by R. L. Fox
Liz excuses herself and walks over to me. I lead her to a quiet spot around a corner of the building.
“Did you like the dance?” she asks.
“I can’t believe it. My song!”
“Come with me, I’ll introduce you to a few of my friends.”
“No, wait, please. Let’s go to The Palace.”
Liz shakes her head. “I can’t, not tonight. Maybe another time.”
My heart sinks. “Why not?”
“We’ve all planned to watch the performances and then go out together, for coffee or whatever. Why don’t you come with us?”
“With Rutledge?”
“Yeah. Of course.”
I try hard to suppress my anger. “I’ll forget about what you did with David if you’ll come with me tonight.” I extend my arm in a chivalrous gesture. I know I’m being unreasonable, but I feel she should offer me some sort of compensation for what she did with my best friend.
Liz says, with unmistakable decisiveness, “I told you, I can’t.”
“I don’t know if there will be another night.” I’m bluffing, but Liz, easily inflamed, ignites, and she walks away.
I follow and grasp her hand. She stops, turns around and faces me. We scowl at each other in silence. As I’m looking at her I try to gauge the measure of her love. I go to her and take her into my arms, but she doesn’t respond. Her body is stiff and unyielding, and I realize it means nothing less than total rejection.
She breaks away and raises a reproving finger, giving me a look of pedagogic disapproval. “These past two years with you were fun. But it wasn’t real; you weren’t real.”
I remain silent. Each ticking moment seems to bear Liz further away from me. I peer at her, and I notice for the first time something vitally different about my bandit queen who is nearly nineteen years old: beneath her wild and crazy and carefree bent, there lives a dispirited and troubled girl. Liz has grown up.
She closes her eyes and shakes her head in frustration. Suddenly she says, turning away, as though addressing not me, but the darkness that surrounds us, “I’m back with Peter. It’s better than living at home, and he treats me with respect.”
Now she’s playing the demure innocence game. She doesn’t even look at me. I’m trying to quell my own fire, with a deluge of cruel intentions her revelation about Peter has brought on. I’m tired of having a capricious girlfriend. “I’ll bet Rutledge respects you, all right,” I say contemptuously. “I thought you were going to let him take you right there on the dance floor.” I’m filled with cold, ivory anger.
Turning to face me, she snarls, “I think I shouldn’t ever see you again. You don’t want to mature, you want nothing to change.”
I shrug and smile grimly. Her words have sent a chill through me. She’s always been good at conveying her feelings dramatically. She sounds just like my father. It seems I’m resigned to her lack of understanding. I’ve wasted a vast amount of energy on her. But I’m afraid to stop wanting her, and I summon in my mind an image of her, naked and subdued.
She looks at me with mute, reproachful eyes. “I have to go on,” she says, “but in a different direction. I hope you find peace.”
As Liz begins to cry, she turns her back on me and walks quickly away, and then breaks into a trot. She’s gone forever, and I tell myself that I don’t care.
It’s as though Liz has herself fixed on some wholesome future in which I have no part, but I don’t give a shit. She’s screwed me again. For the last time!
I recall vaguely a line from a Shakespearean sonnet, words to the effect that nothing under the stars is quite as wretched as love turned to hate.
I’m madder than hell but I can still see how much I will miss Liz. I’ll miss the weight of her wrist on my heart when I lie beside her, and the way she lies beneath me without the mask and mystery of her long hair to hide her beautiful face.
I turn around and stride dutifully on, to meet Sarah, gaining speed as I walk because I am losing control. I’m treading on the sidewalk adjacent to the gym, moving towards the front of the building, when Devon and her parents appear, strolling along in the warm night air.
I stop and smile devilishly to myself. I can’t help it; this is just what I need to dilute my anger, a little revenge for Liz’s shameful manipulation of David. Why not? She deserves retribution, and Devon deserves to know the truth. I sense that I’m becoming entangled in evil, but some unknown force urges me on.
As the Santini family draws near, Liz’s mother, a tall, pale-skinned woman of Anglo-Saxon heritage, calls to me. “Hello, Dan. How’ve you been?” She’s always treated me well, with respect. Liz’s father, on the other hand, short, dark-skinned, Sicilian, doesn’t speak; he averts his eyes as we pass each other.
