Entering Normal (15 page)

CHAPTER 17

OPAL

THERE'S A STORM IN THE AIR, THE TEMPERATURE COLD enough for snow. They'll need warmer clothes. The furnace rumbles on. Money literally burning up, going up in flames.

The five thousand dollars Aunt May gave her seemed immense when she was living rent-free in one of her daddy's apartments. Now she's amazed at how quickly the money goes, how it just
melts
away. One thing for dead sure, she isn't about to ask Melva for help.

Opal does not know what went wrong between her and her mama. She has a distant memory of being a child. Of her mama combing her hair, taking more time than you would think necessary to get the snarls out so it wouldn't pull. She recalls a time when Melva had
patience
with her. A time when her mama played with her. A time when her mama
liked
her.

Then one day, it just seemed like Melva was always angry and everything Opal did was wrong. In Melva's opinion, she couldn't dress right or talk right or act right. Whatever Melva's expectations were for a daughter, Opal sure didn't meet them. Her mama would have liked her to take part in beauty pageants. To be
demure
.

“All we wanted is the best for you. Only the best. From the day you were born,” her mama would say, her mouth holding prim in that thin, lemon-sucking look and acting like it was Opal who wanted less than the best. But what was the best? Being a majorette, twirling a baton? Joining the Junior ROTC? Upgrading yourself by the calculated choice of a husband?

“You're just a disappointment that keeps on growing,” Melva would tell her.

How does she disappoint? Looking back on it, Opal is aware that somewhere along the line, she decided she could please her mother or herself. No choice there.

She keeps hoping that her mama will change, that one day she'll say, “I love you, Opal. I'm so proud of you,” and all the other things mamas are
supposed
to say, all the things Opal says to Zack. She wants to believe Melva
feels
them, but just doesn't know how to show it.

One thing she knows right from the get-go is that her mama for sure wouldn't approve of any harmonica-playing, wannabe cowboy with a scar across his face coming into her life. Facing her about Billy had been bad enough.

“How could you?”
her mama said over and over throughout Opal's pregnancy. “I'm so embarrassed I can barely hold my head up in front of a living soul.” Her mama carried on and on until somehow the whole shameful thing became all about Melva. No, she doesn't want her mama to know anything about Ty. Not that there's anything to tell.

As if her thoughts have conjured him up, she hears the sound of Ty's truck turning into her driveway. She isn't exactly surprised since he's been showing up regular as watermelon, but this is the first time he's come while Zack's at school.

She presses her palms against her chest, trying to calm the flutter. She wishes she had washed her hair, worn something else—thoughts she recognizes as dangerous.

“Hi,” she says.

“Hi.”

“Zack's not here,” she says, as if that's why he has come.

“I figured.”

After a moment's hesitation, she steps back and allows him in. She wishes he weren't so good-looking. She wishes Zack were here to defuse the tension. She wishes she had washed her damn hair. She wishes she had shut the door to the dining room. Her dolls are spread out all over the place. She's used to her mama and Billy thinking she's the next best thing to retarded for spending her time sewing them, but she doesn't want Ty thinking that.

Of course, as if her thoughts have guaranteed he'll notice them, he looks over her shoulder straight at the table.

“Those the dolls I've been hearing about?”

“I guess.” Who's he been talking to? What's he been asking about her?

“The ones you make?”

Fuck. “Yes.”

He crosses to the table, starts to reach for one, stops short and takes a look at his hands. “Be right back,” he says, and heads for the downstairs bathroom. She hears water running in the sink. It takes her a minute to realize he's washing up. He's
cleaning up
before touching her dolls. Whatever Ty has done or might think to do, this simple act—the respect of it—threatens all of her defenses, all of her declarations to stay clear of him. What she needs is some distance here, she thinks as he returns, some perspective. Some
resolve
.

She's still working on the astronaut doll and has just attached a little NASA patch on the flight suit.

“You made this?” he says.

“Uh-huh.”

He takes his time looking at it, paying attention in a way that isn't fake or polite. A person can tell the difference.

“It's great. It's amazing.”

“Thanks.” She works to keep her voice casual.

“No. I mean it. It's really something.”

“You want a Coke or something?”
Distance. Resolve.

“Nah,” he says, setting the doll back on the table. “I just came by to give you this.”

“What is it?” She takes the envelope he holds out.

“Ticket. There's a blues night in Northampton in two weeks, and the band's going to be playing.”

She opens the envelope, slides out the ticket.

“It's a pass,” he says. “Gets you in free. I wanted to get it to you now, 'cause I'll be out of town for a while. We've got a gig in Cambridge.”

The price is printed right on the stub. Twenty dollars. “Doesn't look like any pass to me. Looks like a ticket.”

“It's free. They give them to the band.”

She holds it out to him. “Like I told you before, I'm not a charity case.”

“Never thought you were,” he says, ignoring the ticket.

