“You, uh, want a sandwich or something?” he asked.
Ruth hesitated. The kitchen was dim and silent, and it was no longer
possible to ignore the obvious fact that they were alone in the house. Mr. Caruso worked on the assembly line at the GM plant; Mrs. Caruso ran the office for Ruth’s dentist. His brothers and sisters were older, living on their own.
“I don’t think so,” she said.
“We got roast beef, ham, turkey—”
“I’m not really hungry.”
“You sure? How about a soda or something?”
“I better get home.”
He gave her what Ruth later remembered as a searching look, focusing a whole new kind of attention on her, as if he’d suddenly realized that she’d grown up, and had become something more interesting than his next-door neighbor’s little sister.
Embarrassed by his scrutiny, Ruth felt her eyes drift down over his soft belly and broad thighs before finally landing on his cast, which was almost completely covered with psychedelic graffiti. There were still a couple of empty spaces near the toe, and she wished she knew him well enough to fill them with her name and a brief, cheerful message. She gave an apologetic shrug.
“Lotta homework,” she said.
THAT WAS
an odd, unsettled spring for her, the first time she’d ever really been alone. Ever since Mandy left for college, Ruth had been sunk in something approaching a state of mourning. Her big sister was the one indispensable person in her life—ally, best friend, consoler, explainer of the world. They’d shared a bedroom for thirteen years, trading gossip, complaining about their parents, mumbling secrets to each other until they nodded off, then waking up together to the tinny music warbling out of the clock radio on the table between their beds. With Mandy away, the house seemed perpetually out-of-whack—distressingly tidy and much too quiet, as if something more than a single person had been subtracted from the whole.
It hadn’t been so bad for the first couple of months. Mandy called most nights and came home every other weekend, full of fascinating new information and unusually strong opinions. But then, at Thanksgiving, she solemnly informed the family that she’d
fallen in love
—she delivered this announcement at the dinner table, with an air of self-importance that Ruth had found both thrilling and vaguely sickening—and since then, she hadn’t come home at all, except for an obligatory couple of days at Christmas. Now Ruth considered herself lucky if she spoke to her sister once a week, and when she did, Mandy’s mind was a thousand miles away; she couldn’t even fake an interest in the details of Ruth’s pathetic teen dramas. All she wanted to talk about was Desmond, the Irish grad student with the beautiful eyes and soulful voice, who had awakened her to the suffering and injustice of the world. They were planning on traveling to Nicaragua over the summer to see the Sandinista Revolution for themselves, to cut through the fog of lies and propaganda spewed out by the American government and its toadies in the media.
Great
, thought Ruth.
And I’ll be home with Mom and Dad, waitressing at the IHOP
.
It wasn’t that Ruth had a bad relationship with her parents, at least not compared to a lot of kids she knew. They weren’t especially strict or even normally vigilant; for the most part, they trusted her to make her own decisions about who she hung out with, where she went, and what time she came home. It probably helped that Ruth got good grades, didn’t have a boyfriend, and rarely got invited to parties.
She had only one real problem with her parents, but it was a big one: they were just so
depressing
. With Mandy around, she had barely noticed. Now, though, Ruth had no choice but to observe her mother and father during their interminable, mostly silent family dinners, and wonder how it was possible that two reasonably attractive, reasonably intelligent people could sleep in the same bed and have so little interest in what the other was thinking or feeling. They rarely spoke a kind or
curious word to each other, and hardly ever laughed when they were together. They did kiss good-bye in the morning, but the act seemed utterly mechanical, no more tender or meaningful than when her father patted his back pocket on the way out the door to make sure his wallet was there. They paid so little attention to each other that a stranger might have assumed they’d been randomly assigned to live together, roommates who wanted nothing more than to keep out of each other’s way.
It hadn’t always been like this, though. Ruth had the photographic evidence to prove it—wedding albums, honeymoon snapshots, happy family portraits from when she and her sister were little. In the old pictures, her mother and father smiled, they touched, they
looked
at each other. So what happened? Every now and then, when Ruth was alone with her mother, she tried to find out.
