by Karen Bender
Lou opened the door. “Glad to meet you,” he boomed.
Bob kept his hands in his pockets. The part in his hair was crooked, like a road that needed to be fixed.
“Bob, Lena’s not ready,” Ella lied, touching his arm; she wanted to see how normal he felt. His shoulder was a little damp and surprisingly muscular. Quickly, she removed her hand.
Bob glided deftly past her into the den and plucked up TV Guide. He flipped wildly through the pages, stumbled across the room, and clicked the channels until he found Gunsmoke. Then he backed up to the couch, propped his feet on Lou’s green vinyl footstool, slunk low into the couch, and thoughtfully eyed the action in Gunsmoke. He was about forty, with short gray hair, but his feet, in blue sneakers, bounced on the footstool with the blunt, coarse merriment of a boy. Ella was used to Lena’s stubbiness, the way she seemed to bump up unsuccessfully against adulthood. But it seemed strange in Bob, and she could not help thinking that even though he was taller than Lena, he resembled an aging dwarf.
Lou sat on the couch and rubbed his palms rapidly against his knees. His face looked as though it had been sculpted hurriedly into an expression of calm—the cheeks were uneven, the smile was off. He surveyed Bob as he would any stranger, as though deciding whether to hire him. “You like Gunsmoke?”
Bob clasped his hands on his lap. “I like the man in the hat,” he said.
Lou began to lean into another question, but Ella felt he would ask the wrong one. “How is the job?” Ella asked.
Bob arranged his hands around an invisible steering wheel and twisted it to the right until it came to an abrupt stop. “I drive,” he said. “I like to drive.”
“Do you like big trucks or small ones?” Ella asked.
“I just drive big ones,” he said, as though insulted.
Cowboys galloped across a desert. Ella kept glancing at her aquamarine vase near his elbow, pretending not to stare at him. There had to be reasons to like him. His fingernails shone. His sneakers were neatly tied. He had blue eyes. And the main point—he wanted Lena.
“How long have you worked for Goodwill?” she asked.
“A while.”
“And you live?”
“On a cot.”
“Excuse me?”
“With the Ensons.”
“And they are?”
“A man and a wife.”
Before she could inquire more, Lena appeared in the doorway. Ella had helped her match her yellow rhinestone earrings and scarf with a yellow shift, the dress she’d worn when she applied for the Goodwill job. It seemed lucky. Bob lifted his eyes from the TV.
Ella had never tried to look at Lena the way a man would. Dressing her was like adorning a child—for a specific, decorative purpose, but not for men. Now, lavender eyeshadow gleamed, iridescent, on her eyelids, and her hair was expansive with spray. Bob gazed at her frankly, as though he had a right to her. Lena whisked past Ella, bumping her with her purse.
“I’ve been talking to your guest,” Ella began, “and—”
“Hi, Bob,” said Lena.
Bob smiled. “Finish your socks?”
“Shut up!” squealed Lena, clapping her hand over her mouth.
“Excuse me?” asked Ella.
“Learn to park!” Lena said.
“I’m the best parker,” Bob said. “I’m the number one parker. And you know it.”
Lena screeched with giggles. “Liar!” She rushed to the front door with exuberant haughtiness. Bob ran after her, as though afraid she would disappear.
“Where are you going?”
“House of Pancakes,” said Lena.
“It’s going to be crowded,” said Ella, feeling vaguely hysterical. “There’s going to be a long wait—”
“I’m hungry,” said Bob, tugging Lena.
“Do you have enough money? Let me give you some—”
“Bob has money.”
Bob’s eyes, focused on Lena, were clear and intelligent with desire. He put his hand on her arm.
“Bye!” Lena said, waving tentatively.
Ella could not speak.
“Bye!” said Lena. “You—you look very pretty.” And they left.
Ella watched them bound across the lawn. Lena’s yellow dress fluttered too slowly as she ran, as though governed by new physical laws.
