World Gone Missing

by Doyle, Laurie Ann;

  “I—I—” he’s saying.

  Those last two words sum up everything. A roar starts building in my ears and suddenly words are flying out of my mouth as if they were spring-loaded and waiting.

  “You!” I yell. “Is there anyone else on the planet besides you! What about Mom, me? Or did you forget?” I’m zigzagging now all over the sidewalk, pressing forward every time he steps back. “You think you’re the only person in the world who’s turned into concrete? Who feels empty?” I see myself in the dark shop windows beyond, my arms flinging wildly.

  “Years!” I shout. My reflection dips in and out of the shadowy glass. Here, gone, like selves passing. “Where the hell were you?” I see the lonely seven-year-old, shy teenager, the woman marrying, divorcing, burying her mother. All the selves he never knew. Missed completely.

  “I hate you, Dad! I mean it!” My legs are kicking, my elbows furiously jabbing air. But it’s not pure hate I feel, but an unnerving mix of love, hate, fury, and sadness. So much sadness.

  “Lark,” my father says. “Wow. That was incredible.” I can’t tell if he’s smiling with some kind of fatherly pride, or because he likes the new name he just gave me.

  This man is your father, I think. Look at him.

  “You wanted a real conversation, Dad,” I say, my voice shaking. “Here it is.”

  “I hate you, too,” he says, smiling.

  His eyes move beyond my left shoulder. He touches one of the flowers on his hat as if to make sure it’s still there. His feet start shuffling together and apart, awkwardly.

  Five or six people have gathered, how long they’ve been standing there, I can’t tell. Street sounds are still coming from everywhere, but right around us, silence. I see Krash’s head above the group. The man in the gold helmet, now wearing pink high heels, stands on one side of him. On the other is a big woman with purple and orange dreadlocks. My father walks toward a man with his face covered in tattoos. Chinese, they look like. The blue characters ride up and down his cheeks every time he smiles, which he’s doing now, back and forth with my father. They exchange a soft fuck you.

  Krash comes over to me, sucking on something that’s definitely not a cigarette. He holds it out, but I shake my head. Everything’s strange enough already.

  He inhales deeply again. “You’re back,” he says in a tight voice, trying to hold the smoke in. “You and Hate connect?”

  I nod. I don’t volunteer that Hateman is my father and Krash doesn’t ask.

  He exhales a slow stream of smoke. “Don’t know what we’d do in the park without him.”

  Try being his daughter, I almost say.

  But Krash is gone.

  A circle’s formed around my father, everyone spilling into the center of the street. My father’s got this plastic pail wedged under his arm and he’s drumming it, drumming hard. His elbows are out straight and his knees bending so deeply it looks as if he might fly off. Krash pulls out splintered drumsticks from his backpack, and begins battering a chained bicycle wheel with no bicycle, completely off beat. The big woman twirls and twirls. I keep trying to catch my father’s eye, but his face is always turned away.

  Girls

  1.

  “Ma, it’s 1965,” Mela said. “Everybody wears one.”

  Her mother looked up from Family Circle. “Really? Everyone?”

  Of course, everyone meant all the girls in sixth grade. Her mother didn’t wear one, not that Mela could tell, anyway. Just these slips, white filmy things, with the straps always falling down.

  “The school nurse says it’s important we start out with the proper support.”

  Her mother didn’t say anything.

  She’d cried when Mela first got her period. “You’re too young,” she’d moaned when Mela finally told her. Mela guessed that meant she—her teary mother—felt too old. Twelve’s not young, Mela thought. She’d been waiting to turn twelve forever.

  But that night her mother had gone all out, made a dinner with all of Mela’s favorites, tuna fish casserole with potato chip crust, peas but no carrots, pistachio ice cream. Even her father looked pleased, though her mother hadn’t breathed a word, her wink told Mela that.

  Still, she wasn’t sure what the big deal was. She’d gotten her period, yes. But girls lied about that all the time. Lied they’d gotten it. Lied they hadn’t. But breasts—that was the word the school nurse said they should use—those people paid attention to.

  “I want to buy a bra.”

