Everyone's Pretty

by Lydia Millet

  —Let’s get the shitfish, said Babs. —That shitty fish!

  —Please, step back, said Bucella, and knelt down to apply herself to the task at hand. She felt queasy herself. It was quite Horrifying. Steam-cleaned! It cost two hundred dollars. She was scrubbing when Phillip reentered the room, his slacks wet.

  —Put that down! Put it down Barbara, or I will punish you severely!

  —I got the shitfish and I’m going to eat it, said Babs. Bucella craned her neck to behold Babs lowering the twitching goldfish into her mouth.

  —Do not swallow that fish! said Phillip, and bounded up to his wife.

  Her mouth was pursed closed, the cheeks bulging. He put one hand on her jaw and tried to pry her lips open with the other. She swallowed.

  —Hee hee hee! Tickly fish!

  —Barbara, we are leaving this minute. Get your purse right now and follow me out the door. Please forgive her Bucella. She has lost her way.

  —Yes, I—

  —I’m staying! cried Babs, and fled toward the den.

  Phillip pursued her while Bucella disposed of the rag in the kitchen and washed her hands. When she rejoined them Babs had scuttled under Dean’s filthy sofa. One foot protruded from beneath it, promptly retracted when Phillip grabbed at it.

  —Barbara, you may retain the Bronco Bill. Now will you come out?

  After a minute of silence Babs inched out and righted herself. But Bucella had been unprepared. Used Prophylactics were hanging off her like tree ornaments.

  —Oh Lord, they must be my brother’s, said Bucella hastily, and commenced to gather them frantically off Babs’s arms, back and legs. They were Filthy! But they had to come off. Phillip would think she lived in Sin. He stood staring with his arms crossed on his chest as she brushed cocoons of dirt and sediment off Babs’s shoulders.

  —Rubbers, stated Babs.

  —That is sufficient Barbara. You will be silent.

  —Spermatozoa, said Babs. —Sperm sperm sperm.

  One stubborn tube was attached to the heel of her shoe. Leaning down Bucella whisked it into the palm of her hand. Where had they come from? During the day, while she was gainfully employed, he must be entertaining Loose Women. The couch was permanently Soiled.

  —Sin! giggled Babs. —Sperm! A firm sperm. Sperm is firm.

  —Shut your mouth!

  —Firmy spermy firmy sperm.

  —That’s the doorbell. Why don’t you get her tidied up in the bathroom? I think my brother has some pants you can wear.

  It was Jerry Frenter from next door, with his tie loosened and jacket slung over one shoulder.

  —There’s a message on my answering machine from the LAPD. Do you know what happened to my wife?

  —First she painted this on my door.

  Bucella stepped onto the porch and unhooked the Thanksgiving wreath.

  —Child Molester?

  —Then she got into my car while I was looking at it and she almost ran over me when I tried to stop her. She drove off. I had to break my own back window to get into the house. My keys were in the car.

  —Jesus! She’s been in counseling. Can I come in?

  —I have guests.

  —We were just leaving, said Phillip, and pushed Babs out the front door ahead of him. —Bucella, you have my heartfelt apologies. It was the trauma of the fire. Barbara, get in the car.

  They watched as Babs stumbled down the footpath, then made a sudden detour toward the backyard in a sprint.

  —Barbara!

  —Excuse me, said Jerry Frenter. —I’ll come back later.

  Phillip was down the steps, chasing a disappearing tail. As Jerry walked back to his house Bucella exhaled. She had to wash her hands. They bore the Stains of Dean’s Vile Deeds. She was his keeper, a long-suffering Abel to his Cain, Abel who endured the seasons, the cold frosts and painful grievances without complaint, while Cain slaughtered cute little calves.

  Standing over the bathroom sink, looking at the hand towels she had acquired at a church sale, embroidered His and Hers in pale-blue script, she heard a noise. Abrupt metallic crunch.

  She took two Advil, dried her hands on Hers, stood with closed eyes preparing herself for further Tribulation, and walked out to the front porch again. At the curb, Dean’s Pinto was piggybacked on Phillip’s gray Hyundai. The back of the Hyundai was crumpled like an accordion. Dean himself lay face-down on the grass of her lawn.

