Summer in the City of Roses

by Michelle Ruiz Keil

  “Oh, this old thing?” Velma smiles, winking like a showgirl. “You two be good, now.”

  In the hall, Iph stops. Something’s pulling her back into the room. She looks at the door. For a second, she sees water flowing out from under it, a wave on the beach of worn brown carpet.

  “George, what’s wrong with Pete’s leg?”

  George sighs. “An abscess. Probably an infected injection site. I wish Glow was here. She knows how to lance them.”

  “How do you know Glow, anyway?”

  “I lived around the corner from the needle exchange site a few years ago. I’d go bug her over there, asking to help out.”

  There are so many things left out of what George shares. Iph is getting used to that. She imagines what’s missing. The dark apartment. The missing-in-action mom. Lonely George with long braids like the ones in the painting at Taurus Trucking.

  “Why weren’t you more freaked out in there?” George asks. “It’s pretty intense.”

  They’ve started toward the stairwell. Iph stops again. “I don’t know. My mom, maybe? She had a friend, her best friend Rob, that died of an overdose. I’ve heard a lot of stories. Mom was kind of wild back in the day.”

  “How wild are we talking?”

  “Like, lived at the Chelsea Hotel with a rock star wild,” Iph says. “Like, there are famous naked pictures of her in photography books that this woman took when she lived there.”

  “What rock star?” George is hooked. Everyone loves Mom’s stories. Everyone loves Mom.

  “She won’t say. Says it’s for Dad’s benefit, so it doesn’t wreck the guy’s music for him. Dad says she’s making it up to make him jealous. I’m not sure, but I think it might have been Jimi Hendrix.”

  They’re quiet for a moment. Then George says, “Can we go back and try to help Pete? I think I could probably deal with her leg with what I’ve got in my bag.”

  Her, then. Good to know.

  “I can’t look, but I can keep Velma distracted. I’m squeamish.”

  “Definitely don’t look. And I’m going to open a window before I start. There might be a smell.”

  “No problem. I’m very good at turning my nose off when necessary. I babysit.”

  “Of course you do.” George takes her hand and squeezes, and together they walk back down the hall.

  9

  Emotion

  Memory

  Velma and Pete’s bathroom is small and stuffed with beauty products. A sticky layer of what is probably hairspray covers the sink and mirror and walls. There’s a thing Velma said while George worked on Pete’s wound that Iph can’t get out of her head.

  “They treated us like dirt last time Pete went to the clinic with an abscess. The nurse was so rough. When I asked her to be gentle, she made this sound—I swear to God, honey, it was like a wicked witch cackle with a little snort at the end—and said maybe next time, Pete would learn her lesson.”

  “Do they treat smokers with lung cancer like that?” Iph asked, squeezing Velma’s hand.

  “That’s a good point, sweetie,” Velma said, wiping her eyes.

  What George did for Pete was amazing. Not just the skill of it, but the bedside manner. Shame and fear drained from the wound. Like a day in endless Portland January when the sun comes out and everyone feels awake for the first time in weeks. Now Pete is laughing in the other room at some story George is telling. Velma is singing jazz standards to Scout.

  Iph puts the toilet lid down and pulls the phone cord taut. She is procrastinating. It was George who suggested she use the phone to call Dad, and Velma who sent her to the bathroom for privacy. She dials.

  “Iph!” How does he know it’s her? It really must be Dad she gets that intuition from. “He called me!”

  Everything seeps out of her till she is boneless. She grabs the side of the tub for support.

  “Let me talk to him.” Iph is shaking. From the next room, she hears Pete laughing again.

  “He’s not here,” Dad says. “He decided to stay in Portland.”

  “What . . . do you mean?” Iph is dizzy—probably needs to eat. Dad is saying something. The world has changed so fast. Without the gravity of Mom, they’ve all spun off so quickly.

  “He’s having a good time with the punk chicks. Jane and Allison and . . .”

  “Mika,” Iph says. “I think the third one is Mika.”

  “You found him, too?”

  “Almost,” Iph says.

