A Room on Lorelei Street (9 page)

Metal against metal. The scrape of her key in the lock has a peeling effect, like layers of tight clothing being torn away. Mama. Money. Grandma. Until she is down to lightness. The room. Like tennis. A corner of control. Forward. Future. She enters into her space and soaks in the clean, the polish, the humming refrigerator, the fading shafts of light. The order.

The panther's faint tick floats across silence. Six-fifteen. She told the twins she would come to their sister's
Quinceañera
tonight. She remembers back to Monica's fifteenth birthday. Half of Ruby seemed to be there. The party was rolled out from the backyard to the front, and the overflow spilled out to the street. And there was lots of food. Tables of food.

She will go.

But before she leaves she must do laundry. She only has one tennis skirt, and she needs it for her match in the morning. She pulls off one sock and then the other, her feet hot on the cool, polished floor. She pauses, startled, but absorbed in the simple sensation of her feet on a smooth, clean floor. She looks around the room. Is it really hers? Clean. Empty of past. She sits on the window seat and props her feet on a lavender pillow. Before laundry, before anything, she needs to sit. She needs to be. Just be. She closes her eyes, leaning back against the alcove. Zoe. Zoe listening to evening chirps through an open window. Zoe fingering a golden tassel. Zoe tasting space. Zoe owning the room. Zoe, owning her life. She is not invisible. Zoe asking and answering questions that are all her own. Her thoughts come in no particular order, some questions, some observations, none pressing, like a meandering stroll that still has destination. Breaths and half-thoughts barely fill the crevices in between.

A sparrow lands on the sill just inches from Zoe—so close, except for the thin pane of glass separating them. She holds her breath, not wanting it to fly away, but it sees the furtive movement of her eyes and its wings beat a line of retreat, carrying the moment and Zoe's questions with it.

She stands, stretches, pulls her tennis skirt and team T-shirt from her gym bag, and then with a second glance gathers more laundry until her arms are full. Opal told her she was welcome to use the laundry room. She hopes that includes laundry detergent since she has none. Would shampoo work? She shakes her head. Probably not. She remembers putting a bottle of green dish soap in the washing machine when she was ten. Suds oozed everywhere and left a sticky mess on the clothes. But she was only ten. No one told her or showed her how to use a washing machine. She had to figure it out herself.

She walks down the hall, the floorboards creaking beneath her bare feet. She has never gone beyond her bathroom at the head of the stairs except for the night she moved in. She hopes it is all right to go to the laundry room this way. Opal said the washer and dryer were on the covered screen porch. She also remembers that is where Count Basil spends most of his time. He was friendly enough the night she met him, but without Opal by her side would he be just as inclined to take off a leg or two for an afternoon snack? He could. His neck is as massive as a tree trunk.

The house is quiet. She wonders where Opal is. Dancing with birds? She makes her way to the back, past the kitchen, and then past three other closed doors that she can only wonder about. More sabers behind them? Or another snarling grizzly? Or maybe something as innocent as yellow snapdragons? She cautiously pushes open the screen door that leads to the porch with her hip and tries to see around her armful of laundry.

She stops.

Count Basil stares at her. Foam oozes from his black mouth. His lips are pulled back, exposing his canines. His eyes are unblinking, and his nose twitches. Zoe cannot hold back and erupts into laughter, snorting through her nose. Seeing him flinch makes another laugh roll from her belly. It comes out as a surprise and feels almost cleansing. He doesn't move, though Zoe is sure she can detect some level of humiliation in his eyes.

“Ah! You laugh, but look at 'em! He's got 'em all, with minty breath, too. Not bad for an old fart like him. He may find himself a lady friend yet.” Opal pulls back the lip on the left side of his mouth and continues to brush his teeth. Drops of foam sprinkle the floor. The Count obediently waits for her to finish. “I know he don't care for it much when it's getting done, but afterwards he seems to smile more.”

Zoe grins. Is that what you call it? A smile? Grandma would call him “mad dog” and phone the pound. Zoe leans down and picks up her fallen laundry.

“You said it was okay to use the washer?”

