Shirley's bottom lip curls and I know she's considering scolding me for my rudeness, but she just says, “All right, Andrea. There's a load of laundry in the basket sitting on the washing machine. Would you mind putting it away for me?”
“Surely, Shirley,” I say in my usual surly way so I won't sound too eager. Under normal circumstances I would mind, but today is anything but normal. And this is great—laundry patrol gives me access to the entire house, and I do have a mission to accomplish.
I get the basket of clothes from the laundry room, take it upstairs, dump it out on Fred and Shirley's bed, and start sorting. If you really think about it—and I try not to—it's gross that I have to touch the Parental Units' underwear. Thank God Shirley's a total fanatic about detergent and bleach, so everything is white as snow. But still, these pieces of cotton have been right up against certain parts of the human body that I'd prefer not to think about. Not that Fred and Shirley ever have sex anymore. Though, don't get me wrong, I'm not stupid enough to think they only did it twice and Mike and I were the result. Or three times, really, if you count my older sister.
You're probably wondering why I never mentioned my older sister before. Well, I never met her, so I don't really know what to say about her. She died before I was born. In a car crash. She was one and a half. Fred and Shirley never told me about her, but Mike did.
See, they were all living in the city then, the Units along with my sister, who was just a baby, and Mike, who was five at the time, and then one summer they rented a car to go to the Catskills for a vacation. They drove along for hours and hours and everyone was just fine until they were almost there and then for some reason my sister started bawling her head off. Shirley tried singing to her, giving her a bottle, a toy, a cookie, but nothing worked, so finally she took her from the backseat up to the front and held her on her lap. It seemed safe enough because they weren't on the highway anymore; they were driving through a bunch of dinky little towns and not going all that fast. But still, Shirley should have known better. There's a reason why they call where she was sitting the suicide seat.
Anyway just as they got to the town they were going to, this drunk ran a red light and plowed right into Shirley's side of the car and the baby went flying and that was that. Mike didn't get hurt much, and Fred was basically okay too. Shirley was kind of cut up and bruised and I think maybe she broke something, but she wasn't in critical condition or anything. Even the guy who smashed into them didn't get hurt too badly. But the baby flew right through the window.
Her name was Melissa. Melissa Amy Kaplan. You wouldn't think she'd be a secret, but she is, I don't know why. I guess talking about her makes Shirley too sad. We don't even have any pictures of her around the house or anything; they're all tucked away in this box Shirley keeps on the top shelf of her closet. I discovered it once when I was putting away laundry like I'm doing now. That's how I found out about her. I saw all these pictures of Shirley holding a baby girl who wasn't me, so I asked Mike about it.
Thinking about all this makes me want to look at Shirley's old pictures again, so I go into her closet and take the box down from the shelf. I stay in the closet with it, though, in case Shirley decides to come upstairs.
The box smells musty and the pictures are all just thrown in, not sorted or anything. I flip through a few and then come to a close-up of Melissa sitting in her high chair. She is really cute, I have to admit, and just the opposite of me: Melissa had straight hair; mine is curly. Melissa was pretty and petite; I am plain, not to mention pleasingly plump. According to Mike, Melissa hardly cried, and I was the original Miss Colic of Suffolk County. Melissa was always happy, I guess, and I'm not exactly the most cheerful person on the planet.
If it wasn't for the accident, I wouldn't even be here. Mike says after it happened, Shirley became a completely different person overnight. He says Shirley was always happy before, and she used to sing all the time, which is completely impossible to imagine. Though in these pictures, she does look a lot happier than I've ever seen her. Like in this one, she's smiling and holding Melissa on her lap. And here's another one with her and baby Mike, both of them laughing with their heads thrown back. There's only one or two pictures of me in here. Once I asked Shirley why she has hardly any baby pictures of me around the house and she said that with two kids to run after, there wasn't any time for photos. But clearly there was plenty of time when it was Mike and Melissa instead of Mike and me.
