Shaken and Stirred

by Joan Opyr

  “Tell me you understand.”

  “I understand.”

  “Thanks for saying it like you really mean it,” she replied sarcastically. “I don’t know why you’re being like this. I could come down to the beach a day or two later, as soon as my mother is settled. It’s not a big deal.”

  “I suppose it’s not,” I admitted, relenting. I could finesse Susan’s late arrival with my mother. I could tell her about Hilton Head and that Susan would meet us down there. A day or two unsupervised by our so-called chaperone wasn’t the end of the world. My mother would probably be okay with that. Abby and I had been planning to ride with Susan, but I supposed we could ride with Kim and Jack.

  What I didn’t know how to deal with was the real issue at hand, Susan’s physical withdrawal. We’d both been tired the night before, and I’d been content just to sleep. In the morning, however, I thought things would be different. They weren’t. First I’d waited, and then I’d asked. The look I received in response told me that I’d stepped across some invisible barrier into forbidden territory. I realized then that Susan had always initiated sexual contact. I’d never asked; I’d only been available. I wanted that to change. I wanted to be an initiator, an equal, not merely on tap.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to be juvenile.”

  “You weren’t.”

  “Susan . . .”

  “What?”

  I stood up and walked over to the bed. She remained in the same position, knees still tight against her chest. I held out my hands. After what seemed to me a very long time, she reached up and took them, allowing me to pull her to a standing position. I looked down at her. She refused to make eye contact.

  “You’re angry.”

  She shook her head. “I’m not.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “I don’t like to argue. And,” she looked at me now, “I don’t like feeling guilty.”

  “Did I make you feel guilty?”

  “You did,” she said. “You do. Sometimes.”

  “For what?”

  “For a lot of things. For not meeting your expectations.”

  I stepped back. “When have I ever . . .”

  “I can tell when you’re disappointed,” she said. “I can tell when you don’t understand, or when you don’t want to understand.”

  “We’re not talking about the beach anymore,” I said. “Are we?”

  “The issues are related.”

  “My expectations. Should I not have any?”

  “It’s just . . . sometimes this is too close,” she said. “Too confined.”

  I tried to make a joke out of it. “Is this where you say, ‘Don’t fence me in,’ or something like that?”

  “It might be.”

  The right thing to do would have been to agree, to say that I didn’t want anything from her that she didn’t want to give. I should have played it cool and asked her to drive me home. I should have been older than seventeen.

  Instead, I kissed her. I kissed her until she kissed me back, until she put her arms around my neck and pulled me close, no more interested in letting go of me than I was in letting her feel unconfined. When I pushed her back onto the bed, she went without hesitation. I undressed her quickly and made love to her aggressively, surprised by my own actions and thrilled by her response, which was enthusiastic and voluble.

  I’d solved one of my problems. I could initiate. I could push past her resistance and my reticence and take us to a new level of awareness and intimacy. The result was better than gratifying. As I held her afterwards, compliant and clinging, I felt triumphant. She loves me, I thought. More than she knows.

  It might have been true. Susan never said that she loved me. She only sighed and smiled and let me believe. It was only later, through trial and error, that I learned to separate sex and love. I got used to the idea that they weren’t one and the same. I just never managed to grow callous enough to like that.

  My father left the party shortly after midnight. He was completely wasted. Shirley drove him back to the Brentwood in the Ford Escort, and, the next day, they drove my graduation present back to Michigan. Eddie left me a card with a hundred bucks in it. I found it in our mailbox when I came home from Chapel Hill.

  “I wasn’t really counting on the car,” I told Jack. “He lies like a rug.”

  “Still,” Jack said. “If your dad promised . . .”

  “He didn’t. He told me on the phone that he was going to give me a car. It was just some of that blah-blah-blah he does. I don’t think he hears what he’s saying half the time, or maybe he does hear it and because the words sound good he says them. They don’t have any meaning. I’m surprised that he came to my graduation. I don’t know why he bothered.”

