* * *
I do a juice fast over the weekend and drop another three pounds. On the way to McDonalds on Monday, a construction worker leans over a beam and whistles. I look around to see who it’s for, and he waves. At me. My God.
I arrive at McDonald’s at the same time Tad does. Inside, we drink sodas and study. Then we head for his truck, parked between a Dumpster and a row of trees. He holds the door open for me, and I slide in. When Tad turns the key, the radio comes on. One of my favorite songs, “Baby I’m-a Want You” by Bread is playing. Before he shifts into reverse, I ask, “Can we leave after this song?”
“Sure.” He closes his eyes, listening too.
The guitar strums low and sweet, moving from chord to chord, pulling me away from myself. I let go. Give in. Disappear inside the sounds. Velvety voices chime in. The lyrics describe my feelings for Tad exactly.
I do want him.
I do need him.
I do pray he’ll stay with me always.
When the song ends, I bite my bottom lip to keep from crying. I stare straight ahead and tell Tad something I’ve never told anyone. “Sometimes, when I listen to music,” I start, “my heart kind of, well, it swells, expanding like it’s connecting to something outside me. Something holy almost.” I want to say more. To tell Tad the song made me think of him, but I can’t seem to take that step.
“What that guy said about someone being the one he cares enough about to hurt over?” Tad swallows hard. “That’s how I feel about you.”
“And that’s how I feel about you!”
I slide closer and we kiss. Our mouths part and Tad’s tongue finds mine, inviting it into a strange, wet dance. Then his lips nibble their way across my cheek.
As his tongue probes my ear, my heart beats harder and my breath quickens. I feel something I’ve never felt before. Yearning.
But when Tad slides a hand beneath my shirt, I think of my lizard arm and panic. I went on my diet so I could look good for Tad, but I never decided what I would do if he wanted to touch me. Or maybe I just found it hard to believe that would ever happen. I mean, touching is what other people do. I’m not other people.
Tad’s fingers inch upward toward my bra.
I have to find a way to make him stop. “Tad, wait”—I pull back—“we’re in a parking lot.” As if on cue, a crowd of kids races past.
Tad blinks several times, like he’s coming out of a trance. “Oh, yeah…I forgot.” Reversing out of our parking space, he says, “Guess next time we’ll have to go somewhere private.”
Next time. What do I do? I can make my fat disappear, but my scarred arm is here to stay. I say the first thing that comes to me. “How about someplace dark?”
Tad nods. “Dark it is.”
After we’ve driven several miles, he says, “I told my dad about you.”
“Yeah? What’d you tell him?”
“That there’s this girl I like. And it’s getting serious. He wants to meet you.”
On the edge of town, Tad pulls onto Commercial Drive—a road we’ve never been down before. As he weaves through the industrial park, my stomach does a nervous double flip. “Tad, um, where are you taking me?”
He crosses the railroad tracks, turning near a bus garage. “I told you. My dad wants to meet you.”
I grip the dashboard. “You mean today? Now?”
“Yeah”—he glances at me—“unless today’s not good.”
I can’t disappoint Tad again. I take a deep breath. Let it out. Check my hair and makeup in the mirror. “Today’s fine,” I tell him.
A rusty sign announces Valley View Rentals. Tad hangs a sharp left and we wind down a one lane road lined with mobile homes. He parks beside an oatmeal-colored trailer, and an old brown dog appears, half-running, half-limping toward the truck.
“Millie!” Tad calls, stepping out, scratching the dog’s scruffy head. He glances back inside the cab. “Ready, Madeline?”
“Not really,” I mumble to myself.
Tattered throw rugs are tossed across a soggy walk, their edges just shy of touching, like connect-the-dots that missed the mark.
I hop from one to the next and then follow Tad up a set of narrow stairs.
“Hey, Dad,” he calls. “I’m home.”
We enter through a small, dim kitchen. The linoleum is dingy, the color of an old person’s teeth. The living room is next, paneled in plasticky wood, its shelves lined with bowling trophies.
“Have a seat,” Tad says, starting down a skinny, dark hallway. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
I sit on a plaid couch, staring at the TV in the corner. A ball of tinfoil is shaped around its antennae. Even though the picture’s fuzzy, I still recognize the program. To Tell the Truth. I like that show. I can always spot the phonies.
A man appears, dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt. His hair is blond like Tad’s except his is thinning on top. “You must be Madeline,” he says, reaching to shake my hand.
