If she's staying. My heart does a little series of calisthenics, a slow rollover. I can't begin to think of how that's going to be, if she's staying.
I can hear Teddy talking downstairs, and then there's the sound of an unfamiliar CD twanging on the stereo, the refrigerator door opening, and then the sliding glass door slamming shut. They've obviously come back from smoking, refreshed their drinks, and now they've gone back out onto the porch.
While I still have an ounce of privacy, I go to my room and call up Maggie.
"Wow. The sister returns," she says. "Who woulda thunk? How's it going, anyway?"
"It's good... I think."
"So. Where is she right this minute?"
"She's out on the porch with Teddy. I just put Simon to bed."
"Oh, good. You can gossip about her. How does she seem?"
"She's... okay. She's different, that's for sure. Not Goth anymore, but... well, actually she's still a little scary in a mostly annoying kind of way. Loud. Talks all the time but says nothing. I've already wanted to hit her five different times."
"Well, duh!" Maggie laughs. "She was always scary in an annoying kind of way, and you always wanted to hit her. The important thing is, how long is she staying?"
"That's the worst part. She hasn't said."
"Why don't you just come out and ask her?"
"I think I'm scared to know the answer."
"Yeah. I don't blame you. Sheesh." She's silent for a moment. "This is big."
"I know."
"Well, do you know why she came home? I mean, now?"
"She broke off an engagement, took the guy's truck, apparently, and came here."
"Oh, how nice. She's a fugitive car thief."
"Well, Mags, he cheated on her with his dog trainer. What else you gonna do but steal his truck and go? I mean, really."
"Obviously."
"Also, she's in love with a guy named Willems."
"Is he the guy who cheated?"
"No, apparently he's married to the sister of the guy who cheated. It's all unbelievably complex. We mere mortals aren't expected to truly get it."
"Don't worry. She won't stay long. She'll be bored here in no time."
"Yeah, but she doesn't do exits well, as I recall. We could be in for a wild ride." We're quiet for a moment, then I say as lightly as I can manage, "So, did you poke holes in your diaphragm yet?"
"No," she says and sighs. "There seems to be a new development. He now has decided that—get this—he doesn't want to have sex anymore."
"Ever?"
"Well, not for a while, he said. He came home today from a meeting with some clients—because, even though it's Saturday, he has to put in as much overtime as possible—and I got naked and waved the French tickler in front of him, and you know what he said? He said sex makes him too tired, and he can't function when he's not sharp."
"Did you remind him it's Saturday, and he doesn't need to function?"
"I tried to. He said he stays tired for days after sex."
There's a silence, during which I take the opportunity to cut off the circulation in my index finger by jamming it in the coils of the phone cord and wrapping the cord tight. Just yesterday at work I got a letter from a woman who found out her husband was cheating on her, and the first sign of it was that he didn't want to have sex anymore. When I can't stand it anymore, I say, "Maggie, I don't want to say this, but..."
"I know what you're going to say," she says.
"Do you ever, you know, call him on those nights when he's working late?"
She clears her throat. "What you're supposed to do—I read this somewhere—when you suspect your husband of that, you know, is get all the cell phone bills and the credit card receipts. Calling him when he works doesn't tell you anything. Even if he's at a hotel... what's that going to prove? You won't know. Not really."
"True. "
"So I'm circling in on doing that," she says. "Maybe. When I get up my nerve."
"Yeah."
There's a silence, and then she says brightly, "Or maybe he's just got some weird neurological problem and sex makes him really, really tired."
"Well, sure," I say. "Let's go with that for tonight."
***
When I go out to the porch, Dana and Teddy are both curled up like commas at opposite ends of the swing, and talking in low voices. Thank God she seems to have come down from whatever antic, go-for-broke mood she was in. When I open the sliding door, he's leaning toward her, smiling.
She looks up at me and says, "Oh, honey? Could I have another glass of Southern Comfort while you're in there?"
"Sure," I say, although I'm not technically still in there.
"Me, too," says Teddy. "What the hell? It's Saturday night."
