But I’m digressing from my digression. Between the staggering heat, the incessant chanting of the cicadas, and all the thoughts spinning around in my mind, I’m feeling totally confused. I can’t even separate what really went on all those years ago from what didn’t, let alone understand why. Which is why I’ve just been sitting here, wondering.
I started asking myself how much I knew about cicadas, apart from the noise they make, and realized it was next to nothing. So of course, sitting in front of a computer, and not being in the mood to browse through thoughts of my own, not to mention concentrate on the work I should be doing, I started clicking on a site here, which led to a link there, and before I knew it, I had dug up all kinds of information about cicadas, probably some stuff not even Louis would have been able to tell us. The most incredible thing I discovered is that cicada nymphs live most of their lives burrowed underground. For some, that can be as long as 17 years. They go from being buried alive, to invading your life virtually overnight, to obsessing you with their chanting. Then they just disappear again. Incidentally, it’s the males that make all that racket, by humping tree trunks to attract the females, who find the behavior irresistible, submit themselves to mating, and are dead within a week. Have any of your mates ever been that good? Those females get the job done before they die, though. For cicadas, survival is not only a question of reproducing in great numbers, it’s about so many of them appearing on the scene all at once, that their predators can’t handle them all. Survival by synchronicity. Capotosti style.
I wasn’t planning on writing to you about cicadas, Lily, but since I guess that’s what I’m doing, I was wondering whether you’ve ever seen one of those discarded shells. They are actually pretty creepy looking. You can even see the holes where the eyes once were. During my clicking, I came across a picture of a girl on the Internet with a bunch of them pinned in her hair. Can you imagine? Oh, and guess what? The Chinese have been using cicada shells in traditional medicine for centuries. Apparently, they’re good for treating all kinds of ailments, from skin rashes to fever to eye diseases. You should talk to the herbalist who sold you that bee embryo cream you wrote me about, together with that facial treatment you said smelled like alpaca shit, remember? I bet she’d know all about it.
There was something else I wanted to tell you, lots of things, actually, but I wasted almost an hour Googling cicadas, and now it’s already Webinar time in LA and I’m sitting here in a sarong. I’d better put a blouse on at least, maybe even some lipstick, but I think I can get away without underwear. There’s no webcam under my desk, at least not that I know of.
Love,
Iris
From: Lily Capotosti
To: Iris Capotosti
Sent: Thurs, July 01, 2010 at 1:32 PM
Subject: Re: Summer and cicadas (REALLY?)
Dear Iris:
Either you’re stoned, or you’re in love. For your sake, I hope it is the former.
I have to admit that I’m a bit baffled by this note. After these stories we’ve just shared - you nearly dying from appendicitis and me getting sexually molested by Henry - you want to talk about cicadas and bouquets of lavender? I was so agitated by our latest stories that I haven’t been able to sleep, and now I find you prancing through the woods, conversing with nature like a scene from Snow White with birds bringing you ribbons of daisies for your hair.
If I were a Disney character I know who’d I’d be: Cinderella. I remember how they used to play that movie once a year, back in the day when we only had three television stations and there was no such thing as home video. I would ache with anticipation for that movie. To tell you the truth, I didn’t care so much about the prince. What I loved - what I related to - was that the one sister who was left to tend to the cinders was eventually given her due. I’m still waiting for my vindication. That’s what kept me going, you know? The promise that those who suffer greatly can expect a great reward. (Did I learn that from fairy tales, or from the Church? Is there a difference?)
Still, if only I could get to that fucking ball I know it would all work out OK. I actually thought I saw my fairy godmother once, but when I got closer, she was face down in a ditch, suffocated in her own drug-induced vomit. Good-bye white horses, good-bye fancy-schmancy dress. Good-bye hope.
I often wonder why my life has been marked by hardship. I just looked my birthday up on a perpetual calendar. I could have told you without looking - I was born on a Saturday. “Saturday’s child works hard for a living.” And you, my dear, were born on a Friday. “Friday’s child is loving and giving.” Makes me wish Mom had pushed me out a day earlier.
And Iris, I hate to tell you this, but I’m one of those cubicle dwellers who doesn’t really know what to do with a summer’s day. Well, I do know what to do - but when am I supposed to fit all of that romanticism in, anyway? Not during the week; I have to save my vacation time for personal emergencies. And weekends? I’m running to Mom’s, or running to the store for Mom, or doing my own grocery shopping. Sundays I spend cooking so I can catch my breath between work and dinner and bed during the week. I suppose I could figure out a way to have a picnic or do some cloud gazing. But with my luck, it would be raining that day.
It’s really too much to bear, on a summer’s day, to think about shade trees and red-and-white checkered tablecloths spread out on the cool grass. It’s almost easier to convince yourself that you don’t hate your life, that your job is fine, and that you love air conditioning. Because for most of us, we need to find a way to survive in our windowless cubicles with their florescent lighting; most of us don’t have a choice. We don’t have the energy for trivia about cicadas, unless we need it for the report that our boss has been demanding all week. If we knew that sunshine and lavender filled the air on the other side of the concrete, we could never bear to enter those cubicles. But we must, so we learn to cope with the fact that we are trading our freedom in, just to keep from starving. So we shop, we eat, we numb. The full realization of the beauty of a summer’s day would break our hearts, sear our souls, make us scream like the cicada.
