Clara at the Edge

by Maryl Jo Fox

  Clara studies the ground. “Don’t worry about it, Stella. Nobody knew anything would happen.” Spontaneously the women hug, relieved something has been said.

  Stella draws back, her eyes bright. “OK, girlfriend, give me the lowdown.”

  Clara goes on about Lamoille Canyon and how Haskell puts up with her moods and is really a good cook. “But to tell the truth, Stella, I’m not counting on anything. He’s a worldly man.”

  Stella, clearly in a buoyant mood, whispers, “Nonsense. I see good things ahead. Mazel tov!” She hugs Clara again before rejoining Frank.

  Clara digs out the ignition key from her purse and approaches Scotty, who leans happily but tiredly against his long-lost Mustang. “Voila!” she says, handing him the key. “I’m sorry, Scotty. I didn’t mean to cause trouble. I was frantic to get those pictures.”

  “No harm done, dear. You’re back safe.” He kisses her cheek. They lean against the Mustang, talking.

  Stella’s in deep conversation with Haskell. She discovers he’s a commercial photographer. In turn, she tells him her dreams of being on the stage. Both are city people at heart, both performers in their way. Each can arrange a shot, whether of people or products. Frank joins them just as Haskell says, “New York. That’s where you belong, young lady. I’ve lived there all my life. Clara and I are flying to Manhattan very soon. Has she told you? The pictures my niece took of her house are opening at the Metropolitan Museum of Art on July first—next Saturday.”

  Stella lets out a shriek. “Omigod! Frank, did you hear that?”

  They listen raptly as Haskell explains how the photos will be blown up, colored, or altered in other ways, that “Hidden America: Photography in the New Millennium,” will be a stunner, that he and Clara will be at the opening.

  Frank stares at the destroyed house. “I can’t believe it. The house my father built, and now it’s gone. He was the most unpretentious guy on the face of the earth. He’d have been puzzled by a museum show.” He looks over at his mother, talking animatedly to Scotty.

  Haskell says, “My niece says this particular curator is from Bozeman, Montana, and has a deep feel for the countryside, for handcrafted things.”

  Frank looks down at his boots. “Well, I’m kind of speechless.”

  Stella looks inquiringly at Frank. “If you and I could go to the opening, I’d think I’d died and gone to heaven.”

  Frank nods. “We’ll work it out. We won’t miss it.”

  “Wait!” Stella claps her forehead. “July first I’ll be in Chicago at my aunt and uncle’s fiftieth wedding anniversary. I already have the ticket. Everyone is coming.” She looks at Frank. “Can we work this out?”

  “Of course. Don’t worry.”

  They all stand close to one another in the vacant lot, laughing, deep in conversation. In the afternoon sun, the oversized jars look like house jewelry—jewelry made for a house, or in this case, mementos around a tomb.

  Lenore is quiet in her bag, as if she’s trying to absorb the nature of these people without seeing them right now.

  Finally, a natural pause occurs in the conversation. Before Clara has a chance to ask about the baited jars (she knows the answer anyway), Frank says, “Listen up, everyone, I have an announcement. Stella and I are getting married.”

  Clara exclaims in delight and embraces Stella as the women succumb to joyful tears. Then Clara runs to Frank. Mother and son are in a prolonged hug as she murmurs against his chest, her eyes closed. The others are left to grin and watch.

  “Just last night he proposed,” Stella says, flushed. “You all are the first to know.”

  “Good show, man.” Scotty shakes Frank’s hand. “The last holdout of the class of 1972 finally hits the dust.” Clapping, cheers.

  Frank collects himself. “OK, let’s get practical for a minute. How long are you going to be here, Mother?”

  “Well, we thought just one night. I wanted Haskell to meet you all and see the house. We have to be on our way to New York, but I couldn’t go without seeing you first, my dear.” She chokes up.

  Frank gives Stella a meaningful look. “I’ve got an idea. Maybe we can all drive to Wells tonight and tie the knot. What do you say, Stella?”

  “If Scotty will give me the night off.” She smiles coquettishly. “I come from a long line of elopers. I always thought I would elope. We can party later.” She winks broadly. Everyone chuckles.

