“She hasn’t been swimming all day” Sissy tells him. “All week.”
“They’re not swimming,” Greg says, pushing back his long hair.
“I’ve got to watch Sissy.”
“So, bring her.”
Excitement floods Sissy, and, without waiting, she runs upstairs to her bedroom. Eva hears her rummaging through her drawers. A minute later, Sissy is back, her navy shorts and a green T-shirt over her bathing suit. Still barefoot, she holds a towel and her new sandals. A pair of sunglasses is pushed up on her head, an effect Eva only assumes is meant to be glamorous.
“I didn’t say you could come,” Eva scolds. “I didn’t even say I’m going.”
Greg rights himself, pushes his glasses up again. “You got a hot date, Evie? Your hot date finally come through for you?”
“I know her date,” Sissy says.
“Can it,” Eva tells her.
“A few hours, Evie.” Greg scratches his arm. “Can’t wait on an old man forever.”
“One hour,” she says, grabbing her things.
For decades it has been called Depression Beach, a testimony to the thirties and those times when teenagers spent their summer days idling away on the man-made strip of sand that lines the westernmost edge of the creek, on the other side of the park where the Anderson girl disappeared, the two-mile stretch of woods between them. Back in a time when there was little to do and little money, local teenagers would gather here to sunbathe and pass around stolen cigarettes. They would sail small wooden boats or set their rafts onto the water and float for a mile, all the while knowing that they would have to eventually stop drifting, and then lug their rafts back to the beach and waiting friends. There were those older men, too, those who would meet here for late-night games of craps played under the glow of flashlights, all before the police inevitably came with the intention of hauling off only the slowest of runners, those who couldn’t quite make their way to the woods to hide, or those who, laughing and usually looped with liquor, didn’t think to run off down the street and back home to their wives. And then inevitably there were also those wives, annoyed, embarrassed, who would have to drive downtown to the courthouse in order to bail the men out of jail.
Eva has always loved this beach, even without knowing its history.
She loves the alcove that nestles up against the waiting trees, away from the view of the road; she loves the heat as it bakes the orange marmalade sand; she loves the sunlight on the muddy water, the pebbled shore. In spite of everything, she is cheered to be outside. In the parking lot, across the street from the beach, she listens to Greg as he talks about his plans to get an apartment this year, to expand his business and move to the city. New York, maybe somewhere in Jersey, by the boardwalk. His parents have taught him how to cultivate plants in the basement under high-wattage special lights. Eva has seen the clusters of weed firsthand— as large as bouquets and just as fragrant, all picked and strung the length of the entire room, hung to dry. He carries such spoils in a brown paper bag that is additionally weighted with beer. She hears the bag bump against his leg as he walks, languidly, behind her. “I’m rolling in it now, Evie,” he says. “An apartment? Can you imagine? It’s the most lucrative business I’ve ever operated.”
“The only other business you’ve operated is trading baseball cards in grade school,” Eva reminds him. She catches sight of a parked convertible, sleek, a pair of furry dice suspended from the mirror. Her brisk pace lessens so much that Sissy is able to catch up and then bypass her. She glances back to Greg. “God, you invited the Armstrongs?”
“Among others,” Greg says. “It’s all the same love, all the same business.”
Eva stops and places her hands on her hips. “You have a crush on Brenda? That’s rich. What does she do, put out for you?”
“You’re the only one who puts out, and not for me.” Greg grins. “What would you care, Evie, if I had a crush on Brenda?”
“Who is Brenda?” Sissy asks.
“Exactly,” Eva says. “Brenda isn’t anyone at all. And I wouldn’t care, regardless.” She lifts her chin in a purposefully haughty manner and wonders if Greg sees any difference in her. It bothers her that he thinks, and has told her several times of late, that Peter is a joke, a passing fancy. It bothers her that he thinks she has only a girlish fascination, and that Peter has only a taste for young skin. And in this, there is a dismissal from Greg, a failure to remember his and Eva’s own history: the awkward moment years ago when they sat next to each other, pecking out notes on the piano in the basement, the dim light making them both feel slightly bold. The electricity of their first kiss, how Eva hadn’t a clue what to do with her tongue and so let it hang there, idly, worried the entire time that peanut butter might be plastered against her wiry teeth. Afterward, she ran her tongue along the metal, checking and rechecking for hours. He never said anything about the kiss, though she supposes it’s because she told him that if he mentioned it at all, she’d positively deck him.
