Under the Rainbow

by Celia Laskey

  I fall asleep during the movie, and when the lights come on at the end, I jolt awake to a man staring at me, and not kindly. His face is four inches from mine. My heart beats wildly. My sphincter tightens. The man’s black pupils move from my face to my Acceptance Across America sweatshirt with the rainbow American flag logo. Fuck. I left in such a rush, I forgot what I was wearing.

  The end credits roll as Stevie Wonder’s “Signed, Sealed, Delivered I’m Yours” blares. The two women who had been sitting near me have left, and the remaining patrons stream down the two aisles at either end of the room. I want to stand up and follow them out of the theater, but my limbs feel cemented, like one of those terrible dreams where you’re trying to run but can’t. Warm air from the man’s nostrils blows onto my cheek. Dark stubble covers his jaw like splinters half stuck under skin. A drop of ice water trickles from the nape of my neck down my spine. What if this is how I go? Not after a long, healthy life, but in the middle of it, during a quarrel with Miguel, when I’m still a selfish schmuck who can’t see anything.

  I close my eyes against the reality of the situation. From the darkness, an image of Miguel emerges. He’s lying in the grass in Prospect Park, smiling at me lazily—a look of uncomplicated love. It’s an image that comes to me, unbidden, in times of great stress or fear. I blink. The man is gone, the theater empty except for a Cinephile employee sweeping stray popcorn into a dustpan.

  * * *

  • • •

  WHEN I GET HOME, Arturo is sitting on the living room couch. Durango lies beside him, his head on one of the striped throw pillows. Probably drooling all over it. They’re watching The Good, the Bad and the Ugly, Miguel’s favorite. It’s the final standoff between the three men in the cemetery. I hang up my coat and peek in the kitchen.

  “He went to bed,” says Arturo.

  I wonder if he knows that we fought. Are fighting. I sit down on the other side of the couch. Clint Eastwood walks to the middle of a stone circle in a cemetery, sets down a square tan rock, and flips his poncho over one shoulder. Miguel calls this “the most diva gesture ever.”

  My stomach lets out a low whine. “Is there carne adovada left?” I ask.

  “Plenty,” Arturo says, grasping his walker and pulling himself up off the couch. “I’ll fix you a plate.”

  I protest, but he holds his hand out in front of me, like you do when telling a dog to stay. “My way is the best way,” he says.

  I don’t know whether he’s being nice or implying that I’m incapable of warming up food, but I stay put as Arturo shuffles into the kitchen. A burner clicks and then whooshes as it lights. A knife whaps against a cutting board, the sound fast and rhythmic. Arturo seems much more spry than he did this morning, and I wonder if he was just playing the victim. Next to me, Durango twitches in his sleep, his paws clenching and unclenching and his mouth making wet little lapping sounds. I pull the pillow out from under his head, and he jerks upright and blinks at me. When he realizes Arturo isn’t on the couch anymore, he stands on the edge and lets out a long, trembling whine. In his old age, he probably can’t jump down. I pick him up and place him on the floor, and he goes running into the kitchen. I sniff the pillow his head was on. It smells sweet and metallic, like raw meat that’s been left out too long.

  Arturo comes back into the room, a plate and two bottles of beer on the tray of his walker. He sets the plate in my lap and a beer on the coffee table in front of me. He keeps the other beer for himself. He’s arranged the carne adovada in three corn tortillas, covered in white onions, cilantro, and queso fresco. He watches me as I take a bite. It tastes different than Miguel’s—there’s a deeper, brighter flavor, but I can’t put my finger on what it is.

  “Did Miguel do something different?” I ask.

  Arturo shakes his head and smiles, a glint in his eye. “I added my secret ingredients.”

  I take another bite. Maybe I do like carne adovada after all. “Miguel doesn’t know what they are?”

  “No,” he says. “I make him leave the room.”

  “Will you ever tell him?”

  He smiles and holds my stare for five full seconds. “Raisins,” he whispers. “And frozen orange juice concentrate.”