“Um, yeah. Nice to meet you, Mr.—”
“I ain’t the mister type,” he interrupts, laughing. “Call me Ed. And make yourself comfortable. My son’ll get you a soda pop or whatever you like. Now, if you’ll excuse me”—he turns toward the kitchen—“I’m gonna fix you kids dinner.”
Ed ties on an apron, the same kind I’ve seen on ladies in magazines. Then he opens three cans of Chef Boyardee spaghetti and two cans of mixed vegetables.
When Tad returns, I notice he’s combed his hair and changed his shirt. He walks to the fridge, opens two bottles of root beer, and sits beside me.
“Cheers,” he says, and we clink our glass bottles together. Even though the soda’s not diet, I sip it, just to be polite.
I glance at Ed, warming the food on the stove, and get a sudden, sharp pain in my chest—the one that taunts me when I feel sad about not having a family. A normal family. For a moment, I wonder what it would be like to live with Tad and his father. I could bake them casseroles and clean—the place could use it.
“Your dad’s really nice,” I say.
Tad nods. “He’s a good guy. It’s been just him and me for a long time.”
I smile nervously. Did Tad just read my mind?
After several minutes, Ed calls, “Come and get it.”
There are three plates on the kitchen table, already filled with food. In the center is a loaf of bread, a tub of oleo, and a pitcher of milk. I’m looking at way more calories than my diet allows, but I don’t want to be rude. I decide I’ll eat less the next day to make up for it.
Tad holds a chair out for me.
Ed says, “Pardon the bachelor food, Madeline.”
Little does he know that it’s been years since I’ve eaten a meal at a kitchen table with another living, breathing person. “Don’t apologize,” I say, sitting. “It looks great.”
I open my napkin, which is a paper towel folded in two. I’m about to reach for my fork when Ed extends both hands, palm up. At first, I think he wants us to pass him something. But when Tad clasps one of his dad’s hands, and he offers the other one to me, I get it. We’re supposed to join hands.
My fingers are the happiest they’ve ever been, nestled in those two warm palms.
Tad bows his head. Softly, he says, “Bless us, O Lord, and these Thy gifts, which we are about to receive from Thy bounty through Christ, our Lord. Amen.”
“Amen,” Ed echoes.
“Amen,” I say too.
Ed passes me the Parmesan cheese. “You got any brothers or sisters, Madeline?”
I shake the cheese on my spaghetti. “No, I’m an only child.”
“Me too,” Tad says. “It’s lonely, isn’t it?”
I want to say: You think not having a sibling is lonely? Try not having a functioning parent. Instead, I shrug and say, “I guess.”
Tad says, “That’s why I want to have a ton of kids someday.”
Ed points his fork at him. “Better find yourself a good job, kiddo. They’ll cost you.” He turns to me and asks,
“What kinda work’s your old man do, Madeline?”
My stomach clenches. “I don’t live with my dad,” I say, not bothering to add that I don’t even know who he is. “My mom’s raising me.”
“Tough lot for a lady alone,” he says. “What’s she do for a living?”
“Oh, uh”—I fiddle with the paper towel—“she’s between jobs.”
Ed nods. “What’s she do when she is working?”
I think fast. “She’s an entrepreneur.”
“Shoot!” Ed laughs, slapping the table. “I’ve known a few of them in my day.”
Desiree
three weeks
after trying on dresses
but still a week before the dance,
me and jeremy are in his room,
watching beavis and butt-head,
a little caesars box open between us.
usually when we share a pizza
we have leftovers, but
i did some major
chowing down.
jeremy leans close for a kiss.
within seconds we’re making out.
when he goes to lift my shirt
over my head,
it’s hard to get off.
struggling, he says,
there’s a little more
of you to love lately.
what the hell’s that
supposed to mean? i snap.
you put some weight on, that’s all.
but i’m not complaining.
he glances at my chest.
your boobs are bigger.
jeremy gives me one
of those little-boy looks
that melt my heart every time.
even though my breasts
are tender
i let him unhook my bra
and have himself a field day
with my bigger ’n’ better boobs.
after we make love
jeremy turns to me and says,
dez, i was thinking, maybe you
should go on the pill or something.
you know, so that…
his voice trails off.
i rest my hand on my stomach,
touch the extra layer of flesh
that covers me like insulation.
you’re right. i should.
we wouldn’t want anything to happen.
