There were so many words we were not allowed to say (not just the obvious ones) and gestures that were considered too vulgar for our body parts to participate in communicating them. We couldn't point, or stick our tongues out. We couldn't say "shut up" or call someone a "liar." A lie was a "story," and that suited me just fine. I had a whole book of Bible Stories that were too fantastic to be true, and I came to understand that liars make good storytellers, and are forgiven.
My mother was the arbiter of these rules, our Emily Post and our Khrushchev. Lots of people, maybe most people, never shed the skin of childhood. It just stretches with age and if you scratch down through the epidermis, dermis and hypodermis you'll hit the tender skin of their youth. With my mother, the sequence is reversed. Her childhood layer is on top. She bruises easily and is always wearing some fresh shade of hurt or healing. I can see why she'd want to spare us her condition, to raise children above reproach.
She had it rough though, raising twins, children born to operate as a team, and Ben and I were usually in it together, unless I was in it for myself. Although he had been born first, by four minutes, it was because I shoved him out. I was, from the beginning, the boss of Ben. Which is why, when he made the mistake of saying "hell" – within some innocuous or mildly rebellious context – I held it over his head for weeks. His allowance was mine. My chores were done. Until it was time to tell.
I rushed into the master bedroom, tattle on my tongue. Ben right behind me, pleading. Our mother was lying on her back with a Merle Norman glossy, hot-pink mask on her face. It made her look like a burn victim, and she couldn't talk without cracking open. When I informed her of Ben's grievous sin, she nodded and flicked her wrist for us to go. Ben, poor soul, rather than being angry with me for tormenting him, was so relieved he threw himself into my arms and sobbed. I had saved him by wisely choosing this very moment when our mother had been rendered impotent by cosmetics to reveal his crime.
Ben never did toughen up, or wise up, but he was rescued. Just before second grade, Mama found a new best friend. Sally Sheldon, a grade-school teacher from Anniston, moved into the classroom next door to hers. Sally had two sons and one of them – Cal – was our age, a chubby, sandy-haired, blue-eyed boy with the kind of lashes you see on an expensive baby doll. He had a drum kit, an arsenal of pellet guns and a dog. I couldn't compete with that, and pretty soon Cal was the new boss of Ben.
As our parents socialized we were often thrown together, a gang of three. Only, within human relationships, there is never an equilateral triangle; someone is always at the narrowing end. I became the tagalong, the tolerated, the pest, watching Ben and Cal bond over their shared love of KISS, motorcycles and hunting. I turned inward, to books, and one of my strongest memories of that time is reading Island of the Blue Dolphins on the Sheldon's couch, feeling marooned, while Ben and Cal listened to Black Diamond a thousand times, trying to work out the guitar parts. There would be an upcoming concert in the Sheldon garage. I would be the ticket taker.
By high school, Ben was in trouble, troubled. He was emotionally unpredictable, using alcohol and drugs to mute unspeakable urges and voices. Cal was right by his side, along for the ride, just like everyone who loved him. Ben was now the boss of us all. And Cal – Cal had shed his baby fat, grown tall, broad-shouldered. He came into his inheritance, the suave grin that made his philandering daddy famous in three states. I couldn't look at either Ben or Cal without longing to see them as they once were: Ben, when he was normal and full of promise. Cal, before I desired him.
Early one morning, during the summer after high school, I came home after a night out with my girlfriends and found the house trashed. Our parents – Ben's and mine and Cal's – were off somewhere for the weekend, and we'd all made the most of it. I'd partied at a nightclub and they had partied at our house. "Holy hell, guys!" I yelled down the hall, where I knew Ben and Cal were sleeping. "You'd better get out here and clean up before Mom and Dad get back."