  “What about your undershirts?” her mother said.

  Two weeks ago, they’d gone shopping for seventh grade. Her mother bought her a maroon A-line skirt, a good winter coat, and three cotton panties. When the saleswoman was ringing them up, Mela wanted to say, a bra, too, Ma, a bra. But she hadn’t gotten up the nerve. Now school—the new junior high on the other side of Westport—was starting Monday.

  “I’m too old for an undershirt.”

  Her mother smiled uncertainly. “All right, Pamela, if that’ll make you happy, we’ll go shopping. Soon.”

  But soon could mean weeks from now, even months. Definitely past the first day of school.

  Mela walked into the kitchen, looking back only after her mother had turned into two feet stuck to a chintz chair. She looked down at her own feet. They were long and wide: boy’s feet. Her shoulders, too broad. But her chest—Carpenter’s dream, Tommy Gray had snickered in the lunch room. Flat as a board, another boy laughed.

  She went out into the garage, climbed on her bike, and soared down the driveway and onto Shore Road. Beyond the seawall, the Long Island Sound glittered, light shivering across its blue surface. All summer she’d been swimming way out and slipping off her bathing suit. It felt good there, all alone, the water lapping softly against her shoulders, her feet stirring up the cool current below, the ocean silky all around. She could have stayed forever.

  She pedaled hard in the direction of downtown Westport. As she got closer, she could see the town’s single traffic light swaying in the breeze, blinking its summertime red.

  “I’ve heard,” Mela whispered into the rushing air, “I understand you specialize in—that your selection of—” The words had to be just right. As if she’d done this before. At the stop light, she imagined herself strolling into the store with confidence. She parked her bike and nervously pushed open the glass door.

  She’d never been in the Village Shoppe before. Inside was one long white room with the cash register placed at the far end. All the clothing was covered in plastic. Dresses, pleated skirts, and button-down blouses hung on the racks in long shiny sweeps. Cable knit sweaters sat stacked in thick plastic bags, pairs of socks were displayed above in small sacks. Near the back, bras in translucent packages stood lined up in bins. Mela walked toward them.

  The woman behind the register looked up. “May I help you?”

  “I understand… My friend’s mother said…” She forgot the rest.

  The woman was old, past forty maybe. Auburn hair swept across her head and out in a stiff flip on one side. Wavy lines left by a row of bobby pins showed under the thick coat of hairspray.

  “What is it you’re looking for?”

  “A brassiere,” Mela said, trying to trill the r’s like in French.

  The saleswoman laughed, not a laugh, really, more like a sneeze or a snort. She wore an olive-colored shirtwaist dress with a thick tight belt buckled at the waist. She sat higher up on the stool and pointed her chest at Mela. Her breasts seemed like two beams of light focused on Mela. She couldn’t help but stare. Her mother’s were softer. But saggier.

  “Don’t tell me,” the woman said, “that this is your first?”

  Mela wrapped her arms over her chest. “No, of course not.”

  “No?” The saleslady walked Mela toward the back of the store. “Why don’t you take the dressing room on the left?” She pushed
aside the velvet curtain. “I’ll be right back.”

  The fitting room was bigger than Mela had imagined, with two floor-length mirrors like in gym. If she angled herself just right in the locker room mirrors, she could see the other girls’. Some were even less than her barely developed chest. But Linda Thompson’s were huge. It was scary how they almost stood up and spoke. Bosoms. That’s what her mother had, too.

  What did she have?

  Mela slipped off her T-shirt. Two pale half circles of flesh looked back at her. Not tits, the word the boys liked. Will you check out that pair? Not bosoms, either. Not yet. Breasts wasn’t right, in spite of the school nurse said. Maybe she should keep it simple. Above and below. Linda—someone she’d known since first grade—had a lush patch of dark hair below. Mela had, well, the bristly start of something.

  “You do want a fitting, don’t you?” a voice at the curtain said.

  “Yes.” A fitting sounded important.

  The saleswoman entered, a frayed tape measure hanging around her neck. “Good. Now put your arms over your head. And keep still.”