“You’re such an asshole,” Eva says to him now. “Inviting the Mafia sisters.”
“Pissy pissy”
“That’s not even the half of it,” Sissy says, taking Greg ‘s side. “She’s been a real jackass lately.”
Eva ignores this as they cross the street. She glances up and down the road, imagining that Peter’s van will come speeding by and that, seeing her, he’ll stop to apologize. She waits, but nothing happens.
They head down the dusty knoll and trudge across hot sand, Eva’s feet digging in deeper with each step. Around the bend there are also others from Watson High: Phil Keefe and Andy Glass. Andy lies on his bare belly, white like an onion, while Phil sits Indian-style with his shirt off, the red from his hair gleaming in the sun, his entire body spotted with freckles. He plays a six-string acoustic, plucking Neil Young songs with his long fingernails. Next to them, the Mafia sisters, the Brenda wannabes, lie on separate blankets. Both wear bikinis that tie on each hip and shoulder. Brenda sits, wearing a razor-thin wedding dress, one sequined at the bodice and layered at the edges with tulle.
Greg waves when he sees them, and Eva lags behind. Sissy follows on her heels, chattering to Greg about the summer and days in the pool, the tan that, after seeing the Mafia sisters, she is suddenly working on. She prattles on to the point where Eva feels disgusted, to the point where she’d like to tell Sissy to go home. Sissy’s foot catches Eva’s sandal. “For Christ’s sake,” Eva says sharply.
Greg sits down, looks around to see if anyone else is in view, and then he hands the bag over to Brenda, telling her to pay up. “All of you.” He waits for the flutter of money to be extracted from pockets and beach bags. “You look tortured,” he tells Brenda.
“I’m more tortured than I’ve ever been,” Brenda says. She pulls out a bunch of rolled joints and passes them around. She pulls out the six-pack. “Where’d you get this?”
“South side,” Greg says. “The guy at the liquor store never cards. I swear I could tell him I’m Jimmy Carter and he’d just say ‘Here you go, Mr. President.’ ”
“Well, thanks, Jimmy.” Brenda raises the open can before tipping it back.
“Why are you dressed like that?” Sissy asks. She crouches down uncertainly.
“This?” Brenda says, picking at the tulle.
Eva, still debating, finally sits alongside Greg. She leans back on her elbows and turns her head, angling it toward the sun, content enough to feel the pleasant heat on her face. She closes her eyes. She buries her feet in the sand, up to her ankles. “I feel underdressed,” she says. “Maybe I should have worn chiffon or a tiara.”
The Armstrong sisters erupt into a chorus of laughter and throw pretend rice at Brenda. They ease into a rendition of “Here Comes the Bride.”
“Very funny.” Brenda bends her legs and lets the frilly material fall to her mid-thighs, the particles of sand evident on her bronzed skin, sticking to the coconut oil. “I was waiting for Prince Charming to come along, and look, I go
t a beer and Greg instead.”
“Every frog is a prince,” Greg tells her.
Eva opens her eyes again and sees Sissy has settled back, half on the sand and half on the edge of a blanket. Eva catches Sissy’s blatant admiration of Brenda, of her dress and slender arms, long like willow branches. Eva, however, prefers to ignore this all: the silly dress; the Mafia sisters and their duplicated hairdos, blondes made whiter by summer. She inhales, dreaming of what she will say to Peter when she sees him again.
“You look beautiful in the dress,” Sissy says, still marveling. “You look like a queen.”
“So what’s up with the dress, anyway?” Greg says, taking a drag and passing it to Eva. “Or do we have to guess all day?”
Brenda sits up and makes an exaggerated face. She crumples the empty bag and tosses it into the woods behind her. She passes around what’s left of the six-pack.
“Drama,” Eva says without looking. “It’s intolerable.”
