Tinsel and Temptation

by Eileen Rendahl

  “Hi Risa.” My voice is loud even to my ears. I can’t think of where to start. “How’s everything?”

  She chuckles, “I’m good, I guess. I’m here, but I’m good.”

  I nod, the hushed room spreading absently around me. “I’m coming back next week. Didn’t know if you’d be around…” The insincerity in this rings like an alarm. Of course she’s home. We both know her family’s holiday traditions, etched like runes in our history together; I’ve been at her house for many of them. All of her relatives gather there: men crowd the balconies, leaning heavily on railings and smoking; stoves bubble over with the family’s traditional Struffoli cookies; the elder aunties settle in the parlor, their mid-calf skirts lined up, sheltering their crossed ankles and sensible black shoes. The noise level is deafening. It’s a magical thing.

  “Cool, yep, sure.” She says this loosely, so the words swim around us, unanchored.

  “How’s Nonna?” She’s my favorite, very old, and very brittle with everything but her words. She speaks fire.

  “You know Nonna. She’s always into something, like a child.” I can hear her smiling. “Her latest is poker. She won’t leave me alone.”

  For some reason, this is the sucker punch. I miss her so much I can feel the absence, taste the alienation. “Risa, I’m so sorry about everything. I wish I could undo it.”

  “Hmm, yeah. Halley, me too. But it is what it is.” Her voice unexpectedly springs with levity, “God, that expression sucks. It’s totally useless.”

  “Could I swing by when I’m home? What would…” I can’t even finish the sentence.

  “I don’t know, Halley. Try me when you get here. We’ll see.”

  I regret everything about this, this biggest on my shortlist of life’s real regrets. The conversation ends abruptly like it started — familiar but unresolved, a life interruption, like the pause button was pressed and we’re frozen mid-frame, across from each other.

  The last time I saw her we were both wearing suits, in Judge Reimert’s courtroom, and our attorneys wouldn’t allow us to speak to each other. It was the scariest day of my life.

  I went up first, and fortunately had Jim McCready as my attorney. My father called him ‘The Beast,’ and the first time I saw Jim, leaning casually against the window frame in my father’s office, I understood why. Jim had played football in college and was still physically immense, with the tightly reigned intensity of a linebacker now neatly packaged in a navy suit, the slight pucker of his jacket indicating a hand-sewn seam. He didn’t blink much, not even when I blurted out the story; that we had ‘borrowed’ the brown ’74 Chevy Nova parked alongside the park; that we’d found it unlocked with the keys on the dash and it just seemed like a funny idea at the time; that it was my idea, and Risa had relented and said she should probably drive, because her older brothers had taught her to drive a stick-shift like a boss. Jim stopped me then with his hazel eyes, smallish in his tawny face, and held up a giant hand, gold pinky ring leading, and said, “Only yours. I don’t want her story. Only yours.” I knew then how this was going down.

  The proceeding was mechanical. When I took the stand, Jim stood motionless before me, except for the occasional smoothing of his tie. His voice was surprisingly quiet, which I recognized as a tactical move, because the room stilled to hear him. I answered his questions using as few words as possible, as he’d coached. The story unfolded, him coaxing the details and managing the narrative - I was a spirited, talented young woman, headed off to a top college in the fall, misdirected by a wayward moment but still on track.

  And for me it closed quietly; I paid my fines, was counseled all summer by a young social worker named Linden alongside her waxy begonias, did six weeks community service cleaning up parks as restitution. Then I packed up and went to Boston for college in the fall. I was whole. The Jordan family was intact.

  Risa’s family had no money, so she got a public defender named Larry. Larry wore broad ties, and dark leather shoes with rubber soles that squeaked as he walked.

  Risa is six months older than me, and was tried as an adult. As the driver, she was convicted of joyriding and spent a month in county prison.

  Risa is now living at home on probation, where her future is trapped with her.

  I stand up and toss the notebook to the ground. Grabbing my coat and stuffing my feet into boots, I pull a fleece skullcap low across my forehead, so it hugs my ears and covers my unbrushed, unwashed hair, a limp, brown carpet-fringe resting on my shoulders. It’s time for some air.

