“It's been all kids, Mom, and diapers, and I don't know how to live or date in the real world anymore. Plus my hair is a mess.” I cover my head with my hands and can hardly catch my breath now.
“I think you're having an anxiety attack,” says Auggie. “It happened to me once in an airport.”
“Anxious about what? Nothing is happening in my life. I have no life!”
“Maybe you just don't feel in control. You're worried about what's coming next because you don't want it to be bad,” suggests Auggie. “It's completely understandable after everything that's happened.”
As long as he brought it up—“What are we doing?” I deliver this question as if I'm seven months pregnant by Auggie, we're not married, and he's joined the foreign legion.
“Gee, Hallie. We're just on a date,” says Auggie. A little bit of helplessness creeps into his voice. “I mean, you can't always know everything that's going to happen, right?”
I dry my face with my hands and turn away so that he can't see my swollen eyes.
“I suppose we could outline a plan—decide to go to third base or something like that,” he helpfully suggests.
“What exactly are the bases?” I ask.
“I'm not sure. I thought only girls knew that.”
“All anyone seems to agree on is that kissing is first,” I say.
“If you want to kiss, then we can. And if you don't, then we won't.”
“I suppose it does take a bit of the fun out of it by making a schedule ahead of time,” I say with a hint of a smile.
“You can change your mind at any moment,” he adds.
“It's time for some sort of change or else I'm going to end up taking the bed at Dalewood that Mom recently vacated. Eventually they'll name a wing after us.”
“You know what I'd like to do right now?” asks Auggie.
“Move to Zanzibar?” I guess.
“Go in the Jacuzzi and then wash your hair.”
“Wash my hair?”
Auggie runs his fingers through my hair. “You have really beautiful strawberry blond hair, but what have you been using on it?”
“Whatever is family-sized and on sale.”
“I have this incredible organic conditioner with lots of natural protein.”
His hair does look really good. Not a split end in sight. Gee, Craig never wanted to wash my hair. In fact, I don't think he even uses conditioner.
SIXTY-NINE
BOTH THE MAIN HOUSE AND GUEST QUARTERS GLOW PALE PINK IN the darkness from spotlights hidden in the dense shrubbery. On the coffee table is a stack of literary journals. The front cover shows Auggie's name listed next to the title “Goodbye, Chekhov.”
“Wow!” I say. “First prize—congratulations.”
“Yeah, there's my prize,” he points to the ten copies of the journal.
Auggie goes over to the bar and makes us drinks. The process appears to be very complicated, involving sliced fruit and a shot glass.
“What is all that?”
“I'm making rum runners.” Pointing to the array of bottles he reels off their names, “blackberry brandy and crème de banana, a splash of pineapple and orange juice, and a dash of grenadine.” Only when he gets to an aged-looking bottle at the end of the line he slyly adds, “And old Great-Granddad's secret recipe.”
“Well, I won't ask you for it because the whole town recently heard about what happened to him. Though I wish you had been here to see everyone out fishing for the whiskey.”
Auggie pours the brew into a silver shaker and strains it over ice cubes into ceramic tiki glasses rimmed with salt. “Why don't you grab a robe from behind the bathroom door? It's getting chilly out.”
“I didn't bring a bathing suit.”
“I could lend you one of mine,” jokes Auggie. “We're about the same size.” This second part is actually true.
God, I've suddenly turned into a forty-year-old. “It's fine.” I take another sip of my drink. The “rum runner” is cool and perfectly sweet. I'm trying to remember what we discussed in the car. Did I agree to go skinny-dipping? And what did we decide about third base? What is third base anyway?
“What the hell,” I accidentally say out loud.
“Huh?” Auggie pops up from behind the bar.
“Jacuzzi—robe—right!” I head toward the bathroom.
When I come out Auggie has a beach towel wrapped around his waist. He's smooth and not that tall or large, but his muscles are well defined. In an art museum I wouldn't be surprised to come across his figure as the statue of an ancient hero.
