Rather than jumping up and down in the second dress, I joined the game. I slowed my pace and sashayed across the room, nose in the air, hips jutting side to side, in a mock cat walk, the dress lining cold against my thighs.
“Oh, wow! Now, that’s a statement dress. Don’t you look sexy, Miss Cavanaugh!”
By the time I modeled the third one, I was immersed in the pretense. Each dress drew exaggerated praise from FD. Even Mom was having fun. It was a glorious interlude of joy.
“DA DUUMMM. Decision time has arrived.”
“Oh, I can’t choose! I love this one, but I love the second one, and the first one, too.”
“This is exactly what I was afraid of. We have a predicament. Vivienne, do you have any idea how we can solve this dilemma?”
Mom suggested I retrieve the other two dresses and examine them again. I laid all three across the chair, one draped over each arm, the third one over the back. I stood back and tilted my head from one side to the other comparing A and B, B and C, C and A. Mom and FD giggled at the spectacle.
“I can’t decide. Which one do you like best, Mom?”
FD blurted, “Now, wait, wait. There is one solution, but I’m not sure you’ll go for it.” He gave both me and Mom one final drumbeat in a long pause to draw out the climax. “I guess you’ll just have to keep all three.”
“WHAT? You mean it?”
“Absolutely. Of course you will have to choose just one to wear to the play. There won’t be time for multiple costume changes.” He was out and out guffawing now, clearly satisfied with how I had played my part, how the drama had unfolded exactly as designed.
I threw my arms around him. Mom grabbed his coffee just in time.
The night of the play I did look beautiful in the black crepe dress with white French cuffs. Our dinner at the Bel Air Hotel was memorable, all of us talking and laughing, the family decked out for an evening of culture in the city.
It was the most magical night of my short life—the dress, the restaurant, the theater, the music, the Cavanaugh family enjoying each other, and FD in his element as director. For a few hours Father Donnelly was as beloved by the Cavanaugh family as Gandhi had been by millions of Indians.
That night I fell asleep happy, my secret buried under fluttering layers of gossamer tissue.
*
January dragged on forever. I couldn’t wait for the freshman dance. I would need to look especially gorgeous, which I most certainly would in one of my new dresses. Francie nixed that idea once I described them. She said the two black dresses were too fancy for an afternoon dance and the pink one not womanly enough for my first almost-date. Kit would never let me borrow one of hers. Besides, she was tall, whereas I was petite.
My mission was clear. I had to have a new dress. The dance was all the freshman girls could talk about, with a heavy emphasis on who would be wearing what. One of the drawbacks of a school uniform was increased pressure on personal style with few opportunities available for expression.
As soon as I got home that day, I headed for Mom’s bedroom-turned-office. I popped my head inside. She didn’t look up from her typewriter in spite of my coughing and wild waving gestures at the smoke. “Mom, can I ask you something?”
“Uh huh.” The clack of her fingernails on the keys made me think of mice scurrying over a kitchen floor.
“The dance I’ve been telling you about is in two weeks.”
“I already told you that you could go now that you’re fourteen.”
“I know. I mean, that’s not the problem.” I sensed this was a bad time to interrupt, as if there were a good time. “I don’t really have anything to wear. Francie is going in this really cute polished cotton dress with an empire waist. Her Mom thinks it’s a perfect style for our age.”
Mom looked up in a flash of anger. “Clarice, does it look to you like I have time to discuss fashion trends with you right now? Besides, you have the three beautiful dresses FD bought you before Christmas.”
“I know, but those are too fancy. This dance is in the afternoon on Friday after school.”
Mom stopped typing. “I swear, it’s impossible to get anything done around here. Why don’t you do me a favor and run up to Pronto for a pack of Old Gold’s. I’ll write a note for Sam.”
“Okay. What about the dress?”
She resumed typing. “Find out what it costs and I’ll see.”
“It doesn’t cost anything. Her mom made it.”
“You expect me to make you a dress in two weeks? With a big paper due?”
