1985: Careless Whisper (Love in the 80s #6)

by Misty Provencher

  So, I get why Emilio is acting like I just yanked the afghan of bullshit over his head. I kind of did. But, when it comes to what happened between me and James, it’s my business and no one else’s—some parts, not even James’s. I’m a pro now at staying detached, and I really wish Emilio would pull out some of his professional courtesy and do the same.

  I clear my throat and look into his eyes. Emilio’s got eyes like anybody from the roughest parts of Brooklyn—hard and dark, scrutinizing and clever. I didn’t fall in love with him for rock hard biceps or a chiseled chin; I fell for Emilio because he made me feel safe by being comfortable with my isolation.

  I love Emilio because he doesn’t insist on knowing everything about me.

  But calling me out now rattles the icy peaks of my snow bitchness and sets into motion an avalanche of manure. He has no right to question me about James or insinuate that anything is going on. It’s insulting and, worse, it’s none of his business.

  “There is nothing going on between James and me,” I say. What a crock of horse shit. When James is in the room, I can’t even sell that shinola to myself. The trouble is, it’s nothing new that’s going on, it’s something old and I don’t think it is something that could ever be therapied out of me. What James and I used to be is wrapped around the base of my soul and has stemmed into everything I am. “If it helps, he’s got a girlfriend. Her name’s Sheri.”

  “Oh, a girlfriend.” Emilio puffs a laugh. “Sounds permanent.”

  “You mean, like us?” I snipe. “James is my ex. I didn’t invite him to be here—my grandmother did.”

  Emilio leans back then, looking down the bridge of his nose as he sharpens his focus on me. It’s like a laser pointer that sears through me and, as much as it should piss me off, it makes me feel faintly treasured. Safe.

  The back door swings open and James steps up into the kitchen with two armloads of bags. Emilio wraps his arm around my waist and pulls me out of the way as if he’s being playful, but I know it’s not for my benefit. We’re at war, after all.

  James dumps the insane load of bags on the counter with a thump that shakes open the cabinet door below. A few audio tapes spill out on the vinyl flooring. Gada’s tapes.

  Emilio reaches down, scoops them up and deposits them on the counter as if they’re nothing.

  My eyes well up.

  “What?” Emilio asks. He looks at me, then James, who’s also looking at me, but at least James knows why. Emilio flashes his eyes between us again. “What’s the big deal? What’s going on?”

  “These are probably some of the old mixed tapes,” James answers before I can. “We were looking for them.”

  I pick up one of the tapes and go to the counter beside the fridge. The old, black boom box is squatted down beside the toaster, hot pink nail polish still smeared on the rewind button. And, the thing is still plugged in. I pop in the tape, hit play, and Phil Collin’s “One More Night” pours from the speakers.

  I can tell from the cassette case—also smeared with some hot pink polish and the marker’d scrawl: Pillow Talk, no ded—this is one of the tapes Lisa and I made during her stay at our house, after the abortion. We made at least a dozen tapes the night this one was made, as we sat at the kitchen table, behind the room-darkening curtains, eating popcorn, drinking Kool-Aid, and laughing about how we’d grow up—as if we’d done all we were going to do. We had decided then that when we were both ready to have kids, we’d marry and live in the same subdivision. We swore an oath, hooking our pinkies, that our kids would grow up to be best friends.

  Alan Almond, the DJ from Pillow Talk, comes on with his velvety voice. We had just let the tape roll, waiting for the song dedication we’d called in, but it didn’t come. Busy night, I guess. He didn’t get to our dedication for one more tape, anyway. We stayed up all night listening for it. The next song, dedicated to Mike, who was away on business and being missed by a woman named Selene, is “Every Time You Go Away” by Paul Young.

  It’s like listening to a concert of ghosts, with the music playing while Lisa and I whispered in the background about which color nail polish looked better.

  Eve creeps down the hall from my old room. Even in her men’s plaid pj bottoms and beater shirt, she moves like a ballerina. It’s tough to think of her as butch, when I don’t even think she could pass as a gay dude. She drifts up to the opposite side of the counter, but we don’t look at each other. Not directly.

