I turned to go.
“Stevie.”
I turned around.
“About the Dornshire letter.” Cherie leaned back in her chair and swung an ankle, clad in a shiny purple and red heel.
I froze.
“It’s interesting how that letter ended up in the Athertons’ hands, via the mail. So very unusual. Almost unheard of.” She tapped her polished nails on her desk. There was a purple strip across the tops.
I couldn’t speak because my throat was constricting.
“Someone must have mailed it to them. Someone at the hospital, maybe. A sympathetic administrator, perhaps?” She stared up at the ceiling, raising her eyebrows, as if contemplating this mystery. “A secretary there? A doctor? Doesn’t seem likely. Hmmm.”
More constriction.
She turned those bright eyes on me. “The law is the law, Stevie.”
I nodded. My throat strangled me.
“We have to follow it as everyone else does, even if I find it agonizing to do so upon occasion.” She rolled her shoulders. She was wearing a red leather jacket.
No air. None. I was going to suffocate myself.
“But sometimes, Stevie, one must bend, perhaps massage, the law in order to do the right thing, the ethical thing.”
I coughed, tried to breathe, put a hand to my throat.
Her gaze caught mine for very long, poignant seconds while I fought to inhale air. Any air.
She smoothed her skirt, cleared her throat. “Now, don’t forget to put on your calendar that we’re all going to the beer gardens next week. We have a separate tent. I’ve arranged for a rib and potato dinner.”
My knees almost gave out as relief swooshed through me as wind would swoosh through a tunnel. I turned to go, my body stiff. How long could I stand without breathing?
“Stevie.”
Oh, no. Here it was. She knew. I knew she knew. She knew I knew she knew. She was one of the smartest people I’ve ever met. I weakly faced her.
“Nice job,” she said quietly. “Very nice.”
I closed my eyes, breathed.
“But let’s keep this between us girls,” she whispered. “It’s a girl secret.”
I nodded. “Thank you.”
She grinned. “No problem. I love girl secrets!”
“Come to one practice,” Zena told me one day in Pioneer Courthouse Square. A man walked by muttering. It reminded me of Helen and it hurt my heart.
“No. I can’t roller-skate.” I handed her tiny tomatoes I grew in my garden.
“Didn’t you skate as a kid?” She handed me graham crackers.
“Of course I skated as a kid.”
“This is the same thing, only now you get to push and shove, roll on the floor, trip, attack, push, elbow, swear, dive, and fight for victory.” She did the peace sign with both hands, her vogue haircut spinning around her grooving head.
“I’m not violent.”
“You’ll learn how to be.”
“I don’t want to hurt anyone.”
“You’ll enjoy hurting people, trust me.” She grooved her head up and down.
“I’m not fast.”
She thought about that one. “You could be, if you wanted to be, Stevie.”
Could I?
“Give it a shot.” She pretended she was shooting a gun.
“Stevie, roller derby is about women becoming more of who they are. Braver, stronger. It’s a sisterhood of kick-ass women who can get on the rink, put everything crappy behind them, and concentrate on knocking someone else’s teeth out.” She said this in all seriousness.
I pictured teeth flying. “Okay, Zena. I’ll do it.”
And I did. I started practicing with the Break Your Neck Booties roller derby team one Saturday on the weekend, one weekday night, with one game.
Me. Stevie Barrett.
Wimp.
After forty years, Aunt Janet finally found her roar the day of the party.
Not her voice, her roar.
In the truest sense of roaring.
One could make the argument that this was not the best time to find one’s roar, but surely, better late than never, and I did enjoy the fireworks.
Herbert was mighty shocked about that roar, mighty shocked.
I enjoyed it, personally.
Now, that sounds vindictive and vengeful on my part. And petty and small.
But sometimes one has to delve into one’s vindictiveness and vengefulness and petty smallness, if only to be honest with yourself that no, your name is not Pollyanna and you are not perfect, especially when it comes to insufferable cockroaches named Herbert.
