Summer in the City of Roses

by Michelle Ruiz Keil

  After breakfast with Lorna, on their own again on the walk back to Taurus Trucking, George told Iph Nana’s story—how her father came to Oregon to work the railroads and how her grandmother had been a picture bride from Japan. When Nana was fifteen, her family was uprooted and sent to a Japanese American internment camp in Minidoka, Idaho. George stopped at that part—stood still, eyes down. “She told me before she died. From what she said, it was like a prison. Growing up, my mom barely knew about it. Like, she knew it happened, but not anything else. My great-aunts don’t talk about it, either. Like they’re ashamed. Like it was their fault.”

  “I never heard about it in school,” Iph said. “I only know because of my parents.”

  “I got like one paragraph in middle school,” George said. “I don’t know why, but I didn’t connect it with my own family.”

  “What happened after the war?”

  “She stayed in Idaho a while, got married to a louse at seventeen who left her after two years, then a nice but boring guy who died six months later. After that, she swore off husbands and became a truck mechanic—the one woman in her trade-school class. That was how she met her true love. She helped him fix a stubborn carburetor.”

  George said Nana wore orange lipstick with her grease-covered overalls and got a manicure every Friday after work, even though it was usually wrecked by Monday night. Nana’s third husband, George’s grandpa, was also called George. Nana and Grandpa George had George’s mom, an only child. There was a typical George-style silence at this part. “My mom won’t tell me who my dad is. She married my stepdad when I was three. Her drinking got bad when he deployed. In rehab, she found Jesus. Met husband number two. And suddenly, it was clear who my dad must have been.”

  They’d gotten home by that point and were in the bathroom together, brushing their teeth. How had that become a thing? “Wait, who’s your dad?”

  “Well, if I’m as evil and degenerate as my mom seems to believe, it can only be one man . . . ”

  “Ah, Satan! I see.” They laughed the way you laugh about abortion protesters and Republicans who think condoms in schools make kids into sex fiends. But George didn’t bother to hide the hurt there, the bitterness.

  Now Iph has to pee. She tiptoes around George and peeks out the window—it’s evening, not morning. And there is an ugly brown pickup pulling into the Taurus Trucking parking lot.

  “George!”

  George bolts up and is at the window in an instant. Car doors slam shut. Feet pound up the unused back stairs.

  George pulls jeans and a T-shirt over heart-printed boxers. Voices bounce up through the open windows. A woman’s. A man’s. Too late, Iph remembers that she, too, should get dressed, but the door is opening. She grabs the afghan from the floor.

  “Georgina Marie!” The woman is shorter than George and almost as pretty, with dark bobbed hair and a pink cardigan—total PTA president. Or based on what George said last night, the church-lady equivalent.

  The man is wearing cowboy boots, a baseball cap, and a gross mustache. Iph is certain there is a combed-over bald spot under the Oakland Raiders cap and a Bush-Quayle sticker on his overcompensatingly large truck.

  “What are you doing here?” George says. Scout is on edge, doing her big-pit routine.

  The man notices Iph. George’s mom turns to her a split second after. When you ask people what the most important element of a play is, most will say writing or acting. Yes, those are essential. The set, too. But more than all of this, Iph has always been a firm believer in the power of costume.

  If she were to set a scene where she wanted to show two worlds colliding in the most disturbing way, she would have dressed George’s mom and stepdad exactly the way they are dressed and put herself, the surprise element, in the thin white slip that is so much more transparent in daylight than it was in last night’s dark apartment. She would have styled her curls into a wanton mess. Even Iph’s bare feet somehow scream lesbian sex—even though she and George only talked before falling asleep that morning in separate nests.

  “Hi,” Iph says, channeling one of her favorite characters from the dated collection of plays on her drama teacher’s bookshelf—the free-spirited hippie Jill from the sixties dramedy Butterflies Are Free. She bats her eyes and smiles.

  George shoots her a look. Panic retreats. Understanding dawns. This is their show. They can direct it. Iph has George’s back.

