White Oleander

The bathroom would be my favorite room, I could tell that already. Tiled aqua and rose, the original twenties ceramic, a frosted glass enclosure on the tub, a swan swimming between cattails. There was something deeply familiar about the swan. Had we lived somewhere with swan-etched glass like this? Bottles and soaps and candles nestled on the bath tray that stretched between the two sides of the tub. I opened containers and smelled and rubbed things on my arms. Luckily the scars were fading, Claire Richards wouldn't have to see the glaring red weals, she seemed the sensitive type.

 

They were still discussing my case as I moved to the front bedroom. "She's very bright, as I've said, but she's missed a lot of school — all the moving, you understand —" "Maybe some tutoring," Claire Richards said. My room. Soft pine twin beds, in case of sleepovers. Thin, old-fashioned patchwork quilts, real handmade quilts edged in eyelet lace. Calico half curtains, more eyelet. Pine desk, bookcase. A Dürer etching of a rabbit in a neat pinewood frame. It looked scared, every hair plain. Waiting to see what would happen. I sat down on the bed. I couldn't picture myself filling this room, inhabiting it, imposing my personality here.

 

Joan and I said our tearful good-byes, complete with hugs. "Well," Claire Richards said brightly after the social worker had gone. I was sitting next to her on the free-form couch. She clutched her hands around her knees, smiled. "Here you are." Her teeth were the blue-white of skim milk, translucent. I wished I could put her at ease. Although it was her house, she was more nervous than I was. "Did you see your room? I left it plain so you could put your own things up. Make it yours."

 

I wanted to tell her I wasn't what she expected. I was different, she might not want me. "I like the Dürer."

 

She laughed, a short burst, clapped her hands together. "Oh, I think we 're going to get along fine. I'm only sorry Ron couldn't be here. My husband. He's in Nova Scotia shooting this week, he won't be back until next Wednesday. But what can you do. Would you like some tea? Or a Coke? I bought Coke, I didn't know what you'd drink. We also have juice, or I could make you a smoothie —"

 

"Tea is fine," I said.

 

I NEVER SPENT more time with anyone than I spent with Claire Richards the week that followed. I could tell she'd never been around kids. She took me with her to the dry cleaner's, the bank, like she was afraid to leave me alone for a moment, as if I were five and not fifteen.

 

For a week, we ate out of paper cartons and jars with foreign writing on the labels from the Chalet Gourmet. Soft runny wedges of cheese, crusty baguettes, wrinkly Greek olives. Dark red proscuitto and honeydew melon, rose-scented diamonds of baklava. She didn't eat much, but urged me to finish the roast beef, the grapefruit sweet as an orange. After three months with Cruella, I didn't need urging.

 

We sat over our living room picnics and I told her stories about my mother, about the homes, avoiding anything too ugly, too extreme. I knew how to do this. I told her about my mother, but only the good things. I wasn't a complainer, I wouldn't end up saying bad things about you, Claire Richards.

 

She showed me her photo albums and scrapbooks. I didn't recognize her in the pictures. She was very shy, I could hardly imagine her in front of an audience, but I saw from her albums that in character, she didn't even resemble her normal self. She sang, she danced, she wept on her knees with a veil over her head. She laughed in a low-cut blouse, a sword in her hand.

 

"That's Threepenny Opera," she said. "We did it at Yale."

 

She was Lady Macbeth, before that the daughter in 'Night, Mother. Catherine in Suddenly, Last Summer.

 

She didn't act much anymore. She slid her garnet heart pendant along its chain, tucked it under her ripe lower lip. "I get so tired of it. You spend hours getting ready, drag yourself to the call, where they look at you for two seconds and decide you're too ethnic. Too classic. Too something."

 

"Too ethnic?" Her wide pale forehead, her glossy hair.

 

"It means brunette." She smiled. One front tooth was crooked, it crossed just slightly over the other one. "Too small means breasts. Classic means old. It's not a very nice business, I'm afraid. I still go out, but it's an exercise in futility."

 

I wiped the last of the Boursin cheese out of the container with my finger. "Why do it then?"

 

"What, and give up show business?" She laughed so easily, when she was happy, but also when she was sad.