The Appetites of Girls

by Pamela Moses

  At our luncheon table, Raymond would tell us to close our eyes, then would present unusual dishes he had ordered from roadside stands or convinced the kitchen staff to prepare—salt fish fritters, curried figs, broiled eel.

  “I’ll try some, too,” I said, watching as Raymond lifted forkfuls of eel for Mother to swallow.

  She shook her head so that the shell earrings in her ears jingled. “Trust me, Opal, you wouldn’t like it. Wait a few years. In the meantime, finish your soup.” Then turning to Raymond, she laughed. “Quite precocious, if you know what I mean.”

  I crossed my legs as elegantly as I could, my heart throbbing, hoping my voice wouldn’t choke. “Yes, I would like it. I eat all kinds of things!”

  Mother only shrugged her shoulders, and Raymond did not look up from his plate. But a moment later, when she excused herself to the ladies’ room, Raymond, to my delight, scooped a bit of the fish onto his fork and leaned toward me.

  “Oh, thank you,” I said, trying to use my most careless tone, as though being fed by men were an ordinary occurrence for me. I straightened in my chair to make the profile of my padded bustline more prominent.

  “Do you like it?” I could tell that Raymond watched me carefully as I chewed, awaiting my reaction.

  “Delicious,” I nodded, though I had not truly tasted the food; I could concentrate on nothing other than Raymond’s outstretched fingers patting my knee, just as I’d seen him sometimes cup the roundness of my mother’s shoulder. And as perspiration threaded down the center of my back, I tried to memorize the position of his hand, proof of my sophistication.

  There were other occasions, also, I believed, that confirmed Raymond’s appreciation of me, verified my initiation into adulthood. Once, while Mother was napping, I caught him standing ankle-deep in surf, gazing at me as I swam in the water, his sunglasses pulled low on his nose. So I glided with my longest strokes through the rippling waves, careful not to smack the surface like the young children splashing near me. When I emerged onto the sand, Raymond strolled toward me, my towel draped over his arm.

  “What a natural swimmer you are,” he said, grinning as he folded the towel around my shoulders. “As pretty as a little mermaid.”

  And not long after this he showed his fondness, too, through a ritual he began of hiding treasures for me in his breast pocket. Whenever Mother disappeared to order a drink or have a word with the hotel manager, he would rub the front of his shirt so that I could hear some secret thing inside snap or crinkle. Then he would bend forward, pulling at the edge of his pocket for me to reach in. There I would find a cellophane bag of sugared pecans, sweet-smelling tamarind candies wrapped in foil, a heart-shaped molasses cookie. “Just for you, Opal,” he would pronounce as I reached into the cotton material to retrieve my gift. After savoring my treats, I would smooth the bits of ribbon or shiny paper in which they had been packaged and lay them in the straw dish on my bedside table, creating a growing display. Just as Mother kept on her bureau top an amber-colored bottle of perfume from Raymond and two pearly white stones he had found for her on the beach, I had my own evidences of his favor.

  But as days passed, I began to notice that, when the three of us were together, they had less time for me. Always Mother insisted on sitting with her arm linked through his, her hair bouncing against his shoulder, murmuring phrases so that I could take no part in their conversations. She began to disappear with him—leaving me behind—to take oceanside walks to the cove around the bend, or beyond the cluster of manchineel trees down the beach to view the evening stars. From the hotel porch I could see their shadowy silhouettes—Raymond’s head bowed toward Mother’s, one hand slipping along her side and hip as, with the other, he fed her the sliced pineapple or orange he had brought with them. “Be good, Opal,” Mother always said before they left, as though I were no more than a baby. And I would fiddle with the ties of my sandals, pretending preoccupation, squeezing my jaw until it ached, determined not to shed a single tear.

  I was certain, however, that it was not Raymond’s choice to neglect me. Several times he turned to wink at me over his shoulder as they left. And one night, before the two of them wandered off to his bungalow, he lingered behind for a moment, pausing to kiss his fingertip and press it to my cheek. So it was Mother, I decided, who sought their solitude, wanting for herself every minute of his time.

