“Hey, Iris, I think I hear voices!” Lily said, sitting up in bed some nights later. A cool breeze fluttered in the open window, a train wailed in the distance. When the sound of the whistle subsided, Iris nodded. “Let’s go!” she said. “But keep quiet.”
The girls scrambled noiselessly out of the bed they had learned to share, together with their nightly fairy stories. They tiptoed to the wall, and crouched on their haunches, facing each other, nightgowns hitched up around their knees. Iris tipped the lever of the heating vent built into the wall between their room and the room shared by Jasmine and Violet and Marguerite.
“Ouch, not so tight!” Jasmine’s voice filtered through the vent.
“Well, you said you wanted it straight, and the tighter the straighter.” Marguerite was the sister Jasmine appointed to roll her curly hair up in orange juice cans at night. Iris figured she must really hate her hair to go to bed with a head full of orange juice cans.
“You’re not even listening are you?” Violet asked. Lily smiled, and Iris held an index finger to her lips. She sniffed a prelude to some juicy conversation, and didn’t want Lily to spoil it all by giggling.
“Yes, I am. You said his name is Todd, right? Now go on. I’m all ears,” Jasmine said.
“Isn’t that a nice name? Anyway, Todd comes over to the Ichbergs’ twice a week to clean the pool.”
“Those people pay you to clean the house and watch their daughter, and someone else to clean the pool? What are they, millionaires?” Marguerite said.
Iris leaned in closer in the hopes of hearing more about the Ichbergs. Violet had encouraged Iris to come over and meet the girl, Alba, and since then they had played together occasionally. She wasn’t nearly as nice as Rita Esposito, but at least she lived in the neighborhood. And maybe they were rich, judging from the clothes and toys Iris saw in Alba’s room.
“If they were millionaires, they’d at least have a built-in pool. But as long as they cough up the moolah they owe me every week, I don’t care how rich they are,” Violet said. “What I care about is Todd. He’s sooo cute, and sooo nice.”
Iris and Lily stared at each other, eyes widening. Iris had caught a glimpse of Todd once, skimming the pool in his trunks and T-shirt. He was very tan, and muscular. If ever Alba invited Iris over to swim, she wouldn’t be afraid to jump in with Todd there.
“What does he say to you?” Jasmine asked.
“He doesn’t really say much,” Violet said. “What he does is listen. Like, he actually lets me finish my sentences, and even laughs when I crack a joke.”
Iris figured those were pretty good qualities for a boyfriend.
“This afternoon, I went out back and just talked to him while he was working, and then when he was about to leave we started holding hands.”
Lily’s eyes bulged, as the giggles bubbled and bounced inside her with nowhere to go. Iris wondered how it would feel to hold the hand of a boy who wasn’t related to her.
“You held hands?” Marguerite exclaimed. “Far out!” An orange juice can crashed to the floor.
“Well, sort of. Todd’s a little shy. So his hand was just there, resting on the edge of the pool, and just looking at it was blowing my mind. So I put my hand on top of it. And he didn’t freak out or anything. We just stood there a minute, like that, touching, you know?”
“So what’s next? Are you just gonna keep seeing him at the Ichbergs’?” Jasmine asked.
“Well, here comes the good part. He lives right behind us, in that new tract. And we’re gonna meet some night, after dusk, in the playground back there.”
“And then what are you gonna do?” Marguerite asked.
“Then, whether he’s ready or not, I’m gonna kiss him!”
Iris and Lily muffled snorts and squeals as they raced back to their bed, dived between the sheets, buried their faces in the pancake pillows their mother had dug out from a box, and giggled until they were so exhausted they fell asleep. Sometimes real life was almost as entertaining as fairy stories.
Iris’s tendency to worry prompted her to set off much earlier than necessary on the first day of school. There was no crowd of older Capotostis to tag along with: Alexander and John were in one school, Jasmine and Violet and Marguerite in another, Henry and Louis in another. There had been no room for the two youngest Capotosti sisters at the Sacred Family parish school, where Henry and Louis were now enrolled, but there was hope for an opening the following year. Until then, Iris and Lily were on their own, and Iris was responsible for getting them both to school.
