Hey, Dollface

by Deborah Hautzig

  “Well, yes,” said Mom, “I suppose that’s true.”

  “So looks do count?” I pressed.

  “Well, I told you, everyone should do the best they can with whatever God gave them.” That sounded so simple, I began to wonder if she knew what people went through over their looks. Suppose God gave them acne or fat thighs?

  “Mom, what about people who get nose jobs? And ear jobs? And God knows what else?”

  “Well, I think that’s all ridiculous,” she said, obviously relieved to be off the topic of sex. “But if it makes someone feel better about themselves, it’s worth it, I suppose.”

  “Well, didn’t you once say that Shirley never would have gotten as far as she did in the fashion world if she didn’t have her nose job?” Shirley was my cousin.

  “That’s the fashion world, Val. That’s just the way it is in fashion. It’s not what counts.”

  “But it counts for her!”

  “In that way, maybe. But look at Shirley. She’s not happy even with a nice nose.”

  “Maybe I should get a nose job.” Mom looked at me as though I’d sprouted horns.

  “Valerie, you’re insane. You have a beautiful small nose. People pay thousands for noses like yours!”

  “Well,” I said lamely.

  “What are you so worried about? You’re a beautiful girl!”

  “I am not beautiful. You’d say that anyway, even if I were hideous. I suppose it could be worse, though. But I wish were flat-chested.”

  “Oh, Val, shut up, you’re crazy. Women are supposed to have bosoms.”

  “Oh, yeah? Take a look at Vogue. Those women barely have bumps.”

  “Yes, and they eat nothing but lettuce and look like they’re from concentration camps.”

  “They’re supposed to be beautiful.”

  “They’re ugly. They look like chickens. In Europe if someone said, ‘You’ve gained weight,’ it was a compliment.”

  “No kidding?” I marveled. That was a new one. “You can get pretty hung up with all these ads and the clothes they’re selling and stuff, you know.”

  “No, I don’t know. Nobody wants a scarecrow,” she said firmly.

  “Oh, well,” I sighed. “What’s beautiful, anyway?”

  “Beauty,” she said, staring off like an oracle, “is in the eyes of the beholder. Remember that.”

  I rolled my eyes and said, “I guess I’ll go do my homework.” She came to suddenly and began rinsing some plates. Halfway back to my room I stopped. I wonder if she’s ever been jealous or worried when Dad was away, I thought. I went back into the kitchen.

  “Mom?”

  “What?”

  “Were you ever jealous?”

  “Of what?”

  I smiled. “Never mind.” I went back to my room thinking, Nobody would believe me if I told them what a nice marriage my parents have. I’d trust Dad, too. He always said Mom was the most beautiful woman in the world, even in the morning when she looked pasty and her hair was frazzled. They’d either say I was repressed and defensive or they just wouldn’t believe it. Oh, well; I’ll never get jaded, I said to myself as I flopped down on my bed.

  A couple of days later Chloe and I were sitting in the library in between bookshelves, looking for some history book she needed. The three elevens who’d been loitering around the shelves whispering gave us a dirty look and slithered away, and Chloe thrust out her middle finger.

  “I can’t stand that class,” she hissed.

  “Hey, Chloe, those shoes Nelson was wearing—with the stripes—what are they?”

  “Gucci, of course. And Cartier earrings. May they turn green.”

  I snorted. “Chloe, listen. What exactly is an orgasm?” She dropped the book she was holding.

  “Shhh!” She put her hand over my mouth and looked over her shoulder to make sure no one was listening. I pushed her hand off.

  “Well, I know what it is from the dictionary, but I don’t know what it is,” I said.

  “Well, how should I know? What does the dictionary say?”

  “Let’s look it up.” We hauled a dictionary over and looked. “Here it is. ‘One. The physical and emotional sensation experienced at the culmination of a sexual act, as intercourse or masturbation, being a result of stimulation of the sexual organs, and typically followed in the male by ejaculation.’” She looked at me.

  “Well, what’s two?” she said.

  “‘Two. An instance of experiencing this.’ Now how the hell am I supposed to know what it’s like from this definition?”

