We troop down the driveway. Walt gets into his car with a wave of his hand. “Ta-ta, folks. Have fun.”
I watch him go, envious of his freedom.
“So!” Wendy says brightly when we’re in the car. “When do you start at Brown?”
I shrug.
“I’ll bet you can’t wait to get away from New York,” she enthuses. “It’s so dirty. And loud.” She puts her hand on my father’s arm and smiles.
Boyles is a tiny restaurant located in a damp patch off Main Street where our renowned Roaring Brook runs under the road. It’s highfalutin for Castlebury: the main courses are called pasta instead of spaghetti, and there are cloth napkins and a bud vase on each table containing a single rose.
“Very romantic,” my father says approvingly as he escorts Wendy to her chair.
“Your father is such a gentleman,” Wendy says.
“He is?” I can’t help it. He and Wendy are totally creeping me out. I wonder if they have sex. I certainly hope not. My father’s too old for all that groping around.
My father ignores my comment and picks up the menu. “They have the fish again,” he says to Wendy. And to me: “Wendy loves fish.”
“I lived in Los Angeles for five years. They’re much more health-conscious there,” Wendy explains.
“My roommate is in Los Angeles right now,” I say, partly to get the conversation away from Wendy. “She’s staying at the Beverly Hills Hotel.”
“I had lunch there once,” Wendy says, with her unflappable cheeriness. “It was so exciting. We sat next to Tom Selleck.”
“You don’t say,” my father replies, as if Wendy’s momentary proximity to a television actor raises her even further in his eyes.
“I met Margie Shephard,” I interject.
“Who’s Margie Shephard?” My father frowns.
Wendy winks at me, as if she and I possess a secret intimacy regarding my father’s lack of knowledge regarding popular culture. “She’s an actress. Up-and-coming. Everyone says she’s beautiful, but I don’t see it. I think she’s very plain.”
“She’s beautiful in person,” I counter. “She sparkles. From within.”
“Like you, Carrie,” Wendy says suddenly.
I’m so surprised by her compliment, I’m temporarily disabled in my subtle attack. “Well,” I say, picking up the menu. “What were you doing in Los Angeles?”
“Wendy was a member of an-” My father looks to Wendy for help.
“Improv group. We did improvisational theater.”
“Wendy’s very creative.” My father beams.
“Isn’t that one of those things where you do mime, like Marcel Marceau?” I ask innocently, even though I know better. “Did you wear white greasepaint and gloves?”
Wendy chuckles, amused by my ignorance. “I studied mime. But mostly we did comedy.”
Now I’m completely baffled. Wendy was an actress-and a comedic one at that? She doesn’t seem the least bit funny.
“Wendy was in a potato chip commercial,” my father says.
“You shouldn’t tell people that,” Wendy gently scolds. “It was only a local commercial. For State Line potato chips. And it was seven years ago. My big break.” She rolls her eyes with appropriate irony.
Apparently Wendy doesn’t take herself too seriously after all. It’s another check in her “pluses” column. On the other hand, it might only be a show for my benefit. “It must be a drag to be in Castlebury. After Los Angeles.”
She shakes her head. “I’m a small-town girl. I grew up in Scarborough,” she says, naming the town next door. “And I love my new job.”
“But that’s not all.” My father nudges her. “Wendy’s going to be teaching drama, too.”
I wince as Wendy’s life story becomes clear to me: local girl tries to make it big, fails, and crawls home to teach. It’s my worst fear.
“Your father says you want to be a writer,” Wendy continues blithely. “Maybe you should write for the
I freeze. The
Wendy frowns in confusion. “It’s just so difficult in New York, isn’t it? I mean, don’t you have to do your laundry in the basement? A friend of mine lived in New York and she said-”
“My building doesn’t have a laundry.” I look away, trying to contain my frustration. How dare Wendy or her friend presume anything about New York? “I take my dirty clothes to a Laundromat.” Which isn’t exactly true. Mostly I let them pile up in a corner of the bedroom.
“Now, Carrie. No one is making any assumptions about your abilities-” my father begins, but I’ve had enough.
“No, they’re not,” I say spitefully. “Because no one seems to be interested in me at all.” And with that, I get up, my face burning, and zigzag around the restaurant in search of the restroom.
I’m furious. At my father and Wendy for putting me in this position, but mostly at myself, for losing my temper. Now Wendy will come across as kind and reasonable, while I’ll appear jealous and immature. This only inflames my anger, causing me to recall everything I’ve always hated about my life and my family but refused to admit.
I go into the stall and sit on the toilet to think. What really galls me is the way my father has never taken my writing seriously. He’s never given me a word of encouragement, never said I was talented, has never even given me a compliment, for Christ’s sake. I might have lived my entire life without noticing, if it weren’t for the other kids at The New School. It’s pretty obvious that Ryan and Capote and L’il and even Rainbow have grown up praised and encouraged and applauded. Not that I want to be like them, but it wouldn’t hurt to have some belief from my own parent that I had something special.
I dab at my eyes with a piece of toilet paper, reminding myself that I have to go back out there and sit with them. I need to come up with a strategy, pronto, to explain my pathetic behavior.
There’s only one choice: I’m going to have to pretend my outburst never happened. It’s what Samantha would do.
I raise my chin and stride out.
Back at the table, Missy and Dorrit have arrived, along with a bottle of Chianti set in a woven straw basket. It’s the kind of wine I’d be embarrassed to drink in New York.
And with an ugly pang, I realize how average it all is. My father, the middle-aged widower, inappropriately dressed and going through a midlife crisis by taking up with a somewhat desperate younger woman, who, against the plain backdrop of Castlebury, probably appears interesting and different and exciting. And my two sisters, a punk and a nerd. It’s like some lousy sitcom.
If they’re so ordinary, does it mean I am too? Can I ever escape my past?
I wish I could change the channel.
“Carrie!” Missy cries out. “Are you okay?”
“Me?” I ask with feigned surprise. “Of course.” I take my place next to Wendy. “My father says you helped him find his Harley. I think it’s so interesting that you like motorcycles.”
“My father is a state trooper,” she responds, no doubt relieved that I’ve managed to get ahold of myself.
I turn to Dorrit. “You hear that, Dorrit? Wendy’s father is a state trooper. You’d better be careful-”
“Carrie.” My father looks momentarily distraught. “We don’t need to air our dirty laundry.”
“No, but we do need to wash it.”
No one gets my little joke. I pick up my wine glass and sigh. I’d planned to go back to New York on Monday, but there’s no way I can possibly last that long. Come tomorrow, I’m taking the first train out of here.
