A Room on Lorelei Street (18 page)

She sits in Mrs. Farantino's office. Sitting but floating, too. Unconnected. Mrs. Farantino shuts her file drawer a little too strongly. Almost a slam.

“Was it worth it?”

Zoe has no answer. Mrs. Farantino doesn't expect one. She shuffles through papers. Angry. Violation of probation. Suspension from the tennis team pending a review by the counseling team. “Is this what you wanted?” Again, no response is required. She is busy fielding phone calls and other interruptions. Zoe is not the only pain in her life.

“I like you, Zoe. I want you to know that. But you have to do your part, too. There's only so much I can do.” She fills out yet another pass for Zoe. Study hall for the remaining twenty minutes of the period. “Was it worth it?” she asks again. This time the phones are quiet and she expects an answer.

Zoe sit-floats in her seat. Above it all. Unconnected. What is Mrs. Farantino asking? Worth what? There is no answer. Zoe's gray other world does not match Mrs. Farantino's neat black-and-white one. But she sees what is happening. What they are trying to do.

“Don't take tennis away from me, Mrs. Farantino. Don't.”

“It's done, Zoe. You did it. You made a choice.”

When?

When in her whole fucking life did she ever get to make a choice?

She thinks about the connections. Connections that aren't even seen. Not even there. But they are. Like Mr. Kalowatz's sprinklers, barking dogs, and chirping tree frogs. Distant events barely connected by a mist of thought or circumstance. The distance between her, tennis, and Mrs. Garrett. The distance between her and a childhood that wasn't. The distance between her, ninety dollars, and a room she calls her own. The same distance as the sprinklers and barking dogs. There but not there, except in Mrs. Farantino's strangely connected world.

Her thoughts snap clear to Saturday. The next match. Zoe,
the star
. Opal and the Count in the bleachers.

“Don't,” she says again, but Mrs. Farantino just sighs and shakes her head.

The rutabagas are sprouting. The earth pushes up in chunks, and baby-soft green peeks through cracks. Zoe hunches like a two-year-old on her heels. Watching. She has never grown anything before. How long will it take? Did Opal say? The last long arms of the sun reach between rooftops to warm her plot of ground, and she checks her watch to make sure she won't be late for Murray's. Even if she kisses every ass three times over at the diner tonight, she will never make enough in tips to meet the rent due on Friday. She fingers a piece of earth away to make growing easier for an emerging sprout. She could give Opal an excuse. She could tell her she was just a little short. She could tell her she'd make it up soon. She could give—

One of the thousand excuses Mama always gives.

Zoe stands.

She brushes dirt from the edge of her skirt and adjusts her apron.

Opal will have her money on Friday.

“Your windshield's looking just fine, miss.”

“Best compliment I've had all day.” Zoe pours him more coffee. “That sticker put me out ninety bucks, though. That's a lot of money for a waitress.”

“That's a lot of money for anyone. We're all in the same boat.” He reaches for his wallet.

You're not in my boat,
she thinks.
Not by a long shot. Mama's in my boat. And Grandma. And a sort of best friend who can't even look me in the face and wouldn't loan me ninety bucks to save her life. And Daddy. He hops in now and then, too. That's the kind of stuff my boat's full of, mister. Not you or anyone like you
. But she smiles and accepts his generous tip, because that's her job. Waitresses deliver food and swallow shit—all for the accumulation of small change.

“You take care now, you hear?”

“Yes sir,” she says, and forces out a cheerful, “You too.”

Tips have been good but tables slow. Murray's diner is feeling the competition of newer, flashier restaurants sprinkling the outskirts of Ruby. She watches Murray moving between busing tables and studying a menu he has memorized, looking every bit the rat in the snake's belly. This week's special: fish tacos. Fish? In Ruby? But he makes do. That's Murray. She wipes water rings and returns salt and pepper shakers to their holders. She asks Charisse if she can pick up her Wednesday shift. No. Charisse is hoping to pick up more shifts, too. Both the kids need new shoes and her car's transmission is teetering. Zoe wipes the ketchup bottle rim and replaces the cap. She twists so tight the skin of her knuckles whiten, and she slowly slides it back into place near the A.1. Steak Sauce.

