Boy, Snow, Bird(11)

—

back in my room I used the windowsill as a desk and wrote a brief and painstakingly breezy note to Charlie Vacic from home, just to tell him that I was still looking after his flag, and to give him my address in case he wanted to write to me. I’d appreciate it if you kept this address to yourself.

I read it over through the steam from my coffee cup. Over the years there’d been long moments when Charlie and I had looked at each other without blinking, and I’d wondered what it was that was separating us and whether he or I could make it disappear. For my part I was always a little disturbed by him because I’d never heard him tell a lie. That was horrifying to me, like living in a house with every door and window wide open all day long. When I was in a reasonable mood, I knew Charlie wasn’t for me. The note was only a few words long, but it took me the best part of an hour to get it written because I was aware of how closely he would read it.

The other girls were at work, so the bathroom was all mine. I ran a bath and walked back and forth before the mirror as I tugged at buttons, slowly removing my clothing piece by piece. The sight was unfamiliar, and I imagined I was watching a lover undressing just for me. My lover wasn’t shy. Her motions were calculated, intent. Naked, I gathered the white mass of my hair up in my hand and turned my face from side to side, trying to see what Charlie, or Arturo, or Mia, or anyone saw. Then I moistened my lips with my tongue and walked toward the mirror, not too fast, giving myself time to change my mind, to stop if it felt too peculiar. But it was just peculiar enough. I kissed the glass with my fists against it, kissed wantonly until I felt an ache in my breasts and a throbbing between my legs. There was a taste of blood where my mouth met my mouth, as if our lips were blades.





4

charlie Vacic’s reply to my note contained a lot of guff about his sincere hope that I didn’t consider myself under any obligation to him, not even as a pen pal. I happened to know that he’d soon be returning to the city from Albany, so I figured he was sweet on someone else. I considered all the girls we both knew and picked one at random—Jane-Ellen Nugent, she would do—and I wrote to Charlie that I didn’t see what was so great about Jane-Ellen Nugent but I wouldn’t dream of interfering with his happiness and have a nice life.

He sent a telegram: Cut it out Boy you know where I stand when it comes to you—C.V.

I didn’t know, and said so by return.

His reply: Can’t believe you’re making me say this am willing to fill any role required by you i.e. buddy best buddy laborer unpaid driver unpaid gardener unpaid father of your children coat etc just tell me which and how we’ll manage come home will square things with your Pa—Charlie

Alarmed, I changed my tune. You really don’t know that man at all let’s stick to letters from now on you nut—Boy.

He wrote letters, but I didn’t reply. It wasn’t a genuine attachment. We didn’t even have photographs of each other. Charlie’s telegrams were meant for the Grace Kelly look-alike in his mind’s eye, and I—I had written a jealous letter directly to his freckles.

He kept up the letters for three months, then wrapped up his one-sided correspondence with a note that was so . . . like him that I had to show it to Mia.


All right, Boy. You win. I won’t be bothering you anymore. This fella you’ve met out there, whoever he is . . . I was going to write that he’s lucky, but actually I don’t think he is. Because . . . with all due respect . . . I think you’ve got something that looks an awful lot like an attitude problem, and that’s quite aside from the matter of whether or not you left the city with a roll of your Pa’s cash like he says you did. Sorry. I had to be honest. Doesn’t stop me wishing you were my bad luck, though.


So long,





C





We were having a little picnic at the park, Mia and I, wearing daring hats we’d made out of sheets of newsprint. Mia read the note slowly, placing a finger beneath each word, opening her mouth wide every now and again to indicate that I should place a pitted olive in there. That girl was suspiciously good at being waited on. I’d expected, even wanted, her to laugh at the note, but she didn’t. She touched the letter C at the end.

“Huh,” she said. “Did you really take the money?”

“It wasn’t as much as he makes out. It was practically peanuts.” She refused the next olive, so I ate it myself. “Also I’m going to pay it back.”

“You’re going to Hell, you dirty thief,” she said, in a very mild tone of voice. “But this C—he’s not like you?”

“No. He’s just . . . Charlie.”

“Charlie,” Mia said, around a strawberry. “Charlie. Char-lie.” She pushed her sunshades farther down the bridge of her nose so that I could see her serious eyes. “I think Charlie could really love you,” she said.

“Oh, please,” I said. “What do you think you know about him?”

“All I know is I’d think twice before counting out someone who could really love me.”

“Yeah? Well, maybe you’re a sap.” I tapped a corner of her hat and it collapsed.

—

i got work as a telephone operator—they said they’d train me up because I had the right voice and manner for it. I counted myself lucky apart from the fact that I kept seeing Arturo Whitman on the way to work. He went running every morning, and I walked to the telephone exchange to save bus fare. Our routes coincided for about half a mile, along a road that swirled around one of the hills like a helter-skelter. That road was called Ivorydown, and I was always glad when I reached the turn onto Willoughby Street. Not just because of having to observe Arturo running up ahead or approaching from behind (there’s something about being chased by a big strong man with yellowish eyes that makes you feel like an antelope in a bad situation), but because I’ve never liked roads that take you down from steep heights too quickly. Ivorydown was like that, the tyrannical kind of road that makes you take quick little step after quick little step until you’re all the way at the bottom. Cars and buses flowed down the hill with ease, and the people in them watched you placidly through the windows. The road was lined with saplings, but they weren’t there to help, they just stood there making pretty frames for the landscape with their branches. Arturo slowed down to speak to me.