Drinking Closer to Home

by Jessica Anya Blau

  Buzzy and Louise laughed. It was a relief. Portia was happy to veer the subject away from Berkeley and her ridiculous inspiration to apply.

  “See!” Louise said. “She knows who Agnew is!”

  “Besides, Dad,” Portia said, “that whole Agnew vice-presidency thing was like a decade ago. You should be impressed that I know who he is—I was younger than Emery when he was vice president!”

  “I was three,” Emery said.

  “And you know who he was?” Portia asked.

  “The vice president!” Emery said, and he started laughing. Sometimes Portia pretended she didn’t know things Emery knew only so she could see him crack up like this. But the Agnew thing last night had been all real.

  “Of course he knows—he knows everything!” Buzzy said.

  “I know, too,” Portia said.

  “Okay, so who became vice president when Agnew quit?” Buzzy asked Portia.

  Emery smiled and looked at his sister. He reminded her of a jester; his hair was sticking up as if it grew in an atmosphere without gravity. He mouthed the name to her. Portia knew he wanted her to get it right if only because it seemed like their father was picking on her. Otherwise he would have reveled in being the only of them who knew.

  “Leave her alone!” Louise said to Buzzy. Then she turned to Portia and said, “Don’t answer him.”

  “I know who it is,” Portia said. “I can answer.”

  “Well?”

  “Vooor.”

  “Who?”

  “Vord?”

  Emery started laughing. “FORD!” he shouted. “And Ford became president and then Jimmy Carter became president and now we have Reagan. The actor. Married to Nancy. His son’s name is Ron and he has a daughter named Maureen.”

  Buzzy and Louise laughed.

  “I know who Ford is, I just forgot! And I know all about Reagan, I swear!” But the truth was, she couldn’t even recall who Reagan’s vice president was. Portia wasn’t interested in politics and was never at home to overhear her parents discussing politics. Once Emery was old enough to raise himself, the only thing that was asked of Portia was that she show up for dinner every night. And eventually, when she eased her way into living at her friend Sarah’s house, Portia only had to be home for dinner on Sunday night.

  Sarah’s mother had moved out to the hillside town of Summerland, so her giant cement-and-glass home was occupied only by Sarah and her dad, Clint. The house sat on a cliff overlooking the beach and there was a pool house that the maid slept in. The kitchen had stainless steel before stainless steel was in fashion—it was odd then, reminiscent of restaurant kitchens more than high fashion. The girls often hung out in that kitchen, staring at the ocean, eating cheddar cheese melted on tin foil. Sarah’s dad loved when she had lots of friends over. He liked to talk to them about their boyfriends and sex lives. And once, when he and Portia were alone in the house (Sarah was out picking up a couple friends who were stranded on Cabrillo Boulevard after having run out of gas), Sarah’s dad reached over and put his hand on Portia’s knee. She was sitting on the stainless steel kitchen stool, her elbows slapped onto the tile counter, slouched recklessly.

  She straightened up and looked at him.

  “Portia,” Sarah’s dad said.

  “Clint,” Portia said, and she laughed because he suddenly seemed so serious.

  “Tell me. Are you having good orgasms with your boyfriend?”

  “Uh . . .” Portia laughed again. The truth was she had never had an orgasm with her boyfriend, although they’d been having sex for three months.

  “You should be having beautiful, amazing orgasms,” Sarah’s dad said.

  “I’m trying!” Portia said, earnestly.

  “Does he perform oral sex?” Sarah’s dad stared into her eyes. He was the best-looking dad of any of her friends. He wore leather coats, and drove a convertible sports car, and had muscles carved into his body as if he were made of stone. But Portia had never thought of him as someone who would be interested in her or her friends. He could date movie stars (and they did live in his neighborhood), or Madame Dick.

  “Well . . .” Portia wasn’t sure if she should answer. It seemed dangerous to answer. But, then again, Portia had been living at his house. She had to trust him. In fact, Sarah’s dad had seen her naked, as the two girls always went naked in the pool when they were home alone, which was almost always. And whenever he got home from work, Sarah’s dad would come outside and talk to the girls. Portia did think it was odd that Sarah wasn’t uncomfortable being naked in front of her dad, but he was her dad, he had changed her diapers. So Portia never believed that Sarah’s dad was thinking of her, his daughter’s friend, in sexual terms.

