by Jenna Blum
Julian laughed, a deep happy sound of appreciation. “Oh, Charlie,” he said. “I’m glad you’re here. I’m sorry to have exposed you to them, but they can be kind of fun. And they do have a great house.” He stood up and stretched. “Isn’t it magnificent?” he said to the beach, the ocean. “Isn’t it?”
“It is,” said Elsbeth, pushing herself up to stand beside him. He was sweating; she could smell the rich scent of it on the breeze.
“This is it, Charlie,” said Julian. “This is my cathedral, right here. This is God.” He turned his face to the sun. “You know what? I’m hot. Let’s go for a swim before we get to work, what do you say?”
He started unbuttoning his tuxedo shirt, then just pulled it off over his head and threw it onto the grass. Elsbeth felt him hopping up and down next to her, taking off his shoes. What next? His shorts, his underwear? Was he even wearing any, or had he gone, as Liza said, commando? Elsbeth bolted off across the lawn for the water.
“Are we racing?” Julian called behind her. “Fine, I’ll give you a head start!”
Elsbeth plunged down through sharp grass, slipping in the sand, until she reached the waterline. Then she jogged alongside it, stopping when she got a stitch in her ribs. She slowed and looked up and down the beach: it was deserted, only surf and screaming gulls. Maybe Richard owned the whole thing.
She kicked away her Capezios, stripped off her skirt, tank top, bra, and panties—quickly, before she could change her mind—and waded in. The cold made her gasp. “That’s my girl,” Peter had said during that long-ago Nantucket vacation; “it’s not so bad once you get used to it!” “Once you go numb, you mean,” June had called from the picnic blanket. June had imported an umbrella, her cartwheel-size straw hat, a gauzy long-sleeved shift, and SPF 50 along with her cigarettes and Tab; Elsbeth had often wondered why her mother came to the beach at all. “That’s it, Ellie, a little deeper,” said Peter; “we don’t mind the cold, do we? We are North Sea seals. Now we dive . . . no? Very well. I will go first.” Elsbeth remembered Peter standing in the shallows with his arms folded like a general, assessing the best place to penetrate the waves; a four-foot comber rolled toward them, curling viciously; Peter plunged in and vanished from view. Elsbeth had held her breath until he finally reappeared on the other side, laughing, his shirt plastered to his body and his hair to his head. “You see?” he called. “You can do it! The only way in is through—there’s my brave girl.”
Now Elsbeth charged into the water, hollering. She turned sideways when a wave broke, then dove into it; it was excruciating for a moment, but once her head got wet, her dad was right: it wasn’t so bad. She jumped one wave, then another, letting them lift her feet off the sand. The horizon bobbed; straight on from where Elsbeth was looking was England, and nearby, Germany. Had her dad ever taken her sisters swimming? Had Vivian and Ginger, too, been North Sea seal pups? Probably not; they were too young when the Nazis got them. Elsbeth burst into a vigorous crawl, churning back and forth. That was the last time she had been on vacation with her dad; the next summer he’d had his heart attack, and ocean swimming was considered too strenuous for him. Elsbeth slowed and floated, her back freezing, her face and bare breasts warmed by the sun.
Then: “Helloooo out there,” a man’s voice called from the shore. Elsbeth flipped upright and shaded her eyes. Julian, merely a silhouette from this distance, bending over a tripod. He straightened and waved—Elsbeth couldn’t see whether he had any clothes on or not. She squinted.
“How’s the water?” he shouted.
“It’s beautiful!” Elsbeth yelled. She swam forward a few yards, until her toes touched the bottom, then did a handstand and waved her feet at him; when she surfaced, Julian was laughing.
“Come in,” she called.
“I’d rather watch you. You’re like a mermaid!” He bent to his camera.
Elsbeth dove. She did some somersaults, a butterfly, a backstroke. She glided on her back, breasts bare to the sky, and spewed water like a porpoise—luxuriating in Julian’s laughter, his attention trained on her, although the clickclick vssh click of his camera was inaudible over the surf. Julian would never shout “Thar she blows!” or liken Elsbeth to a whale; he saw her as she truly was, her best self that came out in the water, not fat nor clumsy but buoyant and joyous. Julian shouted; a huge wave was swelling toward Elsbeth, much larger than the rest, foaming at its peak, the seventh in the series. Elsbeth flipped upright to meet it head-on as it rolled and roared, and as it lifted her high and higher and higher still, she spun to face the shore. Julian was clapping, applauding her bravery, and as Elsbeth flung up her arms in victory she felt, for the first time in such a long time, that everything from now on might really turn out all right.