Lou sprang back from the window, like a child embarrassed by what he has just seen. He pushed his hand into his glossy gray hair. “Well,” he said, “we’re not losing a daughter—we’re just gaining another mouth to feed.”
Lou had never owned Lena the way Ella had. For thirty-three years, he had tried not to look too closely at their daughter, cultivating, instead, a relentless optimism that Ella found incomprehensible yet necessary. Now it made her feel alone.
“We’re not gaining anything,” said Ella. She grabbed her sweater and followed the two figures walking down the street.
She walked briskly but casually, keeping a block between herself and her daughter. When they turned into a shopping center at the corner, Ella stopped beside a Buick that was parked at one end of the lot.
Lena and Bob walked through the empty, sparkling parking lot spread, like a dark lake, between the House of Pancakes and a Hallmark, an ice cream store, a laundromat, a pet store. It was Sunday and the stores were closed, but Bob and Lena stared hard at the windows as though willing them to open. The asphalt was torn in places, seemingly delicate as lace. Ella waited for something to go wrong. Bob went over to several cars, rubbed their dusty tops, nodded like an expert, returned to Lena. She put coins into a newspaper rack, removed a paper, and handed it to him; he rolled it up and tapped it against his leg.
Slowly, they ambled around the lot, once, twice, three times. The orange flanks of the House of Pancakes loomed, unreal, candied in the Valley’s pale light. Some customers left the restaurant and headed toward their cars with casual confidence; Bob and Lena stood in the dark lot and watched them walk. As the two of them finally walked through the restaurant’s door, Bob touched her daughter’s back just for a moment; his small hand reached for the yellow fabric, trying, gently, to hold on.
Bob came to the house once a week. Lena was always dressed and ready an hour beforehand; she sat absolutely still on her bed, as though his imminent arrival was so fragile a circumstance that she had to take care not to disturb the air. Yet she always made him wait. One night, when Bob had installed himself in the den to wait for her, Ella swept into the den to quiz him about his life.
“Where is your cot?” she asked.
“Near the garage.”
“Who are the Ensons?”
“A man and a wife.”
She dragged out of him the following scintillating facts: he preferred lamb chops to chicken, peas to potatoes.
Ella ruled that Lena and Bob had to spend part of each date at the house. Sometimes they sat on the patio while Ella washed the dishes, observing them through the kitchen window. One night near nine o’clock, when the sky had turned dark, Ella heard a jump and rustle and the sound of running; she looked out a window onto the shining, moon-silver lawn. Lena and Bob were not kissing or touching but just chasing each other, endlessly, like large, slow bears. Their sound was of the purest joy, a soft, hushed giggling as they followed each other through the dark yard.
Dolores told Ella that the Ensons, a couple in Sherman Oaks, were paid Bob’s rent by Hugh, Bob’s brother in Chicago. Ella got Hugh’s number and called him.
When she told him that Bob was dating her daughter, there was a silence so hostile she wondered what she had actually said.
“I’m sending money,” Hugh said irritably. “I’m sending money.”
“I’m not asking—”
“It’s not easy, lady. Do you think it’s easy sending—”
“Sir,” she said, “I’m not asking for money. I just want to know what he’s like.”
Another silence. “Well, you see what he’s like.”
“For the last few months. What about befor
e?”
“What is there to know? He’s forty-one. Three years older than me.”
“Where did he live before?”
“The folks had him at an institution for a while. They didn’t know what the hell to do with him. He’s been at the Ensons’ for six years, since the folks died. They’re the ones who got him to Goodwill. He likes driving, I hear.”
“What else?”
“You might want to know this. He had a vasectomy.”
She pressed the phone more firmly to her ear.
“They did that early. When he was sixteen, seventeen. No little Bobs running around.”
Ella did not know how to digest this fact, so she decided to move on. “Anything else? Health problems, disorders, anything?”
“No, he’s just real slow.”
“And you?” she asked, in spite of herself.
“Me?”
“You. What do you do?”
“I’m in insurance. Life and homes. I got married two years ago. I’ve got a son now,” he said, his voice suddenly soft and eager to please.
