Lingerie For Felons

by Ros Baxter

  Oh no. From the frying pan into the fire.

  ***

  I stood, paralyzed, with my key in the lock, wondering if they could have heard the telltale click. Was it too late to flee? My indecision was my undoing. Before I could run, Clark was at the door, one hand solicitously at my elbow, simultaneously ushering me inside and blocking my escape.

  ‘Hi Corny, hi Puppy,’ I croaked.

  Corny is short for Cornelius. And his Mom’s name really is Puppy. It’s not a nickname, although sometimes I wonder if it’s code for ‘shoot the rabid bitch before she bites one of the children’. I tried to ask about the origin of the name once, early on, but everyone just looked at me blankly, like I’d asked where the name Anne came from.

  Puppy was upon me. Judging by the slick glimmer in her eye, I guessed she was on her third or fourth martini. She was tsking and smiling but her eyes were flashing fire.

  ‘You poor thing,’ she drawled. Her affected Lawn Guyland accent stabbed prickles into the back of my neck. ‘Clark told us all about your spawt of trouble. Clark, get the girl a tea. Or a cawfee. Better not mix her a drink though, we need her sober for tonight.’

  That’ll make one of us, I thought.

  Puppy tended to talk slow and loud to me. And look, I don’t want to bang my own drum here, but I do have a doctorate in pure math. There are astronauts who aren’t as smart as I am. Puppy, on the other hand, can’t spell breast implant. I know, because I once saw a notation she’d made on a cheque stub.

  His Dad was more direct.

  ‘Well, pretty fuckin’ stupid behavior today, ay, Lola? Fuckin’ hysterical girls. All their fuckin’ glass ceilings and affirmative action and suffragette shit.’ He shuddered, and crossed himself, like he always did whenever he thought too closely about the dark arts practised by women. ‘You shoulda thought twice, Lola. This thing tonight was important before, but now…’ He beamed at Clark like his son had just made the cover of Forbes Richest. ‘Now we need ta get out there and do some serious schmoozing, eh?’

  Clark cleared his throat but didn’t say anything to his father. Corny had made his money with a chain of low rent sex shops, but he’d moved out of them, since they got respectable and moved to the Island. Now it was all real estate.

  I said it to myself inside my head, over and over. Corny and Puppy. Corny and Puppy. Ever since Mom planted that ‘Porny’ and ‘Cuppy’ stuff in my head I’ve known I’m going to blurt it out one day. I should never have told her about the sex shops and the boob job.

  I smiled as sweetly as I could manage at his parents. ‘Is Amy going?’

  A nerve started to jump in Puppy’s jaw, in exactly the same place as Clark’s.

  Corny snorted. ‘As if we’d ask that fuckin’ godbotherer and her hippy husband. Who the fuck calls their kid Judas?’

  Puppy huffed softly. ‘Leave the grandkids out of it, Cawny. You know she only called him Judas ‘cause they’re working through the disciples.’

  ‘Anyway, she’s nuthin,’ Corny insisted. ‘Long as Lola behaves herself, we’ll be alright.’ He turned to me, shaking a pudgy finger. ‘You get it, right Lola? You can’t be pulling anymore of this crap of yours if Clark’s going to get anywhere in this town. People won’t have it. You need to be...careful. Yeah, you need to be careful.’

  You know, I never thought that Clark was anything like his Dad.

  Until that exact minute, as my discussion with Clark the night before played back in my mind.

  Clark gets serious — Clark’s apartment; last night

  ‘And anyway, so I guess we’re going to need to be a bit careful, you know. If we... If I go ahead with this. There’ll be certain…expectations.’ Clark wasn’t meeting my eyes, and I felt my vision tunnel down to a narrow window.

  ‘What do you mean?’ I asked carefully. I suspected he wasn’t talking wardrobe.

  Clark knew I’d become deeply suspicious of his horse whisperer voice, so he was trying not to draw too much attention to himself by using it now. But he did employ a really careful, light tone when he answered. ‘Oh, nothing major, Lola. Nothing to worry about. You haven’t been in any trouble for years anyway.’

  ‘This is about me?’ I pointed at my chest. ‘What the hell has it got to do with me?’

  ‘Come on, Lola,’ he wheedled. ‘You’re smart. You know partners of candidates…’

  I rolled my eyes.

