Beyond Blonde

by Teresa Toten

  I came up for air. “You gotta give me some time, okay?”

  “Sure, cool.” Her eyes welled up again.

  “So how does it work, exactly? What goes where?”

  She unwelled and heaved a pillow at me.

  “Hey! I am merely trying to be sensitive and supportive here.”

  “And nosy!” She threw another pillow. “Your guess is as good as mine!”

  I opened a bag of salt and vinegar chips. “So, let’s speculate.” I also opened up a family pack of Maltesers. “We’ll compare notes on everything we know so far, paltry though that may be.”

  “It’d be better if we had Sarah here,” she said. “The two of us have a pretty pitiful roster of sexual experience.”

  “We’ll be okay. Remember, I read three hundred romance novels last year—there’s not a thing I don’t know.” I threw both pillows back at her.

  Four hours later, Kit hit the lights and was out in minutes. I watched her sleep for almost two hours, and five hours later, I went upstairs to start the coffee. I felt good. Great even. Especially considering that I had just pulled my very first all-nighter.

  As soon as I got home from Kit’s, I pulled out my trusty encyclopedia and scrolled through the relevant sections about Buddhism and Jewishness. I did not reread Christianity: The Catholic Church Since the Reformation because, well, for one thing, it was the smallest piece of my religious practice, so to speak, and, for the other, I was worried about what it might say.

  Okay. I slammed the book shut. Okay! According to my exhaustive search, Kit was wrong. Being a lesbian wasn’t this big, burn-at-the-stake thing with religions! Well, maybe in some weirdo church-type places, or maybe a thousand years ago, but not in my index. According to The Concise Encyclopaedia of Living Faiths, it was nothing. “Lesbian” wasn’t there as a good thing or a bad thing; it just wasn’t in the index at all. Therefore, being a lesbian must be a neutral “who cares” kind of thing.

  Works for me.

  I offered up a short but intense prayer of thanks on behalf of Kit and myself. My altar was coming along nicely. I now had a red silk runner complete with shiny tassels and embroidered gold elephants. Auntie Radmila had given me a pewter rosary, which she had had blessed in Rome, and it lived peacefully beside the small bronze Star of David that Auntie Luba found kicking around in her trunk. Finally, I had these Buddhist-type incense thingies that smelled like burnt oregano. So, I lit my candle and incense cone, made the sign of the cross, and touched the bronze Star of David. It would be okay. Kit would be okay. Please, please, please, make it okay.

  Thank you, thank you. Amen.

  I blew out the candle. Now what? I went to the kitchen, then the living room, then back to the kitchen again. Since it was still early in the afternoon, I assumed that Mama was showing a house. And then I remembered. It was the last Saturday in the month. Memories erupted. It had been months. I just fell out of the habit of going. The last Saturday of every month was a big glamour beauty day for the Aunties. Cast in stone, sacrosanct, and sacred. When I was little, they made me feel like the magician’s assistant for their elaborate and convoluted rituals.

  I jogged all the way to Auntie Eva’s. Damn, I was in good shape.

  “Hi guys!” Everyone and everything was already assembled in the dining room. “It’s me! I’m here to help.”

  Shocked squeals, hoots, and riotous table thumping greeted me. “Sophie, buboola, baby!” fluttered Auntie Eva. They all wore their beauty uniforms, floral housedresses covered by shower curtains jerry-rigged to look like salon smocks. Auntie Radmila had on my Bambi shower curtain from three moves ago. The dining room table was pulled out to its full “seats twelve” size, and it, in turn, was covered with more shower curtains, newspapers, mud masks, toners, peroxide, creams, a dozen tweezers, lotions, and four separate piles of hair-dying accoutrements. The bowls were plopped on top of photos of near-naked Sunshine Girls that the Aunties seemed thankfully oblivious of. Added to these impressive piles were packages of Rothmans and du Maurier cigarettes, as well as seven ashtrays, Tylenol, breath mints, Courvoisier, and shot glasses.

  “I svear on all my pieces, za child has grown! Little Sophie, Auntie Eva’s little flower, za treasure in my chest,” she sighed.

  “She iz a rose in za vinter!” agreed Auntie Radmila.

