Read Online The Appetites of Girls by Pamela Moses - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Pamela Moses
Ads: Link
swam—packs of Germans or English or French. Sometimes the foreign boys glanced at me, and then I would paddle out to the raft, climb the ladder, and dive into the sea, pointing my toes “gracefully as a swan,” as Mother had taught me. But always, by the time I reemerged, they were no longer watching.
Between four and five o’clock each day, we shook the sand from our beach towels, gathered our empty soda bottles and sunscreen, and returned to our suite. From my bedroom, which was separated from Mother’s by a peach-painted sitting area, I listened to the pattering ofwater as she showered. On my bed, flat on my back, I pulled down the edge of my bathing suit and examined the disappointing progression of my tan. If I splashed in the waves less and sunbathed more, as Mother did, maybe I would see more impressive results.
When I heard the creak of the shower handle and Mother’s feet padding from the bath, I stepped in, rinsed grains of sand from my scalp and ears, scrubbed my stomach and arms and legs with the round, honey-scented cake of soap placed in our soap dish each afternoon. I dawdled in the water until the skin of my palms began to shrivel. Then, wrapped in two towels, I watched Mother from the wicker armchair in her room as she continued to dress. Before slipping on her clothes, still in her pastel underwear, she emptied the contents of her vinyl makeup bag onto the bureau. On the balls of her feet, leaning toward the bureau’s unframed mirror, she massaged her cheeks with blush and dabbed her eyelids with a silvery shadow, making the green flecks of her irises dazzle.
“Opal, have you seen my lipstick anywhere?” she would ask, rummaging through the tubes and compacts on the dresser for her favorite bronze shade, which seemed to disappear now and then to unexpected places. If I found it for her, she would blow me a kiss. “Thank you, dearheart, thank you. Nothing is dowdier than a woman with no lipstick.”
I watched as she parted her lips to apply the color, then mustered my courage. “Can you put a little on me?”
Usually she relented, dotting my bottom lip with a pale coat. As I inspected my reflection in the mirror, I wished for another coat of lipstick and plumper lips like hers.
“Ooh, la, la! So grown up,” she would say, laughing over her shoulder as she fastened gold starfish earrings to her ears. “Try not to drive the boys
too
crazy!”
And I would steal a second glance at the mirror, wondering what it was about my expression or the makeup on my mouth that amused her.
Mother, it seemed, knew many things about men, secrets of how they thought and what they liked. In California, after the divorce, shehad dated frequently. One blond man had lasted for two months—Cyrus, who reminded me of a fairer version of the photo of my father, which Mother kept among the many snapshots in her travel album. And in these first weeks on the island, I began to notice, everywhere we went, men asked her name, told her jokes, stroked their fingers along her arms. Sometimes I saw other women staring in our direction, and I would toss my shoulders proudly, smiling at the attention.
• • •
D inner at the Passionflower began at six, and it was Mother’s job to seat the guests and check their meals, and to make sure the customers at the bar received a steady flow of drinks. For the first two hours or so she floated from table to table beneath the restaurant’s palm frond awning, pausing to chat with the diners at one table before gliding on to the next. So there was little for me to do. Most nights I asked Atneil, the bartender, for a ginger soda with ice. “Thank you so much, Atneil,” I would coo, imitating Mother’s soft voice, forcing myself to draw nearer despite the ragged scar on his neck, which gave me gooseflesh, and offering him my hand as she did now and then. From the cooks in the kitchen, local island women, I ordered curried chicken or lamb stew or fried conch fritters,
Between four and five o’clock each day, we shook the sand from our beach towels, gathered our empty soda bottles and sunscreen, and returned to our suite. From my bedroom, which was separated from Mother’s by a peach-painted sitting area, I listened to the pattering ofwater as she showered. On my bed, flat on my back, I pulled down the edge of my bathing suit and examined the disappointing progression of my tan. If I splashed in the waves less and sunbathed more, as Mother did, maybe I would see more impressive results.
When I heard the creak of the shower handle and Mother’s feet padding from the bath, I stepped in, rinsed grains of sand from my scalp and ears, scrubbed my stomach and arms and legs with the round, honey-scented cake of soap placed in our soap dish each afternoon. I dawdled in the water until the skin of my palms began to shrivel. Then, wrapped in two towels, I watched Mother from the wicker armchair in her room as she continued to dress. Before slipping on her clothes, still in her pastel underwear, she emptied the contents of her vinyl makeup bag onto the bureau. On the balls of her feet, leaning toward the bureau’s unframed mirror, she massaged her cheeks with blush and dabbed her eyelids with a silvery shadow, making the green flecks of her irises dazzle.
“Opal, have you seen my lipstick anywhere?” she would ask, rummaging through the tubes and compacts on the dresser for her favorite bronze shade, which seemed to disappear now and then to unexpected places. If I found it for her, she would blow me a kiss. “Thank you, dearheart, thank you. Nothing is dowdier than a woman with no lipstick.”
I watched as she parted her lips to apply the color, then mustered my courage. “Can you put a little on me?”
Usually she relented, dotting my bottom lip with a pale coat. As I inspected my reflection in the mirror, I wished for another coat of lipstick and plumper lips like hers.
“Ooh, la, la! So grown up,” she would say, laughing over her shoulder as she fastened gold starfish earrings to her ears. “Try not to drive the boys
too
crazy!”
And I would steal a second glance at the mirror, wondering what it was about my expression or the makeup on my mouth that amused her.
Mother, it seemed, knew many things about men, secrets of how they thought and what they liked. In California, after the divorce, shehad dated frequently. One blond man had lasted for two months—Cyrus, who reminded me of a fairer version of the photo of my father, which Mother kept among the many snapshots in her travel album. And in these first weeks on the island, I began to notice, everywhere we went, men asked her name, told her jokes, stroked their fingers along her arms. Sometimes I saw other women staring in our direction, and I would toss my shoulders proudly, smiling at the attention.
• • •
D inner at the Passionflower began at six, and it was Mother’s job to seat the guests and check their meals, and to make sure the customers at the bar received a steady flow of drinks. For the first two hours or so she floated from table to table beneath the restaurant’s palm frond awning, pausing to chat with the diners at one table before gliding on to the next. So there was little for me to do. Most nights I asked Atneil, the bartender, for a ginger soda with ice. “Thank you so much, Atneil,” I would coo, imitating Mother’s soft voice, forcing myself to draw nearer despite the ragged scar on his neck, which gave me gooseflesh, and offering him my hand as she did now and then. From the cooks in the kitchen, local island women, I ordered curried chicken or lamb stew or fried conch fritters,
Similar Books
