by James Sie
A chain-link fence.
Inside, concrete and broken glass mounded high, metal snakes twisting out of the wreckage. White rubble;
a stone lizard’s tail poking out.
Fragments of bridges jutting at odd angles, leading nowhere and everywhere, chunks of blue sky littering the ground, fallen from another landscape where it’s cloudy and cool.
I want a piece of that celestial debris.
Suddenly I’m rising higher, higher, my father’s hand tight across my chest, pressed into his body. His mouth by my ear, his other hand leading my eyes to a half-buried boat submerged in the stones. Its slim prow points to the heavens.
“There,” he whispers, “there’s where I last saw her.”
* * *
And his story spins from there.
OWEN
VEGAS
EARLIER
Are you ready for Fun?
The relatively hushed calm of the airplane, with its constant but indecipherable babble of conversations and steady cabin drone, did little to prepare Owen for the festive bedlam that was McCarran Airport. Welcome to Las Vegas! it proclaimed, with its chromed and mirrored surfaces and the constant ting!-ting!-ting! of the slot machines, which seemed as incongruous in a terminal as a waffle iron in a public restroom.
Obviously, this airport did not want him to move dutifully and efficiently from checkpoint A to checkpoint B like a good citizen; it wanted him to linger and enjoy. Gift shops stretched out on either side of him, a leisurely sampler of everything the resorts had to offer. Brightly lit Wheels of Fortune spun and buzzed enticingly. A modern-day street bazaar, Owen thought, maneuvering past carry-on bags and the elderly, and it was true, there were palm trees and dried-fruit stands and yes, look, there were even a cluster of Arab sheiks examining some duty-free perfume. All that’s missing is a small chattering monkey in a little red vest. Now, that would come in handy. Owen imagined it perched, chattering, on his shoulder. Find Emmie, little Jo-Jo, go! Go! And Jo-Jo would go-go, the little gold bells on his vest jingling, picking his way expertly through the crowds before landing on the one woven basket that contained his master’s mistress: bound, gagged, but otherwise unharmed. Good boy, Jo-Jo! he’d shout, proffering a fig as a reward—
Shrieking. Twin stratospheric cries, making Owen jump. Behind him, two women in short skirts and frothy hair advanced slowly toward each other, their arms stretched wide. They looked ready for hand-to-hand combat. How long had he been standing there? Owen found himself parked in front of a glass window displaying the various wares of the Venetian hotel, including several blown-glass gondolas, small enough to fit in the palm of your hand, streaked with yellow and green. Wouldn’t Emmie like those, Owen thought. I should pick one up for her.
Emmie. That was it. Focus. He had arrived. It was time to begin the search, sally forth, and so on. He had no monkey, sadly, but he’d have to make do. Owen followed the signs to Ground Transportation. He took long strides, hoping to inspire a feeling of confidence.
Why was he here again, exactly?
Emmie had always wanted to go to Vegas. This much he knew. It was on one of those internal lists she was constantly spinning up and adding to. This one was titled Places I Have to Visit Before I Die. Athens was on that list, and Bali, and Venice. Vietnam, oddly enough, was not. And Vegas, Vegas was on the top of the list. She was mildly obsessed with Vegas. Owen knew it had something to do with Liberace (look, there he was now on an airport kiosk, smiling from a poster advertising his eponymous museum), and with the accordion she used to play. Nonetheless, when he noticed his pills were missing (do not take more than prescribed dosage/illness or death may occur) it immediately jumped into his mind that she must be headed for Vegas. After all, if she drove away with his pills with the intention of swallowing them in more than the prescribed dosage (why would she take them otherwise, he reasoned) wouldn’t she drive to one of those Places She Had to Visit Before She Died? Vegas was the only destination in the continental United States, she didn’t have a current passport, and, even suicidal, Emily wouldn’t want to miss a chance to strike something off her list.
Owen followed the signs overhead like one of the dutiful Magi, veering neither north nor south but staying constant in his travels west, west to Baggage Claim, west to Ground Transportation Exit 3 or 4, west to the promised Hut where presumably a taxi awaited, swaddled in blankets. I come bearing tips.
