Every Body has a Story

by Beverly Gologorsky

22.

  With phone in hand Rosie ambles out to the back porch. God, you’d think the heat would let up. Having packed only what fit in her black tote bag and backpack, she laments the clothing left in the closet. Her mother keeps phoning, the last message too dramatic to believe.

  Sonny keeps phoning, too, but she looks forward to that. Their first date still a wonderful memory. Leaving the party, she marveled at her sense of serenity, drug-induced, maybe, but like a good dream she didn’t want to wake from. Whatever was in those joints did more than lift her spirits. It dissolved the pain of indecision, left her hopeful. Let the great world go on with me in it, she remembers thinking. What’s wrong with that? They made out in his car for a while. It was sweet. He didn’t grope her or paw her. Gentle kisses and strokes, his warm hand inside her bra, then her nipple in his mouth, all of it so natural. But they didn’t go all the way, too wasted. No matter. Sonny will take her from chaste to bliss any day now. She’s open, waiting, and curious.

  So many plants dangle from the porch rafters that she has to duck and weave her way to the cranberry vodka drink on the small glass table. Mirabelle insists she try it, though she prefers orange juice with her vodka, same as Sonny.

  He’s driven up to see her twice since she arrived here. They hung out in the guest room, smoking and fooling around, but he didn’t stay the night. She can’t lose her virginity with Mirabelle on the other side of the wall. Besides, they get a bit blitzed on that Moroccan stuff Sonny calls fairy dust, which lifts her into a zone of all things doable. Their plan is taking shape, though. When Mirabelle’s parents return from vacation, she’ll move into Sonny’s pad, which he calls his den. Once upon a time it was what she wanted to do with Siri. How quickly Sonny’s displaced him in her affections, but that’s what moving forward is all about, of that she’s sure.

  She stretches out on a chaise, next to her friend on an identical chaise. The padded cushion welcomes her tight muscles and has her longing for some fairy dust to soften all things. “It tastes pretty good,” she admits, holding up the cool glass. In swimsuit bra and shorts, she hopes for a breeze to relieve the heat of the sun, which visits the porch for an hour or so each afternoon. It’s easier to tan here than on nearby Orchard Beach, though there a dip in the water would be possible.

  “Was that your mother again?”

  “She’s having two heart attacks.” Rosie gazes at the grassy incline that leads down to some scruffy woods behind the house.

  “Call her back. It might stop her from pestering you.” Barefoot in a one-piece shiny black bathing suit, Mirabelle sips at her drink.

  “If I give her even a tiny signal, she’ll be all over me. I can’t deal with her while Sonny and I are figuring out next steps.”

  Mirabelle says nothing. Her silence noted.

  “Don’t you care about what I do next?” Rosie finally asks.

  “I’m keeping my thoughts to myself for the sake of our friendship,” Mirabelle says with authority.

  “Oh really?” she replies sarcastically, but in truth she needs her friend’s support.

  “Yes, really.”

  “Knowing you, I’m sure you’ll find a way to say what’s on your mind sooner or later, so spill it now.”

  “Sonny’s too old for you. He’s handsome. I’ll give you that, but his assets are less than zero. He’s not the one to help you make decisions about the future.”

  “And you are?”

  “I didn’t say that. But if you stay here, you can finish school and live your normal life. Move to Sonny’s hovel, no more school … well … you’ll become one of those.”

  Mirabelle’s tone of disdain pisses her off. “One of those?”

  “A high school dropout with a job in some sleazy joint.”

  “You’re such a snob. You think you’re better than a waitress?”

  “I didn’t say I was better, but she’s not as happy as I’ll probably be with an education and a career.”

  “You sound like my mother.”

  “So what?”

  Mirabelle’s defiance ticks her off even more. “So what? My mother gets nothing out of living. Not me. I’m going to see, feel, take, give, know, love, experiment, experience, and it starts now, this minute, not after I graduate from some stupid school that teaches me nothing I can’t find in a book or online.” The words rush out on a breath.

  “You’re upset because what I said is true.”

