Story Girl (13 page)

We sat in the living room – drinks in hand – and my mother suggested we update each other on our current life situation, as she put it, and then maybe reminisce about past times. I was overwhelmed with the same sense of imprisonment that had enabled my escape in the first place, and I truly had to wonder if my mother was even remotely rational.

Kyle gave my mother and me a pin from the store he worked at,
Kendall’s new and used appliance and automotive parts Center
. The tiny gold lettering sat inside a huge outline of an oven. The pin was so large that it would be more accurate to call it a broach. My mother pinned the appliance broach to her blouse and looked at me as though I should do the same. I simply stopped making eye contact with her, and ignored her many attempts to get my attention with intermittent rounds of fake coughing.

Turns out Kyle sold new and used mid-sized appliances to our territory and three others, which meant he had to travel around by car a quarter of the month. I had a vision of the two of us reading Death of a Salesman back in Ms. Dodd’s class, and I was curious if he remembered too. He assured me that I could get a twenty percent discount on any new or pre-owned washer-dryer set or a whopping thirty percent off any line of used dishwasher in stock – the only catch, of course, being that I had to move back to Bumble Fuck county.

All three of them laughed and winked at that, as though they were in on some brilliant and monumental bribery. I wanted to scream that, short of the threat of death, I’d probably need a bigger incentive to move back; instead, I sat politely, trying to act like a lady and keep my legs crossed at the knee.

“You’re just as pretty as ever, Tracy.”

“Thanks, Kyle.”

There were no shivers when he said my name, although my mother involuntarily clapped her hands. I thought of James, and stared longingly at my father’s well-stocked liquor cabinet. I imagined what little helpers might be stored behind those two wooden doors. There had to be at least one more bottle of red wine, two more bottles of gin, cheap family-sized vodka, and at least a small quantity of port to wash down any variety of my mother’s casserole.

My parents were taking turns with Kyle, asking him questions about wage levels in the area and how that made ownership of a home possible, if at all. I started to feel like a low budget film director watching some poor actor audition for an impossible role.

As I listened to the fantastically interesting debate over whether Kenmore or Maytag was the superior brand, I found myself grateful that I had secured the bun in my hair so very tightly; it was keeping my head on my shoulders and my eyes focused sharply ahead. I felt like a button, fastened firmly in place on the living room sofa – there was no chance whatsoever that I could flee.

As Kyle droned on about commissions, I wondered about who scored the job at William Morris. I also wondered what the bosses would think if I strolled in there and offered my services free of charge – I’d literally crop the job into an internship. They’d be impressed with my dedication and start coming to me for advice on everything until – eventually – I’d be the one calling the shots on what projects to acquire and which ones to drop-kick to the mid-west.

After another drink, my mother finally invited us to sit at the table. Kyle pulled out my chair, and commented that he liked my old-fashioned hairstyle.

“I love a woman with a bun. Not like all these uppity women you see in movies these days.”

I downed my Pinot in a desperate attempt to keep myself from violently clawing at my head.

“So I’m hoping you’ll wear this exact same one when we go to the movies.”

I looked at my mother who now offered a silent clap – reminding me of a seal – and I had to wonder just how long this unfolding crime against my sanity had been planned.

“And we can bring our own popcorn. I know the guy that manages the snack stand, and he won’t mind.”

“You have impressive connections, Kyle.”

All I could see was the man of my dreams ditching me in the ditch.

Well, screw you, James – and your pissy fit. Look where I am now
–
most definitely getting the last laugh – out here in the boondocks with Mr. Kyle Steinke
.

The gulpfuls of wine were loosening my already flimsy grasp on decency, and I had to stare at Kyle in order to make him come into focus; unfortunately, he took this as a sign of interest on my part.

“That’s a swell idea,” my mother said. “About the movie.”

Swell?

“Swell-I-Can’t-Kyle.”

“Pardon?”

“Swellicant. I have a dentist appointment every night this week.”

“Tracy – you’re being rude.” It was Mrs. Joanne Johnston who’d spoken – the ultimate voice of reason.

“What about a matinee?” he asked.

“I volunteered for jury duty.”

“Tracy,” my mother said. “Don’t be so coarse. Herb – don’t pour her such big glasses of wine. Sweetheart – I’m sure you could find the time to accompany Mr. Steinke to a matinee.”

It took everything I had not to lunge at her.

“I’m actually working on a script, Kyle. A screenplay.”

“Oh, that’s interesting – I had a movie idea once.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. It was about cowboys defending the west.”

“Defending it from what?”

“Indians.”

“I think you have it backwards,” I said.

He waved me off with a pudgy hand. At this point I was ready to hitchhike back to Los Angeles – wool wrap and all.

“So I’m very sorry that I can’t accompany you.”

It might have been a wine-induced hallucination, but I was certain that he scowled at me. And when I asked my mother if she had any honey mustard dressing, Kyle laughed and said I must have lost my mind in California.

“Who puts mustard on their salad?” he snickered.

“It’s actually a honey mustard dressing made specifically as a lettuce topping.” I could no longer look at him without wanting to put my fist through his teeth.

My snotty tone had silenced the table. Finally my father spoke, reassuring Kyle, “I guess us country boys are more used to Thousand Island and French.”

“I’m not supporting French anything anymore. Not after what they did to us,” Kyle said. I could tell by his voice that he wasn’t kidding in any way.

I was praying for the linoleum floor to open wide under my chair. There was no way I could go near this topic without destroying Kyle, the dinner, and my parents’ thirty-fifth wedding anniversary.

“What did they do to us, Kyle?” my mother asked. I wasn’t sure if her tone indicated innocence or sarcasm.

