by Julie Smith
“Cool,” said Sheila, noting the decorative touches. “You know Layne—Uncle Jimmy’s boyfriend?”
“I don’t think they say boyfriend. I think they say ‘lover.’ ”
“Ewwwww. Gross.”
“I don’t think it’s so bad.”
“It just … I don’t know … it just makes you think about… what they do. I mean, what they actually do.”
“You don’t have to think about it. Anyway, it’s kind of fun to imagine.”
“Torian!”
“Well, he’s not my uncle. I guess that makes a difference. What about Layne, anyway? I think he’s cute.”
“Not Layne. He’s cool. Uncle Jimmy’s the dork. See, Layne’s allergic to Angel, and Uncle Jimmy says he should get a healing from these witches Skip knows.”
“Weird.”
“It’s not me, right? I mean, are these people weird, or what?”
“At least he doesn’t stay out all night with his boyfriend.” She couldn’t keep the wistfulness out of her voice.
“Well, I think he’d like to have Layne stay over sometimes. Which would be fine. Layne’s really cool—he knows lots of games nobody else ever heard of. But he can’t, because of Angel. But witches! I mean, really.”
Torian shrugged. “I don’t know. If it’s not expensive …”
“He actually believes that stuff!”
“Oh, he probably just thinks it’s worth a try.”
“Torian, you have no idea how weird my uncle is.”
Torian shook her head. “You want a cigarette?” She walked over to her bureau and brought out a pack of Virginia Slims.
Sheila shook her head. “Not today.” She had coughed for ten minutes last time she’d tried.
Torian lit one and inhaled. “How’s Danny?”
“Oh, Danny! What a child. Danny has all the sophistication of those asshole tourists who pee on the buildings at Mardi Gras.”
Torian giggled. She was nervous because of what she’d decided to do. “Last week he was your main man.”
“He’s just such a…baby.” She walked over to the window and looked out, moody, and then turned back to Torian. “What about you? Do you like anybody yet? You’ve got to forget about Billy and get out there.”
Torian had known Sheila would ask her. She’d been nagging about this for weeks now, and Torian couldn’t stand it anymore. She had to tell her, even though Noel had asked her not to tell anyone. You had to tell your best friend—that didn’t count as anyone.
She smiled. “I do like someone.”
“Really! Who? Tom from English class? He likes you, I’m pretty sure.”
“No. No, it’s no one like that.” Now she turned toward the window, gathering courage. On the slate roof next door, just on the peak, were two doves. She took it as a sign. “I’m really in love, Sheila. This is it. This isn’t a teenage crush.”
“‘Torian.” Sheila’s voice was awestruck. Torian turned back and saw that her face was serious; she wondered if it reflected her own.
Sheila said, “Your face! It’s different. Torian, have you done it? We said we’d tell each other …”
“No, no, no. Nothing like that. Do I really look different?” She walked over to the mirror, one she’d salvaged and painted the frame. She looked at her features, slightly indistinct in the dusk, but even she thought there was something romantic about herself.
She turned to Sheila. This was the part that might hurt her feelings, and she wanted to see her friend’s face while she talked. “I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you … he made me promise.”
“Oh, no. Not one of my exes.”
“Of course not! What kind of friend do you think I lam?”
“Well, who is it? I’m going to explode if you don’t tell me.”
“It’s Noel.”
“Noel? Who’s Noel?”
“Noel Treadaway.”
“Mr. Treadaway?”
“I swear to God.”
“The guy you babysit for?”
“Do you think I’m horrible?”
Sheila’s face was contorted, like two sides of her were working against each other. “Could I have a cigarette?”
“I mean it. Do you think I’m horrible?”
Sheila lit her Virginia Slim slowly, apparently considering. She shook her head finally. “I just think it’s a little weird.”
Torian shrieked, “Sheeeela!” She was aware of the panic in her voice.
“I’m trying to think this through, that’s all. I think you’ve got to fill me in.” She puffed nervously, not inhaling, Torian could tell. “Okay, let me see if I can get it. You’re in love with Mr. Treadaway, and he knows it, right?”
