“What’s funny?”
“Well, I was just thinking about gay people living together. Their parents are probably so happy cause their sons and daughters aren’t living in sin. If they only knew!”
I laughed, too.
“Do you think homosexuality is a sin?” I said.
“I don’t know. I mean, I don’t feel like it’s a sin. I really don’t know.”
“I know what you mean. I don’t feel like it is, either. But. . . .” Chloe nodded knowingly. I didn’t really know what I thought of homosexuality. When I was a kid I couldn’t understand it at all, and when I asked Mom about it she never really answered me. She’d just get embarrassed and mumble something about “pretending to be married.” So when I saw gay couples on the street I’d think, Oh, she couldn’t get a guy, or he couldn’t get a girl, so one of them must be pretending to be the opposite sex. It was second best, sort of. But it was beginning to occur to me that maybe it wasn’t that way at all. It’s so hard to know what to think, I brooded. It used to be there was a right and a wrong. If I told someone I thought homosexuality was a sin, then I’d be lying. But if I said it was perfectly okay I’d feel weird, because I wasn’t sure about that, either. When I thought of gay people having sex it seemed really strange! But then, any sex seemed a little strange! There are some things, I thought, that I’m just too young to understand.
After we finished eating and put away all the food and washed the dishes, we went into the living room and collapsed on the floor. Chloe and I never really did anything when we visited each other, except sometimes we cut up magazines for her collage. But usually we just sat around talking. I guess to some people that’s boring, but we never got bored.
“Chloe, I wanted to tell you something.” I paused significantly. “I’ve thought about it a lot and I’ve decided we should become gypsies.”
“Gypsies!” she chortled, crunching into an apple.
That’s what I like about her, I thought. She never laughs at ideas like that the way the friends at my old school probably would, and she doesn’t act like they’re impossible, either.
“Yeah,” I said. “We’d run away. To Europe, you know? France, maybe, or Scotland. Where’s Appleby?”
“England.”
“There’s a gypsy fair at Appleby every year. I read about it in National Geographic. We could go to that and join a band of gypsies. God, Chloe, it would be incredible. We’d run on the moors and have red cheeks and be really healthy like in those old Hayley Mills movies, and ride stallions and cook meat over a fire on a long stick, like shish kebobs, you know?” She nodded, her eyes gleaming. “And we’d smudge dirt on our faces and there’d be a fiddler—and we’d dance—” He’d play in minor keys only, I thought to myself, and we’d get up and start dancing like mad in the firelight, hair streaking, and no stopping. I could picture Chloe there perfectly.
“Suppose no band would take us?” Chloe said, as though we were packed and ready to go. “Couldn’t we just be our own band?”
“Sure we could. We could do absolutely positively anything. But I’d want to go to Appleby first. So we’d know more, you know? And decide after. Here, I’ll show you the pictures.” I got the magazine from under my bed and brought it in. There were pictures of gypsies sitting around fires at night in front of bow-top wagons, and lying in sunny green and lavender fields near wagons painted in passionate circus colors. Even the wheel spokes and brake shoes were covered with intricate designs in gold and royal blue and crimson.
“Look, it says a gypsy will sell anything he owns,” I said, pointing at a caption.
“That’s because he’s free, he’s not tied down by anything and doesn’t care about having things,” Chloe said firmly. “When I go away for even a weekend it takes me three hours to pack. I hate feeling like I need things. We should run away and not even bring a suitcase. Do they live in those wagons?”
“Yeah,” I said dreamily, flipping a page. “You know, I heard someplace that gypsies used to steal gold and make their kid swallow it, and then wait for the kid to crap it out.”
“Hey, that’s smart!” Chloe remarked. She got up and sank into the couch, and I sat down next to her. “We could have the best time, just going wherever we felt like going and staying as long as we wanted.” She was silent for a moment. Suddenly she turned to me and said softly, “Would you really run away with me?”
“Absolutely-positively-no-doubt-about-it. I wouldn’t run away with anyone else ever.”
“When?”
I squinted, thinking. Chloe flopped her head like a rag doll and nestled against my shoulder, slipping her arm under mine. My muscles tensed.
