Youth in Revolt: The Journals of Nick Twisp (67 page)

The article went on to say that authorities now fear the rightful Twisp may have been the victim of foul play in Asia. According to the Associated Press, I could be a deceased murder victim! I wonder if Sheeni has heard the news.

Five minutes later, I had a chance to pose this question myself, when My One and Only Love entered for her morning cappuccino.

“Sheeni, have you heard the news?” asked Carlotta. “That wasn’t your friend Nick they arrested in Seattle!”

Sheeni, looking radiant (from anxiety?), sat down on the chair opposite me with her double cappuccino and triple maple bars. Clearly, grief had not paralyzed her appetite. “I never imagined it was,” she replied calmly. “I don’t
believe Nick has an aptitude for international drug smuggling. And how are you this morning, Carlotta?”

“Frankly, Sheeni, I’m worried. The newspapers are saying your friend could be the victim of foul play. Aren’t you concerned?”

“Not particularly,” replied Sheeni, sipping her foamy beverage.

“Why not?” demanded Carlotta, shocked.

“It is idle speculation without foundation in fact. Nick probably had his pocket picked. I’m told such petty thefts are common in the Third World. U.S. passports are a special target of thieves. No, I’m confident Nick was simply inattentive and lost his passport.”

“That sounds very much like blaming the victim, Sheeni,” said Carlotta severely. “If Nick is OK, why hasn’t he tried to contact you?”

“Oh, but he has, Carlotta,” replied Sheeni.

“He has?” Carlotta exclaimed, incredulous.

“Yes, I received a letter from him a few days ago.”

I wondered if the caffeine and sugar rushes were affecting my hearing. “Sheeni, are you telling me that you have received a letter from Nick?”

“Yes, Carlotta. Is that so surprising?”

“Er, I suppose not. And what, exactly, did he say?”

“Here, read the letter if you like.”

Sheeni removed an ordinary white business envelope from her purse and handed it to Carlotta. The envelope, I noted with surprise, bore several authentic Indian airmail stamps and an apparently genuine Pune postmark. Inside was one thin sheet of bond paper bearing this extraordinary typed message:

“A curious letter,” commented Carlotta, seething inwardly. “How, I wonder, does one contrive to be simultaneously beautiful and homely?”

“Oh, Vijay explained that to me,” replied Sheeni, taking back her letter. “In India they use the word ‘homely’ to mean devoted to the home and possessing desirable homemaker skills. Thus, it is unlikely I shall ever be described as homely.”

“It certainly is,” agreed Carlotta. “But, Sheeni, don’t you think it’s odd that Nick should employ an obscure Indian usage so soon after arriving in that country?”

“It’s not so odd,” replied Sheeni. “Perhaps intellectually gifted Nayana has been boasting of her homeliness—far into the night.”

“Sheeni, did Nick normally type his letters and sign them ‘regards’?”

“No. His customary practice was to write them in his affected handwriting and close with a gushing declaration of eternal devotion. Now that you mention it, the prose does not exhibit Nick’s usual sesquipedalian effulgence. But perhaps we can attribute that to a slight maturation of style.”

“Sheeni, notice that even the signature is typed. Who would send a letter to a close friend without at least signing their name?”

“What are you suggesting, Carlotta?”

“Just that it is my professional opinion that your letter is a forgery.”

“Oh, Carlotta,” she scoffed, “you’ve been reading too many spy novels. Who would want to counterfeit a letter from Nick?”

“A rival in love,” proposed Carlotta. “Someone with friends or relatives in Pune who could forward the letter so that the postmark would be genuine. Someone who would unknowingly employ a foreign word usage because he himself is an alien in this country.”

“Vijay would never do such a thing,” insisted Sheeni. “He is far too honorable. I should much sooner expect such underhanded machinations from Nick.”

Carlotta chose to overlook that slur. “Speaking of your honorable Indian friend, how was the film last night?”

“A tremendous disappointment, I’m afraid. The print turned out to be dubbed. Two hours of Jean-Pierre Leaud pursuing endearing fecklessness with an American twang. I was sickened.”

“Oh dear,” said Carlotta. “Was the gratuitous violence that excessive?”

“You misunderstand me, Carlotta. I was sickened by the callousness with which an important film is butchered to make it palatable to Americans. It is not violent at all. It’s one of the groundbreaking lyrical romances of the French New Wave.”

