Twisted Family Values Page 11

  “It tends to already be my waking conscious mode, sir.”

  “I see. Very good. Well, bon chance, mes amis. I trust everyone to behave appropriately. Children, do your Thornden best.”

  Becky and Foster looked at Biz as if to say, What on earth is that? And Biz shook her head as if answering, Ignore him. Charlie played the Looney Tunes riff as if wrapping a comedy bit, but his grandfather was already turning toward the staircase. Nana Miggs looked the newcomers in the eye one at a time and said, “It’s very nice to meet you both. Please make yourself at home. Mi casa, su casa. Don’t be shy. Heaven knows we’re not.”

  Charlie gave a gentle kiss to her powdered cheek. “Goodnight, Nana. Sleep well.”

  “Sweet dreams, my dear.” She reached up to pat him on the shoulder. “Be good.”

  “Always,” he said. And to Biz, Nana Miggs said, “And you…”

  “Never,” Biz said with a wry smile.

  “Atta girl,” said Nana Miggs under her breath, and headed off after Grandpa Dun. They watched as she laced her arm through his and tenderly steadied him up the staircase. Claire and Les, and Cat and Ned, followed suit reiterating niceties steeped in Emily Post. Becky and Foster played their parts of affable pals along for the ride—like travelers met at a hostel and brought home to see firsthand how the locals in this region live.

  On their way back to the kitchen, Charlie pulled Biz aside, whispering under the transistor’s bitchin’ Chaka Khan single “I Feel for You.” He thought their plan was going smoothly and they should meet later to debrief. He suggested the linen closet—a narrow upstairs back hallway where they’d logged hours as little kids, making blanket forts and hatching secret plans. “How much later?” Biz asked. Charlie replied with a twinkle, “Four A.M.?” She twinkled back, “Okay, but we’re not going to fool around.” Booze always made her horny. “No, we are not,” said Charlie while grinning and slowly nodding yes. They were well versed in the coy opposite-speak of a generation brought up on black-and-white movies, where “no” meant “maybe” or “probably” or often “yes.”

  “There’s no point. You’re probably lousy in bed, anyway,” Biz teased.

  “You are,” said Charlie.

  “No, you.”

  Charlie told her to stop drinking so she wouldn’t pass out, but Biz blithely waved him off. Becky, he knew, would sleep soundly through the night, but he worried Biz would foil his plan. He wanted to make sure they had a chance to rendezvous, to reconnect—us against the world. He was threatened by Foster who was maddeningly charming and chummy with Biz. He knew the plan was to let her go, but not this weekend, and not to his roommate.

  Cat and Claire paused on their way to bed to debrief at the top of the landing.

  Claire asked, “What do you think of Foster?”

  Cat said, “I think he’s perfectly darling.”

  “You know what I mean. Do you really think he’s dating Bizzy?”

  “No.”

  “Neither do I.”

  Cat said, “What about Becky?”

  “I don’t know what to think. She is darling. And clearly gaga for Charlie.”

  “I actually think there could be something between them.” Cat was impressed Claire appeared to be loosening up. “Welcome to the eighties,” she almost said out loud. Cat had dated a Jewish boy in high school, on the sly. She’d dated an Italian boy, too. Marjorie had known but had to keep it from Dunny. They didn’t tell Claire, either, as she wouldn’t have approved.

  Claire said, “It’ll never last.”

  Cat thought, So much for loosening up. “It doesn’t have to last. These days they experiment. Kids barely even go steady anymore.”

  “We didn’t experiment or date around,” said Claire.

  “Yes, and we ended up divorced and miserable.”

  “I’m not miserable,” said Claire. Cat shot her an accusatory look. Claire added, “Per se.”

  Cat said, “Please,” and tilted her head as if to say, I don’t buy it. Cat continued, “This is 1985, not ’55. These kids can date whomever they please. And now we know they aren’t gay. I know you were thinking it.”

  Claire said, “They? You actually thought my Bizzy might be a lesbian?” She said the word as if she were describing someone from an underrepresented, obscure nation.

  “There are lesbians in the world among us,” chided Cat.

  “Yes, but not very many. And no one we know.”

