“Cool,” I say. “Don’t forget his leash.”
When she comes back she sits down next to me and presses her cold hands against my neck.
“You’re lazy,” Sarah A says.
“It’s summer,” I say. “I enjoy sleeping in.”
“Do you know what I like most about staying with you?” Sarah A asks.
I roll onto my back and stare up at her. Even without makeup, she’s the prettiest Sarah.
“Our talks?” I ask.
“No. You have basically no supervision whatsoever. This will be the perfect launchpad for the guy phase. I couldn’t have planned it any better,” Sarah A says. “I didn’t realize that people still offered their kids such huge pockets of dangerous freedom. Were your parents hippies or something?”
I blink several times. I’m the kind of person who has to transition from sleep to wake.
“My parents aren’t that old,” I say.
“Yeah, having old parents would be such a burden. Poor Sarah C.”
“How old are her parents?” I ask. I didn’t realize they were elderly.
“They’re in their fifties. And it totally affects her. That’s why she’s always thinking so much. Because her parents are mature and decrepit and close to death. That makes a person more meditative.”
I don’t say anything. I stretch instead. And ponder that whole fifty-being-close-to-death remark. Maybe that’s true in poor countries where they have to wear tire treads for shoes and kids aren’t vaccinated against the mumps. But in America that can’t be the case. Because our senior citizens are freaked about Social Security going bust. And why worry if you’ll already be dead? I yawn.
“I think that’s part of the reason why my parents had me stay with you and not Sarah C.”
“Because her parents are in their fifties and close to death?”
“No, because they used to be hippies.”
“They did?”
“They own a health food store. Nobody but hippies manage those things. And I bet my parents didn’t want me to stay with Sarah B because she comes from a broken home. I mean, she’s being raised by a single parent.”
“But her dad is so great.” I sit up. But this quick vertical maneuver makes me feel dizzy and I lower myself back to my pillow.
“He’s a mechanic!”
“But he’s really involved in her life. They go to sporting events together.”
Sarah A rolls her eyes. “Yeah, well, she’s barely middle class.”
I try to keep my eyes from widening. I wonder if Sarah A talks about me like this when I’m not around. Probably. I smile through this observation. I guess we all gossip at some point in our lives. Nobody is perfect.
“So the reason you’re staying with me is because my parents weren’t hippies, are still married, and are middle class?”
“Don’t sell yourself short. Your brother goes to Stanford, and your father owns a car lot. You’re upper-middle class. And my parents are orthodontists. They’re responsible people. They’re not going to ship me off to live in a questionable environment.”
“Do you really feel that way?” I ask.
“Of course,” Sarah A says.
I don’t know if I totally believe her. I think it must ruffle her somewhat that her parents shipped her off. I yawn again and stretch my arms over my head.
“I don’t care about the reasons why you’re here,” I say. “I’m just glad you came to stay with me. My home is definitely a healthy environment.”
I should have knocked on wood. My last comment is like a cue for dysfunction and mayhem to start raining down on my happy, healthy home. Out of nowhere, my father screams, “That man is a shithead!” This never happens. Why is this happening? My father is a procrastinator, not a screamer. But it’s like he’s trying to openly demonstrate that our house might actually be a questionable environment.
“He’s got a big, antagonistic head stuffed with certifiable shit!” my father yells.
“Calm down. It’s just an inflatable monkey,” my mother says.
“Big Don knew I’d bought the duck. He knew I’d paid big dollars for that inflatable. He purposely bought King Kong to dwarf me,” he says.
“It’s not that bad,” my mother says.
“That ape’s head casts an afternoon shadow right over the row of Passats. They’re huge sellers! They can’t be in some big ape’s head shade.”
“Maybe you can talk to him,” my mother says.
I can hear my father slam the refrigerator door. This is not like my dad at all. He’s not a fighter. He’s like me, an adapter. From my room, Sarah A and I listen to the lively discussion unfold.
“Who’s Big Don?” Sarah A asks me.
She seems thrilled by this familial discord.
“My dad’s competition. He owns the lot across the street from him.”
