Heartache and Other Natural Shocks (27 page)

“Yes! Yes!” I fling my arms around Ian’s neck. I feel like I just won an Olympic gold medal. And now, stepping onto the podium for Canada, Carla Cabrielli! I jump into Ian’s arms. Ian grins and does a little fencing jab. He’s thrilled. And why not? He’s the perfect Laertes. And to think I had to beg him to audition. I knew his fencing would give him the edge. Besides, he’s so hot he could be a prop and still chew up the scenery.

I check the cast list to see who else got in. Geoff got Hamlet—no surprise—but it pisses Ian off because Geoff is such a crappy fencer, and now Ian will have to fence against him. Jeremy and Jason got the two comic friends, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. The rest of the parts go to the grade twelves and thirteens. Ian can’t wipe the smile off his face.
I swoop down the hall, waving students out of my path, shouting, “Make way for the queen. Make way for the queen.”

After school, we have our first cast meeting, and Ian and I waltz into the studio together. It feels so great to have a lead—so much better than a chorus girl. Mr. Gabor gives us the old pep talk about hard work and commitment. Rehearsals begin in mid-February, “which will give everyone time to memorize their lines,” he adds, looking directly at Ian. Yeah, we all know that Ian can fence, but can he actually learn his lines? Mr. Gabor is taking a chance on him. I hope Ian is up for it.

Ma and Papa are totally impressed that I actually scored a part in a Shakespeare play, but when I mention that Ian got a role too, Pa’s forehead creases into angry little waves. “What kind of part did that
cafone
get?” he asks.

“A good part. Laertes. He fights a duel.”

“Figures,” Papa snorts.

“Papa, it’s an important role. Lots of people tried out for it. Ian is very talented,” I say.

“I thought you gave that boy the boot.”

“Yeah, well, we made up,” I say. “And now we’re going to be rehearsing together, so could you please try to be nice to him?”

Papa glowers. “I don’t trust him.”

“Pa, please! This is for school,” I plead. “And it’s a really big deal for me.”

Ma says, “Tony,
basta
! They’re doing Shakespeare. Let
them be.” I give Ma a grateful smile, and then I look at Pa with puppy-dog eyes.

Papa huffs, like I’m not fooling him for a second. He fixes me with his beady glare. “Don’t give me anything to complain about,” he growls.

“I won’t,” I say, hugging him.
“Ti voglio bene, Papà.”

Ian and I are going to be very, very careful.

The truth is, Ian and I are having sex all the time. So, the day after auditions, Debbie and Marlene escort me to the women’s health clinic downtown so I can get the pill. Sherrie’s right: It’s a snap. You say you’re having sex; you get a prescription. You go to a drugstore; they give you the pills. Deb and Mar are so impressed. And Ian is happy because he doesn’t like using condoms. He likes doing it “au naturel.” These days, he even asks me over to his house. Funny how it’s suddenly okay to sneak me into his bedroom now that he’s getting laid.

Deb and Mar are dying to know all about my sex life. We sit in my kitchen drinking coffee, and I tell them that I have no regrets.

“Losing your virginity is just part of growing up,” I say. “And actually, having sex makes me feel more like a woman.”

“As opposed to a man?” Deb asks sarcastically.

“Carla, you’re such a drama queen,” Marlene says.

“I’m just telling you how I feel,” I say.

“Well, tell us what it’s like,” Debbie says. She always wants the play-by-play.

“Look, I can’t divulge the nitty-gritty,” I say, “but what I
can
tell you is, like they say in baseball, Ian has soft hands. And he knows what he’s doing when his ‘fingers do the walkin’.”

Deb and Mar squeal with laughter. “Go on,” Mar says.

“Well,” I say, “he’s very experienced. And he’s not the kind of guy who’s done in two seconds, if you catch my drift.” At least not when he’s drunk.

“Well, how long does it take?” Mar asks. “I mean, once he’s in.”

“I don’t know,” I say. “I don’t have a stopwatch.”

“Have you had an orgasm?” Deb asks.

“Of course,” I say, although I’m not really sure.

“What does it feel like?” Mar asks.