Two new parties walk in, and Murray shows them to the best booths. Hope is revived. A few minutes later, more customers arrive, and the evening rush—which is not so rushed—begins. Carlos stops by but doesn't order anything. He's on his way to work. He just wants to say hi. Thursday he'll stop by for a late dinner and talk more, but for now,
he just wants to say hi.

“Hi,” she says, and then he's gone, and she thinks that's probably the nicest thing anyone has ever done for her—except for Opal and the Count cheering for her from the bleachers.

The sleazebag arrives late. Her shift is almost over. He is quieter than usual. His eyes move back and forth across red-rimmed lids, and his large meaty hands rub the top of his thighs like his clumsy come-ons are knotted somewhere inside. He slides into a seat, and though his flaring nostrils and leering eyes still prickle her skin, she is glad that he chooses her end of the counter.

New day.

She remembers.

She shows.

She settles into her chair. But Group is light today. Not even the counselor comes. She stares at the empty seat across from her that should hold Mr. K, or Mr. Beltzer, or Mrs. Farantino, or maybe someone else from their counseling bag of tricks. Will this count against her? Somehow she thinks it will. Somehow it will be her fault. Somehow at their counseling party to see if she will be able to play tennis, they will count it a no-show. And, oddly, today she wants to talk.

She slides her hands outward across the cool surface of the tabletop until her cheek rests there, too. The air conditioner hums. Her stomach gurgles. There are no Food Star antacids left to calm it. She sits upright and looks at the empty counselor chair.

“So what should we talk about today?

“Your life, Zoe. We want to hear all about
your
life. And your filthy mouth, too.

“
My
life? It's pretty much perfect. Not much to tell. And my mouth? I guess I just got lucky.”

She tires of her game and leans back. Stares at the empty chair. Presses against her stomach. Listens to past conversations that speak louder than present ones. Listens to the hum that is always there.

Hush, little baby, don't say a word.

The childhood tune she has sealed away to a dark corner breaks through the silence. The tune Grandma always sang.
Don't say a word.
She remembers the afternoons Grandma was there for her after school, Kyle already in tow, taking her by the hand without explanation, saying today was special, today they would have an after-school snack at her house. Zoe knew what “special” meant and why it was Grandma and not Mama or Daddy picking her up. At ten years old she was light-years from Kyle's oblivious innocence, but she went along. For Kyle's sake she was already going along. And then Grandma would sing tuneless songs around her kitchen to make them laugh while she smeared chocolate frosting on graham crackers and poured cold glasses of milk. Afternoon snacks would grow into late suppers and then borrowing old T-shirts for pajamas. The special time grew and grew until Kyle was cranky and crying to go home. And then Grandma would sing more songs.

But Zoe was not the child Kyle was—she didn't find the song comforting. She wondered at a daddy who only brought home useless gifts and then, as weeks and months went by, the wondering turned—why did Grandma always choose that song? She wished just once the mockingbird would sing a beautiful song and make Grandma be silent.

Hush. Don't say a word.
She pushes the song back to its dark corner. But there is no silence. The hum trickles into the chopped-up conversations with Mama that started nowhere and ended up in the same place. Conversations that bled her dry. Conversations that took but never gave. Because Mama needed so much. Because Zoe owed so much. She owed and the debt would never be paid. Owed for growing in a place she didn't belong. Owed for Daddy. Owed for people she never knew and places she never saw. Owed for more than Zoe could ever give. And then, owing nothing because Mama would hold her close and stroke her head. Kiss her. Croon and rock her. Mama loved her. Loves her.

And where Mama's chopped-up conversations leave off, Grandma's controlling ones begin again. Ones that seem to have truth. She only slings hash. She'll never make it. She'll come crawling, and they'll take her back. But there is no “back.” No room. No stars. There never has been. There is only the room on Lorelei Street.

Come back, Beth. Start fresh. Be a good girl
.

But she is not a good girl. Even Carly says so.

“How's that for starters?”

The chair doesn't answer.

And then there is the constant hum of Reid. Louder now because of Carly. Reid, unbuttoning her blouse.
You're beautiful, Zoe. So soft
. Reid. Touching her breast. Kisses. Tender. Only fifteen. Only looking forward, when she was only looking back.

The air conditioner shuts off, and the silence buzzes in her ears.

She looks at the empty seat across from her.

The bell rings.

Group is over.

“What's wrong?” Zoe flies out of her car. “Is it Kyle?”

