Cherries In The Snow (17 page)

‘Go finish your novel. Go now. You're wide awake. Here's a pen and paper.'

‘But I use a laptop.'

‘You can make do. Go on.'

I sit in the office and look at the screen like I always do. Think of my dad but my fingers won't type. After a while, Marley peeks his head round the door.

‘Did you write?'

‘Yes. I wrote this whole thing about this girl who disguises herself as a boy so she can fight in the Civil War …'

‘Which civil war?'

‘Oh, I don't want to talk about it. I'll just show you the book when it's done.'

‘Awesome! I'm proud of you. It can be hard to focus.'

‘Oh yeah, I'm past all that. I don't find it hard.'

‘Well, I'm gonna go to the airport now, pick up my baby. Can you do me a favor and do the dishes for me?'

‘Okay, sure, I'll do it.'

Ugh. Code orange. I look at them. They aren't even piled up like mine. There are four of them and a pan and a spatula and a bowl. I look at them. I read a magazine. I watch TV. I eat an apple. Finally I run a little water over them and put them on the dish rack to dry. Marley and Montana walk through the door holding hands. He kisses me and peers into the sink.

‘You did a crappy job of doing the dishes, mate.'

I hate being reprimanded in front of her.

‘Jolene's fine with you staying the night.'

‘She is?'

‘She's a wonderful woman. A very unusual woman.'

So I stay, and in the morning Montana creeps into the room. I pretend to be asleep. ‘Do you love me?' she asks Marley.

‘Yes, I love my baby.'

‘Then why aren't you with your baby? Come sleep with your baby.'

She climbs into bed. I pull the sheets around me. She crawls over my head.

‘I made this for you' – she has two drawings in her hand – ‘one for you and one for Mommy. This is Mommy. See?'

‘Thank you. That's lovely.'

She stares at me.

‘Should I move?' I ask.

‘If you would be so kind,' says Montana.

‘I'll go get breakfast, I guess.'

‘How sweet,' says Marley. ‘Montana, isn't that so sweet of Sadie?'

She declines to answer.

I trudge down to the kitchen and make toast and tea, steeping the bags just right and watching the bread so it doesn't burn. In a cupboard below the sink I find a tray and carry it up to the happy couple. They are snuggled up together, reading the papers, he the arts section, she the comics. Neither looks up.

‘I made toast and tea.'

Still studying the comics, Montana says evenly, ‘I am intolerable of wheat. And I don't drink tea.'

‘You don't?'

‘I am a
little girl
,' she hisses, flicking her neck up to face me, her eyes burning into mine.

‘Montana!' snaps Marley. ‘Sadie has made you breakfast and you have not said thank you and you are being ungrateful. This is not the Montana I know and this is not the Montana I love.'

Good for you, Marley. Finally! I feel a twinge of joy. Until she bursts into tears. Crying and crying. And crying.

‘My papa yelled at me. My papa doesn't love me no more.'

‘Doesn't love me
anymore
,' I correct her.

‘Sadie!' he snaps at me, and though I try valiantly to hold it in, I start to cry too. Montana sobs louder. Not to be outdone, I take little gulps for air, letting him know that, unlike his daughter, I am at least trying to pull myself together. She sees what I'm doing and it enrages her. She flips flat on her stomach and starts kicking her legs up and down on the bed. Her feet, pointed like a ballerina's, beat the duvet one after another with a satisfying
whump!
She has excellent technique. I'm too old to do the kicking-your-legs-up-and-down thing – in public at least – so I try the twenty-four-year-old's version (I think it might be something I once saw Sue Ellen do on
Dallas
): leaning against the wall, I slide my back slowly down the plaster until I am crumpled on the floor with my head in my hands.

‘No!' barks Marley. ‘This is not okay! None of this is okay!' He jumps out of bed and storms out of the room, closing the door behind him. The slam of the door gives us both a fright. We look up at each other and stop crying immediately without any in-between stage. Tears frozen midstream on her cheeks, Montana looks at me and slowly whispers, ‘I hate you, fuckhead.'

