After looking at them under Jamie’s microscope, I determine the lipsticks are covered with germs and dead skin cells, so I rename each tiny tube (Monkey Blood, Cat Splat, Crushed Crusader), rubber cement them to the outside of a red-and-white–striped shoe box, make big papier-mâché lips for the top, and give it to Lauren as her future cosmetics case.
She just stares at it. “You are so weird.”
Mom loves it. She calls it pop art.
I don’t think there’s much pop art in our neighborhood. Even though the new house is only a mile or two from the old one, and a couple of blocks from the entrance to Crawford Butte, it’s in one of the nicest neighborhoods in Portland. At least that’s what Mom says. Ten years ago, our house was featured on the cover of House Beautiful. The magazine liked the English ivy crawling up the chimney, the perfect little smoke tree in the front yard, and the apple tree on the side of the garage.
Mom keeps the outdated issue of House Beautiful on the coffee table in the living room for all to see. Some of the neighbors still remember the photo shoot, but Mom walks them through the house anyway, magazine in hand, pointing out where we’ll make improvements.
In our living room there is “faux marble” wallpaper; in the TV room, real brass nautical fixtures; in the basement is a games closet, and a recreation room with a built-in bar and refrigerator. When I noticed a dog leash on a nail at the top of the basement steps (like Santa’s cane in Miracle on 34th Street), I wondered out loud if Mrs. Wiggins led us to this house, but Dad said the “previous owner had dogs, that’s all.” He suggested I write a newsletter featuring movie trivia, though.
When Dad first saw the pilot maps of South Sea Islands, tacked to the basement wall behind the built-in bar, he told Mom he’d put his desk and file cabinet downstairs. “It’s a man’s space,” he said after filling the bar fridge with beer, beef jerky, and a jar of pickled eggs.
I like the floor plans of the house Dad found, illustrating its closets and crawl spaces, even a room off the kitchen that was never built.
What was it for? Why wasn’t it built?
In the morning, I use Dad’s tape measure to trace the invisible 10' x 12' room onto the grass with chalk. Mom watches from the kitchen window where she cleans everything before the maid arrives. Though later, after meeting Mrs. Rudman who was recommended by a neighbor, Mom decides against hiring her.
Mrs. Rudman is twenty years older than Mom and looks like Frieda. “I can’t have her cleaning up after us, like we’re her children or something,” Mom explains.
“But you wanted more time to paint,” Dad replies. His eyes glaze over.
“It’s all right, Paul. A little elbow grease never hurt anybody.”
Since finally moving to Florida, Frieda doesn’t call much. Last time she called she said she’d “never seen so many attractive retired men in one place.” She doesn’t like the weather though; “too muggy,” she said.
She doesn’t mention the heat in the postcards she sends.
One arrived today. I found it on the kitchen counter after riding my bike home from chess club. Mom says if I stop thanking Frieda for sending “those syrupy cards with Bible illustrations, she’ll send something else,” but I don’t mind. I cut out the little pictures of Jesus and put them in collages, some including Willa Perkins and me. Willa is the prettiest girl in high school. I was walking behind her when a sheet of little school pictures slipped out of her notebook. They were good too; looked just like her. “Excuse me?” I said, but she ignored me so I kept them for myself. Did I mention Willa Perkins is the world’s biggest snob?
It’s 5:30 p.m. but no one’s downstairs, nothing’s on the stove, and the evening paper sits unopened at Dad’s chair. Upstairs there are angry voices. I pause at the top of the stairs to listen.
“Psst.” Lauren motions me to her door and whispers, “He’s doing it again.”
“Gambling?”
Suddenly our parents’ door flies opens. “Lily?” Mom calls.
“Yes?”
“Thank God you’re home. Where were you? Why didn’t you call? I went to pick you up but Mr. Ruff said you’d left on your bike.” Mom’s confused again. Her voice is strained, her face red.
“I told you that you didn’t have to. At breakfast,” I remind her.
Lauren appears next to me. “I heard her, Mom. You said okay.”
Mom finally replies, “I guess it must be true then,” and heads down the stairs.
