by Maryl Jo Fox
She gets up to wipe off the counter.
But those things just filled time.
She could have been a marionette.
Something was always missing. She gave up real life—heart-pounding, hands-sweating life—in 1963. She always knew this.
Well, she wants it back, the chaos and glory of life, if only for a week or a day. With Frank.
So DO something, Clara. You’ve got to get him in the door again. God, you are slow-witted. How did you ever get through college?
A cloud of wasps circles her head like a ceiling fan. They understand the same thing she does: Her son must feel safe in this house before anything else can happen.
But the wasps always want to sting him. On the neck.
She runs into her bedroom and snatches her old Willamette Elementary School Crossing Guard T-shirt from the drawer. It’s faded yellow with black letters. She sits on the bed and cuts five inches off the bottom with her pinking shears. She puts it over her head and looks in the mirror. The rest of it drapes over her shoulders. It’s her only souvenir from the adult crossing guard program she started after Samantha died. This butchered relic will protect Frank’s neck when he finally comes to see her again. The wasps always go for his neck.
Feeling energetic, she Windexes the beveled mirror over her dresser, dusts the framed family pictures, takes the ratty lambswool rug out for a shake, puts it back beside her bed. She sits in the oak rocker and finishes a puzzle in the New York Times crossword puzzle book, listening to music from the ’40s and ’50s on the scratchy radio (it survived Dawson’s manhandling).
She gets up to fill her mug with Sparkletts water, looking trancelike out the window as she drinks.
Dawson and Edie emerge from room eight of the rundown Sagebrush Motel.
“Oh, dear God.”
Vampire pale, they move slowly, hands low on each other’s buttocks, their sinewy bodies sheathed in black. Edie’s cropped hair is askew, Dawson’s long hair in tangles. Clara stands transfixed. Trading sloppy kisses, they feed coins into a vending machine and glide back to room eight with several cans of soda and a cardboard bucket of ice.
She feels a mixture of fear and fascination. She knows what’s going on in that room. They are having so much sex they’re probably dizzy and exhausted, and for heavens’ sake, she doesn’t even want to think about it. She thumps her Teacher of the Year mug down on the kitchen counter. Her Dream Jar isn’t working! She had already stuffed Dawson into it—but the jar jumped out of its cubicle and shattered on her forehead. Now Dawson’s on the loose. With Edie!
The purple wasp flies in circles and makes passes at her forehead. Now you’re in for it, baby. Your lollygagging days are over.
She gives the wasp a dull look of recognition. She’s afraid Dawson and Edie are going to come over here and get her because the skin on her hands is mottled and her bones are lighter than theirs and sex is not on the agenda for her, not like it is for them, and their hidden skin is smooth like a baby’s and they don’t even realize how beautiful their unmarked skin is, but one day their skin will be just like hers and when they look at her they just want to smash her because she is old and curdled in their eyes and she doesn’t even belong here, not in the same tribe at all.
Desperately, she watches the wasps circling her head.
They can’t help her now.
They’re buzzing and darting about in lopsided circles as if they don’t have a care in the world—now when she really needs them. All except the purple wasp, her steadfast friend, who lands on top of her head and won’t leave it.
She never felt frightened about her age in Eugene. Oh, there was the time she was walking by a hardware store and she stopped at the display of teapots and gladioli in the window. A stooped man with filthy hair passed her with a bitter laugh, spitting so close that the wiggly yellow blob just missed her tan walking shoes. “Old hag,” he rasped. She was so shocked she immediately walked into the hardware store and bought a teapot she never used.
