All Alone in the Universe (3 page)

“That‧s okay,” I said. “I‧m all right”

I liked her, but I held back, too. I don‧t know why.

I pulled on my sweatshirt and glanced in the mirror. I scanned my face to see if any interesting features had emerged. Michelle Patterson told me that it‧s a good thing I wear glasses because otherwise I‧d be completely nondescript That‧s the word she used. I think she was trying to make me see my glasses as a good thing, but I felt invisible for about a week and was surprised when people recognized me.

 

It‧s true that nothing about my face really stands out My eyes have a regular eye shape. They‧re blue. I have a medium nose and medium lips. My teeth are straight at least the ones that show. There is a mole on my right cheek and a dimple on my left cheek, but it‧s basically an average face. It‧s an okay face, but it wouldn‧t launch any ships.

Still, when I catch myself in the mirror sometimes, I think there is something there, some secret kind of beauty that flashes out if I‧m laughing, or wearing someone else‧s clothing or feeling messy and sloppy and wild. My mother doesn‧t see it that way, though, and most of the time she keeps me trimmed, combed, ironed, and tucked in.

My older sister, Chrisanne, has the kind of beauty that likes to be tidy. Her hair is blond, like mine, but thick and straight, and the barrettes and headbands are’ just for decoration, because her hair wouldn‧t dream of being out of place.

Maureen‧s beauty is more like mine, but her mother isn‧t as neat, as you already know. Maureen wears glasses, too, but she is farsighted, and they make her eyes look bigger and more beautiful.

For the next few days I wore long pants after school, even though it was warm. “I just feel a little chilly,” I was planning to say if my mother asked why. She never did ask about that, but she did ask, as usual, why I was going to Maureen‧s house again.

“Why are you always running over there?” she asked. “Why can‧t she come over here?”

A million answers sprang to mind. It was more fun at Maureen‧s house, for one. It was less fun at our house, for another. However, the main part of my mind was still focused on my excuse for wearing long pants in seventy-five-degree weather, so all I said was. “Boy, I know it‧s nice out, but I still just feel a little chilly.” I rubbed my hands up and down my arms and shivered, for emphasis.

Riding away from our less-fun house, I felt free and full of life. I coasted down Moyhend Street, bounced gracefully up over the curb onto the Bercks’ sidewalk, and hopped off my bike. Mrs. Berck came to the door.

“Oh, hi, Debbie,” she said. “Maureen isn‧t here. She took off somewhere with Glenna Flaiber.”

“Oh,” I said. “Okay. Bye-bye.”

My balloon popped and shriveled and dropped to the ground with a quiet plop. I climbed back onto my bike and pedaled around for a while. I didn‧t feel like going home yet Poor Maureen, though, stuck with Glenna for a whole evening. There was a low, ominous rumbling of thunder, and
I
headed back to my house.

“Why didn‧t they invite you?” my mother asked. I had wondered about that myself. But not for long. Missing an evening with Glenna Flaiber seemed more like good luck than a cause for regret The storm exploded around us. The thunder was coming so quickly after the lightning we couldn‧t even count to see how far away it was. It was right there, the sound and the flash all at once.

Fresh spring breezes floated gently into the open bathroom window. The radio played the top ten countdown. Chrisanne, who takes voice lessons, was singing downstairs in her opera voice while she cleaned the living room. Mom was vacuuming in the bedrooms. I was scrubbing away at the bathtub when I heard the sweeper jam up and stop, and my mother‧s voice say, “What on earth?”

I heard her say this, realized that she was in my bedroom, and knew that I was going to have to explain something. I wondered what it was. I wondered if I was guilty or innocent.

Mom appeared in the doorway. In her hand were the shredded and bloodstained fishnet stockings.

“Oh,” I said.

“‘Oh’?” she repeated.
“‘Oh’?”

I told her about being late, about Marie and her boyfriend, about the fence. The color came back into her face.

“Why didn‧t you tell me? Why did you hide these under your bed?” she asked. Her voice was still upset, but softer.

“I didn‧t want you to know I was late again,” I said. “I was going to throw them away, but I forgot.”

“Show me your leg,” she commanded.

I pulled down my jeans, and she looked at the three long, scabby scratches.