  The night is bracingly cold, and my cheeks feel the sting first. Wind cuts through my thin pajama bottoms but there’s a strange release that comes as I tense up, bearing inward. It feels good to relinquish to bigger things, like the depth of winter’s night.

  I walk around a corner and step onto a stone pathway, away from the dorm’s flood lights and the main road’s street lamps, and shift my head upward, to the midnight sky. There are white clusters of clouds, cirrus, I think, that appear almost luminescent, as though they create their own heat and light. Once I am deeper down the path, there’s a gentle sloping hill with tall trees off in the distance and a lawn that stretches to the next dorm. I pause there as my eyes adjust, and the stars begin firing; they are hot white, flickering blue, pink and yellow to the periphery.

  Dad says my name inexorably ties me to greatness, to the cosmos. We used to call ourselves students of the stars, Dad and I. We’d bundle up, and go out on our freezing deck, then lean together, shoulders and temples touching, merging our sight line. I’d follow his finger as he’d pick a constellation and give me its story. “Now that one, Halley, it’s so bright it looks like a star but it’s more like a cluster. That’s Pleiades, about 400 light years away. It’s a loose open cluster of young, hot blue stars.” And beneath his glasses I’d see his eyes smiling. “Marvelous, right? They’re essentially teenagers, like you.” He’d pat my back. “Bright future.” I’d chuckle and lean in closer.

  I shiver. The cold has spread to the inside, and I realize that looking back doesn’t give me any warmth. It freezes me in my tracks. It’s time to move on. I turn back to the dorm, to the new Halley, the fresh star who is white hot and cruising at a speed of 150 miles per hour, not looking back at the trail of debris she’s left in her orbit.

  CHAPTER 2

  Exam week is over and now I feel lame, stunned by a bone-leaching tiredness. It really was a battleground, six exams over five days. I think I did fine. I’m not walking around chest bumping anyone, but I can certainly live with myself. I may even have kicked some ass.

  There’s a hard sleet outside, which isn’t ideal for a travel day. The sky is heavy and thick. The brake lights and windshield wipers are frantic along the turnpike, though the cars move slowly, sluggish and hesitant in the crowd. It appears all Boston inhabitants are leaving this Friday afternoon also.

  Luís is sharing my cab to Logan. He’s visiting some relatives over the holiday in Miami instead of going all the way home to Venezuela. His exam earlier today was in Cultural Anthropology, where I think the language gap was possibly a real problem. I feel guilty that I haven’t helped him as much as he’s helped me.

  “I’m sure you did fine.” I say.

  He’s sulking against his car door, his face slack with dismay, manspeading his legs across two-thirds of the backseat. He smacks the vinyl seat on either side of him, “Who cares the differences between Franz Boas and E.B. Tylor? They are the same, both idiots. Studies of stupidity.”

  I try not to look at him. I’m amused by his tantrum, which he probably won’t appreciate. “Luís, we have some time before our planes leave. Let’s get shitty at the airport.”

  He nods. “Yes, Halley. This time you are right.”

  I stumble through the airport lines like a zombie, shuffling my feet. Dead eyes. Craving something but I don’t know what. The airport is thickly packed, crowded with currents moving in all directions. As I enter the terminal, the melee absorbs me in full holiday
assault, the cheerful music streaming out of three-sided stores, slick shopping bags balanced carefully on wheelie suitcases.

  I find Luís at a seafood place, and we sit in the corner of the bar on high stools, pushed so close together our legs occasionally touch. There’s a bright fish mural behind the server. Luís orders oysters and martinis, even though the idea of this meal followed by a plane ride makes me nervous. I’m not a great flyer to begin with.

  He holds up his glass to toast. “So here we are, finished with the semester. Having food and drink together. Is this a date?”

  I sputter and shake my head, vodka spraying in a fine mist. I’m definitely not playing this cool. “I don’t know. Who asked who?”

  “It does not matter. Salúd. To one ending, one beginning.” He drinks, then takes an oyster and slurps it, chewing the final bite, looking at me. I’m starting to feel a little loose, like my jowls have gone numb and my fingertips are tingly.

