Summer in the City of Roses

by Michelle Ruiz Keil

  The coyote whines, a high, soft sound. Orr searches her face, marked as if with makeup—dark liner around the eyes and a black star on a pale gold forehead. She moves a step closer and stops, sits, lowers her head.

  Orr reaches out slowly, slowly, to touch the fur on her chest. Softer than he expected.

  A heart beats under his hand, steady.

  The animal is not afraid.

  His own heart steadies.

  The coyote rises, looks back at Orr, and trots west, away from the camp. Pulling his hood up to cover his shorn head, Orr follows her down the mountain.

  5

  Stage

  Charm

  George parks the bike under an awning around the corner from the hotel entrance and looks Iph up and down. Not checking her out or anything, but Iph blushes.

  “We should clean you up a little.”

  Scout whines in the bag.

  George shushes her but lets her out, setting the bag on the bike rack. “Okay if I get some of the smudges off?”

  “Sure,” Iph says.

  From a pocket, George produces an actual handkerchief, clean and white and neatly folded. Very Prince Charming. “Close your eyes.”

  The cotton is soft and comforting. Iph realizes how tired she is. Her eyes fly open when the cleanup moves to her grime-splashed ankles and shoes. George is kneeling in front of her, intent on the work at hand. So gallant!

  Rummaging in one of the messenger bag’s outside pockets, George comes up with two tubes of lipstick. The red one is opened, discarded. George shows Iph a medium pink.

  “Not mine,” George says. There’s a story in those two words. Maybe more than one. “My friend always brings both. She says pink is for innocent but classy. This might be a little light on you, though.” George leans in close to apply the lipstick. It smells like cotton candy. Iph holds still, mouth open slightly for the second coat. She has done this so many times for actors as part of the costume crew, but no one’s ever put makeup on her.

  George tucks a few stray curls back into Iph’s updo and steps back. “Yeah, that’ll work. I see what she meant about the pink for certain missions. It does something red just can’t.”

  “Missions? I’m going in there to find my dad, not abscond with state secrets.”

  “Lady,” George says, “no disrespect intended, but you look a little . . . undone? There are a lot of street kids around here. Scammers. You know.”

  Iph doesn’t know. She’s nervous now as George steps back and nods. “Just go in there like you own the place. I’m gonna wait out here.”

  “Oh.” Iph had imagined them going in together.

  “You’re better off on your own in there. Trust me.”

  And maybe she’s an idiot for the second time tonight, but she doesn’t think so—she does trust George.

  “Thank you,” Iph says, bending to touch Scout’s silky head for luck. “Both of you. I’ll be right back, whether he’s in there or not. Will you wait?”

  “I will if you’re really coming back.” Something crosses George’s face—there and gone, like lights from a passing car. Iph wonders again about the bow and arrows, the index-card list. She reaches into her memories of The Tempest and whips out some Ariel.

  My lord it shall be done!

  I drink the air before me, and return

  Or ere your pulse twice beat.

  “Excuse me,” Iph says to the person at the front desk. “I’m looking for someone?” She’d blown easily past the doorman in his incongruous British tower guard uniform and large-brimmed, rose-wreathed hat. But this clerk seems like the kind of person Mom calls Born Skeptical. He’s young, with longish droopy hair and an unsuccessful mustache. He looks up from his newspaper, eyebrows raised.

  “He’s tall,” Iph says. “With dark hair. Was here earlier for the Theodore Velos party?”

  “I can’t help you, miss. There are no events happening now.” His tone is smug and final.

  “Did someone turn in a gold-beaded clutch purse?” Then, at least, Iph would have some money to make a call. “And a pair of glasses?”

  She finally has the man’s attention. He looks her up and down, and not in the concerned way George did. “Why don’t you try finding your party at the bar?”

  There is something condescending about the way he says bar. That and the disdainful look. Iph tries to flip her vision, see herself with his eyes. A little montage—the tight cocktail dress, Dad’s horrified look, George’s insistence on pink lipstick over red. Suddenly, she gets it. This man has added up the cut of her dress and her smudged eye makeup and rain-frizzed curls and decided she’s a call girl. Rude! And so what if she was a call girl? This guy’s clearly a jerk who needs a taste of his own snotty medicine.