“Is something wrong? Are you and Dad mad at each other?”
“Not at all. Everything’s fine.”
“Fine? You never even
talk
to him.”
“We talk all the time. We have a very good relationship.”
Conversations like this made Ruth glad her mother had gone back to work full-time, which meant that she at least had a few hours to herself when she got home from school, some time to mellow out and do her homework in peace. It hadn’t mattered so much in the fall, when Ruth had been a jayvee cheerleader, an activity that kept her busy in the afternoons and gave her a ready-made social life. But she’d hung up her pompoms at the end of football season—she just wasn’t
peppy
enough—and immediately found herself exiled from the clique of pretty, popular girls she’d drifted into freshman year, coasting on the widespread misconception that she was a younger version of Mandy, who actually
was
a pretty and popular varsity cheerleader, though she now regretted it on feminist grounds.
All Ruth really knew as that fateful April cracked open was that she was living in a kind of limbo, a waiting period between what had
happened before and what would happen next. Temporarily sisterless and friendless, she spent a lot of time in a state of vague anticipation, staring at the phone, willing it to ring, hoping to hear a friendly voice on the other end, a mystery boy who confessed that he’d been watching her and thinking about her, and wouldn’t she like to put away her homework and maybe have a little fun?
SO IT
was nice to suddenly have a regular date with Paul Caruso, even if it didn’t amount to anything more than a fifteen-minute walk home from the bus stop. They hit it off right away, slipping easily past the awkwardness of the first day into a realm of relaxed intimacy that made her feel like they’d been friends for years instead of neighbors who’d barely acknowledged each other’s existence until a few days ago.
He confided in her about his troubles with Missy, who’d become increasingly clingy as they approached the end of high school. They were heading to different colleges—she’d been recruited to play soft-ball at the U. of Delaware; he was going to major in Music at William Paterson—and Paul had no illusions that they could survive as a couple beyond the end of summer. But Missy was adamant about committing to a long-distance relationship.
“It never works,” he told her. “Have you ever heard of a case where it works?”
Ruth liked the serious way he asked these questions, as if she were a mature adult with a wide experience of the world, someone he could count on for good advice.
“It didn’t work for my sister,” she said. “And she and Rich were only an hour apart. I guess she just wanted to make a fresh start or something.”
“That’s kinda how I’m feeling,” Paul admitted. “But I don’t know how to say it. Missy’s just so emotional these days. She cries over every little thing.”
Ruth usually considered herself a compassionate person, but she found it impossible to scrape up any sympathy for Missy, who refused to say hi to her in the halls even though they’d spent several Saturday mornings together in the fall, sorting glass and metal at the Recycling Center. Ruth just hated that, the way someone could be so nice to you one day, then cut you dead the next.
“She’s probably just scared,” Ruth speculated. “About going away and everything.”
“Personally, I can’t wait. I mean, don’t you think it gets a little
boring
around here?”
“A
little
?” she said, and he gave a knowing laugh that made her feel thrillingly conspiratorial, like the two of them knew something that crybaby Missy didn’t.
Every day she followed him inside and set his backpack and trumpet down on the kitchen table, then suffered through an excruciating moment of suspense, waiting for him to ask if she’d like a sandwich or a soda, or even a glass of ice water, but he never did. It was as if he’d taken her refusal on the first day as a statement of principle, a philosophical objection to food and drink.
THE WEATHER
turned warm at the end of April, a glorious stretch of perfect days—birdsong, blue sky, blossoms dropping from fruit trees in little blizzards of pink and green. If Ruth had owned a dog, she would’ve taken it for a walk, but instead she changed into terry-cloth gym shorts and a T-shirt, spread a beach towel out on the lawn of her backyard, and lay down on top of it, her face to the sun. She could hear the sound of Paul’s trumpet wafting out from his bedroom window, quivering in the air above her. He was playing a jazzed-up version of “My Favorite Things,” and she let herself imagine that he was watching her from his window, including her among the raindrops and roses and brown-paper packages.
