Gwen and Legs. Legs told Mark and Mark told me.
What? I thought. She’s crazy! Gwen wasn’t going with Legs anymore, and even if she was, she wouldn’t do that. Karen was such a gossip.
I decided to have some friends over while we were still homework-free, so on Saturday I invited Elizabeth and Pamela and Gwen to sleep over. Dad brought up two cots for Pamela and Gwen, and Elizabeth said she’d sleep in my double bed with me.
“Hey! Camp!” Gwen said when she saw the cots. We laughed.
“I am so wired!” said Elizabeth, flopping down on my bed and dropping her bag on the floor. “I’ve got three subjects I hate this year: American politics, geometry, and biology.”
“What did you sign up for after school?” I asked the others. I had already told the school newspaper I’d be on the staff again this year. Maybe do stage crew again too.
“Folk dancing,” said Elizabeth. “I’m also going to be in a reading program for third graders, helping them one afternoon a week. That’s credit toward the student service learning requirement.”
Gwen said she was seriously considering music as a career—being a singer—either that or science. She was taking voice lessons, but she was also thinking about volunteering at the National Institute of Health. We looked at Pamela.
“Nothing,” said Pamela.
“Nothing what?” I asked.
“I’m not going out for anything. My mother is my extracurricular activity. ‘Mother: How to Avoid.’”
We were quiet a moment. What do you say to that? But Pamela suddenly thrust an imaginary glass in the air. “Let’s party!” she said.
It was a warm breezy night, and we sprawled around my room in our tank tops and drawstring bottoms. I brought up some chips and Cokes, and after we watched an old Seinfeld rerun, we talked about—what else?—boys.
“Have you heard from Joe?” I asked Gwen.
“Four e-mails,” she said.
I looked at Elizabeth. “Ross?” I asked.
She grinned. “Two e-mails and a letter,” she said. “A long letter.”
“Hey!” I said.
Elizabeth rolled over on her back. “Is it true about Justin and Jill, do you think? What Karen’s going around saying?”
“Don’t believe anything Karen says,” I told her. “S he’ll probably grow up to be a gossip columnist.”
“But she says Jill told her that herself,” said Elizabeth.
“Remember what Jill did in eighth grade, though,” said Pamela. “She almost got Mr. Everett fired with that story that he came on to her.”
“But what if it is true about Jill?” said Elizabeth. “Justin was kidding around with me over at Mark’s the other day like maybe he wanted to go out again, but what if all this time he’s been intimate with her?”
“Intimate?” we all exclaimed together.
“Who are you? Queen Victoria?” asked Pamela.
“You know what I mean,” said Elizabeth.
“Well, maybe he wants to kiss one girl above the neck and another girl below,” said Pamela.
“Oh, stop it,” said Elizabeth. “But I don’t really care, now that I’ve met Ross. I don’t know when I’ll see him again, but at least we can write. And who knows?”
“Absolutely!” I said. “Who knows? You may be assistant counselors there again next year.”
Pamela and I were both smiling at Elizabeth like she was our little sister. It was so nice seeing her happy for a change. We were happy that Camp Overlook had been so good for her. I was proud of Pamela too, that she could back off the way she had. Maybe we were growing up. I thought back to the time Pamela bought her first bra. She had it in a little sack and was showing it to Elizabeth and me on the playground.
“Pamela,” I said. “Do you remember when you were showing Liz and me your new Sears Ahh-Bra and Mark grabbed it out of your hands and went racing to the top of the monkey bars?”
We suddenly screeched with laughter and had to tell Gwen all about it. How we’d rushed off in a huff and refused to speak to the boys, and how they’d then gathered outside our window, calling for us to come out.
“The boys were so immature back then, weren’t they?” said Pamela. “I can’t say that Mark has improved much. He and Legs have a lot in common, I think. You’re lucky to be rid of him, Gwen.”
“I know,” said Gwen. “Especially since I met Joe.”
“That was so weird, the way Legs just showed up at camp,” said Elizabeth. “And to walk up just as you and Joe were kissing!”
