Dictatorship of the Dress (9780698168305)

by Topper, Jessica

  “Why would she include Porno Catalano in her wedding collage?” I wondered if she would include pictures of my dad as well. “And what will Ernie think?”

  “Laney. Don’t you get it? Ernie is Porno Catalano.”

  “What? There’s no way Ernie is . . . is . . . what my mother always refers to as ‘Oh, that.’ No way.”

  “Apparently, he is ‘Oh, that,’ all that, and a bag of chips. You should see all the pictures he’s kept of her! Laney, he was her first . . . and now her third.”

  I felt the need to grab something solid, but the only thing near me was the damn card spinner rack. Full of Veraisms for every happy occasion, from Happy birthday to New baby to Congratulations on your new house/job/pet/kidney.

  I had been waiting years for an I’m sorry I kept you from the love of your life Veraism from my mother. Or even just a simple I trust and believe in you. But apparently, she reserved all her positive sentiments for her $2.99 cards, and I just wasn’t worth it.

  She couldn’t even be bothered to tell me anything.

  “Laney, are you still there? I probably should’ve waited to—”

  “No,” I said hoarsely. “It’s okay. I’m gonna go.”

  “You sure you’re okay?” I could hear Dani’s concern, genuine and gentle, drip through the phone.

  “Yeah. I gotta go.”

  Magazine forgotten, chocolate mission aborted, I fled the small store in a daze. But not before a swing of the garment bag, lethal as the sweep of Godzilla’s tail, took out the spinner rack like it was a Tokyo skyscraper just waiting to be leveled.

  New texts from Dani popped up immediately.

  Wait. Go WHERE?

  Laney. Don’t do anything drastic.

  Laney?

  EXIT ONLY, NO REENTRY BEYOND THIS POINT

  TICKETED PASSENGERS EXITING NOW WILL BE REQUIRED TO PASS THROUGH ADDITIONAL SECURITY SCREENING CHECKPOINT TO GAIN REENTRY

  I stood on the cusp, contemplating the warning signs. On this side of the sliding glass door, a plane would eventually pull up at a gate to take me on the last leg to my final destination. I would land and, with dress in hand, my journey would be over.

  Success.

  On the other side of the sliding glass door . . . was the trip I had never trusted myself to take.

  The journey would never be over if the questions stayed unanswered. But I was going to need more than a two-hour layover.

  “Welcome to the Los Angeles International Airport,” a seductive voice oozed from the loudspeakers. “Please do not leave bags unattended. They will be confiscated and may be destroyed. If you notice an unattended item or suspicious activity, immediately report it to airport personnel.”

  I pictured myself leaving the dress bag behind, abandoning it on the hook of a bathroom stall. Flags would be raised, alarms would be sounded; personnel would come running past me as I calmly exited the airport. The bomb-sniffing dogs would scramble by me, toenails clacking eagerly across the tiles, off to check it out.

  Whatever you do, do not, Laney. Do NOT. My mother’s words rattled vague warnings as well, but for once, my internal voice was louder than hers.

  Do not tell me what to do.

  I stepped onto the escalator, hauling the garment bag clear of the moving stairs. In my mind’s eye, I saw Noah standing at the bottom. Holding a sign like a valet—grinning that sheepish grin at our private joke—I’M ENGAGED.

  And then I saw Allen. Standing next to him, looking rock-god amazing. And holding a sign that said: WELCOME TO L.A., LANEY JANE. IT’S ABOUT TIME YOU GOT HERE.

  Noah

  WITS AND GUTS

  Tim waved his arm back and forth, palm out, to get the bartender’s attention, then raised his arm straight up and used the “rally” command to bring him over. “Two Hendertuckies, please.”

  “Nice to know arm-and-hand signals work in a crowded bar,” I quipped.

  “Shall I start a tab for you gentlemen?”

  “Please do.” I slid my AmEx toward the bartender. It was the “company” card Bidwell had given me to handle any wedding incidentals that fell into my lap, and I never saw the bill. It probably landed in some pile on a desk in Accounts Payable a month later and was paid with no questions even asked.