“How nice,” she said coolly.
“I hope he and your daughter get along real well,” he said, his voice high-pitched with false sincerity. “I’ll call back to see how he is.” He hung up. She never heard from him again.
One night as Ella was putting on her sweater before going out for her usual reconnaissance mission, she felt Lou’s hands on her shoulders. He turned her around.
“I have to go,” she said.
“Have dinner with me.”
“Dinner?” she asked. “But they’re—”
“They’re just going to the House of Pancakes.” He looked away. “Who else is going to marry her?” he asked.
He was wearing an undershirt, and his shoulders were thinner now at sixty-seven, almost girlish. She followed him to the kitchen. Lena had discovered her own perfume—a chirpy, lavender scent from Sav-on—and the fragrance wafted through the hall.
Lou paced around the kitchen while she heated chicken with mushrooms. “What do you think they’re doing?” she asked.
“Eating,” he said.
“They’ll forget to pay,” she said.
“Then they’ll get arrested,” he said. He folded his arms. They were caramel-colored, dusted with silver hair. His gaze stopped on her, held her. “Let’s fool around,” he said, a soft huskiness in his voice.
She stopped; she wished she could feel interested. “If you want to,” she said, “then come over here.”
He gently wound her hair into his hands. His aftershave smelled drugstore-blue and sharp. His breath was a hot current against her neck. His hands slid down her arms and cupped her breasts, and Ella tried to let herself go against him, but couldn’t.
Lou stopped, sensing her resistance. “She’s fine,” he said.
Delicately, Ella disentangled herself.
“I need you, too,” Lou said. He lightly slapped her hip, as though she were a cow, and she heard him walk away from her.
Lena and Bob marched into the kitchen one evening, their fingers wound together, as though they’d been assigned to be buddies on a school trip. Lena held up their hands. A plastic yellow ring encircled her index finger.
“I’m married!” said Lena.
Bob swiped a bruised pear off the table and took a big bite.
“You’re what?” Ella asked.
“He gave me a ring!”
“You’re engaged,” said Ella.
“I’m going to have a husband!” squealed Lena. She pulled Bob to her side, like a purse.
Ella put down her dishtowel. She lifted Lena’s hand; the yellow ring was the kind that fell, encased in a plastic bubble, out of a machine in the supermarket. Bob’s breath came hard, thick as a puppy’s, and his bristly gray hair seemed a harder silver than before.
Lena giggled and said to Bob, “Say what I said to—”
“Do I have to?”
“Yes.”
Bob slowly got to his knees in front of Ella, rubbed his hands on the sides of his pants, and looked at the floor.
“I forget,” he said.
“You know,” said Lena. She whispered, loudly, “I want to . . .”
“I want to propose a marriage,” Bob said, looking directly at Ella’s knees.
“Lena,” Ella said, “honey, he’s supposed to kneel in front of you, not me.”
“But he’s asking you.”
Ella looked at Bob on his knees before her. She saw the rosy, bald circle on his scalp. He looked like a gardener sprawled onto a patch of lawn, pressing seeds into a plot of dirt. He was inevitable, and perhaps because of that, she felt an unexpected rush of love for him.
“Lou,” Ella called, carefully. “Lou.”
“I’m married!” Lena shrieked as her father came in, and she rushed into his arms. It was something Lena did so rarely that Lou was unsure how to hold her, and his arms curved around her awkwardly. He stepped back and looked at her, blinking.
“Married,” Lou said.
“Stand up,” Ella said to Bob. He rocked back onto his feet and stood, grabbing Lena’s hand for balance. He was standing up, one of them now.
“We have to have a toast,” said Lou, slowly.
Ella took a pitcher of cranberry juice from the refrigerator and filled the glasses. Lou arranged Lena’s and Bob’s arms in the gesture of a toast. Lena and Bob clutched their glasses fiercely, as though expecting the glasses to rise toward the ceiling, pulling them, legs kicking, off the floor.
“L’chayim,” Lou said.