  “Well,” Portia shifted her leg a little to remind him that his hand was on her bare knee. “He licks me and it feels good, but nothing really happens.”

  “Where exactly does he lick?” The hand on Portia’s knee flickered, like a cat’s tail.

  “All over. Down there.” Portia pointed to her crotch.

  “He needs to focus the pressure on your clitoris,” Sarah’s dad said. “Tell him to keep his lips fairly close together and to use his tongue as a forceful nub.”

  “A forceful nub.” Portia breathed in and reminded herself to breathe out. What she didn’t want to happen was anything that would compromise her tenancy in the house. She liked the pool with clear blue water in it. She liked the food that the maid bought—twenty different kinds of crackers and cheeses that ranged in color from white to black.

  “Yeah. Forceful. Focused. Remind him that he’s not a labrador. He’s a man. And you’re a woman. And you should be treated as such.”

  Portia was as still as a trapped animal, nervously waiting for what would come next. If his hand moved closer, she thought, she’d have to make a choice about actually doing something with Sarah’s dad (whom she’d admittedly had fantasies about). If he let her go, she’d be freed to live in the world where people like him were so beyond realistic expectations that they were entirely safe.

  Sarah burst in the kitchen door, Susie and Donna behind her. They were carrying brown grocery bags filled with oranges that Sarah, her father, and Portia had picked at an orchard that morning and had left in the backseat of Sarah’s dad’s convertible. Sarah’s dad took his hand from Portia’s knee, stood, and gathered the bags from Donna and then Susie.

  “I was just asking Portia if her boyfriend was good at oral sex,” Sarah’s dad said, and the girls started to laugh, Portia the hardest, harder than she should have been laughing.

  “Daaaad,” Sarah said. “He asks me that all the time. I swear!”

  “So, is he good?” Donna asked. She looked like ripe fruit—everything bursting, juicy, round.

  “I guess.” Portia couldn’t stop laughing, but it was wire-edged. A breath’s width away from tears.

  After that, whenever Sarah left the house Portia went with her. But at night, alone with her thoughts, she let the image of Sarah’s dad slither in: hot, grown-up, knowing.

  When she didn’t sleep at Sarah’s house, Portia often slept at the beach with her boyfriend, or in the rumpus room at her friend Lucy’s house. Lucy lived around the corner from Portia, so it was easy to walk home and get clothes. Although it appeared to be a somewhat degenerate life, Portia kept things in control through a reasonable fear of death and limb loss. She refused to get in a car with a drunk driver, never stole anything from anywhere, took vitamin C every day, didn’t eat sugary foods, and never rode on the back of a motorcycle without a helmet. She rarely drank, smoked pot only a few times (in spite of its abundance in her house), and never, ever did hard drugs.

  Until she got into Berkeley.

  The acceptance letter came on a Friday and sat on the kitchen counter with other assorted mail until Sunday, when Portia came home for dinner. It was Portia’s usual practice to sift through the piles of objects and papers on the counter every Sunday to see if there was anything she needed or wanted. The white Berkeley e
nvelope was the size of a magazine, barely hidden under the unopened gas and electric bill, a Robinsons catalogue, and an unopened letter from Anna. Whoever had brought in the mail clearly hadn’t looked through it before scrambling it into the junk heap.

  “Mom, you got a letter from Anna.” Portia handed the letter to Louise who was at the stove frying meatballs in a skillet. She watched Louise open Anna’s letter while holding the envelope from Berkeley on her lap. Once Louise was immersed in reading Anna’s letter (it looked like it was about seven pages long, not unusual for Anna), Portia opened the Berkeley envelope and gasped.

  “What?” Louise was still reading Anna’s letter.

  “I got into Berkeley.” Portia looked up at her mother.

  “I knew you would!” Louise raised a triumphant hand in the air, Anna’s yellow lined pages flapping around, then came to the other side of the counter and wrapped Portia in a hug. “I just knew it. You’re way smarter than anyone gives you credit for.” Portia couldn’t speak. She felt like some vague idea of herself as a person who could possibly do something in her life was suddenly starting to materialize.

