The first time she brought Tim home—that summer, when Ann was away on vacation—he had just gotten his license. He was a year older. Even after three years, she still wasn’t sure why he was her boyfriend. He seemed conventional and pretty. All the other boys seemed to stare at her breasts under all that wool: the scratchy blazer and starched white blouse, undershirt over the bra so no shadows peeked through, tucked into a plaid, pleated skirt, and thick argyle knee socks that itched. Sweat left a dark streak, soaking through her blazer, down the middle of her back, once the temperature hit seventy-five degrees. Maybe that was why she liked Tim. He didn’t pay attention to her, never stared at her breasts, and all the girls adored him.
“Hi, Mom. I’m home. I have a new friend I want you to meet,” Joanne shouted towards the living room.
Her mom came down the stairs, overhead chandelier brightly lit, even though it was daylight saving time and the sun wouldn’t set for another three hours. Backlit, in a pink see-through nightie—Valentine’s Day pink, her mother called it—she glided down to greet them. Joanne remembered how impossibly thin the material had been, and sleeveless, and far more low-cut than anything she ever saw the other moms wear.
“And who is this handsome young man?” her mother asked as she landed in front of them, turning her cheek for a kiss, a bit unsteady in her slippered feet. Those glamorous, pink-feathered pompom slippers. The kind Joanne’s Barbie doll had.
Tim looked startled. “Uh, uh, I … I’m Tim,” he stuttered. Joanne had never heard him stutter before.
Her mother kissed him—a firm, aggressive kiss. “It’s about time I got to meet one of my daughter’s boyfriends.” She looked more closely at Tim’s face, and Tim started picking at one of his zits, the big one in the center of his chin, and shuffled his feet, putting one shoe on top of the other.
It must hurt to do that, Joanne thought, with cleats and all. He was still wearing his baseball shoes, having come straight from practice.
“Has anyone told you that you look like a blond Paul McCartney, my favorite Beatle?” her mother asked, reaching up on tiptoe to rake her fingers through his long, shaggy blond hair.
Tim mumbled something, but Joanne couldn’t tell what he was trying to say, if anything.
“You know what I think?” he said when her mother was done fawning over him, and he and Joanne walked out on the porch that edged the solarium. “You don’t think I’m good enough for you. That’s what I think. I’m just convenient, while you wait, biding your time until college starts. I may go on to college, too, you know. I’m just working at McDonald’s until I can save up enough. Not everyone has rich folks like you. You’re just a spoiled brat, if you ask me.”
Joanne looked up as she slipped her arms under his armpits, bringing her face close to his. “I would never dream of dating anyone but you. We’ve been together for three years now. Nothing’s changed. You’re my angel. You know that.”
“You’re lying, you little bitch. I see how the guys stare at you and your friend when you think I’m not looking.” He raised a hand, and before Joanne could pull away, he struck her across the cheek.
The slap was loud. She hoped her parents couldn’t hear from inside the solarium. The TV was blaring. Seeing neither one of them had looked up, she rubbed her cheek and looked back up at Tim. He hung his head, just for a second or two, but then he stormed off into the dark. She watched him start the car; then, when he turned out of the driveway, she ran upstairs to see what damage had been done to her face.
Ann stopped by twenty minutes later without calling first. She never called first. This time Joanne wished she had.
“Let’s see what the choices of dorms are,” she said. “Let’s pretend we have to make the selection for first choice and second choice right away. Before others take your spot.”
“I’ll want a dorm next to the boys’ dorms. That’s my first priority,” Joanne said, rubbing her cheek.
“This is so much fun. I’m going to be living at home—God, how awful. But you have the chance to get away from this place and meet all kinds of new people. You’re so lucky. I wish I could trade places,” Ann said, flipping through the flyers scattered all over her bed. She glanced up at Joanne and, finally noticing her cheek, gave her a worried look.
Just then, there was a tap at the window. A whisper. Tim. “Hey, beautiful! I’m so sorry, you know I am. I love you so much. I’d never want to hurt you.”
“Yeah, right, asshole,” Ann said. “Don’t say a word, Jo.”
Joanne flinched. Now her friend knew what had happened.
“But my Mom—she likes him so much,” she said, turning her back to the window and speaking low so Tim couldn’t hear. “Maybe it’s my fault. I’m to blame for putting him in a bad mood.”
“Does your Mom know how he treats you?” Ann seemed incredulous.
“I can’t bring myself to tell her. Mom always says it’s a woman’s charm and beauty that keep her man happy. I guess I’m not beautiful enough.”
Ann yanked her away from the window, and slammed it hard in Tim’s face.
Joanne finally did decide to break it off with Tim before college started—or maybe it would be more appropriate to say that Tim self-destructed. It happened when her parents took them both on an Alaskan cruise as a graduation present for Joanne. The Seven Seas, a luxury liner, had suites with adjoining rooms, each with its own little balcony and view. Her mother was slightly claustrophobic, so they had the spacious Silver Class suites. Not spacious enough to keep her mom from hearing what happened in Joanne and Tim’s room on the second day of the cruise, however.