After a lifetime of warnings that she must never stray from the sidewalk under threat of spankings at best, or getting hit by a car at worst, Iris found herself leading Lily along the undefined shoulder of dirt and gravel that ran between the drainage ditches of front lawns and the asphalt road. She wondered how many of the other rules that had been drilled into her head might reveal themselves temporary, and just die off like mosquitoes in autumn when circumstances changed.
Iris hardly ever spotted anyone walking anywhere in the new neighborhood, and as they marched to school that morning, the girls encountered no other children, only men in cars heading across town to work at one of the companies Iris heard the grownups talk about. When her father or Auntie Rosa mentioned that so-and-so worked at Kodak or Xerox (her mother was not much impressed by such talk), there was something in their tone of voice, a sort of admiration bordering on awe, that gave rise in Iris to the notion that no more desirable job could be had, unless maybe you were one of the doctors Auntie Rosa worked for. It was strange, though, because from what she could see, the men driving by in their cars did not look very happy. Iris wondered whether her father would rather drive a car to one of those fancy jobs than take the bus downtown to fix veterans’ limbs, but she didn’t really think so. Besides, her mother needed the car because the only place she could go without one was the duck pond, which didn’t really interest her, and The Bungalow, which was only good for penny candy and an emergency quart of milk or dozen eggs.
Iris’s stomach was all in knots, as she commanded her legs to take her to her new school as quickly as possible, while fighting against her inclination to not go there at all. She wasn’t even enjoying the walk down the desolate road, or being responsible for her little sister. When Lily pointed out a more adventurous path through the trees, Iris was tempted to make a detour, and might have, except for the fact that she had overheard Alexander tell John a very creepy story about a girl who had been seen taking that same shortcut through the woods and never came out on the other side. They said her fish-nibbled body was found several days later in Red Creek, by a group of teenagers who were skinny-dipping in the company of Jenny Cream. When Iris asked who this Jenny was, Alexander laughed, and said Genny with a “G” was a beer, not a girl. She couldn’t tell whether Alexander was joking about Genny, or the entire story for that matter, but she didn’t want to take any chances, considering what had happened to Auntie Rosa when she was around her age and took the shortcut by the canal with her little sister, and never saw her alive again.
As a rule, Iris preferred the safety of obedience, and insisted they follow their mother’s instructions, taking the long way up the hill, and turning left at the intersection. In the end, the walk wasn’t so bad, once she and Lily both confessed to feeling a little nervous, as well as a bit odd, outfitted as they were in faded dungarees that mumbled something about older sisters, and spanking white Keds that screamed of newness. Iris would have loved a pair of navy blue sneakers, and Lily red, but their mother had found a bargain on the white remainders at the Westgate Plaza Sidewalk Sale. Iris had just managed to convince herself and Lily that white wasn’t so bad, when Marguerite spotted their shoes and started teasing them, saying she wouldn’t be caught dead wearing white after Labor Day. Iris didn’t know how anyone’s life could depend on the color of their sneakers, and besides, Auntie Rosa wore white shoes and a white nurse’s uniform all year round, and she was very much alive. Just the same,
maybe the Labor Day rule was important out here in the suburbs, so to be on the safe side, during their walk, she and Lily kicked up clouds of dirt and took turns trampling each other’s feet, until they parted ways once inside their school.
Iris never liked looking out of place, and apart from the sneakers, which might not have bothered her if it hadn’t been for the seed of doubt planted by Marguerite, she had fretted excessively over the necessity of having to pick out clothes for school instead of wearing a uniform. That was when Iris decided that having the freedom to choose was an unwelcome complication, when you had so little to choose from. With a little luck, maybe no one would notice if she wore white sneakers, or the same clothes every day. And with a little bit more luck, maybe no one would notice her at all.
The only sound in the deserted classroom was the ticking of the clock hanging over the doorway, as the second hand nudged the minute hand toward the official end of summer vacation and the beginning of Iris’s first day at her new school. She searched in vain for a crucifix to which she could pray, in hopes of being granted the courage to face her first lay teacher and a classroom full of children who were not only unfamiliar to Iris, but were foreign to her. They were public school children. “Help me, Holy Jesus,” she whispered, her head bowed over clasped hands, “wherever you are.”
