Screaming Divas

by Suzanne Kamata

  One afternoon when Cassie was sitting cross-legged on his floor, he reached under the tattered sofa for the wooden box that held his kit.

  “Can I watch?” she asked, before he had a chance to ask her to leave.

  Adam looked at her face for a long moment. Then he dropped his eyes and lifted the lid. “I don’t care.”

  She was silent and still, like a hiker in the presence of wildlife. She watched his ritual—the careful measuring of white powder, the spoon over the flame, the belt tightened over his bicep—with fascination. And then she observed the needle sliding into his vein, the backwash of blood in the syringe, the relaxation of his face. He moaned, then fell back against the sofa, forgetting she was there.

  It scared her as much as it attracted her. She knew how easily things could go wrong, yet she craved that instant relief. She’d thought all this time that she wanted only to be loved, but what she really wanted was to get out of her body.

  The next time she went to him, she asked if she could try, too.

  He grinned crookedly, his unwashed hair falling in his eyes. “What? You want me to corrupt you?”

  “It’s too late for that,” she said.

  He stared at her for a long time and she was afraid that he’d see the desperation there. She should try to be more casual about it. Make it seem like it didn’t matter to her at all.

  Finally his gaze dropped. “All right.”

  Cassie smiled.

  “You have to be careful,” he told her, as he tapped out the powder. “You shouldn’t do this alone. And never when drunk. People pass out and choke on their own vomit. Got it?”

  She nodded, flipped her hair back. She hated being babied. She probably knew more about the world than Adam, with his ordinary middle class parents and interior trips. Heroin didn’t make you wise. Or at least she didn’t expect it to.

  She held out her arm, the way she did for nurses, and waited while he tied a silk scarf around her. The veins popped out, blue and fat. He pressed down on one with his finger, then kissed it. Cassie thought it was the most erotic thing he’d ever done.

  She closed her eyes, heard him tapping the ampoule with a fingernail, then felt the needle’s prick.

  She waited for something to happen.

  At first, there was nothing, and then gradually, she felt a calm enter her body. It was like being in the warm bath water with Mama, having her head stroked as she drifted off to sleep, or being rocked, maybe. It was lovely, like a Monet watercolor, blurry and soft.

  But that first afternoon, she wound up cramped and retching over the toilet. Adam, seemingly unaffected, held her torso and smoothed back her hair.

  “The first time can be rough,” he said. He kissed her clammy cheek. “Believe me, it gets better.”

  She vowed she would try again.

  30

  Friday evening, Harumi stood in front of the mirror in Cassie’s leopard print sheath. It looked odd on her, like a costume, but there was nothing in her own closet that seemed right. She’d changed three times already—from a red silk dress (too Chinese) to a Laura Ashley floral ensemble (too prim) to a tunic and black tights (too Goatfeathers; he’d already seen it twenty times). Cassie was the daughter of a beauty queen. She knew more about dressing up than anyone. Harumi decided to trust her judgment.

  She closed her eyes and thought of Tiffany Hart, heroine of Mrs. H.’s latest romance novel. Tiffany’s voluptuous breasts threatened to spill out of her red silk gown.

  “Harumi?” Mrs. Harris was calling her. She probably wanted ice cream or a bedtime story, and there was no time for that.

  She latched a thrift shop rhinestone bracelet onto her wrist and hurried to the bedroom. “What is it, Mrs. Harris?” she asked from the doorway.

  Regal as ever, the woman leaned against her pillows. She reached for Harumi. “Come here, my dear.”

  Harumi’s gaze slipped to the clock. Chip was due any minute. She hoped he’d be late.

  The woman’s grip was surprisingly strong. Her skin felt like washed paper, all soft and wrinkled. “Enjoy yourself, my dear,” she said in her quavery voice. “But be home by midnight.”

  “What?” Harumi couldn’t help herself. Mrs. Harris was probably lost in the long ago, confusing her with a daughter, and Harumi was usually cheerful about playing along. But if she wasn’t, if she was indeed imposing a curfew on her home helper, Harumi would have to set her straight.

