Boy Crazy, page 5
My mother and sister seemed to be speaking a private language to each other, one with subtitles. If Eliza had hoped to wound my mother by obliquely reminding her that our cousins could spend the summer in Europe because my aunt and uncle were still married to each other and could afford it, my mother was reminding Eliza that this was her house, and it had one mistress. Eliza sighed, and threw back her head.
“Yeah, Eliza, I work too,” I said smugly, sensing my mother’s victory and wanting to align myself with it. “Quit thinking you’re so much better than everyone else in this family. Don’t worry, all the guys will still be there for you to chase on the beach when we get there in August. Maybe you can do a poetry reading,” I added cruelly. “That’ll impress them something fierce.”
“Well, Jem,” Eliza said, slowly rising off the sofa, “one of us can chase guys anyway.” She smiled pointedly at me, and I reddened. “Or have you finally got a girlfriend that no one knows about? My friends and I were wondering.”
“Whatever, Eliza,” I mumbled. “Go write some poetry.”
I turned my head away from my mother’s sight line, and mouthed the word cunt to Eliza. She let out a high-pitched squeal of laughter, knowing that she had hit her mark.
“You two,” my mother said in exasperation. “We’re supposed to be a family, for heaven’s sake. You’re brother and sister. You both came out of my womb. Why can’t you get along?” She glared at Eliza. “It’s so hot in here.” My mother told us that air-conditioning was nouveau riche, but I had begun to suspect that my father didn’t want to cover the cost of it above and beyond the alimony he paid my mother. She fanned herself with a copy of TV Guide. “It’s four o’clock. What time is your shift, Eliza? Five?”
“Five thirty,” my sister said sullenly. She stood up and crossed the living room without looking at our mother.
“Well, you should get ready for work. You don’t want to be late.”
“No,” Eliza replied sarcastically. “I wouldn’t want to be late for my shift. I’d better spend the next hour and a half getting ready for my job as a waitress.”
“A job is a job, Eliza. The sooner you learn that the better.”
“Yeah, Eliza, a job is a job.”
Eliza stopped. She reached down and pulled another cushion off one of the chairs and threw it at me. I ducked, and the cushion hit the coffee table in front of me, scattering magazines across the floor.
“Eliza!” The beginnings of genuine anger had crept into my mother’s voice, but Eliza was already gone. Her bedroom door slammed shut. My mother sighed and rubbed her eyes.
“Jeremy,” my mother said. Using my full name was a sign that her patience was worn down to an exposed nerve. “Would you pick the magazines up, please? Lord, it’s hot. August in Prothro can’t get here fast enough.”
My bedroom at Flyte was painted in pale cream, which caught and held the light early in the morning when the sun came through the open windows framed by navy blue curtains. On the wall hung antique prints of sailing ships, and nautical paraphernalia collected by my grandfather was scattered around the room. The fog had burned off, and I heard the sound of the gardener’s lawnmower in the near distance, and the scream of gulls wheeling above Shaw Inlet. The scent of fresh-cut grass drifted into the room.
I washed my face and brushed my teeth, and put on a pair of khaki shorts and a clean T-shirt and went downstairs.
“Good morning, sleepyhead.” My mother was sitting at the breakfast table with Gran. She ruffled my hair as I passed her on my way to the sideboard where Maureen had laid out breakfast; she had been Gran’s cook and housekeeper as long as I could remember.
Gran was reading the morning mail, which she called, “the post,” and opening letters with the monogrammed sterling silver letter opener that was as natural in her hand as the shears she used to cut her roses. She was sipping her tea. She looked up and smiled brightly.
“Hello, beauty. Did you sleep well?”
“Yes, Gran, thank you.”
