“Disney World? You want to go to Disney World on your honeymoon?”
“Well … I want to have a say in it, Patrick. You can’t just write down that we’re going to Hawaii without asking me first.”
“Good grief, they’ve only been engaged for ten minutes and they’re quarreling already,” Pamela teased.
“Okay,” said Patrick. “Let’s each make a list of the five places we’d most like to go on a honeymoon and see if we can agree on one of them.”
That evening I explained our assignment to Dad. “Where did you and Mom go on your honeymoon?” I asked.
“To tell the truth, Al, we got married when I was in graduate school, and I was finishing up my thesis. We didn’t have either the time or the money, so we just went camping in a state park for the weekend—slept in a tent out under the stars.”
I stared. “You didn’t have a honeymoon?”
“We didn’t want a honeymoon right then. We wanted for me to finish my thesis and get a job, and we took a trip a year later when there was time to enjoy it.”
I went out on the porch where Lester was reading one of his philosophy books on the swing, and sat down beside him. He groaned automatically as he always does when I get near him, warding me off. So I didn’t say anything, just pulled one knee up on the swing and turned sideways so I could watch his face while the swing moved back and forth.
Lester has a black mustache and there was a little hair on one end of it that was bent into a loop, as though the other end were growing back into his face again.
I slowly reached out and gave a little tug to see if I could get the end loose.
“Al, what the heck!” said Lester, slapping at my hand.
“I just wanted to see if you had an ingrown hair on your mustache,” I whispered. “Go ahead and study, Les. Don’t mind me.”
Lester turned a page and went on reading.
I pushed the swing slowly with one foot and studied my brother. I was trying to decide whether, if I were a twenty-year-old woman, I’d think he was cute.
I do like his mustache. He has nice hair, too, even though it’s a little thin on top. He’s taller than Dad, not skinny, but not plump either. I wondered if he kept his nails manicured. He had his fingers curled under the edge of his book, though, and I had to bend over to see them.
Lester put down the book. “Al, do you want something?”
“Am I bothering you, Lester?”
“What do you think?”
“Well, I just have one quick question.”
“How quick?”
“You can probably answer in one word.”
“The answer is no,” said Lester. “Whatever the question, the answer is no.”
I plopped back against the swing and sulked.
“Okay, Al,” he sighed. “One question. What do you want?”
I told him about the assignment Patrick and I had to do for our Critical Choices unit, and how we couldn’t agree on where to go for the honeymoon. I wanted Lester to think of someplace far away and exotic that I could suggest to Patrick.
“Istanbul,” said Lester, picking up his book again. “Now beat it.”
I went back in the house and wrote it down on a piece of paper. Then I got out our World Atlas to choose four more places, and wrote them down under Istanbul: Fairbanks, Leipzig, Sydney, and the Amazon.
I called Patrick. “Istanbul,” I said.
“What?”
“That’s where I want to go on our honeymoon.”
“Really?” said Patrick, sounding surprised.
“Yes, I’ve always wanted to see Istanbul,” I said.
“Good,” said Patrick.
I had barely hung up when the phone rang. It was Aunt Sally, from Chicago. She calls us every week or so to make sure that Dad hasn’t remarried without telling her, that Lester hasn’t been in a car wreck, and that I’m eating all my vegetables.
“How are things?” she asked.
“We’re doing all right,” I told her. “Busy as usual.”
“Anything exciting happening there in Maryland?” she asked, as she always does when she doesn’t get enough information out of her first question.
“Well,” I said, “Elizabeth’s buying a car, Patrick and I are getting married, and Pamela’s pregnant.”
I don’t know why I do that to Mom’s older sister. There was a silence so long I was afraid she might have had a heart attack.
“Put your father on the line,” she said hoarsely.
“Joke! Joke!” I cried. “It’s an assignment we have to do for health class. We have to make all these decisions about what we’d do if we were in certain situations.”
“I can’t believe this!” said Aunt Sally. “Has your teacher lost her mind?”
“It’s a man,” I told her.
“I don’t see any good coming out of this at all, Alice. Talking about things like this will just make students want to try them.”
Why do adults think that way, I wonder? Why do they think that if we hear or read about something, we’ll rush right out and do it? Even suicide. When Denise Whitlock stepped in front of a train last spring, the principal put the whole school on suicide alert. As though we would all rush down to Amtrak like lemmings and stand in front of the first train to leave Union Station.
“He’s a good teacher,” I said, and added, “He looks like Robert Redford.”
Aunt Sally gave a deep sigh. “I didn’t think I could survive Carol’s junior high and high school years, and now I’ve got to worry about yours.”
“Doesn’t it help to know that Lester is looking out for me?” I asked.
“I’ll only get to the cardiac unit that much sooner,” said Aunt Sally.
“Al,” Dad called to me about nine. “When’s your next dental appointment?”
I wandered into the dining room where Dad had our calendar there on the table—our new table with eight chairs. I figured our house was beginning to look more and more like the kind of house we’d had when Mom was alive.
“I don’t know,” I told him. “It’s the last thing on my mind.”
Dad gave me an exasperated look. He’d been having a pretty short fuse lately. “Well, when were you there last?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know.”
