Domestic Arrangements

by Norma Klein

I was so sleepy on the way home I fell asleep, leaning against Joshua. He took the cab the rest of the way to his house because he lives farther uptown. I don’t feel mad at him at all anymore.

  Chapter Nine

  The next morning, Sunday, Daddy was up when I got up. He was jumping rope on the terrace. That’s supposed to be good for his heart, as well as for losing weight. When he saw me, he stopped and came in.

  “You’re up early,” he said.

  “It’s ten,” I pointed out. I guess Deel and Mom were still asleep. “Daddy, I’m not mad at Joshua anymore,” I said, going into the kitchen. “He said he was sorry.”

  “When did you see him?” Daddy asked, puzzled. “I thought you were baby-sitting last night.”

  “You gave him my number at Abigail’s.”

  “No, I didn’t. It must have been Amanda.”

  “Oh . . . well, anyway we talked about everything and I feel good now.”

  Daddy was pouring some coffee beans into a cup. “Good,” he said, but in a slightly insincere way.

  “Charlie was there,” I said, pouring myself some grapefruit juice.

  “Where?” Daddy turned on the coffee grinder.

  “At Abigail’s. I didn’t know she went out with him, like on dates.”

  “Oh, she doesn’t,” Daddy said, raising his voice so I could hear him over the coffee grinder. “They’re just friends.”

  “Oh.”

  He flicked the coffee grinder off. “What made you think otherwise?”

  “What?”

  “What made you think they were out on a date?”

  “Well, just that he came back with her at one thirty and was still there when we left.”

  Daddy frowned. “Well, to the best of my knowledge . . . my understanding was that . . . the main thing is, I don’t think Charlie is the kind of man that Abigail would be interested in.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, divorced three times. He’s something of a womanizer. I just feel she would want someone more . . . serious, with more depth.”

  “Don’t you think Charlie has depth?” I said.

  “Not really . . . Oh, he’s charming, there’s no doubt of that. But he skims over the surface of things.”

  I poured myself a glass of milk and added a big dose of coffee syrup to it. I like that on Sunday, with a sticky honey bun all covered with raisins. “I used to think Abigail was gay,” I said, taking a bite of the honey bun.

  Daddy smiled. “Why? Goodness, how curious.”

  “I guess she seemed sort of . . . Well, she never wears makeup or anything. She doesn’t seem that feminine.”

  “Well, but darling, surely you realize all that is just a hype of our culture—makeup, perfume . . . They want you to believe those things are necessary, so they’ll sell their product. Not all women fall for that.”

  “Well, Mom wears makeup,” I said, “and it looks nice on her.”

  “True . . . No, I’m not saying . . . I’m just saying when you’re young like Abigail or you, why muck yourself up with all that junk? If your skin is nice, and your hair . . .” He looked thoughtful.

  I know what Daddy means, but I like makeup. I like eye makeup the most. The thing is, it really makes a difference. I don’t wear it a lot, just when I go out sometimes, but when I put lots of makeup on, my eyelashes really do look extremely long and it makes me look much older and more sexy than I do without it.

  “Daddy?”

  “Umm?” He was still looking bemused.

  “You know how you said I should start thinking about what I want for Christmas?”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, the thing is, there is something I want and I thought I’d ask you about it before you got me something else.”

  “Umm hmm?”

  “The thing is, it’s a little bit expensive.”

  “How much?”

  “I think about thirty-five dollars.”

  “That doesn’t sound too exorbitant. What is it?”

  I cleared my throat. “A diaphragm.”

  Daddy stared at me.

  “You know, like what you got Delia?”

  “Well, but Delia was older,” Daddy said.

  “So?”

  Daddy looked at me, a funny smile on his face. “Darling.”

  “What?”

  “Could you tell me one thing?”

  “Sure.”

  “Whose idea was this? Was it Joshua’s?”

  “Well, sort of, but . . . I think it’s a good idea. You don’t want me to get pregnant, do you?”

  “No, but surely there are other methods which—”

  “The pill’s supposed to not be that good for you, Joshua said.”

