Twisted Family Values Page 10

  “You tell me.” Foster looked Biz steadily and confidently in the eye. Then he walked over to her without breaking his gaze, and offered his hand to help her up from the bed as if he were a prince helping a duchess out of a carriage. She took it, and he bore her weight with ease, then stood still, waiting for her to speak. In a rarity, she was at a loss for words; they’d never been this close. His neck was clean-shaven and he smelled like Old Spice. She wanted to touch his shoulders.

  “I can’t believe I’m doing this,” Biz said, and was the first to avert her eyes. “I’m pretty sure Charlie’s going to kill you.”

  “Or you.”

  “Ha, true,” she said, worried in earnest. But this was better for her.

  Foster grabbed his coat and threw a few things into a worn canvas L.L.Bean bag with Kelly-green straps. He mumbled something on the way to the elevator and Biz said, “What?”

  “Charlie would never kill you because he’s in love with you.”

  Biz stopped short and shot him a glance. “Hey, that’s got to stop or else I’m calling this off.”

  Foster said, “Okay, sorry. Just joking.”

  “Well, don’t. It’s not funny.” She clearly meant business. Foster pantomimed turning a key in front of his mouth. They stepped into the elevator, and Biz said, “You’re a dork.” Foster knew that. He also knew he was going to enjoy this little adventure immensely.

  * * *

  Charlie offered to carry Becky’s hard plastic suitcase through Back Bay Station, and she let him. They stood where they could watch the giant board with all the times and destinations—close enough to hear the letters and numbers flipping over each other, fluttering as the trains were called. Flap-ap-ap-ap-ap-ap the board purred in the background. Their easy banter passed the time.

  “What’s in this thing?” Charlie said.

  “My rock collection,” said Becky. “I thought you said to bring rocks.” She looked at him with a straight face, but her eyes gave her away. Charlie laughed. “I said socks. Bring warm socks!”

  “Oooohh.” She pretended to catch on. They snickered at their vaudeville routine. The air around them crackled with anticipation. Her curly hair was brushed fluffy like Jennifer Beals’s and the deep magenta cardigan that stretched the buttons taut at her chest brought out her ruby lips and the pink in her cheeks.

  “You look nice,” Charlie said in earnest.

  Becky said, “Are you sure they’re not going to give me a hard time for being Jewish?”

  “I don’t think they’ll even know. They’ll probably think you’re Italian like I did, or Greek. But my cousin E.J. will cut into you for being short. See if you can do something about that before tonight.” Becky chuckled at his comment but also to herself. WASPs were so utterly self-isolating, living in tiny slivers of their separate worlds. They rarely sought out opportunities to observe differentiated nuances. Jewish, Italian, Greek—to them other cultures didn’t exist, and the ones that did were interchangeable variations. But the Jews Becky knew were narrow-minded, too. “Their people,” she’d heard her extended family say a million times growing up. Everyone was an “other”—it always boiled down to “us” and “them.” At least Charlie had seen a lot of documentaries and was taking Ethnology and Film. He seemed pretty open-minded for a gentile.

  “I’ll see what I can do about my height,” Becky said. “And how are you going to explain us?” She said it casually, trying to toss off the question, but waited for his answer with a small pit in her stomach. It had never crossed Charlie’s mind their relationship needed defining. She was so easygoing, and they’d been having so much fun. As Charlie gave the question a thoughtful moment’s deliberation, her pit grew and split open, leaking self-doubt. Charlie said, “How about we tell them we’re having fun getting to know one another?” Becky did her best to hide she was crestfallen. She’d been counseled by her friends not to ask this very question because she’d have to be okay with his answer. Or act like it.

  Charlie waited for her reaction, pretty sure he’d said the wrong thing. Becky struggled to stop her throat from tightening and her eyes from welling with tears. They let their attention divert back to the flipping letters on the board. Becky found comfort in the soothing voice of the confident woman who called the departing trains over the loudspeaker for all to hear. I bet she doesn’t let men define her relationships, or her self worth, or her future. Becky decided the all-knowing wise woman must surely be the voice of God. “This is the final call for the southbound North Corridor Amtrak train four-oh-six departing at gate two. All aboard.” Charlie leaned down and kissed Becky on the mouth, pointedly and sweetly. He felt he’d said something wrong, but wasn’t sure what. Further destinations flipped and skittered their way up the board as the 406 disappeared entirely, presumably to join its travelers on the grand rail journey from Boston down to New Jersey.

