Summer and the City Read online

  “Ugh.”

  “And he has a motorcycle.”

  “What?” This time I really do scream.

  “Didn’t he tell you? He bought a motorcycle.”

  “He hasn’t told me anything. He hasn’t even told me about this Wendy person.”

  “He’s probably afraid,” Dorrit says. “Ever since he met her, he’s become totally whipped.”

  Great, I think, unpacking my suitcase. This is going to be a terrific weekend.

  A little bit later, I find my father in the garage, rearranging his tools. I immediately suspect that Dorrit is right—my father is avoiding me. I’ve been home for less than an hour, but already I’m wondering why I came back at all. No one seems the least bit interested in me or my life. Dorrit ran off to a girlfriend’s house, my father has a motorcycle, and Missy is all caught up with her composing. I should have stayed in New York.

  I spent the entire train ride mulling over last night. The kiss with Capote was a terrible mistake and I’m horrified I went along with it, if only for a few seconds. But what does it mean? Is it possible I secretly like Capote? No. He’s probably one of those “love the one you’re with” guys—meaning he automatically goes after whatever woman happens to be around when he’s feeling horny. But there were plenty of other women at the party, including Rainbow. So why’d he pick me?

  Feeling lousy and hungover, I bought some aspirin and drank a Coke. I kept torturing myself with all the unfinished business I was leaving behind, including Bernard. I even considered getting off the train in New Haven and taking the next train back to New York, but when I thought about how disappointed my family would be, I couldn’t do it.

  Now I wish I had.

  “Dad!” I intone in annoyance.

  He turns, startled, a wrench in his hand. “I was just cleaning out my workbench.”

  “I can see that.” I peer around for this notorious motorcycle and spot it next to the wall, partly hidden behind my father’s car. “Dorrit said you bought a motorcycle,” I say craftily.

  “Yes, Carrie, I did.”

  “Why?”

  “I wanted to.”

  “But why?” I sound like a woeful girl who’s just been dumped. And my father’s acting like a jerky boy who doesn’t have any answers.

  “Do you want to see it?” he asks finally, unable to keep his obvious enthusiasm in check.

  He wheels it out from behind the car. It’s a motorcycle, all right. And not just any old motorcycle. It’s a Harley. With enormous handlebars and a black body decaled with flames. The kind of motorcycle favored by members of the Hells Angels.

  My father rides a Harley?

  On the other hand, I’m impressed. It’s no wussie motorcycle, that’s for sure.

  “What do you think?” he asks proudly.

  “I like it.”

  He seems pleased. “I bought it off this kid in town. He was desperate for money. I only paid a thousand dollars.”

  “Wow.” I shake my head. Everything about this is so unlike my father—from his sentence construction to the motorcycle itself—that for a moment I don’t know what to say. “How’d you find this kid?” I ask.

  “He’s Wendy’s cousin’s son.”

  My eyes bug out of my head. I can’t believe how casually he’s mentioned her. I go along with the game. “Who’s Wendy?”

  He brushes the seat of the motorcycle with his hand. “She’s my new friend.”

  So that’s how he’s going to play it. “What kind of friend?”

  “She’s very nice,” he says, refusing to catch my eye.

  “How come you didn’t tell me about her?”

  “Oh, Carrie.” He sighs.

  “Everyone says she’s your girlfriend. Dorrit and Missy and even Walt.”

  “Walt knows?” he asks, surprised.

  “Everyone knows, Dad,” I say sharply. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  He slides onto the seat of the motorcycle, playing with the levers. “Do you think you could cut me some slack?”

  “Dad!”

  “This is all very new for me.”

  I bite my lip. For a moment, my heart goes out to him. In the past five years, he hasn’t shown an ounce of interest in any woman. Now he’s apparently met someone he likes, which is a sign that he’s moving forward. I should be happy for him. Unfortunately, all I can think about is my mother. And how he’s betraying her. I wonder if my mother is up in heaven, looking down at what he’s become. If she is, she’d be horrified.

  “Did Mom know her? This Wendy friend of yours?”