  He coughed. ‘Sorry. You know that even girlfriends of candidates get a fair amount of scrutiny. Sometimes as much as the candidate themselves. We just need to make sure we don’t do anything too…inflammatory. You know the city’s a bit of a powder keg right now.’

  ‘Oh, right.’ I affected an easy-going tone. ‘We? ‘Cause you’re always rushing off doing such inflammatory things. I’m guessing you actually mean me. Sure, so what should I do then? Make some cookies? Start a charity? Lick leaflets? What about my career?’

  ‘Come on, Lola. You know I don’t you expect to do any of that stuff. But don’t start with me about your career. You don’t even know what you want to do.’

  ‘So what, Mr Very-important-almost-a-candidate-for-political-office? I’m doing something now, Mr Getting-ahead-of-himself-still-a-junior-public-defender. I have my teaching. And lots of somethings on the side. What about my groups?’

  He made a ‘tsk’ sound with his tongue, so I continued in case he didn’t understand. ‘New Yorkers for Drug Reform? The legalization of marijuana is a serious public health issue. What about my new arrivals centre?’

  ‘Lola, stop. Don’t be silly. We’re getting ahead of ourselves. It might not happen.’

  ‘But what if it does?’ I challenged. ‘What are you going to do? Gag me? Put me under house arrest? Propose?’

  He was suddenly very quiet. Something moved in the air between us. All the oxygen seemed to evaporate from the air and I almost choked.

  ‘Propose?’ I squeaked. ‘You’re thinking we should get married if you get endorsed? Are you freakin’ serious?’

  ‘It’s not such a crazy idea, Lola,’ he quietly started. ‘We’ve been together for three years now. We live together. We have a great time. I love you.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ I agreed. ‘All that. But marriage? I’m not a…’ I searched for the right word, ‘…prop. I’m not a prop. And I don’t even believe in marriage. It’s ludicrous. Outmoded. A patriarchal ploy.’

  ‘It was good enough for your parents,’ he insisted. ‘And mine.’

  ‘That’s not a good analogy,’ I countered. ‘Your parents hate each other. And mine got pregnant with Emmy. Anyway, they were different times.’

  ‘Lots of people don’t think those times were so very different,’ he went on.

  ‘You mean lots of voters,’ I’d retorted.

  And so it had gone on.

  Long into the night.

  Chickening out — Clark’s apartment; December, 2001

  I shook my head to dispel the memory, to bring myself back to Corny and Puppy. I imagined moving around the ballroom with Clark and his family, faking nice. Knowing what they thought of me. Knowing how much I worried them, and worried Clark too. How could I do it, after the precinct, and after Wayne? I needed some time. But surely I had to go. My tummy turned and churned as my brain tried on different possibilities.

  Then Corny snorted at me. ‘Come on, Lola, for fuck’s sake. Go get dressed.’

  There was nothing for it.

  ‘Oh, Corny,’ I purred, as genuinely as I could. ‘I’m really sorry but I just —’

  Corny humphed. ‘No excuses, girl,’ he said. ‘This is our shindig. We’re hosting it. I’ve forked out a motza for this black tie circus. And now that Clark’s running, it’s all set, eh? We can use it to announce.’

  I shrugged softly, going for helpless. ‘You won’t believe this. I have just, this moment, got my period. And of course I’d still go…’ I leaned right in close to Corny, who shuddered and backed away. ‘But guess what? I’m getting these frightful cramps as well. Must
be the shock of the day. I really think I’m just too unwell to be there. Clark, would you mind terribly…?’ I appealed to him with the sweetest look I could muster.

  ‘Eww.’ Corny put his fingers in his ears. ‘La la la.’ Then he transferred them to his mouth, making the universal sign for ‘I’m going to vomit’.

  Clark narrowed his eyes at me, but Corny was moving quicker than I’d ever seen him. His mother smiled at me like a python as she draped an arm around Clark’s waist and I shuddered.

  ‘Of course, of course,’ she clucked. ‘You must go to bed with a great big aspirin. We’ll take care of him.’

  ***

  When they left, I returned the five messages my sister had left, increasingly strident, on the answerphone.

  ‘Lolly,’ she declared. ‘Mom told me. I’m on my way, with food.’

  She was there within the hour, impressive even for Emmy, who always makes it everywhere faster than any other human being ever could. It’s like inanimate objects — roads, trains — all melt before her sheer, awesome power, just the same way people do.

