by Rilla Askew
Kevin’s apartment was in a fine old high-ceilinged home in the Paseo District not far from the capitol. The neighborhood was artsy and run-down, most of the beautiful old homes divided into apartments, but the area was on a gentrification upswing. Kevin had taken the ground floor of a decrepit three-story monstrosity and turned it into a cream and chrome gem. Monica considered that he might not be home this early, but his black Jetta was parked in the drive, and when she climbed the steps to the broad porch, she could hear Phoebe Snow singing “Poetry Man” in the living room. Kevin and his retro-everything taste. She rang the bell, waited, rang again. Disappointed, thinking that perhaps his Special Company was still here, she turned to leave, but the door opened. Kevin was barefoot, wearing jeans and a soft dove-gray sweater. He studied her quizzically a moment, shook his head.
“What?” she said.
“When are you ever going to believe me that I know what looks best on you?”
Monica resisted the urge to reach up with both hands to cover her rinse-dulled hair. “How’s Sniffy?”
“Sniffy,” Kevin said, “is perfect!” He opened the door wide for her to come in, motioned her to the cream-colored sofa, where his long-haired teacup Chihuahua lay nestled on a throw pillow, and continued toward the kitchen, flinging over his shoulder, “We’re looking a tad furfuffled, aren’t we?”
“Bitch of a day,” she answered. Sniffy was gazing up at her with his dark marble-round eyes, his too-long tongue protruding, as always, from his too-tiny mouth. “What was wrong with him?” she called out. Kevin’s muffled voice echoed from the far side of the kitchen.
“Pancreatitis.”
“Aw, poor baby.” She heard cupboard doors opening and closing.
“He’s fine now,” Kevin called. “Thank God for modern medicine.”
“Hey, Sniffy,” she said. The dog’s little rump quivered; she reached for him and settled him in her lap, stroking his silky beige hair. He was extra teeny even for a miniature, but he didn’t yip-yip-yip like most little dogs—not because he was so well trained but because his too-tiny mouth and too-big tongue kept him from it. He was like a little plush toy, except that he was warm and could move on his own and his coat was infinitely soft. His little doggy poops were no bigger than a baby’s thumb. He was always silent. This made him, in Monica’s view, the perfect pet.
Kevin appeared in the breezeway holding up a box marked Good Earth Chai Tea in one hand, a bottle of Grey Goose in the other. She pointed to the vodka—she wasn’t going to the reception anyway, she could do as she bloody well pleased. Monica relaxed, leaning back to admire the room, its clean lines and sleek surfaces, the minimalist colors: cream and white and brown and beige, here and there an accent of lacquered red or black. The faux fireplace, with its natural gas flames flickering and dancing among the logs, was the most realistic fake fire she’d ever seen. She could smell the pine incense Kevin always burned when he had it lit. Phoebe Snow whined and trilled on the Bose player sitting atop the glass and chrome bookshelf, I—I—I wish I was a willow, and Kevin waltzed in, singing accompaniment, with two enormous frosted martini glasses and a bowl of green olives on a chrome tray.
“Okay, babycakes,” he said, settling beside her, leaning over to take Sniffy from her lap. “Talk to me. What is it makes our bitch of a day such a bitch?”
“Long story.” She wasn’t sure if she wanted to talk about it. Maybe she just wanted to sit here and relax. “I didn’t know if you’d be home yet.”
“No civilized person works past cocktail hour. I told you. Didn’t I tell you? My twenty-ninth birthday present to myself: no more cuts after four, no more foil wraps after two thirty.”
“Oh, right, I forgot,” she said. A little wave of guilt swept her. Kevin’s birthday last week was the first she’d missed since she’d known him. But he’d held the celebration in the Copa bar at the Habana Inn! She couldn’t be seen going in there. He knew that. “Lovely,” she murmured. He’d been telling her for months he was going to start curtailing his hours, which he had the wherewithal to do now, he said, because, in case she hadn’t heard, he was, according to the Gazette’s Best of OKC Awards, officially the hottest stylist in Northwest Oklahoma City! “How was your weekend?” Monica asked, meaning, How did it go with your tres, tres Special Company?