More dire news.

“And how did Apurva and Mr. and Mrs. Joshi enjoy the film?” asked Carlotta, hoping for the best.

Sheeni gave me a quizzical look. “They were in bed, Carlotta.”

“All of them?” she asked weakly.

“Well, Apurva wandered out from her room once for a glass of water. That girl does not look well.”

“I hope she didn’t interrupt anything,” said Carlotta.

“No,” replied Sheeni cryptically. “The film had just started.”

For the sake of my remaining sanity, I am choosing to interpret that remark narrowly.

10:45
A.M
. On my way home from the donut shop, Carlotta ran into Fuzzy, who was loitering about in front of the courthouse with the usual Saturday throng of disaffected youth.

“Hi, Carlotta,” he called.

“Hi, Frank,” she replied, distracted. “Say, Frank, what’s a good way to dispose of a body?”

“A dead one?” he asked.

“Of course.”

“Take it up to the woods and bury it. Deep, though, so the wild pigs don’t root it up. Or dump it in the chipper out at the waferboard plant. That’s riskier, though.”

“What about burying it in concrete?”

“That’s an option too. Compact it in gravel, then pour a slab over it. Maybe make a nice patio out of the project. Whatcha got in mind, Carlotta?”

“Oh, just thinking. Frank, is your dad’s concrete plant working?”

“Nope. Shut down by those flunky strikers. Thanks to your fat dad’s old commie roomie.”

“Damn! Oh well, strikes can’t go on forever.”

“This one might,” said Fuzzy gloomily.

“Say, Frank, what time did your mom get home last night?”

“Late, Carlotta. And boy were there fireworks. I came down this morning and found two fresh holes in the plasterboard. That’s when I decided I better lay low for the day.”

“Sorry to hear that, Frank. What were they fighting about?”

“The usual, I guess. Money and sex.”

“Frank, your mom and my dad came to your grandmother’s house last night.”

“They did?” said Fuzzy, alarmed. “Where were you, Carlotta?”

“Outside in the bushes, freezing my balls off.”

“So they didn’t see you?”

“I don’t think so, Frank.”

“Good. What were they doing?”

“What do you think they were doing? And in your dead grandmother’s bed too.”

“Fuck!” said Fuzzy. “That is so gross. You saw them?” “Heard them mostly.”

“God, that’s gross.” He shuddered. “Carlotta, is it your dad you want to bump off? If so, you can count me in.”

“No, Frank. Believe me. Dad is taken care of. He won’t be molesting Nancy for long.”

“Who’s Nancy?”

“Isn’t Nancy your mother’s name?”

“Hell, no. Her name’s Irene. Why? Was the woman named Nancy? Maybe it wasn’t really my mom!”

“Frank, it was your mom. Believe me, I recognized the car.” (And the bustline.)

“My mom doing it with your dad. I can’t believe it. Carlotta, this is weirding me out.”

“Welcome to the club, Frank,” I said, adjusting my brassiere.

5:37
P.M
. I’m back! Four grueling hours of nonstop dress shopping, and nothing to show for it except Carlotta’s massively bruised ego. It’s hopeless. All the long dresses in my size in Ukiah are strapless, low-cut, or strapless and low-cut. No way I can show up at the Christmas dance in a number like that. I haven’t got the build for it. Perhaps Carlotta will have to swallow her pride, bite the sartorial bullet, and go to the ball in a Granny DeFalco hand-me-down.

6:10
P.M
. A glimmer of hope. Carlotta called Sheeni for advice and was invited to accompany My Love on a gown-shopping expedition tomorrow to the fashionable boutiques of Santa Rosa. That’s the good news. The bad news is we’re going with Sheeni’s 5,000-year-old mother—who, Sheeni reports, is dying to meet me!

10:05 P.M. Boy, what a night. Never open your door when you’re feeling emotionally vulnerable.

While engrossed in postprandial nail polishing, Carlotta was startled by
a knock on the back door. She straightened her dress, donned her wig, touched up her lipstick, and went to investigate.

“Who is it?” she called.

“It’s me,” replied a familiar voice.

Carlotta opened the door a crack. “Oh, hello, Bruno. What can I do for you?”

Interpreting this question as an invitation, Bruno pushed his way into the kitchen.

