He swims toward her. “What’s the matter?”
“We’re just swimming.” The warmth of the wine drains away. “That’s all.”
“You think I’m putting the move on you because I’m skinny-dipping, right?”
Rita squints at him.
“Look, I don’t have a swimsuit.” Andy lifts his palms.
“Uh-huh,” Rita says. “Corvette, mansions, even wine, but no trunks. I get it.”
“I had to come here in kind of a hurry, you know.”
“No, I don’t know,” Rita says, staring at him. “Why don’t you tell me?”
“C’mon,” he says, “not now. Let’s just enjoy this, okay?”
Impulsively Rita scoops up a handful of water, tosses it in his face. She dives under and darts away before he can splash her back.
After that Sunday at the pond, Rita finds herself running into Andy nearly every day in camp. They arrive at the canteen at the same time, so it makes sense to share a table, sometimes joined by Rennie, but usually not. On weekends, when fine weather breaks the series of drizzly days, they hike to the pond. Andy always produces a bottle of wine. While Rita doesn’t like the taste, she gets used to it, though she waves it off when her face grows numb. “Hmm,” she says one Sunday afternoon, “leaves in a hurry, but packs a case of wine.”
“Hey,” Andy says, “I only had time to pack the essentials.”
“And your mother’s not going to notice the missing bottles?” Rita thinks of her father, who gripes when a single can of Budweiser disappears from the refrigerator.
“We’ve got a cellar full of wine,” Andy tells her. “Not likely she’ll go down there to count bottles. It’d take all day.”
“Come on.” Rita rolls her eyes. “I don’t buy that.”
“What?”
“That business about your fancy car and two houses —that crap you gave Rafe.”
“You don’t believe me?” Andy’s eyes widen. “You think I was —what? —saying that stuff just to impress some bus driver?”
Rita doesn’t like how he says this, the way it diminishes Rafe. She thinks of her father, the olive-drab coveralls, rubber-soled boots, and hard hat he wears to work. But she says, “Let’s just say, I find it a little hard to believe.”
“Why would I make all that up?” he asks.
“Like you said, to impress.”
Andy snorts. “You’re funny, you know that.” He reaches, cupping his palm at the nape of her neck and drawing her close for a kiss. Rita struggles against his embrace. Andy releases her, asks, “What are you afraid of?”
She can’t even begin to answer this. Instead Rita looks into his unblinking eyes and shrugs. She touches his cheek, surprised at the moist pliancy of his cool skin. Orchidaceous, she thinks, remembering the word from a horticulture text. She pulls him close. As they kiss, he slips the strap of her suit from her shoulder, reaches for her breast. Rita peeks at his face. Her eyes cross and his eyelids seem to merge over his nose at this range. He’s still fine-featured, but the fishlike gobbling look on his face makes her want to laugh. She’s had sex before, and it’s never been painful —her uncle José had probably seen to that —or scary. It’s no sheer sensual delight, either. Instead, she finds it awkward, even comic.
Rita spreads her towel over a sandy stretch before the pond. She isn’t about to bump through it this time, scraping her tailbone. They lean back on the towel, and Rita squirms out of her swimsuit. Andy enters her with a shudder. Rita quakes, too, cupping his buttocks in her palms and guiding him into a rhythm. Her breath quickens and heart thuds as spasms of pleasure break over her like waves, and she cries out when he does.
Afterward, he holds her in his arms and draws a deep breath, as though preparing to speak, but Rita cups her hand over his mouth. She will hate it —and this moment will be spoiled —if he says something stupid or phony, if he says he loves her. She keeps her fingers over his lips and runs her hand along his bare thigh as they cradle each other on the towel, flinching with aftershocks of pleasure when he kisses her shoulder, the nape of her neck.
When she returns to the dorm, she remembers what Bette said about venereal diseases, but surprising herself, she doesn’t race for a scalding shower. Instead, she throws herself on her bunk and sleeps. Without dreaming, she sleeps.