  “Mrs. Harris, I am an adult. I am old enough to vote or join the army, and I’m not your child.”

  The woman’s eyes widened at this sudden outburst, but then disappeared in the crinkles of a smile. “There, there. No need to get all worked up.” She patted Harumi’s hand with her liver-spotted one. “I’m doing you a favor. This is your first date with the young man, is it not?”

  Harumi nodded, slightly wary.

  “And you have never had a boyfriend.”

  Harumi opened her mouth to protest. Was it so plain to see? Were words tattooed on her forehead? Virgin. Never been kissed. Then she remembered that interview with the old woman’s daughter.

  “If things get too steamy and you’re feeling uncomfortable, just tell him that you have to be home by twelve. And that if you’re late, I’ll fire you.” She winked. “And another thing. Be sure to hold back. These modern girls on TV tell their life stories on the first date, but I’m telling you, men like a little mystery. You know those Godiva chocolates I like so much?”

  Harumi nodded, not sure where this was going. Mrs. Harris limited herself to one a day.

  “Well, you should think of your charms like a box of bonbons. Dole them out slowly. Let him savor each one and make him want more.” The woman bore an expression of ecstasy, presumably thinking about chocolate.

  “So, uh, which bonbon do you think I should dole out first?”

  Her eyes snapped open. “Well, you could talk about hobbies.”

  “Hobbies?” Surely not her music. That was her passion, her life. She’d done the newspaper crossword that morning. Did that count?

  Mrs. Harris released her hands at last to the chime of the doorbell.

  “Oh, no,” Harumi muttered under her breath. She went to the front room.

  Tiffany threw open the door. “Hiya, big boy. I’ve been thinking about you all day.”

  “Um, hi.”

  He was standing there with an armful of blood-red roses.

  “They’re gorgeous,” she said.

  Chip looked her up and down. “So are you.”

  She could feel his eyes on her back as she turned away from him in search of a vase. She couldn’t remember how to walk. Every step felt strange.

  In the kitchen, she found a glass pitcher big enough to hold the blossoms. She filled it with tap water and unwrapped the cellophane from the stems.

  How was she going to make it through the evening? She’d never been so nervous in her life—not even when she’d soloed for the first time.

  “Let me change and I’ll be right with you.”

  “No,” Chip said. “You look great. I love that dress.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “This?” A smile splashed across her face. “It’s a rag.”

  Chip was wearing khakis and a cabled cotton tennis sweater, with topsiders without socks. He looked as if he was about to set out for a polo match or the country club.

  “At Goatfeathers, when you’re all dressed up, you look so chilly and unapproachable. But like this—” He shrugged. “I don’t know. You seem friendly.”

  “Chilly?” She cocked her hip. The spirit of Tiffany had invaded her body. Or it could have been Cassie. The dress. I’m flirting, she realized with a shock. “Moi?”

  He pushed a hand through his hair, shifted from foot to foot. “It took me weeks—weeks—to work up the nerve to ask you out. And then you turned me down.”

  Harumi smiled. “I told you. I had band practice.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  She had to turn away so he wouldn’t see her dumb gri
n. “I’ll say goodnight to Mrs. Harris and we can be on our way.”

  Chip’s car radio was tuned to NPR. Harumi settled back against the seat to the swell of an orchestra.

  “Paganini,” she said absently.

  Chip looked from the road to Harumi. “I’m impressed. I thought you were into a different kind of music.”

  Uh oh. Was that a bonbon? “I listen to classical sometimes. I like different kinds of music. Even enka.”

  “Enka?”

  “Yeah, it’s kind of like country and western. Songs about drinking and getting your heart broken. It’s popular in Japan.”

  Chip nodded.

  She could tell she was racking up points, but he was getting it all wrong.

  Then he looked at her and said, “Is your heart broken, Harumi?”

  It was a weird question, way too personal. And what was the answer, anyway? No man had had a chance to stomp on her heart yet, but she was aching all the same. This rift with her family was making her lose sleep. She hoped that Chip would pick up on her vibe and change the subject, but he didn’t.

  “So, Harumi, is that it? You’re pining for some other guy?”

