“Wow. Yes. You’re getting all of that,” Marian says. “You look amazing.”
“I can’t,” I say.
“You must,” Marian says.
I start to protest again, for the same reason I turned down the six-dollar glass of orange juice, but Marian shakes her head. “I insist. My treat.”
“It’s too much,” I mumble, looking down at the Prada shoe box splayed open on the floor.
“You’re going to deprive me of the fun of shopping with…”
She hesitates, both of us knowing what she’s thinking, but she finishes her sentence with “you.”
“I guess not,” I say. “Thanks so much. This is really nice of you.”
“It’s nothing,” Marian says, as Agnes pulls a sequined cardigan off the rack and tells her it’s her turn.
As I watch Marian slip it on over her white blouse, snapping the buttons with as much strategic care as Agnes zipped my cardigan, I think to myself that it’s really not that long of a story.
* * *
“Are those your parents?” I ask Marian, pointing at the framed photo in her living room and breaking a long spell of silence that seemed to descend upon us on the way out of Barneys. I consider this a warm-up to the question I really want to ask—and the topic she is clearly trying to avoid: Who is my father?
“Yes,” she says, glancing in its direction, nodding, distracted.
“What are their names?” I ask, determined to make her talk.
“Pamela and James. Jim,” she says, then looks away, as if I’ve just asked her a random question about two random people—rather than the identity of my blood relatives.
“What do they do for a living?” I demand.
“He’s a trial lawyer. She’s a homemaker.”
I wait patiently, but she gives me nothing more. Frustration wells inside me as I clear my throat and say, “So what are they like?”
Marian shrugs then yawns. “Oh—I don’t know. It’s always hard to say what your own parents are like, isn’t it? They’re just—your parents.”
I narrow my eyes and stare her down, hoping that my expression conveys what I’m thinking: that this is a totally lame and completely unacceptable answer. She seems to get the hint because she clears her throat and says, “My mom’s very social and outgoing … She loves to throw parties and entertain. She has a ton of friends and lots of hobbies. She can never sit still.” She smiles without showing her teeth, then continues. “My father is more quiet. Serious. He’s a thinker. An introvert.”
“Who are you more like?” I fire back at her.
“My dad. Definitely,” she says. “I mean, I can do the party thing. I have to in the business I’m in. Just like my dad can turn on the charm for the jury and clients. But it’s not really him. My mom has to drag him to all her parties and charity functions. He’d always rather stay home, read, play solitaire, watch old movies and television. He even bird-watches,” she says, finally smiling a real smile. “He’s nothing like the guy you see in the courtroom.”
“Is he a criminal lawyer?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “No. He practices corporate litigation. He has big clients like GE, Abbott Labs, Dell. Even Oprah.”
I don’t want to be impressed but I am. “Oprah?”
“Yeah. He’s pretty big-time.”
“Is he … famous?” I say, thinking that it usually works the other way around—the adopted kids get to be famous, not the family who gives them up. I feel the bitterness starting to return as I wait for her answer.
“As famous as a lawyer can be, I guess. He was in politics for a while … when I was a kid … Mayor of Glencoe … And he was going to run for Congress, but decided not to…” Her voice trails off as I wonder when this happened, whether the end of his political career had anything to do with the scandal of his pregnant teenage daughter.
“Is he a Republican?” I ask.
She nods. “Both my parents are.” She seems to anticipate my next question and says, “I’m an Independent.”
“My parents are Democrats,” I volunteer. “Even though they’re very pro-life.”
She doesn’t take the hint. I feel my frustration growing, but tell myself to be patient. I’ve waited this long. What’s another few hours? The answers will come—even if I have to pry them out of her. Besides, if we don’t talk about anything serious, I can just sip Perrier and imagine what my life would have been like if she hadn’t given me away. But then it occurs to me that even if she had kept me, I probably wouldn’t fit in here any more than I do at home. And that maybe I’m doomed to never belong anywhere.
