“He looks like Mel Gibson,” Crystal adds, pushing aside her empty goblet and burping.
“Wow.”
“Yeah. I don’t blame him for leaving my mother. She’s such a bitch. I can’t believe I have to live with her. It’s like being held hostage.”
I can’t imagine having this much disdain for my mother. When I was Crystal’s age, my mother was dead and I missed her so much that sometimes it hurt to breathe. In junior high there was a TV ad for salad dressing in which a mother in a red-and-white-checked apron showed her daughter how to fix salad. “You must never cut the lettuce, but always gently tear it,” the mother explained kindly but firmly to the daughter as they broke up chunks of iceberg and tossed them into a wooden salad bowl. I assumed all mothers, except maybe Joan Crawford, were like this, and I wanted my mother to come back and insist that I be gentle with lettuce and wear a sweater and use sunblock.
“Hey, how come you don’t live someplace cool, like L.A.?” Crystal asks.
“I don’t feel up to L.A.”
“Why?”
“It’s expensive and I don’t know anyone there.”
“I’ll bet it’s killer.”
“You’ve never been?”
She shakes her head.
“Well, maybe we can go one day. Maybe we could see the taping of a show.”
“Dude! Maybe we’d see rock stars.”
Crystal bounces in her seat, and I realize I probably shouldn’t make promises I may not be able to keep.
WAITRESSING
13
“Whatever,” Crystal says when I call to ask her if she’d like to visit my new house for a barbecue on Sunday.
I picture her on her sofa, cradling the phone between her chin and shoulder so she can use both hands to examine her split ends. She has a way of sitting so that she’s nearly horizontal, slouched down with her head tipped against the back of a chair or sofa, long skinny legs stretched out in front of her.
“Okay, Miss Enthusiastic.”
“Well, it’s like, March.”
“The barbecue still works, and you’ll like my new place. It’s got tons of rooms and a ghost.”
“Whatever.”
I hang up wondering how many more weeks I can handle this level of disdain. Or is it just indifference? Crystal doesn’t seem to have any more disdain for me than she does for the rest of the world. I’ll try not to take it personally for now.
“Whatever” is her answer to most questions. She has two ways of saying it. She either exhales a weary “Whatever,” as though the thought of doing anything other than preening her split ends is too enervating, or she indignantly snaps, “Whatever,” as though the question is a personal attack. I’d like to adopt this approach.
Sophie, your husband died.
“Whatever.”
And you’re fired.
“As if I even liked that job.”
And you’re depleting your savings with no means of income in sight.
“That is so not a problem. I could, like, totally get a new job.”
And that, of course, is what I must do.
As I crack open the classifieds the next morning, my stomach burns and there’s a raw, bitter taste in the back of my throat. Job hunting means job interview.
The newspaper feels dry and chalky, and ink smudges my fingertips. Fortunately, there are no “real” jobs in Ashland in the winter. No listings under Marketing or Public Relations. Waitressing lingers between Underwriting and Welding. I never waitressed in college. While I shelved books in the library, other women in my dorm cocktailed—donning nylon heart-shaped black aprons with pockets that bulged with dollar bills and artfully balancing glasses overflowing with beer on tiny trays. But this isn’t what I tell Bill, the food and beverage manager at Le Petit Bistro on East Main Street.
“You’ve waitressed before?” he asks, scanning my application.
“Right! In college.” I didn’t plan on lying. I planned on admitting that I didn’t have any waitressing experience but that I’m confident I can do the job. I seem to have left that confidence in the car, however, and now I’m fibbing my way into the restaurant industry.
We sit in a booth at the back of the bistro, which emits a dark pinkish glow—lit only by little Tiffany-style lamps on the tables. Bill wears a stiff white dress shirt and a tie dotted with martini glasses. I think he’s the dressiest person I’ve seen in Ashland.
“What’s your long-term goal?” he asks, leaning across the red-checkered tablecloth. “I imagine it’s not waitressing?”
