by R. L. Fox
I’ve also been keeping an eye on Julie, seated directly across from me. When Mr. Rosen, Frank, introduced my mother and I, Julie had this sickened look on her face. She’s been staring furtively at my mother and at me with a weird evil look ever since. I feel as if I’m sitting in front of one of those portraits with eyes that follow you around when you move.
What is Julie’s problem? She seems like a sly little flirt. It’s as if she’s jealous of my mother and I. Everyone can see it in her green eyes, behind the shadow of those long silken lashes. She’s pretty, though. I’m sure people have stopped her in the mall to tell her she should be a model. She doesn’t need those extra thick false eyelashes, and all the mascara, that make her look like, well, Lady Gaga or something. And that red strapless dress which actually shows some of her big boobs ...
I’ve watched Dan to see if he stares a lot at Julie. He doesn’t look at anyone. When he came in late, Frank guided him to the seat next to me. Dan’s hair is black, closely cropped. He’s wearing a long-sleeved blue shirt, tucked in, with blue jeans and adorable brown boots, round-toed. Grandma Martin, on my mother’s side, took me shopping in La Jolla last weekend and I’m wearing a mauve dress from the Laura Gambucci Boutique. It’s sleeveless, and short (not a mini, but cut above the knees to call attention to my long slender legs). My shoes are Vera Wang lavender flats.
Suddenly Frank starts tapping on his wineglass with a spoon, producing a staccato of ringing notes. He stands and begins to speak: “Everyone, please. Thank you. While there is some cause for concern, certainly, I want to say that preliminary reports from scientists the world over indicate we do have time for a solution. I’m very optimistic, and I’d like to share that optimism with you. A few are concentrating efforts solely on the reasons behind all this, but the many are seeking an immediate solution, and a detailed plan of correction is in development as I speak. I won’t go into the particulars, but basically it entails detonating a nuclear device near the moon. Careful calculation of the trajectory of force from the explosion will nudge the Moon into a new, non-threatening orbit. Of course exact information about the present orbit is necessary and efforts to gather these and other pertinent data are ongoing. As I said, I’m optimistic. Life goes on, as it must.”
Frank turns to Dan. “Well, Dan, you have a bright future now that you’re officially out of the Army. You did well in high school, co-valedictorian, wasn’t it?”
Dan’s face reddens. He nods solemnly. I can see his shrouded disinterest, obvious to me, but maybe not so obvious to the others, all older people. Frank smiles broadly. “Let’s make a toast,” he says.
Except for Dan, everyone stands, including me. We toast to Dan’s successful future. There are smiles all around, and then the expression on Frank’s face seems to get more serious.
“Dan, you could have picked your school, Stanford, or back east, Harvard perhaps, but you didn’t. I know you haven’t finalized your plans. You may be surprised to hear that a recent Business Week ranking of Schools of Business Administration placed San Diego State among the top twenty in the nation. Therefore, I propose to make another toast.”
Frank coughs with a sort of elegance. He’s silent for a moment. Then he says, “To Dan’s future success in San Diego State’s highly-ranked business school.” Frank raises his glass and everyone but Dan joins in.
All eyes are on Dan. He seems trapped in a web of wordlessness. I love his good looks, his bright eyes. He’s sort of thin but very athletic-looking. He strikes me as rather shy actually.
Dan finally answers Frank, in a quiet tone that’s barely audible. “Thanks, I’ll think about it ...”
As Dan’s voice trails off, my mother stands and taps on her glass with a spoon. The rescuing of Dan is about to take place, to win him over, of course.
“Dan, I’d like to add,” my mother says, with conviction, “I think your graduating first in your class is a marvelous accomplishment. My Sarah should be so fortunate. I know your father is proud. The example of your achievement is one I hope Sarah can aspire to. The challenge will be enormous, of course. Like you, she skipped a grade and success for someone a year younger than everyone else requires a certain attitude, one I’m sure you’re familiar with, that fosters discipline and commitment.”
Oh God. Talk about beating your daughter’s drum.
I blush to the roots of my hair, my face going all pink and agitated, just like when I was introduced to Dan.
Once everyone is quietly seated again, Frank breaks the silence with an echo of Dan’s words, “I’ll think about it.” He shakes his head disappointingly and says slowly, with an edgy tone of sarcasm that seems unbearably heavy and graceless, “Should I say, good enough? Why?”
