3 Willows: The Sisterhood Grows (18 page)

“Dia?” Polly heard the tears in the back of her voice. She ventured closer on soft feet. Come back. Don’t be mad at me.

Her steps took her close enough to see into what had once been the storage closet. Polly remembered many years ago when her mother had removed the hinges with a screwdriver, -wrested the closet door from its place, and carried it down to the street, with Polly helping and cheering her along. The floor space had become a little alcove -where her mother had showcased pieces of her-work. Polly had been amazed that you could just do that—just join a closet to a room -with your own hands. Her mother could.

Now there -were piles of books covering the little rectangle of -wood floor, and above them, hanging in a vertical row of three, -were drawings on paper, her mother’s only -work on display. They showed three different views of her, Polly, sleeping. They -were from a long time ago, the -way she used to be.

Jo sat at the computer for a long time that afternoon composing an e-mail. It-was handy, in a-way, that there -was no one in her house after her lunch shift. It gave her the freedom to cry as much as she felt like -without anyone seeing or hearing her. Also it gave her time to try all the possible versions of her letter. She tried the nice version, the practical version, and the well-written version and finally settled on the honest version.

To: PollyWog444

From: Jobodobo

Subject: shame and woe

Dear Polly,

I am sorry for what happened when you visited. I know you must have overheard the things I said to Bryn, and I feel miserable every time I think of it—which I do a lot.

The truth is I really didn’t want you to visit. I know that’s mean and I’m ashamed of it. I was so caught up with the scene at the restaurant and these older girls and this guy I was kind of hooking up with. I just thought that was the most important thing and that you would get in the way of it. Even though it’s not really fair to you, that’s what I thought.

It’s kind of scary to be so wrong. In fact, it’s really scary. But I was. Those people weren’t important. They weren’t real friends at all. But you are. I understand that better now. No matter what happens, I will always know what a real friend is because of you and Ama.

I don’t expect you to forgive me. I don’t really think you should. But I just want to tell you the truth, because what I said to Bryn was a lie. You are my friend. Even if we never talk to each other again, you have been a better friend than I have ever deserved.

Love,

Jo

“I don’t think he’s coming back,” Richard, the manager, said about Zach.

“What do you mean?” Jo asked.

“He hasn’t shown up for three shifts in a row. That means we’ve seen the last of him. Anyway, if he did come back I’d probably have to fire him.” Richard punched a few buttons on his phone. “It happens in August. Waiters at a beach-town restaurant aren’t the most dependable people in the world.”

Jo nodded. “They aren’t, are they?”

Jordan must have done the schedule again. Jo found herself back in Effie’s section. What a bitter sense of humor he had.

Jo withstood the glares and hisses. She was getting used to the averted eyes and the whispers. Even Bryn -was trashing her to the older girls, delighted at last to have something to offer them.

By nine o’clock Jo’s feet were aching and she suddenly -worried she was going to cry.

She walked out front, where none of the waitstaff took their breaks. She went all the way across the sand and down to the surf, flung off her shoes, and wet her feet. The enormity of the ocean made her feel meaningless, but today that was a comfort. Zach -was meaningless and Effie was meaningless and this stupid summer -was meaningless too.

When she walked back up she saw a young -woman -waiting on the bench by the restaurant’s front entrance.

“Hi,” Jo said for no particular reason, other than that the young -woman had a striking and sympathetic face.

“Hi,” the young -woman said back.

“Are you -waiting for someone?” Jo asked. She -was starved for company, she knew. Strangers -were friendlier than so-called friends.

“One of the -waitresses. Do you know Effie Kaligaris?” she asked.

Jo took that as her cue to get back to -work. She ran into Bryn by the lockers. “There’s a girl out front -waiting for Effie,” she told Bryn, even though Bryn -wasn’t speaking to her. “I think she’s the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen.”

Bryn couldn’t resist knowing something. “That’s Effie’s sister. Her name is Lena. She just came back from Europe.”

“Her name is Lena? Are you sure? Are you sure she’s Effie’s sister?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re kidding.”

Bryn rolled her eyes. “And I would be kidding because why?”