  Through a friend of her father’s, Portia was introduced, via phone, to a girl two years older than she who would be a junior at Berkeley and was leaving the dorms for a vine-covered four-story clapboard house three blocks from campus. The girl, Beth, called Portia one day in the spring right after Portia had been accepted, told her that one of her planned roommates had recently checked into a mental hospital, thus opening up a bedroom in the house she was renting, and that she needed the cash and commitment of a new roommate that moment in order to keep the lease. Did Portia want to be their housemate? Yes. Did she want to drive up to school with her in the fall? Yes. Did she need to check over any of this with her parents before it was a done deal? No.

  On August 25, Beth pulled into the driveway in a lumbering white Buick she had inherited from her father. Her stuff took up most of the trunk, so Portia’s boxes and Hefty trash bags of clothes were stuffed onto the back seat and the floor of the passenger side seat. Beth couldn’t see out the rearview mirror as she tried to back out of the driveway. Buzzy ran out into the empty street and directed by shouting, “Turn your wheel now,” even though she was already turning.

  “Turn some more,” Buzzy said, and he swirled his hand in a circle.

  Beth turned the car and faced it down the cul-de-sac. Louise came out of the house wearing a halter top she had sewn from a blue-and-white handkerchief, cut-off jean shorts, and no shoes. Her hair was blowing across her face. She had a cigarette in her right hand.

  Portia rolled down her window. “Where’s Emery?”

  “I couldn’t find him,” Louise said.

  “I don’t want to leave without saying good-bye to him.” Emery was the only thing Portia thought she’d miss. Her friendships throughout high school had been so intense she’d needed a divorce from them. And Portia’s last boyfriend had accepted a blow job after karate class from a soft, sweet girl whom Portia had thought was a friend of some sort. Portia didn’t feel attached to anyone or anything, except Emery, who had been somewhere in her peripheral vision since he was born.

  “Who’s Emery?” Beth asked. They had met in person only two hours earlier. Beth was shockingly beautiful, with long dark hair and a face that seemed to be poised for a kiss. She was also about six inches taller than Portia and much cooler, Portia thought. Beth was like a grown-up—giving off an air of independence Portia both admired and coveted.

  “Emery’s my little brother,” Portia said, then leaned closer to Beth and whispered, “I think he might be gay.”

  “EM-ER-Y!” Buzzy shouted, wandering to the center of the cul-de-sac with his hands cupped over his mouth.

  Beth turned off the engine, shrugged her shoulders, and said, “Well, let’s go look for your gay little brother so you can say good-bye.”

  They got out of the car and roamed outside the house, Buzzy following and hollering Emery’s name. Louise meandered behind, smoking her cigarette and absently poking into the magenta-flowered bougainvillea bush as if they’d find Emery there. When no one could find him after several minutes, they returned to the car. Emery was sitting in the passenger seat, examining the gearshift on the steering wheel. He was thirteen and, like Portia and Anna had been, small for his age. His blond hair grew straight down around his ears. He was browned from the sun and wore no shoes or shirt.

  “Where were you?!” Emery asked as they walked toward the car. His front teeth were as jutting and crooked as a seaside fence.

  Louise laughed and flicked her cigarette into the street. Buzzy opened the door, took Emery’s hand, and led him out of the car.

  “I gotta go,” Portia said, and she wanted to cry.

  “Bye,” Emery said, and he leaned into his sister, his head barely reaching her breast line.

  “I love you,” Portia said, and she kissed the top of his head. He smelled like the earth and rain and sun.

  “I love you!” Emery said, and he pulled away and waved at Beth.

  “Hi,” Beth said.

  “Hi!” Emery said.

  Louise came to Portia, wrapped her in a hug, and gave her kisses on each of her cheeks. Then she passed Portia off to Buzzy, who kissed her like he did when Portia was younger, from ear to ear and on each of her eyes. “Okay,” Louise said, “get on out of here, your dad and I’ve got work to do.”

  Portia and Beth got in the car. Portia rolled her window all the way down and stuck her arm out. “I love you!” Portia waved to her parents as the car started to roll away.

