by Cathy Lamb
Dave growled and bad-mouthed, and then he shoved Jake, and that was it. Jake swung up a fist and powed Dave down to the floor, where he lay with pasta hanging off his pants, stunned into silence, the snake.
“Perhaps I could interest you in dinner one night?” Jake said. “If you can promise not to dump pasta on my lap. What do you say?”
I believe I nodded. Don’t think about him naked.
“Yes, you’re welcome,” I said. “Thank you.”
Jake winked at me. His friends grinned.
I thought of him naked.
As usual I watched Polly and her co-anchor, Grant Joshi, on the air that night after I’d thought of Jake naked for a long time.
Their newscast was flawless, flowing, clear, never an error. They segued from one story to another, smiled at the right time, eyes growing serious with the heartbreaking stuff, playful with something funny. One story, then another, a little chitchat in between as they brought in the weatherman and sports guy. Polly was beautiful, glamorous, but not too glamorous, her auburn curls tied back.
At the end of the newscast, I saw Polly reach under the desk a millisecond before the newscast ended.
I pictured her with that brown bag over her face and knew that much of her hyperventilating problem would be taken care of if she got the other problem taken care of.
Dealing with adults in denial is excruciating. You can’t force them to get care, even if their own life is at stake. Talking won’t do it, threats won’t, tears and hysterics, nothing.
They have to want it themselves. They have to want to help themselves.
And until they’ve hit the bottom, until they’re literally fighting for their lives, struggling around, gasping, scratching for an edge to grab to bring their noses above water, until they can actually touch death with their own fingertips, they’ll refuse help.
And sometimes, even when death is dancing on those fingertips, they’ll try to flick death off, as if death can be flicked, and they’ll die.
They will die and their deaths will leave emotional wreckage, blistering grief, and overwhelming guilt to the survivors’ lives forever.
I walked out on my porch after the newscast and shook out my hands, which were shaking like hummingbird wings.
A star shot through the night. That star was now dead after millions of years of brightness.
Please, Polly, save yourself.
I can’t lose you, too.
9
Portland, Oregon
Herbert had never been interested in saving Polly.
He had never been interested in saving anyone except himself and his business.
“Some men are good at business,” he told me, about six months after I’d moved in. “And some men are leaders, innovators, visionaries in business.”
Aunt Janet was off on another “vacation,” which meant that Herbert had shuttled her off to a detox place because her alcoholism had “embarrassed” him again. How anyone could stay sober married to Herbert was a mystery to me, but I do know that Aunt Janet was always kind to us. She simply drank herself into a stupor each night starting at seven o’clock.
“I am a leader, an innovator, a visionary.” He blew pipe smoke into the air, sighed, then his ferret eyes pierced me. “Your grandpa’s business…” He sighed again. “I’ve had to take it over, and it’s taken up a lot of my valuable time. I hope it doesn’t go bankrupt.”
I had no idea what he meant by all that sighing. As far as I knew, Grandpa had the best business of all. A whole bunch of people in town worked for him. I assumed that people were still working there. My numbed, grief-stricken young mind simply didn’t go further than that.
“He was too soft-hearted. Not a true businessman. Sadly, he didn’t have the opportunity of the schooling I’ve had.” Herbert leaned back in his chair and studied papers framed in black. “See that? Ivy League education. My family could afford those opportunities for me. As you know, we own timber, real estate, small ventures. Your grandpa was not as successful. As a businessman, he didn’t have the acumen, the intellect, perhaps the mental toughness that you need to run a company. He certainly could have benefitted from my wisdom and advice, but he didn’t ask. I have grown my family’s company exponentially over the years. Business is second nature to me.”
He cleared his throat. “He had other things on his mind, though, didn’t he? Your mother…” He shook his head. “She was a handful.”
I felt the anger that I harbored all the time, the anger that burned like boiling-hot rocks in my stomach, slide up my throat. I tried blocking all my raging thoughts of Helen out of my head. I still hated her, hated what she’d done, but that didn’t mean that Herbert could say anything against her.