  Chloe laughed. “Your expression. You’re so cute.”

  “Well?”

  “Well, I guess you have to have one to know, maybe.”

  “Well, suppose I’ve had one and didn’t know it?”

  “Nah, I asked my sister that once, and she said you can’t miss it.” Julie was nearly twenty and away at college.

  “How would she know?” I said.

  “How do you think?”

  “So we have to wait and see, then?”

  “Yes, dear,” she said mockingly.

  “Rats. I can’t imagine why it’s so important,” I said, feeling disgruntled.

  “Me neither.”

  “You know, I had sex education in fifth grade and everything, but nobody ever bothers to tell you it’s supposed to be fun. They just tell you it’s for making babies,” I grumbled. “I used to think, well, my parents did it at least twice.”

  “Live and learn, dollface.”

  I sighed and put the dictionary away.

  “Hey, Chloe, did I tell you I asked my mother how often normal people have sex?”

  Her mouth dropped open in amazement. “You asked your mother that?”

  “Yeah. She said two or three times a week.”

  “Wow. You really asked her?”

  “Well, I wanted to know. Who else could I ask? You?” Chloe gazed at me admiringly.

  “Wow, dollface, you’ve got gall.”

  “Yeah, I know,” I said with a satisfied sigh. “But give me credit—at least I didn’t ask her what an orgasm was.”

  “Oh, my God,” she said, laughing.

  “Listen, kid, I’ve got to go downstairs. Hey! Christmas vacation starts next week!”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I take it you’re not going to the Bahamas.”

  “Are you crazy?” she exclaimed.

  “Possibly. Everyone else is going there, or some other place. We’ll look like albinos. Where are the Bahamas, anyway?” She rolled her eyes. I never knew where anyplace was.

  “I’ll show you on a map sometime. Oh, Val—want to go to that cemetery over vacation sometime? And then maybe sleep over at my house?”

  “Sure! Or you could sleep at my house if you want.”

  “I’m always sleeping at your house. Anyway, my mother doesn’t want your mother to think she’s unhospitable.” We made a face at each other and laughed.

  “Our crazy mothers. Well, I love your house, I’d rather sleep over there anyway for a change. I can see your tree.” A bell rang again. “I’ve gotta go. Call me.”

  “Yup.” I grabbed my bag, blew a kiss, and bounded out and down the stairs.

  6

  Christmas vacation started on a Thursday, and Christmas assembly was Thursday night. Chloe refused to go. I nearly backed out, too, but Mom railroaded me into it. Parents were invited and she wanted to go, and was I ashamed of her? I felt so guilty when she said that, I put on my nicest dress and stockings and we walked to the bus stop in silence. It was freezing out, but the air was still and brittle. My shoes felt strangely light as they clacked quickly along the sidewalk; I hadn’t worn anything but hiking boots in months.

  All the girls were dressed up and their hair was combed neatly in place. Their parents looked angular and glittering. I felt very uncomfortable and wanted to run outside again. Instead I introduced Mom to a few people and then sat sullenly in a chair in the back waiting for it to begin. Once I did, I was glad I’d com
e. The glee club filed into the dark auditorium in long red robes holding candles, singing a song in Latin which I’d never heard before, in unison and right on key, clear and serene as a church choir. I sat back and closed my eyes, imagining I was in a chapel in the Swiss Alps. I opened my eyes and looked up at the girls on stage, still singing. They were all going away for vacation. I’m glad I’m not, I thought. I loved New York around Christmastime. It seemed like everywhere you went there were bells and holly and fake snow in all the windows, and sad-looking Santas with red noses and sunken chests, all looking like they needed a good drink. Near the Plaza the Hari Krishna people bobbed up and down in their sneakers chanting, their long pony tails flying. There were Salvation Army men playing trombones and trying to collect money, and canned Christmas music drifted out of stores. I always felt cheerful when I heard it. I gazed sleepily at the flowing red robes and three rows of faces. Noel. Feeling like a traitor, I glanced quickly at Mom. It had captured her, too. Thanks for making me come, I thought, hoping she’d know so I wouldn’t have to tell her and lose face. Chloe should have come. She was being dumb. You can hate the school but what’s that got to do with this? I wondered if maybe Garfield wasn’t so bad. I could just hear Chloe screeching heresy.

