Vegas Girls
Page 11
“The sandwich is called a bahn mi,” he told her. “It’s sort of a Vietnamese-French fusion. I know it won’t work for your party, but I wanted you to try it.” He bit into a sandwich of his own, then grabbed the thermos. “Iced green tea with mint and lemon,” he said, before taking a long swallow.
“This sandwich could work for the grown-ups,” she said.
He shook his head. “Not everyone will like it. Too risky for a mixed crowd. I knew you would like it though. So I’m thinking of a corn and red pepper salad that I do and some empanadas for the adults, both sweet and savory. Also a green olive tapenade, some tomatillo salsa, cheeses, things like that.”
She nodded, unsure what empanadas were, but decided to trust him on the food. “Sounds perfect.”
He finished his sandwich quickly, then leaned back and crossed his legs at the ankles. “Listen, I’m sorry I took you all the way out here. I just thought it would be fun.”
“It is fun,” she admitted. She’d finished her sandwich too and was drinking tea. A sparrow swooped under the stairwell and buzzed their heads, causing them both to duck and then laugh. Ivy looked up and noticed a nest tucked under one of the stairs, and she pointed it out to Jeremy. “We’re in her territory.”
“This is our territory,” he said. “We were here long before she built that nest.”
“True,” she agreed, leaning back against the cool concrete wall. It was oddly comfortable under here, tucked away from the sun and the noises of the neighborhood. Jeremy stretched out his legs, and his foot, in its black tennis shoe, touched her sandal.
“Sort of like old times, isn’t it?” He smiled and she felt something familiar zigzag through her insides, a buzzing expectation.
“Not exactly,” she said.
“I keep expecting Mr. Tripoli to peer under here and say, ‘Get your sorry asses to class.’”
“Mr. Tripoli never talked like that.”
“He did to me.”
“Well, you probably deserved it.”
He nodded slowly. “Yes, I probably did.” He leaned to rummage in the cooler again and brought out another, smaller Tupperware container. This one contained a row of four tiny cakes, perfect rectangles covered in glazed icing and each topped by a delicate decoration: a violet set against white, an espresso bean pressed into a dark chocolate glaze, two raspberries pressed side by side on top of a pink cake, and a white curlicue scrolled across a deep lavender background.
“Petit fours,” he told her. “I want to make a whole tray of these for the party. They take a while but they’re worth it.”
“They’re beautiful,” Ivy said, picking up the one with the raspberries and taking a bite. There was chocolate inside layered with vanilla and raspberry. She’d never tasted anything so good.
She was biting into her second petit four, the one with the violet on top, when they heard the gate clang open and then shut with a heavy click. Ivy stopped chewing and looked over at Jeremy, who shrugged and held a finger to his lips. From their position beneath the stairwell, they saw a woman’s feet, wrapped in gold gladiator sandals. The woman passed nearby, then stepped out into the courtyard, where they could see her entire form from the back: short brown hair bounced over a purple top as she crossed the concrete, swinging a green canvas bag.
“A teacher?” Ivy whispered.
Jeremy nodded. The woman stopped suddenly, and just as she turned toward them, Jeremy looped an arm around Ivy’s waist and pulled her close, out of the woman’s line of sight and into the deeper shadows of the stairwell. The woman peered in their direction, then turned and continued across the yard.
“That was a close one,” Jeremy said.
Ivy turned to Jeremy, his face inches from her own, and breathed in his familiar scent of cinnamon and tobacco. Strange, she thought, how a person could still smell the same after all these years. His hand rested lightly on her waist, and he tightened it and pulled her a millimeter closer. She’d always liked the contrasting colors of his face—the shiny deep black of his hair against the pale skin, the unexpected green of his eyes. Without thinking, she swept her fingers over his forehead and smoothed back his hair. He leaned toward her then, expectant, but she scooted away before he could reach her, understanding that she had just barely avoided doing something she would regret. What was the matter with her?