15
Quelle Horreur
“And then what happened?” Liza asked.
“I told you,” said Elsbeth. “Nothing.”
“Come on.”
“That’s it. We got in the car, and Julian drove us back to the city. Like always. End of story.”
Liza had been leaning forward so far that she was practically dipping her nipples in her leftover gravy fries—a distinct possibility, since Liza’s off-the-shoulder T-shirt was designed to expose as much of what she called her bodacious tatas as possible. Now Liza sat back, lit a Parliament Light, and regarded Elsbeth through the smoke.
“Elsbeth Viola Rashkin,” Liza said—Elsbeth didn’t have a middle name, but Liza always gave her one, a different one each time. “That is the lamest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Well, I’m sorry,” said Elsbeth, “but that’s what happened. Nothing.”
“And he’s not gay,” said Liza.
“Nope,” said Elsbeth.
Liza narrowed her eyes. She was wearing electric-green mascara today, which she’d just swiped from CVS. “What ear did you say the earring was in again?”
“Right,” said Elsbeth.
“Huh,” said Liza. “Not gay.” She exhaled a series of smoke rings, indicating she was thinking. “Très bizarre. You seriously mean to tell me you’ve been naked in front of this guy multiple times, and he hasn’t tried to slip you the hot beef injection.”
“No. And it’s five times.”
“He didn’t even go for the tatas? Or kiss you—French or no tongue?”
“I said,” Elsbeth hissed, “no.” She was mortified, and not just because the woman behind Liza had turned to scowl at them. No doubt if Julian had been shooting Liza, he would have made a move—or she would; Julian wouldn’t have stood a chance. All guys loved Liza; she was tall and rangy, with ashy blond Madonna hair that she ratted every morning and tied up with a stocking; she wore spike-heeled boots and thigh-highs and a handcuff belt and fishnet tank tops over nothing but bras. She was sex on a stick, whereas Elsbeth was more of a corn dog on a stick—something she’d once eaten at the New Heidelberg county fair. Five shoots with Julian: his apartment, the Hamptons, Bear Mountain, the woods near Rhinebeck, and the beach again, but every time Julian only photographed Elsbeth, nothing more. If anyone would know what Elsbeth was doing wrong, it was Liza.
“It’s me, isn’t it?” Elsbeth said. “I’m still too fat.”
“No, that’s not it,” said Liza contemplatively. “You’re looking pretty fly. You’ve lost a lot of weight.”
“Thanks. I’m down to one seventeen,” said Elsbeth. Was that the problem? She had plateaued, even though she’d increased her jogging—five miles a day around Glenwood Park Lake, where she used to feed the ducks with her dad. Maybe she’d start smoking.
“Are you . . .” Liza pantomimed sticking her finger down her throat.
“Sometimes.”
“Well, cut it out. It’s supposed to be for emergencies, not a lifestyle.” Liza pointed her cigarette at Elsbeth’s barely touched side salad, no dressing. “Don’t even think about throwing that up. I paid for it. Besides, if you hurl too much, you get chipmunk cheeks. And you can burst the blood vessels under your eyes.”
&
nbsp; “Great,” said Elsbeth. She didn’t tell Liza this had happened once already. After their shoot at Bear Mountain, when Julian hadn’t so much as tried to kiss her, Elsbeth had been so despondent she’d ordered a Domino’s pizza and eaten the whole thing, even though she knew better. Anything bread-based was hard to bring up, and she’d worked for half an hour to choke up the doughy balls that had already formed in her stomach. She’d been horrified by the mask of red pinpricks around her eyes—terrified they were permanent, she’d stayed in her room for two days, faking a summer flu. Eventually, though, the marks had faded, and Elsbeth had stuck to easy food, like June’s nonfat cottage cheese, after that.
Liza gave a businesslike exhale and mashed her cigarette in the ashtray. “Could it be a religious thing? Is Julian Catholic?”
“That’s beaucoup Thorn Birds,” said Elsbeth, “but no.”
“And you really like this guy. Do you love him?”
