Eating the Cheshire Cat

by Helen Ellis

  “It’s never too late.”

  “I know.” Sarina paused for a moment. She thought about this, the third year she would spend only school breaks at home with her mom. She asked, “Are you happy alone?”

  “I’m not alone.”

  “I mean friends. You two used to be so social.”

  “I’m social.”

  “I remember the dinner parties,” Sarina said. “Meena sneaking biscuits to my room.”

  “She did that?”

  “I remember his laugh, even with my door closed.”

  “Willamina snuck you rolls?”

  Sarina said, “What happened to all your friends, Mother?”

  Mrs. Summers made no effort to muffle the sound of the cork she twisted out of what could only be her favorite brand of white wine. “I got the house.” There was silence as she took a sip. “And you.”

  Sarina kicked her shoes off and lay across her bed. “How did you know he was Mr. Right?”

  Mrs. Summers was silent as if she was trying to envision old ghosts. Maybe of the marriage she used to be a part of. Maybe of the days when three Summers were pasted in every photo album.

  “Mother?”

  “I’m still here.”

  “Tell me. How did you know?”

  “I just knew.”

  “That’s what they all say.”

  “Well, then,” sighed Mrs. Summers, “they’d all be right.”

  Two weeks before finals, Sarina decided she and Joe would go all the way. It had been two months of teasing and, truth was, she had wanted to let him since he first put his mouth on her.

  Joe was a good kisser. Give-lessons kind of good.

  Sarina found herself as she had often heard it could be: caught up in the moment, captured by his every move. She didn’t have to train him: shut her mouth to get his tongue out, draw her head back to slow him down. She didn’t have to put her hand over his chin to keep his stubble from rubbing her raw. Joe always double-shaved when they got home from a date. He put his hands in her hair. He moved his lips along her face. He found a spot on her neck she never knew held interest. He touched her all over. Every instance, asking for more.

  When she finally gave it to him, the condom came off. Got lost, in doctor speak, is the more accurate analysis.

  They were on top of the covers, on top of his bed. Sarina, amazed that she wasn’t the teacher. Joe taking over, making filthy little comments most women want to hear. After the Are you ready?—Yeah—you?—Yeah, Joe sat back on his heels and looked nervously into his lap. Sarina was unaware of what had happened until she saw the look on Joe’s face and got up on her elbows to find his penis, extinguished, collected in his hand. Sarina winced and scooted sideways, out of range of the wet spot. But she was the wet spot. And that wetness made her feel like a stepped-on tube of toothpaste.

  “I’m on the pill,” she spat out. Which was true, but little comfort. When Sarina couldn’t fill a B-cup before Varsity tryouts, Mrs. Summers had taken her to her gynecologist and insisted that her daughter get her share of regulation.

  Joe said, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Where the hell did it go?” Sarina reached between her legs. She felt the sheets around her legs. Nothing. Nada. That rubber was missing and they knew where it was. “Didn’t you feel it coming off when we . . .”

  “Hey, shhh.” Joe leaned forward, onto all fours. He dropped his head and looked up at her through his sandy blond bangs sprung loose from the gel. “Hey, it’s okay.”

  “It is most definitely not okay.” Sarina swung her body off the bed. She stormed naked to the bathroom shouting, “Let’s put a quarter up your ass and see who’s okay!”

  Sarina slammed the door and flicked on the lights. It was a shower-sized bathroom. The towels badly bleached. She sat on the toilet and tried to get it out. She stood up and put a foot on the sink and tried to get it out. She saw herself in the mirror, hair in knots, skin blotchy from his chest hair or soap or the inferior detergent he used on his sheets. She gave herself x-ray vision and saw that condom trapped inside her, cupping her cervix like another girl’s diaphragm. She couldn’t get it with her fingers. They were too short and too straight.

  Sarina turned off the lights and called for Joe. When he knocked on the door, the sound almost broke her. She opened it and Joe reached for the light switch.

  “Don’t,” she said.

  “Shh, it’s okay.”

  If she was as brave as she wanted, she would have asked for a coat hanger. Instead, she managed to ask for his help.

