Let husbands know
Their wives have sense like them: they see and smell
And have their palates both for sweet and sour,
As husbands have. What is it that they do
When they change us for others? Is it sport?
I think it is: and doth affection breed it?
I think it doth: is’t frailty that thus errs?
It is so too: and have not we affections,
Desires for sport, and frailty, as men have?
Then let them use us well: else let them know,
The ills we do, their ills instruct us so.
Iph concludes to a huge round of applause and a bark. George and Scout! How did they get back from needle exchange so quickly? Several people have dropped money in the open violin case, but the crowd hasn’t dispersed. To Simon, she whispers, “Play something romantic.”
Looking straight at George and then away, she begins the balcony scene from Romeo and Juliet. After swearing that a rose by any other name would be as sweet, she has a quick wonder about her objective here. But then she knows. It is beguilement. She slows for the final lines of the monologue.
Romeo, doff thy name
And for that name which is no part of thee
Take all myself.
From the audience, George answers, striding forward.
I take thee at thy word:
Call me but love, and I’ll be new baptized;
Henceforth I never will be Romeo.
The crowd goes crazy as George moves to the open sidewalk and falls to a knee, kissing Iph’s hand. She pulls George to stand, and they finish the scene, hands clasped, Scout gazing up at them like a trained dog actor.
Money floods the violin case, and people head around the corner to Powell’s thanking and complimenting the trio as they go.
“Here,” Simon says, handing Iph a wad of cash. “That was badass. Can I call you sometime? Both of you,” he rushes to add, looking sideways at George, who is giving him the evil eye. “I’d love to try that at Saturday Market.”
“Can I grab your number instead?” Iph says. “I’m not quite settled right now.” Saying that is weird, like Iph is channeling a future self that might have the sort of bohemian situation her answer suggests.
He hands her a slip of paper with his number and packs up his case. “Time for a beer,” he says. “Thanks, Iph. And you, too.”
“It’s George.”
“Yeah, man. Thanks.”
George turns to Iph with a face like fairy lights.
“Wait here!” Iph says.
“Iph!” George calls. “Parting is such sweet sorrow.”
“That’s my line,” Iph says.
13
Communion
Iph and George leave Powell’s at dusk with the crows. They cross the river with a tailwind and hit all the green lights on Hawthorne. Flying past Mount Tabor, they blow a kiss to Pele, goddess of volcanos, because that’s what Mount Tabor is—a little volcano in the center of Portland. Orr did a report on it in the third grade.
George stops at an apartment building called the Lindy Sue. It’s baby-shit brown and a little run-down with those Brillo-pad evergreen shrubs with the chalky blue poisonous berries people planted by the thousands in the seventies. Dad considers them a scourge. Scout hops down and swaggers up the stairs to the second-floor apartments.
“Scout really can pull off Big Pit when she wants to,” George says. “Like, any ne’er-do-well would think twice, even though she’s the size of a piece of sushi.”
“Don’t even say the word sushi!” After she bought the journal, they took what was left of their share of the busking money to gorge at the Sushi Train. “And also—who says ne’er-do-well? Tell me that.”
George laughs and pulls Iph up the cement staircase with a rusted wrought-iron railing. The night ahead thickens between them. A whole long, beautiful night. It’s cooling off, and Iph wonders if they can spare fifty cents for a bag of ice for the rest of Cait’s gin.
George’s cousin Julie opens the door. You can tell she was once as pretty as George described her, but now her beauty is faded—no, more than that. It’s drained.
“Hey.” Julie’s voice wobbles like a tape deck in a bumpy car. She does not look pleased to see Iph.
“Just dropping something off for you,” George says. Clean needles, alcohol wipes, little metal containers Iph thought were some sort of portable votive candleholders when she looked in the brown paper bag at the sushi place. Really, they are used for cooking heroin. And maybe other drugs? Iph isn’t sure of the procedure. The thought of it makes her a little faint.
