Such a Pretty Face (10 page)

Portland, Oregon

I
could never go back to Ashville. Too many memories.

That night, in my dreams, I saw Sunshine.

She was in front of the Schoolhouse House. She was painting. Helen was beside her.

Sunshine lifted her brush and started painting the air in front of her. She drew cornstalks. Helen tipped the floppy yellow hat back on her head, picked up her brush, and painted over all the cornstalks. She painted them red. Blood red. The blood started dripping down the cornstalks. Sunshine turned to blood and the cornstalks exploded, and even in my dream I felt so guilty for not saving Sunshine.

I woke clawing at my blankets.

I was losing my mind, wasn’t I?

I couldn’t swallow. I couldn’t move. Paralyzed with fear, I watched the darkness turn, from black, to dark blue, to robin’s egg blue, to pink and yellow and orange.

Had it started? Was I to become Helen, the woman with the floppy yellow hat?

“I’ve set up a lunch date for you,” Zena told me. She gave me a piece of paper with the name of a restaurant and a time. “Be there.”

“No, oh, no.” I argued. I threw a pencil at her, she threw it back. I told her that I would never let her borrow my clothes again when she’d been out all night partying. “For example, this morning, Zena, when I had to give you my gray jacket so you could slip it over your leather wifebeater shirt.”

She took a bite of doughnut. Why is it that skinny people can eat doughnuts?

“I’ll let you borrow my wifebeater shirt tomorrow,” she said. “And my skull necklace.”

“I think I’ll pass, but gee, thanks.”

Crystal summoned me to her office as she whizzed by on black heels so high she was straight up on her toes. “Let’s go, Steve, move it.”

I followed her as an obedient mouse would, but Zena said to Crystal, “Have you won the award for Portland’s Most Obnoxious Attorney yet? Oh, yes, that’s right. You won last year! Can’t win two years in a row!”

Crystal said, “Shut up, ant head.”

“Clever. You’ve been up all night again, thinking.” Zena tapped her head. “Thunk, thunk, thunk!”

When I got back to my desk Zena was gone. I went to the date because it started in fifteen minutes.

“Tell me about you,” he said, leaning toward me across the café’s table.

Rog Rakue had almost no resemblance to his photos on the Date Me! Internet dating site. He was at least fifteen years older, had a growth on the side of his face with hairs popping out of it like spikes, almost no hair, and a stomach that clearly had been stuffed with bowling balls.

Now, I am not one to talk about bowling ball stomachs, I realize this, but I also believe that it might be a wee bit important to be honest about one’s appearance.

“Well, I—”

His cell phone rang. “Hang on, sweetie.” He picked it up and said, “Hey, dude. Yeah, I got a minute.” He listened. He talked. On and on. He ended with, “Na, I wasn’t busy, no problem. Catch ya later.”

He flipped the phone shut, but not off, and leaned his stomach into the table. “Where were we?”

I smiled tightly. Waited.
I am an idiot. I do not want to date, yet I am on a date.

His face cleared with understanding. “Oh, yeah, let me tell you about myself. I’m an entrepreneur.”

“Really?” Entrepreneur usually means unemployed/criminal.

“Yep. I’ve started four different businesses. I always got something in the pot, always got something cookin’ up, always got the fires in the iron, you know what I mean? You can’t ever let things get too hot. You always have to have something on the back burner. Ya never know when the oven will explode and ya gotta find something else.”

I nodded at all his kitchen references.

“My business now is smokin’. Can’t tell you what it is, puttin’ the deal together now, but it’ll make me a fortune. I’ll be richer than damn Midas.” His cell phone rang. He picked it up. “Hey, hey! Antoine! Yep. I’ll cut you in, but you gotta be quick. My house. Four o’clock today. Oh, yeah, everybody wants in and I’m doin’ you a favor…sure thing….”

He flicked his phone shut. “Where were we, doll?”

“You. Your business.” Honestly, men can be compared to wind-up dolls. You ask them about themselves and they’ll go on forever.

“Yeah, my business is incredible.” He scratched his pit. “I have a lucky touch, you know? Everything I touch is successful, everything I go into, I dunno. It gets huge so fast. I know when the trends are coming, where they’re going, when to get out. I got the touch or something.” His phone rang again. He rolled his eyes at me. “Can’t stop ’em…Hang on, sweetie.” He reached across the table and squeezed my hand.