“Kit?” Dad calls down after her.
“Don’t push it,” she says over her shoulder. “It’s the end of the day, Lily’s home, and I’m going to pour myself a drink. Maybe two.”
“Kit!” Dad starts down the stairs after her.
“If you want to join me, fine,” Mom says, reaching the bottom of the staircase.
They turn to face each other. Dad says, “This isn’t the way to handle our problems, honey. Booze, pills.”
Stop arguing!
Lauren doesn’t pay attention. Whenever our parents fight, she goes in her room, locks the door, and calls Simone. They laugh and talk for hours.
“How dare you broadcast your sanctimonious pop psychology to the entire house!” Mom says. “Under the circumstances, it’s a little hypocritical, don’t you think? A little obvious? We were repo’d for months, or don’t you remember? I will not let you lose this house!”
She glances up the stairs at me. “After school snack, Lily?”
“That’s okay, I’m . . .” Do I follow?
On their way to the kitchen, my parents pass through the fancy unused dining room, where an Easter brunch, with individual hand-painted flowerpots of paper whites and a centerpiece of flawless white lilies (“Hot house,” Mom called them, “no Oregon rust on those babies”), was once set for House Beautiful.
I listen at the kitchen door when Dad says, “I’m not your average insurance executive. I’m not hitting the strip clubs after work with business associates. I drop by the track sometimes, but I’ve stopped most of it. I’ve changed, Kit, you know that. I come home to you and the girls every night.”
Ice cubes drop in a glass. “Here,” Mom says. I picture her handing Dad a drink.
“Now it’s the cold shoulder? Kitty, please. We’ve been through a lot the last few years. We can get through this too.”
“Excuse me, Paul,” Mom’s voice is high and she’s talking fast, “but what have you been through? Did your sister die? Did you have three miscarriages?”
“Come on, sweetheart. You’re all wound up. I’d rather have you read me the riot act than—”
“Would you? That’s wonderful, but I haven’t heard you actually say it yet. Say it, Paul. Admit you still have a gambling problem. Admit that you’re not Mr. Perfect.”
“I’m not Mr. Perfect. I said I was sorry. Don’t lecture me like I’m a child.”
The freezer door opens again. I hear its motor.
“Did you know I painted a portrait of Lily? I took a picture of her working on a shoe box. She braided her hair with strips of rags and drew designs on her hands and feet. She’s an original, Paul, like Jamie always said.”
More ice in a glass.
“And the portrait? Gee, thanks for asking.”
“Jesus, Kit, come up for air! Give me a chance to respond . . . I don’t remember you showing it to me. Did you show it to me?”
“It’s good,” she sniffs. “In fact, I liked it so much I entered it in another contest—no, no, don’t touch me, Paul. Why must you always touch me when I’m trying to talk to you?”
“What the hell do you want from me?”
There’s a scary pause before Mom answers. “I don’t want you to grovel.”
“Then tell me what you want. I don’t understand what’s going on.”
I understand. Their words are teeth and they’re tearing each other apart.
“You don’t understand? That’s funny, I always thought you were the smarter one. I guess I’m wrong; I guess you don’t understand. Maybe yo
u’ve sat at that big desk for so long your brain’s gone soft.” Her voice is as cold and wide as the Pacific Ocean. “I didn’t go to the track, Paul. You went to the track. You went to the track because you’re,” she pauses, “weak.”
There’s another scary pause before Dad says, “Damn it, Kit.”
And then he does it.
He slaps her.
I try to make the sound into something else, but I can’t. Mom immediately gasps. I imagine her putting her hand to her face.
I gasp too, and cover my mouth. Then run upstairs, past Lauren’s room to mine, where even after turning on every light, it’s still as dark as Crawford Quarry on a new moon.
I hate it here.
An hour later, I tiptoe past our parents’ bedroom, downstairs, through the kitchen where a cartoon bubble with the word slAAPPP! (in angry black letters) bounces between the ceiling and the floor. Peering outside, I see the bay window of Dad’s study and his favorite chair, where he sits with his head in his hands.