“What’s all that racket? I hear knocking and pounding through the wall. What’s going on in there?” her mother shouted, pounding on the locked door that separated their suites.
Joanne could hear her tears catch in her throat. “I’m all right, Mom. Just fell. No need to worry. I’m just practicing my karate moves Andrew taught me with Tim. Go back to sleep. I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not. I can tell. Open this door!”
Joanne folded up inside, and let her mom in. Tim slept and ate by himself for the rest of the cruise—in her parents’ walk-in closet.
Her mother was her hero. Forever and always.
Her sister was, too. Especially now that she could pay for more of their parents’ debts with the windfall inheritance she had received from their uncle. Thank goodness for Jules.
HAMBURGER FACE ON SARAN WRAP
“Your luck will improve now, darling,” Joanne’s mother said after meeting Al, a fellow student majoring in art.
Santa Monica City College was all Joanne had expected it to be and then some. Jules had reviewed the flyers with her and they had both agreed on two things: that she had artistic abilities, and that putting some distance between her and her parents would be a smart move for her. The Gemological Institute of America had a joint program with SMCC so she could pursue a dual career as an artist and a jewelry appraiser.
“He may not be as handsome as Tim was, but he looks more agreeable,” her mother said. “Someone who can listen. Who appreciates your beauty, your artistic nature. I think he’ll make good money someday, too. Being with someone ten years older can be a plus, you know. He’s probably more mature, too.”
Her parents were more delighted than she had thought they would be. “I just don’t know if I want to get involved with anyone else right now, Mom,” Joanne said. “Tim made me such a mess. I just want to hang out with my new girlfriends. And draw.”
“You’re not getting any younger, you know,” her father said—during this conversation, and on more than one occasion throughout that first year of college. “The best age for having kids is in your late teens or early twenties. Before you know it, you will be perimenopausal. It’s a woman’s duty to be a mother, you know. It defines her essence.” Joanne ignored her father’s medical opinion. She was eighteen, not eighty. But she couldn’t help but be influenced by her parents’ enthusiasm for the match.
Joanne’s parents paid the rent without being asked and made frequent visits to California to see their baby girl. They were happy to take care of her, her mom said. Someday Joanne could support herself and them. But that never came to pass. Sometimes Joanne wondered what would happen if they ever ran out of money. Daddy had reassured her that would never happen. But Joanne didn’t want to depend on her parents forever. She wanted her own dream: to become the owner of a jewelry store.
Joanne had decided Al was not so bad the first time he invited her to his student apartment. “Love the smell,” she said.
“I’m making spaghetti for dinner. That’s what you smell,” he told her with a grin on his face. But the smell she was referring to was patchouli, not pasta e fagioli. And really, what was irresistible about Al was his choice of art: nightmare-inducing Nazi images, disembodied mutations, and predatory insects and animals. Just her style.
Al was a closet geek, and older than Jules. Like a docile Labrador, Joanne’s favorite breed, he hovered around her. By the time they celebrated their first Valentine’s Day together, Joanne knew her future.
“Oh Al, you know, you could do much better and save money to boot,” Joanne’s mother had said to him after hearing about his living situation when they came for a visit in early February. “Why don’t you move in with Joanne as her Valentine’s Day present? Don’t you think she’s beautiful? Takes after me. Everyone says so.”
Joanne had felt herself blush. She had only known Al a few months.
The next day Al had sent a dozen roses. Then another dozen the following day. For a whole week, seven dozen in total, a different color each day, until Valentine’s Day. He made reservations for them at a famous restaurant, requesting the most coveted table in Beverly Hills. He also started to cook for her after classes.
“Al may not be exactly your type, but his devotion is impressive,” her mother said. “And you know, none of us gets what she wants all wrapped up in one package with a pink bow on top. He may be as good as it gets. I should know—I married your father, didn’t I?” she laughed.
So she married Al. And just as she was concentrating on getting pregnant, Al lost his job.
“No one should love work. That’s why they call it work,” Al grumbled.
Joanne remembered saying that she felt fortunate snagging an instructorship at the Gemological Institute in Santa Monica right after graduation, and regretting it as soon as the words flew out of her mouth. Al never liked anything. He didn’t trust the concept—let alone the prospect—of happiness, either his or hers. That Southern Methodist upbringing. He didn’t even like sex—or at least, he only liked sex before they were married. When it was forbidden by his church.
When Al picked up her class list, Joanne knew her life would change before he even spoke.
“Hmm, mostly guys, judging from this list. Are they interested in the subject matter or just you?”
“You’re not jealous, are you? There’s no need to be, you know.” She laughed.
Al wasn’t smiling. “Tomorrow you hand in your resignation.”
“But you just lost your job. We could use the money.” She could hear the pleading in her voice as she slipped her arms under his armpits. The way she had with Tim when he used to get angry. Her own voice was scaring her.
“No way you’re going back there. Pretty soon you’ll be huge, anyway. Like a fat cockroach. You won’t even be able to fit behind the steering wheel. Quit your job. You can sew baby stuff to get ready for the big day. We’ll live off my severance and then my unemployment, if we have to. Until I find another job.”
