Silver Girl

by Leslie Pietrzyk

  After the questions would come another, longer, deeper pause I didn’t dare interrupt. He would sigh. I imagined him closing a door where he was, or swiveling his chair to face a wall, to tuck his voice deep into a corner. I imagined a priest in a confessional booth feeling as I did, uneasy about what might spill out of this disembodied voice. That’s when he would talk about Penny’s mom, whose name was Carla, but who was stuck in my head as “Penny’s mom.” How they met in a bar he went to sometimes in his old neighborhood, where a few people still remembered his Polish grandmother. How Carla drank coffee black and teased him for dumping in a heaping spoon of sugar. She was the nicest woman he ever met; she was an “angel” and a “real sweetheart.” The stories should have been better, more interesting and less paint by number (she liked red roses and “pretty moonlight”), but I listened anyway, his voice crackling over the phone, sliding into a hoarse whisper. I was the only one who knew these things about him, about her, about them. It felt powerful to know. Frightening. Important. I felt chosen.

  The stories ended when he said, “I’m sorry, goddamn sorry, because I didn’t want any of it happening this way,” and I would say, “I know. It’s okay.”

  So Wednesday, when I was on a pay phone at the library, instead of hanging up after I promised it was okay, he blurted out, “They released the body,” and even though we’d been talking for fifteen minutes and, before that, however many days about Penny’s mom, I never thought of her as having a body, ever, but of course she did, and now something had to be done with it.

  I jabbed my finger in the coin return, though I’d done that first thing before lifting the receiver. Rarely was money left behind, but just enough times there was, making me imagine living out my whole life checking, just in case.

  “Should I bury her?” he was saying. “Or cremate her?”

  Another pause.

  “What should I do?” he asked.

  I understood that wasn’t a question he asked, often or ever.

  “What should you do?” I repeated. “What do you think she would want?”

  “To be alive,” he said. “Goddamn it.”

  A guy wearing a Ghost in the Machine tour T-shirt sidled up to the phone next to mine. His coins jangled down the slot and he punched in a number that he read off folded-up notebook paper. He whistled aimlessly as he waited for someone on the other end to pick up. They didn’t, and he hung up, raked a finger through the coin return for his money, and walked away, still whistling. He could have been the killer. It was that unknowable.

  I said, “What does Penny want?”

  “Ask her,” he said.

  We both knew I wasn’t going to do that, because immediately he said, “Christ. I can’t believe this. Why me? Of all the—”

  “Bury her,” I interrupted. “You can change your mind from that later. But not if she’s cremated.” Also, which I didn’t say, explain that to Penny, tossing her mother’s dead body into a raging fire.

  “There’s actual good sense there.” He sounded startled. Maybe he’d forgotten I was on the line. Or hadn’t expected me ever to say anything useful. I heard a rough knock on the door, and the phone clicked quietly without him saying good-bye or thank you. Jess had told me plenty of times that he hated saying good-bye, that he wouldn’t if he didn’t have to. He usually just hung up on her, and she said, “It’s just how he is, which sucks.”

  So there was going to be a very small, very private funeral on Saturday morning. I agreed to go because I didn’t have an excuse not to, since it was Saturday so no classes and no job. Plus—and the for-real reason—Jess’s dad promised me fifty bucks to help with Penny, “babysitting,” he called it. I certainly babysat back in Iowa, but that was for like a dollar an hour. “I would go anyway,” I told him, which maybe was true, and he said, “She trusts you, she likes you,” which also only maybe was true. Penny insisted on no one from school there, no one from her neighborhood. They hadn’t heard from the aunt, even after telegrams and phone calls to the embassy of wherever in Africa she was. “They hated each other,” Penny told me. “I met her like one time in my life, at my grandfather’s funeral. She hugged me, then said it was really a shame my mother was going to burn in hell, because I seemed like a sweet girl.”

  “There is no hell,” I said.

  Penny shrugged. “You don’t know that. No one does.”