He flipped through the pages. “Can you remember the month, Al? Wouldn’t it be here on the calendar?”
“If it is, I didn’t put it there.”
“Then how on earth do you know when it’s time for another checkup?” he said, tossing his pencil down. “Don’t you plan anything?”
Were Dad and Mr. Everett in cahoots, I wondered, or is this what happens when you get older—your brain divides your life into little two-inch squares where you write down your plans for each day?
I leaned over the calendar and looked back through the pages to see if anything would help me remember. I was surprised to see all the little notes that had been written in those squares. Even Lester had put stuff down. The only dates I remember are when I’m going to the movies with Patrick, when assignments are due, and when I can expect my next period. Beyond that, I haven’t a clue as to what’s going to happen to me.
“Think,” said Dad. “We got a card from the dentist saying you haven’t been there for two years. That can’t be possible, can it?”
“I suppose it could,” I said. “I guess I only remember being there the summer after we moved from Takoma Park.”
“Good grief,” said Dad. “Al, you are now in charge of putting all appointments on this calendar. You are to call the dentist, make an appointment, and ask the nurse to send you a card every six months to remind you.”
“I have been getting cards,” I said. “I just … didn’t do anything about them.”
He stared at me incredulously. “Do you want your teeth to rot? Do you want to sit around beating your gums together when you’re forty, and live on a diet of stewed meat? For heaven’s sake, Al, take charge of your life here.”
I figured Dad
was upset because he knew if Aunt Sally ever found out, she’d …
“And don’t tell your Aunt Sally,” he bellowed as he left the room.
2
SPEAKING OF LIST
It was fun to be in eighth grade. The younger kids looked so green, so uptight. In some ways, I guess, we were beginning to feel a little more relaxed about our bodies—Elizabeth, Pamela, and I.
In eighth grade, I noticed, guys and girls usually ate at the same tables—a lot of us, anyway. We’d steal food off each other’s trays, lean against each other when we laughed, walk down the halls with our arms around each other—sometimes there would be six of us abreast. We weren’t as self-conscious about things, and it felt good.
In other ways, though, we weren’t relaxed about bodies at all. Elizabeth’s mother was going on her ninth month of pregnancy, and she was absolutely huge. It looked as though she were carrying a volleyball in her abdomen. She sort of waddled for balance, and when she sat down, it was on the edge of her chair so that her stomach could hang out into space. I know that all three of us—Elizabeth, Pamela, and I—were wondering how it would feel to give birth to a volleyball.
“Everything stretches, Al,” Dad told me once when I said that the idea of having a baby frightened me. “It’s not as though a baby comes ripping and tearing out of you.”
“Whatever,” I told him. I was beginning to sound like Elizabeth. I didn’t even want to think about it.
I didn’t imagine I would ever feel as comfortable about my body as Marilyn Rawley is about hers. She’s Lester’s girlfriend. Current girlfriend. Well, one of Lester’s girlfriends. I never actually know who he’s dating until a girl calls on the phone or shows up at the house.
Lester’s birthday was the second week of September, and Marilyn’s present to him, he told me, would be the dinner of his choice, cooked and served by Marilyn in the costume of his choice. I asked Lester what he chose, and he said surf and turf, served by Marilyn in knee-high boots and leopard-skin bikini.
“Dad,” I said that evening, “what are we going to do for Lester’s twenty-first birthday?”
Dad was sitting at the piano, going over some sheet music. He’s manager of the Melody Inn, a music store in Silver Spring, Maryland, and every so often he brings music home to try out.
“I’m not sure. He’s pretty much got the weekend sewed up, from what I understand,” Dad said. “He’s going out celebrating with some of his friends Friday night, and Marilyn is cooking for him on Saturday. I was thinking of telling him to come down to the store and choose a few CDs.”
My problem was that I had spent almost all my money on clothes. I couldn’t believe how much taller I was this September than last. None of my jeans fit right anymore. I couldn’t think of a thing to buy Lester for $1.87, which was all I had left.
Then I got an idea. I figured that if Marilyn Rawley was giving him a home-cooked meal served by an attractive woman, namely herself, it was probably the present he wanted most. She should know. Why didn’t I serve him breakfast? Me serving breakfast in a bathing suit was no big deal, of course, but what if Elizabeth and Pamela both helped? Breakfast in bed, served by three girls in bikinis? Since Pamela and Elizabeth have both had crushes on my brother for a couple of years now, I figured they’d jump at the chance.
Pamela did. “Can I wear anything I want, Alice?” she asked.
“As long as it’s decent,” I told her. Knowing Pamela, you have to cut her off at the pass.
“I’ll wear the cat costume I wore in my tap recital,” she said.
I thought Elizabeth would be happy to help out, too, but she surprised me.
“That is so sexist, Alice! A woman dressing up as a man’s fantasy and serving him! Why doesn’t she just sign on as his slave or something?”
“Well, if you don’t want to do it, that’s okay,” I told her. “Maybe Lester cooks for Marilyn on her birthday, I don’t know.”
“I’ll come over and help you make breakfast for him, but I won’t wear a bikini,” she said.
