Confessions of the Sullivan Sisters (4 page)

“Thank you for coming to the lamest dance ever with me,” he said.

“I forgot all about the dance,” I said. “Seems like months ago.”

“We only stayed for five minutes. I think we set a record.”

“Well. Thanks for a nice evening.”

“Let’s do it again sometime, Norrie. Soon.”

“Okay.”

He got out of the car and went around to open the door for me. Then he walked me up the concrete path to our front door. He kissed me on the cheek again.

“Well,
ciao
,” he said.

“
Ciao
,” I said. I don’t know how to say anything else in Italian except
abbondanza
! And that didn’t seem appropriate.

THE NEXT NIGHT WAS MY FIRST DATE WITH ROBBIE. THAT WAS A
busy weekend.

I met Robbie at the Charles Theater at seven. He didn’t need to buy tickets because he works there as a projectionist and curates the Vintage Film Series.

I noticed on the poster that the Hitchcock movie we were about to see was part of the Vintage Film Series. “So it was your idea to show
Vertigo
tonight?” I said.

“Uh-huh. We’re doing twelve straight weeks of Hitchcock.”

We went inside to buy popcorn. The girl behind the counter cooed, “Hi, Robbie,” and gave us the popcorn and Cokes for free.

“Hi, Aileen,” Robbie said. “This is Norrie.”

“Hi, Norrie.” Aileen smiled at me but underneath her smile I saw suspicion or jealousy or annoyance—it was hard to tell exactly what.

I liked the movie; it was kind of scary and sexy. Afterward, we stood awkwardly outside the theater while the crowds poured onto the sidewalk around us. I waited to see what would happen next.

“Well,” he said, “I guess you need to get home now?”

“Not really.”

“You don’t?”

“No. It’s cool.” Ginger and Daddy-o were out, so I wasn’t worried.

“Oh. Okay. Want to get something to eat?”

“Yes!” I wished I hadn’t said that so enthusiastically, but I couldn’t help it.

“Do you like bouillabaisse?”

“Mais oui!”

“Then follow me.” We walked down Charles to Mulberry and headed west.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“Maurice’s. Have you ever been there?”

“No, but I’ve always wanted to go.” St. John goes there sometimes. “Is it true their specialty is ostrich?”

“Mwah!” Robbie kissed his fingertips. “It’s ostri-licious. Will you try it?”

“Maybe,” I said, adding,
“Abbondanza!”
and throwing my arm in the air for no good reason.

Robbie laughed. “You sure have lots of lust for life.”

“I’m not usually so energetic and happy, I swear. I mean, I’m a happy person generally, I’m not depressed or anything, but I try to keep things under control—”

“That’s okay, Norrie. I like it. Don’t you get sick of everybody acting cool all the time?”

“Yes, I do. I never thought it before, but you’re right. It’s tiresome.”

“Totally tiresome.”

“If we become friends, I promise not to act cool,” I said. “If I like something, I’ll gush about it without holding back my enthusiasm. If I hate something, same thing.”

“
If
we become friends?”

“Okay,
when
we become friends. Now. We’re friends now. I like you! Okay? I like you and I’m not pretending I don’t in order to look cool.”

He didn’t laugh. I really thought he was going to laugh.

“Thank you,” he said. “I appreciate that. I like you too.”

“That wasn’t very gushy,” I complained.

“
You
promised not to act cool. I didn’t.”

“No fair, Robinson Pepper!”

“When I’m in a gushy mood, I’ll gush. I promise. Right now, I’m hungry.”

“Mmm. Me too.”

The neighborhood started getting sketchy. We turned down a dark alley and stopped in front of a small brick house with a pink door and bright blue shutters on the windows. The main window was obscured by stained glass. There was no sign over the restaurant. There
was
a sign over the burned-out storefront across the street, which said:
CHOP CHOP KARATE SHOP
.

Robbie rang the doorbell. A man’s eye appeared in a peephole. “Who is it?”

“Robbie Pepper. Two for dinner?”

The door opened. A bald, skinny, old man in an apron appraised us, then let us in. “Right this way, sir.”