Then Frank shrugs, and he turns to me. “Well, Sarah, you’ll begin your junior year in the fall?” He knits his brows earnestly and shows his teeth.
My voice cracks as I reply with timid cordiality. “Yes, Coronado High School, uh, Frank.”
Frank chuckles. “Call me Mr. Rosen if it’s easier for you, honey.”
Then my mother rescues me as she says to Julie, “The pearls you’re wearing suit you well, dear. They’re gorgeous. Such fine luster. Where ever did you find them?”
Julie fingers her necklace. “Mike found them.”
“I sure did,” Mike says valiantly. He busies himself with a long swig of his beer.
“I’ve heard nothing but excellent reviews of Grossmont Hills Shopping Center,” my mother goes on. She’s resurrected the condescending smile I’ve seen her use when she doesn’t really like someone. My mother wears a silky white evening dress, strapless, with white heels. Her small, unadorned white hat cuts a crescent on her forehead. In my opinion, my mother pays too much attention to clothes. It wouldn’t be so bad if she kept her obsession to herself, but she’s always trying to spark a similar interest in me. We’ve had a few screaming, door-banging arguments about clothes.
Julie answers, “We should have lunch, do a little shopping.”
My mother quickly accepts Julie’s invitation. “My dear, how thoughtful of you. Yes, I’d love to.” Then my mother throws Julie a rueful look, her way of closing the subject, and she begins to tell her captive audience all about herself, Cate Hartford of the Los Angeles Hartfords, by marriage. She drones on about the Hartfords’ eastern railroad fortune, their well-bred humor and refined malice, etc., etc.
While my mother is speaking, I take the opportunity to walk over to the jukebox and play (not loud enough) U2’s “One Love.” That’s about the coolest song I can find because most of the selections, like “Moon River,” are geared towards the elderly.
When the song ends, Frank breaks off from his conversation with my mother. He looks at Dan. “Dan, I have a proposal for you.” Dan turns to face him. “I’ve spoken with Mr. Garcia—his rancho in the San Pasqual Valley has thrived since I helped him with a water rights problem two years ago. Your brother used to help Garcia get his avocados to market, two summers running.
“I’ve arranged a deal for you, Dan. Good, honest hard work, with fantastic pay, and weekends off. What do you say? It’ll get you ready to tackle the books in the fall. And by the way, with everything that’s happened—Mike and Julie looking for their own place as well—I’ve decided to let the house go, you know, sell it. I have the penthouse downtown. I’ll set you up on campus, of course.” Frank stops to take a sip of his wine and then finishes with, “Best move I ever made was to come to Southern California.”
As we all wait for Dan’s reply, he sits nearly motionless, only chewing his food. He seems irritated. When he finishes chewing he says, curtly, “Don’t pressure me, Dad.” Then he slides his chair away from the table and stands. He looks at Julie with a hint of confusion in his eyes, and he meets Frank’s stare with what I interpret as desperate anger, indignation.
As Dan turns and walks away, I’m wondering, Where’s he going? Duh, to the restroom.
Dinner is winding down, and there’s an interlude of quiet befo
re the black-forest cake will be served in honor of Julie’s twenty-third birthday, and of Dan’s homecoming.
We’ve eaten antipasto salads and the traditional main course, spaghetti and meatballs. Except Dan, who’s consumed almost an entire pepperoni pizza. I’d like to think he was showing off, for my benefit. My mother and Frank are sharing a bottle of premium red wine. Dan and I are drinking Pepsi.
Apparently the restaurant has been a Rosen family’s Sunday favorite for years; Frank and the Sicilian head of the Marechiaro clan are chums. Mike had commented earlier about how strange it is here without Mary, Frank’s wife who died.
As I sit anxiously waiting for Dan to return to his seat, Frank clears his throat. He’s at his cavalier best in a Brooks Brothers suit, vested, navy-blue with white pinstripes. Impeccable. That’s my impression of him, anyway. My mother has coached me in men’s, and women’s, fashion, so I should know. She’s also told me that Frank is the type of man who can take over a room full of people with his assured tone of voice.