  “You’ve got Sonny wrong. He’s a loving, reliable guy who’s been around the block a few times. I can lean on him. Yes, he’s older, but so what? Where’s it written that I have to be with some teenage asshole?” She suddenly realizes she’s close to tears.

  “I knew you wouldn’t agree,” Mirabelle says sadly.

  “At the very least you as a friend should back me up.”

  “I will, Rosie, you’re my best best, but I’m scared for you.”

  “I’m scared, too. But I’ll make my way, you’ll see.”

  23.

  Out the living room window, fish-gray skies threaten rain. A thick humid haze hangs over everything like a curse. The men seem bored. Can she blame them? It’s past five and no sign of the cops, a marshal, or sheriff all day. Zack was able to round up only two guys, plus Stu, who brought a friend. If the five of them stand arms-width apart, he believes the line will reach across the front of the house. Whatever.

  Stu, barefoot, in dark jeans, white polo shirt, is stretched out on the lawn, Zack beside him. She recognizes one of the men from Zack’s last site, must be Jimmy. She remembers his too tight handshake when introduced, and that eyebrows-up expression of his. What did he expect Zack’s wife to be, a frowsy dame? Jimmy brought his brother, recently returned from Iraq, Zack told her. Hasn’t she heard stories of vets who need to keep their guns on them? Her eyes search his skinny jeans for any bulge. And who’s the guy Stu brought? He doesn’t look much older than Casey, and doesn’t seem to talk, but keeps drinking and smoking. Lord knows what he’s smoking. These guys could just as easily mess up a place as protect it. Unless the uniforms show soon, they’ll just continue drinking and getting raucous in that crazy, letting-off-steam kind of way.

  Already Zack is trying to turn the wait into a party. He’s ratcheted up the music way too loud, the sounds reaching the neighbors, who must be riveted by the show. But who cares? The place, the house, it’s not hers anymore, not after today. She turns away from the window.

  Maybe she’ll try Rosie’s phone again. She’s left desperate messages every day for the past week. Even promised in one they wouldn’t move to Dory’s. Outright lie. Whenever she reaches Mirabelle, the girl swears she doesn’t know where Rosie is, clearly a lie, too.

  Out back she finds Casey, staring at the hot dogs sizzling on the grill like he might miss one that’s done.

  “Want me to finish what’s left and you go upstairs?”

  “No.”

  “Are you worried about what might happen in the next hours?”

  “I know what’s going to happen.” He’s turning each frank with a long, pronged fork.

  “What?”

  “It gets darker, cooler, the cops show up, and Dad’s friends curse at them. Nothing else will happen.”

  “What do you want to happen?”

  “I want dad’s friends to beat anyone who takes anything out of anywhere in the house to a pulp.”

  The virulence of his words stuns her. “Casey, that’s not a good wish.”

  “People do all kinds of things to keep their houses.”

  “Like what?”

  “No, Mom, you won’t like it. Here, this batch of franks is done.” He begins forking them onto a plate.

  “Tell me what people do,” she says, the plate in her hands, but not ready to leave Casey, who sounds too purposeful for anyone’s good.

  “Mom, the franks are getting cold.”

  “I don’t care, Casey. Tell me what you’re thinking.”

  “I don’t know. Stop asking.” For a moment they gaze at each
other, then he begins opening another package of franks.

  She carries the platter out front, her son’s words heavy inside her. The men sound more gleeful by the minute. Three yellow hard hats lie on the lawn like forgotten toys.

  “Thanks, angel,” Zack says, as she places the platter on the outdoor card table.

  “Isn’t the music a bit loud?”

  “The more noise the better.”

  “I doubt it,” she says as much to herself as him.

  He shrugs and gives her his no-offense-meant grin. She’d love him to struggle for his point of view, convince her, but he won’t. It’s who he is, as Dory told her so long ago, a guy who looks for the good and won’t let the bad spoil what he finds. Isn’t that what attracted her? That and his laid-back disposition, his don’t-worry-our-love-will-see-us-through personality? She reminds herself he was also affectionate, funny, and endeared himself to her daily. Why is that so painful to remember?

  “I’ll be inside. Let me know if you need anything more.”

