10
Love Chains
LINDA WAS IN LOVE, or in a state of giddy happiness closely resembling love—she wasn’t sure which and she didn’t really care. Whatever it was, it was certainly different from what she’d felt for Wright or for Manny. Much more sexual, for one essential thing, and more obsessive, too. She thought about Nathan with her whole body, not just her mind, and she thought about him all the time. One morning, when she was in a romantic reverie, Robin broke in, saying, “I’m talking to you. Where were you, on Mars?” And she did seem to be somewhere else, removed from her old life on dear, familiar Earth spinning safely under the stars.
Robin was still giving Nathan the cold shoulder and the evil eye. Linda tried to explain that Robin was like that—it took her a little longer than most people to warm up (about a century, she thought, but didn’t say)—and he shouldn’t take it personally. His latest theory, which he’d offered Linda the other night, as they lay dazed and tangled on his bed, was that Robin believed their relationship insulted her father’s memory. He asked if she had minded Linda’s previous boyfriend, and Linda had to admit she hadn’t, at least not for long. The painful truth was that Robin had been a lot nicer to Manny than she’d ever been to her. “Yeah, well, then there must be something about me,” Nathan concluded. “Maybe she just doesn’t like Chicanos.”
Linda was appalled. “Oh, no,” she said. “Robin can be really horrible sometimes, but she’s not prejudiced.”
Valentine’s Day was approaching, and Linda began to concentrate on the symbolic aspects of love: Cupid, hearts, flowers, all the words and music that speak for those poor souls stunned into speechlessness by their emotions. She wanted to buy Nathan something wonderful and original that would convey her own confusion of feelings. Except for groceries, Linda bought whatever she needed at one of the many stores in the nearest mall. She didn’t like the vastness of the place or the milling crowds, but it was the most practical way to shop, with everything anyone could possibly want assembled under one roof. Robin frequented the mall, too, as much for social encounters as for shopping. The Saturday before Valentine’s Day, Linda asked Robin to go with her and help her choose something for Nathan. They could take Phoebe along in her stroller; on previous trips, she’d seemed to be soothed by the canned music and all the people and the lights. When Robin balked, Linda bribed her with a five-dollar incentive added to her usual allowance, for her own Valentine shopping, and she grudgingly agreed to go. Not that she had any intention of buying any presents or cards for anyone; this kind of holiday was for suckers like Linda, who enjoyed making Hallmark rich. In the lower grades, when the teacher encouraged the exchange of valentines with a big, foil-covered box on her desk, Robin never put any inside, and the few she received had insulting verses and pictures on them. Roses are red, violets are blue. With a face like yours, you belong in the zoo. But this was just a free ride to the mall, where she might meet Lucy or somebody, and then she could lose Linda and use the extra money to get Cokes and pizza.
The whole place was blooming with hearts, the speakers were expelling love songs, one after the other, and a new perfume called Kiss Me Quick hung as thickly as smog in the air. The items that attracted Robin in the card and novelty store they went into first were gag gifts, in the worst possible taste, like lip-printed toilet paper and a battery-operated, clear plastic replica of the human heart that beat loudly and circulated something that looked revoltingly like blood. Linda headed for the greeting-card section to explore the valentines, hoping to find a verse that could be read two ways, seriously and ironically. She started reading one, about the secret language of love, aloud to Robin, who said, “Ugh. Barf,” and looked around to make sure that no one she knew was witnessing this embarrassment. “Feeble and I are going to cut out now,” she announced. “I need to go to another store.”
Linda looked up from the card she was holding, surprised and pleased. “Sure, honey,” she said. She glanced at her watch. “It’s ten-forty now. Phoebe won’t be hungry for a couple of hours, I hope. Why don’t we meet back here at twelve. Will that give you enough time?”