  I was helping her get ready for the funeral, but I didn’t know what that meant. Pick out something to wear, sure, and grab some Kleenex, but it seemed like there should be more, that this would end up being one of those memories weaseled deep into the darkest regions of her brain, planted there for the rest of her life, so everything had to be right. I didn’t want her obsessing until she was ninety, thinking, If only I... or Why didn’t I...? about her mother’s funeral, yammering to a parade of shrinks. She announced she hated all her clothes, including everything new Jess’s dad had bought her, the bags and bags of things, most still with price tags. All she liked was a pair of Doc Martens, which turned her feet Frankenstein-huge and which didn’t seem right to wear to a funeral or to anywhere. I was used to the preppy look, which I considered worthy of aspiring to, but she said oxford shirts and pullover sweaters were stupid, and plaid was her least favorite color. I was trying to get her to think about what Opie wore to his mother’s funeral, making her see that Andy Taylor never would let his son traipse through a funeral in clunky black boots, and I was making some headway as we laughed, imagining Helen Crump in Doc Martens and a nose ring. We were in the living room, and clothes and shopping bags blanketed every piece of furniture, as if a suitcase had exploded.

  “I like what you’re wearing.” Her voice lilted into a suggestion.

  A slim black skirt slit up the back; a silky (but not real silk) black blouse with white pinstripes and a white Peter Pan collar; a wide black leatherish belt with an oversized crescent-moon-shaped silver buckle; black hose and pumps that were—like usual—too high to be comfortable. The pumps were Jess castoffs I dredged out of her trash last year—in front of her, so nothing secret, but I felt weird anyway, and if they didn’t make my legs look a thousand luscious miles long, I wouldn’t have kept them. Jess said they looked better on me than they ever did on her, though the soles were barely worn. Maybe it wasn’t the exact outfit for a funeral, but it was black. Why would I own funeral clothes? I’ve never been to a funeral, was what I was thinking, that and how now I’d associate funerals with Doc Martens. I never bought a pair, even when they went mainstream, because of Penny, because it was so sad to imagine growing up and realizing your awful mistake of wearing clunky, rebellious boots to your mother’s funeral, after she died because you had the very bad luck of happening to hand her a poisoned Tylenol capsule.

  “Fine,” I said, and I unbuckled the belt, dangling it off one hand like a snake. “Then you wear it.”

  “For real?”

  “If you want.” I gently kicked off the amazing shoes, one after the other, skittering them to Penny. She bent to tilt the shoes right side up and slid her bare foot into one, rearing up onto the heel. She balanced for a moment before sliding into the other shoe, abruptly taller than me, as if she’d done a year’s worth of growing in two seconds. “Can you even walk in those?” I asked.

  She rolled her eyes and nodded, then reached for the belt, which she looped around her waist. Fingering the indentation from where the buckle bit into the (fake) leather, she said, “You’re so skinny,” which seemed like a point scored for me.

  I unbuttoned my blouse, something I had done countless times, but it felt awkward doing so in front of this girl, and I wanted to turn away. Since that would draw more attention, I forced myself to keep going, button by button, as she watched. I had on a bra, so she wouldn’t see me bare-naked, and what would it matter if she did? I was being silly, and finally I fumbled through the last button and slid myself free of the blouse. A sudden chill prickled, lifting the hairs on my arms, and I pretended it didn’t, as I stood there in my sk
irt and black hose and bra and handed the blouse to her. I really didn’t have another outfit as funeral-esque as this one; I’d have to wear the navy Shetland sweater that was too tight around my armpits and sprinkled with wool pills I hadn’t picked off. A dark gray skirt from a garage sale in Iowa that was a little too long, a little too big, with the zipper constantly twisting from my back to my side.

  Penny said, “You look like those awful models in the Sears catalog, faking like it’s natural standing around in bras and skirts.” She exaggerated a pose, thrusting her chest forward like a Barbie doll.

  I ignored her and unzipped my skirt, the ratchet louder than it should have been. The zipper stuck, which is probably why the skirt ended up at the Goodwill, because someone got tired of tinkering with it, impatient that it always needed the magic touch. I was pretty good with it. I had a feeling that Penny wouldn’t be, that with her the zipper would finally give. I shimmied the skirt down my hips and high-kicked it her way. She snagged it one-handed.