“Hi, Carly,” he said. “What’s up, girl?”

“Up?”

“What’s cookin’? What’s a hot babe like you doin’ all alone on Saturday night?”

“I’m not alone, Bruno,” replied Carlotta nervously. “Mom and Dad just stepped out. They went to buy a magazine,
Atlantic Monthly
I believe they said. I expect them back any minute.”

“I ain’t seen any cars go in and out, Carly. Except for that big Lincoln last night.”

“That’s, that’s my father’s car. I expect him back soon, Bruno. You better go. Dad doesn’t like me to associate with older men.”

Bruno pulled out a chair and sat down at the dinette. “I’ll wait, Carly. I ain’t got nothing to do. I been wantin’ to meet your folks, since we’re neighbors and all. What you wavin’ your hands around like that for?”

“I’m drying my nails, Bruno.”

“What color is that?”

“Hedonistic Folly. Do you like it?”

“It’s OK. Looks like red to me. You got any beer, Carly?”

“Fresh out, Bruno. Sorry.”

“How about some wine?”

“OK, but you won’t like it.”

Carlotta poured her uninvited guest a small glass of oxidated rotgut. He gulped it down, smiled, and held out the glass for more.

“Pour me a tall one this time, Carly. This stuff is great. Don’t be so stingy.”

I complied reluctantly, then poured a glass for myself. Bruno hoisted his tumbler.

“Here’s to the girl next door,” he said.

We clinked. “Whoever she may be,” added Carlotta, swallowing with a shudder.

Bruno took another gulp and stared at my chest.

“How, how’s Candy?” Carlotta inquired.

“Don’t know,” said Bruno, belching. “I dumped the bitch.”

“You broke up with Candy?” Carlotta asked, flabbergasted.

“I cut her loose. Told her to peddle her ass somewheres else.”

“Why, Bruno? Candy Pringle is gorgeous!”

“That don’t make her good in bed,” he replied, eyeing Carlotta’s charms hungrily. “Besides, the bitch is really stuck-up.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said.

You don’t know how sorry!

“It don’t bother me none, Carly,” he said, drowning his disavowed sorrows in cheap wine.

“Bruno, Candy is the queen of the Christmas dance. Aren’t you taking her?”

“The bitch is going with Stinky Limbert. If he lives ’til Friday.”

“Stinky Limbert?”

“Stinky Limbert,” confirmed Bruno. “A guy who never threw for a touchdown in his whole life. His short life.”

“I’m really sorry,” repeated Carlotta.

“Don’t bother me none,” repeated Bruno. “Carly, you want to go to the dance with me?”

I sat back in my chair in stunned surprise. “Sorry, Bruno,” I stammered. “I already have a date.”

“With who?” he demanded.

“Fuzzy DeFalco.”

“Fuzzy DeFalco!” exclaimed Bruno. “You mean that fur-ball manager of the football team?”

“He’s a very nice boy, Bruno.”

“Carly, that hairy twerp’s a worse case than Stinky. He didn’t even make the football team, for chrissake.”

“Bruno, I don’t necessarily evaluate my potential escorts solely on the basis of their perceived athletic prowess.”

“What’d you say, Carly?”

“Bruno, I don’t care that Fuzzy is lousy at sports.”

“Well, he ain’t pop’lar neither. He ain’t no brain trust. He ain’t even good-lookin’. Why you want to go to the dance with him?”

“Because he asked me and I said I would.”

“He could change his mind kinda sudden. Maybe pull a muscle in gym.”

“Bruno! Don’t you dare do anything to Fuzzy! If I can’t go to the dance with him, I’ll stay home. And never speak to you again!”

“OK, Carly. Keep your shirt on. Or,” he leered, “take it off if you’re hot.”

“No, thank you, Bruno. Please drink your wine and go.”

“Carly, are you and this Fuzzy gettin’ it on?”

“That is none of your business, Bruno.”

“Come to think of it, I seen that punk sneakin’ around here. I bet he makes you turn off all the lights too. Carly, you want to know what that guy looks like nekkid? Like a giant pad of rusty steel wool!”

“Bruno, you are insufferable. Please go.”

“What’ll you do if I don’t?” he asked, his voice beginning to slur.

“Bruno, please be a gentleman.”

“I want some more wine.”

“If I give you more wine, will you go?”