I am too shocked to reply, so I pretend I haven't heard her. When, after retreating to the bathroom to cool off, Marley gingerly reopens the door, he finds us side by side in bed reading the paper. I have persuaded Montana to take a sip of tea and she, without proclaiming it acceptable, has downed the whole cup. A few drops of rain begin to plop from the sky.

‘Plop,' I say.

‘Plop!' repeats Montana delightedly. ‘Plop! Plop!'

Running with the moment, I add, ‘Doody.'

‘Doody.' She giggles, then, ‘Poo. Ploppy poo poo!' she screams.

We look at Marley to see if he has anything to contribute to the conversation.

‘Huh,' he says warily, ‘it's raining. I guess I'll go to the video store and get something for us to watch, hey?'

‘If you want,' says Montana, and, going back to her comics, flicks a derisive wrist at him.

‘So you'll be okay. Together. You guys?'

‘Daddy! Have you no eyes to see? I am
trying
to read.'

‘I have eyes. I have eyes …' he answers sincerely as if he was defending himself against a legal accusation. ‘I know you're reading, but what would you like me to get?'

‘Nothing cartoony,' she answers, ‘something with real little boys and girls, please.'

‘Okay,' he says, ‘I'll see what I can do. Love you.'

He looks over at me while Montana focuses on her paper, so I'll know I'm included too. I smile and make a tiny soundless kiss at him so Montana doesn't notice. He smiles back. After I hear the front door close, I risk interrupting Montana's concentration and say, ‘I love being indoors when it's raining.'

‘Me too,' she answers, putting her comics aside. ‘It never rains in California.'

‘Then you should spend more time here.'

‘I'd like to.'

‘You would? Your dad would love that too.' I add, ‘Fuckhead.'

She smiles.

Later that afternoon the three of us go grocery shopping. They take me to the local health-food store. To me, health-food stores smell the same as vintage stores – like death, not vitality and life. Like dead people's clothes. Turns out the creators of the foods might do well naming makeup with me. Instead of animal crackers they have Snackimals and glutiNOs. I would not want to eat a cookie that sounded like it was reprimanding me. There is a range of desserts called Go Ahead! To me these scream Go Ahead! Try crack! Go Ahead! Try a three-way,
not
Go Ahead eat a fat-free fudge cake.

Marley buys almond rice bread so we won't have to tolerate wheat. He is very particular about his food, a pushy side that is entirely absent in his personality. They say that artists get their darkness out in their art so they can be happy in life. I think Marley gets his assholeness out by controlling his food, so he can be easygoing in life.

Tofutti Cuties are thrown in the basket. Faux ice cream sandwiches, they aren't that cute. Wheatgrass. ‘Have a shot.' Montana does hers. Marley does his. Why do I feel like I'm succumbing to peer pressure?

I down it in one gulp, thinking of the first time I swallowed come, how I eventually grew not to like that taste but to manage it.

That night in bed I ask, ‘We're in a serious relationship, right?'

‘Well, you've met my baby.'

‘She's a little girl.'

‘My little girl.' He sighs. ‘I'm only twenty-eight, but I have to be older, I have to think seriously when I meet someone because I have another life, her life. Does that scare you?'

It does. It terrifies me. He's someone's daddy and he'll never act like mine.

‘No.'

I decide to sleep in my own bed that night. After we make love and Marley has fallen asleep, I creep down the stairs and catch a cab back to my apartment. I have a bath, lie on my bed to dry off, watch TV, listen to music and dance, play with my cat. And then I turn on my computer. My nails please me as they hover over the keyboard. They make a good sound on the keys as I clack away. I begin to write. I write all night. Sidney Katz purrs at my feet, then climbs up and sits next to me. I have been neglecting him, his big cow eyes say.

‘I'm so sorry, baby boy.' I scratch behind his ears. ‘I still love you the most,' I whisper, ‘I love you the most.'

Outside the window trannies scream a screaming fight. I look out the window for a while, clicking my knuckles, which are starting to hurt. Then I put on my headphones and keep writing. I fall asleep like that. When I wake up, I look at the screen and there are pages and pages of words. Then I look at the clock. Time for work.

When Marley confides that Montana has been asking about my job often, I offer to bring her to visit the office. Although the gals make a big fuss over her frilly pink dress, I can see that Montana feels out of place. She glances nervously at Ivy's denim halter top and says in a small voice, ‘You look just like Britney Spears, but fatter.'

