Three Sisters (9 page)

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Monday, on the way out of school, Marisa and she ran into Davey. “Hello, Karen.”

So, they were speaking again—by Davey decree. “Hello, Davey.” She meant to be cool and didn’t succeed. “You know Marisa—” ‘ “Hi, there,” he said to her, holding the door open.

“Ever the little gentleman,” Karen muttered.

“That’s me.” He was wearing faded jeans, a green scarf around his forehead, a baggy blue sweat shirt, probably to hide the role of fat around his middle. What a mean thought. If she paid attention she’d probably find out she had mean thoughts every hour on the hour. At least.

Marisa flashed him a smile. “David Kursh, aren’t you in my chem class?”

“No, you’re in my chem class.”

“Well, I’ve heard many things about you.”

He laughed uneasily. “What have you been saying about me, Karen?”

“I never bad-mouthed you, Davey.” But she didn’t mind that he was sweating a little.

He walked down the steps with them, maneuvering to get between Karen and Marisa. “I’ve been

meaning to ask you, Karen. I don’t suppose you still want to go to the Army Ants concert next Saturday?”

“Davey, I don’t suppose you want to go with me. Somehow, someway, I picked up that idea.”

His ears flushed gently. “Well, I have the tickets. Besides, I asked you to go—I don’t break my word—”

“Their lead singer is intense,” Marisa said.

“Totally,” Davey agreed. “Did I tell you I’ve been doing some stuff for your grandmother, Karen?” Talking to her, but looking at Marisa. “Washing windows, running errands… .”

“The strangest thing,” Marisa said suddenly. “You remind me so much of someone, David. A boy I knew when I lived in Paris. Tony.”

“Tony? Doesn’t sound very French to me.”

“Oh, no, there are French Tonys. But you’re right, he wasn’t. My Tony was English.”

“Your Tony—so I remind you of him?”

“Yes. Something about you—maybe your voice.”

“Good-looking chap?”

“Very.”

“And how’d you meet this fine-looking English lad?”

“He came to Paris to visit a friend of a friend.”

“And—”

“Oh, she was busy, so I was assigned to show Tony all around Paris.”

“I’m jealous.”

Karen looked from one to the other. What was she doing here? Spectator? Referee? Dating service? Fifth wheel, that was it. The two of them began

talking about Carrington, the chem teacher. “I like it best when she stands up on the desk to get our attention,” Marisa said. “American schools and American teachers are so funny. You would never find anything like that in France.”

From Miss Carrington and France, they went on to discuss the Big Topics. Life. Plans. The Future. When Davey heard that Marisa wanted to go to med school, he got so excited he stepped on Karen’s feet. “Marisa, this is really something!”

“Off my feet, fat man,” Karen said.

Davey sidestepped. “I’m interested in biology, Marisa.” He was off and away on his favorite topic—the schools he might go to, possibilities in the field, his hope of working in a lab over the summer.

“And so on and so on,” Karen said. Then to Marisa, “Actually, this is Davey’s second favorite topic.”

“What’s his first?”

“Three letters. One guess.”

“Freed, what’s your problem?” Davey said.

“Davey, this is BORING, I’ve heard it all before.”

“Freed, why don’t you leave?”

“Kursh, why don’t you give Marisa a chance to say something? Marisa, I’ll just go on ahead—”

“No, no, Karen, I’m coming.” Marisa linked arms with her. “Ciao, David.”

The next day, Davey, who for the last week couldn’t have found Karen in a crowd of one, spotted her instantly in the bedlam that was first lunch in the cafeteria. “Where’s your friend?” He put his tray down.

“She has second lunch.”

“You know what would be great? What if I could shuffle up another ticket to the Army Ants concert? Then we could all go together.”

“Davey, I’ve been thinking about it. Marisa can have my ticket.”

“Oh, no, Karen.”

“Why not, Davey?”

“Karen-” Sincere, concerned frown. “I don’t want you to miss the concert.”

“It’s okay.”

“No, no.” Firm, hearty, masculine tones. “I can’t let you do that.”

“You can let me do it, Davey.”

“Karen? Honest?”

“Honest.”

“Well … if you’re sure… .”

“I’m sure, Davey,” she said. “I’m sure.”