6
marian
Kirby has been here nearly twenty-four hours, and she has yet to ask about him. But nearly every time I look in her eyes, I think of him and that night, especially the aftermath, in some ways more vivid than the act itself. I can see the two of us sprawled across the bed, naked and exposed, yet completely unself-conscious. There was no awkwardness or embarrassment, no trace of regret or panic or instinct to escape the room as we stared at the ceiling, and occasionally at each other, in perfect silence. There wasn’t even much pain, just a dull, pleasant ache. We stayed that way for a long time, our sweat evaporating, our breathing returning to normal, until he finally leaned over, kissed my cheek, and said, “Beautiful.”
“Hmm?” I asked, even though I had heard him. I wanted him to say it again. I wanted to be sure to remember this perfect word from his lips, red and raw.
“That. Was. Beautiful,” he said, which I decided was even better than calling me beautiful.
“Yes,” I said, because I agreed. It was beautiful. Although before he said it, I would have chosen a different word. “Thrilling,” maybe. Or something far less meaningful, more juvenile—such as “hot.” It was thrilling. It was hot. But it was more than that and he had just nailed it.
He exhaled, as if mustering the strength to get up, which he then did, slowly sitting up and peering around the room, before looking down at me with an expression of contentment. I covered myself with the sheets, not because of shyness, but because of a sudden chill that came over me.
Transfixed, I watched him stand, and walk naked through the shadows to the bathroom where he turned on the faucet and splashed water onto his face. His body was thin yet strong—more muscular than it looked in his baggy clothes—and I wondered how he could have a six-pack when he completely rejected the notion of sports, seldom even participated in PE. I watched him reach for a hand towel folded on a bar near the shower, drying his face with it, and then slowly and methodically running it under the water, wringing it into the sink. Seconds later, he was standing over me, holding the wet towel. He pressed the coolness against my forehead and cheek, then peeled back the sheets, and before I could protest, he wrung it harder over my bare stomach, a few drops falling onto my stomach, before he wiped the faint streaks of blood from the insides of my thighs.
I tensed, embarrassed by the evidence of my inexperience, and said, “Here. Let me do it.”
But he pulled the cloth away and continued, with a look of concentration and care. Helpless, I reclined again, forced myself to relax and let him finish his diligent, careful work. I even shifted my weight for him, until I noticed a spot of red on the white fitted sheet beneath me.
“Shit. Look,” I said, touching the mark with my finger.
He put his free hand on my stomach as if to hold me in place, his other still wiping my leg with long, slow strokes. Then he made a reassuring noise and said, “Don’t worry. I’ll throw it in the wash tonight, after everyone leaves. It’ll come out … and I make a great bed. It’ll be fine.”
I felt the corners of my mouth rise in a smile, feeling both relieved and impressed, but too young to know how impressed I should have been. How unusual it was for a boy, or even a grown man, to wash me, offer to do laundry, remain stoic to the sight of blood, especially blood of this variety.
“So. This was your first time?” he deadpanned, with no hint of eithe
r pride or apology.
“Obviously,” I whispered.
“It’s not obvious. It could be … your time of the month.”
Blushing, I made a face and said, “Eww. Gross. No.”
“It’s not gross,” he said. “You couldn’t be gross if you tried.”
I smiled, accepting this compliment, looking at him sideways. “So I assume this … wasn’t your … first?”
“Um, thank you?” he said, grinning back at me.
I opened my eyes, closed them again, completely sober. “Answer the question.”
“Okay. No. Not my first. But not as many as you might think…”
“Not many girls or times?” My toes clenched to the beat of a rap song downstairs, the bass causing the overhead fan to wobble.
He laughed. “Fair distinction. Not many girls. You’re only the second. But many times with the first.”
“Triple digits?” I asked, trying to be playful, cool, as I thought about his Kate Moss ex in all her hippie, cool glory.
“Easily,” he said.
I felt a surprising jolt of jealousy as I started to ask more questions about her. But I stopped myself. It didn’t make a difference. This was a one-time thing, which sounded better than a one-night stand, but really meant the same. I felt sure of this despite the fact that I was already fantasizing about it happening again. The thought made me lean over to kiss his shoulder, just as Janie’s voice suddenly cut through the darkness, her fist pounding on the door, bringing me back to reality.