  Revived, Scotty beams. “No need to go to Wells. I haven’t told you yet, Frank, but I became a justice of the peace last year. You’re not the only ones who come to Jackpot and decide to get married, you know. It was an easy fit. I’ve been a short order cook, car mechanic, skating rink manager, bowling alley owner, and real estate developer, not to mention casino owner—so why not justice of the peace?” He gives a little bow.

  Frank claps Scotty on the back. “Why, you old son of a gun.” He turns to his bride-to-be. “Well, Stella, what do you say? Get married here?”

  She takes his arm. “I can’t imagine being married to a better man than Frank Breckenridge by a better man than Scotty Horshay on a better day than today.”

  Everyone whoops.

  Lenore dances in the bag. Clara starts dancing too. For once Lenore is giving Clara a minute to enjoy her existing—and growing—family.

  “Hold on, boy,” Scotty says. “Have you got a ring?”

  “Hell yes, I’ve got a ring. Why do you think I ran off to Twin Falls the other day?”

  Clara’s heart expands to the sky. Frank has wandered the country and found gold. To see him marry like this—the seemingly right woman for him—is a gift she’d almost despaired of getting, even though the courtship has certainly been fast! Stella’s full of spark, a spark that’s already affecting him. His eyes are brighter, his walk more vigorous. And his sculpture! She can hardly wait to see it. She imagines his work in a gallery, sees them doing wild theater, rolling around the country, recruiting local actors, eventually landing in New York, doing offbeat shows on off-off-Broadway. By temperament Frank is Stella’s straight man. He can build her sets, her theater, their house, can teach her many things—how to round up cattle if need be. She can perform or teach theater; he can get into the construction business or make amazing sculptures for high-end clients. The possibilities are endless.

  In the celebratory moment, Haskell lights a cigarette, inhales deeply, and wraps an arm around Clara. The smoke doesn’t even bother her now. Joy for her son beats all. Even lost wasps or a demonic Lenore in black leather pants can’t bother her right now.

  But now Lenore is oddly quiet in Clara’s bag. She must have tired herself out, or eaten too many of the potato chips Clara bought in Elko. Lenore’s appetite has been flagging lately. Clara’s a little worried.

  Frank tries to quiet everybody. “We’ll do the ceremony at Stella’s, then have dinner at Desert Dan’s. Sound good?” General hoots. “Give us an hour to get things ready.”

  Stella opens the door, radiant in a strapless yellow silk dress, her long auburn hair trailing delicate white wildflowers tied with narrow white ribbon. “Give us a hug,” she says, throwing her arms wide to Clara and Haskell. Frank stands behind her in a navy-blue suit, white shirt, and a red vintage tie with “Happy New Year” all over it that Stella dug up somewhere. Everyone talks at once, hugging and laughing. Haskell is busy with his camera. He and Clara exclaim in delight at the movie posters—Charlie Chaplin struggling in the giant gears of Modern Times, Busby Berkeley’s dancers like a giant flower in the overhead shot for Gold Diggers of 1933, Gene Kelly dancing around the street lamp in Singin’ in the Rain.

  Before the party really gets going, Frank quietly leads Clara to a small bookcase, takes an 8x10 color photo from a manila envelope, and hands it to her. “Here you go, Mom. This is for you.” He has inscribed it on the back.

  She catches her breath, dazzled at his sinuous rendering of the languid nude. It looks like the piece might have been done in a few sittings, the lines are so strong and uncluttere
d. “Oh, Frank, it’s stunning.”

  “Take it. I have other copies.”

  “Do you mean it?”

  “Of course.”

  Eyes bright, she watches him slip it back into the manila envelope. “You are really on your way, my dear. I’m so very proud of you.” They clasp each other, these two lonely family members unable to connect for so long.

  Haskell comes for Clara, and they silently waltz to “Shall We Dance?” on Frank’s mix. He twirls her round as the others clap and holler. Haskell’s a terrific dancer. No one guesses that her tears are anything but tears of joy for the occasion. And of course they are. But her mind’s eye is also fixed on the moment just now when her son gave her a photograph she will protect with her life.

  Everyone mills about, absorbing the celebratory feeling of this small trailer—the posters, the colorful furniture, the sheer theatrical kitsch of it.

  “I could do a photo shoot of your place, Stella,” Haskell says in delight. “It would be a hot sell in Manhattan. Seriously: The New York Times, Escapes section, ‘Homes with Presence.’”

