“Oh! Wow!” said Liz, starting to smile. “Don’t look yet.” She zipped up the back, then tugged a little on each side around my hips. “Now stand on your tiptoes. Pretend you’re in heels,” she said.
I turned toward the mirror. There stood a sexy-looking girl with strawberry blond, shoulder-length hair in a black halter-top dress that hugged her hips. I moved one leg to the side, and the slit opened up.
“Sex-y!” Liz said, grinning.
“Slink-y!” I said, turning slowly around.
“You’ll need to wear heels and hold your tummy in, but it looks great on you,” Liz said.
There did seem to be a slight bulge in front, but a pair of Spandex panties should take care of that, I decided. I had the typical little bulges of fat on my outer thighs just below the panty line—not a lot. Just enough to show I’m female.
“Buy it,” said Liz.
And I did.
Most of the research I did on using animals for experimentation came off the Internet, but it was enough to make me sick. Some of the material was accompanied by photographs, and some pieces were on video.
The day I was to give my three-minute talk, I felt queasy at breakfast and wondered if I was coming down with the flu. I realized finally that having to tell the class about the horrible things I’d been reading made the stories that much worse.
Four of us gave our talks that morning. Brian Brewster argued for lowering the drinking age to eighteen. If you’re old enough to marry, to be a father, and to be sent to war, he said, then you ought to be able to have a beer now and then.
Another guy argued against capital punishment and talked about the number of people who had been put to death for crimes they hadn’t committed.
A girl, believe it or not, actually got up in front of the class and gave her three-minute talk on why girls should remain virgins until they’re married.
A lot of kids clapped for Brian. Maybe half the class clapped for abolishing the death penalty. Nobody clapped for the girl. Then it was my turn.
I hoped I would get through my talk without breaking into tears, because my voice was trembly. I began by saying that animals were not put on this earth for us to use in experiments, especially those in which they suffer a lot of pain. I described the dog used in a military experiment to test the effects of nerve gas, as though scientists didn’t already know. As the vapor rose, the dog began licking his lips and salivating, then he lost the use of his hind legs and lay down, whining, moaning. Then he began to drool, and he died.
A couple of girls covered their faces.
Live rats, I told the class, were immersed in boiling water for ten seconds, then infected on the burned parts of their bodies. Others were shaved, covered with ethanol, and “flamed” for ten seconds.
I described the nine rhesus monkeys strapped in chairs, vomiting and salivating from total-body irradiation. The goats suspended from slings and shot with high-powered weapons for military surgical practice. The baboons who suffered artificially induced strokes by removing their left eyeballs to reach in and clamp a critical blood vessel to their brains.
“And for what?” I asked, and ended with, “Some primates eventually go insane from terror and isolation. A few university laboratories have been reduced to animal torture chambers. Since animals can’t tell us of their excruciating pain, we have to speak for them and abolish once and for all the use of animals in medical and military experiments.”
I sat down and found myself swallowing and swallowing to keep from crying as a lot of kids clapped for me. Why does hearing your own voice crack make you feel even more emotional? Why does the sight of even one girl with tears in her eyes make tears well up in your own?
It wasn’t the way I’d wanted to present my argument. I’d wanted to come across as professional, concerned, knowledgeable, articulate, and very much in control. Instead, I felt my legs shaking and I had to pee.
“All right,” said Mrs. Cary. “Comments, anyone? How would you rate her delivery?”
“It was very passionate,” said a girl.
“Too emotional,” said a boy. “I found it distracting.”
“Sometimes I missed a word because it sounded like she was trying to speak and swallow at the same time,” said another girl.
“Too over-the-top,” said Brian. “Like violins should have been playing in the background. She gave only the worst examples.”
“Yeah, but if those things really are happening, why not tell the worst?” said someone else.
The only thing that saved me from further dissection was the bell. We ran out of time, and Mrs. Cary gave me a B. All I could think of was how glad I was it was over.
