“I gotta meet her,” Dean said. “How can I get to her?”
“What about Terry?”
“She’ll understand,” he said, his eyes fixed on the photograph of Melanie.
“What do you mean—‘She’ll understand’?”
“It’s different with us,” he said, still studying the photograph.
“Like how?”
“Because of—what I am.”
“What does that mean?”
He didn’t move his eyes from the yearbook. “Just—how I am. That’s all.”
“Terry’s going to freak,” I said.
“No.” His voice was distracted. “I know what!” He looked at me, smiled at his bright idea. “My birthday’s coming up. You can give me a party!”
“A party?”
“Yeah. A twenty-first birthday party. I’m a Christmas baby. Invite her.”
“Invite Melanie?”
“Call her up.”
“Who’s going to pay for this party?” I asked.
“I’ll chip in. We’ll have a party, man!” he said, taken up with it now.
“What about Terry?”
“Say you can only do it on Fridays. She’s working Friday nights because of the differential.” Terry had to make the money for both of them because he wasn’t earning any.
“Terry’ll take the night off for it, if it’s a birthday party for you,” I said.
“I’ll tell her we’ll have our own party—me and her together.”
I sat there quietly, thinking. I owed nothing to Terry. Terry made my life tough. Terry was on their side. Terry . . . so good . . . so pure.
I felt mean tonight. I guess I was jealous a little, too, that they were a unit, that she had him in a way I never could. Even though I didn’t ever expect him to be my lover.
While he was still there, I dialed Melanie’s mother’s house and asked for Melanie and told her about the party.
“Think you can make it?” I asked. Over on the futon, Dean listened carefully.
There was silence on the other end. “You know Dean?” I said. “Dean Lily? He was working at the Laundercenter?”
Still silence. Melanie often answered questions with silence, I remembered. This had the effect of making you concentrate on her answer.
After a pause, she said, “I’ll try and get there.” And then she gave that soft little laugh, that laugh that told you nothing.
I hung up. And now I was excited. It was the excitement you feel when you are going to cause a big change, alter the course of events, disrupt things, and you are sitting back to watch it all unfold in front of you.
CHAPTER 13
CHRISSIE
On the night of the party, Dean arrived early, at nine o’clock. And what do you know—who should walk in with him but Terry? “What happened?” I asked Terry. “I thought you were working.”
“Couldn’t miss this,” Terry said.
She looked completely different tonight. I’d never seen Terry like this. She was wearing a black lace top and tight black jeans, spike heels, long silver earrings. And makeup. And it was like she wasn’t used to wearing makeup—the lipstick was dark red, and painted in a harsh, jagged line over the lip line. Her eyeliner was too thick. I liked plain old Terry better. What was she doing to herself? Just for him?
Dean’s face was pale from his shower, he had his hair all slicked down, he looked punk. He was wearing his usual two torn flannel shirts, and a black t-shirt underneath, and his cowboy boots. There was a tiny gold hoop earring in his ear—as if he were daring everyone—What am I, he was saying, take your pick—boy or girl?
I’d decorated the apartment for him, put up a Happy Birthday banner across the wall, and balloons, and I’d taped red gel over the windows, and screwed red lightbulbs into the fixtures. The room had a deep, red glow, and it was dark enough so people could misbehave without feeling observed.
Around nine thirty, the guests began arriving. B.J. came, from work. B.J. was black, a little older than us, maybe thirty-five or forty. He was a Vet. He had a soft, southern voice, and though his skin was black, he had blue eyes. B.J. was kind and private. I believed he had a past. I didn’t even know if he had a family, if he were married, or had kids.
There were people from down the block. Latasha came from down the street, bright faced, caramel-skinned, eyes laughing; one of Dean’s ex-girlfriends. And some kids from our high school class that never seemed to leave Sparta, that seemed to show up at every party, whether or not they were invited, even though we’d left school long ago.
The arriving guests stood around, drank paper cups of wine and beer, pretended not to be scrutinizing one another.
I found the Salt n’ Pepa tape, slid it into the deck, turned up the volume, and it blasted through the room.