The dining room smells like burned butter and pine cleaner. I’m not sure what to tell Bill. To make it through a year in Ashland? To wake up in the morning twelve months from now and not want to dive back under the covers and hide? Maybe one morning a year from now there will be a bit of news on the clock radio that I’d like to share with Ethan—who won the World Series or who’s running for president. But this won’t make me cry. Instead, I’ll think of my husband and smile, flicking away grief the way you’d brush off a fly or piece of lint. Then I’ll climb into the shower and iron a crisp white shirt like Bill’s to wear to work here at Le Petit Bistro.
Bill leans closer and blinks.
“Not to spill anything,” I tell him, and laugh. I pinch the creases in my khakis, which I ironed over and over this morning.
Bill laughs a dry laugh and cocks his head. “What would you say your strengths are?”
Strengths? Certainly not leading department meetings or wearing panty hose. Hopefully memorizing specials. Strengths. I can peel an apple in one long spiral.
I’m still not saying anything when Bill moves on to the next question: “Weaknesses?”
Real butter. Kodak ads featuring husbands or mothers.
Bill skips to the next question. “How do you work under pressure?”
Crumble, weep, wear my bathrobe to work. “Pretty good,” I tell him. I mean, how hard can waitressing be?
Here’s how hard waitressing can be: Try balancing a tray loaded with entrées on your shoulder without stooping like Groucho Marx. Try opening a stubborn bottle of Merlot without snapping the cork in two and pouring cork crumbs into diners’ glasses as they squint and frown. Try remembering who ordered the escargots and who ordered the onion soup and who wanted their dressing on the side, please, I said on the side!
A week into the job, I’m struggling to navigate a scalding plate of shrimp scampi around an older, bargelike woman who’s flailing her arms as she tells a Shakespeare festival actor and his date a story about trying to hail a cab in New York City.
The actor is handsome, with a square chin and deep dimples. He smiles at me and suddenly I’m self-conscious in my uniform of black pants, white dress shirt, and black vest. I probably look as though I should be playing the piano at Nordstrom. His actress girlfriend or wife who sits next to him is all Isadora Duncan scarves and eyeliner. She crosses her slender, shapely arms and raises a tweezed brow at me.
“Here we go!” I announce, trying to slide the big woman’s entrée under her gesticulating arms and onto the table in front of her. The scalding plate burns through my towel and into my fingertips. Suddenly her baseball bat of an arm swings through the air to make a point, sending her plate careening out of my hand and shrimp scampi splashing across her back. Hot oily sauce hits a wedge of flesh above her collar, and shrimps tumble down her gray wool suit. She pops out of the booth and does a dance, because now one or two shrimp seem to be inside her blouse.
The actor’s eyes widen, but he doesn’t say anything. I realize that he’s the one playing Hamlet this year. I remember him from a dress rehearsal I sneaked into—how my pulse pounded when he cried, “O God, God / How weary, stale, flat and unprofitable / Seem to me all the uses of this world!”
The woman in the suit swats madly at her back with her napkin. Meanwhile, the two entrées that I’ve left on the tray stand aren’t centered and the whole thing flops over, dumping the other dinners on the floor. The classical piano CD pounds to a cr
escendo. The actress girlfriend suppresses a giggle. I try to help the flailing woman, who is peeling off her jacket and throwing it on the floor. Her face is red and her eyes bulge. The actor is trying to help her, too, standing with a glass of water as if he’s not sure whether to pour it on her. He tells me not to worry, it wasn’t my fault; it certainly wasn’t my fault.
Bill rounds the corner by the coffee machine, his martini tie flapping as he hustles over, panting, “What the . . . ?”
On Sunday I drag the barbecue out of the garage and set it up on the lawn by the side porch. Cooking makes me feel disoriented; some of my kitchen stuff is still in storage and I can’t find tongs or salt and pepper shakers. I imagine my belongings dividing into smaller and smaller subsets, like cells dividing, until all I’ve got is a pair of socks and a few old National Geographics.
While I loathed the quiet cavernousness of my house in California after Ethan was gone, I miss living in my own place now. In the mornings before work, I wander through Colonel Cranson’s bedrooms, running my hands over the bumpy chenille bedspreads, fingering the soft fringe on the yellowing lampshades, and sniffing the odorless china bowls of potpourri, tiny dried roses, and cedar chips coated with dust. Everything in the house is pretty, but few things are mine. I’m a visitor, temporary.