  He shakes his head, pretending to study the instrument panel. “No.” He pauses. “I don’t think so, anyway. She’s a little bit younger.”

  “How young?” I demand.

  I’ve suddenly pushed too hard, because he looks at me defiantly. “I don’t know, Carrie. She’s in her late twenties. I’ve been told it’s rude to ask a woman her age.”

  I nod knowingly. “And how old does she think you are?”

  “She knows I have a daughter who’s going to Brown in the fall.”

  There’s a sharpness in his tone I haven’t heard since I was a kid. It means, I’m in charge. Back off.

  “Fine.” I turn to go.

  “And Carrie?” he adds. “We’re having dinner with her tonight. I’m going to be very disappointed if you’re rude to her.”

  “We’ll see,” I mutter under my breath. I head back to the house, convinced my worst fears have been confirmed. I already hate this Wendy woman. She has a relative who’s a Hells Angel. And she lies about her age. I figure if a woman is willing to lie about her own birth date, she’s willing to lie about pretty much anything.

  I start to clean out the refrigerator, tossing out one scientific experiment after another. That’s when I remember that I’ve lied about my age as well. To Bernard. I pour the last of the sour milk down the drain, wondering what my family is coming to.

  “Don’t you look special?” Walt quips. “Though a mite overdressed for Castlebury.”

  “What does one wear to a restaurant in Castlebury?”

  “Surely not an evening gown.”

  “Walt,” I scold. “It’s not an evening gown. It’s a hostess gown. From the sixties.” I found it at my vintage store and I’ve been wearing it practically nonstop for days. It’s perfect for sweaty weather, leaving my arms and legs unencumbered, and so far, no one has commented on my unusual garb except to say they liked it. Odd clothing is expected in New York. Here, not so much.

  “I’m not going to change my style for Wendy. Did you know she has a cousin who’s a Hells Angel?”

  Walt and I are sitting on the porch, sipping cocktails while we wait for the notorious Wendy to arrive. I begged Walt to join us for dinner, but he declined, claiming a previous engagement with Randy. He did, however, agree to come by for a drink, so he could see the Wendy person in the flesh.

  “Maybe that’s the point,” he says now. “She’s completely different.”

  “But if he’s interested in someone like Wendy, it calls into question his whole marriage to my mother.”

  “I think you’re taking the analogy too far,” Walt responds, acting as the voice of reason. “Maybe the guy’s just having fun.”

  “He’s my father.” I scowl. “He shouldn’t be allowed to have fun.”

  “That’s mean, Carrie.”

  “I know.” I stare out the screen at the neglected garden. “Did you talk to Maggie?”

  “Yup,” Walt says, enigmatically.

  “What did she say? About New York?”

  “She had a great time.”

  “What did she say about me?”

  “Nothing. All she talked about was some guy you introduced her to.”

  “Ryan. Whom she immediately bonked.”

  “That’s our Maggie,” Walt says with a shrug.

  “She’s turned into a sex fiend.”

  “Oh, let her,” he says. “She’s young. She’ll grow out of it. Anyway, why do
you care?”

  “I care about my friends.” I swing my Fiorucci boots off the table for emphasis. “I just wish my friends cared about me.”

  Walt stares at me blankly.

  “I mean, even my family hasn’t asked me about my life in New York. And frankly, my life is so much more interesting than anything that’s happening to them. I’m going to have a play produced. And I went to a party last night at Barry Jessen’s loft in SoHo—”

  “Who’s Barry Jessen?”

  “Come on, Walt. He’s like the most important artist in America right now.”

  “As I said, ‘Aren’t you special?’” Walt teases.

  I fold my arms, knowing I sound like a jerk. “Doesn’t anyone care?”

  “With your big head?” Walts jokes. “Careful, it might explode.”

  “Walt!” I give him a hurt look. Then my frustration gets the better of me. “I’m going to be a famous writer someday. I’m going to live in a big, two-bedroom apartment on Sutton Place. And I’m going to write Broadway plays. And then everyone will have to come and visit me.”

  “Ha-ha-ha,” Walt says.

  I stare down at the ice cubes in my glass.

