Is Fat Bob Dead Yet? (24 page)

Though Connor was the one to bring this news, his mind is on Vasco's call and his warning to stay away from Céline. Connor doesn't want Céline to know he told anyone that Dante Barbarella was living in New London under the name Sal Nicoletti, but if she
has
to know, Connor wants to be the one to tell her. This means driving back to New London and ignoring his brother's warning that “very bad things” will happen if he sees Céline. Those bad things are a subheading under the main heading of “Chucky.”

Again we ask if Connor is brave or a coward, recalling that his only fistfight was in ninth grade, and he was losing when it was broken up. That was twelve years ago, and since then nothing's happened to make Connor a better fighter: no kung fu classes, no karate. In fact, he's better at almost everything
except
fighting. Connor, however, feels it's not about fighting—it's about Céline, and if a few bruises are the price he has to pay to see her, it might be okay. But he's not going to tell Didi or Eartha, who will try to talk him out of it. This suggests that Connor has doubts, though he claims to have no doubts. How difficult are these emotional mix-ups that inhibit Connor from exploring the consequences of self-deception.

Didi opens the envelopes that Connor brought from the post office. It's a job Didi likes to do himself; it lets him imagine that the foolishness is worth the trouble. Eartha sorts the checks. At times a dog lover or former prom queen sends cash, always a special pleasure. It's only a pity they
all
don't send cash.

“By the way,” says Didi to Connor, “your brother called. He said you been hanging around that woman whose husband was shot the other day. He said it'll lead to serious trouble. You're not doing that, are you?”

Connor's back is turned; otherwise his face might provide an ugly admission. “Of course not!” he says, loud enough to imagine he's convincing. In fact, he intends to drive back to New London in just a few minutes, but he wants to change his shirt, brush his teeth, and put on a drop of Didi's cologne, which is called Tough Guy.

Vaughn looks up with one of those expressions that Connor can never interpret and says, “You describe one of life's internal vulgarities.”

The gleam of Vaughn's peroxided hair under the ceiling light hurts Connor's eyes as he tries to sort through Vaughn's possible meanings. At last he asks, “You expect me to answer that?”

“Any pro-boner work often causes dysentery instead of thanks.”

Connor sees Didi and Eartha looking at him thoughtfully. He wants to ask if they know what Vaughn is saying, but he's afraid they do. “I gotta go pee,” he says.

Didi watches Connor walk by. He knows that Connor intends to see Céline despite his warning, though he doesn't know Céline's name. Who she is and why Vasco would be worried about it doesn't concern him, although it should. Didi sees himself as living in another world; he believes he lives in the Winnebago as if in the shell of a fast turtle, a kind of rocket turtle. If there's a problem, he can speed away. Here again we see one of Didi's weaknesses: If he believes that something is true, it must be true. Didi is more concerned that Connor is lying. It means their partnership—though of course it isn't a partnership—is coming to an end. Pity.

To cheer himself up, Didi keys in a number on his cell phone. A woman answers. “Yeah?”

“Is this Angelina? Angelina Rossi?”

“And who the fuck are you?”

“Wait! For both of our sakes, look out the window and into the sky.” Didi's voice is as smooth as warm molasses.
This is what I was born for,
he thinks.

Angelina protests, Didi reassures. Angelina makes rude remarks, Didi is sweetly repentant.

After a brief silence, Angelina says, “Okay, I did it. So what?”

“Could you tell me what you saw?”

“Darkness. Fuckin' darkness and some stars.”

“Ah,” says Didi, “I thought so. Did any of those stars seem to be falling?”

“You mean like a shooting star? Yeah, maybe one.”

“Angelina, bear with me. It wasn't a shooting star.”

Angelina makes the rasping, throat-clearing noise of a smoker. “So what was it, wise guy?”

Didi's voice is muted velvet. “Angelina, it was an orphan from outer space.”

“Say what?”

“Orphans from outer space. They're out there wandering the back nighttime streets or trapped in halfway houses of desperation, and they need our help.”

“Fuck you, asshole!” She cuts the connection.

Didi turns to Eartha. “She hung up on me.” This, for Didi, is a minor letdown and a masochistic pleasure.

Vaughn asks, “And who are the orphans of inner space? Are they, too, pigments of your imagination?”

