My brother and his girlfriend were dressed alike, baggy white shirts tucked into jeans, except she had a black cashmere sweater over her shoulders.
She had dark eyes, high cheekbones, and beautiful skin, pale, with high coloring in her cheeks like a child with a fever. Her hair was back in a loose ponytail, tied with a piece of lace, and she wore tiny pearl earrings.
I thought maybe she'd look older than Henry, but it was Henry who looked older than Henry. Standing there, he looked like a man. He'd grown a beard, for starters, and had on new wire-rim sunglasses that made him appear more like a bon vivant than a philosophy major between colleges. His hair was longer, and, not yet lightened by the sun, it was the reddish-brown color of an Irish setter.
He gave me a kiss on the cheek, as though he always had.
Then he roughed around with our Airedale, Atlas, while his girlfriend and mother shook hands. They were clasping fingertips, ladylike, smiling as though they were already fond of each other and just waiting for details to fill in why.
Julia turned to me and said, "You must be Janie."
"Most people call me Jane now," I said, making myself sound even younger.
"Jane," she said, possibly in the manner of an adult trying to take a child seriously.
Henry unpacked the car and loaded himself up with everything they'd brought, little bags and big ones, a string tote, and a knapsack.
As he started up the driveway, his girlfriend said, "Do you have the wine, Hank?"
Whoever Hank was, he had it.
Except for bedrooms and the screened-in porch, our house was just one big all-purpose room, and Henry was giving her a jokey tour of it: "This is the living room," he said, gesturing to the sofa; he paused, gestured to it again and said, "This is the den."
Out on the porch, she stretched her legs in front of herAudrey Hepburn relaxing after dance class. She wore navy espadrilles. I noticed that Henry had on penny Loafers without socks, and he'd inserted a subway token in the slot where the penny belonged.
Julia sipped her iced tea and asked how Loveladies got its name. We didn't know, but Henry said, "It was derived from the Indian name of the founder."
Julia smiled, and asked my mother how long we'd been coming here.
"This is our first year," my mother said.
My father was out playing tennis, and without him present, I felt free to add a subversive, "We used to go to Nantucket."
"Nantucket is lovely," Julia said.
"It is lovely," my mother conceded, but went on to cite drab points in New Jersey's favor, based on its proximity to our house in Philadelphia.
In the last of our New Jersey versus Nantucket debates, I'd argued, forcefully I'd thought, that Camden was even closer. I'd almost added that the trash dump was practically in walking distance, but my father had interrupted.
I could tell he was angry, but he kept his voice even: we could go to the shore all year round, he said, and that would help us to be a closer family.
"Not so far," I said, meaning to add levity.
But my father looked at me with his eyes narrowed, like he wasn't sure I was his daughter after all.
My mother smiled at me and said that the house was right on the water! I'd be able to walk right out the door and go swimming!
Only then did I understand that they'd already chosen a house; they'd put a bid on it.
"It's on the ocean?" I asked.
"Close," she said, trying to maintain her enthusiasm.
"The bay," I said to myself.
"It does have a spectacular view of the bay," she said, but, no, our house was on a lagoon, a canal. "Like Venice," she'd said, as though this would mean something to me.
Now Julia asked if we swam in there, and my mother said, "Absolutely."
I didn't want to acid rain on my mother's parade, but the lagoon had oil floating on the surface and the bottom was sewagey soft.
I was surprised how long Henry sat with us on the porch, as my mother turned the topic to summer, touching upon such controversial issues as corn on the cob (Silver Queen was best), mosquitoes (pesky), and tennis (good exercise).
Finally, Henry did get up. He went outside as though on a mission. He might be going to check my crab traps or to see if we'd brought the bikes; he could do whatever he wanted. My father was the same way: a houseful of guests, and my mother's duty was to provide food, drink, fun, and conversation, while my father's was to nap or read.
While Mother hostessed and Girlfriend guested, Younger Sister stood up. When there was a pause in their nicing, I made my mouth move smileward: I'd love to stay and talk, but I have to go shoot some heroin now.
* * *
For dinner, we had crabs I'd caught off the dock. My mother covered the table with newspaper, and we all got print on our arms. As a surprise, she served preseason Silver Queen, little nuggets of mush. My brother ate his like a normal person, instead of typewriter-style; usually, he'd tap the cob at the end of a row and ding.
In response to my mother's questions, Julia told us about her brother in San Francisco and sister in Paris, both of whom would be "attending" her mother's annual "gala" in Southampton. Julia chose her words carefully and used ones I'd never heard spokenshe sounded to me like she was trying out for a job as a dictionary.