I go in and get both of them another glassful, and then go out and seat myself down across from them, in one of the rockers. I am just the slightest bit tense now that I've had a little while away from her. Also, the conversation with Maggie has not exactly improved my good feelings about the world in general. "So," I say in the friendliest possible voice, "what have you been talking about while I was gone?"
"Oh, I don't know—a little of everything, weren't we?" Dana says, undoing her hair from its scrunchy and shaking it out. Her hair falls to her shoulders in crimped little waves, wrinkled from being tied up. Her blond highlights catch the candlelight. I find myself wondering why fate gives some people nice, natural-looking streaks while other—perhaps even more deserving—people just get globs. Life is so unfair.
"I think," she says, "if you want to know the truth, that I was horrifyin' Teddy with the stories about growin' up here—how we all just walked into each other's houses and wore each other's clothes and slept in whatever bed we wanted to. He says we had no boundaries"—here she laughs and sort of pokes him with her toe—"but we didn't know nothin' 'bout no boundaries back then. We thought that was just the way the world was. Remember that? In fact, I still think that's the way the world should be. You know? I almost never think of my clothes as strictly my own. They kind of belong to anybody who can fit in 'em, is the way I see it. And I get everybody else's. That's just the way I am. He thinks I'm wacko, I'm sure."
Teddy, curmudgeonly, crabby old Teddy, who can't even buy anything from consignment shops because of the possible alien cooties that could get on him, laughs. "No, no, I think it'd be wonderful if life was that simple," he says. "I don't happen to think it's like that here these days, though. Not with all these old people. Hard to imagine Anginetta Franzoni wandering over and getting into a pair of your jeans, hey, Lily?"
I try to think of something clever to say but, really, I'm not in the mood for clever talk about the past. I was hoping we could move on to new business. I take a deep breath. "So, Dana," I say, smiling. "Wow! Everything's been so hectic tonight, with dinner and Simon and all, and then I'm afraid I hurt your feelings with that smoking thing, and I'm so sorry, but I really can't stand the smell of smoke anymore, just can't take it. But I've got to say, you look wonderful! Did I tell you that before?"
She's smiling at me warily. Anyone can tell this is the big windup for something. Teddy coughs a little. I finally just say it, "So, exactly what's up with you? Are you staying? Are you going to move back in? What's going on?"
The two of them look at each other. Dana starts laughing, and Teddy makes a little "ahem" sound, as if he's her spokesman for handling these matters. But she waves him off and says, "No, no, Teddy. Lily is somebody who likes to have things spelled out and organized, and I respect that." She looks at me and gathers her thoughts. "Well, sweetie, you know how I told you how I broke up with Randy when he cheated with the dog trainer? I left home mad, and then just on an impulse I decided that, hell, I'd keep on going and come to Connecticut just to see what was left of this place. I didn't really think you'd even still be here, to tell you the truth—I figured you'd gone back to California, or moved to Italy to buy a winery, or, let's see, that you were running a sweet potato farm in Oahu or someth
in'." She laughs. "But now that I'm here—I don't know. I guess I don't ask those kinds of questions of myself. I just do what I do. I know that's a bad way to be, but it's the only way I can think of."
Then Teddy says, as if he needs to explain Dana to me, "She needs a rest. This woman has done a lot of running. Wait until you hear the stories."
"Well," I say. "It's good you came back." Something sticks in my throat as I'm saying it, though. It's hitting me that she's come back not because she missed me—or even missed being here, in this house—but because she woke up one day and had a fight with her boyfriend and so decided to take a nice, long drive. To Connecticut. How, I want to ask her, how had she ever cut herself off so completely? The real question, I realize, is not why did she come back, but how did she ever stay away? How cold does a person have to be simply to walk away and not come back for ten years?
I stare out into the darkness, trying to remember to breathe, trying to remember how breathing cures powerlessness. The truth is, she has all the cards. If she gets mad tomorrow, she'll get in the truck and go. If she sees something she wants here, she'll stay. And somehow that seems to mean that I have to make room for her in my little life, and put up with all her high energy and her smoking and whatever music she wants to play. I have to share this house with her—after all, it was left to both of us. And do I even have a say in the matter?
