Forever and a Day: Chapter 2
“The language of friendship is not words but meanings.”
– Henry David Thoreau
My cell sang Pink’s “Just Give me a Reason”.
“Hello, Dusty! I’m so glad you called!”
Dusty’s muffled voice is obscured by the whimpering of her baby boy in the background. “Just a sec,” and I wait as she does whatever she has to do to quiet William.
“Can we get together? I could come to your house.” She hesitates a fraction too long, letting me know that she does not want me at her house. “Or come on over here!”
I really was happy to hear her voice, but at the same time had some trepidation about getting together. “Great! I’ll see you and the little guy in an hour!”
I looked around at the room as she might see it, but decided that one way or the other, it did not matter if it was a mess. If we were still friends, then she wouldn’t be bothered by it; if after we talked things over, we weren’t friends, it wouldn’t matter what she thought of me or my room. I run into my mother in the hallway with a basket of freshly laundered clothes and followed her into her bedroom.
“Hey, Mom,” I grab the laundry basket from her, dump the clothes onto her bed and start folding and assorting. “Dusty and her kid are on their way over.”
“Oh, that’s great. The baby, William?” she picks up a stack of Grandma’s underwear, “Isn’t he about fourteen months?”
“Yeah, that sounds about right. March last year to May this year.”
She stops at the doorway. “He’s probably walking and babbling words. Eating solid foods, and exploring his environment. Don’t be surprised if he’s a handful. Toddlers can be very demanding.”
I stand tall, holding out my index finger, like a professor might if addressing a classroom. “’What goes on four feet in the morning, two feet at noon, and three feet in the evening?’” I had to read Sophocles, Oedipus the King for Humanities and do a paper on the riddle of the Sphinx.
Mom turns around and faces me, whispering, “Man.”
But I know that we are both thinking of Grandma.
I take my stack of t-shirts and undies into my room, actually putting them away in a dresser drawer. As I push and arrange, a small box peeks out that is beneath an old sweatshirt. I know what is inside, and I know if open the box, it will mean a flood of painful memories. I scoop it up, tear off the brown wrapping, dropping the shipping carton onto the floor as I hold the blue velvet jewelry case in the palm of my hand, running my thumb over the softness of the fabric. The same color blue as the gown I wore for Dusty’s wedding. The happiest moment of my life when Dean gave me the necklace he had designed just for me. I finally open the box to look at the golden heart with a silver hand on the left side offering a bouquet of flowers inset with five gem stones and a silver dove coming to roost on the upper right side. The charm clasp is a small heart inscribed with the words, “4ever (a diamond embedded in the ‘&’) a da.” I just now noticed the bale is a gold fleur-de-lis. The ruby, sapphire, blue topaz, emerald and citrine embedded in the flowers sparkle in the sunshine that streams in through my window. The broken chain snakes out of the bale and slips through my fingers, ticking against my hand ever so softly.
It was such a beautiful day, June 15th when Dusty and Frank got married. The blue of a cloudless Seattle sky can be so intense that it obliterates the memory of rainy, grey days. Everything about that day started perfectly, with gorgeous sunshine that blessed the outdoor wedding ensemble at the South Seattle Community College Arboretum. Dusty was breath-taking in her bridal gown, not yet showing a baby bump. Frank is over six feet tall and I must say he was stunning in a white tuxedo. Dusty planned her wedding down to the most amazing details; Dean released the doves and I took care of the purple irises and mini calla lilies with sprigs of baby’s breath for the bride’s bouquet, the attendants, groomsmen, and the center pieces for the wedding tables. Dean and Fran; flowers and doves. Dean and I were standing alone in the Coenosium rock garden, and I had tilted my head to one side and said, “I think we might be the second nicest looking couple here.”
Dean reached into the pocket of his tuxedo, took out the blue velvet box, and presented it, opened, to me. All I could do was repeat, “Oh, my gosh! Oh, what a beautiful necklace!”
Dean had taken it out of the box and stepped behind me to fasten the clasp, then he had kissed the nape of my neck and in a low voice next to my ear had said the words that made me wish we could freeze the moment for eternity. “Fran, we are soul mates. Friends forever. I will love you forever and a day.”
