Bigfoot Dreams

by Francine Prose

  What an inspiration, going through the Bible, adapting its stories for This Week readers. A whole new source of plots. BROTHER KILLS BROTHER AT SADO SACRIFICE SCENE. GROOM WAITS SEVEN YEARS, MARRIES WRONG WOMAN. BOY SOLD INTO SLAVERY, TRACED VIA COLORED COAT. This last might need some work, but still! Not for nothing do they call it the greatest story ever told, though she can never remember if that’s just the New Testament or the Old as well. TALKING SNAKE CONS WIFE, HUBBY HOMELESS. What kind of message of hope is that? She’s all the way up to SEA DIVIDES, SWIMMERS SPRINT TO SAFETY when it occurs to her that this ninety-one-year-old laughing mom can’t just be coincidental. Someone’s thought of this already.

  “Whose is it?” she asks.

  “Mort’s,” says Frank.

  Vera thinks of Mort, his stick-figure scribbles turning into Bible illustrations, growing more and more fantastic, charged with meaning, intensity, faith. She thinks of a painting she once saw by a woman named Sister Gertrude Morgan, Adam and Eve standing dejectedly by the tree of knowledge and underneath the caption, “I can’t believe I ate the whole thing.” Suddenly she has that feeling she gets sometimes about a person—she’s missed something, some unsuspected depth of spirit. Suddenly she wants to talk to Mort, to say, “Where did this story come from?”

  Then Shaefer clears his throat and says, “Look, this is going to be a little rough; fasten your seatbelts and hang on to the rails, we’ll be back on the pavement in no time.”

  And that’s all it takes for Vera to know: she won’t be talking to Mort, or anyway not much and not for very long. She’s being fired. It’s a good thing she senses what’s being said, since she can’t hear a word. Her first response is disbelief, then anger. She’s been so good, worked so hard, given her brain for This Week!

  “This is rough for me, too,” Shaefer’s saying. “I was up all night thinking about it.”

  Right, Vera thinks. Tonight you’ll sleep fine and I’ll be up. “I don’t get it,” she says. “They’re not even suing us.”

  “I know that,” says Shaefer. “It’s the whole thing. I can’t figure it. And I don’t like things I can’t figure. What it boils down to is, either you’re lying—” He holds his hand up like a traffic cop to stop her from interrupting. “I don’t think you’re lying. Or you’ve got some kind of ESP, and frankly it gives me the willies.”

  “I don’t,” says Vera. “It can’t possibly happen again. And what if I did? Karen Karl’s supposed to have ESP and she’s syndicated, for Christ’s sake; she can buy and sell us both.”

  “Maybe you should apply for her spot,” Shaefer says. “That bimbo wouldn’t know the future if it sat on her face.”

  “I don’t want her job,” says Vera. “Anyway, I told you. Lightning doesn’t strike twice—”

  “Try and understand my position,” says Shaefer. “This time was too goddamned close. Next time we won’t be so lucky. Every word you write will have to be checked. To make sure it isn’t true. I’ll wind up with another coronary.”

  Vera can’t believe she’s pleading for her job when what she should be doing is punching him in the snoot or, better yet, firing off some perfectly devastating remark and stalking out. “I’ll stick to medical bits,” she says. “Columns. You and Your Kitty Kat. Parakeet Doctor. How can you get in trouble doing doggie diagnosis? You’re supposed to get that stuff right.”

  “Vera,” says Shaefer. “Don’t make this any lousier than it is.” Vera wants to shout out loud, to call up everyone she knows and say, “How could they? I did nothing!” So when Dan Esposito walks in, she almost tries it on him, then realizes it’s pointless. Dan’s been cued to interrupt if her talk with Shaefer seemed to be taking too long.

  The thought of them planning this makes Vera’s heart start to pound. She hopes it’s not really possible to die of shame. She feels doubly betrayed by Dan, who was always so much gentler than Frank. This morning his features look slightly blurred. Vera wonders if they get that way in love and in those campgrounds echoing with the underwater murmurs of idle UFO gossip.

  “Believe me,” says Shaefer. “We’ll do whatever we can. Stay on for a month or so while you job hunt. We’ll send you off with two weeks’ pay, everything but the gold watch…”

  “Three weeks’ pay,” says Esposito. It’s the first time Vera’s ever heard them disagree.

