“Fourteen, if you don’t mind.”
“And I’ll be eighty-one,” she says. “And I’m going into my kitchen. You can go wherever you please.” She uses her cane to waddle slowly down the hall. I don’t know what to do or what to say, so I just stand there frozen for a minute, looking off at her as she makes it into the kitchen and starts unloading the groceries.
I feel so stupid standing there doing nothing, so I move toward the kitchen. All the broken stuff is still there, but now it sits in one big pile in the center of the floor. I unzip my coat, walk over to the old lady, and try to help her with the groceries. Only, everything I take out and hand to her, she just sorta snatches. What a jerk.
I stand away from her and watch as she opens the loaf of bread and sticks two slices in the toaster. When they pop up, she puts two more slices in. She maneuvers around the pile of broken glass pretty well as she goes into the fridge for a jar of orange marmalade, which she sets down on the table along with the butter I just bought her. She does all this without saying a word to me. Then she gets two dishes and two teacups, puts them down on the table, and sits. She pushes one of the teacups and one of the dishes toward me, then begins spreading butter on her bread. I keep waiting and waiting, but all she does is take a bite of her toast.
“If you’re not going to leave, might as well do something with yourself,” she says when the next two slices of bread pop up from the toaster.
Once I pull them out, I try handing them to her.
“I’ve already got what I need,” she says. “Besides, I don’t know where your hands have been.”
I stare daggers at her, but she doesn’t seem to notice or care, and I finally just give in. I place the two slices of bread on the plate in front of me and settle onto the wooden dining chair.
“You go to Catholic school?” she asks. I forgot about my uniform.
“So, what of it?”
“It’s a little ironic, don’t you think?”
“How do you mean?”
“Think about it. You’ll get it.”
I just ignore her and spread the marmalade across my toast. I’m feeling really weird, but I manage to take a bite. The jam is sweet and tangy at the same time. I put on a little more and steal glimpses of her hands as we eat in silence. I notice how they shake as she puts her teacup down. I wonder if that’s how my hands will look when I’m eighty-one, all trembling and fragile, like old paper blowing in the wind. I wonder what would happen if she tried to undo a top that was too tightly screwed onto a jar. Would her bones all crack into pieces and crumble into a mound of powder?
“So you do remember me?” I ask.
She doesn’t say anything, just brings the slice of toast back up to her lips with her feeble little hand.
“Did you—did you know who I was when I came in the other day?”
“No, but I wasn’t thinking about it. At the time I just needed someone to help me. I was more concerned with that.”
“I didn’t mean to push you, you know.”
She doesn’t say anything.
“I’m sorry. And look, I’m here again. I came back to check on you.”
“Three days after leaving me helpless and alone. If I was going to die, I would have been dead already.”
“Geez, you must be Catholic,” I say under my breath. “Like I need any more guilt.”
“I guess I just don’t understand why such nice little girls would do such things. Is it because you needed the money?”
I shrug. “No … I don’t know. I guess it’s just something to do. And I guess we’re not really that nice.”
“But you could get into a lot of trouble for it.”
“What do you mean? You’re gonna tell?”
But she doesn’t say anything else.
“You shouldn’t say that. ’Cause, like I said, I’m stronger than you.…”
“You’re scrawny,” she says again, but I ignore her.
“And I could still do something to you right now.”
But she just stares at me and keeps eating. “So do it.”
And I’m thinking maybe this lady is not all there, and everyone knows you’re not supposed to look crazy people in the eye, so I turn away. When I finally glance in her direction again, I notice that she’s focused on the faded black-and-white photo, which is back up on the counter—the one with some woman holding a baby. The one the old lady attacked me over.
I start looking at the photo, too. The woman in it is standing in the light, but she seems to be casting a shadow over the baby. Maybe she’s trying to protect it from the sun. Or maybe it’s not a shadow at all but just some kind of smudge over the kid’s face. It’s hard to tell.
“Why does that picture mean so much to you? Who are the people in it?” I ask.
She doesn’t answer.
“So when you were talking about power, is it because you were famous? I mean, I heard you used to be a movie star or a singer or something,” I say next.
Still no answer.
“If you have so much money,” I try again, “how come you don’t live in a mansion? I mean, this apartment’s nice and all, but it’s still an apartment. In Brooklyn.”
When she still doesn’t answer, I slam my teacup against the saucer.
“It’s fine if you don’t want to talk to me. Nothing new. Same treatment I get at home. But I don’t get it. You were so desperate for company, you gave me, some random kid, your phone number so I could check in on you. And even today, when you knew who I was, you still gave me toast and seemed to want me to sit here with you. But now that I’m doing that, you don’t talk to me. What’s with that?”
The old lady looks over at me with those eyes and searches my face; then she stands and leans on her cane.
“I was probably just delirious,” she says.
“Fine,” I say. “If we’re gonna be honest, then you should know that the only reason I’m here now is because I cut school and needed a place to go. Our Easter break starts tomorrow, and I just needed to fill the time.”
“Then you can leave, because I’m not about to shelter a truant little child.”
“Fine!” I just about yell. “It’s no wonder you don’t have any friends.”