  When she got back to the Delta house, Sarina thought her answering machine was on the blink. The red light was flashing. She couldn’t count the number of times. She pressed Play and took her coat off, but she didn’t sit down. She was sore from Joe’s two fingers playing pliers. She was anxious and embarrassed. Tender from the night.

  Message after message revealed her mother getting drunk.

  Friday, 6:45 P.M.: “Hi, honey, I’m home. Waiting for your call. Wondering what you’re wearing to the big game tonight.”

  Friday, 7:01P.M.: “Hi. It’s your mother. I’m looking for you on television. Where are you? I don’t see you.”

  Friday, 8:20 P.M.: “Sarina, it’s your mother. Call me if you check your messages.”

  Friday, 9:00 P.M.: “It’s your mother. Call me when you get home.”

  Friday, 10:00 P.M.: “It’s your mother.”

  “Mother here.”

  “Just your mother.”

  “Call your mother.”

  Sarina thought, She knows. Somehow, she just knows.

  Sarina paced in front of her twin bed. She had herself a sticky situation. If she didn’t call, her mother might call the house mother whenever she came to. That could be early. Before alarms. Before dawn. Her mother had told her, “It’s never too late.” But it was 3:00 A.M. Did she want to test that theory?

  She called.

  “It’s me, Mother. Just letting you know I got in okay. Talk to you tomorrow. Go back to sleep.”

  “Wait,” her mother croaked. “Wait a second. Hold on.” Mrs. Summers cleared her throat. She coughed and coughed. “Hold on.”

  “Mother, don’t worry about it. Go back to sleep. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  “Wait a second.” More coughing. “You’re still my daughter. I want to meet him. Bring him over. Lemme meet him.”

  “Mother, we’re not in kindergarten.”

  “Well, you’re hardly self-supportive. Do you want to get a job? Is that what you’d like?”

  “Fine,” said Sarina.

  “Fine,” said Mrs. Summers. “I’ll see you Sunday at six. Tell him to invite his parents. We’ll make three dates of it.”

  “Who’s coming with you?”

  “Oh, for goodness sakes. It’s just an expression.”

  Sunday morning when Sarina reminded Joe of the dinner, he sat up in his bed and said, “You were serious?”

  “You said you wanted to.”

  “I said my parents would love you.”

  “So?”

  “So, it’s only been two months.”

  “Ten weeks,” Sarina corrected.

  “Ten weeks, then,” said Joe.

  “Do your parents even know about me?”

  “Of course,” said Joe. “You’re my girlfriend, aren’t you?”

  Sarina said, “You got that right.”

  * * *

  The Dillers were not what Sarina expected. They were graying brunettes. They were old and laughed a lot. They sat close together on the living room sofa and nudged each other when one of them snorted. Tweedledum and Tweedledee. Every joke, a private one. Every story, a had-to-be-there. And, boy oh boy, did they love their Joe. They offered excuses when he was forty minutes late.

  “I’m sure he’s stuck in traffic.”

  “What traffic?” said Mrs. Summers.

  “There’s traffic,” said Sarina.

  “I’ll bet he’s closed a deal.” Mrs. Diller turned t
o her husband. “You’ve been late before.” She said to Mrs. Summers, “It happens sometimes. That last-minute customer. Last-minute, but serious.”

  Mrs. Summers got to her feet. “I’ll just tell Will to put the roast back in the oven.”

  The kitchen door still swinging, Sarina was left alone with the company.

  “So,” said Mrs. Diller. “Joe tells us you’re in a sorority.”

  “Tri Delta,” Sarina nodded.

  “Oooo,” said Mrs. Diller.

  Mr. Diller patted his wife’s knee. His fingers were pink and chapped at the knuckles.

  The doorbell rang and Joe arrived with red roses. They were not supermarket fare. They were long-stemmed and too large for the baby’s breath to cover. “The deal was so close,” he said to his father. He kissed Sarina on the mouth. He apologized to Mrs. Summers and offered her the flowers. He shook her hand. He laughed as he said, “Quite a grip you got there.”

  “So I’ve been told.” Mrs. Summers made her way back to Willamina.

  At the dinner table, Mrs. Summers seated Joe to her left and Sarina to her right. She sat the Dillers to either side of them and left her ex-husband’s seat without a place mat, chair tucked under.

