Towelhead (13 page)

“She's a good witch, though, right?” Melina asked.

“I don't know,” I said, even though I did.

“I think she is,” Melina said.

“We have to go,” I said, and I took Thomas's hand and led him down my driveway.

Inside, I asked him to take off his shoes. “I didn't know you could play sports when you're pregnant,” he said, bending down to untie his laces.

“She wasn't really playing,” I said. “She was just standing there kicking the ball.”

“When is she going to have the baby?” he asked.

I shrugged. I didn't really like to think about Melina's baby.

Thomas asked if he could have something to drink then, and I went to the fridge and got him a Coke. When I came back, I said, “You can't stay very long.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” I said, “I didn't ask Daddy.”

“So?” he said. “We're friends.”

“It doesn't matter,” I said. “I still have to ask Daddy.”

He finished his Coke, then asked me to give him a tour of our house. I wasn't going to show him Daddy's room, but then he said, “What's in there?” and I opened the door a little so he could take a peek. I was about to shut it again, but he said he wanted to go inside. “We'd better not,” I said.

“Why not?”

“Because,” I said, trying to think of a reason.

“Just for a second,” Thomas said, and he went in.

There wasn't really much to see. Daddy was very clean. He always made his bed in the morning, his clothes were always draped neatly over his valet, his shoes were always lined up against the wall. He had shoe trees for every pair, and their cedar smell filled the room.

In the bathroom, Thomas opened and closed the shower stall door, then stuck his head in the toilet room. I wondered if he would notice that it smelled like pee, but he didn't say anything. After flipping through some of Daddy's suits in his closet, he picked up a can of shaving cream on the sink counter. “Hey,” he said. “We need this.”

Finally we left and went to my part of the house. I showed Thomas my bathroom and the study where my mother would be sleeping, then finished the tour in the doorway of my own bedroom. “This is it?” he asked.

I shrugged. It was true, I didn't have any posters or pictures on the walls. There was just a twin bed on a metal frame, a large wooden chair with cushions, a dresser, and a nightstand.

“Show me your closet,” Thomas said, and I did, and he said, “You don't have very many clothes.”

“No,” I said.

He reached out and touched the skirt I'd worn to his house. “I like this.”

“Thank you.”

“What else do you have?” he asked.

I looked around the room. Finally I went to my mattress and pulled out the
Playboy
.

“Where'd you get that?” Thomas said.

“I found it.”

He came over and took it from me. “Where?”

I thought for a second, then said, “In the garbage.”

“Huh.” He sat down on the bed and started flipping through it, and I sat next to him. After a while, he stopped. “See?” he said, pointing to a woman with a thin strip of pubic hair. “This is how I think you should shave.”

I'd seen that particular picture a million times before, but I still looked at it like I didn't know what it was.

“I promise I'll be careful,” Thomas said.

“Okay,” I said.

“Where are the razors?” he asked, and I went and got them from my backpack in the living room. When I came back, he was waiting in the bathroom. “Ready?” he said, and I nodded, and he told me to take my pants off.

“Should I put on my bathing suit?” I asked.

“How am I going to shave you if you're wearing your bathing suit?”

I shrugged. That was just how I had done it with Barry.

“C'mon,” he said, and he reached out and started undoing my jeans himself. He pulled them down around my ankles, then waited for me to step out of each leg. Then he pulled my underwear down. We stood there for a second doing nothing. He just stared at me naked. “You look nice,” he said finally.

“Thanks.”

“Do you want to stand up or sit down?”

“Usually I stand,” I said, thinking about Barry.

“Okay,” he said. “We can try that.”

I got in the tub then, and he reached for Daddy's shaving cream. He shook the can and squirted some into his hand. When he put it on me, he didn't put it all over, just at the edges. Then he turned the tub faucet on low and started shaving me. After every stroke, he rinsed the razor under the water, and a lot of hair came off. Then he'd put on more shaving cream. Soon, he got a new razor, even though he hadn't used the first one for very long. “It's getting dull,” he said.

He was very careful, just as he had promised. Just as Barry had always been. And I started getting the old feeling that I used to have with Barry, about someone doing a dangerous thing to me. It was nothing like that time with Mr. Vuoso. He had done a dangerous thing, but he hadn't been careful at all. It had hurt and there had been blood and it had made me stop wanting to press my legs together forever. Now, though, with Thomas, I was starting to feel a little bit better. I was starting to remember some of the things I used to like.

It took him a long time, but eventually, I had a thin strip, just like the lady in the magazine. And no cuts. Thomas made a cup with his hands and collected water to wash off any remaining hair or shaving cream. Then he reached for my bath towel and patted me dry. “Do you like it?” he said.