“This is going to sound strange,” Jeremy said, now sitting at a safe distance, “but I think I should tell you something.”
Here it comes, Ivy thought. He still loves me. She could see it in his face, had felt it in his hand on her waist, could taste it in his food. “Okay,” she said, preparing a response in her mind that would damage him the least.
“I’m pretty sure I saw your mother the other day.”
His words knocked her back. Cool shivers of sweat emerged beneath her clothes, and Ivy closed her eyes, not so much thinking as absorbing what he’d said. Then she opened them and gave him a hard stare. “You’re lying.”
“Ivy,” he said softly. “I would never lie to you about something like that.”
She shook her head. He was right. “Where?” she asked.
“Your neighborhood. She was in a silver car, maybe a Monte Carlo?” He shook his head. “I’m not good with cars. And it might not have been her—it’s been a really long time since I’ve seen her—but I don’t know. She looked familiar—blonde hair, those big tortoiseshell sunglasses she always wore. Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything. It seems so unlikely.”
“No,” she shook her head. “I thought I might have seen her the other day too. A different day last week. So …” she trailed off and shrugged. “She might be back in town.”
“Maybe she heard about Lucky,” he suggested.
“Possibly. Doesn’t matter. I don’t want to see her again, ever.” Anger burbled up, and she pulled her knees up to her chest and took a deep breath. What was the point in being angry, after all this time?
“Here, have another petit four.” He offered her the Tupperware and she selected the dark chocolate one, but the first bite wedged like a wood chip in her throat.
“We need to go,” she told him.
“All right,” he said, popping the lid back on the container. He patted her knee kindly, and she let him touch her this time. Just as they were packing up, they heard the clack of shoes again and the woman reappeared in the courtyard, this time coming toward them. Jeremy nudged Ivy in the side, then whistled, the long, catcalling whistle of a construction worker. The woman stopped, squinting with accusation in the direction of the stairwell. Even though Ivy thought they were sufficiently tucked into the shadows, she froze, heart pounding as she held her breath. The woman took several steps in their direction, then stopped at the edge of the courtyard and peered once again into the shadowy area where they crouched beside the remains of their picnic. Ivy didn’t think the woman could see them, but she had a sudden urge to step out of the gloom, to make herself known.
“You’re not supposed to be in here, you know,” the woman called out. “The school is closed.”
Ivy glanced over at Jeremy and noticed that he was shaking with laughter. This was the kind of thing he’d always loved, almost getting caught at something. She recalled all the nights he’d stayed over longer than he should have, then climbed out her window at the exact moment her father was walking through the front door. For a while, when he’d been banned from her apartment, Jeremy would peer into her living room windows at dusk, waving to her over the sullen form of her father in front of the television as she did homework at the kitchen table. If her father had adjusted his vision even slightly to the left, he would have seen Jeremy, but he never did.
The woman squinted toward them once more, then turned abruptly and strode off in the opposite direction. When she’d disappeared from view, Jeremy allowed himself to laugh fully, tears of mirth appearing in the corners of his eyes.
“Why was that so funny?” Ivy wanted to know. “We could have gotten in trouble.”
&nbs
p; “Oh, I know her,” Jeremy said, waving a hand through the air dismissively. “She’s a pain in the ass. I was just trying to cheer you up.” He took a deep breath and wiped his eyes with his knuckles, then grinned over at her. “And what kind of trouble could we have gotten into? Is she going to call the cops because we’re having a picnic? C’mon, it was funny, admit it.”
Ivy frowned. “How do you know her?”
“I don’t know, from a party or something. She used to run around with a friend of mine.”
“What friend?”
“Nobody you know.”
Ivy wondered why she was grilling him, and forced herself to relax and finish packing up. It all felt too familiar: the strange woman that Jeremy knew, the friends of his she didn’t know, the keys to places he shouldn’t be allowed to enter. “Let’s go,” she said, brushing off her lap and standing up.