  “Shirley has a daughter the same age as you. Eddie’s probably trying to make her think he likes kids.”

  “So why is he going to Parents without Partners?”

  “I know that,” he said. “They were talking about it on the way down here. Shirley was a member. He met her somewhere else, and she invited him to join. Man, it was a strange trip riding with them. Too weird. He tells her stuff like, ‘I was an assassin for the CIA,’ and she goes all gooey-eyed and says, ‘Really?’”

  “Is she stoned all the time?”

  “As near as I can tell. She used to be in some rock band, or hang out with some guys who were. So, can you give me a ride to Kim’s house? She’s invited me over tonight. We’re going to watch videos and stuff.”

  “Yeah, but I’ll have to borrow my grandmother’s car. Fuck Lucky Eddie.”

  I apologized to Abby for calling so late. It was a quarter past nine, and Edna had answered. She was polite, as always, and called Abby to the phone with no trace of irritation in her voice. I knew better, of course. Non-emergency phone calls to the Johnson house were restricted to the hours between eight a.m. and eight p.m.

  “She’ll give me a lecture on your phone manners,” Abby said. “So what? I’ve heard it before.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said again. “I got back from Chapel Hill late this afternoon, and I had to drive Jack to Kim’s house. I’ll probably have to pick him up, too. Otherwise, Kim will just keep him there all night, and my mom will have a fit. Two nights in a row is out. It’s that curfew thing—while Jack’s staying here, it applies to him, too.”

  “I know. I keep telling my mother that there’s nothing I can do after midnight that I can’t do before. Maybe she thinks I’m going to turn into a pumpkin.”

  “Speaking of which,” I said, “we may have to ride down to the beach in the Great Pumpkin. Susan might have something she needs to do with her father next Saturday. This is a maybe, not a definite. If she has to do it, she’ll join us later, Sunday or Monday.”

  “Poppy,” Abby said, her tone serious, “there’s something I want to talk to you about, but I don’t want to do it over the phone.”

  “Do the walls have ears?”

  “My mother has ears.”

  “Do you want me to come get you? We can walk around Shelley Lake and then stop at Kim’s to pick up Jack. I’d rather not go over there by myself anyway, if you know what I mean.”

  “Come get me,” she said. “I’ll bring a bucket.”

  “Why?”

  “We can fill it with cold lake water. It might come in handy.”

  “Why do we always end up walking around this lake in the dark?”

  “We like the excitement.”

  Abby tripped over some invisible object on the dark path, and I grabbed her arm to keep her from falling. “I’d like some lights,” she said.

  “Don’t misinterpret this,” I replied, “but would you like to hold my hand? I see better in the dark than you do. It must be my magic lemur eye.”

  “That’s a handy disability you got there.”

  “I know.” I squeezed her hand. “And believe me, I work it.”

  “Knock that off. Are you trying to make a convert?”

  “Never
. So, what did you want to talk to me about?”

  “I need to know if you’re going to N. C. State or not. I’ve listed you as my preferred roommate. Edna thinks it’s a done deal.”

  I believed that, given the chance, I should go to Chapel Hill. I was an English major, and UNC was the premier liberal arts school. I also wanted to be with Susan. The answer seemed clear and yet I hesitated, surprised by how much I didn’t want to tell Abby no. “I still haven’t heard from the financial aid office,” I hedged. “I don’t know if I’ll be able to afford UNC.”

  “You have aid from State. You’ll get aid from UNC. It’s all the same.”

  “I filed my application late. For some reason, UNC seemed out of reach last fall. Probably because I was doing such crappy work in Calculus. I’m sorry. If I’d filed it sooner, I could tell you for certain . . .”

  “I don’t want to put pressure on you,” she said, “but I want to room with you. I just thought I’d tell you that.”

