Zigzag

by Ellen Wittlinger

  “What are you making now?” Mom asked. She’d gotten back from work a short time before and was sitting with a cup of tea and a magazine at the kitchen table. I guess she’d noticed the remains of my day’s cooking stacked in the sink.

  “Sandwich,” I said.

  She picked up her tea and blew on it. “You might want to hold off on that. I’m making dinner in a little while. I got some beautiful steaks at the store this week.”

  On closer observation I could see she was looking awfully perky for someone who’d just put in a full day walking up and down the eighth floor. She’d changed into a pair of ironed khakis and a short-sleeved white shirt, and she had on my black sandals again instead of the tacky old slippers she usually wore after work.

  “You invited what’s-his-name for dinner, didn’t you?” All signs pointed to yes.

  She gave me a guilty smile. “Do you mind? I thought you might not like me going out every night the way I have been lately. I know it’s hard on you with Chris gone . . .”

  “And you think it’ll be easier for me to watch my mother with her date?”

  Her face stiffened. “I’m sorry if you don’t like the fact that I’m seeing someone. I haven’t been out with a man in sixteen years, you know. I think I’ve waited long enough.”

  My crappy mood bubbled to the surface. “I didn’t tell you to wait! Go out, already! You don’t need my permission.”

  “No, I certainly don’t.”

  “You spend every day with him! I would think you’d get sick of him.”

  “Why? Do you get sick of Chris?”

  “That’s different. We’re in love.” As soon as I said it, I thought, Oh, no! Now she’s going to tell me she’s in love with this Michael person and he’s going to be my new daddy and I’ll have to go throw up.

  But fortunately her face softened and she smiled. “Well, I’m not in love with Michael Evans. But I do like him a lot, and I was hoping you might like him, too, if you got to know him. He’s very funny and sweet.”

  I shrugged. What a louse I was, begrudging my mother a few dates. She wasn’t the one who sent Chris to Rome. Things were just changing too fast and I didn’t like it. I wanted everything to go back to the way it had been for the past two years, but wishing wasn’t going to make it so.

  “Fine, I’ll break bread with Michael Evans,” I said. “Or break steak.”

  “It won’t kill you,” Mom assured me.

  By the time Michael showed up and Mom put the steaks on the grill I was hungry again. Why does missing somebody make you feel so starved? While Michael was making moony eyes at my mother, I was making mashed potatoes. Shucking corn. Ripping up lettuce. Slicing an avocado. Mmm.

  While I assembled the salad I watched the two of them out the window. In some ways they seemed just like teenagers; there was a lot of embarrassed flirting and looking for excuses to touch each other. But in other ways you could tell they were older, that they’d done this before. For instance, they weren’t afraid to be quiet sometimes and just look at each other. As a matter of fact, it gave me goose bumps the way they looked at each other, like people who’d just run a marathon might look at the long white stretcher that comes to carry them off. Like they were relieved to see each other standing there.

  Michael carried the platter inside proudly, as though he’d brought down the cow himself, or maybe it was just the Hemingway image surfacing again. Mom took off her apron and we brought the rest of the bowls into the dining room table. I couldn’t remember the last time we’d eaten in there—the kitchen table was more convenient. For years the dining room had been the place to fold laundry.

  It was strange to have three people at the table, especially since one of them was an enormous man I barely knew. Other than Franny—who wasn’t really a guest—we hardly ever had anybody over to eat. Of course Chris had eaten here a few times, but I didn’t enjoy having him at our house that much. Not that he and Mom didn’t get along—they did—but there was such a difference between my house and his, (linoleum and rag rugs in mine, marble and Oriental carpets in his), between the foods we ate (meat and mashed potatoes here, curry and couscous there), and between his parents and mine (he had two, dressed by Ralph Lauren; I had one, dressed by Sears). It always made me feel slightly—I hate to admit it—slightly not good enough for him.

  Which I knew was ridiculous. Chris didn’t even care about money and possessions and things like that. And he certainly didn’t care about couscous or my mother’s bedroom slippers. I guess having him at our kitchen table just pointed out our differences more than I liked.

