by Alex Flinn
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Opera_Grrrl’s Online Journal
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Subject: Nick
Date: December 11
Time: 1:27 a.m.
Listening 2: “Ride of the Valkyries” from Wagner’s
Die Walkure
Feeling: Satisfied
Weight: 113 lbs.
I’m listening 2 Wagner’s “Ride of the Valkyries.” The valkyries were these Norse goddesses who took fallen warriors up 2 Valhalla (sort of like heaven). They were the women with the horns! They were big and strong and powerful.
I feel like a valkyrie right now, like I could do anything—even w/out horns.
It’s really over w/Nick ........... he drove me home 2night, and we kissed and ............ it’s over. We *both* realized it’s
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A squeal of brakes in the driveway. Then I hear voices, angry voices.
“Stay away from me!”
I stop typing and run to the window.
It’s my mother. She has on the velvet dress from this afternoon, but her shoes are in her hand, and there’s yelling as she slams the car door. I catch a few words.
“Get away from me. You stay away, or I’ll call the cops!”
“Crazy slut!”
I run downstairs. I open the door just as Mom stumbles in.
“Oh, Caitlin!” Her hair’s messy, and she’s crying. Her mascara’s running down her face. She slams the door behind her and leans on it while I pull the deadbolt. “Oh, Caitlin, you were so right about him!”
CHAPTER 39
I thought it was going to be the perfect evening.” We’re sitting in my mother’s room. I sit at Mom’s dressing table like I used to when I was a little kid. Mom paces the floor.
“The opera was at eight. Arnold said he’d pick me up at seven, so we’d have lots of time to walk around. ‘See and be seen with my beautiful girl.’ That’s what he said.”
“Mm-hmm.” I nod. “That’s nice.”
“It would have been. Except he didn’t show up until twenty to eight. We were late and had to stand outside until the orchestra finished playing its introduction thingy.”
“The overture,” I say. “Sorry.”
“No, that’s okay. Anyway, he said he had to work late. Since when do podiatrists work late? And on a Friday? Was there some sort of bunion emergency?”
That’s probably what Mrs. Arnold thought, all those times when Arnold worked late because he was with Mom. But I control myself.
“At least…” She’s still pacing, taking the pins out of her hair. It stays hanging at an odd angle, even after most of the pins are out. “We made it for the first act, and—Oh, Caitlin—it was beautiful. The singing. The costumes. For the first time, I understood why you like it so much. I really liked it, honey. Arnold wanted to … snuggle during the show.”
Translation: He tried to get in her pants right there at the performing arts center.
“But I didn’t mind. I was all wrapped up in the story. It was just like that Nicole Kidman movie, the one that takes place at the Moulin Rouge. I didn’t even mind too much when he said his ankle hurt and he wanted to stay in our seats during intermission, even though it meant no one would see my dress. I figured he would see it at dinner. As it turned out, we never ate dinner.”
“You didn’t? Then where were you all this time?”
“Oh, we went to a restaurant all right, but we didn’t eat. But I’m getting ahead of the story. Anyway, the second act started, and it was so beautiful, so … so noble.”
“What was?” I’ve missed something.
“What Violetta did, Caitlin. Don’t you think so? When Alfredo’s father tells Vi that his daughter may never be able to marry her beloved because Al’s dating a … a…”
“A hooker.”
“Right. And so Vi breaks up with Al, and tells him she doesn’t love him even though she does, so his family can be happy. It was so noble, so strong. She was right, but it was sad.”
She’s crying again. I can’t believe my mother’s crying about La Traviata. What’s up with that?
“I know.” I actually pat her shoulder. I’ve never done that in my life. “That’s what I love about that opera.”
“Violetta is such a good person, and Al doesn’t realize…” She wipes her eyes with the backs of her hands. “So that got me thinking about Arnold and his family.”
“I’m glad you thought about that,” I say.