We head outside and the thrum of insects merges with the gentle trickle of the fountains. The peacocks must have finally gone to bed.
Standing at the edge of the Jacuzzi in a bathrobe I sip my drink while gazing up at the stars etched onto the dark page of night. Closing my eyes it's possible to feel the cool stillness of the shadows and the mysterious embrace of moonlight.
Suddenly the water begins to bubble and gurgle and come to life. Auggie drops his towel, steps into the Jacuzzi, and sinks back, letting out a big sigh.
Looking up to the main house I see that all the lights are out. “Around what time does Cappy get home?”
“Cappy's in bed by ten unless there's a poker game. He used to watch a few quiz shows, but he says it's not fun like in the old days when contestants had to sweat it out in a hot soundproof booth and the games were mostly rigged.”
“Oh,” I say.
“Cappy claims that guys who've done time in prison are just like women who've had kids and tend to be early risers forever after.”
I remain standing at the edge of the frothing water.
“Hallie, I'm allowed to have girls over.”
I remove the robe and quickly slide into the water. It feels warm and welcoming, and Auggie doesn't try anything weird with his feet.
“Are you sure your car is going to make it to Iowa?”
“No,” he says. “If it dies along the way I'll just catch a bus.”
“Why don't you get a new one?”
“I wish!” says Auggie, and then he takes a mouthful of water and spits it up over the edge through his teeth so that it resembles a fountain. “My parents gave me money for my first year of school, but after I blew it they bailed.”
Sitting in the midst of Cappy's sprawling estate, it must be obvious what I'm thinking.
“Cappy doesn't give any of us money,” Auggie states matter-of-factly
“He doesn't?” I say.
“That's not entirely true,” Auggie corrects himself. “Cappy will give his kids and grandkids money for school, but if you flunk anything you're obligated to pay the money back within a year. You have to work for housing and books and whatever else. Cappy doesn't even leave us the money when he dies. It goes to dogs.”
“You mean the SPCA?”
“Retired greyhounds from the dog tracks in Florida.”
This is certainly news. I mean, I know Cappy has his funeral planned, because he's told me more than once that all he wants read are the race results. And I always figured there's a will, because whenever a person is overly attached to his or her money, Cappy is fond of asking if they've ever seen a hearse being followed by a U-Haul. But retired greyhounds?
“Really?” I ask.
“I guess it's not so bad. My mom is a doctor, and her brother David, my uncle, has a successful car dealership. Cappy helped set David up, but after that he had to make it on his own.”
I can't help thinking about how Craig had everything on a plate and then dropped out. Maybe a bit of struggle isn't so bad. Then you appreciate things more than if they were simply your birthright.
It's quiet except for the burbling of the water.
“So what about your dad?” asks Auggie.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“I don't know—how did you feel about his dying?”
I want to tell him that I'm sad and it's been really hard, but that seems stupid and also obvious.
Eventually I say, “To be completely honest, it feels as if I'm living an alternate reality and that at any minute things are suddenly going to return to the way they were. The present doesn't seem real. Does that make any sense?”
“A parallel universe,” says Auggie.
“Something like that,” I say.
“What about that guy Ray you were going out with?” asks Auggie.
“He dropped me like a bad habit,” I say.
Auggie laughs. “You sound like Grandpa.” He tilts back his head and gazes up at the stars. “And wasn't there somebody named Craig?”
“You like to ask the hard questions,” I say.
“That's why I get paid the big bucks to be a writer.”
“We broke up. Actually I broke up. I didn't think he should drop out of school. I'm a controlling witch. That's what I've become.”
“I've read that most people start out as Democrats and end up Republicans.” Auggie stands up and announces, “Time for your hair.”
SEVENTY
AUGGIE RUMMAGES AROUND IN A DUFFEL BAG FOR HIS MAGIC conditioner. “Oh, here's that CD I was telling you about.” He puts on the music and then goes over to the great stone fireplace, turns on a gas jet, and after a moment there's a roaring blaze.
