Suicide's Girlfriend (11 page)

Crocker does not attempt to brush the grit away, but fingers the trails as he drives, as he goes up the silver-flecked walk to his shimmering house.

His wife. His wife will kiss the crack on his head. That is where the light shines in. His son—

“Surprise!” Many people stand in Crocker's little front hall. “Surprise! Happy birthday! You're late!” they say.

Toward the back of the crowd, his wife has a large plate of anger all cooked up, ready to serve, but this vanishes as guests at the front retreat in the face of Crocker's grimy injuries.

His wife cries out, “What happened?” and looks down in alarm at the blond child wiggling in her arms. Who notices nothing but his father's return. Wants only to be held.

Perhaps out of respect for the child, the guests ask their questions
in light, almost gay voices. Perhaps for this reason, the guests quickly come to consider Crocker's experience nothing at all, an ill-fated movie everyone saw once upon a time, or heard discussed so often that even those who didn't see it feel as if they have, and now lay claim to its disregard. They drag Crocker to the living room and to its coffee table full of gifts: an inflatable alligator; a package of Pez candies in a dispenser topped by the head of Popeye the Sailor; a bottle of radiant blue nail polish; an impressively realistic puddle of rubber vomit. Everything has been selected specifically for its inappropriateness, its uselessness, its suggestion that Crocker needs nothing that can be purchased for under fifteen dollars.

Across the room, child in her lap, sits his wife, still pale from the scare, her pallor emphasized by the bright red scarf around her neck. There is a trick to the knot of the scarf. Standing in front of the bedroom mirror, the wife will loop the long red rectangle around her neck, then bring its ends together around and around her stiffened index finger, forming a kind of doughnut of silk that she pulls and fluffs and tweaks into a halo of soft folds. Crocker has watched his wife tie the scarf in this way many times, but never before realized she meant all of that tugging and plucking to add up to a rose.

“Excuse us,” Crocker says, and lifts his son into his arms, takes his wife's pale hand, leads them both toward the kitchen. Looking back over her shoulder to the guests, his wife makes a funny face and points to a spot on her head that approximates the location of Crocker's bump. Loose screw, she mouths. She did want the evening to be a success, of course. Her own parody of bad taste sits in the little dining room: at each place at the table, a package of devil's food cakes coated in coconut and shaped like tiny igloos. Crocker spies this setup and, pleased, he laughs aloud.

“Here,” he says when they reach the kitchen. He bundles his sports jacket around his son while his wife—with perfect understanding?—opens the door leading to the duplex's small wooden deck.

Out there, in the cold, they do not talk. After a time, the boy lays his head on Crocker's shoulder and closes his creamy eyelids and sleeps.

Crocker rests his own head atop his wife's. His wife's teeth chatter. Crocker feels the vibration as it passes through her skull, and he imagines her entire skeleton, the wide pelvis through which the boy descended, the stack of bones enclosing her spinal cord. And her circulatory system: think of her heart pumping, her hot and slippery liver purifying blood, the improbable wonder of this woman.

After a time, slowly, as if she imagines Crocker, too, might be asleep, his wife moves her head out from under his. “Do you know,” she whispers, “if we lived on Neptune, the sun would hardly look brighter to us than any of these stars?”

Crocker nods, but he is distracted, listening to a sound in the distance, a car on the highway.

The boys, he thinks, and holds them on the road, directs them down the worst country gravel, and then over a river into which they throw the gun. Crocker makes the boys hopelessly lost. Then they run out of gas, abandon the red car, and—eyes open wide with fear—walk out into a snowy field under these very stars to a farmhouse that burns like a lantern in the distance.

A farm family is eating supper in the big yellow kitchen of the farmhouse. Mother, father, children, grandmother—all lift their heads at the knock.

The boys press their faces to the glass.

The startled farmer pushes back his chair. “What on earth?” he says as he opens the door; and the boys, too, use what language they have at that moment. They say, “Help us.” No. They say, “Help us, please.”