  Chloe and I had saved the cemetery for Saturday, because I was going to sleep over that night. We met on Lexington Avenue and took the subway down to Wall Street. I was bundled into a linty pea jacket and millions of sweaters, and my head was mummified in a tremendous purple scarf, which Chloe said made my face look violet, like a cardiac patient. She was dressed in a black ski cap and an old golf jacket that used to be her father’s, with even more sweaters than I had on underneath.

  When we emerged from the subway station, we saw white. The first snowfall of the season. It was coming down in big dry wafers, and we childishly stuck out our tongues to catch some.

  “Up in Masssachusetts, where our house is, you can make snow cones with snow from the ground,” I told Chloe.

  “Mm. Clean snow.” She breathed deeply.

  Sometimes we went up to our house when Ben and I were on vacation in the winter, but some years we didn’t because the roads were so bad. When we did, I could never sleep late. By 7:30 or 8:00 in the morning my room would be so light I’d wake up and pull up my shade, and the snow light that poured into my room was blinding. There was a white birch grove I could see from my window and the branches looked like glass.

  Chloe and I stood still, looking down the deserted street. At the end was Trinity Church. We couldn’t even make out the steeple tops in the swirling snow. We started walking toward it carefully, so that our feet wouldn’t mess up the thin layer of snow too much.

  “Val, could I come up to your house sometime?”

  “Sure! Come for a weekend in spring when we start going again,” I said.

  “Can I? That would be great.”

  “I know a place we could go and paint where the view is beautiful. It’s way up on a cliff everyone calls Crow Hill. You can see for miles and miles. Corn fields and churches and mountains. We can bring watercolors. You’ll love it.”

  Chloe hopped up and down on one foot. “Val, I bet we’re the only people here. This whole area is completely deserted.” It was true. There weren’t even any cars, and the silence sounded strange. We made our way to the cemetery and looked over the gate.

  “Oh, Val, this is beautiful.”

  I nodded. It was a small graveyard on one side of the church. There was one large monument fenced in toward the back.

  “I love cemeteries. You can just sit there as long as you want and no one bothers you.”

  “Yeah, you’re not kidding,” Chloe said with a grin. I grinned back.

  “See that one?” I pointed. “That must be Alexander Hamilton’s grave.” We opened the latch and went in.

  “Hey, Val, I brought a Polaroid.”

  “Really? Where’d you get it?”

  “I borrowed it from my father.”

  “Did you tell him where you were going?”

  “No. He wouldn’t understand.”

  I ran up a small hill and lay down in front of a monument, folding my hands on my chest “Chloe, take a picture, will you?”

  She dropped her bag, ran after me with her camera and looked at me critically.

  “You need a white camellia. And take off that stupid scarf.” She squinted. “Get rid of the jacket, too.”

  “I’ll die of exposure!”

  “You will not. Anyway, if you do, I can just leave you here.”

  “Oh, all right,” I said, unwinding my scarf and handing it to her. “Hey, get me a twig from that tree.” She obeyed, and I took off my jacket and made a makeshift camellia with a twig and a white Kleenex. “Hurry up,” I said, lying down again. After we got tired of taking pictures, we sat down and leaned on a stone.

  “I miss my grandmother a lot sometimes,” I said absently, thinking how depressing Hannukah had been without her. “You know, my grandfather’s really lonely. He’s over at our house all the time now.” I loved my grandfather, but his behavior was beginning to get on my nerves. Mom sat with him nearly every evening in the living room and he wasn’t the same. He was moody and actually sort of grouchy, which he never was before. He was always happy and never complained, and things that other people took for granted impressed him. The first time he had a strawberry-shortcake Good Humor he was in the park with me, and he just couldn’t get over how good it was. He went to the circus every year and never told my grandmother: He thought the acrobats were wonderful. I thought to myself that Grandpa was the only person I knew who could enjoy almost everything. Even when someone turned on a television set, he would click his tongue and say how ingenious it was. And he was smart. He’d been an engineer before World War II, and wealthy, but he lost everything. He even lost his wedding ring one day when he was hiding in a barn because he’d gotten so skinny it fell right off his finger. He told me how everyone thought he was dead because they found his dog tag, but he wasn’t, and how he hid out in all these places disguised as a beggar.