“It’s true. And you remember that. Because what you do in life, how you treat people, it always comes back around. You keep it up and one day you’ll be my age, and you’ll be just like me. With no one there for you. And you’ll spend your days going over all the mistakes you ever made. Over all the terrible things you ever did. And all the people you did them to.”
And her eyes suddenly look glassy, like she’s about to cry or something. I don’t know whether to feel sorry for her or to hate her. But I figure she’s just a nutty old crone, so I grab my bag and take off. I don’t say good-bye; I don’t say anything. And as an exclamation point, I put some extra oomph into slamming the door. There’s no way I’m going to be like her when I get older. And under no circumstance will I ever waste my time on this woman again.
After leaving that crazy old woman’s apartment, I wander around for a while. Thank goodness I stumble onto the Kenmore Theatre, where I’m able to buy one ticket for Footloose, then afterward sneak into Friday the 13th: The Final Chapter.
When I get back to my building, Caroline and Gillian are in the lobby doing what they do best—loitering. Caroline is slouched against the old musty gray couch in there, the one no sane or hygiene-conscious person ever sits on. I don’t know if the thing was always gray, or if it just turned that color from all the dirt and grime it’s soaked up. Anyway, she’s looking over a supermarket circular, while Gillian is sitting on the equally musty armchair next to the couch doing nothing in particular.
“There she is,” Caroline says as I walk through the door. “We were just about to leave. Kept ringing your bell, but there was no answer.”
I don’t say anything.
“ ’Cause we haven’t seen you since our little disagreement. You know, when you vomited all over me,”
she says as she stands.
I sense Gillian sizing me up.
“Why the attitude?” Caroline continues.
That’s when I decide to slide my hat off my head.
“Oh my God, Faye. You look like a man,” Gillian says with a gasp.
“Thanks.”
“Oh snap” is all that Caroline can come up with. And I just want to ball up my fist, jerk back, and punch her square in the lip.
“That’s all you got?” I ask.
“Faye, I really didn’t mean for you to have to get your hair cut off. It’s just, you were acting up so much. And you vomited all over me. You didn’t even turn away. It’s like you were aiming for me with it, and that’s pretty nasty. But I never imagined this would happen. Look, we’ve had a few days to cool off. Why don’t we just call it even?” She sticks her big man-hand out. But I don’t accept it.
“Look at my hair, Caroline. It’s a disaster. And there’s nothing I can do about it.”
“It does look terrible,” Gillian volunteers. Caroline waves her off but doesn’t say anything to the contrary.
“Thanks again, Gillian,” I say.
“I didn’t mean for you to have to get it all cut,” Caroline says again. “And we missed hanging out with you this weekend. Seriously. Don’t be mad.”
She extends her hand even more, and I just look at it. I wonder what she would say if I told her I’d been back to that Parkside Avenue apartment. I wonder how she’d react if I told her the story of helping the old lady off the floor and into her bed and out of her clothes. I wonder how she’d react if she knew I was over there again today. But I’m not eager to see what her wrath might bring about this time around, so I just give in and accept her handshake.
“So, you wanna go up to the corner store and get some snacks?” she asks. “My treat.”
And I’m thinking, You took enough of the money we got from the old lady; that’s the least you could do. But I don’t say it.
“Nah … I’ve gotta go do something for Mama,” I lie. I might have shaken Caroline’s hand, but I’m still plenty sore at her.
“All right. Well, come over to our place when you get a chance.”
I watch as they head down the walkway and turn left once they reach the sidewalk. I can’t figure how Caroline can think we’re even. Vomit, yeah, it’s gross, but you can wash it away. Hair shaved off, not as easy to overcome.
Just as the elevator door slides open, they disappear from my view. I step in slowly and press the button for the fourth floor. Now I’m faced with the next fun phase of my day—my indentured servitude.
* * *
I guess miracles do happen, because just as I’m being asked to change another foul diaper, Mama calls down to Ms. Viola to have me come home, and it’s only six o’clock. Never thought I’d be happy to hear from Mama, although this early call is making me a little nervous. Mama is never home before seven. That rich family she works for lives on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. She never leaves there earlier than five-thirty, and it’s impossible for her to get back to our apartment in only a half hour. I guess I’ll find out what’s going on soon enough.
It’s weird having to ring the bell to an apartment I’ve been letting myself into since we moved here last year. Actually, I’ve been letting myself into our apartments since I was nine years old. But I just ring the bell and stand there. I’m waiting for what seems like forever and there’s no response, so I ring it again. That’s when I hear Mama’s footsteps coming down the hall. They’re moving fast, almost like they’re running. She’s probably going to be all ticked off since I rang twice. The locks click open and I hold my breath. But there’s Mama standing in her long green satin gown. The one with the halter neck and the big Christmas-present bow on the left side. The same one she wore to her friend Darlene Wilson’s wedding. Her hair is all done up and pulled into a big bun with little curls hanging down the sides. She’s wearing so much perfume, I have to fight for some breathable air. And her lips are Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey clown red.
“Why are you standing out in the hall like some little lost animal, Faye? Come in. Come in.”