And that was how Joanne kept out of harm’s way: by sitting in front of her new Singer sewing machine all evening, waiting for Al to come home—where did he go all day?—and creating baby clothes, unisex ones. When her hands were tired of sewing, she created serigraphs, her most accomplished form of printmaking—shifting and morphing shapes of uncommon virospheres and body parts. Her favorite subject was the spleen.
Six weeks later, she became pregnant with Megan. Her first baby was born bright and healthy. Al adopted Koko, a chocolate Labrador, from the SPCA, to be Megan’s playmate, but the dog turned out to be vicious, except towards their family.
Soon after Megan’s birth, Sarah was on the way.
“You know, darling,” both her parents observed, “you make such beautiful babies. Thank God they take after you in the looks department.” Joanne could never figure out how they could both say that in front of Al, as if he weren’t there.
“And why on earth did Al buy that filthy dog … and around small children, no less?” her mother asked once, when Al was out at the store. “Don’t you have any sense of hygiene?”
Joanne laughed it off, recalling her mom’s disgust when she first saw Megan crawling to catch Koko and suck on one of his paws. “I think Koko is more lovable than Al,” is all she said.
Al was gone now, but Joanne still had Koko.
Al’s search had paid off, landing an engineering job at less pay at Boeing in Seattle. Well, it wasn’t actually an engineering job. He drew the schematics for aeronautical parts before they were adapted for CAD-CAM input.
“God, I hated looking for a job, day after day, month after month,” Al complained to Joanne after getting the news. “It’s not easy, you know, having to provide for the family. I hate having to be approved by some asshole. And goddamn those LA riots. Those riots caused our bankruptcy. The looting scared off any buyers.” Echoes of her father’s ranting long ago at Lake Tamsin during the civil rights movement. The violence.
Her parents had put a generous down payment on a large house in a good neighborhood overlooking the Cascades, big enough for all of them to move in together, if that day ever came. Her father’s investments would bring in more profits when they needed them down the road. No worries. Just like the good old days on Crestview Avenue in Akron, her father said.
They would move to Seattle to start a new life. A better life. For all of them.
“I think you have some crumbs on your cheek. Maybe from a bran muffin or something,” a neighbor had told her when they had a welcome-to-the-neighborhood lunch at a local restaurant in Edmonds, the Seattle suburb where she and Al had just moved.
Joanne had casually brushed her cheek, where her neighbor had been staring, and felt nothing. She ran to the bathroom to have a closer look, pulling down on the skin on her face. Those garish overhead neon lights magnified everything, including the tiny scars on her left cheek—leftovers from some pustules a distant memory away. What her mother had called a “pizza face” or “hamburger face” from acne she’d had as a teenager. How embarrassing.
Joanne had carried those comments with her all these years, and now it was time to do something—to enhance her beauty so her skin would be more like her mother’s. Hollywood had always been plastic in so many ways, and Joanne never had forgotten her own aspirations to be an artist to the stars. But you couldn’t be a famous artist without looking like one. Her only job now was working on her own body. She was a work of art, after all.
It was the weirdest feeling. He reminded her of a large black spider on a white wall when you least expect it. Scary. No one else was in the waiting room. With its overstuffed white sofas, white marble counters, and bleached oak floors, the doctor’s office was a blinding, spotless whiteout. It was hard to see Dr. Payne in all that white. His dark hair and eyes. His voi
ce sounding raspy and irritable to her, as if he had swallowed something too peppery.
Dr. Payne, plastic surgeon to the stars, came highly recommended by customers who had frequented the Gemological Institute to have their diamonds appraised. Dr. Payne’s office had formerly been next to Grauman’s Chinese Theatre, then a more expensive high-rent district in Beverly Hills. Now he was practicing near Pike Place in Seattle.
Joanne felt like she was neon glow … a diner’s street sign. Dr. Payne’s magnifying goggles underscored his buglike appearance, bulging eyes like opaque marbles. “So you’re here for your droopy eyelids, huh? Just a tweak here and there. Eyelifts are very routine, you know. Not a complicated procedure at all. But expensive, because eyes are considered nature’s treasure. We can do the tummy tuck at the same time. Different body part.”
The plastic surgeon’s comments made her wither. She felt foolish, a frog-beetle under a microscope. And what about the cost? Maybe Jules’s windfall could be shared. After all, Uncle Wilson had been her uncle, too … and she shouldn’t have to find out about her sister’s inheritance from her brother. Why would Jules keep that from me, anyway?
“I guess, whatever you suggest, Doctor. Just as long as I come out more beautiful than when I went under.” She really wasn’t getting any younger.
“Well, I’ll tell you a little secret, just between the two of us,” Dr. Payne said, touching her arm. She pulled it away, but he reached for it again and held her in an armlock. “Most of my patients come back again and again for other enhancements. Once you know what true beauty is, there is always room for improvement. We’re all a work in progress, as the cliché goes.”
His breath smelled like garlic; Joanne drew her head back.
When the day came for the procedure, her mother came with her.
Things Unsaid: A Novel Page 10