“Well, we have a birthday to celebrate tonight,” Frank says. “Julie has turned twenty-three. There’s quite a range of ages here this evening. Sarah, can you tell us your age, that is, if it’s not a secret?”
I smile my wholesome smile. Frank has surprised me with the question, but I respond quickly. “I’m fifteen,” I hear myself say proudly. But then I start to think that my age seems awfully young, and I’m glad Dan hasn’t returned to the table.
My mother interjects, “Sarah’s birth date is May twenty-seventh.”
Frank changes the subject to the war in Afghanistan. My mother and Mike and Julie join the discussion. I sit quietly for a moment. I love the way adults will forget I’m around, and then say the most amazing things. I watch the Sicilian brothers working the pizza ovens, and I survey the wall-sized murals of Venetian waterways, of vineyards and rolling hills in the Roman countryside. Garlands of grape vines adorn the ceiling; red and white bouquets are pictured on the walls between booths. Italian mood music plays softly from somewhere.
Why is Dan taking so long?
Suddenly Mike says, just as if I had asked my question aloud, “Dan’s been known to take his sweet time in the bathroom. It’s a sanctuary for people like him.” Julie whispers something in Mike’s ear.
Mike’s sandy hair is arranged into a peak, fifties style, like the comb of a rooster. He seems nice, but he isn’t nearly as good-looking as Dan. Dan’s is a face that must have been patiently assembled by God.
Frank looks at Mike and thrusts out his chin, sort of motioning towards the restroom, a gesture I’ve seen in black and white gangster movies when the boss wants his crony to fetch or follow someone.
As Mike goes after Dan, I ask myself why Mike married Julie. They don’t seem to fit together very well.
The waiter brings the black-forest cake, rich and damp in two layers. I turn around in my chair and can see that Mike and Dan are standing just outside the restroom. They appear to be arguing. Then Mike disappears into the restroom, and Dan returns to the table.
Standing next to me, Dan addresses everyone. “Sorry about not staying for cake,” he says. “The dance recital starts at eight o’clock. They won’t let you in until intermission if you’re late.”
Frank says, “Sarah, do you find the ballet appealing?” Before I have time to reply, he adds, “Dan, why don’t you take Sarah with you to the performance? Perhaps you can show her around the Valley afterwards, and take her home. Dan’s been dying to meet you, Sarah.”
I look at Dan to see if such a thing might be true. I see that it is not. Is Frank lying?
“It’s not the ballet, Dad,” Dan says, sort of condescendingly.
I giggle nervously. I’m fidgeting eagerly in my chair, but I just know disappointment is forthcoming.
Dan says, nonchalantly, “Sure, I’d be happy to show Sarah around.”
I nearly fall out of my chair. He said my name. But of course, my mother intervenes, stifling the joy. “Sarah studies dance, the ballet, but she has school tomorrow. I don’t think you should stay out late, darling.”
“All tragic dance originates in the ballet, right son?” Frank doesn’t wait for Dan’s answer. “Dan’s Mr. Christie thrives in the tragic realm of the performance arts. What is it this year, the dance in Ancient Greece again? Sarah will enjoy it. Dan’s a cautious driver, with nearly two years of experience. Can you get Sarah home by eleven-thirty?”
Dan slowly nods and says, “This isn’t Jonathon’s production. It’s Fletcher College.” He pauses a moment and then says, “I’ll have Sarah home on time.”
My fingers are crossed under the table while my mother and Frank talk quietly. I feel my breathing move towards hyperventilation as I wait. Mike returns to the table, takes his seat and eyes the cake. I watch as Mike gives Dan a look that goes beyond brotherly chiding.
My mother, smiling again, declares, “Not a minute past eleven-thirty, young lady. Right to bed when you get home.”
I wonder what Frank has said in order to get my mother to agree, but it doesn’t really matter. I want to jump for joy, except that I have to stay cool, oh so cool. Must keep impulsive psycho persona in check.
Mike says, sarcastically, “Sarah, you can meet Liz, Dan’s girlfriend, or rather his ex-girlfriend.” He adds, in a shrill little-girl tone, “Try not to bug him too much; he’s in the Dan zone. He’s Dan-ing out.”
Dan ignores his brother’s comments. He looks a little nervous. Wow. I am about to, well, almost, go on a date with a hot guy who is seventeen.