  Biz and Foster caught the next train home. They passed the journey to Penn Station swilling apricot brandy and getting their stories straight. Foster was quick-witted but talked slowly and deliberately. No one rushed him, least of all Biz. Every time she came up with a wild lie—“Let’s say we met at a football game”—Foster put the kybosh on it. “Let’s not and say we met through Charlie. It’s easier to remember the truth.” They chatted easily as the train rumbled along, with plenty of silences between them. He looked out the window or read the thick biography of Robert Moses he was toting. Biz sketched, answering his questions about her inevitable success as an entrepreneur, and liked that he showed interest in her ideas. She was glad he wasn’t Mike, and by the time they boarded the local to Firth, she’d convinced herself Charlie would be pleased. Foster was an adequate sub, whom he knew and liked, or at least didn’t detest.

  They dropped their bags in Nana Miggs’s garage and made a beeline for the festival games. “Oh, I almost forgot, my family might call me Bizzy. And Charlie, possibly Choo.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “Yes. Get used to it. And my brother, E.J., might say some shit about Charlie and me being an item.” Foster tossed a ring and missed, but stayed cool as a cucumber. “Noted.”

  “My given name is Elizabeth. They didn’t go with Betsy; don’t ask me why.”

  “Do all the adults in your house have nicknames fit for children’s programming?”

  “Bring it up and I’ll put you on the next train back and you’ll eat ramen for the next six meals.” Foster mimed the lock and key again, and Biz slapped his arm. “Quit that. Let’s get a beer.”

  Both couples made the most out of the carnival games and rides, eventually meeting up as they’d planned before the Twilight Dance began. Charlie noticed Biz first through the thick mob surrounding the gazebo. She looked great, as always, though a little drunk, as always, but he was relieved to find her in the madness. He was also nervous to meet Mike and craned his neck to see his face. What didn’t compute was seeing his roommate, Foster, walking next to Biz.

  Charlie shook Foster’s hand. “Hey, man. How’s it going? What are you doing here?” Foster turned to Biz. “Do you want to tell him or shall I?” Biz elbowed Foster in a chummy way, much to Charlie’s horror, and said, “Mike got pneumonia at the last minute, and I raced over to tell you but you’d already left. Foster’s my date, for lack of a better word, but he just came for the home-cooked meals. Turns out he has a face and a mouth that speaks in full sentences. And can be totally civil if the mood strikes.”

  Charlie was confused. How did that happen? Biz had told him how it happened. But how? He thought they had no secrets, wanted to believe her story. Why on earth would she lie? Distracted, he failed to introduce Becky, who was feeling shorter than usual, and ignored. If he didn’t introduce her soon, she’d head over to the Ferris wheel and throw herself off. Biz said, “Xaler, Oohc,” to which Charlie answered, “Retsof? Tahw eth lleh?” What looped in Becky’s head was This is a mistake. “So, you must be Becky,” Biz said with genuine warmth, then drew her in for a hug.

  “Uh,
yes I am. Becky Rosenfeld. Pleased to meet you both.”

  “I’m Biz. I’ve heard so much about you, but not too much, I promise.”

  “Only the appropriate amount, let’s hope,” said Becky feeling awkward. She also felt dowdy next to Biz, who exuded wholesomeness with maddening ease.

  Foster cut in. “I haven’t heard a damn thing about you, Becky, so lie to me all you want. I’m Foster, Charlie’s roommate. And Biz’s—”

  “Trial friend and travel companion,” Biz interrupted. Charlie couldn’t help but grin. It was fun to watch her torture someone else for a change. He decided not to be jealous, but it was odd nonetheless, and would probably test his patience and generosity. Biz said, “Think you can handle it, Charlie? Or is this too weird for your delicate constitution?”

  “It’ll be my pleasure,” Charlie said. He turned to Foster. “Welcome, moocher.”