I would have turned around and put a lip lock on him right then and there, but the photographer appeared and waved for us to follow him for the bridal photo shoot in the Helen Sutton rose garden. Talk about a whirlwind of activity! I couldn’t catch a moment with Dusty alone until the reception. But how odd it was: I was so excited to show her the necklace—“Look! Maybe we’ll be the next ones to be married!”’ but her reaction when she looked over to Dean with a silent quizzical expression silenced me and I had a flash of irritation with their friendship—as if they had a private conversation going on that excluded me. Before I could confront either of them about what that meant, Dusty’s father interrupted with, “The father of the bride requests this dance with his lovely daughter,” extending his arm to escort her to the dance floor while Stevie Wonder crooned “Isn’t She Lovely”. Then the bride and groom were dancing to the Righteous Brothers, “Unchained Melody”, Frank’s choice, and the second song, Dusty’s choice, Counting Crows, “Accidentally in Love”. Typical Dusty humor.
Finally, after the bride and groom left and the guests dispersed, and we had said our good-byes to Annie, clearly enraptured with Jon, her fiancé, Dean and I walked hand in hand to his car. As we were driving, I took a deep breath and proposed to him. “We wouldn’t have to get married right away, maybe after I graduate from Reed and you’re done with your internship at the UW.” I, so happy that I felt inflated with helium, did not notice how quiet Dean was, quiet to the point it finally occurred to me he did not seem very happy. I touched his arm, asking him if everything was all right. He pulled into Rotary Viewpoint Park and we sat there in silence for several minutes—I knew him so well, knew something was wrong, something he was trying to say without his bothersome stutter. My joy seeped away every silent minute. He clasped my hand so hard that I shook our hands until his grip lightened up.
“Fran, you know I love you, and always will. You know that, don’t you?”
It was then that I was not sure I knew much about anything. All sorts of bad scenarios ran through my mind: he had found someone else, he had a terminal disease, he was moving to Australia’s outback, had enlisted in the military and was going to Iraq, or going to somewhere far away to finish his medical studies.
“Just tell me what the problem is,” I stared at him like I could absorb him into my being. Dust motes danced in the sunshine streaming through the windshield.
“I’m gay.” He said it without stuttering, looking directly into my eyes.
“Oh,” was all I could reply. Then I wrenched my hand from his; how deep the pain was, all through my body, like the part of you that has no body but is the whole of you had shattered. “Oh.”
All my hopes had been visualized in a jeweled dove, a future with the one I loved. The chain suddenly felt like it was burning into my skin and I reached for it and snapped it off, dropping it on the floor of the car, as the molten tears streamed down my face, dripping mascara onto the bodice of my formal. Dean had tried to talk to me, imploring me to look at him, but my last words to him were, “Take me home.”
The next Monday a small package from Dean arrived by UPS. I had stuffed it in this drawer without opening it. I had forgotten how truly beautiful the necklace is. The jewels twinkle, hard and transparent, like the absence of love; the ruby glitters, blood red, the color of anger.
Voices from the living room jar me out of my thoughts. I hastily put the necklace back into the box and stuff it underneath the sweatshirt I used to wear when Dean, Dusty, Annie and I did lawn work for our summertime jobs.
As I scurry into the living room, I stop myself from rushing over to Dusty and embracing her. We stare, sizing each other up in the seconds of the silence. Dusty looks drawn, much older than her twenty years, but still she is so beautiful with her long, curly auburn hair framing her face that makes her green eyes luminous. She looks thinner in her skinny jeans and faded green tunic than when I last saw her, but I know her well, and I see the tension in her smile and shoulders, how she is both tired and edgy with nervous energy. The baby is fidgety and tugs at her hair. Dusty reaches up to dislodge his hand, and I glimpse a purpled mark on her neck.
“Stoppit!” she snaps, shifting him from her shoulder to her hip.
I hold out my hands, inviting William into my arms. I take him and snuggle. He grabs my earlobe and tugs painfully. I clasp his pudgy fingers in mine and admonish him.“Ohh, no! Bad boy!”
Dusty snatches him from my arms and soothes him. “It’s okay, little man. Auntie Fran didn’t mean to make you cry. All better, now? Yes, you’ll be just fine. Auntie Fran is sorry, isn’t she?”
Well, no. I’m not sorry at all. But I smile and tickle him, which seems to be the right thing to do. I’m thinking he not only looks like Frank, but exhibits similar behavior. My Mom pops up beside me, all smiles and nurturing hands as she takes William the brat from Dusty.
“You girls go away and let me have this little guy to myself for a while.”