“Sure is.” Opal grunts as she wrestles the dog, who Zoe guesses must easily outweigh the old woman by fifty pounds. “There!” she says, dropping the toothbrush in the laundry tub with one hand and slapping the Count on the backside with the other. He takes it as a signal to run, and he nearly knocks Zoe over as he races down the steps to the backyard.

Opal straightens, pushing against her back like it helps in the effort. “Here. Let me show you how it works.” Before Zoe can say anything, Opal is scooping a cup of detergent into the washer and turning on faucets, showing her with pride all there is to know about the Zenith Ultra, model 750. She shows Zoe the settings, the bleach dispenser, and then the lint trap to the dryer. “I have a clothesline, too. Like it better, nothing like sunshine dried right into your clothes, but it twitches out my back lifting all that wet laundry, so these days I mostly stick with the canned air. But you're welcome to use either—or both if it suits you.”

Zoe smiles. Why would she use both? She begins stuffing her clothes into the washer, and Opal stops her. “What's this? A
tennis
skirt?”

Oh my god,
Zoe thinks.
Is she going to inspect all my dirty laundry?
“Yes,” she answers and hopes Opal won't see her sweat-stained, threadbare bra lurking somewhere in the pile.

Opal sits down in a wicker chair next to the dryer and brushes a silver curl from her forehead. “So you play tennis?” Her voice is soft and grateful, like she is settling into a warm bathtub, or maybe, Zoe thinks, settling into warm memories.

“I'm on the team at school. I have a match in the morning—that's why I have to get the skirt clean tonight.”

“The team!” Opal's eyes glitter, and Zoe catches her breath. What is that? Excitement? Admiration? What is in Opal's eyes? Zoe drops the last of her clothes into the washer and closes the lid. She looks back at Opal's eyes, and the glitter is still there.

“Yes. Varsity.” Zoe listens to her own voice and wonders at the low, hesitant pitch, but then she knows—it is fear creeping up in her. For two years she has either gotten no reaction from Mama or ridicule from Grandma when it comes to her tennis. Her defenses automatically ease into position, but still…the glitter.

“So you play
tomorrow,
” Opal says, stretching out the word like there is magic in it. She leans back. “I was on a team once,” she says. “About a hundred years ago. Calvin and I played in a doubles league. Boy, did we have some fun—and how I loved wearing that tiny pleated skirt. Calvin liked it, too.” Opal winks.

“Calvin?”

“That was my husband. Is my husband. Well, he's dead you know, but that don't make him stop being my husband. But it surely pisses me off that he left first. He was pretty much that way though.”

Zoe doesn't know whether to laugh or express sorrow. Opal always seems to be throwing her curves. The washing machine finishes filling and begins its low, churning rhythm, while Opal continues her excited chatter, saving Zoe the decision to express anything at all.

“We played once a week—all over the county. It was a club for couples—nothing fancy—but Calvin and I could sure serve some firecrackers. Of course, Calvin had to do ninety percent of the running. I wasn't much good at that, not with my bum leg and all.”

“Bum leg?” Zoe asks.

Opal smiles. “You didn't notice?” She seems pleased and pulls up her long, loose house dress to expose her shoes. One has a normal thin sole, the other a thick, heavy one. “Three full inches shorter, this one!” She lowers her dress like a curtain ending a show. “But I don't let it slow me down much. Couldn't keep me from tennis!” She slaps her hands on her knees and stands. “So, Miss Zoe Beth Buckman, ace tennis player. Now that I've shown you the washer, let's go take a look at your plot of garden.” She slides her arm through Zoe's and pulls her down the porch steps to the yard.

Zoe tries to remember. Plot of garden? She remembers something was said about it, but it hadn't been important to her. She doesn't garden. She doesn't want to garden. But she doesn't want to be rude or ungrateful either. Not ungrateful. So she lets Opal pull her along in the twilight garden as Count Basil lollops behind, smiling. She will let Opal show her. What can it hurt? And she likes the alert, steady rhythm of Opal's chatter, so much the timbre of a warbling bird that it folds into the evening air as naturally as Zoe's breaths.

