That afternoon, everyone scattered. The house emptied. Karen sat out on the porch, perched on the railing. Clouds covered the sun, uncovered it, covered it. A silver light spilled across the lake.
She heard voices and saw Liz and Scott below her on the path. They were walking away from her, past the other houses on this side of the lake. She watched them. Only hours earlier, Liz had been here in the same place, also watching. Karen felt her face become like Liz’s, calm, considering, watchful. No. She wasn’t Liz. She thumped off the railing, knocked past the wicker table, and went inside, letting the screen door slam.
She was upstairs, taking a nap, when Liz came in. “Karen?” Liz bent over her, shaking her, her fingers digging into Karen’s arm. “Wake up.”
Karen sat up. Liz’s face hovered over her, a round cheese, sharp cheese. Liz continued to shake her. Karen thought she might still be asleep, dreaming, mixing things up the way dreams did. Tobi would shake her, Tobi would dig into her flesh with hard fingers. Not Liz.
“Scott told me. He told me everything.” Her freckles were like spots of light on her face.
“He told you?”
“That’s what I said! He told me about you going to his place, he told me the whole thing. He told me everything.”
“Why? Why’d he tell you?” Her toes throbbed as if someone had tramped on them, crushed them with hobnailed boots.
“I asked him. I knew something was wrong. I saw the way you two were acting. Do you think I’m utterly blind?”
Karen turned over and over in the bed.
“What did you think you were doing? Did you think at all? Did you think of anyone but yourself and your little adolescent crush? Do you know what you did? I mean, really did? You betrayed me.”
Karen was shaking under the covers. She huddled into herself, knees pulled up, arms tight to her body.
Thirty-two
“Karen Freed?” the voice on the phone said.
“Yes.”
“This is Kevin Mason.”
“I’m sorry, we don’t buy anything over the phone.”
“What? Oh, you think—I’m not a salesman. This is Kevin Mason.”
“Who?”
“Kevin Mason,” he said loudly.
“I’m not deaf,” she said, sounding like her grandmother.
“What? Is this Karen Freed?”
“Yes!”
“Well,” he said patiently, “this is Kevin Mason.”
“I give up. Who are you?”
“You don’t remember?”
He sounded so disappointed she hurried to reassure him. “Oh, sure, I just—you know, for a moment—”
“I’ve got your name here,” he said. “The job’s open. Do you want it?”
And finally she remembered. Kevin Mason. The tiny doughnut shop. The tall, skinny boy with the pimple tattoo.
She went down there the next day after school. “I called you first,” Kevin Mason said. “Before anybody else on the list.” What list? Karen wondered, remembering the scrap of paper he’d scribbled her name on. But it was nice of him. He was nice. He fixed her a cup of cocoa, added a sugar doughnut. “It’s on the house.” He told her about his new job, working night shift at the candle factory. “I get health insurance, I get paid more, I have a chance for advancement.”
“I was just looking for summer work,” she reminded him. “You’re full-time, aren’t you?”
“That’s okay. They can find somebody else in the fall.”
He asked her to come in a few afternoons a week for the next couple weeks so he could train her. Then she could go to work right after school was over. “And I’ll come in and check up, every now and then, see how you’re doing.” He winked. “Maybe you’ll give me a free doughnut.”
Right after Kevin Mason called, she had two more calls for jobs. One was from someplace she’d forgotten she’d even left an application. The other was from Scott’s friend, Mr. Anderson, at the The Green Market. “You’ve already got a job?” He sounded disappointed. “Well, if things don’t work out, check in with me. I need someone who can take charge a little bit.”
“Thank you. I’ll do that.” She hung up. Take charge a little bit? That was her? That was the impression he had of her? She liked that. Maybe things were looking up. Maybe. And maybe not. It was good that she had a job, but not good enough to make her feel really good for very long. Ever since the weekend at the lake, it seemed to her that the whole family was in a terrible mood. Tense, disagreeable, snappy—or maybe it was just her.
