Our Town (19 page)

“Didn’t you pay for this?”

“I don’t know what you’re saying.”

“Do you need me to repeat myself?”

Dale exhaled and it bounced off his daughter’s forehead.

“Clover, I don’t know what you’re—”

“Who bought me this bra, Dad?”

And Dale breathed heavier. More laborious. With more purpose. With more pulled from his chest.

“I guess I did, yeah. I guess I must’ve had to.”

“Yup,” and she stopped blinking. “So, Daddy,” and she blew her breath on his chest and he got goose bumps. “What do ya say?”

They stared in each other’s eyes awhile but then Dale drank the rest of his flat Prosecco and gave her his glass for her to clean, which he pressed into her ribs and pressed her back so as not to touch her. When she didn’t grab it he pushed past her and left it on the sink and left the kitchen. Eventually she turned around and cleaned it. She polished it as best she could. She held it up before her. It sparkled bright and true.

NOW THERE’S A SPECIAL WAY I FOLD MY FLAG

W
hen she got back to her place after two days and nights at Gary’s, Dorothy was still in the clothes she’d worn when he’d picked her up from the airport. For the past few nights she’d listened, with her mouth closed, as Gary spoke of charlatanism and harlotry. Ancient astronauts and people of the book. It was the beginning of their budding relationship. He made the short hairs on her neck stand up straight. Not because she was attracted to him, but because of what he stood for. She wanted to change her life. And he wanted to change her life. She wanted to be better. And Gary kept her busy. She thought he must know something. Other people seemed to think so. She thought he might be the answer. She thought he might know the way. And if she was better, the kids would come back. They’d call more, and they’d visit. And then she’d have her life back. Maybe even a career. But without her children—without their love—she was empty. She was alone.

Today, though, she’d go home to bathe and change and eat peanuts in the quiet, all alone. All alone. By herself. She wanted to be in the city today. Spend one night in her little apartment. A one bedroom, with a pull-out couch—well, a futon—and a color TV. She even sprang for cable. She needed a night to herself. They’d recently become rather fleeting.

*
  
*
  
*

The next morning Dorothy awoke to a loud noise outside her bedroom window. She couldn’t, at first, place what it was. And she was curious. Before going to see it, though, she hurried to the kitchen and put on a pot of coffee. Loud or not, she wouldn’t let it ruin her day. She added cinnamon and chopped vanilla bean in her grounds, and she kept her grounds in the freezer. The noise continued to blare and blare as she waited six and a half minutes for the coffee to brew. She carried the steamy mug and two packets of Sweet’N Low with her to her bathroom. She had a big box of Sweet’N Low. She loved—loved!—Sweet’N Low. It was just so sweet, and it didn’t affect her anemia. And no calories, too!

Dorothy got to the bathroom and stared at herself in the mirror, and then into her vanity lights. This was her favorite mirror. Her “mirror, mirror” mirror. She pulled her eyelids open—thumbs and forefingers—and counted each fluorescent bulb. From bottom left to bottom right. And then all the way back again. Eighteen filaments smacked her bright. Thirty-six, as she counted again. She overcame the urge to shut her eyes. To soothe them. They hurt her, but she didn’t quit. She held them open longer—like a lemur—and then she finally looked down. She surveyed the countertop with the sort of vision that she imagined an angel might have. She couldn’t see much. Nothing was clear. Instead, the world was glowing.

She regained her vision and reached out to one of the three foam heads that stared back at her from a wooden shelf above the countertop. Today, she’d don champagne. One of her favorites. One, only, for the most special of occasion. Because she believed the sacrament didn’t represent the blood and body of Christ, the sacrament was, in her eyes, just He. That’s something Gary taught her. Something new. He insisted. In a similar vein, her wig didn’t represent her. Her false hair was as real as that which sprouted sandy-blonde—still, a little—from her roots. Her false hair was as true as her real hair. Her wig was—truly—part of her. If one day she felt curly, then her wig would be curled. Seeing slightly better still, she dropped it on her head. It
sat sideways—she hadn’t yet put on her glasses—and she excused herself—I’m sorry, aloud—and used the toilet. Something else Gary insisted. Be proper. Be polite. Hold it as long as you can. Women shan’t need to urinate, or defecate, as often as men do. This I promise you. This is a scientifical fact.

