Women on the Edge of a Nervous Breakthrough (22 page)

  "Ha!" Vivian held up her hands, framing a shot. "Ladies and gentlemen, Ms. Sarah Gilchrist says 'tits.' "

  Sarah choked the giggle back again. "I meant that knowledge, especially knowledge of yourself, is—"

  "We'll compromise." Vivian gestured broadly and winked. "Power is knowledge that your self has great tits."

  Laughter burst out of Sarah without her permission, a wave that rolled merrily along, capped with a foam of hysteria. This was too unexpectedly like talking to Nora. Where had those friendships gone? How had she survived here so long without them?

  "Oh my." She wiped her eyes, let a few more chuckles escape, and took a deep breath. "I haven't laughed that hard since . . ."

  She tried to remember, and was horrified when nothing came up. Not even in the past several years. Nora. And now Vivian.

  "Since when?"

  Sarah looked down at her hands in her lap. Perfect French manicure aside, they'd become loose -skinned, tendons forming vein -draped ridges. Her mother's hands. "It's not important."

  Immediately she regretted speaking, especially in a small, anxious voice. Hadn't she just had the good sense to caution herself about revealing vulnerability to this woman?

  Vivian touched her shoulder again, more gently this time. "Jail is only one kind of prison, Sarah."

  A lump gathered in Sarah's throat, which irritated her immensely. She stood up. "I should go."

  Vivian stood up, too. "Yeah, okay."

  For an awkward moment the women faced each other, as if something still needed to be said, though Sarah couldn't for the life of her fi gure out what.

  So she turned and went back into the kitchen where the pack of condoms were still a black mark on the old -fashioned tile counter. "I don't know what to do with these."

  "Here." Vivian grabbed them and held them out. "Amber's boyfriend sounds like a real jerk. And the only things worse than losing your virginity before you're ready are unwanted pregnancies or incurable STDs."

  Sarah shuddered and extended her hand. Vivian had her there. Tom had been honorable. After a few attempts at convincing Sarah to go all the way, he'd given up. But that animal, Larry, there was no telling what he'd do, or whether he'd stop when Amber wanted him to.

  If he did that to her baby, Sarah would castrate him with her teeth. "I'll . . . think it over."

  "I don't know shit about parenting, but I remember being a teenager." Vivian put the packets on Sarah's palm and closed Sarah's fingers over them, keeping hers on top. "The harder my mom came down, the more determined I was to do the opposite."

  "That's Amber." Sarah nodded, desperately wanting to pull her hand away. "I was different."

  "
Really?
" A wink took the sting out of the sarcasm, and Sarah could even smile along, albeit stiffl y.

  "Amber seems like a good, level -headed kid." Vivian squeezed Sarah's hand and, thank goodness, let go. "I wouldn't be surprised if she doesn't need them."

  "I hope not." Sarah backed toward the door, intensely uncomfortable without the cushioning hostility between them. She had no idea what to say or how to react to this version of Vivian, who made sense, who seemed to have a better and clearer grasp of her daughter's situation than Sarah did. "Thank you."

  "You're welcome." Vivian opened the door and gestured Sarah out. "So back to the trenches now, huh? You Martha Stewart, me Madonna? The great pumpkin wars?"

  Sarah reached the bottom step outside in the chill, condoms clutched tightly in her fist, and turned. Vivian glanced over at the men already getting out of their cars.

  The beautiful face aged suddenly into fatigue, eyes losing brightness over dark circles concealer couldn't quite cover. It was suddenly impossible to believe this woman had killed anyone.

  "Vivian." She cleared her throat. "I think Come As You're Not is a better theme for the party. And if you want to offer makeovers, that would be fi ne."

  Vivian smiled, and seemed sincere. "Thank you."

  "You're welcome." Feeling ridiculous, she took a few steps toward the street. The men immediately went on alert, clearly hoping for more human waste to buzz around. They must be camped there 24/7, watching everything Vivian did.

