The English American

by Alison Larkin

  “Stop right there!” Billie says, holding her freshly manicured hand up like a crossing guard and turning to me intently. “Stop right there!”

  It’s nine thirty in the morning, and we’re the only customers at Nails 4 U, which is a relief, because Billie is speaking very loudly.

  “I can see what’s going on here,” Billie says, “and I am not going to allow it. You, my dear, talented child, are on the verge of real success. No—don’t interrupt me! You are on the verge of real success. I will not let you sabotage yourself.”

  “But I’m not—”

  “Honey, don’t interrupt!”

  The pedicurist is now giving Billie an unusually vigorous foot rub, and Billie’s massage chair is on high speed so her entire body is shaking as she speaks.

  “What kind of a mother would I be if I let my only daughter sabotage herself? You cannot possibly afford to move into New York City or anywhere near it without working two or three jobs. And if you work all hours, your act will suffer.”

  We’re both done at the same time. The Korean girls help us down from our chairs with our toenails still wet with fresh polish.

  Usually we sit for ten minutes under a little foot fan until our toes are dry. But this time Billie and I walk straight outside in our free flip-flops, with the tissue paper still woven between our toes. We waddle across the parking lot, like penguins in intense conversation.

  “Self-sabotage is common in people of our nature. We like the initial excitement, but once things are really getting going, we sabotage ourselves. You don’t want to sabotage yourself now, do you, Pippa?”

  “Well, no…”

  “You can’t go back to advertising sales,” Billie says emphatically, swerving into her driveway. “You know you hated it. Promise me you won’t sabotage yourself by rushing off and getting a job in the city before I’ve talked to Cole.”

  She’s stopped the car, and she’s looking at me.

  “Besides,” she says, “I’ve only just found you again. I’d miss you so! Promise me?” she says.

  “I promise.”

  When Cole calls me into his office a couple of days later, he’s sitting on a chair with his feet up on the desk. He’s put a new aftershave on and has some kind of smelly gel in his hair. On both sides of the Atlantic, I have been astounded by men who think adding gel to their hair improves their appearance. It doesn’t.

  “We’ve made thousands as a result of the publicity you’ve been doing,” Cole begins. “Billie and I have been talking, and we’d like to start paying you to go even more full out on promotion.”

  I know Billie’s big annual workshop is coming up in two months’ time. Billie charges five hundred dollars a head. For the past few years she’s had twenty attendees or so. The room they rent has the capacity for a hundred.

  “How about six hundred a week, for three weeks?”

  I do the math.

  “Okay,” I say. “If you’re sure the company can afford it.” It doesn’t seem like a bad solution to my problem.

  “We can, kiddo.”

  I’ve got three hundred more dollars left until the limit on my second MasterCard is reached. If I’m careful, I should be able to make it last until I get paid. Then, if I borrow from my Visa card, I’ll have enough money to put down a deposit on an apartment in the city. It feels like a perfect arrangement.

  For the next three weeks I make calls and write press releases for Billie and walk out of the room whenever Cole walks into it.

  At the end of the three weeks, during which time Billie’s workshop fills to capacity for the very first time, I go to Cole and ask him for my check.

  Billie is in town and looking up at me from behind her laptop. “What check?” Billie says.

  “Very funny, Billie. The check for all the promotional work I’ve been doing.”

  Billie looks confused. Then she looks over at Cole.

  “Wow!” Cole says. “Now you want money? In addition to a free place to stay?” There’s something in his eyes that’s daring me to continue.

  Billie puts down the lid of her laptop and says, “Pippa, honey, you know we don’t have the extra money to pay you for promotion!”

  I feel as though the world has tilted under me. I am slipping around in mud, trying to find a foothold.

  “Pippa, I thought giving you a free place to stay and free food in the refrigerator was payment enough! Most kids in America pay their parents some kind of rent—you agreed to do promotion in return for food and rent, right? You know we have debts and salaries to pay.”

