In an older suburban home on a dismal Saturday afternoon in the spring of 1969, two small kids, a girl and a boy, Billie Sue and her friend Gary, sit on the floor next to a piano in the dining room, whispering. Billie's father sits across the room, erect and alert in a straight-backed chair, reading a newspaper. A clock on the wall shows five minutes after three.

"Can not," Gary shouts, disrupting their hushed conversation.

"Can so," Billie shouts back.

They repeat the exchange several times as Billie's father gets up, puts his paper down, and walks over to them.

"What's the problem here?" he asks.

"Daddy, he says you can't make the sun come out. Show him. Make it come out."

"Well, I can't make it come out just to prove I can do it. You have to have faith. If you don't have faith, it won't work."

"I have faith, Daddy."

"I know you have faith. But what about you're boyfriend?"

"He's not my boyfriend, Daddy. He's just my friend."

"What's faith?" Gary asks.

"Faith," Billie says, "is when you believe something even when you don't believe it.

She leans toward Gary and whispers, "Tell him you have faith."

"I have faith, Mr. Fuscia."

"Okay. I believe you. But you have to believe, too."

Billie's father sits down at the table facing the dining room window. The kids crawl up into chairs across the table from him.

"Now close your eyes," Billie's father says.

They all close their eyes and sit quietly for a long time. From time to time, Billie and Gary open their eyes cautiously and peer, secretly, at Billie's father, and at each other. They laugh silently when they catch each other looking.

After a short while, Billie's father opens his eyes.

"Okay," he says. "That's it. Now all we have to do is wait. Remember, if we don't have faith, it won't work. And the more faith we have, the faster it'll work."

He stands up and walks deliberately back to his chair across the room. The kids watch him walk away; then they go to the window to look outside. They stand at the window for a moment; then they go back to the floor beside the piano. They sit and whisper for several minutes, staring at the clock on the wall. As soon as the second hand crawls past the twelve at three fifteen, they both jump to their feet and run to the window. No hint from outside indicates that the sun will come out. The kids mope back to the piano and sit down beside it again.