  Mela tried not to breathe. The saleswoman’s clammy hands darted around her chest, brushing her skin here and there.

  “Thirty-two and a third. Bigger than I would have guessed. How old are you?”

  “Fourteen.” People said all the time she looked fourteen.

  The saleswoman sneezed out another laugh; this one smelled like burnt coffee. She carefully placed the cold tape measure on top of one nipple, then the other. Mela took in a quick sip of air.

  “Only triple A in the cup.” The woman smiled. “But don’t you worry. That was me at your age and look how I blossomed out.”

  Mela’s shoulders hunched. The saleslady’s breasts pointed at her again, this time looking as if they might puncture the fabric. Mela couldn’t help wondering what the woman had below. Was that red, too? Did pubic hair even come in red?

  The woman’s eyes caught hers in the mirror. “Mom busy today?”

  “She’s out.” It was true. Today was her mother’s bridge.

  “I see.”

  “She plays tennis.” Mela imagined her mother wearing a short white dress and boldly swinging a racket.

  “Really.” The saleswoman opened the curtain wider. “Lace or cotton?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Lace or plain cotton? We carry both.”

  Mela dug inside the pocket of her cutoffs for the babysitting money she’d brought. Three crumpled dollar bills and a couple of dimes. “How much is lace?”

  “Five dollars. Plus tax.”

  “Cotton, I guess.”

  The first bra slid easily out of its Maidenform box. Finally, Mela thought. Now Linda will be impressed. Her mother had taken her to get a bra in fifth grade.

  “Lean over,” the saleswoman instructed, “and shake yourself into it.”

  Shake? But Mela did as she was told. The first hook fastened easily. Standing upright, she managed the second. In spite of how hard she tried, she couldn’t close the third.

  “Takes some getting used to,” the saleswoman said, catching the last hook for her.

  “It’s a little bit tight.”

  “Not a problem. Let’s try another.”

  More boxes were brought. Bras began to accumulate, lying in a tangle on the cushion chair and hanging in bunches from the brass hook. Mela tried on a dozen or more. But the cups—stitched or smooth—always poked in, not out.

  The saleswoman stood back and looked at her. “You know, the first one was best.”

  “Really?”

  “It had lift. Support is important at your age.”

  “I know.”

  “Try it on again.”

  This time Mela struggled until the last hook met.

  “A bra should be snug. It’s good.”

  “It feels tight.” She couldn’t take in a full breath.

  “Look, if you want a bigger selection, you’ll have to go into New York.”

  The saleswoman sounded certain. Her mother never sounded certain. Her mother let her father boss her around. “It’s tartare, Phyllis, not tartar,” and “See you pick up my shirts from the cleaners” and “Please have dinner ready at six.” Her mother always nodded. Yes, Herb.

  Mela studied herself in the double mirrors. She loved the way the white cups covered her chest, adding a layer. Maybe tight was how it was supposed to feel.

  “I’ll take it.”

  “Good. I will wrap it up.”

  Mela stretched the elastic band around her ribs. She undid and redid a hook. “No. Wait.”

  “Now what?” The saleswoman was walking toward the register.

  “Could I wear it, please? Out?”

  2.

  Mela heard the sound of an engine and lifted her thumb higher. Cars had been trickling down from campus for over an hour now, drivers looking anywhere but in her direction.

  “Please be a clunker,” she whispered to the redwood trees overhead. Clunkers were a hitchhiker’s best bet. But the wait hadn’t been all bad, the Santa Cruz sun warm on her back, the ocean from up here stunning, a glittering blue triangle laced with fog. But the Pacific was anything but peaceful. Monstrous waves, violent rip tides. Nothing at all like the timid Long Island Sound. She didn’t swim these days, she plunged. In and out of the numbing water as fast as possible.

  The decrepit VW bus shuddered to a stop. A man with yellow-gray braids flashed her a grin and gestured to the back. The two golden retrievers dominating the front seat seemed to grin, too. Mela peered in the window. A guy with greasy hair driving a Thunderbird had picked her up last week. As he stopped to let her out, he’d slid a long finger along her breast. “Don’t wear a bra, do you?” he’d drooled.

