by Brad Graber
◆
Rikki was barely able to sit still in homeroom. It was her time of the month and the bloating was excruciating. She fidgeted, wishing the day was already over. Barney had not shown up for class, and she was relieved. With Barney’s chair empty, she could relax and be herself. Doodle in her notebook, daydream about being anyone other than Rikki—a tall, gorgeous model—a woman of mystery and importance—a temptress—instead of the swollen adolescent with a pimple coming up on the tip of her nose.
Come lunchtime, she found her way to the table that Barbra already occupied.
“Where have you been?” Barbra asked.
“In the bathroom,” Rikki whispered.
“Oh, God.” Barbra reacted to Rikki’s face and low energy. “Well, come sit down,” she said, already hacking her way through some sort of salad in a green Tupperware container. “You tell me your problems, I’ll tell you mine.”
Rikki wasn’t in the mood for drama. But at least Barbra could be distracting. “What’s the matter?” she asked as the scent of Italian dressing reached her nose.
“What’s the matter?” Barbra mocked her words. “What isn’t the matter? That awful woman has decided that I should go away for Christmas. She wants me to go visit my uncle in Toledo while she and my father take a cruise in the Bahamas.”
“Toledo?” Rikki burst out with excitement. “Toledo, Ohio?”
“Have you ever been there?” Barbra answered, scanning Rikki’s face. “It’s not a place to get excited about. There is no there there.”
Rikki clasped her hands and held them to her chest. “I can’t believe it.”
Barbra’s face registered confusion. “Believe what? This is terrible news. Who wants to go to Ohio and freeze your ass off when you could be in the Bahamas? If my mother were alive,” Barbra took a breath, “I’d be with them on that trip. But that miserable bitch—she couldn’t possibly let me go.” Barbra pulled a carrot stick out of a small plastic bag and pointed it at Rikki. “I hate her.”
Rikki just smiled.
“Well,” Barbra said indignantly, “if that’s how you’re going to react to my news, maybe we’re not the friends that I thought we were.”
“Oh, no,” Rikki said, one hand on Barbra’s arm. “I’m sorry . . . truly I am. But do you think,” she said in a begging manner, “that there is any way I might be able to go along with you?”
“To Toledo?” Barbra asked, staring at Rikki as if she’d just lost her mind.
◆
Christmas 1974
Hey El,
Rita’s upset that you decided to spend the weekend with your friends in Miami instead of coming back to Queens. You’re practically all she can talk about. How the holidays will never be the same.
If only I could escape and be with you.
I found out yesterday that I received the Merit Scholarship to attend Cornell a year early. Rita is convinced it’s the best news possible. She can’t wait till I’m gone. She says I’m like living with the Sphinx. We don’t talk any more. What’s the point?
She’s never liked having me around. As she said yesterday, I just mean more work. Though I don’t quite understand how that can be, since she insists that I do the laundry—and I’ve learned how to cook—so I prepare dinner three or four times a week. She says it’s good training for my eventually being on my own.
Yeah—right.
I may be a member of Mensa, but Rita is beyond my comprehension.
Oh El, I really miss you. I wish you were here. It’s no fun without you.
Please don’t forget to call on New Year’s Eve. I know Rita will be anxious to hear your voice—and so will I.
A big hug.
Love,
Your brother
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When Harry opened his eyes, he was naked in bed, lying face down. His head felt like a giant water balloon, and when he tried to raise it, pain shot clear to the back of his skull. He moaned, sitting up, aware Beetle was nowhere to be found.
“Beetle, here, boy,” he whispered, a hand on the side of his head, hating the vibrations that his voice was making between his ears. “Where are you? Beetle?”
He wandered into the kitchen, nude. There he found Beetle. Parked intently beside his food bowl, waiting. “Beetle, why didn’t you wake me?” Harry said, noticing the time on the microwave oven. “Christ, it’s ten o’clock.”
Used to getting up at six, Harry felt that ten o’clock meant half the day was already over.