  My grin wavers and a couple tears lace down over my cheeks as I listen to the music. I wipe them off as casually as I can. Emilio sidles up beside me and tries to wrap me in his arms, but I pull away. It’s not him exactly—it’s just that this song is really getting to me. It is transporting me back to only a few nights before I found out about her and James and knowing what I know now makes being in this room too raw. The music is tranquilizing and my brain keeps trying to convince me that Lisa is still my best friend, and James is still my soul mate, and Gada is still in the living room, reading her book behind the black-out curtains she’d hung to hide us from the neighbors while Lisa recovered.

  And then Emilio puts his hand on my shoulder and brings me back to this dark kitchen where I have no best friend, no soul mate, no mother. I push away his touch and duck away. I sidle closer to the boom box, squatting down as if I’m trying to hear the words, but my mind is really just trying to climb into the speaker and go back in time.

  God, I lost so much.

  “Grace?” Emilio moves close again and I know escaping this kitchen is futile. I hit the off button on the recorder, wipe my eyes, before turning to face this tense and miserable moment head on, with my ex at the end of the counter, casting an empty stare across the kitchen, and my boyfriend at my elbow, his glare so sharp, it seems like it could cut off my eyelids. Emilio reaches up and flicks a tear path from one of my cheeks with a rough swipe of his thumb.

  James notices. Looks away.

  Eve has drifted to the far chair at the table.

  I pick up an unfamiliar tape with a red label on it. I pop out the last tape and put in this one, hoping whatever plays will pull me out of this tight space I’m in, caught between Emilio and James and the erosion of my detachment to it all.

  I want to hear the dedication that was missing from the last tape. Lisa and I called every night and all of a sudden, I really need to hear the one where Alan Almond says “I’ve got two of the most dedicated listeners out there. They told me they’ve taken time out from their vacation to call every night this past week, just to hear this very special dedication. So, here’s to best friends that remain forever, Lisa and Grace, this one is for you.”

  Or something like that. I need to hear it to be sure.

  I hit play, but what comes out of the speakers sure as hell isn’t a warm and fuzzy dedication.

  “She’s a dyke!” My voice explodes out of the speakers like a killer zit. “Does Evelyn’s mom even know yet? ‘Cause somebody’s got to tell her.” I start laughing and it becomes pretty obvious that I was on the phone. “She’s going to go ape shit when she finds out…you know how she is. It’s not like Evelyn’s doing it on purpose, but her mom is still going to be pissed.” Long pause. “Look, they need to know what’s going on! They have every right to know she’s a big, ol’ lesbo! If nobody else is going to say something to her, I will!”

  I pound the stop button on top of the boom box.

  “Oh my God…that’s not me,” I say, my gaze churning around the table until I land on Eve. I’m gaping and Eve looks like she’s going to go grab an axe. “I never—I would never say any of that.”

  “But you did,” Eve says hollowly, wrapping her arms around herself. “That was your voice wasn’t it? And I’m surprised you’re so shocked, since you left this same tape in my mailbox that summer right after you left.”

  “I didn’t…that’s not me,” I stammer, but my mind spirals. “I mean, yes, it’s my voice, but I swear to God, I never said any of that. I don’t know how this happened, but I never
said any of that about you…I—”

  “It’s your voice,” Paul says from the couch. “You said it.”

  I whirl on him. “Goddamn! Are you just going to eavesdrop every goddam second?”

  Paul shrugs, but his eyes have that Stryker glint—like a pissy cobra. “I didn’t ask for you to wake me up, but maybe I’m glad you did. I can’t believe you’d rat out one of your own, Jones. So much for The Band being family—”

  “That wasn’t me!” I shriek, but of course it was. That was one hundred percent my voice, my tone, me. I vaguely remember saying something like some of that, but I would never say any of those things. Never about Eve. Never. My brain reels, trying to make sense of it. I never would have outted Eve to her parents. They would’ve disowned her. I knew that. The only thing I didn’t know about Eve’s gayness was that she was a lumberjack—I only found that out when she showed up on the doorstep, so there’s no way I could’ve said those things on some ancient tape that Gada has.