  One afternoon, as we waited for Raymond to join us on the sand, Mother rolled on her side to show off the curve of her hip and announced that she and Raymond would be chartering a sailboat at the end of the week to explore one of the neighboring islands, an all-day excursion.

  “Raymond thought it would be nice if he and I spent the day alone together. Can you find a way to amuse yourself, Opal? Why don’t you introduce yourself to some of the local children?”

  I crossed one knee over the other, too angry to respond, jiggling my foot in my heeled sandals, which I now wore even on the beach. Never before had Raymond dismissed me like this, intentionally excluding me from their grown-up plans. But I knew why. She was making him forget about me. With her constant sighings in his ear, her exclamations over each meal they shared, the new dress she flaunted that bared her back. I tried to count the days since Raymond’s last gift to me—a chunk of fresh coconut in a chocolate shell; it had been many. If I could only speak with him—just for a few moments—talk to him without Mother’s interference. Then he would recall the pleasure he had found in my company, as well. And Mother would be amazed by how quickly he would change his mind, asking me—please, please—to join their trip.

  • • •

  Most evenings Raymond, I knew, did not appear at dinner until close to eight o’clock, two hours after Mother’s hosting duties began. According to her, he liked to relax in his bungalow before eating, reading a book in his canvas chair beside the window or listening to classical music on his portable cassette player. This, it seemed, would be my only opportunity, and I resolved to use it. So, one night, I paid even more than the usual attentions to my face, my hair, my outfit, sneaking dabs of Mother’s silver shadow for my eyelids, fussing with the seams of my halter top and shorts until I was satisfied. And as soon as Mother waved a kiss and rushed out the door, I reached for the amber bottle on her bureau, spraying a fine mist over my neck and shoulders.

  It was beginning to grow dark. The kerosene lanterns along the courtyard path had been lit, and insects flitted in a gray-white halo above each one. Raymond’s cabin was the last one on the left, and as I drew closer, I thought I could hear strains of music through the open windows. My hands began to shake, but I told myself this was foolishness. Didn’t I look stylish and grown-up? Hadn’t I practiced what I was going to say?

  And when I reached his front step, I saw how silly my nervousness was. How happy Raymond was to see me, he said, ushering me in through the screen door, clearing a stack of books from a wood-framed sofa for me to sit down. He turned a knob on his cassette player, lowering the sound of pulsing stringed instruments. What a welcome surprise! Would I like some pineapple juice and tonic? He brought me the glass and then, leaning his hip against the bookshelf across from me, listened intently as I spoke. No, oh, no, he said when I had finished. Where did I get the idea he no longer enjoyed my companionship? Of course, it was true, my mother was quite beautiful; he would not deny her charms. But, no, never once had he thought of me as a baby. If I wished, later we could discuss my inclusion in the boating trip. “Would you like that, Opal?” he said, suddenly putting his drink aside and striding toward me. He was whispering, whispering as he moved, then whispering through my hair, “Opal, Opal. Opal is not a baby but an exquisite young woman.” My heart thudded with the unexpected compliment, the words humming through my mind. But to my shame, the shaking started again as Raymond looped a strand of my hair around his forefinger, his face so close to my neck—just as I’d seen him bend against Mother’s—that I could feel the moisture of his breath, I could hear the shhh of his every exhale.

  “Ju
st as lovely as your mother,” Raymond said. “May I show you that I like spending time with you, too? How about a bite to eat? May I feed you something, something that your mother enjoys? Would you like something exotic, Opal? Hmm?”

  I nodded to show my willingness and opened my mouth as he reached into a bowl and dropped what seemed to be dark berries on my tongue, tangy and ripe. I tried to smile as I thought Mother would. I pressed my hands together so that he would not see the trembling. An exquisite young woman. I was an exquisite young woman. I would not act like a little girl. And a young woman, I told myself as Raymond bent closer, would only laugh when a man’s mouth kissed her cheeks or her forehead or her chin. She would not flinch if his fingers hovered over her lips. She would not start if his hands slid below her ribs. But though I reminded myself of these things, the shaking only grew worse, spreading to my thighs, my knees, my chest. Would the shivering make Raymond stop? Soon, soon it would make him stop, was all I could think as he peeked beneath the elastic of my halter top, as his hands squeezed me until I went numb. But he did not stop. He would not stop, he said, because I had shown him I was not a little child. Didn’t I want to know the things men did with women? he asked as he dangled a bit of dried fruit for me to taste.