  She winks. “I’m holding out for Architectural Digest.” She plumps the sequined pillows on her purple loveseat.

  She’s created a chuppah using panels of a gauzy Indian fabric that glitters with sequins, embroidery, and tiny pearls. Each panel is a different color: gold, red, lavender, and royal blue. The material radiates out from a central ceiling fan, is tied to a couple of torchieres and cabinet handles. “Like it?” says Stella. “Oh, yes,” Clara replies, gazing in wonder. Stella is pleased. The room quiets; everyone listens. “These curtains made a circle around my parents’ canopy bed. It was magic. They closed them every night. Their bed was like something from the Arabian Nights. I called my mother an hour ago. She was thrilled I’m using the curtains. She and my dad eloped, so she understands how things can develop fast. Frank and I will visit her. I know she and Frank will like each other. I promised her many pictures of tonight. Haskell? Can I count on you?” He’s carrying his camera.

  “You bet,” he says.

  “She and my dad will be with us in spirit for the ceremony.” In a small voice, she says, “He died in a motorcycle accident when I was seventeen.” They all embrace her.

  Soon Scotty clears his throat. “Are we ready, ladies and gentlemen, for the main event?”

  Stella dashes over to the kitchen counter, where a simple bouquet of long-stemmed grasses are tied together with white ribbon. “Frank got these at Salmon Falls Creek,” she says, flushed.

  Stella and Frank face each other in the small living room. Eyes brimming, Stella looks at him through the grasses she holds up to her face. Clara’s eyes fill too as she stands next to Haskell. Frank, serious, earnest, fumbles in his pocket for the ring. Scotty, a little unsteady on his feet, begins.

  “Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the presence of these witnesses so that Franklin James Breckenridge and Stella Cheyenne Shapiro may be united in holy matrimony. If anyone objects to this union, please speak now or forever hold your peace.” Frank and Stella move even closer. “Please say your vows to each other.” Scotty’s face is damp. “Do you, Franklin James Breckenridge, take this woman, Stella Cheyenne Shapiro, to be your lawful wedded wife, for better or worse, in sickness and in health, till death do you part?”

  “I do,” Frank says solemnly.

  “And do you, Stella Cheyenne Shapiro, take this man, Franklin James Breckenridge, to be your lawful wedded husband, for better or worse, in sickness and in health, till death do you part?”

  “I do,” says Stella, radiant. Frank places a simple gold band on her trembling finger.

  “I now pronounce you man and wife.” The couple kisses with gusto. Cheers, hugs, clapping all around, Haskell clicking away. Scotty sits down heavily.

  “We’ve got champagne from the vast stores at Desert Dan’s, thanks to Scotty,” Frank announces, opening the first bottle to a noisy pop. A whoop goes up. Stella pours the champagne into her grandmother’s cut glass juice glasses.

  “I propose a toast,” says Clara, gulping back tears of joy.

  “Groom’s mother, hear, hear,” everyone quieting down.

  She gropes for words. “To my terrific new daughter-in-law and beloved son, may you find amazement and joy in the most unlikely places.” Glasses clink to more cheers.

  Then Scotty: “To Stella, the best damn waitress and undiscovered movie star in the business, and to Frank, my best bud since 1969, when we did some things I can’t talk about because your mother’s in the room.”

  Laughter, clapping, refills downed. Toasts proliferate until the champagne is gone. Stella’s glittering sequin canopy lends an otherworldly air to the proceedings. The fabric sways in a breeze coming in from the desert. Stella has left the door partly ajar for ventilation. Frank steals over to the CD player and puts on a remastered collection of ballads—Diana Krall, Harry Connick, Sarah Vaughan, Ella Fitzgerald, Billy Eckstine, Frank Sinatra. The group quiets, watching the newlyweds dance to “Tenderly” by Sarah Vaughan. Whispering, the couple wraps themselves together. He twirls her slowly, bends her back, building toward a performance number, like they do in private, oblivious of the others.

  Haskell and Clara, dancing now too, see Scotty on the couch looking on with tears in his eyes, smiling and looking pale. The music shifts to “Autumn in New York” by Ella Fitzgerald. Haskell whispers something to Clara, who nods, goes over to Scotty, and sits on the couch with him.

  “You brought us all together, Scotty. Without you, Frank and Stella would never have met, and I’d have never met Haskell.”

