Tender at the Bone (11 page)

Heat milk in a small pan until bubbles begin to appear around the edges. Remove from heat
.

Mix cocoa and white sugar together in a small bowl and slowly beat in warm milk. Let cool
.

Cream the butter with the brown sugar. Beat in the eggs, sour cream, and vanilla. Add cocoa mixture
.

Mix remaining dry ingredients together and gently blend into butter mixture. Do not overbeat
.

Turn into 2 well-greased and floured 9-inch layer cake pans, and bake 25 to 30 minutes, until cake shrinks slightly from sides of pans and springs back when touched gently in the center. Cool on a rack for a few minutes, then turn out of pans onto rack
.

Wait until completely cool before frosting
.

SEVEN-MINUTE FROSTING

4 egg whites

1½ cups sugar

¾ cup water

1 teaspoon cream of tartar

⅛ teaspoon salt

1 teaspoon vanilla

Combine egg whites, sugar, water, cream of tartar, and salt in top of double boiler. Set over simmering water and beat with an electric mixer for about 5 minutes, until soft peaks are formed. Remove from heat and stir in vanilla. Keep beating until frosting is stiff enough to spread. Use immediately. This looks like a lot, but use it all; it is enough to fill and frost the cake
.

I woke up just as the first bits of light were starting to struggle into the living room. Tommy was next to me on the couch, his arm wedged beneath my neck. I sat up, my brain banging against my skull. My mouth was filled with cotton. Peering through the thin light, I saw bodies sprawled on all the chairs, some of them boys I hadn’t even seen the night before. Ashtrays overflowed onto the rug and glasses lay overturned on sticky wet spots. A record was on the turntable, the needle going
kathunk, kathunk, kathunk
as it spun.

What if my parents came home early? I picked up Tommy’s arm, trying to make out the numbers on his watch. As I brought the dial close to my face he woke up and grinned at me.

“What time is it?” I asked.

He looked at his watch. “Almost six.”

“It can’t be that late,” I moaned. “My parents will be here any minute. They get up early. They could be pulling in the driveway right now! We’ve got to get everybody out.”

What were they doing here anyway? What was I doing with Tommy? Had I done anything I’d regret? I struggled to clear my mind and remember. My head hurt. And suddenly I had a clear image of speeding down the road, the freeway a blur as I looked down at the speedometer. We were just past Port Chester, half an hour from home, and I was doing ninety.

My parents’ old Plymouth was nine years old, a turquoise-and-white convertible that hadn’t converted in years. It was so rickety I was afraid parts would start flying off if I went any faster. Still, I pushed harder on the accelerator. Just as we hit a hundred the car started vibrating, a low
thrum
that shook my body. It felt good.

“Faster!” said a voice from the backseat. I looked in the mirror. We had consumed dozens of Singapore Slings and Julie’s face was a watery blur. “The car won’t go any faster,” I said, flooring the pedal to demonstrate. The vibrations increased. “Whee!” said Julie, flopping back on top of her boyfriend, Bill.

I wondered if we were going to survive the ride. “She died at sixteen,” I said drunkenly to Bobby, who was sitting beside me. “So much lost promise.”

“If you go I go too,” he said indignantly. “You should have let me drive. I’m not as drunk as you are.”

“Then have another drink,” I said, passing him the bottle of mouthwash I kept in my purse. It contained a vicious mixture, a bit from every bottle in my parents’ liquor cabinet.

“Yech,” he said, taking a swig. “Don’t your parents notice that their booze keeps disappearing?”

“I fill the bottles back up with water,” I said. “But it probably wouldn’t matter if I didn’t. They don’t notice anything.”

“You’re so lucky,” he sighed wistfully.

Stamford, Darien, Norwalk. I turned off the freeway and slowly took my foot off the pedal. The car slowed to a sedate sixty. “Once again Fate refused to put them out of their misery,” said Bobby as we sped past the shuttered stores along Main Street. “Since we’re going to live, let’s eat. Drive over to Swanky Franks and we’ll get grinders.”