The restaurant was dark, lit only by candles. I touched the
patterned wallpaper. It was snakeskin. Tom Waits played quietly through the speakers.

“Your waitress will be right with you.” The old man disappeared into the kitchen.

“That’s Maurice,” Robbie said. “This place has been in his family since the 1920s. It used to be a speakeasy.”

I looked around. There was a collection of odd figurines on a shelf in one corner, and bronze sculptures mounted here and there on the walls.

A pretty waitress gave us menus. “Hi, Robbie,” she said.

“Hi, Marissa,” Robbie said. “This is Norrie.”

Marissa and I said hi to each other. I thought I saw that same look in her eye that I’d seen in Aileen’s. Competitive.

“Let’s get a pitcher of sangria,” Robbie said.

Marissa said, “Sorry, Robbie, but does Norrie have ID?”

He turned to me and blinked as if he didn’t understand the question. I shook my head.

“Oh. Right. Sorry. Norrie, what would you like to drink? That’s nonalcoholic, I mean.”

“Coke, I guess.” I felt like an infant. Marissa’s smug smile didn’t help. “No, ginger ale.”

“Two ginger ales,” Robbie said.

“Are you sure you don’t want a glass of wine?” Marissa asked Robbie. “We’ve got a nice Sangiovese tonight.”

“No, thanks,” Robbie said. “Ginger ale’s good.”

Marissa shrugged, like
Whatever you say, cradle robber,
and left us to our menus. My happy, gushy mood faded away. I suddenly felt self-conscious and uncomfortable.

The doorbell rang and this time Marissa answered it. A large group trooped into the restaurant and started for a table in the corner. As they passed by, a rangy guy with long hair and glasses looked at us. “Robbie!”

“Hi, Robbie,” one of the girls in the group said.

Robbie introduced me to them while Marissa impatiently tapped a pile of menus against one hand, waiting to seat them. “This is Doyle, Katya, Josh, Bennett, and Anjali.”

“You guys should come sit with us,” Doyle said.

Robbie glanced at me. “Is that okay?”

“Sure.” I was curious about his friends and hoped they’d save us from awkwardness.

Under Marissa’s withering gaze we moved over to the corner and squeezed into a round booth. Doyle—the guy with the glasses—immediately ordered two bottles of wine. Marissa made a point of swooping my wineglass out from under my nose.

“Larissa Dalsheimer is up for the Sondheim Prize,” Katya said. “Can you believe that? She paints pornographic scenes on children’s blocks. Could she be more obvious?”

“Her stuff is crap,” Doyle said. “But she’ll win, you watch.”

“Erotic stuff always wins prizes,” Anjali said. “It’s supposed to be so
subversive
.”

“Larissa gave me one of those blocks,” Josh said. “I like it.” That made sense to me, since Josh, with his shaggy blond hair and ironic hipster mustache, looked like a porn star. An ironic porn star. Or at least how I imagine an ironic porn star to look, since I’ve never seen a porno movie. (Honest, Almighty. I swear!)

“You probably modeled for it,” Doyle said.

Josh sat back and grinned. “I’m not saying one way or the other.”

“Don’t press him, Doyle,” Bennett said. “You’ll just encourage him.”

Katya is an artist and the others are grad students like Robbie. They wear their piercings and tattoos and the unnatural colors in their hair in the blasé way of people who run together in the same tribe.

“So, Norrie, are you in school too?” Katya asked.

“Oh yeah,” I said, hoping to leave it at that. Unfortunately, the look on her face told me her curiosity didn’t end there, so I added, “Robbie and I met in a class at Hopkins.”

“Really?” Anjali said. “You look kind of young to be out of college already.”

“Uh, yeah, I know,” I said. “Everybody says that.”

Robbie laughed. “She’s not out of college. She’s still in high school.”

“What?” Bennett burst out laughing.

“Robbie!” Anjali gasped.

My face burned with embarrassment. Jane calls it “Instant Sunburn,” when I blush so fiercely my whole head turns red.

“We just went to a movie together,” Robbie said. “What’s the big deal?”