P
OLLY AND
S
USAN
have a baby. Who is the mother? Susan bore the baby, veins on her forehead gray as old sticks; but here is Polly, too, bamboo rake in hand, fluffing the apartment's sorry shag rug—flat as the coat on a piece of roadkill—here is Polly, one eye stuck like a burr to Nicko.

Nicko. Mr. Mouth. Playboy. Fuzzhead. That sweet mound on the couch, busily gnawing pink pillow welting. Mama, Nicko calls Polly. Mama, Nicko calls Susan.

Crackling blue eyes, hair white as taffy into which air, air, more and more air has been incorporated by tugs and twists and twists and pulls, Nicko scrambles from the couch, rear first, and tugs on the hem of Polly's shorts.

“You darling,” Polly croons, and rests the bamboo rake against the apartment wall to give the boy a nuzzle. Polly is in a fine mood. Her raking aggravates Susan, true, but Polly finds it calming. When she rakes, Polly imagines herself, alternately, an old man with a pipe stuck in his back pocket, retired, happily at work on his yard; or a Zen monk, smoothing the sands of the monastery garden into swirls of infinite patience, mystical whirligigs.

Across the room, feet up on a hassock, the rest of her on the apartment's odious carpet: Susan. In the televised background, a knife gallops across a wooden chopping block as one more great chef from New Orleans demonstrates jambalaya.

Rice.

Polly wonders if it is possible that the sizzle of rice the chef pours into the pot could come from Susan's father's plantation.

Really: a
plantation.

Here, in barren Arizona, when Susan says “plantation,” Polly is sorry to say so, but Susan sounds a little snobby, even corrupt, as if she maybe grew up bossing around black mammies. According to Susan, however—in Susan's own book—“plantation” sounds far less exotic than “ranch.”

Polly hails from the Midwest. Polly once asked Susan, “But couldn't you say ‘farm'? Couldn't a farm be whatever you like?” To which Susan replied, cocking an eyebrow like a cartoon crow, an owl, a fox, any wise and sharp-tongued creature—always dramatic Susan, always thrilling—“Farm might be whatever
you
like, Pol, but it wouldn't be what a plantation is, which
is
a plantation!”

And just look at Susan over there in her red and gold brocade vest, her honey pageboy. Susan is a lovely jack of hearts—totally absorbed in the show's onion chopping—who every now and then takes a sip of chianti from what used to be a twenty-four-ounce jar of chunky peanut butter (the latest manifestation of Susan's resolve to drink but one drink a day). Polly has already asked what appeared on Susan's chalkboard menu at Chez Mes Amis today: bouillabaisse. Reportedly admired by all. Pot de cremes. A spicy dish from the Caribbean, hot with garlic and a red pepper special-ordered from Miami. People of all stripes love to eat at Chez Mes Amis. In its bright and cramped quarters, some feel as if they dine in their own kitchen, others as if they embark on a bold adventure. Polly—who financed the operation out of savings from a former life as a teacher of high school home ec—Polly falls into the latter group.

“Rrrh,” says Susan. Susan lets her tongue hang from her mouth
like a beat dog's. With the tip of her nose, Polly finds Nicko's pink shell of ear fuzzy as a caterpillar, intoxicating, wonderful.

“Let's order pizza,” says Susan. “I asked Martina Hassapopolous to come by and I ain't about to cook one more iota!”

Polly smiles as if amused by the bouncing name—its echo, its burden of olive eyes and dark hair as dense as ash in a grate—but happiness sifts right out of Polly these days, a sly leakage now so familiar Polly has come to visualize the loss in terms of a war movie she saw long, long ago, and the dirt the movie's tunneling war prisoners discreetly scattered from bags inside their pant legs while crossing the prison compound.

Susan does not love Polly anymore. Polly does not talk to Susan about this development; perhaps Susan does not yet
know
she no longer loves Polly, and Polly should not bring the fact to her attention. They are a family now, after all; they must protect more than their passion these days.

“But, Susan,” says Polly. Being provocative, she knows. Sometimes she cannot help being provocative. “We don't
like
pizza, Susan.”

