Tara Ison - Ball - Stories

“Let’s just forget it,” I say.

“I guess I’ve been pretty self-absorbed, huh?”

“That’s okay. If I had any stuff worth telling you about, I’d just tell you. Your stuff is more important.”

“Yeah. My eighty-seven days. And I’ve been feeling good. The last week or so. I’ve been doing so well. Don’t I look good?”

“You look great. You look beautiful.” It’s a lie, she doesn’t, but I say it to make her feel good. “All your color’s back. It’s like you’re all back.”

“Let’s go get pedicures. Eat cheesecake. Play tennis. Let’s find a river to skinny-dip in.”

How sad, I think, that this is the extent of her imagination. That she can’t see she’s on her last gasp. It is her last gasp, after all, I remind myself. It’s just a matter of time now, after all. I unclench my fists. I tell myself to get back to patience. To pity.

“Whatever you want,” I say. “But you need to make a decision first.”

She glances around the store. “Maybe the Veronica Lake. Or the Marilyn.”

“The Shirley Temple? The Dolly Parton?”

She looks at me, smiles, looks away. “I’ve always wanted blonde hair, you know,” she says. “I guess I’ve always had a thing for blondes, too.”

That fat black ponytail, swinging.

“All right, fine, just come out and ask him why. Ask him why you guys aren’t doing it anymore,” I say. “Make him tell you.”

“Maybe.”

“If honesty is so great. Go on. Ask him to tell you the truth. See what he says.”

“Yeah. . Okay, here’s honest.” She faces me. “I’m going to be honest with you.”

“Oh, please don’t.” I laugh a little.

“Really. I want to know everything between us has been said.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’ve always envied you.”

“Why?”

“I’ve always hated you, just a little. For your hair.” She flips a lock of the Farrah at me. “Really. The attention you always got.”

“That was you. You always got the attention.”

“The blondes-have-more-fun thing. The fairy-princess thing. Guys and blondes.”

“You’re deluded. You’re the one guys have always gone for.”

“I mean it. Envy. Hate. Because of your hair. Ridiculous, but there, true.”

“Well, I don’t know what to tell you. Maybe yours will grow back in blonde,” I suggest. “It does that sometimes, right? Grow back in completely different?”

She just shakes her head, gives me a knowing look.

“Yeah, well. . mine’s chemically processed now, too,” I remind her. “Mine’s all a lie. You’ll have to find something else to hate me for.”

IT’S A SHOCKto see her back. Or, almost back. The long, straight black hair, the bangs. No ponytail, though, because time’s up, the nadir is here to stay, she’s mostly back in bed and reclined now and it would make the back of her head hurt. She found it online, she tells me, the perfect reincarnation. It was easy to order, she knows all about Virgin European and cuticle shaft by now, knows her cap size and her need for Comfy Grips. She shows me every tiny detail, the hand-knotted wefts and the latex scalp textured like actual skin. I expect to see a dandruff flake, a blocked pore, but no, it’s perfect. And she was lucky, it was the last one the company had in stock and they sent it express.

“What do you think?” she asks, proud, hopeful.

I get a whiff of her, a fake sweetness on top of the other smells. She’s wearing perfume, as if that will help. “I suppose I’m a little hurt,” I say. “That you went ahead without me. I thought we were a team.”

“Oh, honey,” she says. “I couldn’t ask you to keep questing with me. You’ve done way too much. You’ve been so patient, so amazing.”

“Well, it looks great. You look exactly like your old self,” I tell her. “You look like you’re sixteen.” She’s pleased, in a weak but self-satisfied way, and I remember the day in Algebra, we had a midterm but the night before we’d stayed out late, some retro film festival midnight show, and she’d made up some story for our aging, stubby teacher. I remember his rapt, understanding face, his devoted gaze as she told him whatever lie she’d told, tossing me into it, too, winning him over, me standing behind her and her thick black curtain of hair. She won us both an extension, bought us both more time. She was always able to get whatever she wanted, and I’d get the surplus by default. Just by hanging around her. Just by waiting things out.

“So, I’ve been wanting to ask you something,” she says.

“Sure.”

“It might sound weird.”

“Go on. Ask me anything.”

“What do you hate me for?”

“What?” I say, startled. “I don’t hate you for anything.”

“I told you. I got it out of my system. So come on, I need to know. If you hate me for anything. If there’s anything you’ve never told me.”

“There’s nothing.”

“There must be something. Twenty years? Be honest.”

“Okay,” I say. “I hate you for all of this shit.”

She smiles. “That’s too easy. We all hate me for that.”

Just then her husband comes in, bearing a tray of yogurt and sliced fruit, a glass of juice. A tight bud of a rose in a tiny crystal vase. He is hesitant, I can see him ostensibly focus on not spilling anything.

“Sweetheart, can you eat a little?”

“Sure, I’m hungry.” She nods in my direction. “Hey, she says I look like I did when we were sixteen.”

He smiles at her, but not at me. “I bet that’s true,” he says to her.

“It is. It’s the truth,” I tell him. “I’ll show you a picture sometime.” I fluff my hand through the top of my hair, where it feels flat.

“Oh, I believe you.” He carefully rests the tray of food on the bed next to her, fussing so that he doesn’t have to meet my eyes. I understand he needs to be careful, but I still think about some way to get him to look at me, face me. I just have to wait, the moment’ll come. He’s being cautious, but he won’t be able to help himself. It’s been so long. We’ve been so patient. So good. But there’s a sudden loud blast of cartoon music from the other room, and little-boy voices getting combative.

“Hey, you guys,” he yells, “keep it down.”

“No, let them,” she says. “Just let them.”

“You should take a nap soon.”

“I will, later.” She spoons yogurt into her mouth. “We’re talking about stuff.”

“I’ll clean up before I leave,” I tell him.

“No, that’s okay, thanks, I’ll get it,” he tells my general direction over his shoulder. “And you need some rest,” he says to her. He leans over, brushes the fake bangs back, kisses her on the forehead just below the start of fake scalp. Right in front of me. As if I’m not even there. He isn’t avoiding me, I realize. I’m just not quite anything. I don’t quite count.

“Yeah, I’m taking off soon,” I say to his retreating back. “Don’t worry.”

“Here.” She offers me a spoonful of yogurt with a wavering hand. “I really can’t eat this. He’s trying so hard, I don’t want him to know.”

I take the spoon, hesitant to put my mouth where hers has been. “What is this, vanilla?” I say. “Ugh. Just eat what you can, I’ll flush the rest.”

“He’s a prince,” she says. “He really is.”

“Yes,” I say.

“So we made love last night,” she tells me.

“Oh?” I say.

“I thought at first it was just guilt, or pity, you know?”

“Yeah, maybe.”

“But I really think it just hit him that there needed to be a last time. Where you know it’s the last time. So you’ll always have that.”