Magnetism Read online

  Turns out he’s not seen his mother for about eighteen months. He has five brothers and two sisters. He rattles off their names, and when we get there and walk along to the gathering he points out his siblings. His mother is sitting on a straining folding garden chair. She is massive, and her wobbly, fat arms flap wildly as she spots Jay arriving. When we get closer I can smell sweat coming off her, but he doesn’t seem to notice. He has to bend right down to kiss her cheek. I guess she can’t get up unaided, or else she’s wedged in too tight.

  ‘Finally, son,’ she says. ‘Finally you decide to come along. And you’ve brought a girl! Howdy.’ She grins at me.

  ‘Hi there.’ I do a little wave with my fingers.

  She looks me up and down. I wish I were wearing a tube top and cut-offs instead of this dress, which is too dressy for the occasion. ‘So, where’d you two meet?’ she asks.

  ‘You know, around,’ he says.

  ‘He’s a shy one, my baby Jay. Bet you had to ask him out, huh?’

  ‘Oh, Mom,’ he says. ‘Don’t. Leave it be now.’ He points out his dad and we take our leave to go and say hi to him as well. His dad is standing around the barbecue with a couple of his uncles and cousins. Again Jay rattles off a shedload of hillbilly names. We pass a picnic table loaded with bowls of potato salad and coleslaw, marshmallow salad and one solitary bowl of green salad. None of the food is covered and it’s over a hundred degrees in the sun. I’m already worrying about food poisoning before we get close enough to see that the cooked meat is on the same plate as the raw hamburgers and chicken legs.

  I decide to be a vegetarian. I decide to be on a diet. I decide to somehow avoid eating altogether, forever.

  We drink warm beer under the shade of an ugly acacia tree and stretch back to watch the littlest kids playing with water pistols, screaming as they chase each other around and around. If there’s any family resemblance it is their universal pale colouring: stringy blond hair with sunburn. I wonder how long the family has lived in the area, but I don’t want to ask Jay; it will only irritate him. He’s already said, ‘I expect you think my family is white trash, but we’re not that, really.’ He said this sadly and it reminded me of how he lets all the cats in the neighbourhood in. ‘Oh, no,’ I said. ‘I don’t think that. Not at all,’ which is a complete lie.

  One of his cousins, Truck, comes over to rustle up enough people to play softball. I haven’t played since school, but Jay volunteers us and I don’t object. I slip off my platform sandals and drop inches on to the hard scrubby grass. I’m not the only girl playing, but it’s mostly guys, and the first time we field I’m directed to cover first base rather than outfield because there’s less running involved. Truck pitches the ball and he’s good, but then some of the other team are fourteen and fifteen years old, so it seems a bit unfair.

  When we bat, Jay hits a great home run and our team high-fives him and he looks really, really happy.

  Afterwards, Truck, Jay and I sneak back to Truck’s pickup to smoke a joint. One of his friends joins us and the four of us sit with our backs to the hot metal sides of the flatbed. Our legs and feet stretch haphazardly into the middle. I observe how cute Truck’s friend Chip is. He is fair and stocky, quite handsome. The first thing I noticed about him when he arrived was his confident walk – a chest-out strut, like a cockerel, older than the rest of us. Now he’s says he’s training to be an accountant and it’s easy to see there’s something solid about him that would immediately make any person feel safe and trust him. He’s got a little girl, he says, but she’s with her mom. They’re getting a divorce; things haven’t worked out. Truck tells him not to beat himself up. Chip shrugs and still looks a bit regretful. Jay tells the two of them to shut up and stop hogging the joint.

  It’s a gentle, dreamy high – the best kind.

  I look at my feet back in my shoes. My toes look abnormally long today for some reason, but then I don’t pay them any attention normally. I compare the guys’ footwear next. Jay’s right sneaker has a hole in the sole. Truck’s look new; the white edging is still white. I think Chip is wearing more expensive shoes. I notice how short his legs are compared to the other guys. We share a packet of chips and smoke another joint. It begins to cool down and Jay goes alone to say goodbye to his mom before we leave. After a couple of minutes Chip says he’s got to head off too. He asks Truck to get his backpack, which he left in the cab of the pickup, and, once we’re alone, he reaches over and squeezes my knee. He looks me straight in the eye when he says he hopes he will get to see me again some time. ‘You’re real cute.’ Then he clambers down and waves goodbye.

