All at once she imagined Nell Montana doing the same thing, cleaning her refrigerator and filling it with food. Amelia dropped a package of carrots and the refrigerator door swung wide. She stood for a moment, her face burning. Then closing the refrigerator and leaving the rest of the food on the counter, she walked through the house to Ethel’s room.
The child snored and Amelia shook her toes lightly. In the dim shadows, Gail’s bed stood silent and empty. She had kept Gail’s part of the room intact, a shrine to her oldest daughter, as if this would keep her alive. But now she saw that it was like a room in a museum, deathly still, lifeless. She might as well have locked a velvet rope around the bed. No one went near it, no one touched anything, no one, perhaps, even saw it anymore. Gail was dead, and it was her memory only that lived.
Amelia lay down on Gail’s bed, pulling the pillow over her face. After a while she lay quietly, brushing at the tears. For two years she had refused to acknowledge Nell Montana’s humanity. She had wanted only to make this killer, this drunken driver, suffer as she suffered. She had weighed her grief as if on a scale and concluded that no matter what stones, what burdens, what roses and letters and recriminations were dumped on Nell Montana’s side of the scale, her pain (whatever she was capable of feeling, if anything, Amelia had said to herself) could never equal Amelia’s pain.
She had held on to her grief, trying in this way to hold on to Gail. Nursing the grief. Feeding it. Never letting it go for even a moment, because to let go would be to acknowledge life. To acknowledge that, yes, she lived while her daughter was dead.
She got up and began rapidly stripping the bed: bedspread, blankets, sheets, everything off, everything in a pile on the floor. Tomorrow she would clear it all out, buy a blackboard and a bookcase for Ethel to fill the space. She pulled up the mattress, bent it over on itself, began untacking the pictures from the walls.
She heard Frank’s car in the driveway and went into the hall to meet him. He looked weary, the bowtie he wore at work hanging by one string. “Not in bed?” he said.
“Oh, I was restless. I couldn’t settle down. I kept thinking about—her. Nell Montana.”
“What about her?”
“I thought—you didn’t see her the way I did …” Amelia pulled her robe tighter around her. “Jenny told me she was in the hospital. Did I tell you?” He shook his head. “She took too many sleeping pills. An accident, I guess. Or do you suppose it was because I—” She broke off, wetting her lips. “She wanted me to say that I forgave her. Did I tell you that?”
He nodded. “Yes.”
“Well, I thought—maybe I should call her up and tell her?…”
“Do you?” he said. “Do you forgive her?”
“I want to. I think it’s time.”
“But do you?”
Her eyes filled. “No, I don’t. I don’t forgive her. Not now. Not yet.”
He put his hand around her shoulder, and they went into the house. She had his towel and pajamas ready, and while he showered she made him a sandwich and opened a bottle of Millers which she brought into their room. Their regular Friday night routine.
Chapter 30
The Greek Fair was packed. Hundreds of people were eating, singing, dancing. The blue cupolas of the church were freshly painted, shining like water. Outside, a huge, striped tent housed long trestle tables and a wooden stage. Inside, booths divided by beads and curtains were crammed with authentic Greek goods.
Jenny fingered a beautiful embroidered dress that cost hundreds of dollars. Was Rob here? Why did she even think of him? She mustn’t. Still, she looked behind her, to each side, expecting … She moved on. A tray of worked silver bracelets, rings, silver snakes meant to clasp the neck or an ankle … painted vases … embroidered pillows …
A waiter flew past holding an enormous blue bowl on upraised hands. “Cucumber salad,” he cried. “Cucumber salad!”
A stone vase … a painting full of golds and greens and blues … beads green as the sea … Wouldn’t seeing Rob here be a sign? Surely it would mean something? That, despite everything, she should approach him once more?
“Jenny!” Rhoda took her arm. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere. Isn’t it all gorgeous? Nick is going to play his mandolin. We convinced him.” She swept Jenny through the crowds, outside, into the tent. Dancers in white pleated skirts and red sashes were leaving the platform to thunderous applause. The long trestle tables were packed with people eating spinach pie and moussaka and drinking orange soda and coffee.
On the platform, Nick sat on a high stool and tuned his mandolin. “This is a Greek love song.” He tossed back his hair. “It’s a boy talking to the girl he hasn’t yet found the nerve to speak to. He says to her, ‘Don’t you see how much I love you?’” Nick spoke calmly. “The boy says, ‘My heart is so full, please listen.’ I don’t think I’ll do it justice but I’ll try.” He bent over the instrument, hair falling into his face. Jenny was tremulous. Nick’s words and the plaintive cry of the music stirred her.
How handsome Nick was, his head inclined over the mandolin, his hands so delicately plucking at the strings. She longed to be in love with him but it was impossible. For one reason only, a reason that was no reason, was only what it was; she was in love with Rob. Gradually, bit by bit, as he went on playing she forgot Nick, barely heard the music and scanned the crowd, looking for a golden head, looking for Rob.
Chapter 31
There was a letter waiting for Jenny sticking out of the wicker mailbox next to the front door. It was unstamped, her name written across the front. “Jenny.” Just that. “Jenny.” She knew at once, without any doubt, that this was from Rob.