Fifteen

Marisa and Davey went to the Army Ants concert on Saturday night, then for a walk Sunday morning and to an afternoon movie, something called The Gods Must Be Crazy. Marisa reported all this to Karen, Sunday night, over the phone. “Davey wanted to see this movie. It was wonderful. Very funny. And the concert, I’m sorry you missed it, Karen.”

“Big social life,” Karen said, and thought of Marisa and Davey side by side in the dark theater, Davey’s laugh rolling out. He had a laugh that was a laugh in itself. Har-har-har, like a friendly dog barking. She imagined Marisa’s head on his shoulder.

“Karen? I like you both so much, I don’t want to get between you.”

Karen lay on the floor in the upstairs hall. “Don’t worry, please, there’s so much space between Davey and me, the whole U.S. Marine Corps could get in there and you’d never notice.”

“Well, if you’re sure—”

“I’m about ready to hang out my shingle, Marisa. Karen Freed, Matchmaker.”

Monday in school she saw them together near the trophy case on the first floor, the same place she and Davey used to meet. There they were, her ex-boyfriend and her best girl friend, bumping into each other, their heads close, and there she was, walking on by alone. As the song said, All by her lonesome.

Since she couldn’t have a social life and she couldn’t have a boyfriend, she decided she’d have a job. Forget love. Concentrate on money. She assumed she would land a job right away, the way she landed a fish the first time her father ever took her fishing. She’d been seven, never so much as held a pole in her hand, threw in the line and was hit immediately. Instantly! A two-pound big-mouth bass. Her father was ecstatic. She couldn’t understand why he was so excited, until it never happened to her again.

That beginner’s luck must have imprinted her. She thought all she had to do was stroll into a store or two, announce her intention to work (throwing out the line) and flip flop, the big fish would land in her boat. Well, not quite. Every place she went, they already had their summer help (“But leave your application, if you want to; it can’t hurt”), or they had no plans to hire anybody (“But fill out an application; things might pick up”), or they wanted someone older. Or someone more experienced. Or someone who could work night hours.

The closest she came was in a doughnut shop, a tiny place, barely big enough for the counter and the tall, skinny boy behind it. A neat row of pimples was tattooed across his forehead. He wore whites

and a name pin. KEVIN MASON. “Help you?” he said, doughnut tongs at the ready.

“I’d like to speak to the manager, please.” “You got him.” Kevin pointed to himself. “Oh. I’m looking for summer work.” He leaned on the counter. “I bet you think it would be fun working here surrounded by doughnuts? Let me tell you, after a couple of days you’d be happy never to look another doughnut in the eye.” He waved at the heaps of doughnuts in the bins behind him. “I loved those things before I came to work here. Especially chocolate doughnuts. I could eat two or three chocolate doughnuts a day. Just give me a chance and I’d do it. I’d eat a chocolate doughnut first thing in the morning, I’d eat one before I went to bed, and then I’d get up in the middle of the night and eat another one. You know what I mean?”

“You were a chocolate doughnut freak.” “Exactly right. I came to work here and was I happy to get this job! One, I needed the money; two, I could eat all the chocolate doughnuts I wanted every day. You want the truth? I’ll give you a statistic. I’ve worked here a year. In the last ten months, I haven’t eaten a single chocolate doughnut.”

The door opened and three men came in and sat down at the counter. Kevin Mason glanced over at them. “Be right with you, gentlemen.” After he served them, he came back to Karen. He leaned toward her confidentially. “Did you see that? They all ordered chocolate doughnuts. I’ll tell you the truth. I don’t even like to look at the little suckers anymore. So what’s your name?” “Karen Freed.”

“Okay.” He scribbled it on a piece of paper.

“Don’t you want me to fill out an application?”

He shrugged. “I’ve got your name. Here, put down your phone number.” He pushed the paper toward her. “We’ll call you if we get an opening.”

“Should I check back?”

He smiled; his pimples brightened like a row of neon lights. “You want the truth? I wouldn’t mind. But we don’t need anybody. Not unless I drop dead or something.”

By Friday, she couldn’t stand the thought of making the rounds of yet another mall. She played soccer after school, kicking the ball as if it were Davey’s head. “Way to go, Karen!” her teammates yelled.

On the way home, she stopped in at a sporting goods store in the mall to do some shopping for Tobi who, being Tobi, wasn’t content to say, “Buy me three pairs of white socks.” No, Tobi’s white socks had to have a yellow stripe, be ankle-length, and at least eighty-percent cotton.

