Within a two-block space LeeAnn counted a Carl’s Jr., a Bob’s Big Boy, a Top Burger, and a big, gleaming new drive-thru McDonald’s. “On opening day,” Beth said, swinging onto tree-lined Richmond Avenue, “they ran a photograph of its first customer in the local newspaper. Who do you think it was? Tommy Moorhead! He looked awful. There’s a man if ever I saw one with grounds for a lawsuit against God. And they ran this little interview with him where he told them who he was—who he was married to, in other words—and he stunned them all, reeling off all these fascinating facts about McDonald’s, how it opened on April fifteenth, 1955, in Des Plaines, Illinois, the Chicago suburb now ‘better known as Burger Bethlehem,’ I quote your ex-husband, and how the first Big Macs were fifteen cents but he only ever ordered Chicken McNuggets, because he was, in his own words, ‘an individual.’ I am so sure.”
They were still laughing when Beth pulled into the forecourt of the Chapel of Rest. They stopped abruptly, looked at each other uncomfortably. The ease and familiarity seemed to have been switched off with the engine. “You go ahead,” Beth said. “I have to go to the office and call the others and tell them we’re here.” LeeAnn fumbled in her handbag for her cell phone. “Here, use this,” she said awkwardly, proffering it to her sister.
“You do it. I don’t know how to use those things.”
“I don’t know the number,” said LeeAnn pathetically. Her sister tutted and sighed.
“It’s been the same one for forty years.” She recited the numbers and LeeAnn pushed the buttons. When she heard one of her sisters answer, she thrust the phone at Beth. Beth glared at her. “Hi, Ruthie,” LeeAnn said. “We’ve just gotten to the chapel.” States of well-being were checked and arrangements were made. “Ruthie says they’ll all be here in fifteen minutes. Except for Evangeline, who’s staying home with Pop.”
“How is Pop?” LeeAnn asked for the first time. “How the hell do you think?” said Beth, still angry though she couldn’t for sure say why. “The one blessing is I don’t think he even knows what’s going on. No need to do that,” she said as LeeAnn automatically checked that her door was locked. “We’re in God’s country now.”
“And He’s fucking welcome to it,” muttered LeeAnn under her breath.
The Chapel of Rest was wood-paneled, cool and spacious, and dimly lit, with a few tasteful china ornaments dotted about. It reminded LeeAnn of the stately home that she visited with “Big” Willie Bean when they were in England together on tour. Only the stately home didn’t have a fucking great coffin in the middle of the room. She knew she had to look in it sooner or later, she just preferred later. LeeAnn stayed glued to the reproduction antique chair while Beth stood over the coffin, stroking something—she guessed it was their mother’s hair—talking softly to whatever was in it, and whatever was in it LeeAnn really did not want to know.
A wave of nausea rolled up in her solar plexus. She hadn’t felt this sick since she was twelve weeks pregnant with Tommy Moorhead’s baby, the baby she aborted the second she ran off to L.A. and the butchers fucked up her insides so bad there was no way she would ever get morning sickness again. But it sure felt like it now. Figuring this was not the best spot to recycle her airline food, even if it was first-class airline food, LeeAnn stood up. The nausea drained to the floor. She walked over to Beth, wobbling like her legs were made of Play-Doh, and stood behind her sister, her hands on her shoulders. She felt Beth sob. But still LeeAnn didn’t look down. Her sisters arrived, came over and hugged her, bent down into the coffin and kissed their mother, rearranged her hair and dress, trying to make her nice, like she was their little girl whom they were getting ready for a party and not 140 pounds of God-fearing, stick-wielding, Bible-quoting, burnt old meat.
This thing—LeeAnn still didn’t look down—once ruled their lives with terror and turned their father into a pitiful wreck long before the Alzheimer’s finished off the job. She used to line the girls up, kneel them all down in a row, and if the hems of their skirts failed to brush the ground she’d beat them. She’d make them recite the Scriptures and if they got one word wrong she’d beat them. She’d make surprise raids on their bedrooms in the middle of the night to see what they were up to and, whatever they were up to, she’d beat them. LeeAnn got the worst of it, being the oldest and an example and all. When LeeAnn’s first period started, and she was scared shitless and hurting, and had no idea what was going on, and after two days finally got up the nerve to tell her mom she was bleeding, she beat her stupid. She was a woman now, her mother said, so she had better get on her knees and pray to God. Menstruation was God’s monthly reminder that a woman’s body is a piece of dirt that must be cleansed by the blood of Jesus, until her husband purifies it with the gift of birth. A woman’s body, she said, belongs to her husband and her soul belongs to God. Then her mother left her praying and went out. Fifteen minutes later she threw a packet of thick white pads and an elastic belt on her bed.
