The Not-Knowing
By Sarah Lynn Hurd
Layne sat with her back to the wall, watching Mrs. Allen butter toast with precision, hating the scrape of the knife along dry bread. Teddie Allen had invited Layne up to her family’s cottage in Bay View for the summer, and having nothing better to do, she thought she might as well go.
“Layne, any special requests for supper?”
“Not really.”
“Eighteen is certainly something to celebrate, don’t you think?”
Layne shrugged, picking at a faint pink outline on her knuckle where a scab had flaked off. Mrs. Allen hummed an off-kilter rendition of an old radio jingle, stirring scrambled eggs on the stovetop. Layne sipped black coffee, letting her head rest on the wall, chin up, eyes closed. She wore a faded blue kerchief loosely knotted around her neck—an emulation of Betsy in Taxi Driver, who she hadn’t stopped thinking about since sweat dripped down the back of her neck in the dollar theater that past winter. In the movie,
Travis and Betsy get lunch at a little diner, sitting across from each other in front of the window. People stride past outside on the sidewalk, all kinds of people, probably over eighty of them just during the brief scene. Travis tells her she has beautiful eyes and she stares at him, face unreadable, mouth curved, or perhaps not, like the Mona Lisa. It’s hard to tell. She doesn’t respond and he continues, telling her that when they first met, he felt a palpable connection, something between us, an impulse that gave him the right to approach her. He asks if she felt it too. Betsy stares at him for several seconds, no change in expression, and says she wouldn’t be there, having lunch with him, if she didn’t.
Layne replayed that scene again and again in her mind, practicing holding her lips and eyes still and soft like a wet clay bust. She practiced then, in the Allens’ kitchen, jolting when Mrs. Allen dropped a glass bowl into the sink.
Mid-morning sun warmed Layne’s toes, her legs extended under the table. She wanted a cigarette. She wanted to lie in the sand and let the straps of her dress fall off her shoulders, swirling tonic with a trace of gin across her tongue. She wanted the Methodist husbands and wives to stare while she avoided their gazes. Running a hand through her hair, she unfolded from the breakfast nook, saying she’d better find Teddie if they wanted to make it down to the Association field day that morning.
In the bedroom the two young women shared, Teddie hunched over, her nose inches from glass as she tapped pink into her cheeks. Layne spoke from the doorway.
“It’s been an hour and a half.”
“And?”
“I don’t think you’ll look much better in another thirty minutes.”
“Don’t be a bitch.” Teddie flipped the vanity lights off, rising. She shimmied out of her robe and disappeared into the closet.
“I didn’t mean it like that—I just meant you already look perfect,” Layne said, unsure if Teddie even heard. She flopped onto her stomach over an unmade twin bed and pulled at a loose thread in the quilt, rolling the fiber between her fingers. The Eastlake-style cottage had been in Teddie’s family since her great-grandfather joined the Association near the turn of the century. Layne wondered if the faded quilt was equally as ancient, or merely ugly. She rolled to her back and let her arm dangle off the edge of the bed, blood rushing to her fingertips.
The ceiling pitched upward to a point where cobwebs caught the sunlight, glittering. Layne imagined swirling a long paper cone around the wisps, collecting them like cotton candy and letting them dissolve on her tongue like when she’d been a girl at the county fair. Men were always telling her how young she looked—a glistening calf still damp with amniotic fluid, wobbling on shaky legs in the birthing pavilion. Like a newborn ungulate, Layne had instinctually stood on her own from a young age, ready to bolt at a moment’s notice, to tear into the forest whenever she smelled blood.
The night before, Teddie’s father had startled Layne on the back porch. She’d gone for a long walk after supper, returning at purple dusk. She hadn’t seen him at first, leaning against the railing, flicking the end of his cigarette into an empty rocks glass. The day’s humidity had shifted to cool night air as the sun dipped, so she’d sat on the porch steps to let the sweat dry on the back of her neck.
