Such a Pretty Face (38 page)

“I’m sorry, Jake—”

“Nothing to be sorry about,” Eileen snapped. “Well. I think I have the full picture now.” Something in her eyes changed, she got this sneaky expression, and she wiggled her elbows at me and made the sound of a rooster. “Don’t work too hard tonight at your job. I’ll drive by and wave hello when you’re waving your feathers!”

I felt sick.

“Excuse me?” Jake said. He didn’t understand what was going on, but he understood Eileen’s tone.

“Oh!” Eileen put her hands over her mouth, diamond bracelets sparkling in the sun. “You didn’t know? Our Stevie here is a chicken! A chicken!”

I felt sick and nauseated.

Eileen waved her chicken wings again. “She wears a chicken outfit every Friday, Saturday, and Sunday afternoon and dances around on a street corner advertising chicken dinners.” She gobbled. “Only $8.99!”

Jake glanced at me.

I felt sick and nauseated and vomitous.

“You should see the chicken head she wears. It’s Jake, isn’t it?” She circled her eyes with her hands. “The eyes are these huge yellow blobs, the beak is pointy, and she even has chicken feet over her shoes! I drive by every time she works and honk at her.”

I felt sick and nauseated and vomitous, and my head was now way, way down.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Jake cross his arms over that muscled chest of his that I wanted to see naked. I was sure I would not see it now. Nor would I see that smile aimed at me again. I mean, who wanted to date a woman who danced as a chicken?

“Hmmm,” Jake said. “And what is your name again?”

“I’m Eileen. I’m Stevie’s best friend. We’ve been friends forever! Right, Stevie? And, I must say, you make the best dancing chicken ever! Ever! Gobble, gobble! Why, between your chickening and this guy, no wonder I hardly see you. I thought it was because you were being snotty because of your weight loss, but noooo—”

“Excuse me, Eileen,” Jake cut in.

“Excuse me!” she trilled, flapping her wings again. “See, she has to work a second job as a dancing chicken because she bought into this asinine notion that you have to be thin in this country to be worth something, so she spent tons of money on operations to get thin! Two operations! Two! And she had her boobs done, too. Those girls were spendy! But I bet you know that already. All bought but not yet paid for!”

“Stop it, Eileen!” That was enough. I’d had enough. “Who are you to come to my home and speak to me like this—”

“Who am I? I’m your best friend!” she shouted, all false humor gone.

“No,” Jake said, his voice low, tough. “You are not. You’re not a friend to her at all, are you?”

Eileen’s mouth twisted. “Yes, I am.”

“You come to Stevie’s home, announce that she’s working as a chicken to someone who clearly didn’t know, you make fun of her, and her job, and then you tell me about operations that she’s had, which are absolutely none of my business, and it’s appalling that you would share someone’s medical history with anyone else because it’s private, and all the while you’re gobbling and flapping your chicken wings. A friend. It’s Eileen, right? A friend wouldn’t do that.”

Eileen blustered and blustered. “A friend would have been honest with you—”

“Stevie didn’t tell me what she was doing for her second job because she didn’t think I needed to know at this time. I understand why. When she wanted to tell me, if she wanted to tell me, she would have. As for her operations, same thing. It’s not even my business to know.”

“Well, I…”

“Well, you what?” Jake’s face was so hard, and I could see the longer he thought this out, the madder he was getting. “I’ve never had a friend who would try to embarrass me in front of someone else. I’ve never had a friend who talked about my medical history to others. I’ve never had a friend who made fun of me as you’re laughing at Stevie, so maybe you should go now and think about what being a friend means.”

Eileen’s eyes narrowed. “You’re going to let him talk to me like this?”

I nodded. “Yes, I am. I should have done it myself, but I’m not as quick on my feet as Jake is. That was mean, Eileen, so mean.”

“I don’t give a shit!” she said, but I could tell she did. I could tell in the way her whole face wobbled, how she jerked her body. “I’m leaving you and your fake boobs alone now, Stevie.” She cock-a-doodled, flapped her elbows, turned on her heel, and left. Right by the garden gate she caught an edge and tumbled down.

Jake and I ran toward her and helped her up. She needed our help, but she struggled anyhow. “Let go of me!” She was crying, the tears running down her face along with her mascara.

She banged her car door shut and roared off.

“How about brunch?” Jake asked me. I nodded, and he pulled me and my trembling body in close for a hug.

“Three hundred and twenty-five pounds.” Why lie to Jake? “I had a few problems and I buried them with eating.”

Jake pulled me onto his lap. “I cannot even imagine you at that weight.”

“You moved in about seven months ago, though. I wasn’t weightwise where I am now….”