“What’s an inflatable?”
“Those huge balloonlike things that businesses put in front of their buildings to draw in customers.”
“Your dad bought a duck?”
“It’s a cool duck. It has black sunglasses and is as big as a school bus.”
“And his competition bought King Kong?”
“It sounds like it,” I say.
Sarah A slides on my slippers and races to my bedroom door. She opens it and pokes her head out.
“I’m sorry to jump into your conversation,” she says, “but why not buy Godzilla? That would even the playing field. It would be an epic battle played out with inflatables, Godzilla versus King Kong. Everyone knows Godzilla would win.”
I’m tempted to tell Sarah A to get back inside my bedroom. This isn’t any of her business. I’m the one who picked out the cool duck inflatable. But I don’t. I hear my father’s footsteps rushing toward my room. Sarah A squeals and runs back to her bed.
“Are you decent in there, girls?” my father asks.
“Yes,” I say.
He opens the door and his increasingly scruffy face emerges before us.
“You really think Godzilla could beat King Kong?”
“They made a movie about it. I’m pretty sure Godzilla won. He’s way bigger than Kong and Godzilla can breathe fire.”
My father walks all the way inside my room. A dot of skim milk glistens like an iridescent pearl in his chin hair.
“Sarah?” he asks me. “Have you seen that movie?”
“No.” I don’t know much about King Kong. And everything I learned about Godzilla I gleaned from watching Liam play with his Godzilla action figure. When he was ten, Liam went through a Godzilla phase, which occurred very much before his “pre-social-conscience phase.” In addition to his bright green Godzilla action figure, Liam also had that monster on a plastic lunch box. “I bet Liam has. He spent an entire year worshipping that beast. I’ll call him. But that sounds right. A lizard that can breathe fire should be able to defeat a big ape.”
“He’s not a lizard; he’s a dinosaur,” Sarah A says.
My father grins and rubs the milk dribble from his chin.
“This is a great idea,” he says. “I’ll shelve the duck until next year.”
“But the duck is cool,” I say. This is frustrating. I’m no expert, but doesn’t Godzilla kill people by stepping on them with his big lizard feet? And doesn’t he also crush cars, even police cruisers and ambulances? And wasn’t he created in Japan? Why would you stick him in an American car lot, especially in Michigan? How will that boost sales? Plus, he’s got gargantuan teeth. It’s a total mistake. Ducks make people feel comfortable. Dinosaurs remind people that petroleum is a finite and dwindling natural resource.
“I need more than a duck, Sarah. Waterfowl is no match for King Kong. Your friend is right. I need Godzilla. Big Don won’t be getting the upper hand on me in sales this summer.”
My father pretends to take off an imaginary hat as he bows in Sarah A’s direction. This makes me feel very blah inside. I don’t want my father to fall under her spell. It’s one thing for me to suck up
to her, but it’s a totally different story to involve the rest of my family.
My father zips back out to the kitchen. A minute later, I hear him slam the front door. He’s gone. Sarah A looks at me all twinkly eyed and sticks her tongue out at me.
“Were you the one who picked out the inflatable duck?” she asks.
“No,” I lie.
“Whatever. Let’s get ready. We’ve got a big day. I need to stop by my condo. Plus, I’ve got some shopping to do. And we’ll be meeting up with the other Sarahs. Tonight, we’re getting rid of Digits. And then I’m calling Roman Karbowski. Finally!”
“Getting rid of Digits?” She makes it sound like we’re going to toss him out of a speeding car or drop him into a lake.
“Relax. It’s just a cat. And didn’t you hear what I said? I’m going to call Roman Karbowski tonight.” She grabs her Roman pillow and takes such a deep breath that the corner of Roman’s shirt collar is pulled into one of her nostrils. When she exhales, it falls away.
“I’m so happy,” she says.
Sarah A puts on my slippers and shuffles to the shower.
“Remind me to bring a pillowcase,” she says.
“One of my pillowcases?” I ask.
“Yeah. And pick one you’re not going to miss.”