From her place at the table, Eartha reaches out and puts one hand over Didi's. Along with her jean shorts, she wears a magenta crop top with spaghetti straps. “Yeah, people hang up on me all the time. Win some, lose some. You can't let it mess with your thinking.” She laces her fingers behind her head with her elbows akimbo, then arches her back, forcing her breasts upward to distract Didi from minutiae.

Connor pauses on his way out of the bathroom, where he's brushed his teeth, combed his hair, and doused himself with Didi's Tough Guy cologne to prepare for the evening ahead. He ponders Vaughn's question: “Who are the orphans of inner space?” As with others of Vaughn's remarks, it simultaneously made sense and no sense, except, as Connor recalls, Vaughn is an orphan: the son of Gone and Goner.

I
t's past seven, and the houses on Glenwood Place are sporadically lit. People are having dinner, TVs flicker, a door slams. Connor parks the Mini at the curb and walks up the sidewalk to the front steps of Sal's—now Céline's—house. There's no warm glow of a porch light to welcome him, but a light's burning somewhere in the back. No car is visible. Connor keeps his mind blank, not only to avoid fantasizing on what lies ahead but also to avoid thinking about his brother's warning, which means not thinking about Chucky. He imagines he's being watched by people in surrounding houses. He imagines them shaking their heads and saying to their spouses,
There goes another dumbo.

Connor rings the bell. After a moment the porch light comes on and he hears locks being unlocked. Then Céline stands before him behind the storm door. She wears a green Moroccan caftan with gold buttons and gold lacing decorating the high collar. Her lipstick is a darker green; her black hair is parted in the middle and hangs past her shoulders. She looks at Connor with her head tilted.

Slowly, Céline opens the storm door. “You find Danny's gold?”

“Danny?”

“Sal. Do you have the gold or not?”

“A homeless guy has it: Fidget. I've been looking for him all day. I'll find him tomorrow morning for sure.”

“What makes you think so?”

“I've got people looking for him.” Connor is referring to Linda rather than to an army of volunteers. “Is it true you weren't married to Sal?”

Céline's laugh is like fingernails on sandpaper, expressive more of mockery than of delight. “Not only wasn't I not married to him, but Sal wasn't even Sal. The whole business was meant to keep Danny hidden until his trial in Detroit.”

Despite knowing this, Connor hadn't wanted to believe it. “You're an escort?”

“I was hired to act out a part. It was like a bad play. But Danny attracts too much attention. They should've sent him to Guam.”

Standing just inside the door, Connor again tells himself that he's the one to blame: it's his fault Sal was killed. First he gets Sal shot, and then he pursues Sal's wife, who turns out not to be Sal's wife but an escort. Connor's appalled by his behavior. Was it for this he left Iron Mountain? But though he's appalled and has a long list of insulting names to hurl at himself, he's excited to be where he is. He may not like Céline's green lipstick, but he finds her beautiful, and he stares at her as a starved Great Dane might stare at a flank steak.

She, on the other hand, stares back as she might stare at a superfluous purchasing option: another pair of cheap flat shoes. “So why are you here if you couldn't find Fidget?”

“I wanted to see you,” says Connor.

Céline wears a bemused expression to go with her slightly tilted head. “And what do you see?”

Unluckily, Connor's mind goes blank. But no, that's not true. Springing to his lips, as it were, are romantic lines from famous movies.

Such as:
Well, it was a million tiny little things that, when you added them all up, they meant we were supposed to be together.

And:
I'm just a boy, standing in front of a girl, asking her to love him.

And:
I came here tonight because when you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want it to start as soon as possible.

And:
You should be kissed, and often, and by someone who knows how.

And:
We'll always have Paris.

But Connor lacks the nerve to say any of this. Instead he shrugs.
How pathetic!
he thinks.

Céline twists her face into an
I want to spit
expression. “You've got a lot of nerve to come back here without Danny's jewelry.”

Taking strength from all the romantic lines he didn't say, Connor walks past Céline into the living room with its beige carpet and beige furniture, muted gray lampshades, and a seascape of racing sailboats over the mantel.

“So this stuff is rented?” He tries to sound assertive.

Céline faces him again and lights a cigarette. “Even the mice. So if you don't have the gold, what do you want, or are you just going to stare at me?”

