She Effin' Hates Me

by Scarlett Savage

  Wow, thought Suzanne, the most popular girl in school just referred to me as her friend. Is it weird that makes me want to call my old frenemies from high school and brag?

  “How do you do?” The little girl curtsied, pulling her very long skirt up perfectly as she dipped, which charmed Suzanne instantly. She seemed very feminine and sweet, and there was an air of almost disturbing maturity about her. “I’m Hermione.”

  Suzanne smiled at the girl and held out her hand.

  “I’m Suzanne, and I’m just fine, thank you. And how do you do?”

  “Fine, thank you,” answered the girl.

  Suzanne had to resist the urge to pick her up and put her in her pocket.

  “Hermione,” Suzanne tried to remember, “is that one of the Roman or Greek goddesses?”

  “Nope, it’s the all-consuming influence of Harry Potter in my life.” Laura pulled her hair back from her face, chuckling at herself; it made her seem even lovelier. “But you know, it could have been worse, I tell her. Remember that girl in our class named Earth? Who moved away in eighth grade?”

  “Oh my God!” Suzanne did, and shuddered. “I’d forgotten all about Earth ’til this very second. She was anything but earthy.”

  “She was the first girl to get sent home for wearing a tube top in junior high,” Laura nodded. “My husband wanted to name her Picabo, after Picabo Street, the skier from New Hampshire.”

  “I can honestly say she’ll be thrilled one day that you won that round.” Suzanne grinned. She marveled again at the fact she was actually enjoying spending time with Laura Caldwell. Who would’ve thought?

  Hermione let go of her hand, snatched up the dollar, and skipped off, presumably in search of fudge. Laura watched her, smiling; it was clear she was in awe of her child.

  “You’ll never guess who I wound up with—who Hermione’s father is.” Laura held out her hand to show off a silver claddagh with a heart-shaped emerald at its center. “Billy Wentworth.”

  “Billy Wentworth?”

  Now that was news.

  While Laura was busy perfecting popularity to a science, and Suzanne was busy eschewing birth control, Billy had little or no time for such frivolities.

  “The guy who spent all of his time welding metal chairs from cubicles to railroad tracks and labeling it ‘Corporate America’?” Suzanne replied.

  “He sold that piece to a collector before he even graduated,” Laura noted proudly. “Made five thousand bucks.”

  Billy hadn’t been popular or unpopular, just one of those odd kids who skirt along the outside of the class. Handsome, interesting, sort of admired from afar but never really fitting in, living in his own artistic world, doing the work required for his classes and no more.

  That’s why the girl had looked so familiar, Suzanne realized. She was the spitting image of her rebel father.

  “Yep, good old Billy and me, the artist and the litigator,” Laura laughed happily. “When I came back here to get a real life, he came into the store one day to buy some dragon’s blood . . .”

  “Dragon’s blood?”

  “Throws you for a loop, doesn’t it?” Laura rolled her pretty eyes. “It’s just a red ink that you make by soaking a chunk of red stone in water. In our business, pretentious names for products equal Shit Sells Faster.”

  Suzanne laughed again, amazed that she didn’t have to force it. Whoever High School Laura was, it seemed that Wicca Laura had a terrific sense of humor and liked to tell it like it was—two qualities that appealed to Suzanne enormously.

  “Anyhoo, we got to talking, and when the store closed six hours later, we were still talking.” She gave that laugh again, that rich, seductive sound that somehow pulled Suzanne in, made her feel included. “And ten years later, we still haven’t stopped. I’m so in love.” She sighed, twirling a strand of hair around and around her finger. Even though the trappings were completely different, at that moment, Suzanne saw the girl she’d once known.

  “Well, that’s just great.” Maybe that was the trick to Laura’s incredible complexion: love. Maybe her husband had a friend for Suzanne. She’d give love another whirl if it gave her skin like that. “It certainly looks good on you.”

  “Suzanne, come on!” Ava yelled from several booths down, shaking a Mason jar of salsa at her. “I’ve got to get back in time to go to my . . . I mean . . . you know.”

  “Coming, Mom.” Suzanne turned to Laura. “I guess I’ve gotta jet. I’m in charge of carting the old bag around today.”

