The Fifth Stage Part 15

"It was okay," I said, never breaking stride.

Dad brushed Mom away from his head. He loosened his blue- striped tie and undid his collar. "We're going out to lunch with the Osbornes. Why don't you put on a dress and go with us?"

"Nah. I haven't had a shower. I stink. Besides, I've got studying to do." I tried to slip on by, but Mom's bull c.r.a.p detector must have gone off the second I opened my mouth.

"Oh, come on. Your old folks aren't that bad to hang around with, are they?" Mom practically sang the words as she fell in step behind me.

"We're going to Dutch Boy. You used to love Dutch Boy."

"It's okay, but I've got to finish my comp paper," I replied, quickening my pace. I heard Dad ramble to the kitchen, his wingtips clunking on the tile, but Mom was on my heels, her steps nearly silent on the worn carpeting.

"Robert called last night," she said.

"Really?"

"He wanted to talk to you." Mom could be quick as a cheetah when she wanted to, and she made it to the doorway before I could escape.

She leaned against the frame and watched me kick off my shoes. Her gray dress matched the color of our eyes and revealed a modest amount of pale skin above her b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

"Why did he want to talk to me?" I asked, avoiding her knowing gaze.

"He said he'd been thinking about you. He sounded worried."

"Worried? Why?" A knot twisted up inside my stomach as I tossed my shoes in the closet.

Mom sat on the edge of my bed, tucked her skirt beneath her, and crossed her ankles. "Is something bothering you, Claire? You haven't been yourself lately."

I'd tried so hard not to be obvious, but no one knows you like your mother. She's the one who could identify your sick crying from your temper tantrum crying, who woke up in the middle of the night out of pure instinct when you had a fever, and who could tell you'd flunked an algebra quiz by the way you walked. I must've been nuts to think that I could have gone through a life alteration without Mom noticing.

"Nothing's bothering me." I started to unb.u.t.ton my pants, but realized I was wearing Lora's panties. I stopped and left the chinos hanging on my hips.

"Honey, you've got your whole life to worry. Don't waste your youth on it." Mom paused and pretended to adjust her belt, a nervous 91 habit she'd tried to break for years. "If you need to talk to me, you can, Claire. I won't be a hysterical mother."

Okay, Mom. I had s.e.x with my best friend last night. I think I'm a queer. How's that grab you? A swell of nausea rose in my stomach.

I turned and forced a smile, wis.h.i.+ng away the hurt I would eventually cause her. "I'm fine, Mom, really. I guess I'm a little scared about going to college next year. You know, stuff like that."

She smiled back, but the worry in her eyes deepened. I tried to put myself in her place as she sat on her child's bed, not sure what was wrong, not sure how to help. She must have been terrified.

Mom looked out the window. "If it's a boy... if you're in some kind of trouble, any kind of trouble..."

I wished it were that simple. If I'd gone out and gotten myself knocked up, at least she'd have some idea how to deal with it. They'd be upset and disappointed. They'd shake their heads and wonder where they went wrong. They'd be ashamed by what the neighbors would think, but we'd sit down and discuss my options. The real problem was unknown territory, something so unthinkable that my parents would have no idea where to start.

I forced another smile. "Honest. I'm okay."

She looked at me, and I saw myself in her. As I'd matured, I'd developed more of Dad's featuresround cheeks and long, dark lashesbut I was still the spittin' image of Maureen Blevins, like Babbling Betty at the Woolworth's lunch counter had said more than ten years before. I ached with emptiness. I would never make her proud like Robert had, never give her the things a daughter should, but she still smiled. "Sure you don't want to go to lunch?"

I nodded, unable to speak. The monstrosity of the family would remain hidden for at least another day.

She got up and left, and the phone rang. I jumped on my bed and picked up the receiver. "h.e.l.lo?"

"Can you meet me in ten minutes?" Lora's voice lifted my spirits and dampened them at the same time.

"Where?"

"By the tennis courts."

"Give me fifteen. My parents are going to lunch, and they haven't left yet."

"Fifteen, okay."

She didn't say goodbye.

CHAPTER 18.

The brittle night air is good for my head. It blows away the echoes of idle dinner conversation and allows me to compose myself for a moment alone with Rebecca. We stroll silently along the sidewalk and up the front steps.

"Feel like a nightcap?" I slip my key into the lock.

"Sure, but just one. I've got an early day tomorrow." She follows me to the den and drops her purse beside the sofa.

"Make yourself at home." I go to the kitchen and pull a bottle of chilled Chardonnay from the refrigerator and two gla.s.ses from the cabinet.

When I return with the wine, she's sitting square in the middle of the couch. Shucks. I have no choice but to sit close to hervery close.

"You have a nice home," she says as I give her the drink.

"Thank you." I'd like to say something else, something witty and charming, but the line between my brain and my voice has disconnected.

