Leaving Eden

by Anne Leclaire

  They all had an opinion about what I should wear. Sylvia said definitely the cowgirl look and chose the Western hat and a fringed leather jacket. The photo lady, who was named Patty and was one of those bossy women who thought they were an expert on everything, wanted me to wear a satin halter in black. Black looks good on blondes, she said, and the halter would show off my nice, wide shoulders. Swimmer’s shoulders, she called them. Then Raylene told her how I was the star of the Eden swim team, making it sound like that was the same as being head cheerleader and chief twirler on the Sparkettes.

  And Raylene, well, Raylene wanted me to wear it all: sequins, velvet and satin, leather and silk. The choker of pearls and the dangling earrings. Armfuls of jewelry and gloves that went so far past my elbows, I couldn’t picture anyone wearing them in real life. But no hats, Raylene said, ’cause they’d spoil my do, just a rhinestone clip instead of the plastic, though finally she agreed I could wear the cowboy hat if we saved it for last. No one was acting tired anymore. Especially me. I was a doll they were all playing dress-up with, and I didn’t want it to ever stop. And if I could have had one dream come true—just one—it wouldn’t be about Spy being my boyfriend, or about going to Hollywood, or my daddy staying away from CC’s and acting like a regular daddy who felt some affection for his daughter. My one wish, the one I would have given up just about anything for, was that Mama could be there. I wished she could see the miracle of me.

  When we finished, Sylvia and Patty each gave me a hug and told me I looked beautiful. “Smashing,” Sylvia said, and I tucked that away with her comment about natural radiance. Patty even let me keep the rhinestone hair clip. We tossed the empty cans in the trash, and Raylene said everything else could wait until morning. She offered to drive me home, but I said, no, I needed the exercise. Truth tell, it wasn’t just my mama I wanted to see me, I wanted everyone in Eden to have a look. Mama was entirely right about the amazing power of makeup to effect a transformation. Even if underneath I was still just a girl who looked like her daddy, I didn’t feel the same. I could understand why Miss Tilly sat so still in the tiara and blue velvet, like she was made of air, like one quick move and the magic would blow away.

  I pedaled real slow, disappointed there weren’t more cars on the road and hoping the Queen of the Universe would drive by in her graduation-present-a-year-early Jeep. A horn sounded behind me and as it drew even, I looked over, smiling like I was riding the homecoming float, but it was only Joe Morell in the Mill Ridge Auto Body wrecker. At the Cash Store, I pulled my bike up to the air pump and pretended to check a tire, prolonging the day so I didn’t have to go home where for sure there would be no one to notice. Now if Mama were there, that would be something. I could just picture how it would be. There’d be a big celebration and she’d make a fuss and get out her little Kodak camera and take about three hundred pictures. Then she’d get dressed up and when Daddy came home she’d tell him he had to take his girls out to dinner. We’d go to Lynchburg for Chinese, and Daddy’d sit there all proud and saying how he was the luckiest man in the world, having a date with two women who looked like movie stars, and he’d let me have a sip of his beer when no one was looking. About every five minutes, I’d go to the ladies’ room so people could get a good look at me. When we got back home, Mama’d crank up old tunes—Little Richard, Jerry Lee—and they’d start to dance. Me, too. The three of us, boogying till we were sweaty and out of breath. Finally Mama’d fall on the couch, legs splayed, fanning herself and telling us she was pooped. I could see it all so clearly, for a minute I could almost believe it might happen.

  A horn startled me, and the image of Daddy, Mama, and me vanished. I turned and saw the red T-top Camaro, and it seemed like the magic that started back at the Kurl just kept on growing, like this was my birthday and surprises I couldn’t even imagine were just around every corner.

  “Tallie?” Spy said, like he wasn’t sure it was me.