She was depressed. Every little thing bothered her, irritated her, upset her too much. Every time she thought of that last afternoon at the lake, her chest tightened, she could hardly breathe. She was unhappy with herself, with the world, with everything around her. She even got depressed over an absurd thing like the clothes Mr. Radosh, the principal, was wearing one day. Checked green pants, violet shirt, preppy shoes. It seemed so bizarre to her, so sad.
One night she heard her parents hassling over something, she didn’t know what, only heard their voices from their room. “Oh, you always—” That was her mother. And “Why don’t you—” Her father. That was all, but enough to make her think the worst, that they were splitting up, getting a divorce.
That night was hot, stifling. She took her sleeping bag into the yard and unrolled it under the mulberry tree. In the middle of the night she dragged back in, scratching her neck, her face, her arms. The no-see-ums had arrived and feasted on her. In the morning her face was puffy with little red flecks; her neck was swollen to twice its usual size. She scratched and scratched. Her mother dabbed on a green lotion, zinc and something else. “If this stuff doesn’t work, you might have to go see Richard.”
“Who?”
“Richard. Dr. Richard.”
“Mom, he’s a pediatrician. A baby doctor! I will not go to a baby doctor!”
Her mother threw the cotton swab into the waste-basket. “All right. All right! What’s the matter with everyone? I’ve never seen such a houseful of prima donnas.”
“What’s the matter with you and Dad?” Karen blurted. “I heard you fighting.”
Her mother looked at her. “Is that what’s upsetting you? Karen. People who live together fight. It’s impossible to live with someone without fighting.”
“Well, what was it about?”
“I don’t think I want to discuss that with you.”
“Fine!” She stormed out, knowing that she was being less than honest, using her parents’ quarrel as an excuse to explode or cry. Either one would do. That was the way she felt most of the time lately—ready to cry or scream.
Later that day, she had a fight with Tobi over a pair of flowered ankle socks they both wanted from the clean laundry. Tobi said they were hers; Karen said no, they weren’t, Tobi had given them to her. “I want to wear them,” she said, although she didn’t truly care. But something made her insist. “I am going to wear them, Tobi!”
Tobi shrugged and threw them at her. “You know, you can be a real spoiled brat.”
Karen wore the socks and felt miserable. Tobi was right, she was selfish, self-centered, egocentric, more pig than person. She tore herself down. She couldn’t, wouldn’t, even try to defend herself against the charges. Guilty! What was it Liz had said? Did you never think of anyone or anything but your own little miserable, stupid, ridiculous, adolescent self? Something mild like that.
Liz didn’t talk to her anymore. She had cut Karen off, cut her out of her life. She passed Karen on the stairs, or coming out of the bathroom, or up the steps with a distant look, without a word. She sat next to her at the dinner table and there was a space between them wider than the house. Liz’s eyes never strayed her way. She never acknowledged anything Karen said. It was as if Karen no longer existed for her.
They had had fights now and then in the past, but not a lot, never a lot of fights, not like some sisters who went at each other like cats and dogs. Fight with Liz? Why would she want to do that? And Liz figh
t with her? For that matter, Liz fight with anybody? Liz was the famous family peacemaker. Fighting and Liz didn’t go together, didn’t make sense. Except that now it did—bad sense.
Karen moved around as if there were a paper bag over her head. Every morning when she woke up, she counted. Five days since Liz talked to me. Eight days. Nine. She didn’t get used to it.
One afternoon, coming home from school, she saw Liz across the street. Without thinking, Karen waved. Liz kept walking. Karen’s arm dropped, she sat down on the curb, stunned, as if someone had hit her on the head. A woman passed her, hunchbacked, gray-faced. She glanced at Karen, then came back. “What’s the matter?”
Karen shook her head, mumbled, “I’ve had a terrible fight with my sister.…”
“Uh-huh, uh-huh. That hurts, doesn’t it?” What was she, a witch, cackling in glee over Karen’s misery? She squeezed Karen’s shoulder, dug her fingers right in. “You’ll make it up with her,” she said. “Oh, yes, you will, don’t shake your head. Your very own sister? Of course, you will.” Her face, close to Karen’s, showed a fringe of stiff whiskers on her chin.
