After the Fall Page 9

  Rita offered a sharp glare. “You better think twice before you make that decision,” Rita warned, her jaw firmly set. “You leave here without my permission and you won’t be welcomed back. You know I love you,” she said, “but this is not a democracy and you’re still fifteen years old. In this house, you do as I say.”

  Rikki bit her lower lip. Rita could be scary when she got angry, and Rikki had already pushed her to the edge. “Fine,” Rikki said, surrendering to the inevitability of Christmas in Queens. “Fine.” She jerked herself hard away from the table, the pasta still untouched. “I’m done eating.”

  “That’s fine and dandy with me,” Rita said as she spun her fork into the pile of Ronzoni. “The pasta will keep. Maybe you need some time to be alone,” she suggested, as if Rikki’s stomping off was actually her idea.

  ◆

  “She won’t let me go,” Rikki told Barbra at school the next day. Together they sat in the cafeteria, their lunches untouched.

  Barbra’s eyes popped. “But why?”

  Rikki shook her head, unwilling to go into the specifics. “What does it matter? A no is a no.”

  “I can’t believe it,” Barbra said, exasperated. “It could have been so much fun. Now I’ll have to go without you. I counted on you going,” she whined dramatically, hands buried in her hair.

  “It won’t be so bad,” Rikki offered, trying to cheer her friend.

  “Oh, yes, it will,” Barbra grumbled, popping open a green Tupperware. The intense smell of Good Seasons filled the air. “Have you ever been to Toledo?”

  Rikki hadn’t.

  “It’s a horror,” Barbra assured her. “There’s more going on in a cemetery.”

  Rikki giggled. “Now you’re exaggerating.”

  “I’m not,” Barbra said as she attacked a piece of wilted lettuce with a fork.

  “How can you eat that?” Rikki asked.

  “What else can I do? She made it. I’ve told her not to put dressing on it. That I can get dressing at school. But no.” Barbra held up the fork to which the soggy lettuce clung. “She has to ruin everything. Even lunch. She makes me want to scream.”

  Rikki removed her sandwich, wrapped in aluminum foil, from the brown paper bag. She smelled it. “At least you don’t have to eat peanut butter.”

  “Oh, I love peanut butter. I’d eat that in a heartbeat. What’s wrong with peanut butter?”

  “Do you know how many calories are in one tablespoon? 190.” Rikki unwrapped the sandwich and lifted it to eye level. “How much would you say she slathered on this?”

  “Don’t forget the bread and the jam.”

  “Right. She wants me fat,” Rikki announced. “If I’m fat, I’ll never leave. If I’m fat, I’ll be forced to spend the rest of my life with her. Lonely, depressed,” and then Rikki broke into a mischievous smile, “drowning in adolescent angst.”

  Barbra burst out laughing, spitting up bits of chewed tomato, and snorting so loudly that those sitting nearby turned to see what was going on.

  “Shh,” Rikki said, an index finger to her mouth as she joined in the laughter.

  ◆

  “What are you doing?” Rita asked as she put on her coat, ready to go grocery shopping. “I thought you said you were coming with me.”

  Rikki sat at the kitchen table. “I’m almost done.” She scribbled out a final sentence, as a look of pleasure swept across her face.

  “That must be some letter,” Rita huffed. “Who are you writing to?”

  Rikki held up the legal pad. “This isn’t a letter. It’s a short story.”

  “Well, excuse me,” Rita snapped sarcastically, hands on her hips, winter coat wide open. “My mistake. So, are we going or not?”

  “Yes,” Rikki said as she marched off in her slippers to the bedroom. “I need to change my shoes. I’ll just be a moment.”

  When Rikki returned, coat in hand, Rita was sitting at the kitchen table reading. She looked up as her granddaughter approached. Rikki was suddenly unnerved. There was a look in Rita’s eyes she hadn’t seen before. A look she didn’t understand. She readied herself for the criticism. To be mocked. Her adrenaline surged as she prepared to defend herself.

  Rita smiled as she held the yellow pad. “This is good. Where’d you come up with the idea?”

  Rikki rushed forward and grabbed the pad. “It’s not done yet.”

  “Oh, but it’s very good. I’d like to read more.”

  Rikki suddenly felt ill. “It’s only a first draft.”

