“Really? Does Dad know?”
“Of course not.” Her eyes grazed the walls of my room, like a sparrow in an attic. “He’ll be gone for over a week,” she explained. “Hunting.” I knew by the way she took my hand—firmly, with a conspiratorial squeeze at the end—that we were not to tell Dad about this, ever. I longed to confess about the murderer notes, but it seemed unwise, as if any more wickedness would tip the precise balance of this moment, send us reeling into some swampy place.
“So,” she said, standing and brushing lint from her thigh. “Get dressed in something comfortable, okay? I’m going to talk to your sister.”
“Okay.” I lay in bed for a minute after she left, wondering what my father would do if he ever found out. Would he leave again?
Since he’d been back, he seemed to crave only quiet. He wanted silence in the living room and in the rose garden, silence at the dinner table and in the car. More and more, I found myself pressing against the still edges of his anger. I couldn’t help myself. It was like stepping around a coiled snake in the road, wanting to poke it with a stick, make it move.
I had even brought home one of Theresa’s new white kittens, which I named Calamity Jane, before he’d granted permission. He said nothing, but the first time CJ sharpened her claws on the sofa arm, he sent her sprawling in one pitiless stroke. I flew to where she crouched, collected her in my arms and glowered at him. He glared right back, daring me to contradict, doubling my pulse. There was an undeniable allure to this antagonism, a kind of charged intimacy I shared with no one else. Still, I knew I shouldn’t push it too far. Picking up CJ, I retreated to my room, but that night, I continued speaking double Dutch at the dinner table, after he’d twice asked me to knock it off.
“Hibey Ibalibi—Dibon’t yibou thibink thibat thibis ibis iba nibut hibouse?”
“Pipe down and eat your dinner!” He grabbed my forearm, which would bloom lavishly purple next day. I winced, suddenly recalling the story of his own father, shooting the dogs—where had Dad been? What had the violence sounded like?
“Please, Don—that’s enough.” Mom’s voice seemed to come from across the neighborhood, though she was sitting right next to me. “Please don’t, sweetheart.”
“I’m not your sweetheart, last I checked.” Dad released my arm with a final yank. “And I know what’s enough.” He looked at all his women, one by one, focusing on my face last. I tried to swallow the shame scorching my chest. Then he left, trailing profanities, taking his wineglass with him. I knew he was right to go. I was bratty and uncivilized. I had too much hair.
“You don’t have to curse about it,” Mom called, but it was too late. After his office door slammed, she dropped her face into her hands. But looking up a minute later, her expression was neutral, and she began eating again. “Finish your dinner, girls.” She sighed. “Just ignore him. It’s going to be all right.”
But it wasn’t all right. His hands were treacherous and surprising, like bats bursting from evening caves. And I was the noise in the darkness, the intrusive shaft of moonlight that called them. His hands would startle from their places next to his plate to crash into my cheeks, grab my chin, yank the napkin from my hands. And on those evenings when he was tipsy and playful, firing up the Jacuzzi, lighting the fire pit, singing along with Andy Williams—even then his hands were erratic, grabbing me around the waist, snapping my training bra, tickling my armpits, his laughter hot and nasal in my neck.
When he was distant and preoccupied, I craved his touch, missed his critical stare. I’d try getting close while he worked in the garden, watching as he snapped dead roses from the bush. In his rare good moods, he’d tell me about his work—a patient who had recovered well, a new nurse at the office—and I pictured how steady his hands must be during surgeries, those fitful fingers contained and precise in their white latex wrappers. I could imagine my father’s hands graceful enough to cut into someone’s sick heart and heal it, stitching a life back together.
Filled with a sad hunger that nothing would quell, I began to pray before bed each night. I didn’t pray the way I’d been taught in church, knees and head bent, hands clasped as I whispered Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep…. Instead, I sat on the edge of my bed and repeated words, phrases, in a kind of greedy, rocking chant. I kept my eyes open, staring at the bright Jesus hologram I’d won in Sabbath School for my recital of the Ten Commandments—the picture distorted as I turned it, so that Jesus seemed to wink at me.