By the time Bette and Elena are due to visit, Rita nearly wishes they weren’t coming. She dislikes sharing her time with Andy. In the presence of others, he adopts the boastful personality he revealed on the bus with Rafe. Rita winces inwardly as he natters on about his family’s wealth, and the contempt and disbelief on the faces of his listeners —or worse, the pity in Rennie’s gentle blue eyes —shame Rita. The prospect of Bette’s visit also highlights how inexpertly Andy works in the medium her sister has mastered so well. She’s sure his amateurish and self-flattering distortions will disgust Bette.
The day of her sister’s visit, Rita wakes with shoulders knotted, her neck stiff. The frigid morning mist creeps up her shirtsleeves and pant legs, pricking her skin like icy needles, and as she trudges to breakfast, she can nearly hear her stiff bones creak. At the canteen, she finds Andy standing in line with Belinda. They’re laughing together, their heads bent close, and a fiercer chill twists through Rita.
“Hey,” Belinda says, “we was just talking about you, girl.”
Talking or laughing? Rita grabs plastic utensils from the serving table.
“Andy says you guys go skinny-dipping over at —”
“He’s lying,” Rita blurts out. “We don’t go skinny-dipping.”
Belinda wrinkles her brow. “Huh?”
“She wears a swimsuit,” Andy explains. “I swim in the raw.”
“I get it.” Belinda nods, smiling. “So, like, can anyone come?”
Lupe sidles up, bearing an odorous tray of scrambled eggs, butter-slathered toast, and bacon. “You guys want to sit with us?”
Rita shakes her head, but Andy says, “Sure,” so she serves herself and takes a place at their table beside Andy. The eggs taste dry, rubbery, but the others wolf them down as Andy invites them to the pond, their pond, to swim on Sunday afternoon.
Rita interrupts him. “I’m not going.”
“How come?” Lupe trades a look with Belinda and lifts a plucked-out brow.
Rita turns to Andy. “My sister’s coming. Remember?”
“Bring her,” he says. “We’ll have a party. You or Lupe can get beer.”
“Forget it. I don’t want my niece around a bunch of drunken assholes.” Rita balls up her napkin and throws it at her uneaten breakfast. She thrusts away from the table with such force, she nearly topples her chair.
“Ooh,” Belinda says, “she’s pissed.”
“Fuck you.” Rita tells Belinda, and she stalks out of the canteen, banging the screen door behind her.
Bette promised to arrive by three, but knowing her sister, Rita automatically adds two hours to this and doesn’t look for her until five. She’s spent the day washing clothes, reading, and organizing her bunk area and locker. Despite trips to the laundry, Rita manages to stay clear of Andy, privately gloating over this until it occurs to her that he might be doing the same thing —avoiding her.
When Bette doesn’t show up by six-thirty, Rita’s throat thickens. Her inner ear clicks painfully when she swallows. She reaches for a book on forestry, which she’s borrowed from the camp library, and thumbs through its black-and-white photographs of various trees, plants, and lichen, but a brownish quarter-moon stain mars one page. Chocolate? Blood? Or worse? Rita claps the book shut and drops it to the floor.
Rita has planned to take Bette and Elena to town and treat them to dinner with her sock money, but by a quarter to seven, she realizes she should get to the canteen before it closes for the night, though she isn’t hungry. The empty dorm is impossibly chilly and dank in the way experts on the paranormal describe rooms inhabited by ghosts. Overhead, the tube lighting flickers and hums.
Rita stretches out on her
bunk and pulls the blanket over her shoulders. As she dozes, Rita conjures an image of her mother wearing an emerald robe. Her large face softened with sympathy. She stands over Rita, stroking the hair from her forehead. Her hand is warm and dry. It smells of the earth —rich soil, roots, and manzanita. Her mother’s image dissolves and Fermina appears. “Who are you really?” Rita asks, astonished by how desperate she is to know. Eyes glimmering, Fermina grins and emits high-pitched singsong: “Sana, sana, colita de rana, Si no sana hoy, sana mañana.”
Rita opens her eyes to find Bette, holding Elena and leaning over her. “You okay?”
Rita shakes her head. “I don’t feel good.”
Her sister’s cool hand rests on her forehead. “You’re burning up. I’ll find you some aspirin before we head to the hotel.” Bette’s round face is creased with concern.