  “I didn’t know you could write.” Rita opened her purse and searched through it. “Why didn’t I know this?”

  Rikki shrugged her shoulders. “There’s really nothing to know. It’s a writing contest. The winner gets a scholarship. No big deal. I probably won’t win.”

  Rita pulled out a Salem 100 and gently tapped it on the table.

  “Please don’t light that. Please,” Rikki begged.

  Rita tried to squeeze the cigarette back into the pack. “Damn,” she said as the cigarette broke in half. “Rikki, these are expensive. Now look what you made me do.”

  “One less nail in the coffin,” Rikki muttered.

  “Why didn’t you tell me about this short story?” Rita asked. “Am I that older woman?”

  “It’s not about you,” Rikki clarified.

  “Well, that isn’t very flattering. I’m thinking I’d make an interesting character.” Rita slid out of her coat and let it drop to the back of the chair. “So, what’s it about?”

  “A journey,” Rikki offered. “A young girl goes off to find herself.”

  Rita broke into a broad smile. “Oh, well, that makes sense.”

  Rikki pulled out a chair and sat down. “She travels to a place she’s never been before and all sorts of wonderful things happen to her.”

  “Like Alice in Wonderland? The Wizard of Oz?”

  “Kind of . . .”

  And despite Rikki’s request, Rita took out another cigarette and this time she lit it, inhaling deeply before exhaling up toward the ceiling. “Honey, it’s been done before and by far better writers.”

  “I suppose,” Rikki said as she clutched the short story to her chest.

  “You know, you remind me of your mother right now.” Rita took another drag as she eyed her granddaughter. “She thought she had this great talent. She attended Music and Art High School in Manhattan. I didn’t want her to go. It was so silly. No one can earn a living as a painter, unless of course they’re painting the outside of your house. And then she got that scholarship to Cranbrook’s Academy of Art. Spending her day dreaming impossible dreams. I think of that and wonder what might have happened if she’d been an administrative assistant or a bookkeeper. Something practical. Logical. She might still be alive.” Rita shifted her focus to her right index finger and a chipped nail.

  “At least she was happy,” Rikki said, bringing her back to the conversation.

  “Happy? You think she was happy?” Rita shook her head to the contrary. “She wanted to live in Europe. Study in Paris. She’d often say. ‘If I had studied overseas, I’m certain I could have become a marvelous portrait painter.’”

  “Why didn’t she go to Paris?”

  Rita put her cigarette out, smashing it into the ashtray with a twist. “Because people like us don’t go to Paris. We don’t do anything extraordinary. That isn’t who we are. So she didn’t study in Paris. Instead, my walls were lined with still lifes; fruit baskets overflowing with apples, oranges, bananas; vases upon vases of Gerbera daisies; loaves of bread laid out on white, silken tablecloths. Paintings hung one atop the other, rising from the floor to the ceiling. An odd, densely packed wallpaper of her ‘little darlings’ that she either couldn’t sell or refused to sell. No space to spare. No wall left uncovered.”

  Rikki looked about. “Where?”

  “Here,” Rita waved a hand about. “Right here.”

  Rikki was astonished. The walls in the apartment were bare. White everywhere. “What ha
ppened to all of her work?”

  Rita gathered herself up, ignoring the question. “We better get going. I don’t want to miss out on the specials.”

  “But what about my mother’s art?” Rikki demanded to know. “Where is it?”

  “I donated it,” Rita said, somewhat indignantly. “I brought it to Goodwill and said, ‘Here, something wonderful to cheer up the needy. Some wonderful artwork from my dead daughter.’” Rita gasped, covering her mouth as she choked back tears. “A still life from a stilled life.”

  ◆

  “And then she told me that she’d given away all of my mother’s artwork,” Rikki shared with Barbra. “Can you believe her? Who would do such a thing?”

  Barbra listened as she tore through her salad, enraptured as if it was the latest segment of Grey’s Anatomy.

  Rikki held a Gala apple in her hand. Two bites missing. “I don’t think I’ll ever get over it,” she said waving the apple. “That was rightfully mine. She destroyed my personal property.” Rikki was filled with righteous indignation.

  Barbra leaned forward. “Did you ask where she donated it? The store might still have a few pieces left.”

