What We Keep - Elizabeth Berg [39]
“It’s because he’s Dad,” Sharla said—coldly, I thought.
My mother stood still for a moment, smiling. Then, “Well,” she said, “that’s very nice of you.”
She went into the living room, and I heard her and my father talking under the blare of the television. The words got louder, then stopped abruptly; then I heard the faint click of my mother’s knitting needles. It came to me to put pop beads on my birthday list; I really wanted some of those. It was a relief, thinking of something so easy.
I awakened several mornings later to the sound of Jasmine’s and my mother’s voices coming from the kitchen, then noticed a third voice as well—a boy’s. I thought it must be someone asking about mowing the lawn, or selling some utterly unwantable thing for the Boy Scouts, but the conversation was going on too long for that. I turned to ask Sharla if she knew who was downstairs, but found her bed empty. Then I heard the toilet flush, and she came back to bed, yawned. “What?” she said.
“Who’s down there?”
She shrugged.
“Did you hear a boy’s voice?”
“Well, yeah, they’re talking loud enough! I wanted to sleep some more, too. I was up really late last night.”
“No, you weren’t.” We had gone to bed at the boring hour of ten o’clock.
“Yes I was! I got up after you were already asleep. I was reading.”
I checked her face; she was telling the truth. “Reading what?”
She pulled a book from under her covers. It was Beautiful Joe, a book about a dog that Uncle Roy had brought with him last Thanksgiving, and which neither Sharla nor I had ever really looked at. Now, since Sharla was interested, so was I.
“Is it good?” I asked.
She nodded. “I cried.”
“You did?”
She nodded again.
“Can I read it when you’re done?”
“I am done.”
I held out my hand.
She pulled the book to her chest. “I might want to read it again.”
“Well, just let me read it first.”
“No, I might want to read it again right away.”
I knew what I needed to do: feign disinterest. But I could not. “Just give it to me first. I read way faster than you. I’ll give it back in a day or two.”
“No.”
“Then I’m just taking it.” I got up, started toward her bed.
“MOOOOMMMMM!” Sharla yelled.
I sat back down, slack-jawed. We had company!
I heard the creak of the stairs; and then my mother, wearing a new red print housedress and her favorite yellow apron, came into our room. She said nothing. She didn’t need to. The expression on her face talked. She was wearing makeup, a rarity at this time of day; I saw the faint traces of rouge on her cheeks, and her lashes were longer, as they were when she used her mascara. That mascara came in a small, red lacquered box. There was a rectangular cake of mascara and a cunning little brush you used to apply it. I couldn’t imagine why my mother didn’t use it constantly. When I was old enough to use makeup, I intended to sleep in it.
My mother put her hands on her hips. “Well?”
“She started it,” I said.
“We have a guest,” my mother answered. Her voice sounded different to me. Happier, I realized; that was the difference. Sharla and I were fighting, but she was still happy.
“Who’s here?” I asked.
“It’s Jasmine’s nephew, a very nice boy named Wayne.”
Wayne! I had never met a boy named Wayne! The name seemed exotic to me, and slightly disgusting. Sissified. I liked plain names for boys: Bill. Tom. Pete. Whenever Sharla and I staged scenes featuring a male character, we used names like that. Wayne and I would not be able to be friends.
“I want you two to get dressed,” my mother said. “Then come down and say hello. I’ll get breakfast started.”
One thing I hated about company was the way your routine always had to get altered—I liked change only when I initiated it. I didn’t like getting dressed to eat breakfast; it made the food taste different. I liked not even washing my face or brushing my teeth first, if the truth be told. I liked to be as close to the sleep