  “These mashed potatoes are great, Robin,” Michael said, smacking his lips a little too loudly.

  “That’s high praise,” Mom said, turning to me. “Michael is quite a cook.”

  I tried to look interested. “Thanks. You do a lot of cooking?”

  He nodded. “One of these days I plan to open a restaurant. Give up teaching and cook ribs and corn bread and hash brown potatoes. Real food.”

  “Well, if the meal you made for me last night is any indication, you’ll be wildly successful,” Mom said, blushing happily.

  “You think so? Wildly?” He arched his eyebrows and they both laughed.

  Gag me. I couldn’t stand watching any more of this elderly mating ritual, so I forked up my steak as fast as humanly possible and retreated to the kitchen, offering to do the dishes, no need to help me, please, stay right there, I want to do them.

  Yeah, it was sure nice to have Mom home, keeping me company and all. I scoured the pots in record time, then called in to them, “Hey, I think I’ll go up to bed early.”

  “Already?” Mom said. “I thought maybe we’d get out the Scrabble board.”

  Was she kidding?

  “Great idea! I love Scrabble!” Michael assured Mom. I suspected Michael Evans would have sworn a passion for any idea Mom came up with, from tipping cows to jumping off a bridge. He’d be there.

  “You two go ahead,” I said. “I told Franny I’d call her tonight.”

  I knew Mom was disappointed, but what did she expect? I had too much going on in my own mixed-up life to sit around making nice with her boyfriend. Franny, I knew, was out with Des Sanders again, so I crawled into bed without even taking off my clothes. It just didn’t seem worth the effort.

  Since Aunt Dory and the ghouls were due to arrive at the end of the week, I’d been put in charge of cleaning up the house as well as getting myself ready for the westward trek. Housecleaning was easy compared to figuring out what to take along to drive cross-country with a van full of rich snots. Dory had said to bring a sleeping bag “just in case we decide we want to camp out under the stars some night.” That sounded good; I’d camped at the lake plenty of times over the years with Mom or Franny. Of course, it’s no big deal to camp at Thunder Lake. I mean, you’re about eight miles from home and you know everybody else who’s down there. It’s just an excuse to make a campfire, tell ghost stories, eat marshmallows, and sleep outside.

  I didn’t know about Marshall, but Iris was the last person I could imagine wanting to sleep out under the stars. She’d probably bring her hair dryer and a nonallergenic pillow. I aired my bag anyway, just in case, then rolled it up and wrapped a bungee cord around it to. Mom said to use the duffle bag we take when we go to Chicago so I got it down from the attic and aired that, too. It was so old it smelled moldy, but there was no other choice. I sprayed it with a little of Mom’s Wind Song, which has a nice soapy smell, before I put anything inside.

  Two pairs of jeans, some shorts and T-shirts, a jacket, and sneakers. Wear my sandals. Bathroom stuff. A few books. What else? Dory had said that the van had a CD player if I had any favorite CDs I wanted to bring, but we only have a tape player in our house and car, so I don’t have any CDs.

  Franny and I went into Iowa City one morning so I could buy a new pair of sneakers and some sunglasses. I also wanted some time alone with Franny, away from Thunder Lake so we wouldn’t run into Des. I hadn’
t talked to her in days.

  “So, what’s the deal, anyway? Are you going with Des now?”

  Big sigh from Franny. “I don’t know what I’m doing. I swear, men are so much trouble. I don’t know how you stuck with Chris for so long.”

  “What do you mean?

  “They want so much attention all the time. It gets like work.”

  “You sound like your mother.”

  Franny turned to me, betrayed. She was trying on sunglasses and the price tag of the current pair dangled in front of her nose. “I do not!”

  “I’m not saying you’re actually like her. But that’s her attitude: Men aren’t worth the trouble.”

  Franny was quiet a minute and took off her sunglasses. “Jesus, she has ruined me.”

  “No! Franny, that’s not what I meant. I just think you should give Des a chance. You know, don’t start out looking for problems.”