“It’s a real simple dress. And you can sew, right? I mean, you hem our uniforms.”
“Hemming is not sewing, Clarice. But yes, I can sew. If you can read and follow directions, you can sew.”
“So that’s a yes?”
“Oh, for gosh sakes, Clarice, yes, I’ll make it. Go buy the pattern and material after school tomorrow. Now, will you please go get my cigarettes and let me work?”
Francie and I half ran, half walked the eight blocks to the fabric shop. We picked out a pattern—the same one Francie’s mom had used—and material in burgundy raw silk so our dresses wouldn’t look too much the same. I couldn’t wait to show Mom and get the project under way. I found her in the kitchen.
“For crying out loud, this is a Vogue pattern!”
“Isn’t that okay?”
“I thought you were talking about Simplicity or McCall’s.”
Right on cue FD walked in from the garage, all smiles and good cheer. I grabbed the pattern and stuck it in his face. He jerked his head back to focus.
“Wow! You’ll be a knockout. Burgundy will make your blonde hair—”
“Did you notice it’s a Vogue pattern?”
FD gave me his familiar devilish grin, a signal there was nothing to worry about. Mom sat pouting at the table while I poured him a cup of coffee from the pot Mom had started fifteen minutes earlier. Even apart they were in sync.
“Now, Vivienne, you’re a clever girl,” he said teasingly. “I can’t imagine you would let a Vogue pattern get the better of you. Anyone who can tackle grad school and take care of a home and two kids is no ordinary woman.”
“Easy for you to say. I’ve hit a snag with my paper and I’m already pushing the deadline. This damn pattern is fitted through the bodice, calls for an empire waist, on seam pockets and the fabric is cut on the bias, for crying out loud!”
“Your point?” His grin barely shrank enough to sip the coffee.
“My point is that the difference between Simplicity and Vogue is like the difference between building a shack and a mansion.”
“Then you’d better start loading up on wood because you’re going to need a lot of framing. I can’t help with the mansion, but I can with your paper.”
The agreement transpired in an intimate gaze.
“Oh, for Chrissakes, Clarice, hand me the goddamn pattern.”
FD beamed at her over his mug. “And I don’t expect taking the Lord’s name in vain is likely to help your cause.”
Mom’s irritation shifted to coquettish flirtation, sexual tension pulsing between them.
I was the one who blushed, an intruder in their tête à tête.
For the next week instead of Mom holed up in her smoky office, I would find her on the living room floor surrounded by pattern pieces like a giant jigsaw puzzle. Patsy Cline would be crooning torch songs of unrequited love in the background.
My mother was not going to be defeated by a Vogue pattern, not when the real challenge was proving to FD that she was, in fact, the extraordinary woman he had imagined her to be, the extraordinary woman he had fallen in love with.
*
Mom did a brilliant job on my dress. She even saved enough ribbon for a matching headband so I could ditch the ponytail. The day of the dance my face was framed by blonde waves falling over a burgundy ribbon.
Greg and I had agreed to meet in front of the auditorium. Halfway up the stairway entrance, I spotted him at the top. My l
adylike steps became giant strides. He took two steps at a time until we met in the middle. We broke into nervous giggles at the sight of each other dressed up. He let out a long whistle. I slugged him in the arm, after which we raced up the stairs, a dressed up version of scrambling up the zigzag trail from the beach.
The dance was even more special than I’d hoped. I did forget Mom and FD. For two hours I had no horrible secret. Greg and I danced every dance. We teetered sideways during the Twist. There was no awkwardness between us. That is, not until the first slow dance. Greg held me close with his hand on the small of my back. His hair smelled like Dad’s Brill Cream. I was sure he could feel my heartbeat. My face was probably the color of my dress. I was glad we weren’t looking at each other.
His Mom waited outside the auditorium after the dance. Greg had asked if she could give me a ride home since we lived on the same street. It was early evening by the time she pulled into the driveway. Greg walked me to the door, neither of us missing a beat in the conversation we’d been having in the car.