  Over the course of the evening, Willamina brought out one dish after the other. Salad and little rolls. Pot roast. Potatoes. Gravy boat and butter. Peas, greens, and corn.

  Before dessert, Joe pulled a vibrating beeper from his sports coat pocket. He read it and frowned. “That same client. I’ve got to take this.” He touched Mrs. Summer’s wrist and Mrs. Summers held his gaze in a way Sarina had yet to master. He nodded to the swinging kitchen door where, behind it, a phone was surely stationed. “May I?”

  “Far be it from me.”

  Joe left the dining room and his father was the first to speak. “I discouraged him from getting that thing. I’ll never wear one myself. Never get a car phone, either.” He reached his chapped pink fingers across the pot roast for his wife’s hand. “After five, I’m a family man.”

  “Stop it,” Mrs. Diller gushed and squeezed his fingers before releasing them.

  Sarina picked at a second dinner roll. She joined in conversation. She tried not to let her gaze move from the three parental faces to the kitchen door that Joe was behind.

  Mrs. Diller lowered her voice as she forked several peas. “My husband is going to kill me for bringing this up.”

  “Go ahead,” said Mrs. Summers.

  “No, don’t,” said Mr. Diller.

  Mrs. Diller put her fork down and wiped her mouth. “Nevermind. He’s right. It’s tacky. I’ve drunk over my limit.”

  Mrs. Summers said, “Please, there’re no secrets here. Ask us anything. Go on. We’ve got nothing to hide.”

  Before Mrs. Diller got the words out, Sarina knew what she was going to say. “What ever happened to that girl, Nicole Hicks?”

  Clearly grateful his wife had opened her big mouth, Mr. Diller added, “You must have seen everything. Tell us, is there anything the TV didn’t say?”

  Mrs. Summers said, “Honestly, there isn’t anything else I didn’t tell the police. You know the story. There was what happened. Then hysteria. But I never saw Nicole. Just a bunch of women running for their cars. Same thing I would have done if I had been a guest in that house.”

  The Dillers were visibly disappointed.

  “But why’d she do it?”

  “She’s crazy.” Mrs. Summers sawed a piece of meat with her knife. “But how can you blame her? Carolyn Hicks could make us all do crazy things.”

  “Like what?” asked Mrs. Diller.

  “Whatever,” said Mrs. Summers. “I’m just glad that girl’s off the streets. She’s dangerous, and my girl doesn’t need to fear a Manson in her sleep.”

  Sarina smiled accordingly as her mother patted her hand. She wondered what kind of commission could keep her boyfriend in the kitchen so long.

  Mr. Diller said, “How do you know she’s not on the streets? I mean, where else could she be? She’s a long way from anonymous.”

  Mrs. Summers said, “Now, really.”

  Joe was still on the phone.

  “It’s true,” said Mrs. Diller. “She could be anywhere.”

  “Los Angeles,” said Mr. Diller.

  “But, honey, Oprah says runaways don’t go that far from home.”

  Mrs. Summers mused, “You know . . . she could be watching us right now.”

  “Oooo,” said Mrs. Diller.

  “Did you check your back seat?”

  “Oooo!”

  “Don’t you worry.” Mr. Diller’s pink fingers searched his wife’s out across the table.

  All this chatter and Joe was still on the phone.

  “She’s dead,” Sarina said and pushed her chair from the table. “Dead as in door nail.” She picked up the dinner roll plate.

  “Let Will do that.”

  “No, Mother, it’s okay.”

  In the kitchen, Joe sat on the green stool by the wall phone with the receiver pinched between his shoulder and ear. His back was to Sarina. He was facing the maid. Willamina sat at the blue wicker kitchen table, her arms crossed, her eyes on Joe. She took them away only for a moment to frown at Sarina. Joe saw the exchange and turned around, his cheeks flushed. He checked his watch and whispered into the mouthpiece, “I’ve got to go.”

  Sarina said, “Who were you talking to?”

  “Told you. Client.”

  Willamina stepped forward. She took the empty dinner roll plate from Sarina. She stood behind her at the oven and pulled out warm rolls one by one.