  —Get up this minute, she told him in stentorian tones. —I have guests. She glanced toward the side of the house, but they were nowhere to be seen. Thank the Lord.

  He lay silent, unmoving. She heaved a burdened sigh and walked over, nudging his arm with her foot. He groaned.

  —Dean, you will get up immediately or I will drag you myself. Your presence is unwelcome. I told you I was having guests. They will return any minute.

  She leaned down and rolled him over. His face was purple, yellow and swollen. He blinked at her, then raised a blood-encrusted hand and dreamily picked his nose.

  —Dean I am warning you now, if you do not get up I will drag you.

  She wished to conceal him from the Kreuzes. But he was very heavy. Her brother was a dead weight. He had stopped picking his nose and seemed to be unconscious again. She squatted beside him on the grass, grabbed him under the armpits and heaved. The grass, wet with dew, was helpful.

  At the porch steps, his head met concrete once or twice, but finally she had him inside. His skull was hard as a rock. As a child, he had butted it repeatedly against a table edge one day with no adverse effects. The living room couch was the only safe Haven. She tugged him behind it and tried to roll him underneath, but his bony hip struck the frame. He would have to be pushed by increments. She heard footsteps on the porch. She had his head under, his Buttocks. Then his feet, and she rose calm and collected as Phillip burst in, breathing hard.

  —Did you see it? Did you see, my God! My car has been destroyed!

  —My stars! How?

  —I mean it’s totaled!

  —Where is your wife?

  —I must notify the police. The driver is nowhere to be found. I will be forced to litigate! It’s hit and run. You didn’t see anything?

  —Oh no.

  —I will call the police, and then a towing service. Where is your telephone?

  If Dean woke up while Phillip was in the house, all was Lost.

  —It’s out of order. Why don’t you call from next door?

  8:24

  —Sure, help yourself, said Jerry Frenter, stepping back to usher them in. —Phone’s in the hall. I was having a glass of sherry. Join me, Mr.—?

  —I do not drink spirits. Where is it located?

  —Through the kitchen, there on the right.

  Phillip strode past them, stroking his mustache.

  —I will have a glass, thank you. It has been an exhausting evening.

  —Bar’s in the basement, follow me. Installed it myself last spring. What’s the deal with this guy, his pants are dripping on the floor.

  —His wife was sick. Now his car has been rear-ended.

  Phillip dialed. There was no answer at 911. Something was wrong, truly wrong. He hung up and dialed again. The voices of Bucella and her neighbor were distracting.

  —Some fucking night. Watch your head, the ceiling’s low. We can sit on the patio. My wife’s gone, my daughter’s gone. I have nothing to do. Dry or sweet?

  —Sweet. Thank you.

  An operator picked up. He could barely hear her.

  —A car rear-ended me!

  —Is someone injured, sir?

  —No, but—

  —I’ll tell you honestly, she has some problems. She’s seeing a counselor, but it doesn’t seem to help. Of course I’ll pay for the damage to your house. I’m really sorry. I’ll pay for a rental car till we get this cleared up. Spare no expense. Hire yourself a Lincoln.

  —Thank you, but I prefer compact cars.

  —And she’s codependent.

  Phil saw them
go through sliding doors; Bucella sat down on a lawn chair and crossed her legs.

  —Just call your local police station, okay sir? They’ll send an officer to make a report.

  8:46

  Scratchy, grainy, bad-tasting: it was Decetes’s tongue that first brought the exterior back into his life. The tongue was touching burlap, above him. It was difficult to breathe. He moved a leg and pain shot through the knee. Someone had packaged him; he was being shipped in a crate, like livestock. But the smells were strangely familiar. Yes: he was in Bucella’s living room, between the sofa and the floor.

  There were sores, aches, but he dismissed them. The parts of time ran together, fluid. He had arrived here, but by what means? A transmigration of souls? The tragedy of all tragedies, to be someone else. He refused to believe it. But it was dark and close where he lay, like a coffin; the carpet smelled worse than usual. God’s teeth! It stank of acrid bile!

  He knew the odor well.

