Like Normal People
Page 27
As she stepped over the gate and past the little monuments, Shelley felt she was walking across the entire world—there was the Empire State Building, the Egyptian pyramids, the Eiffel Tower, and Notre Dame.
Lena was waiting eagerly. Shelley crept inside. She then set one cup of water in front of Lena and one in front of herself. She took the sausage pieces from her pocket and arranged them on a napkin. They shone deliciously with grease. The ice cup she set in the corner. She wedged one end of a toilet paper strip on the ceiling and stretched it, artfully, to the other side. The gold scarf hanging around her shoulders she also took off and tied to a loose nail. Lena watched all of this with a suspicious expression.
“What’s this?” she asked, touching the streamer.
“It’s a party,” said Shelley. “For your anniversary. It can be just us.”
Lena stared at the sausages and squeezed her feet. “We have to invite him,” she said firmly. “Even if he can’t come.”
Lena looked at the ceiling as she said this. From the pier came many sounds—the thump of rock music and the whap of Skee-balls and screams of thrilled people on rides. Lena hugged her knees to her chest.
“So,” Shelley said. “He’s invited.”
Lena’s face blossomed into pleasure. Her eyes settled on Shelley like headlights, trying to illuminate the girl’s real meaning, until she was satisfied that Shelley meant what she said. “Okay,” said Lena. She sighed, a long, mournful sigh, and gently lay the present for Bob—the snowdome from Sav-on—in the corner. “Okay.”
They had their party. They sat on the small AstroTurf rug, and Shelley put three sausage pieces on one napkin for Lena and three on another for herself. “The sausages,” she informed Lena, “are filet mignon, and the tap water is champagne. It is an extremely fine brand, without bubbles.”
Lena gave Shelley a cigarette and lit one herself. They ate their sausages slowly, savoring each fatty bite; salty brown juice ran off their chins. The waves under the pier were becoming more aggressive. When they crashed against the beams, a fine spray rose through cracks in the green carpet.
“I would like some ice, please,” said Lena, and Shelley pinched up some and dropped a bit into each cup of water. They drank it; it was delicious. They were both quiet, contemplative, like two businessmen sitting at a club, smoking, considering their day. Napkin curtains fluttered, sheer against the colored lights. It seemed as though they were the only people in the world. Each was grateful for the presence of the other.
Shelley remembered that she had Lena’s teeth in her pocket; she took them out, and Lena carefully set them in the corner. Lena loosely wrapped her gold scarf over the snowdome and the teeth. They looked more festive.
“Why would he like a snowdome?” asked Shelley.
Lena thought about this. “He likes to shake and see the snow.”
Shelley nodded. She hoped her aunt would keep talking. Lena seemed to understand, so she told Shelley more about Bob. “We went shopping together,” she said, her voice hushed and reverent. “We put tuna in a little cart.” The words continued, each a hard, bright diamond in the darkening room. “I’m called Mrs.” Lena whispered.
They sat like this, the spray below them sending a topaz mist into the room. They rested their arms on the windows, and the smoke from their cigarettes rose into the cooling air.
Shelley thought, briefly, of the world they had left that morning. Her mother would not believe that she and Lena had set up this little party. She remembered how she had been afraid to join her family that morning at breakfast, how her mother had been so worried about her.
For the first time since they had left Panorama Village, she wondered what her mother’s day had been like, or her father’s, or her grandmother’s. This day on the beach had been her own sweet belonging, a secret between herself and Lena. It occurred to her that her family might be worried about them.
But for now, they were at the party. It was important to remember everything. They had put together a small party for Lena’s anniversary; they had done this all by themselves. She wanted to remember the blue-veined walls, the rug of plastic, the way Lena drank her champagne, one sip at a time, to savor the taste. It was important to remember how they crumpled up the napkins, translucent with grease, and put them in a corner; the tenderness with which they dipped their fingers in the melted ice.
