Necklace of Kisses

by Francesca Lia Block

  Weetzie suddenly imagined Max lying in bed under his newspaper. In the vision, there was another pair of legs beside his—a woman’s. Her head was covered with a newspaper, too, but she had lovely feet with purple toenail polish.

  Weetzie looked blankly at the blue lady, wondering if she had somehow guessed why Weetzie was here. Then she realized that the story was a response to the question about the woman’s coloring.

  “And you turned…”

  “Blue,” the woman said, checking her computer. “Yes. Now, would you like a garden room or something in the main building?”

  “A garden room,” Weetzie murmured, looking at the plain gold band Max had given her, wondering how she could ever possibly carry off cobalt coloring.

  Room Service

  Weetzie’s room had French doors that opened onto a tiny patio with a fountain and potted jasmine and gardenia plants. The ceiling was painted pale sky blue, the carpet was pale grass green, and the walls were papered with an old-fashioned pattern of pink cabbage roses, light purple irises, green leaves, and pale yellow stripes. There was a seashell-shaped love seat upholstered in rose velvet, and a desk and chair of pale yellow wood, handpainted with leaves and the small roses you could make by dabbing a brush in two colors of paint about eight times each. There was a big, comfortable bed with a pink comforter. The satin sheets felt like water and smelled like lavender. There was also a small refrigerator and a mini-bar. Weetzie opened the refrigerator and took out a bottle of tonic water and a bottle of grapefruit juice, which she mixed in a glass on the ice she had retrieved in a silver bucket from the humming machine down the walkway. As she put a Milky Way bar into the freezer for later, she vowed that she would go easy on the refreshments in the room. They cost a fortune, and the money she had saved from the store wouldn’t last forever. Not that she would be here forever, she told herself. And then wondered when she was planning on leaving. This question had not even occurred to her when she came here.

  Weetzie took off her shoes, pulled the bedspread off the bed (she always remembered how she changed her children’s diapers on those things, when they were babies), and lay down with her drink. From the room, you could hear the splashing sounds of the pool and smell the chlorine mixed with the flowers. You could hear birds in the trees and the cleaning lady whistling as she wheeled her cart down the walkway. The cocktail Weetzie was drinking bit her mouth pleasantly. Was it the quinine from the tonic water? What was quinine, anyway? Some kind of bitter salt? Weetzie finished the drink and took off her clothes. Then she went into the bathroom and filled the tub, dumping the entire contents of the hotel’s green bath gel bottle under the stream. She opened the window so she could smell the garden and eased herself into the bathtub. Then she hummed “Smells Like Teen Spirit” while she shaved her legs and underarms and used a pumice stone on the calluses on her feet. She realized that she didn’t have any significant songs after Kurt Cobain shot himself. It made her feel old, but there was nothing she could do about it; listening to new music hurt too much.

  When she got out of the tub, she wrapped herself in one of the thick white towels that smelled of fresh-baked cake, and sat on the bed. She realized, smelling the towel, that she was starving, so she did her second favorite hotel thing to do—after taking a bath. She called room service.

  “Room service. May I help you?” a man’s voice said.

  “I was wondering if you might have any items from the breakfast menu at this time of day?” Weetzie asked.

  “I’m sorry, miss. We only have the Afternoon Snack menu available now. Until four-thirty, when we have the Pre-Supper menu available. Then we have the Early Supper menu. At six-thirty we have the Dinner Proper menu. Until nine-thirty. Then we have the Late Dinner menu. From eleven until twelve-thirty we have the Late Late Dinner menu. Then we have a Snack menu until two. From two to six we have the Wee Hour Snack. We have a Breakfast menu from six until eleven.”

  “What if I wanted to get eggs and oatmeal and fruit and a bran muffin?” Weetzie said. She would have been very impatient with his speech, but she liked his voice and the way he called her “miss.”

  “Well, we only have eggs on the Breakfast menu, and on Sundays we have them on the Brunch menu. We have fruit on the Snack menu. We have muffins and oatmeal on the Breakfast menu but not on the Brunch menu.”

  “Do you think you might have one piece of fruit lying around?” Weetzie asked.