Pouring myself some orange juice, I noted as I often did in the summers how much younger and more relaxed Mum seemed at Flyte surrounded by furniture and books and pictures she’d known her whole life. On the wall opposite the hall staircase, there was a line of framed pastel portraits of Mum, Aunt Vangie, and their two brothers, Uncle Rudyard and Uncle Jeremy, after whom I’d been named. Uncle Jeremy, my mother’s favorite brother, had been killed in a car crash two years before I was born. Gran’s children, including my mother, looked like her: they were tall and slim, dark haired, with chiseled features and light green or blue eyes, and they shared an inbred social confidence that I only ever saw crack in my mother’s case—when her divorce from our father reduced her circumstances. In August, however, at Flyte, the time seemed to roll backward for my mother, and she began to look a little bit more like the girl in the portrait on the wall, at least till September, when we returned to the city.
“Morning, all.” Eliza entered the dining room, rubbing her eyes and yawning ostentatiously, as though she was doing the family a favor by showing up at the breakfast table at all. Her face was puffy. Her hair was uncombed and askew, and she looked disheveled in her Bee Gees T-shirt and cutoff jeans. Gran—to whom appearances mattered, especially at mealtimes—winced at the sight of the glorious mess my sister presented, and her mouth tightened perceptibly.
“Did you sleep badly, Eliza?” Gran’s voice was sweet as frozen sugar water. She lightly touched her pearls, a gesture that somehow communicated concern.
“No, why?” Eliza’s tone was sullen. Mother looked down at her plate, fiercely buttering a new piece of toast. I sat back to watch what would come next.
“You look tired, Eliza. I can’t think of any other reason for you to come to the breakfast table looking like you do right now. As you can see, your mother and I, and even your brother, were able to make ourselves presentable before we came downstairs.”
“I was writing all night, Gran,” Eliza said petulantly. “I’m working on a new collection of poetry. It’s very taxing, artistically.” Eliza made a face she clearly hoped conveyed creative intensity. I covered my mouth and pinched my nostrils to keep from laughing. Eliza saw me and glared. But it wasn’t the haughty glare she used on me the rest of the time. Our grandmother was the only person in the world Eliza was afraid of. This time she looked vulnerable, even desperate. “Do you want me to leave the table?”
“No, dear. There’s no need for you to leave the table—this time. Just try to remember in the future that the rest of the family isn’t on as intimate terms with your muse as you are, and style is the dress of thought. A lady never comes to the table looking like a ragpicker’s conventioneer. As I recall, even your current idol, the late Mrs. Sexton—a lady who, from all reports, in spite of the nature and subject matter of her writing—was known for being well turned out.”
“Yes, Gran.”
“So,” Mum said brightly, clearly eager to change the subject. “What are we all doing today? The weather is lovely. I’m going to the club, I think. Does anyone want to come with me? Jem? Eliza? You could swim.”
“Mum, I’m nineteen. Please. I’m going to go to the beach.” Speaking to our mother, Eliza sounded bored again.
“Jem? What about you? Club? Beach?”
“I thought I’d just hang around here for a while,” I said. “Maybe catch up on my reading or something.”
“On a day like this? I think not. You should go to the beach. These beautiful August days are precious as gold. You can read tonight, when it’s dark.”
“Mum—”
“Mother, don’t force him,” Eliza said sweetly. “He gets embarrassed on the beach. He’s not as well developed as other boys his age. He gets nervous around bigger boys, and especially around girls. If he wants to stay inside in the dark, you should let him.”
“Eliza, take your brother with you to the beach today.” Part of my mother’s returned self-confidence was a newfound resolve when dealing with Eliza’s nastiness.
“Mum!” The horror on Eliza’s face almost made me laugh out loud, until I remembered that our mother had just suggested that Eliza and I spend the day together. “I don’t want Jem hanging around me today at the beach! I want to be with my friends. I don’t want them to see him.”
“Mum, I’m not a baby,” I protested, hating how babyish I sounded. “I don’t need Eliza to look after me.”
“Eliza,” came my grandmother’s voice from the head of the table. “Would you like to borrow my car today to drive to the beach? Your mother, of course, will have hers at the club. How else will you get there?”
“Gran, really?” Eliza sounded thrilled. She was surprised, and visibly grateful to have my grandmother as a sudden ally. Gran never let anyone drive her car. “I’d love to borrow it! I appreciate it.”