* * *
three days later,
i take the city bus to ten center street.
inside i walk to the end of the hall,
past ashtrays spilling over with butts,
push on the door marked
planned parenthood.
a lady in a gray linen suit
leads me into an office.
she closes the door behind us
and invites me to sit, so i do.
cat calendar pictures
line one wall,
displayed in cheap plastic frames.
i stare at the october kitty,
clutching a trick-or-treat bag,
popping out of a pumpkin.
i hate seeing animals posed.
they look so exploited.
i hope the cat scratched
the photographer.
i hope he took the candy and ran.
i glance back at the lady
who reminds me of oprah winfrey.
she tells me her name, which i forget,
then she asks me mine.
desiree, she repeats,
that’s pretty.
she asks me other things too,
personal questions that
i answer like a robot,
my voice flat, barely there.
i study a display below a sign
that says birth control—
a round pink case filled with pills,
a funny-shaped wire thing,
a brown dome that could be a
barbie umbrella except
it’s missing a handle.
that’s a diaphragm, oprah explains.
you fill it with spermicidal cream and
insert it into your vagina
before intercourse.
i imagine shoving that ugly
rubber thing inside me
and i can’t help it, i laugh.
all straight-faced
oprah says,
desiree, before we discuss
your contraceptive options,
we need to do a pregnancy test.
come with me, okay?
i follow her down a hall
that smells of refried beans.
she stops outside a bathroom,
hands me a cup to pee in.
i close the door, fill the cup,
leave it on the shelf beside the toilet.
in the waiting room,
i play with my belt,
which barely closes around me.
a woman sits across from me.
she’s maybe nineteen or twenty.
a little girl with a load in her pants
pulls on the woman’s arm,
crying mommy, mommy!
while a younger boy
lies on the floor,
kicking his feet,
eating snot.
oprah reappears,
inviting me back to her office.
she stares at her hands like
what she has to say is etched
in the creases of her palms.
your test came back
positive, desiree.
you’re pregnant.
she reaches to touch my arm,
which is nice to do,
except it makes me cry.
she backs off,
sliding a box of tissue forward.
since you’re only fifteen,
i imagine this presents a challenge,
but i can help you sort through your options.
one choice, of course, is to carry
your baby to term…
i tune oprah out,
study the august kitten,
who is pretending to watch tv,
a clicker poised beneath one paw.
…or you might want to consider an abortion…
pregnant.
baby.
abortion.
those words belong
to someone else.
they have nothing
to do with me.
nothing.
nothing.
nothing.
i jump up fast,
bolt through the door,
and run like hell.
* * *
that night
as i’m changing for bed,
i glance in my mirror,
turn sideways,
touch the small swell
rising from my middle.
pregnant,
i whisper softly
so the walls
won’t hear me.
baby.
then
i mouth
the darkest,
scariest word:
abortion.
three syllables,
eight letters,
but so much
more than that.
a part of me
steps aside,
tells me,
get rid of the baby, desiree.
maybe you’ll get rid of larry too
and the memory of what he did to you.
you can go back to being who you were.
before.
but when i think of what that
dark, scary word really means—
that something,
someone,
will
—shit!—
die
i crawl into bed,
clench my pillow tight,
bury my face in the foam
and cry.
* * *
the night of the harvest dance
i can barely squeeze into my dress.
the straps cut my shoulders,
the zipper gouges my
back,
and my cups runneth over,
big time.
eric’s older brother lets eric
borrow his truck for the night.
the four of us squeeze in
and eric shifts into gear.
carol ann tickles his side.
let’s have some fun!
* * *
the band sucks,
no one was bright enough
to spike the punch,
and there are chaperones everywhere,
thick as a swarm of summer gnats.
we head back outside to the truck
to dump our punch
and refill our cups with the wine
jeremy bought with fake i.d.
it’s warm for october,
like indian summer.
just off school grounds a bonfire roars,
and the smoke-filled air stings my eyes.
as the rah-rahs strut back and forth,
showing off their size 0 dresses,
i think of something mam told me
in one of her rare talkative moods.
she said she hated the
cheerleaders at her school.
they were skinny and pretty and
popular—everything she wasn’t—
except this one girl she liked a lot.
mam would watch her during practice.
jesus, i said. did you have a crush on her?
and mam looked at me, all serious,
and said, no, i wanted to be her.
we wander out past
the baseball diamond.
a field spills over with pumpkins.
eric twists one off its stem and
chucks it at a telephone pole.
the pumpkin hits,
splits apart,
spattering orange barf everywhere.
jeremy and eric and carol ann laugh,
so i do too, even though
i don’t think it’s funny.
as i turn
to head back
to the truck
for more wine
the moonlight glides
across my belly swell
and i feel carol ann’s stare.
i look up, meet her gaze. what?
she opens her mouth, closes it,
follows me back to the truck.
Blue Plate Special Page 11