Love and Other Four-Letter Words, Page 3

  Just a lot of pushing and sweating, Kitty had reported after they'd done it for the first time.

  What was the best part? I'd whispered across our table in the snack bar, hardly able to grasp that my best friend was no longer a virgin.

  At the end, when he let out this long groan, like a bullfrog, Kitty had said. It was all I could do not to burst out laughing.

  I'd nodded. It hadn't been quite the response I was looking for.

  But now Kitty was sipping her coffee and describing how Jack wanted to “spice up our sex life.”

  I thought about cracking some joke, like Jack must have renewed his subscription to Glamour, but I knew Kitty wouldn't find it very funny. Either that or she'd call me juvenile, an adjective that she utters in the tone one generally reserves for pedophiles or granny'spurse-snatchers.

  “Like how?” I asked, feeling a bit like a TelePrompTer.

  Kitty leaned forward and in an exaggerated whisper mouthed, “He wants me to give him a you-know-what!”

  I scrunched my eyebrows quizzically.

  “I say, dis-gusting,” Kitty continued, her lips curling back from her perfectly ivory, perfectly spaced, neverset-foot-in-an-orthodontist's-office teeth.

  “Kitty?” I paused for a second. We the chaste, as much as we'd rather not admit it, often need things spelled out for us. “What's a ‘you-know-what'?”

  Kitty's back was to the grill, so she didn't see the waitress approaching, a tray balanced on her shoulder. Just as Kitty prodded a finger toward her cheek, pushing her tongue against the inside of the other cheek in a rhythmic motion, the waitress plopped a plate of hash browns in front of her. Kitty's earlobes turned crimson, her pointer frozen in the universal “blow job” gesture. The waitress chuckled knowingly as she handed me my pancakes. I attempted to swallow the laughter mounting in my throat.

  “Toothache?” the waitress asked her, grinning as she tossed the syrup onto the table.

  And that's when I began to giggle maniacally, the way you do when someone's tickling you and you want to get them to stop but you still keep laughing. I turned to face the wall, hoping it would sober me up, but all it did was make me sputter harder.

  Kitty looked mortified as she tip-tapped her manicured fingernails against the tabletop. “Really, Sammie,” she hissed, “you're making a scene!”

  I began to hiccup.

  “Can I get you some water?” The waitress had started to walk away, but she stopped a few strides from our booth.

  I nodded desperately, attempting to hold my breath. A minute later, I plugged my nose as I slowly sipped the icy water.

  “Well.” Kitty sprinkled pepper over her potatoes in quick, jerking motions. “Let's hope that's all for today.”

  I attempted to respond, but when I opened my mouth all that came out was a loud hiccup.

  It was only on the drive back to my house that I realized Kitty hadn't asked me anything about the move. It had been all Kitty, Kitty, Kitty and Jack, Jack, Jack. Which would have been okay on any other day, but on the morning I'm abandoning my entire life, I think I deserve an extra helping of airtime.

  Sometimes my relationship with Kitty confuses me. I feel like I slip into this “good friend” role with her. I'm always offering an ear, as if her life stories—without a doubt more action-packed—have more value than mine. And sometimes when I'm talking, I catch her eyes glazing over, so I wind up babbling quickly before I lose her attention.

  As we pulled into the driveway, Kitty shifted the station wagon into park.

  “I can't believe you're leaving,” she said softly. “I'm going to miss you so much.”

  I unbuckled my seat belt and hopped out as Kitty opened the back. Once I'd leaned Mariposa against a tree, Kitty and I gave each other a hug.

  “Promise you'll call as soon as you get your number.

  ” I nodded.

  “And promise we'll visit this summer.”

  I nodded again.

  “Oh, Sammie …I don't know what I'm going to do without you here.” Kitty's voice cracked. “You've really sustained me over the years.”

  And then Kitty began to cry, not out loud, just little tears slipping down her pale cheeks. I fished the napkin out of my pocket and wiped them dry.

  After I'd returned Mariposa to the garage, I opened the side door. Moxie bounded out to greet me, howling and prancing in circles.

  “What's wrong, girl?” I asked, scratching behind her ears.

