American Boy - Larry Watson [60]
Johnny opened a curtain on a window facing north, and the light that entered the room was milky and soft. He stood at the window as if he were keeping watch.
I opened the closet. Louisa’s canvas shoes and slippers were on the floor. Three cotton print dresses and that familiar oversize sweater hung from carefully spaced hangers. Her robe hung from a hook on the back of the door. A chipboard suitcase rested on an overhead shelf. Whatever I hoped to find wasn’t in the closet.
I moved to the dresser and opened the top drawer. On one side were three pairs of white cotton underpants—I recognized the torn elastic waistband of the pair Louisa revealed when she lifted her dress in front of Johnny and me. One brassiere, its strap attached to the cup with a safety pin. I ran my fingertip around the inside of the cup, and my fingernail snagged on the fraying nylon.
Then I found it. There was a stenographic pad under a slip yellowed with age. I took the pad out and opened it to a page of writing I assumed to be Louisa’s. On the top line of the very first page, written in pencil and in the hand of someone who pressed too hard and formed large, childlike letters, were the words, Mrs. Dunbar. On the lines below, in the same handwriting, was a list:
Crosses ankles
Never chews gum
Favors Julia
Always leaves food on her plate. Never seconds.
Brushes hair first thing
Always wears heels
Never Kleenex, but always has handkerchief
Blots lipstick
Always uses cup and saucer
Never smokes cigarettes down to filter
Doesn’t go out with her hair up
Doesn’t curse or swear
Won’t do what a man wants/likes— this is how I steal him away!
I scanned the remaining pages, but they were all blank. Johnny wouldn’t want to know what was on that list, and I had to keep him from reading it. I replaced the pad and closed the drawer. Johnny continued to stare out at the storm.
“Okay,” I said, backing away from the dresser. “Not much here.”
“Did you find what you were looking for?”
“I told you. I don’t even know what I was looking for. But I’d know it if I saw it.”
Johnny shook his head in disgust and closed the curtains.
In truth, I’d discovered something far more exciting, far more intimate, than Louisa’s undergarments. Her list reminded me of a folded sheet of notebook paper in the top drawer of my own dresser. On it, I’d printed my self-improvement list for the month of February: Begin day with 50 pushups, 50 situps, 200 jumping jacks. End day with 3 rounds of shadow boxing. Memorize 5 Latin vocabulary words. No soft drinks. No cigarettes before noon. No chocolate. How could she not see how much we had in common?
“Any other place in the house you’d like to snoop around?” Johnny asked. His tone was angry, and while I felt as if our friendship depended on my answer, that relationship wasn’t especially important to me at the moment.
“Why? Do you know where the secrets are hidden?”
“What secrets?”
“I don’t know, man. That’s what makes them secrets.”
Johnny shook his head again. “You’re in sad shape, you know that?”
“And you sound like your old man. Is the lecture over?”
“Does it matter? You aren’t listening to what I say anyway.” We stared at each other across Louisa Lindahl’s room.
We were on our way back downstairs when we heard Johnny’s mother calling for him. She met us on the landing between the second and first floors.
“Take my car.” She had the keys to the Valiant in her hand, and she thrust them at Johnny. “Go find your father.” Before Johnny could question or protest, she turned and went back downstairs. “The snow’s letting up,” she said over her shoulder.
We both turned and looked out the window. If anything, the strength of the storm had increased. Snow crackled against the glass,