Choosing Exit 4, he was met with two equally strong and opposing forces: the crush of passengers propelling him through the door, and the wall of heat outside, which nearly pushed him back into the cool sanctuary of the baggage claim area. It was one assault of the senses after another, first of sight, then sound, and now feeling: how could humans exist in such extremes? Apparently, very well, thank you, judging from the accelerating chatter of his fellow travelers, the anticipatory set of their shoulders as they pushed forward into the Saharan heat, the shocked but gleeful Whoa!s exploding from their mouths like so many kernels of popcorn bursting around him. Owen took in a breath of dry, hot air and held it all the way to the taxi stand.
And there it was, a cab waiting patiently just for him. Exhaling, Owen grabbed for the chunky metal door handle. But it would not move. A jerk downward, a jerk outward; it would yield in no direction—
(It yields in no direction. His hand pulls the slim molded plastic handle—Why won’t it open? There’s no time, no, he can’t—think—the door won’t open and—Why won’t it open!—and his arm tightens, fuses with the plastic, jerking it, her eyes are closed—Open! Open! Let. Me. In! and a moment later he is sprawled on the asphalt, the door handle suddenly light and senseless in his hand, nonsensical really, this little disconnected piece of molded plastic, and all he can do is stare stupidly at it while inside it is so hot—)
Chunk! The taxi door unlocked. The driver didn’t even turn his head. Standing beside the cab, Owen turned the handle easily, and swung wide the door. He poked his head in, suddenly clammy—Nothing scary here!—then forced himself into the cool cab, onto the patched red leather of the backseat—so wide. So horribly empty. Owen pushed his head against the back of the seat and closed his eyes.
The gondolas, he said. Take me to where the gondolas are.
Craaank went the meter. The taxi slipped silently into the flow of traffic.
* * *
He had warned her. He had been quite specific about it. Yes, Owen remembered the exact location, all those years ago: it was at the Italian restaurant Anna Maria’s. She always insisted on calling it Anna Maria Alberghetti; he never understood the reference. A small place, six tables total, and a counter to pick up and eat slices of pizza. They were at the spot by the front window with fake daisies overhead. They had ordered what they always ordered: Linguine Bolognese for him, Pollo alla Anna for her, not spicy, please. The tables were small and his knees would occasionally, thrillingly, knock into hers. It was, as they say, their place, and that was where he remembered telling her he was cursed.
He had to tell her. Owen felt the frequency of their dinners together was perhaps indicative of something more: five months’ worth of dinners and movies; the two concerts in Grant Park; even that attempt to meet up at the overcrowded Taste of Chicago, which had failed due to a bad sense of direction (his); the long winter they had endured together and the gradual emergence from heavy parkas with bulky sweaters, scarves, and hoods to woolen coats and caps and eventually today—surprise!—to a light sweater and jacket (spring in April, always a miracle); all of these events together now added up to something more, or seemed to, in his eyes. The accretion of time spent together felt heavy, ripe, and ready to be redeemed for something of greater value. Which was why he was nervously tearing his slice of garlic bread into smaller and smaller chunks until he held what amounted to a crouton between his thumb and finger. He looked over his parsley-flecked fingers at her and smiled quickly.
* * *
They had met in November at his friend Larry’s annual Orphans’ Thanksgiving. Ow
en had a near-perfect attendance record to this event, dating back to its inception during Owen’s first year of grad school, some eight (ten?) years previous. The usual double handful was there that year, plus a couple of attachments and minus a few who had decided to brave the trip home (an option not available to Owen) or who had managed to find better parties elsewhere. Of these attendees there was a nucleus of four that Owen saw regularly: undergrad friends who had not fled Chicago post-BA. This included his host, Larry, who was at the moment preoccupied with both the final throes of dinner preparation and his current squeeze, Richard (“squeeze” was no figure of speech; Larry could not pass by the languid Richard without impulsively kneading a shoulder or ass or arm, as if to convince himself that Richard was indeed corporeal; Larry had gone a long while without a lover, though not, as Larry was fond of pointing out, as long as Owen). Larry had only time for a quick peck on Owen’s cheek (no hug, hands too covered with bits of pastry dough) before darting back to the kitchen, Owen’s wine bottle tucked in the crook of his arm.
