by Allie Larkin
Joe cuddled up closer to me, resting his head on my chest. He let out a big sigh.
“You’re so dramatic,” Pete said, but his voice was lighter. It wasn’t a dig.
“That wasn’t me. It was Joe.”
“Oh.” I could hear the hurt in his voice, and I liked it. “Who’s Joe?”
“Oh, you don’t know him,” I said. “You’ve been gone awhile.”
“I should go,” Peter said, quickly. “Janie should be coming back from duty free any minute.” He took a loud, deep breath. “So we’re good?”
“I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Bye.” He was waiting for me to hang up first.
“Hey, Pete?”
“Yeah?”
“Why didn’t you warn me about this before you left?”
“I didn’t know about it. You know how she is.”
“Yeah. Bye.” I hung up the phone. Joe started pawing at me to take him out.
After Joe and I got back inside, I tried to go back to sleep. I kicked my boots off and climbed into bed. Joe jumped onto the bed next to me and dug at the covers for a minute before lying down. His paws left wet marks on the sheets. I closed my eyes. Joe wriggled around, trying to get comfortable. I put my arm around him to try to get him to calm down. His ribs, rippling under layers of fur and skin, raised and lowered my arm with each breath. When he did settle back to sleep, it was with his nose pressed up against my cheek, like warm wet leather. One of his nostrils was channeling his breath right into my ear.
“All right, buddy. This isn’t working.”
I got up. I thought he’d come with me, but he flopped over into the spot I just left and nosed his head onto my pillow. He yawned and stretched his front legs out until his feet shook.
“You’re such a boy,” I said, as I walked out of the room. Joe was already snoring.
Chapter Twenty-one
I went downstairs, started a pot of coffee, and sat down at the table to sort through a pile of junk mail. The list of phone numbers Janie gave me before the wedding was at the bottom of the mail pile. I picked up the phone to call Peter’s mom, Scotty, but I didn’t dial. I didn’t want to. I put the phone down. I’ll sort the mail and then I’ll call, I told myself, but then I got wrapped up in an L.L.Bean catalog addressed to Rocco Leonard or Current Resident. I was also the Current Resident recipient of Rocco’s extensive list of lingerie catalogs. It was way too early in the morning to look at fake breasts trapped in fishnet, like unfortunate victims of the tuna industry, so I stuck with L.L.Bean, flipping through pages of monogrammed travel kits and lambskin slippers.
I imagined Alex and me sitting in Adirondack chairs, looking out at the Maine coast in matching fleece jackets, cozying up in front of a campfire under a red wool blanket, Joe stretched out across our feet. I inserted us into every picture, and even let myself flag flannel shirts he might like by folding down the corners of the pages. In the men’s section, there was a picture of a model who looked like Peter, with dark hair and a square jaw. He was standing on a dock wearing a blazer, khakis, and boat shoes, smiling that big fake catalog smile, with a woman who looked like her clothes never wrinkled and her hair never frizzed.
I turned the page on them and looked at fireplace accessories, trying to think about Alex and woodsmoke and Christmas trees instead. I could just go with Alex. I could just ignore them. I didn’t have to do this. I could move on and leave them to pick up the pieces for once.
The phone rang. I let it go to voice mail, but my heart did this awful thunk, thunk, thud thing until the phone beeped to tell me I had a new message. I called in to check it.
“Hi, Van!” It was Janie. “I miss you so much! Our flight got delayed, but we’re boarding soon. Just wanted to say hi. Can’t wait to see you and show you all the pictures. And so many magnets! Nat would be proud, but I feel bad for your fridge.” She laughed. “Okay, I think we’re boarding now. Love you! Bye!”