“Then take your brother with you to the beach, Eliza,” Gran replied with finality. Eliza’s face fell. “It’s a very wide beach,” Gran continued crisply. She adjusted the pale blue cashmere cardigan on her shoulders. “You two don’t even have to see each other. But I must say, I find this disunity among the younger members of my family to be disheartening, to say the least. Your grandfather would have been appalled.”
“Eliza?”
“What?”
“On a hot summer night, would you offer your throat to the wolf with the red roses?”
“What are you talking about, you idiot?”
“You’re supposed to answer, ‘Will he offer me his mouth?’ It’s from Meatloaf.”
“Just don’t talk to me, you little asshole,” Eliza said. “And duck down in the seat if anyone we know sees us so they won’t know we’re together.”
“Jesus, you’re such a cow, Eliza. Did Josephine come a little early this month?” I adjusted the Ray-Bans on my nose and looked out across the highway at the ocean. Eliza didn’t respond to my goad about her period. It was too hard for either of us to stay angry on a day as beautiful as this one, especially in a convertible. Gran’s car was a creamy brown 1968 Mercedes-Benz 280SE with a red interior. It had been an anniversary gift from my grandfather, one she’d lost interest in it after he died. But Gran kept it in the garage at Flyte in excellent repair, and the ten-year-old car was spectacular. The top was down and the wind was in our hair. Eliza ran her fingers through hers, making sure it was blowing behind her as if she were starring in a Breck commercial—in her mind. She honked at her friends as we drove through Prothro, making sure that they saw her, obviously hoping they’d assume the car was hers.
Eliza turned left off Main Street onto Selkirk Street. We passed Treleaven’s Fish and Chips. As casually as possible, I craned my neck to see if Angus was working inside the shop, but I didn’t see him through the plate glass window, and Eliza drove too quickly anyway. I thought briefly of asking her to stop, but we’d just had breakfast and it was too early for lunch. There would have been no way to make the request without arousing her curiosity. Eliza turned right on Beach Road. Olivia Newton-John and John Travolta’s “You’re the One that I Want” from Grease, which we’d both seen earlier in the summer, played on the car radio. Eliza and I both liked the song, and we even ventured a joint duet during the ooh-oooh-oooh chorus, and thus a temporary truce would reign, by mutual consent, at least until we arrived at the beach and went our separate ways.
After a lifetime of summers in Prothro, I could very nearly tell the precise time by the position of the sun on the ocean. Near five, I began my hike back along the beach to meet Eliza by the car for the drive home. I’d spent the day reading my well-worn copy of The Lord of the Rings and swimming when I was too hot. My skin was tight with salt and sun, and my muscles ached pleasantly. I knew that later tonight, in bed, I would feel the sway of ocean’s currents when I closed my eyes and drifted off to sleep.
Eliza was leaning against the car speaking to a man in a blue nylon jacket and a baseball cap, brim pulled low on his brow. His body was angled in such a way that I didn’t recognize him. I recognized Eliza’s pose, however—her back slightly arched, head tilted to the side, leaning with her fingers ever so delicately brushing the side of the car. I knew what the pose meant. It meant that she was flirting. I sighed, wondering if I’d be sitting in the backseat on the way home. Eliza reached out and touched the man’s arm lightly, and her silvery laugh carried across the distance between us. Then the man pulled his baseball cap off and I saw his red hair.
“Oh, look who’s here,” Eliza trilled. “Hello, brother dear. Did you have a nice day at the beach with the clams and the starfish?” She looked down at my copy of The Lord of the Rings. “How are the elves and trogs and Balrogs?”
“Umm, fine.” I suddenly felt very sunburned and tasted the sour salt of the ocean in the back of my throat. “Are you… umm…ready to go, Eliza?”
Eliza ignored the question. “Have you two met? This is my brother, Jem.”
“Hey, man,” said Angus Treleaven, extending his hand. “Name’s Angus.”
“Hi.” I shook his hand, feeling his calloused palm. Our eyes met and suddenly I was twelve again, crouching in the high beach grass above the dunes watching him make love to a girl whose face I didn’t see. Angus at nineteen was a stronger, harder vision of Angus at fifteen, and while I’d watched him grow up in glimpses every August, nothing could have prepared me for this. I caught the scent of him then: soap, cheap deodorant, sun, salt, freshly-laundered clothes, and a faint trace of boat engine oil. “I’m Jem.”