  Daddy poured himself some more coffee into his favorite mug. Mom got it for him. It has his sign on it. “Darling, now look, this is the point. I have the very distinct feeling that Joshua is pushing this side of your relationship when you’re simply not ready for it.”

  “Daddy, that’s not true! He just says it’s more comfortable with a diaphragm.”

  “How does he know?”

  “His brother’s girl friend has one.”

  “I just don’t feel comfortable with the idea,” Daddy said. “You’re fourteen, sweetheart. That’s still extremely young.”

  “It isn’t,” I said angrily. “It used to be, but it isn’t anymore.”

  “Tat, life has certain basic stages that everyone has to go through. If a child were to walk at two months, or talk at four, it wouldn’t even be good. Nature has set things up so we ease into these things, so we take the next step when we’re really ready for it, biologically, emotionally, physically.”

  “But, Daddy, we’ll be doing it anyway . . . so what difference does it make? I’ll just go get one on my own.” I glared at him. “I thought you wanted me to be open about things. You sound just like everybody else’s parents.”

  Daddy looked hurt. “I do want you to be open,” he said.

  “No, you don’t!” My cheeks were flaming. “You just want to hear things you like. You don’t want to hear the truth.”

  Just then Deel walked in. “About what?”

  “I just said I want a diaphragm for Christmas,” I said. “Like you.”

  “Well, but I’m older,” Deel said, “and more mature.”

  Can you imagine? I was sure Deel would be on my side. “So? I’m mature for my age,” I said huffily.

  “You?” Deel looked incredulous. “That’s a good one.”

  “Well, I have a boyfriend and you don’t,” I said.

  “Big deal . . . I wouldn’t want Joshua Poshua if he washed up on a desert island and I hadn’t seen a boy in eighteen months.”

  Deel always calls Joshua “Joshua Poshua” when she wants to get my goat.

  “Girls,” Daddy said.

  “Well, he wouldn’t want you,” I said. “You’re just jealous because no one’s even asked you.”

  “What do you mean?” Deel said, turning red. “Lots of people have asked me.”

  “Who? Name one.”

  “Percival Becker.”

  “Who’s he? I bet he’s not even real.”

  “He is so real, and he’s a lot nicer than pimply old Joshua, I can tell you that.”

  Deel should talk about pimples! She washes her face around ten times a day and she still has them, even though Mom took her to some fancy skin doctor on Park Avenue who gave her all these special lotions and soaps.

  “Girls,” Daddy said. “Now wait . . . we’re getting off the track.”

  “I don’t see why you don’t get it for her,” Deel said savagely, opening the refrigerator. “She’ll probably be fucking with everybody in sight once the movie opens.”

  “That’s not true,” I wailed. “I love Joshua. I don’t want to fuck with anybody but him.”

  “Cordelia, that was uncalled for,” Daddy said.

  “So, why don’t you want to give it to her? You’re just scared.”

  “I’m not scared,�
� Daddy said. “I was just questioning.”

  “She’ll just get it anyway,” Deel said, “the way she got those boots and those earrings. You’re so dumb, you don’t even know!”

  I couldn’t believe Deel would do such a mean, terrible thing, to tell Daddy something I told her in utmost confidence. I’m never going to trust her about anything again, ever.

  “Cordelia, I consider my judgment in these matters sufficiently sound so that . . .”

  “You don’t even care!” Deel said. “Well, I feel ashamed to have a sister who goes around sticking her boobs in people’s faces in 3D just because she gets paid for it. It makes me want to throw up!”

  “You don’t even have any to show anyone,” I said. That wasn’t nice, but it’s true. Deel has less breasts than Daddy.

  “Girls, I mean it,” Daddy said. “This is ugly and I want you to stop it immediately. Tat, we’ll talk it over further later. I want to discuss it with Amanda, and see—”

  “Oh, she’ll give her anything,” Deel said.

  “You’re really a mean person, Cordelia Engelberg,” I said. “You’re a mean, terrible person.”

  “And you’re a spoiled little brat,” Deel fired back.