We head into the bathroom where Auggie drops his towel and turns on the water in the shower. “Do you like it really hot?” he asks.
“Sure, that's great.” But all I can concentrate on is the fact that Auggie is standing in front of me naked.
“Okay, go on in,” he says.
Apparently he wasn't kidding about tackling my hair. After the shampoo, Auggie slowly works in the conditioner starting at the ends and eventually reaching my scalp.
“I can feel the difference already,” he assures me.
When we exit the steamy bathroom wrapped in fluffy towels the room is warm and cozy. The large oven of a fire causes shadows like moving pictures to rise and fall on the walls.
“You remind me of a Botticelli painting when your hair is down like that,” says Auggie.
My heart suddenly beats a little faster.
“Come lie down and I'll give you a brain massage.” He plops down on the bed and invites me to do the same.
“A what?”
“It's how people in Russia cure headaches when they don't have any medicine. But you don't need to have a headache. It just feels really good.”
His gentle smile is full of possibility and pleasure. The little voice inside my head says, “Put on your clothes and go home.” Only I feel more relaxed than I have in a long time, possibly ever, and so I lie down on the bed and my towel falls away. It no longer matters that we're naked, because I'm imagining that we live on a commune and at dawn we'll venture out to roam the fields gathering wheat and berries.
Auggie leans against the backboard and places a pillow across his knees so that when I lie down my head is in his lap. The tin knights and papier-mâché masks hanging on the walls shimmer with firelight, and I feel that they're trying to tell me a story with Auggie's CD as the sound track. Trumpets blare with fat fullness, combined with group vocals, and merry flute solos are bombarded by big brass riffs.
Auggie's fingers massage my temples, and I close my eyes.
“What's this music?” I ask.
“ ‘Quizas, Quizas’,” says Auggie. “That means ‘Perhaps, Perhaps.’ It's a bolero cha. Bolero is the name for the great Cuban ballad, and ‘cha’ is added to the end as a way of saying it's got a little more rhythm—a little more cha-cha-cha.”
A sinking feeling washes over me, and I drift back and forth across the borders of consciousness. Auggie delicately moves the tops of his fingers down my cheeks and onto my neck. A little part of me wakes up again. He lifts my arms until they're touching his and then takes my hands and slides down next to me.
Facing me with our noses an inch apart, he softly says, “Hello.”
“You've cast some sort of spell over me, haven't you?”
“It's the organic conditioner.”
Auggie touches his lips to mine and though it's incredibly delicate, his kiss burns into my entire body and rouses me from a long slumber. For the first time since Dad has been gone I want something.
My brain is no longer sending full messages, just a sort of code or possibly spam—Auggie is smooth where Craig isn't … must stop thinking about Craig … shouldn't make love with Auggie … leaves in morning … we'll just kiss … kissing is nice. Across the black canvas of my closed eyes flashes a snapshot of Bernard helping himself to an enormous piece of homemade lemon meringue pie while happily declaring, “I feel a sin coming on!”
Auggie stops kissing and I think he's going to press himself close up against me, but instead he moves his mouth down, down, down. He pays attention to me in some interesting places along the way, which is strange at first, but slowly becomes okay. For a moment my heart falls into my stomach and continues to beat there, until suddenly a roaring hurricane of desire wells up in my chest and I hear the click of the night-table drawer. Barely a moment later Auggie is inside of me. It's as if the entire night were foreplay leading up to this single moment. There's a rush of delight followed by a tingling sense of pleasure, and when I finally shout out, I'm not embarrassed. It seems like it's part of the music.
Auggie rises to go to the bathroom and when he returns we don't curl up together but lie next to each other with just our hands touching. I shut my eyes with a deep luxurious sigh. In my dreams gardens of roses bloom, children laugh, and strong arms hold me safe.
SEVENTY-ONE
ICONTINUE TO SMELL ROSES EVEN AFTER I'M PRETTY SURE THAT I've woken up, though their heavy perfume makes me wonder if I'm still dreaming, or else just dead.