  “Look, Carrie,” Walt says. “You’re spending one summer in New York. Which is great. But it’s hardly your life. And in September, you’re going to Brown.”

  “Maybe I’m not,” I say suddenly.

  Walt smiles, sure I can’t be serious. “Does your father know? About this change of plans?”

  “I just decided. This minute.” Which is true. The thought has been fluttering around the edges of my consciousness for weeks now, but the reality of being back in Castlebury has made it clear that being at Brown will only be more of the same. The same kinds of people with exactly the same attitudes, just in a different location.

  Walt smiles. “Don’t forget I’ll be there too. At RISD.”

  “I know.” I sigh. I sound as arrogant as Capote. “It’ll be fun,” I add, hopefully.

  “Walt!” my father says, joining us on the porch.

  “Mr. Bradshaw.” Walt stands up, and my father embraces him in a hug, which makes me feel left out again.

  “How you doin’, kid?” my father asks. “Your hair’s longer. I barely recognized you.”

  “Walt’s always changing his hair, Dad.” I turn to Walt. “What my father means is that you probably didn’t recognize him. He’s trying to look younger,” I add, with enough bantering in my voice to prevent this statement from coming across as nasty.

  “What’s wrong with looking younger?” my father declares in high spirits.

  He goes into the kitchen to make cocktails, but takes his time about it, going to the window every second or so like a sixteen-year-old girl waiting for her crush to arrive. It’s ridiculous. When Wendy does turn up, a mere five minutes later, he runs out of the house to greet her.

  “Can you believe this?” I ask Walt, horrified by my father’s silly behavior.

  “He’s a man. What can I say?”

  “He’s my father,” I protest.

  “He’s still a man.”

  I’m about to say, “Yeah, but my father isn’t supposed to act like other men,” when he and Wendy come strolling up the walk, holding hands.

  I want to gack. This relationship is obviously more serious than I’d thought.

  Wendy is kind of pretty, if you like women with dyed blond mall hair and blue eye shadow rimmed around their eyes like a raccoon.

  “Be nice,” Walt says warningly.

  “Oh, I’ll be perfectly nice. I’ll be nice if it kills me.” I smile.

  “Shall I call the ambulance now or later?”

  My father opens the screen door and urges Wendy onto the porch. Her smile is wide and patently fake. “You must be Carrie!” she says, enveloping me in a hug as if we’re already best friends.

  “How could you tell?” I ask, gently extracting myself.

  She glances at my father, her face full of delight. “Your dad has told me all about you. He talks about you constantly. He’s so proud of you.”

  There’s something about this assumed intimacy that immediately rubs me the wrong way. “This is Walt,” I say, trying to get her off the topic of myself. What can she possibly know about me anyway?

  “Hello, Walt,” Wendy says too eagerly. “Are you and Carrie—”

  “Dating?” Walt interjects. “Hardly.” We both laugh.

  She tilts her head to the side, as if unsure how to proceed. “It’s wonderful the way men and women can be friends these days. Don’t you think?”

  “I guess it depends on what you call ‘friends,’” I murmur, reminding myself to be pleasant.

  “Are we ready?” my father asks.

  “We’re going to this great new restaurant. Boyles. Have you heard of it?” Wendy asks.

  “No.” And unable to stop myself, I grumble, “I didn’t even know there were restaurants in Castlebury. The only place we ever went was the Hamburger Shack.”

  “Oh, your father and I go out at least twice a week,” Wendy chirps on, unperturbed.

  My father nods in agreement. “We went to a Japanese restaurant. In Hartford.”

  “That so,” I say, unimpressed. “There are tons of Japanese restaurants in New York.”

  “Bet they’re not as good as the one in Hartford, though,” Walt jokes.

  My father gives him a grateful look. “This restaurant really is very special.”

  “Well,” I say, just for the hell of it.

  We troop down the driveway. Walt gets into his car with a wave of his hand. “Ta-ta, folks. Have fun.”

  I watch him go, envious of his freedom.

  “So!” Wendy says brightly when we’re in the car. “When do you start at Brown?”

  I shrug.