  “Really?” I swallow my bite of carne adovada, searching for the raisins and orange juice on my tongue. “Why are you telling me?”

  He shrugs. “Miguel wants us to get along.”

  After I finish my tacos, I go upstairs. Miguel lies in bed facing the wall, his back rising and falling in sleep or pretend sleep. I sit down and lay my hand on his side, pressing my fingertips into the depressions between his ribs.

  “Why do you stay with me?” I ask.

  He takes a deep breath. Air fills the space where my fingertips rest, pushing them up. They fall back down as he breathes out. “Good question,” he says, his voice quiet and croaky.

  I wait for him to give a real answer, but after a long silence, he still hasn’t said anything. My heart speeds up, and I pull on his shoulder. “Miguel?”

  He turns over and looks at me with vacant eyes. “Was it good?”

  “The adovada? Yeah, very tasty.”

  “Not the adovada,” he says. “The sex.” He snarls the word.

  I reach out my hand, but he jerks away. “I went to the movies, Miguel.”

  He crosses his arms. “What did you see?”

  “Some shitty rom-com called Love Is Blind. Can you guess the plot?”

  I see his wheels turning, wondering if he should believe me. “How does it end?”

  “I don’t know. It was so boring I fell asleep.” I want to tell him about the man, about how sure I was that something terrible would happen, and how Miguel’s image came to me and kept me safe, but it was too surreal to describe. “Baby,” I say, plaintive. “I know I can be an ass, but I’m not a liar.”

  He sighs. His crossed arms unfurl. “You do tend to fall asleep at the movies.”

  I bring his hand to my lips. I kiss his knuckles one by one. He pulls me down next to him. We kiss, and it flashes through my body like lightning. His fingers grasp the hair at the nape of my neck. Our torsos come together, and I feel Miguel’s heat through his thin T-shirt. I tug it off.

  He leans away. “But my dad is right downstairs,” he whispers.

  “It’s okay.” I take a deep breath, and the air flows freely as I pull Miguel to me.

  Linda

  I’m standing on my porch clutching this package, this ordinary square brown package with one of the corners crushed in and a white label that impossibly reads my son’s name, my son who drove his maroon Buick into a tree and died four months and five days ago. I have no idea how or why the package arrived. Could Dylan have bought something before the accident, but it was back-ordered for ages? Could someone who doesn’t know what happened have sent him a gift? Could Dylan be alive in some alternate universe, and this is a message for us via Amazon?

  Across the street, the Petersons are leaving for their day. Christine pushes Claire in her stroller as Carson karate-chops the snowbanks on either side of their neatly shoveled walkway, while Jeff stares at his phone, rapidly typing with one thumb. In the front yard there’s a gigantic snow sculpture of Lady Liberty, a not-so-subtle dig at the task force, I’m sure. They even used green dye on her crown and red and yellow dye on her torch. At night, they shine a spotlight on it and people stop to take pictures. Christine gives Jeff a quick kiss, then uses her thumb to wipe pink lipstick from the side of his mouth. He gets in his beige SUV and she straps the kids into her lime-green Kia Soul, a car to match her personality. As Christine pulls into the road, she sees me on the porch and gives me the usual I’m-sorry-your-kid-died half smile and wave.

  A few months ago, I was Christine. I gave Richard kisses before leaving for work, I matched Tupperware tops to bottoms when emptying the dishwasher, and when I found a quarter in the couch cushions, I tho
ught, Well, isn’t that nice? Now I don’t know if that was me or just someone who life hadn’t turned on yet.

  Richard steps outside and catches me cradling the package. “It’s for Dylan.”

  “What the hell?” He stares at the label for a few seconds, then matter-of-factly takes the box out of my hands and walks around the side of the house. The lid of the trash can thuds closed. He comes back and opens the door of his car.

  “I’ll see you tonight,” he calls out before ducking inside, by which he means he’ll tiptoe past my bedroom door, formerly our bedroom door, around eleven p.m. on his way to the guest room, now his bedroom.