When I look back, she's watching me. "I did miss you," she says, as if she's read my thoughts. "And then it had been so long that I didn't know if you'd even let me come back again. You know?" She laughs. "But now I think the question really is: Can you put up with me without wantin' to kill me?"
Before I can answer, Teddy jumps in and says, "See there? You two are sisters. Look at you. You're family, and you'll work it out. Lily has pined for you, Dana. She's looked for you for years, and sometimes back when we were married, I'd wake up in the middle of the night, and she'd be there lying awake with tears rolling down her face, and she'd say she was thinking about where you were."
"Hey, who appointed you the spokesman here?" I say to him. "Dana and I are perfectly capable of doing our own talking."
Dana slaps her knee and says, "You know, I just gotta tell you this. Y'all are just the cutest couple together. I mean, I know this sounds crazy because you're not even technically together anymore, but it's just hard to imagine y'all bein' any more married than you are right now. You talk just like an old married couple."
"Oh, you should have seen us when we were married. God!" says Teddy. "We were hideously ill matched. In fact, I would be the first to recommend divorce as a cure for a lot of marriages. We're much more civilized as a divorced couple than we were as a married one. Aren't we, Lily?"
"Well, that's how I see it," I tell him. Hideously ill matched? Is this really the man who just last night was claiming that we need to reunite because no one else could ever put up with us? I feel a flicker of annoyance, like heartburn rising up in my chest. He has to get out of here. But before I can stand up and announce that it's time for bed, Dana says brightly, "You know what I was just thinkin' about—what I really, really, really want more than anything?"
We look at her.
"A party!" She beams. "You remember those wonderful parties that Momma and Daddy used to have here on the porch? Let's do another one of those—invite the whole colony and the Scallopini, and string up those little lanterns, and play the Frank Sinatra music! Can we?"
"I guess so," I say. Funny how I'd been thinking of those parties just last night as I sat here lamenting Teddy's personality defects.
"It could be me saying 'I'm baaack!' to the whole colony," she says.
"Are you back?" I say. "Are you really back?"
She looks at me. "If you think it's okay for me to stay..."
Teddy laughs and puts his arm around her. "Well, Dana, damn, woman, if you ask me, I think this is your home."
"Oh, Teddy," she says, "that is sooo sweet."
12
After I get Teddy packed off—which does take some doing—I go into the kitchen and put away the bottle of Southern Comfort. I rinse the dishes and load them into the dishwasher, scrub the kitchen sink, and fix (again) the time on the kitchen clock, because it insists on gaining five minutes each day. Then I turn out all the lights downstairs and we make our way up the stairs, after Dana grabs a beer out of the fridge.
"Want one, Lily?"
"Uh, no thanks," I tell her.
"So, Teddy's pretty great," she says brightly, from behind me on the stairs. This go-to-bed beer is making me just the tiniest bit nervous. It doesn't feel absolutely clear that she's intending to go to sleep anytime tonight.
"Yeah, he is. He's terrific," I say.
"He's like—I don't know—an old uptight guy, but then you see he has a great sense of humor. Very dry," she says. "Like when he was trying to speak for both of us. I know he was annoying you, but I can just see you two being married to each other."
"Yeah, I suppose," I say.
"And Simon... he's just the sweetest thing... and you know, you have such a great life here. It just makes me so . . ." She stops in the hallway, carefully puts her beer bottle on the floor, places both her hands over her face, and starts weeping—loud, copious, theatrically accurate weeps, as if she'll never stop. I freeze in my tracks. At first I think she must be faking, but then I get this awful feeling, as if my bones have turned to water. What if she's here because she's sick? That's why she's so thin and why she doesn't eat. She's obviously dying and has just been waiting for the right time to tell me. Maybe she didn't want to say so while Teddy was here.