“Okay, buddy,” Harry said as he leaned down to pick up the metallic bowl. “Dear God,” he cried out as the fluid in the balloon shifted, pressing his brain against his eyeballs. He scooped wet dog food out of the can and placed it in the bowl, and with all the enthusiasm he could muster said, “Oh boy, Beetle. There you go.” He tried not to gag.
You really tied one on last night, Richard’s voice said, a bit too loudly for Harry’s comfort.
“I did,” Harry weakly answered, bent over the counter, leaning on both elbows, his head between the palms of his hands.
You better get to that puddle Beetle left in the dining room.
Harry had spotted it when he passed by.
You can’t expect him to hold it all night and through the morning too.
Harry felt guilty. I suppose not.
Did you tell her?
Tell her what?
Don’t be such a child.
Harry ran a hand through his curls as he stared into the sink. Was he going to pitch? Shouldn’t he do that in the bathroom? “She must already know.”
So you said nothing.
I’ve never been very good at that kind of thing. You know that.
You mean being yourself?
Harry took a deep breath. It was true. He’d never quite gotten over his fear of rejection.
You’re still ashamed, Richard corrected him. An adult man and you’re still ashamed of who you are?
Harry nodded as he measured out with a teaspoon the correct amount of coffee and added it to the auto-drip basket. “I suppose.”
Beetle happily ate his breakfast while Harry dropped a slice of bread into the toaster and pressed down. He admired the simplicity of the mechanism as the filament turned a bright orange. He was grateful that there were no complicated instructions or keypads to touch. Just a gentle pressure downward and the toast was under way.
You’re really ridiculous. Still afraid of your own shadow.
Harry bit his lower lip. I never had your courage. You were always fearless.
I always knew who I was.
Harry nodded. How did you manage that trick?
Richard’s voice was calm and reassuring. There never was another choice. I was always 100%. A gold-star gay.
Harry remembered. Richard had never slept with a woman.
And you never could drink. Why did you do it?
Harry had no clue.
Because you were scared?
Fear had been the driving motivation in Harry’s life. Fear of intimacy. Fear of not being published. Fear of not writing anything worthwhile. But mostly fear of judgment. The judgment of others.
Just then, Beetle growled as Lil appeared, coming around the corner from the guest bedroom. She wore one of Harry’s white dress shirts, crumpled, and too large for her tiny body. She was bare-legged and bare-footed.
“What are you doing here?” Harry asked, flabbergasted, reaching for a nearby dishtowel to cover his parts.
“What do you think?” she said. “God, you snore. It sounded like a freight train.” She pulled out a stool tucked under the kitchen counter. “I had to sleep in the guest room. So, who were you talking to?” she asked looking about.
“No one,” Harry said.
She changed the subject. “I don’t think that towel is big enough to cover everything,” she laughed. “So, what’s for breakfast?”
The blood rushed to Harry’s face, miraculously curing his aching head. “Cereal?”
“Do you have any Greek yogurt?”
she asked, despite Harry’s bewildered look. “I really don’t eat carbs.”
◆
Harry waited for the water in the shower to heat up.
So she’s finally gone, Richard’s voice pressed. Disgusting.
“It was kind of nice,” Harry said, shaking his head in disbelief as he stepped into the shower, the hot water hitting his face, cascading down his body. But I did have too much to drink.
It takes more than liquor to do what you did.
Not when you’re lonely, Harry thought.
Couldn’t you see what she was up to? Little Miss Yoga Pants. How can you be so innocent at your age?
Harry burst into laughter. “Innocent?” he said, opening his mouth too wide and catching a stream of hot water. He spit the water out. I’m not innocent.
You should have known.
Maybe. She did surprise me. But I rose to the occasion, he thought with a smirk.
It was Richard’s voice again. When I met you, I thought you were such a closet case. And then I figured you were confused. A gay man who thought he was bisexual. That’s how you coped. Not really straight, but someone who could pass. And so you proved it to yourself again last night. Three drinks and she had her way.
I was never a gold-star like you. You never slept with a woman.
And I’m proud of it.
