Chapter 11

“Phone for you, Annie,” her mother called.

Annie thought about all the people it could be, and hoped it was Chris.

“Anne, it’s Murray Levine.”

“Oh, hi, Murray,” Annie said. “How’re you?”

“Fine,” he said. “Sorry to be calling you on a Sunday, but I wanted to know how that singer was last night.”

“You know something, she was really good,” Annie replied. “She did a lot of original material, topical political stuff that was very clever. The audience loved her.”

“You’re kidding,” Murray said. “Who would have thought he’d end up with a chicky with talent.”

“I was very impressed,” Annie said. “And so were the people I was with.”

“How about that,” Murray said. “I’ll have to put in a phone call to my client, and let him know. I don’t know how my wife will take it, but that’s show biz.”

“I had this idea,” Annie began. “I mean, I don’t know …”

“Speak up,” Murray said. “You’re a smart girl. I like your ideas.”

“I just thought she might be a natural for Boston Morning,” Annie declared. “I know they like to feature local talent and a lot of her stuff was about Boston politics.”

“That’s a great idea,” Murray replied. “Unfortunately, Boston Morning has this habit of hanging up as soon as they hear the words Murray Levine Associates. We had a little problem a few years back, and they have memories like elephants over there.”

Annie wondered what kind of little problem it had been, but had the feeling this wasn’t the moment to ask. “I might be able to help,” she said instead. “I was on the show a couple of weeks back, and there was this woman, Stacy Livingston, and we hit it off pretty well.”

“You were on Boston Morning?” Murray said. “You never told me that. Sometime, when we have a few minutes, tell me all about it. It’d be wonderful if you could arrange something like Boston Morning for this chicky.”

“I don’t think you ought to call her that anymore,” Annie said. “Her name is Barbara Sullivan. And I can’t call now. It’s Sunday.”

“Then call tomorrow, first thing,” Murray demanded. “And remember, whatever you do, don’t mention my name.”

“The morning is their busiest time,” Annie replied. “I don’t think it makes sense to call then.”

“Tomorrow afternoon from the office, then,” Murray said. “So I’ll know exactly how they respond.”

“Fine,” Annie said, already exhausted. “I’ll call from the office tomorrow.”

“Get to work early,” Murray said. “See you then, Anne.”

“Right, Murray,” Annie said, hanging up.

“What was that about?” her mother asked, as Annie joined her parents in the kitchen.

“Murray wants me to call Stacy Livingston at Boston Morning tomorrow about that singer I heard last night,” Annie replied, grabbing an apple. “What do you think?”

“About what?” her mother asked.

“About making the phone call,” Annie said. “I feel a little funny about it.”

“Why?” her mother asked.

“I don’t know,” Annie replied, taking a bite. “Like I’m imposing on Stacy somehow.”

“I don’t see why it’s an imposition if you’re calling to recommend someone for her show,” Annie’s mother declared. “It isn’t like you’re asking for another appearance for yourself.”

“Besides, the odds are she won’t even take your phone call,” Annie’s father said. “You were on the show once for ten minutes. She must deal with thousands of guests. No reason why she should remember you out of all of them.”

“I suppose,” Annie said. “I guess I’ll find out tomorrow.” Annie didn’t want to tell her father he was making her feel like a nobody.

“What do you want for lunch today?” her mother asked. “I’m making roast beef sandwiches for your father and me.”

“That sounds great, Mom,” Annie replied. “But I have to call Torey up first. I think this is the best time to get her. Between church and whatever she does on Sunday afternoons.”

“Give me a holler when you want yours,” her mother said.

“Thanks,” Annie said, and went upstairs to make the call from her room. Except for the homework she still had facing her, it looked to be a fine Sunday. Just a quiet, hanging-out-with-the-family day. She hadn’t had one of those in a long time.

One of Torey’s sisters answered the phone, but Torey was home, and took the call. “Hi, Annie,” she said. “It’s good to hear from you.”