Uncle Clint breathes deeply, shakes his head, winding up his way to speak.

“Uncle Clint! What is it?” Zoe fights panic rising in her.

“No, no.” He pats his hands in the air like he is putting out a fire. “Nothing like that.”

But Uncle Clint never comes to the diner. He has never waited in the parking lot for her before. It's
something
. Maybe “nothing like that” but something worth bringing him to town and interrupting his dinnertime. Zoe tightens, draws in to herself. They stand between her car and the groaning oil pump on the edge of Murray's parking lot. He shifts his feet and rubs his left forearm with his hand.

“I just need to talk to you, Zoe. About keeping this room.” She waits, letting her silence percolate through him, letting the pause relay that it's no business of his. He brushes his hand over his thin, closely cropped hair. “You wouldn't do something stupid like quit school, would you?”

She relaxes. “You came here for that?” She is almost touched. Is someone finally concerned about her? “I'm fine, Uncle Clint, and no, I'm not quitting school, and yes, I
am
keeping the room.”

“What are you trying to prove, Zoe? Smoking? Moving out? We know you've had it hard, but what does any of this prove? You trying to get back at your mama?”

It's there again. Even with Uncle Clint. It's really not about her or whether she might quit school. It's what it's always about. “Mama? Does
everything
have to be about Mama? For God's sake, Uncle Clint! Can't it ever just be about
me
?”

Uncle Clint moves closer and tucks his chin to his chest. “Don't go raising your voice now, Zoe—”

“I'll raise my voice if I want to!” She throws her hands over her head. “I'll raise it so all of fucking Ruby hears!”

Uncle Clint stiffens. “Your grandma's talking about calling you a runaway. Calling the police so you'd have to go home.”

Zoe folds her arms and leans against her car. “Really?” She leisurely draws out the word and smiles. “Whose bluff do you think she's calling? Wake up, Uncle Clint. She won't call. Do you think she really wants the police to see what they'd be sending me
back
to? Come on. Think it through. I have.”

She turns to leave.

“No matter what, your mama is family. Don't you think you owe her that much? To see her through some tough times? Families—”

“I know, I know!
Families stick together.
Give it a rest, Uncle Clint. What? Have you been going to Grandma's school of guilt? What did she have to do to get you here? Threaten to send Kyle back to Mama?” And knowing the spoken name of her aunt is the period to all conversations, she throws out, “And if families do so damn much sticking together, where the hell is Aunt Nadine? Couldn't she take any more of that
sticking together
?”

He puts his open palm out and sighs. “The keys, Zoe. She wants the keys.” With his other hand he gestures over his shoulder. She sees Grandma sitting in his car. An arm hangs out the window with ribbons of smoke rising from a cigarette pinched lightly between fingers of a dangling hand. So comfortable. So sure.

Zoe's fingers curl into her palm. Nails dig into flesh. “When hell freezes over,” she says in a low voice. “You lay a single hand on this car and I'll break it.” She yanks her purse from the front seat and slams the door. “And I don't mean the car!”

Uncle Clint shakes his head. “I don't know you, Zoe.”

She stops and looks full into his face. “Of course you don't. How could you? You haven't had the time.” It's said as a fact, almost kindly but it cuts just as deeply. She can see it in the wrinkling of his eyes. She would ease the words, backtrack if she could, because Uncle Clint is a kind man, a soft, quiet man manipulated into something beyond his understanding, but there isn't time, and another glance at Grandma's dangling hand spreads heat like a fire past her temples.

“Go home, Uncle Clint. You've never been part of this. Don't start now.” She leaves, working her way across a parking lot that stretches and lengthens with each step. Miles and miles of asphalt because she will never get far enough away.
Never.

Grandma watches her. Every step. She knows. Grandma holding her with her eyes. Needing her.
Families stick together
. Grandma holding on because she needs Zoe. Holding on because Zoe owes her. So much owing. Owing for dark eyes and dark hair that tie Mama to Daddy forever. Owing for growing in a place Grandma thought she owned. Zoe always owing. But now…only just now, thinking there is some other owing, too. Zoe owing herself. Owing herself more than anyone ever allowed. Owing and taking, now. A room is not much. It is not arms holding you. Not a breakfast cooked from scratch. Not a filled seat in a bleacher. Not a phone call or a kiss goodnight. Not much at all.