“Hey! Who’s in there?” she shouted. “That’s my parents’ room!”
I sat up and cleared my throat to shout a reply, but Conrad held up his hand, telling me not to panic, to slow down. Something in his eyes also told me what I was already beginning to feel—that I didn’t owe her, or anyone, the details of what just happened. It belonged to us.
“It’s just me, Janie. I’m … resting for a second,” I called out to her.
Her voice came back, worried. “Marian? Are you okay?”
I could see her face, knew she was both concerned and intrigued, but likely not imagining that I had gone the whole way. Until tonight, we were both virgins together, sworn to wait for something truly special. Or at least college.
“I’ll be right out,” I said as Conrad nodded, coaching me with his eyes. “Everything’s fine.”
“Okay then,” she said, her voice fading as she turned back to the party.
“We gotta go,” I said, sitting up and reaching for my tank top, but Conrad stopped me, lowered me back to the bed and held me as if we had done this a hundred times before.
He asked if I had a curfew, and I told him yes, but that my parents were up at our house in Lake Geneva—and that I planned to sleep over at Janie’s.
“Really?” he said, a half-smile on his face. “What a coincidence. So have I.”
I smiled back at him, and we began another long, stream-of-consciousness conversation. We talked about school, the kids we both knew in common, his friends and mine. He told me about his music—his passion for the guitar and songwriting. We talked about our favorite movies and books. We even talked about God and religion and politics. Then he told me about the accident that took his mother’s life, that he and his father were in the car, but that he had switched places with her on the ride home because he got carsick in the backseat. He told me he believed his father was mad at him for that—that he would have chosen to save his mother over him.
“Don’t say that,” I said.
“Why? It’s the truth,” he said.
I shook my head. “Impossible.”
“It’s not,” he said. “They were crazy in love. He would have picked her over anyone. Anything.”
“Not over his own child.”
Conrad nodded. “Yeah. I really think he would have. And I’m okay with that. In fact, I kind of like it. It gives me something to believe in … Something to shoot for.”
I folded my hand around his, thinking that there was nothing more beautiful than true love, hoping that I’d someday experience it, wondering if it would resemble anything about this moment.
Then we drifted in and out of sleep, my head on his chest, my ear right over his beating heart. In the predawn light, he awakened me, handing me my clothes, turning to give me privacy as he dressed himself. Then, as promised, he stripped the sheets, gathered them along with the towel he had used to clean me, and took them downstairs. I followed him, noticing a distinct drop in temperature. The heat had finally broken, or at least the air was finally in motion. A breeze ruffled the curtains in the kitchen window. Janie stood at the counter, looking out over her backyard, scattered with empty cans, bottles, and cigarette butts. She turned to face us, a questioning smile on her face.
“Well, hello there,” she said, glancing at the sheets.
“I got a little sick,” I said.
Conrad didn’t miss a beat. “Beer before liquor. I warned her—”
“But I didn’t listen,” I said.
“It happens,” he said with a shrug and then asked Janie to point him toward the laundry room.
As he turned and headed down the hall, she gave me an excited look, but I returned it with a blank stare, then a small shake of my head. Nothing happened. It was not only the first time I had ever lied to Janie but it was the first time I screened a single thought of any importance from her. It felt like a defining moment. I just didn’t know how big the lie would become.
“You were up there for six hours. And … nothing?” Janie crossed her arms across her tight Chicago Cubs T-shirt, looking more disappointed than incredulous.
I shrugged. “We made out a little.”
“That’s it? He didn’t even go up your shirt?” she whispered, deflated, one eye in the direction of the laundry room.
I said no, as I imagined his hands covering my breasts, his lips on my neck and stomach and shoulders.
“Well? Was he a good kisser?”
“Yeah,” I said. “He was.”
“I knew it,” she said. “He’s so fine.”
I smiled.
“Are you going to see him again?”
“I doubt it,” I said, although I was pretty sure that I had just told her another lie—and wondered when, exactly, I had decided it wasn’t going to be a one-time thing, after all.
