by Lisa Tucker
“Sure,” Mary Beth said. She was peeling potatoes for stew. Her hand was moving so fast the peels seemed to be raining into the trash can. “Not half as tired as Frieda does, I bet.”
“But it’s not your problem.”
“Yes, it is.” She looked up at me, surprised. “It’s mine because I understand it. Frieda has to live it, but I have to see how she feels and what she’s up against. And once you know, you can’t unknow.”
“I’m glad I don’t know then.”
“You don’t mean that.” She blinked and turned back to her peeling. “To me, that would be hell.”
“Hell?” I thought she was exaggerating.
“I’m not talking about the place filled with flames. I mean the hell the world is when cruelty doesn’t have a reason. When suffering is unrelenting and unrelieved by love.”
Obviously what happened with Ben had not stopped my sister from using the L word. In fact, if you’d asked her, she probably would have said she loved more people that year than at any other time in her life. Sometimes she talked about her customers as if she couldn’t even see their flaws. She called Frieda, who had to weigh two hundred and fifty pounds, “fragile.” She said Carol Dale had the “sweetest face,” even though Carol’s skin was covered in pock marks.
She was still working night and day. She had a tape deck and a Walkman now, so she could listen to her customers’ songs without waking Tommy. She kept a thick yellow pad on her night-stand; half the time when I woke up to go to the bathroom, I would see her sitting cross-legged on her bed, drinking coffee and writing notes. At one-thirty in the morning. At three-fifteen. At five, even though she had to get up at five-thirty to get Tommy dressed and make it to work.
She swore she slept plenty, but I didn’t see how that was possible. She had to be exhausted, but she wouldn’t take a day off from the diner and she wouldn’t take even an hour to get a haircut or shop for shoes with a friend. But no one seemed to see this as a problem. Even her friend Juanita accepted my sister’s excuses that she had a preschooler; of course she couldn’t go anywhere. A preschooler and a teenager, that is, because she threw me in, too, even though she said she wasn’t worried. I heard her telling Juanita and anyone who would listen that I was going to be just fine.
“Leeann’s so mature for fourteen,” my sister would say. Or, “She knows what she’s doing. I can’t imagine her getting in trouble.” Or, “She’s gifted, you know. I’ll bet she ends up with a scholarship to a great college.”
I could have felt guilty for lying to her about Kyle (and I did, sometimes), but I also felt annoyed. Why didn’t she spend time trying to understand me? Frieda Jones was important. They were all so important. What was I, chopped liver?
She was right about one thing though: I did know what I was doing. I could go with Kyle to the big party to celebrate the end of the basketball season, no problem. I was so mature, I wouldn’t be bothered by the drinking, even though I didn’t drink myself.
This was how I handled the issue—I claimed I’d tried alcohol many times and just didn’t like the taste. I thought it was a brilliant solution. I congratulated myself for coming up with it, especially since Kyle seemed to understand my feelings perfectly.
The party was at a huge house in the hill section, unsupervised of course. None of my friends were there, and the other girls were all cheerleaders and jock worshippers who didn’t seem to mind being either ignored or pawed or both at the same time. All the boys were either football or basketball players except for one guy, Maniac Mike, who Kyle said was only invited so the party could get “wild.” I didn’t know Maniac Mike, but I knew of him, everyone at River Valley did, because he was supposedly crazy enough to try anything—jump off a building, snort cocaine, destroy the teacher’s lounge, you name it.
In my opinion, the party was wild enough already. Every single person was drinking; some of them were already drunk when Kyle and I arrived. I’d expected beer, but this party had a fully stocked bar with vodka and whiskey and even a blender to make margaritas.
The bartender was another basketball player, Jordan McInnery. It was his fault I started drinking, but my fault I kept going. He spiked my first Coke with rum and I took a big gulp before I realized. I choked a little, which three senior girls thought was hilarious, and so I forced myself to finish, to show them. I had the second drink when Kyle brought me back a Sprite and vodka, rather than just a Sprite like I asked for. He said it didn’t taste that different, and I couldn’t argue the point in front of all those people. Maybe I was already a little drunk. I know I felt warm and a lot calmer. So what if I didn’t know anybody? I was sitting on Kyle’s lap, laughing at Ian Reynolds belching the River Valley High fight song.
