“Let’s wait five more minutes,” she said, craning her neck out the car window. Had Tobi forgotten that they were all supposed to meet their parents at the New India Restaurant for dinner? A double celebration: Karen’s father’s birthday and her parents’ anniversary.
“I say, let’s go,” Liz said. She hated being late for anything. She backed out of the driveway.
Since that afternoon last week in Scott’s apartment, she and Liz had not been alone together. And now here they were, in about as cramped quarters as you could get, stuck together in Liz’s little VW bug. Karen wriggled uncomfortably in the seat. One way or another, she realized, she had managed to avoid close contact with her sister for days. That was odd! She’d been acting guilty. But of what? And why? She hadn’t done anything—as long as you didn’t count thoughts.
They drove in silence. The restaurant was north of the city, all the way out on Route 11. “What a funny place for a restaurant,” Karen said finally. “Far far out in the boo-boo-booonies.”
Liz smiled faintly. Karen smoothed her skirt, checked her fingernails. Her hair was up again. Twisting the clip through it, she remembered Scott’s saying, You’re all dressed up! He was coming to dinner, too. Don’t think about him. An impossible command.
“It’s a new restaurant,” Liz said. “Somebody, one of Scott’s customers, mentioned it to him.”
Why had Liz said Scott in that odd tone of voice? Or had she sounded perfectly normal? Put those questions in the paranoia question box.
Sometimes Karen couldn’t tell what Liz was thinking. Correction. Most times. Liz was beautiful like cool dappled water and that was what you saw, not the bottom, not the sandy, gritty, stony, rough stuff. Which was probably why that sister-skunk look on her face had impressed itself so on Karen. Now Tobi—she showed everything on her face. You always knew if she was mad, sad, glad, whatever.
As for her, Karen, what was it Marisa had said to her once? “Karen, give yourself a rest. You think too much about every little thing. With you, everything is chewed up.”
“Like dog biscuit,” she’d agreed.
Why couldn’t she accept things? Let them happen, let them be whatever they were going to be. What was it that old Beatles song Tobi liked so much said? Let it be, let it be. For instance, in a little while she’d see Scott. That was nice. No reason to fall apart. She could handle it. A smile. A few words. Hello, Scott. Nice to see you. Six easy words. After that, relax, lean back, don’t say anything. Silence was admirable. Scott would notice how quiet and thoughtful she was, he’d look at her, that quiet, sympathetic look as if the two of them were completely in accord.…
She jerked upright. She was doing it again … fading out, falling into a satisfying fantasy about Scott, and with Liz right next to her. Had Liz just said something? She glanced at her sister. Some people were supposed to be super sensitive to thoughts. They could tune in. What if Liz were one of those? What if she was tuned in to everything Karen thought? Or, more to the point, tuned in to everything Karen thought about Scott?
What she had to do, Karen told herself, was concentrate on something else, put Scott right out of her mind. Watch the white line in the road. Notice the color of those reddish bushes in the ditch. How about that faded sign they’d just passed in front of a farmhouse? PIK UR OWN STRAWBERIES. In April? Those people would never win a spelling contest, either. See how easy it was. For at least five minutes she hadn’t given Scott one stray thought.
“Oh, good, here it is,” Liz said.
The New India Restaurant was a plain white building, set in the middle of a field like a barn. Beyond it, a line of yellow willow trees. A cow bellowed. Another car turned into the lot behind them. “There’s Mom.”
“I knew she’d be on time.” Liz locked the car. “Scott should show up any moment.”
“What about Jason? Is he coming?”
“I don’t think Mom invited him.”
“Oh! Tobi’s not going to like that.”
Their mother came up, combing her hair. Her blouse had pulled out of her skirt. “Hi! Am I late?”
“You can’t be late, you’re the guest of honor.” Liz tucked her blouse for her.
“Where’s Tobi?” Their mother peered into the VW. “She didn’t come with you? She didn’t come home from school?”
“Mom, let’s go in,” Liz said. “Maybe she’s here already.”
