In the Palomar Arms

by Hilma Wolitzer

  Brady watches the commercials with the same rapt attention he gives to the shows. He actually seems to enjoy those mini-dramas of clogged drains and coffee nerves. He’s been inside for so many years; there are things advertised that he probably has never seen off that small screen. Can he imagine how a Chicken McNugget tastes? And what does he make of all the new “feminine hygiene” products they allude to so seductively but never really identify? If they’d been developed when Joe still had the store, he’d have had to keep them behind the counter along with the old-fashioned syringes and the inadequate contraceptives. Recently, in a Hollywood drugstore, he saw a woman casually throw a package of condoms into her basket, along with the mouthwash and Band-Aids.

  Sandra, who tried to dig her way to China when she was a child, will be walking in Peking soon.

  Why don’t they put old men like Brady on television and let them just relate what happened in their lives? What Studs Terkel puts in his books. The sponsors could sell aerosol cans of the real smell of women. Why not? Joe’s heard they’ve already got some with the odor of new cars. But they can’t can the thrill of first possession, of brand-new chrome and upholstery, the freedom of driving down a street toward some place you have not yet been. And even Donahue probably wouldn’t want to hear Brady’s stories, much less the rest of America.

  Daphne offered to feed Joe the other day. It may come to that eventually, but not yet, although he likes to look at her, to hear her voice.

  Today a troop of Girl Scouts came to distribute crafts they’d made to the patients. Their leader explained that the girls were earning proficiency badges this way. What useless, wonderful things they brought! Pen wipers, piggy banks, tea towels, key holders. The leader said that most of the materials they’d used were salvaged household goods: scraps of cloth and felt; wrinkled pieces of tinfoil; empty Clorox bottles. The girls said, “Hope you feel better soon!” and were gone in a green streak through the door.

  Once Joe made love to Adele in the back of the store, half-lying against cartons he’d cushioned first with towels and clumps of excelsior. He put the BE BACK SOON sign up, but someone hammered at the door anyway, and rattled the knob. Gasping, nearly strangling him, Adele said, “Maybe we should go. Maybe it’s an emergency.” But she only said it so it would be said.

  Oh, to be in China!

  There is a woman down the hall who is almost a hundred years old. She has a cold or la grippe, and everyone is talking about her as if the Titanic is going down, and they keep rushing in and out of the room. Why can’t they just let her go?

  Twice a week the physical therapist says, “Grip my hand. Harder! Come on, harder!”

  Brady shuts off the set and tells Joe about the enormous rats that used to come out of the holds of the ships. “Cat chasers,” he calls them. Rats with fists and fangs, and eyes like loading bosses. Somehow, he and a couple of other workers caught two of them and put them in a cage. The men were careless and young and didn’t think about the plague or anything like that. At night they brought their girlfriends down to the dock and made the rats snarl by poking them with sticks through the bars. The girls would scream and shut their eyes, but it always put them in the mood, Brady says.

  20

  ON SATURDAY MORNING, DAPHNE calls her friend Louise Weber in Los Angeles. Louise manages a bookstore in Beverly Hills where Daphne once had a part-time job, and they’ve hardly seen each other since her move to Ventura. They agree to meet at the Saks Fifth Avenue parking lot off Wilshire Boulevard at noon.

  Their subcompact cars look conspicuous there among the sleek Mercedes and Rolls-Royces, like grubby children at an elegant grownup party.

  “They might tow us away in a sudden antipoverty drive,” Louise says. She has her small daughter with her, although her former husband had promised to baby-sit so the women could really talk. “What could I do?” Louise asks. “That shithead always leaves me hanging at the last minute.” She glances down at Peyton, who is three. “But you’re going to be a good little girl and let Mommy talk to Aunt Daphne, aren’t you?”

  Peyton is noncommittal, or perhaps nonverbal. She also appears to be antisocial, and refuses to acknowledge Daphne’s presence as well as any supposed kinship between them. She lurks behind Louise’s legs and looks as if she’s trying to swallow her thumb.