  Except that the tape is evidence that I did say something. It feels like I’ve gone psycho—to hear those things that I know I never said about Evelyn, is as bizarre as someone telling me that I never lived in this house where I grew up. The proof is there and we all heard it and I can’t even deny that it was me talking. My word now is nothing against an old tape full of my words.

  “I swear it, Eve,” I whisper. Her stare is stony. “I don’t know how this happened, but I never said any of that about you. I thought you were pissed that I went away to college without saying goodbye—”

  “We were all pissed about that,” James says.

  I ignore him and keep my focus on Eve. He deserved it. She didn’t.

  “I never said those things,” I insist again. “I don’t know how this happened or where this tape came from, but I swear to you, I never thought of outting you to anybody.”

  No one will look me in the face. Emilio rocks on his feet, arms folded, staring at the boom box like it’s a bloody knife. I haven’t got one ally in the room.

  “That’s why I haven’t spoken to you,” Eve whispers, jabbing a finger toward the recorder. “I was heartbroken when you left. I thought you were my friend! And then, to find out that you were going to out me! You know how religious my mother is! They would’ve thrown me out of the house! The Daddles don’t have gays in the family. Oh no, they don’t! Especially big ‘ol dykey lesbians.”

  “I don’t think they’d ever mistake you for a dyke—” I offer, but Eve explodes.

  “I am a dyke!”

  I rest a finger over my lips. I can’t say anything right. “It wasn’t me that left that tape in your mailbox.”

  “I assumed it was you that left it,” Eve says. “It was in my mailbox the day after you left. My parents could’ve found it. I was heartbroken and stupid enough to still want to be your friend. I loved you and I thought it had to be a mistake.”

  “It is…it was! I’m telling you, the tape is fake and I didn’t leave it,” I tell her.

  “You’re trying to say somebody made that to make you look bad?” Paul says, standing up from the couch. I wish my eyes didn’t flick to Lisa, then James, but they do. She doesn’t notice, but he shakes off my gaze with a disgusted laugh and buries his hands in his pockets.

  “Did you have any motive for outing Evelyn?” Emilio asks in his analytical voice. The sound of it makes me itch. He’s trying to get to the bottom of this, to prove my innocence, but the problem is, if I tell the whole truth—and Eve knows what it is too—it will definitely look like I had a motive.

  I knew Evelyn idolized me. That last summer, things had gotten a little weird between us, and then there was—

  “Was it because I kissed you?” Eve asks.

  Oh for shit’s sake.

  James and Emilio both swing their heads in my direction. Emilio’s expression is only a little less shocked—he’s a shrink and I know he’s heard a million times weirder confessions than that. I’m sure he also gets that her kissing me is not the same as me kissing her, which didn’t happen.

  “You two kissed?” Lisa asks from the stairs.

  Great.

  “I kissed her,” Eve says. “We were in her bedroom.” She throws her thumb gracefully over her shoulder, down the hall toward my old bedroom. “It was toward the end of the summer, before Gada took you two on vacation. Nobody thought to ask me to go, but I figured, since Grace knew I was gay, maybe she didn’t invite me because she was thinking it would be awkward. I thought maybe she was thinking of me like James—like a guy.”

  “I was with James,” I say. “You knew that.”

  “It didn’t mean you weren’t curious,” she says.

  “But I wasn’t,” I tell her softly. Even now, I don’t want to hurt her. She’s still Evelyn, the delicate little peace-keeping beauty queen we all protected and adored, even if she is dressed like a dude now.

  “Did Grace ever indicate that she was interested in you?” Emilio’s counselor tone is really annoying.

  “I thought so.” Eve scratches the nape of her neck, sneaking intermittent glances at me. “You were always so cool with it, so supportive. You kept telling me how pretty I was, and I remember you saying that nobody wore Berry Frost lipstick like I could. You even said that if you were gay, you would be really lucky to have me.”

  I squint at her, shaking my head. “I was trying to be a good friend. I wasn’t hitting on you.”

  Eve shrugs. “I didn’t know. I just wanted to be sure.” She wipes her nose roughly after a sniff. “So, I kissed you.”

