“Roses?” said Claude. “So cliché.”
“I like roses,” said Nan softly. And then it was done: she took a deep breath and complained, as she always had, about the difficulties of managing a house and schisms at the club. As the weeks became months, Nan made up a boyfriend for Lola, fake promotions for Fred, imagined vacations to Venice and St. Barts.
Claude's life also took a turn for the worse: he was spotted inside an AIDS clinic in Port Chester, and as the visible signs of the disease began to appear, he closed Claude's. Whether there had ever been a lovely wife, no one knew for sure. Claude stopped mentioning her, in any case. But Nan continued to visit him twice a month for a cut-and-color at his home, and he pretended to believe she was planning a thirtieth anniversary bash. Maybe he did believe it. Claude's weight dwindled and spots appeared on his skin, but newer drugs kept him alive, and with him, Nan's dreams and her society wife hairdo.
After settling Nan into the salon chair he'd had installed in his guest bathroom, Claude said, “Now tell me about this party at the club.”
Nan thought about the photo her daughter had sent from Las Vegas: Lola and a boy drinking champagne, wearing rings. For her wedding, Lola had worn her hair in a ratty ponytail. “Well,” said Nan, trying to summon enthusiasm, “it's an engagement party! For Lola, if you can believe it.”
“No!” cried Claude. “Quel surprise! Tell me everything.”
“He's this wealthy boy,” said Nan, tipping her head back into Claude's bathroom sink. “Not that it matters, of course. From an oil family in Texas. He wears fancy leather boots with his suits!”
“And where will the wedding be?”
“At Apo, of course,” said Nan, though she knew full well the tennis pro was not allowed to have her daughter's wedding at the club, even if Nan had had the twenty grand it would take to pay for the buffet dinner and open bar. Even if Lola hadn't already eloped in the tackiest manner imaginable.
Claude massaged Nan's hair with love. He was the only man who'd touched her in years. He let the warm water run over her scalp, then wrapped her hair in a towel, not the plush ones he'd once had at the salon, but a yellow one, one he likely used himself. She sat up, and regarded herself in his bathroom mirror. Claude put his hands on her shoulders and squeezed. His eyes met hers. The smell of chemicals mixed with the leftover scent of Claude's dinner, most likely from the freezer, probably fish.
“And they'll live happily ever after,” said Claude.
She Almost Wrote Love
After his third marriage went bust, Lola considered finding a wife for her father. He had issues, there was no doubt: he was a terrible father, and unemployed. But there was a certain sweetness in him, despite the cigars and cheese-only diet he had put himself on, his own disgusting take on the Atkins Plan. (Fred had arrived at the house Lola shared with her brand-new husband, Emmett, and unpacked a Sam's Club block of cheddar from his suitcase.) And as long as he was single, Lola was afraid he would continue to show up unannounced, leaving her feeling unnerved and discombobulated. It was a slow afternoon at the Second Chance Humane Society and Thrift Shop, where Lola volunteered twice a week, so she scanned the classified ads for dates. Unfortunately, all the women seemed to be looking for more. Fred was handsome, it was true, but he certainly wasn't “successful” or even “self-sufficient.” He wasn't “romantic” or “a good listener.” As far as Lola could tell, he had been kicked out of his third wife's house with little more than his fancy leather loafers.
“Some guys are going to get a therapist, sit around saying, ‘What can I learn here, what went wrong, blah, blah,’” Fred had informed them the evening before, over a repast of cheese and cheese, “but not Fred Wilkerson!”
“And what do you plan to do?” asked Emmett.
“Forge ahead,” said Fred. “What the hell do you think, Emmett?” Lola's father pronounced her husband's name with an ironic sneer, as if Emmett's name alone was an affront to manhood. When Emmett went into the kitchen, Fred muttered, “Face Man.” Lola knew this was an insult, but she wasn't sure what it meant—that Emmett had a good-looking face? She knew it had something to do with being effeminate, which Emmett was not. Fred thought that anyone in academia—or “that ivory tower,” as he put it—was a pussy.
Emmett was finishing up his PhD in geology. He came back from the field with a cooler of fresh-caught trout. He could make a fire from two sticks, fix appliances, and build furniture. He was taciturn, yes, and sometimes he went to his site and lost track of the time. More interested in rocks than Lola? Perhaps. But he was not a pussy.