“This is Iph—the girl I told you about. I’m actually wondering if you’d loan her your bike.” Julie believes George is staying with a girl and her roommates in Northeast Portland. Iph is to play the girl.
Julie smiles and steps aside to let them in. That smile changes everything. She’s clearly related to George, with thick-lashed dark eyes and long silky hair. Iph recognizes her now from a photo collage in the upstairs hall at Taurus Trucking.
Inside, the apartment smells like garbage. George gathers the trash, takes it out to the dumpster. Scout is kissing Julie’s face on the sofa, trying to make her laugh. “Come sit down,” Julie says, patting the seat next to her.
“Thanks,” Iph says. The living room isn’t so bad. Cluttered, but there was clearly a recent attempt at tidying. There are pictures on the wall. A black-and-white photo of a wolf. An Ansel Adams print and a framed drawing of a mermaid that looks a lot like Julie.
“Did George do that?”
“The family genius.” Julie smiles, clearly proud of her cousin. Her nails are painted a deep blue, perfectly done and pretty against her pale skin. “It’s cool of you to let George stay with you,” she says, right as George comes back with the empty trash can.
“Yep,” George says. “I’m lucky she isn’t sick of me yet.”
“George isn’t so bad,” Iph tells Julie. “Makes a mean can of SpaghettiOs. And this one”—she reaches over to pet Scout—“is a sweet little angel muffin.” Scout enjoys baby talk, even though it drives George nuts.
“Yes, she is!” Julie joins in. Her laugh is light and young, even though her smile is a little sad. George says she has a terrible boyfriend.
“How are you?” George perches on the arm of a ripped gray chair, leg jiggling—not comfortable here, Iph realizes, but pretending it’s all okay.
“I’m good,” Julie says.
“Liar.”
“I’m getting there. Like Nana used to say, it’s not over till it’s over. But when it’s over, run.” They say this last line together and laugh.
“Seriously, Jules. I worry about you.”
“Soon,” Julie says. “I’ll be done soon.” Are they talking about the drugs or the guy? Maybe both.
They’re silent for a minute. Iph has kind of missed TV. Julie’s watching a nature show for kids, Scout splayed out like a tiny beached hippo in her lap.
“I’m sorry,” Julie finally says, meeting George’s eyes. For what? Maybe picking the drugs and the guy over George.
“Here,” George says, handing Julie a brown bag. “I put in a flyer with some resources, too. Don’t be mad.”
“George, you know I can’t have that around here.”
“I’ll put it in the pile with the bills,” George says. “I know he never looks there.”
“Oh, he’s interested in my mail these days,” Julie says. “Ever since Dale sent me a birthday card. He thinks we’re running away together.” To Iph she says, “Dale was my first boyfriend.”
“Dale was nice. Maybe you should write back,” George says.
“Maybe.” Julie stands and pulls George in for a hug. Iph sees the love. Thinks of her own family. Their first story together is over. What will the next one be?
14
>
The Second
Revolution
The wind molds Velma’s dress to Iph’s legs. Julie’s purple ten-speed is a perfect fit. She imagines Velma in the dress, pear-shaped and pink-cheeked, riding a bike in some European city, a loaf of bread in the handlebar basket and Pete on a bike ahead.
It’s been years since Iph has ridden. What happened to the happy days of flying around the lake on her princess-pink Schwinn, pumping hard to keep up with Dad? When does the past become the past? It can happen slowly, the way her childhood has faded, the way the daylight is fading now. Or it can happen so fast, the way it has for her family.
She pedals harder, lungs so generous in this life. Maybe her asthma lives back in Forest Lake with the unkissed version of herself. Maybe, like in a fairy tale, George’s kiss has cured her.
George signals left, and Iph follows, coasting down the hill to Plaid Pantry. The guy there knows George and gives them ice and two candy bars for free.
They pedal lazily now. Apartments give way to houses, snug little sun-faded family homes with sensible cars parked outside and children’s toys in the yards. They turn onto Southeast Division and swoosh up to Taurus Trucking. There is a light on in the basement of the neighbor’s house. George shrugs, and they risk it, golden and untouchable.