As the night wore on, the apartment door kept opening and closing, more people arriving. The room was filled near to capacity now. People were cramped together in the tiny kitchen area. Some had drifted into my bedroom. The more people in a small space at a party, the better.
The sound of Salt n’ Pepa pumped through our bodies. The beat of the music was like a heartbeat, and you could feel the blood pump through your body like the tide sweeping in, out, in, out.
Dean stood near the door, eyes riveted on it, drawing on his roach in short little bursts. I sensed the tension in him. Everything about him was directed toward that door, all his senses were strained toward it, to where he knew Melanie would have to enter.
Someone put another tape on. I heard Terry ask Dean, “Want to dance?” But he shook his head. Terry looked at B.J. as if to extend an invitation, and together they moved into the center of the room. The icebreakers! Terry was so tall in high heels, like a tree. A different woman today, released . . . She jiggled her shoulders to the music, twisted her hips, knees together. My guy makes me crazy . . . crazy . . . O crazy . . . does it to me . . . does it . . . does it . . .
Terry and B.J. were really getting it on. B.J. was dancing like he was experienced, watching Terry’s crotch as he moved his body in rhythm with hers. B.J.’s age made me shy, he could be our father.
I’d never seen Terry this loose before. I knew she was really dancing for Dean, she wanted him to pay attention to her. But Dean wasn’t looking at Terry. He was watching the door.
He was sitting on the futon with his legs out in front of him and he seemed unhappy. He wouldn’t look at Terry, though every now and then while she was dancing, Terry glanced over her shoulder at him to see if he was watching her.
Now Terry moved toward Dean, gate-legged, pelvis tilted, knees apart, in rhythm to the music. She stood right above him, moving her hips at him, looking down at him. Terry babee! It was an invitation. She wanted him to dance with her.
But Dean avoided looking at her, wouldn’t look at her. Wouldn’t meet her eyes. I knew—and maybe Terry knew too—one reason Dean wouldn’t dance. If he got up and danced he might show those very few people in the world who didn’t know, what he really was. If he moved his body around, somebody might notice the little swellings on his chest—his breasts—they might notice the roundness of his hips—which were almost like a real boy’s, but not quite—it helped he always wore the baggy jeans.
Oh, Dean was so unhappy waiting there! Oh boy . . . D-o-o-o me, do me . . . Go right throoough me . . . Inside . . . Upside . . . And Terry had that bright look on her face, like glass that could shatter. Terry wasn’t drunk enough. Dean was going to break her heart. He was! He was! Terry had lost him. I knew this was going to be like dying for Terry. Terry didn’t quite realize it yet. But it would be like dying.
Melanie hadn’t arrived. Wasn’t coming. Just like Melanie. Made you want her by being scarce. Only, I didn’t think this habit of Melanie’s was deliberate. This tendency of hers toward scarcity just came naturally, out of some complexity, out of her guilt, from something difficult inside her.
By eleven, the apartment was packed. People dancing close together. The room had a hellish red gl
ow. There was a nice pungent smell of dope now, hanging in the air. Groups of people locked in the bathroom doing lines. People dancing by themselves, stoned out of their minds, absorbed in themselves. The music so loud my throat was sore from shouting over it. A stack of empty beer cans was piled high in the garbage pail, empty boxes of Uncle Dom’s. The room was all smoky, and the smell of reefer hung in the air, so warm, comforting, like food. Most delicious smell in the world, I thought.
Then suddenly a draft of cold air swept through the room. Cold, cold December air. The cigarette smoke in the air roiled. And I knew she had arrived. I knew it from Dean, from his face. He was transfixed.
Melanie stands in the doorway. Small and delicate, her thin, wispy brown-red hair gleaming. Gold eyes like a cat’s, fragile smile, little pointed chin.
And I can’t believe it. She’s with Brian. There is Brian, standing right behind her.
Melanie is wearing a black leather jacket that hangs to her knees. The jacket is open. She wears a black leotard underneath it, which is tight over her small breasts. Melanie’s skin has a rubbed look, as if she has just made love. There are soft brown shadows around her eyes, cat’s eyes. So delicate.