  He moved sideways, into the air and light. He raised his head. He would stand. Yes: he would walk erect. He gathered his strength and made the effort, but fell back. Black holes appeared on the periphery of his vision. They spread and metamorphosed. The Little Drummer Boy was playing in his head, marching, stamping, beating on his tinny vessel with loud sticks. Decetes ordered the scamp to shut up, but he would not. Decetes made dire threats to the Drummer Boy. —I will Rum-pum-pum-pum you, he warned. The Boy refused to desist. Decetes would pummel him with a club. That would teach him. The little shit. Decetes was the Bandmaster. —I will Rum-pum-pum-pum you, he repeated.

  This time the Drummer paid attention and his awful beat abated. Decetes stood, triumphant.

  But he was still hallucinating. Before him squatted an awkward, dark-haired woman, naked from the waist down. Mongoloid? Possibly. She wore thick glasses and her over-large eyes were wide open, staring at him. He recalled now: it was a dream from last night. The naked woman had danced on a sidewalk. He was having recurring visions. It was a sign of glory. But what was its significance?

  —What do you mean? he asked the apparition.

  He was dizzy. He steadied himself on the sofa arm.

  —I ate the fish, she said blankly. —The fish is inside me.

  Her white thighs were dimpled and trembling. The large brown eyes gazed upon him steadfastly, unblinking. And she was speaking of fish: fish, the symbol of Christ. She was the earth mother and he was the man to lead the meek.

  —Thank you, he said. —I always knew I was chosen.

  No matter that he in particular was an unbeliever. This would be the crusade of the flesh, not its renunciation. Jesus himself had been Jewish.

  9:00

  —That’s disgusting! squealed the bride-to-be. She held the vibrator aloft like a scepter. —I can’t believe you bought this!

  —I have the receipt, said Alice. —You can return it if you like. They put me up to it.

  —Are you kidding? She’s going to need it where she’s going! screeched a celebrant, as Alice winced into her margarita. They were a flock of small-brained sparrows, chirping. A Chippendale clicked onto the stage in cowboy boots, black mask and spangled cloak.

  —Yeah all right! cheered a bridesmaid. —Give it to us Lone Ranger!

  —We need another couple of pitchers, said the bride-to-be.

  —I’ll get them, said Alice.

  Dousing her face in cold water at the restroom sink, she remembered finding a pale rock in the riverbed, a pale flat rock, and she had dipped her hand in, raked her fingers through the wet pebbles and pulled it out. It was a sand dollar, but they were hundreds of miles from the sea.

  The miracle had never been repeated.

  9:22

  —Bucella! Wherefore art thou goddammit?

  —Oh Lord, that’s my brother. He is inebriated.

  Jerry Frenter was not yet acquainted with Dean.

  —Bucella!

  Dean’s bloated face, the color of a rotting plum, materialized from the darkness of the copse.

  —Dean I am having a quiet drink with Mr. Frenter here while my coworker calls triple A. You should not be here when Mr. Kreuz joins us. Why don’t you go to bed and stay there.

  —Jesus man, what happened to you?

  —I was set upon by Philistines. But that is not important now. Bucella, I had a vision.

  —What else is new Dean. Go to bed.

  —Bucella it was the earth mother.

  —I’m surprised Dean, it is usually a prostitute.

  —Bucella I’m serious. She told me I’m chosen to lead. I’ve known it for some time, but it has been confirmed.

  —I’ll have what he’s having. Excuse me, I’m getting a refill. Would you care for another glass Bucella?

  —No thank you.

  He closed the sliding door behind him.

  —Bucella it was the earth mother. In your living room.

  —There are no earth mothers in my living room.

  —There was an earth mother Bucella, the same one I saw last night before the house burned down.

  —Dean the house did not burn down. It is standing behind you, unburned. Now go to bed. I do not want my coworker to see you Dean. You crashed into his car. He may find out, but not from me. If I were you Dean I would hide.

  —It was a big mother Bucella. Big and naked. But its mouth was the oracle, the oracle of Delphi. It told me Bucella. I am the Lamb. I am the Lion. I’m the fish.

  —It was probably one of those fallen women from the videotapes, and you were dreaming about her. Now get out of here.

  —You are graced Bucella. You are graced with my godhead.

  —Do not be profane Dean. I never heard of godheads that left condoms under the sofa. Now leave before you end up facing litigation. I thought that thing was in an impound lot.