  “Keep the month,” she says. “I don’t think I’d enjoy it. Just give me the three weeks’ pay.” Oddly enough, what she really wants is her Bigfoot story back. What would she do with it? Who would print it? Judging from the way Shaefer filed it, they won’t be using it here. They’re probably afraid that running it will bring Bigfoot out of his lair and down to the nearest Texaco station. Could they be held liable? Does it matter? All that matters to Vera is making a full turn and some sort of exit without falling flat on her face.

  Back in her office, she’s confronted by the mountain of paper amassed over the years. It’s worse than the Basenji Society. She feels the weight of it pushing her down till she’s crouched in an undignified squat on the floor; the idea of sorting and moving it makes her burst into tears.

  When at last she stops crying, Vera picks up the phone and, without thinking, dials her parents’ number. She’s thirty-seven, and look who she’s calling for comfort. Comfort and absolution.

  When Dave answers, Vera says, “Guess what.”

  “Don’t tell me,” he says. “You got a job.”

  “I lost this one,” she says.

  “Allah be praised,” he says. “What happened?”

  “Nothing,” says Vera. “Part of what I told you about, Friday night.” No need to tell him the second part of that story. The Flatbush fountain of youth may have saved Mrs. DiPaolo and Mr. Grossman, but so far it’s done nothing for her.

  “Good news,” he says. “The worst that’ll happen is, you’ll start making an honest living. Meanwhile, don’t worry. Money’s no problem. Your mother and I can certainly lend a hand till you get back on your feet.”

  Back on your feet—the phrase has a Depression ring. Rows of thirties tin soldiers on pedestals—knocked down, set up, knocked down again. “That’s all right,” says Vera. “They’re giving me three weeks’ pay. And I’ve got some saved up.” That’s one advantage of not balancing your checkbook; for all she knows, it’s true.

  “Well, isn’t that something?” Vera can practically see him shaking his head. “You never know how things are going to work out. What looks like a tragedy sometimes turns out to be a blessing. That reminds me of a story.” Vera considers pretending to have a call on another line, but can’t bring herself to do it, and so Dave begins:

  “One night up in the mountains near Teruel, the Fascists started shelling our camp. Heavy artillery.” Dave makes whistling rocket noises into the phone. “Lit up the sky like daytime. We knew it was pretty goddamn close, we just didn’t know how close till round about dawn the shelling stopped. I went outside to take a leak, walked a couple of steps away from my tent, and I’ll be damned if I wasn’t pissing into a thirty-foot mortar crater. That close. That’s how close you came to not being here. I stood there looking down in that hole and right then I decided, my whole life after that was going to seem like a gift. A present. A little something extra. Borrowed time.”

  “Wow,” says Vera, less amazed by the story than by the fact that she’s never heard it before, never been told of this pivotal moment till now. Could he have been saving it for an occasion like this? Like what? Getting sacked at This Week is nothing like almost being blown to smithereens by Fascist mortar fire. What moment will Vera have to show Rosie as the point that made everything afterward seem like a gift, like grace? Is this what’s bothering her? Not exactly. Is it the fact that—no matter how relevant it seems to Dave—her life isn’t a story from the Spanish Civil War? That’s not it, either. What’s troubling her is this: How long would all this sympathy and exemplary tales and offers of money last if Dave knew Lowell was back?

  “Talk to you later,�
� she says. “Tell Norma not to worry.”

  “You don’t worry,” Dave tells her. “You’re still our girl.”

  Dave’s story helped, after all. Vera’s decided to let the office go till tomorrow. Maybe a Fascist shell will hit it overnight and solve her problems for her. Besides, if she leaves right now, she won’t have to tell anyone she’s been fired. By tomorrow, when she comes in to pack up, everyone will know.

  On her way out, she stops in the coffee room to refuel and finds Mavis and Solomon standing there. Vera pours herself a cup of coffee and, going to the refrigerator for milk, has to reach around Carmen’s giant bag of radishes.