  ‘So, what are you doing with Jay?’ Truck asks when the other two have gone. ‘Don’t seem the type.’

  ‘What type?’

  ‘You don’t work at McDonald’s or anywhere like that.’

  ‘No. I don’t have a job. I’m going to get one,’ I say, and this makes him laugh and the laughter is infectious. We’re still sort of giggling about nothing when Jay comes back. He asks what’s so funny and Truck says, ‘I told her, I don’t get what she’s doing with you. What does she see in you?’

  ‘She’s a stray,’ he says flatly. ‘You know I attract them.’

  On the drive back to Phoenix Jay and I talk happily all the way, about his idea of going back to school one day, about how his mom always thinks of him as a little kid, even though he’s grown-up, and how, because of all her kids, he never had any space to himself, so he feels crowded whenever he’s with them. ‘I can’t be around people all the time,’ he says. He likes Truck well enough, but no one in his family really gets him.

  ‘I know what you mean,’ I say, even though I’m not sure that I do.

  ‘So, are you ready to go back home?’ he asks next, and I say I guess so. He must know how I’m longing for clean sheets and air-conditioning that works, and he must want more room in his bed than the two of us allows. He drives me to my house. He doesn’t want to come in. He says he just wants to crash, will call me tomorrow and we’ll hook up some time in the week. Then he kisses me goodbye and I climb out and wave as he drives off down the street.

  Mom isn’t home, but Dad is, and it’s good to be back. He’s real pleased to see me, I can tell, and the house smells familiar; the sheets are fresh and clean. He phones for pizza and orders enough for Mom, too, in case she comes home tonight.

  1977

  Big Bird

  Everything now feels like it’s in motion. People coming and going. Schools starting and stopping. The dreadful run-up to Christmas. Mom is preparing to stuff the Thanksgiving turkey, which is four times the size of our next-door neighbours’ small dog Daisy who is yapping incessantly. Joe and Mary Wilkins, the dog’s owners, are two of the guests with us for the day and they’re now in the den with Dad watching the parade on TV. The dog seems real loud today as the back door has to be open to let out some of the frenzied heat of our kitchen in full use. It’s not cold out, it’s about seventy degrees. It’s not at all like where we used to live; Hallowe’en marked the start of winter there, and by Thanksgiving it was cold, but here the seasons slip from spring to summer to fall to winter with only the slightest temperature shift. With all my meds I feel pretty well the same as the climate – no ups, no downs, numb. Nothing. Stable – they call this, but I do have a constant dull headache which I’ve been told is insignificant, a long-term temporary effect, whatever that means.

  Mom is at that stage with the cooking that means that she cannot speak. I can see that her entire brain-processing capability is taken up with making sure we have too much food on the table at twelve o’clock. Year-round she doesn’t care much about food, except making sure neither of us eats too much of it, but come the holidays it’s this sea change and she wants to be Betty Crocker and feed everyone.

  For a moment I consider asking her if I can help, but instead I ask where she’s storing the Tylenol now and she tilts her head in the direction of the cabinet above the dishwasher. She speaks without turning, two hands i
n use – one steadying the golden bird and the other basting it with what looks like a giant eyedropper. ‘Over there. And get something decent on.’

  She hasn’t noticed that I am already showered and dressed. She doesn’t like me in jeans when we’re entertaining and we could have a fight about this, but we don’t need to, it’ll only turn her into more of a basket case, so I ignore her comment, and fetch the pills and down them with a glass of water.

  The front door chimes and she tells me to go and answer it. I get there right before Dad. He does this kind of fake salute to me before he opens the door.

  Uncle Jack leads this new lot of visitors in. He lives in Chicago now and it’s not very often that Dad sees him, so recently Mom and Dad have had fewer arguments about him. Mom still didn’t want him to come today, but they’ve agreed an equal trade. Mom’s friend Louelle is invited, and Dad has invited Jack. Jack introduces Larry who, we learn, is his half-brother. I can’t figure this because he looks at least twenty-five years younger than Jack. Larry is a college senior. I’m only a high school senior.