My mother eyed me: Do not smirk.
However slowly Julia spoke, she opened her crabs twice as fast as anyone else, and I asked how she did it. She showed me the key on the belly side and how to pull it so the shell lifted right off. Henry leaned over to watch, too.
My father asked about the publishing house where she and Henry worked. Julia described their boss as an exquisite editor and true gentleman. My brother had a laugh-smile on when he said, "Every morning when we're opening the mail, Mr. McBride comes into subrights and says, `Did we get any dough, babies?'"
I'd met this exquisite editor and true gentleman myself when I'd visited Henry; and I repeated now that Mr. McBride had told me my brother "Aaron" was irreplaceable.
My father said, "Hank Aaron," almost to himself.
"Mr. McBride must be forgiven," Julia said, "as a baseball aficionado and octogenarian."
I thought, Exquisite octogenarians and aficionados will be attending the gala.
Then I asked my question: "Do they know about you two at work?"
My father shot me a look; and I looked back at him, Why is everything I want to know wrong?
Henry changed the topic: he'd been promoted from intern to assistant. I could tell he expected my parents to be pleased, and I saw right away that my father, at least, wasn't. It was harder to tell with my mother; she wore the mask in the family.
The issue, I realized, was college. Henry still hadn't decided if he was starting Columbia in the fall.
He'd already transferred four times, or five counting twice to Brown. The reasons he gave for transferring each time were always sound and logical, like "better course selection." I wondered about the reasons he didn't say.
* * *
Before bed, my mother told Julia she'd be staying with memy cue. I led her down the hall to my bedroom, which was completely taken up by a built-in bunk-bed complex; it slept four but, I realized, lived only one comfortably.
"A bunk," she said, as though charmed. "Like camp."
A cell, I thought. Like prison.
I asked which bunk she wanted; she chose the near bottom, which meant the far top for me. I got fresh towels for her and left her alone to undress; then I knocked on my door, and she said, "Come in."
She was already under the covers, so I turned out the light. I climbed up to my bunk and swept the sand off my sheets. We said good night. After a few minutes, though, a door slammed, and I had to explain that the doorjambs in this house didn't stick; the doors would be opening and slamming all night. Then "good night""good night" again.
I closed my eyes and tried to pretend I was in Nantucket.
The house we'd rented every year there had a widow's walka square porch on the roof, where the wives of sea captains were supposed to have watched for their husbands' ships. At night, we'd hear creaks and moans. Once, I thought I heard footsteps pacing the widow's walk. You could feel the ghosts in that house, scaring you in the best way.
If there were any ghosts in this one, they weren't moaning about husbands lost at sea but slamming doors over modern, trivial matters, such as not being allowed to go waterskiing.
I couldn't sleep with Julia down there, and I could tell she couldn't sleep either. We lay awake in the dark, listening to each other. The silence between us seemed both intimate and hostile, like a staring contest. But Julia was just waiting for me to fall asleep so she could go down the hall to my brother's room. I heard her bare feet on the wood floor and Henry's door whisper open and close.
* * *
My father and Henry went to look at sailboats to buy, though I suspected talk about Columbia.
My mother, Julia, and I took a walk on the beach. I walked behind them, in and out of the water, looking for sea glass. My mother was describing the exhibit we'd happened on the last time we were in New Yorkdishes, silverware, and crystal used by royaltyand Julia had seen the exhibit herself, on purpose.
The museum was like the house of a rich old woman who didn't want you to visit; everyone had whispered and stepped lightly, as though trying to pretend they weren't really there. The guest book requested comments, and my mother, who never missed a chance to compliment anyone, had written how finely curated the exhibit was. I'd written, "Bored nearly to death."
I experienced this anew listening to them talk tableware. They loved the same plates for the same reasons with the same enthusiasm, and I thought, Henry is going out with Mom.
* * *
When I told Henry, he said, "My sister the Freudian."
Julia was doing my jobs in the kitchen, setting the table and helping her soul twin prepare an early supper.
I was sitting on Henry's bed, while he packed to go back to New York. He always did something else while we talkedchanged the station on the radio, flipped through a magazine, tuned his guitar. He didn't have to look at me; he knew I'd still be there, with my next question.
"You should read Freud," he said, and went to his bookshelf to see if he had any Freud handy. He didn't, but went on saying what a great writer Freud was, as though this was what I wanted to talk about in our only moments alone all weekend.
I remembered to thank him for the last book he'd sent to me from work, by a Norwegian philosopher, and he said, "Did you try it?"
"Yeah," I said, "I spent about a month reading it one afternoon."
He turned to me and said, "Do you know that your IQ goes up and down about fifty points in every conversation?"