Actually, we were going to have company for Thanksgiving. My cousin Carol from Chicago—Aunt Sally and Uncle Milt’s grown daughter—was coming to Washington with the “nice young man” Aunt Sally had told us about, and they wanted to spend Thanksgiving with us.
Dad hung up the phone after talking with Uncle Milt and relayed the message to Sylvia and me as we worked at the dining room table. Sylvia was grading papers on one side, and I was doing my geometry on the other.
“It will sure be nice to see Carol again, won’t it?” Dad said, smiling broadly.
Sylvia just stared at him. “They’re coming for Thanksgiving here?” she cried. “Ben, the front yard’s all torn up! It’s so tracked and muddy, the workmen put down boards for us to walk on!”
Dad looked nonplussed. “But the inside of the house is still okay, isn’t it?” And when Sylvia didn’t answer, he said, “We’ll just take them to a restaurant, then. We’ll have Thanksgiving dinner out.”
Sylvia sighed. “Oh, I don’t want to do that. I can roast a turkey. It’s just … things are such a mess. I was hoping we wouldn’t have company here until after all the remodeling was done.”
But I was excited. “Carol won’t mind at all!” I said. “How long are they staying, Dad?”
“Well, I don’t know exactly,” Dad said. “Milt didn’t tell me.”
“But … are they staying here, with us, or in a hotel and just coming for dinner?” Sylvia asked.
Dad looked crestfallen. “I didn’t get that straight, honey. Milt and I got talking about his heart medication, and all he said was that Carol and her boyfriend would be dropping by for Thanksgiving.”
Sylvia put her face in her hands, but I was ecstatic. I couldn’t wait to see Carol’s “nice young man.” I was betting he’d be hot hot!
“If they stay here, where am I supposed to put them, Ben?” Sylvia asked. “Do I put them in the same bedroom? Are they even engaged, did he say?”
Now we were getting down to the important stuff! I looked from Sylvia to Dad and from Dad to Sylvia.
“Beats me,” said Dad. “I guess I should have asked more questions. All we can do is play it by ear.”
“I’ll help get ready for them!” I said quickly. “I’ll put fresh sheets on Lester’s bed and help with the pies and the vacuuming.”
“We’ll all help, Sylvia,” Dad told her. “Carol is family. She’ll just have to take us as she finds us.”
“You’re right,” Sylvia said. “Just let me concentrate on the rest of these papers, and when tomorrow’s over, I’ll put my mind on Thanksgiving.”
I guess since they weren’t her relatives—not blood relatives, I mean—she couldn’t be expected to go nuts over them. But she could have shown a little more enthusiasm.
We got a call from Aunt Sally the day before Thanksgiving. I had just put a pecan pie in the oven, and Sylvia was making the pumpkin.
“Now, I know you’re busy,” Aunt Sally said to me, “but I wanted to wish you and your family a happy Thanksgiving and say that I hope Carol and Lawrence won’t be too much trouble for you.”
Lawrence? Carol was dating a Lawrence? I think Lester and I had watched an old movie once, Lawrence of Arabia.
“What kind of trouble would they make?” I asked. “We’re excited to see them.”
“Well, I t
hink we’re all a little nervous when we meet someone for the first time,” she said.
“Why? Is Lawrence an ex-con or something?” I joked.
“Mercy, no! He’s a very nice man, Alice, and I want to get to know him better myself. I don’t know how serious they are, but I think they’ve been seeing each other a lot.”
“So what do you want me to find out for you?” I said, knowing exactly why she’d called.
“Why, nothing, dear!” she said.
“Not even how old he is?”
“Well, I’m guessing around thirty, but I could be wrong,” said Aunt Sally.
“Should we ask what kind of work he does?” I questioned.
“He’s in business, that’s all I know.”
“Should I ask how much money he makes?”
“Gracious, Alice! That would be rude! Of course, if they ever marry, we’d hope he could support a wife and children,” Aunt Sally said.
“What about his family?” I asked.