I pulled my hand away and wiped the sweat off. I examined my salad. It held no appeal for me.

Before the operation, I wasn’t picky about who I ate with. I would hide how much I ate by bringing a small sack lunch to work, hiding snacks and treats in my desk drawers, and sneaking out once a day to scarf down a half gallon of ice cream or ten cookies, but I could sit down and eat with anyone.

Since the operation, for some inexplicable reason, I can’t.

I have to like the person I’m around in order to eat.

Which is why I couldn’t eat the salad in front of me.

Rog kept yakking on the phone. His lips reminded me of two slugs, twisted together at the ends, which forced me to ask myself,
Why are you still sitting with this rude vermin? Why don’t you leave?

Rog hung up the phone. “Sorry again. Where were we? Hey, babe, can you get me another one of these?” He picked up his vodka tonic and signaled the waitress, then wiped his nose with two fingers.

He launched again into his own résumé. He was in love with himself, in love with his ambitions and accomplishments, in love with the sound of his own voice. After ten minutes of non-stop talking he said, “Tell me about you, sweets. Damn.” He picked up his cell phone, rolled his eyes as if to convey, “I’m such an important person, I can’t get people to stop calling me,” and yakked off again.

Leave,
I told myself.
Out you go
.

Rog hung up the phone. “Do you have any siblings? I got a brother. He’s a teacher. Middle school, social studies. Lives up in Seattle. He makes nothin’. No money. He’s got the benefits, but he’s makin’ $45,000 a year. Nothin’. Pennies. Yeah, he and his wife have a cute house. She’s a teacher, too. They got four kids. They coach their kids’ teams. They’re so damn strapped. Always going out on their old boat or campin’ or hikin’. They don’t got two quarters to squeeze together and four kids to put through college. They hardly got enough money to go to the movies. I tell him all the time, ‘Toby, you ain’t cuttin’ it, you ain’t gettin’ anywhere, you gotta be someone. You gotta make something of your life. You gotta be the man. I can get you making $100,000 a year, no problem.’ But he wants to be in a classroom with brats all day.”

He smothered a burp, then another, fist to mouth. The hairs sticking out from his growth wiggled at me.

Hello, Stevie? Is your butt stuck to the chair with glue?

“I haven’t seen him in about three years. Every time I call to get together he’s too busy with work and the wife and the kids. His wife’s a hot little thing; don’t know why she got together with my brother. I told her that, too, joshing around. Should have been me. She got ticked at that one, told me to shove it, but I think she knows the truth of what I’m saying. She got the short end of the stick. Married a teacher. Married the wrong brother. That ain’t me, hon, that ain’t me. I wanna own the theaters that play the movies, you know? That’s part of my next deal. Real estate. Businesses. Burgeoning markets. Tell me about you, Stevie. Sexy Stevie.” He winked at me.

“Well, I—”

His phone rang. “Hang on, Sexy Stevie.”

Did he think that was a turn-on?

I got up, grabbed my purse. He put his hand over the mouthpiece. “Gotta go to the ladies’ room and get your lipstick on? See ya in a sec, sweetie. I gotta tell you about my last business venture. You’ll laugh your head off at the money I’m making.”

“I’m not coming back.” I squared my shoulders. In my other life, preoperation, I avoided conflict like I would avoid a pit filled with tarantulas.

“Hang on, Darrell.” He put his hand over the mouthpiece. “What?”

“I said, I’m not coming back.”

“Why?”
He was genuinely perplexed. I laughed.

“You’ve got to be kidding. I’ve been here for almost forty-five minutes and all you’ve done is talk about yourself. You’re a bragging, boring, boorish man. There. I’ve used three b’s in a row to describe you. You’re not the slightest bit interested in anyone but yourself. You talk on your cell phone on a date. Your photo on the Internet is at least fifteen years old and you have the class and manners of a Tyrannosaurus rex who hasn’t eaten in a week. I feel sorry for your brother. He has a nice life except for you. No wonder he never wants to see you. No one wants to be with a person who tells them they’re not good enough and criticizes their life. Good-bye.”

His mouth hung open, his face slack with shock.

I left.

I felt guilty for being mean.

I felt he deserved it.

I did not even try to get to know the chair that night. I went home and painted it black. Tomorrow I would paint flames on the seat and up the arms. I’d put two worms on it, intertwined, on the T-shirt of a scrubby-faced, beer-bellied, spiky-haired loser.