I sneak into the garage and grab my bike and flashlight. It’s almost dusk, and as I ride through our new rich neighborhood, looking at all the big cars and bigger houses, I wonder who else was slapped tonight.
What’s happening to my family?
I used to think that everything that went wrong was my fault, but maybe my parents fight so much because they shouldn’t stay together. Jamie once said women shouldn’t get married, but she ran off with Kevin, and look what it got her.
Something small and dead lies ahead under a streetlight. A possum, her guts dark and open, and little possum babies—curled up like tiny autumn leaves—spill out of her pouch. Possums are nocturnal. Was she taking them to safety? I gently pick them up, and place them in the bushes.
A cat meows. He’ll eat the dead babies the minute I ride off.
Was the meteor show at Crawford Quarry the last time my family was happy? Every August, when the sky is full of meteors, I ask to go again. But Lauren doesn’t want to, and Mom says, “Ask your father.”
There’s a hole in our family that’s getting bigger every day.
The sky’s a bowl. If you turn it upside down, it’s a hole too.
* * *
I race along the sawdust trail that narrows and widens, narrows and widens, breathing with me like the giant walk-through lung at the science museum.
Up ahead is the basalt quarry, the bombed-out crater, the hole all the way to China. Up ahead is the quiet openness of the pit and the early-evening sky.
Up ahead are Mr. and Mrs. Waterston, out for their daily constitutional. I ring my bell in warning. I smell White Shoulders when I pass; Frieda wears it too.
“Lord’s sake, Lily,” Mr. Waterston scolds.
Would he slap his wife?
Trees fly past. Darkness leans over me, but suddenly I’m there and rest my bike against a tree. I’m alone with the stars and the quarry until . . . a horse nickers.
A horse? At the quarry? “Careful, Beauty, care-ful,” the rider purrs. “Not too close.” The horse whinnies, throwing back its head, as the girl pulls it away from the lip again.
When they stop under the North Star, I see them both: the tall white horse and the girl with the blond hair and sunglasses. Bareback, just reins.
A white horse!
Then they’re heading toward me. I freeze in place until, only feet away, the rider pulls up on the reins and says, “Whoa.” She sits back and listens. “Is someone there?” She’s pretty, prettier than snobby Willa Perkins any day.
Sunglasses. Is she blind?
“I’m here,” I say, stepping in front of them. The horse snorts loudly. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I’m sorry. I didn’t see you at first.”
The girl lowers the reins and pats the horse’s thick white neck. “Did you hear that, boy?” She laughs. “She didn’t see us.”
Is she making fun of me? “You shouldn’t walk your horse so close to the edge,” I say in my know-it-all voice. “It’s dangerous.”
The girl drops her smile and sits up even straighter. “You’re right. I’m blind, and Beauty’s old. We should be more careful.”
Beauty snuffles my sweatshirt with his big soft nose. When he gets a snoot-full, he snorts loudly and I jump. The girl pulls back on the reins and Beauty steps back.
“He likes the pit,” she says. “He likes to walk along the edge. Horses have their own personalities, you know. Like people.”
“I was rude. And bossy. Sorry.”
“No, no, you’re absolutely right. It is dangerous. Usually I feel the air rising up from the pit and steer us away, but not tonight. Everything’s so still and warm. I heard the bats, and the quarry office radio. I should have heard you too, but I didn’t until Beauty led me this way. He must like you.”
I reach out without thinking, to touch him.
“Go ahead,” the girl says. “Beauty won’t mind.”
How does she know I reached out?
My hand is dark against the short white hair of the horse’s chest, feeling the warm firm muscles underneath.
“Can you keep a secret?” the girl asks.
“Yes,” I quickly answer.
The girl leans forward. “I’m not supposed to be here. But Beauty and I don’t like being told what to do. I live with my grandparents; they own the butte and the quarry. During the day I ride with someone, but at night, while they entertain their friends, Beauty and I sneak out. I can saddle him myself, but we like going bareback. The security guard doesn’t care if we’re here. This is a groovy place, especially at night.”
I pat Beauty again.