  “Georgina, did you break into Nana’s apartment?”

  “It’s my apartment, Brenda. Remember the will?” George’s tone is even. So far so good.

  “That will is still being contested,” George’s mom says.

  The man is leaning in the doorjamb with his armpit exposed. It’s a pose that says I’m releasing my stink on all of you, and there’s nothing you can do about it. “Your nana was a little senile there at the end,” he says.

  “No, Gary. She wasn’t. And I’d appreciate it if you’d both leave.”

  “So you can party all night in poor Nana’s house doing God knows what?” George’s mom stares at the empty gin bottle like she might set it on fire with her eyes.

  “Brenda,” George says, “that’s pretty rich coming from you. But whatever. You still need to go.”

  The husband pushes past Brenda and George with a leave-the-women-to-fight-it-out look and heads purposefully toward the door leading down to the garage.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Scout’s accompanying growl tells Iph all she needs to know about how pissed George is.

  The man doesn’t answer but goes on his way.

  “Why are you here?” All of George’s untold stories are distilled in the question that is actually a warning.

  Brenda tucks her hair behind her ears and shifts in her pristine white mules. “Bob wanted to borrow a few tools from downstairs, is all. To work on the truck.”

  “Did he lose his job again?” George’s voice is a notch softer.

  Iph knows from growing up with her dad that tools are worth a lot of money and easy to sell secondhand.

  Brenda picks up the gin bottle from the coffee table. Sets it down again. “I can’t believe you’d desecrate Nana’s home.” In the movie version of this, Brenda’s tone would be nasty. Here, it’s shaky, sad, and afraid. Then her eyes slide to Iph, and there it is—judgment. Maybe even disdain?

  Iph’s breath catches. Being branded with a scarlet A is both awful and strangely exhilarating. Hester Prynne is a role that’s always interested her.

  “Get out.” George’s voice has taken the register of Scout’s low growl. It’s a new side of George, a little scary. “Brenda, you don’t want to mess with me. I promise. I still know things Gary doesn’t.”

  Brenda pales and backs away before turning to head out the door, her steps clicking like animal claws down the wooden stairs. George watches the parking lot. Iph hears a car door slam.

  “Go get dressed, but stay up here,” George says. “I’m going down to deal with Gary. He’s not taking my tools—Nana’s tools—because he lost his temper and got fired from another shady car lot.”

  “Just a second.” Iph grabs a Nana sweater from the recliner and shoves her bare feet into her boots. “You’re not going down there alone.” But George doesn’t wait. Iph struggles with the laces, then the arm of the sweater. She pounds down the narrow staircase. The light in the garage is diffuse. Gary is fumbling in a toolbox, his back to the stairs.

  George is standing, feet apart, bow and arrow ready, waiting for him to notice.

  Iph opens her mouth to say something. Physical violence was not part of the danger she considered here. But looking at George, at Scout, even the way Brenda left and got in the truck, violence has always been a part of this scene. It’s come to Taurus Trucking with this man.

  Gary glances up and goes straight back to digging. There’s already a pile of tools on the workbench
.

  “Gary, get off this property. I’m warning you.”

  “Shoot me and you’ll go straight to juvie. Maybe even grown-up lady jail. Or wait, I guess they have to send you in with the men, George. The rest of the guys are gonna love you.”

  He turns, neck out, head cocked, like this is the wittiest thing in the world. Scout barks . . . and lunges for the asshole’s ankles. Before Iph or George can move to grab her, the man has pushed Scout away with his boot and then, though she doesn’t lunge again, kicks her across the room.

  Iph is there a moment before Scout lands, or is it the moment after? The timeline is scrambling and she’s both holding the dog and running toward her, unsure how badly she’s hurt. Scout’s high-pitched scream of pain bounces off the walls for longer than it seems like it should. Like there are multiple keening animals in the room. The sound mixes with the man’s profanity—ostensibly English, but Iph can’t understand it; she can only perceive the singe of Scout’s pain and her own fear for all of them. In less than the space of a breath, Iph understands why George goes around with the bow and arrows.