“I don’t know if he has any brothers or sisters, but it might be nice to find that out too,” Aunt Sally said, getting enthusiastic.
“Do you want me to ask Carol if they’re being ‘intimate’?” I tried not to laugh.
Aunt Sally gave a little gasp, and I knew she was probably getting pink around the neck and ears. “Now, Alice, you just stop!” she said. “My goodness, I would never ask anything like that.”
“Well, if I find out anything good, I’ll let you know,” I said.
“Have a nice Thanksgiving, dear,” she told me.
“And hugs to Uncle Milt,” I added.
Lester came over early on Thanksgiving to bring in wood for the fireplace.
“What do you know about this Lawrence guy?” he asked me as we crumpled newspaper to put under the logs.
“Not much,” I said. “Uncle Milt said he’s here for a convention or something and that Carol decided to come along.”
“That’s not much help,” said Lester.
“Well, I’ll bet he’s tall and dark with a thin mustache above his lip and that he rides horseback through the desert in the moonlight,” I said. “Lawrence of Arabia!”
“I think he’s five foot two and wears a bow tie,” said Les.
The bell rang, and we all turned toward the front door.
7
Lawrence of Arabia
He was big, he was blond, and he was built like a boxcar—not at all what I’d imagined. His head, his jaw, his hands, his entire body were square, and he had shoulders like the frame of a rowboat. I think I saw Les wince a little when Lawrence shook his hand.
“We’re so glad to have you!” Dad said, hugging Carol, and then Carol hugged me.
“I’ve wanted Larry to meet you for the longest time!” she said.
So not even his name would be “of Arabia,” it seemed. Larry it was.
Unless they’d left their bags in the car, I guessed they weren’t planning to stay overnight. And after all that scrubbing I’d done in the bathroom too!
“So this is Lester!” Larry said. “And this must be the inimitable Alice?”
“Inevitably,” said Lester, and everyone laughed.
I wanted in the worst way to sneak off and look up inimitable in the dictionary, but I decided to treat it as a compliment and returned the smile.
Dad took their coats, and Sylvia ushered them into the living room. “I thought we’d start with a glass of something in front of the fire,” Sylvia said. “I’ve got some sherry and some sparkling cider. Which shall it be?”
I immediately set to work filling glasses as Carol and Larry sat down on the couch across from Les. I figured that if Larry didn’t ride horseback across a desert in the moonlight, then he must play fullback for the Minnesota Vikings, but he didn’t.
“I’m in the hospitality business,” he told Dad in answer to a question. “Working my way up the ladder in hotel management.”
“Now, that’s an interesting business,” Lester said.
“And practical,” Dad added. “There will always be a need for hotels.”
I noticed the tender way Larry brushed back a lock of hair from Carol’s cheek. The way her hand sought his on the couch between them. I think Dad noticed it too, because he just beamed like a proud uncle. We all liked Carol and wanted life to go well for her.
“What on earth are you guys building out there, anyway, a swimming pool?” Carol asked. “When we walked up your board sidewalk, Larry said, ‘Are you sure this is the place?’”
We laughed.
“Isn’t it a mess?” said Sylvia. “But it’ll be worth it once we’re done.” And she went on to describe what it would be like—the study, the family room, the master bedroom suite. …
“But they forgot one thing,” said Les.
Sylvia turned. “Really? What?”
“Hot tub and sauna,” he said, and grinned.
We gathered at the table in anticipation of the beautiful turkey Dad carried in from the kitchen. He began to carve while the sweet potatoes and cranberry sauce made the rounds. There’s nothing that makes you feel more like family than to sit at a big table passing the food from one person to the next.
After dessert Dad got out some old photo albums with childhood pictures of Carol in them, including one of eight-year-old Carol, her girlish arms impulsively hugging a startled Lester, five, who was standing straight as a mop handle, arms at his sides, his face turned toward the camera with a “what-do-I-do-now?” look. We howled.
“The opportunity of a lifetime.” Lester grinned and shook his head. “Gone forever.”
