Ball

by Tara Ison

  “I’ll just get this one,” she says, tired. “It’s fine. It’s nothing. Really, it’s fine.”

  “Good,” I tell her. “You’re a Cadillac, you know,” and she smiles.

  YOU’RE SEEING SOMEONE, aren’t you? she’d said to me those months ago. You have that glow.

  Not really.

  Come on, tell me the truth. My life is so boring.

  So I made up a story, because she knew me too well, could probably smell it on me, a story to throw her off, Yeah, some new guy, but we’re keeping it just casual, nothing serious, nothing worth talking about. Don’t you think I’d tell you if it were anything real? I pointed out.

  Damn, she said. I’m dying at least for something sordid.

  It doesn’t even rise to the level of sordid, I told her. Sorry. It’s nothing. It doesn’t even count.

  So, yes, it went on a while, a little thing that took surprising root. Shaving my legs and puffing my hair up wild every day and keeping a fresh sweep of makeup on, trying to get to and stay ready and perfect, in case he called to say he’d found us some time. He found it now and then, and I got good at patient. Just until it’s out of our systems, we assured each other, It’ll die a natural death and everything will go back to normal. And We’ll never tell, it isn’t even anything to tell. We’ll spare her. Until the mole took us all aback. Until that once-teasing wink of a birthmark on her brown thigh abruptly went lethal and foul. We need to stop, now, We need to think of her, now, yes. Be there for her. Let her have both of us, all of us. Both of us avoiding each other, now, we can’t even bear to be in the same room with each other, it’s too intense. Only happy smiles now, for her, and being the prince of a husband and the beloved best friend in the world we’re supposed to be, being there and keeping it all caring and real, for her.

  WIG #3 IS a Farrah-esque blonde romp.

  “Does this look like I know it’s retro?” she asks me. “Or like I don’t get the joke?”

  She strikes a Farrah pose, head tilted back, a manic, toothy grin. We’re back on Hollywood Boulevard, in a place where all the wig styles call movie stars to mind. There’s also the “Halloween Line”: witches, vampires, Elvira, Rainbow Clown. Can I have you today? she’d asked on the phone. Can we have a quest day? Let’s go out in search of. Be silly. Play. She’s between courses and has had a renewed burst of energy, a manic, zenith buzz. There’s a glow from her skin, and I wonder if she’s radioactive.

  “I wonder if it comes with the red bathing suit,” I say. “And the nipples.”

  “Those, I really do need. Mine have snuck back inside somewhere. Like turtles.”

  “What kind of nun did this come from?” I ask the Salesperson.

  “Now, that one’s a human-synthetic blend,” he tells us. “Good value for the price. Look at the rich tonal dimensions of color-play. You only get that with natural.” He fluffs the wig’s feathered waves.

  “So . . . it’s a natural synthetic blonde?” I ask, and she laughs.

  “No, you never get those highlights with synthetic. It’s the human hairs that do it. Of course, they’ve been chemically processed to get that color.”

  “Chemically processed,” she repeats. “Boy oh boy, can I relate.”

  “But this hair is still cuticle hair. Still high-quality. Now, a blend like this should last you two or three years if you’re lucky.”

  “Listen,” she says, “I’m not going to last two or three years,” and we both laugh. Her days are numbered and look at her, laughing. I’m edgy with the counting down. I’m too aware of waiting for the egg timer to ding, for it all to be over and done with.

  “Right. Excuse me.” The Salesperson leaves to help a dowager-humped woman with wisps, waving at him from across the store.

  “What was wrong with the kosher one?” I ask.

  “I don’t know. It was too plain. Too serious.”

  “Too severe?”

  “Yeah. I want to play a little. That one didn’t make me feel . . . fetching.”

  “You think he’ll find this one fetching?”

  “I don’t know. He’s always liked blondes.”

  I put down a blond Afro wig to look at her. “He’s told you that?”

  “A million times.”

  “That isn’t very nice, to tell you.”

  She shrugs. “Doesn’t bother me. It’s honest. One of his best qualities. Honesty.”

