by Maria Semple
“You can,” I said.
“I can, but I won’t.” We just looked at each other, smiling. He gave a laugh. I did, too. The future was glorious, and it was opening itself up to us.
(TIME-OUT REALITY CHECK: Because we were drunk.)
And then it started to snow.
The walls at the Four Seasons are made of thin pieces of slate, stacked like French pastry, and an edge had ripped a hole in Elgie’s parka, releasing feathers, which swirled around us. The Morrissey fans waved their arms around theatrically and started singing one of his songs that went something like “through hail and snow I’d go…” It reminded me of one of my favorite movies, Moulin Rouge!
“Let’s go upstairs.” Elgie took my hand. As soon as the elevator closed, we kissed. We came up for air, and I said, “I was wondering what that would be like.”
Sex was awkward. Elgie obviously wanted to get it over with, and then he fell asleep. The next morning, we hurriedly got dressed, looking at the floor. He’d given Van his car, so I drove him home. That’s when Bernadette walked in on her intervention.
Bernadette is still out of the picture, and I am pregnant. That sorry night in the hotel was the first and last time we ever had sex. Elgie has promised to take care of me and the baby. But he refuses to live with me. Some days I think all I need to do is give him time. He loves presidential biographies? I named my son Lincoln, after a president. He loves Microsoft? I love Microsoft. We’re totally compatible.
(TIME-OUT REALITY CHECK: Elgie will never love me because I fundamentally lack his intelligence and sophistication. He will always love Bee more than our unborn child. He’s trying to buy me off with this new house, and I should damn well take it.)
WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 2
Fax from Soo-Lin
Audrey,
I went to VAV to read my WYP and I got TORCHed. Again! Not since Frankenstein has such an angry mob descended on a poor suffering creature.
I thought my WYP was pretty frigging honest. But everyone said it was full of self-pity.
In the course of defending myself, I explained that because I was pregnant I was being revictimized by Elgie. That was a mistake. Because in VAV there’s no such thing as revictimization: if we’re revictimized, it’s because we’re allowing ourselves to be victimized and therefore there’s a new abuser, which is our self, so technically no revictimization has taken place. But I pointed out that my baby was being victimized by Elgie, which would mean a new victim, same perp. They actually said it was me victimizing my baby. I could almost buy that, but then someone pointed out that because the baby was Elgie’s, it was actually me victimizing Elgie.
“What kind of support group is this?” I exploded. “I’ll tell you who’s the victim here. It’s me, and the abusers are you, you church-basement sadists!” I stormed out and got ice cream and cried in my car.
That was the high point.
I returned home and realized it was the one night of the week Elgie comes for dinner. He was already there, helping Lincoln and Alexandra with their homework. I’d made lasagna ahead of time, and the kids had put it in the oven and set the table.
These family dinners are something Elgie resisted at first, but now he actually seems to enjoy them. Listen to this: Bernadette didn’t cook, she just ordered take-out. And when they were finished eating, she couldn’t be bothered to wash the plates. No, there were drawers in the dining room table, like desk drawers, so Bernadette’s big idea was to just open the drawers, pile in the soiled plates and utensils, and shut them. The next day, the maid would empty the dirty dishes from the drawers and wash them. Have you ever heard of such a way of life?
As I was dumping the lettuce into the salad bowl, Elgie whispered, “I forwarded you the captain’s report and the lawyer’s letter. Did you have time to read them?”
“Why would you ask me?” I slammed the salad and bottle of dressing on the table. “You don’t care what I think.”
The front door flew open. In hurtled Hurricane Bee, waving Mr. Harmsen’s letter and captain’s report. “You wish Mom were dead?!”
“Bee—” Elgie said. “Where did you get these?”
“They came in the mail to the house.” She stomped her foot and pushed the back of Elgie’s chair. “I could take everything else! But all anyone cares about is proving Mom is dead.”
“I didn’t write that,” Elgie said. “That’s lawyerspeak from a guy who doesn’t want to get sued.”
“What happens when Mom comes home and finds out you’re eating dinner with people she hated, all la la la?”