“No big deal,” Doyle said. I had a feeling they were thinking it was rude to talk about this in front of me. And I guess it kind of was. So they stopped. But I knew they’d all be talking about it later. To defuse the situation, I said, “It’s not like we’re dating or anything.”

Robbie looked kind of sheepish at that, but didn’t contradict me. What I’d said was true—the literal truth, if not the spirit of the truth. Meeting Robbie had given me cheekbones, and that had to mean something. But nothing concrete.

Josh poured a glass of wine and reached across Anjali to set it in front of me. “
Josh
…” Anjali muttered.

“What?” Josh flashed me an innocent smile. Everything about him seemed designed to make him look harmless, from his boyish curly hair and slight yoga body to his T-shirt with a pink flower on it. All sweetness and light he was, as Miss Maura would say. But was he? “I’m just trying to make her feel welcome.”

Marissa stopped at our table. “You guys ready to order?” She looked at me first. I’d barely glanced at the menu, but it didn’t matter. I knew what I wanted.

“I’ll have the ostrich.”

I did it just to show I wasn’t a little picky-eater kid. I really wanted spaghetti, but that’s what a kid would order. Besides, I was curious to see how ostrich tasted. I was adventurous now.

“She’s a brave little toaster,” Josh said.

“Josh, why do you have to be such a prick?” Anjali said.

“What’d I say now? Is this about some feminist thing? I’m more feminist than you’ll ever be, Anjali.”

Anjali rolled her eyes.

“Norrie doesn’t mind, right, Norrie?” Josh said. “She doesn’t want us to treat her differently just because she’s a little younger.”

Robbie looked me in the eye to gauge how I was taking Josh’s teasing. “It’s okay,” I said. “I’ve got two older brothers.”

“Told you she was tough,” Josh said.

A new song played softly through the speakers, an accordion and a man’s low French voice. “Ooh! Charles Trenet!” Bennett cooed, neatly changing the subject.

“He’s no Aznavour,” I said.

Robbie looked at me in surprise. Everyone did.

“My brother St. John and Daddy-o and I had a Battle of the Charleses, Trenet versus Aznavour. We played all their records, one after another, and voted. Aznavour won.”

They all gaped at me.

“You can close your mouths now,” I said.

“What kind of high school kid knows Charles Aznavour?” Bennett said.

“You have a brother named St. John?” Doyle said.

“Who’s Daddy-o?” Katya asked.

“He’s my…father.” I never realized how weird it sounded until then.

“Norrie’s full of surprises,” Robbie said.

I guess I was just as exotic to them as they were to me.

“My grandmother likes those old French music hall singers,” I explained. I’m happy to give you credit for everything, Almighty. “Sometimes she plays her Aznavour records when we go over for—” I was going to say “tea,” but decided not to. Between high school, Daddy-o, St. John, and my familiarity with French pop songs, I’d been exotic enough for one night. “—To visit.”

“Now that we’ve got that straight…” Doyle said.

“You really think Aznavour’s better?” Bennett asked me. “Did you know Trenet said, ‘I make songs like an apple tree
make apples. They come from inside me’? How can you not love that?”

The conversation resumed, and now I had a place at the table. I still felt self-conscious, but it was so much fun to listen to them talk that I didn’t mind. They came from other places, and their world was the
whole
world, not just a few miles of North Baltimore filled with private schools and dilapidated mansions. The whole, wide world. I forgot all about Brooks. It was like our date had never happened, like he didn’t exist. Nothing existed outside of that secret restaurant. I had stumbled into a new world and left the old one behind.

JANE AND SASSY AND GINGER AND I WENT TO YOUR HOUSE FOR
tea after school that Tuesday. I usually like tea at your house, but that was the beginning of The Tension.

It was a nice October afternoon, the air just starting to crisp up. The grass in Sherwood Gardens was turning brown, and the trees that lined your long drive were shedding their leaves. Bernice was putting watercress sandwiches on the silver tea tray when we walked in.

“Hi there, girls,” Bernice said. “Mrs. Beckendorf is waiting in the library. Better scoot on in there because you’re late and she’s in one of her moods.”