I nodded. It seemed very grown-up, even though it also made me look like a little girl. “Do you like it?” I asked him.

“Yeah,” he said. “I like it a lot.”

“Thanks for doing it,” I said.

“You're welcome.”

I was about to step out of the tub, but he said, “Wait. You can't get dressed yet.”

I stopped and looked at him. “Why not?”

“Because,” he said, and he started undoing his jeans. “I want to have an orgasm.”

“What time is it?” I asked.

“It won't take long,” he said. “I promise.” He pulled out his penis then and started touching it like he had the night before. While he touched it, he stared at where he had just shaved me. “You look so good that way,” he said, and soon the white stuff came out and spilled onto his hand.

I waited a minute until he'd caught his breath, then got out of the tub and put my clothes on. I was beginning to panic. Every sound I heard seemed like it could be Daddy coming home.

By the time we'd cleaned everything up, it was after six. “You really have to go now,” I said, and I walked him to the living room.

While he was putting his sneakers on, he said, “Let me know when it grows back. I can shave it for you again.”

“Okay,” I said.

He kissed me and I opened the front door for him. After he left, I went around the house making sure everything looked normal. I returned Daddy's shaving cream to his bathroom. I checked my bathtub drain for hairs. I put the
Playboy
back under my mattress. I tried to look at the place the way Daddy always did: searching for problems. When I didn't think I could find any, I went and started my homework at the dining room table. Right after I sat down, though, the doorbell rang. I went to answer it, and it was Mr. Vuoso. “What the hell do you think you're doing?” he said.

His hair was messed up in the front, and the shoulders of his jacket were a little crooked, as if he'd put it on too quickly. I tried to shut the door on him, but he stuck his foot in it. “What do you think you're doing with that nigger?” he said.

“Don't call him that,” I said.

“Call him what?” Mr. Vuoso said.

I didn't want to say the word back to him.

“You're going to ruin your reputation,” Mr. Vuoso said. “Do you understand me? If you hang around with that kid, no one will ever want you.”

“You ruined my reputation,” I said.

He looked at me.

“It's already ruined.” I tried to shut the door again, but he wouldn't move his foot.

“Jasira,” he said.

I kept pushing the door on his foot.

“Jasira,” he said again, and he put his arm up to hold the door still.

“What?”

“Do you need a doctor?”

“Why?” I said.

He didn't answer me.

“Why?” I said again.

“You know,” he said, lowering his voice.

I acted like I didn't.

Finally he said, “For the other day. When I visited you.”

“No,” I said.

“Are you sure?”

“Leave me alone,” I said.

“Hey,” he said, “I'm trying to help you here.”

“Leave me alone or I'll tell my father what you did!”

He didn't say anything then. He just stood there, breathing. I worried that he didn't believe me. That he knew I could never, ever say the words I would need to say to tell Daddy what had happened. Soon, though, he moved his foot. He took his hand off the door and let me shut it in his face. After I'd locked it, I went to the dining room window to watch him take his flag down. Only he didn't. He walked straight past the pole and into his house.

T
he Saturday after Mr. Vuoso called Thomas a nigger, I helped Daddy plant some Persian cyclamen in the front yard. They were these tall red and white flowers, and the lady at the nursery told Daddy that they could survive the cooler weather. First we dug up the grass lining either side of our front walkway, then we pulled the plants out of their pots and stuck them in the ground, careful not to damage the roots. Daddy said he wanted the place to look nice for when my mother arrived. He said if she thought she was the only one who could plant a decent garden, she was about to experience a rude awakening.

While we were planting, Mr. Vuoso and Zack came over. We were kneeling on the ground with our backs to their house, so we didn't see them until they were right in front of us. “Good morning,” Mr. Vuoso said.

Daddy looked up. He was wearing dirty green garden gloves and holding a trowel. “Yes?” he said.

Mr. Vuoso cleared his throat. “Zack and I were wondering if we could talk to you and Jasira.”

Daddy looked over at me, then back at Mr. Vuoso. “Aren't you talking to us now?” he said, and he laughed a little.

I could see Mr. Vuoso was getting irritated. “There's no need for that,” he said. “We're just here as friends. That's all.”

“What friends?” Daddy asked then, looking around. “Where are the friends?”

“We're here to apologize,” Mr. Vuoso said. “Right, Zack?”

Zack looked up at his father.

“Go ahead,” Mr. Vuoso told him.

After a second, Zack took a deep breath and said, “I'm sorry I called you a towelhead.”

“Not to me,” Mr. Vuoso said, because Zack was still looking at him. “To Jasira.”

