All Your Pretty Dreams (18 page)

He played the chorus of
‘Smack It Polka.’ Nora and Claude were dancing. Okay, he’d done the
right thing. The polka lived through him, reached through the
generations. How could being right be so confusing? He knew less
about his own life than when he started the summer. Polka had
grounded him, taken him back to his roots, the rhythms of this
small town. To his grandfather and the old instrument of joy, the
squeeze box. But polka also picked him up by the scruff of the neck
and shook him, asking,
Is this what you
want? Go find it. Whatever it is.

Go.

“
Polka, polka, all night
long? Come on.” Lenny passed Jonny a beer. Nine-thirty and their
second break. “What about some of that stuff you played with
Audri?”

“
Is she here?” Jonny threw
the tux jacket on a chair, hoping someone would walk off with it.
“I’m not singing if I can help it.”

Lenny looked over the
girls. “Kiki’s looking hot tonight. Too bad she can’t shake loose
from Frances. That girl is the weirdest wet blanket.”

“
She’s Frances’s
bodyguard.”

“
Keeping the crowd safe
from Frances is more like it.”

Older couples wandered
through the rose bushes. In the damp evening the scents rose, sweet
and musky. His mother was showing off her prize specimens, her
voice high and anxious. Ozzie disappeared during the break, maybe
to call his girlfriend who had not come, thank God. There was drama
enough.

“
The Chicago girls are
checking you out, Jack,” Lenny whispered. Isabel and another girl
huddled near the food table, arms crossed and heads together. When
he looked over they both looked away.

“
Who’s that with the long
hair?”

“
Queen Bee’s sister.
Oh
yeah
.”

“
You talk to
her?”

“
Not yet. Come
on.”

Jonny chucked his beer
bottle in the trash on the way. He’d had enough of these college
girls but wasn’t opposed to helping Lenny get some action. Lenny
was shaking the sister’s hand and she was giving him a look of
what-the-hell.

“
My sister Daria,” Isabel
said soberly. She seemed on edge. “Lenny and Jon. The local
boys.”

“
Thunder Rhodes, to you,
mademoiselle. Future mayor. Welcome to Red Vine,” Lenny said. “Up
for the weekend to see how the other half lives?”

“
Something like that,”
Daria said, squinting at him, then asked Jonny: “You don’t live
here, do you? Isabel told me you live in Minneapolis and work for
an architect? My boyfriend is an architect in Chicago.”

Jonny glanced at Isabel. No
answers required with Daria, apparently. The older sister took his
arm, leading him to the cooler, and made him fish around in the icy
water for a beer for her. “What do people do here? Is this
considered, like, the social pinnacle of the summer? Mucking around
in the garden mud? Smelling roses? Doing the Polish cha-cha? No
offense, of course, but I have heard enough polka in Chicago to
last me a lifetime.”

“
No offense taken.” Jonny
found himself a beer.

“
Some of my girlfriends
are forced to have polka at their weddings. You know Weird Al’s
uncle Frank? The polka king?” She went off on a minor history of
Chicago polka bands, laughing at them; she was well-informed, you
had to give her that. Especially for someone who disliked polka.
She and her sister were in agreement on that. Finally he made his
apologies and walked away. If he hadn’t half-agreed with Daria he
would have been pissed. No, he
was
pissed. Why come to a polka party in a small town
and put down polka and small towns?

“
Hey.” Kiki appeared at
his elbow. “I thought I’d never get you alone.”

She wore another low-cut
blouse, a creamy color that lit up her face. He was glad to see a
friendly face. “Having fun?”

“
Buckets. Hey, you are
really good on the accordion. I don’t know much about it but I can
tell, you are good. A wizard.” She grinned at him, then followed
his gaze across the crowd. “Is that Isabel Yancey? Of the Chicago
Yanceys?”

“
Ah— maybe.”

“
We went to school
together. Woodside Academy. Very posh.” She shook her head. “Not
that I was one of them. I was on scholarship.”

“
You know her
sister?”

“
Oh, yes. Impossible not
to know Daria.”