  —I kidnapped it Bucella, I had my wits about me and my wits are keen. I am going Bucella, but remember what I have said. They will bow before me in deserts, they will weep when I touch them.

  —You got that right Dean. Go!

  —Bucella?

  —That’s him! The guy whose car you wrecked! Get out!

  —Bucella, the police and California Automobile Association are on their way.

  —Good Phillip. Have a seat.

  —Bless you my son, you are absolved. I bid you both adieu. Vaya con Dios. Yo soy Dios. Yo soy Jesus. Be calm my good man, the flesh is willing but the spirit is weak.

  —Who was that?

  —A homeless person. He sometimes sleeps in the ravine.

  —You must exercise caution with these individuals. They are frequently schizophrenic. Some of them carry weapons.

  —That one is harmless.

  Jerry Frenter stepped through the sliding door to join them, crystal decanter and glass in hand.

  —Oh, he left?

  —Yes he’s gone. Let’s not talk about him.

  10:06

  Wedged between Alice and a plaster gladiator painted gold was a middle-aged woman in a ratty, peach-velour caftan. Her chin was partly submerged in a daiquiri. Alice leaned forward on the bar and gently touched her shoulder. She jerked up, spilling pink slush.

  —Sorry, said Alice, and plied a cocktail napkin to the spill. —Are you okay?

  10:31

  —Yes Officer. Hit and run.

  —The car is registered to you sir?

  —My wife. For insurance reasons.

  —We’ll need a statement from her.

  —Yes Officer. Unfortunately she is indisposed. Let me show you the damage.

  The policeman followed Phillip down to the curb. Jerry Frenter stood beside Bucella on the porch, his sherry glass in hand, sipping as he watched the proceedings.

  —I’ve seen that car here before, he said slowly. —That car belongs to your brother.

  —He drives it, but its ownership is uncertain, said Bucella. —I cannot be involved. It has been a long day.

  —Who is that? Jesus!

  —That is my coworker’s wife.
<
br />   —But she’s—

  —Barbara?

  —She’s not wearing—

  —Barbara!

  —I found the Smurf!

  Barbara was gallumphing down the driveway from the backyard wearing only her blouse and carrying a gnome garden statuette. The gnome was wearing a blue cap. Phillip trotted awkwardly behind her, trying to herd her toward the house with sweeping arm gestures.

  —The Smurf is with me!

  —Barbara, get inside! Now! Please do not arrest her Officer. It is a chemical imbalance. Barbara, inside!

  She held the painted gnome in a tight hug as she trundled up the front steps. Bucella and Jerry Frenter stepped back to let her pass. Jerry’s mouth was hanging open.

  —Jesus.

  —She is mentally challenged, whispered Bucella.

  The spectacle was unpleasant. What could possibly explain the marriage? Phillip had set himself the task of taming a heathen. He was a missionary, a Healer. Yes. He had crosses to bear. She had her own. She knew. They were both Oxen at the plow, with heavy shoulders and sad eyes.

  —Excuse me, she told Jerry. —I will offer them my assistance.

  But Lordy Lord! Dean might be in there. Lying in wait for them.

  10:30

  —May I buy you a drink? asked the old skinny guy.

  —Maybe just a soda, said Ginny. —Um, Coke I guess.

  —Mike! Coke here. Will you tell me your name?

  —Ginny, she said. —What’s yours?

  —Alan. My nickname’s sort of Alan H.

  —Are you married Alan H.?

  —No, said the old guy. —I was once, but not now.

  —Got a girlfriend?

  —No. No I don’t.

  —Then can I crash at your place tonight? she asked, twisting a strand of hair over her eye.

  The old guy looked like he won the lottery.

  10:44

  —Let’s get out of here, said Alice.

  —But I haven’t met the male strippers, said Riva.

  —Come on. We’ll go somewhere else. I’ll lend you a change of clothes.

  —Change, murmured Riva.

  10:45

  —This is where I live, said Alan H.

  —I like it, said Ginny.

  It was definitely swank, in some kind of black-and-white, leather way. She picked a good one, considering. The guy was kind of sad though, old and sad. —Can I get another soda? Actually my favorite is Dr. Pepper. Do you have Dr. Pepper?