1962:

the night not taken back

On New Year's Eve Christine was 14 years old,. ready to turn 15 in another two weeks. Covered in long-johns from neck to feet, she looked out at the dark sky and pressed her mouth against the glass of her bedroom window. The vapor formed a steamy wreath around an inner circle, and staring through it she frowned at the row of houses which ascended along her street. It was good to be inside a warm, safe house. There was something reassuring about the closed windows and the quiet night. Snow covered small groves of evergreens and erased boundaries between the quarter-acre plots in this suburban development. Pale yellow lights in every house speckled their way up the road, and some of them cast an iridescent glow on the snow's surface. Most of the houses were outlined by fireballs of red, green, and blue. Christine could see Christmas trees displayed prominently behind living room windows. Some of the windows were covered with heavy drapes, but she knew which houses had trees inside and which did not.

A large Cadillac steered its way around the lower curve of her street. Like a silent, heavy boat it settled in front of her house. Her father emerged slowly. Christine began to chew on her fingernails and stared intently at his face, slightly hidden by a plaid, woolen cap. I have known this man, she thought, for...how many years? Yes, it has been ten years now since my mother married this man. He was carrying several long cartons she knew would contain Scotch and rye. In the curve of his arm he balanced a large, potted, blooming orchid plant.

2

Sucking on her last chunk of candy cane, Christine crushed it into splinters and swallowed quickly Her transistor was humming "School Is Out" by U.S. Bonds. A history book sat neatly in front of it, opened to the section on the bombing of Pearl Harbor and the involvement of America in World War II. Christine had many terms to memorize and a list of important dates to rehearse for her next big test after classes resumed. Chewing more intently on her fingernails, Christine rolled off her sister's bed and sprang to her feet. She hoped that when she studied history again, she would have a more interesting textbook. There must be more to this, she sighed, than

be handled with consistency and meticulous care. Christine's stepfather, Steven, was fourteen years older than her mother. When Martha married him, Steven already had a first marriage, grandchildren, and a fully-established lifestyle. He also had longtime "cronies," as Martha called them, with whom he would enjoy a few drinks after a long day's work. He had certain rituals he relished and balked at giving up. Martha, on the other hand, left her modeling work in order to remarry. She had moved from her Manhattan apartment to live in this small, suburban town. Uprooted and unaccustomed to self-reflection, she appeared to make the adjustment easily. Martha had felt that this change-a brand new home and community-would be different, refreshing, and

secure.

Beneath her sister's relentless yelps, Christine could hear the sound of hair spray making its wide sweeping path around her mother's French twist. Without fail her mother had her hair done every Saturday. In the beauty salon Mr. Essex would comb, fluff, and tease her bright red hair until he shaped it into an elegant pose. Several days later, she would have to brush it out vigorously. At that point it always looked stiff and dry to Christine. But in spite of the trouble it took, her mother looked forward to her trips to the beautician's. In a few hours' time her appearance would be changed dramatically.

"Christine, what on earth are you up to? You're very quiet in there," Martha called out from her own bathroom.

"I'm here," Christine mumbled as she fiddled with the handles of her dresser drawer. Pulling it open, Christine stared at one of her Christmas gifts-new lingerie. She closed her eyes and imagined how-pretty-she-would-look-in-these-garments. How badly she had wanted nylon stockings, garters, and a "littlest angel" bra. No longer would she look square and tomboyish in anklets and white buckskins. She would look like a lady, and the boys at school would take notice.

"Christine, come say goodnight before we leave to go out," her mother insisted. Shutting the drawer, Christine still lingered and tried to imagine how her mother would look. She peered inside her own

Christine cringed at the sound of her mother screaming. Her loud voice would carry and echo throughout the street, and probably wake up the neighbors. Again they would all know, she thought, that we are a terrible family:

terms and dates. There must be some kind of story, at least, behind them.

"Steven, is that you?" Christine's mother called out from the next room, nervously.

"No, he's not here, Martha!" her father shouted. "It's the milkman, coming to take you out for the New Year's!"