“I would have handled her differently, had that been my child. Your grandpa and grandma were too lenient with her, too permissive. She turned out the way she did because she was a spoiled child, did not know her role as a woman in our society, and thought she could run off and have her own career singing, in New York. She cracked under the strain. Her mind turned to mush.” He tsk-tsked. “They never should have allowed her to go. She needed someone to control her, to give her limits and boundaries.”
He put his feet on the desk so I was staring at the bottom of his shoes. Then he blew more pipe smoke into the air and squinted at me through it.
“I’ll never forget how she wore chicken wire. And that foil. Your grandparents should have reigned her in or committed her to an institution until she agreed to behave appropriately. They should have told her, in no uncertain terms, that her behavior was unacceptable. Unacceptable. They didn’t. It led to a tragedy, didn’t it? And now here I am, raising you.”
He sighed heavily.
“But I do my duty, meet my obligations. No one can accuse me of not doing so.”
He sighed again, tapped his pipe.
“No, my family is well respected in this town. Thank God I had the foresight to change your name the minute you stepped in my front door. That incident with you and your sister was all over the news, and it could have wrecked my reputation. Remember, what happened is a secret. You’re not to tell anyone. It would be mortifying if people found out. It would smear my family name. If I hear of you telling anyone, Stevie, I’ll turn you out on the street, do you understand? You’ll be out on the streets.”
I nodded. I understood. “Could I go back to Ashville instead of the streets?”
He slammed his hand so hard on the desk it shook. “No,” he yelled. “No, you cannot go back to Ashville. I have told you that many times.”
I was scared, but I had to ask. “But why not?”
“Why? Because your grandparents said you were to live with your aunt Janet—” He cleared his throat. “With me. They knew I would take my burdens and do right by them.”
“If I’m a burden, maybe I should go and live with one of my other aunts or uncles?”
“No, dammit! We will not speak of this again. Never. You are not returning to Ashville, and you are not going to any of your wacky, strange uncles or aunts. You are not allowed any contact with them.”
“But—” I had asked many times if I could write letters to my cousins and aunts and uncles, but Herbert had forbidden it. I had asked if we could visit, but he had forbidden that, too. I had asked if I could call—no, I could not. I had been silenced into nothing and sent to my room.
“But one time I thought I saw Uncle Boynton and Aunt Cora leaving this house.”
“That didn’t happen. You’re delusional.”
“But last week when I got off the bus I saw Cousin Tyco’s truck.”
“You didn’t see it. It’s your wishful thinking.”
“But I was sure I saw Great Aunt Telly leaving here when me and Aunt Janet got home from shopping a couple months ago. Mr. Chen, too.”
“You have many emotional issues and you’re confused. They did not come.”
“But, I know I saw them!”
“They weren’t here! I’ve told you that m
any times. You’re wrong! They did not come.” His eyes skittered back and forth as he pounded the desk. “You’re mine. I am legally your guardian, and let me tell you something, they don’t want you.”
“They don’t?” I whispered. I was so traumatized by that statement, one more mammoth hurt piled upon my own devastation, I could hardly see. I tried to pull myself into a smaller ball. Why didn’t they want me? Was it because I didn’t save Sunshine and they blamed me for it? I had tried as hard as I could! Was it because of what Helen did? Did they think I was bad, too? Was it because I was getting fat? Was it because I was a burden, as Uncle Herbert said? Did they think I wasn’t a good granddaughter and that’s why Grandpa and Grandma died? Did they think I caused Helen to be as she was? Was it all my fault?
I tried to breathe through the searing, aching anguish. But what Herbert said might be true. My family back in Ashville hadn’t called, hadn’t written, hadn’t come to Portland to visit. I just thought I saw them because I’d wanted to. They didn’t want me. They didn’t love me.
