“Yours was definitely as good as this,” I told her, bending the truth just a little, since nothing was as good as this. “It was just different.”
Not much was said after that. Still, a part of me hoped that maybe this could become a new thing. Maybe we could sit down to a meal together once in a while and chat like a normal family.
Now I close the door of the fridge and grab a fork. I don’t even bother to heat up the food first. I just sit at the table and eat it cold, right out of the container. A lump starts to form in my throat again.
It’s been so long since anybody has taken care of me.
63
MOIRA
DAY 38: MAY 18
Grant lives in the world’s tiniest apartment above a Greek delicatessen on Telegraph Avenue. I sleep on the twin futon that takes up his entire living room. When I wake up in the morning, it’s to the sound of traffic on the street below and the smell of meat and exotic spices ribboning in through the heater vent. My first morning here, the first thing I thought about was how I survived the flight despite the lightning bolts of adrenaline that shot down my spine every time we hit turbulence and also when the landing gear clunked into place. Three days later, I’m still proud of myself for not coming unglued.
Fern comes by while I’m folding up the futon. She doesn’t have to work her library shift until this afternoon, so the two of us head downstairs for an early lunch. I have no clue where to even begin with the menu.
“Everything’s good,” Fern advises as we walk through the door of the delicatessen. “Believe me.” A man behind the counter smiles at her. “Hi, Gregor,” she says.
As I’m trying to interpret the menu, clearly lost, he points to me and says in a thick accent, “You: gyros and souvlaki.”
I hesitate. “Both of them?”
Gregor smiles and nods.
I look around to see who might be listening, to see which of the college students packing the place is going to make a crack—Hey, fatty. Why stop at two? Why not order three or four entrees?—but nobody gives me a second glance. Except for one guy sitting behind an open biology textbook near the back wall. He’s wearing retro-frame glasses, and he is not un-handsome. He brings a gyro to his mouth, takes a big bite, and gazes around the room. Our eyes meet briefly.
I pay for my two items (because, okay, why not?). As I’m waiting for Fern to pay for her stuff, I scan the deli again, looking for a place where we can sit down. Bespectacled biology guy is still looking at me, smiling this time. It’s not a creepy smile, and it’s not a mean one. It seems … Could it be a genuine signal of goodwill from an attractive stranger of the opposite sex?
This does not compute. I just stand there and stare blankly back, unsure of what to do next. Should I return the smile? Flip him off? What’s the protocol here? Clearly, I think about it too long, because a blush rises to the guy’s face and he looks down at his food.
Fern’s eyebrows are raised when I turn back to her. “Looks like somebody has a fan,” she says.
“What? Oh, please.”
“I’m just saying.”
I feel color rising into my own cheeks. I hope the extra pale foundation I’m wearing today (China Doll #728) is enough to cover it. When I get up the nerve to look back at the guy one more time, he won’t look at me. Smooth move, I tell myself. Way to terrify the locals.
* * *
Later, when we’re back out on the street, wandering into and out of the various shops, a woman in a wraparound sari-type dress and big hoop earrings walks in front of us. She’s about the same size as me, but unlike me she holds her head high and sways her ample backside proudly from side to side as she strolls. I watch the eyes of people walking toward us to see if they’re going to laugh or say something insulting, but nobody does. If anything, I catch a few oncoming females looking at the swaying woman with admiration. Several of the men look at her with something different, something more like adoration. From the back, I can’t tell if she returns their stares with smiles or dirty looks or what. I’m guessing smiles, probably secret ones. Not that it matters. Clearly, this woman is moving through the world for herself and herself alone, with little concern about what other people might think.
More than anything else, at this moment I want to reach forward and tap her on the shoulder. I want to offer to buy her a cup of coffee so I can pick her brain and ask her how she got this way. Maybe I could be her apprentice. For the first time in my life, I’m looking at a big, mighty, curvaceous gal like myself and thinking, This. This is who I want to be.
