by Tom Larsen
“Aw hey, don’t cry girlfriend,” Lena hugs Alice tight.
“I ain’t cryin’, Must be these damn allergies.”
“Come on, it’s not like you’ll never see me again.”
“Yes it is. That’s just what it’s like.”
“But we go shopping every other week!”
“Ain’t the same,” Alice turns away. “I know you from a thousand shifts. This is the Lena I know, right here.”
“That’s so sweet,” Lena’s chin starts up. “You guys . . .”
“Oh baby, what am I gonna do?” Alice wails.
“You still got till the end of the year. Anything can happen.”
“Five months of that man?” Alice does her floodlight eyes. “Now I know what they mean by aggravated assault.”
Heart wrenching but strangely comical, what with cops taking statements and claims adjusters running interviews in the lobby. The stolen Beemer setting a tone tempered by the off-chance one of the bad guys nicks a muffin. The tone sparking the sort of bad-mouthing and finger pointing usually reserved for contract talks and love triangles. Not that the brass had anything on Lena, hot cars in Cracktown being as likely to resurface as the Phillies in late September. It’s a sad affair with the usual bluster and a faint but definite whiff of relief, the yet to be compromised counseling the soon to be displaced. When it’s over Lena clears out her desk, hands in her keys and grabs the one remaining toothpick muffin to protect the innocent. Big Dot and Alice see her to her car, clutching at each other like the church goers they are. On her way home Lena spots Julio on the corner poking a pager and dripping bling. She glances over once but he looks right through her.
***
Harry and Lena watch TCM, an old Peckinpah he’s seen before. Five times, at least. Their eyes fixed to the screen, but their minds going mile a minute. For once in the game there are secrets between them.
“Did you call about the car insurance?”
“I’m working on it, Lena. Today kind of got away from me.”
“Where did you park anyway? You could fit a truck out front.”
“Did I tell you I saw Pete Malloy the other day?”
“Pete?”
“And his cooler. The day it rained.”
“It’s rained for forty days and forty nights.”
“He told me Walt Sandusky passed.”
Lena turns to face him. “You mean he died?”
“Yeah, he died. Heart attack.”
“Oh my God!”
“That’s what I said, forty-something years old.”
“Poor Sherry . . . and the kids!”
“Pete said the insurance is trying to weasel out.”
“They can do that.”
“That’s what he said. They’re claiming bankruptcy. I’m thinking the bad things are starting to happen.”
“Harry, don’t.”
“First Gerry, then Bill Healy, now Sands. Wonder what they’d change if they could take back a few years.”
Lena gnaws at her lower lip. “Stop it. You’re scaring me.”
“Oh yeah, and I saw Danny Smart. You could have said something, Lena.”
“I couldn’t. It was confidential.”
Harry turns back to the show. “You haven’t told anyone about our little scheme, have you?”
“You mean your little scheme?”
“Because if you tell, we can never do it. As much as the idea scares you, you don’t want to rule it out.”
“You’re getting on my very last nerve.”
Harry picks up the remote and turns down the sound.
“Do this for me, Lena. Just come to Mexico. Think of it as a vacation. Who knows, maybe when we get down there the whole thing will seem ridiculous. Let’s just pretend. See what happens.”
“What do we use for money?”
“We’ve got the savings. Come on, let’s live a little.”
“But that’s all we have.”
“It’s chump change. Old Sands owed more in bar bills.”
“It’s something.”
“It cost that to bury my brother. What are you gonna do with it, retire to the Hamptons?”
Lena chews her lip bloody. “What about work?”
“Listen to you, Lena? What ever happened to the brassy blonde who was gonna see the world?”
“Last I heard she married a maniac.”
“I gotta tell you,” Harry tongues a molar. “Those muffins you brought home tasted kind of chalky.”
CHAPTER SIX
Stevie paces the parking lot trying to calm himself. Dorie’s last call left a throbbing in his skull that over-the-counter won’t make a dent in. Lilly’s doctors are at an impasse. The drugs were a disappointment, but other options are still being considered. Time is a factor, but nothing will be decided before further testing and consultation, two weeks minimum.
At least the timing is right. Stevie’s Mexico week is three days away and his freelance load has been put on hold. The decks have cleared for what’s required, self-absorption, Stevie-style.
“Lilly Winslow’s room, please?”
The woman at the desk goes mushy at the name. “Such a hero to us. Right now that poor baby is the only thing holding this place together.”
“I uh . . .”
“You don’t have to say a thing,” she reaches for his hand. “You just follow me and see for yourself.”
“Thank you,” he tugs in reflex, but the woman’s got a lock on it.
“Are you a religious man, Mr. Winslow?” she pulls him along.
“Not so much, no, but I am, you know, God fearing.”
“Well, I’ll tell you what, if prayers were popcorn the Man Upstairs would be buried in the Big Bucket.”
“Pop–”
“Course, the Lord works in mysterious ways, but I have to believe there are angels He just won’t take from us. The special ones.”
“I’m sorry, take?”
“Like your Lilly.”
“Yes. Yes Lilly.”