We reached the porch. The talking stopped, replaced by the same awkward silence I’d felt standing at the bottom of the stairs in the bomb shelter. Greg stepped close enough for me to feel his breath. This time he was going to kiss me, I was sure of it. He brushed my bangs aside and leaned down.
The porch light went on. Greg jumped. It took me a moment to figure out what happened. Then I saw movement in the kitchen window.
“You’d better go, Greg. Your mom’s waiting.”
He scrunched his mouth to the side. We said goodbye. At the last second, he lunged forward. His kiss landed on my open mouth with a bump.
“Ow!”
Greg turned crimson. “Sorry.”
“No, no. It’s just…you just surprised me.” I felt for blood. “Maybe we can try it again sometime.”
His tension dissipated like carbonation from a Coke. “Woohoo!” Greg leapt over the porch stairs. He disappeared from view. Two seconds later he was back. He would call the next day, he said. He was gone before I could answer.
My insides jumped in glorious pandemonium. The front door opened.
“Come in the house, Clarice.”
“Mom, it was so much fun! I danced every dance, and everyone loved my—”
She spun around so fast I nearly bumped into her.
“Who was that boy you were kissing?”
Blood rushed to my face. Had she been watching? I squinted at her in confusion. “Greg Stewart. He’s in Honors English. Don’t you remember my telling you a friend would be giving me a ride home?”
“I assumed you meant Francesca…and I was led to believe this dance was limited to freshmen.”
“Greg is my friend too. He is a freshman. His mom drove us.” I tried to sound matter-of-fact. I had witnessed Mom and Kit face off enough times to know the slightest hint of disagreement would be heard as sass and trigger an argument.
“Yes, Clarice. I can see he’s your friend. I can also see you had no qualms about kissing him in front of God and everybody.” That was a line from Peyton Place, “in front of God and everybody.” Mom had used it to scold Kit for kissing her boyfriend in his car parked out front.
I didn’t respond to the bait and kept my expression neutral.
“Aren’t you a little young for French kissing?”
“Moooom. It wasn’t a French kiss!”
“I have eyes, Clarice. I’m not a fool.”
“It wasn’t a French kiss!” So much for staying calm. How could she turn something sweet into something tawdry? “It was an ordinary kiss.”
“Well for your sake, I hope it was. I’m sure you’re aware the Catholic Church considers French kissing a mortal sin. If you died tomorrow you would go straight to hell.”
“I know. It wasn’t. Besides, there must be degrees of mortal sin. I mean, French kissing and murder aren’t exactly the same.” For the first time I understood how easily Kit got into it with Mom. Disagreement was belligerence. I couldn’t believe Mom’s one-track mind where everything had to do with sex instead of friendship or affection. Even if it had been a French kiss, it didn’t make sense that God would throw me into the same mortal sin boat as murderers, or those coveting their neighbor’s spouse. Or in her case, the parish priest.
“It’s not up to me or you to decide what is or isn’t a mortal sin. And don’t talk back to me! That’s all I need, you following in your sister’s footsteps, sneaking around with boys, doing who knows what behind my back. I’d better not catch you ever again doing something like this. Do you understand?”
My mouth dropped open.
“Now go take off that damn dress. It makes you look cheap. And I want to see your hair in a ponytail by the time we eat dinner.”
I steamed out of the kitchen. Her voice carried all the way to the bedroom hall.
“I suggest you be first in line for confession this week, young lady.”
Me go to confession? Over a toothy first kiss?
Greg called the next afternoon, just like he said he would. I was hovering near the kitchen phone to get there first. No luck. Mom answered. She handed me the receiver with an ugly sneer at the disgusting sexual innuendo she was certain would transmit from one dirty mind to another over the wire.
I turned my back in some pathetic attempt at privacy.
“Hello?” My voice came out stilted. Greg and I talked for less than two minutes, awkwardly trying to establish some fleeting connection.
There was a moment of silence on his end. “Reese? What’s wrong?”
It was hopeless with Mom standing there. I curled my left hand into a fist to keep from crying. “Nothing. I just have to go.”