“Noel. Yes, he knows it. He started it. He’s in love with me.”
“But he’s married.”
“He’s got a kid, too. I think that’s the hardest part for him.”
Sheila was leaning her head on a hand. “Wait a minute. Why would a married man with a kid … ?”
She obviously couldn’t bring herself to say it. “What? Fall for the babysitter? He didn’t plan it, Sheila. It just happened.”
“You mean, he … like, saw you and got to know you, and then one day just declared himself?”
“Something like that.”
Sheila threw herself backwards on the bed, landing with a plop. “God, that’s romantic.”
“Isn’t it? Isn’t it? I think it’s the most romantic thing in the world.”
“What do you do with him?”
“Oh, we have dates after school. He reads to me. Poetry.” She hoped she didn’t look unattractively smug.
“Oh, my God.”
“And we kiss. And talk about things. We just talk and talk and talk. I never thought anybody could understand me like …” She saw Sheila’s hurt look and stopped. “I mean a man. And without having to be told. He just knows things about me. Like he’ll say, ‘I’ll bet you’re the kind of person who likes poetry.’ Or ‘You’re going to love this movie. Know what? This movie is meant for you.’ And he’ll be right. He knows me, Sheila. It’s like he sees down to my soul. And he feels that way too. It’s like he’s always saying that. That he really sees me; like no one else does. We’re … you know…God, we’re lucky.”
Sheila was quiet, apparently still trying to take it all in.
“You could go all your life without meeting your soul mate, and here I am fifteen and I’ve met mine.”
“You sure he’s your soul mate? I mean, he’s pretty old.”
“Age doesn’t matter when you’re really in love.”
“Oh, come on, you don’t know everything.”
“But I know so much more than I used to. I feel like I’ve learned half the stuff I know in the last month.”
“Like what?”
“Oh, like all the good poets of the twentieth century. And … other stuff.”
“But what other stuff? I mean, if you’re not even doin’ it, then what?”
“What it means …” Torian faltered, tears coming, her voice thick. “What it means to be loved.” She almost screamed it. Sheila was sitting up now. She shrank back against the headboard, cheeks seeming almost to sink, as if withdrawing into an imaginary shell.
“Sheila, you just don’t know! You just don’t understand. My mother doesn’t give a shit about me, do you understand that?”
Her cheeks were flaming. She dumped her ashes, and when she raised her eyes, they were afire as well. “My father deserted us. Did you forget that?”
Sheila was almost pale.
“Oh, I’m sorry. God, I’m sorry. It’s just that you can’t know what it’s like living with Lise. She’s such a bitch. All she cares about is her goddamn boyfriend, who probably couldn’t give a shit about her and certainly doesn’t about me.
“My dad … well, I know my dad loves me, but he’s got all these responsibilities—huge responsibilities—that he wouldn’t have if Lise hadn’t left him. I mean, he has to support us, and his new wife and kid�
��I don’t blame him for getting married again, do you? I mean, who wouldn’t? She dumped him—just threw him out like I didn’t matter and he didn’t matter and … I don’t know … nothing mattered. You just don’t even know what a bitch she is.
“And Noel cares about me. It’s so sweet.” She felt herself calming down, the tears subsiding as she thought of him. “I’m dying to make love to him. Dying to! Wouldn’t you be? But he’s the one who won’t do it. He’s trying to protect me, do you see that? He doesn’t want me to do anything before I’m really sure. He won’t drink with me either, or even buy booze for me, and when he found out I smoke, he threw away my cigarettes.”
“Gosh, with him you don’t need a mom.”
“You don’t have to be so sarcastic.”
“‘Torian, it’s illegal for him to make love to you. He could get in big trouble for that.”
“Well, he wouldn’t want to anyhow. That’s the kind of person he is.”
Sheila grabbed another cigarette, but she was smiling. She’d gotten a grip on herself, though Torian had no idea what her true opinions were. All she saw, all that mattered, was that Sheila was still her friend.