  Mama sat silent but beaming.

  “I thought you could use my help?” I grabbed a pair of plastic gloves, snapped, pulled the fingers, and then put ’em on like I’d just done it last week.

  “Sophie, are you stuffing your brassiere vit za Kleenex?” asked Auntie Radmila. Four pairs of eyes zoomed in on my boobs. I looked down.

  “No, Auntie Radmila, this stunning set of 32Bs are all me.”

  “Hmmph!” Auntie Eva snorted. “Zey are a big B.”

  “Much better!” Auntie Radmila nodded in approval. You’d think she had grown them herself. “How your basketball iz doing?”

  “Great, brilliant, in fact! As you know we’re undefeated. In fact, we’re on track for facing Oakwood at the finals.” I would have gone on, gone into more details, but it would have been useless. I’d lost her. Both her and Auntie Eva were back to staring at my chest.

  Auntie Eva suddenly slapped the table. “Brandy for everybodies, you too, Magda. Don’t make a face! Sophie, pour. Zis iz a celebration. Our Sophie iz back!” I poured while they rifled through their hair dye boxes.

  The Aunties refused to feel stifled by a single colour or, indeed, company. Miss Clairol coexisted with L’Oréal on their heads. Auntie Eva had me mix up a combo of Champagne Blonde, Medium Blonde number 420, and Ultra Bleach Blonde, all by different companies. Auntie Radmila and Auntie Luba were similarly creative. Sometimes they mixed the dregs of all the dyes and made a soup out of it before plopping it onto their hair. Waiting to see how the colour would turn out was both nerveracking and thrilling.

  When I was little, I made meticulous notes about the names, numbers, and proportions from each mysterious box. I earnestly transcribed that information into my Hilroy notebooks, the ones with the really wide spacing. The Aunties always made a fuss about how critical this precise recording was. I was the very key to Auntie fabulousity. Of course, they never actually paid any attention to the notebooks and winged it with whatever colours they’d picked up on sale.

  The ammonia bit into my nostrils and brought tears to my eyes. All was right with the world. Glasses full, we clinked to a heartier than usual “Živili!” Since Mama was the only one who stuck to one colour, Miss Clairol’s Raven, just to touch up the grey, not that anyone would ever use that word, grey I mean, she was free to proceed with the face-steaming portion of the glamour treatment. Mama was shockingly low-maintenance in this crowd.

  Auntie Eva rounded up all my old notebooks and a brand-new apron, which proclaimed that I was “King of the BBQ!” I mixed, stirred, and recorded like an old pro, navigating piles of peroxides, containers, bowls, and brushes, plus four separate kitchen timers.

  “So, little Sophie,” said Auntie Radmila, “vat iz za problem?”

  She caught me off guard. “No problem.” They examined me closer, concern tattooed across their faces. Mama looked guilty. Was there something she had missed? Did she drop the ball on her baby? “Really,” I insisted.

  “You are not sad?” Auntie Radmila persisted.

  “Sad? No, I’m not sad.” Trust the Croatian to sniff out sadness. Her eyes narrowed. “I’m just moody.” I shrugged. “What do you want, Auntie Radmila?” I picked up my pen. Auntie Radmila thrived on complexity. “I vill do one-quarter of za dregs of vat is left from Eva’s soup, mixed in vit half of Honey Blonde.” She held up a Miss Clairol box marked down sixty percent and made a face. “Only one-third of za 419 and two-thirds of the Platinum Bombshell.” The math alone was breathtaking.

  I squirted and stirred.

  Auntie Luba gave me her order in between complaining that I looked too skinny. Auntie Eva agreed while snuffing out her cigarette.

  “W
hat? We’ve all agreed my chest is better.”

  “Da,” nodded Auntie Luba. “Za breasts are good, but you got to find bigger hips. Zey like to have something to hang on to.” Mama shoved her head deeper into the steaming bowl.

  “Da!” Vigorous nodding all around.

  Hmm. Alison Hoover was very curvy and so were those two barely functioning girls that were hanging off David at the party. “Hips?” I said.

  “Da!” agreed Auntie Eva. She put her hands in front of her and looked at me. “Like zis.”