“We’ll do it,” I said, feeling her breath on my neck and burying my face in her hair. It smelled like vanilla. “Unless you poop out on me. We’ll do it.”
“Mm,” she murmured. “Me? Poop out on you? Hey, dollface, would I do that?” I barely felt her lips tremble as each word vibrated gently against my neck. I looked down at her face, half hidden behind masses of hair; her eyes were closed. I sat absolutely still in the strange, sweet freeze that had taken over my body. It was the feeling I’d had that night at her house, but stronger, and it didn’t go away. My eyes scanned the room unseeingly; I was only aware of Chloe’s face resting against me, and the chills that ran up and down my arms each time she exhaled quiet little puffs of sleep.
When I was sure she wouldn’t wake up, I placed her head back on a pillow carefully and switched off the light. I got a big blanket from the linen closet and covered Chloe with it. Where should I sleep? I thought. I stood uncertainly for a moment, and then took off my jeans and crawled under the blanket facing the other way.
I couldn’t fall asleep, though. After fifteen minutes of lying in the dark, I got up and took one of Mom’s cigarettes from the coffee table. I sat in the middle of the room and lit it, letting it burn, watching Chloe sleep through spirals of blue smoke. After ten minutes I climbed back under the blanket and went to sleep.
8
I guess that’s about when I started having the daydreams about Chloe and me. I’d always been big on daydreaming; I’d decided who I wanted to think about, and conjure up scenes with them, doing and saying all sorts of things I didn’t have the courage to really do. In the ones with Chloe we’d be lying around someplace talking, and I’d get upset about something, and Chloe would run her fingers over my face and say, “Whatsa matter, dollface?” Then she’d fold her arms around me and rest her head on my shoulder. Or sometimes I’d be sitting in a chair and she’d be playing with my hair, and it felt terrific. Anyway, in all of them we’d be physically close. I really didn’t know why I liked making up scenes like that in my head, what it was about Chloe that made being held or having my hair fixed different, or why those scenes held the strange allure they did. I don’t think I thought of it as being sexual attraction until later, or if I did I wouldn’t admit it to myself. I guess I thought I wasn’t capable of really having that sort of feeling; I couldn’t imagine anyone I knew feeling that way, and the people who did were aliens to me, living in another world entirely. They weren’t regular people like I was, they were people you raised your eyebrows about. I wanted to tell Chloe about my daydreams but somehow I kept losing my nerve, thinking how strange they’d sound if I said them out loud. I’ll have to bring it up accidentally-on-purpose, I told myself. Just to test Chloe’s reaction. So I’ll know if I’m weird or something.
School was really dragging again by the end of February; it always did, every year since I could remember. February was such a rotten month; spring vacation seemed ages away, and even when they switched Lincoln’s birthday around to give us a long weekend it was depressing. The streets were full of gray slush and streaked with dog shit. Winter always seemed like a letdown after Christmas, and especially after New Year’s with Guy Lombardo making you want to cry or just bury yourself till the season was over. By March I was bored to death and counted the days till Easter break.
One night
about a week before vacation I was babysitting for some new people in the building. There were two kids, Mark and Helga, and the father owned a funeral parlor. I guess there’s good money in that, because their apartment was really ritzy and they always overpaid me. I think people blow a lot of money on funerals when they don’t want to, so no one will think they’re cheap. After the kids were in bed I dialed Chloe’s number.
“Hello?” she said jauntily.
“Hi, it’s me. Whatcha doin’?”
“French. Can you believe it? I’ve been waiting for an excuse to stop.”
“I’m babysitting. For the funeral-parlor people. Chloe, they’ve got enough tranquilizers in the bathroom cabinet to kill off every neurotic on the West Side.”
“You looked?” she said gleefully.
“Yeah. One of my less admirable habits. The best way to find out about people is to check out their books and medicine cabinets.”
“And refrigerators,” she added. “Boy, I’d never hire you.”
“Oh, me neither,” I chuckled. “I wouldn’t want anyone checking out my things.”
She laughed. “Val, you’re amazing.”