  They go to a restaurant where shrimp salad is served in giant Lucite shells. Peyton crawls under the table and won’t be coaxed or ordered out. “It’s okay,” Louise says, dropping the tablecloth over her child. “She always freaks out a little when Don doesn’t show. She’ll get over it.”

  After the food arrives, Daphne tells Louise about the commitment Kenny has made to her, and that they plan to be married as soon as his divorce is final. It is such a relief to talk about it that she spills over with details.

  Louise is an excellent listener. She manages to feed Peyton tidbits under the table without diverting her attention from Daphne.

  “He’s on an overnight trip with them now,” Daphne explains. “And then her parents are going back to New York. As soon as they’re gone, he’s going to speak to his wife. They’ll start proceedings.”

  “What if she fights him on it?”

  “I don’t think she will. They’re both so miserable, and they’ve been that way for ages, before I even knew him. She probably wants to end it as much as he does. I guess it’s very hard to make the first move.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Don left a note on the refrigerator with a fruit magnet.”

  “God.”

  “Does his wife have somebody, too?”

  “No. He doesn’t think so, anyway.”

  “Mmm, better if she did. They have children, don’t they?”

  “That may be the only major problem,” Daphne says, poking at her salad. “Kenny’s a marvelous father. He wants to keep things very amiable, so that he gets shared custody. The only thing that scares him is losing his kids.”

  “That woman doesn’t know how lucky she is. You just have to pick the right wrong man, I guess.” Louise pauses, and then she says, “You’ll be sharing that custody, too, you know.”

  “I know,” Daphne says. “Kenny says that they’re great kids. They really look like great kids.”

  “Yeah, and Auschwitz looked like Disneyland.”

  “That’s not very funny.”

  “No, it’s not. I’m sorry, Daphy, I’ll be good. Listen, hey, congratulations!” She leans across the table and kisses Daphne’s forehead. “You’re a bride-to-be, as my mother used to say.”

  “I haven’t even told my mother yet. I haven’t really told anyone until now.”

  “Smart move.” And when Daphne flinches, Louise says, “Let’s celebrate. We’ll have some wine, on me.”

  Daphne glances around the restaurant, which is mostly filled with well-dressed, chatting women, shopping bags at their sides. She wonders if Joy ever has lunch here. Peyton moves restlessly against her legs. “Not today, thanks. We’ll do it when it’s official. It will be more of a celebration then.”

  “Do you want to go shopping or anything, while you’re in town?”

  “That’s what she does.”

  “Who?”

  “Joy. Kenny’s wife. He says she spends half her life on Rodeo Drive.”

  “A compulsive shopper. I’ve never had the pleasure, or the money. The shops are a real kick, though.”

  “I’ve looked in windows, but I haven’t ever been inside the fancy places.”

  “You haven’t? My God, Daphne, we’ll have to expand your experience. Come on, we’ll start your trousseau.”

  “Forget it, Louise. I can’t afford those shops, either. Kenny says it’s like setting fire to money.”

  “So we won’t buy anything. We’ll just browse.”

  “Like this?” Daphne indicates their similar jeans and T-shirts, her own clogs that she now sees are badly scuffed.

  “Oh, sure. They’ll think we’re millionaires. The real rich always wear disguises. Did you think t
hey wear their old tiaras when they go shopping for new tiaras?” She leans under the table, lures Peyton out with a breadstick.

  As they enter the first boutique, so many of Daphne’s senses are assaulted at once that it takes a few minutes before she can sort everything out.

  It’s cave-cool, of course, and darker than the sun-bleached street. Muted music, a punk-rock group singing the same undecipherable phrase over and over again, sounds as if it’s coming from everywhere: ceiling, walls, floor. There’s a wonderful scent that reminds Daphne of hotel soaps and greenhouses. She inhales it deeply, as if it might make her high. Her own perfume seems as blatant as an air-freshener. She takes another hit of the fragrant room and looks around. The clothing glimmers and winks, shivers and purrs. Pewter and bronze and silver predominate. There are sequins and jet beads; velvets, silks, and suedes; and brocaded fabrics that look like medieval museum hangings. There are vulgar belts—twisted satin ribbons snarled with seashells and rhinestones, and feathers that must have been plucked from living, screaming birds.