Footsteps sounded across the tarp. Someone knocked on the plaster walls, and a sunburned face appeared at the window. It was one of the policemen from the pier. Only his uniform made him resemble a policeman; his face was rosy and young. “Hey,” he said, “you can’t sit there. Property’s off limits. Come out.”
He declined the last piece of sausage, which Shelley offered him; he just wanted to get them out. The policeman was huge and his wooden club wicked and his gun an innocent, violent item lodged in his belt. Shelley crawled out of the Taj Mahal and held out her hand to Lena.
They stood before the policeman, sneakers damp, their hair tangled; they were exhausted. Shelley felt her shoulders droop with an unexpected obedience. The policeman observed them with a gentle expression. It surprised her; it made her understand that no one else had truly looked at them all day.
“You two lost? What happened?”
Shelley shrugged.
He took a walkie-talkie from his pocket and muttered into it. On the other end, a man’s voice spoke in a flat, inhuman way. “Let’s go, ladies,” the policeman said. “Let’s get you home.”
They followed him to his squad car in the beach parking lot. His black shoes crunched across the sand. The beach was like the surface of the moon, a barren place. The trash cans were stinking and overflowing, and the sand had become blue-white. Shelley and Lena followed the policeman across the beach. Shelley hurried with the brisk, hopping steps of a little girl, as though she had been waiting to revert to this. Lena loped beside her, fists hard, steps enormous, as though she were climbing a towering hill.
Shelley looked back at the pier just once. The rides, loops of candy-pink and green, turned in silence; the Pacific Ocean surrounded the pier like an infinite sheet of black glass. The lights on the Ferris wheel blinked every few seconds, like a heartbeat. She wondered about the people now on the pier; what would they remember of this night and where would they go. She wondered what would happen to the moments she’d spent with Lena and Bob at Panorama Village. She wanted to keep them safe in her mind. She remembered one afternoon as the three of them walked together. Lena’s housecoat was vibrant with flowers. Bob’s T-shirt clung to his chest. Shelley was wearing a pair of dangling turquoise earrings with a darling purple beret. While Lena and Bob slowly ate a package of Jujubes, Shelley skipped ahead and then ran back to them. The sky above them was cloudless. Their shadows stretched long against the sidewalk as they headed toward all the brave acts they would do that day.
Eighteen
ELLA SAT on Lena’s bed and watched the day change. She saw the air deepen under the glare of the sky. Ella had never been so aware of the precise movements of a day, the way it shimmered from clear blue to pale orange. She sat, a quiet audience, observing this, and she wanted to tell Vivien how compelling the light was, but it occurred to her that Vivien might not be interested at all.
They had returned to Panorama Village from the House of Pancakes. Vivien called Mel, checked with neighbors, Shelley’s friends; then she put in a call to the police, reporting that Shelley and Lena were missing. Vivien wanted to drive again to look for them, but she was advised to wait in Lena’s bedroom in case Lena and Shelley called in. This was all right with Ella; after her conversation with Vivien, Ella had developed a low, dull headache, and she did not feel like going anywhere. The day had stretched on for countless hours. She was so tired, she found it difficult to speak. It was enough to sit on Lena’s bed and watch the deepening of the light.
She and Vivien discussed the fire with Mrs. Lowenstein, but, in Ella’s view, only Vivien and the director were in attendance at the meeting. Mr
s. Lowenstein’s face was hard with complaints. In a slow, caramel voice, Vivien told her of Lena’s many friends at Panorama Village, her good behavior over the last twelve years. All the arguments seemed obvious, and Ella had thought of them all before, but Vivien spoke clearly, with her own conviction; this made her arguments entirely new. Occasionally, Vivien asked Ella her opinion in a voice that sounded tender, yet insincere; and Ella pretended to listen to Vivien’s questions so that her daughter would not feel hurt. After a while, Mrs. Lowenstein began to grow weary under Vivien’s insistence; Lena would be able to stay. Ella let Vivien negotiate the cost of damages she would pay.
At 7:05, the phone rang, and Ella answered. She heard a male voice, its soothing authority; it was coming from far away. Then Shelley’s voice came on the line. “We’re okay,” she said. “We went on a trip.”
