The Black Velvet Coat

by Jill G. Hall

  She studied the address. “I thought you said you were from Flagstaff.”

  Sylvia’s stomach tottered. “I am. But my boyfriend is from California. That’s one reason I’ve changed my mind about him.”

  “Can’t blame you. There’s nothing like Arizona.”

  “Nope.” Sylvia smiled.

  “You take care now.”

  “Thanks!” Sylvia called and waved as Doris pulled out and drove down the dirt road. Lucy rolled around in some pine needles under a tree. It would be nice to stay here another night or two. Sylvia might see the deer again.

  33

  Up down, up down. Anne hobbled down the subway entrance’s broken escalator stairs. She considered taking her shoes off but didn’t want to step on the grimy surfaces. As she approached the depths of the subway’s cavernous space, her body broke out into a sweat. The depot smelled of urine and fast-food hamburgers. She reached the bottom, found a spot to stand, turned her back to the crowd, and focused on a pastel mosaic that adorned the wall. She tried to do some deep breathing, but the noxious odors and her anxiety made it impossible.

  A train whizzed into the station, and she turned, around feeling the vibrations from the large engine. It halted, doors opened, riders pushed in and out of the cars, and the train continued on its way with a strong wind-like gust.

  At the other end of the station, a tuxedoed girl played saxophone. Her dreadlocked head moved back and forth in rhythm. A man strode by and tossed coins into the empty case at the musician’s feet. Anne listened to the jazz version of Beethoven’s Fifth and let it help her body unwind.

  She hopped over to the subway diagram posted on the wall and tried to figure out which line to take back to Dottie’s. It was quite confusing, but Anne finally thought she knew which one would get her there. She read the ticket instructions and scrounged in her pocket for change but didn’t have enough.

  Should she ask the saxophonist for a loan? Did Anne possess a talent someone would pay to see? Painting here would be out of the question, but how about her modern dance routine from high school? Pootie had dared her to sign up for the course and Anne had done so in hopes of improving her coordination. She now could flip over that fast-food box, put it in front of her to accept coins, and perform her dance.

  She closed her eyes, put the “Bootylicious” song in her heart, and tried to recount the choreography. She knew she hadn’t been very good, but her mother, Tootie, and Pootie had sat in the front row and, when her performance was over, hooted with a standing O. The saxophone interfered with Anne’s concentration and kept her from recalling the right moves. Should she do an interpretive dance instead to the sax?

  A tap on her shoulder took her by surprise, and she opened her eyes with a start.

  “Ready for that scotch now?” Sergio grinned at her. His wool herringbone overcoat made him look even more handsome than before. “I know a place a few stops down.”

  She held up her foot and pointed to her missing heel. “But I’ve had a little mishap.”

  “I can see that.” He grasped her elbow and helped her balance.

  “How did you find me?”

  “It wasn’t hard. I followed you. Boy, you have big feet!”

  She laughed. “Gee, thanks.”

  “Take them off.”

  “Ick. I don’t want to walk on this floor!”

  “Take them off.” He held up a palm and stared at her, which made her apprehensions start to melt and want to do anything he asked. “Trust me.” His voice softened.

  She pulled the heels off and handed both to him. He tossed them one at a time into a nearby trashcan, then bent down and scooped her up into his arms. She held onto his neck, snuggled into him, and wiggled her deliciously freed toes.

  A screeching sound from another train could be heard as it approached the station.

  “In my right pocket, you’ll find a ticket,” Sergio instructed.

  Anne slipped her hand inside and retrieved it. He carried her to the turnstile and tilted her a bit. “Now slide the ticket in the slot.”

  She did, and he lifted her up high and walked them through the metal bars. The train halted, doors opened, and Sergio pushed inside a car. There were no visible seats to spare, but he finally found one, sat down, and pulled her onto his lap just as the car took off again.

  She batted her eyelashes at him. “My hero.”

  An old lady with blue hair sat across from them clutching her handbag.

  Sergio traced circles on Anne’s back. She rested her head on his shoulder and inhaled the warmth of him, like honeysuckle on a summer day. The subway lights flickered off and on as the train moved along the tracks. The car’s rhythm lulled her, and she closed her eyes.