  “Don’t you talk about Ava like that,” scolded Laura. “She’s a champ.”

  Really? Laura thought Ava was a champ? How would she know? Was Ava hanging out at the Witch bookstore between casseroles and AA meetings?

  She couldn’t quite picture her impeccably dressed mother pawing through the poet’s shirts, floor-length tie-dyed skirts, and crystal jewelry that made up most of those stores Suzanne had ever seen.

  How many of my other classmates is my mother chumming with? Suzanne wondered. Since the moment she came back to her mother’s house, every moment was a surprise.

  “Listen, the readings are every Monday night.” Laura handed her a schedule, which was printed on the back of her card. “This coming Monday is Susan Poulin; she’s a terrific Maine humorist. And then the Monday after that, there’s this wonderful woman, Jennie Woods. She’s reading from the book she published about surviving divorce, especially after years of convincing everyone you’ve got the perfect marriage.”

  Suzanne found herself nodding. It was a topic she knew something about.

  “Please promise me you’ll come; it’ll be so great to sit down and have a real catch-up.”

  “Suzanne!” Ava’s voice was nearing glass-shattering capacity. “I’m going to be late!”

  “Sorry she’s being so . . .”

  “Not to worry,” Laura waved off Suzanne’s concern, “I know what it’s like to be behind schedule . . . Actually,” Laura leaned forward, those amazing eyes twinkling, “now that you mention it, I’m extremely offended that your mom is rushing you, so the only way you can make it up to me is by attending the reading on Monday, okay?”

  Suzanne burst into laughter this time.

  Blackmail? she thought. Maybe Miss Goody-Two-Shoes and I have changed enough to be friends after all.

  “Why the heck not?” she agreed. She talked over her shoulder as she hurried after her mother, trying to let Laura know she had to go, not that she wanted to. “I haven’t done anything social since I broke up with what’s-his-name; maybe it would be good for me.”

  “Damn straight it’ll be good for you—get you back on that merry-go-round,” Laura nodded.

  “Should I bring anything? Snacks, or maybe drinks? Juice?”

  “You just make sure you bring yourself. The store provides the snacks,” Laura called as Suzanne hurried to catch up with her mother. “House rules.”

  Laura turned her smile to another customer, and the weirdest reunion of Suzanne’s life was over.

  “Really, dear, have another cigarette,” Ava remarked, when Suzanne caught up to her, choking and spewing and drawing deep breaths to make up for the short, oxygen-depriving run. “You’re right, those American Spirits with no chemicals are really not that bad for you. I can still hear some air getting through between coughs.”

  “Okay, Mother, ha, ha, very funny, I get it.” Suzanne’s breath finally eased back to normal, and she threw a dark glance at her mother. She’d quit when she was damn well ready, and not one minute before. Ava should know all about that philosophy.

  “I didn’t know you were friendly with Laura Caldwell,” Ava said.

  “Well, I sure wasn’t back in high school, but she seems all gung-ho to be buddies now.” Suzanne cast a backward glance at the market. “Did you tell her I won the lottery, or something?”

  “You know,” Ava returned to their previous conversation as though they’d never been interrupted, “I remembered while you were talking to your friend, I hea
rd the little voice too, just once in my lifetime.”

  “Really?” That was odd—this was the sort of thing her mother would normally have told her about and then repeated until mere mention of the story made Suzanne feel like screaming. “When?”

  “Back in my drinking days.” Ava looked both ways, then both ways again, and one more time before dragging her daughter by the elbow across Daniel Street. “I would start first thing in the morning with little airplane bottles that I’d hide around the house. I’d gotten to thinking that if your father didn’t see me drinking, he wouldn’t be able to tell. Drunks will believe whatever they want to, believe you me.”

  “So I’ve heard,” Suzanne said dryly.

  “Anyway, one day I was making chicken salad for lunch. I remember that clearly. Then, the next thing I knew, I was sitting on the couch, reading a book, wearing a completely different outfit. Oprah was talking about her book club and recommending East of Eden, by John Steinbeck.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “I’d had a blackout. A two-day blackout.” She shook her head a little as she opened the door to her ten-year-old Taurus, which still looked new because of frequent waxings and the dust buster and Windex she kept ready in the glove box. “Disgusts me to even think about it now. I’d had them before, of course, but for a half hour here, an hour there . . . But to lose two whole days?” She clucked her tongue and eased out of the parking spot. “That’s when I heard my little voice.”