I probably could not express how bleakly alone, how devastated I felt at that moment, so I won’t try. Let’s compare it to drowning. Drowning in black grief within black grief.
“They don’t need you around as a reminder of all that happened, Stevie. They all want to forget, so forget them.”
Forget them? I could never forget them…but they had forgotten me or were trying to forget me. I reminded them of dead people they had loved. No wonder they didn’t want to see me. I pulled my arms around my legs so tight, my face down.
“What happened is shameful. Your family is gone, and if you were in Ashville they would feel compelled to take you in, all the time worrying that you had the same demented genes as your mother and would kill someone. Be a murderer. You don’t think you’ll turn out like her, do you?” He blew smoke, straight out at me. “A murderer?”
I didn’t move. Her? Who was her? I lifted my head. “You mean my momma?”
“Yes, your mother. I hope you don’t have schizophrenia. I’ll watch you closely for signs and then I’ll take a firm hand to you, Stevie. I won’t allow you to have it. I’ll be the parent your grandparents should have been with their daughter.”
I thought of my grandparents. I could see them right in front of me. I could hear Grandpa calling Herbert Hatchet Face and Grandma talking about dumping him in a pig trough.
“Did your mother…” Herbert let the words hang in the air. “Did your mother…” He blew smoke again, and I could tell he was trying to act casual. “Did she ever mention me?”
I nodded, the black sorrow in my heart heavy and dull, seeming to drag on every beat.
“She did?” I did not miss the thin smile that pulled on the corners of his mouth. He took his feet off the desk and leaned forward. “What did she say? I know you saw that one incident where she lied about me being in New York, but hopefully, young woman, she told you the truth.”
I squirmed.
“Come on, now, don’t be embarrassed. Your mother, before she went entirely eccentric, had a certain allure, a sex—” His eyes got soft, snaky soft. “Well, I’m forgetting you’re a child, but let’s say your mother used to be a beautiful woman.” He stared into space for a moment and licked his lower lip, his tongue darting in and out. “She was a beautiful woman.” He grunted, then shifted his private area a couple of times on the chair. “So tell me.” Those snake eyes focused on me again, with a sneaky, eager smile. “What did she say about me?”
The sobs were coming up in me, I could feel them. Would they drown me? Did I care?
“Right now, Stevie, speak up! I’m the head of this house and you are to obey me, without question. None of this gross leniency that you’ve grown up with, this cock-eyed, liberal, hippie, everyone-is-equal mentality.”
I swallowed hard, the sobs now in my throat. I felt my insides crying. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure, although I think I can guess what she said.” A smile tugged again at the corners of his mouth and he coughed, pulled on his trousers, wriggled his private area again in his chair. “So. Out with it, Stevie. What did your mother say about me?”
“Are you sure you want me to say it?” I asked, hesitant, scared.
“Haven’t you been listening to me, girl? Tell me the truth this instant.”
“Well, okay,” I said. Soon I would be dead from crying anyhow. “She said…” I stopped. Would drowning in my sobs hurt?
He rolled his eyes. “Speak, now, for God’s sake, Stevie. We’ll keep it between us. We don’t need to tell your aunt Janet. I don’t want to make your aunt feel any worse. Lord knows living under your mother’s shadow was hard enough. She doesn’t need to hear that her sister was an admirer of her husband, too.”
I wasn’t sure what he was talking about, but I decided to speak up and tell the truth so I could leave and go drown privately. “My momma said you were short as snot. I’m sorry, but that’s what she said. Short as snot. She said you had the face of a ferret. She’d screw her face up so she was a ferret and then she’d claw the air every time before you came to our house.”
His smiled disappeared.
“She said you kept calling her and calling her on the snocker-phonola when she was in New York, that’s what she sometimes called the phone, and that your voice made her think of diarrhea.”
He made a gurgling sound, deep in his throat.
My sobs were coming up again, swirling around, my whole head aching. My tears would kill me, I figured. “She said that she told Aunt Janet not to marry you. She begged her, and my grandparents said the same thing, because all you wanted to do was control a woman like a dog. Helen barked when she called you a dog. Bark, bark, like that.”