“No,” I said, “let’s go to my house. My parents won’t be home until tomorrow morning.”

“Okay,” he said, sounding relieved. My house was cheaper. Besides there was always a chance that Gloria, whom he adored, would show up with her boyfriend, Troy, looking for something to do. I knew Bobby had gone to Port Chester in search of her, just as I had driven across the state line hoping to find Tommy Calfano in one of the sleazy bars that we could count on to overlook our obviously
fake identification. Just thinking about Tommy made my heart lurch sickeningly in my chest.

“Are we there yet?” asked Bill, sitting up. The back windows were steamy. Julie patted at her thin blonde hair and buttoned her blouse. I averted my eyes, embarrassed. “Your lipstick’s smudged, honey,” giggled Bobby in the high voice he used when he imitated a woman. I looked at his slight body and it occurred to me, with a shock, that he was probably what my mother called “a fairy.” I wondered if he knew it and if he did, what he thought about it.

“I’m hungry,” Bill announced.

“Ruth’s going to cook,” said Bobby, “arencha, honey?”

“Sure!” I said, narrowly missing the big willow tree in front of the house. I turned the engine off. The still quiet was a relief and I wished for a moment that my parents were inside, that I could say good night, climb the stairs, and just go to sleep.

“Make some of the fried cardboard stuff,” said Bobby, untangling his long legs and climbing out of the car. Julie was still patting and buttoning and as soon as I had unlocked the door she went into my parents’ bedroom to put her makeup back on.

I walked through the book-lined library, flipping on lights. I went into the living room, stumbling over the foot rest to the big black Eames chair, and turned on the lamp my mother had made out of her father’s samovar. Then I headed for the kitchen. After the fluorescent lights had blinked on I ran the water, leaned over, and splashed some up into my face, trying to get sober. As I lit the stove I had a quick vision of my parents arriving in the morning to find an empty, smoldering lot. Cooking drunk was as dangerous as driving; a more serious remedy was in order.

I went into the bathroom, opened the cabinet, and rummaged around. I wasn’t quite sure what I was looking for. Alka-Seltzer? I opened a jar of smelling salts and took a quick whiff; it cleared my head, a little.

As the cabinet door swung shut I caught an eerie image of myself. Who was that? I took in the big pouf of hair, the smudged black eyeliner, the bright lipstick. I walked over to the full-length mirror on the back of the door and examined myself. I was wearing pea-green pants so tight they looked painted on and a colorful printed blouse that went halfway down my thighs, hiding most of the serious defects. “Tramp,” I whispered to the image. I poured myself a glass of water, gulped it down, and went back to the kitchen.

“Got any beer?” asked Bill. I shook my head. My fake license said that I was eighteen so I could drink in New York; in Connecticut you had to be twenty-one to buy beer.

“There’s some Seagram’s if you want it,” I said, throwing him the keys to the liquor cabinet in the living room, “and I’ve got 7-Up.” Most of the boys drank Seven-and-Seven. He caught the keys one-handed and came over to pat my ass. “Good girl,” he murmured patronizingly. I swatted impatiently at his hand, hating him.

I never understood what Julie saw in Bill. All the boys were crazy about her and she could have her pick. I liked the Italian guys; they were sweet and sexy and a little bit dangerous, but she preferred the dull WASP types who would grow up to be just like their fathers. Bill was already a bore.

“Don’t give Julie any more booze,” said Bobby, coming into the kitchen. “She’s crying again.”

Bill shrugged. Julie always cried when she drank and most nights we had to get her composed and sober in time for her midnight curfew. But tonight she was sleeping over; her parents, of course, were unaware that my parents were absent.

“You shouldn’t let her drink!” I said. “This always happens!” Bill mixed his drink and said nothing.

“Cook,” said Bobby. “Food will help.”

“How about spaghetti?” I asked. “I’ve got a great recipe for clam sauce.”