“Looks like you’ve had quite the walk.” Cool pink light draped across Mr. Allen’s face when he stepped forward. Layne swore aloud and regretted it. Stuttering on, she told him how quaint the neighborhood was—just charming—and thanked him for having her for the summer. His teeth reflected oddly in the remaining haze of sunlight, like her grandfather’s old radium-dial watch. Unnatural. “You’re blushing like a schoolgirl,” he said, crouching to rest his hand on the pane of bare skin where her shirt had lifted. “Speaking of school—any plans for this fall?” He started in on his many connections without waiting for her reply.
She stood and edged out of reach. Standing awkwardly on the sidewalk, hands tucked neatly behind her, she picked at her cuticles until they bled. As he listed names and titles in a steady spew, she nodded along at all the appropriate intervals, opening and closing her mouth several times before he finally fizzled out.
“You know,” he lurched off the bottom step, sliding out of dusk’s last light. “I’m certain I could help make arrangements for an admissions interview if you’d like.” He was a black shape, a smear of impressionistic paint, sharp and blurred all at once. “You’ve been such a friend to Teddie,” he said. “We should be friends, too.”
She thanked him again, told him what an impressive circle of associates he had, said she’d think it over. As she climbed the darkened staircase to Teddie’s room, the skin of her back radiated heat where he’d touched her.
***
“Is this too preppy?” Teddie held out a pale pink cardigan from the closet. Layne sat up, fingertips tingling from her dangling hand. She rubbed the skin at the small of her back.
“Is it new?” She flattened the hem of her own linen dress, which Teddie had purchased the previous summer despite Layne’s refusals—don’t be stupid, it fits you like a glove!
Twenty minutes later, the girls sauntered down the drive, a cool breeze from the lakeshore making their arms prickle in the shade of hundred-year-old pines. Teddie complained of her mother’s incessant curiosity, how she wouldn’t possibly have the energy to ask so many questions when she reached Mrs. Allen’s age. Layne cooed in sympathy, letting her mind drift, replaying a scene where she and her own mother painted the cabinets in one of the little gray apartments of her youth—maybe the one on Quincey. Layne must have been around eight years old—she’d selected a garish split-pea-soup green and her mother went along with it, to her surprise. They’d sung an old Gaelic lullaby while they worked. It was the only place they’d ever decorated properly, and Layne wondered if she’d dreamt up the memory entirely.
While the two women walked, fragments of clear blue sky dipped in and out of sight with the pines’ swaying upper branches. Layne noted the unique angles and curves of each periwinkle patch. One reminded her of the pink scab on her knuckle, another of her mother’s mouth—little jagged squares like the bottom teeth Layne only glimpsed when her mother was caught in rare delight. She covered her own mouth reflexively, smiling at the thought.
By the time they made it to the park, a fine gloss shone on their foreheads and upper lips. Layne sighed, was this it? A few primary school girls in gingham dresses crowded around the egg-toss table. Near the gazebo, a small cluster of choirboys bickered over who was tallest, struggling to get into formation.
“Over there.” Teddie pointed toward two young men leaning against the auditorium at the park’s edge. One twirled a cap loosely around his hand while the other gestured wildly, in the midst of a surely fascinating tale.
“You can’t be serious,” Layne said.
But they were already on their way.
***
Teddie made the introductions.
“Here’s Benny and Paul—the two biggest chumps in Bay View. That’s right, Paul’s dad—don’t interrupt me—runs the annual music fest, and Benny’s just richer than the rest of us. I’ve known them since they were lanky and freckled and absolute terrors, truly.” Teddie swatted at the boys, both swaying with laughter and mock outrage. “Be nice to my new friend, Layne—she’s far too hip for the pair of you.”
Layne’s blush crept up her neck like ivy, but she smiled with closed lips and a shrug. As they set off down the sidewalk, the two girls hurried ahead, peeking back over their shoulders.