She’s got to put Edie and Dawson out of her mind. But she’s got to talk to this Dawson character. She’s done tough stuff before. She raised Frank alone. And the adult crossing guard program was her baby. No student fatalities or injuries since 1963. In 1964, she testified before the Oregon state legislature, speaking in favor of phonics-based reading instruction over “picture book guess and shuffle.” The state went her way. She turned a few heads, didn’t she, as she sailed into the Salem legislative chamber. Her black cloche hat, a crimson feather curving dramatically under her chin, matched the crimson buttons on her black suit. This outfit is still encased in plastic somewhere in her closet. She grasps her firm thighs, touches her still resilient breasts, looks at herself in the small mirror by the table. For heaven’s sake, I’m not an old hag. Not yet anyway.
The purple wasp is fanning Clara’s face as she paces from room to room. Suddenly she sees that the wasp’s head is freakishly larger than before. It’s swollen like a bruise or a turban, especially where the two curled antennas protrude above its eyes. Alarmed, she sits back down at the table. The wasp’s head is almost at the breaking point.
Ever since her father almost trapped her in the barn, the wasps have watched her carefully—listening and recording her thoughts and experiences, passing on their knowledge of her from generation to generation of wasps, living out their 120-day life cycles as dutiful scribes. When Samantha died, they redoubled their efforts because Clara was so broken up about it. Their job is to get as many secret memories as they can: unadulterated thoughts, withheld emotions—to arrive at clarity, the only thing that will redeem the tortured woman and set her free. Clarity: She’s got to come clean about the days leading up to her daughter’s death, simply acknowledge what happened. Otherwise, the wasp’s head will burst—hers too?—and she will die miserable and alone.
She returns to her rocker, finishes one crossword puzzle, begins another. Outside, nothing stirs. She listens to her Emerson radio, hears of a sharp decline in the stock market, a prison break somewhere, an earthquake in Japan. Later she fixes a simple dinner and prepares herself for bed, thinking despite herself of Edie and Dawson. Not until she’s in her nightgown and starts brushing her hair does the purple wasp leave the top of her head and fly to the nightstand, where the creature watches Clara all night long in her restless sleep.
In her dream, two Oregon pigeons (surprise visitors, bobbing and ducking) escape from a cage on her dresser, warbling and moaning in excitement until they fly to the other nightstand. Clara opens her eyes. Two pairs of red eyes peer back. Their rich calls are baroque. Girlish trilling and chest-deep moans eddy around the bedroom in a private pigeon serenade. She feels warm and young. It’s thrilling.
Aren’t you pretty, says one pigeon.
“Don’t be silly,” she says, her cheeks glowing. She has always loved the throaty moans of pigeons.
Both pigeons chorus: Once we had babies, but all our eggs smashed on the ground and now we have you. We will take care of you.
“No need,” she says, still in her dream.
Don’t you know, Clara? You need so much caring, they whisper in her ear. You need a home.
The wasps swarm in from the kitchen and dive-bomb the pigeons. We have more manpower. We can take better care of her.
Her voice is drowsy. “I will not have fighting in my house. I love my son, and I love all of you.”
The purple wasp sidles up to her ear. Take what you can get, sweetheart. Notice anyone else out here trying to help you?
The purple wasp always sets her straight. She will fix things with Frank. She will.
All night the wasps tap their silky wings against the bedroom walls. Their wings sound like tiny brushes tapping off-rhythms on a papery drumhead, accompanied by the pigeons, who sing soulful contralto. She burrows into her bed, draws the sheet around her, dreams she’s on a jungle cruise. Dew spangles her face, the humidity she so misses. In the canopy of the rain forest, the macaws and orangutans and leopards are caw
ing and screeching and growling at each other. Nuts and ripe fruit fall to the ground and are eaten by lizards and flamboyantly colored parrots. Rubbery damp leaves brush against her hands. Flying insects bump against her shoulders, get into major tizzies over her head. She is in a seething mass of life all night long.
chapter 9
Frank slides into a booth at the casino, orders a meatball sandwich, and absently looks around the restaurant. He’s tired and hungry, doesn’t want to think about anything right now. He’ll think about Scotty later. He rubs his temples and shuts his eyes. Finally the meatball sandwich comes.