“No, of course not. I thought we could talk.” This, to Connor's way of thinking, is a mindless euphemism.

“You want a drink? It might quiet your nerves.”

Connor didn't realize his nerves were so obvious. “That'd be great.”

“Scotch?”

“Perfect.”

“Anything in it?”

“Just scotch.”

Céline leaves the room. The swaying of her hips under her caftan strikes Connor with the force of lightning knocking a squirrel off a high branch. He also wonders why Céline has decided to play the perfect hostess. He hears her talking on the phone in another room, but he can't make out the words. More time passes.

As he waits for his scotch, Connor studies his surroundings. It's like a bad stage set. What was her life like with Sal—did they have sex?—and what was her life like before that time?

But when Céline returns, Connor's musings vanish. She wears a white, ankle-length, sleeveless nightgown of pleated chiffon with a deep V-neck and needle-lace straps. We say this because the translucence of the gathered pleats takes all of Connor's attention, especially the shadowy display of her dark nipples. Her skin is only several tads darker than the white of the fabric. As she walks, the chiffon's pleats eddy around her. Echoes of her suppleness, thinks Connor, still caught up in the world of romantic films. She hands him a crystal whiskey glass of scotch. Light flickers on the facets of the cut-glass surface. Only a reading lamp by the sofa illuminates the room.

“What do you want to talk about?” she says matter-of-factly.

Connor's mind moves as fast as cold molasses. “Who were you talking to?”

Céline gives a little smile. “I'd just ordered a pizza, and I called to cancel the order. You don't want to eat pizza, do you?”

Connor shakes his head and tries not to stutter. “Who . . . who d'you think shot Sal?” The question doesn't interest him, but he can think of nothing else to say.

“Connor—that's your name, isn't it?—I'm a bit player. I got a check when I started, and I'll get another tomorrow. Now can we talk about something else?”

“Like what?”

“Like would you like to undress me?”

Connor is afraid he'll fall down, but surely that's an exaggeration. Still, his view of the room is jittery, and his legs feel weak. If he spoke, he'd say,
Wow, that'd be cool!
And so he says nothing. He takes a step forward.

Céline holds out a hand to stop him. “Let's slow it down a little. Would you like some music? What do you think would go best?”

“No music.”

Céline walks to a small table by the beige couch. She opens a drawer and takes out a blue velvet box about the length of a finger. Walking back, she hands the box to Connor and steps away. “Open it.”

Connor juggles his glass of scotch and the blue box, afraid of dropping both. He drinks his scotch, coughs loudly, and puts the glass on a table. Inside the box is a pair of gold-plated cuticle scissors with curved half-inch blades.

“Use those.”

“These?”

“Start cutting at the bottom and work your way to the top.”

“But it'll ruin the nightgown.”

Céline gives a minuscule shrug. “I have others.”

The scissor handles have two loops of unequal size, the larger being for Connor's right thumb. Both are too small for him. The scissors fall to the rug. Does she have bigger scissors, like garden shears? He lifts the scissors and wedges his thumb into the appropriate loop. “Tight fit,” he says. He bends over to catch the hem of the nightgown; then he gets on one knee. He glances up, but the alpine projection of Céline's breasts blocks her face. Connor gathers the fabric and attacks the hem with the curved blades. The fabric bunches, and nothing happens.

“Do it slowly,” says Céline. Her tone suggests mild interest. “If you stick me with the scissors, all bets are off.”

Connor pinches a bit of the fabric between his left thumb and index finger and another bit between his left ring finger and pinkie. This is not done easily. He sets the half-inch blades against the hem and squeezes. The hem separates. Connor experiences a droplet of joy. He attacks the fabric again, and it bunches. Once more he holds the fabric firmly and cuts a quarter of an inch. The house is silent except for the sound of cutting, which is no louder than a tail feather falling from a passing sparrow. Only Connor can hear it. The curved blades of the scissors bend to the left.

Glancing at Céline rising above him, he feels as if he were taking a teaspoon to dig up the Matterhorn. He readjusts the scissors to cut to the right, then to the left again. He zigzags upward one inch. He imagines the heat of her body beneath the chiffon. Connor begins to sweat. He changes his position so he sits on the floor. He's cut a little higher than Céline's anklebone, and the fabric keeps bunching. By the time he reaches her knees, he feels as though an hour has passed, but of course it's only been a few minutes. He looks up, and again he sees the dark shadows of her nipples.