  The train halted, and Sergio slid her onto his seat, turned around, and pulled her to his back. He trudged out and carried her piggyback-style to the escalator. Fortunately, this one worked. She rode with him up it and out onto the sidewalk.

  “Let’s skip the drink and go back to your hotel,” he whispered in her ear.

  “Don’t think so, mister. Besides, I’m staying at Dottie’s. I mean, Dorothea’s.”

  He bounced Anne on his back along the busy sidewalk and into a packed Irish pub. “Is all of her furniture upside down too?” He pushed his way to the bar and set Anne down on the only vacant stool.

  She twirled the seat around with a laugh and put her arms around him again. “Yes. We wear antigravity boots to walk around, hold on tight to chairs, and use a seat belt to sleep.”

  “When she works, does the paint drip onto the floor?”

  Anne resisted the urge to kiss the top of his strong nose. She ordered a Baileys and coffee, he a Chivas on the rocks. They sipped them slowly and ate three bowls of peanuts. A jazz trio started to set up in a corner.

  “Tell me more about your work.” His eyes shone dark in the dim light.

  “I use old things to inspire me.”

  “Like what?”

  “Mostly photos. I love vintage magazines.” It felt good to talk with someone about her work. He really seemed interested.

  “Another round?” the bartender took their glasses.

  “No, thanks.” Anne yawned and shook her head. “Didn’t get much sleep last night.”

  Sergio glanced at his watch. “But it’s only 9:00 PM in California. One more?”

  “Okay, just one.”

  When they were almost done with their second round, she swung her arm around him and said, “You are so sexy.”

  “Want to find out how sexy I really am?”

  She giggled. “Maybe someday.”

  Outside, the traffic had thinned. He hailed a taxi, slipped Anne inside, and climbed in next to her. As soon as it left the curb, Sergio didn’t waste any time, and he pulled Anne to him and kissed her. She could taste the husky liquor and salty peanuts. His fingers played with the lace hem of her dress where it rested on her thighs. His warm hand inched up under her skirt toward her panties. Her breath quickened.

  The cab pulled up at Dottie’s, and Sergio asked, “Sure you don’t you want me to come up?”

  Anne couldn’t imagine someone as refined as him in that revolting loft and kissed him again. “She’ll probably be asleep.”

  “My place, then?”

  She considered it for a moment then shook her head. “Better not.”

  He kissed her. “Sure?”

  She opened the car door. “Not really. But thanks for the rides and drinks.”

  “Can I show you around tomorrow?” He made circles on her back again.

  “I need to spend the day with Dottie, Dorothea.”

  He scribbled down his number on the back of a receipt. “Call me. I want to see you again before you go.”

  “Probably won’t have time. I leave day after tomorrow.”

  “But you just got here.”

  “I have to get back to work.”

  He smiled. “That’s right, you’re an artist.”

  She nodded and held up a fing
er. “Yes. I pick up a paintbrush, and therefore I am!”

  She kissed him, pulled herself away, and climbed out of the cab. It had begun to snow. The frozen sidewalk was cold on her bare feet, and she sprinted up to the building, but then turned back around, ran to the cab, and kissed Sergio one last time. Returning to the apartment door, she punched in the code and rode the elevator up to the loft.

  Dottie wasn’t even home yet. Shivering, Anne tried the knob on the radiator, but it wouldn’t budge. She texted Dottie but got no reply. Too cold to even get undressed, Anne crawled under a scratchy blanket on the lumpy couch that smelled of weed. She closed her eyes and tried to fall asleep. The fridge burbled and coughed. Rolling over onto her back, she stared at the stained ceiling.

  Sergio probably had a queen-size bed, or rather a king with comfy pillows and smooth sheets. They would have made love and spooned all night. In the morning, they’d sleep in, and he’d fix her a bountiful breakfast. Should she call him now and ask him to come back and get her? It would only be for this one night.

  34

  In the Painted Desert on fine sand, Sylvia spread out a sleeping bag and sat on top. The trailer had been stuffy, so she planned to sleep outside. Lucy wandered off, her nose low to the ground. Sylvia yawned, tired from driving for hours, then scanned the horizon.