  “Well, maybe he’ll remarry,” Chloe suggested, interrupting my thoughts.

  “Remarry?” I yelled. “Are you crazy? She just died!”

  “Not now, but sometime maybe he will.”

  “No. Never. I wouldn’t let him,” I said, feeling ridiculous.

  “Well,” Chloe said. “It’s awful to be alone when you’re old.” She was right, but I couldn’t reconcile myself to the idea. We huddled closer together to keep warm, and looked straight up into the falling snow. “You know, we should live together when we get out of school. We could get a loft or something and fix it up and have room to paint.”

  “That would be incredible. We could have a fireplace and bird cages and big trees,” I said dreamily. “And maybe a cat.”

  “With birds?”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t put birds in the cages. I just think they’re beautiful.”

  “Mm.”

  We sat there for a while furnishing all the fantastic places we were going to live in, and finally I stood up and jumped up and down to try and unfreeze my feet.

  “I’m petrified. Let’s go in the church for a while to warm up.” We hobbled down the hill and out the gate and into the church. “That’s one thing I like about churches. They’re usually open. Temples are kept locked,” I whispered, looking up at the ceilings in awe. There was one other person there, a woman up front, praying.

  “Look at the windows, Val. Don’t they look like smashed lollipops?” I gazed at the windows.

  “I wouldn’t mind living in a church, either,” I said. After we warmed up, we went back outside and walked for a while, up and down empty streets, making our marks in the snow, which was still falling lightly.

  “Now look, Val, don’t forget what I told you. When we get home, don’t say, ‘Hello.’”

  “What?”

  “Say, ‘Hello, Mrs. Fox,’ okay?”

  “Good grief,” I said, making a face.


  “It bugs her when you don’t say, ‘Hello, Mrs. Fox.’ You always forget.”

  “Okay, okay. Anything else?” I said peevishly.

  “Don’t curse.”

  “What?”’

  “Now don’t play dumb. I’ve told you a hundred times she hates it when people curse. Not even damn.”

  “But, Chloe, I don’t even know I’m doing it half the time. I can’t help it. I only curse when it’s appropriate. I learned to curse from my parents,” I added.

  “Just don’t, okay?”

  “Look, if you’re so afraid, I don’t have to come. I’ve only been at your house about five hundred times. It’s not as though I spout obscenities all the time.”

  Chloe looked exasperated. “Come on, Val, please? Don’t be a martyr.” She made a little pleading gesture.

  I squinted at her indignantly for a moment and then sighed. “Oh, all right. I’ll try to be good.”

  We went uptown and caught the Riverdale bus to her house. It was the fifth house on a paved, treelined road off the highway, big and white with green shutters and a huge tree in the front yard. We took off our shoes on the porch and went inside. I peeked into the kitchen. Mrs. Fox was standing at the sink, wearing a well-fitting dress and stockings and slippers. She always looked good; I’d never seen her looking the way you expect most people to look at home doing dishes. Her hair was dark and curly and cut short, and she had on a nice pair of earrings. She looked very businesslike as she rinsed a plate and put it in the dishwasher. Chloe took me by the arm and led me in.

  “Well, hello, Valerie,” Mrs. Fox said briskly, wiping her hands on a towel and giving the mandatory smile.

  “Hello, Mrs. Fox,” I said, looking over at Chloe quickly. She nodded approvingly.

  “Hi, Mom,” she said.

  “Chloe, what’s that jacket? I buy you all these nice clothes and you go around in the oldest rags you can find. I hope you didn’t run into anyone.” Mrs. Fox turned to me. “Why do you think kids insist on going out of their way to look disheveled?”