“If that happens, then she’ll be the one with the explaining to do,” I said. I know, I know, wrong thing.
“You gnat!” Bee spun around and screamed at me. “You’re the one who wishes she were dead so you can marry Dad and take his money.”
“I’m sorry,” Elgie said to me. “She’s just grieving.”
“I’m grieving over what a jerk you are,” Bee told Elgie. “And how you’ve fallen under the spell of Yoko Ono.”
“Lincoln, Alexandra,” I said. “Go to the basement and watch TV.”
“I’m sure she doesn’t mean it that way,” Elgie tried to assure me.
“Oh, just keep stuffing your face,” Bee hissed at me.
I burst into tears. Of course, she doesn’t know I’m pregnant. But still, I told you how terrible the morning sickness has been, Audrey. For some reason, French toast hasn’t been enough. I woke up the other night with a craving to put Molly Moon’s salted caramel ice cream on it. I bought a carton and started making salted caramel and French toast ice-cream sandwiches. Believe me when I say I should trademark them and start a business. Yesterday Dr. Villar said I’d better watch out, because the baby will be born made of sugar, like a Peep. Who can blame me for crying? I ran upstairs and threw myself on the bed.
After an hour, Elgie appeared. “Soo-Lin,” he said. “Are you OK?”
“No!” I howled.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry about Bee, I’m sorry about Bernadette, I’m sorry about the baby.”
“You’re sorry about the baby!” I launched into a whole new round of convulsive sobs.
“That’s not what I meant,” he said. “It’s just all so sudden.”
“It’s only sudden to you because Bernadette had all those miscarriages. When you’re a healthy woman, like me, and you make love to a man, you get pregnant.”
There was a long silence. Finally, Elgie spoke. “I told Bee we could go to Antarctica.”
“You know I can’t travel there.”
“Just me and Bee,” he said. “She thinks it will help her get some closure. It’s her idea.”
“So of course you’ll go.”
“It’s the only way Bee will let me spend time with her. I miss her.”
“Then by all means, go.”
“You’re an amazing woman, Soo-Lin,” he said.
“Gee, thanks.”
“I know what you want to hear,” he said. “But think about what I’ve been through, what I’m still going through. Do you really want me saying stuff I’m not sure I mean?”
“Yes!” I was done with dignity.
“The last trip of the season leaves in two days,” he finally said. “There’s room on the ship. We have a credit that would otherwise expire. It’s a lot of money. And I owe it to Bee. She’s a good kid, Soo-Lin. She really is.”
So that’s it. Elgie and Bee leave tomorrow for Antarctica. The whole thing is completely tragic, in my opinion. But what do I know? I’m just a Seattle-born secretary.
Love to you,
Soo-Lin
PART SIX
The White Continent
We arrived in Santiago at six in the morning. I’d never flown first-class before, so I didn’t know each seat was its own egg and when you pushed a button, it became a bed. As soon as my seat went totally flat, the stewardess covered me with a crisp white comforter. I must have smiled, because Dad looked over from his seat and said, “Do
n’t get too used to this.” I smiled back, but then I remembered I hated him, so I plopped on my eye pillow. They bring you this kind that is filled with flaxseed and lavender, which they microwave, so it’s toasty warm and you breathe in relaxation. I slept for ten hours.
There was a massive immigration line at the airport. But an officer waved over Dad and me, and unhooked a chain so we could go straight to an empty window reserved for families with small children. At first, I was annoyed because I’m fifteen. But then I thought, Fine, I’ll do cutsies.
The guy wore military fatigues and took forever with our passports. He kept looking at me, in particular, then at my passport. Up, down, up, down. I figured it was my stupid name.
Finally, he spoke. “I like your hat.” It was a Princeton Tigers baseball hat they sent Mom when they wanted her to give money. “Princeton,” he said. “That’s an American university, like Harvard.”
“Only better,” I said.
“I like tigers.” He placed his palm over both of our passports. “I like that hat.”
“Me, too.” I stuck my chin in my palm. “That’s why I’m wearing it.”