  “Really?”

  “Sure. Don’t you think so?”

  “I think you can be an honest person without being honest about every single thing that comes up. Little things that don’t do anything but hurt someone.”

  “But that isn’t hurtful.” She shrugs again. “Just honest.”

  “Sometimes being a little dishonest is the kind thing to do.”

  “But I think that’s what’s held everything together for us. Especially through this shit. Knowing everything. Knowing everything’s been said. Shared. I think it’ll make it easier for me. And for him.”

  “I suppose. So, well, okay, he likes blondes, huh? I didn’t know that.”

  “Always. Always had a thing for blondes.”

  “Yeah, well. You won.”

  “Won?”

  “He chose you, I mean.”

  “Right. He chose me. But he didn’t choose all of this.” She gazes in the mirror, shakes her head so Farrah’s blonde swirls go mad as foam, then settle. “Eighty-seven days and counting,” she tells me.

  “Are you kidding?” I say. “Is that all? It’s been longer than that for me.”

  “What about that guy from a few months ago?”

  “Yeah, exactly, months ago. We broke it off. I mentioned that.”

  “Oh, honey. I’m sorry.” She looks upset. “You seemed hopeful about him.”

  “No, I didn’t. It wasn’t anything. It was complicated.”

  “Well, maybe down the road, you guys. Maybe it was just the timing, then—”

  “It didn’t count. I told you that.”

  “I’m sorry.” The look of compassion on her face is a look I’ve seen before. It’s the look when I’d score the point, I’d win, and she’d be the one to kindly, misplacedly ask if I was okay, how was my ankle doing, the blister on my thumb, did I need some water, did I want to take a break?

  “Let’s just forget it,” I say.

  “I guess I’ve been pretty self-absorbed, huh?”

  “That’s okay. If I had any stuff worth telling you about, I’d just tell you. Your stuff is more important.”

  “Yeah. My eighty-seven days. And I’ve been feeling good. The last week or so. I’ve been doing so well. Don’t I look good?”

  “You look great. You look beautiful.” It’s a lie, she doesn’t, but I say it to make her feel good. “All your color’s back. It’s like you’re all back.”

  “Let’s go get pedicures. Eat cheesecake. Play tennis. Let’s find a river to skinny-dip in.”

  How sad, I think, that this is the extent of her imagination. That she can’t see she’s on her last gasp. It is her last gasp, after all, I remind myself. It’s just a matter of time now, after all. I unclench my fists. I tell myself to get back to patience. To pity.

  “Whatever you want,” I say. “But you need to make a decision first.”

  She glances around the store. “Maybe the Veronica Lake. Or the Marilyn.”

  “The Shirley Temple? The Dolly Parton?”

  She looks at me, smiles, looks away. “I’ve always wanted blonde hair, you know,” she says. “I guess I’ve always had a thing for blondes, too.”

  That fat black ponytail, swinging.

  “All right, fine, just come out and ask him why. Ask him why you guys aren’t doing it anymore,” I say. “Make him tell you.”

  “Maybe.”

  “If honesty is so great. Go on. Ask him to tell you the truth. See what he says.”

  “Yeah. . . . Okay, here’s honest.” She faces me. “I’m going to be honest with you.”

  “Oh, please don’t.�
�� I laugh a little.

  “Really. I want to know everything between us has been said.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’ve always envied you.”

  “Why?”

  “I’ve always hated you, just a little. For your hair.” She flips a lock of the Farrah at me. “Really. The attention you always got.”

  “That was you. You always got the attention.”

  “The blondes-have-more-fun thing. The fairy-princess thing. Guys and blondes.”

  “You’re deluded. You’re the one guys have always gone for.”

  “I mean it. Envy. Hate. Because of your hair. Ridiculous, but there, true.”

  “Well, I don’t know what to tell you. Maybe yours will grow back in blonde,” I suggest. “It does that sometimes, right? Grow back in completely different?”

  She just shakes her head, gives me a knowing look.

  “Yeah, well . . . mine’s chemically processed now, too,” I remind her. “Mine’s all a lie. You’ll have to find something else to hate me for.”