She went into her room, calling to her parents that she was home. Yes, she’d had a good time, she’d see them in the morning. She closed her door.
Three sheets of notepaper. It began as letters usually do.
Dear Jenny,
The other day you came up to me in school, and you said something. I think you said my name, but I’m not entirely sure. The reason I’m not sure is that I hardly heard you, and the reason for that is because when I saw you, just saw you, I became so enraged I couldn’t hear anything. All I wanted to do was hurt you the way you have hurt me.
I controlled myself; I walked away, not answering you. But I saw your face. I saw pain. And I was glad.
I walked down the hall, down the stairs, and then—I came back up on the other side near the art room. Do you understand? I came up behind you and I saw you still standing in the same place. And I knew, for sure then, that I’d done what I wanted to do. I had hurt you.
More than if I had actually hit you. I had wounded you! I felt a surge of something: gladness, delight, something very sharp and alive. I went off to my next class, saying to myself that I had won at last! That, after all, you hadn’t defeated me. Yes, I felt victorious.
Do you find that strange? Let me tell you this: Ever since that morning you said we were done and handed me back the elephant, I’ve felt defeated, mad—no, furious. And—I wonder if you can understand—humiliated. Remember the story I told you about that time I was walking down the street and saw this girl I liked, and she laughed? Because my pants were unzipped? That’s the way I’ve felt for weeks now, that you are laughing at me, and yet at the same time I knew I—
Jenny shook her head violently, so agitated she couldn’t continue reading. What was the point of torturing herself this way? She tore the letter in half. At once, she put it on her desk, held the two halves together, and went on reading.
… laughing at me, and yet at the same time I knew I was being a little crazy, that this was not your character.
Still, I wanted to get back at you! Let’s call it revenge. As if we’d been in a war, and I couldn’t let you think you had won. Even if you had. Even if I felt defeated.
So I found someone else, a very nice person in every way, a girl who—well, the point is, she’s—
Here, Jenny again stopped, unable to go on readi
ng. She didn’t want to hear about that other girl! Suzi! Her stomach jolted; she jumped up and went to the window that looked out on the driveway. Next door the blue light from a TV shone through the windows. Jenny gulped in lungfuls of damp night air. On the street, cars whooshed by. She turned and stared at the torn letter on her desk. Why not tear it again, and again, and again? Destroy it!
But after a long time she returned to the desk, sat down, and bent over the letter again.
… point is, she’s extremely nice, and we got to be pretty good friends and—well, I kept waiting for something to happen. Do you know what I mean? Basically, for me to stop thinking about you.
I have had all sorts of crazy thoughts: that I would go to your house in the middle of the night and throw rocks at your window. Break the window, smash it to bits! And you would come running out, afraid, startled. Then you’d see me, and I’d just nod curtly and walk away.
I imagined your car going out of control, you there behind the wheel, stiff with terror, and then I—well, what else?—jump in, pull the emergency brake, switch off the ignition. In a word, save you. You’d fall on my neck gratefully, crying, begging me not to leave you. At which point I’d get out of the car and walk away without a backward glance.
I came up with a lot more variations. And none of them satisfied me. None of them made you go away. You didn’t leave me alone, and for that I became doubly angry. My God, you, you queen, you cool queen! I saw you in school, I saw you on the street, I saw you in the hospital, and with that other guy, and how I hated you! Your arrogant smile, your high head, your beautiful, wild, slanted eyes!
And then yesterday—at last you gave me what I had been waiting for. Came up to me, said something—my name? And there was pleading in your eyes. And you were asking me something, or about to. I didn’t care what you wanted. As far as I was concerned, you were only asking to be shot down, and I obliged. I walked away and left you standing there.
Hurt you. Yes, I hurt you. Don’t deny it, Jenny! I hurt you. I hurt you badly. I did what I wanted to do. What do they say? Revenge is sweet? Something like that. I couldn’t get that picture of you standing in the empty hall out of my mind. I won, I won!
Now it’s Friday night, I’ve just come home from work, scrubbed the grease out from under my fingernails and had a shower. I went into the kitchen to get something to eat. I poured a glass of milk and (Why? Why then? Because we used to joke about our big attraction being we’re both milk drinkers?)—I poured that glass of cold milk and—realized I’d been a crazy man for weeks. And that I had to write you and be honest.
I remember your saying to me once, a long time ago, right in the beginning, “Do you think we can be honest with each other?” And then another time, “You’re honest with me, Rob,” and you thanked me as if I’d given you something, given you a gift.
So, Jenny, I don’t know what this letter means, if it will mean anything or nothing. I see that it may mean totally nothing, yet I’m writing it and I think I’ll find the guts to bring it to your house tomorrow.
I’m telling myself I’m doing it for you, Jenny, because of the honest thing, but to be really honest, I guess I’m doing it most for myself. Spilling myself—my guts—to you this way, telling you that I love you and have been sick and crazy since our breakup. Doing it because I want you back so much and I just can’t get it through my head that we are really finished.