She wasn’t. The restaurant was cool, dim, and nearly empty. Pink tablecloths, the gleam of silver, bud vases, each one with a single pink carnation. A man with dark, smooth black hair bowed. “Follow me, please.” Refined English accent. They sat down and another man poured water.
“We’ll have a bottle of the house white wine,” her mother said. She glanced at her watch. “Grandma’s coming with Daddy. He could have picked Tobi up, too. What is she up to? In some ways, she’s so scatterbrained—”
“Tobi?” Karen said. “Mom, she’s not—”
“Well, not scatterbrained, but you know what I mean,” she said, turning up her hands in appeal to Liz. “Just sort of—hectic?”
Liz laughed. “Yeah, Tobi’s hectic, all right.”
Karen drew patterns in the tablecloth with a fork. Maybe Tobi was with Jason. In his studio? She imagined it big and bare, white walls and lots of windows on the north side. Artists liked northern light. She’d always wondered why. There’d be a skylight, too, and a bed right under it so he could look up at night and see the stars. Besides the bed, maybe just a few chairs. And his easel, of course. No, not an easel; he wasn’t a painter. What did sculptors work with? Clay? Patting little balls of clay the way they used to when they were kids? Karen had never been any good at that; the only thing she could make were snakes. Maybe he was working in marble. She could imagine him in his jeans and desert boots climbing up the side of a hunk of marble, chipping away at it with a hammer. And Tobi? Where was she in this picture? Sitting on a chair, gazing up at Jason admiringly? Uh-uh! That wasn’t Tobi’s style. Washing his dirty dishes at the sink? Scratch that one, too. Try again. This time, the picture that popped into Karen’s head was of Tobi and Jason together on the bed beneath the skylight.
“Hello,” her mother said. “You found it all right.”
Karen looked up. There was Scott, his hand on Liz’s shoulder, smiling around, at her mother, at her. She hadn’t even seen him approach. He wore a light blue shirt, blue and gray striped tie. Karen stared at him, stunned, half of her still in that big white loft with the skylight.
“Hello, Mrs. Freed. Happy anniversary,” Scott said. He sat down next to Liz.
A few minutes later her father and grandmother showed up. Her father a little rumpled, his shirt creased, his tie loosened, but her grandmother, as usual, elegant in a soft brimmed hat, a velvet dress with a jeweled flower spray brooch at her neck.
“Grandma, you look beautiful. You could be a model,” Liz said.
“Thank you, sweetheart.”
“You all look beautiful,” her father said.
“Daddy, how courtly.”
Her father looked around the table, humming and polishing the top of his head, that little bald patch—no wonder it was so shiny. “So we’re gathered here to celebrate our anniversary. Imagine that. Twenty-three years.”
“And your birthday, Arnold,” Grandma said. “A little late, I might add.” His birthday had passed the week before.
“Twenty-three years, that’s really something,” Scott said. “That’s really special.” Liz and he were holding hands.
“Well, if you two make it official, a real engagement, you could have a shot at something just as good. Not that I’m saying it’s easy to make a good marriage and keep it going.”
“Hear, hear,” her mother murmured.
“You need patience and you have to know how to compromise. Anything good isn’t come by easily,” he ended. A long speech for her father.
The talk went here and there, what her mother called chitchat. Karen was thinking her own thoughts, or maybe no
t thinking at all, just feeling things. She and Scott happened to be sitting directly across from each other. She only had to stretch her leg to touch his foot with hers. In a movie she’d seen, a man and a woman who were each married to someone else had carried on practically an entire love affair beneath a dinner table, and with a dozen other people present. They’d touched each other, given each other little nudges and pats; their hands had talked a special sign language. And all the time, above the table, they carried on normally, talking and laughing with the other people.
Suddenly Liz said, “Karen? Your face is all red.” Boom! It was as if a piece of the ceiling had dropped into the middle of the table. All talk stopped. Five pairs of eyes turned on her. Karen’s face is red! What can be the matter! “Maybe you’re getting sick?” Liz said, and she reached across the table to touch Karen’s forehead.
“Don’t!” Karen jerked away. She was horrified. Liz was treating her like a five-year-old. She pushed away from the table.