Devon slows her pace, letting her parents walk ahead. “I’ll catch up,” she says to them.
She smiles at me with the usual wide-eyed innocence. She’s wearing a white blouse with pleated blue skirt. At fifteen (sixteen in three months), with aquiline nose and big brown eyes, Devon resembles her sister, but she’s taller and thinner than Liz. Her reddish-brown hair is long and straight. In many ways she’s been like a little sister to me. I’ve watched the shy, pimply-faced eighth-grader develop into a talented high school actor.
“I have something to tell you, Devon.” I can hardly contain my excitement. “You won’t believe it, I’ve lost Liz, it doesn’t matter; nothing matters now. We’ve always been honest with each other. I want to keep it that way, so I have to tell you that your sister slept with my best friend.”
I wait, first for Devon to hear the words, and then for the meaning of the words to penetrate her sphere of being. It was that way with me, when Liz had told me about David.
“What? Daniel, is this some kind of cruel joke?” Devon has already begun to cry because she knows I would never joke about such a thing. She says faintheartedly, “Why did you tell me this?”
She runs, not after her parents, but in the opposite direction, across the courtyard, and when she reaches the other side she collapses on the lawn near a young tree. She lies in the grass with her head in her hands, sobbing.
I run after her, but when I draw close, Devon shouts at me, “Go away, Daniel, go away! I want to be alone! Please!”
A thick gray mist has developed, blanketing the night with a despair as damp as the gloom that now envelops Devon. I have blown it, again, I tell myself, as I back slowly away from her. It is as if I’ve made a pact with the devil, the Evil One who plays tricks on us humans. Yes, I despise Liz, but I despise myself most of all!
I leave Devon to suffer the pain one feels when believing in another’s love and then learning that it’s a hoax, a bad joke. I hope someday the gods forgive me, because I will never forgive myself.
I trudge along like I’m walking through mud. In the hazy semi-darkness, as in a dream, I seem to hear, from somewhere nearby, my mother’s voice, just as before in my car. She says, chastising me, “Why did you hurt the poor girl, Danny Boy?” I look around quickly, half-expecting to see my mother’s ghostly form, ragged, unsettled, wandering.
It is then that I do see, or think I see, lurking in a crevice of the building, a woman—my mother? A tingle of fear runs through me as she walks soundlessly over the grass, so silent I can only take her for a spirit, a ghost. I wave to her, and I turn around to tell someone else, anyone, with hopes they might substantiate what I am seeing. But there is no one else to tell, and when I turn back around my mother is no longer there.
I feel stupid, and I know I’ll never mention it to anyone. I’ve read about English woodland spirits, how ingenious they can be. And who better is there to play tricks on, than me, the overstressed bungler with the soul of a clown, the schlemiel?
Finally, I reach the front of the gym and come upon Sarah. She smiles sweetly and runs to me. As she regards my face a hint of sorrow seems to cloud her eyes.
“What’s wrong, Daniel? What happened?” Her words resonate with a mixture of appreh
ension and aggression.
I give a long sigh, acknowledging defeat. “I lost her,” I say.
“I’ll go to The Palace with you.”
“Sorry, no one under fifteen and a half admitted. Photo I.D. required.”
“We have plenty of time. Will you show me around the Valley then, before you take me home?”
“Sure. Why not?”
“Where will we go first, Daniel?”
“I thought we might cruise Baker’s. Do you like ice cream?”
“Totally.”
I follow Sarah into the parking lot, watching as she moves ahead confidently with that rhythmic sway in her stride. For a brief moment a shaft of light from an overhead lamp seems to catch her perfectly, surrounding her hair with a bright halo of immaculate design, a circle of radiance that no sadness or devilish tricks can pass through. It’s a blessing, I think, that Sarah has come along, for it seems I’m a lot like the Velveteen Rabbit, in need of a good fairy, or a genuine angel, to help me discover the true shape of my heart.
9
Sarah
Friday, early morning, August 1
Coronado Island
It’s after midnight, but I’m not sleepy at all, because I can’t stop having dreamy, sort of sensual, unspiritual thoughts about Daniel. I wrote a little something about him in my diary, and now I think I should write my dad a letter.