  Incidentally, I was going to use it to get good and drunk.

  “Where are the ground forces?” I asked Tim. I had arrived an hour before from the airport, only stopping to drop my bags in my room, and had come straight to the lobby bar to meet him.

  “Jules is playing craps; Mike and Nate went to see some bullshit over at the Bellagio.”

  “The fountain?”

  “Yeah, with all the lights and junk. It’s just you and me, Private.”

  Thinking about fountains made me think of Laney. Actually, I hadn’t stopped thinking about Laney for a moment. Not even on the casino floor, with all the sensory overload of bells clanging and glaring lights. And especially not while sitting at the Vesper Bar, with its million mirrors forcing me to look myself in the eye.

  The bartender set down two frothy red drinks in front of us, each spiked with a sprig of mint. “I’ve been drinking these things since I got here; they are off the chain,” Tim said, clinking my glass with his.

  “So you’re telling me you actually called things off with Sloane? In a phone call?” He shook his head and let out a slow whistle. “Aborting a mission of that magnitude takes balls, Noah.”

  I took a haul off my drink. “My balls were taken a long time ago, I’m sorry to say. What the hell is in this?”

  “No clue. Good, right? You could’ve told me, you know.”

  I took a long look up at the mammoth chandelier above our heads, as if the answers could possibly be hovering up there.

  “I didn’t want to admit I fucked up,” I finally said.

  “Noah,” Tim sputtered. “I was the definition of fuckup my entire childhood, you know that. It took enlisting to finally straighten me out, and there are still days I don’t know what direction I’m headed. You’ve always had that calm, cool, and collected thing going on, always landing on your feet and keeping your wits about you.”

  I gave a sardonic chuckle. He should’ve seen me upon waking and discovering Laney was gone.

  He continued. “It’s a survival skill I’ve admired . . . fuck, I’ve been jealous of you my whole life.”

  “See, and I’ve always envied how you go balls out and take no prisoners,” I countered. “You speak your mind and you don’t worry about how anyone’s going to take it. That’s guts.”

  “To wits and guts!” Tim toasted, and we touched glasses. “Yeah, you do tend to overthink things.”

  We worked our way through our drinks. I tasted rhubarb. And smelled a hint of wet dog. “I need to know what’s in this thing.”

  “See? There you go. You need to pick things apart and reassemble them so they make sense to you,” Tim pointed out.

  “No, I just want to know what the fuck I am drinking.”

  “Rumskey,” the bartender supplied. “Equal parts rum and whiskey. A little Aperol and Hum liqueur, a couple of drops of rhubarb bitters and lime juice, blueberry preserves . . . just a bar spoon. And a splash of egg white.”

  Aha, there was the wet dog. “Great, now I know what I’m going to throw up tonight.” I said, and raised my glass in thanks.

  “Tell me about her.”

  “Laney?”

  “Of course Laney. There’s nothing you can tell me about the rich hottie I don’t already know.”

  “I bet you didn’t know the rich hottie has declared herself a born-again virgin, awaiting her wedding night.”

  Tim’s mouth gaped like a flounder’s. “Um, hold that thought. Back to Laney.”

  “She . . . she’s like . . .” The glittering chandelier caught my eye once more, and I saw straight up th
rough it, crystal clear.

  “Laney’s like home,” I finished, looking Tim in the eye. “When I was with her, it just felt right. Easy and comfortable, but in a supercharged way. It’s not settling, by any means.” If anything, I had been settling when I succumbed to Sloane. “My dad once told me I would know the truth by the way it feels.”

  “And?”

  I unfolded Laney’s sketch from my pocket and smoothed it flat on the white marble bar in front of us. We both studied it for a moment. “The truth feels powerful,” I admitted.

  “Then you’ve got to blow this Popsicle stand and go after her, man. To hell with the two hundred guests, the invitations, the registry, the so-called virginity, and the future in-laws breathing down your neck. Hell, to hell with this stag week . . . as fun as it’s been, even without you, bro.” He bumped shoulders with me. “She’s your one-in-a-million girl.”

  I thought about the way she’d pulled me onto the dance floor the other night.