“Forge ahead,” said Emmett thoughtfully.
“The world is my oyster,” said Fred. “I don't even have to commute to the Big Apple. Computers, the Web, what have you … you can telecommute from anywhere.” Lola bit her fingernail, and did not mention that Fred had lost his last legitimate job in 1985, when she was thirteen years old.
“He is sober,” whispered Lola, huddled close to Emmett in bed. Fred's snores ricocheted through the house.
“Okay,” said Emmett reasonably.
“So that's something,” said Lola. “I mean, I really respect him for that.”
“That's great,” Emmett agreed.
“I know he can't stay here,” said Lola. Emmett was silent. “But I mean, he's lost everything. …”
“What happened?”
“I'm sure it was his fault,” Lola sighed.
“It does seem possible,” said Emmett.
“A few days?” said Lola.
“A week,” said Emmett.
“You're wonderful,” said Lola.
“I really don't think he belongs in Ouray,” said Emmett.
“Do I?” said Lola.
“For a while longer, right?” said Emmett, pulling her close. “Just stay a while longer,” he said.
In the morning, the kitchen was thick with a fug of cigar smoke. Fred was sitting in his bathrobe drinking coffee. Lola was taken aback at the sight of him: this was the same navy blue bathrobe with red piping that he had worn when she was a girl, before he had moved out and drunk himself into a coma.
“Dad,” said Lola, “you know, it might be good if you'd smoke outside.”
Fred shook his head. “Too cold,” he said. “Christ, it's cold.”
At eight thousand feet, it was chilly in the mornings. But Lola and Emmett's neighbor, Louise, was already watering her plants with a hose, her frail frame covered by an old wool coat.
“I mean seriously,” said Emmett, shaving in the bathroom. “Seriously, Lola? I'm going to be sick.”
“You smoke,” said Lola, pointing at him with her toothbrush. She loved the sight of him in his boxer shorts, shaving cream up to his cute ears.
“I have like one Camel Light,” said Emmett, “when I'm drunk. Maybe two.” They kept a pack of cigarettes on a wrought-iron table outside the back door, and had spent warm and even cold evenings during their month together on rusty folding chairs, sipping beer and using an ashtray stolen from the Las Vegas Lounge, where Emmett had spun Lola around the dance floor.
“Seven,” muttered Lola. She finished brushing her teeth and hair and followed him to the bedroom, where he was putting on his miner outfit. One of his part-time jobs while he finished his dissertation was giving historical tours through the old mine shafts. “I'm sorry,” she said, sitting on the unmade bed. Then she stood, and started to pull the sheets up.
“It's just … cigars?” said Emmett.
“I'll talk to him about it,” said Lola.
Emmett nodded. He put on his miner hat and left.
At the Humane Society, two other volunteers, both single women in their forties, wanted to hear all about Lola's father. “He's unemployed,” said Lola. “He's sleeping on the couch. He's not the nicest.” Lola tried to think of something wonderful to say about her father. “He is very smart,” she said, finally.
“What color hair?” said Jayne, leaning against a cage, stirring honey into her teacup. Blueberry Muffin,
a small tabby, reached his paw toward Jayne's hand. Jayne turned to Blueberry Muffin and smiled.
“Brown,” said Lola.
“Dyed, or has he still got all his own?” asked Margie-Ann, who was cleaning the litter boxes.
“All his own,” said Lola.
“I want to meet him,” concluded Margie-Ann, pointing the scooper at Lola.
“He does sound interesting,” agreed Jayne.
That evening, Fred opined that he would like to take a mine tour. “I'd give my right arm to see Emmett here off his golden pedestal,” was how he put it. Emmett chewed slowly, and swallowed. They were eating a vegetable lasagna Lola had made that afternoon, frying eggplant slices in hot oil until her eyes smarted. Her mother had sent The New Basics Cookbook, and Lola was attempting to be domestic.
After a sip of his milk, Emmett said, “Well, Fred, the tours are every hour, on the half hour.”
“How about a private tour?” said Fred.
“I don't think so, sir,” said Emmett.
“Cut it with the ‘sir’!” barked Fred.
“Guess what?” said Lola. “I'm planning a potluck with some friends from the Humane Society!”