  “I’ll bet you can’t wait to get away from New York,” she enthuses. “It’s so dirty. And loud.” She puts her hand on my father’s arm and smiles.

  Boyles is a tiny restaurant located in a damp patch off Main Street where our renowned Roaring Brook runs under the road. It’s highfalutin for Castlebury: the main courses are called pasta instead of spaghetti, and there are cloth napkins and a bud vase on each table containing a single rose.

  “Very romantic,” my father says approvingly as he escorts Wendy to her chair.

  “Your father is such a gentleman,” Wendy says.

  “He is?” I can’t help it. He and Wendy are totally creeping me out. I wonder if they have sex. I certainly hope not. My father’s too old for all that groping around.

  My father ignores my comment and picks up the menu. “They have the fish again,” he says to Wendy. And to me: “Wendy loves fish.”

  “I lived in Los Angeles for five years. They’re much more health-conscious there,” Wendy explains.

  “My roommate is in Los Angeles right now,” I say, partly to get the conversation away from Wendy. “She’s staying at the Beverly Hills Hotel.”

  “I had lunch there once,” Wendy says, with her unflappable cheeriness. “It was so exciting. We sat next to Tom Selleck.”

  “You don’t say,” my father replies, as if Wendy’s momentary proximity to a television actor raises her even further in his eyes.

  “I met Margie Shephard,” I interject.

  “Who’s Margie Shephard?” My father frowns.

  Wendy winks at me, as if she and I possess a secret intimacy regarding my father’s lack of knowledge regarding popular culture. “She’s an actress. Up-and-coming. Everyone says she’s beautiful, but I don’t see it. I think she’s very plain.”

  “She’s beautiful in person,” I counter. “She sparkles. From within.”

  “Like you, Carrie,” Wendy says suddenly.

  I’m so surprised by her compliment, I’m temporarily disabled in my subtle attack. “Well,” I say, picking up the menu. “What were you doing in Los Angeles?”

  “Wendy was a member of an—” My father looks to Wendy for help.

  “Improv group. We did
improvisational theater.”

  “Wendy’s very creative.” My father beams.

  “Isn’t that one of those things where you do mime, like Marcel Marceau?” I ask innocently, even though I know better. “Did you wear white greasepaint and gloves?”

  Wendy chuckles, amused by my ignorance. “I studied mime. But mostly we did comedy.”

  Now I’m completely baffled. Wendy was an actress—and a comedic one at that? She doesn’t seem the least bit funny.

  “Wendy was in a potato chip commercial,” my father says.

  “You shouldn’t tell people that,” Wendy gently scolds. “It was only a local commercial. For State Line potato chips. And it was seven years ago. My big break.” She rolls her eyes with appropriate irony.

  Apparently Wendy doesn’t take herself too seriously after all. It’s another check in her “pluses” column. On the other hand, it might only be a show for my benefit. “It must be a drag to be in Castlebury. After Los Angeles.”

  She shakes her head. “I’m a small-town girl. I grew up in Scarborough,” she says, naming the town next door. “And I love my new job.”

  “But that’s not all.” My father nudges her. “Wendy’s going to be teaching drama, too.”

  I wince as Wendy’s life story becomes clear to me: local girl tries to make it big, fails, and crawls home to teach. It’s my worst fear.

  “Your father says you want to be a writer,” Wendy continues blithely. “Maybe you should write for the Castlebury Citizen.”

  I freeze. The Castlebury Citizen is our small-town newspaper, consisting mostly of the minutes from zoning board meetings and photographs of Pee Wee baseball teams. Steam rises from behind my eyes. “You think I’m not good enough to make it in New York?”

  Wendy frowns in confusion. “It’s just so difficult in New York, isn’t it? I mean, don’t you have to do your laundry in the basement? A friend of mine lived in New York and she said—”

  “My building doesn’t have a laundry.” I look away, trying to contain my frustration. How dare Wendy or her friend presume anything about New York? “I take my dirty clothes to a Laundromat.” Which isn’t exactly true. Mostly I let them pile up in a corner of the bedroom.

  “Now, Carrie. No one is making any assumptions about your abilities—” my father begins, but I’ve had enough.