“No!” Rita reaches out, grabs her sister’s arm. “Don’t go. Don’t leave me here.”
“I’ll just be a minute.”
“Take me with you, please, Bette.”
“What about Elena?” Bette asks. “I don’t want her catching what you have.”
“Don’t leave me here!”
Bette sighs. “I suppose if you’re symptomatic, you’re probably not contagious anymore. Come on. Get up, then. Let’s go.”
In the Sebastopol Travelodge, Rita spends a restless night on the double bed next to the one shared by Bette and Elena. Sweating, and then shuddering with chills, she kicks the covers off —rough nubbly flannel and starchy sheets —and then scrambles to yank them back over her chilled shoulders. Her joints feel leaden, and her head throbs. By early morning, exhaustion finally overtakes her, and she relaxes on the stiff, unfamiliar pillow, plunging into deep sleep.
Bette wakes her at ten, bearing toast and juice on a cardboard tray. She’s got sixteen-month-old Elena strapped to her back in a child carrier as she settles the tray on the nightstand. “Can you eat?”
Rita yawns and scans the standard-issue double beds, chest of drawers, and bolted-in television set. The flat industrial carpet is the same bland shade of gray as the walls, which are decorated with imitation Ansel Adams photographs of redwoods. But compared to the dorm, this room seems downright homey.
Bette unharnesses the child carrier and lays Elena on the other bed to change her diaper. “So how’d you get sick?”
Rita startles herself by saying, “Maybe it’s that venereal disease thing.”
“Get real. You’ve got to have sex to catch that.”
“I have,” Rita says.
“You have what?”
“I met a guy.”
“You have a boyfriend?” Bette’s voice rises in disbelief.
Suppressing her irritation, Rita says, “Not a ‘boyfriend,’ exactly. He’s kind of young and has some problems.”
“Like what?” Bette rediapers Elena, who babbles and kicks in protest.
Rita examines the toast as if to pick out flaws before deciding where to bite. “He’s a big liar, for one thing.”
“Nothing wrong with that,” Bette says as she zips up Elena’s one-piece. “Shows initiative, imagination.”
“Well, it works for you,” admits Rita.
Bette looks up from the baby. “Honestly, it doesn’t. Not that much. I mean, not since Luis.”
“What are you saying?”
“I think we’ve been fooling ourselves, Rita. Really, think about it. I can lie myself silly and nothing is changed, and look at Sophie. She’s not getting much of a laugh out of things these days.”
But Rita thinks of Loretta. Her gift is propelling her through vet school with honors, and Rita knows what she can do with her curses. She wonders, though, about Bette and Sophie, seeks a common thread. “Maybe it fades when you fall in love,” she says hopefully. “Maybe I’ll get over it if I love somebody.”
Bette pulls Elena into her arms, a skeptical look on her face. “I doubt it.”
“You’re probably right. You still tell good lies after all,” Rita points out.
“Like I said, it takes initiative and creativity, an unwillingness to settle for the boringness of the truth.”
“This guy lies about how rich he is, how his family has all this stuff.”
Bette wrinkles her nose. “Oh, stupid lies.”
“Yeah, and they’re obvious, too. It’s embarrassing.”
“Yet you’re sleeping with him.”
Rita nods.
“And you’re not using condoms, pendeja?” Bette pulls on the baby’s pants.
“Where am I going to get condoms?” Rita bites into the toast.
“At the drugstore, any drugstore —I passed like three just driving into town.”
“No, I mean in the woods. We go near this pond.” Illness makes Rita more expansive with Bette than she’s ever been, as though she’s tipsy.
“You’re supposed to have them, like, beforehand.”
Rita waves her off with the crust. “I know. I know.”
“You say this guy’s younger. How young?”
“Eighteen,” Rita says.
“Look, it’s doubtful an eighteen-year-old kid would have slept around enough to contract a venereal disease. I wouldn’t obsess about it, but you should get tested.”
“How?”
“I don’t know,” Bette says. “Ask a doctor. You probably just have the flu or something.” She sets a few Cheerios on a paper plate for Elena.