  “He met a girl,” Dad says. “Said she was pretty, so maybe he likes her. I told him he can come home whenever he wants. All he has to do is say the word. But once he’s back, he’s back for good. The same goes for you.”

  Iph is silent. Dad as the villain has shifted into some other thing that is still sneaky, but also a little brilliant.

  “Do you want his phone number?”

  “Yes,” Iph says. “And the address. I can’t believe this.” She cradles the phone against her shoulder and turns on the cold tap. Lets it run over her hot, sticky hands.

  “I don’t have an address. He didn’t know it. He called me from the girl’s house. Some kid who’s a friend of the band. They’re called the Furies. Which is . . . well, kind of perfect. The house is in Southeast Portland off Belmont, and they call it Penelope. You should call him and go see for yourself. I bet he’ll be happy to hear from you.”

  “He’s really okay?”

  “More than okay. He sounded great.”

  Dad sounds smug. Why didn’t he make Orr give him the exact address? Iph slurps a little water from her cupped hand and dries it on her shorts. There is a stack of brown paper towels by the sink. Iph grabs one and an eyeliner pencil and writes down the number.

  There’s a silence. Dad is fiddling with something. He never could stay still.

  “Iph,” Dad says. “I’m sorry.”

  “For what?”

  “You were right. I underestimated him.”

  “Yeah,” Iph says. “You did. I’m assuming you haven’t told Mom.” Iph imagines her mother flying home from Santa Cruz, Wicked Witch of the West style. She’s glad she won’t be around for that fight.

  “Not yet,” Dad says. “I’m going to try and convince her to stay. Can I have her call you? She’ll want to hear your voice herself.”

  “My friend doesn’t have a phone,” Iph says, basically daring Dad to freak out with the deadpan way she says it.

  But he stays cool. If his blasé attitude is part of some overall strategy, Iph can’t figure out what he’s planning. “That’s okay. Not everyone can afford one. I remember those days. Is there somewhere I can leave a message? In case I need to reach you?”

  Iph thinks. “There’s a store. Shiny Dancer. On East Burnside. You could probably call there. I’m assuming it’s in the phone book.” Iph wonders what, exactly, the Yellow Pages listing for Shiny Dancer will show. Will there be an ad with a little cartoon stripper?

  “Thank you,” Dad says. “Will they let you use the phone sometimes? Or can you get to a pay phone once a week? I told Orr he has to call in on Sundays. Would you do that, too?”

  “Sure,” Iph says, suddenly missing him. “I’ll talk to you soon.”

  “I love you, Iph.”

  Iph opens her mouth to say it back, but the words won’t come. She puts the phone in its cradle and folds the paper towel into a small, thick rectangle, feeling . . . what?

  This part of the story is so unexpected, so surreal. Orr, living with a punk band in Southeast Portland. Iph . . . here, in this seedy hotel that feels normal in a way school never has. She’s at home in this world of George’s. Why does she feel this way?

  She taps the phone with her index finger. The polish is still intact, a relic from another world. She knows she should call Orr. But she’s not going to. She doesn’t know why, or if it’s right or wrong. Their trajec
tories have fractured. Their lives are suddenly separate. Iph rips the paper towel into little pieces and confettis the toilet bowl with them, a celebration of something. Then she opens the bathroom door to George and Velma and Scout and Pete.

  “This is for you, doll.” Velma is sitting at a book-piled desk with a slim volume open to the title page, fountain pen in hand. “Spelled like Agamemnon’s daughter in The Iliad?”

  “Just like that,” Iph says. Not many people catch the reference. “Is this your book?”

  “It’s so good,” George says.

  “I didn’t know you read poetry,” Iph says. “You’ve been holding out on me.”

  “Writes it, too.” Velma winks. “Damn fine poetry, if you ask me. The one time I got to read it.”

  “That was a fluke. I don’t write much anymore.”

  “Hmm,” Pete says, “that notebook you keep in your back pocket tells me otherwise, my friend.”

  Huh. Come to the think of it, Iph has seen a little notebook tucked under George’s wallet and keys on the kitchen counter at Taurus Trucking. She’s noted how George always puts it in the same place, right after coming in the door. Dad is like that. Orr, too. Good at regularity and habits. Iph and Mom are another story, always losing their keys and never able to find the mate for a sock or shoe or earring.