“Hard work.” A drop of sweat rolls down his forehead; he wipes his brow.

Céline doesn't respond. He pulls back to see her face; she's looking idly at her watch.
At least,
thinks Connor,
she's not reading a book.

Connor switches the scissors to his left hand and drops them to the rug. They are right-handed scissors, and his left thumb won't fit in the loop. He switches back again. He's getting a blister on his right thumb.

“Do you mind if I smoke?” asks Céline.

“No, sure, go right ahead.”

Céline takes a cigarette from a pack of Salem Slim 100's and lights it with a silver table lighter. “Helps pass the time.” She blows smoke toward the ceiling.

When Connor reaches her thighs, he gets back onto one knee, which puts his eyes just above the dark shadow where her thighs terminate. This is revitalizing. He pushes forward, and the fabric bunches. He slows down and readjusts the zigzag. As the scissors rise, so does his sexual desire. He'd like to ask for a glass of water but says nothing. The scissors snip another inch.

“I'm getting the hang of it,” says Connor.

Céline doesn't answer. Looking up, Connor sees she's studying her nails, which are also green. She's his height, about six feet tall. From his present position, she looks ten feet tall. With the increase of his sexual desire, the fabric seems to bunch more frequently, and he wants to rip the damn white nuisance off her body. He cuts another quarter inch. The darkness of her pubic hair is six inches from his nose. He wonders if he might have a heart attack. Perhaps many of the heart attacks described in newspaper obituaries were caused by games like this. He takes a moment to breathe deeply. Céline's pubic hair has been shaved into a diamond shape, and Connor focuses on the tight black curls.

“You know, Céline's a beautiful name,” he says, trying to distract himself from the mound of curly hair. “I really like it.” He readjusts his pants.

Céline stubs out her cigarette in a green ashtray. “My real name's Mabel.”

Connor stops readjusting his pants as his tumescence deflates. “Oh?”

“My folks called me ‘Maybe.' Are you going to be there all night?”

“Slow but sure, that's the best approach.” Connor hardly knows what he's saying.
Mabel!
he thinks.

“Which do you like better, Mabel or Céline?”

“I'd gotten used to Céline.” He sees that Céline has a belly-button ring with a small blue stone.

“I'm pulling your leg,” says Céline with a giggle. “That's not my name.”

Connor exhales. “So what is it?”

“Shirley.”

“You're kidding.” He sees that she's again looking at her watch. From below, her grin appears carnivorous. “You play that trick on a lot of men?”

Another giggle. “Some get mad. I was born Shirley but changed it to Céline in high school. It's all legal. My mom signed the papers. So I'm really Céline.”

Connor feels reassured. “That's what I did. My parents named me Juan Carlos, and I changed it when I graduated from high school.” He resumes cutting.

“Did people call you Zeco?”

“Yeah, how'd you know?” The loops of the scissors have made deep indentations around Connor's index finger and thumb.

“I know things.”

Connor wonders if she could have heard this from Vasco, but how would she know Vasco? “You know Vasco?”

“Never heard of him.”

“Where d'you get the beautiful nightgowns?”

Connor feels rather than sees the slight shrug of Céline's shoulders. “Oh, you know, boyfriends.”

He has cut through three-quarters of the nightgown, and when he leans forward, he sees the cantaloupe undersides of Céline's full breasts. He snips more quickly, only to have the fabric bunch again.

“Don't you think we have enough?” asks Connor. “It's basically open.” The cheap beige carpet digs into his knees. Céline arches her back, which raises the bottoms of her breasts out of Connor's view. He's impressed he can feel bored and sexually excited at the same time.

“You've got to go to the top.” Céline runs her fingers through her black hair and studies the ceiling. Given a change of clothes, she could be waiting for a bus.

Connor reaches a difficult section: three inches of ornate needle lace rise from the bottom of the deep V-neck. He's unsure whether to cut it strand by strand or force the scissors through by spreading the fabric with his fingers. He crouches to approach the dangerous area more directly. In silhouette he resembles a gorilla. He recalls the old days when he and his girlfriends simply held hands.