  She hated the image. And she never wanted to be like Trudy, starved for the attention of someone who didn’t want her. “I’ve never been dumped by a guy,” she said. “Why would I be pining?”

  Chip turned away. Now he was probably thinking that she was some sort of femme fatale with a string of scalps nailed above her bed. It was wrong to mislead him like this, but there was so much that she didn’t want him to know.

  “So what do you feel like eating? Thai? Chinese?”

  “Italian,” she said.

  Chip nodded. “How about Garibaldi’s?”

  At the restaurant, Chip held open doors and ushered her inside with his palm at the small of her back.

  She liked feeling his touch. She wondered what it would be like to fall back into his arms. To kiss him.

  They were polite with each other through platters of antipasto and spaghetti carbonara. They were giggling by the second bottle of Chianti, stumbling against each other after cappuccino and tiramisu as they made their way to the car.

  “So,” Chip said, ramming a key into the ignition. “Do you want to drop by my place for a nightcap? Listen to some jazz?”

  Harumi felt a flash of panic. She was too drunk to walk in a straight line. There was no way she’d be able to fend off Chip’s advances if he got ideas.

  The dashboard clock read 10:16. Still early. Would he believe a 10:30 curfew?

  “All right,” she said. Her voice was barely audible over the engine. “But I have to be home by midnight, or I’ll get fired.” She rolled her eyes for effect. “She’s quirky that way, Mrs. H., but I have to humor her or I’ll lose my job.”

  “Okay, Cinderella.”

  She watched his hands on the steering wheel, watched the streetlights slide over his sharp jaw. He was so handsome.

  They rolled along in silence until Chip clicked the radio on again. The announcer’s mellow tones filled the car with words that she knew: Bach, symphony, violin.

  She had told him about the band over dinner. He’d seemed to enjoy her quick sketches of Trudy (“Supremes fanatic”), Cassie (“the southern Sylvia Plath”), and Esther (“child boxing champ”). Silently, she’d wondered how she would explain him to her friends. Southern gentleman? Stick-in-the-mud? Trudy might think he was boring, but she liked his old-fashioned interests, his clean and ironed clothes.

  “When’s your next show?” he’d asked.

  “Next Friday. At The Cave.”

  She couldn’t imagine him among the punk wannabes in their leather and safety pins. He’d be as out of place as her father had been. He might get hurt. Even so, when he hinted that he’d be in the audience, front row, with bells on, Harumi had smiled and said, “I’d like that.”

  The car was drawing up in front of an apartment building with window boxes and shutters. It wasn’t sleek and modern as she’d expected. At least, not from the outside.

  Chip bolted out of the car and around to the passenger side before she had a chance to get out. She’d never met a man with manners like his. Her own father still walked in doors ahead of her mother, stubbornly clinging to Eastern ways. He never held out chairs or guided his wife with a hand on her back. And of course, he was so different from the guys at The Cave. Adam and Noel were almost another species.

  Harumi stood to the side on the narrow porch while Chip unlocked the door. He reached inside and flicked on a light, adjusted the dimmer switch, and waited for her to enter.

  Harumi took in the beige carpet and the brown tweed sofa and armchair. She was impressed by the healthy green leaves of the dieffenbachia and ferns. Her father cultivated bonsai, little trees always kept firmly in check, not allowed to grow. Her mother arranged cut flowers in cold glass vases. Here, however, in Chip’s living room, there was life, vigor—evidence of a generous spirit.

  “Have a seat,” he said. “Is cognac all right?”

  “Mmm.” Harumi sank into the sofa. Crossed her arms and legs. Uncrossed her arms. Tucked her legs beneath her. Let her head loll against the back of the sofa.

  Chip returned with two globes of amber liquor.

  Harumi’s fingers brushed his—zap!—when he passed the glass to her. She closed her eyes and took a sip. She could feel the other end of the sofa sink as he sat down beside her.

  “Harumi, how old are you? I mean, if you don’t mind my asking.”

  Her eyes snapped open. “Eighteen.”

