by Cathy Holton
In April, Rocha announced that she and Sam were hitchhiking to San Francisco. They left the following morning. Stella, lonely and homesick, walked to a pay phone and called her mother.
“Well, we were just talking about you,” her mother said. In the background Stella could hear her little brothers arguing.
“How’re George and Anthony?”
“They’re fine. Can’t you hear that racket?” She put her hand over the receiver and Stella heard her shout, “You boys pipe down, I’m trying to talk to someone on the telephone.” She didn’t say, I’m trying to talk to your sister on the telephone.
“I’m hungry,” Stella said.
“Have you been taking care of yourself?”
“I’m sick.”
“Where are you?”
“Birmingham.”
“Still there? I thought you might have moved on. You always liked to travel. Remember when you were little and we used to hit the road? We went through Birmingham years ago. Do you remember? It was before I met your step-dad. Before I had George and Anthony. You and I were coming through on our way to Tuscaloosa and we stopped and stayed the night with a friend of mine. Rena. I wonder what ever happened to her?”
“I want to come home.”
“You can’t do that.”
“Why?”
“You know why.”
In the background, Anthony began to cry. Stella’s mother said, “You boys stop fighting! I mean it; I’m going to take a switch to you.” She came back on and said, “I have to go. These boys are driving me crazy. You take care of yourself now, you hear? You’re a big girl, and real smart, and you know how to do that. You’ll be fine. I have to go now but thanks for calling.” She hung up.
A semi-truck went by, its headlights sweeping the wet pavement. Behind the brightly-lit Waffle House, a lone dog nosed along the dumpster, looking for scraps.
Stella stood, for a moment, with the phone cradled against her chest. Then she hung it up carefully, and turning, picked up the bag at her feet and went out into the cool, gray morning.
They were all drunk; Stella could see that from where she sat. Josh was laughing and gesturing wildly, the way he always did when he drank too much and was spoiling for a fight. The bonfire had begun to die down, no one was willing to chop any more wood, and Stella was cold. She pulled her knees up and wrapped her arms around them. The chill night air, the smell of wood smoke and damp vegetation reminded her of being on the road. An unpleasant reminder. She supposed that for the rest of her life, however short or long that might be, these smells would carry unpleasant memories, a reminder of the baggage from her former life that she would never be able to discard, no matter how hard she tried. She wondered how people managed it, those lucky few who seemed able to transcend their childhoods. She supposed that was why she’d been drawn to the study of psychology.
Physician, heal thyself.
Josh was looking for her; she could see him peering through the smoke at the sparse crowd, weaving on his feet. He put his head back and began to shout, “Stell-a!” in his best Stanley Kowalski imitation, even though he had no idea who Stanley Kowalski was, he’d never seen A Streetcar Named Desire. But he’d seen John Belushi on Saturday Night Live. Beside him, a boy with blonde dreadlocks put his head back and began to bellow, “Stell-a!”
Stella rested her forehead on one knee. She half-wished now that she’d had more to drink, had taken the bottle of Jack Daniels and settled down with it. But she had a test on Monday morning and she’d missed class today and she was determined to study all weekend. Which is why she hadn’t wanted to get drunk. Which is why she hadn’t wanted to come to this damn bonfire in the first place.
Besides, it was dangerous drinking during one of her dark moods. There was no telling what she might say. There was no telling what might come spilling out.
Josh had seen her and was gesturing impatiently for her to come over. He put his arm around the shoulders of the boy who was still shouting, “Stella-a!” and pointed at her with a beer bottle. The boy stopped shouting, and grinned. He raised his beer bottle, motioning for Stella to join them.
She sighed and stood up and walked over. Several people were passed out on the ground or sprawled in lawn chairs. The fire sputtered weakly, casting a dim light.
“Where’ve you been all evening?” Josh said.
“Over there taking it easy.”
“So you’re Stella?” the blonde boy said. “Cool name, by the way.”
“Thanks. It was my mother’s idea.”
“She a big John Belushi fan?”
“No. Marlon Brando.”
“Who?”
“You’ve been antisocial the whole night,” Josh said. He tipped his beer, his eyes narrowing as he watched her.
“Give me the keys,” she said holding out her hand. “I’m sober. I can drive.”
Josh wiped his mouth. He let his beer dangle from the tips of his fingers. “I’m not going anywhere and neither is my fucking car,” he said.
“I’ll take you home,” the blonde boy said.
“She’s not going anywhere.”
“Okay, man. That’s cool.” The boy, hearing the menace in Josh’s tone, held his hands up and backed away, still grinning at Stella.
They watched him move around to the other side of the fire.
“Don’t be an asshole,” Stella said to Josh.
“I’m not being an asshole. You are.”
Stella stared at the dying fire. She could make it better, just by giving in. By going up to him and putting her arms around him. Then everything would be ok. He’d be pleased, satisfied of her allegiance, and she’d be off the hook. But tonight, stubbornly, she didn’t want to submit to Josh or anyone else, for that matter.