“It’s hard to describe,” I say. I think about how Ian looks just before he comes. “It’s like a wave, getting bigger and bigger, until it finally crashes onto the shore, and then sinks, exhausted, into the sand.” I think that’s pretty poetic.

Marlene looks unimpressed. “That’s it?”

I do an imitation of Ian. “It’s like
uhn, uhn, uhn … aaah
!”

Deb snorts. “It sounds like you’re taking a big dump.”

Mar giggles hysterically.

“Did you give him a blow job yet?” Deb asks.

“No!” I say. “I’m not doing that. I’m not putting that thing in my mouth. Who knows when he had a shower last. Ew! Get real!”

“He’s going to want it,” Deb warns. “And then you’ll have to decide if you’re going to swallow.”

“Yech!” Mar says, making a face. “I will never do that! Ew. I think I’d gag. Ew.”

“Yeah,” I say. “If God wanted us to put men’s dicks in our mouths, he would have made them taste like chocolate.” At that, we collapse with laughter, and it occurs to me that talking about sex with Debbie and Marlene is almost as fun as doing it with Ian.

“Our House”

“The house is sold,” Mom tells Bobby and me at the end of February. “The people move in on June 1st.” I almost laugh. Things can’t get much worse.

“Are we buying a new house?” Bobby asks excitedly. “Here? Near Buzz?”

“I don’t know,” Mom says.

“So when’s Dad coming?” Bobby asks.

Mom sighs irritably. “I just don’t know.”

Dad calls at dinnertime. Mom takes the phone in her bedroom. After they talk, she doesn’t come out. I don’t know why she’s so grumpy. This is exactly what she wanted.

At nine o’clock, Dr. Katzenberg’s Cadillac pulls into the driveway. Mom walks out of her bedroom and heads straight to the front door. She says, “I’ll be back later.” And that’s it: Off she goes. I wonder how Carla found out about them. Did she see them holding hands at a restaurant? And why is Mom running off to see Dr. Katzenberg tonight? Is she going to call off their affair because our house is sold and Dad is coming? Is that why she’s so unhappy?

Outside, it begins to snow.

At midnight, Bobby is snoring softly, and Mom still isn’t home. I read in bed, and then I go downstairs and peek out the front window. Snowflakes are falling thick and fast. A single lane of tire tracks runs down the center of the road. I wonder if the streets are slippery tonight. I picture Dr. Katzenberg driving his Cadillac down Cummer hill, skidding and losing control. The scene plays out in my head, in slow motion. He applies the brakes. The brakes lock. The two of them sit frozen in terror. The car hurtles down the hill, over the bridge, and crashes into the ravine below. Would they both die instantly, or would they suffer first? I imagine my mother’s head at an odd angle, crunched against the shattered windshield, blood pooling onto the dashboard and slowly dripping into her lap.

At one-thirty, I begin to worry. Where is she? She’s never this late. When I was little and Mom and Dad went on holiday, I used to worry that something terrible would happen to them—a plane crash, or a bomb in a hotel. I’d stand in my nightgown, staring out the window, making bargains with a storybook god for their safe return. And they always did return, relaxed and smiling, sweeping us into their tanned arms, and we’d be a happy family once again.

At two in the morning, there is no sound except the ticking clock on the mantel. Perhaps my mother and Dr. Katzenberg are on a plane to Spain, or Italy, or some other romantic
Mediterranean country. Will she cry knowing she’s abandoning us to run away with her lover, or will she be happy to finally leave me behind because I’m so difficult to live with?

At two-fifteen, I make a deal with myself: If Mom comes back in the next five minutes, I will apologize for being moody and rude, and I will promise to try harder. I extend the deal to 2:25. At two-thirty, the deal expires.

Just after two-thirty, headlights bounce down the street, and Dr. Katzenberg’s Cadillac pulls into the driveway. I dash upstairs and watch from the darkness of my bedroom. Mom doesn’t get out right away. They sit there with the motor running. From my window, I can see their laps, but not their faces. He puts his hand on top of hers. Five minutes later, she unbuckles her seat belt. She leans over and they hug. Are they kissing? I can’t see. I pull back from the window and lie on my bed.