On the way to Big Sur, Mom laughed so hard she peed her pants. Every time we passed a falling-down shack or roadside outhouse, Mr. Robert would slow the car and say, “We’re here!” He was an amateur ventriloquist and could throw his voice into any corner of the car. He became Richard Nixon, Archie Bunker and Felix the Cat. And he sang. As we drove through L.A., he invented a song about the headless orphan boys who worked in the top of the Arco Plaza. Even Alison, who sat hunched against the window, was starting to giggle by the time we reached San Simeon.
As we were waiting in line at Hearst Castle, my sister sidled up to me, looping her arm through mine. “What do you think?”
“I like him okay.” I was staring at a huge bronze-colored map of the San Simeon Mountains, wondering how it would be to ride horseback over all that land. “He’s nice to her.”
“I guess. Dad can be nice, too.”
“Sure, sometimes.” We were trying to settle into some harmless phrases. I sensed that she didn’t want to tell me her real feelings, but we needed to be friends for the weekend—good friends. Ali sighed, running her fingers through my curls in an odd fit of tenderness. I leaned into her solid torso.
All through the tour, Mom smiled at us across small distances. It seemed half a dozen tourists always separated us from her and Mr. Robert. She winked and nodded, as if we were old friends she’d spotted on the other side of a room, at a party.
We rode horses on a perfect beach at sunset, then ate dinner in a seaside pizzeria that was practically empty and smelled of burnt crust. Bouncing on the red vinyl seats, Ali and I begged Mom to let us play the hulking jukebox in the corner. Mr. Robert gave us quarters, and Alison jumped up to punch in songs by Buddy Holly, the Beach Boys, Elvis. I wondered what had come over her—she hated Elvis. But when “Hound Dog” came on, Mr. Robert pulled my sister to the middle of the restaurant, where they did a giggly jig between tables. Mom smiled, playing with her newly bleached bangs.
“You look like Julie Christie with your hair that color,” I said.
“Oh— Good heavens, Sylvie,” she exclaimed and then laughed, patting my hand. “Don’t shred the napkins, okay?” A minute later she stared at me and asked, “Do you like him?” She sounded expectant as a schoolgirl, and in that instant I knew what she was planning, if only she could marshal her courage, if only she could plant us firmly on her side. My vision started to blur and I placed my open palms on the tabletop, to steady myself.
“Yeah. He’s funny.” A slower song clicked on and Ali crashed into the booth, forcing me to scoot over. Mr. Robert bowed before Mom, offering his hand for the next dance. She followed him to the makeshift dance floor, where they swayed and laughed, clattering into chairs; then, in one silky gesture, Mom placed each of her shoeless feet on top of his black shoes, laced her fingers around the back of his neck. She tucked her head into his shoulder, her body sagging as if she’d just released a hundred-pound burden.
Ali jabbed me with her elbow, but I couldn’t stop watching—her arms resting on his shoulders, his hands on her buttocks, her back swaying as if she had started to soften and privately dissolve and wouldn’t stop until they were far from here, on the road north, in some hotel where they would look at each other and laugh because it had been so easy, so simple to leave us behind. She stretched up and kissed his neck. Then turned suddenly, as if she’d remembered leaving her pocketbook somewhere; she looked over to where Ali and I sat drinking our sodas. Stiffening, she slid her hands to his shoulders and smiled—a t
oothy, uncomfortable smile, accompanied by a fluttering wave.
I waved back. Ali whispered, “Quit staring like an idiot.” She ordered a chocolate milk shake from the waitress who was stacking our empty plates. After the waitress left, I told Ali she was a pig, that she’d been stuffing her fat face all night.
“Go to hell, brat,” she said.
“Why don’t you just shut up?” My rage shot toward her, like boiling water from a kettle—as if she was the one responsible for this tumult in my belly.
For two days, the four of us slept in a cabin by the sea. I liked the scent of the place—the damp salty wood, the furniture that smelled like metal and cheese. But I felt a little sick, watching my mother and Mr. Robert kiss each other’s lips before migrating to separate cots on the sunporch. I stayed awake for hours, staring at the knots in the ceiling, wondering how it would be if this was our life—this odd absence of violence, this sweet pit of loss like an echo behind my heart.