I didn't know if this was a compliment or an insult, but I didn't like how he was looking at meas though from the great distance of his new life. I said, "No one likes being talked about to their face." Then I felt bad. "Anyway," I said, "E=MC²."
Henry smiled and opened a drawer. He told me that he'd gone to hear the Norwegian lecture. "Imagine trying to understand that philosophy through the thickest accent you've ever heard," he said. "Now add a harelip."
But everyone was pretending to understand the lecture, he said, and he imitated serious note scribbling. Then he interrupted himselfhe'd spotted Freud on the bottom shelf.
He flipped through the book for the passage he wanted me to hear and found it. "Okay, Freud says: `In sending the young out into life with such a false psychological orientation' about sex, it's `as though one were to equip people starting out on a Polar expedition with summer clothes and maps of the Italian lakes.'" He shook his head. "And that's a footnote," he said. "A footnote."
I said, "You look like Commodore Peary with your beard."
He touched his face, absently, the way bearded men do. Then he handed the bookCivilization and Its Discontentsto me.
"So," I said, "does Julia talk about exquisite plates when you're alone?"
He told me to go easy on Julia; she was nervous about meeting Mom and Dad. "Try to think of it from her side."
I decided I would later.
He picked a purple shirt out of his closet. "Want this?" He tossed it to me. "I bought it at a thrift shop in Berkeley," he said, referring to his last internship, a behavior-modification lab where he'd trained herd dogs not to herd.
I said, "I think I saw you more when you lived there."
He told me that he and Julia would come to the shore again in a few weeks.
"I might not recognize you by then," I said. "You'll probably show up in a suit and tie."
"What are you talking about?"
"You seem older," I said.
"I am older."
"Three months shouldn't make this much of a difference," I said. "Your whole personality has changed."
Finally, he stopped and looked at me.
"You're Hank now," I said. "You bring Mom and Dad a bottle of wine."
Then he sat down on the bed with me. "I might be growing up," he said. "I'm probably not, but let's say I am. Is that a reason to be mad at me?"
I looked at the purple shirt in my lap. It had a big ink stain on the pocket.
Then Julia called us to dinner.
"Come on," he said.
Dinner: talk of great books everyone had read or planned to, except me. Julia had just read one by a famous author I'd never heard of and proclaimed it "extraordinary." I thought, You read too much.
At good-bye, I could tell how much both my parents liked her, and not just for Henry's sake; Julia was the kind, helpful, articulate daughter they deserved.
* * *
On the ride home, I thought about Julia. I calculated what an eight-year age difference would mean to mea six-year-old boyand thought of the one next door. I said, "It's like me going out with Willy Schwam."
My mother pretended not to hear.
I could hear the smile in my father's voice when he said that the important thing was that Willy and I were happy.
"I was dubious at first," I said. "I thought I might be just another baby-sitter to him. But then, one night"
My mother interrupted. "I think I'm going to be ill."
I never talked to either of my parents seriously about love, let alone sex. The closest we'd come was talking about drugs, which I wasn't interested in.
* * *
On the last day of school, I realized I had no plans for the summer. Instead of looking forward to Nantucket in August, I'd be at home in the suburbs and at the shore in New Jersey, just dreading school in September.
I said good-bye to friends who were going off on wilderness adventures and teen tours, to camps with Indian names and Israel. We traded addresses and each time I wrote mine I felt the impending boredom of the summer days to come. When one friend asked what I'd be doing at home, I found myself saying, "I might get a job."
I told my parents at dinner.
My mother said, "I thought you were going to take art classes and work on your tennis."
"I could get a part-time job," I said.
"Maybe you could work in Dad's office again," she said, looking over at him.
I liked seeing Dad in action, the Chief of Neurology in his white coat, as he shook patients' hands and ushered them into his office. But I said, "I need new experiences, Mom."
"What about an internship," she suggested, "in something you're interested in?"
I reminded her that I didn't have any interests.
"You like to draw," she said.
I told them I was thinking of being a waitress.
My dad said, "Practice by clearing the table."
* * *
I went through the help wanted section of the newspaper, but every job seemed to require experience. I called anyway to make my case, using the words I read in the paper: "I'm a detail-oriented self-starter." No luck, though. I gave in to a summer of art classes and tennis, swimming at my friend Linda's, and going on errands with my mother.
The nights were quiet. Dinner, and then I went up to my bedroom and wrote letters to my friends or sketched. I drew people standing in groups, as though posed for a photograph that would go in an album.
