NICOLE was upstairs, and Lucy was having trouble talking her into getting out of her nightgown and joining them. The day before, Nicole had called Lucy an uptight asshole. She thought that Lucy should talk to the police and force them to drop charges against Edward. He had been freed on bail, after the results of Nicole’s examination at the hospital, and was back in California. Nicole was embarrassed to be a certified virgin. She had taken the television up to her room and watched it for three days. On Friday the man writing the novelization of Passionate Intensity was supposed to come to the house, but if Nicole was still sulking, Lucy would have to think of some excuse to cancel it, and Piggy be damned.
Actually, Lucy sympathized with Nicole, but she didn’t want to let on. Of course she didn’t sympathize with Edward, or with Nicole’s preference for rape over being made to feel an embarrassed child, but what Nicole had said about being fourteen had cut to the quick: they didn’t think of her as a child. She was one of them, and it seemed everyone had forgotten that she had less sophistication, less resources, and sensitive feelings. Nicole had such a good act going that she had convinced all the adults. Or perhaps, like Piggy Proctor, they didn’t care that that was the case; they just wanted to keep the performance going so they could clap, whatever happened.
There was wild applause on Hollywood Squares. Bess Myerson had just said something funny. The camera switched to Tony Randall. Nicole didn’t even look up when Lucy came into the room.
“We’re going to take St. Francis to the waterfall,” Lucy said. “Come on. We want you to go with us.”
“I don’t want to,” Nicole said.
“You can’t spend the summer in your room,” Lucy said. “You love the waterfall.”
“I don’t want to drive all the way to Bristol,” Nicole said. “You and Hildon get along fine without me. Go without me.”
“I know you’re mad, but I don’t deserve this,” Lucy said. “I didn’t instigate anything with the police; I’m not pressing any charges. I just don’t give a damn what they do, or what happens to him. He should have known better, even more than you should have. It’s over now. Come on, Nicole. Let’s make up and go out and have some fun.”
“It’s really a lot of fun for me to drag along with you and your lover,” Nicole said.
Lucy sighed. She sat on the foot of the bed. Bess Myerson said something that broke them up again. X’s and O’s lit up on the big screen.
“You can tell him to tell you about the woman he’s in love with. He’ll tell you all about Antoinette Hadley-Cooper. He’s not in love with me, if that’s any consolation,” Lucy said.
“Oh great,” Nicole said. “So you let a friend of mine get in trouble with the cops for doing absolutely nothing to me, and you go with a guy who not only steps out on his wife but doesn’t even love you. That makes a lot of sense, Lucy.”
“Nicole, that isn’t fair. I didn’t tell you to go off in the woods with Edward, and I didn’t tell the cops to go find you. Just because you had bad luck doesn’t mean you ought to blame me.”
“I’ll agree,” the contestant said.
“And the answer is, Ronald Reagan gets more mail than Boy George.”
“Do you mind if I turn that off?” Lucy said. “I’d at least like to talk to you. I’m not angry, you know. Most people would be.”
“You’re not most people. You’re my aunt. You’re supposed to be on my side. If you cared about how I felt, you’d talk to the cops about Edward.”
“This is silly,” Lucy said. “They’re not going to do anything but fine him. That’s no big deal. I don’t have the power to make cops do anything or not do anything.”
“You’re just concerned about having a proper image.”
“If that was true, then I’d be mad at you, wouldn’t I?”
“You are mad at me. You just won’t admit it.”
“I’m only mad that you’re acting so stupid. You’re not punishing anybody but yourself lying in bed all day. If you’d cut it out, we could drive to Bristol and have a nice day. Come on, Nicole.”
“Go without me. I don’t want to come.” Nicole turned on her side and put on the radio. Some man was explaining how Peabo Bryson got his name. Peabo Bryson started to sing “If Ever You’re In My Arms Again.”
The radio. Lucy thought about Les and felt like crying — lying in bed next to Nicole and crying until somebody came and did something about it. She took a deep breath and exhaled. She looked at Nicole. Nicole looked very much like Jane at fourteen. She could remember how old they thought they were when they were Nicole’s age — how old, and how misunderstood.
“Is there anything you’d rather do today?” Lucy said.
“I’d rather be left alone. This is my vacation,” Nicole said, the corners of her mouth turned down.
“How about miniature golf?” Lucy said.
“Jesus,” Nicole said. “Next it’ll be a ride on your shoulders and a hot fudge sundae.”
“Come on,” Lucy said, getting up.
“The whole world does what it wants without me,” Nicole said.
“How come you won’t?”
“Because I’m your aunt.”
“I don’t want to go,” Nicole said. “It won’t be any fun.”
“You thought it was fun the other time.”
“I thought it was pretty. I didn’t think it was fun.”
“It is pretty. Come on.”
Nicole didn’t answer. “Come on,” Lucy said, getting up and walking out of the room. “We’ll be waiting for you.”
She went downstairs. Hildon thought that Nicole had no right to sulk. He was dismayed about what she’d done and he was even more dismayed with Lucy because he thought she was ignoring the situation. There were also problems at the magazine: Matt Smith had been calling, wanting to have jokes explained to him. Hildon did not have the time or the heart for it. Who enjoyed explaining a joke? He usually avoided the calls or made up any plausible explanation. Noonan was leaving on the weekend for the West Coast. He hadn’t found a replacement. Many bright, young, half-crazy people had applied. It made Hildon feel old. It made him feel like an anachronism that he thought of so many things for the magazine without even being high. Old, anachronistic, and probably much crazier than those kids. The romance with Antoinette Hadley-Cooper wasn’t going well. She was seeing a lot of other people, and she was either avoiding him or just expecting that he’d stand in line and take his turn like the others. Living with Maureen had become impossible: she had been spending a lot of money on clothes — clothes that were bought from the rack already rumpled and looking as if they had been half inflated with an air pump. They were full of strings and pockets and zippers. The dresses looked like something a person would wear to jump out of an airplane. Maureen was also concerned with her energy. She had been shaking lecithin granules in the spaghetti sauce and serving “shakes” for dinner that were bitter with brewer’s yeast. She dropped seaweed in with yogurt and orange juice in the blender to make salad dressing. He mentioned Adele Davis’ death from cancer. “That’s an old story,” she said. Maureen was studying acupressure, taking an aerobics class, and being counseled by some misogynistic crank who went around giving women instructions on how to be obnoxiously aggressive. Hildon poured himself a glass of orange juice and sat on the sofa hoping to get a laugh out of Lucy’s latest column.
Dear Cindi Coeur,
My problem is that my fiancé loves to dance, and it’s hard to make him be still when I need to have him concentrate. We are going to be married in the fall. He wants us to do the hand jive at our wedding and have break dancing at the reception. He says that dancing is healthy and fun. I love disco dancing, but I’d rather have old-fashioned dancing at my wedding reception than have people down on the floor. It’s going to turn into an all-male thing, because the girls aren’t going to get down in their dresses. Also, we disagree about many important things. I want a water bed, but he wants to buy a trampoline. When we go to the mall, he embarrasses me by popping his joints and doing the splits while I’m buying my trousseau. My mother says that he’s in a world of his own, and that he is a bad bet for marriage, but I really love him. Can you think of anything I can do?