“Yeah. Legs called the other night and wanted to know how serious I was about Joe. Said he needed me. His new girlfriend must have turned him down.”
“What did you say?” I asked.
“What do you think, girl? I don’t want to see him. You’ve got to be able to trust, and he proved I couldn’t trust him. If I had it to do over, I wouldn’t make the same mistake with Legs. I’d wait for someone I liked a whole lot more.”
I quit massaging lotion into my feet and looked up. Was she saying what I thought she was saying?
Elizabeth stared at her too. “Wait to do what?” she asked breathlessly. Now even Pamela was staring. “You… you let him go all the way?”
“First base, second base, third base, the whole ball game,” said Gwen.
We couldn’t believe it. We were actually in the same room with a girl who had done IT? It was as though we expected Gwen to look different somehow. To metamorphose right in front of our eyes.
It was Elizabeth who broke the silence: “But… but you go to church!”
“So?” said Gwen.
“You sing in a choir!” Elizabeth gasped.
We couldn’t help laughing. “And she’s kind to her grandmother too, Elizabeth,” I said.
But Elizabeth was still gawking at her. “Did you… like it?”
“Liz!” Pamela said, but we all wanted to know. I mean, it was one thing hearing it from my cousin Carol. It was another to hear it from one of us!
“Some of it,” said Gwen, laughing a little. “We only did it four times. Maybe if we’d had a lot more time together, it would have been better.”
“Gwen, you could have gotten pregnant!” I said, sounding like Elizabeth.
“Well, at least I had the good sense to be careful. ‘No condom, no sex,’ I told him. That’s one thing I did right. I can’t believe how naive I was, though.” Gwen looked thoughtful. “He just seemed so needy! Like he was in pain he needed me so much—and that’s sort of flattering. He’s really not a bad guy, and I wanted to please him, but after meeting Joe, I realized how little Legs and I have in common.”
I smiled at Gwen. “Everybody’s angel, that’s you. Your mom needed you, your grandmother needed you, your uncles, your aunts, your boyfriend.…”
“Where did you do it?” asked Elizabeth. She just wouldn’t stop.
Gwen shrugged. “A picnic table at a roadside rest stop. The backseat of his car. His place, once, when no one was home.”
“But… won’t you be embarrassed when you see him around school?” Elizabeth asked. “I mean, he knows you down there, Gwen!”
Now we all burst out laughing.
“Well, only one more year to go,” Gwen said. “He’s a senior already; I won’t have to see him around school after that.”
Elizabeth stretched out on her back. “I don’t think I’m going to have sex until I’m married,” she declared. “I don’t want to keep running into guys I’ve slept with. If other boys know you… intimately”—she emphasized the word this time, as though daring us to laugh at her—“… I mean, don’t you want to save something for your husband? Shouldn’t there be something between you that’s really special?”
It was something to think about. “Pledging to spend your lives together and take care of each other, maybe?” I suggested.
“There’s more to marriage than sex, you know,” said Gwen.
And I added, “Besides, it’s different for mature men and women.”
&
nbsp; “Mature men and women!” Pamela exclaimed.
“Listen,” I said, and recited the poem Dad had copied for Sylvia. I’d thought of it so often I’d memorized it by now:
“O western wind, when wilt thou blow
That the small rain down can rain?
Christ, that my love were in my arms
And I in my bed again!”
“Huh?” said Pamela.
“It doesn’t rhyme,” said Gwen.
“A-gain,” I said, pronouncing the second syllable “gane.” But when they still looked at me blankly, I changed the subject. I was ashamed of myself for repeating the poem that belonged to Dad and Sylvia. But I didn’t tell them where I’d read it. That much I’d kept secret. And I promised myself that in the future, especially after Sylvia became my stepmom, I’d keep all these secrets to myself.
I thought everyone else went to sleep that night before I did. I couldn’t get it out of my mind—Gwen and Legs. And what a jerk he was to tell Mark about it. Bragging, I’ll bet.
