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“When did you find out you were straight, Peter?” I ask, giggling.
“Well,” Maggie says coyly. “We knew it all along.”
Actually, “we” didn’t. But luckily, ten days after “we,” meaning Maggie, found out, she got all caught up in planning a camping trip with Peter, and completely forgot about Walt’s insult to her womanhood. I raise my cup. “To Walt,” I cheer.
“To Walt!”
“And to us,” I add. “To nineteen eighty—”
There’s a loud knock on the door.
“Shit.” The Mouse grabs the marijuana paraphernalia and shoves it under the cushions of the couch. Peter hides the vodka bottle behind a chair. We run our fingers through our hair and dust the ash off our fronts.
“Come in,” The Mouse says.
It’s her father, Mr. Castells. Even though he’s kind of old, I’m always struck by how handsome he is. The Mouse says that when he was young, he was known as the Cary Grant of Cuba.
“I hope you’re having a good time,” he says politely, striding into the room. I can tell by his manner that this is not a social call. “Carrie?” he asks. “Your father is on the phone. He needs to speak with you immediately.”
“Apparently they have an old car that nobody uses. They didn’t realize it was missing until I called,” my father says. His face is white. He’s in shock—probably terrified.
“Dad, I’m sure it will be fine,” I say, praying he won’t notice that he now has two juvenile delinquents for daughters—Dorrit, the runaway, and me, the stoner. Except I feel frighteningly sober and clearheaded. “How far could they get? Neither one of them has a license. How can Cheryl even know how to drive?”
“I know nothing about these people other than the fact that Cheryl’s mother has been married three times.”
I nod, staring at the road ahead. Despite its being New Year’s Eve, the streets are dark and mostly deserted. I’m convinced that somehow this new crisis with Dorrit is my fault. I should have been paying more attention. But how was I to know? She said she was going to the library for the movie event—my father even dropped her off at four and waited until she met her friend Maura, who we’ve known for years. Maura’s mother was going to pick them up at seven and drop Dorrit off at home on her way to a party. But when she arrived at the library, Maura told her mother that Dorrit had gone to the mall and was going to get a ride home from me. When she wasn’t home by nine, my father started to panic. He tried calling Maura’s mother, but there was no answer until after ten. He called Cheryl’s house, guessing Dorrit might have snuck off with her, but Cheryl’s little brother said his sister wasn’t home and his parents were at The Emerald. So my father called The Emerald, and Cheryl’s mother and stepfather went back to their house and found the car missing. And now we’re on our way to Cheryl’s house to try to figure out what to do.
“Dad, I’m sorry.”
He says nothing, only shakes his head.
“She’s probably at the mall. Or the golf course. Or maybe the meadows.”
“I don’t think so,” he says. “She took fifty dollars from my sock drawer.”
I avert my eyes as we turn off Main Street and drive past The Emerald, as if I’ve never even noticed the place. We continue a bit farther onto a narrow road crowded with nearly identical houses and stop in front of a Colonial with peeling paint and a recently remodeled front porch. Light pokes around the edges of the drawn blinds, and as we examine the house, a man peers out, glaring. His face appears bright red, but it could be the lighting.
“I should have known,” my father says grimly. “Mack Kelter.”
“Who’s he?”
“Local contractor,” my father says, as if this explains everything. He pulls into the driveway, behind a truck. At the side of the house is a rundown two-car garage. One of the doors is open, the inside illuminated by a bare bulb.
“What does that mean?” I ask.
“Mack Kelter is what’s known as a shady character.” My father unbuckles his seat belt and takes off his glasses, delaying the inevitable encounter. “Your mother refused to deal with him. She had a few run-ins with him over some building construction. One evening we found Mack Kelter standing in our driveway with a crowbar.”
I’m shocked I don’t remember this. Or maybe I do. I have a vague recollection of hysteria and of us three girls being told to hide
in the basement. “Did you call the police?”
“No. Your mother went out and confronted him. I was scared to death, but she wasn’t. You know Mom,” he says, getting teary. “She was a little thing but tough as hell. No one messed with Mimi.”
“I know. And she never had to raise her voice,” I add miserably, recounting my line from our familial stories about my mother.
“It was something in her manner…. She was a lady, through and through, and men knew it,” my father says, doing his part. He sighs. “She had a few words with Mack Kelter, and he skulked away with his tail between his legs.”
That was my mother—a Lady with a capital L. A Lady. Even when I was little, I knew I’d never be one, not like my mother. I was too rough and tumble. I wanted to go every place my parents said was bad, like New York City. I made Missy and Dorrit burn their Barbie dolls in a bonfire. I told my cousins there was no such thing as Santa Claus. I suspect my mother always knew I wouldn’t make it as a lady, that I’d never be like her. But it never seemed to matter.