“Me too. So we went to the restaurant, and Arnold said he had something important to discuss with me. And I said I wasn’t sure if getting married was a good idea.”
“What?”
She nods. “But you know what that man said to me?” When I shake my head, she says, “He wanted me to go on a cruise with him. That’s what he had to discuss at dinner that was so important. When I said I thought he was going to propose, he actually laughed.”
“He laughed?” I’m picturing it, her all dressed up at a fancy restaurant, waiting for him to propose, and I feel soooo bad for her, even though I was so mad before.
“Laughed. He said he never planned on marrying me. ‘We’re just having some fun, Valerie. I’d never leave my wife for someone like you.’ Someone like me! That’s what he said. Like I’m some … some…”
I don’t finish the sentence for her.
“Some skank! Can you believe that?” she says.
I can believe it because he’s scum, but I can’t believe he told her. “What did you say, Mom?”
“I didn’t say a thing.” She shakes her hair out. “I threw a lobster at him.”
I sit again. It’s too much to stand. “A what?”
“A lobster. And two little bowls of drawn butter. I’m positive that’s what Violetta would have wanted me to do—I mean, if she was a real person. And as God is my witness, the only regret I have in the whole thing is that that poor creature had to die, only to be thrown at Dr. Arnold Mikloshevsky.”
But I’m barely listening at this point. I’m picturing that lobster, sailing—claws out—across an elegant table, attaching itself to Arnold’s nose. Then I picture drawn butter dripping off the last remaining strands of Arnold’s hair.
For the second time in one night, I start to laugh.
“It’s not funny!” Mom yells. “It’s not … it’s!” She smiles. “Okay, a little.”
I finally manage to calm down. “I’m sorry. I know you feel bad, but … butter?”
We both start laughing hard. When one of us is about to stop, the other one yells, “Butter!” and we both start again.
Finally, I say, “I’m glad, Mom. I’m glad you dumped him. I’m proud of you.” I know I should be happy that Mom finally knows what a jerk Arnold is, that her sinister plan was thwarted, and she won’t be profiting from Mrs. Arnold’s misery, and better yet, that she figured it out for herself. But somehow, standing there in her velvet dress with her mascara messed up and hair all over the place, Mom looks less like a villain, and more like a heroine.
“He insisted on driving me home. I think he was worried that if I got into a cab, I might show up on his doorstep and talk to his wife.” She turns her back to me. “Can you unzip this?”
I lean to undo her zipper, and she says it again, those words I’ve longed to hear all my life. “You were right.”
I nod and say, “Wonder how he explained the drawn butter to his wife.”
“Yeah, I’d like to have been there for that. But I bet he came up with something, and I bet she believed him. Some women will believe anything.” She looks in the mirror and sighs. “Guess that’s me, huh?”
“No, of course not.”
She shrugs. “It’s true. You had to tell me how stupid it was to date that guy. You and Violetta.” She slips the dress off, and lets it drop to the floor so she’s standing there in her strapless bra and underwear. “Time to start over again.”
“What?”
“Dating. The hunt.” She makes the universal Quotation Mark symbol with her fingers. “Find a Hus
band After 35. That’s what I was trying to say that day when I said it scared me when you talked about moving out.”
I wince, thinking about that day. “What did you mean?”
“The idea of being alone, it’s scary. I’ve never been alone. I’ve always had someone—first my parents, then your father, then you. I don’t know if I can handle being alone with myself once you leave. It’s scary thinking about things changing. I mean, maybe it’s not perfect, but it’s what I’m used to.” She turns away to pick the dress up.
That’s just what I did with Rowena and the summer program. I didn’t take a chance because I was afraid. “I understand, Mom. Don’t worry.”
“We should go to bed.” She goes to hang up the dress.
I start for the door. “I wish I’d seen it, with the lobster.”
“Yeah, it was great.”
“Good night, Mommy.”