  
Jail is only one kind of prison.

  Sarah turned back and approached the stoop where Vivian stood watching her. She looked up into the beautiful, tired brown eyes and couldn't help herself.

  "Joan. Joan is talking to the press."

  Before Vivian could react, she turned again and strode to the end of the driveway, held up her hand to indicate she had nothing to say, walked swiftly to her own house, up the stairs, into her daughter's room, and carefully replaced the condoms in Amber's coat pocket.

Eighteen

Excerpt from Erin's diary

Eleventh grade

I went out with Joe again last night. I told Dad I was going to the Spring Dance, but we went out on our own. He wanted to go all the way, and I let him. He said he'd never felt like this about anyone. That he loved me so much it hurt and if I didn't love him back, he might die, and that he wants to marry me and have kids.

  
It is so amazing to be loved like this. So different than the way anyone else acts. And when he was touching me and wanted to do it, I couldn't think of any reason not to. It hurt, but it was good pain. He held me so tight after that I almost couldn't breathe. He called me the center of his world and said I'd be protected and loved by him for the rest of my life.

  
I said I would marry him when I finish high school. I want to do that first, for me. Then I want to go to college and study to be a nurse. Or maybe a social worker.

  
He didn't use a thingy, but he said if I got pregnant what did it matter because I was going to be his anyway for the rest of my life. I don't know. I think he should use them from now on. Until we're married anyway.

  
I feel like things will turn around for me now. Joe will take me out of this house away from Dad and into a normal life.

  
I've done my time.

  Erin ran up the steps to the front door of Joan's house. She found herself running almost everywhere these days. Ever since that first day when she'd sneaked out of bed and dug out her running shoes, she'd found time nearly every day to get her body going. At least during the week when Joe was at work.

  It felt so wonderful to be out and moving and free of the house. To feel her body building back strength, endurance, challenging herself to go farther and farther. She'd even gone past the dark, handsome man's house, Jordan's house, a few more times, though she tried not to make that the point of running. There were already enough things she couldn't have.

  But a few times she'd gone past his house anyway. Twice she'd seen him. The second time he smiled and said hello, which made her blush and run faster to get away. She'd gone home and showered, did laundry, and hid her running shoes and shorts the way she always did, but somehow when Joe came back from work he knew something was different. As if he had a monitoring device set to detect her slightest pleasure spike of unknown origin.

  He'd already become uneasy from her wearing the pink sweater as often as she could get away with, without looking like a weirdo who wore the same thing every day. She was even thinking of how to ask for another sweater in a bright color, maybe blue to match her eyes, though that would bring on more interrogation.

  She'd shown up in a headband one morning, to keep the hair out of her eyes, and she thought Joe was going to have a fit. Why was she dressing up? Who was she trying to look good for? There was someone else, wasn't there?

  No, no, and endlessly no, she was doing this for herself.

  The day Jordan had said hello to her, Joe had come down on her even harder. What was it? Who was it? She looked different, had she been meeting someone while he was gone? His hands had gone around her arms, his lip had curled, he'd squeezed until her skin bruised.

  She'd stayed quiet this time instead of pleading, instead of insisting she was innocent. Stared at him, silent and calm. And he'd been the one to break. Gone down on his knees and begged and cried. He hadn't meant to hurt her, but how could he be good to her if she gave him no reason to trust her? God knew he couldn't love her any more than he already did. No one could love anyone more than he loved her.

  His tirade hadn't made her feel guilty or even that frightened. His tearful apologies after hadn't soothed the bruises or melted her heart. Nor had they brought back to life the love she'd initially felt for him as they usually did. Instead she'd felt only mild disgust and detachment.

  This frightened her more than his threats.