Eliza giggled. She pointed at me. “My brother is such a book-worm. He’s the brain in the family,” she added lightly. She had clearly decided that playing the tortured intellectual poetess wasn’t going to work with Angus. My Angus. “Any other boy his age would be out chasing girls on a day like today, but not our Jem.”
“Ah, a smart one is he?” Angus said, still looking at me. “It’s a good thing to be a smart one. I never was much good in school myself. Better at sports. Wish I’d studied harder.”
“Oh, I don’t think it’s just that,” Eliza said innocently. “I just don’t think he’s all that interested in girls.”
I felt the blood rush to my face, and I hated Eliza at that moment with the purest possible hate. Angus looked at her quizzically.
“It’s not that,” I said my face flaming. “I just like to read, that’s all.”
“See?” Angus said to Eliza. His voice was kind, and he smiled at me. “He’s a reader. Nothing wrong with that. There’ll always be time for girls later. Right?” Angus winked at Eliza. “So, pick you up at eight?”
I climbed into the front seat of the car without a word and looked out at the water.
“No, I’ll meet you in town,” Eliza said. “At nine, at the pub.”
“See you then,” Angus said. “Nice meeting you, Jem. See you around, man.”
I mumbled “Good-bye,” and Eliza started the car and pulled out of the parking lot. I fought the urge to look back at Angus standing beside his truck, but in the end I needed the sight of him one more time to see if I could make the pain go away. It didn’t go away.
On the ride home, Eliza and I didn’t speak, until suddenly she said, “Don’t tell Mum and Gran about this, Jem. I mean it. I don’t want them to know I’m seeing this guy. They won’t understand.”
“Why not?” At that point, I would have done anything to damage her, short of grabbing the steering wheel out of her hands and crashing the car, killing us both. “Are you afraid Mum and Gran will think you’re a slut? Because you are one, Eliza,” I added savagely. “And you’re a fucking cunt, too. I can’t believe you said that to him about me not liking girls.”
She glared at me. “What do you care? You don’t even know him. He’s just some townie fisherman. What do you care what he thinks?”
“What do you care what Mum and Gran think?” I shot back. “Why shouldn’t I tell Mum that you’re hanging around the beach picking up guys and agreeing to meet them behind everyone’s back? What if he’s a rapist?” I hated myself even as I said it.
“He’s not a rapist, he’s a fisherman. His parents own Treleaven’s. He works there part-time. He liked Gran’s car, and we just started to talk. He’s cute. I think I’ve seen him around before, too.”
Cute. I really would kill her, right here, right now. “Then why be ashamed of telling Mum and Gran?”
“Because they won’t understand, that’s why.” Eliza sounded distraught, and if I didn’t hate her so much at that moment, I might have felt sorry for her. “You know what a snob Gran is about townies. Please, Jem. Look, I know I’ve been a bitch to you all day, and I’m sorry. But please, just this once. Keep it between us? Please?”
“Do you really like him, Eliza?” The pain in my voice, if she picked up on it at all, would be interpreted as anger directed at her. Eliza was too narcissistic to hear pain in another person’s voice unless she herself was causing it, on purpose. In any event, since I had the upper hand at that moment regarding keeping her secret or not it barely mattered anyway. I felt as though a nail-studded coffin full of bricks was lying across my chest, suffocating me and impaling me on its dull spikes at the same time. “Do you want him to be your…your boyfriend?”
“I don’t know,” Eliza said lightly. “I haven’t thought that far ahead. But I’m bored. And he’s cute. He’ll do for the rest of August at least, I guess.”
I agreed to keep her secret, for my own reasons. Eliza’s proximity to Angus would bring him into my orbit as nothing else could. Adoring him from a distance had been my secret, the image I treasured after lights-out at school when I touched myself under the covers in my dorm room, when I was sure my roommate was asleep, and every night of every summer, especially in August at Flyte.