“So,” said Sheila, “are you going to marry him?”
“Uh-huh.” Torian nodded, sure her love was making her radiant. Her pale skin probably looked gold in the candlelight. “Sure. Of course we’re getting married.”
“Torian! He’s got a wife and kid.”
“Well, he won’t always.” She must look like a cat licking cream from its whiskers. But she didn’t even care if Sheila thought her smug. This certain knowledge, this perfect trust made her feel happier, more secure and satisfied than anything ever had.
Sheila looked skeptical. Torian could feel her slipping away. “Hey, will they let you sleep over?”
“Uncle Jimmy, you mean? I guess so. Sure.”
“Well, let’s call him. We can drink my mom’s booze. Madame Lise has a date—she probably won’t even come home tonight.”
* * *
Lise was giving the goddamn service test, the most demeaning of the host of humiliating tasks her job entailed.
“Did you find I got to you quickly and promptly? What?” She felt herself flushing. “Well, I know it’s redundant. I’m sorry. Did you feel the service was prompt?
“Oh? Why not? But you see, we couldn’t process the claim until… I’m sorry, I know I asked. Let’s start over. After the claim was processed, did you find … why is that irrelevant? Okay, why don’t we go on to the next question. Did you find me polite? No? But… oh, slight edge to my voice. Okay. What about efficiency? Did you think … ? Oh. You’d give me about a five and a half. Well, I want to thank you for your … uh … well, I …” She couldn’t bring herself to say she enjoyed working with the asshole. “Umm, thank you, I hope, uh…”
The asshole hung up. Shit.Why in the hell had she majored in history when she could have gone into computers or something useful? Sixteen years of marriage was her entire work experience. She wasn’t trained for a damned thing except loading dishwashers and making sandwiches.
She picked up the phone again. “Homelife Insurance.” She tried to give her voice a lilt. Feigning cheerfulness was harder and harder these days. “Oh. Wilson. It’s you.”
“Don’t sound so thrilled,” said her ex.
She said nothing, hoping her silence was eloquent.
“Look, you’re the one who called me. If you’re going to talk, talk.”
“You know what I called about. The same thing I call about every month.”
He didn’t answer.
“I need my support check, Wilson.”
“Look, I’ve had a lot of unexpected expenses. I just don’t know if I’m going to be able to…”
“You don’t know if you’re going to be able to! On your goddamn corporate lawyer’s salary. Do you know Torian had to go back to school with three T-shirts and one new pair of jeans? That was it, Wilson! That’s all she had.”
“So? What else does she need?”
“How can you be like that? Just tell me—how can one man be so goddamn selfish?”
“‘Torian could have gotten a summer job. You spoil the kid rotten, and she’s getting worse every day.”
“She looked for a summer job. Nobody would hire her.”
“You’re telling me she couldn’t have gotten a job at McDonald’s? Her grades, and McDonald’s wouldn’t hire her?”
“Wilson, I am not going to discuss this matter with you. I’m telling you now we’re eating beans.”
“Best diet there is. Beans and rice. What are you complaining about?”
She couldn’t keep the tears out of her voice. “I’m begging you. I’m begging you.”
He couldn’t keep the hostility out of his. “I’ll do the best I can, Lise.” He hung up.
Lise closed her eyes. She thought, Thank God I’m seeing Charles tonight.
Charles was a contractor, a little rough around the edges, a bit of the good ol’ boy about him, but he had a sweetness that Lise had seen right away and realized she craved after sixteen years with a well-educated asshole.
Charles had gone two years to LSU and flunked out. That was the extent of his formal education, but he did okay; he had a little shotgun in the Bywater, which was more than she could say for herself. True, it was a bit run-down and needed paint, and the backyard was full of old lumber and rusting tools, but Charles had never been married. He wasn’t domesticated, but he was such a sweetie-pie he’d probably catch on quick, Lise thought.
She thought that sometimes. Other times she thought, What kind of life can Charles give Torian and me? I ought to dump him and find someone with some money.