  But the things I learned as the hardness of him sawed back and forth, back and forth inside me made me quake so that it seemed I could hear my bones rattle. They rattled and rattled while he taught me, until I thought something in me would shatter.

  The group of twelve Americans, including Raymond, was scheduled to leave on a Saturday in the final week of August. Eight days away. Hot, breezeless days that I thought would stretch forever. The night I’d returned from Raymond’s bungalow I had drawn closed the linen curtains in my bedroom, folding their ruffled ends under the screen. But now and then, in the following days, the material would fly open without warning, revealing an unexpected glimpse of Raymond’s cabin, triggering another bout of shaking I could do nothing to quell.

  I spent those next mornings and afternoons curled over books in the quietest nook of the White Heron’s reading room—complaining to Mother of heatstroke—trying to ignore the way my hands stiffened against the volume in my lap with each male voice that echoed up from the beach, each heavy set of footsteps that crossed the patio outside. For eight nights I ate early suppers, hidden in the empty pantry off the staff kitchen, disappearing to bed before Raymond’s arrival at dinner. And no longer did I request the fritters, curried stews, tropical fruits, and other adventurous dishes I had favored in the past. Suddenly I could tolerate only the blandest foods—dry toast, vegetable broth, boiled chicken. At breakfast, I watched as Mother slathered banana muffins with the passion fruit jam Raymond had recommended. Each time her spoon scooped into the sticky jar, I felt my stomach turn. When she returned to our suite late at night, I caught whiffs of the dinner odors that emanated from her clothes. Spices and briny seafood smells, smells that made me think of Raymond, smells that made me choke.

  On the morning of Raymond’s departure, I lay in bed watching the shifting patterns of sunlight and shadow on my slatted ceiling. I did not stir until the commotion of banging doors and dragged luggage ceased and the rumble of the van that would take the American group to the airport died, fading into silence down the dirt road that led across the island.

  Moments later Mother peered into my room. Behind her left ear she had tucked a wide-petaled frangipani. I saw that she was holding an enormous matching bouquet.

  “From Raymond,” she said in explanation, lifting the bouquet so that it touched the tip of her nose. “Oh, and he left something for you, too.” She pulled from her sundress pocket a sheer plastic bag filled with shiny foil-wrapped discs. Holding the bag by its cherry red bow, she placed it on my dresser. “Looks like little bonbons. La dee da. Getting fancy gifts from men now.” And, laughing, she lightly stroked the flower over her ear.

  “I don’t want them!” I said. “I don’t want them. You take them!”

  This only made her laugh again. “Opal, don’t be silly. Men won’t want to give you presents if you toss them away frivolously. I guess”—she smiled, tapping me on the head with her thick bouquet—“there is much you still have left to learn.”

  She continued to speak, but I stopped my hands to my ears and squeezed shut my eyes. Wishing, wishing to block out the things I had yet to know.

  PARTIES IN THE PENTHOUSE

  (Francesca’s Story)

  • 1984 •

  Peering over the banister at the top of the stairs, I could see the feet of the arriving guests. Black, glossy men’s shoes, blue and slate and pin-striped trouser cuffs. Pointed toes and women’s heels poking from beneath silky skirts.

  Christopher, my younger brother, was already downstairs, his feet rocking excitedly in his penny loafers. In a moment or two, my parents would discover my absence and scold me for failing to greet their entering guests. When Mother and Father had parties, Christopher and I were instructed to make an appearance, to introduce ourselves to their friends, and, as Mother put it, “to engage in polite conversation.” But I so detested the outfit Mother had chosen for me this night that I had decided to take a stand. When she’d slid the dress from its plastic Bergdorf bag earlier that evening, I had crossed one arm over the other. “I won’t wear it!”

  “What’s gotten into you, Francesca?” Mother traced fingers over her hair, which had been puffed and coiled at the salon that afternoon. “It’s a lovely dress. Besides, it’s the style for girls your age this season.” She made a small kissing sound and patted the side of my cheek.