He turned away from his father and toward me, then repeated what he had said.

“Good,” Mr. Vuoso told him. “What else?”

Zack hesitated. Then he said, “Will you be my babysitter again?”

I didn't know how to answer this. I turned to Daddy for help, but he just shrugged. “Do whatever you want,” he said. “But since they want you so much, I'd ask for a raise.”

“Sure,” Mr. Vuoso said. “We can give you a raise.”

“How much?” Daddy asked.

“A dollar more an hour,” Mr. Vuoso said.

Daddy didn't say anything.

“A dollar fifty,” Mr. Vuoso said.

“What about Melina?” I asked.

“That was only temporary,” Mr. Vuoso said.

“What do you think?” Daddy said. “A dollar fifty and an apology. Is that enough?”

“I don't know,” I said.

Mr. Vuoso looked at me. “I want to apologize, too.”

“For what?” Daddy said.

“For saying things I shouldn't have. I mean, maybe Zack heard me, and maybe that's why he said those things to you.”

Daddy laughed. “
Maybe
?”

“All right, fine,” Mr. Vuoso said, snapping his head toward Daddy. “Probably, okay? Probably he heard me, and probably that's where he picked it up.”

“I would say so,” Daddy said.

“Did anyone ever teach you how to accept an apology?” Mr. Vuoso said. “Because you're not very good at it.”

“Why should I be good at it?” Daddy barked, and he stood up and peeled off his green gloves. “Why!”

“I don't want to be Zack's babysitter,” I said.

No one seemed to hear me, so I said it again, more forcefully.

Mr. Vuoso turned to me. “What?”

“I have other things to do after school,” I told him.

“Like what?” he said. “What do you do after school?”

“What do you mean, ‘What do you do after school?'” Daddy said. “She does her homework. That's what she does. She's a smart girl.”

Mr. Vuoso looked at me long and hard, and I looked back at him. “All right,” he said. “Fine.”

“Can we go now?” Zack said to his father.

“Sure,” Mr. Vuoso said, and the two of them turned and walked off.

Daddy said he was very proud of me then. He said that it was clear that the Vuosos knew how wrong they were to fire me, and that now they were just trying to cover their asses. I didn't tell Daddy that he didn't know what he was talking about. That Mr. Vuoso had put his fingers inside me, and that I had bled, and that that was why he wanted me back. To try to make it up to me.

We finished planting the rest of the flowers, and when we were done, Daddy said that now our yard looked like the Lebanese flag: red, white, and green. He said that all Arab flags had the colors of either red, white, green, or black. He said it was one of the few things the Arabs had ever managed to agree on, then he sighed and said how pathetic.

 

That afternoon, I started to worry about Mr. Vuoso. I worried that I had hurt his feelings. It was the same way I sometimes felt after Daddy hit me. I hated him, but I didn't want him to feel bad. I wasn't sure why this happened. It just seemed like it would be worse to be him in those moments than it was to be me.

I went in Daddy's room while he was getting ready to go and meet Thena. He had on slacks and an undershirt. “Blue or beige?” he asked me, standing in his bathroom doorway, a dress shirt in each hand. “Beige,” I said, and he nodded. He put the blue one in his closet, then came back and took the beige one off its hanger.

“Maybe I should've said yes to Mr. Vuoso,” I said.

Daddy put his arm through one of his sleeves. “I already complimented you for saying no. If you change your mind, I take my compliment back.”

I thought about this. I guessed I didn't really want to lose Daddy's compliment.

“We don't go back on our decisions,” he said, buttoning his shirt. “Once we make a decision, we stand firm.”

“But he apologized.”

“He owed you that apology. You owe him nothing.”

“Okay,” I said.

“Try to have a little more resolve,” he said, turning around so I wouldn't see him unbutton his pants and tuck his shirt in.

After Daddy left, I went in the kitchen and put my frozen macaroni and cheese in the microwave. Daddy always bought me lettuce I was supposed to wash and make into a salad for myself, but I never did. I just ripped some of the leaves off, wrapped them in paper towels, and took them out to the garbage can.

Later, while I was watching TV, the doorbell rang. It was Mr. Vuoso. “Hi,” he said. His cheeks were clean-shaven, his hair was neatly combed to one side. He looked like he was on his way somewhere.

“Hi,” I said.

“Don't worry,” he said. “I don't want to come in.”

I didn't say anything.

“Zack and his mom went to visit his grandma.”

“Oh.”

“Her cat just had kittens. I guess they're pretty cute.”

I nodded.

“Is your dad at his girlfriend's?” Mr. Vuoso asked.

“Yes.”