“Not at all. Just unscrupulous. Listen, Chloe, we’re going up to Massachusetts as soon as vacation starts, just for a few days. Can you come?”
“Yeah! Oh, when’s Easter? I have to be home for Easter.”
“Not till after. We’ll be back in time.”
“I’ll go tell my mother right now.”
“Okay, I’ve got to go anyway. I can’t wait.”
“Me neither. Bye-bye, dollface.” Click.
Chloe arrived the day we were leaving with three overnight bags.
“What’s in all those?” I said incredulously.
“Oh, my paints and pads and rags and stuff. And some clothes. Do I need more than one sweater?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I packed four.”
“Aw, Chloe, you could have worn mine!”
She shrugged sheepishly. It was a long drive up, and we had dinner at a diner on the way. Chloe and I sat with Ben and a few bags in the back seat, squashed over to one side. Chloe leaned against me, and I leaned against the car door, my cheek pressed against the cold window. I thought about my daydreams, which I still hadn’t told her about. How come if it were Ben leaning on me I’d push him away, but with Chloe I actually like it? It was like that on the bus sometimes; if some fat smelly slob leaned against me I got mad, but if some cute guy did it I liked it and hoped he was doing it on purpose. But what about Chloe?
When we got there it was late and Chloe and I rummaged through the garage for a while, claiming everything Mom wanted to send off to Hadassah. We told her she might as well give it to us and eliminate the middleman, since we went to the Hadassah thrift shop on Third Avenue anyway. She seemed to think it was funny and wound up giving in, and after we’d collected everything we wanted, we went to bed.
The area where our house was is really beautiful. We had lots of land and trees and a lake. Summers got kind of dull, because there was absolutely nothing to do, especially if you couldn’t drive, but for painting and reading it was perfect. At the beginning of every summer I went on a Thoreau kick and by August I went loony and never wanted to read or paint again, but when we started going up in the spring I fell in love with the place all over again. I fell asleep praying for good weather, so Chloe and I could paint.
I heart a faint tapping and mumbled, “Mm? Mm, yeah, c’mon in.” I was tangled up in my enormous flannel nightshirt.
Chloe stood beside my bed. “Good morning,” she sang. “It’s beautiful out. Your mother says it’ll go up to seventy!”
“God, what time is it?” I struggled to turn over. “Seventy! Wow.”
“Ten-thirty.” She sat down next to me.
“I feel like a newborn kitten. I can’t open my eyes.”
“Well, hurry up and get dressed. Your mom’s making breakfast. I’ll be downstairs, okay?”
“Yeah, yeah. Get me out of here.” She took my arm and hauled me out of bed, and I stumbled into the bathroom.
When I got downstairs Mom and Dad and Chloe were on the porch.
“Where’s Ben?” I asked, not displeased.
“Watching—”
“TV,” I joined in. “Why ask?”
“You were no better at his age, darling daughter,” Dad said, reaching for a roll.
“I was too, and you know it.”
“Don’t be mean to Ben. He’s so cute!” Chloe said. I shot her a dirty look. I can’t stand it when people tell me how cute Ben is. I know perfectly well he’s cute and I guess I’m glad he’s not gross or anything, but my own best friend defending him in front of my parents!
“You watched Captain Greenjeans every morning before school,” Dad continued.
“Kangaroo. At least I did intelligent things in addition. I read.”
“She did, Victor.” Mom nodded, coming in with a plate heaped with cheeses.
“Wow,” Chloe said, gazing at the plate puddle-eyed.
“I suppose I should urge him more,” Mom said, wrinkling her eyebrows into an anxious furrow.
“Yeah. You don’t make him eat the way you used to make me eat, either, Mom,” I said accusingly.
“Well, maybe it’s better this way. So he’ll be calm and easygoing. Someone once said you should have your second children first.”
“Hrmph,” I grumbled. So I was their guinea pig. Oh, well.
“Chloe, take more,” Mom ordered, pointing at the different plates of food and going to the kitchen for more.
“Dad, will you drive us up to Crow Hill?”
“Sure,” he said. “I have to buy milk—we need milk, right, honey?”