  “Let me look and call you back,” the voice said.

  Weetzie thanked him and hung up. There was something so magical about room service. You just pressed a button and talked to a nice person and then this food appeared at your door on a silver tray with white linen and ice water tinkling in a glass.

  She got up and put on the TV. At home she would never do such a thing, not in the middle of a balmy, sunny afternoon. Max had the TV news on all the time lately, but Weetzie hated it. Now she put on IFC and saw they were showing her favorite cross-dresser rock musical, Hedwig and the Angry Inch. She realized, happily, that she loved all the songs from that show, and they were recent! I’m not so old after all, she thought. She sang “I put on my makeup” along with Hedwig, and danced around the room. She got out her lipstick, dabbed some on her lips, and patted her nose with powder.

  The phone rang. For a second, her heart leaped, as if in expectation. What could she be expecting? It was only room service.

  “I found some oats, grapes, and a kiwi,” he said.

  “Oh, I like grapes and kiwi! I had a dog once who loved kiwis.”

  “Really, what kind?”

  “Are there different types of kiwis?”

  “Oh, I mean the dog.”

  “He was a dachshund,” she said, and immediately felt a lump in her throat thinking of her beloved boy. He had died in her arms at fifteen, fat and happy, but she still regretted that she hadn’t wished to give him a human life span when she had the chance.

  “Those dogs are so cool. I had them growing up.”

  “Really?”

  “What was his name?”

  “Slinkster Dog.”

  “Great name. Ours were Shirley, Keith, Laurie, and Danny.”

  “What about Mr. Kincaid?”

  They laughed.

  “You don’t sound old enough for the Partridge family,” she said.

  “Reruns…Well, I better get you your kiwi.”

  “Thank you,” Weetzie said.

  “But that isn’t much protein.”

  “I won’t even ask if you have any tofu.”

  “No, sorry. We have plain yogurt, though.”

  “Oh, what the hell,” Weetzie said. “I’m kind of lactose intolerant but you only live once.”

  They laughed again.

  “Coming right up,“ said room service.

  A few minutes later, there was a knock on the door. Weetzie was so involved with Hedwig that she had forgotten to get dressed. She put on the terry-cloth robe that also smelled like a cake, and answered the door.

  Mr. Room Service looked like a faun who had escaped the Arcadian woods for the big city. He was wearing a white shirt, black pants, heavy black shoes, a white apron, and carrying a silver tray with a bunch of red and green grapes arranged elegantly beside a carefully skinned and sliced kiwi. There was a bowl of oatmeal and three small white china carafes, one with yogurt, one with raisins, and one with brown sugar. There was ice water in a glass and white tea roses in a vase.

  The man grinned. “Where would you like this?” he asked.

  “Oh, the bed is fine,” Weetzie mumbled.

  “Is it?” He winked at her as he put the tray down. “Enjoy,” he said. He had that kind of lascivious mouth that looked as if it would be very adept at kissing. His eyes, though, were kind and not at all devouring.

  Weetzie signed the bill, adding a generous tip.

  “What brings you here, Weetzie?” he asked in a soft voice, as if he was afraid someone might hear him fraternizing with a guest. But his grin said he didn’t care th
at much.

  “Midlife crisis.”

  “What makes you think you’ll only live until you’re fifty?”

  “What?”

  “You said midlife. You look about twenty-five.”

  “Very charming. I bet you’re an actor in your spare time.”

  He shook his head and looked at her innocently.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Well, not a working one.”

  “Who is?”

  He squinted at her and then up at the Independent Film Channel playing behind her.

  “You look familiar. Were you ever…”

  “Just some crazy indie stuff with my family.”

  “Where are they now?” He looked around the room as if for signs of them. All he saw, Weetzie realized, was her suitcase, her white purse, her sunglasses, and her stilettos.

  “My babies are off at school,” she said. “I thought I’d go on an adventure.”

  “School? You mean boarding school.”

  “Berkeley and Santa Barbara,” she said. “U.C. My God.”

  “Well, you look amazing, Weetzie. You must have had them when you were one yourself.”