She flushed and her eyes felt better. She put on her glasses and could see again. She looked in the mirror and fixed her wig—a little to the left, then down on her forehead—and then proceeded with her usual morning routine. In the left-hand bathroom cabinet drawer, festooned between two atomizers, were multivitamins, sleeping medication, pain medication, and those to control weight. She kept her new pharmacological plan—blue for night, yellow for days, and green for hunger, for the most part—a secret from Gary. He wouldn’t like it. He just wouldn’t understand. Her doctor told her, more than fifteen years ago, about Los Angeles living, and how diet and exercise and a healthy lifestyle must be maintained. “To lose the baby weight,” he’d said, “I’m gonna write you a script to kick-start your dietary regimen.” She kept that doctor’s number. She was with him ever since. She believed in his theories about body chemistry disposition. How some people are just born with disproportional toxin intake. How some people are just imbalanced. How some people need medicine to just survive. She thought of her prescriptions like she thought of her glasses. They were corrective. They made her the way the rest were. They made her capable. They made her whole. They were necessary to properly function. To be responsible, the way she needed to be. She reached down and picked up a yellow square and a green circle. She swallowed both without water. She heard the phone in the bedroom ring. So she hurried without slippers to pick it up.

“Yessum.”

“Dorothy-ody? It’s Gary.”

“Oh. Hi, Gary. I was just freshening up.”

“I didn’t wake you?”

“No. There was something loud this morning outside my window, so I’ve been up a little while, now.”

“You’ve been up for a
little
while, Dorothy-ody? Well, I was hoping I’d wake you. But I guess I didn’t call early enough. In any event, what was it?”

“Why would you hope something like that?”

“I think it would be good for you if I woke you from now on.”

“Well, I don’t know what to say about that, really. I’m sorry that it was loud outside.”

“That’s okay, but as I’ve already asked, what was it?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t check.”

“Something loud woke you and you didn’t check to see what it was?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I didn’t care enough. I wanted to put my face on.”

“Well then, now that makes sense. Very sensible, actually. Holding yourself responsible for your physical appearance is a true sign of character. Vanity is a quality I truly respect. What did it sound like, then? Let’s try and figure this thing out, you and I.”

“I don’t know, Gary. I was sleepin’.”

“What did it sound like, Dorothy-ody?”

“Oh, Gary. I don’t . . .”

“Don’t say I don’t know to me again. You know how I feel about that.”

“Okay, Gary. I know, Gary.”

“Okay, Dorothy. So tell me what it sounded like, then. And Dorothy-ody, don’t worry. I’ll wait.”

“Okay. Fine. I think it sounded like a train, but in the distance. Yeah, steady like that. But sharp. Like a freight train, I guess, maybe carryin’ somethin’ heavy.”

“Well, it clearly wasn’t a train. There aren’t any trains in Santa Monica. But I’ll ask someone. Talk to someone. I know people out there. Someone sensible. Try to get some real answers.”

“Okay, Gary.”

“What have you been doing, then?”

“Since when, Gary?”

“Since you’ve been up, Dorothy-ody.”

“Oh, like I told you. I’ve just been freshening up. I made some coffee, washed my face.”

“You didn’t tell me that.”

“I thought I did.”

“No, you didn’t. But, anyway, that’s good.”

“What?”

“It’s good to be fresh. I like that. I like it when you’re fresh, and energized, as He designed you.”

“I know that, Gary. I like it when I’m fresh, too. I just sometimes don’t like to shower at your house.”

“Well, Dorothy-ody, you and I both know that one day you’re going to have to learn how to. If we’re going to take this any further, that’s certainly true.”

“I know, Gary.”

“Do you, Dorothy-ody?”

“I do, Gary. I promise.”