  “Here you go, sweetheart.” Velma hands Iph her book. It’s a thin, elegant volume with a matte cream cover and a foiled circle—or no, it’s a snake. A silver-green snake eating its tail. The title reads: Ouroboros.

  “What does it mean?”

  “It’s the name of the snake symbol. It came from Egypt and spread to the alchemists in Alexandria and ancient Greece. It’s an image of wholeness, of the way we transform and circle back into ourselves. It’s also a fertility symbol, but self-contained. How we self-create, how we contain the parts we need to be whole.”

  Iph turns the book over. A familiar symbol—RCT, in rose vines. Like the little matchbook poetry book she found at Shiny Dancer.

  “I’ve seen this before,” Iph says. “RCT Editions.”

  “Rose City Transmutation. They do great work,” Pete says. “All kinds of stuff. Poetry collections. Experimental theater and little one-off matchbooks with out-of-print poems. I met the publisher at one of my shows. She was there looking for Velma. Had an old collection of hers. Wanted to see if she had anything new. That’s how the book came be.” Pete is an old-school looker, with thick cropped hair, huge dark eyes, a soft wide mouth, and a smoky voice with a mild Southern accent. The wound Iph saw from the corner of her eye—she tried to give Pete a little privacy, even in the small room—was a devastation, a screaming plea from Pete’s body for relief. There must be a reason for it, Pete and Velma’s addiction. Some reason, some solution. It’s the kid part of her that’s begging for this, she realizes. The same part that used to think if Mom told her about her past, Iph could find a way to fix it. Like with Mom, there probably isn’t an answer here. Not a simple one, anyway. Most things are like this, she is beginning to understand. Most things and most people.

  Iph smiles at Pete and Velma, at George and at Scout, snuggled into Velma’s lap like she’s never planning to leave. “Thanks for the book. And for inviting me in. It’s been great to meet you both. Pete, maybe sometime I’ll get to hear you play.”

  “I’d like that,” Pete says. George’s smile is sunlight in the dim room.

  “Hold your horses, you two.” Velma is rummaging in the room’s small closet. She appears with a large slouchy rose velvet shoulder bag, something that would work as well for a play set in the 1620s or the 1920s.

  “Be right back,” she sings, heading for the bathroom.

  When she returns with the bag, she presents it to Iph with a flourish. “I’ve tucked in a few goodies. You can look later.”

  She ushers them to the door like they’re leaving a grand apartment, not a stuffy run-down SRO. She takes Iph’s fingers in hers, an old-fashioned ladylike farewell handshake Iph finds brilliant. “Charmed,” she says, then leans over to kiss George on the cheek. “Off you go now, sweet young things.”

  Iph wonders if she’ll ever see Pete and Velma again.

  “You’re a good egg, Iphigenia Santos Velos,” George says, grabbing Iph’s hand and holding it tight until they reach the stairs.

  In front of the Gentry, Iph feels like crying but won’t. She hasn’t told George about finding Orr. She’s not ready for this to end. There’s more for her here—she can feel it.

  “It’s too hot to bike,” George says. “I’m gonna leave Ethelette locked up here. You sure you don’t want to bus over to needle exchange with me? We can still go to Powell’s after and check for Mika then.”

  Iph surprises herself by saying, “I think I’m gonna head to Powell’s on my own. I need a nice bookstore visit. And air-conditioning.”

  “Fair enough. They have free water in the café,” George says. “You were pretty great in there. Pete and Velma are crazy about you. You should have heard them when you were in the bathroom.”

  “I did nothing,” Iph says. “That was all you.”

  “You did the most important thing,” George says. “You didn’t judge.”

  “I didn’t—but I did wonder. Why are they doing that? Can they stop? Don’t they want to?”

  “They’ve tried. I hope they’ll try again. Even with all the stuff they’re dealing with, they really helped me when I was losing it,” George says. “Pete’s the only person I’ve ever met who’s like me. I mean, none of the words feel quite right. Queer? Sure. But there’s something else. Butch sort of gets at it, but then . . . I don’t know. Pete’s the same way. Says we’re peas in a pod. Plus, dude, such a style icon.”

