Hob Broun - Inner Tube

The grownups were away for the day at a wedding. A paving contractor Gordo knew professionally was marrying his chauffeur’s niece at a country club in Massapequa. Carla had been left in charge of the house. She called up her three best friends the moment the car cleared the driveway and said come on over. She then coldly and quietly informed me that if I was the least bit bratty or tried to embarrass her, she’d lock me up in the laundry room without so much as a comic book.

The secret rites of girls. They’d brought a phonograph out on the deck with extension cords and played the same record over and over. They danced expertly with each other, teased and stretched, tried on hairstyles. They yakked about dream-boat Dick Chamberlain, Dr. Kildare in his white bucks. And my sister yakked the loudest, tried hardest to make the others laugh, sprayed herself with root beer. She had grass stains on her knees and her eyes were big and wild.

How crushing was my disappointment. I thought: This is how she really is. The distant, placidly scornful Carla that I knew was nothing but a fake. All the cunning strengths I’d imagined her to have were lies. She probably couldn’t even beat me up; I’d test her soon. Here I could see her true form: a gumdrop. An empty-headed blabbermouth.

The record began again. “Cupid, draw back your bow / And let your arrow go / Straight to my lover’s heart for me.” The aromas of bubble gum and hair spray reached me in my high window. I pretended I had x-ray vision and could see through their clothes.

It was January and the sidewalks had been salted. I was twenty-three years old and working part-time in a florist shop. Though I had friends who didn’t mind paying for my drinks, I had lately been keeping to myself. I was fractious and horny. I wanted to break away from my circular thoughts, but could not.

The phone wouldn’t stop ringing, so finally I picked it up and there was Carla on the other end. She was down from grad school, shacked up with a biology instructor at the Americana Hotel, and insistent that I have dinner with them that night. It had been six or seven months since I had seen her last and we’d ended that evening arguing bitterly over trivialities. But I was curious about the man she was with and very hungry, so I agreed to meet them at an Italian place in the west thirties.

“Don’t be too hard on Ted,” she urged. “He’s jittery enough.”

“Mr. Charm,” I promised. “I’ll ask him to tell me all about cell division.”

Il Grifone was jammed. I pushed past the nurses and policemen who were three deep at the bar, skirted the chicken-wire-enclosed bocce court that thrust through the middle of the dining area, and found Carla and Ted at a back booth, already tucking into a platter of clams oreganata.

Carla was as beautiful as I had ever seen her, gleaming in silk and tweed, lips glossed, unequivocally in command. Naturally, this did nothing at all for my attitude toward Ted, who came up out of his seat to gladhand the younger brother. His eyes made importunate contact. His hair looked to be just now lengthening into Prince Valiant fashionability. He made me think of a turbine salesman who paints seascapes on the weekend.

“Anything you like,” he said, handing me the wine list.

“We drove the whole way with a broken heater.” Carla embraced herself momentarily. “I was all for grabbing a motel in Connecticut, but Ted convinced me to persevere and now I’m glad.”

“Me also,” I said. “I was thinking you’d scratched me off your list or something.”

She pulled my head to her padded shoulder. “You bonehead. How could I do a thing like that?”

Carla released me. I pushed the hair out of my eyes. Ted righted the sugar bowl she’d upset.

“Since that’s cleared up,” he said, “let the revels begin.”

The veal was somewhat dry, Carla rambled a bit about her doctoral research in Shaker architecture, and revelry was hardly the word. But it was jolly, by and large. Certainly Ted was not the stiff-necked drone my jealousy had cast him as, and the interest he showed me went beyond a weighed desire to cement his position with my sister. Carla, brazen with after-dinner brandies, sang the Canadian national anthem in a clear soprano that had the busboys applauding. Then, while Ted was off buying her cigarettes, she impaled me with intimacy, grasping my hand and pitching her words so low I was forced to lean close in order to make them out.

“It’s Ted who’s smitten, poor kid. I just wanted to get out of Boston for a few days. Not that I mind sleeping with him, but he gets so arduous over things. Makes me want to tromp on his feelings when he pushes them at me so much.”

But I saw the way she nestled against him as they waited for a taxi, nodding raptly while he recited an anecdote about his travels in Surinam in pursuit of a noctilucent freshwater shrimp; and through condensation on the back window I watched her fingers lace around his neck as the taxi pulled away. Then I walked myself home, fifty-three miserable blocks.

The following night I returned from a card game thirty dollars poorer and found her straddling a suitcase in front of my door. She had a vivid bruise above one eye.

“Ted,” she said, pointing to it.

As Carla summarized the incident, Ted had been unable to deliver on a promise of tickets to a sold-out musical, she’d made some remarks about boasts that couldn’t be backed up, and, just that fast, he jumped his tracks. She appeared to be more repelled than angry or upset.

“He cried right afterwards. He said he’d never struck a woman in his life, but I’ve got him turned inside out, with all his nerves exposed. What nonsense.”

“Good thing we’re not Old World,” I said. “Else I’d have to go looking for the bastard with a tire iron.”

Carla said, “He wouldn’t be hard to find.” And then she asked would I mind unplugging my phone.

After that it was like we were kids again, only better. We watched terrible old movies on TV and ate peanut butter and red onion sandwiches. We told all the jokes we could think of and when Carla laughed I could look in and see every silver filling in her mouth. But it got later and we decelerated. Something had been settling on us all the while, like dust.

“Do you ever want to turn around and go backwards?”

I didn’t quite know what she meant, but I said sure.

“Like you missed the turnoff somewhere and are getting more and more lost? It’s that way for me about half the time. And Boston, the people around me all trying to be so hip and loose and ending up mostly just trying.”

“Could be you’re getting too old for school.”

“Compared to what? Remember, I had two whole years to think about it and what did I do but go running on back. The institutional setting. And I haven’t earned a single gripe, have I? So I’ll get my degree and go to work for a museum or someplace where I can restrict myself to old things. Because I’ll tell you, this new stuff is too goddamn flat for me.”

I pictured her on a landing strip in the middle of Nebraska with no trees anywhere around; and I could share the terror of a horizon that began at the edge of her shadow and never really stopped.

I said, “There’s a Randolph Scott western on channel two.”

Where I wanted to give comfort, I could offer only distraction. And the bruise above her eye, now shading into a dismal range of purple-brown, was like a litmus gauge of her feelings.

“It’s late and I really have to turn myself off,” Carla said.

Persuading her to take the bedroom, I stretched out on the couch with a folded topcoat for a pillow. I didn’t expect to sleep much anyway. I saw the strand of light under the bedroom door go out. I picked at dead skin on my lip and listened to the radiators knock. Herding my thoughts through the minefield of inadmissible love was no easier than it had ever been. I composed a fantasy of Carla and me living in a windmill. We had leaded windows and wooden utensils and a garden like a Brueghel painting. There were soft, forgiving contours as I dozed slowly off.