  She saw Chip shrink away from her and set his drink down. “God, I thought you were older. You seem so self-assured.”

  Was she too young, now?

  “I spent a lot of time around adults as a child,” she said. “With my parents’ friends.” It was a little lie, a tiny lie, but she needed to tell it. Too much honesty would be like riding a raft over rapids. Besides, she’d already given him enough bonbons for the night.

  “Do you think your parents would like me?”

  Harumi shot him a look and was disarmed by his boyish, earnest expression. “No,” she said with a laugh, honest this time. “You not nice Japanese boy.”

  Chip laughed, and guilt stabbed her in the stomach. It was wrong to make fun of her parents with their funny accents and foreign ways, but she was still angry at them.

  Harumi lifted her glass and took a big swallow. The cognac burned her lips and tongue. It blazed down her throat. She started coughing.

  “Are you okay?” Chip took the drink from her and patted her on the back.

  “It went down the wrong way,” she said when her breathing was under control again. She wondered if he could tell how nervous she was. His hand was still on her back, and she was sure he could feel, even through her spine, the frantic beating of her heart.

  He didn’t say anything. His body was still except for his steady, even breathing. And then, as if he’d been gathering up his forces, he tugged Harumi onto his lap, into the cage of his arms, and he kissed her.

  She let her lips go slack under his, let his tongue work its way into her mouth. A fever spread through her limbs and loosened her joints. But then his fingers began traveling over her body, grazing nipple and thigh, and her back went rigid. She forgot to breathe. When his mouth left hers for a moment, she sucked in a great gust of air.

  “I’m yours,” Tiffany panted, her ample chest heaving with desire. “Take me now before I faint.”

  Harumi couldn’t help it. She started laughing.

  Chip backed away. “What’s so funny?”

  “Nothing. I’m really sorry. I just started thinking about—oh, never mind. I think you’d better take me home.”

  For a moment, he was silent and she thought that he might refuse. They’d both been drinking a lot. Maybe he couldn’t drive. She might have to call a taxi.

  Harumi couldn’t bear to look at him. She remembered the way his expression had frozen when she’d turned him down for a
date. This was worse. She’d followed him to his apartment and accepted a drink. She’d even let him kiss her, and then she’d humiliated him by erupting into a giggle fit while kissing him. The man had pride. He probably would never call her again.

  They didn’t speak in the car. Harumi let herself out as soon as they reached the curb. She mumbled “Thank you” and then dashed up the sidewalk, into the foyer. She could hear the car’s engine idling behind her. When she got up to the apartment, she looked out the window. The Saab was gone.

  31

  On Friday night, The Cave was packed. You couldn’t move without stepping on someone’s steel-toed boots. This was what Trudy loved.

  The band went onstage at ten and played till midnight, nonstop. They knew each other well now, and their set was seamless. With just a nod from Harumi, or a tilt of the head from Cassie, they decided their next song. When they finally quit, Trudy’s throat was raw and sore. She’d been a total banshee.

  The crowd started chanting, “Dee-vahs! Dee-vahs!”

  Trudy shook her head. “My voice is shot. Cassie, you sing something. I gotta get a drink.” And then she stepped off the stage.

  The crowd parted and Trudy flushed with pleasure. She floated toward the bar, a big smile plastered across her face. Midway, she felt a tug on her arm. She looked to see a girl with eyes made up like Cleopatra, black hair shaved within an inch.

  “Hey, I’m the president of the Screaming Divas fan club,” the girl said. “Can I interview you for our newsletter sometime?”

  A fan club. Wow. “Sure,” Trudy said, trying to act as if this happened all the time. Inside, she wanted to whoop for joy. “Give me a call later.”

  The girl grinned. “Thanks.”

  Behind her, on the stage, the band broke into a slow song, one they’d rehearsed only a few times. Cassie’s voice flooded the club.

  At the bar, Trudy heaved herself onto a stool. She was so tired that she didn’t even realize Noel was beside her until his lips brushed her ear.

  “Why don’t you let her sing more often?” he said. “She has a good voice. And she’s pretty.”

  Trudy shrugged. “She doesn’t want to.”