Shit, Robin thought, she thinks I’m getting her something. Fat chance—who gave their stepmother a valentine? But Robin merely nodded and left, pushing the stroller with the sleeping baby in it toward the center of the mall, where most of the food places were, and where her friends usually hung out. There was a little stand between the yogurt and muffin shops that sold cheap but nice seasonal gifts, Halloween stuff in October, and stuff for Christmas in November and December. Robin had bought Linda a bread-dough Santa Claus pin there last Christmas, for only two bucks. Linda cried when she opened the package, and she fastened the pin to her maternity top, where she wore it every day until she gave birth. Of course everything made her cry in those days.
Now the holiday stand had a Valentine’s Day display of jewelry, topped by a big sign that said: Love Chains, Stay Together Forever. A good-looking guy in his twenties wearing goggles and a leather vest, and with snake tattoos on both arms, was engraving an ID bracelet. Sparks were flying from the engraving machine, which made a grinding noise that almost drowned out the amplified strains of “Love Me Tender.” He adjusted the machine when Robin approached, reducing the noise to a steady whine, and shouted over it, “See the love chains yet, babe? Wanna be the first in your neighborhood?” He lifted his goggles and showed Robin the bracelet he’d been working on. The plate was heart-shaped and the name “Tiffany,” missing only the tail of the y, was engraved in its center. Robin shrugged; except for the heart, it looked like a plain old ID bracelet to her. Then he picked up a second bracelet, bearing the name “Joey,” and with a magician’s rapid-fire motions linked the two bracelets together, a sturdy, six-inch chain between them. “Voila! Here you go, chained for life,” he said, dangling the joined bracelets from one hairy finger. They looked sort of like a pair of handcuffs now. “This is gonna be the hula hoop of the nineties,” he said. “Got ’em for ankles and wrists, come in fourteen karat, sterling, and a nice yellow or white base metal, from $2.99 to $69.99 each, name or monogram, up to eight letters, included. So what’s your poison?”
“Each?” Robin asked.
“That’s right, babe,” he said. “But, hey, we can even link up three of ’em, if that’s your preference,” he added, winking and twirling the bracelets in a dazzling silvery circle.
Three, Robin thought. Her and Lucy and Carmel. Together forever. But Linda had only given her five extra dollars—even two bracelets would set her back more than that. And Lucy was her main friend; Carmel was just kind of a bonus friend. “I’ll take two,” Robin said, “of the $2.99 ones.”
He asked her to write down the names she wanted engraved on the bracelets, and he made her pay for them in advance. She was to come back in about ten minutes for the finished products. As she stepped away from the stand, the sparks started flying again. Robin killed time at the muffin and yogurt shops, with a snack at each place. When she went back to pick up the bracelets, the tattooed guy said, “No offense, but what kind of faggot name is Robin, Lucy?”
“Robin’s my name,” she said, belligerently. “What’s wrong with it?”
“Hey, nothing,” he said, holding one hand up. “Like the little red-breasted birdie, right? I like it.” He looked thoughtful. “So then the guy’s name is Lucy?”
“What guy?” Robin demanded.
“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” he said, tapping his forehead. “I think I’m getting the picture now. We’re talking two ladies here, aren’t we?”
“Yeah, so what?” Robin said, but her own brain was struggling to sort this out at the same time. And then she looked at the sign again. Love chains, it said, and she finally understood what he was implying.
“No, that’s not—” she began, but the guy interrupted.
“Hey, live and let live, that’s my motto,” he said, holding out her package. “But the kid’s gotta be adopted, right? She sure looks like you, though.”
Linda found the perfect card after reading about twenty or thirty of them. This one simply said, “Valentine, I love dancing in the dark with you.” There was a drawing of two goofy-looking bears dancing together on the cover, which made it seem lighthearted, if that was the way you chose to read it. She went to a nearby men’s shop next, where she bought a beautiful dark red silk shirt for Nathan, and then she wandered toward the center of the mall, hoping to run into Robin and Phoebe a little earlier than arranged. There was a kiosk next to the muffin place that was selling jewelry for Valentine’s Day: heart-shaped rings and pendants and charms. A sign saying Love Chains, Stay Together Forever caught Linda’s eye, and she went closer to see what they were. A greasy-looking biker type behind the counter said, “See the love chains yet, babe? Anybody you want to shackle for life?” And he demonstrated the quick and easy linking of two bracelets, with only the slack of inches between them. She’d gone way over her budget for Nathan’s shirt, but there was something irresistible about the love chains. Like the card she’d bought, they could be thought of as serious or just a cute joke. And they made Linda think of that song her mother used to sing so wistfully when she was dusting or doing the dishes:
Alone from night to night you’ll find me,
too weak to break the chains that bind me …
Something something something something, I’m just a prisoner of love.
