by Paula McLain
“The hero? You said yourself that she’s pretty messed up. Don’t you think she needs my help?”
“She’s messed up, yeah. Who isn’t? You treat her like a child, though, and that’s not right. That’s not good for either of you.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about, you don’t know anything about it. She’s the one who moved into my room, went out and got a job. It wasn’t my idea for her to stay.”
“All right, all right. I don’t know anything.” Leon flipped a ten on the counter and grabbed his jacket, standing up. Raymond made a disgusted sighing sound and stood up too, rocking unsteadily backward then forward again. “Listen, let’s just not talk about it, all right?”
“All right, sure. I knew I shouldn’t get into it.”
The two men collected their change and gathered their coats about them, and then stepped out into the San Francisco night wind.
“About my sister, though,” Raymond said, walking to the car. “You’re not going to sleep with her, right?”
“Would you just let it go? I said I wouldn’t.”
“I know, I know, sorry.” But for some reason he couldn’t stop thinking about it. He wanted another promise from Leon, something in blood, in stone. Some guarantee that he wouldn’t have to stand by and watch his sister fall head over heels and then be immediately blindsided—not at this close range. He didn’t think he could bear it. He also couldn’t risk asking Leon again, not now. So he watched his feet, chewed the inside of his cheek, ducked his head against the wind that was chilly and dense and smelled like the bottom of the sea.
USE ME
It was official: the world was going to hell in Nixon’s hand-basket. When we watched the Senate hearing trials on TV with Raymond, all three of us muttered under our breath at the cowards, the liars, the worms among men. The night Butterfield testified that there was a tape-recording system in the White House, the networks ran a clip they would play over and over and over in the coming weeks, as if the world itself were a recording device for the unfolding drama, and every listener too (play, rewind, replay). With each deposition, each cross-examination, there seemed to be more evidence of just how messed up things could get when you weren’t watching, or even when you were.
The tapes existed, though Nixon assured everyone they needn’t be consulted. That would just be too confusing, and would only get in the way of the truth—whatever that was. The whole thing depressed me. Nixon was like a little kid trying to hide the mess he’d made behind his back and point to everyone else who could have made it at the same time. He didn’t seem capable of owning anything or accepting any responsibility—and it reminded me of what Claudia had said about my mother in the cemetery: grownups aren’t supposed to run away.
Late the next afternoon, as we lay sunbathing on Raymond’s lawn, Fawn said, “I wonder what Claudia’s doing these days? Have you heard from her?”
I had. She’d called two or three times over the past few weeks, but I had bought myself time, saying once that I didn’t feel well, and another time that Raymond had grounded me. But why was Fawn asking? Was this a test? “Not really.” I tried to dodge.
“You should call her and ask her if she wants to come out with us tonight.”
“Why?” I couldn’t keep the disbelief out of my voice.
“I don’t know. She doesn’t have too many friends. Don’t you think it would be a nice thing to do?”
“I guess.” I wondered what Fawn was up to, if she was trying to trick me or test my loyalty, but I said I’d call and I did. Claudia seemed surprised to hear from me, and there was tightness in her voice that didn’t dissipate even when she said she’d meet us at the bar that night.
I looked out the window to make sure Fawn was still out of hearing range, and then said, just before hanging up, that I was sorry I hadn’t been around more.
“I understand,” she said, but I wasn’t altogether convinced. The last time I’d seen Claudia, Fawn and I weren’t even speaking. But if she wanted to know what had happened to make things right between Fawn and me, she wasn’t asking.
Claudia showed up at the bar midway between Nickel Bag’s first and second sets, when Fawn was out in Murphy’s van getting high or groped or both. I sat at a low table in the back room, courting a beer buzz and eating peanuts out of a wooden bowl.
“Great place,” Claudia said as she lowered herself into one of the cracked plastic chairs. I looked around and could see with sudden clarity the vinyl floor littered with shells, aluminum pull-tabs, and plastic straws. The table was permanently sticky, and every available chair was peeling and cracked, losing stuffing. It wasn’t exactly glamorous, and I wondered what Claudia would think of the band when they took the stage again, of Murphy swaying, nearly comatose, over his snare drum, of JJ with his ridiculous accent and acne and dirty hair.