  Scout is in her arms, and she turns just in time to see it—the muscles in George’s back flexing like wings, the arrow flying in slow motion through the dim garage, the sound like scissors cutting hair when the arrow pierces the Oakland Raiders cap and pins it to the wall.

  The head is balder than anticipated. Blood trickles down. A nick.

  Everything stills.

  Then, all at once: movement. Scout wriggles out of Iph’s arms and is at George’s side again, barking. Gary is shouting. Iph understands the words now. A river of acid—the most misogynistic, hateful rant she’s ever encountered. The sound bounces off the painted metal walls. The side door to the garage unlocks and opens.

  A woman stands in the doorway with a toddler on her hip and a baseball bat in her hand. It’s the neighbor lady. A man holding a newspaper follows her in, trailed by a little girl.

  “Oooh!” the girl says, seeing the painted walls. The oohs turn to squeals when she sees Scout.

  “Is there a problem here?” The man moves his daughter behind him. She peeks out around his legs.

  “Just a family disagreement,” Gary says. George is pale. Iph knows exactly what to do. What Mom would do. She ignores Gary and speaks to the neighbors.

  “This man is here uninvited and attempting to take tools that don’t belong to him.” Iph lowers her voice so that the daughter, who’s being licked all over by Scout, doesn’t hear the next part. “He kicked my friend’s dog. He needs to leave. We don’t have a phone here. Can we use yours to call the police?”

  “Iph,” George hisses. Iph ignores it. The mom of this family is like her mom. These people are not on Gary’s side.

  “This building belonged to my wife’s mother. I came over here to check on things and found these kids. They must have broken in.”

  “That’s not how I understand it,” the mom says. “I’m Ellie Crawford Ford, by the way. Civil rights attorney and mother.”

  “John Crawford Ford,” her husband says. “Public defender. And, uh, dad to these hooligans.” He smiles toward his kids and extends a hand to George. “A family friend of yours, Kyle Murphy, asked us to keep an eye on this place while he was out of the country. Said it was willed to his stepkid and some relatives weren’t happy about that. Gave us this extra set of keys in case.”

  “Murphy did that?” George is shaking.

  “Yep.” The woman smiles. Laugh lines form around her dark eyes. The toddler pulls on her cornrows and puts the beaded end of one braid in his mouth.

  “Kid’s underage,” Gary tries.

  “I’m almost eighteen,” George says.

  “It’s a gray area.” Ellie Crawford Ford smiles. “You, however, have no legal right to be on the premises. And I have to say”—she hands the baby to her white, long-haired, spectacled husband—“I didn’t like the language I heard coming in my kitchen window a few minutes ago. I was concerned an assault was taking place over here. Which is why I brought my bat.” She swings it lightly. Her bicep is impressive. George is grinning now. “This one is such a quiet neighbor. We never hear a peep. So you can imagine how worried we were.”

  The man looks at all of them now, and Iph sees it click. This interracial lawyer couple and their kids. George and Iph and Scout. They’re what he’s afraid of. The change he goes to church and the rifle range to keep at bay.

  He shakes his head in a fake-pious, I’ll pray for you but you’re going to hell way and takes his time walking out.

  The air in the room brightens. Or maybe it’s Iph’s glasses, which she’s taken off and cleaned with Nana’s sweater.

  The little girl hugs Scout around the neck. “I don’t like that man,” she says.

  “Me neither.” Iph smiles at her.

  “Smart kid,” George says.

  “You knew I was here?” George asks the Crawford Fords.

  “Were we not supposed to know?” Ellie furrows her brow. “Wait, have you been living here?”

  George takes an unconscious step back. John steps in to stanch the fear in the room. “It’s fine,” he says. “Murphy said you were staying with a relative, but this is your place. I don’t see why you shouldn’t stay here.”

  “When do you turn eighteen?” Ellie puts a hand on George’s shoulder. Iph suddenly realizes George is still holding the bow.