  They had spent a heavenly two weeks in the mountain campground. But a noisy family had moved into a nearby site, and Sylvia’s rations had run low, so she pulled out and stopped in Tuba City to restock on supplies: a flashlight, clean clothes, groceries. She then followed the map into the desert to a new camping spot on a mound of compact sand. A different kind of beauty spread before her. Instead of lush trees, here the expanding terrain spread out stark and bleak all the way to the horizon; a vivid blue sky contrasted with an ivory ground. Strange jagged and twisty growth dotted the land.

  In the mountains, she had enjoyed wearing the same T-shirt every day without needing to impress anyone with her fashion sense or overcome her shyness. Under an oak, she read aloud a book of Robert Frost poems left in the trailer. Over and over again, she recited until she knew each by heart, the words lifting off her tongue and soothing her soul. Daily she walked the path of soft pine needles, Lucy in tow, skipping in and out of the stream. Most afternoons, the deer made an appearance, and Sylvia watched quietly from afar.

  She observed all the natural wonders, so in awe of what God had created. Her loneliness started to abate because she knew she wasn’t alone now. God was with her. She didn’t know if he had forgiven her for shooting Ricardo, but she was, however, certain of God’s love.

  But would she ever forgive herself for shooting Ricardo? His death still haunted her. Every time she closed her eyes, his last expression filled her mind like a movie film breaking as it flips through the reel, over and over and over again until it suddenly stops. Would she ever forgive herself for not listening to the ones who really cared for her and for allowing a man like that to harm and deceive her?

  Fresh desert air now swirled around her. Some people were afraid to sleep outside by themselves, but not Sylvia. She embraced the chance to sleep out in nature for the first time. It had been too cold to do so in the mountains. As a little girl, she had wanted to go camping with her father, but her mother had said, “No! Sophisticated girls don’t camp.”

  Lucy had wandered way off in the distance. Sylvia yelled, “Snack!” and the puppy dashed toward her as fast as her little legs could carry her.

  “Sit.” Sylvia held up a cracker, and Lucy waved her tail. With a firmer voice, Sylvia demanded, “Sit!” This time, Lucy set her round behind on the ground, received the treat, and then settled under a nearby shrub.

  Dusk kissed the silver trailer with a pink tourmaline wash. Shadows fell, and a lizard slid across the sand. At first, Sylvia flinched, then, fascinated, she watched as it scurried into a rocky crevice. As a young girl, Sylvia had been terrified of lizards. Scads of them lived in the rose garden at home under the boulders and sunbathed on top. Her fear of them had kept her from collecting the quartz and other shiny stones that hid nearby in the damp soil.

  Milo once caught a lizard for her, put it in a shoebox, and poked holes in the lid. “Sylvie, you’ve always wanted a pet, and now’s your chance.”

  They named her Lizzie and kept the box beneath the garden tools in the garage. They gathered grass, and Milo snatched flies to feed her. He held her for Sylvia while she learned to pet her scaly back, which felt like mama’s alligator purse. Milo would hold Lizzie to his lips, pretend to kiss her, then pull back with a grimace as if she had bit him. Once, Milo picked her up and her tail fell off, but it kept wiggling. Sylvia giggled so hard she almost wet her pants.

  Then one morning, they opened the box, and Lizzie was gone. “She must have escaped.” Milo frowned. “Hope she didn’t run into the house. Your mama wouldn’t like that much, and neither would Ella.” The thought of that made her laugh and not be so sad that Lizzie had run away.

  A quail now skirted by and called for its mate. Sylvia had never seen a real one before, but she recognized it because a porcelain replica sat on a desk in the library at home.

  “A sophisticated girl wouldn’t do this either,” Sylvia spoke out loud and stuck her fingers in the sand, moving them back and forth through the gritty texture. She brushed her hands off, admiring her short-clipped easy-care nails. Then she touched a soft white plant, brought her fingers to her nose, and inhaled the sweet aroma. What had she missed by not camping with her father? Would he have loved her more? Known her better? She thought of her mother and felt a knot in her chest. Her mother’s goal had been to mold Sylvia into the perfect child, who would become a woman who could “catch a man.”