“Shall we say . . . disappointing.” Kevin suddenly plopped Sniffy back in her lap, jumped up to change the CD player, punching buttons till he had the song he wanted. Chet Baker’s too-sweet, breathy voice crooned into the room. “I Get Along Without You Very Well.” Monica leaned back, closed her eyes, caressed the dog. Kevin was perpetually disappointed. Or pretended to be. He was always declaring that he wanted a steady relationship, but Monica knew better. The fact he hadn’t found a steady boyfriend in McAlester back in the day made sense—the pool was too small. But he’d lived in the City for nearly five years. The gay community here was relatively large, and most definitely avid. He could have found a partner by now if he really wanted one. Kevin was like her, Monica thought, only interested in a certain sharply defined type of intimacy. Emotional intimacy, that is. Physical intimacy was quite another matter. And never the twain shall meet, Monica thought, taking another sip of her martini.
The kind of intimacy she preferred was precisely the kind she shared with Kevin: comfortable old-shoe familiarity, with none of the sexual tension of male-female relationships or the jealousies and rivalries of same-sex friendships. For years they’d been privy to each other’s secrets. They each knew that the face the other presented to the world was but a fragment of the whole—and usually not the most telling fragment. Their relationship, for instance. He was positively her closest friend—far closer, in many ways, than Charlie—but she could hardly present that to the world. And Kevin, who’d spent the first sixteen years of his life disguising his truest self, understood her need for discretion. This was part of why their friendship worked, she thought. Neither made the least demand on the other. She rolled her head, releasing the tension in her neck, sipped her drink. What a relief it was, just to sit here.
“How many ways can I say it?” Kevin reached for the plate of olives, crossed his long bronzed feet on the coffee table. “Champagne is your color. Why won’t you trust me?”
Well, except, for this, of course. How he tried to instruct her where his sense of style was concerned. Yes, it was true, he did have great taste. Everything about the apartment worked. Everything about Kevin worked: his simple, expensive, muted-color clothes, the small jasper stud in his left earlobe. But he didn’t understand politics. Or that wasn’t fair—he understood well enough; he just preferred living contrary to the flow. Back when he worked at Supercuts in McAlester, his hair had been flaming-lips red and he’d kept it picked out in a fiery, wiry, Afro-looking halo. Now he wore it in a sleek, close-cropped wavy cut, the color a perfectly highlighted, burnished chestnut. Back then, he’d plucked his brows to a deep arch and worn tons of jewelry, as if he had to be as outrageous as possible in a place that tolerated no outrageousness. Now, he maintained a perfect airbrushed tan year-round, was otherwise unadorned, completely subtle and sexy in his soft, slim-fit clothes. He’d embedded himself in a community where he could have presented himself as flamboyantly as he might want, and so he no longer needed to. “Champagne Ice,” he said. “It brings out your eyes.”
Monica sighed. “I told you, Kev. It’s too dramatic.”
“Since when is dramatic bad? Come here, baby.” And he took his dog back. Monica didn’t trouble herself to repeat what she’d said already so many times—she had a conservative image to uphold. Kevin pooh-poohed image, even though he groomed his own as carefully as any Entertainment Tonight personality. She leaned over and whisked away the olive plate he’d balanced on his stomach next to Sniffy. “I have three things to say about Champagne Blonde.” She popped an olive in her mouth. “Malibu Barbie. Dumb blonde jokes. Norma Zimmer.”
“Who’s No
rma Zimmer?”
“The Champagne Lady on Lawrence Welk.”
Kevin laughed.
They’d met the first month after Charlie moved her to McAlester. She had been dismayed to discover the dearth of hair salons as well as restaurant choices and had stalked into Supercuts in the strip mall that day in a fit of pique, anticipating a total hack job—she would show her husband just what he’d done, moving her to the effing outback! But Kevin, delighted to find someone from “back east” in his small town, had waltzed around the beautician’s chair and within ten minutes had given her the best cut she’d had since she used to travel to Chicago to get her hair done. They’d been buddies ever since. One day, over sandwiches in Jana’s Tea Room on Carl Albert Parkway, their twice-weekly ritual, she’d said offhandedly, “You’re too talented to stay in this little podunk town, Kev.” “Yes,” he’d answered. “Too talented, and entirely too queer.” She’d never dreamed he’d go off and leave her. Two weeks later he’d announced that he was moving to the City to work and save money for the big move, New York or L.A., he hadn’t decided yet which. In Oklahoma City, though, Kevin had found a place, a life; he’d quit making plans to flee to the coast. “Why would I? I’ve got everything right here! Everything but a steady boyfriend—and the cost of living is so cheap!” Stroking Sniffy’s back now, he narrowed his eyes critically, examining her crown. “At least let me put some highlighting back in. You look like you’ve had your head dipped in an iced tea vat.”