And then she would think: But they’re all such assholes.
Charles was about fifty pounds overweight and had sandy hair that showed streaks of head underneath when he combed it back. His neck and belly were too large, and he had more sagging flesh under his chin than Lise really cared for. But he was tall, and Lise loved to wrap her legs around his thick body. She even loved the soreness the next morning in her inner thighs, which she would feel all day and sometimes part of the next, a reminder of their passion. Passion with Wilson had died before Torian entered kindergarten.
She called Torian. “You doing okay?”
“That depends.”
“Don’t be surly, Torian. What have I done to piss you off? I haven’t said a word yet.”
Silence.
“Did you remember I’m going out with Charles tonight?”
“Yes.” The word was more or less spat at her.
“Well, darling, sweetheart, honeydew, what is there to eat at home?”
“What do you care? You’re going out.”
“I’m your mother, remember?”
“Oh, yeah. I remember.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Mom, could you cut to the chase?”
“I’m checking on your welfare. I’m calling to make sure you’re fine and you have enough to eat.”
“Thanks a lot.”
Lise made her tone severe. “If you don’t like anything in the house, you can order from the Verti Marte.”
“I hate the Verti Marte.”
“Royal Street Grocery, then. I don’t care where you order from. You’re a big girl, why don’t you act like it?”
“Will that be all, Mommy dearest?”
“‘Torian, that’ll be enough. I’ll be home late.”
By the time she left to meet Charles, she needed a drink in the worst kind of way. They had a couple of beers at a bar Charles knew, a neighborhood joint that frankly gave Lise the creeps, then they decided to go out to the West End and get some boiled seafood.
Over dinner, she told him about Wilson.
“I’ll tell you what,” he said. “I’m gonna go out to Old Metairie and break both his legs.”
“Oh, Charles, don’t be silly.”
“He can’t talk to you that way.”
&nb
sp; She didn’t answer, wondering what the alternative was.
He upended his beer and stood. “Let’s go. I’ll drop you off, then I’m gon’ go do it.”
“Charles, you’re such a gentle man. You’re not going to do that.”
“Bullshit. I’m sick of this crap. I’m gon’ go break his legs--”
She hated it when he started posing. He would no more break Wilson’s legs than those of his twelve-year-old dog, Buzzy, but let him get a few beers in him and he more or less went crazy.
“Baby. Could you sit down?”
“Lise, you keep whinin’ and whinin’ about that sonofabitch, and I’m goddamn sick of hearin’ it. Le’s go!”
“Hey! You’re making a scene.”
“I’ll pick you up later,” he said, and started toward the door.
“What about the bill?” She hated herself. She’d have loved to let him go, pay it herself, and take a taxi home. But she didn’t have the money.
“Oh, yeah.” He turned around, threw down some bills, and started once again for the door.
She got up and followed, fuming.
When they were in the car, he gathered her in a bear hug and stuck his face in hers, nuzzling, breathing beer fumes.
“Let me go.” She beat on his shoulder blades. “Goddammit, let me go.” She could have killed him.
He unwrapped her, and she saw that he was laughing. “Had you goin’, didn’t I?”
She was too astonished to answer.
He took her chin in his hand. “Baby, I just wanted to get you alone, that’s all. I wouldn’t hurt a fly, you know that.”
“Why couldn’t you have just said, ‘Lise, baby, I want to be alone with you.’ Wouldn’t that have been more romantic?”
“Nah. You liked it this way.”
“I did not, Charles. I assure you I did not.”
“Oh, listen to Miss Priss.” He spoke in an old-maidish falsetto: “I did not, Charles. I assure you I did not.”
She turned and stared out the window. “‘Take me home.”
He grabbed her elbow and turned her toward him, pulling her against his body. He stuck his tongue in her mouth and she opened her lips against his, forgetting everything except the taste of him, the gentle velvet of his mouth.
When he finally started the car, she kept a hand on his thigh, cursing bucket seats, wishing she could lean her body against his.