“I think she’s one of the Sisterhood. You know, with the pants. I think she’s one of those girls.” Jo was almost breathless. She felt like she’d seen a movie star. She suddenly -wanted to call Ama and Polly and tell them. She wished she could.

Bryn narrowed her eyes. “Simmer down, sister,” she said mockingly.

Jo stood on her tiptoes to catch another glimpse of Lena, but she had gone.

“No wonder Effie’s so sour,” Jo murmured.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“How would you like to have a sister like that?”

For the last hour of the shift, Effie was more pleasant. Or less radically unpleasant. Maybe she was cowed by the presence of her sister, Jo conjectured. Maybe she was realizing -what a complete wretch she was being. Maybe the worst of it was over.

That was what Jo thought until she was carrying a tray of drinks on one hand and a wipe rag in the other toward table four. Her feet were hurting -worse than ever and her hand was shaking under the weight of the heavy tray.

She maneuvered herself to the right spot at the side of the table and began lowering the tray. She silently cursed herself for carrying the rag, because she couldn’t put it down anywhere and she needed the second hand for balance. She bent her knees and leaned over the four-top, between a pregnant woman and a man, presumably her husband.

This was when Effie passed by, more shadow than person. Effie took corporeal shape only long enough to sense the moment of Jo’s greatest instability and knock her in the hip. Jo felt herself going down, and there was nothing she could do. Time spread out so she could see and suffer every aspect of the catastrophe.

It wouldn’t have been so bad if the drinks she’d flung at the table were seltzers, say, or ginger ales, rather than three very full glasses of red wine and one cranberry spritzer.

It wouldn’t have been so bad if they had just crashed to the floor rather than shattering and bouncing on the table in such a way as to produce a literal cascade of red liquid and glass shards.

It wouldn’t have been so bad if the shoulder of the man she had grabbed for balance was healthy and normal rather than in a sling because of having been recently dislocated.

After the droplets and bits of glass had finally been carried down by gravity, the five of them—Jo and her four customers—along -with all the other people in the restaurant, froze in blinking disbelief, making sure no glass had landed in their eyes or mouth.

Jo found her voice, eventually, and soon after that her hands. She began apologizing and brushing the glass from arms and shoulders.

The man -with the bad shoulder groaned and clasped it -with his good arm. The other three stood all at once, sending lapfuls of glass bits to the floor.

While the rest of the staff stood dumb and motionless, Carlos appeared with a roll of paper towels under one arm and the broom and dustpan in the other.

“Thank you, Carlos,” Jo whispered in a voice just this side of a sob.

He patted her arm. More glass fell to the floor. She wondered if she was allowed to cry yet.

Richard, the manager, marched out, closely followed by Jordan. Jordan -was shaking his head.

There were a lot of apologies. Jo heard herself making most of them. There were guarantees of dinner on the house and all that. The four diners were in a pretty big hurry to get out of that place. They could have yelled at Jo even more than they did but for their hurry.

She heard Richard ominously assure the departing diners that he would “take care of her.” What did that mean? Was he going to order her out back and shoot her?

She watched the four diners file out under the care of the fast-talking Richard, all of them more or less covered with dark red liquid.

God, it looked grim. It looked like a scene from a horror movie—at the end, not the beginning. It wouldn’t have been so bad if the pregnant woman hadn’t been -wearing a white dress.

“Polly?” Dia sat up, disoriented. “Polly! What are you doing here? Is everything okay?”

Polly felt numb and jointless. She didn’t know whether to go forward to her mother or step back. “Everything is okay.”

“How did you get here?”

“I walked.”

The alarm retreated from Dias face and her reorientation began. She looked around the studio and back at Polly. “What are you doing here?” she asked again, in a different tone.

“I—I …” Polly touched the balled-up paper in her back pocket. “Nothing. No reason.”

“You walked all the way here for no reason?”

“My … I thought …” Polly couldn’t think of why she’d come. She couldn’t think of the name of the convention she’d wanted to go to. “I’ll leave,” she said.

“Polly.” Her mother-wrapped her arms around herself, as though it was cold, even though it was hot.

