Harriet clangs in the kitchen making her famous cheese potatoes and meat loaf while Dad stands next to her at the stove praising her skills. She is glowing. To me, they look really stoned, and they’re acting giddy.
After my shower, I find a quiet spot behind various huge potted plants at the kitchen table to scan over my poetry. So much has happened to us in such a short time, and we have met so many people that I feel I need to write. Cat Stevens’ “Wild World” plays on the stereo in the living room and, like the message of the song, I hope I will be all right on our new adventure in this crazy world. I am in a reflective mood. Poetry is my solace: the one thing that belongs to me and no one else.
“Whatcha doing?” Dad asks, peeking his head over the plants.
“Aw, you know,” I answer shyly.
“Oh, that stuff again?” Dad remarks, seeing me in a familiar mode of writing. “Company’s here and dinner’s ready. Come and eat.”
In the living room, Harriet is introducing a guy in his twenties to Juan and Terry. “Oh, hey, Mike. This is Dawn,” Harriet says, pointing in my direction as I enter the room.
“Hey,” I say, thinking there is something dull about this guy even though he looks kinda cute.
“Hey,” Mike responds, his eyes growing large as he looks up at me, causing me to step back a bit.
“Mike lives next door,” Harriet informs us with a smile. There is a brief silence before Harriet offers him to join us for dinner.
“Sure thing!”
Everyone sits where they can find a spot. Mike and I end up sitting next to one another on the floor. I sense he is feeling as shy as I am at the way Harriet keeps smiling at us, as if she is setting us up. Ewww, I think, embarrassed, and then dismiss the entire idea.
We quickly finish dinner, warm and delicious after all the hard work that day. Then we sit making small talk.
“Is he coming?” Mike asks.
“He said he would be here in a little while,” Harriet tells him.
“Who?” I ask curiously.
“The manager.” Harriet’s voice is dry.
Mike smiles and rolls his eyes. “Yeah, the manager,” he says, laughing to himself.
Just then there is a knock at the door. It is John. He is freshly showered, and his hair is combed loosely back. He’s wearing a faded jean jacket with hand-sewn embroidery, a fresh white T-shirt, nice-fitting faded blue jeans, and heavy tan Frye boots. His presence is intense as he walks in, smiling as if he has just been introduced. “Hello!” He smells of nice cologne, and for some reason I feel a bit uncomfortable that I am sitting next to Mike.
“Oh, uh, am I interrupting anything?” John asks, overacting and feigning embarrassment for having walked in on something private. For a quick second, I think I see him flash me an almost jealous look. “Shall we go to the kitchen,” he indicates to Mike, “or, uh, do you want to go next door?”
Mike gets up. “The kitchen’s fine, man. Don’t want to hold you up.” He leads the way. John follows, then turns to scan the room again, landing the last look on me before he enters the kitchen. It is clear that Mike is going to buy some pot John is holding. When they come back into the living room, Mike is smiling and John won’t look my way.
It is strange, but I don’t want him to leave. He is kind of fun, sometimes, and at least entertaining. John stands in the center of the room in a way that makes me feel like he wants my attention. I keep my head down and try not to notice.
As he says his good-byes, he reaches down behind me and picks up a blossom that has dropped from one of Harriet’s flowering plants. “Is this yours?”
“Oh, uh, no, but uh, thank you,” I stammer, taken aback by his sudden closeness and the intensity of his eyes.
He draws in a quick breath, places the flower behind my ear, says good night again, and walks out. No one says a word.
My heart is racing. My cheeks are burning red. Why? I think. Why? Knock it off, I tell myself. This is ridiculous. I try to push him out of my mind.
After John leaves, Mike rolls a fatty and passes it around. Dad and Harriet sit huddled together on the couch, whispering secretively. “Why don’t we go to my place?” Mike announces.
“Cool!” Terry and Juan chime as we scramble to our feet, leaving Dad and Harriet to themselves.
Mike’s cottage is your typical stoner bachelor pad. A single, old, worn couch, television, and broken-down coffee table are the only evidence of habitation in the living room. “Sit down,” Mike offers. “I got enough to roll one more doobie. John’s gonna bring some more back in a while.”
Cool, I think. At least we will be entertained.
Juan and Mike sit to talk about themselves. Juan’s stories of survival on the streets of Carol City trump Mike’s pot smoking stories, and Juan is eating up the attention.
Terry and I take a pass on the pot and kick back on the sofa to enjoy some semi-privacy. The small color television runs lines of irritating static, and we take turns getting up to play with the wire hanger rabbit ear antenna. I feel comfortable and secure sitting with my sister on a couch in front of the TV, a reminder of our old life. We fall into easy laughter at a comedy channel that finally comes in clear.
Hours have slipped by. It is getting very late, and John still hasn’t returned. All television stations have signed off for the night. We can stay awake no longer, and the three of us say good night.
“He always shows up,” Mike tells us on our way out. “You just never know when.”
Quietly we creep back to Harriet’s, tiptoeing on the hardwood floors. The lights are out.
“Dad, Dad,” I whisper. There’s no answer.
“He’s not in here, Dawn,” Terry says, examining the empty room.
“Oh, help me pull the couch down then.” I am irritated that Dad is in the bedroom with Harriet.
Juan rolls out the sleeping bag and scrambles in, waiting for Terry to join him. “I’m sleeping with Dawn on the couch,” she insists. “The floor’s too hard.”
He mumbles something in Cuban and rolls over.
Lying in bed that night, I realize I can’t sleep. John is on my mind—intensely on my mind. It makes me mad. You think you can get me, I think angrily. I’ll show you. I’m not someone you can have that easy. I picture an image of us together and, with a shiver, cast it out.
Hours later, I am awakened by the sound of his van pulling down the alley. I hold my breath as his footsteps walk loudly up the courtyard, hesitate, then step up to his cottage. Then I hear him open and close his door. I fall asleep wondering about the pause in his steps, the sense of him listening, and I can’t resist the urge to picture him, standing there, curious if someone is awake.
In the morning I decide that this is enough of the John attraction thing. No more messing around. We have just arrived in California, and acting like this is crazy. There are tons of things I want to do, and I am looking forward to them. Making new friends, going to school, and starting over are at the top of my list. This is a new start, a new beginning. We are out of the “road to nowhere,” away from Carol City. This is our new lease on life. Besides, John is in his thirties! He is much too old, and he is married!
Sharon Holmes rarely seems to be around. Terry, Juan, and I met her briefly on our first day at the cottages. Just home from work, she was walking up to her porch in her white nursing pants and top while the three of us sat lounging on Harriet’s front steps.