He smiled. “So, they’re
rich?”

“
You can’t tell? You’re a
man, I suppose that doesn’t penetrate. Daria’s shoes cost as much
as my mother’s car. Her purse sells for four-thousand bucks. She
designs them herself though so she probably got it
free.”

Jonny tried to get a
glimpse of Daria’s mega-watt footwear, but her jeans covered all
but her toes. “You want to go talk to them?”

“
They’re not my type, all
high society. I’d rather be here with you.” She took a sip and
winced. “I made that mistake once. That was enough.”

Jonny frowned into his
beer. The language of women was puzzling. “You aren’t
friends?”

Kiki shrugged. “It was so
long ago.” She looked him in the face, her eyes searching. “You
don’t know what it’s like at those prep schools where everybody’s
rich and all hoity toity. The horrible things girls do to each
other. The terrible things that can happen.”

He felt bad for her, and
curious. “Did something terrible happen?”

“
Oh, you know. I wanted to
belong, to have friends like Isabel and Daria, with their country
clubs and cars. My parents divorced, then my dad was killed in the
plane crash. Money was always tight. When I got the scholarship to
Woodside I thought this was my chance, you know, to be somebody, to
fit in. But—” She sighed, then bit her lip. “You won’t think much
of me. Promise you won’t tell anyone?”

Jonny nodded.

“
I was sixteen, I got
drunk at a party. Or maybe somebody doped my drink, I’ll never
know.” She lowered her chin. “I thought they were my friends. They
bet this guy he could, well, make it with me. None of them stopped
it. Isabel and the rich crowd found out about it. They spread it
all over the school. Laughed about it. Like I wanted it. Or
deserved it. It was bad enough to get date-raped. But to have the
whole school know? For them to talk about me that way? I can’t say
I’ve ever forgiven them.”

Kiki took a long drink from
her beer. Jonny was stunned. Not only was she raped but she was
telling him. Obviously the memory of that awful time had never gone
away.

He muttered that he was
sorry and she looked sad. Then she smiled brightly again and told
him to forget about it, that she was sorry she brought it up. He
admired her ability to forgive. He could use some of that himself.
An image of her, naked on a sofa, flashed in his mind. Then, out of
the shadows lumbered Ozzie, in the sweat-stained burgundy tux,
elbowing his way toward his drum set.

——

Isabel headed for shadowy
paths through the roses as the polka music began again. Jonny had
rolled up the sleeves of his tux shirt and unbuttoned his shirt
halfway down. Looking at him was too painful. Her sister had
noticed her staring. Daria kept calling him the Polka Hottie and
teasing her.

This party was a mistake.
But if she drank another glass of wine, the vilest jug wine
available but doing the trick, she could smile and get through it.
The students seemed to be enjoying themselves and that was good.
She’d given them tomorrow off. They were ahead of schedule. They
would probably be finished Wednesday or Thursday. Then it would be
goodbye Red Vine, hello—

Her shoulders dropped. She
would have to go home. Her grandfather was still hanging in there.
The funeral had been written, the coffin picked out, in typical
Edie-and-Lulu fashion. So efficient. It could happen anytime.
Isabel knew she should feel lucky to get this far into the study
without any major disruptions.

As she rounded the corner
of the house the sound of sobbing rose from the shrubbery. The
noise seemed to be coming from behind a tall, white rose bush near
the sidewalk. A car door slammed. A woman stepped into the street
wearing skintight black pants and a purple halter top. She looked
both ways and tiptoed up to the fence. Isabel hid behind a rose
bush and watched. The woman whispered, “Hello? Is something
wrong?”

The sobbing stopped
abruptly. A scratchy woman’s voice said: “She doesn’t love me
anymore.”

The wailing began again.
The woman on the sidewalk, hair pulled into a ponytail, had to be
Loreen, the church secretary. Rumor was she had her hooks into
Ozzie. She looked like a 1940s pin-up girl. Maybe that appealed to
somebody who wore his hair like Elvis.