  “Why can’t I wear my purple jacket and skirt? What’s wrong with my purple suit?”

  “Please, Franny!” And then Mother rushed from my room, the skirts of her stiff red gown rustling. One of the caterers had called to her from downstairs, a question about a tray of sliced fruit.

  Once zippered into the dress, I had squinted at my reflection in the gilt-framed mirror above my bureau. The gown had a gathering of pleats at the waist that accentuated the thickness of my middle. When I turned sideways, an ugly excess of stomach protruded. And the material was an odd grayish taupe. Somehow it made the pale brown of my hair duller; it emphasized the freckles that sprinkled my nose and chest.

  It is because of the new apartment, I thought, yanking at the slippery folds that clung to my hips. Just three months before, we had moved from a ninth-floor apartment in our building on Park Avenue—my home for the first fourteen and a half years of my life—to the penthouse. The move upstairs, during the third week of January, had followed Father’s promotion at Scully & Freed. “What great fortune! You’ve worked hard for this, Spencer!” Mother exclaimed when Father first gave the news. She had toasted him that evening at dinner with a fancy bottle of wine, pouring quarter-glasses for Christopher and me as well, including us in the celebration. Later, after Christopher and I had brushed our teeth and changed into pajamas, she had squeezed us tightly, rumpling our hair as though we were still tiny children. “We’re not babies, Mother!” I’d said, but she’d only smiled, her eyes flickering with expectancy, wide, wide-awake, the way I thought I recalled her eyes had looked when I was much younger. So I’d wondered if some better life awaited us now. A life happy enough to swallow up trouble, the things I still remembered from the year I was eight, when I had caught Mother returning from certain late-night parties before Father. Then her bedroom had been just across the hall from mine, and I’d seen her, slipping in, turning on her light, watched through her half-open door as she’d studied herself in her vanity for long minutes before unhooking her dress or pulling earrings from her ears. She was so pretty, prettier than the mothers of any of my friends, so I could not understand what she saw that made the edges of her mouth sag with sourness or made her strip the pins from her hair, scattering them on the vanity top, not caring that a few fell to the floor.

  Later she had smoked a cigarette in the bathroom down the hall—a smell I recognized at that time from visits to
my uncle Theo’s but never from her. She had once complained the odor disgusted her, but now, just like that, she seemed to want different things. In the mornings, she no longer shared breakfast with Christopher and me, but sipped only coffee, lighting a cigarette before pouring milk over our bowls of Life or Captain Crunch. She bought pants I knew would not have fit her months before and spent longer minutes in the bathroom fussing over her makeup before walking Christopher and me to school.

  And things began to vex her, things I knew once hadn’t: the way Christopher regularly spilled lunch down his shirt and pants at school or woke during the night calling for water. Or that I had dressed with my ballet leotard tag-side out for the Mother-Daughter recital. She’d snapped only a single photo while other mothers’ cameras clicked noisily. “What a treat,” she said when it was over, but she seemed to have no intention of lingering as she had the year before, wanting me to pose for a final picture in the hall near the dressing room, telling me she was very proud, helping me loosen the tight bun at the back of my head, then combing out my hair with her fingers.

  I did not like her new habit, when Father tried to joke with her, of replying only with matters of business—the bill that was due to her ladies’ club in midtown, the dinner plans they had for the following weekend. Or her way of turning to the nearest chore—refilling the hall candy dish with mints, plucking dead petals from the potted azalea—if Christopher or I added jokes of our own.

  “Don’t placate me,” I’d heard her hiss to Father as he placed his hand on the small of her back, crossing Ninetieth Street on our way to church one Sunday. Afterward, she had wanted to skip lunch at our favorite neighborhood restaurant. I guessed Mother’s dissatisfactions had something to do with Anne-Marie Werther—the Werthers, friends my parents had seen almost weekly for cocktails at our house or theirs, or at parties with mutual acquaintances. Because, with no warning, we stopped seeing them. The only communication now between Mother and Anne-Marie seemed to be occasional notes or postcards from vacations. And when Christopher and I received an invitation to Trevor Werther’s tenth birthday—a swimming party at The River Club—Mother called to say, regrettably, we’d made previous plans, though I knew this was a fat fib.