I could not work the weekend of the anniversary and hard rock parties and informed Mr. Pingle that I would need time off.
That man is a geek to his core, so I related to him big-time, and he is so kind. “You’re not ill, are you, Stevie?” He wrung his hands. “You’re not hurt? You’ll come back, won’t you?” He pulled me aside. “You’re my only employee I can talk to, do you feel the same?”
I assured him I did.
“It seems, it terms of chicken, that we can relate. Do you feel that, too?”
I assured him I did.
“I know there’s a promotion for you coming soon in our family here.”
I thanked him but explained that I had to attend family parties.
His unhappy face cleared instantly and he clapped his hands. “I sooo understand, I do. Have a lovely time, then, Stevie, and we’ll see you next Friday. Friday! I feel so much better now.” He wiped his brow. “Can’t lose my best chicken friend!”
We clucked at each other and waved our chicken wings. I put on my chicken head and did the chicken dance on the corner. An old man told me grumpily to “get a real job—join the Marines,” a group of teenagers threw a beer can at me, and a kid came over and gave me a quarter so I could buy myself some candy.
When I came in that evening from my chicken gig, he was triumphant, almost tearful in his joy. “I have talked to corporate, Stevie, and I have secured you a raise!” He put both hands in the air. “We have victory! I know you’re a new employee, but your dedication to Aunt Bettadine’s Chicken is extraordinary. You’re going to make $12 an hour now.”
“Cluck cluck!” I told him, winging my elbows up and down. I knew that would make him happy. What a geek. I so relate to him.
He clicked his heels as he clucked.
Eileen and Jake were bound to meet, but I was putting it off as long as possible.
I came home from my chicken job, stuck one of those nerdy miner’s flashlights on my head, weeded my garden, and adjusted some of my pathway stones until late. About two in the morning I went to sleep, the incessant ringing of my doorbell waking me up a few hours later.
Eileen brought me flowers in a pot because “you’re an organic garden hippie woman now, Stevie. Dirt under your fingernails, leaves in your hair, but whatever. Here.”
She had many complaints that morning, her “prominent” job, the screwball stockbrokers, the screwy women at work, the screwy stepmother, and finally she was leaving and Jake, dear Jake, was coming up my path. He had asked the night before if he could bring me brunch. It was such a nice offer, on top of so many other nice things he’d done, that I burst into tears because I am a wreck. He kissed the tears and handed me a carrot from my garden.
I had not told Eileen about Jake for the obvious reasons you can think of yourself.
“Well, chicken, have a good time at your chicken job tonight,” she said, winging her elbows up and down as she walked down my path to my white picket fence.
I followed her down the path as Jake smiled at Eileen, held out his hand, and introduced himself as a friend of mine.
All I could think of was, “Damn.”
Eileen, still clutching his hand, turned to me. “I didn’t know you had a friend named Jake,” she said accusingly.
“Yes, I do.” I made further introductions, and I could see Eileen’s face going red. “Now I understand why
you’re so busy, Stevie, that you can hardly see me anymore at all. Why you’ve dropped me. It’s a man, isn’t it? So typical.” She glared at Jake.
“I’m sorry, Jake—”
“Nothing to be sorry about,” Eileen snapped. “Well. I think I have the full picture now.” Something in her eyes changed, she got this sneaky expression, and she wiggled her elbows at me and made the sound of a rooster. “Don’t work too hard tonight at your job. I’ll drive by and wave hello when you’re waving your feathers!”
I felt sick.
“Excuse me?” Jake said. He didn’t understand what was going on, but he understood Eileen’s tone.
“Oh!” Eileen put her hands over her mouth, diamond bracelets sparkling in the sun. “You didn’t know? Our Stevie here is a chicken! A chicken!”
I felt sick and nauseated.
Eileen waved her chicken wings again. “She wears a chicken outfit every Friday, Saturday, and Sunday afternoon and dances around on a street corner advertising chicken dinners.” She gobbled. “Only $8.99!”
Jake glanced at me.