  She knew she should stop running by Jordan's house and put the headband and the pink sweater away. As rebellions went, her efforts were pretty lame. But since Joy, she hadn't experienced much new or hopeful in her life. She didn't see why she should have to give up something so small as a new sweater and exercise. Running gave her something to look forward to. Something to do besides read
What to Expect When You're Expecting,
which she hadn't in a few days. Something besides painting, besides sending out junk e -mail to see if it would come back.

  And speaking of despair, here she was ringing the doorbell at Joan's house. Joan wanted to speak to her. To spend time with her daughter-in-law, she said.

  Joan only wanted to speak to Erin when Joe complained. This gave Joan the opportunity for her own tirade, to tell Erin that Joan wasn't allowing her to live in a house Joan owned in order to cheat on her son. And that Erin was lucky not having to work like Joan did. And that Joan had moved into this crappy two -bedroom place so her son and his wife could have her childhood home, so Erin better watch her step or she'd be out on her ass.

  Which was sort of ironic because there were times being out on her ass was everything Erin hoped for. At least until reality set in. Where would she go? What would she do? She had no skills, no money, and no family who'd welcome her.

  But Joan's version featured lazy Erin freeloading on Joe's

salary. Joan's—make that everyone in Kettle's—version of events had little to do with reality. Like the article Joan engineered for the tabloids about Vivian, which made Erin angry and sick.

  Sometimes Erin wanted to interrupt one of Joan's tirades and tell her Erin would love to work. That she'd love to go back to school and get her GED and then an associates degree. She'd get a part -time job to pay for tuition, and when she graduated and got a full -time job, she'd work her fanny off. Imagine feeling useful and productive.

  She'd also love to throw out that Joan knew damn well the only reason Erin didn't work was because then Joe couldn't control her as absolutely as he did now.

  Joan opened the door and parted her lips in the ghastly smile that was as close as she got to looking pleasant. Her ghastly smile used to be yellow, which suited her, but Dr. Marlowe must have given her a whitening treatment because now her teeth were so white it was startling.

  "Come in, Erin."

  "Thanks." She trudged into the cigarette -fouled air, fl y to the spider, and took her seat in what she had dubbed the whipping post, a squat, overstuffed, priggish chair from Joan's recently reupholstered living room set. Joan had chosen bright white fabric with giant red and yellow and green tropical flowers and birds on it, as if she lived in Kettle, Florida.

  "Coffee?"

  "No thank you." Erin gritted her teeth. She'd never drunk coffee, had even given up tea when she got pregnant in high school.Who knew what effects caffeine could cause in a fetus? Things scientists might not find out about for years. After all the miscarriages, and then after Joy, Erin never went back to caffeine in case a miracle pregnancy occurred and she'd cause damage to her baby before she knew she was pregnant.

  But Joan kept asking if Erin would like coffee. Because then she could mention how Joe liked coffee, and Joan's late husbands liked coffee, and what a nice thing for married couples to share tastes. She loved pointing out all the ways in which Erin was a disappointment to her. And whenever she could find some way to imply
and to Joe,
you could bet she did.

  Someday Erin wanted to mention that Joe hadn't really turned out to be her dream husband, either. Maybe she even wanted to today. That's what kind of mood she was in.

  "That's right, you don't like coffee." As if this was a character flaw so gross, Joan could hardly stand upright while thinking about it. "Joe drinks his every day alone."

  She didn't offer Erin anything else, but went to the kitchen and brought her own cup back to the immaculate living room, lined with gray carpet so clean and perfectly even -piled that without the vacuum cleaner tracks, it would look like plastic. She sat back in one of the tropical chairs, and a parrot appeared perfectly positioned to peck at her dyed hair.

  "So, Erin. How was the Social Club meeting this morning?"

  "Fine." Erin stared at the parrot, hoping its beak was very sharp. Joan hadn't been at the meeting; she had "important details to attend to" on her day off. Erin guessed the article about Vivian had been worse than anticipated and Joan was lying low, though Vivian hadn't shown, either. "Betty said Sidler's will have the cakes for the Come As You're Not party ready by four on Saturday. Nancy said the band booked a wedding in Ladysmith, but they'd still be on time. Sarah will harvest her pumpkins and move them onto the fl atbed. I said we had enough volunteers to set up and run the haunted house."