  Just then a man parted the crowd, arms outstretched. “Fuck you!” he railed, flipping the bird to everyone in his path. He looked older than his forty plus years and had a stained trench coat, rumpled like Detective Columbo’s. He perched two sets of eyeglasses on his forehead—neither of which he needed—and marched as he walked, as if late for a meeting. Charlie and Biz glanced at the man and said, “Hey, fuck you, Carl,” in a friendly manner. “No,” he said, stopping at their little huddle. “Fuck youuu!” Then he repeated it, this time with more pizzazz, and flipped the bird with a rough growl. This exchange was enough to appease FU Carl, and he nodded before continuing on his way.

  Charlie said to Becky and Foster, “That was Fuck You Carl.”

  Becky said, “We gathered.”

  Foster said, “Why do they call him Fuck You Carl?”

  Biz rolled her eyes and said to Charlie, “Ignore him.” She bumped Foster a little as she said it, which set Charlie’s neck hairs on end. Biz said to the group, “We could hang around here and watch the old farts dance or we could sneak home before the grown-ups and play some games…” Charlie knew Biz meant drinking games. Becky and Foster did not.

  “Well, I’m up for anything,” said Becky. “Anything but clogging and bagpipes. And Renaissance fairs. Which this scene is eerily reminiscent of.” Charlie took her hand. “You would dazzle at a Renaissance fair.” Becky lit up, Biz was unfazed, and Foster found the whole scene curious. “Follow me,” chirped Biz as she plowed through the crowd. She liked Becky and wasn’t intimidated in the least. Charlie put his hand on the small of Becky’s back. “After you,” he said, and she warmed to his touch. She felt lucky, but also anxious, as if diving into a public swimming pool wearing an ill-fitting suit complete with noticeable wedgie.

  * * *

  They let themselves into the dark, quiet house and carried their bags up to their rooms. Foster and Becky were quietly in awe of the grand staircase. Fading watercolor landscapes and stuffy oil portraits lined halls wallpapered in busy flocked prints. The hallways tilted and floors creaked, leaving the impression of either a very solidly built two-hundred-year-old house or one about to crumble at any minute. Biz led them to Grandpa Dun’s bar cart, and Foster pointed to the Macallan 18. “I’ll take some of that,” he said, controlling his excitement. Becky tugged at Charlie’s shirt. He leaned down and she whispered, “I’m not much of a drinker.”

  “Oh, that’s okay,” he said. “You can sip it.”

  “It might put me right to sleep.”

  “Nothing wrong with that,” said Charlie, patting her on the shoulder like an old friend. Becky wondered what he meant but was too out of her element to ask. Biz grabbed bottles of rum and tequila and headed for the kitchen. The first floor of the house was typically cavernous and cold—the heat rarely set above sixty-seven—but the kitchen felt snug, a portal to 1950. The floor was flecked black-and-white check vinyl, and there were aqua and yellow overlapping quasars on the Formica table with aluminum trim. The slightly oddball, somewhat inebriated foursome slid into the L-shaped breakfast nook. An empty rocks glass was placed in the center and filled to half with Labatt’s Blue.

  They played Thumper, and Quarters, which Becky had to learn but joined tentatively. She knew there was some rhyme warning of drinking beer before wine or liquor but couldn’t remember how it went. She’d heard WASPs made drinking the center of every social occasion but had never experienced the peer pressure firsthand. Biz tuned the transistor to WPLJ and turned up the volume so it echoed tinny throughout the house. Charlie and Biz sang “boner of a lonely fart” to “Owner of a Lonely Heart” and encouraged everyone to get up and dance. Becky shook her head no, and Foster stayed seated, whistling the “Autumn” movement of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons, just to be a noodge.

  Charlie excused himself from the revelry to pee. Weaving his way back, he was drawn to the “good” living room. Unbroken vacuum tracks were visible on the peachy orange carpet, and tasseled throw pillows were pouffed to perfection. Occasionally he and Biz snuck in to gaze at sterling silver frames crowded with well-heeled people cradling infants in long christening gowns. And though the room was verboten except for holidays and sanctioned special occasions, Charlie was allowed to play the grand piano as long as he asked permission.

  The upright in his dorm’s common room was so discordant he hadn’t used it except to play “Crocodile Rock” for drunken students. But now he felt emboldened and wasn’t so inebriated that he didn’t recognize the part of him that wanted to make Foster jealous. Feeling rogue, Charlie played “Christmas Time Is Here”—the dreamy, spellbinding waltz. Who cares if the Christmas season doesn’t start until December first. It could come early to impress Biz.