  Penny laughed. “Straight to the hosiery pages. Don’t you feel sorry for those ladies in those pictures? They’ve got to know how stupid they look. They better get tons of money from Sears for looking so dorky.”

  “They do,” I said, though I had no idea.

  “Like how much?” she asked.

  “Put on the outfit,” I said. “Your dad will be here any minute.” Even he wouldn’t be late for a funeral. Of course the doorbell ding-donged right then, and Penny, still in the shoes, awkwardly thumped off to my bedroom and slammed the door, leaving me standing there half naked, looking and feeling as dorky as she had suggested. “Just a sec,” I shouted, hoping he would hear, “hang on,” and I was scrambling through the closest pile of clothes for a big sweatshirt or anything to cover up with, while also shoving the blanket and pillow on the couch into a more attractive wad, and the door creaked open, and then hard, heavy, fast footsteps, and I shrieked, “No!” and yanked up the pillow in front of me as Tommy strode into the living room. Something tiny in me bristled, half angry that it was him, not Jess’s dad, catching me without clothes.

  “You said come in,” he said.

  “What are you doing here?” As I hugged the pillow to my chest, it burped out a tiny feather that drifted through a patch of sunlight and landed on the rug. I dipped down to pluck it up off the carpet, even though there was plenty of dust and crumbs down there to keep it company, and rolled the feather between my finger and thumb into a tiny ball of white crud that I shoved up under my thumbnail.

  “My dad is really on me about that ring,” he said. “I’ve got to talk to her.”

  “She’s not here,” I said.

  He looked around the room, eyebrows and forehead turning frowny, like he was thinking too hard. “Hey, is this a slumber party?”

  “You wish,” I said. “I’m not some dumb teenage girl having slumber parties. There’s just someone staying with us, so I’m on the couch. If you have to know. And like I said, Jess isn’t here and won’t be back for a while. So you should go.”

  He crossed his arms. He was wearing a perfectly faded jean jacket over a white T-shirt. He kept his hands tucked under the tops of his arms, which was just as well because his hands were totally sexy. I liked thinking about them clutching my head, buried in my hair, those times in the library bathroom, or how they snaked along my waist when he slid himself up against and into and along my body, pressing close and rubbing deep. I liked to imagine them stroking my hair, cupping my breast, trickling down my ribs, finding the curve of my ass. I liked to imagine them knuckle-tight around the steering wheel of his Porsche.

  “We can be friends,” he said.

  “We were never friends,” I said.

  “We’re something,” he said.

  “Not friends.”

  “I’m sorry I called you a slut that night,” he said. “You’re not.” He even sounded slightly sorry, or at least less smirky.

  That night was a thousand years ago. It was almost confusing to talk about it. So I said, “Look. You really have to leave. She’s not here, and I’m going to a funeral.”

  “Like that?”

  “Haha. I’m getting ready.”

  “Who’s here?” he asked.

  “No one you know,” I said.

  “Whose funeral?”

  “No one you know,” I repeated.

  He took a deliberate step closer to me, unfolded his arms off his chest, then used one hand to push back his tousled hair and tucked the other into a back jeans pocket. He slouched a bit, but the bad posture looked great on him. His modeling shot was not Sears catalog. It would be impossible to marry a guy this much better looking; every minute would feel this way. Only someone like Sydney Moore could withstand that pressure. I sucked in my stomach, not trusting the pillow to hide the fat.

  “What’re you thinking about?” he asked, moving one more step closer. I inhaled his piney cologne. He stood three feet away from me, the only thing between us this dumb pillow off my bed in Iowa; it was too flat, too feathery. Feathers leaked. I doubt it had ever been washed, ever. I should wash it, except it would probably disintegrate like wet tissue.

  “You really have to leave,” I whispered.

  “I will,” he whispered back. One step more, one more, and then he was this close, his hand right up in front of me, gently grasping the tip of a feather, tugging it loose and holding it to his puckered lips, blowing, sending it flying beyond my shoulder, his breath raking my bare skin.

  “I mean it,” I said, still whispering. My cheeks felt pink, flushed. My spine tingled.