“We’re all the way at the beach!” Here was Lena. The sounds of their voices were calming; her ear felt warm. Ella carefully wrote down their location and looked at Vivien.
“I found them,” Ella said.
Vivien drove to Lahambra Beach, to the parking lot beside Lifeguard Station 23. By the time they arrived, it was after eight. The day was worn out; the battered snack stands were shut for the night.
A car marked Beach Patrol was sitting at the far edge of the large parking lot. The lot was slowly emptying out. It was dark, except for some broken, skeletal streetlights; the police car was a lone beacon of yellow light. As Vivien’s station wagon drew closer, Ella could see Lena and Shelley in the back seat. They were eating doughnuts and talking animatedly.
Cars streaked down the highway beside the lot, making pale bands of brightness. The asphalt rumbled, loose, under the tires. Vivien parked a few yards from the police car, and Shelley and Lena jumped out and ran toward them. Shelley made excited leaps, as though she could barely stand to remain on the asphalt, and Lena bounded along beside her, in a crooked path.
Vivien flicked off the ignition and jumped out of the car, leaving Ella to open her door. Heavily, Ella hoisted herself up, gripping the door, and then shut it, without much force; the door made a delicate, metallic slap. She began to hurry toward them. She could not distinguish one of them from the others—Vivien, Lena, and Shelley were faceless, purple figures in the darkness, a dozen yards away. “Girls?” called Ella. “How are you?” Her words vanished into the dim air.
Suddenly, there was no reason to rush. Shelley, Lena, and Vivien were a group, complete. The few yards between her and her family were a vast distance. Her mouth was dry; she slowed down.
It was apparent that Lena and Shelley had been in the sun all day. Their faces were sunburned and their hair coarse from the sea air. Shelley wore that tank top; Lena, in her housecoat, looked not quite dressed. They were not wearing sweaters. The three of them were talking, their voices overlapping. Ella felt herself thinning from Lena, from all of them, in a way that only now was perceptible to her.
Here was Vivien, handing Lena and Shelley cartons of orange juice. Her daughter was forty years old. She was talking fast, asking questions, trying to learn everything about their day all at once. The way Vivien stood looked unfamiliar to Ella. Vivien was not standing like a performer; she seemed not to care whether anyone was looking at her. A sheen of sweat glowed on her forehead, and her hair stuck to her cheek. It was as if she wanted to take up a great deal of space, to distribute herself generously to both Shelley and Lena; she was listening intently to her sister and to her daughter. And there was more. Vivien was wearing makeup that Ella had never noticed before—a little pale concealer under her eyes. Vivien was preparing to be older. She had done this quietly, without telling Ella.
Shelley, her hand firm on her aunt’s back, guided Lena forward. Gold glitter twinkled mysteriously above her right brow. Vivien had spoken of her daughter with fear, but to Ella the girl was taller than she had been that morning. She walked as if thrusting herself, like a knife, into the air. Her answers to Vivien’s questions burst out in a tremendous rush; she herself could not wait to hear what they had done this day. Lena whispered in Shelley’s ear, and the girl knelt and tied Lena’s shoe. Ella saw how Shelley squeezed Lena’s foot and stood up, how Vivien wrapped a sweater around Lena’s arms.
And here was Lena. The sand and sky behind her looked like a painting so new that it would smear if touched. Yet Lena looked the same as always. She smoothed down her housecoat and kicked at the asphalt with her red sneakers. Lena did not change, yet the world changed, stubbornly, around her. Lena stood on the cracked asphalt, and the cold night spread itself above her. She rubbed her arms and shivered, but looked at her surroundings with a surprising calm. Lena had been all right during this long day. Ella released her breath. All during Lena’s life, Ella had worried about how the world could harm her. But the world could love her as well.