Ivy, whose skills with children are unparalleled, says, ‘Oh, my God, thank you so much,' and smothers Montana with kisses. Montana recoils, falling, involuntarily, into my lap. She sits there, and I look over her shoulder to try to figure out why she is still sitting on me. She cocks her head and sighs. ‘I'm tired.'

‘Well,' coos Ivy, ‘then you just sit there and I'll paint your nails.' She picks up Montana's small, limp fingers. ‘You'd look great with fire-engine red.' Montana stares at Ivy's hand. I can see that she is still young enough to suspect fat might be contagious. She snatches her hand away and tucks it into her pocket.

‘No thank you,' she says, then adds, ‘Thank you so much,' like a hotel manager trying to shoo away an undesirable guest without causing a scene.

‘Well, maybe,' says Holly whose skills with children are not as finely tuned as Ivy's, ‘you'd prefer to play with our latest eye shadows. You can do it yourself.'

Angel Hair and Baby's Breath, the names we stole directly from the Nirvana song.

I see, when Holly says the word
play
, the way Montana bristles and I remember feeling the same exact thing when I was her age. ‘She's not going to “play” with the makeup,' I step in, ‘she may want to sample it for us, try it out and let us know what colors work the best.'

Again she cocks her head to face me. She glares, trying to determine whether or not I am taking the piss. She raises herself up off my lap, goes over to the makeup mirror, and begins to help herself to all the samples. She doesn't play, not like a child, not like a teenager. She meticulously replaces the cap on the tube of blush she tries, closes the lid on the tray of lip glosses, cleans the goop from around the mascara wand. She takes the white face powder that I am embarrassed I had named Heroin and dusts herself with it. She is so neat, so prissy, that when she turns around to face us, I fully expect her to be done up as expertly and tastefully as Diane Sawyer. In fact, she has smeared blue cobalt across her lids, splashed two balls of pink so high on her cheeks that they sit beneath her eyes, and encircled her mouth with red liner until it resembles a dead body that has been chalk-marked by a really drunk detective. She looks like a kid. It is the most I have ever liked her.

‘Wow!' says Holly.

‘That's some job!' stammers Ivy.

‘No, it's not,' Montana replies. ‘My hands are too little. I couldn't make the brush go how I meant it to go. I wanted the line around my lips to be perfect, but I got it wrong, so I just decided to make it worse.'

My God! She could have been talking about my life!

‘It didn't turn out how I meant it at all,' says Montana, and starts to cry.

‘Hey,' I tell her, pulling her close to me, ‘nothing ever does.'

Ivy takes a wad of cotton and starts to swab her clean.

‘See,' I say, ‘it only takes a few strokes to get the slate clean again.'

She looks at her bare face in the mirror.

‘Wanna have another go?' asks Holly.

‘No,' she answers softly, then turns to face me, ‘you do it. I was trying to copy yours.'

I am so flattered, I can feel my heart turning into the shape you draw on a page.

She sits still as a stone while I paint, to scale, my face on hers, and when I am done, she pulls herself inches from the mirror and stares intently. I have done a great job.

Montana turns to look at me, the humiliation of tears ancient history. ‘Yes,' she sniffs, ‘that will do.'

‘Thanks, Montana.'

‘When I am a large lady, I will wear makeup every day to my job as a ballet dancer.'

‘You'll wear a lot of makeup.'

‘Yes,' she agrees, then turns to Holly. ‘You'll need to make me a makeup that doesn't fade no matter how many pirouettes I do.'

We look at her.

‘Pirouettes,' she adds, ‘is French for twirling.'

I don't like the way she said ‘large lady' and study her face. It is all aglow in the shadow of shadow, too excited to be malicious. But seeing her little face light up as she dips in and out of our products has given us all an idea. Only Holly has the balls to say it.

‘You know this preteen thing?' she says. I grimace because I know what's coming next. ‘Well, how “pre” do you think we can push it?'

‘Oh, come on, Holly. Makeup for eight-year-olds? That's fucked up.'

Montana turns on me. ‘You said “fuck”. You have to give me money. You said it. You know you did. Everyone heard.'