It was such a strange song for her mother to have sung. If anything, she was a prisoner of poverty, of a bad marriage, of her own lonely child and other people’s needy newborns. The love part seemed to be just in her head, but maybe that’s what saved her all those years.
Nathan wore only gold jewelry, which Linda definitely couldn’t afford, and the base metal looked like something you’d buy in a plumbing-supply store. So she compromised and bought a pair of bracelets in sterling silver, which cost her over sixty dollars, with the tax. Some joke. And there was something official about those engraved names—“Nathan” and “Linda”—like the names on wedding invitations or the monograms on newlyweds’ towels. The biker said, “If you ever cool on this Nathan dude, baby, you can always chain me up.”
Robin buried her love chains in a dresser drawer under her socks and underwear. The crazy thing was, they did become a big fad for a little while, just like that tattooed guy said. Couples all over school walked around chained together at their wrists or ankles. They took classes and ate lunch that way, separating only to go to the bathroom or to classes they didn’t share. Students’ handwriting became erratic, the traffic in the halls was notably slower, and the wrists of those wearing the base-metal bracelets all turned green. Then there was a series of accidents. At the end of February, after the fullback on the football team and his girlfriend, the captain of the pep squad, who’d chosen the gold anklets as a symbol of their commitment, fell down a whole flight of steps together, the principal got on the P.A. and announced an edict outlawing the love chains. But the fad was already losing steam by then, as couples broke up and everyone began to realize how much easier it was getting around on their own.
Just as she’d expected, Robin didn’t receive any valentines, except for a beautiful handmade card from Carmel, a mushy one from Lucy, signed “Bono,” and a nasty unsigned one she was sure was from Garvey. Linda gave Robin that neat plastic heart they’d seen in the novelty store, but about a week later it suddenly stopped beating and the fake blood lay in a gory-looking pool at the bottom of it. Robin felt obligated to get something for Linda, too, after she received the heart, so she went back to the mall the next day and bought the toilet paper with the lip-prints on it. It was on sale by then—fifty percent off—and they gift-wrapped it for free. Linda didn’t cry when she opened that package.
Nathan loved the red shirt. He wore it to bed at his place on Valentine’s Day night, and Linda wore it afterward. She watched him closely when he read the card with the dancing bears on it, and he smiled, but he didn’t laugh. He’d given her a huge bottle of Kiss Me Quick and a single long-stemmed red rose in crinkly green tissue paper tied with a red ribbon. She put off giving him the love chains until much later, when they were sitting up in bed and she was wearing the red shirt. Then she slipped one bracelet on his wrist and the other on her own, and, less deftly than the biker, clasped them together.
“Hey,” Nathan said, “what’s this?”
“Now you can’t get away,” she told him, hoping she sounded more playful than she felt.
“Who says I want to?” he said huskily and, sliding his unchained hand inside the shirt she wore, pressed her gently back down on the bed. Then he slid his hand out, and opened his bracelet and slipped it off. Linda felt the sudden weight of both bracelets and a twinge of disappointment. But she didn’t say anything as Nathan kissed the pulse point on the inside of her still-encircled wrist and slowly raised her hand over her head. She heard a click and tilted her head up to look behind her, where he’d fastened his bracelet around the bedpost. “Is this okay with you, amor?” he asked.
Linda tested the tether, which was fairly loose, and the idea, which excited her. “Okay,” she said, and put her strong free hand on the back of his neck and pulled him down.