We took the scenic route home, but I didn’t want to sightsee anymore. I got out the sketch pad and pencil set I’d bought in the Big Sur gift shop. While Mr. Robert sang, while Mom exclaimed—how voluptuous the coastline! How treacherous this highway we’d taken!—I just stared into my book, drawing small rounded hoofs, the soft curve of my mother’s neck. I drew horses’ ears, Mr. Robert’s ears sprouting stiff silver hairs, Alison’s knees and horses’ knees.
“Why, we have a budding artist on our hands,” Mr. Robert chimed and I winced, wondering what he meant by “budding.” It bothered me. A few weeks earlier, when Mom handed me the stiff ivory training bra in its wrapper, she’d referred to my breast lumps as “cute little buds.” Could she have told him? Mortified, I finally asked her in a gas station bathroom, as she crouched above the filthy toilet. “Did you say something to Mr. Robert about my bra? Is that why he said I was budding?”
She laughed, throwing back her head. “Oh, Sylvie, you slay me! You’re so silly. Come here.” She stood up, zipped her pants and, still laughing, reached for my hand. I pulled away.
“Leave me alone,” I said.
“What’s the matter, honey, aren’t you enjoying the scenery?” Mom kept asking as we drove down the coast. “Can’t you try to be a little bit nice?”
“She’s just being a baby,” Ali said.
“It’s puberty, Elaine,” explained Mr. Robert with a laugh. “She’ll outgrow it in about six years.”
“Leave me alone, okay?” I whispered. “Just leave me alone.” It became a joke then. Every time Mom or Ali asked a question, Mr. Robert would reply, “Just leave me alone.” He even made a song about it as we drove south on the Santa Ana Freeway: “Oh, leave me alone / you big buffalo bone / I’m so tired of the nonsense you sing. / Just don’t say a word / you discouraging turd / ’cause I think you’re a big ding-a-ling!” Everyone laughed, and even I had to grin as I drew another horse’s head, the nostrils gaping like eye sockets in a skull. As we neared home, I drew faster, filling up the entire notebook, deciding I would will it to Theresa, along with the skateboard and the records.
I came home from school the following Thursday and his smell was back in the hallways. I walked through each room, saying, “Dad?” my heart quivering. Still, the only signs of his return were a new Ping-Pong table in the family room and his suitcases, tossed on the floor of his study. I peeked in at all the familiar things—the trophies and guns, the sex books in the upper corner. I wondered if he’d missed the one I’d taken, and whether I should borrow another. I was starting to move his chair to take down Everything You Always Wanted to Know About Sex, when his hand gripped my shoulder. I jumped and gasped.
“Moving my furniture for me? Or were you going to leave some more love notes?” His eyes were painfully blue in his tanned face, his chapped lips twisted in a wry smile. Everything about him seemed shockingly real.
“Dad—I just. How was your trip?”
“It was great, actually. Fantastic. Why, does that disappoint you?” His clasp on my shoulder tightened. Then he steered me toward the door, pushed me roughly through. “Now, don’t let me catch you messing around in here again.” That was all. I stood in the hallway, relieved and oddly disappointed.
“Fine,” I muttered to his closed door.
The next day, a Friday, Ali and I came home from school to find packages on the kitchen table. “Go on and open them,” said Mom, who was preparing for Sabbath dinner. “Robert sent you something special.” My present was a set of shiny paperbacks—one on every horse breed known to man. For Ali, he’d sent a brand-new eight-track of Elvis: His Greatest Hits.
“Shows you how much he knows,” said Ali. “I don’t even like this music.” She thrust the present at Mom, leaving the wrapper on the floor, and stalked down the hall. Mom looked stunned, but I wasn’t the least bit surprised. Alison had recently begun a full-fledged rebellion against our mother that included cheerleading practice (because Dad said it was okay), Saturday night dance parties and Leslie Brown escorting her several times a week from the school bus to our driveway, where the two of them would loiter extravagantly, kissing and touching each other’s hair. None of us knew that she was just warming up. Our mother’s threats and objections seemed sadly ineffectual, especially in light of her own guilt.