I wrap my arms around her and lead her into my room, so that we don't wake up Simon. I say, "Are you okay? Just tell me what it is. I'll try to help you, whatever it is." I'm suddenly wide awake and braced for whatever is coming. I try to picture what the next few months will be like: getting to know her again only to lose her, the trips to the hospital, the long slow progress of her mysterious disease, and then—well, then there will be the memorial service. The colony people will consider her the long-lost daughter. We'll all wring our hands. It'll be worse than last year, when Mavis died. Thinking so morbidly ahead like this is a special talent of mine.
Dana sits down on the bed and buries her head in her hands, and for a few moments I hold onto her arm. "Tell me," I say. "Are you... ill?"
She looks up at me, wipes her tears, and says through sniffles, "No, of course I'm not ill. Why would you say that?"
"I don't know. I thought that might be why you came back." I let go of her hand. "And you said your stomach..."
"Why? Because I don't like to eat?"
"Yeah, I thought..."
"No, it's nothing. God, you really do worry too much about everything. I remember that about you now. Always worrying over something. It's just that food disgusts me sometimes. All the chewing and swallowing. And I want to be thin."
"Dana, every woman in the United States wants to be thin, but they still eat."
She rolls her eyes. "Well, I'm fine."
"Okay," I say. "But I thought there might be something else going on. That's all. Don't get all huffy on me."
"Don't you get all huffy on me. God! Just pretend that I ate that whole plate of macaroni you made, and then you'll feel better." Her eyes drift around the room, taking everything in, and then she stares for a moment at the headboard and pushes down on the mattress. It groans, and she starts laughing. "Oh. Lily. Oh my God. I just realized something. This is Momma and Daddy's old bed! It is, isn't it? You sleep in Momma and Daddy's old bed! And not just their quilt and frame and stuff—it's their mattress, isn't it?"
"So what?" I say. It's true. I do sleep in my parents' old bed, and, okay, so this mattress does have some serious sloping issues, but I don't care. I fit right in a comfy little groove.
"Oh my God. This, I've got to tell you, is so gross." She's trying to stop herself from laughing so hard. "Lily, think of the cooties you sleep with! The old, ancient dead cooties that mus
t be in this thing, and the lumps and bumps and the stains—ugh!" She runs her hand across the wedding ring quilt that Aunt Juniebeth made, and then looks at her fingers as though they've come into contact with toxic waste, even though this quilt is perfectly clean. "God, I've slept on the floor of buses and in sleeping bags in people's basements, but nothing is weirder than this," she says. She looks at me closely. "What happened to you anyway? Don't get mad at me, but you seem stuck in—well, kind of a pitiful way."
"Look," I say, feeling myself flush all over, "I stayed here for you, so that if you ever got it in your head to come back, your home would still be here. Because you wouldn't let that damned attorney tell me where you were, I figured if I was ever going to see you again, it'd have to be right here. Did you ever think of that—what that meant when you told him not to give me your address?"
She looks a little taken aback.
"And while we're on the subject, I didn't used to be stuck. If you recall, I had moved to California, where I was planning to stay and live my life. But then I came back here for you! Yeah, for you, as you've so conveniently forgotten. Just so, after Momma and Daddy died, you wouldn't have to move away, go get raised by the Juniebeths. So don't you dare come in here now and call my life pitiful! You hear me?"
We glare at each other.
"I'm just talking about your bed," she says. "Jesus. When did you get such a hair trigger on you?"
"Oh, let me think. Maybe it was when I got to wondering what kind of person doesn't let her sister know where she is for ten years? Huh? Who would do that? Just why did you do that?"
"I didn't want you to come looking for me."
"Oh! You didn't want to be in the same family with me! And yet now—well, you're back, so I'm supposed to just open myself right back up and let you into my life, and be glad about it? We're just going to sit out on the porch, and you'll make friends with Simon and Teddy and get to be a part of the family. And then when something makes you mad again, you'll just get in your stupid stolen truck and tear out of here again. Is that it? Is that the deal you're offering me?"
A Piece Of Normal Page 10