11
Proof
THE THOMPSONS PICKED ROBIN up one Saturday morning to go downtown to their photo shop. Lucy and Carmel were in the backseat of the family station wagon, and Garvey was sitting up front with his father. Robin had been watching for them from the kitchen window, and she ran outside as soon as they pulled up to the curb, glad to be released from the apartment, where Linda and Nathan were hanging around each other like a couple of lovesick dogs. Whenever Robin walked into a room and caught them in a clinch, they jumped apart as if she’d turned a hose on them. By the time she left, they seemed just as relieved to see her go as she was to get away. Nathan actually hustled her out the door, saying, “It’s a really swell day out there, kid,” and Linda yelled after her, “Have fun, honey!” the way she always did. She’d probably say the same stupid thing if Robin was on the way to her own funeral, but Linda was clearly the one intending to have fun. It was such an unpleasant thought Robin thrust it from her mind as she plunked herself down between her friends in the backseat of the wagon. At least she was wanted there. Carmel, whose chief expression of affection was physical, patted Robin’s braids and plucked at her T-shirt sleeve, while Lucy whispered into her ear all the private news that had accumulated since they’d spoken on the phone late the night before. Robin was practically in a stupor of relief and pleasure. Even Garvey’s leering side-glances at her from the front seat didn’t spoil things, didn’t break that spell of satisfaction.
The Thompsons’ long, narrow shop, tucked between a bakery and a check-cashing place, was called Images of You. Mrs. Thompson was already there when they arrived, selling film to a young couple with a baby. Another woman was peering into a showcase of frames and photo albums, and a man waited behind her for service. Mrs. Thompson waved hello and called, “I could use somebody back here!” Lucy and Carmel hurried behind the counter, and Lucy drew herself up and addressed the woman looking into the showcase. “May I help you?” she asked in smoothly adult tones, while Carmel beckoned to Robin to join them.
Robin felt immediately and oddly important behind the counter, and surprised by the new perspective she had of the people going by in the street. She found herself fiercely willing them to come inside, to become customers, and she even imagined echoing Lucy’s words, although she had never volunteered to help anyone in her entire life. The only job Robin had ever held was as a babysitter, back in Newark. But that was just a matter of putting up with somebody’s brats for a few hours, mostly keeping them from killing each other until it was time for bed, and then watching television and eating
snacks until their parents came home. Working in a store, she quickly realized, was quite different. For one thing, the whole dumb, complicated concept of free enterprise, which her social-studies teacher was always going on and on about, seemed suddenly clear and reasonable. You had something someone else wanted, like film or frames, and they bought it from you. With the money you made from the sale, you could buy something else that you wanted. Food, maybe, or tapes. And so on. Sometimes you got gypped, like the Indians when they sold Manhattan for a lousy twenty-four bucks, but most of the time it probably all worked out.
For another thing, as a clerk you could be anyone you wanted to be to the strangers who walked into the shop. It was like being in a play Robin supposed, although she’d never done that, either. Best of all, there was an extraordinary sense of power that came from being on the side of the counter with the merchandise and the cash register. For once her fingers didn’t itch to touch, or to take, what was within such close reach—it was enough to be its custodian.
The shop did a lively business, a neighborhood business. The elder Thompsons—Lee and Jewelle—greeted people, and were greeted, by name, or by “bro’” and “sister,” as if everybody was related. Robin wished that Linda was more like them, more laid back and at home in the world. She wished that she was, too. Most of the customers either purchased film or brought rolls of it in to be developed or picked up their finished pictures. Robin sneaked a look at some of the prints behind the counter before she handed them over. There were a few really weird ones, just of the sky, for instance, as if the photographer had been lying flat on his back, and some of a dead woman laid out in her coffin. And there was a whole stack taken of some old guy in a hospital bed, hooked up to everything and about to be dead. But mostly they were shots of families doing ordinary things, like sitting around the supper table, or standing in the street. They probably saw each other in person every day of their lives; what did they need all these pictures for?
Tunnel of Love Page 10