  Vera could go for a radish right now. Like poor Louise: chomping it would drown out the noise in her head. She wonders how many radishes it would take to make you feel full. Every time Lowell left, she’d felt a similar urge. Once she sat down on the edge of the bed and ate a giant box of Familia, dry, with a spoon. Like sawdust and putty—that filled the hole. Then she’d smoked half a pack of Camels.

  “First the good news,” says Vera. “The suit’s been dropped.”

  “O-kay!” says Solomon, grinding Vera against his cameras in an unusually—even by Solomon–Vera standards—awkward embrace.

  “Now the bad news,” she says. “You’re going to have to go on without me, men. I’ve been hit bad.”

  Is it tasteless to be making wounded-soldier jokes in front of Solomon? No one seems to notice. They’re too busy trying to figure out what she’s talking about. Then finally the howl of outrage Vera’s been waiting for all morning: How could they do this to her? The muttering and gnashing of teeth goes on and on, but not once does anyone suggest doing anything—resigning in protest or even complaining to Shaefer. Vera remembers picketing on behalf of a popular professor who’d been denied tenure. Well, guess what. College isn’t the working world. Suddenly Vera feels so distant from Mavis and Solomon; her ship’s already sailed, as they wave and grow smaller and smaller on shore.

  “Wouldn’t you know it?” says Solomon. “The first time anyone hits the nail on the head, they can her. What jerks. I should quit, too.”

  “What’ll that do?” says Vera. Solomon’s not going to bat for her, just joining the losing team.

  “They’ll change their minds,” says Mavis. “Shaefer’s a little hot right now; he’s had a difficult weekend. He’ll cool down. You’ll see. All will be forgiven.”

  “Forgive what?” says Vera. “I’m leaving.”

  Knowing that she’s coming back to pack makes it possible to leave Mavis and Solomon, to hurry past Carmen. Tomorrow they can all pretend it’s not adios, that their friendship will survive outside the office. But Carmen won’t let her by.

  “Hey, what are you on?” she says. “The coffee diet?”

  “That’s right,” says Vera. “I’m going on a long coffee break. Finito. I’m through.” Then she turns and hurries out before Carmen can even think of telling her it’s God’s will.

  VERA HITS MONTAGUE STREET at a run. She can’t wait to get home—the only thing that’ll make her feel better is finding Rosie and Lowell and hugging them so hard she shuts off the oxygen to her brain and can’t think. All that’s holding her back is the fear on people’s faces as they wheel around to see if she’s chasing them, then look behind her to see who’s chasing her. No wonder joggers wear sneakers. Joggers and muggers, too.

  Of course the apartment’s empty; she could have taken her time. A vision of Rosie and Lowell communing with the giant squid brings on a rush of jealousy that makes her feel as if she’s got her wish for a diminished oxygen supply. Telling herself that the city is full of people drinking at lunch, she pours a vodka tonic and sits down to wait them out.

  Nothing like jealousy to make the time drag. As the long afternoon stretches on, Vera goes through stages. First hurt, then anger, then worry. She runs through her usual repertoire of threats to Rosie’s life and well-being. Luckily, Lowell’s presence precludes most of them. Even so, things happen. Madmen await little girls in ladies’ rooms where their Daddies would never go, push them in front of oncoming trains with their helpless Daddies right there.

  It’s almost six when they finally ring the doorbell; Vera just feels drained. Rosie looks bright-eyed and adorable in her baseball cap, shorts, a green brontosaurus T-shirt Vera’s never seen before. “I forgot my key,” she says. “We stayed out till we were sure you’d be home.”

  Is that what they’ve cooked up to tell her? Before she can say she’s been home all day, Lowell’s kissing her. “Sweetheart!” he says. “How was your day?”

  “All right,” says Vera. She’s not ready to tell them the truth, and anyway they’re too jacked up to listen. “And yours?”

  “Outrageous!” Lowell says.

  “Yeah, Mom,” says Rosie. “Really great.”

  “I’m worried about that giant squid,” says Lowell. “Looks a little the worse for wear. Well, who doesn’t, right? Or maybe it’s that they’ve got it in a different place, higher up. Not the most flattering angle. But Jesus, those dinosaurs! That big Tyrannosaurus gets prettier with age. What I wouldn’t give to saddle up one of them mamas. Giddyap and away!”