  Cat looked at Claire, then accounted for the time of night. This was not the hour to educate her sister on the prevalence of gays and lesbians in the world. Lord, how she lives a narrow life. The only gay person Claire recognized as such was Paul Lynde from Hollywood Squares—and even then, it wasn’t discussed. Cat said, “Dear Claire, there are as many lesbians as there are gay men in the world today, most of whom are living secret lives. And yes, we probably know plenty of them, we just don’t know we know. But that’s another conversation for another time.”

  Claire was already turning away from her sister. “Well, I don’t know what to think. I’m going to bed. The kids know to sleep in separate rooms, I hope.”

  Cat said, “God, yes. You told them to, right?”

  Claire stopped in her tracks and whipped around. “No. I didn’t. I thought you did.”

  Cat said, “Okay, let’s relax. Certainly Biz and Charlie aren’t that dumb. I’m sure they know better.” Claire looked unconvinced. “They’re good kids,” Cat defended, always giving the benefit of the doubt.

  “We were good kids,” Claire said, glossing over the truth, which was that she caved to her impulses nearly as often as Cat; she just didn’t get caught.

  Cat smiled thinly in the dimly lit hallway. “For the most part.”

  “And the other part?”

  “I’ll check the rooms.”

  Charlie and Biz were in agreement that they, too, should retire before E.J., Rah, or Georgia returned home and stirred things up. Biz said, “Let’s head up, I’m pooped.” Becky snorted at the comment, which sealed the deal that it was time for bed. As the shuffle and bustle of settling in and locating bathrooms took over the upstairs hallway, Biz passed Charlie, who said, “Eb ereht ro eb erauqs.” She would be bunking with Becky in one of the spare bedrooms, and Foster would have his own room on the third floor. Charlie said, “’Night,” to everyone in the hallway, then closed his bedroom door. The thought of meeting up with Biz made it difficult for him to fall asleep, so he thought about Valerie Bertinelli and masturbated into a sock. It did the trick just as it had in high school.

  Becky was focused on getting into bed without knocking anything over, and Biz put two Tylenol into her right palm and a tall glass of water on her bedside table. “Thanks,” Becky said, too embarrassed to look her hostess in the eye. “Stick with me, kid, we’ve all been there,” Biz said, then left Becky to her bedspins.

  Once under the covers, Biz attempted to picture Foster in pajamas. What an odd bird, she thought without feeling at all tired. She wanted to muss his hair a bit, tell him to grow it out so that the sides would fall over his ears. She thought he had potential.

  Then she thought about sleeping with Foster and wondered if he’d be any good. She was drawn to his I-don’t-give-a-crap-what-you-think attitude. She was also drunk. And horny. She wondered if he could kiss. Her rice-paper wall of defense was undoubtedly weakening. Did anyone remember to get Foster a towel and extra blankets? she thought. The attic can get cold. I’d better check. If her mother had taught her anything, it was how to make guests feel comfortable during their stay. Biz headed up the back stairs to the third floor as quietly as possible, stepping only on the very outsides of the creaky wooden steps. She checked under his door for light before gently tapping her knuckles. The door opened wide, and Foster was still fully clothed.

  “Welcome,” he said in his regular day voice.

  “Shhh,” said Biz, whispering loudly, “are you crazy? You’ll wake the whole house.”

  “So then stop talking to me.”
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  “God. Stop! Being such a spaz,” Biz said, then took a small step into his room and moved over so he could close the door. He remained in front of her now, not backing up, and made no effort to fill the silence. So formal, she thought. Or maybe that’s just how nerds are. She hadn’t grown up with many. Charlie had loved comic books and the Batman TV show in high school, but that didn’t count as nerdy.

  Biz said, “I just wanted to make sure you have everything you need.”

  “Well, let’s see,” Foster said slowly, looking behind him. He appeared to be in no rush to end this conversation. In fact, he was luxuriating in it, having drunk just enough alcohol, but not as much as Biz. “There are two beds. One for me and one for a wayward roommate.”

  Biz rolled her eyes. “You’ll be in here by yourself tonight.”

  Foster continued, “Um, a table lamp for light bedside reading—always pleasant and very thoughtful, thank you. A window for climbing out of for when I have to escape you all when you turn into zombies in the dead of night.” Biz grinned. “Yes, I would say it’s all here. Everything I could possible need.”

  She stalled. “How about an extra blanket? The attic can get cold at night.”