  Everything demands to be touched, and yet is forbiddingly untouchable. When Daphne finally works up the nerve, and puts her fingertips to a smoke-colored leather pouch, its texture is shocking, like the powdery-soft skin of the old women at the Palomar Arms. “What if they wait on us?” she whispers to Louise, who shrugs and touches everything in sight.

  But the shop is active and they don’t draw attention. Rich women, not disguised at all, are being cared for by saleswomen who look rich themselves. Everyone seems vaguely familiar or famous to Daphne, as if each woman is a composite of Barbra Streisand, Barbara Walters, and Cher. When she realizes that she and Louise are being ignored, she relaxes a little. The music has a rocking, hypnotic beat. What are they singing? Gotcha baby on the ram run? Watcha gimme for my man, son? Whatever it is, Daphne finds herself humming and moving with it, gaining confidence. She gently handles the sleeve of a perishable pale shirt, looking for the price tag. She wants to read some prices; for some insane reason, the idea excites her. But she can’t find the tag. It’s not dangling from the other sleeve, either, and it’s not inside the collar. Where do they hide them? Maybe you have to ask, so someone can say what what’s-his-name—Vanderbilt? Morgan?—said about the cost of a yacht: “If you have to ask, you can’t afford it.”

  Peyton starts to touch the clothing, too, without Daphne’s reverent regard. She simply wallows and winds herself in a row of skirts, making a cloth mother- substitute while Louise is occupied. She gains them the attention they’ve been avoiding, and soon they’re in another shop, with different music—the Waitresses, this time, singing “I Know What Boys Like”—and a different, but related, scent. This boutique serves chilled white wine to its customers. Louise takes the proffered glass, but Daphne is already drunk with sensation. She discovers the prices of things hidden deeply and discreetly inside sleeves, and under hems, and is pleased to see that they are as astronomical as she’d suspected. She spends such a long time looking at one delicately iridescent sweater that a saleswoman pulls it from the rack on its gilded hanger and leads Daphne to a dressing room before she can protest. “I’m Millicent. Call me when you’re ready,” the saleswoman says, a provocative command, and then she leaves, flinging the curtains shut. The three walls of the enclosure are mirrored, and the lighting is subtly different here. Daphne’s skin looks peachier, the sweater the color of raw sugar. She is bra-less, and after she takes off her T-shirt, she looks at herself for a long time. She is not usually this vain. Now she can’t get enough of her own reflection, reflections. She spreads and raises her arms so that her breasts are rounder and the nipples flattened. So this is what Joy does, Daphne thinks. She puts the sweater on then, because Millicent might come back and ask her what she’s doing, and why she hasn’t called yet. It is almost weightless against her skin, and is a flawless fit. She has never worn anything like it, has never been so conscious of a piece of clothing before. Does Joy feel this sensual in the dressing rooms of these shops? And does she become frigid only when she has to leave those multiple rhapsodic visions of herself? I’m losing my mind, Daphne decides. Something in the fragrance or in the air conditioning intoxicates and causes delusions. Using only minor contortions, she finds the price tag on the sweater. Three hundred and twenty dollars! It doesn’t even have long sleeves. In ordinary light, it’s probably an ordinary beige.

  The curtains of the dressing room are pulled open, and Daphne begins preparing her defense against a sales pitch. The sweater is too tight, too loose, the wrong color, and it itches.

  But Louise is standing there, with Peyton tucked under one arm, like a parcel. “Oh, wow,” Louise exclaims.

  “I was just going to take it off,” Daphne says. She giggles. “Three hundred dollars,” she whispers. “Three twenty.”

  “Criminal,” Louise says. “My mother could go to Yarn City and make it for ten bucks.”

  “They’re crazy. That’s more than a month’s rent for my place in Ventura. Oh, Louise, I want it.”

  “Then take it.”

  “Are you kidding? I can’t afford—”

  “I didn’t say buy it, dummy. I said take it.”

  Daphne pulls the sweater off quickly, and puts her own T-shirt on. She is so upset she stutters. “N-n-never! I c-couldn’t.” It’s freezing in the dressing room and she starts to tremble.