The minute I’m inside, she locks the door behind me and actually puts her arm around my shoulder, though I’m not so sure whether she’s hugging me or pushing me along. I’m thinking, Either I’m in a whole heap of trouble, or she’s finally gone off her rocker—not that she had very far to go.
The apartment smells sweet and spicy, the way it always does when Mama makes oxtail. Only thing is, she never makes it unless it’s a pretty special occasion. Actually, she never cooks, period, unless it’s a special occasion, which, blame it on temporary insanity, I decide to bring up to her.
“We haven’t had oxtail since Aunt Nola’s birthday,” I say. “What gives?”
“Shut up,” she says. Only, she says it in a nice way, if it’s even possible to tell someone to shut up nicely.
“I laid out a dress for you. The blue one with the cowl neck you like so much. And your hair, well, I guess it’ll have to do. That’s about the best it’s going to look, I suppose.” And she’s pushing and pulling and rushing me all at the same time.
“You go on and bathe. I expect you to be seated at the kitchen table in thirty minutes.”
“Why do I have to wear a dress?” I ask. “I think I’d be more comfortable in my jeans. And why are you wearing your ‘going somewhere special’ outfit?”
Her eyebrows arch up like they’re about to shoot from her forehead. I’m convinced she’s about to yell something. But she doesn’t. Instead, she smiles. At least, she does something with her lips that resembles a smile.
“Just go get yourself together,” she says.
After finishing up in the bathroom and dressing, I stand before my bedroom-door mirror, studying my reflection. But just as I’m trying to get the zipper on the back of my dress all the way up, the door comes flying open, crashing into the wall.
“It’s six-forty-five,” Mama says as she begins fidgeting with her hair. “Why is everybody late? And why aren’t you at the table?”
I walk into the kitchen with my dress still halfway open in the back. I guess Mama notices me fiddling with it, because the next thing I know, it’s quickly being zipped up. Maybe a little too quickly, because it catches a bit of the skin on the back of my neck. But I don’t scream. I don’t say a thing. Once she moves away, I have to unzip it a little, and even though I can’t see it, I’m pretty sure some of my skin has been ripped off and is caught up in the zipper’s teeth.
Just as my butt is about to hit the chair, the downstairs bell sounds. I pop back up to go and answer it.
“No. You sit down,” Mama says as she walks out of the kitchen and disappears into the hallway. Twenty seconds later, she’s back, but there’s no one with her. And I never heard her ask who it was into the intercom.
“Faye, go get the door.”
“Isn’t that what you went to do?” I ask. Mama shoots me a look. And then she slows down her words, as if she’s trying to get through to someone with a learning disability.
“Go … stand … by the door … and wait … for the bell … to ring. Then open it … and let … the person … in.”
I look back at her as I walk from the kitchen. She’s patting her hair and looking at her reflection in the toaster oven. Thick black lines are drawn across the tops of her eyelids, which makes her look a little like Cleopatra. And her cheeks are red and shiny. She sits down at the table and crosses her thin legs, then her lips stretch into this weird smile. Some of the circus red lipstick is now on her teeth. I point at it.
“Mama, there’s some lipstick—”
“Why are you standing here staring like you’re slow or something? To the door,” she says with a clenched jaw. I change my mind and don’t say a thing.
I don’t like the feel of this. Who could she possibly be expecting? If you discount Uncle Paul and Aunt Nola, no one ever visits us. Maybe Mama’s gotten wind of my exploits with Ca
roline and Gillian and has convinced them to come spill the beans. Or maybe she somehow found out what happened in that Parkside Avenue apartment and has set it up for the old lady to come and tell the whole sordid story. Maybe it’s that robber from before. Maybe Mama has just decided to get me off her hands once and for all, and the minute I open the door, there’ll be a samurai sword to the gut.
My left eyeball is positioned in the peephole even before the bell rings. As the figure approaches the door, it’s blown out by the too-stark hallway light. All I can tell is that it’s a man. But once he steps closer, I realize just who it is and quickly undo the locks.
“Hey, baby girl. You better come give me a hug,” my father says as he bends and wraps his skinny arms around me, bear hug–style.
“What are you doing here? I haven’t seen you in months,” I say.
“Been getting a lot of gigs. Trying to make that money. Then had to spend a little time down in Florida. But I’ll tell you all about that when I take you out on our dinner date.”
“Dinner?” I ask. “Just you and me?”
“Faye, dear …,” I hear Mama call. I grab Daddy by the hand and lead him down the hall.
“You’re looking fancy,” he says. “And what did you do? Get one of those new short hairstyles?”
“Something like that,” I say as I shake my head. “FYI, I think Mama had something else in mind for dinner. Maybe you should talk to her first.”
When we get to the doorway of the kitchen, Mama pops out of her seat like a big green jack-in-the-box. She lifts the hem of her special-occasion dress and flies past me and over to Daddy.
“Faye, give your father a chance to breathe,” she says all friendly and charming. “There’ll be more than enough time for you all to catch up over dinner, won’t there, Charles?”
Daddy looks around the kitchen, and his eyes lock on to the stove.
Revenge of a Not-So-Pretty Girl Page 9