I don’t know how many drinks I had altogether. It seemed like every time I finished one, Kyle was handing me another. After a few hours, I was so drunk I couldn’t walk without stumbling, and he had to help me up the stairs. He said I needed to lie down and I couldn’t disagree. I was feeling really dizzy and it occurred to me this might be what it felt like right before you passed out.
I didn’t know whose house this was, but I knew it was their parents’ bedroom when Kyle opened the door. The bed was huge with a tall oak headboard. There was a massive dresser with family pictures and powders and a weird brush shaped like a bird. And it smelled like adults. It smelled serious and stale and responsible.
Kyle closed the door and helped me to the bed. He turned off the overhead light and turned on the little lamp by the bedside table. When he started unbuttoning my shirt, I didn’t cooperate but I didn’t say no, either. My entire body felt heavy and strange, like it was asleep even though I wasn’t. And it was like he was taking care of me, helping me get undressed and into pajamas. He seemed sweet. I might have even mumbled the word “sweet” aloud.
I don’t remember him unzipping his pants. Maybe I did pass out for a moment because the next thing I knew I was being crushed by his weight and he was already trying to push himself into me.
“Hey,” I said. “Hey!”
“Relax.” His breath was coming in short gasps. “I know what I’m doing.”
“Stop it!”
When he still didn’t move, I began to struggle like mad, trying to get my elbows out from under his arms. I was thrashing my back and legs, trying to bounce him off, but he was too heavy—and too determined.
“Hold still. I can’t get it in.”
“I don’t want to!”
“Wait,” he said, moving a little to the left, and then a groan, “oh, here we go—”
I let out a scream that was so earsplitting, he jumped right off me and off the bed, stumbling to his knees, yelling “Shit!” It wasn’t planned, or even part of my desire to escape—I couldn’t help myself. Darlene had said the first time hurts a little, but this wasn’t some pinch, this was like being cut open without an anesthetic.
He panted for a moment, then he leaned down and handed me my clothes. He mouthed, “Sorry,” but I didn’t say a word. The pain had sobered me up and all I wanted was to go home. When I was dressed, I told him I had to leave right now and then a lie I wished was the truth: my sister was expecting me.
On the way out, he gave a “thumbs-up” to a group of guys when he thought I wasn’t looking. I heard some snickering but I didn’t turn around. I grabbed my jacket off the kitchen table. A crowd of kids were watching Maniac Mike standing by the stove, stirring a pot of something that smelled awful. They were all giggling hysterically. When he saw me he said, “Want to join us in a little kitchen chemistry?” and I shook my head and moved to the door.
Kyle and I didn’t say anything as we got in his car and headed down the street. The cold night air had hit me like a slap in the face—and made me wonder how on earth I could have been so stupid. I’d almost lost my virginity with a guy who didn’t know my birthday or my parents’ names. A guy who’d never even asked if I had a favorite song.
I had no idea how he was feeling, and I didn’t particular
ly care. He’d almost raped me and one “sorry” wasn’t going to change that, especially after his thumbs-up crap. Of course I would never go out with him again. Fighting him off at the river bluffs was bad enough, but this was damn near a crime.
“You know what you should be when you grow up, Leeann?”
His voice was all cocky, and I was taken aback, but I said “What?” before I realized I didn’t want his answer.
“A nun.”
I turned to look at him. He was grinning and I could see the perfect alignment of his teeth, the product of years of braces. Another benefit of his father’s money, like this car and his expensive Nikes.
“A nun with giant boobs.” He laughed. “What a waste.”
“Shut up.” My voice was a spit. “You said you were sorry. Don’t say anything else or—”
“Or what?” He stuck his hand on my thigh. “You’ll report me to the other nuns?”
