“Rear Window,” she replied, her eyes not leaving the TV screen.
“Ooo, Hitchcock.” Angie sat down next to her mother and munched down the rest of the meatball. She had seen the film more than once and knew it was almost over, so she sat quietly and marveled at the stunning beauty of Grace Kelly.
Across the hall in the den, Angie could see her brother, Dominick, watching the Giants game on a much smaller television, knowing better than to expect his mother to change the channel in the middle of her movie. “Hey, Dom,” she called to him.
“Hey, Andi,” he called back, raising his arm in the air as a hello but not turning around. He was barely three years older than she, and when the Righettis had brought baby Angie home, the closest he could come to saying her name was “Andi.” It had stuck.
As “The End” came up on screen and her mother, Alice, blew out a breath, Angie asked, “What are you doing Tuesday night? Want to go see Big? I keep waiting for you, you know.”
“That might work.” Alice tapped her forefinger against her lips in thought. “Call me tomorrow, and I’ll let you know.” She stood. “Help me set the table.”
“You hear that, Dom?” Angie called to her big brother. “Our mother is such a social butterfly, she isn’t sure if she can go to the movies with me two days from now. I have to call her tomorrow. After she checks her schedule.”
Alice pushed playfully at her daughter. “Stop that.” As dark and Italian as Joe Righetti was, his wife was light and English. They were almost exactly the same height, though if pressed, Joe would swear he had an inch on her. Alice’s hair was a light chestnut brown shot through with subtle gold highlights, and most of the time, she wore it in a simple ponytail. Her skin was pale as milk and dotted with faded brown freckles, and her light green eyes didn’t miss a trick. Alice and Joe had divvied up their physical attributes pretty evenly among their four children. Dominick and Maria—oldest and youngest, respectively—favored their mother in coloring, though Dom inherited Joe’s dark eyes. Tony and Angie—the middle children—looked completely Italian, all olive skin, dark hair, and rich brown eyes. The three oldest liked to tease Alice that she had waited to pass on her beautiful green eyes to the last child, and Maria never hesitated to rub it in.
Sunday dinner at the Righettis’ house was a family ritual nobody missed without a damn good excuse. Tony arrived a few minutes later and was promptly handed a stack of plates. Joe may have been an Italian man who loved tradition, but he’d married a modern woman. Alice’s sons were raised to do dishes, help with dinner, and clean bathrooms, just like their sisters. No gender gap between chores existed in her house.
“Maria coming?” Angie asked as she laid out flatware.
“She’s working today.” The pride in Joe’s voice was evident as he brought in a giant bowl of linguini. Maria had been Joe’s cooking partner in crime since she was old enough to operate the stove on her own. Now halfway through her senior year at culinary school, she was interning at a swanky restaurant downtown, learning the inner workings of a successful kitchen. Job offers were already pouring in. Angie was both proud and jealous of her little sister, but tried her best to focus on the former.
“Speaking of work,” Alice said as she walked toward the phone in the kitchen. She tore a piece of paper off the pad and handed it to Angie.
The name Vince Guelli was scribbled on it in her mother’s handwriting, along with a phone number.
Angie furrowed her brow. “Why do I need Mr. Guelli’s number?” He was an old friend of the family, his face familiar to Angie since she’d been a toddler. Though they’d never had a deep conversation, she knew him. He was like family, in a distant uncle kind of way.
“He started up a new business last year, and he’s looking for a secretary.” With a shrug, Alice continued. “I know you don’t love waitressing, and I know this doesn’t really have to do with your communications degree, but you’d be off your feet. I’m sure he’d pay you fairly, and I believe there are benefits involved. It’s up to you, of course.”
Joe set the enormous plate of meatballs on the table next to the bowl of sauce and ordered the family to sit down. As they passed dishes around, they talked about what each of them had been up to, as well as the upcoming election.
“Jeez, Pop, could you have more Dukakis signs in your front yard?” Angie teased.
“I like the guy. What can I say?” Joe shrugged.