LeeAnn was surprised to find herself trembling. This is crazy, she thought, being scared of a goddam shish kabob. And finally she looked down.
It was both better and worse than she’d expected. Her mother looked like a voodoo doll that someone had dressed up in their grandma’s Sunday best. Like one hell of a slab of jerky. Like a strange effigy made out of dried brown animal skin by some Indian tribe with an arts grant. She looked smaller than she expected too—reduced, like a shrunken head. But she was still utterly terrifying. LeeAnn gingerly lifted her mother’s thin, leather hand. Someone had taped her worn-out old wedding ring to what remained of her finger. LeeAnn thought of the song she wrote for her third husband, Lee Starmountain, the only one she’d really loved. “‘He wore out his wedding ring,’” she sang gently to herself, like a lullaby “‘on the steering wheel,’” and hot tears plopped into the coffin.
The women piled into two cars and went back to the house. Evangeline was at the door before they’d even pulled up. She’d been out watching the local cops get the press and TV video crews to move back to the other side of the street. There were still some people milling around outside—local women mostly, middle-aged, in leisure clothes with gold appliqué flowers and animals and incongruously teased hair—hoping to get a look at their prodigal star. Some of them, unashamed, had cameras poised and ready. Others waved and said, “Hi, LeeAnn. Welcome home.” She gave them the barest acknowledgment and went inside with her sisters.
The place was much as she remembered. Stifling, claustrophobic. Knickknacks everywhere, kitschy decorations, crosses in every shape and size and substance. Hanging china plates with homilies and verses from the Bible lined the walls. Her grandmother’s framed sampler, “As Ye Sow So Shall Ye Reap,” took pride of place above the fireplace where the mirror ought to have been, only Mom would not allow a mirror in the house. Even now LeeAnn retained her ability to put on her makeup without one. In spite of all their cleaning, the place did not smell good. Evangeline gestured upstairs and said that Rick from the garage was coming by later with his pickup to take the mattress away. The police had offered, but their father had refused to let it go. Maybe he was sentimental. Maybe just mental. Maybe he wanted to worship it as the one thing on this earth that had ever shut her up. He didn’t say. He couldn’t say. Then again, he never could.
“How long are you staying?” Evangeline asked her in the kitchen as she helped with the dishes. “I’m going back tonight,” said LeeAnn.
“Tonight? What about the funeral?”
“I’ll fly back again,” said LeeAnn. Adding, suddenly conscious of such a display of conspicuous consumption in the family home, “I’ve got some commitments. Work. You know. I can’t stay.” They carried on in silence.
It was just before she left for the airport, while the taxi purred outside the front door, that Evangeline took her to one side and gave her the envelope. She’d found it in her mother’s dresser drawer while she was going through her things. It was a plain white eight-by-four with “For LeeAnn Moorhead, in case of my death” writt
en neatly on it—her married name, her first marriage, the only one her mother recognized. “You know, Mother was really fond of you,” Evangeline confided. LeeAnn snorted. “I know it wasn’t always easy, but maybe—” LeeAnn stood there silent, dumb, clutching the letter. “I guess she felt she had something she needed to say to you,” said Evangeline sweetly. “You know, maybe make up?” LeeAnn stuffed the envelope into her bag. They went back and joined the others. She kissed them all good-bye—all except her father; she couldn’t; he just sat there staring and dribbling like a dirty old man on a park bench—and then she was out of there.