Surprisingly, that cheered her up and she went home feeling momentarily better. But Liz was still not talking to her and nothing was as it had been. But who said it would be? Where did she get that idea? And was that what she was waiting for? Was that what she expected? For everything to go back to the way it had been?
That evening she and Tobi were in the living room. Tobi sat cross-legged on the window seat with an art book. Karen should have been studying, exams were coming at her fast, but she was leafing through a photography magazine. She looked for a long time at a picture of a house in winter: sagging roof, smoke rising from the chimney, blue hills of snow in the distance. A simple picture, full of the feeling of coldness and winter. She saw that compared to this picture, the ones she took were awful—silly, pretentious stuff.
She began to feel depressed again and turned on the tv. A rerun of M*A*S*H, Alan Alda picking up a surgical knife, making a joke that cracks up everyone except the guy lying on the operating table. She flipped the dial. A special on street people. Quick shot of a bag lady. Floppy brown shoes, a long brown man’s coat, a soiled white kerchief tied under her chin.
She started crying. Again. I should stop, she thought, this is terrible.
“Karen?” Tobi said. “What’s the matter?”
“I don’t know … everything. Everything is awful.…”
“Is it that business with Scott?”
“What do you mean? What business?”
Tobi shrugged. “Oh, I know about it, Liz told me.”
Karen’s heart grabbed. “She told you? She told you, Tobi?”
“Whatever got into you? I never acted like that when I was your age.”
The tears, the humiliating, satisfying, irresistible tears came again. She ran out of the room, ran out of the house, snorting and crying, her eyes puffed and sore. Who else had Liz told? Mom? Dad? Grandma? Did they all despise her now, the way Liz did?
Thirty-three
She woke up sick. Her head hurt, she had no strength in her legs, she had a deep, chesty cough. Yes, oh healthy one. She and her boasting about never getting sick. Now she was getting paid back. Her father moved the tv into her room. Tobi brought her tissues and the baby cup with a soft boiled egg. Liz stayed away.
“You’ll be okay?” her mother said, lingering in the doorway. “I hate to leave you alone, sweetie. Don’t forget, call me if you need me.” They all left for school and work. She watched tv all day. Game shows. Soaps. Movies. The last movie she watched was called The Game of Honor. It was about a young girl and an older man. Don’t look, she told herself. Don’t watch it. Turn it off.
The man is a lawyer. Big office. Important clients. The girl is an honor student, beautiful, smart, editor of her high school paper. She prints an article her principal objects to. (This principal wears three-piece suits and a blow-dried haircut.) He censors the article. The girl is outraged; this is a violation of freedom of the press. Everyone tells her to forget it. She looks in the phone book, picks out a lawyer’s name at random. She goes to see him, but at first he doesn’t take her seriously. She persists, impressing him with her brains and beauty. Her nickname is Randy and she makes uneasy, but sophisticated, jokes about her name. He says, No, I will call you Miranda. It’s easy to see he’s on his way to being totally zapped by her.
His name is William. He’s handsome, in an olderman way, sort of thin and fit. He jogs. He has a wife and children, he has a beautiful house, but he’s not happy. He and his wife are having trouble. Bla bla bla bla bla. Finally, he goes to Randy’s house. Her parents were conveniently away. They make love on the living room couch. William says, I love you. Randy says, I love you.
Next, they’re romping around on a beach, little skimpy bathing suits, sun, sand. After that, racing each other down a footpath, jeans, sweat shirts, a breeze in the trees. Then they’re at the zoo together; she’s wearing something preppy, he’s casual and well-pressed. The monkeys perform for them. After that, a whole bunch of scenes where they smile a lot (Randy and William, not the monkeys), say clever things, and tear off each other’s clothes every chance they have.