Larry told us about growing up in Red Wing, Minnesota, and going ice fishing with his father when the Mississippi froze over. And he and Dad discovered they’d both attended Northwestern University.
I wanted Carol and Larry to stay all weekend. I wanted to hear that maybe Larry was going to be transferred to Washington to run a hotel here and that they were marrying in the spring. Finally Dad said, “You’re staying with us, aren’t you, while you’re in town?”
“Oh, no. We’re staying at the Capital Hilton,” Carol said, to my disappointment.
But then she looked at me, pursed her lips, and said, “You know, Larry has an early-morning session tomorrow, and he’ll be in meetings all day. Why don’t I stay here tonight so Alice and I can chat some more? Then I’ll take the Metro in tomorrow and be there in time for the business dinner.”
“Would you?” I cried. “Bunk with me, like old times!”
I saw Larry squeeze her shoulder. “Well … I’ll miss you … but I think I can manage to live without you for one night.”
“Great!” Carol said. “I’ll just need to borrow some pajamas.”
“I might even have an old pair around here somewhere,” said Lester.
“She’ll sleep in a pair of mine, Les,” Sylvia scolded. “We’ll get you whatever you need, Carol.”
After we said good-bye to Larry, Carol went out on the porch for a private good night, and then we all gathered in the kitchen to do the dishes and clean up the place.
“Ah!” Carol said when we were finally done and had trooped into the living room to enjoy the fire. “Bring on the marshmallows and the fluffy slippers!”
We had no room in our stomachs for toasted marshmallows, but shoes came off, and Les and Carol and I sat down on the rug. In fact, Carol lay down, a sofa pillow under her head and her toes pointed toward the fire.
“Still working for that nursing association?” Dad asked Carol.
“Yes. I’m the assistant director now.”
“Hey, nice! Congrats!” said Lester.
“It only pays half of what Larry’s earning, and I’d have to give it up if we ever leave Chicago,” she said, “but I enjoy the work.”
“Are you still in the same apartment?” Les asked her.
Carol winced slightly. “Not anymore. I moved in with Larry the day before yesterday, and Mom doesn’t know. I’m still trying to think of a way to tell her.” r />
“Well, the first time she calls your apartment and the phone’s been disconnected, that should do it,” Les said.
“I’ve just told her my phone’s not working,” Carol confessed.
“Your mom’s a big girl now, Carol,” Dad told her. “She can handle it.”
“Well, maybe. I’m just worried about how she’ll react between the time I tell her and the time she decides to accept it.”
Around ten o’clock Dad and Sylvia said good night and went upstairs. Carol sat up and hugged her knees, watching the fire. “What about you, Les?” she asked. “How’s your love life?”
He told her about Tracy and how that had turned out.
“Gosh, I’m sorry,” Carol said. “It’s only a matter of time, though, till the right girl comes along.”
“How do people know that?” I asked. “How can anyone say for sure that you’ll find someone to marry?”
“Statistical probability,” said Carol. “And the fact that there are a lot of ‘rights’ out there. It’s not as though there’s only one person in the whole world for you to marry.”
That was comforting somehow. I think girls sort of grow up with that “Some Day My Prince Will Come” attitude, as though there’s one guy out there searching for you, and you worry whether or not he’ll ever find you.
At eleven I told Carol I’d go up and use the bathroom first, then get in bed.
“I’ll be up pretty soon,” she said.
I washed, brushed my teeth, and put on my pajamas. I figured it would be midnight before she and Les said good night, but twenty minutes later I heard Lester’s car drive away, and here Carol came, wearing the pair of pajamas that Sylvia had left in the bathroom for her.
“I think I’ve got a new toothbrush around somewhere that you could use,” I told her.
“I don’t need it. I keep a fold-up kind in my purse,” she said, and crawled in beside me. The only light in the room came from the streetlight.
“So …,” I said, turning over on my side and getting ready for a long chat. “How did you and Larry meet? Was it romantic?”