Brian Perez is standing behind her, much taller, towering over her. Brian’s long, blond hair is beautiful tonight—hair so pale it’s almost white, like burned ashes, fluffy around his face as if he’s shampooed and blow-dried it just for this occasion. But his slanty blue eyes give away nothing. His thin mouth is tight. His face is wide, flat, with high cheekbones. He is wearing only a denim jacket though it’s cold—Brian never seems to feel the cold. And underneath the jacket, he wears a white Indian-cotton shirt across his broad chest.
Behind Brian stands Jimmy Vladeck. Big lump of stupidity Jimmy, slouch-shouldered, pot-bellied, brown hair tied back in a ponytail, bits of hair hanging in greasy strands around his puffy face. Wearing a huge dirty dark blue parka.
Abruptly, Dean clambers to his feet. Dean’s movement catches my eye. And suddenly, Dean grabs Terry’s arm, pulls her out into the middle of the room, and he starts to dance with her.
You can see the burst of joy shoot through Terry’s whole body as he summons her. And as they dance Terry is like a young tree swaying in the wind, tossing her hair back, arching her body, kicking out her long legs as she dances.
I’d never seen Dean dance before. . . . His cigarette hangs from the corner of his mouth, his eyes squint from the smoke. So cool! He’s got a special, unique way of doing it. . . .
The way he dances hides his body. He draws his elbows in close to his ribs, darts his head out from side to side like a bird pecking. Doesn’t make any eye contact with Terry. Little flash of gold in his ear. Soft hair sticking up at the top, sideburns, little tail behind at the neck.
People at the party glance at him out of the corner of their eyes—they’re not sure. And even if they are sure—they’re fascinated. Who is he?
It’s midnight. I bring in the birthday cake, candles blazing. I’d bought it at Food Mart, stuck in on a plate with a doily. We all sing “Happy Birthday—Happy Birthday—” “Hey, Dean,” someone says. “Do some magic tricks!” Humoring him.
“Yeah, Dean. Do some magic!”
And they stand around him while he does his routine. He folds his handkerchief around a quarter, then shakes the handkerchief loose. Nothing falls out. The handkerchief is empty, the quarter has disappeared.
He curls a dime around his fingers and it changes into a penny. He covers a shot glass with his handkerchief, removes the handkerchief—the shot glass has evaporated into thin air! The partyers watch him, mocking smiles on their faces, skeptical. They only half believe what he’s doing is magic. They’ve seen his tricks before. They know he’s an imposter and a con man. But at least for tonight, they want to believe. And they love him anyway! Dean is entertainment.
He finishes his act. People start dancing again, laughing and flirting in the shadows of the room. They go in and out of the bathroom, slamming the door behind them, busy in there.
Two figures drift together across my line of sight and block my vision. For a moment, I can’t find either Dean or Melanie.
Then, there’s a shriek of laughter from somewhere. The bodies in front of me part. And next thing I know, Dean is sitting on the futon, right up close to Melanie.
He’s leaning in toward Melanie, saying something to her, and making her laugh. And Melanie’s bending her head down, listening intently to him, the side of her face hidden by her fine hair. And I can see Brian standing against the wall across from them pretending not to look, but knowing everything, seeing everything they do.
PART III
MY PROFOUND HEART
CHAPTER 14
MELANIE
At Chrissie Peck’s place that night, the new boy didn’t even say hello to me. He just looked deep into my eyes. Didn’t even introduce himself. As if he’d been waiting for me all along. “You are beautiful,” he said, as if confirming something, as if he already knew all about me. So direct. So frank. He had oval eyes, I could see the light shining through the moist green lens, long, dark blond lashes with the pale tips curling on the high cheekbone. White teeth, ridges on them gleaming like white coral. I saw a soft brown mole above his upper lip, like a tiny patch of velvet.
“You are beautiful,” he said again, as if satisfying himself. That was all.
And then, just as suddenly as he’d sat down beside me, he stood up from the futon, and he walked away.