“We didn’t really talk about the party yet,” Jeremy said.
The school’s courtyard was empty now, and Ivy felt slightly ill emerging from their shady space beneath the stairs. Out here, the many ghosts of high school swirled around her, choking off her air, and Ivy hurried to the gate and waited for Jeremy to let them out.
“We should discuss the menu,” he said, unlocking the gate. “But I guess we can do that at the kitchen.”
“You know, I’d rather just go home if that’s okay. I don’t feel so good. Just make all the things you brought over the other day, and what you mentioned earlier for the grown-ups. I trust you.”
“You do?” He turned toward her, looking hopeful and somehow younger than he had just a moment before.
“Well, about the food at least,” she said.
RAMONA
When Lucky woke up, about half an hour after Ivy left, he quickly became inconsolable, searching for his mother with those big, weepy brown eyes; he looked like a cartoon child those eyes were so oversized, so sad and dreamy. Ramona took him from Frank and held him close to her damp swimsuit, circling the pool and patting his back in an effort to soothe him but to no avail.
Jane tried a bottle of formula, then Frank tried it. Ramona had the last go at it, but by this time Lucky was so upset with that fake plastic nipple, he batted it out of her hand. The bottle flew and hit the pool deck, then rolled into the water with a soft bloop of sound. “Maybe something else to eat?” Ramona suggested to Frank.
In the kitchen, Frank mixed up some rice cereal and got a jar of pureed bananas out of the fridge. Lucky turned his face away to both offerings and continued to cry and whimper against Ramona.
Frank tasted the food himself, then frowned before laughing. “This stuff is not very good. Why can’t a baby’s first food be ice cream or chocolate pudding?”
“Or mashed potatoes and gravy.”
Frank sank into the chair across from her and set the spoon down in the bowl of rice cereal with a sigh. “Where the hell is Ivy?” he said, but not with any real anger.
Lucky, who was still whimpering, settled down completely as Ramona rocked him gently on her knee. He seemed to have given up on finding his mother and turned in toward Ramona to nuzzle her chest and pull on one of her braids. She thought about the baby that was probably growing inside of her right now and decided that if she could guarantee her baby would be a replica of this one on her lap, she would definitely have it.
Frank got up and poured two glasses of water, then set one down in front of her. He didn’t return to the table but instead leaned against the sink and drank his entire glass in three long gulps, then placed it on the counter. He was composing something important to say—Ramona could see that by the look of concentration on his face—and she sat patting Lucky and waiting with a slight ripple of unease. Had he somehow found out about her search?
“Do you remember that day when you were in the hospital and I came to see you?” he asked. “You’d just had your baby the night before, and they had you on a whole bunch of sedatives, so you might not remember, but I came in to visit. Ivy had a test and Jane was in a ballet recital or something, so they sent me to keep you company.”
“Sure, I remember,” she said, wary.
“Do you remember what you asked me to do that day?”
Ramona did—of course she did—but she shook her head no, not wanting to say the words, but not wanting Frank to repeat what she’d asked of him either. “You know, let’s not talk about that,” she suggested with a weak smile. “It’s such a nice day. Let’s not talk about the hospital.”
“But I’ve always felt guilty about that, that I couldn’t do what you asked of me, that I couldn’t help you.”
She shook her head again and leaned down toward Lucky in an attempt to hide her face from Frank. She didn’t want him to see the tightening around her mouth, the squinting up of her eyes in her effort to prevent tears. “You have nothing to feel guilty about,” she said into the soft top of Lucky’s head. “It wasn’t fair of me to ask you that.”
“Well, for the record, I’m sorry.”
She took a deep breath and raised her face, calmer now. The moment of threatened tears had passed. “Well, then, for the record, I accept your apology, even though none is necessary.”