I felt sick and nauseated and vomitous.
“You should see the chicken head she wears. It’s Jake, isn’t it?” She circled her eyes with her hands. “The eyes are these huge yellow blobs, the beak is pointy, and she even has chicken feet over her shoes! I drive by every time she works and honk at her.”
I felt sick and nauseated and vomitous, and my head was now way, way down.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Jake cross his arms over that muscled chest of his that I wanted to see naked. I was sure I would not see it now. Nor would I see that smile aimed at me again. I mean, who wanted to date a woman who danced as a chicken?
“Hmmm,” Jake said. “And what is your name again?”
“I’m Eileen. I’m Stevie’s best friend. We’ve been friends forever! Right, Stevie? And, I must say, you make the best dancing chicken ever! Ever! Gobble, gobble! Why, between your chickening and this guy, no wonder I hardly see you. I thought it was because you were being snotty because of your weight loss, but noooo—”
“Excuse me, Eileen,” Jake cut in.
“Excuse me!” she trilled, flapping her wings again. “See, she has to work a second job as a dancing chicken because she bought into this asinine notion that you have to be thin in this country to be worth something, so she spent tons of money on operations to get thin! Two operations! Two! And she had her boobs done, too. Those girls were spendy! But I bet you know that already. All bought but not yet paid for!”
“Stop it, Eileen!” That was enough. I’d had enough. “Who are you to come to my home and speak to me like this—”
“Who am I? I’m your best friend!” she shouted, all false humor gone.
“No,” Jake said, his voice low, tough. “You are not. You’re not a friend to her at all, are you?”
Eileen’s mouth twisted. “Yes, I am.”
“You come to Stevie’s home, announce that she’s working as a chicken to someone who clearly didn’t know, you make fun of her, and her job, and then you tell me about operations that she’s had, which are absolutely none of my business, and it’s appalling that you would share someone’s medical history with anyone else because it’s private, and all the while you’re gobbling and flapping your chicken wings. A friend. It’s Eileen, right? A friend wouldn’t do that.”
Eileen blustered and blustered. “A friend would have been honest with you—”
“Stevie didn’t tell me what she was doing for her second job because she didn’t think I needed to know at this time. I understand why. When she wanted to tell me, if she wanted to tell me, she would have. As for her operations, same thing. It’s not even my business to know.”
“Well, I…”
“Well, you what?” Jake’s face was so hard, and I could see the longer he thought this out, the madder he was getting. “I’ve never had a friend who would try to embarrass me in front of someone else. I’ve never had a friend who talked about my medical history to others. I’ve never had a friend who made fun of me as you’re laughing at Stevie, so maybe you should go now and think about what being a friend means.”
Eileen’s eyes narrowed. “You’re going to let him talk to me like this?”
I nodded. “Yes, I am. I should have done it myself, but I’m not as quick on my feet as Jake is. That was mean, Eileen, so mean.”
“I don’t give a shit!” she said, but I could tell she did. I could tell in the way her whole face wobbled, how she jerked her body. “I’m leaving you and your fake boobs alone now, Stevie.” She cock-a-doodled, flapped her elbows, turned on her heel, and left. Right by the garden gate she caught an edge and tumbled down.
Jake and I ran toward her and helped her up. She needed our help, but she struggled anyhow. “Let go of me!” She was crying, the tears running down her face along with her mascara.
She banged her car door shut and roared off.
“How about brunch?” Jake asked me. I nodded, and he pulled me and my trembling body in close for a hug.
“Three hundred and twenty-five pounds.” Why lie to Jake? “I had a few problems and I buried them with eating.”
Jake pulled me onto his lap. “I cannot even imagine you at that weight.”
“You moved in about seven months ago, though. I wasn’t weightwise where I am now….”
“I thought you were gorgeous then, and I still think you’re gorgeous.”
“But does it bother you that I was that heavy? That I couldn’t control myself? That I ate that much?”