Loreen leaned over the
fence. “Is that you, Frances? Get up, dear. Dry your
eyes.”

“
But I can’t live. She
doesn’t— she doesn’t—”

“
Your mother loves you
very much. No need to cry. Get up out of that mud.” Loreen seemed
more concerned about dirt. Frances scuffled around, jumping to her
feet.

“
My mother?!” She hissed
at Loreen. “What do you know about my mother?”

“
I know her very well.
It’s Loreen, honey, now take this hankie -—”

“
My mother has nothing to
do with it!”

“
What do you
mean?”

Frances let out a moan.
“
Monica
, my
Monica. She doesn’t love me anymore.”

Isabel backed away, thorns
grazing her arm as she fell into a rose. Loreen continued clucking
at Frances.
Monica
. Isabel had recognized her at the bar but couldn’t place
her.

She hadn’t thought of
Monica for a long time. It was junior year at Woodside when she’d
started the rumor that Isabel was pregnant by one or more members
of the lacrosse team. Everyone knew it was a joke but the teachers.
The principal called her into his office. For someone as
anti-social as Isabel, who hadn’t had a boyfriend or a date, let
alone sex, it was ludicrous. Her mother whisked her into the doctor
for her first pelvic exam and sexually transmitted disease lecture.
And a prescription for birth control pills. It would be three years
before she lost her virginity. Her mother was a victim of wishful
thinking.

Word got around that Monica
started the rumor. Isabel ignored all the social girls, the jocks,
all of them. They never spoke to her anyway. But to be singled out
for that sort of hateful act was a first. It had hardened her, made
her wary of people and throw herself into her studies that much
more.

Isabel walked around to the
far side of the house, out of sight of the party. Maybe she’d just
leave Daria and go to bed. There was talk of heading to the Owl
after the music ended. And with that the possibility of talking to
Jon. She shook herself. This was ridiculous. She would be gone
soon. They would never see each other again.

Daria grabbed her arm as
Isabel returned to the party. Flushed, barefoot, Daria gave Lenny a
gentle shove to get away from him so they could talk.

“
That girl, it’s Monica
Calhoun. From Woodside,” Daria whispered. “That little bitch who
started that rumor. I can’t believe she’s here.”

“
I saw her.” Isabel
couldn’t tell Daria what she’d heard. It didn’t matter anyway.
“Have you seen her since Woodside?”

“
God, no.”

“
I need more wine.” Daria
followed her to the bar table. They found the enormous jug empty.
“I’m tired, Dar.”

“
We’re all going over to
the bar.” She checked her watch. “It’s almost over, thank the
Lord.”

Lenny tapped her shoulder
and Daria skipped onto the Astroturf with him, doing a wild,
hot-foot imitation of the polka. Most of the old people had gone
home, leaving room for the rowdier types. Daria had her head back,
laughing, as Lenny tossed her this way and that. Kate and Terry
danced more carefully, while Andrew took Maddie out for a spin.
Monica sat in a chair near the band, in the light of a kerosene
lantern, smiling up at Jonny.

Isabel checked to see if he
was returning Monica’s gaze. But he was looking out, frowning.
Their eyes met and she looked away, embarrassed to be staring
again. One last song and he quit, putting his instrument in the big
alligator case, snapping it shut with pat of finality.

There was no sign of
Frances or Loreen by the time Isabel passed under the rose trellis
out onto the sidewalk. The rest of the group ran off to the Owl
ahead of her. She hung back and helped Margaret and Carol with the
chairs and trash. They looked at her oddly but accepted the help.
She couldn’t say why she volunteered. Maybe just to separate
herself from the others. The night sky was low with clouds. In the
east a few stars twinkled over the treetops. Loreen’s car was gone.
The only sound was Isabel dragging her feet.

The Owl was warm and noisy.
The students knew each other so well, there was no constraint on
drinking or laughing or dancing. Had any matches been made? Isabel
doubted it. Only two men, one with bad breath and dandruff and the
other blessed with excess body oil. But now with the idea of
Frances and Monica in her head, she wondered. Anything was
possible.