CHAPTER 40
Freedom! The next morning when I wake up, I can feel it in the air. Freedom. Freedom from Nick, from Sean, from Arnold—freedom to do whatever I want to do without having to ask anyone’s permission, and it’s wonderful. So the first thing I do is log onto my journal and start to finish the entry from last night. I’m adding the part about Arnold and the lobster, when there’s a knock on the door.
It’s Mom. She’s holding two manila envelopes. “I wanted you to see something. I was up all night, working on them.”
“What are these?”
“I think you’ll be able to figure it out. You’re a smart girl. Why don’t you look at them. I’ll give you a makeover, if you want. But later.”
I nod and take the envelopes. I sit on the bed and take out the first one. It’s from Mom’s accountant, Mr. Lowman: a letter and last year’s tax return. I don’t know why she’s showing me this. I have no clue how to read a tax return. But I flip through it.
On the first page, there’s a section that says INCOME. Lines with numbers. The highest number is on the line that says BUSINESS INCOME and I practically fall off the bed when I see it. I had no idea Mom made that much. Is this all from real estate, or does that include her business of sponging off Dad?
I check out the line marked ALIMONY.
The number on that line is 0.
Point for Mom. But is child support the same as alimony, or is it separate somewhere? I flip through the rest of the form and find nothing about child support. Then I see that the second envelope says CHILD SUPPORT in Mom’s round, girlish handwriting. She’s written in purple and dotted the I with a circle.
Inside is a Post-it note from Mom that says CAITLIN, CHILD SUPPORT ISN’T INCLUDED ON THE TAX RETURN. LUCKY ME. It’s attached to copies of Dad’s child support checks. I recognize that handwriting too—his wife, Macy’s.
The second thing I notice about the checks are the amounts—they would maybe pay for my clothes if I didn’t wear anything extravagant like, say, sneakers. I remember the big deal Dad made about paying for my voice lessons. If you subtracted that amount, the check is practically nothing.
The third thing I notice is that the checks are always late. Sometimes two or three months at a time, and every one is signed by Macy.
I slip all the papers back into their envelopes.
I find Mom in her room. She’s putting on her makeup. In times of distress, it’s always makeup. I slide the envelopes over by the mirror.
“How about that makeover?” I say.
She pulls out a bottle. “Wash up first. I have this new cleanser.” She hands it to me. “And moisturizer. You need to moisturize, even when you’re young—to trap in the moisture and prevent damage. I wish I’d known that when I was your age. There are so many things I wish I’d known, but that one I think of every time I look in a mirror.”
I start to repeat the line about how there’s always Botox, but instead, I say, “You’re mad about what I said that day, about leeching off Dad.”
“Not mad.” She hands me the moisturizer. “Sad, a little. You were thinking it for a long time, weren’t you?”
“Years. But I thought Dad … I thought…”
“He used to pay alimony. We agreed I was going to be a stay-at-home mother. But then he married Macy and they contested the agreement. So I got my real estate license and started selling Emma Leigh. I liked those things anyway. They were fun, and with my looks and personality, I was good at them.”
I nod. It always comes down to her looks. Is that because she feels like that’s all she has? Scary thought. I finish with the cleanser and start moisturizing.
“Lance was still paying pretty much child support at that point—not enough, but something.” She looks at me and moves my hands away from my face. “No, no, honey. Like this. An upward motion, with the thumbs. The idea is to gently massage away any future wrinkles.” She works the moisturizer in like I’m one of her Emma Leigh clients. “But any time I’d start earning a little more, he’d come to me, wanting to make the payments lower. I think Macy saw my picture in the real estate ads. Never mind that real estate’s an iffy business. Never mind that Key Biscayne is an expensive place to live—we could always move someplace cheaper, as Lance pointed out constantly. Never mind that you were his child for God’s sake, and he should want to support you and want you to live someplace nice.”
I wince. Dad never wanted to pay for anything for me. Even I knew that.
Mom continues. “Finally, I asked him what he was willing to pay, and we settled on an amount that was maybe a quarter of what he should have been paying.”