“Honey—”
That did give me a trill, that word, honey.…
“I’m taking you where you are now. Not two years ago, not five years ago, not ten years. We can’t go back and change who we were. I think we have to take each other where we’ve met, right here.”
“But how do you feel about dating a chicken?” I was still mortified.
“Stevie, you took on a second job to pay off two operations, is that right?”
I nodded.
“And you had the operations because you’d had a heart attack when you were thirty-two and if you didn’t you probably would have died, is that right?”
I nodded.
“You don’t want debt, you want to get rid of it. That’s honest. You’re working hard at both jobs.”
I nodded again.
“I understand why you didn’t tell me about the chicken job and the operations, Stevie. But, maybe some day in the future, you’ll trust me enough to tell me everything.”
“I think…I think I might.” He made my boobs twitter, he did.
“I wish you didn’t have to work a second job, and I have to say that it worries me that you’re working that much, but the truth is”—he kissed me on the lips, long and slow, and then murmured—“I love chickens. Especially chickens with big yellow eyes.”
26
Portland, Oregon
The morning of Herbert and Aunt Janet’s anniversary party dawned bright and clear. No clouds.
It would rain.
I knew it. Literally and figuratively.
I drove The Mobster to Herbert and Aunt Janet’s house in jeans and a sweatshirt, my dress and high heels in a bag along with a makeup case and jewelry.
I had dared beyond daring and invited Jake to both parties. He’d said yes, and smiled, and kissed me on my grass and we’d rolled on it, pressed in close together, so I’d had to go and get a dress. I knew exactly the one I wanted.
I’d held my breath as I entered the retail store and went to the same rack. That slinky, silky red dress with a draped V-neckline, spaghetti straps, and a ruffle at the bottom was still there. Better yet, it was on sale. With my coupon, well, now, we were in business.
Phyllis had been there. “That one is perfect. Try it on.”
I’d stood staring at myself in the dressing room mirror, turning this way, and that, and this way again. Phyllis had heard me crying and walked into the dressing room and hugged me. ??
?You are one gorgeous woman.”
Gorgeous? No. I wasn’t. But I was…better…maybe even pretty.
I’d taken a close-up peek at my face. There she was. I could see her in my cheekbones, my nose, the arch of my eyebrows.
There Helen was.
In me.
I was Helen.
I shuddered.
If I went back to Ashville, could I get the image of Helen off of my own face? Was there the slightest chance it would bring me peace?
“Go get ’em, darling,” Phyllis had said. She slapped me on the butt.
When Herbert saw me coming up the walk to his cold and formal, dreadful mansion/mausoleum, he did not say hello or good afternoon. There was no, “Stevie, thank you for all the time you have put into planning and executing this party for me and Janet. Thank you for leaving work early.” He tilted up that jaw of his and said, “Please tell me, Stevie, that you will not be wearing that to my anniversary party.”
I took a deep breath, feeling my anger rise. I was bone-deep exhausted from planning this party, working full time, being a chicken, and going back and forth to visit Polly at the clinic. Sunshine kept coming to me in visions and nightmares, followed by Helen, who wreaked destruction. I kept seeing the bridge, and my mother was in me.
“No, Herbert.” I pushed my hair behind my ears. “I won’t wear this. I have a dress.”
“Good. Now, the tent people have sent the Mexicans and they’ve been here for half an hour. I’m surprised you weren’t here to meet them. I had to deal with them myself.”
“I’m here now.” I am so sick of pandering to this man.
“Yes,” he drawled, “I can see that. You have called the caterers again, I presume, to make sure they’re coming on time?”
“They’ll be here on time, and I called them again yesterday to make sure that all your new requests were met, including white and wheat rolls but no sourdough, salad with no nuts, only tomatoes and chopped onions, the onion pieces should be a quarter of an inch at most, pasta salad tomatoes should be cut in two long strips—”
“Stevie,” he clipped as he stared over my head and scanned his estate, not meeting my eyes. I was nothing, that’s what that said, nothing. “I know what I ordered. I depended on you to get it done right. Let’s hope you did.”