Soap Bubbles Read online

  They watched TV for a while, then Delly said she’d call a cab and leave for the train station.

  Jules said, “I’ll drive you.”

  Sami said, “Why the train station?”

  “I’m spending the night in Manhattan.” Delly winked. “With Popeye.”

  The sky was starry and clear but smelled like snow. They were too early for the train so Delly waited inside the car with Jules, who had traded in his Corvette for a station wagon. An uncomfortable silence ensued before he said, “I’m sorry about the prom.”

  “That’s okay. Ancient history.”

  “One minute I was dancing with Sami, the next we were in the ’Vette and she was kissing me and promising all kinds of things. We had a lot to drink and I was horny and—”

  “Please, Jules, I don’t want to hear this.”

  “It was a mistake. I ended up with the wrong twin. It was you I wanted. I was in love with you, not your sister.”

  “You’re crazy. Sami was the most popular girl in school and we were never anything more than friends. Neely said you took me to the prom because you felt sorry for me.”

  “That’s a lie.” He sidled closer. “See that box on the floor mat? It’s for you, Delly, a mink teddy bear. Sami says you collect stuffed animals. She says you have a bear named Measles.”

  “Mumpsy. And I have a polka-dot bear named Chicken Pox.”

  “Sami was laughing about your collection but I think it’s cute, just like you. Gimme a kiss.”

  “Don’t be stupid. I have a boyfriend and—”

  “Popeye?”

  “That was a joke, Jules, just like you.”

  “C’mon, Delly, gimme one kiss and I’ll let you go.”

  She pecked his cheek.

  “You call that a kiss, bitch?”

  Pinning her against the door, he raised her jacket, then her sweater, until the dashboard heater blew warm air across her nipples and she felt the cold window glass chill her spine.

  “Jules, stop it!” Wrenching one arm free, she slapped his face. He collapsed and she felt his hot breath singe her rib cage. His hand nudged her ankle. What on earth was he doing now? “Let me go!” she screamed. “Let me out!”

  “Okay. Relax. Here it is.”

  Lifting the mink teddy bear from its box, Jules stuffed its nose into her mouth and pushed hard. She tasted fur, choked on fur, while he unzipped her jeans with one hand. “You don’t wear underpants,” he said.

  Delly’s vision blurred. She tried not to swallow. The bear’s nose had a button. The button tickled her tonsils. She spasmed and bitter bile crept up her throat. Her legs trembled and her stomach convulsed, but the bear was wedged tighter than a champagne cork. Tears streamed from her eyes. She spasmed for the third time.

  “Yes.” Jules moaned. “Oh, yes.”

  She felt his fingers unzip his fly, momentarily felt his erection against her navel. Then, just as Delly thought she might pass out, he removed the bear, pulled her jeans down below her hips, and crushed the mink against her vagina.

  “Jules,” she rasped. “Jules, don’t.”

  Ramming his penis into the bear, he moaned and writhed, then went limp.

  With shaky fingers, Delly fastened her jeans. At the same time, she choked out great, gulping sobs.

  “Stop crying,” Jules said. “Sami loves it when I do that. Stop crying, Delly. I didn’t rape you.”

  She heard the train’s strident whistle. With one last desperate twist, she managed to grasp the door’s handle, open it, and propel herself outside, landing butt-first on the ground.

  Jules tossed the bear at her and drove away. Instinctively, Delly grabbed the bear, staggered to her feet, and ran toward the station. Seated inside the Long Island Railroad car, she pressed her nose against the window pane.

  Once upon a long time ago, she had pressed her nose against a movie theater’s showcase. Then Mr. Hailey offered her candy rather than a teddy bear because mink was tacky for a woman who was only eight years old.

  Damn, another secret. Mr. Hailey and Jules. Had she been raped by Jules? Technically, no. Violated? Yes.

  Outside, it began to snow. Diamond-shaped flakes pelted the window, mingling with her tears.

  For the first, last, and only time in her life, Delly thought: Poor Samantha.

  * * * * *

  “Mom, I have something important to tell you.” Delly crumpled a chopped liver hors d’oeuvre between her thumb and first finger. Avoiding her mother’s eyes, Delly stared at the spray of pussy-willow that nodded from the sun room’s windowsill.

  “By the look on your face, it’s serious.”

  “Very serious, Mom.”