  “Yeah?” Suzanne wanted to know. “What’d it say?”

  “It said, ‘This is the last wake up call you’ll get, you dumb old broad.’” Ava slipped her arm around her daughter’s shoulders. “And you want to know the really funny thing?”

  “Tell me.”

  “My little voice,” smiled Ava, “sounded an awful lot like you.”

  TEN

  In the two days Molly and Brandon had been visiting, each afternoon Buddy and Brandon had settled into the habit of drifting outside and taking their seats on the bench. Sometimes they’d work on Buddy’s macramé, sometimes they’d play chess. Brandon was a quick study, and Buddy had never been particularly adept at the game.

  “There is nothing, nothing like New England air in the autumn.” Buddy would say, lustily breathing the air and tasting it as it passed into his lungs.

  He loved the autumn air ferociously, but the real reason, of course, was so that Buddy would be outside to catch sight of Ava, and Brandon could be outside if and when Molly ever decided to drop their bomb. But together, they were strong in their denial, and there was strength in numbers.

  Sooner or later Suzanne would join the boys, because her mother wouldn’t let her smoke in the house. It also gave her an excuse to spend time alone with Brandon. Much as she resented Brandon’s overly pierced presence, there was always the chance the boy accidentally might spill the beans.

  Molly’s lips, unfortunately, had remained firmly shut.

  On Friday, Buddy headed outside after their rice and beans dinner earlier than usual. When Brandon wondered why, Buddy remarked, “That was a great casserole, as far as those super healthy, good for your colon, light on your taste buds dishes go.” Buddy eased himself onto his bench and lit his pipe. “But we ate a lot, we’re big guys, it’s a small house, and, well, do the math.”

  Suzanne followed just a few minutes later, with her ever-present pack of cigarettes and ashtray. Brandon looked longingly at the smoke Suzanne lustily blew out into the cooling night air. Molly came next, carrying a frosty glass of lemonade. She sat on the ground, near Brandon’s feet. Suzanne ground her teeth so hard she thought she heard one of them crack.

  She’s always been a floor sitter, you know that, she scolded herself. Last night she sat down in front of Mom. It doesn’t mean anything, and you know it.

  “ . . . not dust bunnies, dust rhinos—dust dinosaurs,” Brandon was telling Molly. His voice came from far, far away. “Some of them were so big, I’ve housebroken them and taught them how to speak.”

  “It’s a basement, for Lord’s sake.” Buddy looked pleadingly for support. “Jeez, Molly, your guy is a regular Martha Stewart.”

  “You don’t like the way he smells either?” Ava came down the stairs carefully with a tray of cookies and ice tea. “Perfectly understandable.” Ava went on, “You can come over and stay right here with us. I’ll give you my bed, and I’ll bunk in with Molly.”

  “I still wet the bed sometimes, Grandma.” Molly teased as she cast a despairing look at Brandon. The idea of sharing a bed with her grandmother, much as she loved her, was about as appealing as a bikini wax with super glue.

  “Actually, I’m really enjoying myself in Buddy’s guest room.” Brandon tipped his imaginary hat at his host. “I alphabetized his leather book collection in the living room, not to mention his vinyl record collection. I didn’t think anyone had those anymore.”

  “They’re burying my Elvis, my Byrds, and my Beatles with me when I go,” Buddy tossed right back at him. “Those CDs, they got no heart.”

  “You’re crazy, Buddy, I’m telling you.” Brandon held up his glass as Suzanne walked by with the pitcher. “Can I have some iced tea, please?”

  “So how are you feeling?” Ava stroked Molly’s hair, which was just flowing plainly over her shoulders for once. Molly leaned back happily, lapping up the affection. “I heard you took a three hour nap this afternoon.”

  Suzanne almost snapped at that, but restrained herself at the last second.

  “Yeah, I had a hell of a headache,” Molly agreed. “I can’t swallow pills, so sleep is the only thing that gets rid of it.”