  He dug his fingers into one corner of the pillow, pulled lightly, and I resisted, bracing my arms and squeezing, clutching deep into the fluffy mass. But it was only a pillow. I felt the elastic band of the pantyhose cut into my waist unattractively. If I only at least had the shoes on. Those shoes were magic. I felt short and fat, like a dwarf, a troll, a mushroom.

  “Why are we whispering?” he whispered.

  I shook my head.

  “She’s here, isn’t she?” he asked in his normal voice. “You little liar.” And with one hard slash, he wrestled the pillow out of my grasp, letting it drop to the floor. As he examined my awkward, half-naked body, my entire face burned, and I yanked my mind out of the moment and cocked my head and stared right back, unwavering, as if this moment was all about my eyes piercing his dark soul and finding it wanting, finding it amusing and small. I took a deep breath, feeling that superior look settle onto my face, that careful, untouchable composition the only weapon I had, the only weapon I ever had, that mask of utter boredom and vast superiority, and even though seeing it ratcheted my father’s fury ten or more notches, it was so worth it to dig at him, to know my lofty silence infuriated him. My escape, even if only in my head; my way to show he didn’t have all of me and never would, locking myself anywhere that wasn’t here, any point in time that wasn’t now, that was never now, never here, not this: all I had.

  But this was only Tommy in front of me, dumb Tommy (they were all dumb, I reminded myself), and I released all that breath and said, “Like I said, she’s really not here, and I’m really getting ready for a funeral.”

  His eyes skimmed my chest, and I had to be pleased I was wearing my good bra, and that it was black lace, and that it was tight and stretchy. Even with all the other things I was thinking, I still thought that. I inhaled deeply, knowing my breasts would rise, knowing the lace was skimpy. Was this what I wanted, really, him looking at me that way?

  “That ring is worth a fortune,” he said. “More than my fucking car.”

  More than my parents’ two cars put together, I thought, more than their house, more than... and I stopped. “Shouldn’t have given it to her,” I said. “Don’t give anyone anything you can’t afford to lose.” My preachy voice grated condescension.

  “I don’t give a shit if you like me or not,” he said. “A girl like you.”

  I shrugged, but my heart thudded loudly. I recognized that anger, I knew
where he’d go next, and yes, he leaned in to scoop up my face between both hands, those sexy hands, and bent my head backward, forcing a slippery, slobbery kiss onto me, into me, his tongue wet and heavy like a sandbag slung through my mouth, and I couldn’t break free if I wanted to, and I was supposed to want to. There was a stupid question in my head, and I was afraid I would ask it, so I bit down on his tongue—not hard, only just hard enough to notice—and he shoved me aside and howled, “Jesus H. Christ!” The big baby, I thought, he should feel it when I mean it. Could have been his cock.

  “For the nine hundredth time,” I said. “She isn’t here.” I thought about grabbing up the pillow again, but how weak would that be, like the question circling my brain, so I crossed my arms instead, like being at a frat party, watching guys be idiots. Sucked in my stomach. Tightened and adjusted my folded arms to jostle up my boobs and pop my cleavage.

  “Tell her she’s got to call me,” he said, then paused. Eye contact seemed a struggle, and his gaze seared, sliding down and over and along my body, its scorch almost something physical on me. I watched him survey me, watched his eyes finally return to my face, his jaw tightening. “I’m getting that ring back. And you...” Another pause, truly considering me. Almost flattering. But I barely remembered why I cared about him in the first place, until I remembered that I didn’t care. His final judgment: “You’re just fucking crazy.”

  But am I pretty? I thought. And I accidentally said it. Maybe if it had come out like a joke... But it didn’t: it came out needy. Like I needed to know. Like I cared. “But am I pretty?” The words dangled. The question out of my head and into real life.

  “Not really,” he said.

  I couldn’t stop: I gasped.

  If he had smiled, even a not-funny-joke smile or a malicious grin of revenge... but nothing. Only dismissal, his mind clicking somewhere else already. He turned to the door, one arm sweeping across the top of the bookcase, crashing through my alarm clock, a vanilla-scented candle, poetry books. The door slammed and the walls shook, and I crushed my eyes shut.