And now there was a gap of air, a sudden, cool space. I felt weird. I wasn’t used to being left at parties. There was always someone trying to talk to me.
The music beat through the crowded room. This wild heart . . . it beats for you . . . my wild heart . . . it weeps for you . . .
I tried to follow him with my eyes through the fumy red air, through the crowd of partyers. I tried to keep my eye on his thin, small frame in the loose jeans, the little tail of hair in the tender groove of his neck, the clunky cowboy boots. I always thought that magic tricks were hokey; you know the magic isn’t real. But he was so fast—the way his long, tapered fingers moved and you couldn’t keep track of them. Everyone around here was such a bunch of dufuses, never did anything but drink and play computer games and watch TV and smoke dope. At least he could do something!
Chrissie Peck’s place was packed. No room hardly to dance or sit down. The green canvas blinds were drawn over the windows so no one could see in. People were standing on the landing in the hallway. Someone had brushed up against Chrissie’s Mariah Carey poster and torn it. Now it hung down from the wall at a weird angle, Mariah Carey’s face cut in half, one of her big eyes lopsided and staring out.
The smoky air stung my eyes. I glanced up and suddenly, Brian was standing right above me, very close. I hadn’t seen him approach. He was leaning back against the wall, his eyes focused across the room, pretending he didn’t even know I was there. And Jimmy was lounging next to him. As always, waiting for Brian to tell him what to do, attuned to Brian’s every need.
Brian pretended he just wanted to be my friend, just wanted to hang out. He’d discovered there was a party at Chrissie’s place, and he’d offered to give me a ride. I didn’t have my own car because I had no right to own a car as I didn’t have a job. So I had said yes, you can drive me.
Now he was standing above me, silently waiting.
I searched through the crowd of partyers for the new boy, Dean, the boy with the lick of hair, and the two shirts, one on top of the other.
I glimpsed him standing by himself in the corner on the other side of the room, drinking a can of Mountain Dew and smoking a blunt. Had he forgotten about me so fast? After that big intro, he didn’t want me anymore. Somehow, I hadn’t measured up. Usually, people didn’t walk away from me like that. I knew I was lucky that way, that everybody loved me. And realizing it didn’t mean I was stuck up or anything, or conceited. It just meant that because people love you so much, you have an extra responsibility to them.<
br />
But now, this new person had aroused my curiosity and I wanted to know more about him.
Around midnight, I stood up to leave. Brian, who had been standing over me, came to attention. “I guess I’ll go home,” I said. “It’s late.”
And I knew Brian had waited all night for me just so he could take me home.
CHAPTER 15
MELANIE
Brian drove me home from Chrissie’s party, big old silent Jimmy in the back. As we rode through Sparta, the snow-covered streets glittered in the headlights. This city was so lonely at night, so empty, all boarded-up buildings, all the people who remained living on Social Security and welfare. Its size was so limited. You knew everyone, and yet you were lonely, and the night, when the streets were deserted and all the antique shops on Washington Street closed, their hollow windows lit up, only emphasized the loneliness.
Brian beside me, hands on the wheel, silent. Jimmy sitting in the backseat. The earthy, mildewy smell of Jimmy filled the air of the car. I knew Brian was simply grateful to be with me, to be able to transport me home, because then he would know exactly where I was tonight.
Brian was like a shadow in my life, always present, attached to me by this thin, dark strand, expandable. Mostly, he tried not to be obtrusive, just hung in the background, but I could sense him there. Always.
When we were in kindergarten, Brian would sit at the back of the class. He’d sit there blinking blinking like he was flinching at a fist raised against him. No one would sit next to Brian, or play with him, because he smelled of dried pee. “You stink, Brian,” they told him.
But I defended Brian. “Leave him alone. Go away. Stop it.” Something in me made me always come to his defense. Brian looked like an angel with that blond curly hair. Maybe because I had been so lucky in life, God made me pretty, gave me my mommy—though God had taken my daddy away from me—anyway, I wasn’t afraid to stand up to the other kids, because I was already popular.
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