The house was warm and reassuring with its smell of turkey. As Owen was taking off his coat the doorbell screeched again. Larry’s voice boomed from across three rooms, Could you get that? and Owen punched at the door buzzer. Bang went the outer door of the vestibule, bang went the inner door, and before Owen could wipe the condensation off his glasses the apartment door swung open and two women swept in.
They entered laughing and brandishing more wine bottles. One of them he knew to be Jillian, another Thanksgiving regular (her laugh was recognizable even from the landing below). The other woman, much smaller than Jillian and bundled up, was, as far as Owen could tell, unknown to him, but by the time he had readjusted his glasses she was revealing herself: slowly unwinding the long scarf from around her neck. The deliberateness with which she unwrapped herself, her arm slowly revolving around her head one, two, three, four times around (there seemed to be no end to the scarf) brought to mind those whirling dervishes from Istanbul, but inverted: her legs were still, but her head and arm were in constant, hypnotic orbit.
Finally the scarf was uncoiled, and with that, the dance ended: gloves, scarf, and hat were stuffed into her coat; the coat came off with one practiced flourish; and like a magician’s trick out emerged a small, slender Asian woman, eyes bright and coal-dark, her long hair whipping free. She smiled at Owen, and for the second time that evening his glasses fogged over.
Jillian stepped forward, both their coats piled in her arm. Hey, Owen, she said. Gimme your coat. This is Emily.
And as Jillian disappeared into the coat-dumping room (had he even murmured thank you—said anything?), Emily took a step forward and said, Another orphan? and Owen, peering from the top of his glasses, nodded too eagerly, as if that fact were the most wonderful thing in the entire world.
The subject of orphans came up again later on at dinner. Owen was too preoccupied to engage in much of the conversation swirling around the table (with his usually Teflon-coated grasp of names, he was silently repeating the name Emily, Emily to himself, trying to make it stick) when he heard her voice sharpen at the other end of the table. I don’t understand, she said, who is this Thanksgiving for?
We’re not technically orphans, said Larry, seated next to her at the head of the table. He reached for Richard’s free hand, giving it a little massage. We’re more holiday orphans.
It’s wishful thinking on our parts, Jillian said.
Emily nodded slowly, then looked around the table. Are there any technical orphans here? she asked. Jillian laughed and said, Uh-oh, here comes the lawyer.
There were several shakes of the head, and Thomas piped in that he was halfway there, but it wasn’t until Larry gave him a pointed look that Owen remembered to raise his hand.
Ah, said Emily, so I’m not the only one.
She went on to merrily describe her upbringing to the table, not only that she came from an actual orphanage (I’m afraid you have me there, murmured Owen to no one in particular) but that, technically, she had never had a mother. Apparently, the woman who raised Emily (was V an initial or a name? Owen couldn’t make it out) had some aversion to being called Mother. Ergo, motherless.
Jillian jabbed a turkey-laden fork in her direction. Now you’re just trying to make us jealous.
Owen, having had his brief moment in the full glow of her attention, slipped back in the shadows of the other diners. Half in and half out of the flow of her narrative (raised in Milwaukee, John Marshall Law School, job at Arthur Andersen), he marveled at how easily Emily conversed with strangers. (Emily. Emily.) The way she tossed her hair over her shoulder, graceful as a water nymph, a naiad slipping silently from a rushing stream onto the quiet shores. Combing out her dark hair, Long-Haired Emily of the Bright Eyes—
To no woman born, intoned Richard portentously. Grad student, Shakespearean studies, Owen guessed.
Pie, proclaimed Larry, and rose from the table.
Later, seated in the blue armchair with the sides ripped away by Larry’s cat Thiebaud, Owen stared at the fire and found himself settling into the dusky melancholy he always experienced during required holiday celebrations. The others were huddled out on the porch smoking or collecting dishes from the dining room in anticipation of dessert. Owen didn’t even know Emily was by his chair until she spoke.
I’m not very good at the clearing-up part of dinner, she said apologetically, as if he were Larry’s host-by-proxy.
Oh, Owen said, momentarily confused, until a large clattering of dishes in the kitchen gave him context. He smiled at Emily. It’s better to stay out of there, he said. Larry rules his realm with an iron fist. I was banished from the kitchen years ago. Something about the wrong dishrag.