“We don’t promise around here, Dorothy-ody. You know that. What do we do? In the desert? What do we do in the desert? What do we do in the West?”

“We swear on the Foursquare.”

“Yes, we do. We swear on the Foursquare. Now, let’s hear it.”

“I do.”

“You do what?

“I swear on the Foursquare.”

“And . . .”

“And I sport the fruit of the Spirit.”

“Which is?”

“Oh, come on, Gary.”

“Which is?”

“The fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control. Against such things there is no law.”

“There you go. There you go, Dorothy-ody. I imagine you’re feeling
good right now. I know I do. I feel great right now. So if I do—if I feel great right now—then you must, too, as well. We are partners.”

“Yeah. I’m okay, I guess. Do I have to do this every time we talk?”

“Yes, because it will make you feel better. And if you smile, I smile. And if you don’t feel great now, and clean, you certainly will after the congregation tomorrow. I promise you that.”

“I can’t wait, Gary. I’ll be there.”

“My house tomorrow, at nine, Dorothy-ody. And we have to be militant. We can’t invite just anyone.”

“I wouldn’t dare bring anyone, Gary. You know that.”

“I know you wouldn’t, Dorothy-ody. It’s just part of my job to remind.”

“Okay, Gary.”

“I’m just saying we have to militate, and I need your help to do so. You’re important around here. Important to me.”

“Okay, Gary. I’ll be there. Promise.”

“Okay, Dorothy-ody. Eight-thirty, then. And remember, you’re still in the first cycle of donations, so don’t come empty-handed. The house we’re renting isn’t cheap this time, so remember to bring your purse. Donations are more than welcome.”

THE NEXT DAY
, on the drive over, Dorothy wasn’t sure she was in control of her car. Something made her nervous. Pushed her to the edge. The only way she could stay safely on the road was to drive in line with the vehicle in front of her until he reared off course. So her firebrick-colored Crown Victoria—she’d had to trade in the truck—tailgated a wood-paneled Jeep Wagoneer as long as he stayed en route. The Jeep pulled left into a Mexican restaurant, La Rosa Maria. Surprised—he didn’t signal!—Dorothy nervously pulled into a freeway rest area to the right. She made it without incident. She made it safely, thank God. But she took up two parking spaces. Almost three. She put her hands together on the steering wheel and pulled herself off her seat and put her head up through the open sunroof because she was sweating—broken AC—and she didn’t want too much to pool up and
gather up beneath her. She held herself that way about ten seconds before she sat back down. She breathed. She was uncomfortably wet, feeling it now up her back and down her chest. But she breathed again, and she was a little cooler.

SHE DROVE UP
canyons and through valleys. Somewhere in the Valley, in fact. Gary called the West Coast the desert. She never bothered to ask why. She was lost, but she’d find her way. She took highways and freeways. Streets and alleyways. Boulevards, too. She only stopped once more—Gary hated when people were late. She bought an orange from a Mexican for a quarter at a rest stop. He had a full sack at a stoplight and she felt sorry.

“Uno?”
he asked her.

“Gracias,”
she replied.

Gary rented a condominium in the hills in a gated community called Cathedral Villas—upper-middle-class housing for families concerned with appearances, but not aware of the distinction—the importance—between old money and new. Not realizing the distinction between living in the Valley and not. The homes were varying degrees of pink—from salmon to the morning sun—and platitudinous. Three-tiered usually, with ceramic verandas and pink hydrangeas. Ornamental palm trees lined the streets, two per block. Fences, gables, cornices, and skylights bordered backyard toolsheds. Chimneys and hedges. Downspouts and dormer windows. Dorothy noticed. Dorothy drove on.

She knew the passcode that let her into the community gate, but Gary wouldn’t give her the one for his house no matter how much she begged and bugged him about it. He told her no one knew it. He said it was for his own safety. That he was an important man. That it was “need to know.” But she didn’t believe that nonsense. She pulled up. A boulder-shaped intercom was silent for a few moments before abruptly shouting at the car.