I would name it “Internet Dating.”

The next morning was Saturday, and I decided it was time to start cutting the wood for my raised beds and all the tomatoes, squash, zucchini, radishes, lettuce, carrots, peas, and beans I would plant when the rain stopped. Maybe peppers, too. But not corn.

As I was sawing, sawdust flying everywhere, I thought about Joseph, my uncle’s handyman and landscaper, who had taught me everything I knew about woodworking.

We were not Joseph’s only client. In fact, he had about forty men and women working for him. He started his own landscaping company after he did two tours in Korea and two in Vietnam, retired, and ended a long, distinguished career in the army. Between a little Googling I did of him and his unit, and a couple of talks I had with his wife, Marguerite, it’s pretty clear that Joseph was a highly trained special forces officer who did an awful lot of secret work in both countries.

Joseph taught us how to build birdhouses, trellises, arbors, wooden stools, bulletin boards, tables, shelving units, and one time a bed for Lance, because Lance was way too big for his own bed, and Herbert refused to buy him another. Lance worked on weekends to buy himself the mattress to go with it. Joseph paid for half.

He taught us how to use every saw on the planet, plus he carved one animal each for us every year as a present. Lance got a rooster, Polly a horse, I got a raccoon, and so on.

Herbert scoffed at them. “These blue-collar people and their handiwork. Silly. But all men need to be proud of something, I suppose, even if it’s only a wood product.”

I have hung up each one of my “wood products” on the wall of my second bedroom. Lance has his up in his headquarters under a banner that says,
ONE PERSON CAN SAVE A LIFE
, and Polly’s are in her bedroom in her condo in the Pearl District.

I hammered and sawed, the sawdust sprinkled about, and soon, very soon, I would have my garden, thanks to Joseph, a man who saw three lost, lonely, mentally tangled kids and put out a hand to hold so we wouldn’t drown in misery.

“My anniversary celebration will be the place to be in this town.
The place,
” Herbert announced, chest out, from the head of the table. “If you’re not there, you’re no one. And”—he paused grandly—“I’ve made a decision.”

I caught Polly’s and Lance’s eyes across the table. The candlelight from a pair of perfectly placed candleholders flickered over the perfectly white tablecloth and perfectly proper wineglasses, except for Aunt Janet’s glass, which was for water. It was tinted blue. Herbert insisted she use it so she would not forget “her weakness for alcohol and destructive behavior that seduces the unwary and unvigilant.”

Polly’s lips tightened. Lance’s eyes rolled. Aunt Janet dropped her silverware down on her china plate at her end of the table and clenched her hands together.

I could barely breathe in this formal, stuffy room. Even the fire in the fireplace felt vaguely threatening, as if it would burn me down if it could, the windows almost completely covered in heavy, damask, mauve-colored curtains, with a chandelier, somehow ponderous and disapproving, hanging over the middle of the table.

The decor could best be described as: overwhelmingly suffocating.

Herbert waited until all eyes were trained on him, the show-man, the star, the patriarch.

“I’ve called the press and the reporters,” he said, so proud, so arrogant.

He let that sentence hang in the air.

“
Why?”
Aunt Janet finally said, her voice stricken. She reached for her blue glass with a trembling hand.

“I want my anniversary celebration to benefit all of Oregon. I want to make a statement to families everywhere and to stand up for what’s right!”

“What are you talking about?” Lance said. “I thought we were having a party to note that you and Mom have been married for forty miserable years.”

Herbert glowered at Lance, then repuffed his chest out. “We will use my anniversary celebration as the launch to the No on Gay Marriage campaign here in Oregon.”

I thought I would vomit.

Aunt Janet’s blue water glass clattered to the table and spilled. “You can’t be serious,” she whispered.

I dabbed up the water.

Polly said, “Oh, no. That’s a terrible idea. Hideous, Dad. Come on. You’re not even that creepy, are you? Well, yes, you are, but Mom isn’t, so let’s not launch that racist campaign here.”

Lance said, “NO. No, that’s mean, Dad, Mom doesn’t want that!”

Herbert glared at Polly, told her to keep her liberal ideas to herself, and then dismissed us immediately with a wave of his hand. Who cared what his wife wanted? He didn’t. “I am the president of this grass roots organization, and this is an excellent platform. Plus, it will help my state senate reelection campaign.”