  But this old hippie looked harmless.

  “Thanks, man.” Mela hiked up her long velvet skirt and climbed in.

  “Where you headed?” he yelled over the Beatles eight-track. Everybody’s got something to hide...

  “Downtown,” Mela shouted.

  “Cool.” He jammed the bus in gear and it roared down the road.

  Mela leaned back against the cracked seat. She rarely went downtown, but this trip couldn’t be avoided. Her parents were flying in next week from Connecticut. Graduation. Commencement. Whatever. Her dress, cut from a faded Indian print bedspread, was all finished. She’d even embroidered the neckline with bits of shells to draw attention away from the weight she’d gained. It was perfect, except for one problem. You could see too much through the thin fabric. Above and below.

  Her father would show up in his Westport usual: gray pinstripe, button-down shirt, black oxfords. Her mother would wear strappy sandals and a wraparound dress that revealed sagging breasts. Mela couldn’t stand the thought of her parents staring at her, or worse, pointedly looking away.

  She’d stopped wearing underwear of any kind freshman year. It wasn’t just that women’s underwear represented male domination. She’d never burned a bra, though she liked the idea of all that repression going up in smoke. No, the best part of nothing was the freedom, comfort. No more red marks ringing her ribs, shoulders, and hips. Mark liked it, too, the way he could kiss her all over.

  She’d met Mark Lewis at the student co-op, a three-story gray Victorian on the edge of campus. He’d taken over the room not much bigger than a closet under the stairs, lining its single shelf with books like Marx’s Das Kapital and Chairman Mao’s Little Red Book. He’d even built a narrow bed that folded up neatly when not in use. She remembered him carefully easing down the wooden frame their first night together. That sweet, damp first night, his long body above hers, his hair a soft black curtain brushing the edge of her face. In the morning, he’d asked to look at her in the light, all of her. She’d laughed, slowly opened the crooked door, and walked through the house, naked. The two of them had sat
nude at the kitchen table breakfasting on goat’s milk and honey toast, his housemates giggling around them.

  Mela looked down at the V where her thighs met. What would Mark say? She hadn’t told him. She hadn’t told anyone yet. She hadn’t had her period since, when, April? Months, anyway. She crossed her legs and looked out the cracked window. Green slid by.

  The VW bus slowed to a stop. “Here you go, sweet girl,” the man said, turning around. “No smile for me today?” Mela clenched her teeth into a grin and pushed hard on the bent door.

  Henderson’s Department Store was one of those establishment establishments on Pacific Avenue where mothers brought kids school shopping, where tan and wrinkled women pondered cruise wear. A place so clean and evenly cool throughout it made Mela itch. Yellow smiley faces dotted the store windows.

  Mela scratched and stared at her reflection in the sun-darkened glass. Wavy brown hair covered both breasts.

  “If it grows, don’t cut it,” Mark said. He was right. Not just hair on her head, but also the blonde fuzz covering her legs and the dark growth under her arms. Well, no one in Henderson’s could see. She’d made sure she was covered up: sleeves, long skirt, everything. She pulled the door wide open.

  The lingerie section was filled with circular racks of white, pink, black, nude. The air smelled…new, was the only way she could describe it. A strange combination of starch, steam, and air freshener. What a trip.

  “Could I help you?” The saleswoman’s hair was dyed a dull gold, permed and cut short. She wore a black polyester dress splashed with pink flowers. Her smile reminded Mela of her mother’s, uncertain of the creature standing in front of her.

  “I’m looking for a bra that is—” She didn’t know how to put it.

  “Comfortable?”

  “Yes.” Mela exhaled. “Stretchy.”

  “Why don’t you browse over there?” the woman said, pointing more confidently now to the center rack. “I just unpacked the whole lot.”

  Next to these soft fabrics, Mela’s hands felt like bear paws. She knocked three plastic hangers to the floor. The quilted padding of one bra reminded her of a baby blanket. Others sported triple rows of hooks. She fingered a flesh-tone object resembling the top of a leotard. Extra large. It was worth a try.