All the while, Angie was aware of the phone number in her pocket like it was scorching her pants. Vince Guelli had known her since she was born. If she asked him for a job, he’d probably give it to her, and the idea of getting away from the grind of food service was infinitely appealing. She already knew she would call him tomorrow.
“Okay, let’s get ourselves cleaned up,” Jillian called out in the classroom.
Teaching art to six-year-olds wasn’t so much “teaching” as it was “letting them make a mess.” Though she found it slightly more rewarding to teach the third and fourth graders than the younger ones, Jillian’s dream had been to teach older kids—high school and college—show them Rembrandt and Picasso and Pollack. She wanted to awe them the way she’d been awed the first time she went to a museum. But she’d seen the writing on the wall; her friends who were education majors were having trouble finding employment, and she knew she needed to grab on to whatever job she could. Art teacher at an elementary school. It was a paycheck, and right now, beggars could not be choosers. She took it, knowing she didn’t plan on staying at the elementary level forever.
For the moment, this would have to do.
“Now, Stevie.” The pungent smell of finger paint permeated the air as she took the blue away from a redheaded little boy, who made a groaning sound of annoyance. “I know. But you can finish it next week.” A good teacher trick she’d learned from her fellow elementary educators: Rather than completely cutting them off, promise the next hour, day, week. By the time it arrived, chances were it had been forgotten by the child, who had a million other things occupying his mind.
It was the end of the day. The kids would be out of her hair in ten minutes, she could clean up her room—a task that always took ages—and then meet her friend Shay for a drink. She needed one. This job was harder, and more tedious than she’d expected it would be.
“Thank god it’s Friday,” she muttered as the kids’ teacher came to collect them from the art room to take them back to their main classroom.
“Amen to that,” Marina Bell agreed. “Let’s go, kids. Line up.” Unlike Jillian, Marina loved teaching the little ones; it was exactly what she wanted to do. But it didn’t mean she wasn’t utterly exhausted by the end of the week, as proven by the way she slumped against the doorjamb. “We still on for tomorrow night?” she asked.
As the only two right-out-of-college teachers in their small school that year, Jillian and Marina had instantly bonded. Despite leading very different lives, they had begun a fun, energizing friendship.
“You bet. I’ll meet you there at seven?”
“Perfect. Looking forward to it. Okay, kids, let’s go.” As the little ones began a slow shambling out the door, Marina dropped her voice to a whisper. “Remind me that I have dirt to share.”
“Tease,” Jillian hissed at her as Marina winked and led her kids down the hall, single file. Jillian watched them go. Or rather, watched Marina go. The gentle sway of her round hips in the flowing skirt was hypnotizing. Her light brown hair was cut in a hip, short style, and Jillian often found herself wanting to touch it, just to see if it was as soft as it looked. She smelled clean, like laundry soap and fabric softener, and she needed very little makeup to accent her enormous brown eyes. I know she’s straight, but does that mean I can’t look? Jillian smiled at her own thoughts, then went back to cleaning up so she could get out of there and meet Shay.
AJ’s was not busy. Is it ever? thought Jillian as she stopped inside the door and let her eyes adjust to the dim lighting. The stench of cigarette smoke immediately l
ayered itself on her and she shook her head, annoyed that her entire outfit would have to go into the laundry after only a couple hours’ wear. Not to mention the shower she’d need before bed if she didn’t want the awful smell burrowing into her clean sheets.
The clacking of pool balls emanated from the back of the room. Two more blinks allowed Jillian to see Shay waving to her from the corner of the bar. Small in stature, Shayneese Jackson had a big personality and a quick wit. She’d gotten her hair cut back from the near-afro she had last time Jillian had seen her, to a light yellow accenting just the tips of her short, dark hair. Jillian smiled and went to her, arms open, then gave a hank of hair a gentle tug.
“Nice ’do.”
“Thanks, you sexy thing,” Shay said to her as they embraced. “Long time, no see.”
“Too long.” Jillian took the bar stool next to her as Shay motioned for the bartender.
“What’ll you have?”
“Just a Mich is fine.”