“Karen?” her mother said after her. “Are you all right?”
Yes! No! Leave me alone! In her haste, she bumped into a table. Were they all still watching? In the women’s room she locked the door, shoved her wrists under the cold water, splashed her cheeks and her lips. What’s the matter, Karen? Your face is all red. Tears of rage gathered behind her eyes. She slapped her hands against the side of the basin, slapped them again and again, stinging them, bruising them.
When she came back, the waiter was at the table with the bottle of wine wrapped in a napkin. Her mother glanced at her, but to her relief no one said anything. The waiter poured wine into a glass and handed it to her father. He raised his eyebrows at her mother and said, “You want to do it, Syl?” Karen’s mother laughed; she sipped the wine and nodded. “Very nice.” The waiter, smiling, filled the rest of the glasses.
“Here’s to twenty-three more years,” her father said, holding up his glass.
“No, Arnie, let’s not toast until everyone’s here. Tobi—”
“We’ll make more and better toasts when Tobi comes. Right now I’m toasting us. Twenty-three terrific years.”
“They haven’t been bad,” her mother said.
“That’s the best you can do?”
“They’ve been pretty good.” She kissed him.
Eighteen
When Tobi finally showed up, she was in jeans and running sneakers, a scarf tied around her forehead. Not dressed for a party at all. “We waited for you—” Karen began, and her mother pushed out a chair, but Tobi held up her hand.
“I’m not staying. I just came to say, Mom and Dad, congratulations on your anniversary, but if you can’t invite Jason, who is my friend, to this party, then I don’t want to be part of it, either.”
Karen’s face flushed as if she’d said those words, as if she were the one so upset and upsetting everyone else. Tobi was brave. Wonderful!
“Tobi—” Her mother half rose. “Please, we’re all here. We want you with us.”
“No!”
“Tobi, sit down,” her grandmother said, puffing up like a rooster. “What is this nonsense?”
“Mother,” her father said, “this is between—”
“At least Grandma’s not a hypocrite,” Tobi cut in. “You guys don’t even try to know Jason. You’re just prejudiced against him because of his age. That is so narrow-minded.”
Karen glanced at Scott. He had moved his chair slightly back, slightly away, as if to say, Don’t mind me, I know I’m not part of this.
“Jason is outside now?” her father said. “He’s here?”
“Yes. He drove me. I wasn’t even going to show up! But he said I shouldn’t do that to you. That’s the kind of man he is. He wasn’t invited, but he’s not small-minded.”
There was a short silence. “Well … since he is here,” her mother said, “why don’t we ask him to join us?”
Tobi quivered like a wound-up spring. “Oh, no! Oh, no! Last minute invitation? I’m not doing that to Jason.” Her eyes filled. “Oh, damn—” And she was gone.
Karen went after her, running between the tables and catching up to Tobi in the entrance. She was on her way out. “Tobi!”
She paused, half in, half out. “What do you want, Karen? Did they send you after me?”
“No, Tobi! Don’t you think I can make up my own mind? I think you’re right, Jason should have been invited.”
Tobi’s eyes were bright with tears. “Thanks, Karen, at least somebody in this family—”
“Tobes—”
Tobi waited.
“I just—” She shook her head. “I mean, I—” She knew what she wanted to say. I admire you, I think it’s wonderful the way you do things. You make up your mind what’s right and stick to it. But it was easier to think than say. And just then, anyway, Liz came rushing up.
“Tobi.” She put her arm around her sister, closed the door, took over the situation. “Come on, kiddo, get Jason and come back to the table. Do you want me to get Jason? Listen—it’s their anniversary.”
“Liz, no.”
“Mom’s really upset, Tobi, she feels terrible about this whole thing.”
Tobi grimaced. “You always take Mom’s part.”
“Come on,” Liz coaxed, “don’t be stiff-necked. What’s it going to get you?”
“She’s not stiff-necked,” Karen broke in. “Tobi’s got principles.”
Tobi opened the big wooden door. The air smelled faintly of spices. The three of them stood together in the doorway. “No, it would be so insulting to ask Jason now.”