  Iph lets her eyes go wide and puts a tiny wobble in her voice, a teaspoon of angry in a cup of seriously offended. “The bar? How old do you think I am?”

  The clerk looks confused.

  “I’ll tell you how old. Seventeen. So the bar isn’t an option. But how about you go in there and find my party for me? And tell him his daughter is waiting for him.”

  “Oh, I see. I’m sorry, miss. What event did you say it was?”

  “Velos Design.”

  “And you are?”

  “Iphigenia Santos Velos.” She actually taps her foot. She’s having too much fun altogether, considering the situation.

  The clerk magically notices the note his co-worker left at the desk and hands it to Iph. Dad’s scrawl. Looked everywhere. Worried sick. Call home makes her ache for the warmth of his car, the dark of her room. She will fix this. Persuade him to go get Orr. Everything will be okay.

  Her “Can I use the phone?” is met with a fast “Of course,” but all Iph gets is a busy signal. She tries again and again. “I can’t imagine who he’s talking to,” she says after the fourth try.

  Her stomach drops. What if it’s Mom? Iph imagines her in the big wooden common house in the Santa Cruz Mountains, pacing back and forth with the phone, twisting her long hair around her finger until it turns blue as Dad confesses.

  “Call the operator,” the clerk suggests. “Ask for an emergency breakthrough.”

  “You can do that?”

  The clerk smiles, and the world shifts back into place. Iph is a kid, the clerk an indulgent grown-up. But the reason that’s happening is because Dad left the note. What if he hadn’t?

  “Here, write down the number and I’ll do it.” The clerk speaks to the operator. No one is on the line. The phone is off the hook. Iph’s eyes fill with tears.

  “Is there someone else you can call?”

  Iph shakes her head. She has no real friends at school. Not anymore. Mom has no family—at least no one she speaks to. Dad’s family is all back east or in Greece. The only number Iph has memorized besides the video store and pizza place is their neighbor Mindy’s. But Mindy and her family are out of town until next week.

  “No,” Iph says. “My dad and I had an argument. I ran off and got lost. I left my purse. My glasses. Everything.”

  “You can keep trying.” The clerk’s voice is gentle now. His eyes have gone kind, like maybe he understands problems with parents. That’s the thing with people. They’re both sour and sweet. Like Dad. In his misguided, messed-up way, he was trying to do the right thing. Iph calls again. He has to notice the phone sooner or later. “Maybe he’ll turn up back here. Why don’t you have a seat? We can call again in a few.”

  “Thank you so much.” The plush sofas look like heaven. Except, there’s George. Iph finds what she hopes is the right smile. “I ran into a friend who helped me find the way back here. I’m completely lost without my glasses.” Iph does her best to channel innocent, nearsighted Marilyn in How to Marry a Millionaire without being too over the top. “Would you mind if we waited in here together? Just for a little while?”

&nbs
p; The clerk’s brow furrows. “Where is this friend?”

  “Right outside.” She opens her eyes a little wider.

  Iph sees him weighing her boobs, his own sympathy, her father’s status, his customer service training against some loitering rule, and she feels a little sorry for him. He’s just here for the paycheck, biding his time to put food on the table. That’s what Mom always says about cranky service workers. Still, Iph promised George.

  He sighs and rolls his eyes. “Just for a few minutes,” he says.

  6

  Characters

  and Types

  Iph and George had been waiting together in the lobby with Scout concealed in George’s bag for all of ten minutes when the manager walked in, took one look at George, and booted them all. Iph batted her eyes at the clerk, but he just shrugged. Now if Iph’s dad got upset, it was on his boss’s head, not his. This is the kind of thing that makes Mom say, Capitalism wrecks everything, and makes Dad call her his little Bolshevik and kiss her, which in turn makes Iph and Orr chorus Gross when what they mean is, Our parents love each other and that feels good.