  “Phooey, Eva, too big!” Auntie Luba measured out her hands. “Your mama vas like zis.”

  “Leave da child alone,” Mama muttered from her bowl.

  “Come on, guys, that’s worse than trying to grow boobs. How do I get hips, for God’s sake?” I dabbed Auntie Radmila’s centre part.

  Auntie Eva lit up yet another cigarette. “You must for sure to stop za jogging. First it is bad for za boobies. Zey fall down ven zey get tired and zen zey stay down. You can’t blame zem. And jogging jogs avay za hips!”

  I dabbed poor Auntie Radmila with increasing vigour. “But I have to be in shape for basketball, or David will not respect me as captain!” They all looked at one another. Mama sighed under her towel.

  “What?”

  “Sophie, darrrling …” Auntie Luba patted my hand. “If you had some hips, I guarantee he vould really respect you.” She winked.

  Auntie Radmila nodded.

  “Don’t nod while I’m dabbing,” I warned her. “I don’t want his respect! He makes me sick, he’s so stuck up and smug and …”

  “Such a very unbelievable good-looking boy,” nodded Auntie Eva, who was having another conversation entirely.

  I finished Auntie Radmila’s section, put the timer on for twenty minutes, and toddled off to Auntie Luba’s centre part. “I vas stirring already,” she said, all proud of herself.

  “So, Sophie, ve must make you to be happy,” said Auntie Eva. Auntie Luba nodded. Auntie Luba was even a more vigorous nodder than Auntie Radmila. “Don’t do that,” I whispered.

  “Za child needs to be vorshipped by a good-looking boy.” Auntie Eva winked at Auntie Radmila, Mama groaned, and Auntie Luba nodded.

  I pretended I didn’t hear. “Auntie Luba, quit nodding already, I’m going to end up dying your forehead!”

  “Okay,” she nodded. “You need za correct situation. Za basketball practice is too difficult. Ver did Madison meet her boyfriend, za lousy kisser von she got rid of?”

  What can I say? They had tortured me for details.

  “Uh, at her Sweet Sixteen.” I finished dabbing Auntie Luba and set her timer for fifteen minutes. “Remember? I told you guys, one of her cousins brought him over from Lawrence Heights.”

  Mama’s head popped up. “Vat Sveet Sixteen? Vat iz a Sveet Sixteen? You said she met him at her birtday party.”

  I reached for Auntie Eva’s concoction. “Yeah, but because it was her sixteenth birthday party, it’s a bigger, flashier bash, you know?”

  Auntie Eva poured out more shots. They looked grim all of a sudden, well, as grim as you can look with your hair spiky with goop and your face covered in a mud mask.

  “What?”

  “Did Kit and Sarah also too have zis Sveet Sixteen?” asked Auntie Luba.

  “Well, yeah.” I shrugged. “It’s the done thing, but it’s just a bigger-deal birthday party, more people, more food, you know?”

  They looked at one another. Mama and Auntie Luba teared up.

  “What, what?”

  “Ve did not make you dis Sveet Sixteen!” Mama hit her chest with her fist.

  Auntie Eva got up and smothered me. “Sorry, sorry, sorry!” she wailed. I now had hair dye and clay mask on my BBQ King.

  “It’s okay, guys, honest. My sixteenth was last February, remember? I mean holy hell, Papa left, Luke got married, the last thing in the world I wanted was a Sweet Sixteen!”

  That did it. They started blubbering and making a mess of their masks. Auntie Radmila’s timer went off. “Stop crying!” I demanded. “I have to comb you through. Look guys, it’s not important. It’s like a class thing.” They looked perplexed. “You know, for rich people, Blondes, people like that?” When will I learn?

  Auntie Eva stood up again and slapped the table. “Nobody has more classes zen our Sophie!”

  “Pa da!” nodded Auntie Radmila and Auntie Luba in unison.

  “Stop nodding!” I yelled.

  “We vill make for you a big, big party for zis year,” said Mama, slowly coming to. “It vill be very completely flashy splashy vit flowers and dancing and vatever you vant!”

  “Da!” Auntie Luba clapped her hands. “A Sveet Seventeen party!” This was greeted with clapping and monumental table thumping.