“She’s not coming back?” Karen’s mother said when she and Liz returned to the table. Karen thought she looked ready to cry.
“You spoil your girls,” Grandma said. “I told you that a long time ago, Sylvia.”
“Why don’t we order?” Liz opened the oversized red menu. “Who knows Indian food? Mom, you’re the resource person here, what are chapatties? They sound like cowboy boots.”
“It’s a kind of Indian bread,” Karen’s father said. They buzzed back and forth about what to order. Her father began a story about one of his patients whose fillings were receiving UFO reports. Her mother laughed, but still looked downhearted.
Karen’s shoes were pinching her and she slipped them off. Why did they have to pretend? What was so great about carrying on as if nothing were wrong? Something was wrong! This was a family gathering and Tobi wasn’t with them. Karen looked at Scott. He wasn’t taken in by all the false jolliness! He sat there soberly, studying the menu, quiet, not saying anything.
The dinner seemed to go on interminably. Tobi was right about one thing—Grandma was no hypocrite. She had two more remarks to deliver herself of, and she did. “Everything is too spicy,” she announced in the middle of everyone else’s praising the delicious food. “I’ve eaten in Indian restaurants far superior to this one.” And after that, “I still don’t understand Tobi’s disgraceful performance.”
Her father drove her grandmother home; Karen went with her mother. She got in the car, buckled her seat belt. Scott and Liz were standing by the VW, their hands on each other’s shoulders. Karen closed her eyes. The whole evening had been awful, her family was awful, she hated them all, she didn’t leave out a one of them. Liz’s reaching across the table to touch her forehead … Grandma’s brusque pronouncements … the mess with Tobi. Awful. Awful. Her mother started the car; it jerked forward. As they turned out of the parking lot, Karen looked back. What had she expected to see? Scott walking away from Liz? Liz yelling at Scott? Something unreal like that. What she saw was Scott and Liz kissing, their arms around each other so tightly they looked like one person.
Nineteen
Two things happened right after that, just days later. They didn’t have anything to do with each other, except that they happened on the same day. They were both sort of shameful and awful, only the first thing was worse for Karen and the second for Tobi.
Tuesday morning Karen was rummaging in Liz’s bureau for a p
air of underpants. She’d waited for Liz to go into the shower. She might be wary of being around Liz, but she still liked wearing her underpants, which were a small miracle, always looking good, silky sweet colors of pink and soft green, no rips, no mends, no tears. Whereas, by some evil chance, Karen’s underpants seemed to metamorphose into a totally ratty state only days after she brought them home from the store.
She took a pair of green underpants. Then she noticed a T-shirt folded in the corner. Why did she pick it up? Why that one? Why not another one? Did she know what she’d see? She shook it out. Blue, with the Hammar and Sawyer logo printed across the front. She couldn’t remember ever seeing it before.
She took it. She took the T-shirt. She walked out of the room with it tucked under her arm. She went down the hall, past the bathroom, the sound of the shower, past her parents’ room, into her room and closed the door. She sniffed the T-shirt like a cat. Had Scott worn it, then given it to Liz? It smelled only of fresh laundering, soapy and that warm smell of the dryer. She crumpled the T-shirt into the back of her closet, her heart beating like a thief’s. She was a thief. She had stolen Liz’s T-shirt. Or had she borrowed it, like the underpants? No, she had stolen it.
Later, when she and Tobi left the house, Tobi asked Karen if she wanted to come to a showing of Jason’s sculptures at the college after school today. “It’s an opening, a big event. Are you interested?”
“Is Liz coming?” Her voice was too bright, false, a thief’s voice.
“No, she’s working. And I’m not asking Mom, you can count on that.”
They stood at the bus stop together. “Yes, I’d like to.”
“Good.” Tobi squeezed her arm.
Karen met her sister at the college library and they walked over to the Emma Farrington Gallery together. Today it was given over to Jason’s sculptures in metal, wood, plastic, and even paper. A small crowd of people moved through the gallery. There was a table with a punch bowl, plates of cookies.
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