful in any case,” she said dryly. Then she leaned toward me. “Val, don’t you understand? It doesn’t matter what she thinks. You’re my best friend. When I decide to go to bed with a man I’ll be lucky if I’m half as crazy about him as I am about you. I don’t have to defend anything! Nothing can change how I feel about you!”

  “No?” I said, nastily, wanting to cry.

  “No. Because I love you.”

  “I love you, too,” I said, wondering why it had never occurred to me.

  “You know, sometimes they all make me sick!” Chloe yelled.

  Who’s “they”? I thought.

  “We do something like—what we did once,” she faltered. “And then there’s a choice; either I’m a lesbian forever or I stop being myself with you. When I don’t want either one.” I watched her carefully, not saying anything. “I mean—gosh, other people must think about stuff like this.”

  “Really? Do you really think they do?” I said hopefully.

  “Sure they do. They must. But just because you think about something doesn’t mean you’re guilty of it.”

  “Guilty!” I pounced. “See? You said ‘guilty.’ But, Chloe, we didn’t just think.”

  “But we didn’t do what my mother thought, either. Maybe—maybe I’ve thought about it,” she said, blushing.

  “Well—maybe I have, too.”

  “Maybe I’ve even wished it. Maybe I’ll wish it again. But I’ll bet if you gave everyone what they wished for, it would turn out it wasn’t what they really wanted after all. I just want us to be the way we always were.” My ivy plant was making shadows on her face, and I watched her cautiously.

  “I know,” I said finally. “Chloe? I’m not a—a lesbian,” I said. “I’m not anything at all. Some guys turn me on a lot, but I’m not ready to have sex yet. What we did—I mean—I did what I wanted to do. I didn’t even think about it first. It just came naturally, because I—” What am I trying to say? I thought helplessly. Why is it coming out so mixed up? “You’re my best friend,” I said. “And now—you won’t be—”

  “I will be. I’ll always be your friend.”

  You know what it is? I thought. We’re scared of each other. I’m scared that she’ll be afraid of me and she’s probably thinking the same thing. I wonder if we’d have been scared if her mother never saw. Maybe we’d never have had to admit to each other that any of this had crossed our minds. We could have just gone on being best friends and maybe fantasizing once in a while or being affectionate and pretending that sexual attraction never occurred to us. But Mrs. Fox had seen; Chloe had admitted what she felt, and so had I. There was no turning back. How do you separate loving as a friend and sexual love—or do they cross over sometimes?

  “It isn’t fair,” Chloe burst out angrily. “God, I can’t believe how hung up we’ve gotten, just because of my mother!”

  “But Chloe, it isn’t just because of your mother,” I said gently. She jerked her head ’round to face me, her eyes filled with tears.

  “What do we do?” she said.

  Chloe—is that you? I thought. Always rebelling and always so certain of what you think—what’s happened to you?

  “What do we do?” I echoed. “I’ll tell you what we do. Do you want to be my friend?”

  “Of course, I—”

  “Are you sure? You’re not afraid, or turned off?”

  “Yes, I’m sure.”

  “Okay. Do you want to be my—my lover?” Am I saying this? I thought incredulously. Am I admitting that it’s a possibility?

  “No,” she mouthed inaudibly. “Sometimes I thought I did. I just want us to be friends like we always were, and to think what I want. Like everybody else.”

  “But,” I said, less sure of myself, “I can still kiss you good-bye and stuff—like we always do—” I paused and looked at her bleakly. Is it the world out there making us feel guilty? I thought. Is it the world saying, either you’re a lesbian or you’re not, with no room for Chloe and me? “I mean, I feel like we don’t fit
into any slots at all, and they want us to, but we can’t,” I said. There was that invisible “they” again. Who are “they”? Nobody knows about the feelings we have for each other; nobody is literally trying to force us to choose anything. And then gradually it came to me; “they” must just be us. We’re trying to put ourselves into slots, and condemning ourselves for not being able to.

  “We don’t have to fit into any slots,” Chloe said. “So let’s stop trying.”

  I moved closer to her and looked up at her face. Suddenly it didn’t matter to me anymore whether things were “right” or whether they were “wrong,” whether the attraction we felt for each other was “good” or “bad.” I’d been looking for some kind of judgment or approval, but when I asked adults like Miss Udry or Mom they didn’t know any more than I did. But I can decide! I thought. I’ve been so worried about what other people would think I never asked myself what I thought. It isn’t wrong, I thought; it isn’t bad. Maybe for someone else it would be, but it isn’t for me.

  “Chloe, that guy you played tennis with—that’s just the beginning. Pretty soon you’ll forget all about me,” I said flatly.

  “Are you nuts?”

  “No, it’s true. Once my cousin Shirley was supposed to have me sleep over at her apartment, and then at the last minute she told me I’d have to come some other time ’cause she had a date. She said that’s the way it is when you get older.”

  Chloe looked ready to scream. “Well, your cousin is full of shit! I’m never going to be like that. Never!”

  “Really, Chloe? You mean it?”

  “Damn right I mean it. Ooooh, I can’t stand people like that. Don’t you ever get like that,” she said, pointing a finger at me.

  “Honey, the day I have that choice I might lose my head,” I said jokingly, but she jumped down and took my chin firmly in her hand.