I stare at the ceiling wishing Dad were here. I wish it was him in the car with Mom, squeezing her hand and calling her Natty-Tomaty, the way he does when he’s teasing her. He hasn’t called her that in a long time, but he always knows how to make her smile. I think about the time, when I was little, when Mom was at the sink doing the dishes and Dad snuck up behind her. He grabbed her by the waist and waltzed her around the kitchen, crooning some corny love song in her ear. They twirled and laughed, and dish soap dripped off her yellow rubber gloves, making soapy puddles on the linoleum floor.

So, how can she throw it all away? I hope she’s telling Dr.
Katzenberg that it’s over between them now, because she has two children and a husband who loves her. I hope she’s doing the right thing.

On Sunday afternoon, Mom sets the dining room table, putting out a white tablecloth, wine glasses and the good china. She cooks our favorite meal: standing rib roast and potatoes, the meal we always used to have on Friday nights when Grandma and Grandpa Cohen came for dinner. At first, I assume she invited the Cabriellis, but then I notice that there are only four plates. “Who’s coming?” I ask.

Mom answers, “Dr. Katzenberg.”

I stare at her, shocked.

Sure enough, at six o’clock, Dr. Katzenberg shows up with a bottle of wine and a big smile on his face. He’s wearing jeans and a sweater, trying for the casual look, like we’re all just pals hanging out together. Mom, Bobby and I take our usual places, and Dr. Katzenberg sits at the head of table, in Dad’s seat, which makes me think of the way Claudius took over Hamlet’s father’s throne. Usurper. Thief. Betrayer. Traitor.
“He that hath killed my king and whored my mother.”

Dr. Katzenberg offers me a glass of wine (poisoned, like Hamlet’s wine that Gertrude drinks at the end of the play?), but I refuse. He compliments Mom on her delicious roast beef. Bobby tells him about our Friday night dinners in
Montreal, and how Mom always cooked a charred hamburger for Grandpa Cohen instead of the roast. “Because Grandpa likes his meat burnt,” Bobby explains eagerly, “so we call the hamburger Grandpa’s hockey puck, ’cause it’s black and hard, but that’s what he eats.”

Dr. Katzenberg has a good laugh and Mom gives Bobby a warm smile, but I don’t like the way Bobby is entertaining Dr. Katzenberg with our private family stories. Our family is none of his business. When Dr. Katzenberg asks me about school, I reply with curt one-word answers. I slice my food, but I can’t bring it to my mouth. I push the meat around my plate, but in my mind, I’m leaping across the table and jabbing my steak knife into the jolly doctor’s throat, like Hamlet slaying Claudius:
“Thou incestuous, murd’rous damned Dane.”

As soon as Dr. Katzenberg puts down his cutlery, I jump up to clear the table. Mom says, “There’s no rush, Julia,” but I ignore her and grab the plates. Dr. Katzenberg offers to help, but Mom says, “We’re fine.”

I walk into the kitchen and furiously scrape the bones into the garbage. Mom follows right on my heels. She hisses, “Will you please behave yourself.”

I kick the kitchen door shut. “What do you think you’re doing?” I ask.

Mom bristles. “I am trying to have a civilized dinner.”

“With
him
?”

“I’m not having this conversation—”

“You’re sleeping with him, aren’t you?” I snap.

“Julia! We’re just
friends
,” she says.

“Oh yeah?” I sneer. “You don’t stay out with ‘friends’ till two-thirty in the morning.”

Mom gives a sharp laugh. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. This is a platonic relationship. Do you understand me?”

“No, I don’t.” I glare at her.

“Well, I’m sorry,” she says. “I can’t help you.” She shrugs and turns away from me.

I feel Hamlet’s words rise up in my throat, the words he spoke to his own mother, reminding her of the good husband she once had and of the conniver who stole his place. I say:
“This was your husband. Look you now what follows … / Have you eyes? … / O shame, where is thy blush?”

Mom spins around. “What?”

But the dark prince is in my blood. No more deceit. No more lies. I will not stay in this foul house with that scheming villain for one more second. I dump the dishes and fly out of the room.

“Where are you going?” Mom calls.

“Out.”

Geoff is surprised to see me. Things have been awkward between us since the auditions, but now all that is swept
aside. I burst into the apartment and throw myself on the divan. “My mother is having an affair,” I say.