The purple dahlias have no scent, but the earthy tang of their leaves and freshly cut stems fills the car. Opal tied them together with a piece of raffia, and Zoe is grateful that she has a gift to offer Yolanda for her
Quinceañera
. The bundle is impressive—each bloom twice the size of Zoe's palm—and the petals are prickly fresh, with white edging the purple. When she admired them in the garden she didn't expect Opal to start cutting them for her. She thinks about her plot of dirt. Why would Opal suggest such a thing? She only wanted a room. But now the idea is taking root in her in a strange way she didn't expect, like seeds tossed out that sprout in spite of neglect. A garden. Maybe she could plant dahlias, too. Or maybe cabbages? Who would have thought cabbages could be beautiful? But when Opal proudly showed off the cabbages in her garden, Zoe had to reach down and run her fingers across the thick, ruffled leaves. The only cabbages Zoe had ever seen before were hard, pale green balls. Opal's were clothed as uniquely as she was—flowing leafy ruffles of purple, yellow, and deep green.
Cabbages or dahlias, definitely.

The streets of Ruby are dark. She rolls down a window and lights a cigarette. She pulls in deeply. She used the last of her cash to buy a new pack. A foolish thing, maybe, but tonight she will be able to eat at the party and probably take a handful of cookies and a soda with her for breakfast in the morning. And tomorrow after tennis is Kyle's party, where she will be able to eat again. Aunt Patsy makes lasagna to die for. Or maybe Uncle Clint will barbecue. Her stomach twists. The tiny tacos are long since gone. And then on Sunday she works and can eat again. It's working. It is. She takes another puff and flicks the ashes out the window. It wasn't foolish to buy the cigarettes. She watches the needle of the gas gauge point lower.
You only sling hash. You'll never make it.
And she still needs the transportation fees. And then there is the next month's rent coming. She feels the comfort of the room leaving her. She has only had it three days and already feels it slipping from her grasp. But she will never go crawling back.
Do you hear that, Grandma? Never
.

And there is always the can of pennies. She has no choice. Living with Mama…dying with Mama…being nothing with Mama…and now with Daddy gone…

Her thoughts are drawn to the aqueduct. What would it be like to walk the beams at night? With blackness above and below her. Blackness everywhere. You would hardly know where to step. The thought frightens her, but she allows it to coil about her like a snake around her ankles. Dangerous. Deadly. But exciting. At night. All alone. All darkness.
Daddy, what would happen? What does it feel like?

She slows and turns at the 7-Eleven. Monica and Jorge live in a neighborhood on the border of Ruby and Duborn. Their house is a small white clapboard on a narrow street that is always crowded with cars even when there is no party. She figures she will probably have to park a street or two over and hike. She's over an hour late, so the party is probably well under way.

“Quinceañera,”
she whispers aloud, because she likes the sensual roll of the word on her tongue. Fifteen. Zoe can't remember her fifteenth birthday. She tries to think back. Her birthday is in August. Daddy was still alive then—he didn't die until October of that year. But her birthday—that is a blur. No, not a blur, just a day like any other. The novelty of children and birthdays had long since faded by then for Mama and Daddy. The hobby was forgotten. Her sixteenth she remembers. That was when she and Reid—when they—was it really that long ago?

She hasn't been with anyone since—over a year now. Being with Reid changed things for her. She squints, as if the glare of the memory hurts her eyes. She used Reid, the way she had been used. It meant something to him. It meant less than nothing to her.

It started with needing to be touched by someone, anyone. More than touched. Loved. Daddy was the only who had touched her, stroked her hair, told her how special she was. Brief moments as he left to drink with his buddies or before he went to bed with Mama with a beer in his hand. Brief moments, but they were
there
.
Glitter, Zoe. Stars, Zoe. Special
.