  We walked along in silence for several minutes, hand in hand. I could picture rooming with Abby. I was certain we’d be happy living together. She’d be good for my discipline, and I’d be good for her—I stopped, suddenly realizing that I didn’t know what I’d be good for.

  “Why do you want to room with me?” I asked. “I mean, I know why you’d be great to live with, but I can’t think what I’d bring to this equation.”

  She stopped walking. “Are you serious or are you just fishing?”

  “Fishing for what?”

  “Compliments. Listen,” she said firmly, “because I’m only going to say this once. It’ll probably come out all corny, and I hate that, which is why I never want to have to say it again. Okay?”

  “Okay,” I agreed.

  She took a deep breath. “You’re smart, you’re decent, and you’re funny. You’re kind, and you’re generous. There is no one I like as much as I like you. I like you better than any other person on the planet. I want to room with you because I think it would make us both happy—I know it would make me happy, and I hope it would make you happy. I also think that we could help each other. This is a big deal for me, and it’s the same kind of big deal for you. We’re the first people in our families to go to college. That scares me. You make me less afraid.”

  “Wow.”

  “Speech over. Don’t get a big head.”

  I made a whooshing sound.

  “What’s that?” she asked.

  “That’s me, letting the air out. You do know that that’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me?”

  She didn’t answer. She said, “I suppose if you go to UNC, you’ll live with Susan.”

  “I don’t know. She hasn’t asked me.”

  “She’s lucky to have you. There—that’s your last compliment of the evening.”

  “Thanks. Now I’m set for life.”

  We reached the end of the trail and had to turn back. I waited until we were out from beneath the canopy of trees where the moon cast enough light that I could see her face.

  “Give me a week,” I said. “Whether I hear from UNC or not, I’ll give you a definite answer then. Does that sound reasonable?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And Abby . . .”

  “What?”

  “Thanks.” I hugged her and, because I thought I’d never have the opportunity again, kissed her lightly on the mouth. She held very still for a moment and then kissed me back. We pulled away at the same time, both breathing unsteadily. Abby was the first to speak.

  “Well, that’s done it,” she said, laughing. “Now I’m a great big honking dyke. Edna’s going to kill you.”

  Hunter still hadn’t come home. My mother was in favor of calling the police.

  “It’s been more than forty-eight hours,” she said. “We can file a missing person’s report. It would serve him right to have the police drag him home.”

  “No.” Nana opened a fresh pack of Virginia Slims, her second of the day. “I don’t want the embarrassment. He’s off with Fred somewhere. He’ll be back.”

  “Unfortunately,” I said.

  “You shouldn’t provoke him,” she told me. “It only makes things worse.”

  “How do I provoke him?”

  “You argue with him. You get him started. You . . .”

  “You,” my mother interrupted. “Did you get the keys to Cookie’s beach house?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m still not sure that Susan is a suitable chaperone for a mixed party.”

  “Boys and girls, all together in a beach house, no adults anywhere in sight,” Nana clucked. “What will people think? In my day, that sort of thing wasn’t done.”

  “In your day, people wore bathing suits down to their knees.”

  “We did no such thing,” Nana snapped. “We . . .”

  “Ya’ll stop,” my mother said. She eyed me closely. “I trust you, Poppy. It’s the others I worry about. That Kim—she’s a little too fast for my taste. Her parents let her run pure wild. No curfews, the house all to herself most of the time.”

  “It’ll be okay,” I assured. “Susan will be there.”

  “Susan’s not yet twenty. Is there a phone down there?”

  “I think so.”

  “Phone or not, you are to call home every single night. Get yourself to a pay phone if you have to. I want a full report on the day’s shenanigans. You remember—it’s not just a question of me trusting you, it’s Cookie. You don’t want to let him down.”

  “Be sure to call collect,” Nana added. “Don’t you run up Cookie’s phone bill.”