  Louelle is behind Larry, but I hardly see her. All I can think when Larry crosses our threshold is that someone should have shown me a picture to warn me, and I wish I’d done something with my hair, because lately it’s looking like a massive furball rather than the luxurious locks that my bottle of shampoo promises. Larry is very, very cute. He smiles politely when I get introduced and this only improves his gorgeous face. I hope no one asks what I’ve been doing with myself this year. I hope Dad didn’t tell Jack. At my neck, I feel an embarrassing blush beginning.

  In the den I can see that the parade on TV is in full flow now and there’s a new balloon this year. Kermit the frog has an endearing and hopeful face. Wearing a reporter’s trench coat, Kermit the puppet stands in front of his own naked giant Kermit balloon to conduct an interview and then directs the camera to return to Ed McMahon in the studio just as Mom comes in and announces lunch is ready. When she looks at the TV she says, ‘Who is this guy? Why do they have to change everything?’

  Dad tops up everyone’s glass, emptying a full bottle of Ripple before getting to Jack, who complains and asks him to get some real wine out. ‘Gee, Richard, he says, what the hell has living in this godforsaken state done to you?’

  ‘Young people like Ripple,’ Mom says.

  ‘Well, I’m not young,’ Jack replies. ‘And that means neither are you.’

  Dad goes to fetch some other drink and meantime we begin to load the table with the food. The first thing is a cranberry Jell-O mould set with grated carrots and walnuts. I get to carry this into the room and Louelle gasps theatrically. ‘Hey, baby!’ she says. ‘Get a load of that concoction.’

  Louelle has wild blonded hair and in her high heels is even taller than Dad. She always wears vibrant colours. Today she is in a bright yellow pantsuit and the outfit makes her look like Big Bird. She and Mom met years ago, I don’t really know where, and they seem to only meet up infrequently – years go by and then Louelle turns up again with a phone call: ‘Hello, honey, what’s cooking?’ She says that sort of stupid thing all the time. I also hope Mom hasn’t told Louelle about me. She’s the most indiscreet person in the world. I’ll avoid eye contact.

  Mom’s Jell-O creation has taken a lot of effort to make, and it’s shaped exactly like an elaborate Christmas wreath. It is interesting and decorative but there is always something about this that doesn’t work. Maybe the lime. It will taste disgusting and no one will ever have more than a small spoonful and I will loyally dump the unappreciated remains down the disposal later. I go back to fetch the candied yams and the other vegetables follow on to the table quickly, so that things don’t get cold.

  Mom likes to serve the turkey to the table herself. She carries it through on the big orange and white Thanksgiving platter at a height that obliterates her face. From where I am, it’s as if the turkey is walking into the room itself, on Mom’s legs. I don’t know how she can see where she’s going, but she has never once tripped up. She plonks it on to the table right in front of Dad. He’s at one end of the table and she goes to sit down at her end and, from there, she volunteers Uncle Jack to say grace. Everyone who knows Jack knows he’s a militant atheist so she’s just doing this to piss him off, but he seems in good spirits when he says he will, because it is Thanksgiving.

  While everyone else has their eyes closed, I take a look around the table. Louelle is probably going to drink too much. Jack will make some crass jokes. Mom will be tense until the meal is over. We’re new to the neighbourhood so Dad will want to impress our neighbours and will not want anything to go wrong.

  Larry is sitting next to me. He has a strong physical presence and the table is crowded; my right elbow connects with Larry’s left. He smells of Herbal Essence shampoo and I notice that his pony-tailed hair is as shiny as mine is dull.

  Jack finally finishes speaking and, at exactly the same time, Larry drops his hand to my right knee. I wonder if I should notice this or not. I decide to ignore it, that it’s probably unintentional and that he’s just forgotten what he is doing with his limbs. A moment later when he squeezes my leg I think that perhaps I should remove his hand, but I don’t. It feels more warming than the drink or the food that everyone has begun to pass around.