  When Dylan had been gone a few weeks and I couldn’t even bring myself to throw away the rotting Tupperware of lasagna I had made for dinner the night he died, Richard decided it was time to get back to our normal routine. He told me I was wallowing in misery, when really I was just trying to stop thinking of ways to kill myself. I looked up some therapists in Dry Creek, even jotted down a few numbers, but never actually called any. What good was therapy going to do me if it couldn’t bring back my son? Instead, I got some sleeping pills. Now my and Richard’s routine consists of carefully calibrated avoidance. In the morning we take turns in the kitchen, forcing down bites of dry toast with coffee. He stays at work crunching the numbers at the beef packing plant—at least that’s where he says he is—until he thinks I’m asleep. When he gets home late at night, I can hear the guest room door click shut as I lie in bed waiting for my pill to shut off my brain.

  It’s hard to remember now, but I think we were happy before Dylan died. We’d crack each other up by making fun of commercials, we’d play pranks on Dylan like putting googly eyes on all the food in the fridge, we’d have routine but satisfying sex a few times a month, and most importantly, we hated the same things (rich people, tuna salad, Julia Roberts), which I think is really the key to any successful relationship.

  I watch Richard’s car disappear down the road, then walk around the side of the house and take the package out of the garbage. It’s unfathomable to me that he couldn’t have been curious about what it was. Inside the house, I cut the clear tape with a dirty knife from the kitchen sink. A black shoebox with a beige star on top sits inside the larger box. Inside the shoebox is a pair of high-top Converse sneakers covered in a blue graffiti pattern, size eight and a half. I’ll put them in his closet, in case he comes back, I think. Then I throw the box across the room.

  * * *

  • • •

  AT WORK, I watch the second hand on my watch sweep around the face. I’m a teller at the Big Burr Credit Union, and I can’t think of a worse job to have when the last thing you want is to see every single person from town every single day. What no one understands is how suffocating their sympathy can be. I thought it would taper off after a few months, but people seem to need to prove they haven’t forgotten. Sometimes I turn my phone off for a whole day just to get a break from the texts and voice mails. I hide behind the curtains when the doorbell rings, and when I step outside, another foil-wrapped dish is waiting on the steps.

  But at work, I can’t hide. Every day it’s the same: the how-are-you-doings, never just how-are-yous, the hand pats, the did-you-get-my-casseroles, the fear of eye contact, and the-Lord-never-gives-us-more-than-we-can-handles. Even worse are the ones who paste on uncomfortable smiles and talk about the weather, or the Jayhawks, or celebrity gossip. It’s a catch-22—if they say something about Dylan I resent it, and if they don’t say something I resent it even more. I’ve started fantasizing about moving somewhere where no one knows me, where they’ll look at me blankly and assume I’m just like everyone else.

  Around lunchtime, I get half my fantasy. I call up someone I’ve never seen before, a Black man in slim jeans, a tailored peacoat, and a button-up shirt printed with small blue flowers. He smiles and asks how I am.

  “Oh, I’m fine,” I say. “And you?”

  He hands me a deposit slip and a check, then threads his fingers together and places them on the countertop. “I’m doing well, thank you for asking, ma’am.”

  “Ma’am,” I say, bringing my hand to my heart. “How polite! Can I see your ID for this?”

  He opens up a neon pink nylon wallet and slides a Florida license across the counter.

  Jamal Lowe. I match his name to the name on the check. In the license photo, he smiles widely. His street address is listed as somewhere in Miami. “Florida,” I say, handing the license back. “Just visiting?”

  “I live here now,” he says, then shakes his head. “I’m still getting used to saying that.”

  “Oh, really? What brings you to Big Burr? We don’t get many new arrivals.”

  He picks up the corded pen that’s lying off its stand and puts it back in place. It leans and topples over.

  “That’s broken.” I wait for him to answer my question, then curiosity gets the better of me. “So, Kansas?”

  “Oh,” he says. “Right.” He picks up the pen again, then sets it down. “I came here for a job.”