  “Hi,” I said, bolder than usual. Transformations give you what Mama’d call spunk. I stood tall, so he could see my swimmer’s shoulders. Then I remembered that he’d seen a hell of a lot more of me than my shoulders. I wanted to tell him about everything that had happened that day. I was bursting to tell someone about how pretty everyone had looked when they were getting their pictures done, even Sue Beth Wilkins and Miss Tilly. And how Raylene sent out for pizza, and how the two Glamour ladies, Sylvia and Patty, turned out to be so nice. And how Raylene fixed it so I could have Glamour Day after all, even if I didn’t have the money, and about how I felt when it was my turn, and about the feathery touch of Sylvia’s brush on my cheeks, like a fairy’s wand or something, and what she’d said about me possessing natural radiance. Then I remembered what Mama told me. She said the secret of all gorgeous women was that they never let anyone see the work behind the magic. She said, believe it or not, without their makeup, most actresses looked plain ordinary. Always remember that, she said. Never let anyone see the work behind the magic. Later I wrote it down in my rule book.

  There was another reason not to tell Spy about Glamour Day. I didn’t want him teasing me. Everyone knew Spy hated women who paraded around acting glamorous. Women like his mama. At school, he referred to his mama as the Dreck Girl. Mrs. Reynolds’s major claim to fame was that a long time ago she’d been a Breck Girl, and believe me she didn’t let anyone in Eden forget it. Back when she was about five, she’d modeled for an ad together with her mama ’cause they both had blond, beautiful hair and that was what the shampoo people looked for. Sarah told me that Mrs. Reynolds had about a zillion pictures of herself all around their house including a big one— life-size—done in oil of when she was in the ad. It hung in their living room. Another time, Sarah told me her mama’d had a face-lift. I called her a liar, ’cause I knew only old people did that and her mama wasn’t more than thirty-five, but Sarah swore it was true. She said her mama told everyone she was taking a vacation, then she went to Richmond for the operation, and no one knew but the family. And now me. Sarah made me promise not to tell. According to Sarah, when her mama came home her face was all purple and puffy and she couldn’t go out of the house for two weeks. She had stitches that ran behind each ear like giant question marks. I pictured zippers. I asked why she did something like that and Sarah said her mama needed to be firmed up and that she was afraid of growing old. Sarah said her daddy liked her looking young. The scars from the stitches were why Mrs. Reynolds wouldn’t be caught dead at the Klip-N-Kurl. She knew Raylene would see them. Once a week she drove to a salon in Richmond to get her hair done, and she’d make Sarah go there, too.

  Spy was kind of squinting at me now, like he was trying to figure out what was different. “What’re you doing?” he said, and his voice was too loud and not like his at all.

  “Nothing. Just hanging.”

  “Well, how about hanging with me?” he said, like it was an everyday normal event, although it was as unexpected as a sneeze.

  “Okay,” I said. And it was okay. So what if I wasn’t wearing a new store skirt like I’d planned for my first ride with him, I smelled good from Raylene’s mint-scented shampoo and looked better. That was enough. Before he could change his mind or I lost my nerve, I stashed the Raleigh behind the trash cans out back of the store.

  I waited a minute for Spy to reach over and open the door, like Mama said well-mannered people did, but he didn’t, so I opened it myself. As I was sliding in, he revved the gas in this impatient way and for an instant I got a little flicker in my belly that said maybe this wasn’t such a good idea, but I shut it right off ’cause this wasn’t just a good idea, it was a great one. What could be bad about going for a ride in a T-top with the best-looking boy in the entire county? The only thing that would make it better would be if the Queen of the Universe came by and saw me sitting there, but the only one who saw us was batty old Mr. Beidler from the county museum, and he was half blind.

  “Where to?” Spy said.

  “Anywhere,” I said. It felt like my birt
hday for sure.

  Tallie’s Book

  Blondes look good in black.

  Never let anyone see the work behind the magic.