  But as I entered the kitchen, I discovered what the commotion was about. Mom was slumped on a stool, her face buried in her hands. Shards of broken pottery were strewn across the tiled floor. I kicked myself for not using the front entrance and heading directly up to my room.

  Mom wiped her nose with the back of her hand. “Dad and I bought this the summer we moved to Ithaca,” she moaned.

  Glancing at the debris, I recognized the remains of the midnight-blue bowl that we always filled with peaches in the summer and apples in the fall.

  “I was wrapping it up when I heard Moxie barking in the yard… and I remembered I'd left her off her leash. …”

  As Mom choked up again, I bounded up the stairs, two at a time. Once in my room, I dug my dictionary out of a city-bound crate and sat on my bed, thumbing through the S's.

  Sustain: to support, hold … bear the weight of.

  I sighed and flopped onto my back. As the dictionary slid off my legs in a waterfall of pages, I wondered if that was my eternal fate: to “support, hold and bear the weight of.” And when it comes down to it, is there anyone out there who would do that for me?

  By the time the sun was directly overhead, I'd lugged my suitcases into the trunk of the Volvo and my crates onto the front porch for the movers to pick up. And I was halfway up the stairs with a broom when I remembered that the cleaning service was coming this afternoon. So when the Mayflower truck turned into the driveway, I was playing my guitar under the red maple in the backyard, doing my best imitation of a relaxed person.

  But a few minutes later, the side door slammed and this guy stomped toward me. He was short, with wide shoulders and huge biceps. He reminded me of an inflatable punching bag.

  “You live here?”

  “Yeah …”

  “We're going to need your help inside. That lady is driving my buddy crazy, handing him half-packed boxes and then taking them back to rewrap vases. At this rate, there's no way we're going to be on the road by one.”

  As he started back across the lawn, I stood up, brushing the grass off the back of my thighs. I could feel my cheeks tensing as I thought: The Unmade Bed strikes again.

  An unmade bed. That's what Grandma Davis once called Mom. Not to her face, but while we were waiting in the driveway of my grandparents' San Jose ranch house, where Dad grew up. We'd risen early, to beat rush hour traffic to San Francisco, where we were meeting Aunt Jayne at Fisherman's Wharf. But we ended up leaving forty-five minutes late because Mom took forever to get ready, misplacing her sunglasses twice in the process.

  Go easy on her, Beryl, Dad had said, calling Grandma Davis by her first name. As he shot a glance in my direction, I'd leaned down and double-knotted my sneakers, even though the laces rarely came undone.

  Grandma Davis has never been crazy about Mom, and she doesn't work very hard to disguise it. Maybe it's because Grandma Davis is so rigid that you can set a clock by her. Maybe it has something to do with that theory about mothers never thinking any woman is good enough for their perfect sons. Or maybe it's because she wasn't invited to my parents' wedding, even though the only attendants were the justice of peace and a couple of witnesses, friends of Mom's from art school.

  Before Mom was an art teacher, she used to dream of becoming a famous painter. But shortly after she'd moved into Dad's apartment near Columbia University, they'd discovered he was allergic to the fumes from her oil paints, so she'd tucked them away until they could afford studio space. When I was two, we headed up to Cornell, where Dad had been offered a teaching position
. And somehow Mom's art took a backseat.

  Not completely, like she had an easel set up in the garage, where Dad paid an electrician to install track lighting in one corner. Sometimes Mom would get so immersed in a canvas that she wouldn't emerge all weekend, except to sprint into the bathroom or grab a slice of the pizza Dad and I had ordered. When I was younger, I used to carry my paper plate out there and sit cross-legged on the cement floor, quietly watching her. I would feel this swelling inside as she leaped around, splashing colorful strokes, almost like a dancer. Several times, Mom would abandon the canvas before it was finished, descending into a funk until it mysteriously disappeared from the garage. What's the use? she'd responded gloomily when I inquired about the whereabouts of one I particularly liked: orange figures dancing in concentric circles around a purple sun. Where's it going to get me, anyway?