“
Martina
likes pizza,” says Susan, and, as she is wont to do during irritable moments, dips farther down South to heighten all effects: “
Martina
is our guest, child. And will you please please
please
try to look like
somethin
' when she comes on by?”

Polly grins and wipes her hands over her cropped head. Secretly, she is tunneling, shoring up walls, working without appearing to work.

And where will Polly's secret tunnel come out? Nowhere. It will be a cozy thing, a rabbit warren, an endless maze.

“Susan,” she says, and looks up from tying Nicko's shoe in a wad of double knot, “did you notice this bump on Nicky's neck?”

“That thing? That's nothing, child. That's hemangioma.”

Hemangioma. Hemangioma, carcinoma. Susan handles the word as if it's ordinary as “apple,” “Scotch tape,” “napkin.” Polly is certainly a better mother than Susan. Polly would die for Nicko. She has imagined it many times, rehearsed the necessary bravery so there can be no question of backing down.

“He could be susceptible,” says Polly. “We really don't know.” She blows a star in the boy's pale hair. “I read where there's mice that carry a gene—ninety percent of them actually d-i-e if they get exposed to bells or jangling keys in excess of two minutes.”

“In
excess
of two minutes? Jangling
keys?
” Susan sits up, laughing. Her fine posture—acquired during a brief and overheated apprenticeship in the Brouhaha Theater of Portland, Oregon—affects Polly like the scary and exciting tornado warnings strung across TV screens of her youth. Polly holds her breath.

“Well,” says Susan, “he don't look like mice to me, honey.” And lies back on the floor and stares at the apartment's popcorn ceiling. “But, of course, feeblemindedness, manic depression, schizophrenia, criminality . . . all
do
have their genetic component.”

Out of loyalty to her sad and loony mom, Polly does a little mental conjuring of Susan's absolutely bourbon-soaked parents. Polly imagines saying to Susan, “Alcoholism, too, Susan. Alcoholism may be genetic.” She does not say this, however, because she does not, in any way, want to cast a shadow on sweet Nicko's future. Instead, she says, “Just remember, Susan, when my mom comes to visit, she
can't
eat pizza.”

“Lord god almighty!” Susan pummels the hassock with her heels. Clouds of dust—dust that enters the apartment all year round, traveling over the complex's drip-irrigated greenery as if scenting out its true home—clouds of dust rise in the late afternoon sunshine. “Your mother ain't even here!” says Susan.

“But when she visits—”

“When your folks come, Polly, we'll give them one of them doohickeys like at the hospital,” says Susan, and draws a box in the air with her index finger. “‘Check one from each category: Cooked carrots or green beans. Filet of fish or baked chicken. Orange gelatin or the butterscotch pudding.'”

Even now, Polly cannot help but think,
That menu could use a leafy vegetable.

“Only soft foods for the maniacal mom!” cries Susan. She leaps
onto the couch and, one foot on the armrest, strikes a pirate's pose. “No sharp objects! Give the woman a runcible spoon!”

Polly blinks, an appearance of bafflement her latest resource; in fact, Polly knows “runcible spoon” from Nicko's
The Owl and the Pussycat
. And her own childhood's book. Read to her by her own mom, so long ago, in a voice that dipped up and down and carried Polly in its own friendly boat. Light travelers, the Owl and the Pussycat took with them a runcible spoon, useful for dining upon both mince and slices of quince.

“She's not a maniac,” Polly says hopefully, but Susan does not stick around to retract terminology. “Hi-yah!” she cries, and bounds down the hall to take one of her inimitably long showers.

Why couldn't Polly take a shower for as long as Susan?

She carries Nicko over to the sliding glass door. The wonderful boy winds his arms around her neck. “Uh,” he says, and points intelligently to a mockingbird perched on a clipped block of pyracantha.

“Is that your song, little bird?” Polly says through the screen. “Do you know the difference?” The bird sings wildly. Polly tries to re-create the notes for Nicko while Nicko watches a family splash in the complex's bright blue swimming pool. The father of the family tosses the children high into the air, and they scream in terror and delight. Nicko yawns sweetly. Dream boy, celestial cupcake. Polly draws her chin back and forth over the top of his silken head.