Love,
Lily
From: Iris Capotosti
To: Lily Capotosti
Sent: Sat, July 3, 2010 at 8:30 AM
Subject: Cinderella and Cicadas
Dear Lily,
I haven’t been sleeping so well, either. I’ve been thinking about what you wrote to me, and I was just going to let it slide, as usual. But I can’t.
Do you honestly think I spend my days gazing at clouds and romping through fields to contemplate the wildflowers and cicadas? All you would have to do is look up, or down, or around you for a minute and you just might enjoy the world more, too. But that would imply tearing your eyes away from the miserable image you have of your life and focusing on the beauty at hand. If that’s too painful, well, maybe you should do some serious thinking. And maybe I shouldn’t even try to share my happy moments with you, if all it does is make you feel bad. I guess you’ll always see me as the lucky one who never had to work for anything. I know you haven’t always had it easy, but I’ve been working my whole life too, you know. I just chose a different place in which to do it.
Of course, it’s easier for you to think that Auntie Rosa and Uncle Alfred and Grandma wanted me around because I was born on the right day of the week. The fact is, I would have done anything to stay overnight in a quiet house where someone actually paid attention to me. For example, keeping an eye on Grandma, saying the rosary with her, helping her with the mending, helping her dress, helping her to the bathroom, massaging her feet. After the first few times you came, you started getting bored within an hour, and if it hadn’t been for the dancing lessons and the coffee with toast, you probably would have come down with one of your stomachaches so you would have the excuse to go back home.
Which brings me back to the reason I became so engrossed in the cicada
story. It just took the grating sound of that one chirp to instantly resuscitate a swarm of memories and sensations associated with summer. Just like the words “Russian olive tree” and “chicken coop” and “Limelight Dance Boutique” catapulted me smack dab into those episodes of childhood I hadn’t thought about for years. Like cicada nymphs, those memories have been buried deep underground, but I guess they weren’t dead. Far from it, otherwise they wouldn’t be making all this racket.
When I read page after page of what we’ve written, it makes my head throb like the insistent, screeching song of the cicadas. I cringe at the thought of how many millions more must be buried, waiting to pounce out and start screaming at me. I thought we’d have fun exchanging memories, but it seems like half the things I write make you mad, and half the things you write either make me sad, or make me wonder which one of us is telling the real story.
Tomorrow is Independence Day. If we were cicadas, it would be a perfect day to molt. We could shed our scarred, wrinkling skins, leave behind the slackening flesh and greying hair and all the other parts we don’t want anymore, and emerge, fresh and new. Then spread a pair of gossamer wings, and flit away on a summer song. But that sounds too much like a fairy tale. That’s how this whole thing started, but that’s sure not how it’s turning out.
Love,
Iris
From: Lily Capotosti
To: Iris Capotosti
Sent: Sat, July 03, 2010 at 7:55 PM
Subject: Oh, Toreador-a
Dear Iris:
Regarding who’s telling the real story... maybe we both are. Or maybe neither one of us is. All I can tell you is that my stories feel like memories, but when I read yours - I don’t know - it’s almost like reading a novel or something.
I’m not sure what you want me to say about how or why things transpired so differently for us. I guess what it comes down to is this line from your note: “I just chose a different place in which to do it.”
You’re right - it comes down to choices. And you had some - just one more difference between us.
Let’s just get back to high school. Seems like things were simpler back then. But I know they probably weren’t.
Lily
PS: I would have brushed Grandma’s hair. I also would have emptied Grandpa’s spittoon. In fact, I tried a few times, but he always asked for you. Do you have any idea what it feels like to offer to empty someone’s spittoon and get turned down?
PPS: Do you remember that song?: “Oh, Toreador-a don’t spit on the floor-a, use the cuspadora, that’s what it’s for-a.”
19. Iris
“Iris Capotosti and Veronica Rizzo. Step up to my desk before leaving class.” Miss Timpani did not have a strong speaking voice, and the extra effort she had to exert to make herself heard over the dismissal bell infused a deeper shade of pink into a face already flustered by the forty-five minute lecture during which she had attempted to explain the human digestive tract to a room full of squirming high school sophomores. Iris seethed with annoyance as the other students hustled one another out of the classroom and into the hallway, eager to make the most of the few minutes between periods during which they would sneak smokes and kisses, slip notes and raid lockers. Not that Iris was ever involved in any of those activities, but she had never been asked to stay after class, and had a bad feeling she knew the reason behind the teacher’s order.
“I told you so,” Iris hissed, as the girls rose and walked to the front of the deserted classroom, and Veronica lowered her eyes under twin veils of charcoal lashes thickened and lengthened to improbable dimensions by gobs of clumpy mascara. As they approached Miss Timpani, she tossed her head in the scornful gesture Iris had witnessed many times, along with the reactions it provoked. When Veronica’s stylishly feathered hair fell over her face in a thick, silky curtain, shielding her expression from scrutiny, the teachers always looked like they would love to slap her, but any boys in the vicinity always looked like they would love to do something else to her.