Nana’s apartment is reasonably cool. George gives the bag of ice to Iph. From the kitchen, Iph hears music. Ella Fitzgerald on very low, a splurge of expensive battery use. A song about beaming smiles that could so easily be about George. Iph runs cold water over her wrists and splashes her face and heads to Nana’s room.
She carefully takes off Velma’s dress and hangs it on a padded satin hanger. There is some rose water in a mister on the dresser. The droplets are deliciously cool on her skin. Riffling through the drawers, she spots a slip she’s overlooked. It’s tight—probably something from Nana’s younger days. The white cotton is moony in the dark room. Iph’s curls spill onto her temples and around her forehead. She tamps down the impulse to turn sideways and chide her stomach for not being flat. She won’t allow a single despairing look at her ass. She smooths the slip with her hands, the thin fabric soft against her softness.
In the living room, George has bathed early—wet hair, scrubbed face. Their drinks are on the coffee table, and Iph can feel the ghost of Nana and her third and favorite husband on a hot summer night dancing cheek to cheek in the space between the window and dinette.
They sit and rest and drink their drinks. Ella sings on. George stands and offers a hand. Iph accepts. She is shaking; this is different than before. She has seen George’s secrets. They slow dance like they’re in a movie. Of course, George can actually lead. Iph goes loose, follows the press of the hand on her back, the knees against her knees. They’re belly to belly now. Iph instinctively shrinks, always trying to hide this part of her, but George tells her it’s okay with a gentle press on her back. They dance until the tape clicks off.
Iph steps away, reaches for her drink. Takes a sip for courage. George does the same. They move together again, no music but breath.
Scout whines. Runs around the room. They pull apart. Laugh. Come back together in their silent dance. George is kissing her neck, pulling down the strap of her slip. There is a sound, and George jumps back as the door that leads from the garage below opens. Iph expects a meth-loaded relative, but it’s so much worse than that.
“Sorry,” Lorna says. “I still have my key—”
She stops. Sees Iph. And George. Together.
“Well,” she says, setting down a duffel bag that surely contains her work outfits, “let the crying begin.”
15
Scatter
His Bones
Someone is sobbing. Orr stands up in his closet before he’s even awake. He ducks when his scalp connects with one of the brass hooks near the door. Too late. It throbs. He’s walking before he sees the blood from his head on his hand. The sounds are getting worse, deep and ugly. Is this how it feels for people to hear him melt down?
There’s a light in the kitchen. It bounces off the freshly waxed avocado linoleum and turns the whole room green. Even Jane looks green kneeling there on the floor.
Orr knows he should hide before he knows why. He crouches in the dark hall to see Jane better. She doesn’t see him. She’s looking at Red.
Jane reaches for Red’s belt buckle. He smacks her hand away. “Get off, bitch.” His voice is incinerating. Orr looks for the imprint of Jane’s charred skeleton in the air. Dragon man. Evil Wyrm.
Orr stands and walks in. “Get of here,” he says.
“What the hell?”
“Leave!” Orr yells.
Red says something but all Orr hears is Jane. She’s back to life, furious. Furious. With . . . with him?
“Orr,” she says, standing. “Get out. Now.”
Red smirks. His face is pale as a pancaked clown’s, his red-dyed mohawk an ugly joke.
“Get out, Orr,” Red mimics in a high, silly voice.
Orr hates that. Hates mimicking so much. When he and Iph were kids, it was the one thing she could do that made him lose his cool. That and her icy feet.
“Get out now!” Red says again. His stupid cartoon voice is nothing like Jane’s.
Orr steps between Red and Jane. “You called her a name. You made her cry. You need to go.”
Red moves closer. So close, Orr can smell him. He smells like sex, Orr thinks. How does he know this? There’s a movie Mom loves, The Unbearable Lightness of Being. The wife smells another woman on her cheating husband’s face, in his hair. That’s what this fight is about.