First Polly wanted a baby, and Susan—hoping to perform at A.K.A. Theater—did not. Then, after a particularly quarrelsome visit from Susan's parents, Susan wanted a baby, also. Who would have the baby? They were still happy together back then, Polly and Susan. The question kept them up late, Susan drinking Wild Turkey, smoking and every now and then making a wonderful grab across the kitchen table for Polly's hand.

Who would be the father?

Polly imagined all decisions floated before them like happy holidays. A mistake. One fine day, she entered the kitchen, and there stood
Susan, grinning, stabbing a table knife into a can of frozen orange juice.

“What's up?” Polly asked.

“Oh!” sang Susan. She pressed her hands to her face, covering her grin. She kicked her feet from side to side, banging the cupboard doors. Polly giggled, but felt a little scared. “What is it?” she asked.

Susan looked out from over the tips of her fingers, as if she contained uncontrollable delight: “I'm pregnant!”

Polly's first impulse was to choke her.

(1) How could Susan be pregnant?

(2) Didn't she, Polly, want to have the baby?

Susan pressed her forehead to Polly's forehead; intimate, yes, but difficult to look into Susan's eyes from this position. “I realized, genetically speaking,” said Susan, “that I was, you know, the one who ought to chance it, but I didn't tell you in case things didn't . . . take.”

‘“Things'?” said Polly.

The frozen concentrate made a sucking sound as Susan drew the fat orange plug forth on the knife. “The sperm, Polly! From the sperm bank! Aren't you happy? If you're not happy, I'll just blow my brains out right this minute!”

“Of course I'm happy,” Polly said. Her fingers grabbed at the insides of her sweater pockets. Where are the bills? she wanted to ask. Who was the doctor? A parade of privately owned penises blurred her vision, formed a throbbing tangle of suspicion behind her left eye.

“I just can't believe it!” she said, which covered a lot of territory. Polly always made sure she said what needed to be said in such a way that at least
she
could hear her own indictments.

Martina Hassapopolous is twenty-seven, six years younger than Susan, eight years younger than Polly. Her skin fits gold and tight.

A laughing Susan tells serious Polly—Nicko on her hip, bent over the boy's dresser in search of a navy sock—that last week this Martina
offered Susan a muscle-bound stereo salesman,
but today, honey, today took all. Today it was her hairdresser, straight but very fern. This is Martina's idea of how I might get weaned off liking women, you see?

Polly nods and offers a representation of the mildest possible amusement. Martina Hassapopolous speaks in a husky stage whisper. Initially, Susan did hilarious imitations of Martina's vamping: no more. Martina Hassapopolous has a widow's peak and—like a number of very attractive people Polly has met—passionately delivered but loosely held opinions. The day Polly met her, at work at Chez Mes Amis, Martina shouted at Polly, “Listen, you're going to make that kid crazy if you don't quit carting him around so much!” For emphasis, Martina scraped Susan's prized boning knife
right
along the kitchen's brick wall. Polly waited for Susan to yell. Susan did not yell. Susan offered Martina a glass of white wine and told her to put her feet up, rest, just relax, please.

And now here comes Martina—a bit furry, but definitely sexy—following two out-thrust bottles of something alcoholic right into Susan and Polly's apartment and saying, “Driving in that suicide lane at six-fifteen! Never again! Okay! Drink up! No slackers!”

Susan, hair still wet horn the shower, walks into the room on her hands, just as she did during her role for
Harlequin, Yes!
You would think, looking at grinning Sue, that nothing in the world pleased her so much as bossy intensity. She rights herself, but stays on her knees in front of Martina. “Give me one of those bottles, you brilliant child!” she cries. “Polly here ain't a drinker since Nick came along, and I must warn you, she won't be much of a hostess either once the telephone rings. Her mama and daddy can't get by one single day without knowing how their darling fares.”