  Louise shifts Peyton a little and takes the sweater from the wall hook where Daphne has tossed it, inside out. Without ceremony, she shoves it into her shoulder purse and opens the dressing-room curtains.

  Daphne dances after her, hissing, and poking at Louise’s shoulders and back.

  When they’re in the center of the busy shop, Daphne, even in her distraction, notices that her saleswoman is turned away, waiting on someone else.

  Louise hands her purse to Daphne, saying, “Hold this a minute.” Then she sets Peyton down suddenly and pinches the little girl’s arm, hard. “Beat it,” Louise tells Daphne, who walks swiftly forward and out the door as Peyton starts to scream.

  Daphne still feels faint as they stand together in the Saks parking lot. She wonders how she’ll be able to drive back to Ventura. “We could have been arrested,” she says. “We might still be.” She looks all around her. “Poor Peyton.” Poor Steven and Molly. She reaches her hand out to touch Peyton’s damp cheek. The child has stopped sobbing. She just shudders occasionally and fingers the roll of Life Savers Louise has given her.

  Louise opens her purse and hands the sweater to Daphne.

  “I can’t keep this, you know. I’ll mail it back to them,” Daphne says. “Tell them it was a mistake, a crazy impulse. What’s the name of that place, anyway? I’ll take the money out of the bank and pay for it. How much is it with the tax?”

  Louise smiles. “Wear it in good health,” she says. “Be happy.”

  21

  HE HAS NEVER LIKED airports. There is so much restrained panic, so much denial. People who don’t truly believe that planes can go up in the air and stay there ask eagerly about the in-flight movie in the nonsmoking section, and if they can have window seats. When flights are delayed, passengers wander into gift shops looking for something they can convince themselves they want or need. Some of that stuff could never be sold anywhere else, except maybe in hospitals.

  Today the place is especially difficult and chaotic. That morning the air-traffic controllers agreed to go out on strike. Many flights have been canceled, and all of them are late. Gus and Frances are still scheduled to go, but Kenny knows that anything can happen. If they have to stay in L.A. longer, it would be a kind of reprieve. Would Daph hold him responsible in some way?

  A crated dog yelps and yelps for freedom, and there are too many people milling around, and too many excited children, including Kenny’s own. Only foreign-speaking adults seem to be having earnest and important conversations. Because he can’t understand them, Kenny feels cheated of the diversion of eavesdropping. He wants to hear the enlightening secrets of other,
unknown lives. Those who speak English reveal only their worry about canceled planes, or say inane things like “Do you have your boarding passes?” and “Don’t forget to call tonight.” The travelers are overloaded with hand luggage, like refugees fleeing a besieged city. Those here to see them off are empty-handed, ready to wave goodbye.

  Although a delay was guaranteed, Joy had insisted on being early—she always insists on being early—and that adds to the restless period of waiting. They all stare up at the Arrivals and Departures board, watching the deletion of other flights, listening to the groaning response of the crowd.

  Kenny has bought Frances a mixed bouquet of long-stemmed flowers at an airport stand. They lie across her lap now, their heads drooping, their stems moistening her skirt through the soaked green paper. He sees how cumbersome they’ll be during the five-hour flight, and imagines them wilting in the darkness of an overhead bin. What kind of amateurs will be trying to guide the planes safely out and in?

  He has already taken Steven to the men’s room twice, where the boy sat on the toilet asking shrill irrelevant questions and doing nothing else. On their third trip, Kenny is impatient and irritable. “Come on, Steven,” he says. “If you’re not doing anything, let’s go!” As if they’re late instead of early. As if he would rather be outside with the others, fostering his own anxiety. As always, Steven picks up on his father’s mood. He complains of a stomachache. But he plays with the paper dispenser while he sits there swinging his legs, and then with the electric hand dryers after Kenny pulls him up and out of the stall. Another little boy, with his father, fools with the soap dispenser. The two men exchange rueful smiles, and Kenny has an intuition that the other man is divorced or separated. Back in the main waiting room, Steven wails loudly and piteously, “Daddy, you didn’t let me finish! I have to move my bowels!” Fucking nursery school, Kenny thinks as an elderly woman glares at him.