“You lied to her,” Orr says. “You’re a cheater.”
Red pushes. Orr stands his ground.
Red lunges. Orr’s fist shoots out. Red is on him. A fist to his face. Spit in his eyes. Orr’s hands balled up, hitting back. Not stopping.
Hands clawing, pulling at his back. Orr shrugs the weight off his shoulders, a heavy cape of fur. His forehead throbs in twin points of pain. He bucks, turns, pushes. Jane! It’s Jane. She flies across the kitchen, lands at Mika’s feet.
“Get out.” Jane is crying. She’s not talking to Red, who is doubled over by the refrigerator. She’s talking to Orr. She’s rubbing her head, cradling her arm.
She is hurt.
Orr has hurt her.
“Leave, Orr. And don’t come back.”
16
My Graveyard
Antlers
Orr is Jane on the ground, the buckle on Red’s belt, Red’s spit running down his own face. He is the word bitch. He is his fist against the bone of Red’s skull. He is his own skull beating like a heart, and his bone-hard bare feet hitting the sidewalk stride after stride, running away from Penelope.
He flees to the cemetery to hide among the graves.
The moon reserves judgment.
The grass is cool.
His sister is somewhere in the city.
His sister.
His mother.
He lowers to all fours and retches.
He curls in a ball and rocks. Shame has fallen on his house, and now he is houseless.
Dad.
Fucking Dad.
Red.
Orr presses his head to the flat stone marker, its marble as cold as the moon.
He rubs his cheek back and forth on the gravestone as his breath slows. He bangs his head there, too, but gently. He sits. He aches but can’t cry. This pain is not for him, but for Jane. For the wrongness of her groveling before such an inferior person.
Jane on her knees.
The image is attached like a leech, somewhere loathsomely deep inside his body.
He sits up and braces his back against the headstone.
He reaches for something real. Digs his fingers into the grass. Planting himself.
The trees of Lone Fir Cemetery hum.
/>
They hold him in a lattice of root and dirt.
They acknowledge him, a fellow soul, breathing in the summer night.
Animal, boy.
Animal boy.
Animal desire.
Arousal like hunger.
Like the thirst Orr has for the wrong things: pond water and hot tubs, the droplets on the pink tiles of the bathroom at Penelope after one of the Furies has taken a shower.
Like being vegetarian, you can choose the right thing and reject what’s wrong. After a while, even the thought of meat will choke you. If he can suppress this want long enough, maybe it will go away.
But Orr is thirsty. And so, so hungry.
Just today, he’s eaten half a loaf of bread and the remaining peanut butter at Penelope and slurped a quart of chocolate milk. Even if Jane forgives him, it’s wrong to ask for more. He sees that now, what they’ve all given up to take care of him.
The trees whisper their approval. They know that sometimes a sacrifice is needed.
He reads the gravestone where he’s lying: anne jeanne tingry-le coz. She died in 1885.
“I’m sorry,” he tells her and lies with the damp grass under his back, hands folded like hers might have been in her coffin. Unlike Anne Jeanne, Orr can look up and see the sky. He tries to see it for both of them.
His eyelids grow heavy. He will sleep here with the moon and the dead.
He will send his soul to comfort them instead of dreaming.
He will wake in the morning and call his father.
He will go home.
17
The Opera
Studio
“Truth or dare?” Lorna calls from the kitchen.
“I’m not playing,” George says.
Lorna comes back into the living room with two gin and tonics. She sets them on the table and goes back for the third. How she’s seized power by serving them is something Iph is going to have to study later. Right now, she’s still stuck in the perfection of half an hour ago, no Lorna, slow dancing with George. At least the genius of Stanislavski’s sense memory technique is finally obvious. It’s all about having good enough physical memories. The feel of George’s hand on her back, the shiver of hip against hip—that could fuel an extended run on Broadway with even a lukewarm leading man.
Summer in the City of Roses Page 17