My father read his magazines, the green-covered Neurology and Stroke, up in his study. My mother read the newspaper in the breakfast room. She would call up to him, asking if he wanted a piece of fruit, and I'd go downstairs and back up to deliver the peach or plum or nectarine. Before bed, I walked Atlas, while I smoked a forbidden cigarette.
Most nights, I passed Oliver Biddle, who was middle-aged, yet lived with his parentsmy own personal cautionary tale walking a miniature schnauzer. He was suburban-soft in stretchy clothes a grandfather would wear for golf, and he puffed a cigar. I'd heard rumors that he was retarded or a genius, but I didn't believe either. Oliver Biddle was who you became if you couldn't find anyone to love except your parents.
I'd say, "Hello, Oliver," and then, to his schnauzer, "Evening, Pepper."
Oliver said hello back, but always after a delay, as though each time deciding whether to answer. By the time he did, I'd be at least a few steps away and I'd say, "Good night," as though we'd passed the evening together.
* * *
Julia and Henry got out early on Fridays and were already at the shore when we arrived. She'd made dinner, and seemed more relaxed. Henry seemed hardly to have aged at all.
After dessert, they invited me to go with them to the arts center for a Russian film with English subtitles.
I said, "I don't like to read during movies," and once Julia laughed it became a joke and made me feel that I was irrepressibly witty. So I went with them.
It was the bleakest movie I'd ever seen; everyone died of heartbreak or starvation or both. At home, Julia threw herself on the sofa in Slavic despair and said, "Please to get me some wodka."
They didn't kiss or hold hands in front of me, though once, at lunch, Henry sort of rubbed my foot under the table, thinking it was Julia's. I leaned over to him and whispered, "You're really turning me on." I was a teenager, after all, an expert in the art of mortification.
* * *
At the beach, we left our sandals and sneakers on the path with the other shoes, and spread our towels on the sand, facing the ocean. Henry stood a minute looking out, then bounded into the water.
The ocean was rough, and as the waves rose you could see clear jellyfish and green popping seaweed. Up where we were, clumps of seaweed had dried almost black in the sun. The wind blew so strong that the seaweed whipped loose and rolled down the beach like tumbleweeds.
I looked around us at the people on the beach. A group of women my mother's age wore bikinis and gold bracelets and were already deeply tanned. The really thin ones looked mean. A small community had set up chairs near our towels. A man was pouring something clear out of a thermos into outstretched plastic glasses, while a woman passed a Baggie of lime wedges.
Julia wore a blousy white beach dress and a big straw hat, and slathered herself in sunscreen though she stayed in the shade under an umbrella. She was reading, as usual.
"You seem to really like your job," I said.
She nodded. Then she asked me if I had any idea what I wanted to do when I grew up.
I'd like to be a great singer," I said.
"Maybe you will," she said.
"How do you know?"
"Tone-deaf," I said.
I sat up on my elbows watching Henry in the ocean. The water was just getting warm, and he was the only one in for a while. He waited for his wave in a standstill crawl position, his body facing us, but his head turned back to where the waves formed. Then he swam hard, caught the wave, and rode it all the way in to shore. I loved how he looked the last second of his ridehis hair sluiced back, his part zigzagged, his face pure joy. Sometimes he would actually laugh out loud. When he stood up, he'd look toward us, but he couldn't see without his glasses.
I joined him in the ocean. It was cold, but I kept up with him and went under when he did. I stood beside him, and he pulled my arms out in front of me. He'd been trying to teach me to bodysurf for years. "Now wait for your wave." He looked behind him. "Swim hard," he said suddenly. "Now!"
But I missed that wave, and the next one. Then Julia came in. The two of them swam beyond where the waves broke, and I got out.
On my towel, I watched them bob with the swell of the wave just forming. Then he dove under. He pointed his hand out of the water, like a shark fin, and went after her. I saw her arms flailing as she was pulled under.
The next time I looked up, she was coming toward me. Before she put on her beach dress, I got a good look at her figure. She had on a black one-piece and was even thinner than I suspected, with smaller breasts than I had.
That year, all of a sudden it seemed, there my breasts were, and my mother and I kept having to go to Lord & Taylor for bigger bras. Boys gave me more attention now, and it made me nervous. My breasts seemed to say something about me that I didn't want said. My Achilles' heel, they put me in constant danger of humiliation.
My theory was that if you had breasts, boys wanted to have sex with you, which wasn't exactly a big compliment, since they wanted to have sex anyway. Whereas if you had a beautiful face, like Julia, boys fell in love with you, which seemed to happen almost against their will. Then the sex that you had would be about love.
I'd told my theory to my friend Linda, who wanted to be a social scientist and was always coming up with theories herself. I'd concluded that breasts were to sex what pillows were to sleep. "Guys might think they want a pillow, but they'll sleep just as well without one."