  IT’S A SHOCK to see her back. Or, almost back. The long, straight black hair, the bangs. No ponytail, though, because time’s up, the nadir is here to stay, she’s mostly back in bed and reclined now and it would make the back of her head hurt. She found it online, she tells me, the perfect reincarnation. It was easy to order, she knows all about Virgin European and cuticle shaft by now, knows her cap size and her need for Comfy Grips. She shows me every tiny detail, the hand-knotted wefts and the latex scalp textured like actual skin. I expect to see a dandruff flake, a blocked pore, but no, it’s perfect. And she was lucky, it was the last one the company had in stock and they sent it express.

  “What do you think?” she asks, proud, hopeful.

  I get a whiff of her, a fake sweetness on top of the other smells. She’s wearing perfume, as if that will help. “I suppose I’m a little hurt,” I say. “That you went ahead without me. I thought we were a team.”

  “Oh, honey,” she says. “I couldn’t ask you to keep questing with me. You’ve done way too much. You’ve been so patient, so amazing.”

  “Well, it looks great. You look exactly like your old self,” I tell her. “You look like you’re sixteen.” She’s pleased, in a weak but self-satisfied way, and I remember the day in Algebra, we had a midterm but the night before we’d stayed out late, some retro film festival midnight show, and she’d made up some story for our aging, stubby teacher. I remember his rapt, understanding face, his devoted gaze as she told him whatever lie she’d told, tossing me into it, too, winning him over, me standing behind her and her thick black curtain of hair. She won us both an extension, bought us both more time. She was always able to get whatever she wanted, and I’d get the surplus by default. Just by hanging around her. Just by waiting things out.

  “So, I’ve been wanting to ask you something,” she says.

  “Sure.”

  “It might sound weird.”

  “Go on. Ask me anything.”

  “What do you hate me for?”

  “What?” I say, startled. “I don’t hate you for anything.”

  “I told you. I got it out of my system. So come on, I need to know. If you hate me for anything. If there’s anything you’ve never told me.”

  “There’s nothing.”

  “There must be something. Twenty years? Be honest.”

  “Okay,” I say. “I hate you for all of this shit.”

  She smiles. “That’s too easy. We all hate me for that.”

  Just then her husband comes in, bearing a tray of yogurt and sliced fruit, a glass of juice. A tight bud of a rose in a tiny crystal vase. He is hesitant, I can see him ostensibly focus on not spilling anything.

  “Sweetheart, can you eat a little?”

  “Sure, I’m hungry.” She nods in my direction. “Hey, she says I look like I did when we were sixteen.”

  He smiles at her, but not at me. “I bet that’s true,” he says to her.

  “It is. It’s the truth,” I tell him. “I’ll show you a picture sometime.” I fluff my hand through the top of my hair, where it feels flat.

  “Oh, I believe you.” He carefully rests the tray of food on the bed next to her, fussing so that he doesn’t have to meet my eyes. I understand he needs to be careful, but I still think about some way to get him to look at me, face me. I just have to wait, the moment’ll come. He’s being cautious, but he won’t be able to help himself. It’s been so long. We’ve been so patient. So good. But there’s a sudden loud blast of cartoon music from the other room, and little-boy voices getting combative.

  “Hey, you guys,” he yells, “keep it down.”

  “No, let them,” she says. “Just let them.”

  “You should take a nap soon.”

  “I will, later.” She spoons yogurt into her mouth. “We’re talking about stuff.”

  “I’ll clean up before I leave,” I tell him.

  “No, that’s okay, thanks, I’ll get it,” he tells my general direction over his shoulder. “And you need some rest,” he says to her. He leans over, brushes the fake bangs back, kisses her on the forehead just below the start of fake scalp. Right in front of me. As if I’m not even there. He isn’t avoiding me, I realize. I’m just not quite anything. I don’t quite count.

  “Yeah, I’m taking off soon,” I say to his retreating back. “Don’t worry.”