  “May.” George looks down. “Almost a year from now.”

  “Well, you could have a great case for becoming legally emancipated. I’m not sure if that would secure you the right to manage your inheritance—that’s not my area. But I have a friend I could hook you up with. They owe me one—I’ll make sure it’s pro bono.”

  “Wow,” George says. “Thank you. Should I . . . come by and ask about that later?”

  “Sure,” she says. “Or I’ll stop by when I find out.”

  “Are you like Robin Hood?” the little girl asks, looking up at George with wide excited eyes.

  “Yes,” Iph says before George can answer. “Just like Robin Hood.”

  21

  Like A

  Wild Orchid

  Orr wakes in his little closet from a dream of running with the ghost dogs. Today is cooler, and because of that, he has slept a little too long. His forehead aches like two beating hearts. There are bumps now, one on each side. He hoped he was done with the head thing. It upsets everyone so much. But he’s not trying to harm himself. It’s something he needs to do to readjust. To process what has happened and figure out what to do next.

  As always these days, he is hungry and thirsty. And a weird mix of bouncy and tired. When Orr was little, this mood boded poorly for his coming day at school. He’d do the wrong thing, either accidentally or on purpose. Either way, it had been exhausting for the entire family. What a relief it had been to leave that behind and stay home with Mom.

  But this past year, even at home, he’s had the bouncy-tired feeling most days, and there’s been nothing to do about it except run and sleep. He’s even fibbed to Mom sometimes about how he spends his days when she takes classes in Portland or spends hours out in her studio. Most of it was watching X-Files episodes he’d taped on the VCR, living a life of purpose as an FBI agent investigating the paranormal through Mulder and Scully. It was almost enough.

  In the living room, Mika is doing push-ups. On the coffee table is a stack of the zines she made to pass out at tonight’s show. The cover is a blown-up picture of Red’s face. Mika wasn’t kidding when she said she’d plaster Portland with it. It’s titled THE FURIES. And below that is the excellent subtitle: Assholes to Avoid: Portland’s Worst Boyfriends.

  “You know it’s funny you guys are the Furies, right?”

  “Huh?” Mika puffs out the final set. She is such a badass.

  “In Greek mythology, the Furies are after Orestes. They want
to kill him.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, you know—Greek tragedy stuff. He killed his mom because she killed his dad because he killed their daughter, Iphigenia. Same name as Iph. Only the daughter didn’t die. She got a last-minute save from Artemis.”

  “Whoa. That’s twisted. Why’d your parents name you guys after such a bloodthirsty family?”

  “I don’t think they’re bloodthirsty. Just tragic. The names are from Dad’s side of the family. His brother, who died young, was Orestes. And his grandmother, who was, like, his favorite person in the world, was Iphigenia. He and Mom decided the real people were more powerful than the mythical ones.”

  “Orestes—that’s what Orr is short for? I thought it was iron ore or something volcanic, since you said your mom’s kind of a hippie.” Mika sits up and stretches. She has a whole preshow workout. “The Furies did try to catch up with you last night, you know. You should run track. I left maybe twenty seconds after you bailed, but you totally smoked me.”

  “I did?”

  “Yeah. And Allison went after you in the van.”

  “Oh.”

  “Orr. You’re a great kid. If I had a little brother, you’re the one I’d want. We all would.”

  Orr looks away and fights the urge to walk over to Mika and press his head into her shoulder. She’s not big on physical affection. “I am someone’s little brother,” he says softly. “But it’s like my sister and I both forgot.”

  “I’m a twin,” Mika says. “My sister and I go weeks without talking. We used to be together all the time. When she went away to college, I was devastated for, like, months. But then I started making zines and got into playing drums. Last year I met Allison and Jane. Now I love my life. And I don’t know if I would’ve found it if Layla hadn’t made the break for both of us.”

  There’s something so true in this. For the whole family, maybe—him and Iph and Mom and Dad. “When do we leave for the show?”