64
AGNES
DAY 37: MAY 19
In the middle of finals break, Boone takes me with him to haul water.
I’m waiting on the front step when he pulls up. A jumbo fiberglass tank is strapped into the bed of his truck. “Our cistern’s almost dry,” he calls out to me from behind the wheel. “Not that water hauling is much of an adventure, but you said you wanted to get out of the house.”
I check with Mom, who says it’s fine. She says she knows I’ll be careful.
“That thing looks like a big white space pod,” I tell Boone as I walk toward the truck and climb in.
“I’ve always thought it looked like an alien egg,” he replies. “Like it’s going to hatch and a thousand alien babies are going to come out and take over the world.”
“Ew.” There’s no booster seat, and I have to hold the seat belt strap to keep it from covering my face.
As we approach downtown, we see a truck parked in a dirt lot with a For Sale sign in the window. The truck is beat-up and yellow with a thick brown center stripe. Boone stares at it as we drive past.
“Looks like an old banana,” I say.
“Yeah, but it’s not as old as this one.” As if in response, his Chevy lurches and sputters. I’m thrown forward a little, and Boone sticks an arm out to brace me, just like Moira would.
“Sorry about that,” he says, cranking the stick shift into a lower gear and stomping on the gas to keep the engine from dying.
Next, we pass a billboard advertising a local mattress outlet. The model is wearing a silky negligee. She’s sleeping on a bare mattress with a big sexy smile on her face and long brown hair fanned out all around her shoulders.
“Who sleeps like that?” Boone says. “I mean, at least put a sheet on the bed, for crying out loud.”
“She has the prettiest hair, though,” I tell him, sighing. “It’s like … religious hair.”
He’s laughing now. “What does that even mean?”
“You know…”
“Um…”
“Oh come on,” I say, swatting at him. “Hair! Hair that’s, like … blessed or something. It’s like … childbirthing hair.” I play with a few strands of the curlicue wig I put on this morning.
“Okay, now you’re just scaring me.” Boone turns onto a narrow side road and navigates the truck under a long hose hanging from a standpipe that’s connected to the city water tower. He turns off the engine and looks at me.
My arms are crossed over my chest now. “You’re never going to understand this,” I tell him. “Try to imagine what it would be like if you had no hair.”
“I’d be cool with that.” Boone opens the door and gets out of the truck.
“Shut up!” I open the door on my side and jump down to the ground. With help from Boone, I climb up onto the open tailgate and watch as he unscrews a cap from the fiberglass tank so he can place the standpipe hose inside. He fishes a bunch of quarters from his jeans pocket and feeds them into a coin-op machine. Seconds later, water roars down through the hose and whooshes into the tank, making the entire truck rumble beneath me.
Boone finishes feeding quarters into the slot and leans against the tailgate. “Seriously, I’d totally rock as a bald guy. I’d be like Yul Brynner or something.”
“I don’t know what that is.”
“Yul Brynner? The King and I?”
My face is blank.
“Seriously?” Boone takes
a step toward me and holds out one flat palm.
“What are you doing?”
“Shall we dance?”
Silence.
“And you accuse me of being out of the loop with your whole ‘religious hair’ thing,” he says. “Please tell me you’ve heard of The King and I.”
When I shake my head, he does something I wouldn’t have expected in a million years. He takes a deep breath, holds both arms out, and begins to sing. “Shaaaaaaaall weeeeeeee DANCE! Bom bom bom!” He launches to the left in a spin, one arm held low in front of him now, as if on a lady’s waist. He holds the other hand higher, at about ten o’clock, like he’s holding his partner’s hand aloft.
I sit there, stunned, on the bed of the truck as it lowers under the weight of roaring water.
Boone keeps singing about flying on a cloud of music, his voice deep and strong. It only falters a little bit on the higher notes.