  “No,” I corrected. “Laney was once in a lifetime.”

  I didn’t need the fancy house, the nice car, or the too-beautiful wife like Sloane. Laney was all the fancy, nice, and beauty I needed. I could live in a shotgun shack with her, and I’d be happy. “But she left. There’s no way—”

  “There’s always a way,” Tim insisted.

  He ran his hand over the soft stubble of his crew cut, starting at the wicked Eddie Munster–widow’s peak in front, and down to the occipital bone in back that had been fractured during Taliban gunfire. I only knew the fancy name for it because of the JAMA and New England Journal of Medicine articles written about his case.

  My best friend was a walking, talking miracle, and I felt humbled just being in his presence, sitting with him and sharing a drink like two everyday normal dudes. I often wondered if it was how Warren had felt, every time he saw my dad on leave. If he sometimes felt undeserving, like I did.

  As if he had somehow hacked my thoughts, Tim gave me a one-armed bro hug. “Kauai’s a pretty small island. We’ll do some reconnaissance. With your wits—and your Platinum AmEx”—he tapped my card in the leather check holder with a grin—“combined with my guts and special ops training, we’re sure to find her. And I’d be proud to lead your platoon.”

  “I love you, man.”

  Tim straightened himself up to all six feet of him, his eyes darting like a hawk over my left shoulder.

  I saw his hand subtly rise and flick, and then he brought both hands toward his neck, mimicking taking aim of a tiny invisible rifle. I had to think back to the days of playing soldier in the backyard with my dad in order to interpret. They were “take cover, enemy approaching” kinds of moves.

  I slowly followed his gaze through the decadent lobby of the Cosmopolitan and felt icy dread buckshot through my center, leaving my heart leaden.

  Sloane and her parents were advancing straight for us. And gathered in my formerly betrothed’s arms was the enormous, unmistakable bulk of a bridal dress in a garment bag.

  I Sat by the Ocean

  Perhaps I am being overly optimistic, but I made you an appointment at the salon for Saturday morning along with the wedding party. Unless you’ve shaven it all off on a whim again? Is no news good news, because I haven’t heard from you all day. We’ll be at the airport 6 p.m. sharp.

  I ignored my mother’s latest text, just as I had ignored all of Noah’s, and set my mind on reaching the ocean.

  “Here we are, Santa Monica Pier. Told you I’d get you here in less than thirty,” my cabbie bragged.

  It wasn’t Los Angeles proper, but it was close enough.

  “Can I keep you on the clock? I won’t be long.”

  I couldn’t be long, as my money and my time were running low. We had passed a pawnshop after exiting the freeway, and I was half tempted to go hock the dress that had been dictating my every move since Tuesday. That would show my mother.

  The one who thought she could dictate my every move, and criticize my every choice, in perpetuity.

  The vast vista of beiges and blues of the Pacific greeted me with open arms.

  I would’ve preferred a bear hug.

  Laney and Allen, taking on L.A.! It’s like they named the city after us.

  Spreading the garment bag across the sand like a beach towel, I popped on my earbuds and brought up Three on a Match’s playlist.

  It was perfectious.

  • • •

  “Are you sure you’re ready for this?”

  “Please. We used to shave each other’s heads all the time back in high school, remember?” My voice was up an octave and sounded foreign to my ears. Keep it brave, Laney. Don’t let it waver. “Hand them over.”

  Allen relinquished the clippers with a grateful smile. “I’d rather nip it in the bud now. No pun intended. Because it gets everywhere once it starts to fall out.”

  That was right. He had been through this once before. Without me. He knew the deal.

  “You might want to lay some newspaper down, or that damn cat will be doing the hairball conga all night.”

  “Oh, you’re right.” I grabbed a week-old New York Times and spread it across the hardwood floor of our loft while our disinterested (for now) tabby licked a paw. “We can’t have that, now can we, Sister Frances?” I cooed at her.

  “You love that cat more than you love me, don’t you?”