“Yeah, sure…no problem.”
Mom stood with arms crossed, satisfaction all over her face. I bumped her as I pushed past. She stumbled backward. I heard her yell, but couldn’t understand the words. I didn’t stick around to hear the front door slam. I bolted down the street to the zigzag trail, my escape route to the beach.
At school Monday morning Greg made sure we had no opportunity to talk before class. He refused to even glance in my direction the entire period. As soon as the bell rang, I ran to catch him. In the hallway he cut through the throng of students and disappeared.
It was probably just as well. I would never be able to bring a boy, any boy, over to my house the way other girls did. No wonder Kit snuck around behind Mom’s back. Our mother’s imagination had both me and Kit headed for what she herself had failed to resist.
One toothy kiss. That was it. That was my big shot at romance.
Greg and I never spoke again.
5 Strange Land
As the months rolled by, FD and Mom continued acting out their fantasy as husband and wife, Mom happy in the pretend version. FD was ever the supportive mate, never failing to negotiate a workable compromise for every problem, every problem being Kit.
“Mom, just give me one good reason why I can’t smoke.”
“Because, Katherine, you’re barely sixteen.”
“So what? Besides, all my friends do. Don’t they, Reese?” Kit squinted at me with pursed lips, challenging me to disagree.
I ignored her and continued chopping vegetables.
Mom stopped rummaging through the spice cupboard and put one hand on her hip. “You’re telling me their parents let them smoke?”
“Well, they don’t actually let them—but they do it anyway,” Kit leaned back against the wall until the chair teetered on its back legs, her feet dangling in front. “I just think it’s childish to go sneaking around, so I thought I’d ask. I see now I shouldn’t have bothered. That’s fine. I can sneak around as well as the next kid.”
“Now, hold on a minute, young lady, if you—”
FD walked in from the garage.
“Perfect timing,” I mumbled to him in warning.
“Whooooaaaa. Is it hot in here, or am I feeling the heat of an argument?”
Kit lurched forward. The chair dropped to all fours.
“Mom refuses to let me smoke, like all my friends. She wants me to sneak behind her back.”
Mom stiffened. “Katherine, that is not what I—”
“Ok, ok.” FD put his hands up in a stop gesture. A conspiratorial glance at Mom was all it took. “Let’s sit down and talk about this. Vivienne, do I smell fresh coffee?” He threw me a wink as he and Mom joined my sister at the table.
“Vivienne,” he said, turning to Mom, “I think we have to face the fact that Kit wants more freedom now that she’s almost sixteen. That’s certainly reasonable.” He shifted his focus to my sister. “Kit, why don’t you tell your mother and me what it is you feel you should be able to do, and we’ll see if we can come up with some kind of compromise.”
Kit plucked an apple from the fruit bowl and took a bite, talking with an air of smugness now that she had FD in her corner. “I want to wear make-up. Not to school, but when I go out with my friends.”
“That sounds reasonable to me, as long as you’re not going for the Dorothy Malone look with lipstick thick as greasepaint. Vivienne, what do you think?”
“I guess that’s alright.”
“Okay,” FD said with satisfaction, smirking at Mom, signaling his pleasure that she was joining forces with him. He returned to Kit. “What next?”
“I want to stay up until eleven on weeknights, talk on the phone for more than half an hour, go to the movies, ride in Mich—”
“For the love of God, girl!” FD slapped the table, coffee slopping out of his mug. “Why don’t we just hand over the car keys and credit card and be done with it?”
He spoke in the heavy brogue of Cardinal O’Malley, a fictional character whose authority he mimicked in voicing opposition without risking his status as Father Popular, Friend to All. No wonder everyone loved him.
“Now, why don’t we start over, and maybe you can list these in terms of priority. And let’s say, just for the sake of argument, that your list will be a bit more reasonable.”
Kit crossed her arms in a mix of defiance and petulance. FD wasn’t about to be derailed.
“Let’s start with the easier ones. You want to stay up until eleven during the week. How are your grades?”
The Road at My Door Page 5