“Funny from you. If you must know, it’s my mother’s, actually. She starved herself to fit in it. I had to fucking drive her and husband-number-three-Gary-what’s-his-name to the airport so they could go to Hawaii for their honeymoon. It’s like a serial occupation or something, marriage, going to Hawaii. She does it all the time. I keep telling her she’s better off on her own, but does she listen? She tells me I wouldn’t understand. And this dress? Well, I’m feeling just messed up and just pissed off enough to wear it to shreds, if you really want the truth, because there’s no way in hell she’s going to wear it for marriage number four, is what I think.”
“Christ,” Eva says, rolling her eyes. She stares at the clouds above her. “Get over it already.”
Brenda laughs shrewdly and takes a hit. “I’ll take your advice to heart, Eva. I really will.”
“Well, I think you look hysterical in the dress,” Andy says.
Brenda flops back down and spreads her arms wide. “I don’t care what you think.”
“I keep waiting for her to say she’ll marry me, but she refuses,” Phil adds, still working the guitar strings in his fingers. “All dressed up and nowhere to go.”
“Au contraire,” Brenda says, drinking more beer. “You know they’re sending me to France after graduation as a payoff, and I might just stay there and go down on some French guys.”
“Go down where?” Sissy interrupts. She stole a beer when she thought Eva wasn’t watching. She’s already taken in a gulp, practically choking, and now she’s wiping her mouth before taking another sip. “Eva?”
“Go down to nowhere. Go down to mind your own goddamn business,” Eva says. She stretches her legs like a lazy cat.
“I think you should take me to France,” Greg says. “I bet I could get a business going there.”
“You?” Eva says, turning toward him again. “You don’t even speak French, Greg. You got a D in French, remember?”
Greg grins. “Irrelevant.” He passes the beer back to Sissy. She takes another swig, continues drawing circles in the sand with a small branch.
“Take it easy,” Eva warns, but, amused now, Greg passes a joint and Sissy inhales. She starts a coughing fit before trying to blow smoke like Brenda does.
“You got to hold it in,” Andy tells her, mimicking the action. “Like this.”
“Don’t,” Eva says. “She’s just a kid.”
“I can do it.” Sissy inhales, and Eva sees her register a haze, a sweet exhaustion. Her cheeks flush like peonies. Sissy inches closer to Greg. She lets her knee brush against his, holding it there for a second longer than she should, an illicit gesture, practically intercourse.
Eva laughs suddenly. “You better be careful. Dad might be watching. That murderer might be watching, too.”
“Vicki?” Sissy looks confused.
“That was awful,” Brenda says. “My mother gave me a curfew over that nonsense.”
“She was my best friend,” Sissy tells them all.
“Tough luck,” Brenda says casually. “My condolences.”
The group makes small talk about Neil Young and Lynyrd Skynyrd.
Over the next hour, Sissy sways in time to Phil’s strumming rhythm, as enchanted as a snake, her eyes half-closed. Eva feels the pot working through her, that distance that brings with it an enchantment, as if she were outside of everything, watching. She’s happy that it has settled her stomach. Happy only to feel a diffuse love.
Eva lets the sun bake her face. Sweat drips from her forehead and slides down her neck and onto her shoulder. The sand boils beneath her. She takes another hit and looks up at the plane that flies high above. She could fly like that. She is flying, she is flying so high now that she thinks she should never stop, that nothing can stop her and what she wants to accomplish. She waves at the plane, says, “Bye.”
“Am I high?” Sissy asks.
“Oh, you’re fucking high,” Phil says, cracking up.
In the distance, on the road, a car passes. Eva hears, too, a distant sound, a train whistle. Everything comes to her in subtle, gradual waves. Everything feels pleasant, even the sand that scratches her legs and clings to her back and her rumpled towel knotting up under her calf She exhales, into the air, into the clouds, remembering a poem Peter once read in class. For some reason, the thought of him reading—too serious, too engrossed—now sends her into a hysterical laughter.
“Something funny, Eva?” This from a Mafia sister.
“Something you want to share?”
“Shut up and give me a hit,” Eva says, still laughing. “I was thinking about wandering like a cloud. That poem.”
“Oh,” Brenda says. “Must be the inspiration of Mr. Fulton, I bet.” She lathers oil on her arms. She wipes her hands on her mother’s dress.
“Evie’s got a date with poetry,” Greg says, inhaling. “She loves it.”
“Her sister isn’t the only one with a crush,” Brenda says.
