A Theory of Small Earthquakes Page 3

  sealed July 4, 1976

  open July 4, 2076

  “Every time I pass that thing, I wonder what’s in it,” Alison said.

  “Let’s see. Seventy-six,” Zoe said. “A Ramones album?”

  “A copy of Roots? A FREE PATTY HEARST button?”

  “Can you even imagine 2076?” Zoe asked.

  “I can’t imagine 1984,” Alison answered. “And that’s next year.”

  They strolled along Main Street, past the brick façades of antiques stores and quilting shops, beneath the flying buttresses that flanked the Ohio State Bank. The red neon letters of Oberlin’s Apollo Theater always made Alison wonder if some transplanted New Yorker had named it as an ironic homage to Oberlin’s urban opposite, Harlem, home of the real Apollo. Mr. Mom was on the marquee.

  Zoe stopped to check out the art supplies displayed in the window of the Ben Franklin store. Alison waited for her in the doorway of the bakery next door, wondering why no bakery anywhere smelled as good as every bakery in Manhattan.

  Zoe came up beside her, wrinkling her nose. “Yuck. Smells like Crisco. I’d kill for some Zabar’s rugelach right about now.”

  Alison did a double take. “What do you know about Zabar’s?”

  “My mom and I spent every Christmas with my grandparents in New York.”

  Alison had a vision of Zoe as Eloise at the Plaza Hotel, red bow topsy-turvy in stick-straight blond hair, straggly skirt barely held up by red suspenders, white kneesocks bunched around her ankles.

  “At the Plaza?” Alison asked.

  Zoe stared at her. “How’d you know?”

  “Just a guess.”

  A young woman pushed an umbrella stroller through the bakery’s open door. As she passed Alison and Zoe, a pacifier hurtled out of the stroller and bounced off Alison’s leg.

  “Nice throw, Rainbow,” the mom gushed in a syrupy voice.

  Alison picked up the pacifier, handed it to the mom, and knelt in front of the stroller. She smiled at the baby, who was wearing a tiny tie-dyed T-shirt and bright orange snap-up pants.

  “She’s adorable,” Alison said. “Or is it a boy?”

  “We’re raising Rainbow to be gender free,” the mom whispered. She put the pacifier in her calico diaper bag and her nose in the air and pushed on.

  When she was barely out of earshot, Zoe and Alison burst into laughter.

  “I’m going to raise my kids tie-dye free,” Alison said.

  “I’m going to raise my kids stupid-name free.” Zoe looked at Alison. “You were sweet with that baby,” she said.

  They stopped to smell the pink sweetheart roses spilling over the fence of the Oberlin Inn. “Do your parents stay here when they visit?” Alison asked.

  “My mom died a year and a half ago,” Zoe said. “I never knew my dad.”

  “I’m so sorry.” Alison’s hand floated toward Zoe, hung in space, fell back to her side.

  “Mom was a wild thing. She had me when she was nineteen. We were best friends. I miss her every minute of every day.”

  “How did she—?”

  “A stroke. In her sleep.” Zoe’s eyes filled with tears, but her gaze didn’t waver from Alison’s. “She had a little too much fun before she had me. It caught up with her.”

  Put your arms around her, Alison told herself. That’s what Zoe would do for you. But she just couldn’t. “I’m sorry,” she said again.

  Zoe smiled through her tears. “I still talk to her. And I swear she talks back. We knew each other so well. It’s easy to imagine what she’d say. You know what I mean?”

  “I do,” Alison said. “My dad—my parents are dead too.”

  “I had a feeling,” Zoe said. “Don’t take this the wrong way. But you seem really . . . alone.”

  I was, Alison thought. “I am,” she said.

  “Two for dinner,” Zoe told the hostess at Presti’s, Oberlin’s old-time Italian joint. The restaurant smelled of scotch and disinfectant, tomato sauce and stewing meat.

  As Alison’s eyes adjusted to the murkiness, she saw that the decor had been upgraded since the last time she’d been here, junior year, on a date with an octopus-armed senior who’d never made it to date two. Chianti bottles in straw baskets hung from the ceiling. A red, white, and green map of Italy was painted onto the wall behind the long mahogany bar.

