Sweet Karoline (2 page)

For
years Boosha rented out the old family apartment. The income must have been pretty good, because she never bothered to sell it. When Karoline, Giulio and I acquired jobs in L.A., Karoline wanted to buy her family's old place. Boosha said yes, they worked out a rent-to-buy arrangement and here we are. Rather, here we were.

Unlike
newer buildings that are all boxy and small, the rooms in our apartment are huge, aside from the galley kitchen. We have a generous dining area in which Karoline and I used to have dinner parties for up to ten people. Our living room is enormous, with windows that span its entire length. The two bedrooms are in the rounded section of the turrets, which makes them interesting though hard to decorate.

Since
her death, I am often reminded of the night I saw Karoline in bed with Glenn. Every time I opened her bedroom door, her eyes seemed to be there still, staring at me with that steely look from beneath the flabby man whose mantra was more porn than romance. For months her door has remained shut. I walk around it, avoiding the waft of air from under the frame.

Mature
trees and palms lean toward us from the side garden, giving us cooling breezes that almost negate the need for air conditioners. We can just see the mountains if we peer around the edge of the balcony.

We
are tucked slightly away from the busy street, so we don't hear the traffic much at night. There's a sidewalk underneath that runs along a big square yard that residents can enjoy. Across the street on this side is a huge park.

Karoline
decorated the apartment because she has—had—a knack for design. She went with bright, bold colors and accessories, big comfy furniture and artifacts from our various journeys spread carefully throughout. Pictures have been placed with an eye for artistic showcasing. We have two carpets from a trip to Turkey that massage your feet as you pad down the hall to the bathroom or through the living room. We even have a small CoJon painting on the entrance wall.

Nowadays,
the paint seems dark and gloomy. The nooks and crannies are full of ghosts. The door to the second bedroom remains closed and the balcony is off limits. The yellow crime scene tape still flies in tatters around the railings. I spend my time in my bedroom, bathroom, or the kitchen, terrified to spread out, ashamed to sit on the couch. I skirt around the carpets, my bare feet stubbing the hardwood. I refuse to look toward the windows, afraid I might see her face reflected in the glass.

I
would move if I could work up the energy or if I had anywhere else to go.

There
's a picture of Karoline on the end table that glares out at me every morning as I slide past the living room into the kitchen. I used to love that image, thought of it as a true portrait of the person she was. She looks very pretty in this particular exposure, although she wasn't really good looking. Her teeth protruded quite dramatically and, unfortunately, she never seemed motivated to get them fixed. Her hair was a mousy brown and had that wispy thinness that made her appear somewhat balding. She was very short with a body that looked childlike when she was young, but gave her a dumpy appearance in her thirties.

Karoline
never wore make-up or selected clothing that enhanced her figure in any way. She gave the impression that she had no interest in the external. I loved Karoline for this reason in particular and for lots of other reasons, too.

Dear Diary,

Such
an inane, cliché-ish way to start, but I can assure you there will be nothing cliché or inane about the thoughts within these pages. I read recently that keeping a journal is healthy. I am discovering that I love being able to explore random ideas without censure. Put feelings and facts down on paper. Pardon the lack of order, Dear Diary, but it's about me, not you.

Chapter
2

Karoline and I met when we were ten. We were both considered immigrants. Karoline's parents had arrived straight from Poland while I was from Canada.

Following
the educational wisdom of the time, the school principal decided to promote me past fourth grade directly into fifth. My parents, of course, were delighted and proud. They told me how fortunate I was to have inherited both brains and beauty. I therefore approached school on the first morning of my acceleration with the same happiness and haughtiness that I've mentioned before.

At
the gates to the girls' side of the schoolyard I was met by a group of the Fifth Graders. They blocked my entrance with arms linked and faces filled with anger and hate. I stopped in my tracks, heart pounding, shocked and afraid. One member of the group, Shirley O'Connor, stepped forward and assumed the role of spokesperson.

"
None of us wants you in our class," she announced. "You think you're so smart and so big. You think you're better than the rest of us."

I
opened my mouth to protest that no, I didn't feel that way. I was grateful and pleased, honored to join them, really, not conceited or superior. Honestly, I wanted to say, go past the perfect face and see a little girl who only wants to have friends and do the best I can do.

I
gazed longingly beyond them to the Fourth Graders who played happily without me, not even realizing I was gone. I hadn't been in their presence long enough to make mine felt. Tears began to gather at the edges of my eyes. I was unable to clear the lump in my throat to engender any speech.

Shirley
O'Connor took my silence as a sign to continue her barrage. "You can't just come into our grade and think that we're going to be your friends. You're not American and you're not even white."

Staring
at the collection of fair and red-haired girls, white and pink noses sprinkled with freckles, I was reminded of how different I looked to this small town of mostly Caucasian people. Once again I felt a surge of anger toward my parents, who had not only carelessly created a mixed child, but who'd moved me to this backwoods place.

"
You should ask to go back to fourth grade."

I
was about to agree with her wholeheartedly when Karoline Mikulski stepped forward. She'd been standing to one side of the group, observing, not part of them, yet until that moment not showing any support either.

"
Leave her alone," she said, coming up beside me and linking my arm the way the group had entwined theirs. "She's smart and Principal St. James says she belongs in fifth grade. We'll be her friends if you guys won't."

Right
beside her a small thin boy nodded his dark curly head in agreement, though he said nothing.

I
paid no attention to the fact that the other girls in the group, who'd been silent until now, laughed and snickered that who cared if Karoline Mikulski and the "Eye-tie" were my friends, no one liked them either. I was eternally grateful to this little imp of a girl who'd defied the majority and marched me off to the classroom with pride and confidence. She was the kind of child who announced in a clear, determined voice to the teacher that her name was pronounced Kar-o-line, like President Kennedy's daughter, though the real truth was obvious.

