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“I try to pretend she doesn’t exist.”
“What does Dad think?”
“He doesn’t notice,” she says. “It’s disgusting. When she’s around, he only pays attention to her.”
“Is she pretty?”
“I don’t think so,” Dorrit replies. “Anyway, you can see for yourself. Dad’s making us go to dinner with her tonight.”
“Ugh.”
“And he has a motorcycle.”
“What?” This time I really do scream.
“Didn’t he tell you? He bought a motorcycle.”
“He hasn’t told me anything. He hasn’t even told me about this Wendy person.”
“He’s probably afraid,” Dorrit says. “Ever since he met her, he’s become totally whipped.”
Great, I think, unpacking my suitcase. This is going to be a terrific weekend.
A little bit later, I find my father in the garage, rearranging his tools. I immediately suspect that Dorrit is right—my father is avoiding me. I’ve been home for less than an hour, but already I’m wondering why I came back at all. No one seems the least bit interested in me or my life. Dorrit ran off to a girlfriend’s house, my father has a motorcycle, and Missy is all caught up with her composing. I should have stayed in New York.
I spent the entire train ride mulling over last night. The kiss with Capote was a terrible mistake and I’m horrified I went along with it, if only for a few seconds. But what does it mean? Is it possible I secretly like Capote? No. He’s probably one of those “love the one you’re with” guys—meaning he automatically goes after whatever woman happens to be around when he’s feeling horny. But there were plenty of other women at the party, including Rainbow. So why’d he pick me?
Feeling lousy and hungover, I bought some aspirin and drank a Coke. I kept torturing myself with all the unfinished business I was leaving behind, including Bernard. I even considered getting off the train in New Haven and taking the next train back to New York, but when I thought about how disappointed my family would be, I couldn’t do it.
Now I wish I had.
“Dad!” I intone in annoyance.
He turns, startled, a wrench in his hand. “I was just cleaning out my workbench.”
“I can see that.” I peer around for this notorious motorcycle and spot it next to the wall, partly hidden behind my father’s car. “Dorrit said you bought a motorcycle,” I say craftily.
“Yes, Carrie, I did.”
“Why?”
“I wanted to.”
“But why?” I sound like a woeful girl who’s just been dumped. And my father’s acting like a jerky boy who doesn’t have any answers.
“Do you want to see it?” he asks finally, unable to keep his obvious enthusiasm in check.
He wheels it out from behind the car. It’s a motorcycle, all right. And not just any old motorcycle. It’s a Harley. With enormous handlebars and a black body decaled with flames. The kind of motorcycle favored by members of the Hells Angels.
My father rides a Harley?
On the other hand, I’m impressed. It’s no wussie motorcycle, that’s for sure.
“What do you think?” he asks proudly.
“I like it.”
He seems pleased. “I bought it off this kid in town. He was desperate for money. I only paid a thousand dollars.”