  “It’s been over ten minutes.”

  “Well, what do you want me to do?”

  Willamina shut the oven and tapped Sarina on the back before handing her the dinner roll plate. She crossed the room and made a lot of noise getting comfortable in the blue wicker chair.

  Joe said, “You want me to lose the sale?”

  “I don’t know, Joe.”

  “Well, then, for God’s sake gimme a break.”

  Sarina was annoyed by his impromptu little rhyme. She was even more annoyed when he offered to follow his parents home in his car. Mrs. Diller had drunk over her limit. Mr. Diller had poor night vision. It was a predicament. Joe would tail them and beep if they swerved into traffic.

  “I’ll meet you at the apartment,” he whispered as he kissed Sarina good-bye.

  “How am I supposed to get in?”

  “Don’t worry,” said Joe. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

  Sarina and her mother stood on the front porch and waved. Both their shoulders set in knots as Mr. Diller sounded his horn and drove away to a loud, high-speed version of “Look away, look away, look away, Dixie Land!”

  Mrs. Summers wrapped her arm around her daughter’s waist. “Come inside for a second. It’s time I told you the facts of life.”

  “You told me when I was ten.”

  Mrs. Summers sat down at the dining room table. “Those were the mechanics. What matters is the mind.”

  Sarina stood by her seat until Willamina finished shaking the crumbs off her place mat.

  “Go on,” said Willamina and patted her chair.

  Mrs. Summers said, “Sarina, do you think he’s the one?”

  “I think so.”

  “Think hard.”

  Sarina closed her eyes as if that would help the process. For a few seconds there was peace. Quiet, save the shuffle of Willamina at the sink. Sarina was absorbed by the simple scene within her head. There was darkness and cloudy stars. Her mother’s voice, the sharpest light.

  “You know that wasn’t a business call, don’t you?”

  Sarina said, “What?”

  “He’s got another girlfriend. Ask Will. She heard it all.”

  “She told you?”

  “Didn’t have to. I knew just by looking at him. I hate to tell you, he reminds me of your father.”

  “Meena!” Sarina screamed. “Meena, get in here!”

  “Don’t bo
ther Will. Let her work. I’ll tell you.”

  But Willamina was right behind her. Soap still on her apron, gloves dripping dirty dishwater all over the floor.

  “Will, mind the carpet.”

  “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  Mrs. Summers said, “Take your gloves off. I just had this steamed.”

  “Well, what’s she yelling about?”

  “Take off your gloves.”

  Willamina shoved the gloves in her apron pocket. All the while, waiting on an answer. Looking at Sarina as if she’d clean lost her head.

  “Well, what is it?”

  Sarina couldn’t look at her. She was too afraid to hear the answer. If history served, her mother was right.

  “What is it, girl? You scared me outta my skin.”

  Mrs. Summers said, “Tell Sarina who Joe was talking to.”

  “Why she want to know that? He told her, ‘client.’ What makes y’all think it was anything else?”

  “Will, please,” said Mrs. Summers. She stifled a yawn. “You know and I know it wasn’t any client. People talk in front of you like you’re a goddamned lamp post. Just confirm our suspicions. Did he call her by name?”

  Willamina folded her arms and sort of sat in midair. She sighed so severely. She said, “No name.”

  “But Mom, he told me it was over.”

  “Sweetheart,” Mrs. Summers said, “these things are never over.”

  Willamina put her hands on her knees. She bent over and spoke to Sarina like so many times when Sarina was short. “Go get yourself a better man. A good man who’ll treat you right. Cast a spell. You know, make a man love you like that boy in seventh grade.”

  “Stewart,” said Sarina.

  Mrs. Summers said, “That’s quite enough.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Willamina said and, still slightly bent, went back into the kitchen.

  Sarina felt the room spin around her like a funnel. Everything seemed to be growing and, at the same time, she shrunk. She pictured herself too small to slide down the chair leg. When she finally spoke, her voice was a speck. “Fuck.”

  And then, “So I should call it off, tonight?”

  “Watch your language,” said her mother. “And I didn’t say that.”

  “So what are you saying?”

  “That marriage is a job. It’s hard work. I’m sure you’ve been told this before.”