  “What good would that do? It was over four years ago. I’m sure it’s all gone by now. It must be.”

  “Oh, Rikki, I’m so sorry. I can only imagine how you must feel.”

  Rikki took another bite of her apple, satisfied that she’d won Barbra’s sympathy.

  “It seems to me that your grandmother is one selfish lady. It would serve her right if you just took off and went with me to Toledo anyway. It would teach her a lesson.”

  Rikki took another bite of her apple as Barbra popped the lid back on the Tupperware dish.

  “You should do it,” Barbra coaxed.

  “Do what?” Barney asked as he slid into the seat next to Barbra and across from Rikki. A small, lunch-size carton of milk was in his hand.

  Barbra’s mouth dropped as Barney swiveled sideways, one elbow on the table, his head resting in the palm of his hand.

  Rikki tried to act casually. “Take a trip.”

  “Where?” Barney asked, his bright blue eyes fixed on Rikki. “Where are you going?”

  “Nowhere,” Rikki admitted. “At least not at the moment.”

  “Too bad.” Barney opened the milk and took a swig. “Sounds like fun.”

  “She’s afraid,” Barbra announced. “She’s afraid to come with me to Toledo.”

  “Spain?” Barney asked.

  “Ohio,” Barbra quickly clarified.

  Barney pointed at the unopened bag of Fritos by Rikki. She nodded. He took the bag and opened it. “Why are you afraid?”

  “I’m not afraid,” Rikki answered.

  Barbra shifted about in her seat to face Barney. “Her grandmother won’t let her go. It’s Christmas and she wants to keep her close. She wants to poison her mind against her mother.”

  Rikki rolled her eyes as Barbra continued.

  “She doesn’t want Rikki to be a writer, because her mother was a painter.”

  “Oh Barbra, stop it. That isn’t true,” Rikki insisted.

  “Yes, it is,” she assured Barney. “She’s trying to break her spirit. Just like she did with her mother. Breaking her like a rancher does a wild stallion.”

  Barbra had Barney’s full attention. A strand of hair fell near his left eye. He pushed it back, tucking it behind an ear. “You can’t let her do that,” he opined to Rikki. “You have to be free.”

  Rikki had no clue what he was talking about. And the more Barbra went on, the more scared she became. “Okay,” she finally said. “Conversation over. This is ridiculous. To listen to you two, you’d think I was being kept captive against my will. I love my grandmother. I’d never want to hurt her.”

  “Then you’ll never have a life,” Barbra warned. “Take it from me. Hurt them now before they hurt you. You’re nothing more than an obligation. Someone who she has to look after. You’ve told me how mean she is.”

  “You’re wrong,” Rikki protested as she looked at Barney for support.

  “Hey, I don’t know anything about family,” he admitted. “I’m strictly room and board. The State pays for my housing. The people I live with, they don’t know me. I’m just—there.”

  Barbra gave Barney a wistful look. “That’s so sad.”

  “Hey,” he snapped, offering her a disparaging glance. “I’m just stating a fact.”

  Rikki looked from Barney to Barbra and then back again. Maybe they’re right, she thought. Maybe they knew more about her situation than she was willing to admit. Maybe she needed to rethink Ohio.

  ◆

  Harry was lost in his own world when Beetle started to rouse. It was noon and they’d been in Harry’s office since eight o’clock. Beetle shifted, stretching his front paws forward and yawning. Harry tried to ignore him, frantically working to finish a paragraph. The words that had been flying out of his fingertips all morning had suddenly stopped.

  Beetle let out a low growl.

  Harry sighed as he leaned back and waited for Beetle to go off. It was inevitable. Either UPS or FedEx was delivering a package. Or a neighbor, enjoying the sunny day, oblivious to the two occupants inside, was strolling past the office window. Or the next door neighbor’s cat, Marley, was out on the patio, digging in the potted plants, an action that had driven Harry’s gardener to distraction.

  Beetle looked at Harry. His brown eyes telegraphed concern. “Don’t ask me,” Harry said. “My hearing was never all that good. I wouldn’t know if someone was in the next room.”

  Beetle stepped out of his bed and stretched.

  Convinced that it was nothing, Harry refocused just as the bell rang and Beetle, barking loudly, took off for the front door. Shaken by the sudden outburst, Harry laughed at his own foolishness. I knew he was going to do that.