What happened next is still unclear to me. I remember pushing him off, and I remember how mad I got when he kept putting his hand back, each time a little higher, but I don’t know if the shove I gave him was the reason he strayed into the other lane. He’d been drinking, too. My sister said if the cops had been doing their job, they would have arrested him. He should have gotten a DWI. He should have been put in jail for what he did to me.
Of course she didn’t know about that shove.
The other car was an ancient Chevy, pale green, with fins and a giant hood that only rippled in the crash. An old man was driving, but we didn’t know that until the police showed up. The old guy wasn’t hurt but he didn’t move until they opened his door. Maybe he was too busy watching us.
Kyle had started yelling before we’d even skidded to a stop in the ditch. His door was dented but he forced it open and jumped out cursing and screaming about his car. The front wasn’t really there anymore. The grill and the hood and the engine had all been squished together like a sandwich under a spatula.
He wasn’t injured, at least, not in the accident. By the time the police arrived, his knuckles were bleeding from punching the trunk and the driver’s door and a piece of the metal bumper he picked up from the street.
The underside of my chin was bleeding, but my ankle was the main problem. Kyle had a barbell under the seat and it had rolled up and hit my left leg. The throbbing pain was so sharp it brought tears to my eyes. I was out of the car, and trying to stand when I realized the queasiness in my stomach wasn’t just nerves. I grabbed my hair and bent over just in time to vomit all over the gravel.
The paramedic could tell my ankle was broken just by looking at it. He also said the scratch below my chin would need stitches. He never gave me a choice about the ambulance, and he ignored all my babbling about how upset my sister would be. “It isn’t that serious,” he told me. “I’m sure she can handle it.”
Of course he was long gone by the time she came running into the emergency room. She was a little out of breath—and a near perfect model of unreadable: flat eyes, bland expression, mouth a straight line. Even her hands refused to give away anything. They weren’t clutched or wringing or even curled, but lying palms down against her side.
She was alone; she’d called our landlady Agnes to sit with Tommy. The police had already told her I was with Kyle. They’d also told her the accident took place on River Road, not a half mile from the entrance to Highway 61, and the intersection where Mom had had her accident.
I felt a rush of guilt and pity. “I’m all right,” I said, and watched her eyes move from the five stitches to my ankle, purple and black and swollen to the size of a baby’s head.
She sat down next to me and stroked my hair while we waited for them to do the cast. I was bracing myself for her to say I told you so about Kyle. I was bracing myself for her to yell or cry, something. Instead she was just very, very quiet. Even when I tried to apologize, she put her finger to my lips and said I wasn’t to worry about anything but feeling better.
When we got home, she helped me pull my pajama top over my head without hitting my chin, and gave me extra pillows so I wouldn’t be tempted to roll over and bump into the stitches or the cast. I fell asleep wondering why I’d expected her to freak out, when obviously the paramedic was right, she could handle this.
I woke up at first light of morning, suddenly aware that she was in my room, kneeling on the floor by my window. I had no idea how long she’d been there. Maybe all night.
“Mary Beth?”
“Can you see it?” she said quietly, without turning around.
“See that orange streak over there? In just a few minutes, it’ll fill the sky and the night will just disappear. And it always seems to happen so quickly. Like no matter how closely you watch, you can never point to the moment it changes.” She leaned forward and put her hand flat on the window. Her voice sounded fragile in a way I’d never heard it before. “Sometimes I just wish it could stay like this, you know? Sometimes I wish it didn’t always have to become another day.”
chapter
eight
I’d only had my cast off for a few weeks when Ben’s graduation announcement arrived in the mail. The envelope was creamy beige, heavy, with a seal of gold. Too important looking to just wad up and toss, though I was sure my sister wouldn’t see it that way. He had finished his Ph.D., and, for reasons I couldn’t fathom, his parents were inviting our family to a dinner in his honor. The restaurant was outside St. Louis, a good two hours from here. The dinner was set for a Thursday evening the second week of May: very inconvenient since Mary Beth would have to be up early on Friday for work. And Tommy would never be able to sit through it. He hated any restaurant that dared to serve food without free toys.