“Oh,
lovely
.” Ginger snatched a sandwich off the tray and popped it into her mouth. You’re hard on Ginger, but admit it, Almighty: It can’t be easy having you for a mother-in-law.

I love your library. Week after week I walk in and am amazed all over again. All those thousands of books, two stories high, and the sunlight pouring in through the tall windows, making the air sparkle with dust motes. Through the French doors, I saw Wallace pottering around outside on the terrace, moving plants
from one place to another and watching Raul blow fallen leaves into a pile. Every once in a while, Wallace glanced in and gave us that quick two-fingered salute, like “Wallace Beckendorf reporting for duty.”

You were sitting at the head of the tea table as always, with Buffalo Bill on your lap and a Schubert string quartet on the sound system. No zesty French pop songs that day.

We kissed you hello and sat down. You glared at us for a few tense moments, grimly stroking Buffalo Bill’s stiff Schnauzer fur. At last you said, “Good afternoon, girls. Norris. Jane.
Sas
kia.” You always pronounce Sassy’s name in that peculiarly emphatic way, as if it tastes funny in your mouth. Don’t you like it? Once, I heard you sniff that Saskia sounded like the name of a European actress. Ginger agreed. The difference is that Ginger thinks that’s a good thing.

“And Virginia. Who is no longer a girl and should begin behaving as if she is aware that middle age has arrived and she is not a dewy-eyed debutante. Yes, it happens even to her.”

Ginger went pale but I doubt she was surprised.

“I’m speaking of that abominable dress you’re wearing,” you said. “Don’t you think a woman of your age should cover her knees?”

Maybe Ginger’s dress was a bit on the short side, but come on, she has good legs. She plucked her napkin off the table and placed it over her knees.

Bernice brought in the tea tray and you poured out steaming cups of Earl Grey for all of us. Sassy reached for a sandwich. In spite of the fact that you hate her name, Sassy is the only one of
us who never seems intimidated by you. Not counting the boys, of course.

“Virginia, how is my dear Alphonse?”

“He’s very well,” Ginger said. “Skipping through life as usual.”

“Glad to hear it. And, girls, how are you doing in school this year? Saskia?”

“Pretty well, Almighty.” I happened to know this wasn’t true—Sassy was practically flunking math—but I wasn’t about to mention it and spoil your wonderful mood.

“Jane?”

“Just peachy.”

“I hear that note of sarcasm in your voice, young lady. Don’t think I don’t. Your report card will come out soon enough and then we’ll see how peachy everything is. Norris, how are you faring in your last year at old St. Maggie’s?”

“Fine so far, Almighty,” I replied.

“Good. Now. I have issues to discuss with all four of you, Saskia first. What’s this I hear about you being immortal?”

Sassy blinked. “Where did you hear that?”

“From your baby brother, Theodore—once I stopped him from torturing poor Bill here. Out with it.”

“I’m not immortal, Almighty. I mean, probably not. It’s just that I’ve had a lot of accidents lately and I never seem to get hurt.”

By then I knew that Sassy had been hit by a car, but she’d made it sound like nothing, just a tap. And anyway she seemed fine. I didn’t realize she felt this made her immortal.

“Count yourself lucky, child. My advice to you is to be more careful and you won’t have so many accidents. You are not
immortal except in the sense that our souls will ascend to heaven when we die, thanks to the sacrifice of our dear Lord. If we’re lucky. And girls who go around committing blasphemy are not good candidates for heaven.”

“No, ma’am.”

Jane spread jam on a piece of toast. Your face clouded over.

“Jane, if you don’t learn to hold your knife properly, no man will ever want to marry you.”

Jane wanted to wave that knife in your face like a switch-blade—I know she did—but only set it on her plate and defiantly chomped on her toast in the most unladylike way she could. You suppressed your annoyance admirably.

“Now, Jane. Father Burgess tells me that you’ve been giving Sister Mary Joseph a terrible time in Religion class. I don’t need to ask if this is true; I can see by the wicked, gleeful look in your eye that the situation is even worse than I thought. If you’re not careful, Jane, you’ll be expelled from St. Maggie’s. How would you like that?”