  “Welcome to the fifties,” Zoe whispered as they followed their waitress, her beehive hairdo wobbling, her stocking-clad legs swishing, her orthopedic shoes squeaking on the black-and-white-checkered floor. She waved them into a red leather booth in the back, tossed two menus onto the table, and said she’d be right back.

  “Is there a single vegetable on this menu?” Zoe asked, turning pages.

  “Ketchup,” Alison said.

  Zoe rolled her eyes. “Or so President Hollywood says.”

  The waitress set two red plastic glasses of water on the table, flipped her pad open, cocked her hip, and waited. Zoe ordered eggplant Parmesan. Alison ordered a chef’s salad and coffee.

  “Coffee?” Zoe said when the waitress was gone. “For dinner? Have I worn you out already?”

  “Of course not,” Alison said. In fact, she felt exhausted. Her eyelids were heavy. And she was fighting the strangest urge to just lie down.

  The waitress brought Alison’s coffee and their food. Alison emptied the cup in two long swallows and waved at the busboy for more.

  “Tell me about your parents,” Zoe said.

  “My mother died of colon cancer,” Alison said. “My senior year of high school.”

  “That must have been awful.” Zoe gave Alison a tender look. Alison felt guilty. She didn’t deserve that much sympathy.

  “Even before the cancer, she was miserable,” Alison said. “It’s better for both of us that she’s gone.”

  Zoe looked shocked. “How can you say that? She was your mom!”

  Two cups of coffee hadn’t lifted Alison out of her fog. How could she tell the truth without sounding like a monster? “She wasn’t what you’d call a mom. She never liked me.”

  “What kind of mother doesn’t like her own daughter?”

  “Mine.”

  Zoe shook her head, incredulous. “What about your dad?”

  Alison lifted her cup to her mouth, then realized it was empty and put it down. “We were close.”

  “At least you had one good parent.”

  “I did. But—”

  “But having a good dad just isn’t the same as having a good mom,” Zoe interjected. “I understand.”

  Alison was infuriated, suddenly, by Zoe’s arrogance. “My dad died when I was nine,” she snapped.

  “Oh, man. I’m such an idiot,” Zoe put her hand on top of Alison’s. “Sorry,” she said.

  “No. I’m sorry.” Alison reached for her water, pulling her hand out from under Zoe’s. “I’m being much too touchy. I guess I am tired.”

  “Maybe you’re getting sick.” Zoe touched the back of her hand to Alison’s forehead. “You are a little warm.” She pulled bills from various pockets and tossed them onto the table. “Let’s get you home.”

  “Thanks for understanding,” Alison said, although she herself didn’t understand.

  As they walked back to campus in the dark, Alison let Zoe choose the route, watch out for cars, walk her to her dorm. They stood together on Baldwin’s wide veranda, the porch lamp holding them in a circle of yellow light.

  “Sorry I’m such a mess,” Alison said.

  Zoe reached out and tucked a strand of Alison’s hair behind her ear. Her hand lingered on Alison’s cheek. Alison swayed on her feet.

  “Would you come to my studio sometime?” Zoe sounded almost shy. “I want to show you the paintings I’m working on.”

  Alison braved a look into Zoe’s eyes. She saw a smooth sea of blue. She imagined sailboats skipping across those eyes, schools of silvery fish swimming through them.

  “I’d love to.”

  “Cool. Now get some sleep.” Zoe squeezed Ali
son’s hand, let it go, and disappeared into the dark.

  Slowly, heavily, Alison climbed the stairs to her room. She dropped onto her bed and stared across the room at her dad’s wood carvings.

  She’d wanted so badly to be friends with Zoe. It felt like she’d gotten what she’d wanted. And it felt like something else.

  4.

  oberlin college

  October–December 1983

  “Close your eyes,” Zoe said. They were standing in front of a corregated metal door in Oberlin’s arts building. “Don’t open till I tell you to.”

  Alison heard Zoe fumbling with keys, heard the door clattering open, smelled turpentine fumes.

  “You can look now.”

  Zoe sounded nervous. Alison was gratified to know Zoe was capable of insecurity.

  “I said look,” Zoe repeated.

  Alison opened her eyes. Leaning against the wall of Zoe’s studio were eight floor-to-ceiling canvases saturated with dense, dizzying red and orange swirls. The paintings’ energy pulled her across the room.