Crystal gets to work building a fire in the barbecue that worries me: newspaper rolled into tight logs, followed by a heap of dry sticks and leaves, then a mound of charcoal. Although it’s a balmy spring day, the sun making the roofs steam, she wears her usual heavy uniform of low-rider bell-bottom jeans and a giant hooded sweatshirt.
“Let me,” she says, swiping the lighter fluid from my hand. She pumps the can several times, a long silver stream arcing over the charcoal.
“Okay, enough!” Sometimes it seems her goal in life is to make people nervous.
She slides a pack of matches out of her back pocket, and with one hand and one swift movement—like a magic trick—she flips them open, lights a match, and tosses it onto the grill. The newspaper and branches snap and crackle. Then the fire explodes with a whoosh, orange flames shooting above Crystal’s shoulders and licking the wisteria branches on the trellis overhead. I leap back, swatting at her.
“Give me that.” I grab the lighter fluid. “Gosh!”
She lets go of the can but doesn’t look at me. She’s entranced by the flames cascading over the edge of the grill.
I sit on the edge of the porch, setting the lighter fluid behind me, and wipe my forehead with the back of my sleeve. The fire methodically pops and chews through sticks and newspaper. I hope the neighbors aren’t home to see the black smoke curling over the fence. They’re friends with the owners of Colonel Cranson’s and I want them to think I’m a good tenant.
I’ve set the little wrought-iron table on the porch with plates, napkins, silverware, goblets of iced tea, and three kinds of toppings for our baked potatoes. It looks silly now—not something a thirteen-year-old would enjoy.
Crystal rips open a bag of marshmallows, jams one on the end of a stick, and shoves it into the flames. It instantly ignites and droops, falling into the fire. She stomps her foot in the grass. While grocery shopping for the steaks and marshmallows, I pictured us making s’mores, just as in Girl Scouts. I’d earn the Big Sister Badge, while Crystal earned the Learning to Behave Badge. But now Crystal grabs the plate of steaks from the table and tosses the meat onto the grill.
“Not yet!” I jump up from the porch.
The steaks sizzle and hiss. Crystal snatches the lighter fluid and pumps more into the flames. A tube of black smoke spirals toward the sky. She lunges toward the fire, as though she’d like to climb into it. I grab her arm.
“Crystal!” My mouth is dry and tastes metallic, like smoke and lighter fluid. Crystal doesn’t seem to hear me. Her bicep is sinewy and strong, and I can’t loosen the lighter fluid from her grip. I reach my arms around her, trying to grab the can, thinking: I am in over my head here.
“Quit it!” Crystal shrieks, reeling around. My arm is hooked inside of hers, and she sends us both stumbling into the barbecue, tipping it over with a crashing clang like cymbals. Flaming paper and coals tumble into a pile of raked leaves. I end up on top of Crystal, staring into her face. Her cheeks are flushed magenta and her forehead is beaded with sweat. I crawl over her and get up.
A stick in the leaves whistles, then spikes into a sharp flame. I stomp it out. The leaves smolder and smoke, then an obstinate arm of fire snakes through them. I can’t find the hose anywhere. Finally, I see it lying in a tangle at the end of the porch. The stubborn faucet is sharp in my hand. I twist it on and drag the hose toward the leaves. A lazy stream of water dribbles onto the low flames, dousing them. Then the wind picks up again, sending smoldering leaves under the porch.
Crystal leaps back as though the water is more dangerous than the flames around her.
“Help me!” I shout at her. My nose stings and my eyes water. She snatches our glasses from the table and tosses iced tea at the fire.
“Don’t worry,” she grumbles, lighting a cigarette. “It’s pretty much out.”
Crouching on my hands and knees, I try to peer under the porch. It’s too dark to see anything. Perspiration drenches my face and neck. I glance up at the house, which looks old and fragile, and decide it would be best to have the fire department check everything. I head inside to make the call, leaving the hose running under the porch.
When I return to the yard, Crystal is leaning against the garage, smoking.
“What were you thinking?” I pluck the singed steaks out of the grass and toss them on a plate.
“I was bored.” She gets to work examining her split ends, the lit cigarette dangling between two fingers.
“You were bored? So you thought you’d light the yard on fire?”
She makes a clicking noise with her tongue and rolls her eyes.