  “I’m sorry, Billie, but I really did need a job. And I was going to get one and then Cole called me into the office and specifically said you had eighteen hundred dollars allocated—”

  “What?” Cole looks indignant. “I hate to say this, Billie, but I didn’t say I’d pay her anything.”

  “Now, honey,” Billie says, enjoying the drama of the moment, “I know you’re in a tough spot financially…”

  I’m sinking further.

  “And I know you’re dealing with a lot, and I understand why you’d lie about this, really I do, I’d have done exactly the same at your age, but we just don’t have the money to pay you!” Billie’s voice is sympathetic. The house Billie told me my grandfather was leaving me hasn’t been mentioned since.

  I look at Cole, whose expression is unreadable. I look at Billie.

  “Do you honestly think that I would lie about this, Billie?” I ask her. “Oh, look at that dear little face. It doesn’t make me love you any less, honey! I will never abandon you again honey, no matter what you do!”

  “It’s not that, Billie. It’s—do you really think, for one second, that I’d try and cheat you? I’ve never cheated anyone in my life!”

  “Oh, honey!” Billie has tears in her eyes. “When you first came you were so darn British, you wouldn’t tell me how you felt about anything. Not ever. But now…Oh, honey! I am so proud of you. You’ve just told me how you really feel! And telling people how you feel—well, that’s what we in America call intimacy. And until now—well, I don’t think you’ve ever had real intimacy in your life.”

  I can’t move.

  “It’s okay to be human, honey,” Billie is saying, her voice low and soft. “I would have done exactly the same thing at your age.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say, stepping away. “I was under the impression I was being paid to do this. I, um, I need a job, you see. I haven’t got any money left.”

  “But what do you need moneyfor ? You’ve got a roof over your head, there’s always a jar of peanut butter in the refrigerator.”

  “Uh, petrol, I mean gas. I need money for gas,” I say, struggling to stay calm. “And getting into the city. And…and parking tickets…and going home to England.”

  “You want to go back to England?”

  “Yes, for a visit.”

  “But your cabaret career!”

  “Billie, I haven’t seen my parents in months.”

  “Well, why don’t you ask them for some money?”

  “I’ve never asked Mum and Dad for money. I’ve supported myself since I was eighteen.”

  “Well, it’s quite natural for parents to help their children, you know. Here’s a hundred dollars, honey. No, don’t say anything, I’m happy to loan it to you. You can pay me back when you can.”

  I stare at Billie’s money, trying to wake myself up from this. Then, leaving the hundred dollars on the table, I turn my back and leave the room.

  SUMMER

  Chapter Forty-four

  AT ELEVEN THIRTYon a windy, rainy night in June, I’ve just come offstage at The Gold Room when Jack hands me the club phone. He’s wearing a freshly ironed white shirt and smells of Tide.

  “Your mother called. She said she’s got something important to tell you, and would you please stop avoiding her calls.”

  The brief respite from the constant ache, afforded by the laughter, has gone.

  “So, now she’s calling the club ph
one?”

  “Uh huh,” Jack says.

  “Bugger, bugger, bugger.”

  Billie’s been in Georgia for almost a month, but now she’s back. I won’t be able to avoid her now anyway, so I might as well get it over and done with. There’s a hurricane coming, so I’d better not leave too late. Jack is looking at me closely.

  “Pippa,” Jack says.

  “Yup?”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing,” I say. I look up at him and smile my most charming smile. “Can I finish the tin?”

  Jack passes me the tin of Nesquik. I scrape the chocolate out of the bottom and mix it with the teaspoon of milk that’s left.

  “That stuff about you being adopted? That true?” says Sal.

  “Yup.”

  “No shit!”

  “No shit.”

  “So you’re really a redneck?”

  “No,” I say. “Well, my birth mother’s from the South, but she’s not a redneck. She’s actually a creativity counselor. And very brilliant. I call her a redneck at the start of my act because it’s funnier. More of a contrast, you know?”