His pipe dropped from his mouth to the floor.
“She said you had a fart smell to you. Sorry to use the word fart. So when you came over my momma would always fart. That’s what she remembered. She would say, ‘Here comes the short weasel fart,’ and she’d fart. Sorry again to use that word, Herbert. You can’t help being short.”
“This is absurd—” His face flushed.
“My grandparents didn’t like you, either. They wanted to put you in the pig trough. Grandma wanted to use her mother’s scissors on you, in the, you know, privates, so you would become a hen. Grandpa said you weren’t a real man. Does that mean you’re a fake man? I didn’t get that.”
He was furious. “That’s enough, Stevie.”
“You said you wanted me to tell you. My momma also said you had a small pee pee. Remember the sticks?”
“You can go now.” He was darn near to frothing he was so mad.
“Okay. I’ll go now.” I got out of my seat and turned to leave. “My momma said you had Napoleon Syndrome, then she would get down on her knees and crawl around with a fake sword. What’s that?”
He yelled, I ran.
I went upstairs, lay down, and waited for my tears to kill me.
When they didn’t, I snuck downstairs and ate six cupcakes.
10
Portland, Oregon
The women clearly didn’t care if they killed each other.
I had never seen such aggression, such flat-out, blatant, rip-roaring competition in my life. And all from women who were wearing fishnet tights and roller skates. This was the fifth roller derby bout I’d watched, and I know this: Women’s roller derby competitions are not for the faint of heart.
Zena belonged to Portland’s Break Your Neck Booties roller derby team. Her derby name was Badass Z Woman, and she was constantly trying to get me to join. “I know there’s a she-devil in you, a knee breaker, a bottom booter, a savage Roller-blading demon.”
I sucked in my breath. I couldn’t join the Break Your Neck Booties. No way. They’re all women, aged twenty-two to fifty. With the fishnets they wear short black skirts, red satin shirts, helmets, elbow pads, and kneepads. Their ferocious battles fried any preconceived notion that women are naturally gentle. These women played to win. They are
rough. They are tough. They are deadly. They are Alpha Women.
I am only an Alpha Woman in my daydreams, but I secretly, in my wildest dreams and fantasies, want to belong to that group. But I can’t. Too scared. Too out of shape. And I’m not vicious enough.
“Oh, my goodness, those women would mush me. Mush me,” I said. Off the track the team consists of two doctors, one a brain surgeon no less, a prosecuting attorney, a defense attorney, two full-time mothers with seven kids between them, a makeup artist, a tow truck driver, a minister, and Zena. “None of them would even be interested in viewing the mush I became.”
“Then toughen up, you wimp!” Zena shouted, her arms in the air. I had caught her lurking outside the pillars of our office again last week. She had insisted on wearing the oversized red sweater I was wearing. The red sweater came almost to her knees. She pulled a rope—a rope—out of her desk and tied it around her waist three times and kept her black cowboy boots on. She was so chic that Caroline and the other male attorneys probably got boners.
“You can do this, Stevie,” she pleaded.
“Oh, I can’t. Didn’t you break someone’s arm last week?”
Zena smiled, proud. “Not intentionally. She was in my way. She scratched me later. See that?” I dutifully admired her very long scratch.
“You’re an Amazon woman, Zena. A warrior.”
She pleaded, I declined, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t watch the roller derby bouts and cheer my head off.
When Zena stepped off the track after a particularly bad crash with a competitor who was wearing a blue silky half top, a jean skirt, and red tights, she spit blood out of her mouth, checked her teeth with her fingers, wiped the blood off, and went speeding back onto the track with a roar—no kidding, she actually roared.
I wanted to be a Break Your Neck Booties gal.
I did.
I couldn’t, though.
Could I?
I called cafés, coffee shops, restaurants, and asked if they had received my application.