Love Always (32 page)

It depressed her, sometimes, that since Les she had not had a new relationship with anyone. It had taken about fifteen years for Hildon to really seduce her, in spite of the fact that she had slept with him from the beginning, and now she did count on him, now she did share his philosophy that since you could get away with anything, it was necessary to start your own fun. They knew how to seduce each other so well, knew how to add to the other’s fantasies like children piling one hand on top of the other, over and over, bottom hand pulled out and slapped
on top, until it became again the top hand. There was a lot of repetition in what they did. At first her shock had been genuine about Hildon’s redneck slumming, but then she had passed through that, and through amusement, into acceptance. It was just a routine: some people liked to shower after sex; some smoked a cigarette; some people liked music; some people liked the lights on; some people did it in boots with spurs. It seemed incestuous; they were so close and had known each other so long that Lucy couldn’t believe they weren’t related, but they were also attuned to each other’s fantasies in a way no family member would be; they knew not only the person, but the dreams and nightmares as well. They cared about each other so much that they knew to be careful. They knew what would hurt. They were too careful. It was too precise; a shrug, instead of passion. Anything goes, because even that won’t suffice.

Les said that he would be passing through Vermont and wanted to stop—that he had been calling her for days without success. He knew nothing about Jane’s death. He had never met Nicole, and didn’t know, of course, that she was at Lucy’s. Lucy liked the idea of letting him walk into a sad, complicated situation. Only when someone else observed it and said something did she pity herself, and that feeling was a relief. Let him walk into real life and not be able to do anything about it. Let him deal with some situation that wasn’t one he orchestrated in a classroom or took charge of by manipulating her. Of course there was nothing helpful he could say, and no way he could feel comfortable. As Piggy said—more often on the East Coast than on the West Coast, actually—“Welcome to L.A.”

That morning Lucy and Nicole had visited Nata Ballard, who would be Nicole’s ninth grade teacher in the fall. Piggy had arranged for a tutor for the time Nicole would spend in Los Angeles. In September, Nicole would be picked up by the school bus and driven two miles to school, where she would be a student with farmers’ kids and hippies’ oldest sons and daughters. The farmers’ kids would be named Mark and John and the hippies’ kids would be named Ezekiel and Beatrice (four-syllable version). Nicole thought all this was wonderful
—“a rip,” as she said—and had returned to her reading of
Main Street
. Lucy tossed around the idea of telling her that Nata Ballard had spent a year in the convent and another year strung out on dope before she saw the light and moved to Vermont when she decided it rose over the Green Mountains, but decided against it; it would just be another story that made things tenuous and a bit ironic. She didn’t think Nicole needed more of that.

St. Francis had escaped the night before, but they found him before he got into trouble, Lucy driving with her leg shaking so hard it was difficult to apply even pressure to the accelerator, and Nicole screaming, “St. Francis! Here, baby!” out the window, as perplexed people in fields or sitting in lawn chairs looked up and stared at the car. Lucy had been too embarrassed to stop and ask if they had seen the dog. He was in a swamp, not far from the house, and Lucy was so glad to see him muddy instead of bloody that she didn’t even care about the damage to the back seat. Today they had gone to the hardware store and bought a lead, stakes, chains, and a wider, sturdier collar. St. Francis looked manacled. It was the sort of thing, Lucy realized, that she was going to have to explain to visitors.

Life was back to normal. That meant, for example, that in the afternoon, the Federal Express man, with whom Nicole had struck up quite a friendship, had brought a package of drawings of preliminary plans for the Stephanie Sykes doll. They looked like blueprints for the Taj Mahal, filled with numbers and incomprehensible notations—what might have been a transcription of a gorilla’s best thoughts, on acid, of how to navigate through a Skinner box. The figure on the top page looked more like a cross section of one of Piggy’s wife’s chambered shells than a human being. Piggy had gotten a duplicate package, and had called to say that under no circumstances was Nicole to sign the release form—it was obviously a deliberate ruse, to disguise the fact that Stephanie Sykes did not have tits. “What the hell does this mean?” Piggy screamed at Lucy, as if she were responsible. “Under the head …” She told him that she couldn’t make out a head. “At the top, at the goddamn
top,” Piggy said. “What does this mean: 8 × 3—what are they doing, grafting Wilt Chamberlain’s cock onto her throat?”

Lucy wrote this week’s Cindi Coeur column:

In the backyard, while she had been in California, Don Severs had planted a willow tree. The limbs swooped low, the delicate green leaves blowing in the breeze; a dozen Mylar balloons
in the shape of hearts were attached mid-branch, bobbing as the limbs swept from side to side.

She remembered two of her father’s gestures—things he had done to communicate through action rather than words. When Lucy and Jane had told him something he didn’t believe, he had looked them straight in the eye and tipped his head, making a cross over his heart with his first finger. When they did something particularly charming, he tapped his chest, over his heart, with his fingertip, then made a fist with that hand and slapped it into the palm of the other. It was like a catcher slapping a ball into his mitt. Maybe their father had even thought of that, subconsciously; that love was just another game, like baseball. A national sport.