Later
I realized that I'd also hooked myself up with a little Italian boy named Giulio who barely spoke English and smelled of garlic.

We
remained apart from the crowd always. Karoline, Giulio and I were a formidable triangle. We went through high school and university together, sharing everything. Karoline's wit, cleverness and unconditional love carried me through. Giulio's serious, artistic and poetic nature led us to adventure and culture that we'd never have explored on our own. I thought that I had given them a great deal of support and love, too. That we were complete and perfect friends. When Giulio left us, Karoline and I prevailed, our friendship stronger than ever. I assumed our duo would last forever.

The day Karoline died, I was not at my best. I was disheveled and beside myself with grief. I know my hair was wild and stuck out everywhere. My face was as pale as it ever gets. My lips quivered. My eyes were red and wet. In other words, I must have looked a fright.

"
I'm Detective Byrne, Ms. Williams," Ethan said, sounding like someone out of Dragnet. He proffered his identification, though I couldn't see much through my swollen eyelids.

I
gave him my best goddess-in-clay imitation, the look I have perfected for Ice Queen occasions. I am pretty good at snooty and sarcastic when I need to be. My face can mimic plastic surgery with such precision that you'd think I'd actually experienced it.

One
ex-boyfriend told me it was always impossible to tell what I was really thinking, let alone feeling, but I suspect that was because he never paid attention to my voice or the slight flush of my skin or the sudden emptiness in my eyes. My breasts could tell him nothing.

Ethan
Byrne was different. He loomed very tall in my apartment doorway, silver-threaded hair shining in the harsh light from the hall. Huge round eyes blinked at me from behind black-rimmed glasses. His long bumpy nose and straggly eyebrows lent an almost comic look to his ugly countenance, but I had learned the hard way to look beneath the surface rather than judge by appearance alone.

When
I stared into his orbs of dark blue that searched my face, I saw compassion, intelligence, inquisitiveness. What's more, he looked straight into my eyes, despite the fact that I was dressed in my favorite negligee. Karoline gave it to me last Christmas. It was a dark purple silk thing with a very low-cut neckline.

It
might seem like an odd gift for one female friend to give another, but Karoline had done some research and discovered that most people sleep better in silk or in the nude. I never could find the prim and proper cover that went with it.

After
a long pause during which I said absolutely nothing, Ethan introduced me to the female officer, a thin blond woman in uniform, who stood silently beside him.

"
This is Officer Peters. May we come in, Ms. Williams?"

I
opened the door and stood back. They halted awkwardly in the living room, taking up all the warm air. I began to shiver.

"
Would you like to go and put on something warmer, Ms. Williams?" the big detective asked, his voice a smooth deep baritone that felt as good as a neck massage.

I
looked down at myself then. My knees quivered, my nipples stared. Reaching into the front hall closet, I wrapped myself in my scarlet cape. Karoline's matching brown one was left hanging limp and abandoned.

Suddenly
I was sitting at our dining room table surrounded by the officers. With his broad shoulders and thick arms, Ethan overwhelmed the delicate chairs, but he managed to look graceful in his dark blue jacket and snow-white shirt. The tie, splashed with pink and aqua lines, looked incongruous with the gravity of his suit.

"
As I said," Ethan repeated, "I'm Detective Byrne. I'm following up, now that Officer Peters and her team have completed the first part of the investigation."

The
slight lilt to his speech, hinting at origins other than the United States, sent me careening back to high school.

When I met Giulio, he'd just arrived 'off the boat' as our classmates would say. They were proud and superior now that the majority of them were generations away from their own ancestors' immigration. Despite his chronological age, Giulio was immediately placed in the lowest grade the school could get away with. He was tiny-boned and thin, very unlike most of his Italian paisans. Feminine and soft voiced, he fit in with no one.

Karoline
had instantly adopted him. Their own little weird unit of two had immediately embraced me.

At
first it was difficult to understand Giulio. Over time, however, I was able to relate to his gestures, recognize a few words and interpret him as only friends can. Giulio embraced his new language slowly and never fully spoke without a thick and stumbling accent. This may have explained Mrs. St. James's erroneous judgment that he was slow.

Karoline,
on the other hand, was almost instantly fluent in all three languages—Polish, Italian and English—as though born to absorb words.

My
mother was delighted with my friends. A fierce and loyal Canadian who'd been forcibly transported to the United States by the man she loved, she embraced differences in culture and race with a showy, dedicated flare. She became decidedly more African in her roots, which I found embarrassing. She invited Karoline and Giulio over to savor her native meals and desserts, recipes handed down from ancestors so distant that I doubted they were even hers.

Struggling
to be so accepting and open made her look pathetic and false in my eyes. I was appalled that my parents were mixed race, leaving me in a limbo between the two. Not only that, they'd moved me to a town where the vast majority of people were white. While cultural differences piqued my mother's interest, I was at the opposite end of the spectrum. I wished I could just be like everybody else. White, ordinary-looking. Unworthy of stares, adoration, curiosity and hatred.

The
kids at school stayed far away from us in the cafeteria at lunch while Giulio munched his sausages and capicolli. Years later, when garlic became the rage, I would remember the sweet salty smell of Giulio and laugh to myself as the spice was 'discovered' by the rest of our acquaintances.

Once
we reached high school, Giulio confided in Karoline and me that he was gay. We were the only ones he told. Giulio was our friend, our mentor, our guide and now he was a safety net all in one. He promised that, should he or we not find our true loves, we would live together into old age. But that was before our trip to Italy.

Dear Diary,

Maybe
it's their inheritance and upbringing that has caused them to remain so childlike. One a pampered little boy, the only son, surrounded by doting females who did everything for him, the other a contradiction of appearance and concept.