Anyway, Mike says Shirley got really depressed after the accident because she thought that it was all her fault since she's the one who unbuckled the baby and put her on her lap. I guess she even felt suicidal for a while, but she refused to see a shrink like Fred wanted her to. She just went to her regular doctor and got a lifetime supply of Valium, which she still takes—I've seen the vial in her purse—not that they seem to help.
So finally, the doctor said the only thing that would get Shirley undepressed would be to have another baby. So I guess she and Fred went at it, because here I am. But—surprise, surprise—even my arrival didn't cheer old Shirley up. My theory is that somewhere deep inside Shirley's mind, she thought she and Fred were making another little Melissa. They even planned it so we'd have the same birthday and everything, and we almost do; mine's December 17 and hers was December 12. But in all other ways, I think Shirley would say I'm nothing but one great big fat disappointment.
God, this is depressing. Snap out of it, Audi, I tell myself. You've got a job to do. And I'm not talking about the wash.
I put the pictures back, slide the box up onto its shelf, and go back to sorting clothes. When everything's folded, I bring a pile of Shirley's underwear and bras over to her dresser, put it away, and then feel around for the little brown velvet box she keeps her ring in. If Shirley knew I was going to give this to Frank, she'd kill me, but she'll never miss it. It's always in the same exact spot, under this black garter belt and matching bra she never wears. At least, I don't think she ever wears them; they never show up in the wash.
When I'm done putting the clothes away, I pocket Shirley's ring and head for Mike's room. I like hanging out in here sometimes, I don't know why. Mike took most of his stuff off to college so there's hardly anything left except his bed, his empty dresser, and his desk, which has old papers like his junior high report cards and stuff crammed into the middle drawer. There's still a few things in his closet too, like this beat-up tan trench coat and a pair of old rubber boots I'm sure Mike wouldn't be caught dead in up at college.
I lie down on Mike's bed and stare up at the ceiling. One thing my brother couldn't take with him to college are the glow-in-the-dark stars that Fred pasted up for him. When Mike was little, he said he wanted to be an “outer-space guy” (as opposed to the spaced-out guy he turned out to be) so Fred glued all these glow-in-the-dark stars up on his ceiling in the shape of constellations like the Big Dipper and Orion. Mike also has these cool op-art posters on the wall that glow in the dark when you put his special black light on. Plus he has a beanbag chair and a Lava lamp. He wanted to get a water bed, too, but Shirley and Fred put their foot down over that one.
Anyway, lying here on Mike's bed makes me wish I could talk to him, but I'm not allowed to make any longdistance calls until after five o'clock, when the rates go down. And anyway, last time we spoke on the phone, Mike wasn't exactly coherent. I barely said hello before he started ranting and raving about this new poem he was writing called “Yowl.”
“It's just like that famous poem ‘Howl,’” Mike said.
“‘Howl’?” I asked.
“Yeah, you know, ‘Howl,’ by Allen Ginsberg?”
“Allen who?”
“Allen Ginsberg? The beat poet? Only the greatest bard since Shakespeare, Squirt. Sheesh, don't they teach you anything at that school I had to mortgage my teeth to send you to?” Mike asked, which is what Fred is always saying to him. “So listen to this, okay? Ginsberg's poem starts off, T saw the best minds of my generation…,' so my poem starts off, ‘I
saw the best spines of my generation….’ Get it, Squirt?”
“Uh, not really.”
“Spines, Squirt. You know, backbone. As in strength. As in standing up for what you believe in.”
“Uh, sure, Mike. Whatever.”
“Just listen,” Mike said, and then he proceeded to recite this extremely long poem that didn't exactly sound brilliant to me. I don't know if he was reading his poem or Allen Ginsberg's poem, but whichever one it was, it didn't make a whole lot of sense. In the middle of all this, I heard a click, which meant that Fred had picked up the upstairs extension like he sometimes does when Mike and I are on the phone. Sure enough, two seconds later Fred started screaming about how much this call was costing him and then we hung up.
After a while hanging out in Mike's room gets boring, so I go into my own room, sit down at my desk, and take out Shirley's ring. The box she keeps it in feels as soft as Bessie's back, and when I open the cover the hinges squeak. Inside, the box is lined with white satin and there's a little slit where the ring sits. The ring is shiny and simple, and inside it's engraved F.K. to S.K. forever, which was a surprise from Fred to Shirley the day they tied the knot. Though in my opinion, tied the noose is more like it.