“No one knows what to say to a blind person. Thanks for talking to me, uh . . .”
“Lily.”
“I’m Allison.” Beauty nickers. “You must think it’s special too, to be out here at night. Alone.”
I don’t say anything.
“I live around a lot of trees. Sometimes I feel them breathing and I get claustrophobic, so I come here where the air moves. I can feel the sky here too.”
I smile.
“I feel you smiling, Lily.” She pauses. “I wish I could see the stars.”
“They’re beautiful,” I say. Then, “Sorry.”
“Why? Because I’m blind and can’t see them? Maybe I can see things you can’t.” She pauses again. “Do you like to read?”
“I love it. I like to write too.”
Allison laughs. It bursts like milkweed and floats into the sky.
“I write poetry,” she says. “I’ve even written about the pit.”
“Really? I’d love to read it.”
“You could give me your phone number.”
But I’m not supposed to be here. What would I tell my mom when she called?
She waits. “Or,” she says quietly, “maybe I’ll meet you here again. I’ll put it in my saddlebag. We try to come here every Wednesday night.”
“Okay,” I say. Like we made a plan. Like we could be friends someday.
“I love words.” She smiles. “Each one is full of mystery. You can make them whatever you want them to be.”
“You are a poet,” I say.
“You know, there’s an expression I heard in Mexico,” Allison says, patting the thick white neck of her horse. “Emptiness pulls. The pit pulls Beauty and me. Maybe it pulls you too.”
The air is spicy. Crickets sing in the bushes.
I think of the clay horse Mom made.
Across the pit, Mom and Dad and Lauren count the meteors overhead. “Comets!” Mom calls. “Doughnuts!” yells Lauren. Her cheeks twinkle with powdered sugar that floats off her face, joining the star show overhead.
“Why are you here, Lily?” Allison asks.
“My parents argued,” I blurt out. “Tonight my dad slapped her.” Really smart, Lily. It’s nobody’s business. Now Allison will think Dad’s a bad guy, and that I’m from one of those families that beat up on each other all the time. “It’s complicated,” I add.
After a long moment, Alliso
n whispers in the horse’s ear, “What do you think, boy?” She blows gently and the horse nods. “Beauty agrees,” Allison says, sitting up again. “Would you like to climb up behind me and ride around with us?”
“Okay,” I say excitedly. “But how do I—”
“Give me your hand, then kind of jump, and I’ll pull you up. I’m stronger than you think.” She is too. Once I’m settled behind her, she asks, “Ready?”
“Okay,” I say breathlessly. “But not too close to the edge.” It’s funny how I can see but I’m scared, and Allison can’t but she isn’t.
We walk around the quarry, a safe distance from the lip of the pit.
The White Horse.
The Blind Girl.
And me.
* * *
Lauren is sitting on my bed when I tiptoe in. “Where were you?” she asks quietly. She’s been crying.
I sit down beside her. My heart beats like crazy after sneaking up the stairs. “What happened?” I ask, pretending I don’t know.
“He hit her.” Lauren chokes back the tears. “She didn’t say he did, but I saw the marks on her face. She was in our bathroom washing her face. She told me not to worry. She said they loved each other and everything would be okay in the morning.”
Without asking, Lauren climbs under my covers. “I thought you ran away,” she says softly.
I glance at the white clay horse on the nightstand, and hold a strand of hair under my nose, sniffing the night air.
“If you run away, you’ll take me with you, won’t you, Lily?”
“Sure. We’ll run away together.”
Lauren scoots down in the covers and yawns. “I like your shoe box.”
She means the new one with the papier-mâché house, painted yellow with red shutters. And two blind llamas—Ray, and the friend he never had—one at each end.
“Really?” She never likes my shoe boxes. I kick off my tennis shoes. “It’s for Aunt Jamie’s ashes. Do you think she’d like it?”
“Yeah. It’s neato. Maybe you’ll be an artist like Mom someday.”
“Maybe.”
“Lily? Did Dad slap her when we lived on Aiken Street?” My sister has the same deep crease in her forehead as Dad.
The Shark Curtain Page 27