“What's she like?”

“Daddy doesn't like her to come here anymore because she pays too much attention to me.”

“Figures,” Mr. Vuoso said.

“She thinks I should be a model.”

He laughed a little. “I bet your father loves that.”

“No,” I said, “he doesn't.”

“I'm just kidding,” he said. “I know he doesn't.”

“Oh.”

“Anyway,” he said, “I'm pretty bored.”

I looked at his shirt cuffs. They poked out from under his jacket the same exact amount on both sides.

“Are you bored?” he said.

“No,” I said, even though I was.

“You must be. There's nothing to do.”

I shrugged.

“Maybe we could do something together.”

“No, thank you.”

“Maybe I could take you somewhere.”

“I have to stay here.”

“Why?”

“In case Daddy comes home.”

“I thought you said he was staying at his girlfriend's.”

“He is.”

“So?” Mr. Vuoso said.

“He could change his mind and come home,” I said. “I have to be here in case he does.”

Mr. Vuoso shrugged. “Zack and his mother could come home, too. But they probably won't.”

I looked at him. His voice had softened a little, and he'd put his hands in his pockets. I had been trying to have resolve, like Daddy said, but it was hard when Mr. Vuoso was being so nice. “Where would we go?” I asked.

“There's always a movie. You like movies?”

“No,” I said, even though I did.

“Or we could go out to eat. Are you hungry?”

I shook my head.

“We could go and get some Mexican,” he said. “I know a great place.”

It was a weird thing, but I had never eaten Mexican food since I'd moved to Texas. Only pizza, and Daddy's Middle Eastern cooking. And Thomas's mother's Middle Eastern cooking.

“C'mon,” Mr. Vuoso said. “Let's get something to eat.”

When I didn't respond, he said, “How about this,” and he reached into his pocket and pulled out something I couldn't recognize.

“What is it?” I asked.

He flipped out part of it, and I saw it was a knife. “See?” he said, showing me the blade. Then he quickly folded it back in. “It's for you.”

“From the army?” I said. It was green.

He nodded. “You can borrow it for the night. To protect yourself.”

I let him set it in my palm. Then I picked it up with my other hand and turned it over a couple of times.

“Put it in your pocket,” he said.

I put it in my pocket.

“Now go get your coat. I'm hungry.”

We didn't talk much in the car. I'd moved the knife from my pants pocket to my coat pocket, where I could reach it more easily, and now I took it out and opened the blade.

“Be careful,” Mr. Vuoso said. “It's sharp.”

I guessed he could've taken me anywhere that night and done what he wanted with me. The knife didn't really matter. I could never imagine using it against anyone. Plunging it into their body. My mother had once dated a man who was diabetic, and every day he had to give himself a shot, and I couldn't imagine that, either.

“Want to hear some music?” Mr. Vuoso asked.

“I don't care.”

He turned the radio on to a country station. He started to hum along a little with the song, but then it ended and a bunch of commercials came on. They were loud and blaring, and Mr. Vuoso had to reach over and turn down the volume. “That's illegal,” he said.

“What?” I asked.

“Making the commercials louder than the songs. But they all do it.”

I thought it was stupid of him to be talking about things that were illegal, but I didn't say so.

It took a long time to get to the restaurant. For the last half hour of the trip, I was pretty sure it was all a big lie. Especially since just before we got there, we had to go through a really bad part of downtown. But then suddenly, there it was. A place with flashing neon lights and a full parking lot, and music seeping out the back door, where a couple of Mexican men in white aprons were smoking cigarettes.

“This is it,” Mr. Vuoso said, turning off the car.

“Wow,” I said.

“You like it?” he asked.

I nodded. It seemed like a tiny carnival.

We went inside, and a man at the door told us we would have to wait a few minutes for a table. He said, “You and your daughter can sit at the bar,” and Mr. Vuoso didn't correct him.

“I'm not your daughter,” I said once we'd taken our stools. There were piñatas hanging from the ceiling above us, and everything had so much color. It seemed like Mexicans must be very happy people.

“Obviously,” Mr. Vuoso said. “He just had to call you something.”

The bartender came and set two margaritas in front of us—one for adults, one for kids. I took a sip of mine. It was like a lime Sno-Kone. There was salt around the rim of the glass, and I couldn't see why I would want to lick it, as Mr. Vuoso was doing. “What am I?” I asked him.

“What do you mean?” he said.

“If I'm not your daughter.”

He thought for a second, then said, “You're my neighbor.”

“What else?” I felt drunk, or like I wanted to be.

“That's all.”

“I'm Zack's babysitter.”

“Not anymore,” he snapped.