  “Wow,” she said, moving from one canvas to the next.

  “Wow good?” Zoe asked in a strangely high-pitched voice. “Or wow bad?”

  “Wow amazing.”

  Alison took a few steps back and saw that each swirl was a breast. In the red paintings the nipples were orange, the size of dinner plates. In the orange ones the nipples were red, beckoning, erect.

  “You like?” Zoe asked.

  “I love.” Alison stepped closer to the paintings again, resisting the urge to touch a finger to the glistening paint. “I love the texture. And the colors. And the scale.”

  “They’re totally impractical,” Zoe said. “Only a Rockefeller would have the wall space to hang them.”

  “They’re great.” Alison was startled to realize that she was doing for Zoe—encouraging, supporting, mothering—what Zoe usually did for her. She wondered if this was what best friends did for each other: play whatever role was needed; slip into each other’s shoes.

  “They’ll never sell.” Zoe stood beside Alison, squinting at the canvases.

  “You don’t need them to sell. You just need to love them.”

  “And store them.”

  “You’re doing that thing girls do,” Alison said.

  “What?”

  “Fishing for compliments by deflecting one.”

  Zoe looked at her, surprised. “You’re right,” she said.

  “You get a do-over,” Alison said. “Let’s take it from the top. Your paintings are amazing.” She liked playing Zoe’s part. It made her feel competent and generous and kind.

  “Thank you. You’re sweet.” Zoe sounded like Zoe again.

  And Alison felt like Alison again, flustered and insecure. “What are you calling the series?” she asked.

  “Look who’s deflecting a compliment,” Zoe teased.

  Alison flushed. “Okay, okay. Thank you for the compliment.”

  “I’m calling it Mammary Lane.”

  They looked at each other and started laughing. Then they were laughing so hard they couldn’t stand up. They collapsed onto the paint-splotched floor.

  Alison sat up, shaking her head.

  “What’s wrong?” Zoe put her hand on Alison’s back.

  That’s not helping, Alison almost said. “I’m dizzy. Must be the fumes.”

  Zoe scrambled to her feet and pulled Alison upright.

  “I need some air,” Alison said. “I’m gonna go.”

  “Good idea. I could use a walk myself.”

  Since the day they’d met, Alison hadn’t stopped worrying about Zoe rejecting her. Now she was trying to get away from Zoe, just for a little while, and Zoe wasn’t taking the hint. Would I be as confident, as unshakable, Alison wondered, if I’d had a mom like hers?

  “I’ll be ready in a minute,” Zoe said, frowning at the row of canvases, switching their positions around.

  “No hurry,” Alison said. I’ll just stand here and watch you be you, she thought, and hope that a little of you rubs off on me.

  They were friends. There was no denying it, although Alison reminded herself daily that Zoe didn’t know her well; that even if it lasted until June, they’d be going their separate ways then.

  But for now, Alison felt altered by their friendship in the best possible way. Having someone to tell when exciting things happened—when she finished a story, got feedback on a story, overheard a particularly wacky conversation in the hall—actually seemed to make more interesting things happen.

  She and Zoe talked about everything. Their classes and classmates, their childhoods, the books they were reading, the Miss America project they were working on together, the projects they worked on when they were apart. The only subject they avoided was their love lives, which was fine with Alison. She didn’t have one. And if Zoe cared about someone else—male or female, friend or lover—Alison didn’t want to know.

  Most weekdays they ate lunch in the cafeteria together. On weekends they walked into town, poked around the thrift shops, smuggled warm bags of microwave popcorn into second-run movies at the Apollo: Tootsie, E.T., An Officer and a Gentleman.

  Zoe had a roommate, so they made Alison’s “senior single” room their home base. They stayed up late sharing Top Ramen dinners, Zoe on Alison’s vinyl beanbag chair with a bowl balanced on her lap and Alison on the floor, or vice versa, talking voraciously as they slurped their MSG noodles.

  They had the most profound thing in common: they were both orphans. But Alison was amazed by how many of the same things, personal and political, they were passionate about. They were both opposed the invasion of Grenada but disagreed about the bombing of the U.S. embassy in Beirut. Zoe said the United States had it coming; Alison found that a heartless response. Alison said The Color Purple deserved a Pulitzer for its cultural impact if not for the quality of the writing. Zoe argued that a book should be judged for its art, not its politics. They agreed that artistically, the novel didn’t make the grade.