Iris had met the girl on the first day of geometry class, when Veronica threw open the classroom door and sauntered in, books pressed against her tummy, her precocious forms stretching her skintight Levis and low-cut tank top to the limits of their elasticity. She snapped gum between a set of straight white teeth, her eyes darting around the room in search of a suitable accommodation for her curvaceous, petite frame, apparently oblivious to the fact that Mr. Briggs, surrounded by the cloud of chalk dust generated by his furious scribbling and erasing, was already deep into his explanation of the Pythagorean theorem. Either he was not a stickler for punctuality, or so taken with the notions spewing from his mouth with such unbridled intensity as to cause bubbles of spittle to accumulate at its corners, that he failed to reprimand the tardy student. Though Iris did not think she looked like a front-row kind of girl, Veronica had no other alternatives in the full classroom, other than the vacant spot next to Iris. She sighed audibly as she dumped her load of books onto the desk and slid into the seat.
After fifteen minutes of trying to stir up enthusiasm for what Mr. Briggs was saying about right angles and hypotenuses, Iris had determined that geometry was probably not as interesting as the algebra she had studied as a freshman, but possibly a bit more useful on a practical level, for instance if she ever wanted to help her parents figure out how many square feet of carpeting to buy in the unlikely event they should consider redecorating the living room. Nonetheless, Iris just couldn’t get excited about math in general; plus, it was pretty difficult to concentrate with her neighbor snapping gum practically in her ear, while squirming constantly in her seat, and looking around at everyone in the class except the teacher.
“This class sucks,” she mouthed to Iris as soon as she caught her glancing at her. Iris shrugged. Granted, Mr. Briggs did not seem to be very communicative on a personal level, but at least he was passionate about the subject he taught. Iris figured he deserved a chance.
“In case you don’t know,” the girl said. “I’m Veronica.” Of course Iris knew who Veronica was. She had seen her flitting and flirting her way through the corridors on countless occasions. Who hadn’t?
“I’m Iris,” she whispered, figuring there was a fat chance Veronica had any idea who she was.
As soon as Mr. Briggs turned to draw another series of triangles and squares on the blackboard, Veronica nodded to a boy across the room. “See that kid over there?” she said. “The cute one with the puppy dog eyes, sitting by the window?”
Iris nodded.
“His brother was in my brother’s class. He woulda been a senior this year. Except for the fact he OD’d over the summer. The parents go around saying he committed suicide. Same thing I guess. I suppose it sounds better, though.”
Iris’s eyes widened. You couldn’t even have a Church funeral if you committed suicide. But if the kid was lucky, maybe he wasn’t Catholic.
“See that girl two rows over, in the first seat? The dopey looking one with the glasses and stringy hair?”
Iris nodded. She had actually talked to the girl, whose name was Joanna, one day during Study Hall. She was on the quiet side, like Iris, but seemed nice.
“Her sister got knocked up and had to drop out. Can’t see that happening to her, that’s for sure.” Iris wondered whether that was good or bad, in Veronica’s book.
“Briggs is not only boring as hell, he’s a faggot.”
Iris wondered how she could pass judgment on their teacher without having shut up long enough to listen to him. “Why do you say that?” she asked, ready to leap to his defense. She had a tendency to want to defend people, even those to whom she was indifferent or possibly averse, the moment they fell victim to what Iris considered unjustifiable attack.
“You have any classes with that dyke, Ms. Shue?” Veronica pushed the air out of her mouth to make a hissing sound when she pronounced the word “Ms.” Iris wondered what point she was trying to make.
“I’m taking Women in Contemporary Society,” Iris said. The English elective was turning out to be one of her favorite courses, and Ms. Shue her favorite teacher.
Veronica rolled her eyes. “Well, just for your information, I’ve seen Briggs and Miz together in the parking lot more than once. They drive to school together.”
“Maybe they’re carpooling.”
“Duh. Wake up. You just don’t get it, do you?” Veronica said, as Mr. Briggs turned toward the class, grinning with satisfaction at the drawings on the blackboard, and clapping his hands to shake off the chalk dust. In fact, Iris didn’t get it. If Veronica said Mr. Briggs was a faggot, and Ms. Shue a dyke, what could they possibly be doing together in a car besides driving to school?
Although both Veronica and Iris had Italian surnames, like eighty percent of the Gates-Chili High School student body, the similarities stopped there, and had it not been for their seating arrangements in both geometry and biology classes, they might have made it through high school without ever having spoken to each other. It was obvious which of the two was a Gates girl and which came from the neighboring town of Chili, which the inhabitants of Gates referred to as “the sticks” because of the predominance of old farmhouses and wooded land over neat, new tracts with matching houses, and evenly spaced lawns with statues and fountains, and shopping centers at major intersections.
[Iris and Lily 01.0 - 03.0] The Complete Series Page 31