  This reminded her of something Max had said, a long time ago, when she told him she wanted to have a baby, and she glanced down at her hands. Before getting in the tub, she had removed the ring she wore and put it in a water glass by the bed. She had never taken it off before.

  Her stomach made a loud growling sound and she put her hand there, embarrassed. “Oh, excuse me, I’m hungrier than I thought.”

  “You better eat then. Call me if you need Pre-Supper or Early Supper or Dinner. Then I’m off. But tomorrow night you can call me for the Wee Hour Snack, Weetzie.”

  “Thank you,” she said. “Oh, I didn’t get your name.”

  “Pan.”

  Pan? As he trotted off down the garden walk, she imagined that there might be tiny horns buried in his thick curls, cloven hooves in his shoes, and, perhaps, a frisky tail in his trousers. In fact, she truly believed she saw it peeking up there above his belt, trying to escape. Room service, indeed, she thought. Weetzie, you really had better behave yourself.

  The Pool

  Weetzie finished her Post Lunch Late Breakfast Snack sitting cross-legged on the bed, watching Hedwig. Afterwards, she put on her sunscreen, her bikini, and her orange sandals, and trotted to the pool.

  As she slid into the Jacuzzi bubbles, she realized that if she could spend all her life in warm water, she might never get upset. Whenever she needed to have a serious talk with Max, she insisted on taking a bubble bath with him. He had stopped doing this, so they just didn’t talk anymore.

  Try not to think about him, she told herself.

  The Olympic-size pool was paved with pink, green, and white tiles and surrounded by tiled fountains, palm trees, bougainvillea plants, urns of gardenias, and tables with green umbrellas. No one else was around except for one couple reclining on chaise lounges, drinking Perrier and soaking up the sunshine. The man looked about sixty—bald, tan, with white chest hair and diamond rings on his fingers. The woman was a living Barbie doll, even down to her surreal measurements. After a while, she stood up, and Weetzie watched her wobble awkwardly on her long legs to the edge of the pool. When she dove into the water, she was strikingly graceful, swimming like a giant buxom fish through the water. She swirled and somersaulted in an elaborate water ballet, barely coming up for air. When she finally got out of the water, she was smiling radiantly. She wobbled over to Weetzie and slipped into the Jacuzzi beside her.

  Weetzie felt a little uncomfortable at such close proximity to the woman’s huge Barbie doll breasts. She tried not to stare at them.

  “Hi,” the woman said sweetly.

  “Hi.”

  “I’m Shelley.”

  “I’m Weetzie.”

  “Where are you from?”

  “I live in town. How about you?”

  “We live here,” the woman said. “In the hotel.”

  “That must be pretty glamorous.”

  The woman shrugged. “I come from the ocean. I miss it a lot.”

  “Santa Monica or Malibu?”

  “Oh, just all over. Just the ocean. Sal is a producer, so he likes to be near the studios. He likes to be near the action. What does your husband do?”

  Weetzie looked at her blankly.

  “Or is it your boyfriend? Is he in the industry?”

  Weetzie remembered that she had put Max’s ring back on her finger, but she still didn’t quite get the question.

  “He’s a director.”

  “He must be pretty successful.”

  “He does all right,” Weetzie said. “But this is on my dime. I’m an independent woman.”

  “Oh, honey,” Shelley said sympathetically, “we’ve got to get him in line. A man has to take care of his possessions.” She reached under the water, took Weetzie’s French-pedicured foot in her hands, and began massaging it.

  Before Weetzie could say anything, Sal, who had been making his way over, lumbered down the steps and dunked himself into the water. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” he said.

  “Honey, this is Weetzie. Isn’t that a cute name?”

  Weetzie, realizing her foot was still being caressed, pulled it quickly away.

  “I’m Sal,” the man said. He winked at her. Weetzie wondered if she had imagined it, what with the bright sun on the pool and his diamonds and all. It all seemed like too much of a cliché.

  “What do you do, Weetzie?”

  “I own a shop.”

  “She’s an independent woman,” Shelley said, as if she were talking about a life-threatening disease.