I heard the shower turn on, and I grabbed a trash bag and filled it with red Solo cups and pizza boxes. I gathered pieces of a broken bird figurine and thought up a lie, a story, about how it got broken. It would have to be my fault. Too many things were Ben's fault. I went to the sink, filled it with sudsy water, and I was washing plates when Cal padded up behind me. He smelled like soap. He set his hands on my shoulders, his chin on the top of my head. "Sorry about the mess," he said. Then he delivered a brotherly kiss to my cheek. After that, a lingering, not-so-brotherly kiss to the back of my neck. Another between my shoulder blades, along the spine.
I was already packed for college; my boxes were in the hall. I had worked out the person I would be, away from here, away from Ben and our parents, the people who knew me too well, trapped me into being someone they knew. I would dress differently, talk differently and be different. That was the plan and I knew that if I leaned into Cal my life would be different in some other way, a way I could not control. I said, "Cal. No."
He dropped his hands and stepped away. "It's too late, I guess. I'm too late."
I left for school. Cal and I didn't speak for seven years.
Ben's wedding was a complicated blur, but I have the photos. All of us lined up along the brick facade of the church, as if for a firing squad, wearing our best clothes and bottom-heavy smiles. Smiles that need neck muscles for support. Except for the bride. She's effortlessly beaming, oblivious.
By then the list of things we weren't allowed to say included things we weren't allowed to think. A thoughtless synapse could crack us open. So we all agreed that the bride was beautiful and the weather was unseasonably warm. I discretely scratched at the waistline of my pantyhose, where a belt of sweat was drawing tight. My mother patted my arm in warning. Stop. Then we lined up for the procession into the church, where we would perform as a gracious, above-reproach family, and when the shit hit the fan, we could claim to be surprised.
At the reception, hope came in the form of champagne and an open bar. Maybe this really would be just the thing Ben needed. A wife. A future. My mother danced with her mother. Nanny's knee-highs slipped below the hem of her dress. My father danced with me and then the bride. I danced with Ben, cheek-to-cheek, pausing to pose for a photo that would one day be the prize in my collection.
As Ben went to reclaim his bride, I was spun into the arms of the best man, Cal. He tensed as our hands met, and I did too. A gap of seven years, bridged in an instant. He grinned, that infamous, meaningless grin – perfected – and I was no longer the girl he might have loved like a sister and could have loved more. I was just a girl, any girl. He called me that when he grabbed me tight about the waist and pulled me close. "Girl, let's just dance."
And that's what we did, until our faces shone like mirrors.
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P.S. I'm pretty sure the lyric is, "Clowns to the left of me, jokers to the right..."
The triangle became more than equal.
What happened to Cal?
Feelings here, wonderful, innocent, desperate..
Family, and friends that might as well have been family.
Sadly those days have more than passed, we're not like that anymore I don't think.
Rated for nostalgia.
You rock, sister in my mind...
I hope I'm wrong about that.
And please, like Mary, I'm dying to know what became of Cal?
r.
WONDERFUL!!
HUGGGGGGGG
I would be remiss if despite my jealousy, I didn't convey my deepest appreciation for your storytelling (or liaring as you might have it). I could compare you to the Southern greats, William Faulkner ... Flannery O'Connor ... Harper Lee ... but that would be and injustice to them and you. You have a voice all your own, and it sings so bittersweetly.
R♥
R
Lunchlady -- I'm glad the story pulled you in. That's what I hoped it would do.
Brunhilde -- I'm pretty sure it's "hounds" not "clowns" ;)
Brad -- Rarely. But when I did...
Mary -- Sally is still my mom's best friend, so I hear about Cal regularly, although I don't see him often. He's married and has a son who will be a Senior in HS next year. He struggled with alcohol for a while and then entered rehab and has been sober for at least ten years.
ccdarling -- Your first love is never just another guy. But we both moved on.
Seer -- I've always been willing to let the lines between family and friends blur. I was adopted, so the term "blood ties" means nothing to me.
Mission -- Awww...I've always wanted to rock. But I usually fall short.
Jeanette -- Can I suggest that you set your ambitions higher? Still, I thank you for the compliment!
Gerald -- Not a happy ending. Just a real one, with some happiness mixed in there.
Lamm -- Speechless is good...right?