“It‧s not that big a deal,” I said. “It‧s just a pair of tights. I‧ll pay for them with my allowance.”

“It‧s not that,” she said. “It‧s not that. I don‧t care about the tights.”

She pulled me doser to her and said, “I was afraid that you had really been hurt.”

I couldn‧t imagine what she was talking about, but I hugged her back anyway.

 

four

 

 

Y
OU COULD TELL RIGHT AWAY THAT THE
P
RBYCZKAS WERE A LITTLE
different from the other people living on our street. I mean, everybody is different, but the Prbyczkas were more different. They were different in different ways. Or it could be that they just didn‧t stick around long enough for us to get used to them. Maybe in a while they would have started to blend in. Maybe we all seemed that different at first.

If the rest of us were shrubs and neatly trimmed bushes, then Mr. and Mrs. Prbyczka were plastic potted palm trees, and their kids were wild, weedy brambles. Or maybe Mr. and Mrs. Prbyczka were like the big, shiny car parked in their driveway, and their kids were like the ragged blades of grass growing up through the cracks around it. (I guess in this case the rest of us would be, I don‧t know, mailboxes or something.) Because Mr. and Mrs.- Prbyczka, and their car, looked glamorous. Flashy. Mrs. P. was, we found out a beautician, and her blond hair was teased and sprayed to look as if ft were constantly blown by the Carefree Winds of Beauty. She wore unusual colors of lipstick, like Golden Plum or Iced Apricot with matching nail polish. Her tight slacks often had glittering threads woven into the fabric. Mr. Prbyczka looked glamorous, too. He reminded me of Dean Martin on TV, with his handsome nose and thick, curly hair. He wore his shirt with the top buttons open, and a gold chain was there among his chest hairs, which were thick and curly, too. He didn‧t wear nail polish, but his nails were smooth, even, and shiny.

 

 

It‧s easy to imagine that with so much personal grooming and car care, there might not be a lot of time left for kids or yardwork or housekeeping. The seven (or was it six?) Prbyczka kids seemed to be always on their own, prowling and wandering like stray cats. The house seemed to be on its own, too. It kept an air of hopefulness about it at first, but as the weeds climbed higher, it quickly lost heart and started to shed chips of paint.

Toward the end of May, though, Mrs. Prbyczka called everyone on the street to announce that they were going to hold an open house. The next-door neighbors had probably been inside already, but no one at our end of the street had, and we all were curious.

“Are you taking something?” my mother asked our neighbor Fran. “A housewarming gift?”

“Yes,” said Fran. “I think I am. I think I‧ll take a few jars of my spaghetti sauce. Maybe you could make one of your coffee cakes, with the nuts.”

So, bearing gifts of food and goodwill, we traveled afar to the Prbyczkas’ front door. Everyone seemed to arrive at once, and we all squeezed past Mrs. P. into the house. She was stunning in slim red pants and a fluffy tangerine sweater with the sleeves pushed up. You could tell she had no need for a ruffle-topped swimsuit. Her shoes were those slip-on high heels that I have never seen anyone but Barbie dolls wear.

 

Her lips, fingernails, and toenails were all tangerine, and she was telling everyone to call her Babe. “That‧s what everyone calls me,” she said, in her loud, raspy voice.

My mother and Fran nudged each other with their elbows.

“I‧ll bet,” murmured my mom.

Fran choked back a laugh.

“You‧re so bad, Helen,” she said.

The house no longer smelled of stuffed peppers and cabbage rolls, the way it had when the Zolniaks lived there. It looked different, too. Where there used to be a brown picture of Jesus knocking on a door and another picture of the Last Supper, now there was a bunch of golden grapes and a painting of a Spanish lady winking over a black fan with roses. Instead of rocking chairs layered in crocheted afghans, there was a red vinyl couch patched with bookbinding tape that didn‧t quite match and a cracked, white plastic, egg-shaped chair with a turquoise cushion. Everything was a little the worse for wear, but with six or seven kids, what do you expect? My favorite item was the black ceramic charging bull with a cigarette lighter in its mouth. The ashtray was a lime green blob of cooled molten glass, heaped with ashes like the leftovers of a Jell-O volcano.