  “They both are.”

  Iph closes her eyes and sees a Japanese mother that looks like George alongside a stocky white man. Sees George with a freshly buzzed head and a red puffy face. Sees the stuffed backpack and rolled-up sleeping bag. Sees George at a bus stop, all alone. Iph knows she’s probably making it up, imagining a story to fill in the blank spots George isn’t ready to share. But another part of her knows these images are close to the truth. She takes off her glasses. They actually feel like hers now. She wipes them clear.

  George leans in and kisses her forehead. Marking it, like Glinda the Good. “You know how to get to Powell’s, right?”

  “No.” Iph laughs. “I would lie to save face, but it’s too hot to get lost again.”

  “Let us walk you,” George says. “I’ll catch the bus from there.”

  10

  The Stars

  Would Gape

  Orr sits on the sofa tuning Jane’s acoustic guitar while the band fights in the kitchen.

  “For fork’s sake, Allison!” Jane is angry because Allison broke her hand and can’t play bass until she gets the cast off. They’ve also decided to not to swear so much in front of young Orr. A joke, considering who raised him. “Why’d you have to hit him so hard?”

  “I don’t do dick in the wild,” Allison says. “He, like, whipped it out of nowhere. I didn’t think—I just clocked him.”

  “You should’ve kicked him in the balls,” Mika says. Her high voice and small body make her look as young as Orr. In reality, Jane, Allison, and Mika are all twenty-four. The age Mom was when she had Iph.

  Mom. It’s weird thinking about her here in this living room with its wallpaper of band flyers and postcards and rough wood floors prickly with staples the girls didn’t bother to remove when they pulled the carpet up after one too many cat accidents. Orr still hasn’t seen the cat that made them.

  “He’s a lounger agent,” Allison told him when he asked about the housemate responsible for the smell. Finally, he realizes who she sounds like—the girl from Clueless, one of Iph’s favorite movies. It makes sense. Allison says she’s a real-life Valley girl, born and raised in LA.

  �
�He’s for sure some sort of spy,” Mika says. “Does nothing but lie around for weeks, then goes off on some secret mission out of nowhere. Clearly, it’s when his handlers activate him. Comes home dirty and exhausted and sleeps for days.”

  “Either that, or he gets locked in people’s garages. He’s a little . . . decorative,” Jane says. “Not the brightest kitty in the caboodle, if you know what I mean.”

  The girls deny you can still smell the cat pee, but they’ve let Orr scrub every floor in the run-down, hundred-year-old house, happy to buy him the Murphy Oil Soap he asked for and watch as he dumped pail after pail of black water into the backyard to quench the summer-dry jasmine.

  “The issue remains,” Jane says, carrying two Slurpee cups full of iced tea into the living room—one for her and one for Orr—and settling beside him on the sofa, which Orr has covered with a paisley tapestry he found in the basement. “We finally have a chance at a decent gig, and now we can’t even do it. I mean, you guys, Dead Moon! And it’s a benefit for the hos!”

  “I know that girl—from Shiny Dancer? Kind of a babe,” Mika says.

  “It sucks that the Meow-Meows broke up.” Allison lights up a cigarette. Mika instantly jumps up and opens a window. “But dudes, their loss has got to be our gain. We can’t afford to pass this up.”

  “You don’t mind if someone else plays bass?” Mika says. “Be honest.”

  “I mean, ego-wise, a little. But band first. I mean, I can at least shake a tambourine while I do my vocals.”

  The girls start making lists of possible substitute bass players. Orr tunes out, noodling around on the guitar. He plays a chord progression—something vaguely familiar. He slides into something else—a version of a song he heard the band play over and over again the night before, when Allison still had the use of both her hands. He sets the guitar on its end like it’s a cello or a tiny upright bass, thinking about Mom and Iph and Dad and what it felt like when they used to go camping and why, even if he tries, he still doesn’t feel homesick. When he finally looks up the girls are frozen and staring straight at him.