  “Here.” She offers me a spoonful of yogurt with a wavering hand. “I really can’t eat this. He’s trying so hard, I don’t want him to know.”

  I take the spoon, hesitant to put my mouth where hers has been. “What is this, vanilla?” I say. “Ugh. Just eat what you can, I’ll flush the rest.”

  “He’s a prince,” she says. “He really is.”

  “Yes,” I say.

  “So we made love last night,” she tells me.

  “Oh?” I say.

  “I thought at first it was just guilt, or pity, you know?”

  “Yeah, maybe.”

  “But I really think it just hit him that there needed to be a last time. Where you know it’s the last time. So you’ll always have that.”

  “You think that was the last time?”

  “Yeah.” She takes a bite of a slice of nectarine; her fingers are shaky and she puts the rest down. “It wasn’t good the way it used to be good,” she says. “I mean, it used to be great, you know?”

  “Yes,” I say. “I’ve heard.”

  “But it was good for all the other reasons it stays good. I mean, it was awkward and uncomfortable, you know, it’s been a long time, but then it had all the things you always hope will be there between you. Like it’s just the two of you in this moment, this space, but in a way that will last. Something you’ll always have. I hope he’ll always have. I hope he’ll remember that part of it forever and forget everything else. I think he’s hoping for that, too. I think that’s why he did it.” She laughs, sheepish. “Or maybe it was just a pity fuck.”

  “Yeah, maybe,” I say. I don’t know how he could stand the smell of her, the chemical sweet trying so hard to cover up the waste and rot.

  “Or maybe it was just the wig.” She strokes her beautiful long black hair. “You think?” she asks.

  I see his mouth still pressed to her waxy, wasted face. I try for patience, for pity. For sparing her.

  Do it, I think. It’s what she wants. What she deserves.

  “You really want me to be honest?” I say. “Really honest?”

  “Yeah, of course. Thank you. What?”

  I have her full attention.

  “We slept together. A couple of times.”

  She looks at me, her face blank.

  “Months ago. Before all this.”

  There’s a raw twist and crumple to her features, and I feel a joyful rush, a jolt, the lunge for the ball you just know you’re going to smash back hard and win the game with, the thing that’ll let you win the prize, be victorious and serene.

  “You were off at your mom’s
with the boys, and he thought we’d just watch a movie, get pizza. Like the three of us used to do.”

  “I know,” she says.

  “except you weren’t there, you were gone—”

  “I know, stop,”

  “and he invited me over, and—”

  “I know,” she repeats. “Just stop it. Stop.”

  I stop.

  “I don’t want details,” she says. “That’s between the two of you.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “He told me.”

  “He told you.”

  “Last night.” There’s the crumple of her again, beneath the glossy bangs, then she takes a breath and her face settles back to smooth. “I knew something’s been wrong. I knew there was something. What you said before, about him going through stuff, too, remember? So I told him whatever it was, he better be looking at the clock, you know?”

  “And he told you.”

  “It wasn’t easy. It wasn’t pretty. I wasn’t pretty. Believe me, you would not have wanted to be here for what was going on last night.”

  “No.”

  “But finally, finally, I was all right. It was horrible, but afterward, it was all right. It was good. The two of us. I think it’s even why it was good.” She actually laughs. “Well, that and the wig.”

  “What about me?”

  “Oh, honey.” She takes my hand. “I was hoping you’d say something. That you’d be honest with me. I’m glad you told me. I’ve always been able to trust you that way, how you don’t leave things unsaid. That’s what I need now. You get to this place where, if it isn’t real, forget it.” Her face is fully content and peaceful now. Her face is a plastic, placid mask. “And hey,” she says. “Don’t think this is weird, but I even had the thought that maybe you two would get together. Afterward.”

  “What?” I say. “Excuse me?”

  “I know, weird, fucked up. But in a way, it makes sense.”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “He’ll need taking care of. And the boys. And it would be all right with me. If that happened. Because it doesn’t change anything. I want you to know that.”

  Like some queen granting favors, tossing coins to her servant girl, bread to the peasants, giving her lesser jewels away to charity.