The alliances had been drawn, and my mother and sister were no longer on the same side.
“Well, I hope you like your gift, honey,” my mother said in a small voice. CJ looped around my leg and I picked her up, held her tight against the pain in my diaphragm.
“Yeah, I like it. Did he send you something, too?”
She indicated a small opal hanging from a gold chain around her neck.
“Wow. Are you really going to wear it?”
“I’m wearing it, aren’t I?”
She was still wearing it at Sabbath dinner that night, fingering the oval stone as my father described his hunting trip, the pheasants he’d shot, the wildlife he’d seen. He and Ali were eating the pheasant heartily, while Mom and I picked at our lentil loaf. No one said anything about what the three of us had done while he was gone. I kept my mouth shut, afraid of saying something that would give us away.
After a while, he took a sip of his wine, leaned back in his chair and said, “So, sporto—how ’bout that Ping-Pong match? You think you’re ready to take on the old man yet?”
Earlier, I’d watched, entranced, as he and Ali played. Stunned by the simple camaraderie that floated between them as lightly as the white ball, I studied how my sister smoothed over Dad’s blunders, or held her tongue when he did something sneaky. She didn’t even seem to care about winning. I couldn’t quite fathom this, and when he finally turned to offer me the next game, I’d refused. “Not now,” I sulked. “Maybe later.”
Now he was studying me with quiet displeasure. “Here I brought home a new toy and you haven’t even tried it—some thanks I get. You afraid the old man will beat you?” His voice was private and mocking. He drummed his fingers on the table four times before I put my fork down, glared at him and said, “Okay, then. Let’s go.”
Though I hadn’t played much before, I found myself hitting the ball in a kind of determined trance. Each time the ball soared over my head or dropped soft and treacherous close to the net, I strained to reach it, my hands precise and self-willed, my feet quicker than my brain.
“Hey, you’re not bad,” he said, slamming the ball across the net. “Hey, you’re pretty damn tough,” he added as we began yet another round.
After an hour or so, he stopped refilling his glass and fell silent. Then there was only the slap and clatter of our match, punctuated by Mom’s remote attempts to get me away from him and to bed. We swayed together for what seemed like an age, bobbing and thrashing like palms in a Santa Ana. He was a better player, but I could return anything he dished out. I’m good at this, my body screamed as I watched him grow frustrated and darkly amazed.
Mom and Alison eventually gave up and went to bed, and still we danced along the table’s edge
s. He wanted to beat me. I could feel it in the rhythm of his playing, his laughless eyes. My only advantage was that I wanted it more, wanted it so much, it was the only thing in the universe. The world had swallowed itself and shrunk to the size of a tiny white sphere that connected me to him in this delirious contest which, finally, I won. I set my paddle on the table, trying not to gloat, and went to my room.
As I was about to pray that night, he tapped on my door, peeked inside. “Can I come in?”
“Sure,” I said, though my body tightened with surprise. I placed my Jesus hologram on the night table, quickly tossing a book of rhymes over it. My father strolled around my room, hands in pockets, like a tourist in a mildly interesting museum. Then he poked his head into my half-open closet and my heart seized. From where I sat, I could see the pine box of letters on the top shelf, next to my mother’s illicit shoe box. Was he going to reach for it? Is that what he’d come for? I wondered if I would faint.
But he turned instead and sat stiffly on the edge of my bed, reached over and took one of my hands. He held it up so that our palms met face-to-face, one bigger, one small pressing up.
“Look at that,” he said, shaking his head. “We have the same hands.”
“We do?” I allowed myself to breathe again.
“Yep, see, same curved fingers, same bony joints, same crooked pinky.”
I stared at our hands, meeting in the air and stuck there like friends.
After a minute, he placed my hand back in my lap and touched my shoulder. “You could be a surgeon with those hands,” he said. “And especially with your determination. I had no idea… I think maybe we have a lot in common, Sylvia.” He shook his head, as if seeing something for the first time that had been right in front of him all along.
Outside the Ordinary World Page 14
