Our Town (27 page)

DON’T MESS WITH THE MAYOR

B
ut Dylan remembered that once—before—Clementine had sat down at the bar when she’d finished her hostess shift. She had a few drinks. Dylan gave them to her for free, even though he wasn’t allowed to do so. He’d risk his job for her. Who wouldn’t? When she wanted to leave, in place of a check, Dylan left her an empty piece of paper clipped to a postcard—
Greetings From Sunny Los Angeles: Find Yourself Here!
—so she’d be surprised that he bought them for her. And she smiled, and Dylan went to the bathroom. But when he came back she was gone. When Dylan, disheartened, went to throw her check away, he noticed she’d written him a note.

D,

You’re cute. Call me. (XXX) XXX-XXXX

C.

Dylan had had her number already from work. And she knew that. But she knew he was old-fashioned. And he loved her for that. So he’d saved it. He kept it in his wallet. He reached into his back pocket and took it out and he used the last of his quarters. And he called her. And she picked up.

“Hello?” she said. Surprised, not tired. Not much able to sleep. Back then she partied.

“Hi,” Dylan replied. “Hi.”

*
  
*
  
*

When Dorothy got home that afternoon, Tinkerbell ran to the door and started scratching. Dorothy turned the key, and Tinky jumped and jumped. As she swung it open, Tinky stood on his hind legs, and gnawed at Do’s pants. She liked the name Tinkerbell, even though he was a boy. He looked like a Tinkerbell. He was cute—blond, and teeny-tiny, like a pixie—and she always wanted a Tinkerbell. What’s emasculating to a dog, anyway? What does he know? She thought maybe she was even being progressive. She might even be doing some good. Anyhow, she picked him up and put him under her left arm. She brought him to the couch. Tinky lay down on his back. Dorothy ran her hand across his stomach, and felt his pinky belly with the tips of her fingers. Then she lifted him above her head, and his front arms came together, and his back feet split apart, and he froze. A tripod, too scared to try and move. She shook him and his tongue fell out. She got bored and let him go. He dropped by her on his side, rolled and jumped off the couch—over his initial excitement to see her—and sat on his bed—a blue blanket, folded four times over—in the corner of the kitchen. She brought her fingers to her nose and sniffed—garbage and graham crackers. Dorothy walked to the fridge.

“My little seal,” she said. “My beautiful seal needs a bath,” she trailed off. Tink was already sleeping. He didn’t hear. She put her head in the fridge. Clover had refused to spring for central air. “My beautiful seal needs a bath,” she said again. “My beautiful seal needs a bath, and so do I.”

She opened a diet soda—maybe a Tab—took a sip and put the can to her head. The phone, which sat by the white couch, then rang. And rang and rang. She rushed and got it before the answering machine.

“Yello?”

“Mom. Mama. It’s me. It’s Clover.”

She coughed before she answered. She hadn’t heard from Clover in months. Clover was busy now. She had herself a seven-year-old boy—who she dressed in velvet, like a doll. Dorothy had called Clover last night and left her a message, and Clover heard something different in Mama’s voice. She sounded good, which was hard for Clover to admit. She sounded happy, which is almost impossible to say. She sounded like she was telling the truth. And Clover knew when she was telling the truth. Even over the phone she knew if she was telling the truth. It was something in her cadence. Something in her throat. Something in her husk that Clover could pick up on. Something that Clover could always pick up on. An instinct that had never failed to disappoint Clover, even though the truth often disappointed Clover. But today. But today. Dorothy had always tried to be something different than she really was—always trying to reinvent herself. I guess maybe she’d finally given up.

“Clover. Oh my God, it’s you! You’re calling,” she said and picked up her pack of cigarettes and lit one with a white lighter. “I didn’t think you had this number. I left it on all your machines, but you know I don’t trust those things. Don’t trust them for a minute. But I haven’t spoken to you in forever. How are you, my most beautifullest daughter? My only daughter. My love. How are you?”

There was a momentary pause on the line. Clover had put the handset by her side. It was difficult for Clover to hear Dorothy, even on the phone. Dorothy spoke loudly. But that wasn’t it. Dorothy was Clover’s mother. And she worried she’d turn out just the same.

“Oh, I’m good, Mama. I’ve been good. Busy, you know. Jack’s always playing or practicing, so it’s just me and little Jr. Me and the little one. But it’s okay. You know. Things are okay.”

