Durable Goods_ A Novel - Elizabeth Berg [2]
After an hour or so, I come out from under my bed. Diane is back in her room. She is not crying anymore. I think my father is probably in the living room, watching television.
I move down the stairs, holding on to the wall to steady my steps. I can hear the television. Bonanza. Good. I go past the living room, out through the kitchen and the back door. Then I come in through the front and bang the screen door so he’ll be sure to hear it. I go into the living room, stand before him. Not in the way of the television. “Hi, Dad.”
“Where’ve you been?”
“Cherylanne’s.”
He adjusts the toothpick in his mouth. “Did you finish your homework?”
“We didn’t have any.”
“Go to bed.”
“All right.”
When I am halfway up the stairs, he says, “Come here, and you can take my boots off for me.”
I sit on the floor before him, unlace his combat boots. My father is important in the army, a colonel. Men on the street salute our car. Sometimes it was only my mother and me, but they didn’t know. They stopped, stood up serious straight, and saluted us while we drove past, giggling.
I like unlacing his boots. I only have to remember not to make a face at how his feet smell when I get done and take the boots off. They are to be lined up by his chair. Left boot to my right. Right boot to my left. Sometimes I say this to myself when I am showering.
Diane opens her door as I am going into my bedroom. She stands mute, which is worse than anything she could say.
“Hey,” I say.
“You broke the toilet and I had to clean up.” Her arms are crossed over her chest. The charms on her bracelet hang still.
“How do you know?” I ask.
She slams her door. I knock on it. “Get lost,” she says.
I consider this. Then I knock again. Nothing. “I don’t know anything about this,” I say through the door. “I went to the bathroom, okay, and then I went to Cherylanne’s. I didn’t know the toilet broke.”
She opens her door. Maybe she’ll let me in. She has pictures of Elvis Presley taped to her mirror. She has a fuzzy pink rug on the floor, many bottles of perfume on a lacy metal tray, a huge stuffed tiger on her bed that Dickie won for her at a fair. But she doesn’t let me in. She says, “You were under your bed, you little liar.”
I swallow, blink. She shuts her door again. I go into my bedroom and write her a note saying I’m sorry. I sign it and slide it under her door.
Well, I lied about no homework and so I must do my math by flashlight under my covers. The long division makes me cry. First, I put down six, and that’s too much. Then I put down five, and that’s too little. Then I put down six, and that’s too much. I erase and erase, make holes in the paper.
Dickie is waiting for Diane. He is standing out in the street beside his truck. That’s how perfect he is, he drives a truck. I watch him from the window for a while, then come out to tell him Diane’s almost ready. “Okay,” he says. “Thanks.” He smiles at me, revealing his dimples. One thing I love is dimples. I have tried to make them for myself by taping plum seeds to my cheeks as I sleep at night, by corkscrewing my fingers into my face during the day as often as I can remember. So far, nothing.
Dickie has on a clean white T-shirt and blue jeans, and black cowboy