As the living room filled up with people, I stopped noticing the interior decoration and positioned myself near one of the baskets of chips and pretzels that were placed here and there. After munching a few of these, and some mixed nuts, I looked around for Chrisanne. She was sitting on the stairs with our neighbor Tesey. Several steps higher was Marie. I gave a little wave and worked my way through the crowd to join her.

Marie looked bored. Or maybe her makeup was just so thick she couldn‧t move her face to show expression.

“Do you want some pop?” she asked.

“Okay,” I said.

“It‧s in the kitchen,” she said. “But it‧s probably easier to go outside.” This wasn‧t exactly a joke, but there was something jokey in her voice. So I laughed.

In the kitchen the men were standing around holding bottles of beer and talking in hearty voices. Without really noticing us, they parted to make a path so we could get to the refrigerator.

We sat on the back stoop, watching the little Prbyczkas run in circles. The bigger ones were playing some kind of game where they piled on top of one another, then came crashing down, howling and yelping. Some of the neighbor kids were finding their way outside and joining in. It was turning into one big noisy pile-a-thon, a football game without a football.

“It‧s getting pretty crazy out there,” I said to Marie. I meant this in a positive way. Part of me was itching to get up and run around, too.

But Marie said, “Yeah, what a bunch of idiots,” and I stayed sitting down. Not that I don‧t have a mind of my own, but I was trying to help her to feel welcome in the neighborhood, keep her company. A few minutes later a small Prbyczka was nearly creamed by a flying Szymanski, and I saw my chance.

“I better go make sure no one gets hurt,” I said. “Wanna come?”

“What, are you nuts?” said Marie. Her voice indicated that she would rather drop dead. Still, she stood up and walked into the yard with me.

I organized a nice, safe game of slaughterhouse and soon had everyone running around in a less life-threatening way. Marie hopped gingerly around the edges, trying not to get involved any more than she had to. When the ball came to her, she batted at it with the palms of her hands. This accomplished nothing except the protection of her fingernails. I think she was enjoying herself in some way, though. As the game went on, she seemed to try a little harder, and she even laughed a couple of times. It was like water coming from a rock, which happened in the Bible, I think, but doesn‧t often happen nowadays. Then she realized what she was doing and slunk off around the house.

After everyone got “out” and started in on other games in smaller groups, I decided to go back inside and see what was happening there. As the sound of kids faded behind me, I heard a car door shut and looked up to see Marie riding away in the old green car with her boyfriend. Don. Don, the sleazy. Yet he was also sort of handsome.

“A salesman?” asked my mother.

“Yes,” said Fran. “For some company in Blentz—I forget what it is. He acts like a salesman, too. All phony jolly, ‘isn‧t this terrific?’ I felt like saying, ‘Look, buddy, you don‧t have to try to sell
me
anything.’ But you know how it is when you first meet people, Helen. It‧s hard to tell. They‧re probably very nice people. I shouldn‧t even say anything. They‧re certainly both very attractive.”

“Yes, they are,” said my mom. “The other day I drove by, and they were getting in the car, both dressed to kill. In the middle of the day. I don‧t know where you would go around here, even at night, dressed like that.”

Fran laughed. “Well, Helen,” she said, “I think maybe they go some places that you and I don‧t frequent.”

“But what about the kids? I guess the oldest girl is old enough.”

Fran laughed again. “Old enough for what? She doesn‧t look like she‧d be too interested in babysitting.” Her voice dropped, and I couldn‧t hear the next part.

Then my mother said, “Well, to each his own, I guess. I just feel for the kids. It‧s not their fault.”

That night while I was talking to Maureen on the phone and poking around the crowded fridge for a snack, something popped into my mind, a piece of the day. It was a mental picture of getting pop from the Prbyczkas’ refrigerator. Marie had opened the door and turned to ask me what kind I wanted. As she reached in to get it, something seemed odd. Now it came to me that besides the pop and the beer, there wasn‧t much of anything there. Some milk, I remembered seeing. And some ketchup.

“How about eggs?” Maureen suggested.

“Maybe,” I said. “I don‧t really remember. But there wasn‧t much.”

“Maybe they eat a lot of canned food,” said Maureen.

“Maybe they eat out,” I said.

“Maybe they‧re vampires,” said Maureen, who watches
Dark Shadows
every day.

“I don‧t think so,” I said. “They come out in the daytime.”