“That’s amazing, my sweet. That is just amazing. That little angel. I can’t even tell you how good that makes me feel. You know, I really can’t even tell you with my voice. I really, really could just cry and cry. Cry and cry and cry.”

“Oh, Mom. Relax, will you?”

“Oh, sweetheart, I’m relaxed, sweetheart.” She couldn’t find an ashtray so she ashed in her Tab. She’d bought a case of them. One could be spared. “You know I’m relaxed. How is he, anyway? How is my gorgeous grandson? I feel like it’s been a year since I’ve seen him.”

After she said this, she counted backward in her head. It had, in fact, been fifteen months.

“He’s great. He’s really great, actually. He’s very handsome.”

“Oh God, that’s just terrific. I can’t even tell you how good that makes me feel.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I guess it is.”

“He’s got good genes, baby. Of course he’s handsome.”

“Yeah.”

“You’re not still dressing him like a sissy, are you?” Dorothy barked.

“Oh, Mother. Stop.”

“I’m just saying. You know how I am. I’m just saying a little boy should dress like a little boy, that’s all. He just had all that hair the last time I saw him. I’m not saying anything bad.”

“Mom, I’ll hang up.”

“Oh, don’t, honey. I’m sorry. Please, honey. I really am. I’ll stop. I promise I’ll stop.”

Dorothy whimpered. She could hear Clover breathing heavily on the phone. The way she did when she napped as a child. When she thought she was alone.

“Well, how are you, Mom, anyway?”

“I’m good. I feel good for a change.”

“Well that’s great, Mom.”

“Yeah, I mean, I auditioned for a play. That made me happy. Or actually I’m just gonna do it. They just gave me the part. And I think I have a crush on a boy. That’s been sort of fun,” she said, and she took an accomplished pull of her cigarette. “Yeah, really sort of fun.”

“You’re trying to work again?” Clover questioned her. “Wow.”

“Yeah, baby. I thought I would. Nothing serious, or paying or anything. Just local theater. But yeah. I thought I’d try.”

“Well that’s real good, Mom. Crazy, kind of. I mean, at this point—”

“What is that supposed to mean? Why would you say that? I mean, what do you want me to be some lonesome—”

“No, no. Nothing, Mama. I didn’t mean anything by it. I just meant you just moved up there. I just meant you just moved up there is all.”

“Yeah, whatever. I just don’t know why you’d—”

“Oh, Jesus. Stop already, would ya? What sort of boy? How old is he?”

“He’s old. He’s older, like me. I just met him today,” she said and pulled at her cigarette and blew out slowly, so as to make her daughter wait. “He dyes his hair too dark. He’s not fooling anyone. But he was sweet, and sort of pathetic. I think he’s fond of your mother, though. That felt nice.”

“That’s great, Mom.”

“How’s Dyl? I haven’t spoken to him in forever.”

“Who knows? It’s hard to get in touch with him. I’m pretty sure he’s struggling.”

Indeed he was.

“Oh, my boy. I do love my boy. I hope he’s okay.”

“It’s like you have to remind yourself.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Yeah, well I—”

Clover interrupted. She had to.

“Listen, Mom. Listen. The reason I’m calling you back is I’ve been thinking recently. I’ve been thinking a lot. And I think you should see him. I think you should try to be a part of little Jack’s life. I mean, I think we should really make an effort—a concerted effort—to get you to be here for him. And me. He asked me about you.”

“He did? He asked about me? Why?”

“I don’t know why. But he did,” she said, and she waited for a moment and put the handset on her thigh. She didn’t want to hear her mother breathing. But then she gathered her thoughts and put the phone back on her ear. “Yeah, he did. He asked about you. And I didn’t know what to say.”

As a tear rolled down Dorothy’s face, she reached to wipe it away
with her left hand, but as it passed her nose she smelled Tinky, and her sadness quickly dried.

“You really mean that? I mean, sweetheart, you’d really want me to do that? All the way up here?”

“Well, yeah. I know we’re far, but I’ve got a friend who lives up near you and I was thinking I’d come stay for a few days. Maybe a week even. Would that be okay, Mama? In a few weeks? I was thinking in a few weeks.”