“Well, stop treating me like one then. Coming here with your gifts, doing favors.” She remembers her mama's church group in New Zion, and the righteous looks on their faces when they delivered the food baskets to the poor.
She
isn't anyone's charity case.

Ty looks directly at her. “Maybe I'm going about this the wrong way,” he says. “Maybe they do it different where you come from. Thing is, I like you. I'm just trying to show it in the only way I know how. Maybe I've made a mistake, but it wasn't 'cause I was trying to. The thing is, I'm not the enemy, and you keep treating me like I am.”

“I appreciate—” She swallows, tries again. “I appreciate all you've done for me. How you've fixed the car and all.”

He runs a finger over the scar on his cheek. “Opal Gates,” he says with a laugh. “I've got to say you're different from most girls I know.”

Opal gives a snort. “That's what Zack's daddy used to say. Told me he loved me because I was different, but as soon as he could, he started working to change everything about me that was different.”

“Sounds like a man who doesn't know a good thing when he's got it.”

“Something you should know, Tyrone Miller: Sweet talk doesn't go far with me.”

“Never thought it would.” He grins. “So are you going to take the ticket or not?”

He looks so hopeful she has to smile. “Okay.”

“Then you'll come?”

“Maybe. I'm not saying yes and I'm not saying no.” She has no grounds to feel so happy. It's just a ticket. It's not like it would be a date or anything. Not like she's signing up for anything.

“I didn't know if you'd made plans yet or not.”

“I'm not much for planning ahead.”

“I mean, because it's New Year's Eve and all.”

“New Year's Eve?”

“Right.”

“You mean this is like a date?”

“Not if you don't want it to be.”

“I don't know. I'd have to get a sitter for Zack.”

“You could ask the Nelsons if they'd watch him.”

“You've got everything all figured out.”

“If there's one thing I don't have, it's everything all figured out. So you'll come?”

“Maybe.”

“There'll be dancing. Do you like to dance?”

“I used to.” It's been what? A hundred years since she's gone dancing.

“It's not something a person forgets.”

“No. I guess not.”

He starts humming—a James Taylor song—and reaches for her hand. The charge jolts straight through her. The hot weight of wanting settles in her belly, spirals up to her throat, spreads down to her thighs.
Distance. Resolve.
She pulls her hand back. “I've got to go get Zack.”

SHE WATCHES HIM STRIDE DOWN THE STEPS IN HIS LOOSE-HIPPED walk. She closes her eyes and recalls the heat of his hand on hers. She isn't sure what's ahead, but she feels a promise of something like joy hanging in the air, as sure as mist over May mountains.

This sense of pleasure stays with her all the way to the day care, and nothing, not even the disapproval on the teacher's face, can spoil it.

“We need our parents to be prompt,” Mrs. Lloyd says.

“I know. I'm sorry.”

“This is the second time this week we've had to wait for you.”

“I know.” She'd like to tell the woman to shove it, but she needs this school for Zack.

“You know our policy. The children must be picked up promptly.”

“It won't happen again.”

“I hope not. We'd hate to have to disappoint Zackery.”

“SHE WAS MAD, ”ZACK SAYS AS THEY GET IN THE CAR.

“Tough titty.”

“She whispers about you to the other teacher.”

“She's an old cow.”
He washed his hands before he picked up her doll. He
said it was great. Amazing. Really something.
“Let's forget about her.”

“But what if they won't let me go back?”

“Don't worry about it, Zack. Hey. You know what? In seven days it's Christmas and we haven't even bought a tree. What say we go get one right now?”

“A big one?”

“The biggest one we can find.” Fuck the money. It's Christmas. Their first totally on their own. Wouldn't be Christmas without a tree. And not one of those fake silver ones her mama sets up.
He likes her.
That's what he said.

Speeding through the winter twilight, caught in the magic of lights strung on trees in front yards, Opal allows herself to believe that at last everything is going to be all right. That the worst part of her life is behind her.

WINTER

CHAPTER 18

OPAL

AN END-OF-THE-YEAR STORM HAS SHUT DOWN HALF the state, and now Opal is marooned in Northampton with Ty. The concert canceled, the band has moved on to their own private New Year's party. Nothing about the evening is turning out like Opal expects.

“You sure we can't get back to Normal?” she asks. They are in the kitchen of the house two of the band members rent.

“Not with this storm,” he says, brushing the hair off her forehead, tracing a finger down her cheek.

“I shouldn't have come. Zack will be worried.”

“Zack will be fine. Rose is probably making him hot chocolate right now.”

How can she expect him to understand? One of the few things her mama is right about is that you have to have a child to know what it's like. “I better give her a call.”

“Okay.” He smiles, trails his finger along her jaw, down her throat.

“The phone,” she manages. “Where is it?”

“Upstairs.” He smiles again. “Tell her we'll be home in the morning.”

