Durable Goods_ A Novel - Elizabeth Berg [4]
“Amen,” I answered, humbled as always by the thought that He might actually hear.
I am in bed when I hear Diane come home. My father is waiting. I hear him start to yell. She is late, I guess. No. It’s not that. It’s her outfit. He follows her up the stairs. “All in black,” he says. “What the hell is that? A rebel or something? Are you a rebel?” She doesn’t answer. I hear her door shut quietly, but then he opens it. “I asked you a question!”
“No,” she says low. “I am not a rebel.”
“You will not wear all black.”
Nothing. I know she is standing there, looking at him straight on.
“Is that clear?” he says.
“Yes.”
“Black is what whores wear!”
“You should know,” Diane says, unbelievably.
I hear furniture scrape across her floor. He pushes her sometimes before he hits her. I put the pillow over my head. I live on a farm, alone, with many animals. The sky overhead is flat and deep blue. No clouds.
I am going to make Dickie Mac fall in love with me,” I tell Cherylanne.
She is dropping peanuts into a Dr Pepper. She takes a chew and a swallow. “Huh!”
“I can do it,” I say. “And then I’m going away with him.”
“Where to?”
“Not Texas.”
“Well,” she says, “I suppose not. I suppose New York City.”
“I suppose gay Paree,” I say. “I suppose I could go anywhere I want to that isn’t here.”
“I suppose your nose is a garden hose,” she says, inspecting her manicure. Bride’s Blush, frosted. Two coats, with a thorough drying in between. Your nails tell a lot about you, Cherylanne says. A good manicure is a big part of being well dressed. Dial the phone only with a pencil or a pen. Eat gelatin.
“Well, you can say what you want,” I tell her. “I am serious.”
“I suppose your brain is insane,” she says. “Your mind’s in your behind.” She will go on that way, sometimes.
“I mean it,” I say. “I’m leaving here soon. I’m just telling you.”
“Well, Dickie Mac will not take you anywhere. You don’t even have your figure!”
“So?”
“Men don’t run away with girls who are twelve.” She says “twelve” like she can smell it.
“Oh, I believe they do,” I say. “I have read many a time about that very thing.”
Cherylanne snorts. “I’m sure. Where?”
“In novels,” I say. That will quiet Cherylanne down. She doesn’t read novels. I believe if you asked her what a novel was, she would only say, “a book.” It’s magazines for Cherylanne. She fans them out on her made bed, saves back issues on the floor of her closet. She likes the beauty tips, the romance stories with illustrations of women with their hair blowing beautifully, the advice columns, the quizzes. She likes to compare her tan with the progressively darker girls in the Coppertone ads. She is second from the best. “Your gold will always show up best next to a tan,” she tells me. “The darker you get, the better you’ll look in white. You want to go for the dramatic look.” Also, she likes to send away for the things she sees advertised in the back pages: Garden of Eden Bust Developer, Ever Ageless Night Cream. She spends every cent she makes baby-sitting on things that don’t work.
“I’m having a party tonight,” Cherylanne says. “And Paul Arnold is coming.” Paul Arnold, number two next to Dickie Mac. I try to hold my face still. “You want to come?” she asks.
I shrug. “Okay. Who else is coming?”
“Jerry Runk. Vicky Andrews. Bill O’Connell. Gary and Tim Nelson. Randy Dreaver.”
“No other girls?” I ask.
She is incredulous. “What for?”
I am under my bed, thinking about the party. The sun is setting; it is almost time. Cherylanne’s father ordered a whole case of Coca-Cola. Belle has set out bowls full of potato chips and pretzels and California French onion dip. They will stay in their bedroom while Cherylanne has the party. They always do this, at her request. “You don’t want older people at your parties,” she says. “You want your guests to feel they can be themselves, and mix.” I know it is more than that. Cherylanne likes to play kissing games, spin the bottle. The kissers go into the kitchen. I guard the door. So far, I have not played. But tonight will be the night.
I push