In between all this, they have terrific battles with the school board and the principal. He makes great speeches. She makes great speeches. He tells her she should be a lawyer. They win their case. The school paper will not be censored. Anyway, school is over. It’s summer. He’s still unhappy. They keep seeing each other. Once or twice he says something about being too old for her. But she always puts her perfect little fingers over his mouth and tears off her clothes and tears off his clothes and they make love and everything is wonderful.
Then one day he’s with Randy and who comes into the restaurant but his wife! She sits down. She’s not so bad-looking. She’s actually rather nice. They all talk about the case. William’s wife knows all about it. Randy is sweet—but young. Suddenly you can see how young she is, and you can see William seeing how young she is. Or maybe how old he is. Or maybe how nice his wife is. And what a fool he is. So then he’s in the park with Randy again, telling her, I’m too old for you. He’s sober and brave and so is she, although they both cry and say good-bye oh good-bye good-bye, and creep off into the bushes to make love one last time.
And that’s that.
Except for one final scene when she passes his office, looks up at the window, and you can see on her face how she’s still heartbroken, but you also notice even more how gorgeous she is and how, even though she’s still thinking about William practically every minute, other men can’t keep their eyes off her. She walks down the street. You know she’ll be okay.
“Good movie?” Her father looked in. Behind him, Liz passed, giving her father a little affectionate pat.
Karen shook her head.
“Oh, sorry about that.”
She coughed. Her eyes teared, her nose ran.
“Anyway, sometimes it’s fun to watch a really bad movie.”
“Sure,” she said.
That night, she woke up coughing uncontrollably. She hung over the side of the bed, coughing and spitting into tissues. She was dying. Spitting out her life’s blood. They all knew she was dying, and even so, Liz wouldn’t forgive her, and none of them cared. She coughed and spit and cried.
Thirty-four
“Karen. Over here.” Scott was parked in his truck at the corner. At the sight of him, her stomach climbed straight up into her throat, nauseating her. It was the first time she’d seen him since the lake.
She walked toward him.
“Hello, Karen.” A brief smile flickered under his mustache. That was new. “I’d like to talk to you,” he said, opening the passenger door. “Please.” She shrugged and climbed into the truck. He pulled away from the curb. She looked out the window; the sky was blue, perfectly blue, like an egg.
“So, how’ve you been?” he said.
“Terrific.” He missed the irony, of course
. “You’ve got a mustache.”
He fingered the silky growth. “I wanted a change.”
He drove across town; the streets were dry and bare; a man sat in a window, knees up, a woman languidly entered a bar. They drove over railroad tracks, rusted and broken, past a used car lot, flags waving limply. It was still too hot for June. “Where are you going?” she asked.
“I have to drop some plans off. Kitchen remodeling job.” He stopped at an old, impressive-looking house on Valley Drive. “I’ll just be a minute.” The plans were rolled up in a tube.
When he came back, he said, “You want something? Ice cream?”
“No.”
“A beer would be nice now.” He pulled into the parking lot of a red and white diner in the shape of a hot dog. There was a red-and-white sign over the burning tin roof. FRANK’S HOT DOGS AND FRIES. SOFT ICE CREAM. “Sure about the ice cream?”
“Is this what you want to talk to me about?”
“Karen, you’ve changed.”
“Have I?” She was lightheaded, felt almost sick again. A scrap of dream from last night came back to her, something about the mulberry tree, Liz and she sitting together. The dream had been soft, windy, warm, private. Why think of it now? The truck was dry, harsh, flat, hot.
Scott lit a cigarette. “Tell me, how’s Liz?”
“Why don’t you ask her?” She put her head back against the seat.
“She’s not—we’re not on very good terms right now.” He stared out the window, coughed, pulled at his shirt. “That’s putting it mildly. She won’t see me. I was wondering—would you talk to her?”
Karen looked at him disbelievingly. “You want me to talk to Liz for you? Me, put in a good word for you?”
“Something like that.”
“That’s sort of funny.”
He tapped ash over the window. “You know, you could just tell her that what happened was not so important. Just one of those things, it didn’t mean anything. It’s the sort of thing—the sort of thing that can happen. It can happen to a man. It can happen.”
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