  “She’s been really wiped out lately.” Brandon reached out and began rubbing Molly’s feet. Suzanne shot him a withering look.

  “You know what?” She placed the pitcher carefully on the picnic table. “I think we’ve talked about Molly enough. Brandon’s short visit has to be the big news she was talking about, because it’s not possible for it to be anything else.”

  “You see?” Molly whispered miserably to Brandon. “She’s already getting that aneurysm crease in her face, and I haven’t even hinted.”

  “Definitely talked way too much about Molly,” she repeated, as Brandon patted Molly’s knee. Her eyes fell on Buddy. “Buddy, let’s talk about you.” She walked closer to the white-haired gentleman. “Let’s talk about things like Irish bars, liquor licenses, and lies . . . Not necessarily in that order.”

  “Hmm?” Buddy looked up from his work, startled. “What?”

  “You’ll have to tell me what you think of my cookies, Brandon. I made them myself, from scratch.” Ava pushed her way in front of Suzanne, pressing a crumbly cookie directly in his hand. “I don’t believe in those cookie-in-a-roll-up things, where you just unwrap the dough and slice off a hunk and pop it in the oven. Any moron could cook those. Where’s the love in that?”

  “Great.” Brandon bit off half the cookie in his first bite with ferocious enthusiasm. “These are fabulous! I love oatmeal raisin.”

  Everyone agreed with Brandon, though not quite so violently, and then they were quiet for a moment. Everyone was waiting for someone else to speak, and no one wanted to go first.

  “Hey, listen.” Brandon stood up, trying to get the group’s attention. “I’ve only known all of you a few days, but I like to think that I’ve begun to get to know all of you. And just as importantly, to let you all know the kind of guy I am.”

  Suzanne froze, mid-inhale, and smoke burned her lungs.

  Here it is, she realized as she closed her eyes. Whatever it is, there’s no going back now.

  Ava reached out to take her hand, and she clutched at it.

  “And since we’re all getting to know each other,” he continued, “when something important has happened, I think that it’s equally as important to get it out into the open. As soon as possible. Don’t you, Molly?”

  “Bite me, Brandon,” Molly replied with mock sweetness.

  “Go be honest with your own fam
ily then, sweetheart,” Ava said, just as sweetly. “We’ll just keep standing here with our heads in the sand and our asses proudly in the air.”

  “Hey, Suzanne,” Buddy leaned forward, “what were you saying before? You know, about . . . liquor licenses and lies, or some other such thing?”

  He let his voice trail off; no need to give her any more ammo than she already might have accumulated on her own.

  “Well, just what I said. While Mom was at her meeting, I went to the county clerk’s office, and they found the records I was looking for in record time. It’s all been computerized, back to 1975, all matters of public record. But there wasn’t that much to see, other than the things you told me, and the actual facts of the matter.”

  “Such as?”

  “For one, such as the name on the complaint against . . .” Suzanne began, when her iced tea was slammed back into her hand by her mother, who was suddenly very busy dusting away cookie crumbs from the linen tablecloth.

  “Move your drink for just a second, sweetie. Thanks,” Ava told her, humming while she worked.

  On the ground, sprawled in the grass, Brandon and Molly seemed to be involved in some sort of whispered debate.

  “I just got home!” Suzanne heard Molly hiss. “Can’t I have a couple of days? Or a couple of decades?”

  Brandon raised an eyebrow. “Oh, you don’t think they’re gonna guess before a couple of decades?”

  “More cookies, kids?” Ava sang, stepping between them, handing them more even though they hadn’t finished the first round. “I’m glad you like them so well, Brandon. Maybe I’ll teach you the recipe. The cooking gene in this family seems to have stopped with me.”

  It was a slick attempt to change the subject, but Buddy wasn’t having any.

  “It just doesn’t make any sense to me,” Buddy said, “why you’d want to go digging up all that ancient history. Everyone knows what happened. I’m the asshole who ruined everything.” He turned to Ava for support. “Right, Ava?”

  “Right, Buddy,” she agreed, shoving a cookie in his face. “You’re the asshole . . . have a cookie.”

  He looked bewildered for a moment and then took the baked good gingerly, as if a sudden movement might trigger a hidden booby-trap.