  Sal clucked. “Where’s your guy?”

  “At home,” Weetzie said. “I’m taking a little vacation.”

  “Well, at least join us for a drink,” said Sal.

  Shelley nodded, shaking out her long, blond hair. For the first time, Weetzie realized that it had green tints, maybe from a bad dye job or too much chlorine.

  “That would be nice,” Weetzie said. After all, she had come here for an adventure.

  Weetzie went back to her room, showered, and slipped into Emilia. Then she put on her sandals and walked along the garden path to Sal and Shelley’s suite in the main building of the pink hotel.

  The couches were shaped like giant gold-and-rose velvet seashells. There were dimly lit fish tanks filled with exotic tropical fish swimming among miniature sunken ships and gold treasure chests overflowing with strands of pearls and jewels. On every surface were small china mermaid figurines. Shelley showed them off, one by one, telling Weetzie their names in a soft, serious voice. “Kelpie, Lisette, Pamela.” The little mermaid statues looked sad, so fragile and breakable with their painted-on smiles.

  “Sometimes I write little notes and put them inside,” Shelley said. “I pretend I am sending them to my mother.”

  Sal handed Weetzie a large Sapporo. She didn’t usually drink anymore, but the way the moisture beaded on the cold brown glass bottle made her mouth water and she took it.

  “Sushi?” Shelley asked, holding out a tray. “Sashimi?” She daintily picked up a huge slab of raw tuna and slid the whole thing down her throat in one shocking swallow.

  “It’s really fresh,” Sal said. “Caught it myself.” He patted Shelley’s rear end.

  Weetzie shook her head. “No thanks.”

  But by the end of the evening, and after three beers, she had eaten some yellowtail, slurped a salty, jiggling, orange sea urchin, and even rigorously chewed a piece of white-and-purple octopus, just like when she was young and omnivorous.

  At one point, while Sal was out of the room, Shelley leaned over and asked, “Have you ever had any plastic surgery?”

  “Excuse me?” Weetzie said.

  “It’s just that I assume everybody does, you know. All the girls, anyway.”

  “I’ve wondered about Botox,” Weetzie admitted. “But I think it is pretty gross. I can’t bring mysel
f to really inject botulism or cow toxins or whatever it is into my face.”

  Shelley looked at her blankly. Then she said, “Sal made me get a lot.”

  “He made you?”

  “Well, when we met, I couldn’t really get around. I mean, not on land. So we did some advanced techniques of plastic surgery and then some laser surgery and, well, this is what happened.” She patted her thighs, but Weetzie was looking at her breasts.

  “Those are real,” Shelley said. “Do you think Pamela Anderson’s are real?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I love Pamela Anderson,” said Shelley. “She’s an animal rights activist and she doesn’t care what anyone thinks and she had her children naturally, at home with a doula.”

  Weetzie nodded. She sort of agreed. “You look like her,” she said.

  “Really? But there is no way she had all the work done that I have!”

  Sal came back from the kitchen with a bottle of Moët and poured three glasses. “Is she telling you her crazy stories again?”

  Weetzie, drunk from the Sapporos, kept trying to remember the rhyme, Beer on top of wine is…wine on top of beer is fine? No, that wasn’t it.

  “Sal,” said Shelley, “what’s the problem, sweetie? You say yourself that everyone gets something done in this town.”

  “But how many other mermaids have you met at this hotel?” he asked her, winking at Weetzie and handing her the glass of champagne.

  “I keep looking for them,” said Shelley wistfully. “I’d love to meet them. Do you know any, Weetzie?”

  Weetzie shook her head, trying to figure out what to say next.

  Sal shrugged. “Welcome to La La Land,” he said. “Anything can happen.” He put on some cheesy disco music from the seventies, lay on one of the couches, and watched the women.

  Shelley was pinning a PETA button onto the strap of her silk camisole. She looked up at Weetzie and smiled proudly like a preschooler playing dress-up. Then she leaned over and whispered, “I really am a mermaid, you know. Or I was one anyway.”

  Weetzie looked into her sad eyes. She whispered back, “I believe you.”

  “It might help if you kiss me.”