  The Charlie Brown classic wound its way into a delicate variation of “Moonglow,” so exquisitely wrought that Vince Guaraldi himself—Charlie’s favorite pianist—might have closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair to listen. On its heels he played the wistful, “Embraceable You,” which he’d been dragooned to learn to make his grandparents happy. The raucous kitchen sing-a-long to Prince’s apocalyptic “1999” underscored the song’s declaration of love as he played. He relished the layered incongruity of distant voices against his chords and laughed as he merged the two tempos. At the end of the songs he was resting his hands on the warm ivory keys, waiting for his muse to tell him what to play next, when an actual voice at the far end of the dark room spoke in the studied tone of an aging tenured professor.

  “Very good, young man. Your diligence has paid off,” said Grandpa Dun. Charlie bolted upright from the piano bench like a guilty six-year-old. “Sit, sit,” Dunny said, then to Marjorie, “What’s the song, dearest heart, the one Ruby Keeler sang in that—”

  “‘I Only Have Eyes for You,’” she said.

  Nana Miggs interrupted, her voice rich and patient with the institutional knowledge of a lifetime finishing the sentences of one man.

  “Would you like to hear the verse?” asked Charlie.

  Nana Miggs stage-whispered, “Dunny, our handsome, talented grandson knows the verse. Yes, dear, we would love to hear the whole megilla.”

  Charlie could see his grandparents smile as he played: hers encircled by deep crevices that held her signature cranberry lipstick, and his in his eyes, hooded by the white bushy eyebrows befitting a former titan of industry. The revelers emerged from the kitchen to find the silver-haired couple swaying sweetly and lip-syncing with precision and grace. Introductions followed. “I’m Marjorie Thornden, and this is my other half, Dunsfield. Please call me Nana Miggs. Everyone else on God’s green earth does, and call this one Dunny. He won’t answer to anything else.”

  “Notice she didn’t say ‘better half,’” said Grandpa Dun, extending his vein-striped hand for firm shaking. “Thank you for having us, Mr. and Mrs. Thornden,” said Foster. He and Becky were loose from the booze and passed muster with flying colors. He also knew full well they would prefer to be called by their surnames and that first impressions mattered greatly, so he straightened up, and Becky followed suit. Charlie was instructed to pick up just where he’d left off and
noticed the knees on his grandmother’s slacks swaying slightly out of the corner of his eye. At the top of the chorus she sang quietly under her breath, “Are the stars out tonight, I don’t know if it’s cloudy or bright…” Grandpa Dun joined her, his slacks swaying as well. “’Cause I only have eyes … for youuu, dearrr…” Charlie finished with gentle command, slowing at the end to milk the delicate promise of the lyric.

  Foster said, “I had no idea.”

  “I did,” said Biz with delight. Something swelled in her watching him play. “He’s been playing since we were kids.” Biz had learned at a young age that if her calming voice or jokes didn’t work to hoist him out of a mood, walking him over to the piano could work wonders.

  Charlie held the room with an understated and irrefutable power. It was impressive. And sexy. Foster felt it, too. Feeling intimidated and sauced, he stood closer to Biz, letting his shoulder rub against hers. Charlie noticed.

  Becky said, “Nice work. How am I supposed to top that?”

  “No need, young lady,” said Grandpa Dun, and winked at Becky. They were all still standing in the dim light of the tiny piano lamp when Claire and Les, and Cat and Ned, arrived for the second round of introductions. The cousins would be along much later—ending up at someone’s garage after pilfering beers from their houses during the day and hiding them in bushes for later retrieval. Grandpa Dun was predictably jovial, all pomp and circumstance introducing the two newbies to the others, referring to them as paramours. Biz corrected, “They’re not paramours, Grandpa. Please, it’s awkward enough.”

  “Do you feel awkward, Becky?” he bellowed. He, too, had been drinking expensive scotch.

  “Not in the slightest, Mr. Thornden,” she replied in equal volume, rosy cheeks and shored-up bravery.

  “And you?” Grandpa Dun said to Foster.

  “It takes a lot to make me feel awkward, Mr. Thornden.”

  “And to what do you attribute such a feat, young man?”