  Out on the street, the rain is finished and the sky is completely clear. “I’m sorry,” George is saying as they head back to the bike, locked to the metal security door of a men’s haberdashery half a block up. Before they get there, the doorman in the ridiculous outfit is calling them back.

  “Hey,” he says. Something about him suggests Alice in Wonderland—and not just the big floppy rose-crowned hat that is part of the hotel uniform. He’s holding a cardboard box. “Sorry about that. It’s the manager. He has it in for teenagers. But here—you can look for your stuff in the lost and found.” He hands Iph the box and motions to the large doorway of the closed shop next to the hotel, set back from the street. There’s someone sleeping in the other end of the alcove.

  “We should be quiet,” Iph whispers.

  “He can’t hear us,” George says. “Takes his hearing aids out when he sleeps.”

  “You know him?”

  “Everybody down here knows him.” George kneels and hunts through the box so Iph doesn’t have to bend over, which is a good thing because she’s pretty sure she can’t. Her dress dried out completely in the hotel and is now as stiff as paper. Apparently, there’s a reason for the dry clean only tag.

  “Sorry,” George says. “No purse.”

  The doorman ushers a handsome older couple into a cab, then ambles over on huge feet. “No luck? It’s okay—take whatever you need. No one ever comes back for that stuff. Here”—he pulls out a huge Portland Trail Blazers hoodie from the box—“I almost took this myself, but the sleeves are too short. They had to order my uniform special.” He sticks his long arms out like Frankenstein’s monster and grins. He has braces, complete with an elaborate lacing of rubber bands.

  “Thanks,” Iph says. She puts on the hoodie and it’s heaven. Soft and clean-smelling and warm.

  “Thanks, man.” George slaps his arm like maybe they know each other, then sorts the contents of the box methodically, taking a pair of leather gloves, a yellow Walkman, and a pair of pink fuzzy socks with the tag still on them. Last are a pair of round gold-framed glasses and a heavy black old-man pair. “Either of these yours?”

  Iph shakes her head.

  “Wanna try them on anyway? Maybe one of them’s close enough to help.”

  The gold John Lennon glasses are crazy—bifocals, it turns out. The doorman tries them on after Iph. She’s gotten used to the uniform, but the addition of the glasses skews it late sixties, very Sgt. Pepper’s. He strikes a pose, surprisingly graceful.

  “Do you dance?” Iph asks.

  “Basketball,” he says.

  Iph tries the black glasses. Stronger than her regular prescription, but pretty good. She turns to the others. “What do you think?”

  “Punky,” the doorman says.

  “Very cute. And look!” Two quarters shine in George’s hand. “Okay if we take these, too?”

  “Totally,” the doorman says.

  “Where’s the best pay phone, do you think? 7-Eleven?”

  “That one’s always gross. Try up at PSU.”

  “Thanks,” Iph says. “And thank the desk guy for sending out the box!”

  “No problem. Take it sleazy!” The doorman flashes them a peace sign and hurries the lost and found box back inside.

  Iph and George are alone again, and the street is quiet. No people, except for the old man sleeping in the alcove. No cars. Iph feels a sudden vertigo. Everything is too sharp with the new glasses. Too clear.

  “Milady?” George bows again.

  “Are you sure? You’ve done so much already. Maybe I should . . .” But Iph doesn’t know how to finish the sentence.

  “I don’t abandon my missions,” George says. “Let’s go find that pay phone.”

  The Portland State campus is quiet. A few people pass as Iph calls home, but the phone’s still busy. What’s Dad’s deal? Why hasn’t he tried calling the hotel? Why did he leave in the first place? “I still can’t believe he went home.” Iph says. “If that’s where he even is. I mean, I don’t know. I think I would’ve waited.”

  “Me, too,” George says. “If it was my kid? I’d have waited all night.”

  “Well, in his defense, I was kind of horrible.”

  Iph’s chest aches. She yelled and cried. Made such a scene. Heat rises from her clenched stomach to her face. Her feet throb. She sits on a wet bench, hoping her dress won’t rip. At least the rain has stopped. Scout leaps up between Iph and George, settling her head in Iph’s lap. The wind blows the big trees in the park that runs through the city campus. The sound is soothing. Like being at home.