  “We love you!” Louise shouted.

  “I love you all, too!” Beth shouted from her window. And then they drove off.

  “Your brother doesn’t seem gay,” Beth said, once they were cruising on the freeway.

  “I know,” Portia said. “He doesn’t do anything that’s gay. It’s just this weird feeling I get. Like I know it somehow. Sort of like how you know you’re you and I know I’m me. You know?”

  Beth laughed. “I know! Whatever you say!”

  Somewhere around Bakersfield, Beth pulled into a gas station with a little market attached. Portia gave her five dollars to buy some Fiddle Faddle and Diet Coke and waited in the car, as the locks didn’t work and they didn’t want to leave everything unattended. When Beth returned she had the Fiddle Faddle but no Diet Coke.

  “I got beer instead,” Beth said.

  “Really? How?” Portia peeked into the bag as Beth slid into her seat and started the car.

  “Fake ID.”

  “You’re going to drink and drive?” Portia asked.

  “There are hardly any cars between here and San Jose,” Beth explained. “And by the time we reach San Jose, we’ll be totally sober.”

  “Okay,” Portia said, and she popped open a Heineken. It felt good not to care or worry. Like she had just unlaced some god-awful corset she’d been wearing for years. And it wasn’t as if Portia had simply tucked away the list of thoughts she normally had about alcohol, cars, drugs, speeding, and anything else that could possibly kill her. It was as if she had torn up the list—tossed it out the window and let it blow onto the freeway with bits and pieces slapping themselves against other people’s car windows. Portia was done parenting herself. She was done making sure she did the right thing. She had gotten herself into college, and so it seemed, in a sense, that her job had been completed. Now it was time to simply fuck up.

  Chapter 11

  Day Six

  There is a saturation point during each hospital visit. Every day, a moment comes when someone can no longer take sitting in the beeping, stinking room. It usually hits Anna first. She stands, paces, eats the candy that she keeps in her giant backpack-purse (Skittles on the days she doesn’t have licorice), and then she says, “Let’s go run an errand.” Anna feels that if she stays in the room even a second longer she might do something inappropriate, like stand on a chair and start peeing, or unplug Louise’s machines to see how long
it will take for a doctor to show up.

  Sometimes it hits Emery first. He walks to the doorway where there is a curtain (almost always open) but no door and says, “Okay, I’ll be back in a couple hours.” Anna is sure that Emery would never do anything inappropriate. He probably needs air, room to breathe. Anna, Alejandro, and Portia rush toward Emery when he says that; no one will let him take a break without them, it would be entirely unfair. Buzzy stays behind. His entire being, since the heart attack, seems wholly devoted to Louise.

  These breaks last two or three hours, no longer. One day they went shopping. One day they went to a park on the beach. One day they sat in an outdoor café. One day they walked—simply walked—down residential streets and along the main shopping street with terra-cotta tile sidewalks and a fountain on every third block.

  Today, Day Six, Anna has hit her saturation point earlier than usual. It’s only eleven o’clock. She can feel currents running through her forearms—the sensation reminds her of cocaine. Not doing it. Wanting it.

  Louise is sleeping. The machinery that frames her like an electronic headboard is quietly humming.

  “Let’s go to the club,” Anna says.

  The family belonged to the tennis club years ago. Buzzy and Louise joined for the kids: to clear them out of the house, to give their mother some room, they were told. Buzzy and Louise had no interest in the place; they never even walked up the long wooded driveway. Anna went daily for tennis and swimming. Emery swam on weekends and hung around the clubhouse with friends. Portia went swimming, sometimes, although she always preferred the ocean, which Anna was glad for. She didn’t need her sister hanging around in her knit bikini with her waist that was so small you could close two hands around it and her hips that exploded out on either side.

  Anna spent so much of her childhood at the club that her connection to the place is stronger than her connection to high school (which she never enjoyed), or the mountains surrounding Casa del Viento Fuerte (which have never interested her), or the studio where she took gymnastics twice a week (she hated most of the girls there). At the club, she is still in contact with the tennis pros, the club manager, and the Australian man and his wife who run the café.