* * *
While we waited for the sheets to wash, then dry, the three of us watched MTV in Janie’s living room. Conrad and I sat side by side on the same couch we cozied up on earlier, but ironically, we now sat several strategic inches apart. Meanwhile Janie lay sprawled on the floor in front of us, intermittently groaning and asking if the room was spinning for us, too. I feigned a hangover of my own, to go along with the soiled-sheet yarn, when I actually felt surprisingly alert, bright-eyed, all my senses heightened as we watched video after video. I had seen them all before—hundreds of times, but every lyric, every image that flashed on the screen, seemed imbued with new meaning, even when there was really none to be found, from Green Day’s “Basket Case” to PJ Harvey’s “Down by the Water” to Annie Lennox’s “No More I Love You’s.” Conrad kept a running commentary going, his opinions about music passionate and definite, as he heaped praise on some bands, and scorned others, often the more popular ones, which he deemed tired or overplayed. He had a particular problem with Hootie & the Blowfish, one of my favorites, but as Hootie began crooning the first refrain of “Hold My Hand,” Conrad finally reached over and did just that, mocking himself with raised eyebrows. At this point, Janie was passed out and snoring, and it was like Conrad and I were alone in the world again. I closed my eyes, wondering why I had never had this dizzy, light-headed sensation with any other boy.
A short time later, the dryer buzzer sounded like an alarm clock. Conrad promptly got up, collected the warm sheets, led me upstairs, and began making the bed, remembering exactly how the Wattenbergs folded their duvet cover, as well as the precise position of their tasseled, brocade throw pillows. I asked if he ha
d a photographic memory, or did he know all along that he would be here until morning? He smiled, continuing to smooth and straighten. When the bed was made and the hand towel hung back on the bar next to the sink, there was no more stalling to be done. So we walked downstairs, out the garage door, into the humid early morning. Steam rose over Janie’s brown lawn, her mother’s flowers wilted from the drought and ban on watering. Conrad reached out to take my hand on the last few steps to his car. I hadn’t yet heard the expression “walk of shame,” only learning it later when I got to Michigan, but felt a trace of it then, hoping Janie’s neighbors weren’t out getting the morning paper.
When we reached his car door, he said, “I’d kiss you good-bye, but I’m pretty sure my breath isn’t too nice.”
I laughed and said I was sure mine was in a similar state, although I had secretly gargled with Listerine when I last went to the bathroom. I tilted my chin up toward him, hoping he’d kiss me anyway. He took the bait, our tongues meeting for a lingering few seconds, as I discovered he’d also found the mouthwash.
“And I’d ask for your number,” he continued shyly. “But…”
I looked in his serious face, nodding somberly, expecting him to say “But we both know this can’t go anywhere.”
Instead, he finished, “But I already have it.”
“Oh, you do, do you?” I replied, sliding my arm around his waist.
“Yeah,” he said, turning his head to whisper in my ear. “I even memorized it. Just in case.”
“In case what?” I said, certain that he was joking until he smirked and rattled it off.
“In case I finally got this chance. To, um … make a bed with you.”
I felt a grin spread over my face as I lightly asked, “Talk to you later, then?”
He opened his door, ducking to get in the car, grinning up at me. “Yeah. You sure will,” he said.
I opened my mouth to answer, but the door was already shut, his engine turning, our conversation clearly to be continued.
* * *
Over the next three and half weeks, we talked every day. It became a given, yet it was something we didn’t discuss or analyze. Nor did we speak of my impending departure for Ann Arbor, or anything about college or the future, mine or his. We lived in the moment, literally, sometimes not making a plan until I was in the front seat of his car. We went to the movies or to his house—where we watched television or he played the guitar, taking requests. Often we just drove aimlessly around town, talking, playing the radio. But we never spent time with my friends or his, nor did I introduce him to my parents. I even kept Janie in the dark, and although she suspected that we were spending time together, her curiosity dampened as she prepared for her own countdown to the University of Illinois—spending more time with our circle of friends who were also going there, particularly Ty Huggins, her summer fling.