Janie and Diane and my mom and I had this running joke where we bought each other hideous tourist magnets whenever we went anyplace that had a gift shop. Janie and Diane brought back magnets from glamorous places like the Eiffel Tower and London Bridge when Charles took them with him on business trips. And we’d bring them magnets from rest stops or the aquarium in Norwalk. The goal was to find the tackiest magnet ever. When my mom and I stopped at South of the Border on a road trip one summer, we totally won. Diane and Janie had a five- inch-wide fluorescent pink sombrero on their fridge until Charles said he was sick of looking at it and it had to go. Then the sombrero took hitchhiking trips, secretly stuck to the side of a car or slipped in someone’s purse when she wasn’t looking. Eventually, it disappeared. No one was quite sure who had it last. We hadn’t done the magnet thing in years. Even before my mom died, it just kind of faded away. I wondered why Janie was starting it again. Maybe she missed my mom too. Maybe she missed the way things were.
I deleted all three messages from Peter without giving him a chance to say more than, “Hi Van,” “Hey, listen, I- ,” and “It’s me. Call me ba- ”
There was one more message.
“Savannah, hi. It’s Scotty Clarke.” She spoke briskly, like she had better things to do than leave me a message. “Just wanted to give a call with the tally for tomorrow morning. We have eighteen yeses and five maybes, not including Janie, Pete, and you. See you at eleven.”
My pulse quickened. Even Scotty knew about the party before me. I took a gulp of coffee. It was too hot. I swallowed and it burned the back of my throat, making my eyes tear up.
I’d done a good job of avoiding the Clarkes throughout the wedding festivities. It wasn’t hard. It’s not like they were tracking me down to catch up. I’d seen them periodically over the years, always in passing. The only time I’d ever spent any real time with them was the night Peter took me to have dinner at their house after midterms, freshman year.
I’d spent hours trying to find something to wear. I had gotten the base layer down-a black tank top and a long khaki skirt. But none of my sweaters looked right. They stretched too tightly across my boobs. I pulled a blue button-down shirt out of my closet, and was about to try it on, when the buzzer rang. I ran downstairs to open the door. Peter came in with a rush of cold air. I shivered.
“Hello,” he said, rubbing his hand up and down my arm to try to warm me. His hands were freezing, but I didn’t care. It was the first time he’d touched me.
“Hello.”
“You look great.”
I laughed. “I’m not done getting dressed. Come up for a sec?”
“Sure,” he said, raising his eyebrows at me.
“Don’t get your hopes up.” I raised my eyebrows back at him. “None of this is coming off.” I waved my hand up toward my head and then pointed down to my toes like I was showing off a prize on a game show.
I walked up the stairs in front of him with an extra swagger in my step. I knew he was watching me. I resisted the urge to look back at him.
When we got to my room, he walked around and looked at everything.
“No roommate?” he said, pointing at the empty bed across from mine.
“Technically, I have a roommate.” I pulled the blue shirt on and buttoned it. “She stayed here the first night and cried hysterically the whole time.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah. Her parents live like twenty minutes away,” I said, “so she stays there mostly, and she brought most of her stuff back home. She studies here between classes sometimes.” I pointed to her desk.
Peter walked over and opened the top drawer. A lone pencil rolled forward. “You must be lonely.”
“Oh, it’s okay.” I smiled bravely. “I practically have my own room. As a freshman. It’s pretty cool.” In truth, I was horribly lonely. All the other girls on my floor went to dinner with their roommates, switched outfits, shared shoes. Even the roommates who were terribly mismatched at least had someone to venture out with until they met other people. “So, how does this look?”
Peter stood
back from me and put his hand on his chin like he was considering a painting. He swirled his index finger in a circle. I spun around for him.
“What else you got?”
“I don’t look that bad, do I?”
“You look great. I just want to know what my options are.”
“Oh, I see.” I laughed and unbuttoned my shirt slowly, staring him down. I couldn’t believe that this was my life. That this was what it was like to be in college. That someone this unbelievably hot was in my dorm room helping me pick out an outfit and taking me to meet his parents.
“And see you in that tank top again.” He bit his bottom lip and raised his eyebrows. I threw my shirt at him. He caught it. “You’re a handful, aren’t you?” He was staring at my breasts when he said it, but he wasn’t referring to them. When his eyes met mine, he smiled. Then his eyes got wide and his face turned red. “Trouble,” he mumbled. “I mean, you’re trouble.”
“Ah.” I smiled.