  “He sent my little brother away to a boot camp,” Iph finally says. “He had him taken against his will. Orr . . . isn’t a boot-camp sort of kid. If anyone is.”

  “Those places can be rough. I think some parents don’t get what they’re like.”

  “Have you ever . . . seen one?”

  “Not boot camp,” George says, “but something similar.”

  George gets up and leads Scout a few paces away for a bathroom break. Iph compares the buildings on either side of the bank of phones. One is a concrete structure designed in what Dad calls the “prison-yard school of architecture.” The other is an old white Renaissance Revival hall, sturdy and elegant, the way a college building should look.

  “Okay, here’s the deal,” George says, coming back to sit by Iph. Scout leaps back to her spot on the bench between them. Her ears feel like the silk lining of Iph’s lost purse. “I have kind of a weird living situation. An apartment—but it’s a secret. No one can know I live there.”

  “All right, but . . . I mean, how old are you?”

  “Seventeen,” George says. Iph’s age. And living alone? “My mom’s gone, my stepdad’s out of the country. I was supposed to stay with my cousin, but that didn’t work out. I decided to do some urban camping till he gets back and everything is sorted.”

  “Like squatting?” Mom has some great stories about her year squatting in Amsterdam.

  “It’s more like . . . haunting? It’s my nana’s old place. I come in late at night when I’m sure the neighbors are asleep, and I leave after they go to work. Sometimes I have to stay in all day on the weekends because they never leave. Then I’m up all night ’cause I’ve been cooped up so long.”

  “And that’s when you ride around rescuing lost maidens?”

  George grins. “Exactly.”

  “So are you inviting me to stay at your top-secret hideout?”

  “I am.”

  “Is there a phone there?”

  “Sorry, no.” George takes out a pocket watch and studies it. “We can try stopping at pay phones along the way. We should jet, though. Downtown’s dicey after midnight.”

  7

 
Imagination

  The sign on the building is shaped like a curvy bull, midnight blue, with a starry flank and horns like crescent moons. Under golden hooves, taurus trucking is lettered in faded retro script with the ghost of an F over the T, a bad joke someone made and someone else scrubbed away.

  “Your nana was a trucker?”

  George laughs. “I mean, yeah. I guess you could say she was. Drove Ethel till she was in her seventies.”

  “Ethel?”

  “Her tow truck,” George says. “By the end, it was Ethel the Fourth.”

  They’re on Division Street now, in Southeast, the sleepier part of the city. To get here, George and Iph rode over the fairy-lit Hawthorne Bridge, stopping at four Plaid Pantries along the way, but the phone was busy every time. Iph takes the street in, opening all her senses as wide as she can. The sidewalk is clean and smells of summer rain. The street is lined with shabby little houses with overgrown yards and weedy parking strips planted with sunflowers and rosemary and lamb’s ears that spill over onto the sidewalks. Roses are everywhere, climbing the telephone poles and clinging to fences and front porches cluttered with gardening shoes, children’s toys, and boxes of recycling. The odd little stores across the street seem barely plausible as businesses—a washing machine repair shop, barbecue supply outlet, and a barber shop with a sheet of plywood over a broken window and an actual barber’s pole out front.

  It seems fitting that if Orr must be alone in a new world, so should she. Cut off from her family and home, this little neighborhood is Iph’s whole reality. George, a stranger two hours ago, is the only person she knows. The thought is a little revolution. Iph’s chest expands, lets in so much air she’s a little dizzy. Something akin to relief runs like a feather down her arms. Guilt follows, right on cue.

  They enter through a side door. Iph feels the dark container of the garage around her. An old game she and Orr used to play was listing their three favorite darknesses. Whoever had the best answers won. Currently, Iph loves the fur of panthers, Maybelline black eyeliner, and the black velvet coat with black satin lining she stole from the costume closet at school but is afraid to wear anywhere but alone in her room at night. The darkness in Taurus Trucking is excellent, soft and deep, with bits of light wavering in like she and George are inside some massive underwater animal. The square building’s giant metal garage door and concrete walls distort the sounds of the neighborhood outside.