The sound of the water in the tank is suddenly muted. There’s a gurgling, and then the water is overflowing. It runs down the side of the space pod and sloshes into the truck bed before I can get out of the way. In an instant, my pants are soaked and I’m shrieking. I’m only a little surprised when Boone whirls back, punches the emergency stop button on the coin-op, picks me up from the tailgate, and twirls me along with him all in one fluid motion.
I watch the horizon to keep from getting too dizzy as Boone spins me around, still singing. Then he stops and our dance ends. He sets me down and looks at my clothes. “Oh, boy,” he says. “I’m so sorry, Agnes. I don’t know what got into me. My mom loved that movie. Man, you’re soaked. I must have put too many coins in by mistake.” The look of concern in his eyes is one I’ve rarely seen from anyone other than immediate family members. It’s the look of someone who’s seeing past—seeing through—my veiny scalp, my crooked teeth, my beak of a nose.
Above all else, this is the thing about Boone that I’d put inside a sealed jar on my bedside table if I could. This is the thing that makes me … what?
Like him as more than a friend?
Maybe even … love him a little?
Well, yes. There’s that.
65
MOIRA
DAY 36: MAY 20
Grant drives us across the Bay Bridge and into San Francisco so I can see the Haight-Ashbury district.
“It was the heart of the flower child movement,” Fern says from the backseat of the Subaru. We’re driving high above the choppy, slate-blue water of the bay. Sunlight glints off the tips of waves like a million stars, as if the inverted night sky is below us.
San Francisco—with its wisps of fog swirling just out of reach, the Muni buses and trundling trolleys, the people in all shapes, sizes, and colors wearing the kind of perfectly cobbled together, edgy outfits I’d pretty much kill for—is a wonder. When we get to the Haight, Victorian houses line the streets. They’re not so different from my own house, really, but these are all painted different colors, like they’re Easter eggs and Haight-Ashbury is the basket.
We go into an enormous music store, and when we come out half an hour later, a man in a full formal suit and fedora is standing outside the store playing an upright bass. There’s a carnation in his pocket, and he reminds me of Boone somehow, with that stature. I feel a pang of homesickness. Not that I don’t love it with all my heart here, and not that I don’t appreciate everything Grant and Fern are doing for me. I just wish Boone was here to experience this place with me. Agnes, too, of course. Grant puts a few bucks in the bass player’s tip jar.
We check out a store filled with wigs in all different cuts and colors, everything from conservative and gray to wild and neon. Agnes would flip. Feather boas and irresistible tights, in patterns I’ve never before considered, hang from dozens of racks shoved close together in the small space. It’s obviously a store for drag queens, but I couldn’t care less. I buy a pair of tights with a swirling, psychedelic pattern in reds and blues and oranges. It’s way more color than I ever wear, but I can’t help myself. Maybe I’ll wear them under the full-length black skirt I made last month in the home ec room, just to know they’re there. On second thought, maybe I’ll whip up a black miniskirt when I get home so the tights are fully visible. It would be almost refreshing to give the simpletons at school something new to torment me about: Hey, Rotunda, I imagine them saying as they gawk at my ginormous rainbow legs. Nice … colors.
66
BOONE
DAY 35: MAY 21
I wonder if she’s thinking about me at all, maybe even just a little, like I’m thinking about her.
Which is totally brain-dead of me. Moira has probably been out on the town this entire past week, meeting college guys who have their shit together and are almost as smart as she is, things I could never in a million years claim to have and be. At night, she’s probably sitting in cafés with those same guys, drinking fancy coffee and discussing art and politics and philosophy while they lie drooling at her feet.
I force myself to think of something else. Like sitting down and studying for finals, which I haven’t done nearly enough of. The thing is, I feel more prepared than I probably should, considering the fact that I don’t get as much extra help in school as I used to. I don’t want to be full of myself or anything, but it’s nice to feel confident about even one small part of my life for a change.
67
MOIRA
DAY 34: MAY 22
The three of us are hanging out at Grant’s apartment on my last morning in Berkeley. “So what do you think?” Fern asks. “Is Cal at least going on your college maybe list?”
