room, a sensation, a feeling, a knowing that had been present.
She moved to the small chair now and sat down, her knees poking up toward her chin. The sequins, the bracelets, even the pretend tea had been part of a ritual she’d developed and perfected, a ritual of a make-believe world where there had been no older sisters to measure up to or compete with.
“What did you think of the play, Mrs. Minerva?” Babe would ask her Cabbage Patch doll, who’d come with a name she couldn’t remember but who had been dubbed Mrs. Minerva by Uncle Edward. “Yes, yes, I thought so, too. A little weak in the third act. Not quite enough motivation for the resolution.”
They were words she had learned by listening to Uncle Edward and his friends—just as she’d observed the nuances of great Broadway stars: the tilts of the heads, the gestures with cigarettes, the red lips that overworked syllables with each breathy word. Day after day, year after year Babe practiced the tilts and the gestures and the lip work in the maple-framed mirror that still stood on the bureau next to the table.
The summer before Amanda started college, she had walked in on Babe rehearsing her ritual. “Oh, grow up,” Amanda had scoffed. With big hair and access to Edward’s sports car and her own credit card, Amanda thought she was someone special.
Ellie had come up behind her and told her to mind her own business and leave Babe alone.
Right after that Babe paid more attention to Carleen, who was only three years older than she was, three years more grown up.
Babe remembered those early days and the innocence that had defined them. Choosing Carleen as her mentor had been her first big mistake. Falling in love at fourteen, her second.
His name was Ray Williams, and he lived on the lake year-round. He was the same age as Carleen and had his driver’s license and use of his mother’s car, an old, beat-up Rambler whose front seats folded down. They spent a lot of time hugging and groping on those seats. But it wasn’t until the following summer, when Babe was fifteen, that Ray covered the upholstery with his mother’s crocheted afghan and they, at last, did it.
Over the winter, she had planned the event. Staying in touch hadn’t been easy: her mother and father said she was too young for a boyfriend; Ray’s parents were fiercely protective of their only child and did not want him with one of Edward Dalton’s nieces. Edward, of course, was one of those wild theater people, one of those summer people who interrupted their lives for three months each year.
But Babe was in love. Having followed Carleen’s growing-up lead for some time, Babe knew that to keep Ray, sex had to come next. She enlisted Carleen, who’d been happy to dish out advice: she said it must happen soon after they arrived at Kamp Kasteel for the season—that would guarantee Ray’s allegiance for the whole summer, no matter how hard his parents might try to keep them apart.
Carleen, of course, knew everything.
The Dalton nieces were shipped off to Edward’s on June twenty-first. On June twenty-third, Babe was lying on her back in Mrs. Williams’s Rambler, cushioned by the afghan.
It was clumsy but lovely. Best of all, Babe didn’t have to pretend. She loved Ray, she knew it, with each touch, with each kiss. He was real; he was hers.
When they were finished Ray held her and rocked her and told her he’d never met a girl as beautiful as she was or as sweet or as wonderful. He said he’d missed her so much over the winter that sometimes he’d felt sick deep inside.
They made love all summer until the end, when Ray left for Virginia Tech, and Babe was left maimed, and Carleen took off for Poughkeepsie. Then everything changed. Abruptly. Painfully. With no turning back.
Except for attending public high school, Babe spent most of the next three years in her room at Uncle Edward’s with the sequins and the glass beads and the Cabbage Patch doll that she had outgrown.
She moved to the small chair now and sat down, her knees poking up toward her chin. The sequins, the bracelets, even the pretend tea had been part of a ritual she’d developed and perfected, a ritual of a make-believe world where there had been no older sisters to measure up to or compete with.
“What did you think of the play, Mrs. Minerva?” Babe would ask her Cabbage Patch doll, who’d come with a name she couldn’t remember but who had been dubbed Mrs. Minerva by Uncle Edward. “Yes, yes, I thought so, too. A little weak in the third act. Not quite enough motivation for the resolution.”
They were words she had learned by listening to Uncle Edward and his friends—just as she’d observed the nuances of great Broadway stars: the tilts of the heads, the gestures with cigarettes, the red lips that overworked syllables with each breathy word. Day after day, year after year Babe practiced the tilts and the gestures and the lip work in the maple-framed mirror that still stood on the bureau next to the table.
The summer before Amanda started college, she had walked in on Babe rehearsing her ritual. “Oh, grow up,” Amanda had scoffed. With big hair and access to Edward’s sports car and her own credit card, Amanda thought she was someone special.
Ellie had come up behind her and told her to mind her own business and leave Babe alone.
Right after that Babe paid more attention to Carleen, who was only three years older than she was, three years more grown up.
Babe remembered those early days and the innocence that had defined them. Choosing Carleen as her mentor had been her first big mistake. Falling in love at fourteen, her second.
His name was Ray Williams, and he lived on the lake year-round. He was the same age as Carleen and had his driver’s license and use of his mother’s car, an old, beat-up Rambler whose front seats folded down. They spent a lot of time hugging and groping on those seats. But it wasn’t until the following summer, when Babe was fifteen, that Ray covered the upholstery with his mother’s crocheted afghan and they, at last, did it.
Over the winter, she had planned the event. Staying in touch hadn’t been easy: her mother and father said she was too young for a boyfriend; Ray’s parents were fiercely protective of their only child and did not want him with one of Edward Dalton’s nieces. Edward, of course, was one of those wild theater people, one of those summer people who interrupted their lives for three months each year.
But Babe was in love. Having followed Carleen’s growing-up lead for some time, Babe knew that to keep Ray, sex had to come next. She enlisted Carleen, who’d been happy to dish out advice: she said it must happen soon after they arrived at Kamp Kasteel for the season—that would guarantee Ray’s allegiance for the whole summer, no matter how hard his parents might try to keep them apart.
Carleen, of course, knew everything.
The Dalton nieces were shipped off to Edward’s on June twenty-first. On June twenty-third, Babe was lying on her back in Mrs. Williams’s Rambler, cushioned by the afghan.
It was clumsy but lovely. Best of all, Babe didn’t have to pretend. She loved Ray, she knew it, with each touch, with each kiss. He was real; he was hers.
When they were finished Ray held her and rocked her and told her he’d never met a girl as beautiful as she was or as sweet or as wonderful. He said he’d missed her so much over the winter that sometimes he’d felt sick deep inside.
They made love all summer until the end, when Ray left for Virginia Tech, and Babe was left maimed, and Carleen took off for Poughkeepsie. Then everything changed. Abruptly. Painfully. With no turning back.
Except for attending public high school, Babe spent most of the next three years in her room at Uncle Edward’s with the sequins and the glass beads and the Cabbage Patch doll that she had outgrown.
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