  It was a fond, familiar exchange, one that we had had ever since I had spotted the cardboard box of kittens while sitting in standstill traffic on the Tappan Zee a year before. “Only you could convince the driver to open the tour bus door in twenty-degree weather on the middle of a three-mile-long bridge. Only you, Laney Jane!”

  I got “only you, Laney Jane!” a lot from Allen during that tour. Like the time he sent me to the store to buy gaffer tape for an emergency drum repair, and I came back with the fabulous fuchsia-and-black zebra print Duck Tape instead. “Only you, Laney Jane!”

  Between the band and the road crew, we had managed to find homes for the entire litter of kittens before the tour was over. But we had kept the littlest one for ourselves. “To test-drive,” Allen had reminded me with a smile.

  Was that really only a year back?

  The clippers buzzed to life in my hand, and I focused on my task.

  “Are you using the number two?”

  “Um, no. This one is the number four.” I touched down to the crown of his blond locks, trying to keep my hand from shaking. It had been a while.

  “The half-inch? I’m gonna look like a hedgehog.”

  “A cute hedgehog,” I assured him, leaning to kiss the freshly mowed strip.

  I tightened my grip on the clippers and began to move them steadily, finding my groove. Golden tufts sifted past his shoulders as we talked about music, about books, and just about everything but the reason why we were sitting in our loft while the sun streamed in, while the leaves fell down, while the band was midtour. While life was moving on around us and we were holding our breath and waiting.

  Those long, strong drummer’s fingers ran across the top of his head. “Too long, L.J. I told you number two.”

  “You sure?”

  “You’re gonna thank me when I’m not shedding all over the house and stopping up the drains.”

  Fine snips of hair mingled with the longer pieces on the floor. The new clippings were straighter and darker than the sun-kissed curls that he had let grow all summer. They scattered across the open news pages of the Travel section, covering photos of beaches and sunsets Allen and I would probably never see together. They fell across the faces of the musicians pictured in the reviews in the Arts section, who strutted across stages Allen might never again play on.

  “That’s probably my mother,” I said, as my phone buzzed for attention on the coffee table. “I’ll call her later.”

  Allen picked it up anyway. “He
llo, Mrs. Hudson,” he drawled, insisting on speakerphone even though he followed up with, “Laney can’t come to the phone right now. She’s shaving my head. You know. Because the chemo to keep me alive is making it fall out.”

  Silence followed, then sputtering like static through the speaker. “Tell her to save the hair for my garden. It will keep the rabbits out.”

  I plucked the phone from his hand, but there was no use in hanging it up; she had already disconnected the line.

  “I must be growing on her,” he said sarcastically. “She’s allowing me past the hedgerow.”

  Closing his eyes, he began to whistle Led Zeppelin’s “Stairway to Heaven” as I guided the clippers over his cowlick.

  “Shorter. Let’s go down to number one.”

  I didn’t question him. I simply swapped out the removable length guard with the shortest one and made another pass. The clippers were growing hot, numbing my fingers with their incessant vibration.

  My hands belonged to a woman thirty years older than me: red, dry, and raw from all the constant scrubbing and sanitizing. Protecting Allen’s compromised immune system was paramount. Even if I hadn’t quit Marvel, I wouldn’t have been able to draw. My knuckles cracked and bled every time I tried to grip a pencil.

  I rested my free hand on the side of Allen’s newly shorn scalp as I took care around his ears and down the back of his neck. Places I had kissed in the past. Places I would make sure I languished kisses upon that night. But first, it was my turn.

  “I’m gonna leave you a landing strip,” Allen joked, as the first pass of the clippers hungrily chewed through my shoulder-length shag haircut and spit long russet lengths of it to the floor. “You know I love you with a landing strip.”

  “And I love you,” I echoed. Tears pooled as I watched my hair mingle with his, smothering the black-and-white photos of happy newlywed couples in the Styles section.

  • • •

  I sat on the Santa Monica Beach and rolled Allen’s ring between my fingers, rubbing the stone and all its raised etchings. I hadn’t been without it since that night he’d given it back to me, ten years after I thought it had been lost to the million grains of sand on Quogue Village Beach. It would somehow be fitting to lose it here.