P

Christine heard her father playing with her sister Pat downstairs. He was tickling her, and she was howling and screaming, "Stop, Daddy, stop that!" She and her sister did not know their father very well. They knew he owned several greenhouses and worked hard on those temperamental plants, twelve hours a day, almost every day of the year. Fragile and demanding in a foreign climate, orchids have to

Page 8/What She Wants/April, 1980

clothes closet and scanned the neat row of dresses. Some of them conjured up dazzling images for her-red velvet at a Christmas party, blue and white taffeta at the spring prom.

Surveying the cluster of cosmetics on her bathroom shelf, Martha leaned over the sink and took a closer look at herself. As she sipped Scotch and water, Martha remembered the hardship of supporting herself and her toddler daughter on a model's salary. Times were scary. She began to smooth pancake over her cheeks and forehead. The unbearable anxiety of facing the end of another assignment and the fear that it might be her last used to keep her awake at night. Many times she had to pass up buying a new dress. Often she had to take the bus instead of hailing a taxi. She pencilled arches to her

eyebrows, opening her eyes widely. Martha recalled how her eyes were always too small for the photographers. Even mascara, the kind that made lashes look thicker, never seemed to make any difference. Feeling resentment well up in her stomach, Martha swallowed the last of her drink. She added lipstick and rouge. Her skin began to feel warm. Romantic memories of her single life started drifting back. An innocent fledgling from lowa, she had loved the city life and remembered how she looked then-slim and lovely, seductive and yet naive. Martha loved going out with her husband on Saturday nights because it brought her back to those days. All dressed up and sparkling, she now left the bathroom with a sense of anticipation. The awful memories dissipated.

Christine wrinkled up her nose at the smell of hair spray, which now seemed closer.

"Well, you look like a tall drink of water. You'll be a perfect model someday, sweetheart."

Christine quickly turned and grinned meekly at her mother. "I'm sorry I didn't come in to see you to say goodnight, Mommy. I guess I was daydreaming. Oh, you look so beautiful!"

Elegant and proud in a black linen suit, Christine's mother appeared erect, bright-eyed, but somewhat strained. Puffy lines ran across her forehead and creased her powder. In her ten years of suburban living, she had gained weight; her skin looked distended and blotchy in spots. My mother drinks Scotch every night, Christine thought. And she and my father argue a lot.

"It's New Year's Eve, love. So don't give your Nana a hard time when we go out. Your no-good father was late again," she scowled, glancing at her bracelet wristwatch. "Do me a favor. Don't ever marry 'til you've got your own pot in the bank. And then if the man's no good, you can say 'shove off, bastard' and leave him.”.

"Yes, mommy," Christine winced, lowering her eyes and staring vacantly at the carpet. Christine didn't like that kind of language, especially from her mother. Suddenly a wave of embarrassment and revulsion swept over her, and in turn she felt ashamed of these feelings. "Oh, Mommy, you do look so nice! Please have a good time with Daddy tonight!"

Martha squeezed Christine and turned to walk down the hallway. As she made her way, her spiked heels left tiny imprints on the carpet. The powerful `smell of hair spray, perfume, powder, and liquor lingered on Christine's pajamas as her mother disappeared from sight.

Christine returned to World War II and continued to chew on her fingernails.

Later she would play with her sister downstairs. They would gobble up chocolate chip cookies and drink hot chocolate their Nana would make. They would watch television and then rough-and-tumble on the floor, giggling and laughing with delight. Since they shared a bedroom, they also would babble incessantly, huddled under covers and surrounded by talk of the spring that was to come, the swimming pool their father would set up in the backyard, and another three seasons of biking, rollerskating, and kickball in the neighborhood. Lulled by the comradery and pleasing calm of their friendship, they would both fall asleep, each departing for her own private dreams.

4

About 3:00 a.m. a loud, metallic scraping sound wrenched Christine from her sleep. She bolted upright and looked out the window, down at the driveway. Her father's car, had scraped against the stone wall which divided the drive from the lawn.

The car contained only her father. He slid from his seat while balancing his weight by leaning on the car door. She could see him staring at the far, lower end of the block where her mother was approaching slow-