The more I thought about it, the more I wondered if maybe Elizabeth wasn’t right, and we were just going along with the idea of women as sex objects. So that night, when Lester and I were making dinner, I said, “Do you ever think of me as a sex object, Lester? I want the truth.”
“Are you crazy?”
“I really want to know.”
“You’re my sister, Al.”
“So? I mean in you fantasies, Lester. I want the absolute truth: Have you ever dreamed about me?”
Lester was still gaping.
“Well, have you?” I asked.
He blinked, and went back to layering the cheese on the noodles, while I added spoonfuls of tomato sauce.
“As a matter of fact,” he said, “I dreamed about you just the other night.”
I leaned over and stared up into his face. “Really? Can you tell me what it was? I mean, even if it’s embarrassing, Lester, I’ll understand.”
“You don’t want to hear it.”
“I do, Les! Please! I won’t be mad or anything. Was I a sex object?”
“Well, you were naked.”
“I was? Go on, Les. We can’t help what we dream, you know. I just want to understand how a man’s mind works, that’s all.”
“Okay. Are you ready for this now?”
I nodded.
“You were walking down the street naked as a jaybird and all the dogs were barking.”
I waited.
“And … ?”
“That’s it.”
My face fell. “That’s all of the dream? The dogs were barking?”
“Yep.”
“But what were you thinking? What were you feeling in the dream?”
“I was thinking about calling 911 and having you arrested.”
I should have been talking to God instead of Lester, I decided. I should have been asking him why he put brothers on this earth in the first place.
“Okay, question number two,” I told him. “If I ever asked you to cook dinner for me in your swim trunks, would you?”
“Not a chance,” said Lester.
Maybe I hadn’t asked it right. “If Marilyn asked you to make dinner for her in your swim trunks, would you?”
“Of course,” said Lester.
It was all a matter of priorities.
On Saturday, Dad left early for the Melody Inn. Lester works part-time at Maytag, and had to be there by ten, so I figured Pamela, Elizabeth, and I would go in his room just before his alarm clock went off. Pamela came over, just as she said, in her cat costume. I’d forgotten exactly what it looks like, but it certainly wasn’t a Halloween costume. If the Playboy Club featured cats instead of bunnies, that’s what Pamela looked like. The short little cat suit was skintight over her body, with black net stockings.
I had on my bathing suit, but the air was chilly, so I wore Lester’s University of Maryland sweatshirt over the top. Elizabeth arrived wearing a long Laura Ashley dress with a high neck, in protest, she said, of Lester’s fantasies.
“Is he up yet?” Pamela asked.
“No. He was out with the guys last night, so I know he’s tired.”
We made all his favorites. Freshly squeezed orange juice was Elizabeth’s job. French toast was Pamela’s. I made the bacon and coffee, and we set it all on a tray with a little card. Happy Birthday, Les, from your loving sister and her friends, it said.
At twenty-four past eight, we went upstairs. I went first to open his door, Elizabeth carried the coffee pot, and Pamela had the tray.
I tapped on Lester’s door. “Les?”
No answer. I waited, then tapped again, and finally poked my head inside. Lester was sound asleep and snoring. He was lying on his side, one arm up over his face, his mouth wide open.
I looked over at Elizabeth and Pamela and nodded.
“Happy birthday to you,” we sang, or rather, they sang, since I’m the McKinley who’s tone deaf, but I mouthed the words.
“Happy
birthday to you, happy birthday, dear Lester …”
Lester pulled his arm away from his face, and one eye opened. I was directly in his line of vision, and could see him staring at me in my bathing suit and his sweatshirt.
Then he must have realized that the music was coming from someone else, not me, and lifted his head off his pillow. He blinked and stared at Pamela in her cat suit, then at Elizabeth, and dived back under the sheet.
“… happy birthday to you!” they finished.
“Al, if you want to live, get them out of here,” came a voice from under the covers.
“Don’t you know what day this is?” I asked. “It’s your birthday!”
“It’s a nightmare,” said Lester.
I couldn’t hide my disappointment as Pamela set the tray down on his dresser. “It’s your present from me, Lester! We fixed everything you like for breakfast, so you could eat it in bed.”
There was a long, low sigh from under the sheet. “Al, you want to give me a present?”
“Yes! This is your—”
“Thank you very much. Now will you take your friends downstairs and promise not to come up again?”
“All right,” I said. I was getting the message, and realized it had been a dumb idea. “I just, well, since Marilyn’s going to cook for you in her bathing suit, I—”
“Who said anything about a bathing suit?” said the voice under the covers.
“You said … a bikini… .”
I stared at Elizabeth and Pamela. Pamela giggled, but Elizabeth was in shock.
We left the tray in Lester’s room and went back down to the kitchen. We sat around the table and stared at each other.
“That is plainly immoral,” said Elizabeth.
Since my family’s not too big on sin, I wasn’t all that sure. But then Pamela got into the act.
“What’s immoral, Elizabeth?”
“A man asking a woman to go topless and they’re not even married.”
“There’s nothing wrong with topless,” said Pamela. And then we remembered that her parents are nudists. They go bottomless as well.