  It was Lil standing in the open doorway, holding a plate covered in tin foil. “Why haven’t you returned my calls?”

  “Lil, I told you,” Harry reminded her. “I don’t like to be disturbed when I’m writing.”

  “Oh, Harry Aldon,” Lil laughed as she pushed her way in. “You’re really too much. What’s a girl supposed to do? I call, you don’t answer. If you’re such a great writer, you could at least drop me a note.”

  Harry followed her into the kitchen, where she placed the dish on the counter. “Now when was the last time you had a decent lunch?” she asked, giving his tummy a gentle poke.

  Harry defended himself. “Lil, I eat when I’m hungry.”

  “But not regularly,” she admonished him.

  “Lil, I don’t need a mother. I’m too old to be mothered.”

  “Mother?” she snapped, hands on her hips. “Do I look like your mother?”

  Harry smiled. With her trim figure and beautiful skin, Lil didn’t look like anyone’s mother. “Of course not.”

  “So let’s eat,” she said, turning to open the utensil drawer. “Now, where do you keep your forks and knives?”

  “I’ll do it.” Harry came around and bent over to retrieve two place mats out of a drawer. Lil took them out of his hand and set them next to each other on the counter. Harry added the napkins and glasses. Lil removed the tin foil from the plate, to reveal two stacked sandwiches. Harry pulled down another plate from the cabinet. “There you go,” he said as Lil separated the sandwiches, cutting each in half.

  “See, it isn’t so terrible to eat lunch with a friend.”

  Harry lifted the sandwich. “BLT on toast? I thought you avoided carbs. And bacon . . .” He took a bite.

  “Oh, Harry. I know what men like. I wasn’t going to bring you my Tofurkey.”

  Beetle let out a low-pitched whine. Lil looked down. “Oh, honey,” she cooed, “I didn’t forget about you.” She retrieved a doggy bone out of her pocket. “May I?” she asked Harry. He nodded and she reached down. Beetle grabbed the bone and wandered away.

  ◆

  Mr. Rosenfeld stood at the front of the room
in a dark purple shirt topped by a lime-green bow tie. His blue corduroy pants, held up by bright orange suspenders, gave the impression that he’d stolen the outfit from Barnum & Bailey. He was in the midst of discussing Hardy’s Tess of the D’Urbervilles, the next book on the class’s reading list. He was practically giddy with excitement, his hands flailing about as he talked about the novel and its importance.

  Rikki stifled a yawn as a tight wad of balled-up paper suddenly landed on her desk. Mr. Rosenfeld was now behind her, walking through the aisles as he tended to do when lecturing. Rikki unrumpled the note. It was Barbra’s handwriting. In bold letters it read: WHAT A FAG!

  Rikki immediately crumpled the paper as Mr. Rosenfeld approached her desk.

  “Is that something you’d like to share with everyone?” he said in an imperious tone.

  Rikki’s lips went dry.

  “Let me see that,” Mr. Rosenfeld said putting out his hand.

  Rikki passed the note over. She suddenly felt ill.

  It seemed to take forever before Mr. Rosenfeld opened the ball of paper. Rikki watched his eyes as he scanned the message. She opened her mouth as if to say something but couldn’t manage to get a word out. He looked at her, his face bright red, and she could sense the disappointment in his eyes. It was that look that scarred her. The intense hurt of someone who’d been so kind to her. She wanted to cry out, to deny ownership of the paper, to disavow any knowledge of it.

  Mr. Rosenfeld slowly nodded his head. His expression shifted. His lower lip all but disappeared as he bit down. “I’ll see you after class,” he told Rikki as he slipped the ball of paper into his pocket and continued on about the writings of Hardy, though far less animated than before.

  ◆

  Rikki slowly approached Mr. Rosenfeld’s desk as the rest of the class streamed out the door. She waited, eyes glued to the floor, as Mr. Rosenfeld closed the door behind the last student.

  “I’m surprised at you,” Mr. Rosenfeld said as he crossed back to where Rikki was standing and sat on the edge of his desk.

  Rikki nervously pursed her lips. She wanted to deny that she’d written the note, but then, she’d have to give up Barbra. And she didn’t want to get her in trouble.