“Whoop-de-doo,” said Fred. He pulled a cigar from his front pocket.
“Some of the other volunteers are single,” hinted Lola.
“Christ, a bunch of animal lovers,” said Fred, shaking his head. “Who in the hell would want—” He stopped, just in time. Lola had a flash of memory: her father kicking her childhood cat, Bobby, making him squeal.
“I'm an animal lover,” said Emmett. He winked at Lola sweetly.
“My daughter wouldn't be volunteering at a cat shelter,” said Fred, “if you hadn't dragged her to godforsaken …” He opened his palm, encompassing the living room, the town of Ouray, the state of Colorado.
“It's just temporary,” said Lola. Last spring, with her newly minted degree in journalism, she had accepted a job at the Cleveland Plain Dealer, due to start in the fall. After packing up her house and sending her belongings on a moving van to Ohio, she had left her cat, Sue, with her academic advisor and signed up for a raft trip down the Grand Canyon.
Lola hated sleeping outside. She was a suburban girl, after all. The heat, bugs, and enormous canyon walls made her nervous, and she drank deeply from the bottle of Jim Beam one of their two river guides, Hugh, passed around the camp-fire. It was clear on the first night that he was the gregarious one; the other guide, Emmett, introduced himself, talked a bit about the geology of the canyon, and retired early, heading away from the circle with a smile and a wave. He was an egghead, said Hugh, a brilliant scientist.
Lola woke at dawn. Her tent smelled like a whiskey distillery and her mouth tasted of the Beenie Weenies they'd eaten for dinner. At the edge of the rushing river, Lola saw a figure. She approached: it was Emmett, sipping coffee from a plastic mug with an owl on it and writing in his waterproof field book. “Hey,” said Lola, sitting next to him.
“Coffee?”
“Thank you.” Emmett poured from his thermos into the small metal top, and handed the cup to Lola. She peered at his notebook, and he smiled. “I double-checked the equipment,” he said. “Now I'm just jotting down some”—he closed the book shyly—“some thoughts.”
“I'm nervous,” said Lola. “I'm from New York.”
“I've never been there,” said Emmett. This was amazing to Lola—who had never been to New York? He squinted against the rising sun, but did not say more. Lola leaned back on her elbows and crossed her ankles. Emmett had a spray of freckles across his face, sand-colored hair, and bright green eyes. Lola watched the river, next to Emmett. She wanted him to kiss her.
The trip was by turns deadly dull and terrifying. Hot days of floating were punctuated by shocking rapids, which Hugh and Emmett handled with panache, calling out for the boats to paddle or turn. While Lola's fellow rafters told competing stories by the campfire, Lola watched Emmett, who spent the evenings sipping beer quietly. More often than not, he'd steal off to read by himself, or go for an evening hike.
On the second-to-last day of the trip, Emmett asked Lola if she wanted to try a kayak. They were unstable; Lola declined. “I'll go right next to you,” he said. “You can do it.”
“No,” said Lola, “I don't think I can.”
She spent the day in a raft, wishing she had been more courageous. Millie, an ophthalmologist from Idaho, proclaimed that kayaking was the most exciting thing she'd ever done. “All the water, churning and broiling … it's like a life force, you know?”
“You mean roiling?” asked Lola.
“Roiling, broiling, whatever,” said Millie, adjusting her floppy sun hat. “It's better than sex.”
That night, after everyone was asleep, Lola walked to Emmett's tent. His lamp was on, so she pulled the flap back. “I wanted to thank you for … for the trip,” she said. “And I'm mad at myself. I wanted to try the kayak, but I was too scared.” He closed his book—it was a spy novel. “Come in,” he said.
“Also, I wanted to kiss you,” said Lola.
“Come here,” said Emmett.
The next morning, Lola pulled the neoprene skirt over her thighs and climbed into a kayak. Emmett helped her launch into the water. Navigating the boat at water level was thrilling: the speed awed Lola, and the way the small boat responded to the tiniest calibration of her paddle. Nonetheless, when Millie approached her at lunchtime and said, “See what I'm saying?” Lola shrugged.
“Millie,” she said, the memory of Emmett's warm caress vivid in her mind, “the kayak's great, but I'm going to have to disagree with you.”