“I thought you were gorgeous then, and I still think you’re gorgeous.”

“But does it bother you that I was that heavy? That I couldn’t control myself? That I ate that much?”

“Honey—”

That did give me a trill, that word,
honey.
…

“I’m taking you where you are now. Not two years ago, not five years ago, not ten years. We can’t go back and change who we were. I think we have to take each other where we’ve met, right here.”

“But how do you feel about dating a chicken?” I was still mortified.

“Stevie, you took on a second job to pay off two operations, is that right?”

I nodded.

“And you had the operations because you’d had a heart attack when you were thirty-two and if you didn’t you probably would have died, is that right?”

I nodded.

“You don’t want debt, you want to get rid of it. That’s honest. You’re working hard at both jobs.”

I nodded again.

“I understand why you didn’t tell me about the chicken job and the operations, Stevie. But, maybe some day in the future, you’ll trust me enough to tell me everything.”

“I think…I think I might.” He made my boobs twitter, he did.

“I wish you didn’t have to work a second job, and I have to say that it worries me that you’re working that much, but the truth is”—he kissed me on the lips, long and slow, and then murmured—“I love chickens. Especially chickens with big yellow eyes.”

Portland, Oregon

T
he morning of Herbert and Aunt Janet’s anniversary party dawned bright and clear. No clouds.

It would rain.

I knew it. Literally and figuratively.

I drove The Mobster to Herbert and Aunt Janet’s house in jeans and a sweatshirt, my dress and high heels in a bag along with a makeup case and jewelry.

I had dared beyond daring and invited Jake to both parties. He’d said yes, and smiled, and kissed me on my grass and we’d rolled on it, pressed in close together, so I’d had to go and get a dress. I knew exactly the one I wanted.

I’d held my breath as I entered the retail store and went to the same rack. That slinky, silky red dress with a draped V-neckline, spaghetti straps, and a ruffle at the bottom was still there. Better yet, it was on sale. With my coupon, well, now, we were in business.

Phyllis had been there. “That one is perfect. Try it on.”

I’d stood staring at myself in the dressing room mirror, turning this way, and that, and this way again. Phyllis had heard me crying and walked into the dressing room and hugged me. “You are one gorgeous woman.”

Gorgeous? No. I wasn’t. But I was…better…maybe even pretty.

I’d taken a close-up peek at my face. There she was. I could see her in my cheekbones, my nose, the arch of my eyebrows.

There Helen was.

In me.

I was Helen.

I shuddered.

If I went back to Ashville, could I get the image of Helen off of my own face? Was there the slightest chance it would bring me peace?

“Go get ’em, darling,” Phyllis had said. She slapped me on the butt.

When Herbert saw me coming up the walk to his cold and formal, dreadful mansion/mausoleum, he did not say hello or good afternoon. There was no, “Stevie, thank you for all the time you have put into planning and executing this party for me and Janet. Thank you for leaving work early.” He tilted up that jaw of his and said, “Please tell me, Stevie, that you will not be wearing
that
to my anniversary party.”

I took a deep breath, feeling my anger rise. I was bone-deep exhausted from planning this party, working full time, being a chicken, and going back and forth to visit Polly at the clinic. Sunshine kept coming to me in visions and nightmares, followed by Helen, who wreaked destruction. I kept seeing the bridge, and my mother was in me.

“No, Herbert.” I pushed my hair behind my ears. “I won’t wear this. I have a dress.”

“Good. Now, the tent people have sent the Mexicans and they’ve been here for half an hour. I’m surprised you weren’t here to meet them. I had to deal with them myself.”

“I’m here now.”
I am so sick of pandering to this man.

“Yes,” he drawled, “I can see that. You have called the caterers again, I presume, to make sure they’re coming on time?”

“They’ll be here on time, and I called them again yesterday to make sure that all your new requests were met, including white and wheat rolls but no sourdough, salad with no nuts, only tomatoes and chopped onions, the onion pieces should be a quarter of an inch at most, pasta salad tomatoes should be cut in two long strips—”

“Stevie,” he clipped as he stared over my head and scanned his estate, not meeting my eyes. I was nothing, that’s what that said,
nothing.
“I know what I ordered. I depended on you to get it done right. Let’s hope you did.”

“Let’s hope,” I said.
He’s insufferable.

“I didn’t know there were three tents, did you?” He rocked back on his heels, hands clasped behind his back. “I think that’s awkward, don’t you? Poor planning. One would have been best. That was my expectation.”