Harry turned off the shower. Beetle was lying on the rug in front of Richard’s sink, stretched out, paws supporting his head, his eyes studying Harry.
“Hey, boy,” Harry said. “What are you doing there?”
Beetle closed his eyes.
“I know.” Harry leaned down and stroked Beetle’s back. “You just want to be close. I know. Everyone needs someone to love.”
◆
Rita washed her hands in the kitchen sink. “Did I ever tell you about your mother’s name change?”
Rikki looked up from her homework assignment. Isosceles triangles. What a waste of time. Who would ever need to know such nonsense?
Rita had been out grocery shopping. In lieu of her housecoat, she wore a simple white blouse and a blue skirt. Her hair and makeup were impeccable. Whenever she left the apartment, unless it was to drive Rikki to school, she’d dress up. “You never know who you might run into,” she’d say as she checked the mirror before walking out the door. “Mr. Right might be just around the corner,” she’d announce, winking at her granddaughter.
She’s so odd, Rikki would think. Rita clearly wasn’t interested in men. And certainly not dating. Besides, she was much too old. And as for getting dressed up, Rikki was certain that her grandmother did it for the other women in the building, always trying to look her best when running into the neighbors.
Rita wiped her hands on her apron. A seasoned chicken sat on the counter in front of her. “I can still see it all as clear as day. She’d be sitting at the same table you are, reading the latest issue of Life Magazine.”
Rita’s voice changed. It took on an indignant tone as she channeled El. “‘How could you ever name me Estelle?’” Rita sighed dramatically.
Rikki had heard the story before.
“Estelle is a perfectly lovely name,” Rita continued, playing her part as if her daughter was in the room. “It rolls right off the tongue. So elegant.”
Rikki watched Rita’s performance. It beat working on mathematics.
“Then your mother let out a laugh. ‘Really, mother!’ she said. ‘I wasn’t born during the Great Depression.’”
Rita stood back and admired her seasoned chicken.
“I don’t care what you say,” she said defiantly to her ghost of a daughter. “It’s a perfectly lovely name. Lovely. And very befitting such a pretty girl.”
Rita wiped her eye with the back of her hand. “She always wanted one of those modern names. Something simple.” Rita slipped the chicken into the preheated oven. “But we’re not simple people. Everything comes to us the hard way,” she said sarcastically, as if finally giving into her daughter’s point of view. “Do you know the first thing I said when I saw your mother?”
Rikki knew the answer—but she didn’t want to interrupt—grateful for any discussion about El. Even if it was repetition.
“She was such a beautiful baby. All round and pink . . . oh, and those tiny fingers and toes. They had her tightly wrapped in this lovely pink blanket covered with tiny bunny rabbits. It was so adorable. And I held her close; her head, so warm, touched my cheek.” Rita closed her eyes as she brought a red potholder to her face. “The world stopped at that moment.” Rita’s voice was gentle and loving. “It was heaven on earth. Absolutely heaven on earth.”
“And then you ruined her life with that awful name,” Rikki wisecracked, unable to contain herself.
“Yes, that’s right,” Rita acquiesced, hands on her hips. “It was all part of my greater plan. You see, when I held your mother, I thought, how can I ruin this child’s life? I hadn’t yet divorced her father. It would take years before that idea would come to me.” An index finger pressed to her temple. “So the next best thing was to name her Estelle. And by doing so, that dear woman’s soul might forever hover over and protect my precious daughter.” Rita had a far-off look in her eye. “And totally screw up her life.”
Rikki couldn’t help but laugh. Her grandmother had a natural way of turning a story mid-sentence from sweet and warm to falsely mean-spirited, regardless of the circumstance. “Oh, Rita,” was all Rikki could manage as they both chortled. Rita, at having told it well, and Rikki, at the absurdity of her grandmother.
4
Barney Appleton had a secret.
Every now and then when Rikki raised her hand in class, she noticed Barney would flinch. She’d caught sight of the subtle jerking of his head, almost a nervous tic, out of the corner of her eye. At first, she’d thought it nothing. And then it started to bother her.