She pushes open the glass door of Murray's and rolls up close to the wall. Out of sight of Grandma, not yet in sight of Murray. She grips her sides and a jumble of remorse and rage collide somewhere in between. No words form in her mind, only a blind swirl of wants that explode in different directions. It presses her breaths against her ribs in uncontrolled jumps. Jumping breaths like she is seven years old.

“Zoe?”

Her eyes freeze on Charisse's.

“You okay?”

She sucks in, controls her breaths.
Okay?
She hardens her chest, refusing a jerky breath waiting at her ribs. Hardens, so there is no jump at all. Controls, so her words come out smooth. Narrows her eyes to shut away her soul. Zoe, owning her air, owning her space. The hardening spreads upward to her mouth, and a thin smile lines her face. “Of course I'm okay, Charisse. Just breathless from running.” She doesn't explain more. She doesn't have to.

She pushes past Charisse, who is still staring, and begins her shift. She works, she delivers, she balances. She smiles, she returns, she wipes. There is nothing else to do. She pushes fish tacos for Murray's sake, though she has never tasted them and never will. She regularly walks past the front window and looks out, keeping her car safe with her eyes. Anchoring it there with her will.

“Miss? Is it too late to change my order to a Philly?”

She doesn't check the order. “Yes. Too late,” she answers.

She doesn't keep track of her tips, and at her break she doesn't count them. They are not enough.

They will never be enough.

She sits on a wooden crate in the alley behind Murray's and draws deep on her cigarette. A remnant of light still brushes the sky a deep royal blue but darkness is seeping into the corners. She hears rustling behind the trash bins. Rats come alive with darkness. She blows out a gust of smoke and listens to their tiny secret sounds. Rustling, rasping, scratching, scratching, scratching. Echoing. They surround her, along with the sour smell of old garbage. The last swath of blue disappears, and the sounds grow louder. Darkness spreads like ink through the alley, and not a single star in the sky shows to make a difference. She sits in the darkness, listening, then mashes the butt of her cigarette in the gravel and returns to finish her shift.

She checks the car first. It sits undisturbed, illuminated with yellow and red neon and the sometime shadow of the working pump. The slashing light sparkles on the chrome, like shooting stars. Stars on a starless night. She pushes away from the window.
When hell freezes over
.
Ninety dollars isn't that hard to get.

The evening rush that wasn't becomes the dead calm that is. Murray disappears into the stockroom, and Charisse tops off water for her lone customer. Zoe cleans up the table from her last customers and thinks that Murray will soon let her or Charisse go for the night. She tries to look busy.

And then.

The sleazebag comes in.

Charisse looks up, but Zoe knows where he will sit. Always.

“What will it be for you tonight?” she says cheerfully.

He bites. Encouraged. A smile and tilt of her head. Easy.

“What's your
special
?”

“Fish tacos,” she says, pouring him some water.

“That
all
?” His clumsy hands paw at the glass, and his lips suck at the rim almost daintily. She notices flecks of white in his thin starch-stiff hair when he tilts his head to sip. He sets the glass down and wipes his mouth like he is swiping foam from a beer. His eyes never leave her.

Her stomach convulses. Only a little. “That's all.”

He orders his usual, sirloin with a side of slaw. The steak is tough, and she watches the chewing work a glistening line at the corner of his mouth. A forkful of coleslaw is shoved in alongside the steak and the line grows. She thinks of the fat wad of bills in his pocket. He could have ordered the filet. He could have anything he wants with that much money.

He leisurely finishes his meal, buttering his biscuit slowly, so every surface is covered. It oozes onto his stubby fingers, and he licks them with his lizard tongue. Zoe watches and he enjoys the attention, buttering up another one, this time asking for some of her sweet marmalade to go with it. She obliges.

When he is finished, she adds up his bill and slides it across the counter. He picks it up and pulls a five from his wallet. He reaches to set it on the counter, but she stops his hand with her own. “Are you all talk…or some action, too?”

His pupils shrink to pinpoints and his cheek twitches. Two gusts of breaths and his mouth finally works free.

“Plenty of action. I save the talk for after.”

“Then save your money for after, too.” She shoves the five-dollar bill back to him. “I'm taking off early. Meet me out front in two minutes.”