  Dreams can come true.

  twelve

  Let’s just drive,” Spy said. “Okay,” I said, though I was hoping we’d go to the A&W or someplace where the popular kids would see us. Just driving meant we’d probably head over to Elders Pond, or maybe north past the Pedlar River, or out to the Natural Bridge, which was this granite bridge that grew that way by itself and was a big tourist attraction. It had George Washington’s initials carved in it, and at night it was lit up with colored lights. Instead of any of these places, Spy took the road heading west over the Blue Ridge. I had to keep sneaking looks over to make sure he was real. I was riding with Spy Reynolds. Spy, the most popular boy at Eden High, who was going off to be a lawyer, and whose daddy was rich and his mama good-looking, just like in the song. He drove using just one arm, draping it over the wheel so it looked like he was steering with his wrist. The next time I went for a lesson with Martha Lee, I decided I’d drive that way, too.

  The radio was so loud, you couldn’t hear us if we did talk, which we didn’t. Spy fiddled with the dial, twisting it past the oldies station in Monroe, past gospel and bluegrass, finally settling on rock, which was my least favorite, one more thing that made me a freak according to the popular kids. The DJ was playing an entire Aerosmith album, the Permanent Vacation one, and we listened to “Angel,” and even if I didn’t usually like Aerosmith and the volume was up too loud, I felt like they were singing this song just for me. I was an angel. With natural radiance. Once he had the tunes set to his liking, Spy reached under the seat, not even looking at the road or slowing down, and pulled out a bottle. He used both hands to twist off the cap, and I got another little flicker in my belly. I bit my lip to keep from telling him to pay attention to his driving.

  “Want some?” he said.

  The label said Vodka, which was what the popular kids drank ’cause they said no one could detect it on your breath. The only thing I’d ever had was beer, but I didn’t want to look like a baby, so I took it when he passed it. There wasn’t any way to wipe the rim without him seeing, but I figured maybe the alcohol would take care of germs.

  Vodka looked like water but it tasted like lightning, burning my throat and leaving a streak all the way to my belly. I had to swallow twice to keep from coughing or puking. Spy took the bottle back, putting his mouth exactly where mine had been. When he was done, he wiped his mouth on his sleeve, which was something my daddy might do. His shirt was all wrinkled. I started noticing other things, like his hair was mussed and he was wearing a pair of chinos with a rip in the knee, looking nothing like his usual “Best-Dressed” self, which he was in the Eden yearbook.

  Aerosmith was singing “Rag Doll.” Spy passed me the bottle again. This time I was prepared and it wasn’t so bad. It helped ease the nervous place inside, so I took another drink before I handed it back. We were up by the parkway now, and Spy pulled into an overlook and switched off the engine. It was getting dark, so there wasn’t much of a view, but I could picture it clear in my mind. The dips and swells of the valley, the way the mountains rose toward the sky, holding every variation of green in creation, even green dipping into blue, which was how they got their name. Mama loved the Blue Ridge. Sometimes we’d hop in the old Dodge and drive up there for a picnic. She’d sit for a while, staring out like she was seeing it for the first time, then she’d tell me to imagine crossing these mountains without aid of a car, doing it on horseback or by foot, doing it before there were even roads. She said imagine what courage it took, heading off into unknown territory, where no one had gone before and there were no trails to lead you. While Mama was talking about the wonder of it, I couldn’t help but think about how a person could get lost. I’d wonder if it was possible for a person to get lost if she didn’t even know where she was heading in the first place, though now I understand a person can hold a road map in her hand with the path lit in front of her and still manage to lose her way.

  Spy hadn’t said more than two words since I’d gotten in the car. The radio was still blaring, even though the engine was off, and I was worrying what if the battery got low or died and we couldn’t get home. He was sipping from the bottle and I thought, damn, if I wanted to spend the evening with someone drinking, I could have tracked my daddy down. The idea made me so mad, I reached over and switched off the radio. The silence was big. It was like the whole world stopped, frozen, maybe even ended, and then, gradually, I heard little sounds. At first it sounded jumbled, but when I concentrated I could hear each one distinct. The distant sound of a truck engine climbing somewhere on the highway behind us. Then birds and tree frogs and insects and, off in the brush below the guardrail, a rustling, maybe a squirrel. Mama would have recognized each bird by its call. She never missed. I could only get the easy ones. Chickadees and crows, like that.