“Better looking than last year, too,” Teddie said.
“I’ll take your word for it.”
At the corner store, Layne waited outside, perched on the curb alongside Benny. She stretched her legs out, ankles crossed, and leaned back with soft palms pressed into the concrete behind her. Benny sat curled up, forearms resting on his knees. She glanced at him without turning her head, waiting for him to speak, but he’d closed his eyes and tilted his face skyward. She fought the strange, inexplicable urge to reach out and touch his protruding Adam's apple.
He reminded Layne of her father—something about every man did—the distinct way their eyes narrowed in laughter, or how they placed an ankle across a knee when they sat, or by some offhand remark about the state of the country. It could be anything. On this particular July afternoon, growing heavy and humid with each inch the sun traced through the sky, it was Benny’s serene, tilted face. A silent comfort in his body—he wasn’t commenting on the weather, asking her about her family connections, or trying to impress her in any way. Though she wished he would.
The convenience store door jingled open, laughter spilling out into the still afternoon.
“I got Pabst for us and a bottle of Lambrusco for the ladies.” Paul propped the door open with his foot—a paper bag in one hand, Teddie’s waist in the other.
“He was trying to make us drink beer,” she said.
“Can’t have that, now.” Benny was back on his feet, holding out a hand to help Layne up.
“No, we can’t.” She stood on her own, brushing bits of concrete from her fingertips.
***
The sun had nearly dropped out of sight—long shadows extended from four sets of legs that had grown tan over the afternoon. The stretch of Lake Michigan beach was empty but for the two couples. Benny tossed his cap, catching it crookedly on his head. He held a pack of Winstons out for the taking and Layne accepted—it was her birthday after all.
Her cheeks were tinged pink from sun and wine like she’d smudged them with cherry-stained fingers. She flicked a pit into the sand, following its skittering progress across narrow undulations, and took a deep drag from her cigarette. Leaning back on one arm, she wriggled her shoulder, inviting the strap to drop off. From the corner of her eye, she saw Benny look her way.
“So, what’s the plan for this fall?” Benny leaned onto his elbow, making a divot in the sand. Layne watched Teddie and Paul rolling around near the tree line, a tangle of limbs. She fixed her strap, thinking of Mr. Allen’s hand on her back.
“I could have a spot at Wellesley if I wanted it,” she said, “but I don’t think I’ll go.”
“What’s the matter with you, why not?”
“I’d hate to take advantage of my connections.” She turned away, embarrassed.
“Who cares?” Benny sat up. “Dropping names is nothing—I do it all the time.” He told her how silly it’d be to give up a spot at one of the best women’s colleges in the country, and besides, she could take the train in on weekends and visit him in Boston. He’d take her to Patisserie Francaise and they’d walk The Common hand-in-hand.
“And why would I want to do that?” Layne toyed with the hem of her skirt, crooked bottom teeth peeking through a faint smile. She hoped he was still watching her. “No, I think I’ll stay and get married, or take a gap year in Paris, or join the circus—haven’t decided.”
“The circus!” He leaned toward her, placing a soft hand on her knee. “You’re really clowning now.”
She let the warmth of his hand soak into her skin, noting the distinct difference from how Mr. Allen’s hand had felt on her back a few nights prior. Maybe there was something there, maybe just a bit of fun, maybe nothing at all. It felt nice, for once, the not-knowing.
“Who’s to say,” Layne sat up. “Anything could happen between now and then.”
She stood, peeled off her dress, and ran towards the water.
THE END
Author Bio: Sarah Lynn Hurd is a writer and poet living in Grand Rapids, Michigan. She has recent work in New Flash Fiction Review, Fractured Lit, trampset, Flash Frog, Anti-Heroin Chic, and elsewhere. Her writing often explores grief, nostalgia, womanhood, and self-perception, and she has a BA in creative writing and English literature from Grand Valley State University. Stop by sarlynh.com to visit her online.