There were six rows, each six desks across, in the classroom; Iris had counted them before sitting in a front seat, chosen for its proximity to the chalkboard (she continued to make do without glasses, rather than submit to another exam by Dr. Julius). On the polished desktop sat a speckled composition book with the name “Iris Capotosti” written in careful penmanship on the cover, a moderately masticated ballpoint pen, a twelve-inch ruler and a freshly sharpened number two pencil crowned by a spongy pink eraser.
Iris flipped open the composition book and ran her slender fingers over the lined pages, wondering what combinations of words and sentences and paragraphs might soon take up residence there. She visualized the teacher’s red marks that would inevitably spatter the pages like droplets of blood, and hoped they would offer more praise than criticism of her work. The idea of being forced to disclose her thoughts and demonstrate her capabilities to a perfect stranger, who wasn’t even a nun, made her cringe. Iris was instinctively protective of her intimate space and wary of intrusions, and though she knew she must crack open the window to her mind wide enough to allow the feeding of her intellect, what really went on in her head remained protected behind closed shutters. Despite her reluctance, she felt a flutter of excitement at the prospect of knowing more tomorrow, or next week, or next month than she knew now, and she was starting to grow curious about, and already grateful toward, the person who would guide her to that knowledge.
Iris ran her fingers nervously through her hair as she waited for the other children and the teacher to arrive; now her locks were too short to suck on, but she was older, and thankful to have survived all those hair balls in her stomach. She didn’t miss the habit much anymore, except in tense situations like this one. Her mother had done a handsome job adjusting her hair after Iris had butchered it, declaring that her new style, clipped flush with her chin, was called a French bob. French, like the couple on her blue valise. Iris had felt prettier when she heard that.
From where she sat, Iris was afforded a strategic view of the corridor, which had started to fill as the procession of school buses circled to the entrance and discharged their cargo of fresh fodder for the public school system. The silence was broken by the excited voices of friends greeting each other after summer vacation; girls giggled their way into the classroom, chased by boys surfing through the door on waves of amicable pushes and shoves. Iris observed them surreptitiously, averting her eyes when anyone glanced her way. Not being allowed to talk was different from not having anyone to talk to, and Iris found herself missing the sight of a stern nun in her reassuring black and white habit at the front of the room, demanding silence and order as students took their seats.
Claaaang! The chaotic buzz was drowned out by the bell announcing that the school year had officially commenced. The teacher walked in the door, a stack of books and folders tucked under one arm. Holy Moley! Not only was the teacher not a nun, he was a man. Just what Iris needed: another guy telling her what to do.
“C’mon, Lily, don’t be afraid,” Iris said, holding the door halfway open, taking care not to let the three yapping cocker spaniels escape. “They won’t bite.” Though Iris had been to Alba Ichberg’s house on many occasions, this was the first time she had brought Lily along. The two sisters stepped gingerly into the breezeway that connected the house to the garage, latching the door behind them. Like each time Iris first walked in, the initial impact made her want to turn on her heels and am-scray, as Louis would say.
“Gross! It stinks in here, Iris!” Lily blurted out, as they tiptoed over yellowed newspapers glued to the linoleum floor by dog pee in varying stages of evaporation. Iris shot Lily a look to remind her of her promise that she would not embarrass Iris by making impolite comments, or asking for things before they were offered to her.
Iris had assembled quite a bit of information about the goings-on at the Ichberg home, between the tidbits gleaned through the heating vent, and the stories Violet told at the supper table about the family’s quirky behavior and questionable hygiene, including but not limited to the disgusting habit of letting the spaniels lick scraps right from their dishes and poop on the fake grass of the miniature golf game down in their basement. It took someone as courageous as Violet to brave the constant interruptions of the Capotosti clan during feeding time, even if she was armed with a spicy topic of conversation. Iris was occasionally tempted to interject an anecdote of her own, but demurred, partly out of fear that if her parents knew certain things, they might not let her go there anymore, but mostly because she knew her voice would be trampled under the clanging of forks and shouts to pass this or that, and her words diced by the slices of bread being frisbeed from one end of the long wooden table to the other.