“Look,” she said. “I’m tired. I’ve got a test to study for.”
“I’ve got a test to study for,” he said in a falsetto voice, lifting his beer.
She turned and walked off.
“Where do you think you’re going?” he said.
“To sleep in the car.”
“Not in my car, you’re not.”
“Fuck you.”
“Fuck you,” he shouted after her.
She didn’t sleep in the car after all; she walked home. The next morning she awoke to a suffocating feeling of remorse. She had learned long ago to keep unacceptable parts of herself hidden away, to make herself pleasant and accomodating. It had kept her from being arrested, it had secured her a bunk for the night at shelters that weren’t allowed to take in teens, it had led, finally, to someone taking enough of an interest in her to get her off the streets and back into school.
And she had risked everything last night by walking away from Josh.
The apartment with Josh was the only home she’d had in the past three years and she didn’t want to lose it. She didn’t want to go back to the old way of life. She had a chance now that she hadn’t had before; a chance to finish college and make a better life for herself. She was grateful to him for taking her in, for providing the kind of stability she’d been looking for since she left home; food in her belly, a chance to better herself, a safe place to sleep at night. He was a great-looking guy with a steady job and he was good to her most of the time. A lot nicer to her than other boyfriends had been. It was simple when you broke it down into basics. When you didn’t let yourself get caught up with all of the what ifs and why nots.
She got up and, in a flurry of activity, cleaned the apartment, washed the laundry, and took a pound of ground beef out of the freezer to thaw for dinner. Then she took a shower, and dressing in a pair of tight jeans and a low cut sweater, she carefully applied make-up to her face. If the thought occurred to her that she was more like her mother than she cared to admit, she quickly discarded it.
Mid-afternoon, Josh arrived home in a foul mood, hung over and dirty and still angry about last night. He didn’t speak to her, going up to take a shower and then falling across the freshly-made bed, where he slept for three
hours.
When he woke up she had dinner made, spaghetti and meatballs, one of his favorites, and afterwards she sat on his lap and kissed him and through a series of contrived but insistent actions, managed to convince them both that everything was all right between them.
On Tuesday, she waited after class for Luke Morgan. He had gone up to speak to Professor Dillard as the class was filing out, and Stella had filed out with them and then, turning, had gone back and hovered outside the door, waiting.
He was smiling when he came out but he had his head down and he didn’t see her. She came up behind him and touched him lightly on the shoulder.
“Oh, hello,” he said. He was tall and spare, with a wide chest and shoulders like a swimmer.
“I need to borrow your notes.” She had rehearsed it but now that she was looking at him, it came out all wrong, rushed and hurried and slightly arrogant.
“Yeah, I know. Professor Dillard told me.” His eyes were a luminous gray. He stared at her with an expression of curious fascination, as if she was some exotic creature he had stumbled upon. This thought caused a nervous stir in Stella’s chest.
“How did Professor Dillard know?” she said.
“She said you had emailed her and asked if you could copy someone’s notes for a few weeks and she asked me if I’d be willing.” She thought she detected amusement in his voice and she forced herself to meet his eyes. They stood in the middle of the corridor staring at each other. He grinned at her expression.
“I don’t mind,” he said. “Really.” He turned and began to walk slowly and she fell into step beside him, her backpack bumping gently against her hip.
“But how did she know I was going to ask you?” The fact that she could be so easily read by Professor Dillard bothered Stella.
“I don’t know that she did. I think she asked me because she knows me. Professor Dillard is my godmother. She and my mother went to school together. She’s why I’m here in Chattanooga. I came down last summer to visit her and never left. I’m auditing her class.”
“Why?”
He laughed. “Because I’m a filmmaker and I’m interested in what drives people to do the things they do. Psychology of Gender seemed the perfect class. I figured I might learn something about the way people think.”
The hallway was crowded with students hurrying to class and Stella had to weave in and out of the traffic. Without saying anything, he moved to the outside so she could hug the inside wall.
“So you’ve already graduated?” she said, heaving her backpack higher on her shoulder.
“Yes. NYU.”
“Wow.”
He grinned. “Don’t say it like that.”
“I’m impressed, that’s all.” Of course it made perfect sense. He had seemed so different from everyone else, so self-contained and confident. He spoke well, too. She imagined a prep school background, country club parties, family ski vacations to Aspen. The kind of life she’d read about in books and seen on reality television shows, and could only dimly imagine. He and Alice Whittington would, no doubt, get on well.
“So you like Chattanooga?”
“I do.” He was very tall; she had to bend her neck to look up at him.
“I’m into climbing,” he said. “I climbed Sintra in Portugal. And I’ve done a lot of climbing out west, The Buttermilks in California and Indian Creek in Utah, but Chattanooga has some of the best bouldering around.”
“Really?”