  I think Mom blames Dad for taking her away from the urban scene and plunking her in Small Town, USA. Not that Ithaca isn't artsy; compared to neighboring communities, it's the cultural capital of the world. But it's not exactly where you come to make a name for yourself or connect with other painters. That was a recurring theme in Mom and Dad's arguments. Usually to the tune of Mom itching to leave Ithaca as soon as I go away to college. And Dad suggesting they start traveling more instead, that with the way things are going in academia, he couldn't risk walking out on Cornell.

  I'll be the first to admit that Mom and Dad weren't hunky-dory, not for the past year or so. I guess I'd been hoping the sabbatical in California would jump-start things, with Dad researching a book on John Steinbeck and Mom looking into studios that provided live models. Hell, I'd even convinced myself that I could benefit from a change of scenery.

  But this wasn't how it was supposed to happen, with Mom and the movers bickering about breakables, and Moxie bounding around the house until I tied her in the backyard with a bowl of fresh water. Even though I'd applied two layers of deodorant, my underarms were already sweaty.

  In the midst of everything the doorbell rang. It was the realtor, coming to pick up our house keys. Well, guess who arranged to drop them off at her agency on our way out of town. And guess who thought to call the cleaning service, requesting they come tomorrow morning rather than this afternoon. Definitely not the Unmade Bed!

  “At least we're heading east.” Mom set her sunglasses on the dashboard. The sun was beginning its descent into the hills of southern New York.

  I readjusted the radio. We'd only been on the road a hundred miles and this was the third time I'd had to locate a decent station.

  “Because I'd hate to drive into the afternoon sun …”

  Mom had been making intermittent comments for the whole trip, even though I was barely responding. I just didn't feel like gabbing as if it were any other day. Especially when we were pulling out of Ithaca. As I'd watched the familiar sights fade away, I'd wondered if Dad had felt a similar emptiness the morning Mom drove him to the airport. But then I'd pushed that thought out of my mind. After all, he'd made that bed for himself and now he was soundly sleeping in it.

  “Do you think Moxie is okay?” Mom asked after several minutes. “Maybe we should stop at the next rest area.”

  I glanced back at Moxie, whose head was resting on her front paws. Her real name is Amoxicillin because Dad brought her to me when I was nine and had strep throat. But after explaining to the thousandth person why she was named after an antibiotic, we shortened it to Moxie, which is easier to holler across a park anyway.

  A few miles later, Mom gestured to a gas station off to the right. “I'm going to stop here.”

  I didn't respond as she pulled up to the pump and shut off the engine.

  “Look.” Mom glanced sideways at me. “I'm going through a lot too.”

  As I unbuckled my seat belt, Mom clamped her hand over mine.

  “All I ask is that you act civil.”

  I hopped out of the car. As Moxie bounded toward the Dumpsters, I slammed my door a lot harder than necessary.

  Act civil, act civil. I stewed, pacing around the pavement. When haven't I acted civil? Would someone please tell me the crime in wanting silence for a few hours? Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed two college students hopping into a pickup truck parked at the other pump. Wouldn't Mom flip out if she returned to the car and I'd hitched a ride with them? Off into the sunset. Anywhere but New York City.

  Mom didn't say anything as she turned back onto Route 17. She just balanced a cup of coffee between her legs and tossed me a bag of Ritz Bits and an iced tea. Even though I hadn't eaten for hours, I didn't feel hungry. I didn't feel thirsty. All I felt was drained. I rested my head against the seat.

  The next thing I knew it was dark and all I could see were oncoming headlights. I glanced around, feeling pangs in my stomach. I had no idea where we were. I opened the crackers and popped a few in my mouth.

  As we approached a sign for the George Washington Bridge, Mom sucked in her breath.

  “What?” I asked, freezing midchew.

  “Don't you see?” Mom gestured toward the Manhattan skyline in the distance.

  As I surveyed the crescendo of glittering lights, I felt an impending sense of doom. Somewhere in that enormous spectacle of architecture, Mom and I are going to live.

  “We've made it, Sammie.” Mom was wiping her teary eyes with a crooked finger. “We've come home.”

  If it hadn't been for the iced tea, I might have choked to death on the crackers in my throat. Which wouldn't have been an altogether bad thing, because then I never would have had to set foot in Apartment 806.