“All right!” she said. “I’ll call Sherry tomorrow and make an appointment.”
Mollified, he reached for his martini. “So tell me again. What’s got your panties in such a twist.”
“You’ve seen the news.”
“You know I only watch Dancing with the Stars.”
She started to tell him how cable news had glommed onto the story and wouldn’t leave it alone, but Kevin interrupted her before she’d got past describing the kid’s picture. “I keep telling you, darling—why don’t you leave those poor Mexicans alone?”
She frowned at him. The problem was the kid, not the Mexicans, but she began her presentation list: how illegal aliens don’t pay taxes but use taxpayer-supported public services, how they take jobs from legal citizens, how much it costs the state to educate their children . . . her voice trailed away. She felt incredibly bored. Maybe she’d repeated it too many times. “Kevin, for God’s sake, it’s not about them, it’s about me. I’m the focus of too much hyped press, or my work is. I’ve just got to finesse it.”
“Well,” he said soothingly, “this calls for fortification.” He tucked Sniffy in her lap again, cupped a martini glass in each hand and went to the kitchen to fix them another. She watched the archway a moment, glanced up at the large chrome abstract Roman numeral clock dominating the west wall, then hunted around until she found Kevin’s remote where he’d secreted it in a console drawer. She pointed it toward the small flatscreen in the corner, but didn’t click it on. Before Kevin returned with fresh drinks and a plate of cheese and grapes, she’d replaced the remote in the drawer, kicked off her heels, and was sitting with her eyes closed and her stocking feet on the coffee table, petting Sniffy. She opened her eyes, smiled. She was, she decided, a little drunk. Nevertheless, she accepted the martini. “Thank you, good sir.”
“You are welcome, good lady. Something else is nagging your little gut. Speak.”
“Nothing. It’s nothing.” She tilted her glass, peered through it at the fireplace. “Charlie wants me to go down there. To McAlester at least. Take back the narrative, he says, like anybody could do that. It’s a freaking freight train.” She took a languid sip. “He wants me to hold a press conference. On the steps of the county courthouse, no doubt. Like every other original thinker.”
“And? This is a problem?”
She shook her head. Of course not. Press conferences were her forte. She was just . . . tired. And the focus was so unpredictable. And Leadership was so skittish. Charlie thought the whole thing was great. Of course, Charlie was one who believed there was no such thing as bad publicity. She wished she could say the same for House Leadership. She snorted a laugh, thinking of her husband hunkered over his laptop last night: They’re foaming at the mouth, babe! You’ve got to harness their energies, their passion. It’s perfect, babe!
“What?” Kevin said.
“Oh, nothing. Charlie’s just so sure it’s a win. He’s got his finger on the pulse of the conservative blogs, but I keep trying to tell him, they’re not the whole public. They’re the most passionate, like Charlie says, and they’re right, of course, but, I don’t know . . . it could be dicier than he thinks. I’m a little worried.”
“Well, you should be,” Kevin said. “You cannot compete with an adorable, brown-eyed ten-year-old.”
She shot him a look. “I thought you only watch Dancing with the Stars.”
“Oh, occasionally I might switch over to Anderson Cooper during a commercial break. Speaking of adorable.”
“Anyway,” she said. “It’s not about competing. It’s about shaping the narrative.” She closed her eyes, almost drowsy, repeating the little mantra aloud: “Never say the word problem—these are challenges we face. Never use the word can’t. We are making positive progress. It’s not reality, Kev, it’s perception that matters.”