It was Lou’s idea that they get married in Las Vegas. They had a nine P.M. appointment at the Chapel of Eternal Love, at the far end of South Fifth, but Bob played the slot machines so long that he almost made them late. Lena played right beside him, a little wobbly in her heels. Her veil was plopped, like an exhausted, translucent bat, on top of her slot machine.
Afterward, the four of them walked down the Strip to the chapel, past the Stardust and the Dunes and the Thunderbird and the Riviera. The streets glowed with the hotels’ gaudy pink and orange and white lights. Lena wore a polyester puff-sleeved ivory dress that she and Ella had purchased off a mannequin in the window of Treasureland, a discount emporium. The mannequin rose grimly out of a litter of golden ashtrays and inflatable palm trees. Lena had stopped by the window, pointed to the mannequin and said, with great assurance, “Her.”
Ella was holding Lena’s hand. With her other hand she touched Lou’s arm. “Do they know we’re coming?”
“Yes.”
“What about flowers? Do they provide them?”
“Relax.” He did not look at her. “It’s going to be beautiful.”
She wanted to ask him whether love was truly good, whether marriage made you safe, whether the right man or woman would make anyone happy. She wanted to ask whether she had, in fact, given birth to Lena—if her daughter truly lived outside her body.
When they reached the chapel, Ella took Lena to the far corner of the parking lot and drew a lipstick across her trembling lips.
“Ready?”
Lena nodded.
“Scared?”
Lena shrugged.
Ella took her hand. She wanted to tell her something. Marriage, she thought, was not simply choosing your mate, but the person you wanted to be for the rest of your life. She, Ella, had married a man whose feet made a ringing sound when he came home to her, his face startled with joy. He made her laugh with stories of peculiar fashions and foolish customers. But when she tried to speak to him about Lena, he would lean toward the TV set, brushing away her words as if they were pale moths.
Vivien had married Mel, a reform rabbi, a kind, exuberant man who stood on the bima in a navy blazer and talked about the ways that everyone could heal the world. Ella often noticed how gently he and Vivien held hands, as though each understood and wanted to protect the fragile parts of the other. He could be busy with the demands of many people, but he seemed most comfortable when he listened thoug
htfully to his wife.
There were other wives Ella and Vivien could have been. Their marriages had shaped them, firmly and precisely, but Ella could not see the marks of her own evolution; she could not see how the love she gave and took had made her what she was.
And here was Lena with one suitor, one choice.
“Do you understand what this means, Lena?”
“It means that Bob and I will be together, and we will be happy.”
Ella adjusted Lena’s veil. “Where’s your bobby pin?” she asked. “Don’t let this fall off. Don’t keep touching it.”
Lena swatted her hand away. “I want to get married now.”
The justice of the peace looked worn down by all the eternal love he’d seen that day. His assistant, wearing a red sequined minidress and a sparkling nametag that said Witness, took the wedding fee of twenty dollars from Ella and flung open the door to a large refrigerator. In it, rows of cold bouquets were lined up like a silent, aloof audience inside. She shivered. “What color roses, hon? Red, pink, white, or silver?”
“I would like silver, please,” Lena said.
Lena and Bob stood side by side, their elbows touching. She tugged her wedding dress straight and nodded obediently at the justice. Her hand gripped the refrigerated spray of silver roses, which were the color of a dull nickel. Her face had the alertness of true happiness.
Ella stood on the other side of Lena; Lou held his navy fedora as he stood beside Bob.
“By the power vested in me by the state of Nevada, I pronounce you man and wife,” said the justice. He coughed, as if he just realized he was intruding on a family gathering.
Lena moved first. She raised her hand to Bob’s face with a great tenderness, her fingers spread to capture as much of him as she could. Ella wondered where Lena had learned to touch like that.
The witness hauled over a large, blue-sequined sack of gifts for the newlyweds. “Something to start off your new home,” she said. It was brimming with boxes of detergent, spatulas, colanders. The justice thrust his arm in the bag and brought out a box of Tide.
“Yuck,” Lena said.