  "Good." Joan rubbed the edge of a nostril between her thumb and forefinger, the way people thought didn't qualify as picking.

  Erin crossed her legs and laced her fingers behind her head. She never sat like that, always slouched with her legs together and her hands in her lap. But she looked forward to Joan's reaction to the next part of the meeting report.

  "Sarah said Vivian is going to get a makeover booth. She'll sell certifi cates at the party and do them later, in her home."

  "What?" Joan was so agitated, she spilled coffee onto her pink top, which had a puffy white daisy sewn on the front. Erin thought Joan could use about a month's worth of makeovers, but then she wasn't one to throw stones. The coffee stain spread above the daisy, brown on pink, until it looked like a cloud or a map of France. Or a coffee stain making an ugly shirt on an ugly person even uglier.

  "
What?
"

  "Vivian will sell makeovers." She knew Joan wasn't really asking her to repeat herself, but she couldn't resist.

  "That trash making people over? As what, hookers?"

  "She's beautiful. I want one myself." Erin couldn't believe she'd said that. She might as well go to the garage, haul out a shovel, and start digging her own grave. It would get back to Joe that she was concerned about looking prettier. Joe would want to know why, and things would all go downhill farther and faster and steeper than they were going already.

  Erin thought about how she felt when she was running. How she felt when Jordan smiled at her and said hello. How she felt when she was around Vivian. And she decided that she didn't care. She'd had pain all her life. Now at least she had some pleasure to go along with it.

  Let Joan tell him. Just let her.

  "I've noticed changes in you lately, Erin. Joe has also."

  Erin took her hands back down to her lap. She couldn't help the tremor of fear; in fact she expected it. But this time there was also a little anger, and a little contempt, and a little indifference. And just the beginning of a feeling of power. Not some big, courageous tidal wave of it, like people got in the movies. Not like the Grinch on top of Mount Crumpet when his heart grew three sizes and he got the strength of a dozen Grinches. Nothing that would give her the courage to stand up and dump the rest of Joan's coffee on her ugly clothes and stalk out into the promise of a new life. She was still Erin. But it was nice to feel signs of life after too long feeling barren and weak. Like a recently rain -soaked desert coming into bloom.

  "How have I been different?"

  "Oh, little things. Anything you want to tell me, just us girls?" The cow eyes lined raccoon -black blinked; the red lips stretched over the oddly white teeth, and Erin wondered how Joan could think Erin was that stupid. Even a developmentally delayed person could see this trap. Even Erin.

  "Nothing but me wanting to look better."

  "Any reason?" Joan took a sip of coffee. "Hmm?"

  "No." The word was curt. For once, Erin didn't feel the need to elaborate.

  Joan's lips thinned; her eyes grew cold. "Don't think you're fooling either Joe or me."

  "I don't."

  The doorbell rang, and Joan put her coffee down on the scuffed end table Joe made for her in high school, which looked ratty next to the bright new chairs. "Who the hell is that?"

  Erin shrugged. Probably someone selling candy, or an alarm system, or magazine subscriptions, or someone thinking he could change a person's lifelong beliefs in a two -minute visit. Erin was prey to all of them, being at home all day. Sometimes she wanted to tell them she was sorry, but she was in the middle of Satan worship and the goat was getting restless.

  Joan heaved her stomach and breasts out of the chair and teetered on her skinny black -pants-clad legs to the front hall to answer the door.

  "What the hell do
you
want?"

  Erin got up from her chair. Even Joan wasn't rude enough to talk like that to a fund -raiser or salesperson or missionary. Which meant this must not be a stranger. And there was only one person Erin knew of who rated Joan's open hatred, though doubtless many more, including herself, endured it silently.