Her mother had missed countless lunches and dinners. She had missed drop-offs and pickups from school. She’d missed the soccer games where Polly mostly sat on the bench and twisted grass in her fingertips until they turned green. She’d missed Polly’s plays and playdates. She’d left off scheduling things like dentist’s appointments and piano lessons, because she had to, had to get to the studio. Polly had imagined there would be sculptures, hundreds of sculptures, for all the things she’d missed. Where were they? What did it mean? What did her mother do when she came here?

Polly didn’t want to look at her mother or have her explain anything. “See you at home,” she murmured.

“Polly, wait. What’s in your back pocket?” Dia asked. She unwrapped herself and stood.

Polly touched her hand to it again. “It’s nothing.”

“Let me see.”

Polly dutifully took it from her pocket. Her mother walked closer, and she handed it to her. Dia flattened it out to read it.

“It’s from the modeling thing in New York. You got in.”

“Yes.”

“You must be happy.”

Polly didn’t know what she felt right then, but she didn’t think it was happy.

“And you want to go, I bet.”

Polly shrugged. She felt tired. She wanted to go to sleep. “If you can’t take me, that’s okay.”

Dias eyes darted from one part of the empty room to another part as she considered. “Maybe I could take you. Maybe it would be good for me to get up to New York for a few days.”

Polly didn’t move her head or say anything.

“You know, I think it could be good. Let’s go home and look at the dates and the train schedules and how much it’ll cost and see if we can figure it out.”

Polly followed Dia out of the studio and watched her lock the door. She thought of the questions she wasn’t asking and the answers Dia wasn’t giving. She wondered what kind of bargain she and her mother -were deciding to make.

Jo cleaned wine, juice, and bits of glass until she was summoned to the office. She trudged through the dining area feeling that the space was endless and all eyes were upon her.

“Hi,” Jo said wearily, standing in front of Richard’s desk. It seemed, somehow, like the wrong thing to say.

“Jo.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m afraid this is a fire-able offense. And an expensive one too.”

She nodded.

“I know it was an accident. But my God, what an accident.”

She nodded again. It was an accident on her part, not on Effie’s. She could have said that, but she didn’t feel like it. She didn’t want to entangle herself with Effie any more than she already had.

“You’ve been a really fine bus girl up until this point.”

“Thanks,” she mumbled.

Jordan hovered around the doorway. Jo felt like punching him.

“I’ll quit if that makes it any easier,” she offered.

Richard sighed. “Either -way.”

“Okay, well. Thanks. And sorry about everything.”

“You take care, Jo.”

Jordan jumped out of the way to let her pass. She left her apron in the kitchen. Hidalgo gave her a hug and Carlos patted her arm. She hurried out the door so nobody would see her cry.

She didn’t realize until she was out the door and felt the cool breeze on her skin that she too was covered in sticky red liquid.

Jo couldn’t go home. She wandered around on the beach for a while, trying to figure out what to do. She had been so excited about the nights when her house would be empty. She had pictured parties, making out, mocking her curfew. She had imagined the freedom. Now freedom -was emptiness and the emptiness was intolerable.

She had an idea. Instead of walking home, she turned and walked back toward town. She had money in her pocket and no place to be. She had no one waiting for her anywhere, no one she could see who wanted to see her. She had no job to go to tomorrow.

She looked up at the sky and imagined Ama looking at the sky on some mountain someplace, and Polly looking at the sky from the window by her bed.

She pictured Zach, and the picture made her stomach bunch. She had propped him up with her hopes and her needs, and without them he fell straight through the floor.

Freedom shmeedom. She had more of it than she needed. It’s not as great as you think it’s going to be, she felt like telling her dad.

The bus was once again close to empty. This time her near neighbor -was an older -woman -with elastic-waist pants and penciled-in eyebrows. She was not as cute as Zach, certainly, and she would get Jo into a lot less trouble.

“Do you need to see a doctor?” the lady asked, straining to see Jo, her face full of concern.

Jo touched her stiff hair and then moved her fingertips to a patch of wine that was still drying on her T-shirt. “Oh, it’s not blood,” she explained. “It’s wine.” By the look on the woman’s face, that wasn’t much of a comfort.