  We laugh about the week, and at one point I rest my hand on his arm and lean in. His smell is strong, as always — leather, smoke, and something else sharp to the nose. It feels nice to let go a little, getting close to him, opening the aperture a little to some fun. Harmless enough.

  He leans across me for a cocktail napkin, and when he returns the stubble on his cheekbone grazes my cheek. I feel prickly heat rising in my chest and face, and I sense he can see it - I rock a mean blush.

  “Are you sad you’re not going home?” I ask. Our faces are now very close.

  “I am not sad.” He says. He tucks a strand of my hair behind my ear. “My family will always be there.”

  His words send an aftershock through me. I’m the one going home, but have an empty, hollow pit in my stomach. Dread. I don’t know how this will go. Before I left for school, my family didn’t seem to know how to behave around me, so we all just receded. Dad made excuses to eat dinner near the courthouse. Mom and Justin were around, but treated me with a deprecated kindness, in the spectrum of pity and politeness. There was a distance to it, all the words unspoken but still drifting around the room, watching us, haunting me.

  “My family is really, really messed up right now,” I say. “And it’s all my fault. I’m a train wreck.”

  “No, no, no, querida. Not you.” And he leans in quickly for the softest, sweetest kiss, a puff of air wrapped in velvet. I almost missed it. “You’re the train. Nothing will stop you.”

  It feels like something Risa would have said to me, about us. I feel an old rush, like something is expanding me from the inside, stretching me bigger and greater. Unstoppable. I miss these feelings. Speed. Impulse. Need.

  I reach over and pull his face close to mine and I kiss him, firmly. Our noses press into each other and I feel him breathe in sharply. Even with my eyes closed I know he’s smirking. It feels happy and a little bit hungry, like we’re trying to break off a piece of the moment and swallow it whole before we say good-bye tonight.

  I’m no stranger to a row of shot glasses, but Luís and I collect quite a few before I warn him we’re about to miss our flights. We kiss again, a hasty and messy mash-up, in the middle of the busy terminal. As I head to my gate I can’t stop grinning. My chin is tender, tangible proof of desire; I’m glad he left me with this little reminder, so that no matter how things go at home tonight, tomorrow and the next day I can touch my face and remember what it’s like to feel wanted.

  I arrive at my gate to a sign flickering red, which tells me that my flight is delayed, as they all seem to be, so I find a spot alongside a side far wall and slump down, my backpack resting against my thighs. The rain beats on the windows wearily, as the airport crew directs traffic below in their slickers and orange vests. I put on my headphones and lean back, an insuppressible smile fixed on my face, and replay the evening.

  I look up and realize my headset is silent. The airport is still swollen with people, but the windows are black. I hold up my phone and it’s dead. The gate across from me, my gate, is loosely packed with weary-looking travelers, jackets draped across their bodies, a toddler asleep in his stroller with his legs dangling over the side. I dig through my bag and find a phone charger and spot an outlet not far away. I plug in and wait for the screen to light up. After seemingly endless minutes, it fires up. It’s 11PM. The message lights flare.

  My tongue feels like lead in my mouth.

  First a text from Justin: 8:30PM. I’m here, circling. Flight landed. Where RU? Lose yr bag? Call me.

  Oh sweet Jesus. I switch over to voicemail.

  6:30PM. Mom. “Halley, your flight is delayed so we’re going to have dinner without you. I’m sending Justin to the airport. He’ll wait at the curb downstairs. Look for him when you land.”

  9:00PM. Mom. “Young Lady, what the hell is going on? Did you miss your flight? Why aren’t you answering your phone? I’m paging you.”

  10:00PM. Dad. “Halley, it’s ten o clock. This is ridiculous. We don’t know what’s happened. Go back to your dorm. We don’t need this. I guess we’ll talk in the morning.

  While I’m reading, a text comes through from Luís: 11:05PM. Hola, guapa. In Miami, thinking about you. Text me when you get this, anytime is fine.

  I yank the cord out of the wall and throw my bag over my shoulder. My hands are shaking. I’m in for a long night.