  She’d left her blonde hair curly and was wearing a black trench and black boots. I was playing Billie Holiday. The jazz thing had stuck around, longer than Wayne.

  ‘Let me look at you,’ Emmy ordered, dumping the food and tucking chocolate and champagne in the fridge. She narrowed her eyes carefully. ‘Did you fuck him?’

  ‘Emmy,’ I admonished, blushing a little and poking my glasses. ‘Of course not. And, anyway, where precisely would I have done that? On the street?’

  She shrugged. ‘Stranger things have happened.’

  I thought about the secret world she inhabited. ‘Maybe in Scarlettville,’ I said.

  ‘Ha ha,’ she said, punching me lightly on the arm.

  I popped the champagne and was just about to start the longer version of my story when she burst out with, ‘Well, anyway, enough about you. Guess what?’

  ‘Er…we haven’t heard anything about me yet,’ I protested.

  ‘Details, darling. The night is but a foetus. Come on, guess.’

  Sweet Jesus, I hated this game. ‘Guess what?’ is impossible to answer correctly with anyone. But it’s doubly, triply impossible to answer correctly with Emmy. With her, ‘guess what?’ could mean anything. You’ve joined a convent. You’ve murdered your lovely husband. You’ve decided to become a neurosurgeon and the college is giving you credits for all the times you called someone dick-brain, fuck-brain, pea-brain. Et cetera.

  But I knew she wouldn’t tell me until I tried to guess.

  ‘Okayyy,’ I started slowly. ‘You’ve written a new book.’

  ‘Lame, lame, lame,’ she admonished. ‘You weren’t even trying. I’m always writing new books. You know, I’m kind of tempted not to tell you now. Just to punish you for not even trying. But I really want to tell you, so you’re in luck.’

  ‘Okay, what?’ My head was spinning.

  ‘I’m going on a Japanese game show! You know, those freaky ones where they cover you in wasabi paste and get you to stick sharpened bamboo into other people’s eyes. Or shoot you out of cannon into a field of cow shit.’

  See what I mean? Bet you wouldn’t have guessed that either.

  ‘Oh, right,’ I began. I paused. ‘Emmy, why the hell are you doing that?’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry, you great big coward,’ she chastised me. ‘My agent’s already made sure they can’t do anything dangerous to me. It’s in the contract.’

  ‘That wasn’t what I asked,’ I went on. ‘Why?’

  ‘We-ell, it turns out Scarletville is an absolute hit in Japan. They love historical romance, you know. And you won’t believe this. You know who the biggest readership is? Japanese men. Who would’ve thought it, right?’

  ‘Right,’ I nodded.

  ‘Here I thought they were only into those sick comic books with the breasts and vaginas and swords and stuff. But my editor says it’s the love and honor themes. Like the whole samurai thing, y’know? They’re selling big time. Anyway, I’m going to have a mask on. During the show, to protect my identity. How Hannibal Lector is that?’

  ‘Wow,’ I spluttered. ‘That’s amazing, Emmy. Congratulations.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, okay,’ she said, ramming some nicotine replacement gum into her mouth. ‘Now tell me, what the hell is going on with you today?’

  So I gave her the long version, and she ‘mmm’-ed and ‘oh’-ed in all the right spots, as well as offering a few ‘ick’s, about Linus, a ‘what a freak’ regarding Puppy, and a ‘God that man is an asshole’, when I mentioned Corny. I felt lighter after the telling. But something was still pulsing through me.

  ‘Em,’ I began, ‘you know what was hardest about today? I kept thinking that I didn’t know what I was supposed to be doing. I mean, I broke up with Wayne because he didn’t get this thing of mine. This…’

  ‘Need to “change the world”?’ Emmy offered, rolling her eyes and doing the inverted commas sign with her fingers.

  ‘Yeah, I guess,’ I agreed. ‘And Clark’s having a go, in his own way, you know, at changing the world. And I’m not being much help. Whole politics thing kind of makes me sick. But who am I to judge either of them? I don’t know what I’m supposed to be doing…’

  Emmy looked like she was about to say something really serious, then the doorbell squawked and we both jumped. I could almost read the word written in her eyes: Wayne.

  No, he wouldn’t. He didn’t even know where I lived.

  Did he?

  No, even Mom and Dad wouldn’t encourage stalking, even from the man they both so clearly wanted to sleep with. Who the hell was it, then?