  Franny nodded. “This is why you’ve had a boyfriend for two years. You just let things happen. I keep wanting to force it. Like we should either be desperately in love or break up already . . .”

  I reached for another pair of sunglasses—so far they all made me look like a raccoon. “Is he making a pest of himself or something?”

  She sighed. “It’s not that. I just can’t get used to having a guy around. It’s hard to be myself.”

  “You’ll get over that. You still like him?” I tried on another pair of glasses—small and silvery—very California, I thought. They might be the ones.

  “Of course I do. I’ve liked him for ages. You know that.”

  “I know, but sometimes when you actually hang out with the guy, he’s not as great as you thought he would be.”

  She smiled. “He’s very cool. Last night he bought two chocolate shakes and we went down to sit by the lake. So, he puts both straws in one of the cups and says, ‘Let’s share them, one at a time.’ So we did.”

  How come stories about somebody else’s love life always sound so ridiculous? “You’re blowing my mind, Franny.”

  “I know. I’m blowing mine, too.”

  “So, what do you think of these?” I asked, tilting my head back and adjusting the sunglasses.

  “Pretentious.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, they’re perfect.”

  Mom was waiting for me when I got back, in her uniform, ready to whisk Rupert away and head for work. She was holding an envelope in her hands and smiling. I knew right away.

  “Is it from Chris?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  I grabbed it from her and stood looking at the envelope—a thin blue airmail form with odd-colored stamps on it. From Italy. A place I couldn’t even imagine. And there on the back was his new address: 4749 Via della Vittorio. That’s where Chris lived now. Not on a street anymore—on a Via. What did it look like on the Via della Vittorio in Rome, Italy? For all I knew about Rome, he might as well be on Jupiter.

  “Aren’t you going to open it?” Mom asked.

  “I want to take it upstairs, okay? I’ll tell you about it later, when you get home.”

  “Okay. When you write him back, tell him hi from me.”

  I ran to my bedroom and propped my pillows against the headboard so I could be comfortable while I read. But my heart was pounding so hard I could feel it in my ears. What would this letter say? I’d never gotten anything more than a note from Chris before—see you after school—that kind of thing. Now he’d written me a whole letter, and I was almost afraid to read it.

  Finally I slit it open. His handwriting was cramped and slanted. I took a deep breath and read:

  Dear Robin,

  I don’t know how to start to tell you about Rome—it’s so amazing! I’ve only been here two days so I’m still totally lost and confused most of the time, but I don’t even care. The first day we got here, even though we hadn’t slept much on the plane, we dropped our stuff off at the dorms and started walking.

  The program we’re attending is located in Trastevere, an old section of Rome, which is across the Tiber River from the main downtown area. The Vatican is on our side of the river though, so we started our trek by walking there to see St. Peter’s Basilica. We didn’t go inside—the guide just wanted us to get a feel for where things are in the city so we can explore it later on our own.

  Anyway, we walked all around Rome that day—saw the Spanish Steps, the Pantheon, the Coliseum, and the Roman Forum. Can you imagine? All that in one day! We were so exhausted that night we slept about twelve hours, and today we spent most of our time talking about our classes and what we’re going to accomplish this summer. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so excited about anything!

  I have two roommates, Rob and Charlie. Rob is from Maryland and has a very high opinion of himself. He’s going to Princeton next year and seems to think I’m a hick from Cornpone, Iowa. But I get along with Charlie really well. He’s from Vermont and he’ll be going to Williams College in Massachusetts next year. Charlie also has a girlfriend who was furious when he left, so we have that in common! (Kidding) There are two Italian guys from Milan in the room across from us. They speak English fairly well so I’m hoping we’ll get to know them better, too.

  I don’t know how long it will take for this letter to reach you. I wish you had a computer so we could e-mail each other. Of course, you’ll be leaving on your trip soon, so we’d have to rely on good old pen and paper anyway. Will your mother send the letters on to you while you’re traveling? I hope your trip is as great as mine.

  Sitting down to write you a letter makes me realize just how far away you are. Even though I’m having a terrific time here so far, I do miss you, Robin. I miss you like crazy. I hope you’re not so mad at me anymore. I just couldn’t give up this chance! You know I love you. I really do.