  Apartment 806 was smaller than Mom had described and reeked of fresh paint. It essentially consisted of two adjacent boxes, each of which could have fit into our family room in Ithaca. A narrow entranceway led into Box #1, which contained the tiny excuse for a kitchen, a wooden table with two chairs and the old futon from our guest room. My new sleeping quarters. And Box #2, where the movers had deposited Mom's bed and desk, led to the pink-tiled bathroom. So in order to go pee or get a glass of juice from the fridge, one of us would have to trek right through the other's “bedroom.”

  As Mom began opening windows, Moxie nervously sniffed every inch of the apartment. The movers had scattered our belongings around the rooms, and in two sweaty trips, Mom and I had hauled our suitcases up from the car, dumping them in the entranceway. It was truly a disaster area. A claustrophobic little disaster area.

  Welcome home, I said under my breath. Welcome to the dollhouse.

  Pushing some plastic hangers off the corner of the futon, I let my knees fall out from under me. My hands felt clammy. My head felt woozy. I rested it between my knees and attempted some deep, steady breaths.

  “It may look like a mess now,” Mom grunted as she yanked open a window, “but it has a lot of possibilities.”

  “Possibilities?”

  “Well, for one thing, look at the view.”

  “The view?”

  “It doesn't help if you repeat everything I say.”

  “I'm not repeating every …,” I started, but caught myself.

  Mom began peeling back the tape on a box labeled linens.

  “It's been a long day … why don't we just make our beds and get some sleep?”

  I sat there for a second watching her.

  “At least you can help me,” she snapped.

  There she goes. I sighed. Mom Jekyll and Mom Hyde. As I leaped over some loose boards on the floor, I tripped, stubbing my toe. The horrible kind of stub where the nail separates from the skin.

  “Owww,” I yelped, hopping around on one foot.

  Mom had been so preoccupied she hadn't even noticed.

  “Owowow,” I said louder, my toe pulsing in agony.

  “I don't understand why you're not—”

  And that's when I interrupted her. Enough was enough! The rim of my toenail was filling with blood.

  “Because I hate it here!” I shouted.

  Mom froze in midair, blue-flowered sheets
in hand. As she flung them onto the futon, a thundercloud settled over her face. “There's a pillow in that crate …do your own damn bed for all I care.”

  Then she stormed into the other room and hurled the door shut. Sinking back onto the futon, I felt dizzy from the pain. Either that or the paint fumes.

  Great. Not in the apartment fifteen minutes and already a catastrophe. Really great.

  After several minutes, I limped over to my suitcase and dug out my nightgown and my toiletries bag, brushing my teeth at the kitchen sink. I didn't have the energy to pull down the futon, so I spread the bottom sheet across the surface and bunched up my T-shirt for a pillow. Collapsing onto the lumpy mattress, I pulled the other sheet on top of me.

  I lay there for a long time, listening to the honking and car alarms on the street below. I could hear someone puttering in the hallway outside our apartment. I hopped out of bed to double-check that Mom had locked the door. Dodging boxes on my way back to the futon, I paused in front of the window and stared out at the panorama of lighted apartments. I could actually see right into plenty of them. Real things, like StairMasters and televisions flickering, and the occasional figure walking from room to room. I began to wonder whether, if I looked long enough, I could actually catch people undressing, or even having sex.

  Speaking of sex, breakfast with Kitty already feels like a year ago. All that talk about spicing up her lovemaking, like she was Aphrodite incarnate. I have to admit it made me jealous, though I'd never give her the satisfaction of knowing that.

  I wonder if a guy will ever want to sleep with me, or if I have a neon sign on my forehead that says “untouchable,” only it doesn't show up in the mirror and no one wants to hurt my feelings by telling me. Sometimes, when I'm reading an erotic scene in a novel, I can imagine what it will feel like to have sex. And it's not like in the movies, perfectly scripted, in front of a blazing fire. It's different, more sensual somehow. I hope my first time is with someone I love. I hope it's his first time too. I hope we're not collecting our Social Security checks yet. I hope we can laugh out loud if either of us groans like a bullfrog.