I don’t know if all this makes sense or not. I only know that it’s as true as I can make it, and that’s all I have to say now, except, I never stopped loving you.
Rob
“Hello?” An answer on the second ring. His mother.
“Mrs. Montana, I’m sorry to call so late. Is Rob there?”
“He works till eleven tonight.”
“At the garage?”
“Yes, Slayton’s.”
“All right, thank you. This is Jenny. Jenny Pennoyer. I hope … I hope you’re feeling better.”
“I am. Thank you.”
There was a moment of awkward silence, then Jenny said good-bye and hung up. Turning away, she saw what she had missed seeing in her rush to get to the phone. Several cardboard boxes overflowing with Gail’s things, each box clearly marked FOR RESCUE MISSION. So that, too, was changing.
In her room she braided her hair, put a blue scarf around her neck, and took her car keys. Her parents were lying side-by-side on the couch in the living room, watching TV. “I’m going out for a bit,” she said.
“It’s awfully late,” her mother said.
“I’ll be fine.”
“Where are you going?” Her father flipped the switch on the blab-off and sat up.
Jenny hesitated, then said. “Over to Slayton’s Garage where Rob works.”
Her father’s face tightened. “Rob? I thought you two—”
“I tried it your way,” Jenny said. “I really tried.” She knelt down next to her mother. “Mom, I know it’s hard for you.” She spoke softly. “I know you may never accept Rob, but I have to do this. Can you believe me when I tell you that what I do is not to hurt you? I don’t want to hurt you, either one of you. But I don’t want to hurt myself, either. Rob is important to me.”
Her mother looked away without speaking.
“Mom—” Jenny bit back the cry and went to the door. Would it never be finished?
She was in the hall when her mother called out, “Jenny?”
“Yes, Mom.”
“Drive carefully.”
She stopped with her hand on the doorknob, then went back into the room. She stood in the doorway. “I’ll be careful. See you both later.”
“Not too late,” her father said. “I don’t want you out too late.”
“I won’t be.”
“Do you have money?” her mother asked.
Jenny nodded and patted her pocket. It was the sort of thing they’d said to her and she’d said to them dozens of times before, but somehow, in its very ordinariness, she felt a message. All right, we don’t like what we’re doing, but you’re still our daughter.
She parked on the street outside the garage, a broad thoroughfare of businesses and markets, deserted now, only an occasional car passing. Slayton’s big lot was nearly empty except for three cars lined up at the back. The gas pumps stood like dark robots. Inside the building, through the glass window, she saw Rob with his feet up on the desk, a telephone at his elbow, behind him a big clock, a Coke machine, and shelves filled with cans of oil. She glanced at the car clock. Seven minutes to eleven.
There was a gladness inside her welling up like water, like a fountain spilling over, but she held it back. Not yet, not yet, impossible to believe yet … Wait … wait.…
She watched him. Waiting. Don’t go in. Not yet. Had anyone else ever watched him this way? She saw him complete, in every detail. She might be a thief, a robber. She could hold him up. Go in and demand things from him. Your money or—no, not his money, only his life. Your life, please. A polite thief, asking for no more than what was hers. Your life, your love. Pass it over!
At two minutes before eleven he came out in his gray-striped Slayton’s Garage coveralls and locked up the gas pumps. He went back inside, opened a tin of some sort, and lathered his arms and hands. Pulled paper towels off a rack and cleaned off the dirty foam. She watched and waited.
He locked the cash register, put the key in his pocket, came outside again. The car windows were open. She didn’t call out. She watched him, only watched him.
He went around to the back of the building and in a moment reappeared with a German Shepherd on a chain. He put the dog inside the station, petting it a moment. Leaving a light on, he came out, tested the door to make sure it was locked, and took a last look around. Apparently satisfied, he walked rapidly down the street away from Jenny.
She turned on the ignition, glided slowly up to him, past him, then stopped. She leaned out the window. “Want a ride?” He kept walking. Louder. “Want a ride?”
He turned, looked at her,
said nothing.
A terrible thought came to her. The letter—what if the letter had been a hoax? A fraud? His most elaborate scheme yet to get back at her, to take his revenge?
He opened the car door, slid in next to her. And now they looked at each other in the milky light of the streetlamp. Speak, she commanded herself. Tell him about the mistake … tell him all the things you were going to say … tell him you got the letter …
“Rob,” she said.
“Jenny.”
And that was all. That was all they said. They opened their arms, went to each other and held. Held each other tightly, more tightly, yet more tightly still, held each other and said nothing. Words were no longer necessary.
About the Author
Norma Fox Mazer (1931–2009) was an acclaimed author best known for her children’s and young adult literature. She earned numerous awards, including the Newbery Honor for After the Rain, the Lewis Carroll Shelf Award for Dear Bill, Remember Me?, and the Edgar Award for Taking Terri Mueller. Mazer was also honored with a National Book Award nomination for A Figure of Speech and inclusion in the notable-book lists of the American Library Association and the New York Times, among others.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Material on page 112 reprinted by permission of Abigail Van Buren for her column on Legal Dilemma.
When We First Met Page 14