  “Is it college? Do you want to quit and devote full time to your acting career?”

  “Yes. But first we have to talk about Sam—”

  “Your sister? What’s she done now?”

  “No, Mom. Samuel Curtis.”

  “Oh, sorry, what about him?”

  “We’ve been chatting on the phone and he took me out to dinner last night, just the two of us, and . . .” Delly paused, then blurted, “We’ve decided to get married.”

  Carolyn Ann’s face paled. “You want to marry my Samuel? Uncle Sam?”

  “Obviously, I don’t call him Uncle Sam any more. And he’s not your Samuel. Good grief, he’s asked you to marry him a dozen times since Daddy died.”

  “But Samuel’s old enough to be your father. In fact, he almost was your father. If I hadn’t met William—”

  “I love him, Mom.”

  “Not the way I love him.”

  “Gosh, Mom, I want to marry Samuel Curtis and you suddenly develop this great—”

  “I’ve adored Samuel since I was a little girl.”

  “Then why wouldn’t you say yes after Daddy died?”

  “Because . . . because . . . I don’t know.”

  “You really, truly love him?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you’d marry him right now if he asked you?”

  “Yes!”

  “She’s all yours,” said Delly, as Samuel entered the room.

  “Thanks, kiddo.” He embraced both women.

  “What’s that smell?” asked Delly.

  Samuel grinned. “Happiness.”

  “Duplicity,” said Carolyn Ann.

  “I don’t think duplicity smells like scorched pot roast.”

  “I was supposed to keep my eye on the stove,” Samuel said ruefully. “Should I treat both my girls to a restaurant?”

  “No.” Delly retrieved her jacket from the closet. “I’ll borrow your car and buy some Chinese take-out. I should be gone at least an hour.”

  After the last bites of Szechuan chicken and fried rice had been eaten, Carolyn Ann turned to Delly. “Do you really want to quit college?”

  “Yes. It’s a hassle traveling back and forth between the city and Long Island, and I know what I want to do with my life.”

  “I’ll call your parents, Carolyn Ann,” Samuel said. With a goofy grin, he disappeared, heading toward the kitchen phone.

  “I have no doubts about your talent, Delly,” said Carolyn Ann. “You sure had me fooled.”

  “Uncle Sam put me up to it, during dinner last night.”

  “Oh, so now he’s Uncle Sam?”

  “Of course. What did you decide?”

  “We’re getting married right away. I’ll live in Chicago, but I’ll let Samantha and Jules have the house. You can stay here, too. There’s plenty of room and—”

  “No! No thanks, Mom. I’ll move to Manhattan.”

  “Okay, but I hate the idea of your living alone.”

  “I won’t be alone. I’ll have a roommate.”

  “Who is she? What’s her name?”

  “Jon Griffin.”

  “Why, you little devil. Marry Samuel Curtis, indeed!”

  “I promise, Mom, no more pretending—except on the stage.”

  “I once considered the stage. I wanted to be a famous pianist. Now I
just doodle.” She smiled wistfully. “Your father would be so proud of you.”

  “Samantha was always Daddy’s gold star.” Delly walked over to the window and caressed a pussy willow. Gazing up at the sky, she saw her favorite wishing star. But instead of making a wish she whispered, “Up above the world so tough, like a diamond in the rough.”

  Dear Anissa, she mentally composed, even though she hadn’t written her pen-pal a letter since her metamorphosis. Dear Anissa, I got bas mitzvahed at thirteen, my first period at fourteen, and screwed at eighteen. But tonight I think I finally became a woman—-and an actress.

  Chapter Four

  Madison, Wisconsin

  Anissa Stern said, “Why’d the Kaiser have to die?”

  “Bury him in the backyard,” said Helene Stern, focusing on her daughter. “Put his body inside one of your papa’s shoe boxes and ask the gardener to dig a hole.”

  By the age of five, Anissa knew that it was 1957, Tammy was a girl in a song about an owl, the Russians had something called Spitnik or Sputnik (a sat-a-lite), and she was an evil juju. Having overheard a colored servant say the words, Anissa pestered until Black Pearl explained. But, said Pearl, she’d meant that the West African chauffeur was an evil juju, not little Nissa.

  Black Pearl fibbed. After all, flowers died when Anissa picked them. Her kitten, Kaiser, had been squished under the tires of Papa’s Cad-a-lack. And Mama kept saying how she almost died when her only child was born.