“Yes,” Mom called from the kitchen. “And margarine, and—”
“Make me a list,” Dad said, looking flustered.
“For two things you need a list?” I said.
“What?”
“Never mind.” I shook my head, giggling.
Chloe and I hurried to finish eating, and then gathered pads, pencils, camera, Kleenex, transistor radio, paints and brushes, and stuffed it all into canvas bags. I went and filled a shopping bag with food and several jars of water to add to the collection, and we piled it into the car. We drove up to the end of our road, turned and began going up a winding, unpaved one.
“Here, Dad—stop here.” I looked out the window of the car. Trees. A steep hill. And there was the stump I always looked for to remind myself where to start climbing. Chloe and I got out of the car, and agreed that Dad would come around four o’clock to get us.
We entered the woods. It was dark and chilly and churchlike. I looked up and saw beams of light streaming through the patches of new leaves. The hill was so steep that we were practically crawling part of the way. We finally came to a flat clearing.
“Over this way,” I said breathlessly. “If this stupid shopping bag tears I’ll have a fit.”
We kept walking, and then the woods ended abruptly. We were there. A huge area of solid white and gray rock, in three levels, each about four feet below the other. We put down our bags to look; we were above everything, a rolling panorama spread before us. There were tiny houses and long wheat-colored fields and white steeples, and the cloudless, perfect sky which was that special blue you see on the first spectacular spring day, when everything looks freshly washed and colors seem brighter and you see things you never noticed before. We jumped down and looked over the edge of the bottom level. It was a steep drop, and a lot of the trees were still bare, but here and there a shimmer of leaves glinted like green cellophane in the sun. The only sounds were crickets and the wind; it seemed almost unnatural compared to the constant undercurrent of traffic sounds in New York. It makes you want to write idiotic, corny poetry, I thought.
“This must be incredible in the fall,” Chloe whispered. She scrunched up her face and gave a little scream. “Val, I’m so glad I’m here with you!”
“Me too.” We
stood for a while just looking at the view, and then I plopped down and pulled out the radio. “Classical?”
“Yeah.”
I found WQXR. They were playing Corelli. We picked spots and took our things out of the bags. Chloe was one level lower than I was; we didn’t like sitting together when we painted.
“Do you have an extra pencil?” she called. “I can’t find any.” I tossed one down to her, and began to sketch lightly on my watercolor block.
We painted, hopping back and forth a few times, and finished our first ones in an hour. We looked at both paintings. I thought they looked great together; it was obviously the same view, but the paintings were completely different.
“Yours is so much better,” Chloe whined.
“Oh, shush.” I sat down next to her pile and crossed my legs. “Listen, Chloe, will you go to that dance with me they’re having at Collegiate the week we go back?” Collegiate was a boys’ school.
“No way.”
“Aw, how come?”
“How come? I’ll tell you how come. Because it’ll be the same as last time and the time before that. We’ll spend three hours deciding which jeans to wear and then nobody’ll even notice we’re there.”
I had to admit she was probably right. It was amazing how long it took to pick the right jeans. And then whenever I left after hours of deliberating, Mom would say, “You’re going to a dance like that? How can you dance in those shoes?” I don’t know what she thought dances were like.
“Chloe, there’s always hope, isn’t there?” I said timidly. “They can’t all be creeps.”
“Yeah, well, if any of them aren’t, they stay at home. Anyway, I hope for bigger and better things than some stoned Collegiate asshole thinking he’s doing me some big favor by asking me my name.”
It’s funny, I thought, when I go to dances to meet boys, I hardly ever have a good time. If someone says hello or dances with me once it’s a big deal, like Chloe said. But compared to the things Chloe and I did together it seemed kind of degrading. Like it was okay to settle for having a lousy time with someone just cause he’s a guy. But still I wanted to go to dances! When I get to college I’ll meet all the intelligent ones, I thought. Like Mom’s friends. The men she knew were terrific people. I wonder if they were all creeps in high school too, I pondered. Or maybe they’re not creeps, they’re just scared. This was an incredible thought. Scared of me? Why would they be scared of me? Oh, ugh. I just meet the wrong ones.
Hey, Dollface Page 7