Upon opening my eyes, I find that the bed is blanketed in the petals of yellow, magenta, and orange roses. I'm alone and the room is quiet. A note on the night table says, “Had to leave early to make orientation. Didn't want to wake you—you look so beautiful.” There's the letter A with a little heart drawn next to it. And next to the note is the bottle of conditioner that Auggie had used on my hair.
Okay, what just happened? I ask myself. Self slowly answers, I think it was a terrific one-night stand. It would appear that love and luck both struck unexpectedly, thrust me into a state of euphoria, and then burned off like the morning fog.
My dress is neatly laid out on the table. After putting my clothes on I strategize the best way to reach my car without running into Cappy—whether to make a run for it, or to move slowly, staying low and close to the walls. The dress and shoes cast the sprint in a dangerous light and so I hunch over as I walk briskly, leap into the driver's seat, and head down the driveway without seeing anyone at all.
The next problem is entering my house while looking like I spent the night at the no-tell motel. I briefly consider climbing up the tree that hangs over the roof and going through Teddy and Davy's window. That still doesn't solve the problem of where my car was parked all night. I finally decide there's no alternative but to use the front door, turn myself in, and throw myself at the mercy of the court.
Mom rushes out of the kitchen when she hears the front door open. “I just phoned the Stocktons’, but they hadn't seen you since yesterday afternoon.” She looks more than a little worried. “I-I didn't know you were going to be gone all night.”
“Neither did I.” I stare down at Louise's shoes. “Sorry. I thought to call, but by that time it was already late and I didn't want to wake you.” It's an old excuse and a lousy one, but nothing else comes to mind.
“So long as you weren't in an accident.”
More like a group shampoo.
Surprisingly, Mom hugs me close. “Mmmm. Your hair smells wonderful. And it's so soft!”
I show her the bottle of conditioner.
Mom glances at the label, though I think she's more interested in what kind of night out involves getting your hair done.
“A friend was going back to school and we went to Clevel
and and then slept at their house.” I'm extremely careful with the pronouns.
“You should consider going back to school, too,” says Mom. “We'll manage to get by.”
Only it's not just about money. Mom is interactive and user-friendly these days, but she doesn't run the house and keep track of all the kids’ schedules. However, I don't want to say anything that makes it sound as if she's not fully recovered or can't handle the family the same way that she used to.
“Pastor Costello thinks he can get you a church scholarship,” adds Mom.
“Please, Mom, I'm not going to study to be a minister or a missionary.”
“You can stay with your graphic design. No strings attached!”
“That's very nice, but you know that I wouldn't even be going to church if I wasn't taking the kids.”
Mom nods her head as if this is where she figured the conversation would end up. “I've been meaning to ask you if you want any counseling,” says Mom, heading in a slightly different direction.
“What?”
“Counseling. You know, the kids have it available to them at school and Eric at college and I …”
We both realize there's no need for a review of Mom's period of intensive therapy.
“Thanks, but I'm going to be fine,” I say. I don't mean one hundred percent, but as of this morning, for the first time I actually believe that at some point I might just be okay after all.
SEVENTY-TWO
WHERE HAVE ALL THE WINTER SWEATERS GONE?” MY MOTHER asks from inside Francie and Lillian's closet.
I'm going through their drawers to inventory socks and underwear. “Maybe they never made it back up from the laundry room last spring.”
“I used to keep them all in a box up here,” says my mother. “I don't know what happened.”
What happened is that Dad died and you had a nervous breakdown. However, I don't say this. “I'm sure I can find some inexpensive ones at the factory outlet store in Timpany.”
The first few days of September pass in a flurry of organizing the kids to start school. Lillian has another year to go before kindergarten and so a popular refrain for things that don't meet Darlene's style standards or Francie's tomboy requirements are, “Save it for Lillian.” The boys tend to ruin most of their clothes, and even with Mom's constant patching there's not much to pass on. Their discards are mostly slated to become cleaning rags, and when those get enough holes Mom turns them into rag rugs.
The Big Shuffle Page 25