“Maybe you could loan Eva your wedding dress,” a Mafia sister suggests.
Brenda grins now, her pleasure evident. “You know, Mr. Fulton had me stay after class once. The day of that big pep rally, remember? He wanted to know what types of books I liked to read, but I think he just liked my cheering outfit.”
“You’re lying,” Eva says. Her laughter fades too quickly, as does her certainty. She feels insulted and bullied. She tries to regain her composure, save what of her self-pride she has. She tries to imagine the Mafia sisters at thirty and forty and fifty how their lives will be filled with boredom and fat husbands, how they will fawn over pool boys and young mailmen, regretting their spoiled youth, all while she and Peter will still be—somehow, miraculously—fresh and bright.
“I think you’re the one lying,” Brenda says simply, interrupting Eva’s thoughts.
“I don’t lie,” Eva says.
“Well, then, tell us. Let us in on the secret. It’s not like everyone hasn’t already guessed, you know.”
“I have a secret, too,” Sissy interrupts, giggling like a lunatic. “I love Greg.”
With that there is first a lingering silence and then snickers from the girls, from Greg himself. Confused, slightly out of sorts, Sissy looks around and then gets up and brushes sand off her knobby knees. Wobbly from the beer, swaying from the joint, she marches away like an ungainly soldier. Eva sees this and senses her disappointment. “Oh, Christ, Sissy. Come back! They don’t mean anything.”
Greg laughs again. “I love you, too!” he teases.
“Shut up,” Eva says. She watches as Sissy marches with an uncharacteristic bravery, her feet pounding into the hot sand. She will preserve her pride, such as it is, Eva thinks, and prove that whatever is said means nothing, really, that nothing in the entire world bothers her, even their laughter. Her walk says, Leave me alone.
Eva thinks about running after Sissy, about running away with her, down the beach, into the cool woods. She looks around and senses everyone is waiting for that, and she senses, too, that if she leaves, she will only become the butt
of their conversation and ridicule. She remains seated on the blanket, the longing to go after Sissy dwindling as her sister moves farther from sight.
“We’re dying to know,” Brenda says, lifting her dress.
Eva leans back and takes a slow drag, the dizziness coming over her in greater force. She feels as though she is on a ledge. If she says nothing, they will think she is making up a story. If she says nothing, they are already swelling with conversation, eager to fill in anything that Eva herself does not say. Feeling the sense of risk, she pushes forward. She waits while the silence grows so tangible it holds under it a growing buzz.
“Well?” Brenda says.
“Well,” Eva says knowingly. “Here’s the story with Peter Fulton. Here’s what happened the day I bumped into him at the library …” She tells them of things she should not know, describing Peter in much the same way she imagines she has been described by if not Peter, then the boys—the shape of him, the way he moves when he comes to her, the way his stomach muscles tense up when he’s over her. “He’s wonderful,” she says, inhaling. “You have no idea.”
“You’re lying,” a Mafia sister tells her.
Brenda raises a slender eyebrow. “Scandalous,” she says.
“The guy is a dick,” Greg says. “And you, Eva, you’re fucking stoned.”
Eva, quiet now, senses a sly subterfuge of the moment, and her excitement, her secret pleasure at the telling, wanes; her thoughts turn ruinous. She registers Greg’s caution. But still it feels so good to make mistakes. It feels so good to tell people what she’s held inside, what she’s wanted everyone to know. She wishes everything could be like that.
“Don’t say anything,” Eva tells them all. “I mean, if it got out, it would require the United Nations to intervene.”
“Oh, no, we won’t tell,” they say. “We promise not to tell.”
It is bad enough to be embarrassed publicly, to suffer humiliation in front of one’s beloved. It is bad enough that the adult world remains mired with inconsistencies and complicated discussion, that the world outside Sissy Kischs fingertips is incongruous and unpredictable. But that she will also now have to commit the moment to memory—her utterance of love, followed by their snickering laughter—is nothing short of horrific. She only spoke a truth, and in doing so, she felt the wonder of lightness grow inside her. And then, from those she believed to be new friends—the glances from those girls, and Greg’s bemused expression—looks that said a defense or denial from Sissy would have been futile and would have rendered the point even more amusing.
Precious Page 19