I stand, carefully, and smooth my dress. I rejoice in the fact that I’m a couple of inches shorter than Dan.
He looks at me as if he were my big brother. “Come on, let’s go,” he says, impatiently. He waves goodbye to the others and walks away.
I follow, closely, and once we’re out of earshot, I say, brusquely, “I’ve never been so ordered about before in all my life.” I quickly add, “Wait a minute, I have to tell my mother something.”
“Forget it, squirt. We have to go.”
“Don’t presume to tell me what I will or won’t do.”
“Then don’t presume to think you’re better than me.”
Dan walks out of the restaurant as I hasten back to the table. Has Dan taken my furtive glances the wrong way? Does he really think that I believe I’m superior, that I’ve tried to patronize him? I kiss my mother on the cheek, and say, “Thanks, Mom.” Then I run after Dan, or rather, Daniel, because that’s what I’ve decided to call him from now on.
8
Daniel
Thursday evening, July 31
El Cajon Valley
Outside the restaurant, I walk casually through the parking lot crammed full of cars. I glance over my shoulder. Sarah, thirty yards or so behind, is running between cars to catch up. Suddenly I notice a flash of lights to my left. A Porsche 911 Turbo has entered the lot and is gaining speed rapidly; the car roars down the lane in back of me, headed straight for ... Sarah! ... My God!
I wheel around and dart to the middle of the lane where I arm-tackle Sarah, lifting her off her feet and driving her back between two parked cars a split-second before the Porsche streaks by us in a red blur.
The 911 Turbo screeches noisily to a stop, too late, accelerates and races out of the lot. I’ve stayed on my feet, with Sarah in my arms. I hold her a moment, then release her slowly. Sarah leans back against a parked car, gasping for air. As we had collided I’d knocked the wind out of her, and she’d let out a pithy cry, a yelp. Now she begins to cry, her face flushed, the teardrops streaming down her cheeks. She covers her face with her hands.
“Are you all right?” I ask, perhaps foolishly.
Sarah stops sobbing, brushes the tears from her face with both hands and stands up straight, smoothing her dress. “I, I, oh gosh,” she says, still out of breath. But then she adds, as she quickly regains her composure, “Yes, of course I’m all right. My Gucci hobo.”
Her small white purse lie
s unscathed in the lane. I retrieve it, and Sarah takes out a Kleenex, wipes her eyes and blows her nose.
“Let’s not tell my mom about this, okay? She’d kill me for being so stupid. I’m fine now.”
“You sure?”
“Lead the way.”
I walk on, and Sarah follows. As I pass my father’s Lexus at the edge of the lot, I uncoil with anger and enthusiasm a phrase of disgust: “Materialistic asshole.”
As I look back at Sarah, she’s making purposeful, thrusting strides to keep up. When I reach my Mazda I turn my gaze toward the hills west of the Valley. The sky, set afire by the descending sun, is a dazzling reddish-orange.
Sarah approaches and says, “Why did you say that back there? Whom were you talking about?”
“Nobody.”
“I won’t tell, I promise.”
“Forget it. I was talking about the congressman, okay? A full-blown egoist. Now you can run and tell your mommy.”
“You should learn not to make personal remarks. It’s very rude. I think you’re charmingly anarchic, but why are you being so petulant? I didn’t do anything to you.”
“I’m feeling joyfully venomous. I’m a cynical idealist. You wouldn’t understand.”
“Try me, I skipped fourth grade and I have the requisites to take college courses in the eleventh grade. I read extensively, and I speak Spanish, almost fluently. You’re the one who thinks he’s superior.”
“You’ve quite a vocabulary for a little girl.”
“Mock me all you want. I have been reading at the adult level for some time. I just finished Kate Chopin’s The Awakening. I have an encyclopedic memory, and in the fall I will study French, and American Literature.”
“The British writers, Huxley, Orwell, that’s where it’s at, not to mention Blake, Keats and Shakespeare.”
“I’ve read Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland and Through the Looking-Glass and What Alice Found There, and more recently, Romeo and Juliet,” Sarah says. “It was so romantic, particularly the ending, but I do admit that for Shakespeare’s English I had constantly to refer to explanatory notes. I just don’t know why you’re being so, oh, you know.” She looks at me with good-natured reproach, shaking her head.