  Anissa wondered how a person could die by making babies. Cook said God made babies. Before she was fired, Nanny said a stork brought them.

  A stork?

  Bobby Hoffman said a boy stuck peanuts into where a girl peed. Maybe, before she was born, Anissa had been a peanut.

  Susan Hoffman, Bobby’s mother and Mama’s nurse, said that a man had something between his legs called a pee-nis

  Oh, pee-nis, Anissa thought, not peanuts.

  And a pee-nis made babies. Anissa hadn’t been a nut, but a feet-us.

  What?

  With a teensy head and body and ten fingers and toes.

  Oh, okay, a feet-us with toes.

  And now Anissa was a pretty little girl who shouldn’t worry about where babies came from.

  But Anissa worried anyway. Because after she was born and had almost killed her mama, Helene stayed in bed night and day, an in-va-lid, propped up on pillows, watching tel-a-vision. Mama had been skinny, said Cook, but illness and lack of exercise made her fat.

  I’m not fat but I’m not pretty, thought Anissa.

  Pretty was Kathy on Father Knows Best. Kathy had dark hair. Anissa’s hair was yellow. Kathy had dark eyes. Anissa’s eyes were a funny color. “Rabbit fur gray rimmed with black,” said Susan.

  Kathy Anderson had a papa who loved her.

  On the afternoon of her sixth birthday, Anissa sat next to her mother and watched Search For Tomorrow. Waiting until the sad music signaled the soap opera’s finish, she said, “Mama, do I have one papa or two?”

  “One.” Helene fluffed the lace at her chin, then straightened her bed covers. “Your papa’s a senator and most of the time he lives in a city called Washington, working for President Eisenhower. Do you like my Mamie Eisenhower bangs? Susan cut them.”

  “Yes, Mama,” said Anissa, thinking how the new bangs made Mama’s face look like Mr. Moon with fringe on his forehead.

  “Why’d you ask about your papa?” Reluctantly, Helene turned her face away from the television.

  “On the show today the little boy had two papas and they both want him very much. They yelled at his mama and the big man tried to steal him.”

  “The word is kidnap, Anissa. That little boy doesn’t have two papas, just one. You see, his mama got pregnant and kept it a secret and we don’t know which man is his real papa. That’s why we have to tune in tomorrow.”

  “Why can’t both men be his papa?”

  “A person can only have one.”

  “Why?”

  “Because.”

  “Because why?”

  “Because I said so.”

  Anissa, disappointed, held back tears. Yesterday Susan had taken her to the movies and they’d watched a man named Troy who wore red sweaters and had yellow hair like hers, and she had begun to hope that Troy was her real papa.

  “How come my Washington papa don’t have yellow hair?” she asked.

  “Doesn’t have. He did, but it turned silver.”

  “Silver’s the name of the Lone Ranger’s horse. Is Papa a horse?” Anissa waited for Mama to laugh at her joke.

  “Are you being naughty on purpose, missy?”

  “I’m sorry.” Mama didn’t say how she almost died when Anissa was born, but it was in her voice just the same.

  Mama closed her eyes. Beneath the short bangs, her brow puckered like a wrinkled handkerchief. “I have an awful headache,” she said. “Be a good girl and fetch Susan. Maybe Cook will make you a hot fudge sundae.”

  “I don’t want ice cream, Mama.” I want a birthday cake, Mama. I want to blow out six candles and make a wish, just like Kitten does on Father Knows Best.

  “Tell Cook to fix a sundae for me,” Helene said. “Tell her not to be so stingy with the chocolate sauce. Tell her to put lots of whipped cream on top. Cream is healthy. It has calcium, which makes your fingernails grow long.”

  I hate cream. I don’t want long fingernails. I wish Troy what’cha’macallit was my real papa.

  “Quick like a bunny, Anissa. I’m starving.”

  “Yes, Mama.” She slid off the bed, crossed the room, hesitated at the doorway. “Does Bobby have a papa?”

  “Bobby’s papa is dead, and don’t start that Juicy Fruit thing again. Mr. Hoffman died a long time ago.”

  “It’s juju, Mama. Is Bobby an orphan?”

  “No. He has Susan. But you must be especially nice to him, dear.”

  “Why?”