  Even with the vodka easing me, Spy’s silence was making me nervous. I wondered if he’d try to kiss me. I wanted him to. I’d been wanting him to for years. But I thought we should talk, too. I didn’t want him to think he could just drag me off somewhere and begin the kissing part without even pretending to first conduct a conversation. In the girls’ room at school, I’d heard about how guys only wanted one thing and when they got it they told all the other guys the girl was a slut. From what I could gather, there was a fixed order to things. First the guy had to talk to you in school, stand by your locker with you between classes so everyone would know he liked you. Then you went on a real date. A movie, or a meal at the A&W or Micky D’s, or maybe even a Wild Cat game over in Lynchburg. Rula Wade said Ronnie Duval took her bowling on their first date, which she hated because you had to wear those ugly shoes and half the time your ball landed in the alley and everybody laughed. After two dates, you could let the boy French you and get to second base. When you were wearing his ring around your neck, he could get to third base. The girls swore they were still all virgins, but Rula said the only true virgins in the school were me, the born agains, and her, her only because her step-mama watched her like a hawk. I was wondering if Spy thought I was cheap. I ran my hand over my styled hair, fingered the rhinestone clip so I’d remember I’d been transformed, that I was pretty.

  Spy finally looked at me. His eyes were rimmed with pink, like Sylvia the makeup lady was let loose with her liner. Or like he’d been crying. He kept staring at me, but not at me exactly, like I was suddenly invisible. It was the inward stare of someone gazing at a place no one else could see. It didn’t feel like my birthday anymore.

  I tried to remember all the subjects I’d practiced talking to him about and rolled them around in my head—when exactly was he going off to college and did he truly want to be a lawyer or was it his daddy’s idea and was he going to be going to Virginia Beach with the other kids—but when all the thoughts quieted down, the one they stopped on was Sarah and all the things I’d never told him, like how sorry I was I didn’t go to her funeral, especially since he’d come to my mama’s. That was most important, and so I settled on that. “I’m sorry about Sarah.”

  He didn’t answer, just leaned forward and rested his head on the steering wheel, like he was tired.

  “And I regret not going to her funeral,” I said. “I really appreciate that you came to my mama’s.”

  “It’s okay,” he said. His voice was as ragged as torn silk.

  “I miss her on the swim team,” I said. “She was the best one.” I wasn’t sure Sarah really was better than me, but I said it anyway, like it was a gift I could give him.

  He didn’t look at me or answer, and I thought I’d better stop talking because I didn’t want to end up saying something dumb like she was in a better place or she was happier in heaven, stupid stuff like people said to me after Mama passed. Finally I just reached over and took his hand. He sat up and his face was stiff and shut, but I knew it wasn’t because he didn’t care about Sarah or
didn’t miss her. I knew because his face looked exactly like the hard place inside me felt, like he had to hold it fixed or he might die. And it wasn’t boldness or wickedness that made me do what I did next. And I didn’t think it was love, because, though I never got to learn this from Mama, I didn’t think real love could come on you sudden-like. And it wasn’t sex, although I’d had the wanting feeling for Spy for as long as I could remember. It was more like when I used to have a nightmare and Mama’d come in and sit on my bed and smooth back my hair until things quieted down and I could go back to sleep again. It was what I wanted someone to do to me when the dark, hard place hurt so, it made it so I couldn’t breathe. And that was why I bent over and kissed him. When I finished, he looked straight at me and the hard, clenched look slipped for just a second, then it was back.

  When he pulled me to him, I went without resistance, natural and automatic, with no more will or desire to resist than those iron filings rushing to a magnet. Up close, I could see the tiny whisker specks on his skin, so tiny they hadn’t even grown out. It wasn’t true you couldn’t smell vodka on a person’s breath, but I was smelling other things, too. I was getting to know the scent of his hair, sweet and strong and salty like a mixture of Prell, aftershave, and sweat, and another smell, too, that came from inside him and was his alone, and I inhaled deep so my brain and lungs could memorize it.