Elsbeth looked away, at the sunlight coming in the front window and highlighting the candy counter. She thought of Julian clicking away at her as she stood atop a slab of rock at Bear Mountain, calling, “You’re queen of the mountain!”; murmuring, “Very nice, very nice, Charlie”; throwing his head back to laugh under a green canopy of leaves; tapping his hands on the wheel of the non–General Lee in time to music on Z100. Her throat constricted and ached.
“You do,” said Liza. “You loooooooovvvvve him,” and she drew the word out with a gargle that made it sound like something caught in a garbage disposal.
“Stop it!” said Elsbeth.
“Oh boy, you’ve got it bad. What did I tell you? No love. Just sex. Love leads to trouble, every time.” Liza lit another cigarette.
“I can’t help it,” Elsbeth said miserably.
“Okay. Don’t worry, kid. It happens. So you love him. Does he love you?”
“I don’t know,” Elsbeth said.
“I bet he does,” Liza said. “Think about it. He’s a big-time famous photographer, right? There’re a zillion girls he could take nudie pics of. But he chose you.”
Elsbeth shrugged, but she felt a little better.
“Now you gotta show him how you feel. Don’t give it all away, but be a little more aggressive.”
Elsbeth nodded. This was exactly the advice she’d come to Liza for. “How?”
“Well,” said Liza. “For instance. Next time you’re driving to a shoot, tell him you’re dying for ice cream. Or a Popsicle. You say . . .” She tipped her head back and closed her eyes, drawing a hand down over her clavicle. “Ooooohhhhh, I’m so hot . . .”
“Hey,” called Louie, the owner. “What’d I tell you about that behavior in here?”
“Sorry, Louie-Louie.” Liza blew him a kiss, and then, when he’d turned to fill a coffee cup, she made a jerking-off gesture. “Then, when you get the ice cream, eat it like . . . Hold on.”
She went to the counter and leaned over it to get Louie’s attention, so far that a red strap showed above the waist of her painter pants—Liza was the only person Elsbeth knew who wore a G-string on a daily basis. She returned with a chocolate-dipped banana.
“You lick it,” she said, “like this,” and she swirled her pierced tongue around the top, then darted it at the tip. “Mmmmmmm,” she moaned to the imaginary Julian, “I just love to make things melt in my mouth . . .”
“Hey,” said Louie again. “I mean it, Liza. I’ll kick you outta here!”
Liza snapped her teeth over the top of the banana, chewed, stuck her tongue out at Louie. He slapped his rag on the counter.
“You know you love me,” called Liza. “He loves me. Here, wanna try?” She handed the bitten banana to Elsbeth.
“I’ll practice at home,” said Elsbeth.
“Also,” said Liza, “maybe he’s not hitting on you because he’s working. He’s in his genius zone. So we need to find him off-hours. You said he goes clubbing, right?”
“Yes—he mentioned Limelight once. And Nell’s.”
“Awesome, we’ll go in this weekend. You think that’ll help?”
“Most definitely,” Elsbeth said, and was about to ask about logistical matters, like her not having fake ID, when Liza craned at something over Elsbeth’s shoulder.
“Don’t look now,” she said, “but is that June? Playing footsie with some guy? Do not look!” But Elsbeth was horrible at this; if someone was staring at something, she had to see it too. She turned, and at the very last table near the restrooms, there was the back of June’s head, her pyramid of curls brushing the huge shoulders of the leopard-print suit jacket Elsbeth had seen her pull on that morning.
“Wow,” said Liza, “nice power pads. She could play defense with those things.”
“Let’s go,” said Elsbeth.
“Who’s the dude?”
Elsbeth didn’t have to look again to know. Seersucker suit, blow-dried gray hair, more teeth than any human mouth should have. “That’s Harrison, her boss.”
“He looks like a vampire,” said Liza, tipping out of the booth for a better view. “Hey, where are your hands, buddy?”
“Liza,” hissed Elsbeth, “don’t.”