  “Because.”

  “Because why?”

  “Because I said so.”

  Anissa lowered her lashes. It was hard being nice to Bobby. Maybe if she juju-ed enough, Bobby would die. Except she had a feeling that if Bobby died, he’d come back from the grave. Cook called him a spawn-of-the-lord-of-the-flies.

  Anissa didn’t know what lord-of-the-flies meant, but she’d been inside a spawn shop when Nanny spawned Mama’s diamond bracelet. Nanny said, “It’s a secret, don’t tell.” Anissa hadn’t tattled, but Bobby found out and told Mama and Mama said “what a good boy.” The spawn shop man gave Nanny some money and said she could have the bracelet back if she “claimed it within thirty days.”

  Which meant, thought Anissa, that—even dead—Bobby would come back in thirty days, that lord-of-the-flies was very strong, stronger than God maybe, and that she should have spawned Kaiser before he got squished by Papa’s Cad-a-lack.

  * * * * *

  Ten-year-old Bobby Hoffman didn’t die. Instead, he continued to live at Anissa’s Wisconsin estate, Hillhouse, and no one liked him except Mama.

  Bobby was nasty. Bobby was the meanest boy in the whole world. He was ’specially mean to Anissa. He put caterpillars in her food and garter snakes under her sheets. Once he hid a warty toad in her coat pocket and she got in big trouble ’cause she screamed at church.

  He said that Anissa was Susan’s daughter, not Helene’s, and that he belonged to her papa, Jacob, who worked for President Eisenhower. Jacob didn’t want her, Bobby said, because she wasn’t a boy.

  “You’re fibbing,” she said, poking at her spaghetti with a fork, looking for caterpillars. “Papa stuck his pee-nis inside Mama and I was born. Mama almost died. She told me so.”

  “Jacob and your mama weren’t married yet, so they gave me to Susan ’cause my daddy was killed in Korea and couldn’t tell nobody nothing different. Ain’t you seen how much your mama likes me, Nissa?”

  “That’s ’cause you tattle,” she said.

  “When Susan had you, she traded back. Remember when your father traded in his
Cadillac for a new car? It’s the same thing.”

  “I don’t believe you,” said Anissa. But she did.

  Bobby hid behind furniture. Then he’d pounce, pinching Anissa’s arms and behind. He said she’d be sorry if she tattled because he’d break every bone in her body, and anyway Jacob and Helene would side with their own son.

  By the age of seven, Anissa knew that she could catch a falling star and put it in her pocket, like Perry Como did. But she couldn’t swallow her food or sleep through the night. She grew very thin. Dark circles shadowed her eyes and she began to stutter.

  Helene believed her daughter’s strange behavior was due to Jacob, who had wanted a male heir. Jacob treated Anissa with indifference. Well, to be perfectly honest, hostility might be a better word.

  Thank God I had a daughter, thought Helene. I’m glad Jacob didn’t get everything he schemed for, only my money.

  She recalled their wedding night when Jacob had stifled her screams with his hand. Later, she had stifled her sobs with a pillow.

  Why wasn’t her husband more like the men on her soap operas? They were tall and handsome, just like Jacob, but they didn’t rape their wives.

  Dr. Dietrich couldn’t find a cause or cure for Helene’s illness, so she resigned herself to permanent invalidism. Too bad, so sad. Too bad her mysterious ailment prevented Jacob from demanding his conjugal rights. So sad that Anissa, a girl, would be his only child.

  * * * * *

  One summer morning Anissa sat on Mama’s bedroom floor and played with her Toni doll. A tall bureau hid her from sight. The room smelled of butterscotch candy, Joy perfume, and rubbing alcohol. On the bed were several new nighties ’cause Mama shopped from a cat-a-log.

  Mama and Susan don’t know I’m here, thought Anissa, which didn’t surprise her. Lately she’d been slipping into Mama’s bedroom, hoping to learn more about Papa, Bobby Hoffman, and switching babies. Was Papa really Bobby’s father?

  Suddenly she felt her ears rise, as if she’d turned into a puppet and someone was pulling ear-strings. Her silent visits had paid off because Mama was rem-in-iss-ing.

  Mama told Susan that Jacob had been a struggling Madison, Wisconsin, lawyer when they met. Mama had been Helene Deutsch way back then, the only child of a department store mogul.