I take the ring out of the box and slip it on my ring finger. It gets stuck above my second knuckle, so I switch it to my pinkie, where it fits better, but still it's kind of tight. I could probably force it all the way down but I don't because what if I can't get it off?
Just as I slide the ring off my pinkie I hear footsteps coming up the stairs, so I shove the ring back in its box, close the lid, which makes this really loud crack, and jam the whole thing back in my pocket. I don't know why I'm so jumpy; it's not like Shirley ever comes in here or anything. After a few minutes I hear the toilet flushing, then Shirley's footsteps going down the stairs, and I let out my breath, which I didn't even know I was holding. God, Audi, calm down, I tell myself. I take a few deep breaths and then put Shirley's ring in my knapsack to bring to Frank tomorrow. I know I shouldn't do it—it is my own mother's wedding ring and everything—but Frank said I had to take a big risk and he's right, because look what he's risking for me: everything. He must really like me. I mean, really, really like me. I can't believe he could go to jail for making out with me. Give me a break. It's not like he put a gun to my head and forced me to do anything. Frank would never do that. And besides, I want to be with him. More than I've ever wanted anything in my whole entire life. So what else could I bring the guy to show I'm serious about him? Nothing.
Still, the whole thing makes me kind of nervous, so I check around my room to see if I can bring Frank something else instead. Nothing in my closet but clothes, most of which don't even fit. Nothing on my bookshelf but all my animal books, plus other books like Little Women and Huckleberry Finn, which we had to read for school. Nothing on my bed but stuffed animals. Nothing too interesting in my jewelry box except a Jewish star from my grandmother which I never wear, and the gold name necklace that Fred and Shirley gave me for my thirteenth birthday, which I never wear either. And this braided leather bracelet that Ronnie gave me before she left. I gave her one too, and I wonder if she still has it. Not that I really care.
Anyway, I'm sure Frank would just think all this is kid stuff as opposed to Shirley's ring, which I bet is fourteen-carat gold, which means it's got to be worth something. And I'm sure I won't get caught stealing it, either. I'm not even stealing it, really, just borrowing it. And besides that, Frank and I aren't doing anything wrong. What kind of idiotic world is this anyway, where two people have to worry so much when all they really want to do is be together and fall in love?
SEVEN
Bring me her broomstick…. That's what this feels like: Frank's the Wizard of Oz, I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas, and Shirley's the Wicked Witch of the West. All day long, Shirley's wedding ring has been burning a hole in my pocket. When I got to school this morning, I thought about putting it in my locker, but what if some stupid kid called in a bomb scare like Donald Caruso did last week when he didn't study for his math test? We all knew it was him because while everyone was standing outside waiting for the all-clear bell to ring, it began to rain and Donna Rizzo started screaming at Donald, “Now look what you've done. This sweater is ruined. Ruined!” And then she stomped off with Donald trotting behind her. Anyway the point is we get bomb scares at least once a week and the fire department has to come and search the entire building, including our lockers, and what would happen if I got caught? That would not be pretty.
God, this day is taking forever. I can't pay attention to anything my teachers are saying because all I want to do is get out of here and see the expression on Frank's face when I give him Shirley's ring.
As soon as school is over, I grab my coat from my locker and hurry away before Donald Caruso can try and stop me. The big idiot just loves to pop my cork at the end of the day.
“Hey, Dee-Dee,” he calls, “what's your hurry? C'mere, I want to Jee-scuss something with you.”
Blow me, I think, but of course I don't say it. I just keep going.
“What's your big hurry, Dee-Dee? She can wait,” he yells, but I don't even slow down. Donald Caruso is so stupid. As if I would ever be in this much of a hurry to meet a girl.
“Hey, Hillary.” I hear Donald say behind me. “Whoa, Nellie.”
