one that resembled a camilla in full bloom on her right.
Judging by the widening of Amanda’s eyes and the veins that popped symmetrically on either side of her throat, she did not recall those things, either.
“Hi, Mom. Hi, Aunt Ellie. This is Shotgun.”
It appeared Heather was indicating that the name of the young man next to her was Shotgun, not that he was toting one by his side, though it might have complemented his slicked-back black hair.
“Hello,” Ellie said, because Amanda was mute. “Come in. Sit down.” She half-wondered if the mass of tattoos that painted most of Shotgun’s flesh not covered by a black tank top or black leather chaps would rub off on the upholstery of Uncle Edward’s Hepplewhite chairs.
“We missed lunch,” Heather said. “Can we raid the kitchen?”
“Sure,” Ellie said. “Dinner’s not until eight. But you can probably find something for sandwiches.”
“Cool,” Heather said. “Any beer? Shotgun promised not to drink and drive, and now he’s absolutely dying of thirst!”
It was hard to focus on what Heather was saying instead of being transfixed by her sparkling eyelids. Still, Ellie wondered if she should ask if Shotgun was of legal age. Then she realized she didn’t even know what legal age in New York was anymore. Being a recluse could be so informationally limiting. “Ask Martina,” she said. “She’s the caterer for the party. She should be in the kitchen.”
“Cool. Oh, is anyone around to take our duffels? I promised Shotgun we’d get the room on the third floor that overlooks the lake. He absolutely loves the water, you know? He’s a Pisces.”
The two tattooed young bodies then departed from the doorway and moved toward the kitchen.
Amanda remained mute.
Ellie was not sure what to say, so she just said, “Well.”
Then Amanda came to, jumped to her feet, and said, “What did she say? I mean, she doesn’t really expect to share a room? With that . . . that boy? In this house?”
Ellie didn’t know if she’d be more concerned about that or the tattoos or the transformation of Heather’s once pretty face. “Well,” she said again.
Amanda’s two visible throat veins grew larger and more purple. “Well, nothing. Won’t Naomi just love that.”
It took a second for Ellie to remember that Naomi really was Babe, that Amanda had often called her by her given name whenever she’d been filled with what came off as hatred but really was envy.
“Amanda, please. We can work this out.”
“She’s my daughter! I’m the one who has to work this out, not you! I’m the one! Not even her father! Because where is he, anyway! I’ll tell you where he is! He’s screwing a Brazilian back-waxer named Bibiana!” She flung her wineglass onto the Hepplewhite, where it bounced once, then landed on the floor and shattered— to smithereens their mother would have said. Then she marched from the room toward the kitchen shouting, “Heather! Heather! Come back here!” over and over the whole way.
T he room was different from what Babe remembered. A thick coat of eggplant-colored paint had replaced the princess-themed wallpaper; a large, queen-size bed stood where the canopy twin had once been. Instead of a pink organza bedspread, a beige comforter was topped with piles of throw pillows in shades of eggplant and olive; instead of ruffled, ribboned pink curtains, wooden blinds with wide slats hung at the double windows.
Tucked in the corner, however, where the slant of the ceiling accommodated the angle of the eaves, a child’s oak table and two chairs still sat, as if waiting for little-girl-Babe to glue sequins onto her summer T-shirts, string glass beads into bracelets for her sisters, serve tea to her Cabbage Patch doll.
If Babe closed her eyes, she might smell the bubble gum scent of the cologne she’d once loved.
It was in this room that Babe had decided to be an actor. There had not been a specific date or a time, but it had been in this
Judging by the widening of Amanda’s eyes and the veins that popped symmetrically on either side of her throat, she did not recall those things, either.
“Hi, Mom. Hi, Aunt Ellie. This is Shotgun.”
It appeared Heather was indicating that the name of the young man next to her was Shotgun, not that he was toting one by his side, though it might have complemented his slicked-back black hair.
“Hello,” Ellie said, because Amanda was mute. “Come in. Sit down.” She half-wondered if the mass of tattoos that painted most of Shotgun’s flesh not covered by a black tank top or black leather chaps would rub off on the upholstery of Uncle Edward’s Hepplewhite chairs.
“We missed lunch,” Heather said. “Can we raid the kitchen?”
“Sure,” Ellie said. “Dinner’s not until eight. But you can probably find something for sandwiches.”
“Cool,” Heather said. “Any beer? Shotgun promised not to drink and drive, and now he’s absolutely dying of thirst!”
It was hard to focus on what Heather was saying instead of being transfixed by her sparkling eyelids. Still, Ellie wondered if she should ask if Shotgun was of legal age. Then she realized she didn’t even know what legal age in New York was anymore. Being a recluse could be so informationally limiting. “Ask Martina,” she said. “She’s the caterer for the party. She should be in the kitchen.”
“Cool. Oh, is anyone around to take our duffels? I promised Shotgun we’d get the room on the third floor that overlooks the lake. He absolutely loves the water, you know? He’s a Pisces.”
The two tattooed young bodies then departed from the doorway and moved toward the kitchen.
Amanda remained mute.
Ellie was not sure what to say, so she just said, “Well.”
Then Amanda came to, jumped to her feet, and said, “What did she say? I mean, she doesn’t really expect to share a room? With that . . . that boy? In this house?”
Ellie didn’t know if she’d be more concerned about that or the tattoos or the transformation of Heather’s once pretty face. “Well,” she said again.
Amanda’s two visible throat veins grew larger and more purple. “Well, nothing. Won’t Naomi just love that.”
It took a second for Ellie to remember that Naomi really was Babe, that Amanda had often called her by her given name whenever she’d been filled with what came off as hatred but really was envy.
“Amanda, please. We can work this out.”
“She’s my daughter! I’m the one who has to work this out, not you! I’m the one! Not even her father! Because where is he, anyway! I’ll tell you where he is! He’s screwing a Brazilian back-waxer named Bibiana!” She flung her wineglass onto the Hepplewhite, where it bounced once, then landed on the floor and shattered— to smithereens their mother would have said. Then she marched from the room toward the kitchen shouting, “Heather! Heather! Come back here!” over and over the whole way.
T he room was different from what Babe remembered. A thick coat of eggplant-colored paint had replaced the princess-themed wallpaper; a large, queen-size bed stood where the canopy twin had once been. Instead of a pink organza bedspread, a beige comforter was topped with piles of throw pillows in shades of eggplant and olive; instead of ruffled, ribboned pink curtains, wooden blinds with wide slats hung at the double windows.
Tucked in the corner, however, where the slant of the ceiling accommodated the angle of the eaves, a child’s oak table and two chairs still sat, as if waiting for little-girl-Babe to glue sequins onto her summer T-shirts, string glass beads into bracelets for her sisters, serve tea to her Cabbage Patch doll.
If Babe closed her eyes, she might smell the bubble gum scent of the cologne she’d once loved.
It was in this room that Babe had decided to be an actor. There had not been a specific date or a time, but it had been in this
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