  “Can it?” was all Foster said. He looked at her long Lanz nightgown, her hair free of its ponytail holder, cheeks flushed from tequila. Most guys hated those damn flannel tents for obscuring a woman’s entire body from the neck down, but he found them intriguing. They reminded him of Mary Ingalls from Little House on the Prairie, whom he’d always fantasized about because she was hot and blind. He had a pretty good idea of what Biz was hiding under there; he’d seen her stretched out on Charlie’s dorm bed.

  Biz decided one kiss wouldn’t be the end of the world. At least then she would know if Foster sucked at it and could stop thinking about him that way. His hair was slightly greasy and stylistically ignored, though it framed his long, interesting nose, reminding her of Robby Benson. Maybe without his glasses he’d be handsome, she thought. Aviator frames did not suit everyone. One kiss and she would go. But only if he made the first move. Otherwise she’d leave.

  Except Biz was impatient. And didn’t really want to leave. Life is short and life is long—the first half was more apropos in this instance. So she took the tiniest step forward and placed her lips exactly on his as if winning Pin the Tail on the Donkey. I started it, she thought. Would he have had the nerve? I guess we’ll never know now. She figured if something were to happen, she’d have to take the lead. But then Foster Barnstock took over.

  Biz dismissed her paltry willpower and gave in to his beckoning lips. She wanted to unleash his controlled countenance, show him the wild abandon she’d grown to enjoy. Like all the women before her, she assumed she’d have to teach him to let go. She removed and folded his glasses. He said, “You’ve done that before.” She demurred and dove back into their kiss, giving in to the swish of their tongues. Then she leaned up against him and said, “Lucky me, a face and a woody.” He shushed her and moved his hands down her back to cup her exquisite ass. His hesitation belied his discovery: Miss Chadwick wasn’t wearing underwear.

  Foster pulled her into him more fully, and Biz moaned slightly. She felt weak-kneed, tingly, and aflame. A swirl of electricity went off like a flare. “Oh, my,” she said. So much for Charlie. Foster slid the brass lock across the door, then walked her backward in foxtrot steps. They fell onto the bed, groping arms and bent knees. Biz thought, I should really stop about now. But it’s not like there’s any reason to. Who knows if Charlie will even wake up? This guy’s a great kisser, and I’m horny, and so what. “Wait, wait, wait,” she said, then jumped up from the bed and untwisted her nightgown from around her waist. She nudged his legs open, nestling herself between them, then hesitated, embarrassed to speak.

  “Do you have a, um…”

  He answered her, chiding, “A whisk? Golf ball? Shoehorn?”

  “No, dummy. You know.”

  “I do not have a condom,” said Foster, and leaned back on his elbows. “Do you?”

  “I’m a girl! That’s your department, mister.”

  “Are you on the, uh…”

  “Pill? Sometimes.”

  “I thought that was an all-or-nothing kind of thing.”

  Biz had swallowed the little pink pills almost daily while sleeping with Finn but had blown it off when summer ended because of the menacing extra five pounds. Lately, she took them when she remembered, though, Aunt Cat had made her promise to keep up. No biggie. It’s not like I could get pregnant anytime. At least that’s not what she learned in sixth-grade gym, when they showed the boys and girls different filmstrips in separate rooms. “‘Sometimes’ only works in horseshoes and hand grenades,” said Foster. “I can pull out.”

  “You could, but I’m also due any day now.”

  “So, you’re saying…”

  Biz didn’t really know what she was saying. She’d never bothered to go to the library and look up the details, and her friends weren’t much help. No one ever discussed how her reproductive system worked because no one knew—except for doctors. Her gynecologist, Dr. Harry Sims, never explained its nuances, and her mother sure as hell never enlightened her. Sure, she’d read the instructional cartoon insert inside the Kotex box, but it was pretty vague and only explained so much. All Biz knew was that sperm made babies and the pill killed the sperm—or something—and she probably couldn’t get pregnant when her period was due, which was probably tomorrow or the day after. And maybe there was enough pill in her system to carry over until Tuesday. And she would totally use a condom if he had brought one and would put it on himself, but he didn’t. And he said he would pull out. So that’s all there is to it.

  Biz didn’t give it another thought.