Boanerges1 -- I always love seeing your name pop up. Glad you enjoyed it.
Freethinker -- Ben's marriage did not end well, and Ben himself did not end well. (Cal did marry, have a son, and is doing well. I haven't seen him in several years.)
Jon -- Thank you!
Linda -- Lifetime movie? Score! Although I'm too old to play myself...What a drag.
Joan -- That's quite a compliment. Thank you.
Larry -- Fine writing is what I always hope to provide, and only occasionally achieve. Even now, when I read through, I'd change a dozen things.
jmac -- I do have the photos, and I wish you could see them in reality. I don't post them because of privacy concerns.
Fusun -- Honesty is hard when you're writing about things close to the heart, so I'm happy that you felt it.
Alysa -- Not all sad, and happy endings, even briefly happy endings, are still happy for a time.
femme -- YES! I do need a comma editor. I try,,,, and try,,, and try,,,Editors are awesome and they save us from the worst of ourselves.
Julie -- Love you too.
Kim -- I thought this might have toppled over the edge, toward self-indulgence.
lorainne -- That means a lot. Truly.
Lea -- I will have to look it up. And when I do, I will use it in my next post!! Seriously....
Wendo -- Your comment is perfectly wonderful.
Why haven't I found you before....my cursor cannot move up to "Add as Favorite" fast enough.
beautiful, beautiful prose...
Midwest -- We're a smaller country than we think we are. There's a lot of crosstalk between the regions, and yeah, I still had a hard time with the word "lie." And shut up. And I don't point. Ever.
Brazen -- Are you another refugee from the land of Unthinkable?
Unbreakable -- Thanks so much. (I know I keep saying that...but I think fellow writers know that every positive comment means SOOOO much, especially when you're working within the space of your head, which is 7/8 negative and then there's that little negligible space tucked into the hypothalamus that's a cheerleader.)
Fernsy -- I'm trying to imagine how far I'd get on my imaginary advance. Atlanta? One day I'll get out your way...
Anna -- I think they're focusing on Memorial Day stories for the weekend (as they should), and this piece might be too long and too personal for most readers anyway. But your vote and everyone else's feedback means a lot to me.
Dianaani -- Well, we did claim to be surprised, and we were convincing.
jlsathre -- It's a piece, and my other posts are pieces. I wish I could post it as a linear memoir -- because I like reading other memoirs in that format -- but mine come to me in patchwork. With recipes!
Trilogy -- Yes Ma'am! I'll get on it.
Deborah -- I'm not a good dancer. I hope you know that.
Greenheron -- I love the possibilities of your comment. I do wonder what the bride would say. I'd love to see or read her story.
Let's just say I'm really looking forward to your book.
Those worlds suppressed. They have away of ending up on top somehow. I do wish more parents who tend toward authoritarianism realized this...
Excellent writing about this slice of your life.
Scarlett -- I've been at the narrowing end and the wide-angled end, within the same day, within the same relationship!
Abrawang -- It's a story I've been waiting to tell. The time seemed right, though I don't know why.
Thoth -- Thanks, dear.
Sally -- That means so much. It's a story close to my heart.
DiBi -- You made me smile. I'm working on it (or two) and there's always the thought (doubt) -- Who's going to want to read this?
Firechick -- Get up, girl!
Elizabeth -- Thank you, for reading, and taking the time to comment.
Clay -- Just seeing your cute avatar there is enough.
Luminous -- I hope I am. You give me hope.
I seriously doubt that you've "studied" writing in academia. There's no more unstudied work at OS than yours. Reading your stories isn't "like" being there. It's being there. Floating effortlessly above the action, no matter how intimate or public. A bedroom or a ballroom. People you know. A smile you can see, a storm whose presence you can feel coming. It's all in the telling, and you tell it good.
Drema
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I remember that horrid smelling Merle Norman mask. How about the pure acid creme rinse. And they had their OWN stores!! What ever happened to them?
I feel a bit clue less, is this an on-going story?