  “At the beef packing plant?”

  He shakes his head and it occurs to me why he must be avoiding the question. “I don’t mean to pry,” I say. “If you’re here with the task force, I’m not one of those people who’s upset about it.”

  “All right,” he says, dubious.

  I try to recall exactly when the task force arrived. It was so close to when Dylan died I don’t think I’d have noticed if the sky turned red, but even still it was impossible to miss. It was on the front page of the Herald and on everyone’s lips when you’d run into them at the store. People assumed I wasn’t outraged because of Dylan. But most residents have lived in Big Burr for generations—the Smiths, who own a big farm on the northern edge of town, claim their family was here when the state of Kansas was founded. They feel inextricably linked to the place, protective of it; convinced that if it changes they’ll lose a part of themselves. My family only arrived in Big Burr shortly after I was born, when my father got a job teaching algebra at the high school. He always said people were like equivalent equations: 5 + 3 = 2 + 6. The total amount is 8, but there are a bunch of ways to arrive at that figure. I don’t think many of the kids I grew up with were taught the same thing.

  “Dare I ask how it’s going?” I say. “With the task force?”

  A grimace flashes across Jamal’s face, but his features quickly settle back to neutral. He studies me, trying to determine if I’m friend or foe.

  “I’m sorry. That’s probably a stupid question. I’m sure you’re having a terrible go of it.”

  He looks down at the countertop and clears his throat. “We’re having a luau party tomorrow night,” he says timidly. “To try to beat the winter blues.” He reaches into his bag and pulls out a flyer with a cartoon smiling sun, a pineapple, and a lei. “You should come. Locals haven’t really been showing up to our events, but maybe you can be the exception.”

  * * *

  • • •

  AFTER WORK, I cancel plans with my best friend Lorraine for the third time in a row. We were supposed to get our nails done and eat dinner at the diner, but the thought of having to pretend I’m okay for hours on end is too exhausting. Instead, I swing by Applebee’s for my nightly curbside pickup. I get one of their new “healthy” items, pepper-crusted sirloin and whole grains, and add on a triple chocolate meltdown cake at the last minute, because what the hell. I eat it off a tray table in the living room while watching Jillian Michaels’s 30 Day Shred. Something about watching people sweat and struggle while Jillian yells at them makes me feel better. Besides, I can’t stand to watch anything on TV anymore. Everything is about family and relationships, tidy problems that conveniently get smoothed out in thirty minutes. Even on Sing Your Heart Out, where contestants sing a song while doing an obstacle course, everyone has their little sob story that makes me scream at the TV, “Sorry you can’t hea
r out of one ear!” or “Sorry you have dust-related allergies!”

  I fall asleep on the couch and wake up to Richard’s keys clattering into the teal fish-shaped dish on the entryway table. I could get up and skitter to my bedroom. The light turns on in the kitchen and the ice machine grumbles as cubes tinkle into a glass. I could turn over, face the back of the couch, and pretend to still be asleep. The refrigerator door opens, making a noise like a Band-Aid being pulled off skin, and the ice cubes crack as liquid pours over them. The refrigerator door claps shut. Or I could stay right here and see what he says.

  Richard jumps when he walks into the living room and sees me. “Oh,” he says. “You startled me.” His oxford is buttoned down halfway, exposing a threadbare undershirt, and the red plaid tie I got him some long-ago Christmas is tossed over his shoulder. He holds a pint glass full of milk, the light from the TV giving it the barely blue hue of a glacier.

  “Heartburn?”

  He nods. “These hours are killing me.”

  I wonder how long we’ll keep up this routine, him pretending to work late, like there’s some daily accounting emergency, and me pretending I think it’s true. He looks at the Applebee’s take-out bag, then the TV, Jillian Michaels and her counterparts doing jumping lunges, then at me. His lips part and he looks like he’s about to say something, but then he turns it into a yawn, covering his mouth with his hand. “Well, good night,” he says, disappearing around the corner.