At the same time I was remembering the day Patrick and I were alone in his house. We were down in the basement, and he was giving me a drum lesson. He stood behind me and put his arms around me to show how to hold the sticks… and then he was caressing my sides… up along my breasts.…
If his mom hadn’t come home just then, would we have gone further than that? Did I want him to touch me there? Sure. It was supposed to feel good, wasn’t it? Isn’t that what sex is about?
“Alice,” Elizabeth whispered. “What’s the matter?” I didn’t know she was awake.
“Nothing. Why?” I whispered back.
“You’re restless.”
“Sorry.” I rolled over and faced her in the darkness. “I was thinking about Gwen,” I said.
“Yeah. Me too. What do you think would happen if a man and woman fell in love but made an agreement not to touch each other until they were married?” she asked.
“Not at all?”
“Well, not their privates, anyway. I mean, if both of them—the man, too—came to marriage as pure and innocent as…”
“… the driven snow,” I said.
“Yeah.”
“And then, on their wedding night, it was ‘anything goes’?”
“Something like that.”
“I don’t know. I suppose they’d be exhausted from making up for lost time, or they’d have to get out a manual to see what goes where.”
We both started to giggle.
“The comedians,” said Gwen, startling us from her cot at the foot of the bed.
We shut up then and went to sleep.
17
* * *
Celebration
One more week left before school. I looked at my dad one morning, his back to me as he fixed pancakes at the stove, and thought how he needed a night out. I’d been to camp, Lester was moving, and Dad hadn’t even had a vacation. He had thought he would be married by now, back from his honeymoon, and here he was, cooking breakfast as usual.
“Dad,” I said, “I’m taking you out to dinner tomorrow night. I’ve got it all planned.” I didn’t, but I’d take care of that in a hurry.
“Oh?” said Dad, turning. “What’s the occasion?”
“You being my dad,” I said.
“Well, that’s a nice thought.” He smiled. “I don’t have to wear a tie, do I?”
“No. You always look good to me,” I told him.
I took the Yellow Pages up to my room and looked up restaurants. I scanned all the ads and came across a restaurant called Carmen’s. The Home of the Singing Waiters, the ad read. I remembered how much fun I’d had when Lester took me to Tony ’n’ Tina’s Wedding for my birthday last May, so I called and made a reservation at Carmen’s for Sunday night at seven, then checked to make sure I had enough money to cover our dinner. The following evening I gave Dad the address.
“Well!” he said as we pulled in the parking lot. “This is a new one! I don’t think I’ve ever been here, Alice.”
“Good!” I said, and hoped it wasn’t a dump that served lousy food. The prices had been reasonable.
Once inside, I was relieved to find that it was clean and smelled delicious. Artificial grapevines covered the ceiling and ran down the walls in places, and all the waiters and waitresses were dressed like Italian peasants. A tall dark-haired man with a thin mustache came up to our table.
“Good eve-ning!” he said pleasantly. “I’m Francis, your waiter for tonight.”
“Good eve-ning!” I said. “I’m Alice, and this is my dad.” Dad smiled. So did Francis.
We listened to the day’s specials, and after we’d each ordered, Francis returned from the kitchen with a basket of bread for our table. He was just about to walk away when I saw the piano player signal to him, and Francis stopped. Then, as the music started to play, Francis suddenly got down on one knee in front of me, arms outstretched, and sang “O Sole Mio.” Dad listened delightedly, his face in a surprised smile.
Francis was handsome and had a great voice, and any girl in the restaurant would have been thrilled to have this hunk down on one knee in front of her. But I didn’t know what I was supposed to do! Was this like in the movies, where a man and woman sing a duet and they have to stare into each other’s eyes while they do it? Was it okay to look away? To blink? Was I supposed to ignore him and start eating or what?
I looked into his eyes until I felt my eyeballs go dry. It was just too embarrassing, so I dropped my eyes, but then I found myself staring at his lap, or what would have been his lap if he’d been sitting. No! I couldn’t do that! I tried to think what a senior girl would do in a situation like this, and I sat demurely with my hands folded on the table. But then I realized that my napkin had fallen onto the floor, right on Francis’s foot. Should I leave it there? Pick it up? Wait for Francis to pick it up? What did I do when the song was over? Tip him? Kiss him? Why had I brought my father to Carmen’s?