It took Karen about fifteen minutes to pick out Tobi’s socks and another five to find a pair of shorts for herself. She got in line with her packages and there, two people to the front of her, was Scott. He was wearing a blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up. She reached around, touched his shoulder. “Scott?”

“Hey, Karen! What are you doing here?”

She held up her packages. “Cotton socks. What about you?”

He held up a single leather glove. “Racquetball.”

“You’re wearing a tie today.”

He looked down as if surprised. “Yeah, I am.”

The people between them looked back and forth as if they were at a tennis match. Scott left his place

in line, came back to stand with her. She hopped from one foot to the other, cracked her knuckles loudly, and rubbed her nose, which had begun itching furiously. “Good grief,” she whispered under her breath.

She began talking too fast, machine-gun style. “Buying anything for Tobi is big business. Tobi—you do something for her and she makes you feel she’s doing you a favor. The same talent as my grandmother. Know what I mean? The two of them—they’re such characters

“

“Yeah.” He smiled, his hands in the pockets of his cords.

Yeah? What did that mean? She stared at him suspiciously, felt disloyal to her sister and her grandmother. It was his turn at the register, then hers. She paid and was humbly astonished that he was waiting for her.

They left the mall together and gradually she calmed down. “You’re not working out at the house site today?” she asked. A normal question! Dull but normal.

“One day a week I work in the office, try to catch up with things.”

“Oh. The tie! What sort of things?”

“You don’t really want to hear.”

“No, I do, I’m interested.”

“Well, the nasty part of ‘things’ is calling people who are trying to stiff us on their bills and talking tough. I try my best to sound like a dues-paying member of the Mafia. Pay up or else—”

“—kneecap job.”

He laughed. “The nice part of ‘things’ is getting down to some of the design work.”

She thought about asking him for a job. “I’ve been looking for work.” Maybe he’d think of it himself.

“Any luck?”

“Lots of it. All bad. It’s sort of discouraging.”

They stood by his truck. “I could drive you around to a few places before I go back to the office.”

“Really? You’d do that?”

He shrugged. “Why not?” He looked at his watch. “I don’t have to be back right away.”

She got into the truck. He lit a cigarette. “Can I have one?” He passed her his and lit another. Filthy taste. She didn’t know how people got the habit. She loved tapping the ash, though, and then holding the cigarette to her lips. “I heard a woman talking on public radio about the art of cigarette smoking,” she said.

“People have funny ideas. You shouldn’t get the habit, Karen. In fact, I feel guilty about letting you do this.” He reached out, took the cigarette from her, and mashed it on the floor.

“Well, hell,” she said, but her heart wasn’t in it. Could we do that again? You light up. I ask for a cigarette. You take it from your lips and give it to me. Then you take it away. After that, you light another cigarette. I ask for a puff. You take it from your lips… .

He pulled into the parking lot of a restaurant. “Try this place, Karen. I heard Grimaldi’s was one of the best restaurants in town to work in.”

She went in. It was the usual routine. “I’m here to apply for a job.”

“Nothing now.” The manager was tall and fat. “Leave an application.”

She turned thumbs down as she got back in the truck. “Bummer,” Scott said. The next place was the same thing. And the next. And the one after.

“We should count up the ways people say no, Karen.”

“Sorry,” she said promptly. “Nothing now. Come back in a month.”

“Don’t bother coming back at all.”

“Leave an application. Don’t leave an application. We’re not hiring inexperienced help. We only want people with experience. You’re too young. I thought you were older.”

“Maybe you’ll get into the Guinness Book of Records, Karen.”

“Karen Freed, turned down seven hundred and fifty-nine times for jobs in the space of one hour, and no two turndowns exactly alike.”

“It sounds like a winner.”

They stopped to have doughnuts and coffee. Sitting at the counter, Scott said something about Jason’s “problem.”

“You mean his ego?” Karen said.

“That, too. But I was thinking of the drinking.”

“What drinking?”

“Don’t you know? Am I talking out of line? Liz said something about it, so I thought you all knew.”

It was stupid of her, but the first thing Karen thought was not how bad for Tobi to be mixed up with a drinker, but that her sisters had their little secrets from her. Again. Or was it always? The two of them, the older two, whispering together. Of course she was too young to know something so terrible! Couldn’t possibly handle it. Might go into shock. ,