  Sylvia had caught a man, all right, but he happened to be the wrong one. Maybe here in Arizona, his death would begin to fade from her mind. She felt grateful to be in nature. The freedom and open spaces of the desert had to be the opposite of jail. Maybe out here on the road, she would figure it all out.

  She picked up a rock, a simple one, with gray streaks into black like Ella’s hair and coarse to the touch. Not shiny, but striking just the same. She thought of Milo and Ella again and hoped they had forgiven her for running away.

  By being in nature, Sylvia had begun to discover that life had more to offer than shopping and marriage. She changed herself on the outside with a new hairdo and clothes. Was it possible to recreate herself on the inside too? She had a desire to try.

  The temperature began to drop, and it grew dark. Fluffing her pillow, she nestled into the sleeping bag and pulled off her jeans to sleep in her T-shirt and panties. Lucy poked her nose into the bag. Sylvia lifted the flap, and the beagle-basset crawled inside and burrowed down to the bottom. “Night, night.” Sylvia rubbed her feet on Lucy’s back, glad again the stowaway had joined her on the journey. Lucy snorted and grew quiet.

  No moon tonight, Sylvia looked up at the dark sky filled with stars. She had never seen so many. She found the Big Dipper, and followed it with her fingers, counting the stars of the ladle, three stars along the handle and four for the cup. What were some of the other constellations? She wished she had paid more attention that night at the Valentine’s dance. On the club’s deck, Paul had tried to point the stars out to her, but she had been distracted by the music and Ricardo’s dancing.

  Paul had pointed and said, “There’s the North Star. If you find and follow it, you’ll never get lost.” She looked for it now, certain it was somewhere near the Dipper but not sure which one.

  Paul would love the sky here. Tears formed in her eyes, and she realized how much she missed him. He had always been a part of her life. As her guardian, he had been kind but firm. Like when he had been concerned about her spending.

  He had asked, “What monthly amount would be enough for you?” She had given him a number but hadn’t been able to abide by it. Even so, he never really got angry with her. How could she have been so shallow and taken him for granted? He always had her best i
nterest at heart. If she had told him the truth about Ricardo’s death, he would have supported her. She knew that now. Paul had always been on her side. He should have received her letter by now, and she hoped he would forgive her too.

  A bright star dropped from the sky, left a streak, and disappeared. With a wish for guidance and safety, Sylvia closed her eyes and touched the smooth amulet on her chest. She remembered the strange Indian woman who gave it to her, and smiled. Maybe the pendant would bring her luck as the woman had foretold.

  Sylvia inhaled the sweet-smelling nearby bush again, and quiet surrounded her. As she drifted off to sleep, diamonds sprinkled from the sky onto the sleeping bag, covering her in grace, giving her pleasant dreams of wishes fulfilled, wishes she hadn’t even known she had. Gentle winds lifted her up. The sleeping bag spiraled into the air. Shiny stars twirled around. Like an envelope caressing a letter, the sleeping bag flew, sending warm thoughts to Paul across the miles.

  All of a sudden, Lucy scrambled out of the sleeping bag and woke Sylvia, who rolled over and floated on the edge of sleep, remembering strange dreams of Paul. Emotions for him billowed through and around her, caressed her, seeped in, and she sat up. It was only a dream. He would never think of her in that way!

  Lucy yelped and stood at attention, staring off into the distance. Sylvia’s eyes followed her gaze out into the dark but didn’t see anything. She grabbed the flashlight and turned it on. The puppy barked and then stopped. There must be something out there!

  “Lucy, come,” Sylvia called, and the two ran up the steps into the trailer and closed the door behind them. Sylvia tried to secure the door, but the lock jammed. With the flashlight pointed out the window, Sylvia swept the beam back and forth. She caught a nearby movement, but it was only a bush trembling in the wind.

  The air cold and blanket thin, Sylvia wished she had grabbed the sleeping bag, but no way would she go back out there for it. She turned off the flashlight to save the battery and twisted on the lantern. Its beam cast an eerie shadow on the trailer’s walls.