Lucy had thought, from time to time, of trying to get in touch with him, but she always stopped herself: he had betrayed them, withdrawn, disappeared. Jane had kept in contact a little longer than she had. He and his new wife had at least two children, and a house in Maine and a house somewhere outside Boston. A girl Lucy once knew had sent her a picture from the Boston
Globe
a couple of summers ago, of Lucy’s father standing by a cart in Faneuil Hall, eating some new kind of gourmet hot dog. It was the first picture she had seen of him since he left: the daddy planting the garden, or carrying his daughters on each shoulder, or standing stiffly next to Mommy in evening attire was now a middle-aged man, smiling with a mouth full of food. The college classmate who sent the picture had circled his name and put a question mark in the margin. There could be no question; even if his name was common, he looked very much like Jane and Lucy. Because men’s fashions changed so little, it looked like he was wearing a pinstripe shirt that he had worn when he was their father. He was still her father, but Lucy did not know where he was. What would she tell him if she got in touch? That his daugher Jane, whom he had not known all of her adult life, was dead? She felt tears welling up. That was what always happened—only when she connected Jane’s death with something else that she was angry about did she feel herself about to cry.

Jane’s husband of a little more than a week was the real villain
to all of them. He was still in a coma and there had been extensive brain damage, but the family refused to let the doctors take him off the respirator. Piggy, in one of the calls he had gotten from the man’s father, had offered not only to pull the plug, but then to wrap it around the man’s neck, tie it to his fender, and take him for a memorial ride along the same steep road he had plunged off of with Jane. The autopsy revealed that Jane had been two months pregnant. Piggy had told Lucy, but no one else. Lucy wouldn’t give her mother, who had said Jane was self-destructive, the satisfaction of knowing that. She had not told Nicole or anyone else. She preferred to think of it, herself, not as carelessness but as a sign of Jane’s faith in life. Lucy had not shown Jane’s letter to anyone, either. She read it every day, thinking bitterly that if Jane had not wanted to grow old, she had certainly gotten her way. In homage to Jane, Piggy had flown to Virginia to ride the Cyclone. After the funeral, Piggy had said to Lucy that he didn’t see how he’d get over it; every time the breeze blew, he thought of Jane. She liked the wind whether it was on the Cyclone or on a motorcycle—when it wasn’t there, she’d find some way to generate wind. She would not have liked the still, sunny day on which her funeral was held. The stiffly arranged floral displays that so many people sent, instead of the wild flowers that grew in the canyons, rustling in the breeze. Lucy remembered Nicole as an infant, sitting on her mother’s thigh, while Jane said to her, “How does the rain fall?,” tapping her fingertips lightly on Nicole’s head. Saying, “How does the wind go?,” as she puckered her lips and blew a slow stream of air at Nicole’s hairline, sending the wisps of baby hair away from her forehead.

They had learned to take their cues from Nicole. If she fell, they did not react until she reacted. Most of the time, if they didn’t rush forward, she would just pick herself up and go on. The baby took her cues from the adults; if they weren’t upset, she wasn’t upset. She would look, and with fear or dismay that they projected as a pleasant smile, they would say “Baby go boom!” or something to indicate that what had just happened was of slight importance and rather amusing.

Lucy went to the screen door and looked out. Nicole was on
a beach towel, stretching left and right and left and right, listening to an exercise tape on her cassette player. They had talked a lot in California about Jane, and Jane’s death, but since they returned, Nicole didn’t want to talk about it. She wondered if she shouldn’t say things anyway; whether what she was doing now wasn’t just another version, and a potentially harmful one, of what the adults had all done by smiling when Nicole went boom as a baby. Then, of course, they could tell by the surface she fell on, or where she banged herself, or how long she stayed spread-eagled, how great the hurt might be. There didn’t seem any accurate way to predict now what Nicole was feeling. Obviously, when she exhibited bravado, she was only doing it to cover the hurt. Earlier in the day, on the phone, talking to Piggy, she had overheard Nicole saying, “Yeah, well, I don’t think she should have taken chances while I’m still a kid.” Piggy had bought postcards of the Cyclone; he took them out of his pocket and examined them as though they were a family snapshot. He put one in a frame on his desk—his equivalent of a splinter of the True Cross, sunk in a Lucite cube.

It was not until Les Whitehall’s car pulled into the drive that Lucy realized how many preconceived notions she had had about this visit. She thought that he would be driving the same car he had left in. But the big Pontiac was gone, replaced by a smaller, newer car. When he opened his door and closed it, it didn’t hurt her ears. She stood in the doorway, looking deliberately at the car instead of at Les. She had thought that the passenger door would swing open and a girl would step out. Les’s notion of being an adult was to do something slightly challenging, which would put anyone who commented in the position of seeming gauche or childish. Lucy had assumed that he would bring a woman with him for protection and dare her to say that it wasn’t perfectly adult behavior, which would be difficult because there was no ostensible reason why they couldn’t all be blandly sociable. No one cared about anyone else anymore, right? No woman. Les was walking toward the house. He caught sight of Nicole, who didn’t interrupt her stretching routine. He waved. She waved back. St. Francis
barked wildly, but it was a hot day and he stopped after a minute, settling back into his deep gully beside the rhododendrons. Silver balloons that had been tied to Lucy’s willow tree by Don Severs bobbed on the tree. It must have seemed like an unusual scene to Les—it couldn’t have been what he expected, either. His first words, as he gestured behind him, were, “What’s all this?” She could tell, because he tried to appear casual, that he was scared. Something about the way he walked that she couldn’t explain let her know that he was nervous. He looked the same. She had expected him to change: gain weight, lose weight, grow a beard, longer hair, more of a tan—she had no exact image in mind, except that she had been sure he would come across the lawn with a woman at his side, and now there was no woman. It was painful to see him looking the same, as though he had just left briefly, to do an errand.