Dusty has a silly seraphic smile. “Just for a few minutes, okay William? You be a good boy for Mrs. Reed. Mommy will be right here in the other room talking with Fran, okay?” She off loads the strap of the diaper bag, placing the overstuffed polka dot canvas bag on the couch. “There’s his nap time bottle, some Cheerios in a baggy, a sippy cup, if he wants a drink, give him water, diapers, wipes and a couple of changes of clothes.” She shakes out a matching polka dot changing pad. “He gets fussy if he’s wet. He’s cruising, so beware!” Dusty looks as if she cannot be separated from her darling for more than a nanosecond. “Just let me know if you need me.”
Did I just see my Mom roll her eyes?
She waves us away. “Go on. Have some girl time.”
“Come on,” I pull on Dusty’s arm. “Let’s go to my room. Outta sight, outta mind.”
She’s reluctant to go, but finally gives in to my insistent nodding toward one room away from her precious. I lead her into my room and close the door. We stand facing one another in the middle of the room.
“I never see you anymore.”
“Fran, I have so much to do with the baby, housework, Billy. My Mom babysits all the time it seems. I just don’t want to ask her for one more favor.”
Should I point out that she hasn’t invited me over to her house? Really, couldn’t we sit and chat between diaper changes?
“It seems like light years since I’ve seen you, Dusty! I’ve seen you four times since we graduated from high school—and three were events. Your wedding, your baby shower, the family baby viewing and now. The only time I recognize you is on Facebook or when you text me. Your emails read like a Mommy-blog.”
“That’s what I am, Fran. I’m a Mommy.” She gives me a withering look. “Please, Fran, could you stop calling me Dusty?” She smiled tucking her head into her shoulder. “You guys are the only ones that call me Dusty. Frank thinks Elizabeth is a prettier name and now that I am no longer a child, I should give that up—you know be more womanly.” She does her deprecating laugh, which annoys the stuffing out of me, because I’ve seen her affect that pose around Frank. Of course, Frank would change that about her, too. Frank is turning out to be a lot like Dusty’s father.
“What about Slinky? Do you ever see her? Did she marry that rat-tailed moron?”
“She went to Bryn Mawr. I talked to her on Spring break. She’s really turned into the feminist. She doesn’t want children. Not that interested in getting married.” Dusty breaks eye contact and shrugs. “I call her the man-slayer.” Dusty twists the loose end of a tendril of her auburn hair, always a sign of anxiety. “I hope that she doesn’t turn into a lesbian—Frank would go ballistic if I had anything to do with her then.” Dusty shrugs again, and twists her hair tighter. “What could be more feminine than motherhood? Frank never liked her much, so it’s hard to hang out with her without irritating Frank.”
This not-so-familiar Dusty speak is irritating me.
“Are you and Dean still best friends?”
“We email and text. I haven’t seen him since William was born. Frank doesn’t want William to be around Dean. I just don’t have time to see anyone anymore.”
“Dean’s gay, not contagious.” I give her a withering look.
We are in an eye lock-down. I want to break through to her, to the girl that I knew all through grade school and high school.
“No doubt about it, Dusty, you’re fluent in baby speak, but what about you? You need something of your own, some area in your life that isn’t Frank or William or household—you don’t see your friends anymore. Have you been to see any plays, the symphony, the opera? You used to thrive on the theater arts. Your photography? Art work? Music? Have you left that part of yourself behind, too?”
“Well, aren’t you the,” she scribes the air with her fingers doing quotes,‘all knowing, omniscient, college freshman who judges all with clarity.’ Really, Fran, sometimes it isn’t all about you.”
“Maybe I should be more like you,” I make quote marks, “’the secret keeper’. Only your secrets are visible.”
She flinched, touching her neck, turning away from eye contact with me.
“Dusty, sorry, Elizabeth, you’ve lost all your color—you once sparkled, but now you’re grey. How much are you going to let Frank take away from you?”
Her head snapped back and we were face to face. “Don’t make me choose between you and Frank, please Fran.”
This argument has shredded our friendship. Tattered and torn, the thin, tenuous threads that bind us thrum in the silence.
She fiddles with her hair, sweeping the long curly mane away from her face. I snag a coated elastic hair tie off the dresser.
“Here,” I handed her an elastic band. “Get your hair out of the little man’s grasp.”
The bruise on her neck is not completely covered by make-up.
“Nice bruise on your neck.”
Dusty swipes her hand across the offending blotch. “William did that.”