As he’s tucking into it, he notices a woman with her back to him up near the cash register. She’s listening to an old man and a young woman in tense disagreement about something. The way she leans toward the old man, to listen more closely, makes Frank catch his breath. She’s focused, still, coiled to attention. She wears a maroon blouse and black skirt, hasn’t bound up her hair yet, or maybe she’s just unbound it. A hairnet dangles from one fist, a pencil in the other, knuckles jammed onto her hips, hair shining in loose auburn waves around her shoulders. Her body is not a workout addict’s body, toned to infernal perfection. It has some heft to it, pure strength. She has the body of someone who could accomplish enormous amounts of work—hard, sweaty work, the work required to keep the species alive. The unhurried way she turns her head from one disputant to the other makes Frank sure she will solve whatever problem is going down. He’s amazed he can keep staring at her back and not immediately want to see her face, her breasts, the frontal curve of her hips. It’s like the breath has been knocked out of him.
The old bearded man wears a white skullcap and a white tunic. The young dark-haired woman slouches in jeans and a tank top. The man, likely the girl’s father, stands straight as a general. They’re an odd couple, attracting stares. The man has an aristocratic bearing somehow. This is no dirt farmer. The man talks with a hushed urgency that makes the girl and the waitress lean toward him. The young woman has removed her earphones. Her face shows great consternation. The man’s face is stoic as he pays the bill and turns away from her. Suddenly he makes an angry gesture toward her attire with both hands, palms up. The girl flinches. The man looks scornfully at the waitress, says angry words to both of them and stalks off through the casino, heading to the parking lot. Head down, the girl meekly follows him.
Looking upset, the waitress stands there a minute before speaking briefly with the cashier, a plump woman in the same maroon-and-black uniform. The waitress disappears into a side room. A few minutes later (it seems like hours to Frank) she reappears with a coil of nylon rope draped over her shoulder and walks briskly into the casino. Frank looks down at his half-eaten meatball sandwich and Dr. Pepper. He chomps a few more bites and hurriedly pays the check. He’s got to keep the rope-carrying waitress in sight.
The casino at noon is noisy. Women with helmet hairdos, men with white foreheads and red cheeks feed coins from paper cups into clanging machines. Bulging midriffs and turkey jaws shudder when levers are pulled. Pictures of cherries and black bars spin under small plastic windows. Churning sounds of country music, jackpot buzzers, and coins smacking metal suddenly overpower him. He’s still hungry, but where is she? There.
Tall and definitive, she cruises the aisles, moves to some inner rhythm as she chats with patrons. There’s a power about her, something irresistible. Her eyes are brown pools shining with amusement, her skin sunlit, her figure something to drown in. He can’t believe its dips and valleys. He can’t see her name tag yet. He takes a deep breath and slowly exhales.
Still bantering with customers, she hasn’t seen him yet. She’s checking up on spouses and surgeries while she parses out the coiled rope to maybe one-third its length, ties it around her waist, and lets both ends fall to the floor at uneven lengths. Then she just stands there. Some ignore her and keep gambling. Some smile as if they know her tricks. Others frown as if she’s batty.
She attaches a mouth mike to her ear. The cashier, her shift over, takes the longer length, goes to the next aisle and ties the rope around her waist, leaving a lot of rope still free. She stands there too. Eventually a sunburned cowboy, who just won a jackpot on the dollar slots, approaches the cashier. He takes the long rope end across another aisle and ties it around his waist. Then a Chinese grandmother, a young Latino with long sideburns, and several others rope themselves together at the waist.
Some just clown around, shimmy their hips. Others are silent, as if it’s a serious responsibility to tie a rope around one’s waist. Disgruntled bystanders ask what’s going on. The ones who know say, just watch, it won’t take long. The last people to tie on—a young guy in camouflage gear and a matronly woman in a yellow pantsuit—circle back near the waitress’s start point. The short end of the rope still dangles from the waitress’s waist. She raises her hand and speaks softly into her mike. Most people in the small area stop gambling and listen.
