“I said I’d think about it, because I didn’t know what to say. But I don’t want to. I wish he’d stop asking.”
“His birthday party is next week,” Girl said.
“Yeah, he told me. We’re going together, right?”
“Of course we are. William throws the best parties. I promised to be his bartender.” It didn’t matter if Girl had a boyfriend, Sharon was always her date for any of William’s parties. She had made the mistake of taking a boyfriend only once, and he had just sat there, too uncomfortable to speak or even move off the sofa.
William was turning twenty-five. He seemed so grown up to Girl, so mature. She didn’t realize that at eighteen she was closer in age to him than he was to any of the other guys at the shop. Girl didn’t know he saw her and Sharon as his peers. It wasn’t until Girl was twenty-five that she realized how it is just a breath and a week from eighteen, not all that old, not all that grown up.
A few weeks later Ryan called Girl into his office. They were so busy that she rarely spoke to Ryan one-on-one—normally he was in the back office doing paperwork and Girl was in the work area out front, and Ryan only appeared when they got too loud. Girl was a little trepidatious, but she couldn’t think of what she had done wrong.
“I’m not a brave man,” Ryan began. “I told William I’m closing the shop, but I’m not. I just need to get rid of him. So if you talk to him, pretend you’re sad about the shop closing and that you’re looking for a new job. But don’t worry, I’m not firing you.”
Girl nodded. She remembered Bruce, the man she worked with years ago, saying that South Wedge had closed. Apparently this was how Ryan fired people. When push came to shove, it was Ryan that Girl was loyal to, and not just because he signed her paychecks. She wished Ryan had been her father. Even his words—I am not a brave man—made her love him more, and want to protect him. She would play his game.
“Cleaning house!” Tony said gleefully when Girl exited the office. He was obviously in on it too. William was livid though, and not fooled for a minute. As soon as he was told the story, he called Girl.
“They all have AIDS, you know. I don’t know what Ryan is thinking—I’ve been sharing my AZT with him, but I’m not going to do that anymore. And Tony? I was teaching him how to read. I was the only one to throw a party for him when he turned forty. His lover couldn’t be bothered.”
William found another job, but he and Girl drifted apart. Not because she didn’t love him, but because he was so angry and hard to be around. She didn’t know how to reconcile it. Every time they got together Girl left fuming, resolving never to see him again, but then he’d get sick, or need a ride to the doctor’s, and she’d always go when he called.
By May of 1992 William was bedridden, yellow and swollen from liver disease, nearly twice his original girth. William could no longer pretend to come from a close family that just happened to live too far to visit often. None of his relatives came to see him in his last few weeks, not even his mother. William couldn’t hide the fact that most of the people who drank his champagne and ate his caviar at parties didn’t want to see him in his final days. He couldn’t hide the smell of his disease as it ate his body away, or cover up the pallor of his skin, or pretend his bloated figure was due to too much pasta.
“I’ll come back tomorrow, after school,” Girl said, after one visit.
“Bring me raspberries,” William asked.
“Of course I will. Anything you want.” Girl smiled and fought back tears. She didn’t want him to go on like this, but she wasn’t ready for him to die either. All of her complaints about him seemed petty now, and Girl wished she had been a better friend.
The next morning the telephone summoned her from sleep, telling her it was too late to bring William raspberries ever again.
Girl asked Mother to go to the funeral, but it was Sharon who held her as they both sobbed. Girl felt guilty for making Mother go with her—she knew Mother had lost so many people, been to too many funerals. Girl tried to turn to her instead of Sharon, but it felt forced, outgrown. She shouldn’t have asked her to go, even though she was willing. It wasn’t fair to Mother, so Girl let Mother hold her and cried on her shoulder as well.
the right chevy
summer 1989
Girl met the Right Chevy at an Alcoholics Anonymous picnic when she was almost sixteen, and almost a year sober. “Met” wasn’t exactly the right word; “saw” was more precise. Samson Chevy was tan, muscular, and shirtless, at least five years older and a whole lot cooler than Girl. He had a Harley bandana tied around his head and a scruffy beard. His face crinkled in laughter around his green eyes, and he was surrounded by a group of admiring men and teenagers.
Girl was there with her best friend, Rose-Marie. They were trying to impress the other high school kids at the picnic, the boys in particular. Since Girl was going to an all-girls Catholic school, AA functions were the only place she got to flirt.
“Chevy’s here!” the boy Girl was talking to said, and walked off to hang around the bikers like a groupie. Girl didn’t follow him—she was too cool for that.
“No girl can ever get me down!” Brandon