Billie's father looks up from his paper. "Sometimes you have to believe a little harder and think a little stronger," he announces. He closes his eyes and relaxes for a short while. The kids close their eyes and furl their brows intensely.

~~~~~
Later, the kids still sit beside the piano, having forgotten about the clock, which shows three-twenty-three. The sun comes out, brightly lighting the room, glowing in the sheer white curtains. They rush to the window.

"See," Billie whispers loudly. "I told you he could do it." She pushes at Gary's shoulder, and he moves away from her. The sunlight in the sheer white curtains absorbs their shapes and seems to dissolve them away.


4

Lit by the warm glow from the amber streetlights, Billie hurried along the street to the doorway to the stairs to Paul's apartment. They lived above an auto parts store. She stopped, about to enter, looked up at the dark windows, bit at her lip, then quickly unlocked the door. The voice of the landlord she'd talked to that afternoon echoed in her head, as if he were there in the stairwell: "Tomorrow might not be here."

She locked the door behind her and started up the steps, trying to prevent her shoes from scraping noisily on the plastic stair-treds. She moved as quietly as she could at the top of the steps and carefully inserted her key into the lock. It clicked loudly. She pushed the door slowly open, stuck her head through the narrow opening, and peered into the darkness. As she entered, the room widened before her, as if someone had turned on a light outside in the street and it residually lit the interior. She could not see very well, but she knew the place, and that knowledge made it seem as if it were daylight at night.

Billie walked left into the kitchen. She turned on the light, which lit the living room across a bar that separated the two rooms. She put her purse on the bar, leaned back against the sink and began to twist her neck from left to right, forward and back, loosening and relaxing the muscles in her shoulders. Then she looked across the living room and smiled. Her face and shoulders, which had been tense all evening, felt looser now.

A light went on in the bedroom, the smile disappeared, and all of the tension instantly returned. She hunched her shoulders slightly forward and stood slightly more erect. Paul appeared groggy in the bedroom doorway.

"Billie," he said sleepily. "Where were you?"

The image of the landlord in the empty apartment flashed again into her mind. And she saw Liz's face in the bar. She thought of herself.

"I was with Liz. I met her for dinner."

Paul, from across the room, now looked fully awake.

"Why do you have to hang out with her," he said.

An exaggerated, disgusted undertone sounded in his voice.

"She's my friend."

He approached her from across the room.

"I don't like her. You shouldn't hang out with her."

They stood apart looking into each other's faces with the bar between them. Billie, who although tense and alert still leaned against the sink, suddenly bolted upright and came up to the edge of her side of the bar.

"Why?" She raised her voice. "Because you don't like her?"

Less assertively, Paul replied, "I mean, I don't think she's good for you."

She stared at him, waiting for a further explanation.

He said, "She's..."

He paused and straightened a little, almost imperceptibly backing away.

"A lesbian?" Billie yelled.

"Well, yeah," Paul laughed. "That's what she is."

Billie put her hands on her hips. "And what? You think she might turn me into one? Is that what you think? Is that how it works?"

Paul laughed again and raised his hands slightly at his sides. "Well, no. But you know how it is. Bad company and all. People might think you're different if you hang around with her. They might think you're one. Don't you wonder that people might think you're gay?"

"Yeah, I wonder that sometimes. So what?"

"So what?" Paul shouted. Then more quietly, obviously intentionally trying to calm himself, he said, "You turn into the people you hang out with. I mean, okay, maybe you might not turn into a dyke, but it's a lifestyle thing. You..."

Billie turned half-away, disgusted.

She didn't speak, for a long time.

The silence separated them.

Finally, she said, "You're a bigot. You know that?"

"Why? Because I'm trying to look out for you?"

She heard the anger growing in his voice. Trying not to respond to it, she said, "No. Because you don't know how to look out for me." She snatched her purse from the bar and walked to the door.

He followed her, saying, "Wait...Wait, wait," and he caught her before she crossed the room, grabbing her by the arm. "Wait. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. You're right. I'm upset. I was worried about you."

"Yeah. You looked like you were worried about me." She tried to pull her arm free of his hand. "You were sound asleep when I got home." She stopped struggling against his grip and he let go of her.

"I was, you know," he said. "I was worn out. I worked all day. Ten hours overtime. And I came home, and you weren't here. I thought we'd go out. So what could I do? I was beat. I didn't know where you were, so I just laid on the bed for a few minutes. That was it. I was out like a light." His voice had taken on a pleading tone. He was starting to whine.

"Poor baby," Billie said, bitterly sarcastic.

He smiled at her, in a sad sort of way.

"You probably didn't even have any dinner," Billie added.

"No. I didn't."

"Well, don't expect me to cook it for you."

Paul's face immediately brightened but, at the same time, looked as if he tried to remain penitant. He moved up close to Billie and put his arm around her shoulder.

"Oh, I don't, Billie Sue."

Billie smiled inside and tried, successfully, to repress it.

"You work too," Paul said. "You know I don't expect you to take care of this place. Or me. And you're right. I don't take care of you. I should do more. I should cook you dinner."

Billie was starting to succumb to his charm.

He moved in closer.

"Yeah. Right. That'll be the day," she said.

"Well, at least I can take you out," he said. "I really did plan on taking you out. But you weren't here." She bristled at his last remark, but he kissed her neck, coaxed her purse away from her and set it down on the couch as he half-walked, half-danced her toward the bedroom.