“Bee,” Dad said. “Give him the hat.”
“Whaa?” I said.
“Very much I’d like the hat,” the guy said, agreeing with Dad.
“Bee, just do it.” Dad grabbed my hat, but it was hooked on my ponytail.
“It’s my hat!” I covered my head with both hands. “Mom gave it to me.”
“She threw it in the garbage,” Dad said. “I’ll get you another one.”
“Get one yourself,” I told the guy. “You can order them on the Internet.”
“We can order you one,” Dad added.
“We will not!” I said. “He’s a grown man with a job and a gun. He can do it himself.”
The man handed us our stamped passports and gave a shrug, like, It was worth a try. We collected our bags and were funneled into the main part of the airport. A tour guide immediately identified us by the blue-and-white ribbons we tied to our luggage. He told us to wait while everyone else in the group went through immigration. It would be awhile.
“There’s no free lunch,” Dad said. He had a point, but I acted like I didn’t hear him.
Others with blue-and-white ribbons started appearing. These were our fellow travelers. They were mostly old, with wrinkled faces and wrinkle-free travel clothes. And the camera equipment! These people were circling one another like khaki peacocks, presenting their lenses and cameras. In between the preening, they’d pull out cloudy Ziploc bags of dried fruit and tuck little pieces into their mouths. Sometimes I’d catch their curious glances, probably because I was the youngest, and they’d smile all friendly. One of them stared so long I couldn’t resist, I just had to say it: “Take a picture. It lasts longer.”
“Bee!” Dad puffed.
One thing that was funny: beside a random windowless room, there was a sign depicting a stick figure on its knees under a pointy roof. This was the universal sign for church. Janitors, lunch-counter workers, and taxi drivers would go in and pray.
It was time to board the bus. I waited until Dad found a seat, then sat somewhere else. The highway into the city center ran along a river, which had trash scattered on its bank: soda cans, water bottles, tons of plastic, and food scraps just dumped. Kids were kicking a ball among the trash, running with mangy dogs among the trash, even squatting to wash their clothes among the trash. It was totally annoying, like, Would one of you just pick up the trash?
We entered a tunnel. The guide standing in the front of the bus got on the PA system and started rhapsodizing about when the tunnel was built, who won the contract to build it, how long it took, which president approved it, how many cars go through it every day, etc. I kept waiting for him to reveal its greatness, like maybe it was self-cleaning, or made out of recycled bottles. Nope, it was just a tunnel. Still, you couldn’t help but feel happy for the guide, that if things ever got really bad, he’d always have the tunnel.
We went to our hotel, which was a swirling concrete column. In a special conference room, an Austrian lady checked us in.
“Make sure there are two beds in our room,” I said. I was horrified when I had found out Dad and I would be sharing a room for the entire trip.
“Yes, you have two beds,” the lady said. “Here is your wowcher for the city tour and transfer to the airport.”
“My what?” I asked.
“Your wowcher,” she said.
“My what?”
“Your wowcher.”
“What’s a wowcher?”
“Voucher,” Dad said. “Don’t be such a little bitch.” The truth was I didn’t understand what the lady was saying. But I was being a little bitch in general, so I let Dad have this one. We got our key and went to our room.
“That city tour sounds fun!” Dad said. You almost have to feel sorry for him with his taped-over lens and desperate attitude, until you remember this whole thing started because he tried to get Mom locked up in a mental hospital.
“Yeah,” I said. “Do you want to go on it?”
“I do,” he said, all hopeful and touched.
“Have fun.” I grabbed my backpack and headed to the pool.