  “I will … in bed tonight,” Zack whispers.

  “Sounds like a threat,” she quips with a forced smile.

  When the first drops of rain hit the lawn, she goes back out to help Casey bring in the food, but he’s gone. She takes whatever she can carry inside. The men have already relocated to her living room.

  “Has anyone seen Casey?”

  They look at her dumbly.

  “Zack?” He shakes his head.

  She goes upstairs, checks Casey’s room, the bathroom, Rosie’s room, even the attic, though that makes no sense. No Casey. She tugs Zack’s arm. “He’s gone. Where?”

  “Probably Robbie’s house. He doesn’t like all the commotion.”

  “Casey tells me when and where he’s going.” His last words replaying in her head, she rushes out. She should’ve grabbed an umbrella but won’t turn back.

  Stu’s car inches up beside her, the window rolled down. “Get in, we’ll drive there.” She does.

  “His friend lives about a half-mile or so down this road. Let’s try there. It’s not like him, Stu. He’s really upset. He mumbled stuff about what people do in foreclosures.”

  “Lena, he’s a sensible kid, always has been. He’s not about to change in an hour.”

  Stu squeezes her arm quickly, reassuringly. The sympathy nearly levels her. It’s Zack who should be here, driving, searching for their son. But, somehow, she’s glad it’s Stu for whom action is as easy as words.

  Sudden darkness falls ahead of sheets of rain. The sound of a million pebbles hitting the car. The frantic windshield wipers, unable to clear the pooling water fast enough, blurring the road ahead. Eerie streaks of lightning illuminate the sky. “There,” she points, “his friend’s house.” A cottage-like place, dark and shuttered, but there should be people inside. She opens the passenger door.

  “Are you sure you should go out in this …”

  “I need to know if he’s there.” In the few seconds it takes to reach the door, she’s drenched. Not seeing a bell, she bangs on the glass panel. Nothing. She peers inside. A curtain obscures her view. She runs around to the back, her wet feet sliding inside her sandals, her blouse plastered to her skin. A rust-stained porcelain sink leans against the house. If she didn’t know better, she’d think no one lived here. She doesn’t see any bikes around. Soaked, chilled, frightened, she dashes to the car. “I need to check if Casey took his bike.”

  Without a word, bless him, Stu begins driving back. Unremitting rain and deafening thunder keep them staring silently into the watery darkness. A sheriff’s van followed by several cop cars are lined up in front of the house, red and blue lights flashing. At the front door, Casey, sopping wet, a plastic bag beneath his arm, jumps off his bike.

  PART THREE

  24.

  Dory gazes out the window, her vision unusually sharp. Houses, trees, even bushes appear ridiculously bright, like the time she tried amphetamine and the colors became so vivid she had to put on sunglasses. Too bad she couldn’t record the doctor’s phone conversation. She’s usually astute at capturing details, but today everything he said, except “benign brain tumor,” floated away on the turbulent ocean filling her ears. She tried, she really did, to let his words sink in, but her mind gave way, and all she could focus on were the bags of food waiting on the kitchen counter for the welcome dinner planned for tonight. “Dory,” the doctor had to say at one point to get her attention. “Do you have questions for me?” Framing even one felt beyond her. She said she’d phone him tomorrow, but she won’t, will she? She’s witnessed too many people who walk into hospitals on their own two feet and leave in wheelchairs, with a sack of medicines in their lap, their former selves gone. Not the route she intends to follow. Having her head shaved, being cut open then sewn together? It’s like cutting into a melon and trying to close it again without losing some seeds. She feels fine. A few headaches, a bit of nausea, she’ll deal. Her decision is simple. Live her life with Stu, enjoy the company of her best friend’s family. Have weekend bang-up parties and sleep late the next morning. It’s what Stu’s been talking about and what she’ll make happen.

  Any minute now Lena and entourage will arrive with the rest of their stuff, the last trip of the day. Nothing like the crisis of a friend to pull you out of yourself. She walks slowly to the kitchen. A glass of wine is what she’s after. But instead of pouring one she puts away the food, then heads back to the window, lingering there until scudding clouds obliterate the sun and Zack’s and Stu’s cars pull up in front.