“So folks, imagine we’re all tied together here and all over the world.” A short pause, then she pulls on the rope, causing the cashier and others to lose their balance. “Whoa!” they cry. She continues. “One group thinks their way of thinking is the only right way and everyone else is dead wrong.”
Others pull back, testy-playful, trying to unbalance others down the line. “Watch it!” cries a frowning man.
“See?” She’s animated now. “Kaput! We’re out of balance. If we were serious, we could make the other side crash and fall on the floor. We could start a war!” Her voice goes low and hypnotic. “Just saying: Watch out for my-way-or-the-highway folks.”
A heckler calls out, “All tied together, huh? Sounds like lefty propaganda to me.”
A smattering of laughter and boos. Someone says, “Let her be. Stella’s a good egg.” General cheers. One by one, the participants untie themselves in reverse order and return the rope to her. The performance took three minutes.
The waitress looks surprised as Frank slowly walks up to her. “You’re late, mister. The rope trick is over.” Her name tag says Stella.
“It is, huh.” He speaks as if to contradict her. Long-legged in Levi’s and a faded green T-shirt, hair askew, his eyes are locked on hers. Heart racing, he draws the unused end of the rope out from her waist, backs up maybe four feet, and ties it around his waist.
She’s looking at him. Nervous, she looks away.
His smoky eyes are fixed on her. “I saw you trying to keep the peace in the restaurant just now. Looked like you were trying your best, but the guy wasn’t buying it.” He just wants to talk, have her talk back, not disappear.
Looking confused, she meets his gaze again. “Mr. Hamdi, yes. He’s about to give up on us Americans. His daughter is so Westernized, he thinks she’s going to hell. Thinks we are too. Americans. Going to hell.” Flustered, she recovers herself. “He’s going back to Saudi Arabia, taking Aisha with him. It’s a pity. Aisha’s just been admitted to pre-med at Boston University. They’re both lovely people.” She stops, still nervous. “They’ve been here before. Always just to eat. No gambling, not even a nickel. I have my spies.” Her hypnotic brown eyes pierce him. “And you? Where are you going?” Her eyes turn humorous.
He’s silent a moment. “Well, I’m not going to Saudi Arabia any time soon, I can tell you that.”
She laughs.
“No pre-med plans that I know of.”
Her laughter is uproarious, wonderful. “Where are you going then?”
He looks at her. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Her voice drops to a lower register, almost a whisper. “And if not pre-med, what?”
Confidence surges in him; he can’t say why. “Horse wrangler. Cowboy. Ski instructor. Railroad man.” If she wants some twit, then hasta la vista, baby.
Her eyes glisten. She leans toward him, takes a small step forward. “You here for any length of time, Mr. horse wrangler, cowboy, ski instructor, railroad man?”
He lets her approach. He can just about smell
her perfume, something musky that could drive him wild. “I just drove my mother’s house here on a flatbed truck. You might’ve noticed it.”
She raises her hands in mock surprise, all the while looking at his chest and tousled hair. “It’s the floating house that came down from the sky. Everybody’s talking about it.” She studies his dimples. “So, you’re the driver. Now isn’t that interesting.” She folds her arms, as if intrigued by a sudden thought. “Ever been in theater, Mr. Adventure Man?”
“Theater? No way,” he blurts. He’d never prance around some stage. Wait—she wants a gofer—someone to open her shows with a juggling act? He gives her a fleeting glance. She’s serene, utterly compelling; she’s got something behind the eyeballs, something complex. But . . . theater?
It’s her turn to look confident. “Maybe I can persuade you otherwise.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. What have you got in mind?”
She smiles, looks down. “Mr. Hamdi and his daughter have given me an idea, but I have to work on it a little.”
He begins to untie the rope around his waist. “Well, I’ll be around.” As if by way of explanation, he adds, “Scotty and I are old friends.”