“I’m going to look at your CDs.” His face was still red.
“I’ll put this on.” I grabbed my black cotton cardigan.
I watched him as I buttoned up. He thumbed through my beards-U2, Dar Williams, Pete Yorn, Radiohead, the skinny guy who played at the coffeehouse in Mount Kisco-the CD collection I had carefully crafted to look hip, alternative, and off the beaten path. The Boston tapes my mom made me were tucked away in my underwear drawer.
“How’s this?” I turned around again.
Peter leaned on my desk and crossed his arms. “Looking good.”
“Not too much?”
“Too much?”
“It’s a little tight.”
“In all the right places.”
“I’m going to meet your parents?” I put my hands on my hips and pretended I was scolding him.
“You look great,” Peter said. He flashed his perfect smile and, for a moment, I felt like I was perfect too.
Peter clicked his car open before we got to it. “It’s open,” he said, and climbed in. “It’s my dad’s old one. I can’t wait to get my new one when I graduate.”
The dashboard lights were bright and blue, and even though the car was a hand- me-down, it was newer and nicer than anything my mom had ever driven.
“So what should I call your parents?” I asked.
“Mom and Dad,” Peter said, laughing.
“Seriously.” I shoved his arm.
He looked over at me with his eyes open really wide, smirking. “Van, I’m driving here. We could have an accident.”
“Shut up,” I said, laughing.
“You shut up!” Peter shoved my shoulder gently.
“Peter, you’re driving.”
“Yeah, so?”
“So, we could have an accident.” I tried to deadpan it, but I got the giggles.
“Shut. Up.” He was laughing too.
“No, you shut up. What do I call your parents?”
“Do you want me to shut up, or do you want me to tell you?”
“Oh my God!” I was laughing so hard my eyes were tearing. “Just tell me!”
“I’d go with Mr. and Mrs. Clarke. It’s the safe bet. My friend Drew calls my mom Scotty, but he’s known her since before he could talk.”
“Why does he call her Scotty?” I wiped my eyes, and tried to catch my breath.
“That’s her name.”
“Really?”
“Actually, it’s Scottsdale.”
“Scottsdale, like Arizona?”
“Scottsdale, as in Scottsdale Home Materials.” He said it proudly, like I should be impressed.
It didn’t ring any bells. I shook my head.
“Insulation mostly. Not the pink brand, the yellow kind.”
“I don’t know a lot about insulation. It’s not my forte,” I said, smiling.
“Ephram Scottsdale was my great-grandfather. He had two girls, so there wasn’t anyone to carry on the family name.”
“So your grandmother named your mom Scottsdale?”
“Yeah.”
“No offense, but that’s awful.” I’d always thought Savannah was too weighty a name, but Scottsdale was so much worse.
“Yeah. Scotty isn’t bad, though.”
“So she’s the end of it, right? I mean, she’s the last one to carry on the family name.”
“Eh, I think I’m expected to.”
“Scottsdale Clarke, Junior.” I made a face.
“Guess I’d better hope for boys,” he said.
“So they can have the same name as their grandmother?”
“Well, her middle name is June. I wouldn’t keep that.” He talked about having kids with the same level of comfort that he might talk about a movie he planned to see. He seemed so easy with his picture of his future. I couldn’t even think past getting out of the car in his parents’ driveway. At the time, I was in awe of his certainty. Now, I think it had more to do with the fact that he was never allowed to make any choices. Being certain of your future is easy when there’s only one path out in front of you, and it’s well lit and clearly marked.
The Clarkes’ house was smaller than Diane’s, but it was still huge. Diane would have called it a McMansion, and turned her nose up at the newness of it. Diane loved to point out the signs of new money, even though she hadn’t had money before she married Charles. I found it amusing that Diane lived in a respectably old house, while Scotty Clarke lived in a new one. Scottsdale Home Materials had been around since Peter’s great-grandfather. Diane’s marriage to Charles was only a few months older than Janie.
Mr. Clarke opened the door before we even got close enough to ring the bell. He was holding a full martini glass complete with an olive on a blue glass pick. When Diane drank martinis at home, she just used a tumbler and plunked some olives in to hang out together at the bottom of the glass.
