Stress Test Ch. 23

Everything about Roscoe and Linda was so right that their romance seemed inevitable. He bought her fuzzy slippers, lavender sachets and a mother of pearl hair brush, not the kind of gifts you'd expect from a guy.

They were always laughing and making plans for dinner, for the weekend, for the matching peejays they would one day buy their grandchildren. They were so happy that sometimes Sandy forgot how much older Roscoe was.

Linda had dated a lot of guys—a lot more than Sandy—but she had never said "we" when she talked about them. It was always "I went to the movie with Joe," or, "Tom took me miniature golfing." Now she never talked about any experience, thought or plan that was not prefaced with "we."

"We spent Sunday catching up on our reading by the pool," Linda announced. "We love the brunch buffet at his complex."

Another time, she said, "We really like those new Japanese cars. We might trade in the Cutlass on one."

"What? One of those little Toyotas?" Sandy raised an eyebrow.

"I guess so. We saw a real nice green convertible at the stoplight yesterday."

Sandy didn't know what to make of the new Linda. She couldn't recall a boyfriend of Linda's who had evolved much past the point of shedding fins and sprouting feet. Linda poked fun at the way they walked, how often they changed underwear, even what they thought was fun.

By contrast, she accepted Roscoe's most casual remarks as gospel truth. She figured the whole world wanted to know what her new love thought about Congress or spark plug gaps or how to slice an avocado without killing the stone. It even embarrassed Roscoe to hear these things repeated, and that was his saving grace for Sandy.

"I was just thinking out loud," he protested when Linda repeated his theory about why tomatoes, chocolate and cheese should be purchased in small quantities and stored at room temperature.

"Maybe so, but you've got to admit you're right," she countered. "Isn't he, Sandy?"

"I never really thought about it."

"Neither did I," Roscoe chipped in. "I was just running on."

"See?" Linda arched an eyebrow and nodded. "He doesn't even have to work at being smart."

But Sandy couldn't hold that against him. She found it refreshing in contrast to Stephen X who wanted so badly to be smart.

"You look a little like Stephen X, and he's always talking about you," Sandy told Roscoe once, "but you two are so different."

"Knock on wood. Don't you have any brothers or sisters?"

"I'm an only child," she said, then added after the briefest pause, "now."

"The younger kid always resents the older one," Roscoe said, and Sandy felt he'd thought this through before. "They think their genes have been used up already. They never get to discover anything because the older kid already did it a year or ten years before them.

"And the older one is jealous when the baby gets away with murder because the parents are worn out by then. Sometimes I wish I could be an only child."

"I wouldn't wish it on you." Sandy wanted to tell him how awful it was, but she saw that he was smiling and she didn't want to spoil that. Then Linda came back and the subject drifted away. Even the air in the room seemed to shift directions.

Sandy felt happy for her. Until now, Linda's love life was patterned after a Las Vegas tourist looking for the slot machine with her name on it. And as she came to know Roscoe better, Sandy felt happy for him, too. They deserved everything they gave each other. She felt more empty than envious.

Driving home along Westmore Avenue, she saw a one-armed man at the Delancey stoplight. The breeze pinned back the sleeve of his tee shirt as he talked to a one-legged woman who leaned on a rough, old crutch. They laughed about something Sandy couldn't even guess at while she waited for the light to change. Everybody had found someone and there was nothing and no one left for her.

In a way, it reminded her of high school when the brainy girls scorned her for being too pretty and the pretty ones for being too smart. Everyone else in the world seemed to fit in somewhere.

Meanwhile, Stephen X dedicated himself to monopolizing Sandy's life. When they got out of the matinee, he confirmed his plans for dinner. After dinner would come the network news, followed by some black and white monster classic with shoddy special effects. In between, she had to sneak a little time for classes, work, a few hours of sleep.

The relentless activity trampled the nagging feeling that she had been denied some very basic component of life, without actually correcting the situation. It was like the rest of the world enjoyed clean air, but the Stephen X Express only helped her adapt to pollution.

They planned to make a foursome to see a matinee of The Hatchling. But Roscoe and Linda weren't at Roscoe's apartment when Stephen X and Sandy showed up.

"I've got a key," Stephen X announced, sorting through the collection on his two-inch D-ring. "We can wait inside."

Sandy rose from the sofa when the phone rang, but Stephen X pulled her back down. "It's not for you," he said. "Nobody knows you're here."

"But someone's calling Roscoe."

"He's not here either."

She sank back into the cushion, but the phone kept ringing, eight times, ten.

"Cheese," she breathed, picking up the receiver. "Hello?"

Linda was on the line. "Wouldn't let you answer the phone, huh?"

"Who?"

"Stephen X. Is someone else there?"

"No—"

"Look, we're going to be a few minutes late, but make yourselves comfortable."

"How'd you know we were here?" Sandy rubbed her forehead.

"Aren't you?" Linda laughed but she sounded far away, like an old person's idea of a long distance call.

"Yes, but—"

"Roscoe said Stephen X has a key. See you in a bit."

After she heard the click, Sandy said, "Okay." She put the phone back in the cradle and looked at Stephen X, who was watching her expectantly.

"Where are they?"

"Who?"

"Roscoe X and Linda."

She looked back at the phone, feeling distracted. "I don't know. They'll be here in a few minutes. How did you know it was them?"

"I told you I have my ways." He patted the spot on the sofa where she'd been sitting.

She plopped back down and stared out the window, feeling foolish. Everybody knew things about her. They shared her secrets so casually they didn't even care if she found out.

"What are we going to do?" she asked after a moment.

"The movie. Remember?"

"No, I mean after that. After all of this."

"We can do whatever you like."

She looked at him and he pretended not to notice the crease in her brow. "I mean after we've seen every movie that ever starred a bug-eyed monster," she said. "After we've eaten at every restaurant in the world and hit all the bars on Westmore, then what are we going to do?"

"We'll never make it through all the bars on Westmore." Stephen X laughed and rested a hand above her knee. "It would be an interesting exercise, though."

"Oh, be quiet." She stood and walked to the window, maybe thinking that if he couldn't see the tears, she wouldn't cry. It didn't work.

Over the catches in her breath, Sandy didn't hear him come up behind her. She gasped when he pulled her close to him.

"Come on. Tell me about it." He rested his head against hers and swayed slowly back and forth.

"Is that all there is? A bunch of stupid movies? A hundred kinds of hamburgers?" She pulled away to look at him. "Doesn't anybody have any more?"

"It's just a good time, Sandy. What's wrong with that?" He pulled her head back against his shoulder so that her mascara stained his shirt. Then he pushed her out to arm's length, with a palm on each shoulder. "What do you want to do? Look, tell me what you want and we'll do it."

She looked at him with a stranger's eyes. He already had a little too much skin for his face, and his belly had lost the flatness of youth, but his hair was a perfect, razor-cut helmet, his nails might have been beauty college templates. People could be so fastidious about easy things, so slack about things that took commitment.

She twisted away from him, but knew he was all she had, all she would ever get.

"I don't want to do anything." She tried not to sob. "That's the whole point."

Stephen X opened his mouth but before he could say anything, they heard Roscoe's key in the door.

"We found the neatest little antique shop just off Delancey," Linda said. "I'm going to get a spinning wheel for my birthday."

"Where did you learn to spin?" Stephen X asked quickly, as if he were suddenly afraid of silence.

"I haven't yet, but there's a class at the library that Sandy and I can take." She noticed the blush and smeared make-up on Sandy's face. She scowled at Stephen X. "We hardly get to do anything anymore, Sandy. We should learn to spin together."

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