It was Violet who greeted them at the kitchen door. “C’mon in, girls,” she said, tossing her long mane of dark hair over her shoulders as she tilted her head back to drain a can of Tab. The sight of a whole can of soda pop in her sister’s hand would have been enough to confirm the Ichbergs’ wealth, had the idea of paying a person to vacuum their house and clean their pool left any doubt. “Alba’s downstairs,” she said.
“Can we have some pop, too?” Lily said.
“Lily!” Iris said. “You know what I told you.”
“But it’s Violet!” Lily said, then averted her eyes, almost managing to look contrite, before saying, “Why is it so dark and stuffy in here?”
“Tell me about it!” Violet wiped her brow with the sleeve of her shirt. “Mr. Hooper, that’s Mrs. Ichberg’s second husband,” she continued in a confidential tone of voice, “hates the fresh air. Mrs. Ichberg says he’s allergic or something. And the dogs get all randy when they see the sunshine. So we have to keep the windows closed and the curtains drawn all the time.”
“Why do Mr. Hooper and Mrs. Ichberg have different names?” Iris whispered. That was one detail she still had not figured out.
“I heard it’s because they’re not really married, like in the church and all. But you don’t go around asking those things. Remember that, both of you. And remember about the windows, OK?”
“Sure.” Iris was already familiar with the rule about the windows.
“Do you have to wash all those?” Lily asked, her eyes wide as she pointed to the towering pile of food-encrusted dishes in the sink.
“You bet,” Violet answered.
“Why can’t Alba wash the dishes?” Lily asked. “Is she allergic to soap or something?”
“She’s allergic to doing anything she doesn’t want to do,” Violet whispered. “But allthe better for me. That’s how I make my do-re-mi. Which I use to buy this,” she said, fluttering her lids to show off her dark eyes and long lashes a
ccentuated by the eyeliner and mascara their father always told her to scrub off her face. “And this,” she said, puckering lips coated in white lipstick, which her father said made her look like a cadaver. “And these!” she said, extracting a cigarette from a pack of Virginia Slims sitting on the counter and lighting it, which her father would kill her for, if he knew.
“But Violet!” Iris said. “What if you get caught?”
“Who’s gonna say anything? Can’t you smell the air in here? Everyone smokes. Except Alba. For now, anyway. At least it covers up the stench of dog pee.” Violet picked up the receiver of the wall phone. “Go right on down. I’m taking a break. And don’t you dare fink on me!” Iris would never tell on Violet, or any of her sisters. In fact, the complicity thrilled her. She would rather hang around and enjoy the feeling of being in on something, maybe listen in on Violet’s conversation, even help her with the dishes. One of the things Iris liked about going to Alba’s was seeing Violet in another setting; she looked happier here, despite the stink and the gloom. Iris sort of wondered why, but she sort of knew.
“Oh my God, it’s Todd!” Violet gasped into the phone, peeking into the backyard from behind the kitchen curtains. “I gotta go!” She slammed down the receiver, and rushed from the room.
Iris elbowed Lily, who rushed to the window and pushed back the curtain. As the girls pressed their faces to the dirty pane in the hopes of glimpsing Violet and Todd kissing, Alba emerged from the basement, which made the three spaniels go berserk. “Let’s go to my room!” Alba shouted to make herself heard over the yapping of the dogs who ran excited circles around the girls’ legs. She turned and led the way through the living room, swinging her hips like an older woman, but not like any of the ones Iris knew, such as her mother or Auntie Rosa, or even her older sisters. It was more like the way one of those women who worked in saloons on TV westerns would walk. In the living room the smell of dog urine receded to the background, succumbing to a more complex bouquet of odors emanating from the wall-to-wall shag carpeting and crushed velvet sofa set covered with dog hairs. The stench of stale cigarettes added an almost pleasant touch, like the way those sickly sweet air fresheners smelled a different kind of bad from the odors they were supposed to eliminate.
The Complete Series Page 14