  She dipped her tongue lightly into Foster’s ear and whispered, “Go for it,” then crossed her arms and pulled her nightgown off over her head. “Tah-dah!” She giggled and threw her hands up with a flourish as if ending a family trapeze act. Wide-eyed and slack jawed, Foster looked shocked and delighted. She knew he wouldn’t expect such a stunt. Biz was excited for her little adventure—one last carnival ride. “C’mon, you, under the covers,” she said. “I don’t have all night.” Foster was taken aback. “You have another appointment later?” he asked as they nestled under the chenille bedspread. Biz said, “As if,” but didn’t meet his gaze. Instead she closed her eyes and reached for him, jaunty and erect. And he found her slippery with the clear, mysterious goo the filmstrips never bothered to explain.

  The two delinquents fumbled their way through awkward, abrupt sex—Biz coming quickly with muffled squeals, and Foster following suit with stifled grunts. He pulled out about halfway through and came onto her smooth, flat stomach. She drew a spiral in the puddle as he felt along the floor for a sock. Biz grinned mischievously and said, “Hope you brought an extra pair.” Foster mopped up the mess with care, then crashed next to her on the twin bed. He muttered, “Apparently low in calories,” before falling fast asleep. She scootched an inch away so she could revel in her own separate space, trying to remember where her nightgown was, too lazy to hunt it down. She’d get up in a sec and go back to her room. For now she was going to rest. Just for a minute or two. A short nap. Only a second.

  A few hours later, Charlie opened the linen closet door as quietly as humanly possible. He’d overslept by about fifteen minutes and hoped Biz wouldn’t be too upset. She’s not here yet, he thought when he entered the tiny alcove. She must have overslept, too. Then he got to work grabbing blankets and pillows off the shelves and padding the narrow length of floor. There was just enough room for them to fit lying on their sides, next to the shelves, heads near the back stairs. He wanted his little nest to appear cozy and hospitable. When the hell is she getting here? he thought. He’d left his Swatch back in his room.

  Charlie lay on the floor looking out the tiny octagonal window, high above the cedar wardrobe, and craned his neck to see the moon. He tucked the foil-wrapped condom under an e
mpty suitcase next to him and waited, sleepy but nervous. Making love to Biz would end a years-long saga of patience, yearning, and desire. He wanted her with a one-sided longing Jim Jarmusch had made achingly clear. Now destiny was finally alighting in a shimmering bubble—like Glinda the Good Witch. He understood he adored her more than she loved him and didn’t resent her for it; he couldn’t. He knew this was little more than another adventure for her, like stealing street signs or trespassing for fun.

  Must not fall asleep, Charlie thought before dozing off, certain Biz would wake him when she arrived.

  Biz liked the feeling of being spooned as the dawn sunlight coaxed her awake. Tiny beads of perspiration formed on her neck from being warmly enveloped. Then she became aware of her dry, wooden mouth and the throb of a blossoming headache—the reckoning of last night before even opening her eyes. No sense in reaching out for a glass of water; she hadn’t brought one into the linen closet. She didn’t think Charlie had that much hair on his chest.

  Oh, no, no, no, no, no.

  Biz opened her eyes to an undisturbed twin bed just out of reach. “Dammit,” she said, and launched herself upward, then hit the pillow hard, shooting pains from ear to ear. Her tongue wore a dense, burlap sweater. “Ow,” she said in awe of her discomfort.

  “What?” a male voice said, but it was not Charlie’s. She knew damn well whose it was.

  “Goddammit,” she said, and lifted her head as if balancing a goldfish in a bowl.

  “Overslept” was all Foster said, flatly. He had nothing to feel guilty about, so continued to doze. Biz, however, was up, in a swivet, and reversing the sleeves of her nightgown. “Foster!” she stage-whispered when her hand reached the doorknob.

  “What? Shh.”

  “Don’t tell anyone any of this, do you understand? I mean it.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Shhh, Jesus, can’t you whisper? Say, ‘I promise.’”

  Foster took in Biz’s mussed hair, pleading eyes, and the lips that encased the tongue he’d been grazing three hours ago. Under that goofy tent of a nightgown was the most spectacular body he’d ever known and—he felt certain, with all the conviction of youth—would ever know. He wished he’d been slower to discover it, was irate at the dawn’s new day. Foster also sensed from her obvious guilt that he’d never be alone in a room with her again. He watched Biz Chadwick waiting for his response, her eyebrows furrowed and tense. Then at last he murmured his answer, regretting, “I promise,” and she was gone.