“Really, Clover? Really? God, I’d love it. You know I’d love it. I’d love it more than anything. I’d love it more than the earth, the moon, the sun, and the stars.”

“Oh, Mom, Jesus. Stop being so dramatic.”

“I mean it, baby. And don’t be mean to me about my words. I’ll love that little boy more than anything. I love him more than anything. I promise. I don’t mean to soliloquize but—”

“I know, Mama. I know you mean it.”

“You do?”

“Yeah, Mama, I do. I mean, you are his Nana, aren’t you?

“Yeah, I guess I am.”

“You are. You have to know you are.”

“Well then, I’m his Nana. I’m his Nana. I know I’m his Nana.”

*
  
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*

When Dylan finally went to jail—DUIs, and then finally when his girlfriend Clementine tried to leave him so he shot out her tires, so she was stuck—he didn’t feel safe. It wasn’t a long stay—a month, maybe—but when he came back from the detention center he had a swastika tattoo on his torso. He’d been getting beat up and The Aryan Nation were the only ones who would accept him. He thought they looked cool, too. The leader of the group—they called him “The Mayor”—had forced him to get it, and then he promised they’d protect him. He scratched it into his chest with a blue ballpoint pen.

HIGH NOON

F
ive weeks later, in preparation for her daughter’s visit, Dorothy drove to Albertsons to buy a turducken. This was Clover’s favorite meal as a child. Dorothy would cook for Clover when she’d come back for supervised visits. Then, she was only allowed to come twice a month. Dorothy tried her best to make these visits special. She made turducken every other time. Switched off between that and taco salad. And Clover always pretended to like it.

But when Dorothy got in the car to go to the supermarket, it was past five, and she’d been drinking, like she did. And she made it along for a while, too. Down sandy Bob Hope Drive—she lived on Varner. Wrong turn on Frank Sinatra. She turned back around. She had to go to Albertsons, in the desert, about twenty minutes away—off Fred Waring—because they had the best produce. She’d also made friends with the cashier, also Sandy, who was young and pretty with braces and shiny hair and skin like the sun. “You can fry an egg out there, huh, gorgeous?” Dorothy didn’t respond. “I’m just sayin’ it’s hot, honey. Anyway, paper or plastic for your thangs?” Dorothy described the heat that way—her heat, her surroundings—for the whole of her life. “You can fry an egg out there,” she’d say. “Right there on the sidewalk.” She turned onto Portola. She had to go backward in order
to get back the right way. Left on Country Club. Dorothy noticed the high-up mountains. Right on Monterrey. She looked past the signs. She looked past the palm trees—transplants, anyway, and the too-green shrubs. Past the telephone polls and condominiums, where the pools were the same temperature as the sky. And past the cacti and the ever-vast sand and the tumbleweeds, which she still couldn’t believe were real. Which she still couldn’t believe were everywhere. Sorta like in the movies.
High Noon
comes to mind. Then past the “desert modern” homes and chain-link stores and restaurants—all beige, forever beige—and past the churches—“modern” churches—one on every corner, the sort of place where the preacher might wear a shirt and tie tucked into his blue jeans, his belt buckle as shiny as his hair. As shiny as his boots. As shiny as his complexion. As shiny as his truth. And past the vast desert ocean. And then finally past the heat. That she could see in the air. That gave the ocean waves and microwaved her vision, blurring and glowing her view. Like a going grill does to a pool, and its inhabitants, as they enjoy drinks in coconut-shaped glasses and laugh with their heads back and wear sunglasses in the water even though they know they’d get wet. She looked up to where the sky kissed the mountains and the clouds looked like they were happy, too. She saw the hills’ dark green apex and the trails hikers hiked on. And the water towers and the trailers where nearby people lived. They didn’t wanna be found. She saw the umber of the terrain and she felt it burn beneath her feet. And she saw two rams, with long, round horns, meeting each other just past a crag and staring into each other—thinking of the damage they could both do if they put their heads down—and live up to their God-given names, and feel they were justified—but they decided against it. Deciding not to fight, they moved forward, cautiously, hoof before hoof, and pressed their faces against the others. They trotted over the mountainscape in tow, together, and found shade from the baking, draining, egg-frying sun beneath an overhanging rock. That protected the stream, perpetually, and they both drank it, and drank it, and drank it, until they felt better, too.