“Dear Dad, Guess what?!?! I’m in love with a boy for the first time ever. His name is Daniel, and he’s very handsome. I’m sure he doesn’t feel the same way about me, but maybe he will someday. He just broke up with his girlfriend, so I have a chance, right? I believe, as you once told me, that very few things are really impossible.
“Actually Daniel is the son of Frank Rosen, the congressman, and he’s seventeen. But don’t worry because he’s really really nice. Mom and I had dinner tonight with Frank, his two sons, Mike and Daniel, and Mike’s wife, Julie. Julie is kind of creepy, although she’s pretty and, well, voluptuous. Mike seems nice. He’s a lot older than Daniel. Frank announced that he’s selling his house, so that makes me think he’s quite serious about Mom.
“I found out that Daniel skipped a grade in school, like me. He graduated last December as co-valedictorian of his class. He was in the Army, in Afghanistan, but I don’t think he liked it because he wasn’t in for very long. Maybe he got out because his mom had died, or because his dad is a congressman. Mike is in the Air Force.
“I guess Mom had fun at the dinner; she seemed her usual bubbly self. Daniel had to leave early to watch his girlfriend dance at college, and Frank asked him to take me with him. I did a really dumb thing when I was following Daniel out to his car. In a parking lot full of cars, I ran between the parked cars, and then a speeding car was coming right towards me but Daniel saved me just in time. Daniel is so quick on his feet and very athletic. I’ll never do that again; I learned my lesson. I’m afraid to tell Mom about it because she’ll no doubt ground me for a week and I won’t be able to, if he calls, talk with Daniel on the phone.
“The dance recital was fun, and then Daniel went to see his girlfriend at intermission and they broke up. I was sad for Daniel, but happy, too, in a way. Daniel took me afterwards to El Cajon Valley and we got an ice cream at Baker’s Drive-thru and he showed me his high school.
“Then we went up to the top of Mt. Helix, from where you can see all over the county, from the North County all the way to Mexico and out to the ocean, including downtown San Diego. There’s a huge white cross in the Christian style there, too. The sky was moonless. The lights below and the stars above were beautiful. It was so romantic. I wanted Daniel to kiss me, but of course he didn’t.
“He took me home after that. We arrived just before eleven-thirty, the curfew time Mom had set. In Daniel’s car I waited for him to kiss me goodnight. I’d read in one of those glamour magazines that women should always call attention to their mouths if they want to be kissed, as in licking a lollipop or whatever, so I reached into my purse and took out Mom’s lip-gloss, sliding it on my lips for a moment. But Daniel didn’t take the hint. I’m wondering if perhaps my inexperience shows a little too much.
“Or who knows, maybe he didn’t kiss me because of the totally uncool item I bought at Rite-Aid on the way home. I needed a roll of toilet paper for my bathroom. There isn’t any downstairs and Carmelita isn’t coming until Saturday to do the shopping. I’m down to using tissues. So I asked Daniel to stop at the Rite-Aid. I didn’t tell him what I needed to buy. I was going to hide the roll under a bag of Doritos or something. But Rite-Aid was having a huge sale on toilet paper and all they had left was the Charmin twenty-four pack. It took up almost the whole back seat of Daniel’s Mazda. He didn’t give me a weird look or anything, but it’s hard to tell what he was thinking. He even wanted to carry the toilet paper up to the house for me, but I insisted on doing it myself.
“Dad, I know that you will approve of Daniel. I feel intuitively that my relationship with him is destined to be long-term. I miss you. Pleasant dreams. Love, Sarah
“P.S. Mom is about to fire Carmelita because she’s been out sick all week. Also, Ashley wants to be friends again, but I’m not sure it’s a good idea. I can’t stand being betrayed. Trust is so very important in life. Don’t you think so, Dad? I don’t really care if Ashley thinks I’m cool or not. I only aspire to be loving and gentle and trustful. Of course I’m naturally curious, too. I just want to enjoy my life, free of sin and sadness.”