  A slow grin lights Scotty’s face. “I never thought of that.” He studies her. “Now look, Clara, if you ever get tired of New York, you’ve always got a job as crowd handler at Desert Dan’s.”

  Her mood abruptly darkens. “Who says I won’t be back? Of course I’ll be back.” She pauses. “You think I’m moving?”

  At a sudden disturbance in the air, she looks at the open door. Lenore just barged in, her black cowgirl outfit now blood red. Lenore has escaped from her bag! Hurriedly

  Clara stands up as the creature makes a beeline for her and stamps on her foot. She recoils in surprise as Lenore scampers out the door.

  Blinking, Clara tries to focus again on Scotty, but Lenore’s attack leaves her deeply unsettled. The creature interrupted the wedding of her only surviving child. She’s getting reckless, disrespectful. Clara is afraid. Wordlessly, she returns to Haskell. They dance, but her head is whirling. Time is running out. I’ve got to deal with Samantha.

  As Haskell holds her close, she has a sudden vision of an adult Samantha in her wedding dress, a sight she will never see. Swallowing tears, she recalls the cascade of years when Frank, withdrawn and alone as an adult, would visit her once a year and they would sit stiffly in the living room together, discussing the headlines and the weather. Now she watches his radiant face as he embraces his bride.

  A few dances later, Frank whispers to Scotty, who nods and announces to everyone, “I’ve got a great idea, folks. How about dinner?”

  Cheers go up. Everyone files out as Clara takes a last look at the magical space Stella has created. She blows the room a kiss before she peers into the darkening night. Scotty has collected himself, but he’s still sweating and pale. He looks quite ill, and she can’t bear to think about it. On the way to the casino, Frank whispers to Clara that Scotty is getting more open to seeing a doctor. She thanks him for this update, knowing the news will be bad. Nevertheless, they all link arms, a brigade of five, laughing, carrying on, making their way to the casino.

  Dinner is a lavish affair. Scotty has ordered a full-court press for their little group: lobster, chicken, steak, wine, side dishes—wedding cake baked on very short notice, brought out by the head waiter to much applause throughout the restaurant. The newlyweds eat and drink sparingly, causing much ribbing. Scotty picks at his food, announces that everyone in the restaurant can take away as much wedding cake
as they want. The celebration concludes on a wave of good will and gentleness.

  Clara’s spirits briefly restored, it’s time to say goodbye. She and Haskell have to leave in the morning. She stands in a quiet corner of the parking lot and gently takes her son’s face in her hands. Haskell stands aside. Eyes brimming, she says, “I wish you every happiness, my dear son. Stella’s a wonderful woman. And your career has started! You’re both so talented. It’s amazing, all of it.”

  He embraces her. “Haskell seems like a great guy, Mom. You’ve been alone so long. I want you to be happy too.” His words tumble out. “Imagine what Dad would have thought—pictures of our house at a famous museum!” He kisses her cheek and turns to his bride, who embraces Clara. The women laugh and whisper. The men shake hands.

  “I’ll check on plane reservations tomorrow, Mother. It seems like a dream. Hang tough, you hear? We’re taking on the Big Apple!”

  “I can’t believe it!” cries Stella.

  “Be well,” Clara calls after them.

  Frank stops, looks back at her. “I love you, Mom.”

  She had despaired of ever hearing these words. “And I love you, my son.” Her voice trembles. They stand looking at each other.

  She’s afraid if she says anything more, Frank will take back these words she has longed to hear her whole life.

  chapter 25

  Clara and Haskell disappear into the darkness. Silently they crunch across the vacant lot to the destroyed house still clamped to the flatbed. A lone car whooshes down the highway. The sky is awash with stars. Sagebrush—aromatic, astringent—fills their nostrils.

  She’s forgotten all about the Winnebago. It doesn’t even exist for her now. Only this charcoal skeleton of her house exists, crammed with life history she can’t forget or purge, despite her efforts to gain oblivion. Haskell regards its shadowy outlines with awe, having heard about its every nook and cranny. It looks hijacked, a blackened mausoleum dropped there by aliens. They are stunned by the untouched kitchen table and the three upright chairs, but especially the toppled chair, still where it landed after her forceful escape. She runs her fingers over this ancient table where she drank coffee and contemplated her life for almost forty years, the table now dusty from Frank’s sculpting.