“I’m calling about next weekend,” Annie said. “Robin and I are sure hoping you can make it.”

“I don’t see how I can,” Torey said. “I’d love to come too, but between the cost and the money I’d lose from not working, it just isn’t practical.”

“Robin and I can pitch in for your bus fare,” Annie said. She hadn’t discussed it with Robin, but she was reasonably sure Robin would agree. “So you can cross that off your list.”

“You know I can’t take money from you,” Torey said. “Why even suggest it?”

“You took money from Ashley last summer,” Annie pointed out. “She treated you to dinners and movies a lot of times.”

“Not a lot of times,” Torey replied. “And that was different.”

“What was different about it?” Annie asked.

“Ashley didn’t do anything to earn that money,” Torey said. “Her mother just sent it to her, for Ashley to spend however she wanted. It was easier to let her treat me a couple of times, than to fight her about it all the time.”

“It was more than a couple of times,” Annie said. “Come on, Torey, money is money. It doesn’t matter where it comes from. What matters is we want to share with you, and I don’t see why you won’t let us.”

“Sorry to be so selfish,” Torey said. “But I don’t want your charity. Not this week.”

“Next week then,” Annie said.

“And even if I did agree, which I won’t, what about the money I’d earn if I stayed here,” Torey said.

“You sound like you’d like to be convinced,” Annie declared. “Torey, you’re entitled to some fun in your life. All work and no play and all that. A couple of days off isn’t going to drive your family to the poorhouse.”

“You don’t understand,” Torey said with a sigh. “No reason why you should.”

“Don’t give me that,” Annie said sharply. “I spent a whole summer listening to your poor routines. I know them by heart, Torey. I think I understand pretty damn well.”

“I should think you’d be sick of them, then,” Torey said. “So you won’t miss me at all.”

“Of course I’ll miss you,” Annie replied. “I just don’t understand why I should have to miss you.”

“Because the world doesn’t revolve around you,” Torey said. “Annie, this is ridiculous. I can’t afford to come next weekend, and much as I appreciate your offer to pay for the bus fare, I still can’t afford to come. I don’t get that many chances to work an extra day a week. That money will come in handy when we have to pay the electric bill. I know your salary doesn’t go for boring things like food and shelter, but mine does, and food costs and shelter costs, and I’m sorry if you’re bored by all these realities, but they’re my realities, what I have to live with, and I can’t just pretend they don’t exist so that you won’t miss me some weekend when you get to jet off to Long Island to visit your grandmother with the swimming pool and see your cousin Robin who’s jetting in from Ohio just so she can see her boyfriend.”

“Torey!” Annie said.

“Sorry,” Torey said. “No, I’m not. I’m not sorry at all. Have a good weekend, Annie, and give Robin my love, and if you miss me, just do one of my poor routines, and you’ll think I’m right there.”

“Torey,” Annie said again, but Torey had already hung up. Annie stared at the phone. She couldn’t believe the way Torey had sounded. Sure, there had been times last summer when Annie had suspected that Torey had looked down at the three of them, thought them soft and spoiled, but she’d always seemed more bemused than anything else, and never angry. Annie wasn’t even sure what she had done to make Torey so mad at her, except to offer her a trip to Long Island, which wasn’t such a big deal, and certainly nothing that justified Torey’s attack.

She went downstairs to join her parents in the kitchen, but when her mother asked if Torey would be able to join them, Annie merely shook her head. “She’s too busy,” she declared, as though that explained everything.

It occurred to her suddenly that maybe she had crossed some line between friendly teasing and unintended putdown. They’d kidded Torey all the time last summer about her lack of money, and Torey had always been good-natured about it. They’d teased Ashley about her endless family sagas, and Annie had been needled about her enforced diet. At one point, Robin had declared the only reason she’d been picked for the internship was her perfect demographics, and after that she was called the Demographic Kid for a week and a half. The four girls had spent far too much time together not to fall into affectionate teasing with one another.