Shay ordered, then turned her full attention to her friend. “How are you? Hanging in there?”
Jillian grimaced. “You obviously heard the news.”
“You know the lesbian grapevine. She left you for a guy, huh?”
“Yep. Just before graduation.”
“You should have called me, you know.” Shay’s expression was stern.
“I know. I’m sorry. Honestly, I just didn’t want to talk about it. I played a ton of softball all summer to keep my mind off the whole thing.”
Shay took a slug of her beer as the bartender set a bottle in front of Jillian. Then she gave one nod. “Well, it sucks.”
“Yes, it does.”
“You know you’re too damn good for her, right?”
“You don’t know her.”
“I know you.” The gentle kindness in Shay’s eyes nearly made Jillian’s well up.
Jillian swallowed hard and nodded, trying to change the pain into annoyance but failed. “Yeah. Doesn’t make it hurt any less, though.”
Shay ran a single finger down the side of Jillian’s face, softly tweaked her chin. They sipped in silence before Shay slapped the bar with an open hand and said, “Then here’s to being single and moving the fuck on.” Her dark eyes twinkled as she held up her bottle. Jillian couldn’t help but smile at that look, and she clinked her bottle against Shay’s.
“I’ll drink to that.”
“You’ll drink to anything.”
“True.” Jillian could always count on Shay to make her laugh. Shay was five years older than Jillian and they hadn’t crossed paths in school, but their houses backed up to one another’s and their mothers were good friends, so they saw each other often. Jillian had spent many of her teen years examining what seemed to be some sort of crush she had on Shay. Then, when Shay came out to her family (and so, via her mother, to Jillian’s), things only solidified for Jillian. It was essentially because of Shay that Jillian came to terms with her own sexuality.
“What about you? How are things going at the clinic, Dr. Jackson?”
“Yeah, don’t you forget that title! I didn’t spend eight years in college so you could call me ‘ma’am,’ did I?”
“I imagine not,” Jillian said with a laugh. “So? Is being a veterinarian all you hoped it would be?”
“I love it. I love it. The hours are brutal, but I made it through school, so I think I can handle this.”
“And have you used your new title to pick up any hot babes yet?” Jillian teased. Shay hesitated a split second too long, and Jillian caught it, squinted at her. “Tell me,” she ordered.
Shay finished her beer, ordered another for each of them. “I did actually meet somebody.”
“Shayneese! That’s terrific.” Jillian squeezed Shay’s forearm. “At work? Is she a coworker? Because that might not be so terrific.”
Shay pointed to her own face, the expression mock-serious. “Does this look like the face of a stupid dyke to you?”
Jillian shook her head, mimicking the stern expression. “Absolutely not.”
“Thank you. She’s actually a patient.”
“A patient.” Jillian waited.
Shay realized her slip and choked on her laughter, beer dribbling down her chin. “No! No, not a patient. A client. A client.”
“Thank god we got that cleared up,” Jillian deadpanned.
“She came in with her mother’s cat a couple weeks ago.”
“And she just happened to mention that she loved the ladies? Or did she wear a T-shirt that said Big Ole Dyke? How did you know she was gay?”
“Some smooth-ass detective work, that’s how. She was not wearing a dyke T-shirt, but a volleyball T-shirt from a rec league over on the east side.”
“So she might as well have been wearing a dyke T-shirt,” Jillian interjected, well aware of the league and its high percentage of lesbian players.
“Do you want to hear the story or not?”
“Yes. Yes, I do. Sorry.”
“All right, then.” Shay shifted on the stool, making like she was preparing to tell a very important tale. “I pointed to the shirt and asked her if she played volleyball. She said yes, that she’d been playing since she was in high school, and she’d been so happy to find a local rec league. I told her I was looking for a rec league, too, and where was hers?”
“Wait a minute.” Jillian held up a stalling hand. “You don’t play volleyball. You’re too damn short, for starters.”
“Hey. Watch yourself, girlfriend.” She winked. “A little white lie in the name of investigation.”
“Ah. I see. Continue.”