  The bell squawked again. I went over and pressed the button.

  ‘Who is it?’ I barked into the intercom.

  ‘Me,’ came Vera’s honey voice. ‘I’m back from Prague. And I heard about today. And Emmy’s there, isn’t she? Why wasn’t I invited?’ Vera’s deep voice crackled through the intercom again. ‘Oh, and I’ve…er…picked up a straggler as well.’

  Emmy and I both looked at each other. As much as Vera’s men are usually great entertainment, neither of us were in the mood for one right now.

  The intercom crackled again. ‘No, girls, it’s not a man. What do you take me for?’ A pause. ‘On second thoughts, don’t answer that. Well, anyway, it’s not strictly true, I guess. It is a man, just not one of mine.’

  ‘Vera,’ I spat. ‘Stop being so cryptic. Who the hell is it?’

  I heard the intake of breath that indicated she was about to answer when over the intercom came the unmistakable sound of my brother’s voice singing ‘Moon River’. Now my brother is an excellent singer, part of his whole rock heritage. But he was singing badly with an authentic sob in his voice. What the hell was going on?

  Emmy took over. ‘Vera.’ She drummed her fingers on the wall next to the intercom. ‘Is that Luke? Is he there with you? Is he…drunk?’

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ Vera exploded. She never profanes, so she must have been getting cranky. ‘It is nine in the evening. In December. In New York City. Just invite us in, would you? Surely we can have the Inquisition with the benefit of some central heating?’

  I quickly buzzed them in and neither Emmy nor I spoke in the minute it took them to make it to the front door. As if joining the forces wasn’t enough rebellion for Luke, he’d also gone and become a teetotaller. Normally, I’d be happy he’d fallen off the wagon, but...

  One: it was pretty clear from the few short and maudlin bars of ‘Moon River’ we’d been subjected to that, as well as being drunk, Luke was also really sad. And as much as I kind of hate my brother, I also love him enough to not want him to be sad.

  Two: my heart just wasn’t in it. This day. I’ve had the Wayne dramas, Clark’s hideous parents, Emmy and her crazy Japanese game show, and now this.

  Three: a part of me was asking why he was here. He came to me. Me, of all people. Why? He never does that.

  Anyway, all that was buzzing t
hrough my head as Vera and Luke made their way up. I wasn’t exactly sure what Emmy was thinking. If I know her as well as I think I do, she was probably hoping Luke hadn’t fallen off the chocolate wagon too. I could almost see her doing calculations, trying to work out if there would still be enough if we had to share.

  Vera and Luke came through the door like some old-fashioned comedy double. My mother’s sister was wearing a gorgeous fuschia trench over fishnets and matching pink heels. When she took the coat off, we could see the main event — this silky, knee-length black and fuschia party dress that looked like it was made out of black pantyhose and pink moonbeams. Her dark hair was still all her own, not a shred of grey to detract from that pixie face. As usual, I was struck by disbelief that she was forty-eight. The only thing ruining her look was the drunk, uniformed Luke draped over her like an unattractive feature piece.

  Emmy was vicious. ‘Ick, Vera. Drop him. He’s ruining your dress.’

  Vera did as she was told, casually sliding Luke’s considerable weight onto the nearest beanbag.

  ‘Hello, my darlings’, she started, enveloping Emmy and me in a hug that smelled like Issy Miyake and felt like heaven. ‘It’s been too long.’ She gestured to Luke. ‘I found him downstairs trying to work out how to use the intercom. Poor sweetheart.’

  Luke stared fixedly, crooning ‘Oh dream makerrr, you heart breakerrr…’

  ‘Anyway,’ she sighed, eyeing the food Emmy had brought over. Emmy had inherited a mortal fear of under-catering from our grandmother. ‘I do hope there’s enough to go around and still feed the children of Ethiopia. It does look like we’re settling in for a bit.’

  None of us knew where to start. We weren’t used to Luke being around, especially a drunk Luke.

  Vera rubbed her hands together. ‘I suggest we eat first. I think it’ll help him.’

  Emmy sighed, relieved. ‘Good idea. I got Japanese.’

  Of course she did.

  Anyway, we were glad of it because it provided a neat segue for Emmy to fill Vera and Luke in on the game show gig in glorious detail. By the time we were polishing off the last of the katsu curry, and starting on some green stuff that was apparently dessert, Luke had stopped sniffling and started to look a little more alert.