Emily nodded. It was obviously time for some kind of leading question or statement from Owen, but he was out. The conversation wasn’t sparking. It was being smothered. Lack of oxygen. The fire was sucking it all away. Why did he have nothing in his queue to talk about? Why was his mind so dull? He sensed her starting to shift away, and despaired.
Fortunately, she was only bending toward him in order to save the situation, for which Owen was profoundly grateful. She whispered, in a mock-conspiratorial tone, I was a little disappointed to find out it wasn’t a technical Orphans’ Thanksgiving.
Yes, yes, Owen said, buying himself some time. Then, inspiration at last: Give them a few years, he said, I’m sure there’ll be more who qualify. Thomas’s father has been diagnosed with some horrible disease, so you might keep an eye on him.
She said, That’s terrible! but she was laughing just the same. Owen felt relief, and a certain tingling travel up his spine. The next pause was comfortable; she sat down on the arm of the chair, and there was a sense, Owen felt it strongly, of a shared experience, however tenuous. Two technical orphans, staring at a fire. Dynasties had been built on less.
You’ve heard my orphan story, Emily said finally, and Owen was sure he could discern under the light tone a darker shading. What about yours? she asked.
But Owen couldn’t, not then, and shook his head with a mock-rueful demeanor. There’s so little of interest about me, he said, I need to keep what mystery I have to myself. Which was not altogether an honest answer but was acceptable given the circumstances: he didn’t want to scare her away.
That’s okay, Emily said to him, her hand on his shoulder. You keep your secrets.
* * *
And so he did, for five months, as chance group encounters progressed to casual meetings progressed to arranged appointments and now, to bona fide, scheduled dates. And here it was, on the cusp of something, a something that mattered, that he felt it was only fair, it was incumbent upon him to warn her, however stupid, or worse, alarming, he might sound. So there, with his parsley-flecked fingers and the shreds of garlic toast littering his bread plate, waiting for the entrée to come, he told her.
You know, he said as casually as he could, lifting a glass of house wine to his lips, I should tell you: I think I’ve got
a curse on me.
And so he told her his entire sad story, of his mother and his sister and the rest, and though he didn’t mean for it to happen (he swore he didn’t), of course the warning didn’t have the intended effect but quite the opposite: she grabbed his hand tight and didn’t let go, and of course she didn’t believe in the curse but was horrified nonetheless, not of him but of his circumstances, and this, of course, made her slip a notch deeper in love with him, and that, as they say in common parlance, sealed the deal.
* * *
I bet she believes in it now.
Owen looked out the taxi window just as a sphinx (the Egyptian varietal, not the Greek) reared its head over the horizon. He was suddenly aware of being besieged on all sides by pedestrians, cars, and buses, packed on the road, on the sides of the road, entering the road, reducing the taxi’s speed to a crawl. I might as well be riding on a camel, Owen thought, as Giza’s famous beast towered overhead. They were all on a pilgrimage, making their personal hajj to black pyramids and castles, giant golden lions, monstrous candy faces, and Lady Liberty herself, green with vertigo as she struggled to stay upright amid the twisted tracks of roller coasters and the giant Ferris wheel. The Vegas Strip was not like a street, with hotels. It was entire nations pushing up against one another, crammed. Civilizations jostling for space. These cities have gone to war, but instead of armies the buildings themselves have rushed forward into battle. Owen had never felt so lost.
EMILY & VEE
WISCONSIN
MUCH EARLIER
Long before she had ever heard him play a note of music, long before she had seen his face splashed on a tabloid magazine cover or watched him cavort with Muppets on television, Emily felt a special bond with Liberace that bordered on kinship. Her relationship with the flamboyant pianist began in black and white, under circumstances that led her to believe the man was, in fact, her father.
Not her biological father, of course, just as Vee was not her biological mother. Vee didn’t even call herself Mother, never felt comfortable with it. The title just wasn’t accurate. Anyone could see they weren’t biologically related; to pretend otherwise was untruthful and made their actual relationship seem like something to be ashamed of, which it was not. She didn’t want to confuse the child; she wanted the facts laid out, clear and simple: she was Vee, a mother figure in Emily’s life, but not, in the strictest sense, her mother.