Mercifully, the song was finished at last. Francis got to his feet again, handed me my napkin, and gallantly kissed my hand, then went back to the kitchen.
“What a treat!” Dad said, reaching for the bread. “This was a nice surprise, Alice. I’ll have to bring Sylvia here sometime.”
I finally began to relax, because I figured nobody would serenade the same girl twice. It was fun now just watching. Every so often another waiter or waitress would stop serving and start singing—sometimes two or three of them together—and occasionally all the servers would join in the chorus, stopping whatever they were doing to sing. Several of the songs were in Italian, and it was great to see Dad enjoying himself so much.
“Oh, listen to this one!” he said when three men sang an aria from Cosi Fan Tutte, which, Dad told me, means “Women Are Like That.”
Later, though, after we’d finished our salads and entrées, the most surprising thing happened. A waiter was serving at a table next to ours, and a waitress across the room, began singing to him in Italian.
Dad leaned forward. “Listen, Alice,” he said. “This one is beautiful.”
What is beautiful to my father, of course, sometimes sounds like noise to me, but then I’m tone-deaf, so that doesn’t count. But because Dad loved the piece so much, I paid special attention. He was mouthing the words as the singers sang. It was obviously a duet, because the woman would sing a few measures and then the waiter would sing a few back to her. Dad sang softly along with the waiter.
And suddenly the waiter, noticing, bowed slightly and gestured toward Dad when it was his turn to sing next. The pianist waited. For just a moment Dad looked flustered; he hesitated, and then—to my astonishment—he rose to his feet and, with one hand extended toward the waitress, sang the baritone part. When it was the woman’s turn, he didn’t sit down, but waited while the waitress sang to him, smiling, and then he finished the piece with a flourish. His voice faltered a little on the high notes, but he brought it to a rousing end, and the whole room broke into applause. Some of the people at adjoin
ing tables even stood up to clap for him. All the waiters and waitresses were smiling and applauding, and I don’t think I ever saw Dad so pleased with himself when he sat back down again.
I could feel tears in my eyes. He was having such a good time! He needed times like these while Sylvia was away. I vowed that until she came back, I was going to take better care of my father.
I reached across the table and gave his arm a squeeze. “You were wonderful, Dad!” I said. “Wait till I tell Sylvia about this. You really surprised me!”
“Sometimes I even surprise myself,” Dad said, beaming.
Lester had come in before we did and was up in his room, but I didn’t describe our evening because I wanted to let Dad do the telling. I went up to the bathroom just as the phone rang. Dad was locking up for the night, so he picked up the phone in the hall downstairs.
“Sylvia!” he said when he answered, and I thought what a perfect time it was for her to call. I was tempted to lift the upstairs phone and tell her that Dad had been the hit of the evening, but I didn’t dare.
I knew I should go on in the bathroom and close the door, but I always like to wait a minute or two when Sylvia calls to listen for Dad’s response. I don’t know why, I just have this feeling that… that after losing Mom… if Sylvia were to break their engagement, it would do my father in.
How did I know that her old boyfriend, Jim Sorringer, hadn’t heard that Sylvia’s sister was sick and had flown out to New Mexico to comfort Sylvia? If he could fly to England to surprise her, he could fly to Albuquerque. What if after Sylvia got out there, she decided that her sister needed her more than Dad did, and made up her mind to stay?
I leaned against the bathroom door, ready to duck inside if Dad looked up or Lester came out of his room.
There was a long pause from below, then a murmur, I couldn’t make out what Dad was saying. But suddenly I heard, “Oh, Sylvia!”
I think I stopped breathing. I know I stopped breathing. My whole body grew rigid—waiting… waiting.…
And then he said, “Sweetheart, that’s wonderful! That’s the best news I’ve had all day. October it is, then. I’m so glad Nancy is doing well.”