She heads up the stairs just about torn in two. Of course she's worried foolish about Zack. He's never spent a single night apart from her. But a part of her—the part that always seems to be landing her in trouble in spite of her best intentions—is dancing with danger. That part is
excited
in a nervous kind of way to be snowbound with Ty, a man who has the power to suck the air straight out of her lungs with the simple touch of a finger on her throat.

From below she hears the sound of a man's laugh. She thinks it's Wesley, the bass player. The other two, Anthony and Ben, play guitar. They're black, a fact Ty hadn't seemed to think was important enough to mention. Their girlfriends, also black, are dressed up like it's the senior prom instead of New Year's, all bright red, purple satin. Total attitude. They keep throwing looks her way like she's white bread. Like she cares.

She can imagine what her mama would say if she could see her. “I'm not prejudiced,” Melva always says, “but folks should stick to their kind.” Opal giggles, whether from the two beers she's had already or the picture of her mama's outrage she doesn't know. What she does know as pure fact is what her mama would say about her being here. She'd make her feel like trash.

A Janet Jackson song drifts up the stairs. The
Rhythm Nation
album. What's so wrong about wanting a man? Why is it such a crime in her mama's eyes? That's what she'd like to know.

She picks up the phone, hears the hollow echo of a dead line.

“Everything okay?” Ty comes up behind her. He carries two fresh cans of Miller, hands one to her.

“Phone's dead.” There's nothing she can do now except hope the storm lets up so they can try and get back to Normal. She crosses to the window. “When do you think it'll stop?”

“Probably sometime tomorrow morning.”

A plow goes by and then a sander. Below, trees are transformed into white sculpture.

“Is the snow always like this? So heavy?” She asks. Ty comes up behind her, wraps his arms around her neck, holds her close. She has to remind herself to breathe. There is something about the storm that makes everything seem unreal. Another world. A world where her mama's rules don't apply. She is aware of the bed behind them. King-sized. Unmade. The plow moves on, leaving in its wake perfect silence.

“What? You don't have snow in North Carolina?”

“Not much.” Even with the streetlights, she can't make out the house across the road. “You sure we can't get back tonight?” She's not sure if she's hoping he'll say yes or no.

“Don't worry. Zack'll be fine. No place he'll get better care than with Rose and Ned.”

Of course this isn't true. He'd be best off with her.

Downstairs someone has put on another tape. Bonnie Raitt. Outside everything is gray and white. Shadows and light. “It's like a fairy land,” she says and, feeling foolish, sips her beer although she's already had too much.

He takes the can from her hands, sets it on the floor, pulls her to him, cups his hands over her ears, his fingers cold from the beer. “Jesus, but you're small,” he says.

Please, she thinks, don't let him be a good kisser.

But he is. His kiss is long and soft and deep, with just the right edge of insistence behind the gentleness. She opens her mouth to him, takes his tongue.

“Well, shit,” he says when he finally pulls back.

Besides the two of them, the oversized bed seems like the only other thing in the room.

He leans over, kisses her forehead. “Come on,” he says, surprising her. “Let's go down and dance.”

Downstairs, they've separated into couples. Anthony is with the girl named Darlene. Sylvia hangs all over Wesley. Ben and the third girl have disappeared. The smell of pot fills the room. Prince's “Purple Rain” is playing.

Without a word, Ty draws her to him. He waits an instant, just holds her still, his cheek resting on her head; then he begins to dance. Well, clear as day
this
is no stand-up fuck. This is all prelude. She follows his lead, light-headed yet aware of everything: his hand on the small of her back, his breath against her hair, his thigh against her hip, her breasts against his ribs, her cheek against his chest. Her belly is hollow with wanting. She wonders if it is possible to come just by dancing. She wonders if it is possible for a life to change in such a short amount of time.

The cassette flicks off, and after a minute, Wesley goes over and slips another tape on. Ty doesn't release her. His thigh presses against her. She presses back. Outside, the plow makes its return route, scraping clear the other side of the street.

She wants to reach up and touch his scar, ask him how he got it, but she doesn't. Every girl he's ever been with must have asked that question. You're different, he had said. She wants that—wants to be different for him. It's a dangerous wanting. No future here. Aunt May's warning echoes somewhere in the depths of her brain.

Without letting her go, Ty crosses to the couch, draws her down on his lap. She feels the hardness of him against her legs. Sweet Jesus, she's already wet. She welcomes his kiss. His palm brushes her left breast, circles over her nipple. A moan—involuntary, deep—escapes her throat.

He stands and, carrying her as if she were no heavier than Zack, he heads upstairs.

“You okay?” he asks

“Yes,” she says. She's dizzy. From beer and wanting him.

“Happy New Year,” he says.

“You, too.” She hasn't done a lot right in her life. It's important to do this right.

“You sure you're okay with this?”

“Yes.”

He carries her to the bed.