by Joan Opyr
“I just saw your car go by. Were you driving around in your bathrobe?”
“No,” she laughed. “I came home and stripped first thing. I was just getting ready to take a shower.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt. I could leave and come back later.”
“Don’t be silly. I’m glad you came.”
She kept her arms wrapped lightly around my waist as she pulled back to look up at me. “I like your haircut,” she said. “It’s kind of edgy. Suits you.”
“You don’t think it’s too short? My ears hang out.”
She shook her head. “No, I think it’s decisive. I didn’t like that long in the back, short in the front cut you got last time. It looked like you couldn’t make up your mind what you wanted. This is good. Where did you get it done?”
“Maurice’s house of beauty.”
“Where’s that?”
“It’s in our bathroom. I cut it myself with the dog clippers.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope. I’ve been clipping Maurice’s hair for years, so I thought, why not? The clippers have these plastic attachments, so you can control just how short you cut it. I used the two-inch attachment. Next time, I’ll use the two-and-a-half.”
“No, don’t. I think two is just fine.” She let go of my waist and reached up to cup my chin. After looking into my eyes for a moment or two, she smiled. “You used to flinch when I did that. Now you stare right back at me.”
I shrugged. “You do this every time I see you, Susan. What do they call it? Operant conditioning.”
She laughed. “You’ve got the weirdest pockets of knowledge.”
“I spend a lot of time at the library.”
She continued to look from my left eye to my right, absently stroking my cheek with her index finger. Though she was two inches shorter than I was, she always managed to make me feel as if she were taller—even when, as now, I had shoes on and she didn’t.
“Look,” she said, “why don’t you wait for me in the bedroom? I’ll take a quick shower, and then you can chat with me while I get dressed.”
“Are you going out?”
“I am, but not for a while yet.”
I followed her through the living room and down the hallway. The Savas’ house seemed empty in comparison to my own. The ceilings were high and white, and the walls were painted a light buff color, emphasizing the sense of open space. Nothing was crowded or close. A fat leather sofa and matching chairs sat in a living room completely free of bric-a-brac. Everything in the house matched. The tables went with the chairs, the lamps went with the tables, and the painting over the sofa picked up the brown of the leather upholstery. The only place in the Savas’ house that could have been described as cluttered was the wall outside Susan’s bedroom, which was filled with photographs. There were some of her parents and grandparents, but most were of Susan, all in matching silver frames. The most recent was her high school senior portrait. She was sitting on a hay bale, smiling against the backdrop of a red barn door. It was the most ridiculous setting imaginable for her.
Susan wasn’t pretty by conventional standards. Her nose was too long and too large for her narrow face, and her mouth was too fulllipped and generous. Nevertheless, she was striking. Her hair was light brown, skillfully highlighted with blonde streaks, and she wore it clipped up over her ears, a riot of curls going in every direction on the top of her head. Her skin was smooth and tan, and long lashes ringed her eyes, which were large and expressive. She looked like an actress in a French movie, one with trains and smoke and people wearing raincoats.
I threw myself down on her bed and read a magazine while she took her shower. As promised, she didn’t take long. She settled herself in front of the dressing table and slipped a red plastic headband over her hair, pulling it back from her face, and I watched as she made up her eyes. The only makeup Susan wore was mascara and a tricky-looking combination of brown eye shadows. When she was done, the makeup seemed to disappear, and her eyes became bluer and more compelling. I found it just as interesting to watch the process in reverse. She looked younger then, more vulnerable, and I wanted to reach out and ruffle her hair or cup her chin like she did mine. I wondered what she’d do if I reversed our roles in that way.
When she looked at me in the mirror and smiled, I felt the familiar fluttering in the pit of my stomach, followed by a rush of fear and discomfort.
“What are you thinking?” Susan asked.
“I don’t know. Nothing. I’m glad you’re back.”
She stood up and slipped off the robe, and I watched her as she shifted hangers back and forth in the closet. When she turned around again, I found myself staring at her breasts, pale pink against the darker skin of her neck and shoulders. “How are things at home?”
“The same as always,” I said, looking down quickly. “We don’t see him much on the weekends anymore, so that’s something.”
“Where does he go?”
“Probably down at the shop, getting drunk.”
“No,” she shook her head. “He’s not drinking there. They’ve cracked down on all that now that Bloom’s sons have taken over. No more hanging around on weekends, using the shop as party central, that sort of thing.”
I looked up again. She’d put her bra on, and although the back was still unhooked, the cups were tucked under her breasts. My breathing had grown shallow, and I tried to distract myself by looking at the poster on her closet door. It was a blow-up of the album cover of Fleetwood Mac’s Rumours. Stevie Nicks’leg was draped over Mick Fleetwood’s knee, and her arm was extended, waving a length of sheer fabric. He was looking down at her. Two round balls on long strings were attached to his belt and dangling between his legs in a way that was no doubt meant to be suggestive. I just found it puzzling. The contrast between the two of them, Fleetwood, tall and skinny, and Nicks, small and wispy, made it seem strangely sexless. They looked like they were performing a comic dance, something like the Ballet Trockadero.