After climbing ashore at Lake Mead and taking their first showers in weeks, Emmett and Lola drove to the Las Vegas Lounge to go dancing. Emmett dipped Lola and said, in her ear, “You're gorgeous.”
He pulled her back to her feet, and she laced her arms around him. “You say that to all the rafters,” she said. His chest was broad and slim: in his arms, she felt serene.
“No,” said Emmett.
“Buy me some tequila, will you?” said Lola.
In short: they were married in the middle of the night. The memory is hazy, but happy, in her mind. At Cupid's Chapel, Lola became Mrs. Emmett Chase. When she woke up with a brutal hangover and a cheap band on her finger, Emmett was watching her, propped on one elbow. “Well,” he said, “isn't this an interesting development.”
Lola blinked. “I'm moving to Cleveland in six weeks,” she said.
Emmett nodded. “How about staying in Colorado until then?” he asked.
So Lola put her duffel bag in Emmett's truck. As they drove nine hours to Ouray, a small town in the southwest corner of the state, Lola decided that she'd stay with Emmett for a few weeks, what the hell, then pick up her cat and move to Cleveland. The marriage could always be annulled.
Emmett told her about growing up as the eldest son of a wealthy Texas oil family. Geology, Emmett said, had once been a pursuit of discovering the past—trying to figure out the history of the landscape—but now encompassed everything from the mountaintops to the oil underneath the ground. There was a fringe group of wild geologists, Emmett said, who were arguing that humans had so altered the planet they'd started a new epoch. “There was the Ice Age,” he said, speaking animatedly, “then the Holocene, which is now, and these guys are proposing the new era be called the Anthropocene, from the Greek anthropos, which means ‘man,’ and ceno, ‘new.’”
“Altered it how?” asked Lola.
“Global warming,” said Emmett. “Disturbing the carbon cycle. Ocean acidification. Changing erosion patterns. Wholesale changes to plant and animal life …”
“Jesus, just stop,” said Lola. “You're depressing me.”
“I think it's exciting,” said Emmett. “I mean, yeah, you can see it as sad, but you can also see it as an opportunity. Patterns can be altered.”
Emmett had applied for jobs everywhere from New Jersey to Saudi Arabia. “I've been all over the western U.S., but I'
ve never lived abroad. There are so many places I want to see,” he said.
His enthusiasm made Lola realize how little excitement she held for her future at The Plain Dealer. It occurred to her that she had never studied anything she could hold in her hand.
“Listen, Fred,” said Emmett, “if you want a private tour, I'll give you a private tour. How about it?”
Fred was busy inhaling in quick breaths, trying to light his cigar.
“That sounds great, Emmett,” said Lola. “How about Sunday?”
“You got it,” said Emmett.
“Sunday it is,” said Fred, filling his mouth and the house with smoke. He puffed for a while, Emmett and Lola staring at him, and then he said, “Never been in a mine, I've got to say.”
After dinner, Fred said, “I suppose you want to hear about the demise of my latest. It all began with an unfortunate blonde named Winnie.”
“You know what, Dad? I don't really want to hear this.”
“Well, okay then,” said Fred. “Now that I think about it, it's none of your fucking business.”
“If you're going to talk to my … to my Lola that way,” said Emmett, “I'm going to have to ask you to leave, sir.”
“With pleasure,” said Fred. He stood, brushed off his pants, and made for the door. “About time,” he said, “for a nightcap.”
This was what Fred did, his modus operandi. He fell off the wagon and blamed it on someone else. He was never at fault, just an upstanding man pushed to the brink by a wife, a daughter, the world conspiring against him. It was so discouraging. Whenever Lola said good-bye to her father, she wondered if she would ever see him again.
Every time she moved, Lola picked a postcard and sent it to Fred, carefully writing her change of address. At the V & S Variety Store, she had found a card with a picture of a flock of sheep and written, “Dear Dad, My new address is below. Hope you are well.” Lola stood with her ballpoint poised for some time. She almost wrote “love” before her name, but then refrained. She did love her father— desperately—but knew that she shouldn't, after what he had done, and who he had turned out to be. Finally, she scribbled, “All best, LOLA.” The front of the card read, MISSING EWE!
Love Stories in This Town Page 9