He’s so arrogant, he’s probably afraid I’ll accidentally hit that handsome face. The notion that he thought her an awkward klutz enraged her. He’s no better than me, she thought, looking over at her desk mate defiantly. And though the fixed glare partially melted away when Barney glanced back, she remained essentially defensive.
“What?” he asked, leaning in close. He squeezed his nostrils together with his thumb and index finger. “Is it a booger?”
She recoiled in horror. “No. Absolutely not.”
Standing by her locker, exchanging her books for a brown lunch bag, Barney stepped out of the passing crowd and leaned up against the adjacent locker. Just shy of six feet, he towered over her. A lock of brown hair fell across his eye as he slouched down, one shoulder pressed up against the metal locker. “Just tell me why you are always looking at me.”
Rikki felt the blood rush to her face in a mix of embarrassment and instant desire. “Like you’re too good for me to even look at,” Rikki said in her iciest tone.
Barney’s eyes searched her face. “What does that mean?”
“You think you’re better than me, don’t you?” she said, horrified even as the words left her mouth.
“Not at all,” Barney answered, blinking hard, his lanky frame bending toward her.
This was the longest conversation they’d ever had.
“Then why don’t you ever talk to me?” she asked. “I’ve been sitting next to you for weeks and you’ve barely said a word.”
Barney looked away. “I like to keep to myself.”
“Now there’s a ridiculous answer,” she snapped, instantly hearing the sound of Rita’s voice echoing in her words.
“It’s true,” he said, turning back to look at her, his blue eyes piercing her soul.
“But why?”
Barney swallowed hard. “I shouldn’t say.”
Sensing his vulnerability, Rikki instinctively reached for his arm, blushing as she touched him. Instantly, he pulled back.
“Excuse me,” she bristled, shutting her locker door, angry at his rejection.
He stepped closer, now leaning on her locker a
s he whispered into her ear. She felt the tension in her body ease as his breath caressed the side of her face. “It’s not you,” he said. “I’m sorry. I just don’t like to be touched.”
“But why?” she said, as if he’d offered a hint to a great riddle that she needed to solve.
He gazed into her eyes, as if considering what to do and say next. He then slowly rolled up the sleeve of his shirt.
She gasped. Along his arm were a series of deep scars.
“What happened?”
“My father,” he answered sheepishly. “He beat the crap out of me as a kid. Always punching me in the stomach, and if I didn’t block my face, he’d land one on my jaw. These,” he emphasized with a movement of his arm, “are the cigarette burns he gave out when he couldn’t find an ashtray.”
Rikki had no idea. “Oh, my God. That’s horrible.”
Barney’s tone changed. “Miss Nosy Body . . . I didn’t tell you because I wanted your sympathy. I told you because you never stop asking questions.”
Rikki ignored his comment. “I don’t understand. How does this happen?”
“When you’re me, you don’t ask those questions,” he muttered. “My father has been beating the crap out of me for years. I’m just lucky Social Services finally pulled me out when I was nine. If they hadn’t, I’d probably be dead.”
“But why would he do that to you?”
Barney looked at her and she could see him turn inside out as if there might be a reasonable explanation for the abuse. “My dad was an alcoholic. It’s a sickness. When he drank, he was mean.”
“And your mother?” Rikki wanted to know. “What possible excuse could she have?”
“She died when I was young. She was killed in a traffic accident.”
Rikki covered her mouth with her hand. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I had no idea.”
“How could you?” Barney said, the sadness in his eyes revealing a painful truth that he was used to keeping to himself.
◆
“Can anyone tell me why they think Dreiser named the book An American Tragedy?”
Rikki rolled her eyes. She’d finished the lengthy tome two weeks before and was eager to move on to another book. But for some reason, Mr. Rosenfeld appeared stuck on Dreiser. Out of sheer boredom, she’d swiped a copy of Rita’s Valley of the Dolls by Jacqueline Suzanne. Trash, she thought with an air of superiority, even though she couldn’t help but race through it with all the enthusiasm of a voyeur.