But it wasn’t summer anymore, and Torey had to return to her very real poverty, Annie realized, as she nibbled on her sandwich. Annie didn’t think Torey ever went to bed hungry, but if she didn’t it was because of food stamps, and Torey spent every spare moment working to help her family. It was no wonder Torey didn’t see the humor in her situation anymore. She was smack back in it after her fantasy summer away from responsibilities and there wasn’t any humor to be seen.

“I have to call Torey again,” Annie announced. “There was a misunderstanding, and I have to call her back.”

“All right,” her mother said. “Finish your lunch and then call.”

“I’m not hungry,” Annie replied. “I’ll finish later.” But as she rose to go upstairs, the doorbell rang. “I’ll get it,” she said, and went to the front door to see who it was.

“Hi, Annie,” Chris said. “I just saw my father off, and I felt like a walk. Can you come out?”

“Sure,” Annie said. “I should make a phone call first, though.”

“Is it going to take long?” Chris asked.

“I’ll make it later,” Annie decided. “I think Torey’s mad at me, and it might not be a bad idea to give her a chance to cool off.”

“Fine,” Chris said, and Annie grabbed her jacket and joined him outside.

“It’s a nice day,” she declared, as they began their walk. Chris was taking long strides, and Annie had to hurry to keep up with him.

“It is,” he said. “I like autumn.”

“So do I and so does your father,” Annie said, smiling at the memory of their dinner the night before.

“My father likes lots of things,” Chris said. “He told me how much he liked you.”

“Did he?” Annie said. “I’m glad. I liked him too.”

“I figured that,” Chris said. “You acted like you did.”

“He’s charming,” Annie declared. “You’re a lot like him that way.”

“I am?” Chris asked. “I don’t see it.”

“I guess you can’t,” Annie said. “Everybody tells me I’m just like my father, and I don’t see it at all. I guess you have to have some distance before you can see that sort of thing.”

“What else did you think about my father?” Chris asked. “Besides his being charming, that is.”

“I don’t know,” Annie said. “He seemed very intelligent, I suppose, and worldly. As if he’d been everywhere. And he’s so good-looking. You didn’t tell me how handsome he was.”

“It slipped my mind,” Chris said.

“Anyway, I thought he was just delightful, and I had a real good time,” Annie declared. “I’m glad the singer didn’t embarrass me. It was a great night, although you seemed a little sulky.”

“Sorry I wasn’t as charming and delightful as my father,” Chris retorted. “It can be a bit wearing to be surrounded by so much charm and delightfulness.”

“Cut it out, Chris,” Annie said. “I don’t know what’s the matter, but I don’t think I did anything to deserve that tone of voice.”

“What tone?” Chris asked. “What do you mean?”

“I mean the way you’re acting,” Annie said. “And would you slow down, please? This isn’t the fifty-yard dash.”

“Sorry,” Chris said. “I’ll walk more slowly. With more charm and delightfulness.”

“What happened?” Annie asked. “Did you and your father have a fight?”

“My father and I never fight,” Chris said.

“Sure,” Annie said. “I bet you’re mad because your father mentioned those problems you’ve had about your mother. You never told me about mother problems, Chris. Only father problems. What’s the matter, anyway?”

“There were no problems between my mother and me,” Chris said. “And there aren’t any between my father and me either.”

“There’s a problem around here somewhere,” Annie informed him. “Wait a second. Am I the problem?”

“Why should you be the problem?” he asked.

“I don’t have the slightest idea,” Annie replied. “But the way you’re acting, I figure I must be.”

“Don’t be silly,” Chris said. “Just because you fawned over my father last night, practically drooled on his suit, no reason to think you might be the problem.”

“I was polite!” Annie said. “I did not drool.”

“Then why did my father spend half an hour this morning telling me everything perfect about you?” Chris asked. “Telling me that you were the best thing that ever happened to me. Telling me I’d be a fool if I ever let you get away.”

“Maybe he thought I was a nice girl for his son to date,” Annie said. “I didn’t realize that was a crime. I’m happy my parents like you. It makes life a lot easier that way.”

