In the Wilderness - Kim Barnes [53]
Nan shook her head; I couldn’t tell if that meant she didn’t know or simply no. She was muttering to herself, louder and louder, building up to something.
“… should’ve let you do it months ago.” I could tell now that she wasn’t mad at me, but she was still angry. “All this foolishness. Never seen the like.” She began pulling pots from the stove drawer, canned corn and shortening from the cupboard, banging them onto the counter.
“Mom and Dad will be mad. And Uncle Ronnie.”
“Don’t you worry about them. This is between you and me. Next time you want to shave your legs, you tell me and I’ll let you use my Lady Norelco.”
“But I’m not supposed to …”
“I don’t know what they’re thinking.” She set the cast-iron skillet down hard on the burner and lobbed in a big spoonful of Crisco. “Big girl like you, already having her monthly. They should know you need to do these things.”
Whenever my grandmother talked to me like this, I felt both pleased and sickened. I didn’t like attention being brought to my body and its changes, yet she seemed to understand something my parents did not. As she cut up the chicken and dusted it in flour, I felt my fear subside. I didn’t know what I’d tell my parents or my uncle, but Nan would protect me.
More and more, I was beginning to sense how different my family was. I watched the commercials on Nan’s television, intrigued by the laughing, nearly naked teenagers running across the beach with their ice-cold Pepsis, and I slowly came to understand that I could be like them if … If what? My parents would never allow me to buy a bikini, much less mingle with boys on a beach while wearing one. But those young men and women seemed so happy, and there was nothing detectably dark in their pleasure. I saw the girls’ long, smooth legs and perfect hair. Was it a sin that I wanted to be like them?
Compared with the other girls my age, I felt childish and dowdy. Compared with what I saw on TV, my family lived in the Dark Ages. Without the Langs, especially Luke, to validate my adherence to the laws of dress and behavior, I felt isolated. Even my grandmother (my grandmother!) thought us ignorant and old-fashioned.
I studied my body in the big bathroom mirror, sucked in my stomach and threw my shoulders back to enhance the jut of my breasts. I let my hair fall across one eye and pouted seductively at my own image. Not bad. Digging through Nan’s toiletries I found a cake of Maybelline and a tiny red brush. I moistened the bristles and worked up a suitable goo, which I combed onto my lashes. Up close, the mascara looked “gommed on,” as my mother would say—balled up and flaking—but if I stood back against the wall, my eyes took on a shadowed glamour. I dipped into a compact of oily rouge and rubbed it high on my cheeks, then made a kiss of my lips and circled them in Parisian Red.
What I saw in the mirror thrilled me: color, contrast, a face that might draw the attention of young men like the ones whose faces adorned my wall. I looked like a ruined woman. Even the sound of it was delicious.
I studied myself long and hard, memorizing that other I could become with a few strokes of paint, before scrubbing my face raw with hot water and soap. I would keep my twin safe, keep her existence a secret. I dried my skin and caught a reflection of my plain self. The washing had pinkened my cheeks; my lips still held a taint of red.
• • •
By the end of the summer we’d moved into our new home. It was not far from downtown and belonged to a retired doctor, who had graciously lowered the rent when my mother offered to do extra upkeep. It was enormous, a white stucco bungalow with a hacienda-style porch and a red tile roof. For the first time in my life, I both heard the word “breakfast nook” and saw one, and it was ours. Off the utility room was a greenhouse with heated growing beds; grapevines covered its roof like ivy.
The backyard grew thick with exotic ferns and roses. In one corner, beneath