  “So all that stuff about coming to America to find her is true?” Sal says.

  “Yup.”

  The door to the club opens, bringing in a gust of wind. The rain is pelting down now. It’s time for me to go.

  “So, in your act, why don’t you talk about what that was really like? Meeting her, I mean?” Sal says. “You could write songs about it!”

  For a second I’m silent.

  “Yes, why not?” Jack joins in, cleaning up the glasses, despite the fact that he’s not actually working tonight. “Why don’t you talk honestly about what’s really going on?” There’s an edge to his voice.

  Dammit. I’m not going to cry. You don’t cry at the club.

  “Because it’s not funny,” I say.

  I rummage about in my coat pocket for a dollar, lay it on the bar, sling my backpack on my back, and head out into the storm.

  I’ve driven an hour and a half to get to the club for my eight minutes onstage. I’m a paid regular on comedy night in the upstairs theater now, which means I get ten dollars a set. I arrived late because of the rain and had to park in a garage, so I have to give the parking guy thirty-eight dollars for one hour. Plus tax.

  By the time I start driving, there are deep puddles on the road and the rain has gotten heavier. The windows are steaming up, so I turn on Earl Grey’s heater, which starts up with an unhealthy roar. I turn my cell phone back on and check my messages. There are six, all from the same sweet, strong, excited southern voice.

  A bad weather advisory warning sounds on the radio. The roads are slippery and I notice that I’m the only car on the road. But I know if I drive slowly I’ll be all right.

  The wind is so strong, the Adler Bridge seems to sway against the sky, which is the color of an aging bruise. The lights are bright and the river is black and wild.

  As I slip turning right I hear Dad’s voice in my head. It’s clear, strong, and English.

  “Don’t forget, Pippa, always turn the wheel in the same direction as the skid.”

  For a second, Dad is teaching me to drive again, on a narrow country lane just outside Peaseminster. He’s tense, speaking in monosyllables as I brake too hard and then take off again with a shudder. Thoughts of Dad are always accompanied by a sticky sense of guilt these days, so I push them out of my head.

  Suddenly I hear my other father’s name, on a news bulletin, on NPR.“Washington lobbyist Walt Markham and CIA operative Marin Talenski—” Then there’s interference.

  I’m filled with relief. Walt didn’t return my last phone call, and now I know why. It’s not because he’s left me again. It’s because he’s been busy. He’s been doing something so important, it’s on the news!

  The radio sputters on again:“—are under indictment for fraud. Reports say that while the men lobbied for U.S. funding for electronic voting machines in the newly democratic Ukraine and Afghanistan, they failed to mention that the only company capable of producing such machines in the area was one in which they had a significant financial stake.”

  The father I traveled the world to find has been arrested, and they’re editorializing about how terrible it is that he should pretend to be trying to help the people of Afghanistan, when really he was working for huge personal profit.

  “No!” I shout. “That’s the opposite of who he is! That’s not himat all !” My wheel hits a slippery patch. Dad’s voice in my head has been blocked out by the sounds on the radio. I turn my wheel away from the skid, and the car heads toward the river.

  I’ve had close calls a couple of times, at night, on wet roads. The first time was driving from London to Edinburgh. It was cold and I turned the heating up to full. Miles fell asleep at the wheel, and we spun off the road toward a cliff. The spinning seemed to take forever.

  “Are we going to die?” I said to Miles.

  “I think so,” he said. But we didn’t, thanks to a well-placed rock.

  I’m not scared, because I know it’s not my time to die. Not for years yet. I’m going to live to be a very old woman. I’ve seen it, in my mind’s eye. I shall eventually die of a bad cough when I’m well into my nineties. And during the last few months of my life, I shall receive visitors lying down and insist they tickle the soles of my feet with a feather.

  Tonight, the spinning seems to take forever. The car grows strangely silent. I feel as if I’m floating above it, watching myself trying to turn the wheel. When the car stops spinning, I get out. A man in a truck is coming toward me.

  “You okay?”