She looked for that recognition after he died—it was obvious even to her. He left a hole, a missing piece in an already faded, barely held together puzzle. She needed to hold it together in some way. If she could just get a small part of him back. Some way. She thought she had found it with a jerk whose brain stem hung between his legs. But it was always about his needs and never about hers. His name was Jaime, with the emphasis on
me
. She thought she found it again a month later with a “sensitive poet,” who surprisingly lost his muse once his words had whittled their way to their intended target. And then there was a jock whose face she barely remembers. He never looked into her eyes. Not once. Then came a couple of others who were just as forgettable. And then Reid. He was just there. And she didn't care. By then she just didn't care. She wanted to see what it was like when you didn't care.

It would be easier if he hated her, but he is still her friend, maybe more, and that makes it worse—that and the fact that Carly doesn't know. It's an ugly secret that gnaws at her.

She finds a parking space one street over and gathers up the flowers along with her handmade card. She can hear the music already, floating over rooftops on the warm evening air. It promises people, crowds, talking, and the impossibility of being alone. The houses she passes are tiny and dark, but then as she turns onto Monica and Jorge's street, the crowds begin forming. A few in front of this house, a few more in front of another, and by the time she gets to their little white clapboard, the street and the yard are full. Strings of tiny colored lights hang from trees, are woven through front porch lattice, and shimmy down from rooftop to gatepost to create a lighted entrance through the driveway to the backyard. She doesn't recognize the mixture of faces, but with six brothers and sisters with circles of their own friends and a dozen aunts and uncles and half a neighborhood that was probably invited, she suspects she won't know most of those here. Yolanda is the youngest—the last
Quinceañera
. Being the last had to mean something, Zoe thinks, when they were stringing the lights and spreading the word.

She walks across the mat of lawn, up the steps, and in through the open front door. Elbow to elbow, she says hi to Monica's mother and then to Abuelita, her tiny shriveled grandmother, who is always smiling. Abuelita speaks no English. She doesn't need to, Zoe thinks. Her smile fills and communicates so much more than the empty, half-said words of Zoe's life. She pushes through the kitchen to the backyard, where she sees Yolanda—and food.

“Happy Birthday,” Zoe says, laying the bundle in Yolanda's arms and kissing her cheek. The music is loud, and they yell a few greetings to each other. Then Yolanda is pulled away by her friends, and Zoe is alone again. Where is Monica? Carly? From behind she feels a tug and turns around. Jorge and Reid both wear sloppy grins.

“You finally made it,” Jorge says. “The party started two hours ago. We're way ahead of you.” His pupils are large, his smile dreamy. Zoe sniffs the contents of his red plastic cup.

“Way ahead,” she answers. “I'm just interested in food. Come with me while I fix a plate.” But they say no, they are going to go dance, and they melt into elbows and faces and music that is spinning a step ahead of Zoe.
Food,
she thinks,
I just need food
. She slinks to a picnic table and three card tables loaded with colorful casseroles, salads, and desserts and begins filling a plate. By the time she reaches the end of the last table, her plate is piled high enough for two people. She is embarrassed and finds a dark corner to eat—at least until the pile is smaller. She takes two cookies and a churro from her plate, wraps them in a napkin and slides them into her purse, hoping no one notices her in the shadows.

She leans back against the fence and in her dark corner alternates between spoonfuls of rice and a spicy fajita whose peppers burn her tongue. The heat simmers in her throat and stomach, and she wipes a line of sweat from her hairline. She sips her Coke to ease the burn and eats some more. She lifts another forkful of rice to her mouth and catches a glimpse of Carly dancing with Derek Riley and then the crowd swallows them up and spits out a glimpse of Reid and Jody Simmons. There is the brief sway of Monica before she, too, is folded back into the mass.
It's alive,
Zoe thinks. It fascinates her, this throbbing, pulsing mass, electrified beneath the patio arbor by twinkling lights, a breathing, beating mass she watches from the shadows, alone.

And then another familiar face is flagged before her eyes and just as quickly disappears, but not before her plate tips and half the food tumbles to the grass. She stands, searching for another glimpse.

Who is that?