“It’s time for you to go home,” I tell her quietly. “That’s all the action I can handle in an afternoon.”
“Can we go to McDonald’s?”
“No. You need to go home.” I sink my teeth into my lower lip so I won’t say anything more.
“But I’m hungry,” Crystal whines.
“Now, damn it!” I point toward the street. I’m supposed to be a mentor, to lead by example. But aren’t there any guidelines for the little sisters?
“Okay.” Crystal’s voice lowers and she sniffles. Maybe she wants me to yell at her. Ruth says kids want you to be firm, to set boundaries. Crystal flicks her cigarette in the grass and stomps on it.
“Take that with you.” I point at the cigarette butt. She picks it up and cups it in her hand, wrapping her arms around her chest, folding herself inward. Her platform sneakers clomp loudly as she crosses the porch. The screen door creaks as she opens it. She pauses, turns toward me.
“Later, dude.”
I don’t say anything.
After I hear the front door of the house click shut, I collapse, sitting on the edge of the porch. I tip my head back and look up at the sky. It’s bluish white and looks thin, like fabric that’s been stretched too tight. In the distance I hear the wail of a siren and the impatient blare of a fire engine horn. I subdue a howl that lingers like a flame in the back of my throat.
That night, I dream that Crystal’s been burned badly in a fire. She lies still and flat in a hospital bed, her gown dotted with the familiar blue snowflakes, her pointed face as black and leathery as burned meat. Her hair is matted to her head, stinking like singed carpet. Her blue eyes twinkle like marbles and peer up at me, imploring, pleading, but I’m not sure what she wants. Morphine? Ice cream?
“Honey, can you hear me?” I say, and I’m not sure why I’m calling her honey. This is what a mother calls a daughter. Crystal raises a stiff arm toward me, her hands mottled with red rings, rust-colored foam bubbling up around the wounds. I feel guilty, because I don’t want to touch her. Hopefully she’ll fall asleep so I can leave. I back away from the bed, tryin
g to think of a reason to get out.
“I’ll be right back,” I gurgle. “I forgot something.” I turn toward the door and Ethan’s there, in a wheelchair, sunken eyes, chattering teeth, a Foley bag bulging with too-yellow urine. I want to hug him, but I don’t want to touch him.
I turn back toward Crystal. Her brown monkey hand reaches for me. Her eyes are sharp, wanting to know why I’m leaving. I can’t leave anyway, because my feet won’t go. They are heavy and numb and welded to the floor.
When I awaken, I’m already sitting up. Something presses on my chest, and my pulse pounds in my temples. My arms are asleep, prickly and heavy as logs. I shake and pinch them. A sour burned taste sticks in the back of my throat, and I’m sure a whorl of smoke hovers by the ceiling; when I snap on the light and fumble for my glasses, it vanishes. Every surface of the room is papered with swirling calico wallpaper, even the ceiling and the light switch plates. When I close my eyes I still see the dizzying sprays of cornflowers.
I try to calm myself by slowly inhaling and exhaling, but my lungs fill only partway. Something woolen clogs them. I imagine my lungs shrinking until they are as small as kidney beans, only two teaspoons of air for my whole body.
“I’m having a heart attack!” I shout into the room. My voice sounds thin and strange. The wood floors glisten sternly. A walnut from the tree in the yard blasts the roof. I stumble out of bed, pull on jeans and a sweatshirt, grab my purse, keys, and coat, and lunge out of the house into the moist night.
At the emergency room I can’t sit down. Driving fifty miles per hour down the quiet streets of Ashland, I failed to realize that I was driving myself right back into my nightmare: the hospital. Suddenly I picture Ethan sick and curled in bed, the covers a white snarl around his shrunken waist.
I pace in front of a woman whose husband fell and hit his head on a wood stove. Her eyes dart back and forth from the big black clock on the wall to the clerk sitting behind a sliding glass window.
When I was a teenager, I baby-sat for a very literal-minded boy who thought that Colonel Sanders actually worked at every Kentucky Fried Chicken and Jesus actually lived in every church. This is how I think of Ethan—that he’s somewhere in every hospital now. That’s where I last saw him, where I left him. I imagine he might roll by on a gurney, thin white arms reaching toward me.