  “Fine,” I say.

  He pops the hood and looks in. He’s a small, wiry man, with a weather-beaten face and a Spanish-sounding accent. “If your engine’s gonna blow, that would be the time to do it. Looks like it saved your life.”

  “Yes,” I say. So it seems that everything has some perks. Even driving a car that desperately needs servicing.

  The man tows me to Billie’s house. The closer we get to Adler-on-Hudson, the heavier my heart feels.

  When I get to the house, Billie is waiting for me just inside her front door.

  “Oh, honey! I’ve missed you so much. I need a hug!” I walk into her arms, feeling the little energy I have left leave my body.

  “Walt managed to get a message to me,” she says. “They’ve got him under house arrest. He doesn’t want you to call to check on him because he doesn’t want them to know about us, in case they use it against him in some way.”

  “But is he okay?”

  “Honey, your father will always be okay.”

  Yes.

  “Will you sleep in my room tonight? Please? Cole and Ralphie are away, and having you near me will make me feel so much better.”

  My heart sinks further.

  “Okay,” I say.

  “I used to have to handle family dramas alone. But now I have a daughter—well, I feel so much better having someone else here with me now. You’ve filled me up, honey.”

  I put on the purple silk pajamas Billie brought me from Georgia and fall asleep to the sound of Billie’s voice.

  When I wake up two hours later, Billie is lying on her side of the bed. Asleep, she looks sad and young. She has sweet-smelling cold cream on her face and foil in her hair and her breathing is light.

  I creep out of bed so as not to wake her and walk down the corridor to the kitchen. The rain has stopped falling and the moon is full. The cats wake up and jump on the kitchen table. I give them some milk, make myself some chocolate milk, and pad into the office. I turn on the computer in search of a message from Nick. Nothing.

  Suddenly afraid of the silence, I go into the sitting room and turn on the television. During the last few months, I’ve watched late night specials featuring serial killers who have found God. And I’ve watched American soaps, featuring unrealistically beautiful people, with lovely hair, who have lots and lots of sex. Unlike the people i
nEastEnders , my favorite British soap, which features people with no money and desperate lives.

  Tonight I watch a rerun of something called theRobin Byrd Show , which is hosted by a half-naked woman with gigantic plastic breasts. From another channel I learn where to get a miracle mop and a tap light. I learn how to get a perfect bottom in just two minutes a day. And I watch Anthony Robbins, mesmerized by his teeth.

  I go back to the computer. Still no message.

  DATE: June 10

  TO: NickDevang@bankglobal.net

  FROM: pippa-dunn@hotmail.com

  Dear Nick,

  How are you?

  Pippa

  An hour later I check again. Nothing.

  The moon looks malevolent, and tonight I am afraid of the dark.

  “Billie’s deluded. She’s going nuts.” Carol’s words ring in my head. “She makes people crazy. The healthy ones stay away.”

  Something ugly sits heavy on my chest, making it impossible for me to move.

  The office has blue gray paint on the walls, which is peeling near the ceiling. The carpet is stained and smells damp. There are papers everywhere and dirty coffee mugs with an inch of stale milk into which I’ve stubbed out cigarettes.

  I lie down on the floor, my knees curled up to my chest, breathing heavily. My head is resting on one of Billie’s sweaters, which smells too strongly of perfume. I don’t want to smell her. I throw the sweater aside, lay my head on my hands and close my eyes.

  I dream of Billie again. She’s breaking into my old apartment in London and smashing everything—photo frames holding pictures of Mum and Dad, my piano, the Chinese warrior chess set that I bought from the Kowloon market in Hong Kong. Then she holds up a photo of my sister and my mother, saying, “You don’t look like these people! You look like me! You look like me! You look like meeeeeee!” Now she’s dancing, whirling round and round. I try to wake myself up. I hear Jack’s voice in my head.

  “Why don’t you talk about what’s really going on?” His face is still, strong, thoughtful, kind, and quiet in the midst of the chaos.