She goes on. "I had a nice time at dinner. Jared and Elizabeth are good people."

"I don't know where I'd be now if it weren't for them. Probably on the street selling pencils."

"I'm glad you're here instead." She sips her drink. "I hope you don't think I'm being too forward, but I couldn't take my eyes off you tonight."

"Did I have spinach in my teeth?" I take a long swallow, but this sissy wine couldn't tranquilize a sloth. Should've poured myself a nice tall scotch or shaken up a vodka martini.

"No, silly. You didn't have spinach in your teeth. I like looking at you, that's all." Rebecca giggles and tentatively slides her hand onto my thigh. When I don't protest, she relaxes, leaving her hand near my knee.

"You like looking at me?" I ask.

"Does that bother you?"

"It's ironic, that's all. Do you know how many times I'd eaten at Choppy's before three months ago?"

92.

93.

She shakes her head, looking puzzled.

"About four. Now, how many times have I been in this winter?

Every single day."

"You come in to see me?"

"I'm not a stalker or anything like that. It's just that... well, this sounds pitiful, but you were always so nice, and I kind of started looking forward to seeing you. I swear it was completely innocent. I had no idea we'd end up going out."

"Why?"

I shrug and hit the wine again. "I don't know. Guess I thought you were straight."

"Is that a compliment or a jab?"

"Neither, just a comment."

She leans closer, eyes dreamy, lips pouting. "This is the south, darlin'. It doesn't pay to be too obvious around here."

"Exactly." I tap my gla.s.s against hers. "I'm not about to put a lambda tattoo on my forehead."

"Me neither." After an awkward silence, she takes another glance around the room. "How long have you lived here?"

"Five years, give or take a few months. That's when I first met Elizabeth. She contacted me about speaking at a Junior League luncheon, and we hit it off right from the start. When she told me about the neighborhood she'd just moved into, she made it sound so nice that I drove through one day on my way home from work. This house was for sale, and I fell in love with it. I didn't realize at the time that Elizabeth and Jared lived right next door."

"So you bought this house by yourself?" She casts the question casually, but I know what she's fis.h.i.+ng for.

I get up and head toward the kitchen, answering her question over my shoulder as I leave. "No. I had a partner."

As I refill my gla.s.s, I can almost hear Rebecca's mind processing the data. Let's see, she moved here five years ago, must have been a serious relations.h.i.+p for them to buy a house. What happened? Did she tell me how long they were together? She's been single for how long?

I step around the corner, obviously interrupting her thoughts. "More wine?"

"No, thanks."

What to do, what to say? I put the wine bottle back on the counter and join her on the sofa. With the most honest expression I can muster, I say, "Look, Rebecca, let me clear up a couple of things for you. Yes, I 94 was in a very serious relations.h.i.+p for a very long time, but it's done, and yes, you're the first woman I've been out with since it's been over."

Rebecca's eyes widen. She takes a sip of wine and composes herself. "Thank you for telling me."

"I thought you should know why I'm so clumsy around you. Like I said, I was in a relations.h.i.+p for a long time and haven't dated since, so this is pretty new to me."

She won't look at me now. Her gaze darts toward the fireplace. "Is that what you want from me, a relations.h.i.+p?"

"I like you, but I don't know what I want right now."

"Fair enough." She puts her gla.s.s on the coffee table, turns to me, and clears her throat. "Since we're being so honest, I'll tell you a little about me. There have been a lot of women in my lifewell, not that manybut the point is, I've never found one who fit just right. Maybe I never will."

"Maybe you expect too much."

"Could be, but I don't think a sense of decency is too much to ask for." She looks disgusted, but then a glimmer of hope twinkles in her eyes. "It's like I keep dating the same person over and over again. After three dates, they're in love. After three months, they're history. Guess I want to break my cycle, you know?"

I trace an X across my heart. "I promise not to fall in love with you after three dates."

Rebecca gives my thigh a playful smack. "That's very kind of you.

I've been chasing the wrong type all my life. It's nice to know you're not like them."

Boy, is she in for a surprise. I've been trying to put my best foot forward, but in fact I'm burned out, used up, and ill-tempered. On the wrong-type scale of one to ten, I'm a seventy-two, and if I had one sliver of the decency she seeks, I'd thank her for a lovely evening and send her packing before one of us gets hurt.

But I don't want her to go, not yet. Searching her eyes, I say, "I'm carrying around all kinds of baggage, stuff you might not want to deal with. We've had some fun tonight, and I'd like to see you again, but consider yourself warned. I'm a basket case."

"Claire, we've all got baggage. It's what makes us who we are."

She pauses. "So what do you think? Can two disillusioned old broads like us let our hair down and see what happensno promises, no regrets?"

"Maybe."

"So I'll see you again?"

95.

"I'd like that."

Rebecca laughs and squeezes the ticklish spot above my knee.