“Well, what do we have here,” Mr. Clarke said, giving me the once-over. His eyes rested on my cleavage, and stayed there even as he shook my hand.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Clarke,” I said, trying to make eye contact and failing.
“This is Van, Dad,” Peter said, patting his dad on the shoulder as he walked past him into the house.
“You’re not Peter’s roommate, are you?” Mr. Clarke said, still standing in the doorway, so I was stuck out on the front step.
Peter yelled, “Mom, we’re here!” and walked away from the door. I couldn’t see him anymore.
“No. He’s in my-we’re in a class together.” I shifted my weight, hoping if I looked uncomfortable, he’d invite me into the house, and I could find Peter.
“I was going to say, Peter lucked out on the roommate lottery.” Mr. Clarke took a sip of his martini, and finally looked up at my face. “Well, come on in!” he said like I’d been the one holding things up. “Can I get you a drink?”
“I’m fine,” I said.
He turned sideways in the doorway to let me past, his smile growing wider than his mustache.
Peter was standing in the entryway holding two glasses of iced tea with lemon wedges and long spoons. “Come meet Mom,” he said.
“Let me talk to her first,” Mr. Clarke said, rushing past Peter.
“Did I do something wrong?” I asked.
“I don’t know. Did you say anything political?”
“No.”
“I’m sure it’s fine.” Peter handed me one of the glasses.
Scotty Clarke walked into the entryway. She was a small woman with very straight, very blond hair, and impossibly skinny hips. When Peter introduced me, she said, “Nice to meet you, Van,” in a soft, flat voice, and offered me her cold, limp hand. Peter smiled at me encouragingly. “I put the hors d’oeuvres in the living room.” She smoothed her apron against her skirt. It was a crisp white half apron, and completely spotless, as if she wore an apron over her apron while she cooked. “I’ll be in shortly.”
The living room had a cathedral ceiling and too many windows with too many window treatments-blinds and curtains and valences on e
very one. Even though there was a fire in the fireplace, the living room didn’t smell like woodsmoke. Stargazer lilies, perfectly arranged in big vases, sat on the mantel and the table behind the couch. Their cloying, plastic smell crowded the room. I wanted to sit in one of the chairs, away from the flowers, but Peter sat on the couch and put a coaster on the coffee table for me, so I sat down next to him. The flowers made my eyes tear.
Assorted flaky dough puffs in different shapes with different, unidentifiable fillings were arranged on a big white platter on the coffee table. Peter held a napkin under his chin and popped one in his mouth. I did the same. I think it was spinach and cheese, but all I could taste was lilies.
Peter hooked his index finger with mine and gave a tug. When I looked up and smiled at him, his pupils dilated. I read in Cosmo once that men’s pupils dilate when they like what they see. I tugged back on his finger.
Mr. Clarke came in with a full martini glass. His footsteps were heavy and loud, even on the rug. Peter unhooked his finger from mine and rested his hand on his leg. I left my hand on the cushion next to me, in case his finger was coming back.
Mr. Clarke sat down in one of the armchairs across from us. “Sure you don’t want a drink, Van? Peter’s driving.”
“Um, no, thanks.” My voice was stuck behind throat scum. I coughed softly to clear it. “Thank you, though.”
“So Petey, when do we get to meet this Dan fellow?”
Dan was Peter’s roommate. They hadn’t been expecting me.
“I’m sure you’ll meet him sooner or later,” Peter said, reaching for another puff.
Mr. Clarke laughed. “Sounds like you’re not eager to force the issue.” He pulled one of the olives off of his pick with his teeth and chewed it loudly. I wondered if he was new money like Diane.
“Dan’s kind of a dick,” Peter said.
Mr. Clarke laughed harder and his whole body shook. I thought a piece of his olive must have gone down the wrong way, because it turned into a laugh-hack combination, and his face went bright red. “That’s my boy. He knows an asshole when he sees one, Van. I tell you, he’s going to be a great litigator.”