Chapter 12
As long as Sarah A is housed under my roof, I doubt I’ll be taking a hot shower. Which is not only uncomfortable, but might be unhygienic, because I’m pretty sure that lukewarm water doesn’t clean a body as well as hot water. My sixth-grade science teacher talked incessantly about molecules and speed and lots of other stuff that we had to totally trust him about because Winchell Elementary School didn’t have microscopes. My teacher said that as water warms, its molecules bounce around and increase its cleansing properties.
The kind of water Sarah A leaves me is filled with very laggard molecules. Most likely, I’m showering in liquid that’s barely washing me. It’s probably just making me damp. Sarah A squeaks the faucet off. I think she’s singing. Her voice sounds chipper. Our chorus teacher says I have a solemn voice. I think that means I sound honest. The Sarahs haven’t met for a sing group in weeks and surprisingly, I don’t even miss it.
Sarah A didn’t close the bathroom door all the way. I can see her naked profile as she sweeps a towel across her wet, perfect skin. She slips into her clothes and wraps a second towel around her head. John Glenn noses the bathroom door open and sticks his head right inside the toilet bowl.
“That doesn’t seem sanitary,” I say.
“He’s just a dog.”
I don’t enjoy hearing Sarah A say that.
John Glenn pads back into the room and lays down at the foot of my bed. I like that instead of seeking Sarah A out for affection, my dog gravitates toward me and my living zone. I thought it took longer for dogs to transfer loyalty, that steadfast allegiance was bred into them at a cellular level.
It’s my turn to shower. I grab my towel.
“Sarah T, I think you shower funny,” Sarah A says.
“You watch me shower?” I ask.
“No. When I go into the bathroom after you’re done, there’s water everywhere. Do you freak out and have panic attacks while you’re in there? Are you claustrophobic? Is it related to your pee-issues? Do you suffer from some sort of rare liquid dysfunction?” she asks.
“No. When the water gets cold I jump out,” I say.
“Yeah, your water could be hotter,” Sarah A says.
I go inside the bathroom and close the door. I never had a water-temperature issue before she got here. Standing within the cramped four walls of my bathroom, I look at myself in the mirror and take a deep breath. The air smells like blueberries and vanilla. It’s Sarah A’s unmistakable body fragrance. I would have thought that my scent would override hers, it being my bathroom. But that’s not how it works. She’s seeping into the walls of my house at the level of personal stink. I reach under the sink for the bottle of Lysol. I release a long, zigzagging spray of it until the small chamber is overwhelmed by the smell of baby powder. I cough a few times and turn on the shower. This feels better.
After my shower, I reenter my bedroom and find a breathless Sarah A holding a shovel. Its steel blade is dirt-caked and John Glenn sniffs it intensely several times.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
She leans the shovel against a wall and smiles.
“You said you felt bad about stealing all that stuff. I figured I’d help you bury it, if you want,” Sarah A says.
“Oh,” I say. This seems odd, as I was thinking I’d give it away, not entomb it in the earth.
“I dug a hole for you in your backyard.”
“I was only in the shower for ten minutes,” I say.
“It wasn’t a deep hole.”
I feel appreciative that Sarah A would carve into the earth for me first thing on a Tuesday, though I doubt the space will be big enough to hold everything I’ve ever stolen.
“Did my mother see you?” I ask.
“No, I did the deed on the shady side of your house with all those bushes. Nobody saw me.”
“And why is the shovel in my room?” I ask.
“I borrowed it from your neighbor. They weren’t there when I took it, but they’re there now.”
“Sarah A, you can’t rob my neighbors.”
“Why, is there a cop in the family?”
“No, I like them!”
“Okay. I’ll return it tonight. But let’s not lose sight of the fact that I just dug you an awesome hole.”
“Thanks,” I say. “I guess I needed a hole.”
“Oh, it gets better,” Sarah C says, running over to me and grabbing my hands. “Guess what I found buried out there?” She points to my bedroom wall that borders the shady side of my house.
“I don’t know,” I say. Against my moist hands, Sarah A’s feel cold and dry. I pull mine out of hers and notice that both of our hands are streaked with mud.