  Ciao bella!

  Chris

  I read it over about a dozen times, looking for hidden meanings in every word, wishing it was longer, wishing I could hear his voice. He missed me like crazy, or so he said. But how much time could he be thinking about me if he was so busy traipsing all over Rome? Besides which, he sounded awfully darn happy for somebody missing his girlfriend.

  I’d heard of the Coliseum and St. Peter’s, but what were the Spanish Steps and the Roman Forum? History was never my best subject. Was I going to have to get a Roman guidebook to understand Chris’s letters? And those roommates sounded like a stuck-up pair, too, both of them going off to fancy private colleges next year.

  And what the heck did he mean, he’d never been so excited in his life? Never? Thank you very much, Mr. Roman Holiday. We may not have any forums or basilicas here in Cornpone, Iowa, but you used to find your hick girlfriend pretty exciting.

  What was I supposed to write back about? Shopping with Franny? Eating steak with Michael Evans? No, there was nothing I could say that would compete with the Spanish Steps, whatever they were. I’d just have to wait to write him back until my own trip started—maybe then my life wouldn’t sound so utterly boring.

  I threw the letter in my desk drawer, but then I took it out again and looked at my name on the envelope in Chris’s slanty handwriting. Could this be all I had left of him? I tucked the letter under my pillow and went downstairs to hunt for food.

  The bedraggled little group that climbed out of Aunt Dory’s minivan at two o’clock did not raise my hopes about the quality of the journey I was about to begin. Dory had a frozen grin on her face as Marshall tripped Iris and Iris immediately swung around and kicked him in the rear. If things were this bad after only a few hours, what were the chances of surviving the summer together?

  Mom had taken the day off from work and we’d fixed a big salad and some tuna fish sandwiches for lunch because Dory was “certain” they’d be here by noon. It was hard to figure out just why they were two hours late—each of them had a different story.

  “Mom got lost the minute we left Chicago,” Marshall said. “She got off the highway at the wrong place.”

  “That was
a minor problem,” Dory said, then gave her version of events. “If Iris had hung up the phone when I asked her to instead of calling all her friends one last time . . .”

  “Don’t blame me,” Iris chimed in. “Marshall’s the one who kept repacking his suitcase so he could bring everything he owns.” She ripped her streaked blond hair out of the clip that pinned it high on her head, twirled the hair around her fingers, and then stuck it back in the clip so it looked messier than before.

  “Me? You have a separate suitcase just for shoes!”

  We gave each other some halfway hugs, the kind where you’re not really too interested in touching the other person, but you’re related to them, so you have to pretend you’re glad to see them. “Well, you’re here now, so let’s have some lunch,” Mom said, leading them into the house. “You’ll feel better after that,”

  Dory scrunched up her face. “Oh, Karen, you’ll kill me. The kids were so crabby I stopped at a McDonald’s about an hour ago.”

  Typical Dory. Anything those kids want, all they have to do is whine.

  Mom gave them some iced tea and we took the salad and sandwiches into the dining room so whoever wanted something could have it. Iris picked a few lettuce leaves out of the bowl and half a cherry tomato. I snagged two sandwich halves and loaded my plate with salad. Iris watched in horror as I doused the salad with blue cheese dressing.

  “You don’t like blue cheese?” I asked.

  Dory answered before Iris could. “She’s gotten picky about what she eats. You know how girls are—so weight conscious.”

  I’d noticed Iris had lost weight since her father’s funeral. Thirteen years of baby fat had begun to remold itself into a teenage girl’s body, and a pretty good one, too. I remembered when my own stomach suddenly became concave and my breasts began to puff up, as if somebody had squeezed my tube in the middle and pushed everything up to the top. I took a quick minute to stare at Iris—she looked older to me, too, and I wondered if her father’s death had done that. She’d always had that tight-looking face, as if she was holding back a blast of nastiness for your own good. But now it looked like the misery had infected her whole body, which perched tensely on the edge of the dining room chair.