  Vera’s trying not to think what it means that she’s mated for life to a man whose supreme ambition is to be Fred Flintstone when Lowell says, “Honey, what’s wrong? You look a little down. Hard day at the office?”

  “No day at the office,” she says. “I got fired.”

  It takes them both a while to process this. Lowell recovers first. “Way to go!” he says, sounding just like that Huey or Dewey or Louie. Rosie’s gone pale.

  “What’ll you do?” Rosie asks.

  “Win the Pulitzer Prize,” says Lowell. “Your Mom’s going to write the story of the century, and some sleazeball in Hollywood’s going to option it, and your Dad’ll write the screenplay, and then we’re in fatback gravy! Bye-bye Montague, hello Malibu!”

  Another variation on the lost Mayan treasure, but updated, and one that Vera so needs to believe, she almost does. She leans against Lowell and he hugs her, Rosie comes over and hugs them both, and for a moment it works. Vera can’t think, can’t worry, can’t feel anything but them. Then Lowell says, “This calls for a celebration! Let’s go to Chinatown! On me! I haven’t been in years. Out where I’ve been, even the Chinese roll their moo shu pork in tortillas…”

  While Lowell rattles on, Vera drifts into thinking how the secret, dirty habits of Chinese restaurants are another of This Week’s recurring themes. Cat, pigeon, squirrel—writing for This Week meant constantly looking out for new, readily available, and disgusting animals to serve up in someone’s sweet-and-sour pork. It’ll take some getting used to, going to Chinatown and just being able to eat.

  “Will the ladies be dressing for dinner?” asks the hillbilly John Gielgud.

  “Certainly, Jeeves,” Rosie says. Jeeves? Soon “Puttin’ on the Ritz” is coming from the scratchy turntable in Rosie’s room. It’s Rosie’s favorite. Vera’s told her it’s not really a New Wave song. Rosie says she knows. She claims to remember a cartoon she saw—as a child, she says—in which skeletons in top hats and tails danced to “Puttin’ on the Ritz,” then took off their leg bones and arm bones and skulls. Vera can believe it; it does sound like a song for skeletons to dance to. Now Vera does a kind of skeleton cakewalk to her room, where she stares into her closet with the unfocused gaze she ordinarily saves for the refrigerator.

  Back in the living room, Rosie’s put on a skirt and pink platform wedgies. Vera feels rather dowdy in her black pegged pants, her black satin thrift-shop baseball jacket embroidered with a map of Vietnam and the logo, “When I die I’ll go to heaven because I’ve already spent my time in hell. Saigon 1969–70.” Only now does Vera realize she’d bought it with Lowell in mind. She’d thought she’d stopped doing that—dressing to amuse him, saving her life up in stories she hopes he’ll find entertaining.

  Lowell’s put on a white shirt and tie. “See this?” he says, flapp
ing the tie at Vera. Up close, its little raised dots turn out to be naked girls. While Vera’s looking, he kisses the top of her head. Then he puts one arm around Vera, the other around Rosie, and won’t let go; they have to squeeze through the door sideways. Locking it behind them requires even more ingenious acrobatics.

  “The subway’s this way,” says Vera.

  “Let’s walk,” says Lowell. “What else are bridges for?”

  They walk beside the traffic jam along Tillary Street while motorists glare at them in that furious way drivers watch pedestrians outdistancing them. Then they climb the stairs to the bridge, and they’re up above everything. A breeze blows up here that didn’t exist down below. Lights twinkle in the few windows not still flashing back the last rays of setting sun. The skyline shames every photo, every picture postcard, gives Vera an odd, hollow ache in her stomach.

  For some reason she’d thought they’d be alone up here. It’s true no one’s going their way, but there’s a steady procession heading in the opposite direction, Manhattan to Brooklyn, home from work. Young female execs with sporty little briefcases and full dress-for-success summer drag; giggly steno poolers tripping over each other’s stiletto heels; Rastafarian mail-room types passing cigar-sized joints; and, every so often, ashenfaced older gentlemen clawing at their neckties as if it’s the doctor who ordered them to take up walking: mandarins on the Long March. Then Lowell elbows Vera and says, “That’s a lifer, darlin’. Forty years at This Week.”