“I understand that one would have been best, but their large tent collapsed and they’re expecting rain, so we set up two more—”

He studied the sky. “There’s not going to be any rain, Stevie, I can tell. I understand that the flowers will be here shortly?” He arched an eyebrow at me. “They’re not here now.”

“They’re coming, Herbert, in the colors you ordered.” Not the colors that Aunt Janet had wanted. I had ordered the flowers that Aunt Janet had wanted, and he had called the florist himself to check, shouted at the florist, then shouted at me. “I’m sure Janet will be disappointed, but at least you have the flowers you want.”
Is there a more obnoxious man on this planet?

“Correct. I’m paying for this celebration and I know what works best. Janet’s choice, of wildflowers mixed with daisies and sunflowers, was ludicrous. We’re not a hippie couple.”

“No, you’re not.”
Aunt Janet is a gentle soul who has been smashed to smithereens by you, and you’re a runty boar.

He continued to peruse the grounds around my head, as if I didn’t exist. “See to it that the virginal white roses I ordered are on the arbor. They’re symbolic. I want them in the photographs when I make my announcement against gay marriage. That’s very important, Stevie. I’m a man of means in this community, and I want it clear that Janet and I celebrated in style, not with some barbeque where we flipped hamburgers.”

I had to get out of there. “Where’s Aunt Janet?”

“Hmmm?” His attention was already elsewhere, probably trying to find something else that I did wrong.

“Where’s the bride?”

His mouth tightened. “I believe she is finally preparing herself.”

“What do you mean?”

“Janet gets nervous at these gatherings of people—so many important people in one place it’s intimidating for her, she’s a quiet, anxious sort of wife—and I told her to go and lie down and take her medicine so she does not embarrass us. I also sent Ellen Tofferson up to help her.”

Bad idea. “She hates Ellen Tofferson.”

“Ellen knows how to handle my wife with discretion.”

“Ellen is condescending and rude to Aunt Janet. She’s grim and bad tempered and uptight—” I felt the anger bubbling in me, hot and acidic.

“She is a pillar of this community.”

“Everyone hates her. She’s obnoxious. They only put up with her because she writes checks from her late husband’s estate.”

“Ellen is proper, understands how important maintaining our society is—”

“She brags about her money, drops names, and has made it her life’s work to launch vendettas against other women—”

“Your opinion is unnecessary and unwanted. I will handle Janet. Now, I’m sure you have things to do.” He turned on his heel and left.

I glanced up as a curtain moved in Aunt Janet’s window.

Aunt Janet glared down at her husband, and I saw it then: Raging fury. Bitter resentment. Disgust.

Not good.

I should have taken it as a warning sign of the upcoming roar, but someone else needed me, so I turned to help.

Minutes later I saw Ellen Tofferson stomping down the stairs, her bosom shaking with indignation. She announced to Herbert that Janet was “throwing her usual fits.”

Herbert rolled his eyes, sighed heavily. “All men have a burden. This is mine.”

Ellen put her hand on his upper arm, her wrinkled, blobby face heavy, serious, sympathetic. She is built in a pear shape with a bobbing bottom and gray hair. “I’m with you, Herbert. I am
with you.
” Her bosom shook indignantly again of its own accord.

I was not
with him,
I wanted to hit him.

Someone came up and asked me a question about the placement of tables and chairs. Another person, from the caterers, had a different question. My phone rang. It was the florist. My phone rang again. It was the ice sculpture people. They were on their way. “We had inspiration! Big inspiration, Stevie! We come down now. You love it!”

The party was starting, officially, at six
P.M
.

This would have been a fine time for the party if Aunt Janet was not roaring.

“Heavens to shit!” she said, throwing her powder box across the room.

Aunt Janet never swears.

“Heavens to shit!” she said, louder this time. She threw her compact blush. I ducked. “It’s been forty shitty years!”

Polly lay back on the bed and fiddled with her necklace. She was stunning. Her curls were pulled back in waves. She was wearing a burgundy-colored dress, no sleeves, golden piping, gold shoes. On anyone else it would have been silly, but she looked like an ultrachic gypsy. “Uh. Yeah. It has been. You chose to stay for forty shitty years. You stuck yourself there and didn’t move and we got stuck there, too, for our entire childhood. We were all whipped dogs, and now we’re celebrating. Hoo-ha!”

Aunt Janet gripped the edge of her vanity, her robe hanging open, and exhaled. “Heavens to shit, I hate what I am about to do. I told him I didn’t want to do this, I told him many times. And here we are.
Here we are.
He didn’t listen. No, worse, he did listen, but he didn’t take into account what I was saying. He didn’t care. And I don’t care enough about myself to stand up to him and say, ‘Heavens to shit, I don’t want to remarry you.’” Her chest heaved. “I don’t even want to
stay
married to him. Not for one more heavens-to-shit minute!”