But this was one narrative that was too hard to shape; there was too much attention, and the mix was too potent: illegal Mexicans, state politics, broken family, missing child. Not to mention the quote-unquote “colorful sheriff.” Nobody could leave it alone. If the story had only fit into one of the preworn narratives, it could have been controlled, but the whole thing was too contradictory, too confusing; it kept everything in turmoil. Who was the villain here? Who was the victim? Every-damn-body had an opinion—except Fox News, who so far had maintained a most disconcerting silence. And why did the kid have to be the kind who, as one of the women on Headline News said, you just wanted to hug and take home with you? Maybe something horrific would happen somewhere soon, Monica thought. Nothing so terrible as a terrorist attack, of course, but maybe something like a pretty teenager disappearing on her spring break, just something to compete with that kid’s grade-school picture. And yes, they would occasionally intercut grainy images of Mexicans sneaking across the border, or an old studio portrait of the kid’s grandfather—and why couldn’t they use the guy’s mug shot instead of that formal suit-and-tie, church-directory type of thing?—but none of that seemed to curtail people’s sentiments. In fact, Monica feared, it seemed to make things worse. Then there was that sappy footage of the kid’s weepy aunt begging for the public’s help, and the hick sheriff and his endless press conferences and . . . oh, everything would have been fine! she thought, draining her drink. Absolutely fine. If not for that kid.
She sat up, held out her empty glass. “What do you say, shall we have another little drink? A teeny little small one. Here, gimme.” And she reached for Sniffy. While Kevin was in the kitchen she petted the dog with one hand, fumbled on the floor beside the sofa with the other. She really, really ought to call Charlie. She located her handbag, pulled it up, and plunked it onto the coffee table, but somehow she couldn’t make herself dig out her silenced phone to see how many times he’d called already. She just didn’t feel up to listening to him: “Get down there and remind people how this unfortunate situation came about! Or no, not unfortunate—tragic. Don’t forget to say tragic. Don’t bad-mouth the kid. Don’t bad-mouth the granddad. Stay on message: This tragic, truly tragic situation is just one more example of how the unbridled presence of illegal aliens is ripping our country’s social fabric apart! Turn the tables, babe. Grab the narrative! Make it about the illegal aliens!” She’d heard his instructions so many times she could quote him in her sleep. She sat stroking the dog, listening to Chet Baker’s tender voice, his mellow, raggedy trumpet, this isn’t sometimes, this is always. A wave of melancholy, or something lik
e it, swept her. Fortunately Kevin waltzed back in: “Here we are, darling. Two tiny little drinkie-poos.”
“Kevin. Those are not tiny.” Nevertheless, she accepted the drink, leaned across the table for the plate of cheese and grapes. “What do the Nichols Hills ladies think about it?” she asked, referring to the wealthy matrons who made up the majority of his clients.
“About what?”
She waved the plate toward the blank television. “This whole . . . deal.”
“I doubt they think about it at all.”
“Seriously?”
He gave her a piercing look. “Why would they? What’s it got to do with them? Let me tell you who thinks about it, darling. One.” He ticked off the numbers on his slim fingers. “The story-hungry media. Two, people such as yourself who have some kind of stake in it. Three, presumably, the little boy’s family. And four, those poor Mexicans you’re so intent upon hounding.”
“Kevin! That is not true.” He met her gaze, his bronzed handsome face inscrutable. “How can you say such a thing? And anyway,” she went on, “hounding is such an ugly word.”
“Is it? Come, baby.” He scooped Sniffy off her lap and set him on the floor, where the little dog tottered over to the little doggie pad spread open on the hardwood floor in the hall to do his little doggie business.
When she got home, Charlie was fit to be tied. “Where have you been! Why the hell didn’t you answer!”
“Why, hello, wife,” she said. “And how was your day? And how was the floor presentation, and oh, by the way, dear, did your bill pass by any chance?”
“I know the goddamned bill passed! I’m talking about where you’ve been all night and why you haven’t been answering your phone for the past three and a half hours!”
“I stopped by Kevin’s, had a glass of wine on an empty stomach. I needed to eat something before I drove home. We sent out for Thai, it took a while. Look, Charlie, I’m sorry. I’ve got a splitting headache—”