  “When have I ever run up anyone’s phone bill? That’s Hunter’s department. Ma, you’ve met everyone who’s going—Abby, Kim, the nerd boys, and Jack. Not exactly a rollicking crowd. Every night, I promise, we will separate into same sex sleeping groups. No co-ed. Cookie says there are five bedrooms. Some of them might even have locks.”

  “Keep cracking the jokes,” she replied, “and you’ll find me coming with you. Just like your father. Ha!”

  “Not funny,” I said. My mother only knew half the story. I’d kept the part about the pot-smoking to myself.

  “I know,” she went on. “I’m not nearly as much fun as Eddie is. Now remind me, just how long is Jack Leinweber going to be sleeping on our sofa?”

  “Until beach week. He has to report at Camp Lejeune on June the 6th.”

  “Fine,” she said. “I’m not his mother, and Jane didn’t ask me to baby-sit him—she just seems to have sent him down here for a free vacation. I’m also not Kim DiMarco’s mother. If I were, she wouldn’t be going to the beach with Jack Leinweber. I’m sure you know that there is something going on there. I’m not asking you to be the nookie police, but I don’t want you held responsible should that situation get out of hand. Do you understand?”

  “You ought to go with her,” Nana said. “Can’t you get some time off from the library?”

  “No,” my mother and I said simultaneously. My no was a little too vehement, so I added, “She doesn’t need to do that. We’re not animals. This won’t be a beach blanket orgy.”

  “I’m sure it won’t,” my mother said. “What worries me is what state Hunter will be in after disappearing for three days.”

  “Mental state or geographical?” I asked.

  “It’s not funny,” Nana said, puffing nervously. “He’s missing work. This is the rock bottom they talk about in AA. He’s been warned, time and again. There’s no telling what he’ll do when he comes back. No telling.”

  “Another reason I’m sorry we’ve got Jack staying here,” my mother observed.

  “Don’t worry about him,” I said. “He grew up next door to Lucky Eddie. He’s already seen the worst this family has to offer.”

  “So when Hunter came home,” Abby said, “he brought you a car.”

  She turned right onto Raleigh Boulevard. We drove for two blocks and then she turned to the left, passing through her old neighborhood. When we were in high sch
ool, Raleigh Boulevard was a line of demarcation. It separated a predominantly black neighborhood to the west from a predominantly white one to the east. Though the line had blurred, it had never been erased. Black advancement led sadly but inexorably to white flight. Abby’s aunt, Pearl, now lived in one of the eastern houses, sandwiched between two elderly white women who eyed her with suspicion and yet relied on her as heavily as my great-grandmother had.

  “He wouldn’t say where he’d been. He just showed up, driving that alligator green Pinto. Lucky Eddie didn’t come through, so he did. He was like that, Abby—nothing was ever simple. The car was a bribe and it wasn’t a bribe. He wanted me to have it. He wanted me to like it. I could never hate him like I did Eddie. My father had no redeeming characteristics. He was all ego. Hunter—Hunter was a martyr to the id.”

  “You drove that car until graduate school,” she said.

  “I drove that car for eight years. It didn’t die until my first year in the Ph. D. program at Ohio State. It ground to a halt on the freeway just outside of Yellow Springs.”

  “What were you doing in Yellow Springs?”

  “What do you think? Throw a rock in Yellow Springs, hit a lesbian. I thought I might meet a better class of woman if I prowled somewhere other than the Columbus gay bars.”

  “And did you?”

  “I met Leesa. Remember her?”

  “Do I ever. Vegan, pagan, insisted you throw out all of your aluminum cookware because she thought it would give her Alzheimer’s. I assumed you’d met her in that yoga class you were taking—back when you were pretending to be flexible.”

  “I am flexible. Sort of. What I learned from my Yellow Springs experience is that there’s something to be said for meeting women in bars. If she’s drinking straight bourbon and her hand is permanently curved in the shape of a pool cue, she’s probably not for you. If you meet a woman while you’re both shopping for natural fiber clothing, you think, ‘She’s okay, she likes cotton.’ It’s very misleading.”