And a somber group it is bunched around the bedside. Dorie, Dr. Whosits, Brymer, some couple he doesn’t know, the gay designer, and now Stevie, trying his best to make his face work.
“Daddy?” his angel beams up from a thicket of pillows.
“Hello sweetheart, how are you feeling?”
“Better, now that you’re here.”
Oh the smile, haunted but heartfelt. As he leans in to kiss her someone stifles a sob. One of the doctors, wasn’t it? Jesus.
“I came as soon as I could,” Stevie sneaks a glance around. “Mommy tells me you’ve been doing your drawings.”
“Yep, I got lots of them now. Wanna see?”
“Maybe tomorrow, sweetheart. Daddy’s got to catch up with mommy and the doctors.”
“Okay, I got one of Randy too.”
“Honey, Daddy’s not with Randy anymore. But I still want to see it.”
And the little arms, Jesus, so pale you can see every vein. How her eyes are sunken like a television kid who won’t make it to station break. Should they all be in here breathing up the air? Isn’t it past her bedtime or are we at a point where it no longer matters? He hears clothes rustle around him. Someone’s shoe scuffs the floor.
“Daddy? Remember when you took me to Disneyland and we stayed with Uncle Frankie?”
Dorie reaches to fluff a pillow. “He’s not really your uncle, darling. You know that don’t you?”
“Try and get some rest, Lilly,” Stevie takes her hands, ten little icicles in a sweaty palm.
“Are you staying with mommy tonight?” she gives a light squeeze. “You could sleep in my bedroom, daddy.”
“Aw Jeez, that’s so . . .” Stevie wells up for a second but bears down hard. “Thank you precious. Daddy already has a hotel room.”
“You could always cancel,” Dorie pipes up.
“Oh do it, daddy. Cancel it.”
The designer su
cks a tooth; the others do their best to blend in.
“But I didn’t even rent a car yet.”
“You can go with mommy. Please daddy?”
“It’s not that I–”
“My Barbies are so lonely. You can keep them company.”
He’s come undone now, with the hands wringing and Adam’s apples bobbing, every eye squarely on Stevie.
“I . . . my bag– ” he looks up but Dorie gives him nothing. “Okay, sweetie, I’ll stay in your room.”
“Oh, thank you daddy. You’re the best.”
Then the doctors herd them out the door and up the hallway. Stevie trailing the pack into some dark paneled conference room with photos of weathered European doorways, there to lay cards on the table along with every assurance and disclaimer. Risks are assessed, bases covered. They set a date, sign the papers and it’s off to Dorie’s for God knows what.
***
“. . . the bravest thing anyone could ever do. I mean that, Stevie.”
“Dorie’s right,” Roger chimes in. “I can’t tell you how much I admire you, Steven.”
“I’ve got to tell you, I’m not really comfortable with the hero thing.”
“And self-effacing to boot, where did you find this guy, Dor?” The big guy drives like a motorhead with the g-forces and the downshifting.
“I told you, Stevie has the heart of a lion.”
“Should we be driving this fast?”
“The whole verité feel of the thing. God, you could taste it! Gathered around, the shadows stretching, machines humming,” Roger settles in behind a flatbed.
“Roger has a way with words. He’s writing a screenplay about it. Dorie’s Dilemma, we call it.”
“Dorie’s?”
“Well, it’s about me and how life can just come apart at the seams, just by–”
“The Barbies line was a killer,” Roger rims the shoulder.
Stevie stiffens. “I thought you were a designer.”
“Strictly a sidelight. My agent says this is my breakout year.”
Dorie’s place, formerly their place, gone a bit to seed with the dead shrubs and the awful addition. Rumpus/Dance Studio with wall-to-wall rubber and matching isolation tanks. As he enters each strange, yet not unfamiliar room, Stevie feels like an actor in a Roger film, something flat and painfully overwritten. A dark horse destined to shine.
“Nice tanks, Dor,” he sidles up.
“Roger swears by them.”
“Roger’s a screaming queen.”
“Keep your voice down. I won’t have you insult him.”
“Just so you’re aware, Dorie.”
“Oh, and just what agenda are we pushing here?”
“A gaping bottom or I eat the mortgage.”
“I can’t believe this. You of all the people!”
“Look, I just don’t want to see you get hurt again.”’
“Oh, just how fucking noble can you get, Stevie?”
Not that he isn’t a tad relieved. No chance she’s boffing this bozo, not while he can still dodge around it. The gay vibe is too well defined, though Stevie has known it to happen. And sooner or later it’s bound to get messy, considering what Dorie’s already been through. So confusing, this being jealous of something he never wanted. Relieved too, that he won’t have to spend time alone with either of them, as Roger seems to be settling in. He can get though this. He really can.
“Dorie tells me you do some marketing, Steven. Fascinating field.”
“Yes, well, it pays the bills.”
“I mean, let’s face it. The whole world runs on advertising.”
“I don’t know about that. It’s just con–”
“Big bucks, for sure.”
“Right.”
“You should see Roger’s designs, Stevie. The man is immensely talented.”
“Yes, well I’d like to sometime. Good design is very–”
“I mean I love what I do, don’t get me wrong. I just don’t have the ego for it, know what I’m saying?”