He smiled down at her, and she took in, for the first time since she’d arrived, the new lines around his mouth and eyes, the single twine of white in his deep brown hair. His wrinkles were of the happy variety, brought on by smiling and sleepless nights with a new baby, and he looked like a softened, slightly worn version of his high school self. He was no longer as handsome as he had once been, but he looked content and friendly, like a person you could trust, which he was.
Just then, Lucky let go of her braid and reached for the bottle of formula, which sat on the table beside the bowl of rice cereal. Ramona picked it up, and he accepted the drink hungrily, holding the bottle in both hands as he lay in her lap and drank.
“Well, look at that,” Frank said with a smile. “He decided not to starve himself just because his mother’s gone. I knew he was a smart kid.” He leaned down and kissed the top of Ramona’s head, as if she were a little sister, then said, “Be right back.”
Ramona tried to smile, but she was remembering the hospital now with a vividness that sometimes came to her: the cool periwinkle color of the walls in her room, the sound of nurses walking back and forth outside her door, the pain of having to bind her chest to stop the flow of milk, and the sickly sweet smell of its insistent production.
That day, she had asked Frank to help her get the baby back, told him that she had changed her mind about the adoption. By then, however, it was really too late, and there was nothing Frank could do. He’d told her to talk to her mother about it, or the nurses, but she hadn’t done that. She had asked only him, then never spoken of it again.
Lucky yanked on the bottle as if to remind her of his presence. He was gripping the thing with both hands now, looking gloriously happy as he continued to fill up his belly. Ramona hadn’t planned to ask Frank for help that day in the hospital. She hadn’t planned anything really. She just remembered seeing his face—he had a broad, gap-toothed smile that inspired confidence—and thinking that if anyone could help her, it would be Frank. He possessed a sense of calm authority even then, and Ramona guessed he made an excellent principal.
Later, when she’d had the opportunity to ask a nurse about it, she’d changed her mind. She was too young. Her mother was too sad, even though she offered to raise him. No, this baby needed a different family, one that hadn’t been marked by her brother’s death.
Lucky was almost finished with the entire bottle of milk and was making a sort of contented humming sound as he sucked the last bit down. Ramona stroked his cheek with her thumb. She allowed herself to imagine that she was seventeen again and this baby was hers. It was not particularly difficult to do. Those days in the hospital had always felt close to the surface, as if they were easy to access and change. They also felt distant, unreal. Had she really given away her child? Had such a thing actually occurred?
After Ivy returned, looking shaken and slightly guilty, Ramona made an excuse about running an errand to the store, then left to find the second J. Dillman on her list. This address was easy to locate because it was in the older section of town, Huntridge, and close to where she had lived as a kid.
The house was on Sweeney Avenue, a street that had seen better days. She found the number and pulled into a space under the shade of an old elm tree, then cut the engine and sat, staring at the small, yellow ranch house across from her and waiting for something to happen. It was 4:10 p.m. on a Wednesday, and the street was quiet except for two boys on a yellow lawn several houses down floating a green Frisbee back and forth between them. They were surprisingly good, sending each other into the street for high leaping catches, turning and grabbing the Frisbee from behind their backs, and Ramona’s gaze kept straying from the door of the house to the boys and their game. She decided they were definitely brothers, and one was likely nine or ten, the other eleven, possibly twelve. It was hard to watch them without thinking about her own brother, his angular face, the chipped front tooth, his dark, lovely eyes looking oddly large once his hair was completely gone.
She tried to clear this image and focus all her efforts on the yellow house. That’s why she was sitting here, after all. The grass was green, which indicated sprinklers, but overly long and neglected. A pomegranate tree. Oleanders blooming pink and white flowers. A gray, block wall fence shielding the backyard from view, etched with ivy. The roof appeared to be older, perhaps leaky, and the yellow paint peeled in a few, almost unnoticeable spots. It was a decent home, one of the nicest on this block as far as she could tell, and Ramona decided it wasn’t a bad place for a boy to grow up, better than her old building.