Choate was big and majestic, with ivy-covered buildings and jewels of modern architecture dotted on huge expanses of snowy lawn crisscrossed with boot paths. I had nothing against the place itself. It’s just that the people were weird. My roommate, Sarah Wyatt, didn’t like me from the start. I think it’s because when she left for Christmas break, she was living in a double all by herself. And when she got back, all of a sudden she had a roommate. At Choate, you talked about who your father was. Her dad owned buildings in New York. Every single kid, I’m not kidding, had an iPhone, and most of them had iPads, and every computer I saw was a Mac. When I said my dad worked at Microsoft, they openly mocked me. I had a PC and listened to music on my Zune. What is that thing? people would ask in the most offended way, like I had just taken a huge stinky poop and stuck earbuds into it. I told Sarah my mother was a famous architect who had won a MacArthur genius award, and Sarah said, “She did not.” And I said, “Sure she did. Look it up on the Internet.” But Sarah Wyatt didn’t look it up, that’s how little respect she had for me.
Sarah had thick straight hair and wore expensive clothes, which she liked to explain to me, and any time I said I hadn’t heard of one of the stores, she’d emit a little grunt. Marla, her best friend, lived downstairs. Marla talked all the time, and she was funny, I suppose, but she had angry acne, smoked cigarettes, and was on academic probation. Her father was a TV director in L.A., and there was lots of jabber about her friends back home who had famous people for parents. Everyone would gather at her feet as she yakked about how cool Bruce Springsteen is. And I’d think, Of course Bruce Springsteen is cool, I don’t need Marla to tell me that. I mean, Galer Street smelled like salmon, but at least the people were normal.
Then one day I went to my mailbox, and the manila envelope arrived. It had no return address, strange block writing that wasn’t Mom or Dad’s, and no letter saying who it was from, just all the documents about Mom. Then everything was better, because I started writing my book.
I knew something was up, though, one day after classes, when I got back to my room. Our dorm was Homestead, which was a creaky little house in the middle of campus where George Washington had once spent the night, according to a plaque. Oh, I forgot to mention that Sarah had this weird smell, like baby powder, but if the smell of baby powder made you feel sick. It couldn’t have been actual perfume, and I never saw any baby powder. To this day I still don’t know what it was. Anyway, I opened the front door and I heard some scurrying footsteps overhead. I went upstairs, but our room was empty. I could hear Sarah in the bathroom, though. I sat down at my desk, opened my laptop, and that’s when I smelled it. That gross baby-powder scent hung in the air over my desk. This was especially weird because Sarah had made a big point about dividing the room in hal
f, and there were strict orders not to cross the invisible line. Just then, she darted behind me, through our room, and downstairs. The door slammed. Sarah was out on the corner, waiting to cross Elm Street.
“Sarah,” I called out the window.
She stopped and looked up.
“Where are you going? Is everything OK?” I was worried that maybe something had happened to one of her dad’s buildings.
She acted like she couldn’t hear me. She headed up Christian Street, which was weird, because I knew she had squash. She didn’t turn to go to Hill House, or the library, either. The only thing past the library was Archbold, which is where the dean’s offices are. I went to dance class, and when I got back, I tried to talk to Sarah, but she wouldn’t look at me. She spent that night downstairs in Marla’s room.
A few days later, in the middle of English, Mrs. Ryan told me that I was to immediately report to Mr. Jessup’s office. Sarah had English with me, and I instinctively turned to her. She quickly looked down. I knew then: that weird-smelling, yoga-pants-wearing New Yorker with the big diamond earrings had betrayed me.
In Mr. Jessup’s office, there was Dad, telling me it was for the best that I leave Choate. It was hilarious watching Mr. Jessup and Dad dance around each other, with every sentence starting with “Because I care so much about Bee” or “Because Bee is such an extraordinary girl” or “For the good of Bee.” It was decided that I’d leave Choate and they’d transfer my credits so I could go to Lakeside next year. (I’d apparently gotten accepted. Who knew?)
Out in the hallway, it was just me, Dad, and the bronze bust of Judge Choate. Dad demanded to see my book, but there was no way. I did show him the envelope that came in the mail, though. “Where did this come from?” “Mom,” I said. But the writing on the envelope wasn’t Mom’s, and he knew it. “Why would she send this to you?” he asked. “Because she wants me to know.” “Know what?” “The truth. It’s not like you were ever going to tell me.” Dad took a breath and said, “The only true thing is now you’ve read things you’re not old enough to possibly understand.”