  Larry manages to fill his plate without removing his hand. Now he slides his hand up the inside of my leg, headed for the crotch of my jeans. I am terrified. I don’t know what to do so I freeze and he still doesn’t remove his hand even as Dad speaks to him from the head of the table. ‘Larry,’ he says, ‘Tell us what it’s like at Irvine now. Things improving?’

  ‘You know,’ Larry says, ‘it’s school. It’s okay.’ He is very cool, and I have the thought that just being next to him, like this, is liberating for me; he is above and beyond this parochial suburban cul-de-sac and has singled me out to be so too. His hand remains on my body even as we all eat our meal and, instead of jumping up to help Mom clear the table when it’s time, I stay seated.

  Louelle takes out the empty plates instead and Mom fusses in with the pumpkin pie, then a pecan pie, and finally an apple pie. These are all store-bought and they look perfect and will taste delicious but when Larry says he’s replete I discover that I, too, have completely lost my appetite for more food. Instead I pour a glass of water, squishing the liquid discreetly through my teeth in case there are bits of turkey stuck between them. I begin to calculate when I might slip away from the table to brush properly in case he wants to kiss me.

  I feel anxious about not being sure what time they will be leaving. If we are going to kiss, we’ll need a bit of time for this. Surely they’ll stay to watch the end of the football game? Then Mom decides to embarrass me by asking why I’m not having any dessert. ‘Why does my pumpkin not want any pumpkin pie? My pumpkin loves pie. Are you alright?’

  ‘Maybe she doesn’t want pie ’cos she doesn’t want to look any more like a pumpkin than she does now,’ Louelle says. She throws back her head to laugh at her own stupid joke.

  I am thinking that she can talk when Joe replies, ‘I thought you Women’s Lib types didn’t worry about looks. Gloria Steinem might be a looker, but she’s the remarkable exception that makes the rule. For ugly you can’t beat that Betty Friedan. Pig-ugly, that woman.’

  ‘Joe!’ Mary says.

  Louelle says, ‘I’m not a Women’s Lib type. I am no type.’

  ‘Pig-ugly?’ Mom says. ‘Really? You want to use the words “pig-ugly” about feminists?’

  ‘I don’t think we men can judge this women’s rights situation without understanding our naïve bias.’ This is Larry.

  Louelle looks at him suspiciously and Mom with surprise. Jack slowly nods his head, and Dad’s eyes narrow at the other end of the table. Me, I freeze.

  Then Louelle says, with her mouth full, ‘Well, I’ll tell you what, Joe, if you want to talk feminists, that Betty Dodson should be a saint. Have you read her? Liberating Masturbation is a masterpiece. Changed m
y life, but you’re probably already an expert at jerking off.’

  Dad looks appalled, but Jack laughs loudly as Joe begins to grin. Mary starts coughing and Mom rushes out to fetch her a glass of water. Larry says, ‘Touché,’ under his breath.

  I could possibly be falling in love. I put my hand on Larry’s leg and squeeze his thigh. It’s a bit ungainly, this intimate holding of each other’s body parts, but a woman shouldn’t leave this sort of thing to happen without a show of willing participation.

  After the meal we watch the game. The Dolphins are playing the Cardinals at St Louis. Larry and I sit cross-legged on the floor next to each other. Joe keeps muttering that he can’t believe the Cowboys aren’t playing, that it’s not Thanksgiving without the Cowboys. Then Mom tearfully says that the loss of Lorne Greene as presenter, who has today been replaced by Ed McMahon, is also tragic. ‘He’s a real man. He was the best. He made Thanksgiving for me,’ she says. ‘I always look forward to Lorne.’ I didn’t realise she was so drunk.

  ‘Let’s get out of here,’ Larry leans over to whisper in my ear, and I offer to the Wilkinses that we could go next door and check on Daisy, who seems to have finally stopped yapping.

  ‘I’ll come too,’ he says.

  It’s dark outside. Mary Wilkins’ keys are heavy in my hand. They’ve got an alarm system installed, but she said it’s very complicated and they never actually use it.