Dorie nods along. “Roger’s ahead of his time.”
“The yes men and the lackeys and all the bullshit. It’s not really me.”
Turning tense when Roger takes his leave with a peck to Dorie and clumsy male hug at the front door, Stevie stands there until long after he’s gone listening to Dorie humming in the kitchen. Stands there with his nose to the glass, straining to feel inside his bones.
***
“I guess that’s what attracted me to you. This way you have of seeing the worst in everyone. I thought you were so jaded.”
Into the cognac now and Dorie’s waving a framed photo of them on their honeymoon, hand-in-hand on the beach with male chick leering from the breakers. As if the shit knew it would come to this.
“If I’d let you have your flings, would you have stayed?”
“Don’t do this, Dorie.”
“I just wonder sometimes. Couples have arrangements. I mean its just sex?”
“There’s more to it than that and you know it.”
“Sorry. I’m being maudlin, I know.”
“No, just sentimental, but I’m in no shape for it.”
“Okay, but can I tell you I love you?
Stevie goes to her against all instincts. “You’re the dearest thing in the world to me, Dorie. You and Lilly are the only family I have. I have to believe we’ll get past this nightmare. I have to focus on that exclusively.”
“You’re so good, Stevie, so wonderfully good and kind.”
“I’d better turn in. I’ve got an early flight tomorrow.”
“You can sleep with me, Stevie. No strings attached.”
“I’d better not. Lilly made me promise.”
Dorie sees him to the stairway, jasmine wafting in sad rebuke.
“When do you leave for Mexico?”
“Thursday, you’re okay with it, right?” he touches her hand. “Anything happens I can be back in a matter of hours.”
“I wasn’t at first, but I know you, remember? If you stay you’ll just obsess,” she pulls him close. “Hold me Stevie, just for a moment. I’ve been so lonely I could die.”
No way out of it at that point, their embrace drawn out to nearly unbearable, dissolving slowly at Stevie’s discretion.
“When you talk to Lilly, tell her the next time she sees me we’re going to take care of this, once and for all. Will you do that for me?”
Dorie chugs away in his arm.
***
And finally, there’s Lilly’s room. Pink with a stenciled border of rabbits, little desk, little dresser, little skirts and blouses in the closet. One wall is taped with drawings of people he can’t identify. Black Beauty bedspread, Barbies aligned on the pillow. He scans the framed photos bunched on the dresser, him and Dorie, just him, Dorie and Lilly at Yosemite, some pre-pubescent boy band and the Tin Man from the Wizard of Oz.
Christ.
Stevie drapes his clothes on the little chair and turns down the blankets. He wants badly to brush his teeth, but can’t bear the thought of running into Dorie again. Instead he kills the lights and slips into Lilly’s bed. Too small, mattress from hell, but now that he’s in there he knows it’s the right place for him, even if the pillows are foam rubber. Putting his nose into them he smells for Lilly, and there she is, her very essence going right to his head. Stevie takes it in and holds it there for as long as he can.
How many times he tucked her in, gazing at that angel face with genuine longing to see things as she saw them, to be her, or close enough to feel what she was feeling so she wouldn’t have to. He used to think there had to be a way. The thought that it could never be was almost more than he could stand.
That was long ago now, two years but a lifetime of pain and humiliation, and then the move to Phoenix where he didn’t know a soul. Had been there only once and came down with food poisoning, chose it for that very reason, not the food poisoning but the a
nonymity, the chance to start over. It had to be done and he did it, and it wasn’t going that badly. The men in Phoenix weren’t the greatest shakes, but at least he could be himself, if such a thing were possible, in Phoenix.
Who was he kidding? He didn’t care about his stupid life any more than he cared about his business, or even Dorie, though he hates to admit that. He knows not caring about her, even secretly is the cruelest thing he could ever do. But that’s how it is and there’s no way to change it. Nothing matters but Lilly, at least right now, surrounded by her surroundings. Stevie knows that will change to varying degrees as he mucks through the coming weeks. But tonight, here in his baby’s cramped little bed, he’s finally found a measure of contentment.
***
When he wakes he doesn’t know where he is. Then he turns to the nearest Barbie and it hits him like a blow. He stares up at the rabbits and listens to Dorie humming in the shower, the way her hums never come together in a tune. Just a single note really, sort of mindless, though he can see where he might find it endearing in someone else. Can’t recall her humming much when they were together. Could be it has something to do with Roger, but he can’t bring himself to believe it. Plus, the fact that she must know he can hear, must realize that she’s sending a message. The wrong message, whatever it is.
Then he realizes that it isn’t humming at all, something else, the dryer maybe. Just like him to jump to conclusions, the Maytag sounding a serenade.
Lord get me through this, he thinks to himself.
And then he remembers,
Mexico.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The big jet banks and she can see cars jockey on the interstate, the shape of the stadium, oddly pleasing, the movie complex three blocks over and finally Tasker Street, cutting in from the river. She tries to pinpoint the house but it all runs together. Harry’s probably home by now, or at Brennan’s nursing his separation anxiety. Lena follows a tanker under the Ben Franklin then settles back with her Stephen King and a gut full of troubles.