  I slammed the door of my room, and locked it. Then I lay on my bed for half an hour, fuming. Deel can be nasty at times, but she’s never been in a mood like that, ever. She must really be jealous of my being in the movie. Well, are any of those things my fault? I can’t help it if I’m pretty and nice, and boys like me. Is that something wrong? She’s the one who said she was just going to go out and fuck with the first person she saw, if no one asked her by February. I wouldn’t do that. I wouldn’t do it with anyone except someone I truly loved, who truly loved me.

  When I came out later, Daddy was sitting listening to the opera. I just looked at him.

  “Delia went out,” he said.

  I shrugged.

  “Tat, listen, this is all very hard for her. You can understand that, can’t you?”

  “What?”

  “All the attention you’re getting, will get . . . it’s very painful. Even if she wasn’t older than you, it would be, but as it is . . . You know she’s very thin-skinned. That’s just her nature.”

  “I don’t say bad things about her.”

  “You don’t have to . . . you’re not jealous of her.”

  “She’s just mean,” I muttered.

  “No . . . she’s not mean. She’s just going through a difficult time. It would be hard, even without the movie. Anyway! Look, I’ve been thinking it over. The point is, what I say or think, or feel obviously, isn’t going to change the reality of the situation. And, well, I do think being responsible about these matters is a good thing. I just have a terrible fear that, despite everything you say, none of this would be happening if Joshua hadn’t . . . that you . . . you’re not doing it for your pleasure, but for his.”

  I shook my head.

  “You know, there’ve been studies,” Daddy said, “that show that a full eighty percent of teenage girls having sex don’t have orgasms.”

  “So?” I said nervously.

  “Well, the point is—that indicates they’re not getting any pleasure out of it.”

  “Do you think that’s the only pleasure in sex, having orgasms?” I said.

  “Maybe not the only, but . . .”

  I felt defensive. “There’s lots of nice things besides that.”

  Daddy looked embarrassed. “Yes, well . . .”

  “Maybe it takes girls longer to catch on,” I said. From Daddy’s expression, I had the feeling he didn’t feel comfortable talking about it. “It gives you something to look forward to.”

  Daddy didn’t say anything.

  “Didn’t you like girls when you were a teenager?” I said.

  “Well, of course I did,” Daddy said.

  “But, I mean, like someone special.”

  He reflected, “Well, it’s true, there was . . . oh dear, what was her name? She had brown hair parted on the side, and she—”

  “Did you go out with her?”

  “Tat, in the high school I went to, no one went out especially. It just—I don’t know—it wasn’t done.”

  “So what’d you do about sex?”

  He smiled sheepishly. “Dreamed.”

  “That’s all?”

  “Basically.”

  From what Mom has said, it was completely different in her school. She went out with lots of people, and did just about everything with quite a few. She says that in small southern towns there isn’t much else to do besides make out on warm summer nights.

  Later, when Mom got up, I told her about what had happened. She said she thought the whole thing was a tempest in a teapot and that Daddy was acting like a father in a Dickens novel, and that she’d make an appointment for me with her gynecologist next week. “I mean, my goodness,” she said, “I think every woman over the age of eight should bow down to Mecca ten times a day for living in an era where there’s reasonably safe, effective birth control. When I think of the hysteria we went through with missed periods!”

  “Did you ever get pregnant?” I asked.

  “I was one of the lucky ones . . . but just because my periods were irregular. Poor Sallie Keane actually had to marry Bob Conroy, and got stuck with twins!”

  “What happened to her?” I asked.

  “Oh, she dug her way out eventually . . . but it took fifteen years of total hell and diapers, and hideous dinners with his—whatever you call them. He worked at some garage. I mean, men in greasy overalls drinking beer! The kind of thing you see on TV, but don’t think really exists in real life. Men who call women ‘broads’ and that kind of thing.”

  “I guess you were lucky meeting Daddy,” I said.

  Mom smiled. “He was lucky.”

  “Was Dora his type? Like you said—the woman intellectual type?”

  “Dora?” Mom looked aghast. “Intellectual? Hon, the poor woman had trouble signing her name. No, that’s not fair, but see, the basic thing with Jewish men of Lionel’s generation is they all, to a man, married dim-witted, pretty, non-Jewish girls, Irish Catholic nurses, Mormons, you name it . . . and then even they got bored to stupefaction and moved on. I was just a variation on a theme.”