“I seriously think he’s going to third right there at the table. His fingers have gotta be all up in her—”
“Shut up!” Elsbeth said. She concentrated very hard on a straw wrapper that was uncoiling, snakelike, in some spilled water. She felt sick—the irony being that although she didn’t mind throwing up meals, she couldn’t tolerate nausea. She had sometimes had feelings about June and certain men, a kind of attention from June like a sparkling lasso from her to them. It happened with Peter when June was feeling loving toward him, which was nice but mostly consigned to the past. It had been there with June’s tennis coach from long ago, the giant guy who’d brought Elsbeth a watermelon sherbet and her Lite-Brite, which she still used as a night-light. And now with June’s boss, Harrison. Elsbeth despised these men, but she never said anything to June or, God forbid, Peter. She had no concrete proof, and she didn’t want any.
“Dude, she’s stone-cold busted,” said Liza, “there’s a real opportunity for blackmail here,” but finally she saw how Elsbeth was frozen in the booth, hunching to make herself as small as possible. Liza dropped her voice. “Pas de problème, kid, it’s no biggie your mom’s a skank. Mine is too. They get that way in middle age, it’s hormones,” and she got up and yawned elaborately. “C’mon, let’s go check out the record store.” She propelled Elsbeth through the restaurant, walking behind her so June wouldn’t see Elsbeth if she turned. But once the revolving door had ejected them into the hot and glaring afternoon, Liza yelled, “Sayonara, slut mom!” and raced off down the sidewalk to make Elsbeth laugh, yelling yip yip yip! like Wile E. Coyote, the handcuffs clanking on her belt.
* * *
Elsbeth’s birthday that year was her supposedly golden birthday: she would be sixteen on July 16. She would have been perfectly happy if her parents had forgotten; all she wanted was to go to the Chinese diner on Bloomfield Avenue with Liza and Very, to drink tea and open fortune cookies in the boxcar, then catch the 66 bus to New York with Liza. But unfortunately her parents remembered, and June managed to tear herself away from the Motherfucker, as Liza now called Harrison—“Because that’s what he’s doing, you know,” Liza had said and cackled. Even Peter managed to get up at a decent hour of the evening and put on dress slacks and a cardigan. So now here Elsbeth was, sandwiched between her parents at the Glenwood Bath and Tennis Club, trying to figure out what on the menu was the least fattening and not glance too often at her Swatch under the table. Quelle horreur.
“Isn’t this nice,” said Peter, taking his bifocals out of his breast pocket and sliding them on, then holding the menu at arm’s length anyway.
“Yes, it’s peachy,” Elsbeth muttered.
“What, darling?” June said, scanning the table for an ashtray.
“I was agreeing with Dad,” said Elsbeth, “it’s so nice to be with the whole family unit.” She lo
oked pointedly at June’s gold cigarette case. “That’s new, isn’t it? Where’s it from?”
June shrugged and her scarf fell away, exposing her coat-hanger shoulders; she was starting to get age spots, just the faintest spreading freckles, like a giraffe. “It must have been a gift from a client,” she said, “or from a store somewhere, I don’t remember.”
“Uh-huh,” said Elsbeth. “Sure.”
“What’s with the attitude?” said June. “I know you’re still a teenager, but don’t you think you’re overdoing it a little?”
“It’s not me who’s overdoing him,” said Elsbeth. “I mean it.”
“Excuse me?” said June, but Elsbeth had opened her heavy leather menu and was studying it intently.
“Okay, not-so-sweet sixteen,” said June, “have it your way, it’s your night,” and she playfully bumped Elsbeth’s elbow with her own.
“Ow!” said Elsbeth.
June sighed. “Pete, what’re you going to have?”
Peter was sitting with his head tipped far back, all the better to see the italicized print in the low light. The club’s restaurant was new—at least, people still called it that, “the new lounge,” even though it had been operational since 1982. Like the mountaintop pool, it was for adults only; the minimum age was sixteen, so this was Elsbeth’s first time dining in the big hexagonal room with its trellis wallpaper, its green rug and pink tablecloths with napkins to match. It was cushy, Elsbeth had to admit, but the menu was strictly paint-by-numbers, almost exactly like the one at Sol and Ruth’s club, the Briar Rose. And the Glenwood Lounge had been built on top of the snack bar, to take advantage of the city view, so despite the fancy decor and classical Muzak, Elsbeth could smell chlorine and broiling burgers and hear kids splashing and shouting outside.
“Pete,” said June.
“Yes?” said Peter, glancing up. He was so pale Elsbeth could see the veins in his forehead—of course he was, since he spent all the daylight hours asleep.
“I asked what you were going to eat.”