She'd said, "Guys will sleep anywhere if they're really tired."
* * *
That night, when Julia got into her bunk, I told her that she could go into Henry's now if she wanted; she didn't have to wait for me to fall asleep. I said, "I think I might be older than you think I am."
She stopped, and seemed to be choosing her words. I wanted her to know she didn't have to do this either, but I couldn't think how to say it without insulting her.
She admitted that she didn't really know anyone my age. "I keep trying to remember what I was like at fourteen," she said. "Other than books, I think all I cared about was my horse, Cinders."
I pictured her in one of those black velvet hats with the little bows on top. I said, "What happened to Cinders?"
"Boys?" She smiled at me. Then we said good night and she went to my brother's room.
In the middle of the night, on my way to the bathroom, I noticed that his door had blown open. Before I closed it, I saw them in his single bed, sleeping in a loose hug, his arms holding her bare back.
* * *
A few weekends later, the sky was white and the air moist; the forecast was rain, but my mother kept looking up at the sky and saying it was sure to clear up.
In the afternoon, Julia sat at the table, marking up a manuscript from work. As she finished a page, she passed it to Henry to read. "Come join us, Jane," she said.
I was a little afraid to; I thought I might reveal that I wasn't as smart as Julia might think. But I took the seat next to Henry, and read his discard pile.
I liked the pages I read, about a girl whose parents were getting divorced; it was more real than I would've expected.
When I looked up, my parents were watching the three of us and smiling.
I told Julia how much I liked the book and it made her really excited. Mostly she edited children's books, but she was starting to publish ones for my age group, which she called YA, or young adult.
Once my parents were out of earshot, I admitted that I hardly went to the library, and when I did I asked the librarian for books that she felt would be inappropriate for my age.
I told Julia that novels for my age group always seemed to be about what your life was supposed to be like, instead of what it was. Same with magazines. "Even the ads are false," I said. "Like they'll show a boy picking up a girl for a date with a handful of daisies behind his back. Nobody my age goes on dates. The word `date' is not even in my vocabulary."
Julia was so interested that I was tempted to tell her about The House, the abandoned shack by the railroad tracks where kids went to get high and make out. I'd only gone there once, when a boy I liked casually mentioned that he'd be there.
When I walked in, he said, "Hey." I smoked a cigarette and tried to act like I belonged there. He came over and sat with me on the ripped sofa. He passed me the bong. I shook my head, and smiled as though I was already really high. Then he leaned over, just as I'd wanted him to. But he whispered, "Are you horny?"the opposite of a sweet nothing.
* * *
They had other places to goJulia had friends in Amagansett and Fire Islandand the weekend they went up to Martha's Vineyard, I brought Linda to the shore. We slept in the lower bunks. When I told her about Julia sneaking into Henry's room, she asked if I thought they had sex in there.
I heard my father's voice coming from my parents' bedroom and wondered if they could hear me. I whispered, "Can you have sex without making any noise?"
"Who knows?" she said.
I thought of the words Julia used, and imitated her breathing heavily and saying, "Exquisite. Extraordinary. You're no octogenarian, Hank." We laughed, but right afterward, trying to fall asleep, I felt terrible.
* * *
On the beach, Linda became her social-scientist self and said, "At the top of the social hierarchy is the blond man on the elevated white chair. The symbolic throne."
"I believe the common term `lifeguard' signifies his desire to copulate," I said, "i.e., to guard the perpetuation of the species."
"Note that he paints his nose white," she said. "Not unlike the chiefs of many sub-Saharan tribes."
The lifeguard stood up and blew his whistle.
I said, "Mating call."
* * *
My parents loved Linda. That night, when we said we were going to see the moon on the ocean, they said, "Fine," in unison, even though it was late. Once we were out the door, I imitated myself saying, "We're going to rob a liquor store!" and my parents saying, "Fine!"
On the beach, there was a big crowd sitting around a bonfire, and my fearless friend walked right up and sat down in the circle. I sort of followed her.
There was a keg, but when someone asked if we'd like a beer, Linda said, "I wish we could." I didn't find out what she'd meant until a joint was passed to her and she handed it right off to me, saying, "Remember the three Ds from detox: don't, don't, don't."
I passed the joint, as though exerting heroic self-control.
She said, "You still get flashbacks?"
"I think I always will," I said.
"Remember," she said, "never say `always.'"
"I really appreciate your support," I said.
She said, "It helps me stay strong."
I said, "Every day is a gift." . . . .
© Copyright 1999 Melissa Bank
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