“Why?”
“Sometimes you get tired of fighting.” She hands me a bottle. “Okay, now you’re ready to get started. I always make my clients do it themselves, so they learn how.”
I start to apply the foundation, with an upward motion like she suggested. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I guess I thought it was better if you didn’t know what a jerk your father was.”
“I think I always knew, but jerk isn’t the word I’d use.”
She laughs. “Right. And you thought I was a jerk because you thought I sponged off him.” She hands me a blush. “Excellent job on the foundation, by the way. You have such beautiful skin—such tiny pores.”
“Thanks.” I take the blush from her and start to sweep it on. “I wish I’d known.”
“I didn’t want you to. But I don’t want you thinking I’m lazy either.”
I apply the blush, and she nods that I did it right. “But Arnold. You acted like you needed him for support.”
She pushes her hand through her hair. “It’s always such a struggle to pay for the upkeep of this house. But it’s the only home you’ve ever known. I worry about college too. Your father’s child support stops completely when you hit eighteen.”
I look around her room, and think about our house. She was willing to put up with Dr. Toe-Jam just to stay here? For me?
“I might get a scholarship,” I say. “There are scholarships for music.”
I wait for her to say something awful about how you can’t count on those things. But instead, she says, “Well, we can hope.”
I finish with the blush and start with eye shadow. “Which colors do you think?”
She points to a small case. “This one’s the base, for the entire lid. And then this one’s for the brow line, and this one’s for the crease. It gives you the extra definition you need.” She points to a couple of colors. “And…”
“What else?” I say, assuming she means another eye shadow.
“Oh, I don’t know. I guess it felt … nice having someone like that, someone wealthy, wanting me like that. He made me feel…” She shrugs.
I remember the feeling I always had, walking arm-in-arm with Nick at school.
“Valuable,” I say, brushing on the base eye shadow. “He made you feel valuable.”
She nods. “Yeah. I guess that’s it.”
I say, “I think that you are way too valuable for Arnold Mikloshevsky and his clammy hands.”
She nods. “I know you’re right. But sometimes it’s hard to believe that. It’s so hard to find someone who loves you for yourself, and not just because you’re pretty or act the way they want you to act.”
I think of Sean. I have that with him. Yes, he’s a friend, but he’s a good friend.
“Are you okay?” I say.
She nods. “I think I’m getting better.” She takes out a different lipstick and holds it near my face, then recaps it. “Oh, Caitlin, he really was a toady little man, wasn’t he? Every time he kissed me, I’d think, Valerie McCourt, has it really come to this?”
I giggle, then stop myself. “He kept looking at my boobs.”
“Mine too—and he had some boobs of his own, let me tell you!”
I can’t suppress the giggle that comes after that, and Mom joins right in.
“Mom?” I say after a minute. “I wish … I have a performance tonight at school.”
She raises an eyebrow like, Were you going to tell me about it?
“Yeah,” I say. “I thought you were too busy with Arnold, so I didn’t…” I know that’s not really true. “I’m sorry. I just didn’t tell you. But it’s at eight tonight, and I’m wearing the dress you bought me, and I wish you’d come.”
“I wouldn’t miss it.” She looks at the blush I’ve put on. “And maybe I could help you out with your makeup for it too.”
I nod. Things with Mom will never be perfect. They are what they are. But even when times are hard, we’ll always have makeup just like when I was little. Cosmetics are the glue that binds us together. But maybe we can have a bit more.
CHAPTER 41
Sean and I sing our duet the best we’ve ever sung it. Maybe the best I’ve ever sung anything. For once I sound like an opera singer to my own ears, and I know that this is what I want—to be a diva, to stand onstage and make other people hear this music the way I hear it, not as something old and faded, but as something alive, forever and ever. And I’ll do anything—including telling Mom I need to spend the summer in New York and trying and auditioning and taking a chance on not making it—to get there.