Bobby groaned. “Anything but spaghetti. We eat it at my house every night. Why don’t you just make that fried cardboard stuff? Julie likes it.”

“You’re the one who likes matzo brei,” I replied. It was true. The Italian kids had never seen matzos before, and they were all crazy about my mother’s recipe. It was the only thing Mom had actually taught me to cook. The secret was lots of butter; I threw three sticks into a pan and went to find the matzos.

I broke the crackers into a colander, put it in the sink, and turned on the water. I took a bowl from the cupboard and a carton of eggs from the refrigerator and then, picking up an egg in each hand, began cracking them, two at a time, against the edge of the bowl.

“Don’t bother showing off for me,” said Bobby, leaning against the counter. The last shells cracked and we heard a car pull into the driveway, radio blaring. As the engine died we were quiet, listening for voices. I counted, then threw four more eggs into the bowl and melted another stick of butter.

Gloria walked in first, looking neat and clean. She was thin and pretty, a cheerleader whose shiny black hair was always set in perfect curls. She wore a pleated plaid skirt with a light blue sweater, so that Troy’s ring, which she wore on a thick chain, stood out prominently on her thin chest. Troy was right behind her, his hand draped proprietorially around her shoulder. “Mine,” he seemed to say, although everybody in school knew that she had yet to succumb to his advances.

And then I saw Tommy. My heart turned over, as if I were on a roller-coaster, and I felt my face go red. I turned to the stove and poured the egg and matzo mixture into the sizzling butter. I added some salt and began scrambling furiously.

“Food for us?” said Linda from behind Tommy. “You shouldn’t have. We simply couldn’t.” Were they together? Linda was the funniest girl in school, proof that you didn’t have to be pretty to be
popular. She was skinny and short and everybody loved her. She returned our affection by regularly making us laugh so hard we peed in our pants. “Well that’s certainly going to make my fortune, isn’t it?” she said when I pointed it out. She looked around the kitchen and asked, “Where’s Julie?”

“Crying for a change,” said Bill, coming in with the bottle of Seagram’s. “She’s in Ruth’s room. Can’t you go tell her some jokes or something?”

“Tell her there’s food,” I said, scraping the matzo brei onto a platter and sprinkling it with salt. I put out plates and watched the heap of food disappear as my friends helped themselves and scattered into different rooms. Tommy was the last to go. Alone with him I grew so embarrassed that I took a plate, said, “I’ll just take this to Julie,” and fled.

“Stupid idiot,” I chided myself as I walked away from him.

Linda was bending over Julie’s weeping form, but she looked up as I came in and shrugged. Julie’s face was hot, red, puffy. She would never tell us why she was crying and we all felt slightly guilty, wondering what we’d done. I thought maybe it was my fault; when Julie told me that she had given in to Bill, actually gotten naked, I was too horrified to hide my reaction. “How could you?” I cried. Her face had crumpled. Bill had his own reasons for feeling guilty. Maybe Linda did too. Months later, when Julie’s father skipped town and her mother slipped into a world of her own, we understood her crying had nothing to do with us.

“Why didn’t you tell me things were so terrible at home?” I demanded. “I’m your best friend!”

She just shrugged. “We all have parent problems,” she said. “Besides, what could you have done?”

We did our best. Linda wandered around the room, looking for material. “Oh, what’s this?” she said, picking up a bra from the top of my dresser. “A swimming pool for ants?” Julie giggled inadvertently as I crossed my arms and covered my chest. Linda looked
momentarily stricken. “Don’t be embarrassed,” she said, “it’s not your fault you’re the only senior with big tits.”

“I’m just fat,” I said miserably. “The tits are part of the package.”

“You’re not fat!” said Julie, momentarily forgetting her own problems. “You’re just a little plump.” And then, together, we all chorused the line I heard every day of my life, “You’d be so pretty if you’d just lose a little weight.”

“Whoever heard of a thin cook?” said Bobby, coming to join us. I suspected that Troy and Gloria were snuggling on the sofa and Bill and Tommy were talking about cars.