Even after writing the letter to my dad, I can’t sleep. I pull the quilt Grandma Hartford made over my head, and soon add the pillow, too, but I can’t stop thinking about Daniel. I just can’t sleep except when I’m sleepy, and I’m not. And the sparkle of light in my heart, which is keeping me awake, won’t go out until I fall asleep, same as stars.
10
Daniel
Friday evening, August 1
Tijuana, Mexico
I ride silently with Mike in his pickup truck as we draw closer to Tijuana. Mike keeps watch in his rear-view mirror for the Highway Patrol, as he pushes his truck up to eighty miles per hour. We’ve just finished eating burgers and fries at a Carl’s Junior.
I can’t stop wondering why it is that Julie, like the Rosen family’s prevailing angel of death, pervades my mind, possesses me, even in the worst of times, in the aftermath of the tragic death that still saddens my heart.
My mother’s suicide has seared my flesh to the bone and, after several months of self-pity, turned my indignation to utter wrath.
Yet throughout this time of my grief, this time of my disturbed state of consciousness, there’ve been unfaltering images of Julie, vivid scenes of the beautiful archangel captured in my arms, her lips parted desirously, my face buried in her luscious bosom. These visions have invaded my mind ceaselessly, stolen my inclination towards sorrow and increased my sexual frustration.
Once upon a time death and sex did not exist for me. There was no such thing as tragedy, no women of sensual beauty. My unstirred thoughts, in the main, were of baseball, sno-cones, frozen Milkshakes on a stick.
Then, at an age earlier than most, presumably, I began to develop an interest in women that is now no less than fascination, captivation. I began to see nothing but beauty, erotic beauty, in the opposite sex, and since then I’ve felt an acute sense of physical attraction for every beautiful girl, or woman, I see.
One Sunday afternoon in August many summers ago, Julie Williams took center stage in my Epicurean imagination. I was attending, with my mother and father, Mike and Mr. Christie, the annual Tycon International Corporation picnic at El Monte Park.
I had looked on from a safe distance as my father, who was Tycon’s Chief Financial Officer at the time, introduced Julie. Her pretty face was revealed in the shadow of her yellow bonnet. When I squinted my eyes a little, and at the same time imagined hearing Julie’s carefully cultivated, soft, breathy voice, I could see the ghost of a young Marilyn Monroe. I’d read parts of a biography of Marilyn, of Norma J
ean, and, unlike most people, I knew about her really small shoulders. Julie is like that, I had thought.
I sniff the sage on a breeze through the open window of the truck, as Mike disrupts my reverie when he releases the steering wheel and mimes firing a rifle at an imagined rabbit.
I pay Mike no attention and take myself back again, remembering that I’d experienced a strange feeling in the pit of my stomach when our father introduced Julie to Mike on that somnolent Sunday in the canyon full of live oaks. That strange feeling brought to mind the story of Prometheus, who, according to Ancient Greek legends, warned his brother Epimetheus not to marry Pandora, who was a gift from Zeus, their father. Of course, Epimetheus didn’t listen. He married her anyway and as a result Pandora opened the box of evils upon the world.
Later that day, my father told Mike to drive to a nearby 7-Eleven for ice and soft drinks. “Take Julie with you,” my father said.
“Take Daniel with you too, Michael,” my mother had interjected.
Julie wore a sleeveless print blouse and dark capris. Everyone else was wearing shorts. The delicate gold chainlet on Julie’s shapely left ankle caught my attention. It twinkled nearly imperceptibly in the sunlight now and then; I couldn’t keep from glancing furtively at the thin strand of gold when I was sitting next to Julie in Mike’s cherry red ‘59 Chevy pickup.
Julie caught me looking, threw me a funny look and uncrossed her legs. Mike had tuned the radio to his favorite country music station, and we were listening to Carrie Underwood sing “All-American Girl” when Julie reached for the tuning knob and found a hard rock station.
When we got back to the park, Mike and I were to play in the softball game, but Julie asked Mike to walk with her up the wooded mountainside. They didn’t return until everyone was ready to start home.
Three months later Mike and Julie eloped, to Yuma, Arizona. Mike had married a knockout, I thought then, a woman out of his league, and I’d promised myself to ask Julie about her anklet.