Susan took the red headband off and began brushing her hair vigorously. “My dad’s thinking about quitting. He has an offer from the BMW and Saab dealership. Maybe he’ll take your grandfather with him. Dad says he’s probably the best mechanic in Raleigh.”
That “probably” rankled, but I ignored it. My grandfather didn’t like to work on foreign cars, and Susan’s father talked a lot about moving over to one of the European dealerships. His customer base was changing. He sold a lot of Oldsmobiles and Cadillacs at Bloom’s, but the people who’d bought American luxury cars in the seventies now wanted imports.
“Hunter will never leave Bloom’s,” I said. “He’s been there since World War II. Besides, he hates working on foreign cars.”
“He might not have a choice,” she said. Susan got up and stood at the edge of the bed with her back to me. “Would you help me fasten this bra?” I reached up carefully and fumbled with the hooks, my fingers brushing against her charged skin.
“There you go,” I said, pulling my hands away quickly. “What do you mean he may not have a choice?”
She shrugged into a black shirt, tucking the tails into her jeans. “I mean that he doesn’t have the same relationship with the sons that he had with their father. My dad has a hard time taking orders from them, and he’s a lot closer to their age than Hunter is. Besides, your grandfather’s got to be getting close to retirement.”
“He’s sixty-three,” I said, “but he’ll never retire. He’ll work till he dies. Or until someone kills him.”
“Who would kill him?”
“My mother. She wants to hit him in the head with a brick.”
“Oh? I thought you said he wasn’t around much.”
“He was home last night.”
“What happened?”
I shrugged. “He came stumbling in around midnight and started bugging me. When I told him to leave me alone, he grabbed me from behind, wrapped his arms around my chest, and started squeezing.”
Su
san finished zipping her jeans and sat down on the bed next to me. She put her hand on my shoulder. “What did you do?”
“I told him to stop. When he refused, I stood up, and we sort of reeled around the kitchen for a bit. I finally managed to throw him off, and he fell backwards through the screen door. He bounced down the back steps, rolled a couple of times, and ended up flat on his ass in the middle of the yard. He wasn’t very happy about that.”
Susan edged closer, her arm dropping from my shoulder to my waist. She knew all about life with my grandfather. Her mother drank. She was a nice woman when she was sober, but hell on wheels after a few martinis. Jean disappeared for days at a time. She’d return on her own or Mike would find her holed up in some flea-bag motel. He’d sent her to rehab half a dozen times. Despite this, Susan’s house was more peaceful than my own, perhaps because Jean preferred to do her carousing away from home. When Susan had lived at home, her house had been a refuge for me from Hunter’s weekend binges. In the Savas’ house, with its tasteful matching furniture, it was hard to believe that anyone ever yelled, much less threw people through screen doors.
“Go on,” she said quietly. “What did he do then?”
I tried to focus on my story and ignore the feeling of her hand on my back, warm against the thin cotton of my T-shirt. She upset my equilibrium so much that I was afraid I might pitch forward onto the floor. The only thing that stopped me was the idea that she might think I was upset about fighting with Hunter. He’d gotten more physically aggressive as I’d gotten older, wrestling with me, pushing me around. I wasn’t afraid of him. I was eight inches taller and outweighed him by at least twenty pounds, so I could more than hold my own. The thing that bothered me about these battles was the rage I felt afterward. I often felt as if I’d stepped outside myself and become someone else. I was afraid that he’d go too far one day, and I’d bury an axe in his thick skull.
I said, “He sat there for a while, moaning. Then he said that as soon as he got up, he was going to come inside and kill me. So I slammed the back door in his face and locked it. Your parents must have heard the yelling.”
She shook her head. “No witnesses, I’m afraid. My folks are at the beach this weekend. They don’t even know I’m home. I told them I wasn’t coming back until Monday. I thought it might be nice to spend some time by myself.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, standing up. “I didn’t mean to just pounce on you as soon as you arrived. When I saw your car drive by, I . . .”
She put both of her arms around me and pulled me back down, bringing her chin to rest on my shoulder. I caught sight of us then in the dresser mirror—me, my face red and my pulse racing, and Susan with her eyes shut, perfectly comfortable. She filled my view like a solar eclipse.
“I wanted to see you,” she said. “When I said alone, I meant I wanted to spend some time at home without my parents. You’re an only child. You must know what it’s like. Your mother must drive you as crazy as mine drives me. I mean, I love her and everything, but whenever I come home, it’s like I’m like her long-lost best friend. She won’t let me out of her sight.”
I nodded, though my own situation was quite different. I was a second-generation only child on both my father’s and my mother’s side. It was a disability I considered about as bad as being the offspring of first cousins. They both treated me as if I were a baby sister that had been sprung on them by surprise. My father, when he wasn’t being jealous and hostile, acted as if we were bowling buddies, telling me off-color jokes and pointing out women he found attractive. My mother was the more parental of the two, but living with my grandparents made it hard for her to assert her authority. Though she set curfews and limits on my behavior, I often got the feeling that we were partners, united in opposition first to Eddie and then to my grandfather.