Poor Hillary Jacoby, nicknamed Horseface Hillary because of her equine features, including her enormous eyes, her sunken cheeks, and her incredibly long, horselike teeth. I guess since Donald can't get a rise out of me today, he's going to give her a run for her money. I hear him behind me neighing, snorting, and pawing the ground with his big fat foot. Next to me, Hillary is Donald's favorite target, and he does really mean things to her. Once he left a jar of rubber cement in front of her locker with a note that said See you at the glue factory.
I hightail it out of there, and as soon as I get to Farm Hill Road I see Frank in the brown VW, right in our spot, with the motor running just like it should be. I go to my side of the car, pull on the door handle, and almost dislocate my shoulder before it sinks into my thick skull that the door is locked again. This is really getting old, I think as I walk around the car to Frank's side and wait for him to roll down his window.
“Hey, Frank,” I say when he does, but he doesn't say anything back. He just sticks out his hand and waits until I reach into my pocket and place the brown velvet box in his palm. He keeps his face still, so I can't tell if he's disappointed or impressed. Then, just as I'm about to say, “Open it,” he does. I wait a minute but he still has no reaction.
“It's my mother's wedding ring,” I say, pretending he asked, What is it?
“What is she, a midget?” He takes the ring out of its box and examines it. It looks really tiny and lost in his big hairy hand. Then he puts it on his pinkie, his right pinkie, the one that's all disfigured, and I start feeling really jumpy, like I might start to laugh. Or cry. I just want him to take it off his pinkie, so I say, “Look inside,” and reach over to grab it, but he moves his hand away so I can't reach.
“Patience, Vanessa,” he says, holding his hand out in front of him, like he's a woman in a jewelry store admiring a ring she's thinking of buying. Something rises in my throat, my lunch maybe, so I swallow hard and wait. Finally, he takes it off.
“Look at the inscription,” I say, pointing. “My father did that to surprise my mother the day they got married.”
“Sweet,” Frank says like he means it. Then he puts the ring back in its little satin slit and snaps the box shut with a loud crack. “Thanks, doll,” he says, and before I can say “You're welcome,” he steps on the gas pedal and takes off. Just like that.
I can't believe it. My mouth must be hanging open because all of a sudden I start coughing from the dirt the back wheels of the VW kicked up. “Frank!” I yell, like he can even hear me. What is he, crazy? I stand absolutely still and keep staring down the road like I'm in shock or something, waiting for him to come back even
though I know he's not going to. I sink down to the ground like I'm wounded, like instead of Frank taking off with Shirley's wedding ring, he stole my heart. Except I can feel it pounding away in my chest like it's going to shatter into a million pieces unless I calm myself down.
I shut my eyes and take a few deep breaths. What did I do wrong now? I handed him my own mother's wedding ring, so why did he take off like that? What more does Frank want, blood? God, I feel like crying and I feel so mad I could just punch somebody. Somebody named Frank. Screw him. Who does he think he is, anyway? He's not so great. Maybe I'll just get Shirley's ring back and break up with him. Yeah, right. How can I break up with him if I never even see him again? And what about Shirley's ring? Frank wouldn't sell it or anything, would he? God, if Frank doesn't show up tomorrow, I'll kill him, I really will. I guess I should just go home, but I don't really feel like moving. So I lean back against the fence post, pick up a strand of hair, and just rip the living daylights out of my poor split ends.
Thank God it's Friday. At least I don't have to wait the entire weekend to see if I still have a boyfriend or not. When the final bell rings, I grab my coat and hurry out the door before I can bump into Donald Caruso, who I am definitely not in the mood to see today. I walk with my head down because of all things, it's raining out, so if Frank is there, my side of the car better be open—or else. And I mean it too.
I walk fast with my fists jammed in my pockets and my knapsack bouncing up and down. He just better be there, is all I have to say. And he is. And not only that, my door is open. And I don't just mean unlocked. I mean swung open wide, like a big welcome sign. Which is really stupid because now half the seat's wet on account of the rain. But it's the thought that counts, as Shirley would say, so who cares if my seat is a little damp?
I get in without saying anything because even if Frank is trying to make up, I'm still mad about yesterday. Let him say something first. And he does.
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