“Why don’t we get you a drink?” I said, and came back with shots of tequila.
Within the hour, Claudia was quite drunk and so was I, and Fawn was playing the perfect hostess, telling long hilarious jokes, complimenting Claudia on everything from her hair ribbon to her shade of lip gloss.
Sometime well after midnight, Fawn stood up, grabbed my hand, and said, “Come pee with me.” I trailed her to the cave-like bathroom where the sink dripped incessantly, and the black light over the mirror made the toilet paper and white paper-towel dispenser and even our teeth glow a weird, underwater lavender.
“Claudia is so sweet,” Fawn said to her own dim reflection. “I can see why you like her.”
I nodded, feeling rubbery. “I look like a baby duck,” I said, laughing, pointing into the mirror. I wet my hand under the faucet and tried to smooth the stray hairs down.
“Don’t worry,” Fawn said. She dug through her purse for her hairbrush, but instead of handing it to me, as I expected, she bent at the waist to brush her own hair from underneath, then flipped back up and did the top. “How do I look?”
How do I look? I wanted to ask in return, but there was no point. Fawn had clearly abandoned me as a project or protégée. She no longer cared how I looked, and although I felt discouraged by this, I was also strangely relieved. Beauty took too much energy. I was exhausted by the pore maintenance alone. And, at least for this tequila-hazed moment, I was okay with letting Fawn have it all—all the beauty, the attention. It was easier just to be her mirror. “You look like a million dollars,” I said to Fawn. And it was true.
On the way out of the bathroom, Fawn leaned one hip against the swinging door and turned back to me. “Murphy and the guys are playing in Chicago this weekend. Doesn’t that sound fantastic?” When I agreed she quickly followed with, “Let’s all go, then, Claudia too.”
“What about Raymond? Don’t you think he’d freak?”
“Give me a break. He won’t even notice we’re gone.”
Fawn had a point. Raymond was pretty preoccupied these days. After work, he’d eat dinner in front of the television set, watching the repeated clips of Nixon’s mouth moving, his square head sweating it. Then, around ten, Raymond would go out and get in his truck and drive the few blocks to the Olympic Tavern. Although earlier in the summer he’d at least been pretending to care about our whereabouts, somewhere along the line, all semblance of concern had dissolved. The “curfew” was probably still in effect in theory, but frankly he never checked on us, not once that I knew of. He had become strictly our roommate, and a pretty self-involved one at that. I wondered briefly what things would be like between Raymond and myself once Fawn left in September, how lonely I might feel, but the thought was so unpleasant I pushed it back down again.
As we walked back toward Claudia and our table, Fawn paused. “Fuck,” she said, “I totally forgot that Murphy said we’d need to find our own ride to Chicago.”
“Can’t they fit us into the van?”
“No, not with all the equipment and stuff. Not unless we rode on the hood.” She laughed lightly. “But didn’t I hear Claudia once say she could get her da
d’s car whenever she wants?”
I nodded. Claudia had mentioned earlier in the summer that her dad worked the night shift at the Hormel plant. Between midnight and six in the morning, his car sat in the parking lot with keys under the floor mat, simply begging to be borrowed.
“Bingo,” said Fawn. “You ask her.”
Everything made sense in a flash—why Fawn had invited Claudia, why Fawn was being so nice, so agreeable. She had likely hatched this plan days ago. I stood there feeling slightly stunned and watched Fawn thread her way through the bar. Every man she passed turned appreciatively, and with each glance, Fawn’s neck lengthened, her chin lifted, her shoulders moved further and further back. That was the difference between us, I thought as I watched Fawn’s progress. Fawn knew exactly what she needed to do to get what she wanted in every instance and she didn’t ever back down. She was a spider, dazzling and terrifying. Claudia was the fly. And me? I was the web, of course. A made thing, sticky as the table Fawn and Claudia waited at, but not stuck. I had choices. I could have turned and walked the other way, and if I had, this story would be a very different one. I might have saved myself and saved Claudia too. Instead, I did what Fawn wanted, what she was building me for. I sat down, turned to Claudia, and said, “I have a fabulous idea.”