  Mom is pretty, and not Jewish. “But you’re not dim-witted,” I said.

  “True, but, well, I’m not bookish, I’m more . . . street smart, if anything. No, I was definitely a step up, no doubt of that . . . So listen, hon, you’ll see Dr. Hubbard, okay? She’s a sweetie, don’t be nervous. I personally hate diaphragms, but I guess it’s just as well.”

  “Why do you hate them?”

  “Oh, it’s just a drag, having to remember them, and making sure they’re in place. They’re a wave of the past, but, well—”

  Mom has an IUD, I think.

  When I told Joshua, he was really pleased.

  The opening of Domestic Arrangements was on December 19. Daddy asked if it was okay if he and Deel didn’t go. He said he felt it would be hard for Deel, that she’d seen it anyway, and he had to get up early the next day to go to Boston for a week to do this movie on lung disease. “Tat, if it means a lot to you, I’ll go,” he said. “But I thought in the interests of family harmony . . .”

  “No, that’s okay,” I said. In some ways, I’ll almost feel better if they don’t come. Having your family around is a drag in certain ways. Mom said she wouldn’t miss it for the world. She said Simon would go with us since he hadn’t seen it yet.

  Joshua didn’t want to go either. “Do you mind, Rust? I mean, I just think it’s not my kind of thing, an opening.”

  I laughed.

  “What’s funny?”

  “Well, you’re not going, Daddy’s not going, Deel isn’t going.”

  “Who’ll you go with?”

  “Mom and Simon . . . listen, it’s okay.”

  “Are you nervous?”

  “Sort of . . . you mean about the reviews?”

 
“Yeah.”

  “Daddy heard Newsweek is going to pan it.”

  “Well, those are the breaks. They might like you, but not the movie.”

  “I don’t think they like me, either, but I think someone else did.”

  “Look, no matter what happens, you did a good job, and you know it. They can’t take that away from you.”

  “Did I?”

  “Yeah, you did, Rust. So don’t let any of those snot-nose critics get to you. What do they know?”

  That’s nice of Joshua to say because I happen to know there are some critics he thinks are really good, like the one for New York magazine and Andrew Sarris in the Voice. He likes Pauline Kael, too. He says he doesn’t always agree with her, but he respects the way her mind works. I bet all of them will hate it, and some dope that he thinks doesn’t know anything will say I’m great!

  I decided to wear my purple dress. Mom says there are two approaches one can have to having red hair. One is to wear gray and olive green and sort of drab colors like that. The other is to wear purple and shocking pink and orange and knock them right between the eyes. Mom says she’s of the latter school. This purple dress, which we got together at Bendel’s, is a really bright purple silk with a slit up one side. I wore it with these dark red boots, the ones Mom told Daddy cost less than they really did. Because Joshua wasn’t going, I wore tons of eye makeup. He likes me best without any makeup, but I decided I should at least try to look glamorous. I washed my hair that morning and it looked really nice.

  Mom wore a white dress she has with clumps of flowers strewn all over it. Simon wore a suit! I never saw him in one before. Usually he wears denim shirts and jeans. “Are you nervous?” he asked.

  “No, not so much,” I said. Mom was inside dressing. Dad and Deel had gone out to eat together.

  “I’m really looking forward to it. Mandy says it’s great.”

  The second time, seeing the movie, I liked it more. I mean, I enjoyed it more just as a movie. I wasn’t so worried because I knew what to expect. And since no one was there that I knew personally, I didn’t have to keep looking to see what their reactions were. Simon sat between me and Mom. There was one funny thing—he held Mom’s hand. I just noticed it when I was leaning forward to pick up my glove.

  When it was over, we walked out into the lobby. Suddenly a bunch of kids rushed over to me. One of them said, “That’s her!” Another one said, “Can I have your autograph?” I looked at Mom and Simon. They just smiled and stood to one side. I signed my name around thirty times. One girl gave me a slip of paper. One boy asked if I’d sign his sneaker! Another one asked if I’d write my name on his hand. He had a ball-point pen. When I did, he said, “I won’t wash it off—ever.” I stared at him. I guess there are a lot of weird people in the world.