  CHAPTER 3

  The drive home inside the car is silent. The pavement seams make a repeating sound under Dad’s sedan, rhythmic like a mantra. It’s all I can hear above the pounding in my chest.

  The sun has just come up and the winter sky has an orange cast to it. The moon is low and bright on the horizon. Waning, I think, how ironic.

  Dad grips the steering wheel at ten and two, his fingers occasionally unfolding then returning, finger by finger, to their places. His face is unreadable, but not in a relaxed, happy way; his cheeks indent beneath his high cheekbones, leaving flesh pooling toward his jawline, heavy and weighted; his lips are pursed tightly, and his greying stubble points in all directions.

  “Dad, it was an accident, I don’t know what else to say. I fell asleep. I was right there.” His face is impassive. I can’t tell if he’s listening. “I was just so tired after finals…” Still nothing. I look out the window and say quietly into the car’s steamy, cold, morning air. “It’s not that big of a deal.”

  He snaps toward me. “Not a big deal? Do you know how worried we were? We didn’t know what the hell happened.” After a beat he speaks again, a bit defeated. “And you smell like a drunk from the back of the bus, Halley. I don’t know what to do.”

  My spine compresses with the weight of it all. There’s nothing to say. They’re not going to cut me a break. There is no trust, no comfort here. Not after all the studying, all the sacrifice. That doesn’t seem to matter. They see me through a different lens now, and I bear the burden of proof.

  I’ve seen Dad like this before, but only once, that night the police brought me in after Risa and I took the Nova for a spin. They’d fingerprinted us, took our information, then put us in a small cell. There were three other women in there, all older. I had the impression that particular cell hadn’t seen many other high school students in tank tops and gladiator sandals.

  Dad was wearing a plaid button-down shirt when they brought me to him, his khaki pants held up loosely by a brown leather belt. His hair was disheveled, like he may have been in bed reading.

  “Halley, what is going on here?” he asked, more indignant than curious.

  “Dad, I’m so glad to see you!” I ran forward. “Are Risa’s parents here too?”

  He shook his head incredulously. “I have no idea. Did I hear this correctly? Did you girls steal a car?” He takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes. “Do you know what you’ve done?”

  It’s that look of disgust that gets to me. I’ve seen him tired, irritated, even baffled before. But only twice in my eighteen years have those eyes been trained on me with full-on rancor. Like I’ve caused pain and offense. Today is number two.

 
; My eyes feel heavy and the movement of the car lulls me, but I dare not fall asleep. We sit in more silence, me waiting for his next move. I imagine he’s hoping that I’ll stop moving altogether.

  Mom steps out onto the front stoop when we arrive. She doesn’t run down the three stairs to greet me, or help with my bags. She waits, her arms folded across each other, her hip resting lightly against the black wrought-iron railing. Her hair is done and her make-up is on. She looks pissed. Dad slips past her, making brief eye contact, stepping inside without looking back.

  I grab my giant bag out of the trunk and make my way up the stairs.

  “Hi Mom.” I say quietly.

  “Halley.” Her hands go to her hips, fists in tight balls. “What on earth?”

  “It’s nothing, there’s no story. I’m sorry.”

  She stands still for a beat. Her eyes roll, so dramatically her head actually tilts with them. She jerks one arm forward and squeezes my forearm. It reminds me a bit of when I was scolded as a child, but strangely I’m reassured by her touch. “You’re exhausted.” Some of the chill has left her voice. “We’ll talk later. Go rest, you have your room for tonight.”

  I wheel my bag through the entry and up the stairs to my room. I nudge the door mostly closed and roll my bag behind it, like a bookend. I want to slam the door and throw my body against it. But I can’t block them out completely.

  In this room I feel more like myself again. I flop on my bed. I knew coming home would feel like moving upstream, forging forward despite the pressure, constant and unrelenting, to move backward. But here’s something else unexpected; relief. The texture of my bedspread — the one I picked out when I was thirteen, with the eyelet tiered ruffle - is rough like I remember it, the warp and weave made of thready polyester. But it’s mine, and there’s a slight dusty musk that seeps from my pillow when I lay down that smells like the real me, the one that swells with excitement and fear and boredom and love.