I’LL TAKE YOU THERE
Before that night, the closest I had been to Chicago was O’Hare, which had been a little disappointing, parked as it was out in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by loping pastures and family farms and named but as yet undeveloped housing tracts and industrial parks. Downtown Chicago was something else again. When we arrived in the city, it was nearly midnight, though the hour seemed irrelevant. People were everywhere, waiting on curbs for WALK lights to flash, strung in clumps along the El platform or inside the trains, which hurtled by with a palsy, making everything shudder for half a minute or more. We parked the car near Division Street, in an area canopied by slabs of concrete and riveted steel, above which the El ran. It passed some twenty feet over our heads, and when it did, I could feel my insides shimmy like gelatin, a sensation that was intensified because I’d drunk, by then, two-thirds of a bottle of strawberry-flavored Boone’s Farm as well as some warm Fresca to wash down two cross-tops Claudia had handed me somewhere near St. Charles.
As we walked, I craned my neck gawking at skyscrapers. The tallest of these was the Sears Tower, which had just been completed and named the tallest building in the nation. It seemed to be made entirely of windows, silver and black reflecting more silver and black, and seemed also to list as I gazed up, the way giants in a story might bend over to get a good look at what was getting a good look at them. Fe fi fo fum. I felt the Boone’s Farm sloshing the amphetamines around in my bloodstream like a strawberry-pink tide. “I think I’m going to be sick,” I said to Fawn.
“No you’re not,” Fawn insisted. “You’re going to have a good time. In fact, you’re going to have the best time of your life, I guarantee it.”
“Man alive,” said Claudia.
“Betcha by golly wow,” said Fawn.
At first, we seemed to be heading in the right direction. Fawn led us through well-lit bustling streets, past storefronts with poshly outfitted mannequins in the windows, but soon we found ourselves in another kind of neighborhood, dim and intricate, laced with garbage and smelling of piss and rotting oranges. Along one street, two men sat on a soggy-looking mattress that was partly wedged into a doorway, and as we passed, one made a phlegm-rich growling noise deep in his throat.
But I wasn’t scared. Not yet, anyway. That would come later. With Fawn leading the way, we flounced by the bums with our chins high, our shoulders set convincingly. We were lost, yes, but this didn’t feel like such a desperate proposition. Bar time stretched out until four a.m. in Chicago. When we finally found the Tattered Rose, Murphy and the other guys would be there, happy to see us, and more than ready to party. In the meantime, there were other bars. And wasn’t a bar a great place to ask directions to another bar?
“What’re you girls drinking?” This was a question we heard a lot that night. The answer was either Everything or What are you buying? We started with tequila sunrises and straight tequila shooters with lime, and then moved on to apricot stone sours and syrupy Southern Comfort cut with 7 UP. At Nunzio’s, the fourth place we stopped, we switched to beer because that’s what was put in front of us.
“I don’t think I like this beer,” I slurred into Fawn’s ear after taking a polite swig from my can of Schlitz.
“Can you even taste it?” Fawn slurred back, and I couldn’t help but break into a donkey laugh. Fawn was right: I couldn’t taste anything. My mouth was numb, like my fingertips and my jawline from ear to ear, as if I’d been shot up randomly with Novocain or separated in some pliable way from the signals running to and from my brain. For long minutes I stared at my hand on the sticky table, willing it to move, but it resisted, a flat, pale flounder on the bottom of the impossible sea.
The buyers of this round and the next were four guys somewhere between the ages of twenty and thirty (it was so hard to tell in bar light), all wearing dark jersey shirts and blue jeans, as if they’d taken a vote. They all had short hair too; I saw Fawn taking this in as she glanced around the table, doing the math.
“You guys cops?” Fawn said, flicking her fingernail against her nearly empty beer can. It made an eerie, hollow ping.