“I’d love it!” Jane cried. “I want to go to public school.”

You laughed. “You’d last about a minute with those hoodlums.”

“Ha. You don’t know Jane,” Ginger drawled.

“I don’t want to hear any more bad reports about you this year, Jane.”

Jane glared at you, and you glared back. Two powerful wills facing off. After an endless moment, Jane looked away. You won that round. But I’d never count Jane out.

“Now, on to Norris.”

Ulp.

“Your debut. Have you chosen your escorts for the Cotillon yet?”

“Well, there’s Daddy-o and St. John,” I said. “You’ve already arranged that, I think.”

“Yes, and your third escort will be Brooks Overbeck. What I’m asking, Norris, is if you have sent him an invitation yet. Time is a-wasting.”

“Not yet, Almighty.”

“Well, what are you waiting for? You’re not thinking of asking another young man, are you?”

Your beady blue eyes bore into me. You were onto me, and you wanted to make sure that I knew that you knew.

A lot goes on under the surface at these teas, doesn’t it?

“I believe Brooks has already made some kind of overture to you, to let you know he’ll gladly accept your invitation. Correct?”

“Well, he asked me to a dance—”

“Sounds like an overture to me. Get that invitation in the mail.”

I couldn’t speak. I was angry and afraid. I thought,
Who does she think she is, telling me what to do with my life this way?
It was just a stupid date to a stupid dance. I had nothing against Brooks Overbeck, but I didn’t like being ordered to go out with him. Next, I thought, you’d tell me we were getting married in June.

“We’ve been to Downs and ordered the invitations,” Ginger said, trying to stave off a fight.

“Mamie Overbeck has already told everyone that Brooks is escorting Norris to the Cotillon,” you said firmly. “I believe she’s even told the society reporter at the
Baltimore Sun
. That means it will happen. If it doesn’t happen, Mamie will be annoyed, and I’ll be annoyed. Brooks will be hurt, and your debut to society will be ruined, forever besmirched by your selfishness or laziness or whatever it is that is keeping you from doing your duty to this family, Louisa Norris Sullivan.”

I’d sat through your lectures and orders before, Almighty, and I’d left your teas in tears. But never like this. Maybe it’s because I was older now, or maybe it had something to do with the change that happened in Speed Reading class, but this time you went too far.

I knew that anything I said would steel your resolve and make you more stubborn, which would only make things worse for me.

“Do you hear me, Norris?”

“I hear you,” I croaked.

“Good.” You smiled, but you weren’t happy. “Now that most of our business is over, let’s enjoy some of these lovely cakes Bernice made for us. More tea, Virginia?”

The Schubert CD ended. “Norris, we need some more music,” you ordered. “Put on
La Sonnambula
.”

I found the CD—Maria Callas singing
La Sonnambula
—and put it on. Opera music blasted into the huge old library. I turned it down.

I choked down a cucumber sandwich and swallowed my tea while I stared at that giant portrait of you as a young girl that
hangs high on the library wall. You posed in your riding outfit with your beloved horse, King, two spaniels at your feet. You were maybe sixteen when that portrait was painted; younger than I am. I wondered: Did people call you Almighty Lou yet, at that age? Or were you still just Louisa?

After tea we went outside to say hello to Wallace. He wore a sun hat that day, even though it was October, to protect the pink and white skin on his head.

“Hello, girls! Have a nice tea with your grandma?” he asked.

Sassy gave Wallace a hug. We all liked him. He didn’t seem to have any idea he was married to a saber-toothed tiger, and that was what was endearing about him.

That night as I lay in bed in my Tower Room, I thought about the Cotillon. I pictured myself in a white dress like a bride, dancing with Daddy-o, then with St. John, and then with Brooks. But every time Brooks spun me around he turned into Robbie.

You sat in a place of honor at the head table, scowling at the dance floor and telling Robbie the infiltrator to get out of Brooks Overbeck’s way. The music changed from a waltz to the melancholy aria from
La Sonnambula
as the room grew bigger and bigger and spun around me until I fell asleep.