“So she told me that she plays at that little school across from the hospital. So I tell her that, now that she mentions it, I have heard of that league, and I even know a couple of the women in it. And I start dropping names.”
“Names of lesbians.”
“Exactly.” Shay pointed at her, then took a drink from her bottle.
“And?”
“She knew every last one of them.”
Jillian shoulder-bumped her, and they laughed. Shay finished up the story, telling how she’d gone to watch the woman play, and they’d had drinks twice already. Jillian studied her friend carefully as she spoke, and a knowing smile spread across her face.
Shay blinked at her. “What?”
“You like this girl.”
The flush that hit Shay’s cheeks was visible even on her dark skin. Jillian could see the smart-ass retort come and go, and then Shay simply nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, I do. She’s funny and smart and adorable. Yeah. I like her.”
Jillian wrapped an arm around Shay’s shoulder and gave her a squeeze. “That’s great, Shay. Really. I’m so happy for you, and I can’t wait to meet her.”
“I’m glad you feel that way because you won’t have to wait long. She’s meeting me here in twenty minutes.”
Nineteen minutes later, when the door opened, Shay’s face lit up.
“She’s punctual, I’ll give her that,” Jillian said teasingly to Shay.
A cute, boyish blonde walked up to them and gave Shay a hug, then a quick, chaste kiss on the lips. “Hi.”
“Hey, baby,” Shay answered. “This is my good friend, Jillian Clark. Jill, this is Laura Schaeffer.”
The two shook hands, both squinting at each other, each trying to place the other as Jillian scooted back to make room for Laura to sit between them.
“Have we met?” Laura asked.
“I think so, but I‘ve been struggling to remember where,” Jillian replied.
They laughed and tried hard to figure out their connection, as Shay ordered drinks and watched them quiz each other.
“Wait,” Jillian said finally. “Do you play softball?”
“I used to until I blew out my knee,” Laura replied. “But I watch a lot. Go to the games. I bet I’ve seen you play.”
They decided that that was as close as they were going to get to a definitive answer and they settled back, still chuckling and now more fami
liar with one another.
Jillian sipped her beer and enjoyed the show, realizing that she’d never really seen Shay so enamored with anybody. Her hand was constantly touching Laura; whether on her arm, her shoulder, or her thigh, contact was unremitting. When Laura spoke to Jillian, Shay watched her face as if looking at a masterpiece, something awe-inspiring and breathtaking. It would have been ridiculous if it wasn’t so damn sweet. Jillian was happy for her dear friend.
Well, mostly happy. There was a tiny part of her that was envious. Jealous, even. Aware that she was seeing something she missed terribly.
Yes, she knew that she was still young, that there was plenty of time to find permanence. But more than anything, she knew what she wanted, what would make her happy—and it didn’t matter that she wasn’t even twenty-three yet. She wanted somebody to look at her the way Shay was looking at Laura. She knew that. With every fiber of her being, she knew it.
It seemed like a simple enough request.
She’d felt that way about Linda, her college girlfriend; at least she’d thought she had. Totally, completely, utterly in love. She knew that the look on her face when she’d looked at Linda was an exact replica of the look on Shay’s face right now. Jillian had had that, and she’d loved it. She’d like to have it again. What she hadn’t had was reciprocation. Linda looking back at her the same way, the way Laura gazed back at Shay, that same adoration in her eyes, she hadn’t had that. But she wanted it. And what was even more, she wanted to be worthy of that look.
Jillian sighed, watched her friends as they laughed at some inside joke, and the warmth in her heart grew.
Yup. I want that.
1989
When I See You Smile
Three
“Good afternoon, Logo Promo, this is Angie. May I help you?” Angie listened, then nodded. “Sure. Hang on while I transfer you.”
The small office bustled, and Angie loved it. The ringing phone, the conversations coming from various offices, the copier and fax humming. It was like a machine, the smells of new carpet and freshly brewed coffee taking the place of motor oil and gasoline, and Angie was proud to be a part of it, even if she was overqualified to be the receptionist.
Olive Oil and White Bread Page 2