“Hell no,” said the one named Bruce. “We’re soldiers. Can’t you tell?” He pushed his left sleeve up to bare the inked banner of his tattoo: U.S. ARMY.
Miles followed suit. His read For Brotherhood in an archaic-looking script that reminded me of the lettering on the preamble to the Constitution that had been blown up on a page of my sixth-grade history book.
“Really?” said Fawn. “Seen any action?”
“We’ve seen plenty,” Bruce said with a wink. “You?”
Three beers later, Claudia was playing pool with Miles and Pauly, who was slender and mustachioed and the quietest of the four. Fawn had gone outside with Bruce to “check out his car.” I was left at the table with Donald, who had a bowl of peanuts he was breaking out of the shell to dribble into his beer. He wasn’t bad-looking. He had nice skin and nice teeth, though when he turned his head just right, I could see his eyes, which were dark and bottomless and a little spooky-looking. Just how old are these guys? I let myself wonder briefly.
“So where’re you ladies staying tonight?” Donald asked, sliding his chair a smidge closer. His breath was damp and lemony.
“Home,” I said, pulling away slightly. “We’ve got to get back to Moline tonight, to return the car.”
“Moline, huh? I don’t know if that’s the smartest thing to do, seeing how late it is. In fact, it’s technically not even tonight anymore. It’s tomorrow.” He pushed his watch around to his inner wrist and then held it close to my face. I squinted: two thirty.
“Wow,” I said, and could think of nothing else to add, particularly because when Donald dropped his arm, he let it fall to the table directly in front of me, inches from my breasts. His leg was so close to mine I could feel its heat advancing through his blue jeans and the gap of smoke-addled air between us.
“So you’re Claudia?” he asked.
“No, Jamie.” I pointed to the pool table where Claudia stood over her cue, her knees bent, long hair in a loose rope over her left shoulder. Next to the guys and without her skates she seemed petite, even fragile-looking. “That’s Claudia.”
“Jamie,” Donald repeated. “Right. I’m going to get another drink. You want something?”
“Sure,” I agreed, “anything.”
I watched him approach the bar. He walked with purpose, unsmilingly, and while he waited for the drinks, his eyes roaming the room in a proprietary way, I noticed that one hand clenched and unclenched, sending a tense ripple up to his bicep, which was large and taut. He was a soldier. He knew how to carry a gun and how to use it. I imagined him in combat, crouched in low brush, bl
ack dashes smudged under his eyes, waiting for something to happen, a wire to trip, a flare to go off, a shadow in the distance to move, to bolt and run like prey.
A tingle of panic climbed my spinal cord. It occurred to me that for all of my recent experience, the only boys I’d ever truly been comfortable with were Patrick Fettle and Collin. Maybe it was because they were boys, sweet and harmless, or maybe it was because I’d felt seen and understood by them. Donald was as far away from someone like Collin as I could possibly imagine. He was a man, for starters, and he wouldn’t be satisfied with simply touching a girl’s ankle. I knew that for sure. Thinking about what he might expect instead, I felt dread and anticipation simultaneously. The two mixed in a chaotic way in my stomach, and suddenly I knew I was going to vomit. Standing quickly, I made my way to the bathroom, weaving through the bar with my hands raised to touch the backs of chairs for balance. In the stall, I leaned my forehead against the scarred door and found I felt a little better. The metal was cool and soothing, and when I rinsed my face at the sink, I felt better still. Donald was older, yes, but maybe that was good. Maybe an older man was exactly what I needed to get me through this annoying threshold place where what I wanted and what I didn’t knotted and snarled until I couldn’t have answered the question even for myself.
Did I want to have sex? Yes. No. I had wanted it with Tom—confusing, magnetic Tom with the yellow-green eyes—and what had happened? Nothing but humiliation. I had almost wanted it with JJ, but then there was the Dumpster, the cat pee, his forgetting I existed. With Donald I had a feeling that all I would have to do was let it happen, say yes, and not even to him but to myself, my own fuzzy and disconnected-feeling brain, my face in the swimming mirror.
Back at the table, a tall and slightly gray concoction waited for me.
“What is it?” I asked Donald.