Rita pops the last bit of toast into her mouth. “Maybe it’s malaria.”
“Don’t be stupid.” Bette sets the plate before Elena, who deftly picks at the cereal. “See how she feeds herself. She has great muscle control.”
“She’s perfect,” Rita says. Her niece’s plump pink cheeks and almond-shaped eyes remind her of a papoose or an Aleutian infant. “She looks just like you.”
“Yeah,” Bette says, “you can’t tell at all that she has an asshole for a father.”
Rita and Bette watch movies on television with the sound turned low and talk quietly while the baby naps. By the time Elena wakes, Rita feels strong enough to take her sister out to eat. She borrows a pair of shorts and a T-shirt from Bette, and since she doesn’t have her sock money on hand, she has to ask Bette to pay for their meal, promising to repay her when they return to the camp.
After hamburgers and milk shakes at the diner, Bette drives her back to camp. She refuses to let Rita pay her for their meal. “All right, then, I got a long drive ahead of me,” she says. “Take care of yourself, okay?” Bette hugs her sister, kisses her cheek.
Rita climbs out of the car, tempted to beg Bette to take her home, but instead, she says, “You remember how to get back?”
“I’ll just go the way I came.” Bette puts the car in reverse and releases the brake. “Rita Panchita, you be good!” she calls as the car backs away.
Rita is floored. This was her mother’s pet name for her. She’s forgotten almost all about it until now. Hearing it conjures her mother —big and beaming —on a sunny morning calling her indoors. Rita Panchita, where are you? Rita Panchita, my sweet chiquitita. How can Bette remember what Rita’s almost forgotten? She stares after the car, wishing so hard that she’d asked her sister to take her home that it hurts as though she’s taken a blow to her chest, aching like bruised ribs and a sore heart.
On her way to the dorm, Rita meets Rennie, who says, “Don’t let it get to you.”
Rita stops short. “Don’t let what get to me.”
“That beer bust —or whatever —out at the pond.”
She’d forgotten about Andy’s plans to party at the pond. “When?”
“Right now, I guess. I don’t really go for that kind of thing.”
Rita imagines the shaded pond littered with beer cans, crushed cigarettes floating in the coppery water. “Those assholes!” She turns toward the trail.
Rennie falls into step with her. “You aren’t going out there, are you? You don’t look so good.”
“I’m fine,” Rita says.
Rennie jogs to keep up. “I’ll go with you.”
As they hurry to the pond, the sun flares —a fiery ball that flattens before sinking behind the tree line. In the deepening shadows, the tall conifers are hunched and silent as hooded giants. Amplified voices and laughter reverberate across the water. As she and Rennie ascend the incline, Lupe lurches toward them, making her way back to camp. “Man, those guys are sick,” she says, her painted face muddy with tears.
“What’s going on?” Rennie asks her, but Lupe pushes past them in silence.
Rita races toward the pond. A thin voice pierces the laughter. “No, no, no, please, no, please stop!” A bonfire blazes near the water. Its guttering orange glow illuminates a circle of shining faces and an open sleeping bag, salted with foxtails and sand, on which two bodies twist and struggle.
“What the hell are you doing?” Rita thunders.
The group scatters; bodies scramble to gather clothing and race to the woods. The rustle of leaves and crackle of snapping twigs mask the clamor of voices. But Rita recognizes a few of these and identifies one person by sight —Jackie. She spies the back of his head, the skimpy mullet lock flicking as he hops into his shorts and stumbles away from the pond. She might have heard Andy’s voice; though when she looks for him, all she can make out is the confusion of bodies hustling into the shadows. In no time, the party disappears into the brush, leaving behind a solitary figure cringing on the sleeping bag —Belinda, stripped from the waist down, her glistening thighs slender as a child’s.
Rita rushes to her side and wraps the sodden, foul-smelling bedding around her bare hips. She tries to hoist the girl to her feet, but with a groan, Belinda collapses, her head striking Rita’s collarbone. “Rennie, I can’t carry her by myself.”
The Gifted Gabaldón Sisters Page 20