“I found a body,” Sarah A says.
“Holy shit!” I yell.
Sarah A grabs her stomach and starts laughing. “I’m just kidding. I didn’t really find a body.”
“Ha-ha,” I say. I wipe my hands on my jeans.
“But I think that I unearthed a time capsule.”
Sarah A walks to my dresser and lifts up a mud-encrusted metal lunch box and a completely wrecked book. She hands them both to me. The lunch box was Liam’s. It has a faded green Godzilla on the front with a badly chipped paint job. And the book is about the Potawatomi Indians in Kalamazoo. I flip it open and glance inside. It’s many years overdue.
“Who do you think put them there?” Sarah A asks me.
“Liam,” I say. She holds her hands out, like she wants to take the items back, and I give them to her.
“Hey, there’s something in here,” Sarah A says, shaking the lunch box.
“There is?”
What would Liam hide in a lunch box and bury in the earth? Oh, no. What if it’s his pot? I try to swipe the box from Sarah A.
“No, I want to open it,” Sarah A says.
She unlatches the clasp with her thumb and the lid falls open. A small Godzilla action figure falls to the floor. Sarah A bends over and picks it up. I’m so relieved that we didn’t uncover my brother’s drug stash that I literally wipe my brow and release a whew sound.
“This is in good condition. I bet it’s worth something,” Sarah A says, holding the toy to the light.
“But it’s Liam’s,” I say.
“I’m the one who found it,” Sarah A says.
“On my property.”
“Possession is nine tenths of the law. Also, I think if you find something buried in the earth it’s community property.”
I’ve never heard that.
“Please give it back,” I say.
And to my great surprise she does. I take the action figure and shut it back up in the dilapidated lunch box.
“That’s so weird. Liam really is totally c
razy, isn’t he? I wonder what else he’s hidden in your yard. We should locate a metal detector.”
Sarah A doesn’t wait for my reaction. She goes into the bathroom and washes her hands. Then she starts down the hallway toward the kitchen, flicking them dry as she walks.
“I hope your mom makes us Pop-Tarts again. I didn’t realize how much I much I liked Pop-Tarts until I started eating them every morning. Your mom must have a real thing for them,” Sarah A says.
“I think it’s an anti-stove phase. For lunch we’ve been eating a lot of Hot Pockets. She’s only cooking with the toaster and the microwave these days,” I say.
“I don’t think that’s what it is. I bet she’s just really craving Pop-Tarts. I mean, don’t you ever get an intense craving?”
“For Pop-Tarts?” I ask.
“For anything,” Sarah A says.
“All I usually want in the morning is a banana,” I say.
“That’s not what I mean. I’m talking about deep down. What do you really crave, like at your soul level?”
“My soul level?” I ask.
“Yeah,” Sarah A says. “What does your soul crave?”
“Bananas.”
“Well, maybe you have a monkey soul,” Sarah A says.
“Morning, girls,” my mother says. “Hello, John Glenn.”
She drops two Pop-Tarts into the toaster. Our one week test with John Glenn went swimmingly. My mother hasn’t had any allergy issues. Her biggest issue with my dog seems to be his constant slobbering when we dine on anything that gives off a meaty aroma.
“What flavor are the Pop-Tarts this time?” Sarah A asks.
“Raspberry,” my mother says.
“I love raspberry,” Sarah A says. She grins her super-fake smile, but it’s nearly impossible for adults to detect its insincerity. She’s perfected that thing.
“How about you, Sarah?”
“I just want a banana.”
“Those Pop-Tarts smell so good. Do they come with frosting?” Sarah A asks.
My mother turns to face us and flashes a very proud smile.
“No, but I whipped up my own from scratch.”
Sarah A releases a coo that makes her sound like a pigeon. I thought I was supposed to be worming my way back into my old spot. But it feels like Sarah A is trying to worm her way into my family spot. And I’m not totally okay with this, because it’s the only spot where I comfortably fit.
Crimes of the Sarahs Page 11