I’ve finished packing my carry-on for this afternoon’s flight, and Grant’s in the kitchenette getting some cheese and crackers for us to munch on.
I just smile and nod. The Bay Area is obscenely expensive, and I don’t know how I’d ever manage to afford it. My parents would no doubt figure out a way to help me like they’ve helped Grant, but I wouldn’t want to bleed their bank account dry. Still, I almost feel like I have no choice but to do whatever it takes to move here someday. There’s so much to see and do. From the food and the architecture to the people and the fashion, this entire place is amazing. It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen or dared to imagine for myself. I am Paradise, it seems to say. And I will be here when you’re ready for me.
Fern lowers her voice and glances toward the kitchenette. “So, I know Grant asked you this when we were at your house, but it was probably hard to answer with everyone there. What’s the boy situation like back home? Any special guys in your life?”
Blushing, I look down. “Not really. I mean, there’s this one. Kind of.”
“Aw,” Fern says. “What’s his name?”
“Boone Craddock.” My voice is so small that I half wonder if I said his name at all. Maybe I just thought it, like I’m always doing lately.
It’s no surprise when perfect Grant, with his gift of perfect hearing, chooses that moment to return with the cheese and crackers. “Boone Craddock? I remember that kid. What about him? He was kind of messed up, wasn’t he?”
I stare at him. “What? No. Nothing about him. Fern was just asking if—”
“I was asking if she knew any guys with kind of … unusual names. You know, like we have?”
Grant frowns. “My name’s not unusual. It was a president’s name.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Fern smiles and rolls her eyes. “‘Who was buried in Grant’s tomb’ and all that. But you have to admit, it’s not a common name. Just like Moira and Fern aren’t common.”
And with that, the brilliant woman who I dearly hope will be my sister-in-law someday effortlessly changes the subject.
68
AGNES
DAY 33: MAY 23
“Do you mind if we wait in the commons?”
“Go right ahead,” the front desk receptionist tells me.
Mom and I head toward the main area of the senior center with its floor-to-ceiling picture windows looking out over the town. Today was the
first day back to school after finals break, I think I might be in love, and I have another appointment with Dr. Caslow. I guess when it rains, it pours.
Kitty is there, as always. She looks up from her mah-jongg game and waves us over to the big circular table where she’s sitting with five other elderly female residents.
“My girlfriends and I all had debutante balls,” one of them is saying.
“Oh, we used to get sozzled at those,” another chimes in. “Afterward, we’d go out to the lake. I’m not saying there was skinny-dipping involved, but I’m not saying there wasn’t, either.”
The others throw back their heads and cackle.
“Young women think the saddest thing about old ladies is that we just haven’t experienced Johnny or Jimmy or whoever the magic man du jour is,” the old woman continues. “But they’re wrong. We have experienced them.”
“Mine was Walter Anderson,” Kitty pipes up. “Oh, but he knew how to woo a girl.”
“We thought the same thing about the old women of our day,” the one who brought up the debutante balls says, looking at me now. “How sad it was that they’d missed out. Let me tell you something, honey. Just in case you’re wondering, old people haven’t missed out on anything. In fact, they’ve likely experienced more than most young people ever will, the way the world’s going. Everyone hiding behind their electronic screens.”
Her friends murmur their agreement and get back to the game.
“So, who’s yours?” Kitty asks me.
“My what?”
“Your Johnny or your Jimmy, or whoever.”
I look away, my face hot. “I don’t have one.”
“Pah!” Kitty waves her hand in the air. “Sure you do.”
A few minutes later, when Mom’s in the bathroom, I whisper, “Well … maybe there’s one.”
“Out with it.”
“His name’s Boone. And he’s … he’s just so … He’s perfect. But you can’t tell anyone, Kitty. Promise?”
The old woman pinches her thumb and forefinger together and zips them across her lips. “I know a thing or two about keeping secrets from parents,” she whispers. “Is he kind to you?”
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