  25.

  Lena carries in the last thing, a framed photo of Rosie and Casey, sets it next to the bed in Dory’s guest room, rearranged now to create space for her rocking chair and two small tables with lamps. The emptiness inside her welcomes the clutter. She left a voicemail for Rosie to let her know they’re at Dory’s, then added that if she didn’t hear from her soon, she’d report her missing. That she was underage and could be made to come home. She couldn’t help herself. The moment she wakes in the morning the painful ache of Rosie’s absence begins. It makes her more nervous about Casey, who pleaded to move into Dory’s semi-furnished basement. Fine with everyone. She tried to pry out why he’d been biking in that downpour. He wouldn’t say squat, only that the rain didn’t matter. Too spooky by far, but there was no time to pursue it. They had only hours to pack, move furniture into two rented U-Hauls, then unpack at the storage space Stu’s friend gave them. All day Stu has been exceptionally helpful. She’s grateful, squeezed his arm as he’d squeezed hers in the car the day before, surprising them both.

  Throughout the move no one mentioned yesterday’s perimeter fiasco. It was she who rushed to open the front door. The sheriff, a husky, middle-aged man, looked warily at the guys sprawled on the couch and chairs, slack mouths on faces stunned by drink, and decided there wasn’t any opposition here. Thankfully, the hard-hat posse seemed to agree with that assessment and watched silently as she begged the sheriff to give them twenty-four hours to move their stuff. Maybe it was the desperation in her voice or her sopping clothes, or maybe it was relief at not having to lug furniture out onto the lawn in the teeming rain, but he nodded, said they had till midnight today. Then, one by one, the cars drove off.

  “That’s it,” Zack says, breathing heavily, depositing two large suitcases of clothing near the dresser. His tank top is frayed at the hem and gray from sweat, his mop of curly hair longer than usual. He’s hardly spoken all day. She feels a surge of sympathy for his disappointment.

  “Zack, honey, we’ll find work.”

  “Lena, we really will find work.”

  “Don’t mock me.”

  “Your words are more important than mine, so I’m stealing them.” That eerie grin.

  “What’s gotten into you?”

  “You mean, who am I? That’s the big question.”

  “God, no. You’re depressed. Maybe you need some meds.”

  “Bring them on. Getting high seems like the perfect sol
ution.”

  “I’m not talking high, I’m talking motivation..”

  “I moved furniture. I carried baggage. Isn’t that motivation enough? You want me to whistle a tune as well?”

  She ignores this because it sounds too crazy. “Maybe an antidepressant would help you be more optimistic about getting work.”

  He stares at her, his expression suddenly serious. She braces herself.

  “Lena, I like the way I’m feeling because I don’t give a shit about anything. It’s a pleasurable state of mind. I recommend it. And why won’t you let me fuck you?”

  She stares at him. “I can’t believe that’s what’s on your mind.”

  “Believe it,” he says cheerfully, his eyes steady on her.

  “You know what, you’ve already fucked me plenty. It’s why we’re in this mess, or have you forgotten?”

  He shuts the bedroom door as he leaves.

  Lord, what’s happening to them? They used to be in sync about so much: plans, visions, dreams that Zack insisted were doable. His optimism helped her get past the negative tapes that played in her head. His constant devotion and admiration made her trust him more than any man she ever knew. Making love was the culmination of their stirred energies.

  Outside, Dory’s patio, adorned with colorful chairs, awaits a happy family.

  26.

  She finds Dory in the kitchen and peers over her friend’s shoulder. “Smells good. What is it?”

  “Broccoli a la Dory with melted cheese and surprises.”

  “You’ve been quiet,” she says. Actually, more than quiet. She’s been missing in action. She hasn’t even taken a look at the rearranged guest room.

  “A lot in my head.”

  “Care to …”

  “Let’s focus on food, happy talk, and drink, and make it a celebration of your arrival.”

  “Okay. Listen, can you get antidepressants for Zack? He won’t go to a doctor, I’m sure. He says he feels great, doesn’t care about anything, and isn’t eager to look for work.”