“They didn’t support our invasion, Mrs. Johnston.”

I looked at my father with one eye closed, ready to cringe, but hopeful that he might say something that could redeem the evening and my steadily declining ability to stay at the table.

“Hasn’t the invasion turned out to be a not so good idea?” my mother asked. She was ever vague and careful not to use her reasoning to offend any man in the room, no matter how dull he may or may not be. It was always better to ask a question than state an opin
ion. Jenny and I were often warned that politics should be left to the ‘stronger’ sex.

I wanted to scream at her to smarten up and get a life outside the kitchen, but instead I sucked the water out of a snap pea.

“Everyone should support the President – especially when we’re fighting evil,” Kyle said, definitively. He spoke with authority, as if his mature reasoning should be the final word at such a table of juveniles.

“No matter what?” I asked.

“No matter what.”

“It sounds like fascism.”

Crap
. Why couldn’t I just shut up and get through the damn dinner? The tight bun, indicative of knowing one’s place, wasn’t holding worth shit.

“Oh no, not that tired old line,” Kyle said.

He was boldly smug, and I wanted to flatten him.

“You can’t create peace with war, Kyle.”

I kept my knuckles interlocked because – ironically enough – arguments over peace could easily turn violent.

“I wasn’t talking about peace, Tracy,” Kyle said. “I was talking about defeating our enemies.”

“Let’s not talk about politics at the table,” my father said.

“Yes,” my mother said. “Cool yourself down, Daughter.”

“Just exactly who are our enemies, Kyle?” I asked.

“Don’t you watch television?”

“Way too much.”

“So then you’re aware that there’s evil out there – might even be sleeper cells in this neighborhood.”

“The only evil in this neighborhood is the skirt I’m now wearing.”

chapter
18

I
WAS COUNTING
specks of a mysterious substance in the dining room ceiling.

But Kyle, much like a dog with a bone, would not let it go.

“You’re so incredibly naïve, Tracy.”

“Me?”

“Yes – you. Evil is all around us – everywhere.”

“Everywhere?” I asked.

“Yeah – I was watching a show about a guy who found a pair of devil horns in his shower.”

That did it. It was the perfect excuse to spew Pinot Noir all over the skirt.

“Okay, Tracy – enough!” my mother said. “No more talking about ugly subjects. You’ve spilt purple wine all over that lovely skirt.”

“Oh crap,” I said. “What will I do now? I’m going to have to change into some loose fitting cotton sweatpants.”

My mother rolled her eyes, “We didn’t even make it to the casserole.”

My father cleared his throat, “Well, I think she’s right, Joanne. Our Pebbles is right. So maybe we should talk about the ugly subjects. War is usually a cockamamie idea to begin with – a cock-eyed
plan from the get-go. Think of what that money could do for health-care or renewable energy investment.”

Notwithstanding his reliance on silly vocabulary to deflate the impact of his intelligence, my father now felt like my last link to mental health.

“Stop calling her Pebbles,” my mother snapped. “It’s ridiculous. I mean, it’s not Saturday morning, and you’re not watching
The Flintstones
.”

My father and I shared a longing glance for the good old days.

“She’s not a baby, Herb. She’s a lady now.”

“And so she’s entitled to her opinion, Joanne.”

Salad fixings flew across the table as she practically threw a second helping onto everyone’s already full bowl. I knew that she believed a woman should primarily express herself through the domestic arts, but such expression would render me powerless because I deliberately blew at all the games pertaining to the awesome challenge known as womanhood.

Kyle never took his eyes off of my mother as she banged condiments on the table. My father poured a generous helping of French dressing over his heaping bowl of lettuce, carrot, and radish. It was a true act of solidarity between us, although now that the battle lines were drawn, we didn’t dare exchange a glance.

We were working like an echo because we couldn’t help it.

“Now that’s really insane, Mr. Johnston. The idea that we should leave our door open for the bad guys – just because the idea of war scares you.”

“But the bad guy just keeps changing. Right, Kyle?” he asked.

Kyle didn’t answer him.

“Shit,” I said.

“Tracy, don’t say shit.”

I ignored her.

My mother paced herself into the kitchen, making the specific sucking sound that signaled it would take her at least a week to recover from the current meltdown.

“So let me ask you something, Kyle,” I said.

“What?”

“Are you excited to see the day a woman is sworn in as head honcho of the land?”

“That won’t be happening for a while.”

“And why is that?”

“Because women are soft.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think a woman’s place is in the home – surrounded by pots and pans?”

My mother threw a pot in the sink, and I immediately felt like a beast.

“I just don’t think a woman sees evil in the same way. She’d probably want to rehabilitate everybody.”

“Yes – she might even use brains instead of battering rams.”

My lame attempt at something Stepford-esque was officially over.

“But we still need to destroy our enemies, Tracy – so that you can sit around in comfort and safety while you defend them so poetically.”

“The world needs more poetry, Kyle.”

I ran upstairs to change into sweatpants just as my mother began firing dinner rolls at our place settings like they were targets. Her old facial twitch had returned already, and I’d been home less than three hours. I knew it rattled her to the core that I could be so raw and challenging and thoroughly un-pretty like this, especially after she’d made special veggie dishes and bought me such a feminine blouse.

When I came downstairs, Kyle started in again, “I’ve always been uncomfortable around Hollywood types.”

“Then you should stay out of movie theaters.”

“Such a bold tone isn’t what I would necessarily call lady-like, Tracy. I’m not sure Mr. Steinke deserved such a peppy attack.”

I hated it when my mother tried to reprimand me with words like ‘peppy’.

Kyle shook his head, “So naïve.”