There were a lot of little reasons not to go—not to mention the really big reason that Mary Beth and Ben hadn’t even spoken for a year. So imagine my surprise when my sister ripped out a piece of notebook paper from her pad and immediately wrote Judy Mathiessen, Ben’s mother, to say she and I would be there. “I’ll have to find a babysitter for Tommy,” she told me, “but there’s lots of time.” When I just stood there, staring at her, she exhaled. “Is that all right with you?”
“Sure.” I wasn’t going to pry or even ask what was going on—I was afraid she’d change her mind.
The Ds thought maybe they would get back together. I said maybe, though I really didn’t hold out any hope for something that good.
My optimism had pretty much disappeared since the car accident. School was part of it. I wasn’t surprised that Kyle had lied about what we’d done, but now I had to deal with girls shooting me sympathetic looks—since they assumed he’d dumped me after he “got what he wanted”—and boys smirking and whistling and even occasionally trying to push me in a corner and feel me up. I couldn’t complain to my sister though, like I always had before. Home was the other part of the problem, and the part I was really worried about.
If only Mary Beth had punished me. Grounding me would have been easy, and so normal. Instead, she decided to focus her energies on our apartment. She called what she was doing “spring cleaning,” but I’d seen spring cleaning at friends’ houses, and I knew this wasn’t it. For one thing, friends’ mothers didn’t paint the living room at two in the morning. For another, friends’ mothers didn’t keep going for weeks and weeks like my sister did, never satisfied, moving the couch to the left one day, and to the opposite corner the next.
Mary Beth had what seemed like a zillion projects. Stapling sheets to the fresh painted walls, because she thought it would give the kitchen “a fresher look.” Taking down the old living room curtains, and then putting them back when she didn’t like the bamboo shades she’d shopped for all over town. Letting Tommy take apart those same bamboo shades, and then spending hours threading them together again, in case they would work in the bathroom or her bedroom. Covering one of Tommy’s walls with cork, “for when he’s older,” she said. Covering his other wall with a teddy bear pattern wallpaper that was so babyish it embarrassed
him.
Even when my cast was off, she wouldn’t let me help her. “I love doing this,” she’d say. “I’m not tired,” she’d insist, when I’d wake up and find her “taking a break” from her constant song reading with her constant quest to make our apartment better. Removing all the dishes from the cabinets, to repaper the shelves. Cleaning her closet, or mine, or Tommy’s, or the medicine chest. Rearranging the furniture again and again and again.
The more she did, the guiltier I felt. I was almost positive it was all my fault—especially since she only seemed to start new projects when I wasn’t home. It took me a while to realize this connection, mainly because I rarely went anywhere now. But it fit perfectly. And if I was even one minute late, she’d be at it so furiously when I walked in the door that she wouldn’t even remember to say hello.
She wouldn’t admit she was worried about me. She said she still trusted me as much as ever. It made me feel like dirt.
The one and only time I was really late, when Darlene’s car ran out of gas and we couldn’t find a pay phone, my sister took all the furniture from my bedroom and moved it into the hall. When I finally got home, she was pulling up the carpet, even though below it was a hideous gray speckled floor. It turned out to be the only one of her projects that she had to pay someone to come in and change back the next day.
Ben’s invitation arrived while the carpet man was still there, working on my room. Of course I wanted to go to the party—I wanted Ben to check out my sister. I wanted him to tell me what to do to make things all right again.
When the Thursday evening arrived, Mary Beth’s friend Juanita picked up Tommy. I got dressed and then sat at the kitchen table, drumming my fingers, while she took a shower, washed her hair, blew it dry and brushed it a hundred strokes, painted her nails, applied her makeup, and put on a brand-new dress she’d bought at a spring sale and her best pumps. At some point I asked her if she wanted me to wrap the present but she said no, she would do it. She didn’t want me to look at the map, either. She’d only gone to this restaurant once when she and Ben were dating but she insisted she remembered the way, no problem.