Even at that age—especially at that age—Ruth wasn’t in the habit
of thinking of herself as beautiful. At best, she figured, she was a 6 on the 1-10 scale that lots of ugly, obnoxious boys were happy to use on girls, but wouldn’t have dreamed of applying to themselves. She believed that she deserved an above-average score due to the fact that there was nothing obviously wrong with her—she had a decent body and an okay face, no weird moles or facial hair or skin problems, nothing disfigured or bizarrely out of proportion. On the other hand, she lacked any of the truly outstanding features that would have qualified for the top group—her boobs were little, her face “cute” rather than “pretty,” her hair mousy and a bit limp. You developed a fairly realistic assessment of yourself growing up in the shadow of an older sister who’d been turning the heads of grown men since she was twelve. If Mandy had been out here in her string bikini—she was a devoted sun worshipper, always happy for an excuse to show some skin—Ruth would’ve made sure to stay far away, out of range of unkind comparisons. But today she was alone, without a doubt the prettiest girl in the yard, and she wished she’d been brave enough to wear a bathing suit or at least a tube top, to allow her body to be appreciated on its own modest terms.
She picked up the copy of
Even Cowgirls Get the Blues
that she’d checked out of the library on Paul’s recommendation, and tried to get started. But it was hard to coax her mind into visualizing an imaginary reality when the one right in front of her was so vividly and insistently alive—the marshmallow clouds drifting overhead, the garden ducks pinwheeling their wooden wings in the breeze, the inchworm making its ticklish journey up her shin. At some point she realized that the music had stopped, and couldn’t keep herself from casting an anxious glance at Paul’s bedroom window. But all she saw was the sunlight reflecting off the glass, a blinding glare where his face would’ve been.
THE NEXT
day they were careful with each other on the way home from school, less talkative than usual. They had already turned onto
their block by the time Paul asked her if she was enjoying the Tom Robbins novel.
“I’m not really sure,” she said. “I tried to read it yesterday, but I couldn’t concentrate.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. I guess my mind was on other things.”
“That’s weird,” he said. “I was trying to practice my trumpet and the same thing happened to me. Couldn’t keep my mind on the music.”
“Spring fever.”
“Must be.”
Her heart felt big and jumpy as she followed him into the kitchen, certain that they’d crossed a point of no return. She set his stuff on the table and turned to him with a solemn expression.
“So,” she said.
“Yeah,” he agreed.
She didn’t really know where to go from here, how you got from the talking to the rest of it, and he seemed just as baffled as she was, though he had less excuse, being older and more experienced. They stared at each other until the silence got embarrassing. She addressed her next question to the floor.
“I guess you have to practice, huh?”
“An hour a day.”
“You’re really disciplined.”
“What about you?” he asked. “Will you be out in the yard?”
“Probably.” She hesitated for a moment, giving him one more chance to save her. “I guess I better go, huh?”
All he had to do was say,
No, don’t go. Stay here with me for a while
. But he didn’t say anything, didn’t make the smallest gesture to stop her, which made it impossible for her to do anything but leave. She could feel the frustration in his eyes as she headed for the door. It was
painful, like being trapped in a bad dream where all you had to do was say one thing, but you didn’t know the words.
RUTH LAY
down on her towel in a purple one-piece bathing suit and pretended to read. It was a kind of torture, knowing how close he was, how simple it would be if she could only find the courage to take matters into her own hands, to walk across the lawn and ring his doorbell.
He was playing his trumpet again, but it was just scales, no more songs that might be secret messages, and the mechanical up-and-down-and-up of it started to drive her a little crazy, as monotonous as a chain saw or an ice-cream-truck jingle. She rolled onto her stomach, sealed her ears with her index fingers, and forced herself to concentrate on the novel. The story was ridiculous—something about a girl with big thumbs and her friend named Bonanza Jellybean—and it suddenly seemed like Paul had made a fool of her, convincing her to lie outside in a bathing suit and read this stupid book for nothing.