  Alison was far more cynical about the quirks of the queer movement, but they agreed that Torch Song Trilogy winning a Tony was a great advance for civil rights. They disagreed about whether Zoe should shave her head—she didn’t—or dye her thick shock of platinum-white hair jet black, which she did.

  Zoe’s commitment to her art inspired Alison to take her own more seriously. Their friendship dulled the sharp edge of Alison’s loneliness, which made her less inclined to issue caustic commentary. She was relieved to return to quieter forms, the short stories and poems she used to read to her dad. Like her dad, Zoe was always asking about Alison’s writing. She read every word Alison wrote, and her critiques were surprisingly astute. “You don’t need all those flowery adjectives.” “Cut the hyperbole. Your writing is powerful enough without it.” “Trust your talent—forget the tricks.”

  “For a painter, you’re a pretty good editor,” Alison said. Zoe’s attention made Alison believe there was hope for her as a writer, a wife and mother, a human being. Zoe tended to Alison the way Zoe’s mom had tended to her, tracking the details of her life, asking about her thoughts and feelings, caring about Zoe’s art projects as if they were her own. Alison had never felt so not alone.

  Zoe helped Alison pick her two best stories to send to Oberlin’s literary journal. The Field published both of them. Marian daughter assigned them as readings for their class. She gave Alison an A+ on her essay about Catharine MacKinnon and wrote on the back, “I’m gratified to help you come into the full flower of your womynhood. In sisterhood, M.” A reporter for the Review, eyes fastened on Alison’s breasts, interviewed her about writing fiction versus commentary. He hadn’t read her op-ed, he said, but he’d skimmed her stories. He said her sex scenes were hot. He wondered if she’d like to see a movie sometime.

  Alison bought Zoe a set of mink paintbrushes to thank her for her support. Zoe bought Alison an antique fountain pen and a tiny, cut-glass bottle of red ink to celebrate her success.

&
nbsp; On a Friday night in November, Alison and Zoe decided to go see Sophie’s Choice at the Apollo. A bitter wind came up as they were crossing the campus, so they stopped by Zoe’s dorm to get some warmer clothes.

  While Zoe ransacked the antique steamer trunk she used as a dresser, Alison scanned Zoe’s half of the room. The scarred walls were covered with Georgia O’Keeffe prints that looked like Technicolor female genitalia. Political buttons in various sizes, colors, and convictions marched up and down the Indian-print bedspread that hung from the ceiling, dividing the room. FEMINISM IS THE RADICAL NOTION THAT WOMEN ARE PEOPLE. CREATIVITY TAKES COURAGE. U.S. OUT OF MY UTERUS. MAKE ART, NOT WAR.

  Books, paintbrushes, belts, beads, costume jewelry spilled from the fruit crate, turned on its end, that served as Zoe’s nightstand. Alison couldn’t stop looking at the tousled narrow mattress on the floor.

  Zoe handed Alison a woven orange and turquoise poncho. Alison grimaced. “Is it deer season in downtown Oberlin? Are you trying to keep me from getting shot?”

  “Come on, preppie. You know you love it.”

  “Love is a little strong. I’d say . . . I hate it.”

  Zoe grinned and pulled the serape over Alison’s head, clucking like a mother stuffing a fidgety child into a snowsuit.

  “See? It looks great on you!” Zoe took Alison by the shoulders and turned her, framing the two of them in the mirror on the back of the dorm room door.

  They stood there looking at themselves together. Alison’s dark hair, dark eyes, dark skin; Zoe’s jet-black buzz cut, blue eyes, porcelain face. Alison’s lean length; Zoe’s broad torso and narrow hips. The crevice of Alison’s cleavage in the deep V of the serape; the poke of Zoe’s nipples through her yellow thrift-store cashmere cardigan.

  “We fit,” Zoe said. Her voice was low and hoarse.

  Alison wriggled out of the serape and tossed it into the open trunk.

  “Where’d you go?” Zoe asked.

  “I was hot,” Alison mumbled. How could everything feel so natural between them one minute and so strained the next? “I mean, it’s hot in here.”