********

As Billie, Liz, and Guy exited the front door of the bar, Billie and Liz in front with Guy trailing behind, Guy reached around Liz to take the door from her that she opened to hold for Billie. He held the door open for both of them. Liz looked at him with a marked unaffectedness; then she turned away. Billie took her arm and walked her through the door. She leaned against Liz and whispered in her ear, loud enough for Guy to hear, "I lied to you. I do feel it when you look at me."

Guy's head spun. He didn't feel so good. As he walked along the street behind them he felt himself wavering. He felt himself getting sick, and he hated himself for it. The farther on he walked, the worse he felt, until he had to stop and let the girls walk on ahead. They didn't notice that he wasn't with them for nearly a block, and when they finally turned to see where he had gone, they saw him back a block away sitting on the curb.


13

Billie unlocked the front door of Paul's apartment, opened it, entered the darkness, and turned on the light. She gasped as she saw Paul sitting on the sofa. She froze and stared at him.

"Where were you?" Paul asked coldly.

Billie looked away and walked straight toward the bedroom.

She looked straight ahead at the bedroom door. As she passed the sofa, Paul grabbed her by the wrist.

"Where were you," he said with more emotion.

Billie twisted her arm and freed it despite Paul's sincere attempt to hang on. She walked into the bedroom doorway, hesitated, then turned, away from Paul, facing the living room window and crossing her arms.

Paul said, "I cut my overtime short to come home and take you out like you wanted, and when I got here, you were gone. That was five hours ago. Where have you been for five hours?"

"How did I know you'd come home early?" Billie quietly said.

"Where were you?"

Still quietly, she said, "You don't talk to me. You never tell me what you're going to do."

"That's not the point..."

Billie turned to face him, suddenly angry. She shouted, "Yes it is the point. If you let me know what you're going to do, I'll be here for you."

Paul, also angry, but trying to remain calm, loudly said, "Oh. It's okay for you to do what you want as long as I don't know about it."

Quietly defiant, Billie said, "It's okay for me to do what I want in any case."

"And my opinions don't count."

"Not any more."

"What does that mean?"

Slowly, in a calm, determined manner, Billie walked deliberately toward the door. Paul got up and hurried to beat her to it. He leaned back against it. Billie walked straight up to him, looking at his chest, avoiding eye contact.

"What are you doing?" Paul asked.

"I'm leaving," she said, blankly.

"Come on, Billie Sue."

"Get out of my way."

She said it with a complete lack of emotion.

Paul put his hand gently on her arm. With a sudden explosiveness, she violently batted it away. Then she pushed him aside and started to open the door. He put his hand on it, preventing her from opening it all the way.

"Come on, Billie Sue," he said again.

Coldly, dangerously, Billie said, "Let it go." Paul let go of the door, and she gently swung it the rest of the way open and walked out. He followed her into the hall and watched her descend the stairs.

"Come back," he said. Then he added, "Whenever you want. When you cool down. I'll be here."

"I won't be back," she answered.


14

Billie stared in through the glass of the front door to the salon. She knocked loudly again and again. Over and over she knocked, until her hand hurt. A light came on in the back of the salon in the stairway and the shadowy figure of Liz appeared at the bottom of the stairs.

Liz looked out through the shop into the darkness. She saw the face of Billie staring through the glass, which made her look distorted, as if she were wet. She turned on the outside light over the door. Billie put her hand above her eyes to shield herself from the revealing light.

Liz hurried across the shop to the door and opened it.

Billie stared at her in the doorway.

"What's the matter?" Liz asked.

Billie continued to stare.

"What?" Liz asked.

"You said I could move in. Didn't you mean it?"

"You know I did. Come in. Come on."

Liz led Billie to the stairs. Billie followed her dizzily, swaying as she walked. At the bottom of the stairs Liz stepped aside and allowed Billie to go up ahead of her. She watched her as she rocked back and forth on each step. At the top of the steps, Billie turned quickly back to Liz and started to speak. But she choked on the words. She couldn't manage to say a thing. She backed into the apartment as Liz entered it.

"It's okay," Liz said. "Tell me tomorrow. Okay?" She paused as she studied the face that stared at her. "Are you okay?"

Billie nodded. Liz took her arm and led her the rest of the way into the apartment.

"I'm drunk," Billie finally managed to say.

"I know. So am I."

They both laughed. Then Billie started to cry. Liz put her arms around her, and they stood in the middle of the living room holding each other.

"Sssh, sssh," Liz whispered. "It's okay. Come on."

She led Billie unevenly toward the bedroom.

Between sobs Billie managed to say, "It's not okay. It'll never be okay."

"Yes it will. You'll see. Come on. Let's get some sleep. Tomorrow..."

Billie stopped suddenly in the bedroom doorway, standing straight and rigid.

"Tomorrow. No," she said. "No tomorrow."

She turned toward Liz who collapsed back and leaned against the door frame. Billie leaned back against the other side. They faced one another, looking into each other's eyes.

Billie said, "Tomorrow is what fucks things up."


15

Billie feels them falling onto Liz's bed in slow motion. She feels the blankets slowly giving way beneath them. She sees the darkness fading into white, then dissolving into white curtains billowing into her bedroom. Outside the open window, a bright and sunny day awaits her. The curtains continue to billow and flap. The sunlight intensified and burns out the image of the window in bright yellow-white light. And then everything goes black.

from Styles
an unpublished novel
© j a jackson 1996