“So,” Susan went on, “you locked him out, and he sat on the ground and bellowed. What did you do, call the police?”
“Don’t make me laugh. Nana was having a fit about what the neighbors might think, so she let him back in. I locked myself in the bedroom, and he spent the next three hours pacing up and down the hall, threatening to beat the door down.” Susan, who still had her chin on my shoulder, tightened her arms around my waist. I twisted until she was forced to loosen her grasp.
“Don’t worry,” I said lightly. “He started drinking again and passed out, but not before playing a long serenade on the Wurlitzer. Some Lawrence Welk sort of thing. I think it was Harbor Lights.”
I sang a few bars until she laughed, which forced her to take her chin off my shoulder. She kept her arms around my waist.
“I shouldn’t laugh,” she said. “It’s really not funny. Now, changing the subject, have you mailed your applications?”
“Yeah. UNC and N. C. State.”
“You’ll get into UNC,” she announced. “No thanks to your . . .”
“No thanks to my what?”
“Nothing.”
“You were going to say no thanks to my family. They don’t want me to go to college.”
“Of course they do,” she said, avoiding my gaze. “I’m sure your family’s very proud of you.”
I shook my head. “No, your family is proud of you. Your dad couldn’t be happier that you’re off studying to be a doctor. My family thinks I’m a freak. Nana made me take typing this semester so I’ll have something to fall back on.”
Susan stretched her arms above her head and shifted on the bed so that she was leaning against the wall behind us. “What does your mother say about you going to college?”
“My mother says I should do what I like. If I want to go to college, that’s fine with her.”
“There you go then,” she replied, as if everything were settled.
“She also says that two of the women in her office have college degrees, and they’re doing the same job she does. She thinks it’s a big waste of money.”
“She won’t be paying for it,” Susan said sharply. “You’ve sent in your financial aid forms, haven’t you?”
“Of course. I got my mother to do her taxes early so I could send all that stuff off last month. But look, Susan, will they give me enough to go? What if it’s only half of what I actually need?”
“They won’t do that,” she replied. “They’ll come up with some combination of grants and loans, and it will be enough. If you need spending money, you can get a part-time job. There are plenty of student jobs on campus. You’re not getting out of this, Poppy. Next fall, you’re coming to UNC with me.”
“That’s what I want.”
She smiled. “Good. My work here is done.” She glanced at the alarm clock on the bedside table. “Do you want to hang out here while I’m gone? You can spend the night.”
I made a wry face. “Oh? And what about your boyfriend, Brad? I assume he’s the reason you’re getting dressed and putting on makeup.”
She sighed and got up, slipping on a pair of black loafers. “Don’t talk to me about Brad. I told you that wasn’t serious. Anyway, I’m done with him after tonight. This is a courtesy date.”
“You’re dumping Brad?” I tried to sound nonchalant.
“Yes, if he’ll shut up long enough to let me get a word in edgewise. He wanted to go to dinner and a movie, but I think just dinner will be enough. I’ll be back by nine at the latest, plenty of time to sit up and gossip.”
“What are we going to gossip about?”
“You. I want to hear all about what’s been happening since the last time I saw you.”
“There’s nothing to tell.”
“I doubt that. Are you still going out with Dave?”
“I was never going out with Dave. He gives me a lift from time to time when I can’t borrow the car.”
“Are you going out with anyone else?”
“No.”
“Interested in anyone?”
“Could we talk about something else?”
She cocked her head to one side and regarded me intently. “Of course. What
do you want to talk about?”
“I don’t know.”
“Uh huh,” she said, her voice carefully neutral. “Maybe you’ll think of something while I’m gone. I’d call and cancel, but I think breaking up with people over the telephone is wimpy.”
“People?” I asked. “As in plural? More than one?”
She smiled enigmatically. “That’s something we can talk about.”
“Sounds very mysterious. Are you keeping secrets?”
“Sure, aren’t you?”
Dangerous territory. I stood up and handed her the jean jacket that had been hanging on the back of the door. “I hang out with a lot of guys. Dave is just one of them. It’s nothing. Really.”
“I know.” She gave herself one final check in the mirror, screwing her face up in response to what she saw. She always did this before she went out; she called it her ritual grimace. “So will you stay? You can watch television. We have MTV.”
“I can’t. I have to go to an AA meeting. The great pretender has announced that he’s collecting a white chip tonight. It was the only way he could get out of last night’s debacle without actually having to apologize.”
“AA again? How many white chips does this make?”
“I’ve lost count. Four, I think. Soon he’ll have a full house.”
“Stop making me laugh,” she said. “It isn’t funny. Come over after the meeting. I’ll leave the kitchen door unlocked for you.”
Chapter Eight
“What are you thinking about?” Abby asked.
“Oddly enough, I was thinking about my name.”
“I see. Do you need to do that with the light on?”
“No. I’m sorry.” I reached over to the bedside table between us and switched off the lamp. The curtains were open and the moon was full, so the room wasn’t entirely dark. I stared up at the ceiling, allowing my eyes to adjust to the reflected glow.
“I’ll never get used to sleeping alone,” she said.
“You’re not alone. I’m two feet away.”