Zoe feels the rush of the crowd come out to meet her, and a ripple of its life runs through her veins. Her heart speeds its pace. She eats a few more quick mouthfuls and abandons the rest of her plate on the end of the picnic table. She slides into the edge of the crowd, straining her neck, dancing her way between Carly and Monica. Carly's throat shines with perspiration, and wet curls cling to her face. Monica, always efficient, has her hair pulled in a knot on her head, and a wet napkin in her hand wipes away the frenzy of the dance. Zoe hugs. She says hello. But then she strains for more.

And she sees it.

She jabs Monica in the ribs and says between tightly drawn lips and downcast eyes. “Who is that?”

“Who?” Monica says much too loudly.

“There.” She glances with her eyes, and Monica follows them.

“Him? He came with my brother Vic. His name's Carlos, I think.” And Monica twirls back into her own world, just as Zoe leaves it. She works her way over to him. He is not at someone else's station now, and she is not clocked in on anyone else's time but her own. Mostly she wants to see if she is remotely more interesting than a book. Her chest burns, and she wonders if it is only the peppers. Monica's brother is twenty-two. Is he, too? He has stopped dancing. His toasted-almond skin glistens in the dim light, and a small, damp triangle marks his thin white T-shirt. He leans against a post with a beer in one hand.

“Where's your book?” she blurts out, and then in the same instant wishes she had stayed safely in the shadows. She prays to be back in the shadows. Her voice is too loud. Too blunt. What insanity pushed her across the yard to just a breath away from someone she doesn't know and doesn't want to know in the first place? But now she must politely wait for his answer to her ridiculous question before she fades back to her safe darkness.

He studies her for a moment and asks, “Where's your apron?”

So he did notice her. His voice is soft and slow. Warmth spreads in rivers through her belly, and she forgets about leaving. They talk. It comes easy, like a sigh or a swallow or a stroll through a garden with an old woman at twilight.

“You read a lot?” she asks.

“Right now I do. I'm studying to be a paramedic—applying to the Abilene Fire Department next month. And if I don't get hired there, I've heard they're hiring at Fort Worth.”

“So you want to stay close?”

“What good would life be without Murray's chicken-fried steak? But I'll go where I have to.”

“They're not hiring in Ruby?”

He grunts. Question answered.

“I guess Ruby isn't exactly the job capital of the world.”

“You like working at Murray's?”

“What's not to like? Good food, nice boss, and great customers who are big tippers.”

He laughs. “Pressure's on now.”

“You got it.”

They walk to the coolers, and he takes a soda out for her. She holds the icy can to her cheek. They talk about Ruby, cars, music, and, finally, their names.

“How'd you get a name like Carlos O'Malley?”

“Same way everyone does. My parents. The O'Malley came without saying. My dad's Irish, but my mom wanted some of her heritage in there, too—and my grandfather's name is Carlos. So I got a little from both sides.” Both sides. Zoe wonders. Did she? She has Daddy's dark looks, but is there anything in her like Mama? Did she get something from both of them? Or when she was that little unwanted peanut in Mama's tummy, did she grow all on her own even then, without any help from Mama?

They walk together through the shadows, talking about the opportunities in Ruby. “When I turned twenty-one a few months ago, I knew I had to start looking beyond Ruby. I don't want to spend my life dropping orange cones on the Texas road crew. My brother's a fireman in Austin. Loves his job. Has a family. Two little kids. And that's what—” He stops. “This is probably boring the hell out of you. You came to a party for more than an update on the job prospects of a cone dropper.” He sets his beer on nearby fence post. “Want to dance?”

She nods and they step the few feet to the lighted arbor and squeeze onto the square of cement.

He stands close. They dance. They circle. But they keep some distance.
I don't need this,
she thinks.
My life's too complicated already
. But his eyes linger in hers, and she lets them. It spreads fire through her. Warmth she wants to settle into. But she is wary, too. She hasn't judged well in the past. A complete failure, more like it.
Maybe this time is different
. She sways, draws closer, teeters near an edge no one else can see, but then another turn and she sees Reid watching from a distance. Reid. Leaning. Focused. Watching. The fire turns to shame. She is suddenly cold. Her thoughts jam up. No thinking. No talking. Just leaving. All she can think of is to leave and the words trip from her mouth. “I—I have to go.”