Ella suddenly needed to sit down. Her head felt empty and light and she was, all at once, extremely tired. She walked about twenty feet away from them and grasped the back of a bench. She was sweating, her face and armpits damp. Her knees gave way, gently, and Ella was hanging on to the bench, an act that required great strength. It was important not to fall. She pulled herself over and sat on the bench; the wood felt solid and comforting. Ella listened to her breath, so loud in her ears, and wondered why she was tired. Everything had slowed down.
For a moment, sitting on the bench, she believed she had disappeared. She knew her name: Ella. That was all she knew about herself. The world before her presented itself with great clarity. There was nothing but the beach, the sky, the sounds of the street. She was someone, in a silk dress, sitting by Lahambra Beach. Her hands were those of an old woman, tender and bluish, though she believed perhaps she was also a young woman, because her legs were thin and fine. From the certain bitterness in her mouth, she knew she had recently had a cup of coffee. And she knew from the beautiful rings on her fingers that she was married to a loving man.
She sat on the bench. There was no one to claim her. Her blouse was wet with sweat, and she fingered it with curiosity, not fear; she felt wholly free of fear. The cars flashed by, harshly, and when they were gone, the street was wide and quiet. The beach around the lot spread out, a cool, deserted plain of black. The dark air astonished her, for she had never precisely seen it before. It was the color of deep sapphire, and beneath it, the sand and water and trash cans were radiant and pure. The visible colors were so vivid that she could almost smell them: the red of a beach sign delicious as a strawberry, the flashing green signal on a distant boat fresh as mint. All the plants around her were full of immense energy. Elephant palms surged up, trembling, from squares of dirt. It was as though everything on the earth was rising into this light and darkness, all with the same awkward desire.
She took another large breath, sat perfectly still. Her heart beat fully and too fast. Whom did she love? Who loved her? It could be anyone passing in those cars. The faces of the drivers were indistinct but peaceful, and she saw some of them glance at her with a curious expression. No one claimed her. The beach was exceedingly quiet, the business of other people unimportant and far away. In the air was the tart smell of dried salt, of sour fumes from the cars. There was dark and pale light flowing from the streetlights, which illuminated the purple bougainvillea petals clustered in a damp gutter and lit up the silver of abandoned aluminum cans. Everything was so beautiful, it brought her a sharp joy and sorrow at the same time.
A large gray cat was coming across the parking lot, approaching her with an elegant stride. It stopped, its dark eyes gazing at her. Then it settled down on its haunches, its back feet long and slim as a rabbit’s. She and the cat stared at each other. The animal, which had a pale, hairless scar traveling down one side, was still, unblinking. Its tail gracefully flicked up.
She wondered what its name was, what it had eaten that morning. She wondered what a cat saw in its dreams. The cars rushed by. She wanted to know what the cat saw in her, whether it found her beautiful or worthy or sad.
Everyone else had faded away; she and the cat looked out at the beach. It stepped closer and butted its face against her arm, as if trying to express itself, and she heard a guttural, savage noise. Then the cat stepped back and licked her wrist, still scented with hand cream, with its dry pink tongue. She watched the cat lick her upturned wrist, its small head bobbing with effort. The cat seemed pleased with her taste and hungered for it.
Ella sat very still as the cat licked her. Her heart was thrumming, fast, in her chest. She stroked the cat’s thick body, and the cat vibrated with pleasure; easily, without reservation, it accepted her. There was a feeling rising now from the deepest part of her, inside her heart. The cat’s back pressed up, with yearning, into her hand. It wore a dirty clear collar circled with grimy rhinestones. She ran her finger along the cat’s thin scar, which felt smooth as glass. The feeling she now had was to surround the cat. It was a very powerful and tender feeling, coming from the center of her heart; she wanted to surround the cat and protect it from harm. The cat stared at her with its enormous eyes, and Ella believed that it wanted to protect her as well.
She and the cat sat beside each other for a little while. Silver clouds floated across the night sky, and on the beach, teenagers flapped their towels out on the white, velvety sand. Ella touched the base of her neck with her fingertips. Her heart rate had returned to normal. How had she come to live in such a beautiful place? How had she such luck to belong to the world? How had she come to feel such tenderness?