“Your parents are different,” Chris muttered.

“What is this?” Annie asked. “You honestly think I like your father more than I like you? Is that it? You think I was flirting with your father last night? You think I’m on the list for wife number seven?”

“You going to tell me you weren’t flirting with him?” Chris demanded.

“Chris, your father is a flirt. He flirts with everybody. He’d probably flirt with his mailman if his mailman were a woman. Mailwoman.” Annie tried to stay calm and explain. “You know what I mean. He’s a charmer, Chris, and they’re fun to be around. You could use a little of that charm sometimes yourself. It’s no crime to make a person feel special.”

“I don’t make you feel special?” Chris asked.

“Last night you sure didn’t,” Annie replied.

“Sorry,” Chris said. “But you were so busy flirting with my charming father, I didn’t think you realized I was there too.”

“Oh, I realized,” Annie said. “You were the baby sulking in the corner.”

“So I’m a baby,” Chris said. “Is that in comparison to my charming father, or did you always see me that way? I know how worldly and sophisticated you are. One of the four that were picked from seven thousand for the glamorous Image internship.”

Annie stared at him. She felt hurt by his words but she didn’t want to lose him. Obviously he was jealous of his father and was lashing out. Chris really did look terrible. She walked over to him and kissed him on his cheek. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m crazy about you and your father is nothing but a big silly. I could never really like him.”

“What do you mean by that?” Chris asked.

“The way he goes on and on,” Annie said, hoping Chris would now feel better about things. “Why, I had to go to the ladies’ room last night just to have a chance to laugh at him.”

“You laughed at my father?” Chris asked.

“I giggled at him,” Annie said, wondering why nothing was going right. “That’s all. Just a giggle.”

“You laughed at him,” Chris said. “My father is one of the biggest divorce lawyers in the United States, and you think you can laugh at him. Are you making fools of both of us?”

Annie sighed. “I’m not laughing at his legal skills,” she declared. “No, I take that back, I didn’t laugh at him at all. Not really. It’s just he lays things on a little thick, you must know that, Chris, and I needed a chance to—”

“To laugh at him,” Chris said. “Did you laugh at me too, while you were hiding out in the ladies’ room?”

“I laughed until I was sick,” Annie declared. “Not as sick as I am today, but sick enough. I laughed until my face turned green. I laughed at your father the dolt, and at you, the young dolt. Feel better, Chris? Feel reassured? Does it do something for you to hear me say that you and your father are a matched set of idiots?”

“It makes me feel a lot better,” he said. “It makes me realize just what a waste of time it’s been seeing you.”

“You’re not the only one who’s been wasting time,” Annie replied. “It’s been swell, Chris. See you around.”

“Not if I have any say in the matter,” Chris said. “Bye, Annie. Give me a call, if you ever grow up.”

“You wouldn’t recognize a grownup if you ran over one,” Annie said, and turned her back on him. She tried to keep from crying and maintain some dignity as she headed home.

Chris didn’t turn around, race over to her as she began to put distance between them, or cry out “Annie, stop!” the way she expected him to. The way he was supposed to. The way he would have if it had been a movie, or a television show, or a novel. He just kept on walking in the opposite direction. Annie knew, because she allowed herself to turn around and take a peek. He was walking away, faster and faster, until he was half running from her. She stood absolutely still after that, and watched as his figure got smaller and smaller until she couldn’t see him anymore at all.

She stood there for another moment, staring at all the strangers who were walking where Chris had been, and she tried to understand how she had managed to lose a close friend and her boyfriend in less than an hour. It was an outrage. She hadn’t done anything, and they were attacking her. She didn’t deserve it. She didn’t deserve any of it. She didn’t deserve anything at all, she thought as she began to walk, slowly at first, and then with greater and greater speed until soon she was running, the way Chris had run, running back to her house, back to her room, back to her bed, where she could hide from the anger and loss she didn’t deserve and couldn’t understand at all.