My Name Is Venus Black(74)

“Surely you have some savings,” I prod. “And since you never had to pay a single dime to raise me from the age of thirteen up, I would think you could spare at least a thousand?”

That was a low blow. I gulp some wine so I don’t have to see her reaction.

“I can probably give you around eight hundred right away,” she says. “Every month I put some money in savings. I could go to the bank tomorrow. Is that enough for now and I’ll give you more when I sell the house?”

Of course it is. It’s actually more than I’d hoped for—I was bluffing by demanding so much.

I set my glass on the coffee table, reaching for a coaster at the last second. The coasters are painted with seagulls, and I bought them in a shop in Mukilteo to give Inez for Mother’s Day one year. Why on earth hasn’t she tossed them?

“I guess I can make that work,” I say. As soon as the words are out of my mouth, they sound stingy and ungrateful. Damn. I wanted to come off more dignified and mature. But when she acts all meek it brings out my mean.

Now I’m anxious to go. I get to my feet, saying, “I’ll come back tomorrow for the money. I can get my own coat.”

“But you just got here!” she exclaims. “Please don’t leave yet.” She is still sitting in her chair, as if by not standing up she can make me stay.

“Why not?” I ask. “What else do we have to talk about?”

“Can’t you stay for a while, Venus?” She gazes up at me with familiar gray eyes, and for a brief flash I see my mother as I used to—more of an annoyance than the source of all evil—and I soften in spite of myself.



“I won’t smoke,” she promises. “I’m trying to quit. I have to,” she adds with a nervous laugh. “Did you know that pretty soon you won’t even be able to smoke in bowling alleys? Isn’t that ridiculous?”

What is she babbling about? Smoking was never the issue. I stand there for a second too long, and she takes that for hope and launches into a speech about how she knows I’m still angry, but she loves me, and who knows when we’ll ever see each other if I move to California. She seems desperate, on the verge of tears—and I’m so scared that she’ll cry and I’ll feel sorry for her that I sit back down. “Okay, I’ll stay for a few more minutes.”

I settle back into the couch and try to pretend Inez is not Inez. I ask about her friends, the only safe subject I can think of at the moment. As she rattles on about Shirley—the woman she should hate for losing Leo!—I continue to sip on the wine. I decide I like the way it tastes and the way it feels to be sitting here drinking.

“What about your job?” I prompt, which seems like another safe topic. She complains about it, but not too much. It’s a boring job at the school-district administration office.

Just hearing about her dull life makes me want to stick a fork in my eye. I’ve decided by now that I really like red wine, especially the way the color of it perfectly matches the bitter berry taste. I think of Leo and how he likes food that is the “right” color. I wonder if he also likes food that tastes like the color it is. Like rice tastes white and peas taste green.

Inez continues to rattle on, clearly desperate to keep me here. As she talks, she keeps refilling my glass when it’s half empty. With each sip, it gets harder to resent her or keep a hostile attitude. Soon, my lips feel both numb and buzzy.

We finish the bottle, but Inez keeps up a nervous stream of chatter. She tells me more about Shirley—clearly her only real friend—and how Shirley loves dumb-blonde jokes even though she’s a natural blonde herself. “She must know at least two hundred of them,” Inez says, smiling.



“Tell me one,” I challenge.

“A dumb-blonde joke?”

“Yeah. Why not?” I’m only half serious, but to my surprise she says, “Okay. Let me think for a minute.”

I’m starting to realize I could ask Inez to do just about anything tonight and she’d say yes. She tucks her hair behind her right ear, a habit she’s always had. “Okay,” she says, smiling. I see the familiar crooked incisor that always looks too sharp. She sits up straighter, tucking her feet beneath her like this is going to be a performance. “I guess this is a good one.”

“Okay, so tell it already!”

“Okay,” she says again, wiping her hands on her jeans like she’s nervous. “Okay. It goes something like: Why did the blonde stare at the can of orange juice for such a long time?”

I couldn’t think of an answer. “I give up,” I say. “Tell me.”

“Because the can said, ‘Concentrate.’?”

The joke is so lame that I smile and shake my head. I take another drink of what’s left in my glass. “Try again. Another one.”

“Oh no,” she says. “I don’t even know if I can remember any more. Shirley is the one who—”

“C’mon!” I encourage. “One more. If we can’t go after blondes, what else are we going to talk about?” It’s an awkward moment, because I just pointed out how much is off-limits between us.

“Okay!” she agrees. “Okay, I thought of another one: How come blondes always like to wear their hair up?” She suddenly gets out of her chair. “You think about it while I get another bottle.”