She hurled three lipsticks. One hit Herbert’s pillow. Another hit a huge photo of his parents that he insisted on keeping in their bedroom,
right across from their bed.
Now that is a sexual turn-on. The third lipstick flew right out the window and landed in the wedding cake that an employee from the bakery was carrying out to the tents. No one noticed until the guitar player bit down on it later that night.

He was a bit drunk so he flipped it open and tried it on.

The raspberry glacé color went very well with his eye color.

The cake was delicious.

While Aunt Janet continued to disintegrate, which included ripping down the portrait of Herbert’s parents and dumping shampoo over their faces, I rushed back downstairs to check on the party details. The last thing I heard from Polly was, “Mom, it’s about choices. Here’s your choice: Do you want to recommit yourself to a venomous tyrant? No decision here
is
a decision, you know what I mean? I think your decisionless decisions gotta stop. That’s a thought for you to throw around.”

“Holy damn,” Aunt Janet said, as if she’d been hit by a bolt of enlightenment. She yanked her hair out of the bun Herbert had insisted the hairstylist make. “Holy damn, I don’t want to be here, and holy damn, I can’t be decisionless for one more blasted minute.”

The tables were set on the sprawling grass under the tents with the white twinkle lights and the floral arrangements, boring but pink and tidy, as Herbert had ordered.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Lance, gorgeous in a gray suit, strolling along the back perimeter of the property. I snickered, couldn’t help it. I saw a few boxes under his arms, tucked in tight. I watched as he settled himself at a back table, then opened the boxes and popped something out into the three chairs. Next, he fiddled with something under the table that he’d brought in a bag. I had to struggle to keep my laughter to myself as before my eyes three different “girls” appeared in the seats.

Right there, right then, Lance was blowing up his dolls.

Ah, wasn’t that sweet! He had brought Lolita! My, her breasts had grown!

And there was Norway. I called her that because she was six feet tall with blond hair and a toothy smile.

And Sabrina Dina. Wasn’t she spectacular this evening?

I wondered which guests would willingly sit next to the “ladies.” I envisioned the head of one of the ultraconservative political parties here. She was a rabid, half-cocked nut. Or the president of the anti-gay group, a snivelly, tiny, whiny man with a wife who resembled a zombie corpse.

I was distracted by a balding man, short and smiling, leading three younger men.

“Hello,” I said. Aha, the ice sculpture people.

“Yes, yes! You Stevie?” the Russian man said, arms thrown out wide. “We done. It beautiful. A song. A siren. You love, yes, I know you love.”

I directed them to one of the long buffet tables and thanked them profusely for their time. I was actually looking forward to seeing the two doves with the heart between them.

I was distracted again by the caterer, who had another question about one of Herbert’s endless changes. She had brandy on her breath—she had warned that this party might drive her to drink, and I could not blame her. When I turned around, the ice sculptors had unveiled their creation.

My breath caught smack in the middle of my esophagus. Right there.

I so wanted to laugh, but I couldn’t. I held my mouth tight as a lid on a can of carrots so as not to offend the four men staring at me, eagerly awaiting my effusive praise.

Clearly, there had been a misunderstanding between me and the Russian gentleman. These communication problems!

“It magical! Some mystery there, too, you no think?” he asked. “It in the eyes. Mystery! Romantic!”

“Uh, yes, mysterious! Definitely mysterious.” I clamped my teeth together on my giggle.

“It a sea fairy tale!”

“You’re right,” I said, muffling a chuckle. “A sea fairy tale.”

“A sea legend!” he gushed. “An enchantress of the fishermen for hundreds of years!”

“Definitely an enchantress.” I lassoed my laughter.

Hoo boy. The ice sculpture was an enchantress. In the middle of the buffet table lay a five-foot-long ice mermaid with a secretive, sexy smile on her secretive, sexy face. She had flowing hair, a curving fish tail, and she was topless, as you would expect from a mermaid.

The Russian and his employees stuck their chests out. Proud. Confident. Manly. Waiting for profuse praise.

She had voluminous boobs, that was a fact. The nipples were quite large, too. But, perhaps seawater changes the composition of those things. Herbert would…well, there were no words to describe what he would do when he saw those boobs and nipples. And the tail.

“It’s a work of art,” I told them, suddenly enormously pleased. “A work of art.”

The Russian beamed with pleasure, standing up on his toes. “I so glad you like. Took long time. The breasts”—he cupped his chest in all seriousness. “They take long time. Must be smooth. Soft, yes?”