  “And how did that go?” Paul’s mouth hangs open a little after he’s asked the question, as if he’s going to lick Eve’s response out of the air.

  “How do you think, dufus?” Eve snaps. “Her and Lisa were the ones that went on vacation with Gada. Nobody asked me.”

  “No, I meant the kiss,” Paul says, his lower lip drooping again. “What happened when you kissed?”

  “I told her I wasn’t into girls,” I whisper, but I’m looking at Eve. I had thought I was just her experimental run, that she was trying out the whole gay thing on me because she knew I was her friend and I was safe. I was positive she expected the soft rejection I gave her; that she looked at me as a test run or a stepping stone to bigger and better things. There was no way, in my head, that she could’ve come to any other conclusion. We’d known each other for years and it wasn’t any secret that I was wildly in love with James. I was so sure she knew we were soul sisters, not lovers.

  She drops her gaze, rolling her tongue behind her cheek.

  Emilio pushes away from the counter, straightening up and clearing his throat. I know what that means. He’s about to launch into a full blown psych session. His analytical, shrink side, which was so charming when we were in New York and deep in the hub of parties with people who loved to air their issues like party games, is about as comfortable now as a fish on a subway. The NY jet setters were delighted with Emilio’s talent of guiding them to enlightenment within a ten minute conversation, but here, The Band is a different story. They seem to recognize he’s gearing up too, but there is zero excitement. I wince when he opens his mouth to give us his analysis.

  Thank God, the doorbell rings.

  “Somebody order another pizza?” Lisa asks.

  Paul goes to the front window, lifting the curtain and smashing his face to the glass to look out at the porch. “It’s a broad,” he says.

  “No,” James says striding to the front door. “It’s my girlfriend.”

  James’s girlfriend looks nothing like me.

  “This is Sheri,” he says by way of introduction as she crosses the threshold.

  Sheri is a mass of strawberry blond hair that escapes from beneath a bowler hat, stacked on top of a baby doll dress that covers a bowling-pin body. The very base of her is stuffed into a flower-printed pair of knock-off Doc Martens. The boots are the only thing we have in common, but it’s been seven years since I wore them.

  She’s nothing lik
e his usual type.

  “Hey, babe,” she says. There’s a gap between her front teeth. She has a mega-stuffed gym bag thrown over one shoulder, which she drops, crushing everyone’s shoes beneath it. She leans in and plants one on James.

  Her kiss sounds sticky as she pulls away. I really can’t believe she is James’s type now.

  Emilio’s arm startles me as it winds around my waist and pulls me in close. It’s a little suffocating and his grasp is a little too tight. He turns me enough to plant his own version of a passionate kiss on me, sans the slurpy suction. It’s still kind of creepy and I pull away, more embarrassed than satisfied.

  “Was she expected?” Emilio murmurs in my ear.

  I shake my head, no, giving her another quick once-over. Unexpected in so many ways. She looks like she could be on a teen zit soap commercial; she’s probably a couple years younger than Paul. Every move she makes has a little hyper bounce to it and when she notices there are other people in the room besides James, she can’t stop laser beaming us with her big, horsey smile. I am amazed that he finds her attractive on any level.

  “It looks like this young lady is expecting to stay,” Emilio says and his head tips back so his nostrils seem a little bigger from where I’m standing. One thing I do appreciate is when Emilio does that sexy thing with his voice, where he deepens it to such a level that it resonates control. And when he emphasizes how young this girl is, I can’t help but slide my hand across my stomach and give his knuckles a loving little squeeze. It’s the first time, since he’s arrived, that I fully appreciate my boyfriend’s interference. Emilio, already so tall and intimidating, rolls his thick, Bronx-boy shoulders. “I’m not sure the two of you should plan on staying, considering we weren’t expecting any more house guests, James.”

  “Hold up now.” Lisa emerges from the kitchen, pulling Mr. Sharles’s letter from her pocket. She shakes it open with a hard snap. “There’s nothing in here that said we couldn’t have any people with us. It just said we had to be here, and I already told you guys, my kids are going to be coming over at some point.”