“You sound surprised.” He smiled down at her and she thought again how striking he was, not really handsome in a classic sense, but attractive.
“Well, I mean, it’s a great place,” she said. “I’ve been here for almost five years and I like it a lot. I’m not much of a wilderness person, I guess.” You wouldn’t be either, she thought, if you’d spent as much time as I have living in it.
“Do you want to get a cup of coffee?”
“I don’t know. I have a class at twelve.”
He looked at his cell phone. “That should give you forty minutes.”
She slid her backpack up on her shoulder. “All right,” she said.
He was from upstate New York. His parents were diplomats of some kind and he’d spent time in England at boarding school before returning to the states for college. Since graduating he’d done a documentary on Angola Prison and now he was putting together a documentary on his travels through the South.
“No one finds the South interesting,” she said. “It’s nothing but a bunch of snake handlers and debutantes.”
“But that’s what makes it so fascinating. The contradictions. And everyone has a story. The oral tradition down here is very strong. I sit in the Waffle House at the foot of Signal Mountain and I listen to people talk. You wouldn’t believe some of the stories I hear.”
“Actually, I would.” She tapped one finger absently against the plastic lid of her cup.
He sipped his coffee, then set it down again. “So what about you?”
“Me?” She looked up in surprise.
“What’s your story?” His eyes were formidable. She could see how people, looking into their cool gray depths, would confess to anything. She’d have to be careful around him. She’d have to watch herself.
“I don’t have a story.”
He laughed. “I know that’s not true. I knew the moment I saw you, there was something unusual about you. And now, you see, you’re being coy. You’ve turned it into a challenge so I’ll have no choice but to obsess over it and hound you and carry around a big DVR to stick in your face every chance I get.”
He flushed a dull red and she looked down at her hands. They both grinned at the vague sexual connotation of his statement.
“Sorry,” he said. “A DVR is a camera.”
“Yeah, I kind of hoped it was.”
The coffee shop was crowded with students laughing and chattering, rushing, bleary-eyed, on their way to class.
“You know I won’t stop asking you,” he said. “Until I know your story. Where you come from. Where you hope to go. All the dark dreary secrets of your childhood.”
“Alabama,” she said quickly. “That’s where I come from.”
“Birmingham?”
“No. I mean, yes. I didn’t grow up there but I lived there once. For a brief time.” Her voice trailed off and she turned her head and stared out the wide glass windows at a patch of rolling lawn bordered by shrubs.
“I’ll make a deal with you,” she said finally. “Each time I meet you to copy your notes, I’ll tell you one thing about me.”
He stuck his hand across the table and she took it, giving it a firm shake. Gently he turned her hand over, palm up. “Start with this,” he said.
“What?” she said, swiftly withdrawing her hand.
“Your arm. Start with that.”
“It’s a tattoo. Everyone has one.”
“Not the tattoo,” he said softly. “The other.”
She pulled her sleeve down and stood, gathering her backpack. “This isn’t going to work,” she said.
He opened his binder and took out four sheets of paper and held them out to her. She hesitated, not looking at him, and then took them. “I’ll copy them at the library,” she said.
He wrote his cell number down on a piece of paper and gave it to her. “Call me,” he said. “I’ll meet you.”
She put the slip and the notes in her backpack and walked off, and it wasn’t until she had reached the door that she had the courage to look back over her shoulder.
He was sitting where she had left him, staring after her with an unreadable expression on his face.
Five
December, 1934
There was no hope for it. Alice would have to go home. Her mother would hound her until she did, driving her crazy with her slow drips of guilt, her endless wash of tears. It was worse than a Chinese Water Torture, reading her mother’s wild letters.
This one is a grease monkey, she had written. She met him at the County fair. I tho
ught the last one, a railroad drummer, was bad but this one is worse. She will ruin us.
Alice lay back on the bed and closed her eyes. It was all she had ever wanted; to get away from this, to start fresh where no one knew her. To be a nameless face in a sea of nameless faces. She had recently read a novel, What Mad Pursuit, about a cynical female reporter who travels the world in search of personal fulfillment, immersing herself in bohemian society. She has many love affairs but refuses to submit to marriage, and it occurred to Alice, reading the novel with a rising sense of wonder and excitement, that she could be happy living this way. It seemed to her that only in work would she find the freedom and joy in living that she sought. She could be happy traveling the world alone and writing, the slave of no man. She and Clarice had already made plans to go to New York after graduation and now here she was being dragged back into this endless family drama.
Come home. She’ll listen to you. You’re the only one she’ll listen to.
At least she’d be spared any future acquaintance with Bill Whittington. He’d written her three letters since August and she hadn’t responded to any of them, and now he’d gone definitively quiet.
Your sister is crazy in love.
Alice, apparently, wasn’t made that way. At least she’d be spared that.
Mother was waiting for her at the train station wearing her fur coat and a black hat with a veil to hide her swollen face.