  Oh, dear Buddha, why oh why did I open my mouth? They launched themselves headfirst into command and control party mode. It was going to be like Auntie Luba’s wedding all over again. Within seconds, they decided to clear out the restaurant and have it at Mike’s. It was like being carried away by a tidal wave. I gave up without a fight.

  I didn’t have the guts.

  I looked at them, my people, my family, all hair-gooped, mud-masked, smoking, clinking shot glasses, covered in plastic shower curtains, and plotting a party for me that would be the best Northern had ever seen. Or they’d die trying.

  Or I would just die.

  With the Aunties, it could go either way.

  I waited for Papa in the park. We used to come to this park even when we didn’t live in the neighbourhood. We’d take the streetcar and subway to get here. It was our place. He was bringing coffee. Even though Papa was chronically late, I still came half an hour early. Mama was all over me, and I wasn’t up for it. Guilty conscience. Mama felt like she’d dropped the ball on the whole Sweet Sixteen thing, and now in some strange punitive universe, I was being made to pay. So now Mama was all over me, examining my work, listening in on my calls, trying to unearth what else she’d missed. And then Papa called. My saviour.

  The afternoon was aggressively perfect, bright and crisp around the edges. It was like a few Indian summer days got lost and then decided to stay to kiss the end of November. I shivered.

  “Sophie?”

  Jesus God. I turned around. I didn’t dare hope to see him again, ever. Not really. I mean, what were the odds?

  “Fancy meeting you here, pretty girl.” He carried two cups of coffee. “Double-double, right?” One eyebrow raised, big smile.

  Breathe, Sophie, breathe. Luke looked at me like no one else existed. And I believed him. He stood over me blocking the sun and radiating heat at the same time. “Double-double?” he asked again.

  “Huh?” I said sweetly.

  “I brought coffee.”

  Damn. Luke Pearson had watched me pour and drink coffee for two years at Mike’s restaurant. And for two years I drank my Canadian coffee the way I drank my Turkish coffee, black with a pound of sugar.

  “Double-double’s great,” I said. “Thanks.”

  Coffee moved from his hand to mine, innocently. He smiled again, one dimple showing this time. We walked over to a bench in the middle of the park. Then we sat down. Neither of us said anything. I couldn’t; it was taking all I had just to inhale and exhale.

  “I’ve been coming every Sunday since the last time,” he said, finally breaking the silence. “I can’t tell you how many times I’ve downed two double-doubles and cursed you for not showing.”

  Exhale.

  “I made some new friends though.” Luke raised his cup to three old guys sitting on a picnic bench while they watched their dogs run around in the leaves. They raised their cups back.

  “I’m glad that your world is expanding,” I said.

  “Exploding.” He tried to smile, couldn’t. “But it’s great to see you, Sophie, so great.” He took a swig of coffee like it was whisky.

  We were just sitting. Why did I feel the way I felt? So guilty, I mean. It was like I was on this big
Ferris wheel of guilt and we were rounding our way back to the top. Just two people sitting on a bench … “Luke, I …” I what? I wondered. I would like to breathe? I would like my body to stop thumping? “You were at the game, our first game against Oakwood.” He nodded and looked hard at the dirt.

  “Hey, we made it to finals. They’re this Thursday!”

  He nodded.

  “Oakwood.” I nodded.

  “Who else.” He nodded.

  I didn’t ask him to come. He didn’t volunteer. I stopped nodding.

  Luke leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees, holding his cup with both hands. “It was always you, Sophie.”

  His back muscles twitched in and around his shoulder blades. I could touch, no, I could lay my head on his back, rest myself for a minute on Luke. And then I would be stronger and clearer … and then, oh my God, I did!

  I felt him contract and then freeze in that way you do when you spy a butterfly and you don’t want to scare it off. I just lay my head on the flat part of his back like it was something we did all the time. So harmless.

  But not.

  Was this adultery? I’d have to look up adultery in the Encyclopaedia index. The phrase “carnal knowledge” came to mind, but I wasn’t exactly sure what that meant. My hunch was that unlike lesbianism, adultery might actually turn up in the index. I knew for sure the Catholics had stuff about it, and come to think about it, it was Moses—a Jew—who wrote that stuff down.