“Awfully strong for a toddler.” She knows that I know it was Frank. “Can’t you see how Frank is isolating you from family and friends? Your friends, especially me, know who Dusty is—-did you not have a blowout with your Dad about him calling you Elizabeth because his new wife said Dusty was a childish name for a teenager and he thought you should drop it?” We are literally in each other’s face. “Are you going to stop seeing your friends because Frank doesn’t like us?”
“Can you not get the picture, Fran? I have responsibilities. I have a child. I have a husband. I have a household to maintain. I am a married wife and mother. I am not a college student who has the luxury of thinking about every little action that has a reaction, that all men and women should be intellectual equals, yada-yada-yada!”
“Frank is erasing you.”
“Fran, the psychologist.”
She sighs. “You know, he let me name my son Dustin!”
“It’s his middle name, Dusty. Throwing you a bone?” As there is a bone of contention between us to gnaw. “Can I call him Dusty?”
“No,” she levels me with a look. “He is William. William is named after Frank’s little brother. You know Billy and Frank are close. Frank wanted a namesake for Billy when he was in chemo for leukemia.”
Suddenly, I am leveled by my pettiness. “Oh, Dusty, how is he?”
“He’s in remission.” She looks away from me, almost like she is addressing someone far away. “He comes over after school and stays until his father picks him after work. I seem to spend a lot of my days tending to the boys. That’s why I don’t get out and about very much.”
“Couldn’t we get together some evening and let Frank babysit?”
Dusty looks at me like I’ve just proposed a trip to the moon.
I take her hand, lead her to the bed and pull her down beside me. I shake our hands at the quilt and change the subject. “Look at this quilt isn’t it awesome?”
Dusty pets it, clearly impressed. “Yes, it’s more beautiful than the pictures you sent me.”
“Oh, yeah. At Christmas time. I thought we were supposed to get together.”
She shook loose of me. “I was overwhelmed this year with all the family. I had Christmas Eve dinner and brunch Christmas morning. Frank’s aunt and uncle stayed with us. I couldn’t get away.”
“Not even for a couple of hours?”
She sighed. “Fran, you’ve been at me constantly about this and that. Like a shark attack.”
I pop up on my feet and face her. “You knew. You knew at your wedding that Dean had come out—he had told you he was gay. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I couldn’t!” She put her hands out to me as if begging me to understand. “I promised I wouldn’t. He wanted to talk it over with you.”
“It seems I was the only one that didn’t know. I felt like a fool.” I went over to my suitcase and pulled out a gaudy velvet jester’s hat. “I wore this for the Renn Fayre,” I look pointedly at her, “which I invited you to come to in April, because,” I jerked the hat onto my head, “that’s what I am. A fool.”
“I couldn’t come, I told you, Frank had to work overtime. I was breast-feeding William and Frank didn’t want me to take William that far from home.” She looked imploringly at me. “Have you talked to Dean?”
“He texts and emails me. I don’t answer.” I sit beside her, the bells on the hat jingling in the silence. There is an ugly monster of betrayal between us, my friend and me.
“Oh, Fran, Fran. He loves you. Just not that way.”
“Well. Maybe you can take a picture and send it to him. I’ll smile.” I flash her a cheesy, toothy grin, which I hope is grotesque.
“Fran, take off that goofy hat.” Dusty snatches the hat off my head and throws it back into the suitcase.
She is clearly mad and ready to bolt. I feel that I am pushing her out of my life and the thought sends a surge of panic all through me. “I’ve taken this too far, haven’t I?”
She softens a bit and nods, but doesn’t say anything. I feel I should extend a peace offering.
“I did a paper on Kenneth Burke, who argues that not only does man use symbols, but man makes and,” I pause dramatically with a contrite look at her, “misuses symbols. I compared his work Language as Symbolic Action, with a short story by Joyce Carol Oates, A Brutal Murder in a Public Place. It was considered very good. “
“I bet it was. You were always good at writing.” She blinks and stifles a yawn.
I can see she is exhausted. I stand, motion her to do the same as I pull back the quilt. “Lie down, Elizabeth. Mom and I will play with William while you take a nap.”
“Oh, no I couldn’t,” but she is eyeing the pillow longingly.
I brush aside her objection. “Take your shoes off and relax. Seriously, there is something magical about this quilt and you must experience it.” I really want to tell her that I hope we are still friends, and she is right about how everything does not revolve around my feelings or perceptions.
She slips off one shoe then the other and curls up as I cover her. She murmurs, but I cannot understand all of her words. I think she says “It’s not secrets I keep, Fran, it’s silence.”
But when I turn around at the door, to ask her what she said, she is already asleep.
