“I guess so.”
I sigh. Dorrit is so blase. There’s no getting through to her. I only hope she’s given up the shoplifting. “Have you met her?”
“Yeah,” Dorrit says, noncommittally.
“And?” I nearly scream.
“Eh.”
“Do you hate her?” This is a stupid question. Dorrit hates everyone.
“I try to pretend she doesn’t exist.”
“What does Dad think?”
“He doesn’t notice,” she says. “It’s disgusting. When she’s around, he only pays attention to her.”
“Is she pretty?”
“
“Ugh.”
“And he has a motorcycle.”
“What?” This time I really do scream.
“Didn’t he tell you? He bought a motorcycle.”
“He hasn’t told me anything. He hasn’t even told me about this Wendy person.”
“He’s probably afraid,” Dorrit says. “Ever since he met her, he’s become totally whipped.”
Great, I think, unpacking my suitcase. This is going to be a terrific weekend.
A little bit later, I find my father in the garage, rearranging his tools. I immediately suspect that Dorrit is right-my father is avoiding me. I’ve been home for less than an hour, but already I’m wondering why I came back at all. No one seems the least bit interested in me or my life. Dorrit ran off to a girlfriend’s house, my father has a motorcycle, and Missy is all caught up with her composing. I should have stayed in New York.
I spent the entire train ride mulling over last night. The kiss with Capote was a terrible mistake and I’m horrified I went along with it, if only for a few seconds. But what does it mean? Is it possible I secretly like Capote? No. He’s probably one of those “love the one you’re with” guys-meaning he automatically goes after whatever woman happens to be around when he’s feeling horny. But there were plenty of other women at the party, including Rainbow. So why’d he pick me?
Feeling lousy and hungover, I bought some aspirin and drank a Coke. I kept torturing myself with all the unfinished business I was leaving behind, including Bernard. I even considered getting off the train in New Haven and taking the next train back to New York, but when I thought about how disappointed my family would be, I couldn’t do it.
Now I wish I had.
“Dad!” I intone in annoyance.
He turns, startled, a wrench in his hand. “I was just cleaning out my workbench.”
“I can see that.” I peer around for this notorious motorcycle and spot it next to the wall, partly hidden behind my father’s car. “Dorrit said you bought a motorcycle,” I say craftily.
“Yes, Carrie, I did.”
“Why?”
“I wanted to.”
“But why?” I sound like a woeful girl who’s just been dumped. And my father’s acting like a jerky boy who doesn’t have any answers.
“Do you want to see it?” he asks finally, unable to keep his obvious enthusiasm in check.
He wheels it out from behind the car. It’s a motorcycle, all right. And not just any old motorcycle. It’s a Harley. With enormous handlebars and a black body decaled with flames. The kind of motorcycle favored by members of the Hells Angels.
My father rides a Harley?
On the other hand, I’m impressed. It’s no wussie motorcycle, that’s for sure.
“What do you think?” he asks proudly.
“I like it.”
He seems pleased. “I bought it off this kid in town. He was desperate for money. I only paid a thousand dollars.”
“Wow.” I shake my head. Everything about this is so unlike my father-from his sentence construction to the motorcycle itself-that for a moment I don’t know what to say. “How’d you find this kid?” I ask.
“He’s Wendy’s cousin’s son.”
My eyes bug out of my head. I can’t believe how casually he’s mentioned her. I go along with the game. “Who’s Wendy?”
He brushes the seat of the motorcycle with his hand. “She’s my new friend.”
So that’s how he’s going to play it. “What kind of friend?”
“She’s very nice,” he says, refusing to catch my eye.
“How come you didn’t tell me about her?”
“Oh, Carrie.” He sighs.
“Everyone says she’s your girlfriend. Dorrit and Missy and even Walt.”
“Walt knows?” he asks, surprised.
“Everyone knows, Dad,” I say sharply. “Why didn’t you tell
He slides onto the seat of the motorcycle, playing with the levers. “Do you think you could cut me some slack?”
“Dad!”
“This is all very new for me.”
I bite my lip. For a moment, my heart goes out to him. In the past five years, he hasn’t shown an ounce of interest in any woman. Now he’s apparently met someone he likes, which is a sign that he’s moving forward. I should be happy for him. Unfortunately, all I can think about is my mother. And how he’s betraying her. I wonder if my mother is up in heaven, looking down at what he’s become. If she is, she’d be horrified.
“Did Mom know her? This Wendy friend of yours?”
He shakes his head, pretending to study the instrument panel. “No.” He pauses. “I don’t think so, anyway. She’s a little bit younger.”
“How young?” I demand.
I’ve suddenly pushed too hard, because he looks at me defiantly. “I don’t know, Carrie. She’s in her late twenties. I’ve been told it’s rude to ask a woman her age.”
I nod knowingly. “And how old does she think you are?”
“She knows I have a daughter who’s going to Brown in the fall.”
There’s a sharpness in his tone I haven’t heard since I was a kid. It means,
“Fine.” I turn to go.
“And Carrie?” he adds. “We’re having dinner with her tonight. I’m going to be very disappointed if you’re rude to her.”
“We’ll see,” I mutter under my breath. I head back to the house, convinced my worst fears have been confirmed. I already hate this Wendy woman. She has a relative who’s a Hells Angel. And she lies about her age. I figure if a woman is willing to lie about her own birth date, she’s willing to lie about pretty much anything.
I start to clean out the refrigerator, tossing out one scientific experiment after another. That’s when I remember that I’ve lied about my age as well. To Bernard. I pour the last of the sour milk down the drain, wondering what my family is coming to.
“Don’t you look special?” Walt quips. “Though a mite overdressed for Castlebury.”
“What does one wear to a restaurant in Castlebury?”
“Surely not an evening gown.”
“Walt,” I scold. “It’s not an evening gown. It’s a hostess gown. From the sixties.” I found it at my vintage store