Sitting in the cab, the house and then the town disappearing into the distance, she should have felt like all the weight in the world had lifted from her shoulders, but the tiny envelope in her handbag weighed her down. She held the bag closed tightly on her lap. She wanted to know what was in it and she didn’t. So maybe her mother wanted to “make up”—well, hooray for her—go meet her maker with a nice, easy conscience and with a few words Wite-Out and rewrite LeeAnn’s whole existence. Maybe it was a declaration of love. Hell, that would be worse than eternal hatred; at least with that she knew where she stood. A sharp, unexpected pang stabbed LeeAnn in the stomach. It was, she knew, a ridiculous longing to make up. She wanted to throw the goddamn letter out of the taxi window, but it felt too heavy to lift from the bag. She didn’t know how she managed to carry her ten-ton handbag all the way to the airport departure gate.
In a first-class seat twenty thousand miles up and twenty minutes from landing, LeeAnn finally felt safe enough to open it. Inside was a single sheet of white paper the size of a leaflet folded, very neatly, in half. Trembling in spite of herself, LeeAnn opened it out. She read the dozen words written in her mother’s bold but spidery handwriting. She dropped it to the floor. It was lying in the aisle when the stewardess passed. She picked it up and held it out to LeeAnn. “No,” said LeeAnn, shaking her head, “it’s nothing to do with me,” and the stewardess took it away.
The bar was empty but for the barman. She hadn’t been in the Lucky Shamrock for over a year, but he greeted her like a regular. “I want you to take down every bottle you’ve got on that shelf up there,” said LeeAnn, “and pour it all in one glass, and then pour another for yourself. I’m celebrating.”
“What’s the occasion?” said the barman.
“Leaving home,” said LeeAnn. The cell phone rang. She jumped; she thought it was still turned off. She switched it to message mode. Her manager had already left a dozen messages since she stepped off the plane. “How did it go, darling?” “LeeAnn, call me.” “Call me as soon as you get this.” “LeeAnn, this is very urgent.” He said he’d set up an interview on Good Morning America for tomorrow, 8 A.M. “Big” Willie Bean was serious about the memorial concert. Nashville was proposing a TV special. Us magazine wanted to do the funeral, and was offering a cover.
The barman brought her glass. She raised it up. “I want to make a toast. To God,” she said, “and the Lord Jesus Christ and all his happy little helpers,” and downed the drink in one. “To God,” said the barman, and took a sip from his glass. “Same again, young man,” said LeeAnn, slapping her glass down on the bartop. The barman carried another drink over. Again she knocked it straight back. “What do you say we make it a nice round three?” LeeAnn laughed. The alcohol was kicking in fast. She pointed to a bottle on the top shelf: “And you might add a little of that pretty blue one this time.”
“One Latino-Russian Surprise with a dash of curaçao it is.” He handed her the multicolored concoction. She held it up to the light, admiring its swirling beauty. The barman figured she was making another toast and lifted his glass again. “Who’s this one to?” he asked.
“To my mother,” said LeeAnn, slurring only very slightly. “A toast for my toasted mom. And to her very last gift to her firstborn baby girl.”
“And what was that?” asked the barman.
“Oh, just a little old letter.” Her face had drained of color, but her cheeks were livid. “Something my mother wanted to tell me.” The barman raised his eyebrows expectantly.
LeeAnn emptied her glass, “She said, ‘LeeAnn, THERE IS NO FIRE ESCAPE IN HELL. Don’t you ever forget that.’” Holding the cool glass against her cheeks, her voice was stone-cold sober. “Don’t worry, Momma, I won’t.”
CLOSE TO YOU (COVER SONG)
It all began in an old building in Kentish Town, a nondescript end-of-terrace whose ground floor, until it caught fire, was occupied by a kabob take-away. The upstairs floors were roasted along with it, as well as the mad old Greek woman who lived there but spent most of her time ranting outside the orthodox church over the road. The place just sat there for a while, empty, scorched paint flaking off the dirty cream side wall, while the authorities decided whether to do it up or pull it down.
Then one day, another old Greek lady on her way to the church glanced up to where her unfortunate comrade had met her end, and all at once fell to her knees, clutching her bosom. A face had appeared on the wall. A gaunt, pale, melancholic face with a kind, gentle smile.
It was Jesus Christ.
A passerby came over thinking it was a heart attack, but all the old lady could do was point at the wall and wail. After a while people came out of the shops to see what the racket was about. Before long they were joined by a TV crew. After that the kabob Jesus was everywhere. Whenever the Council sent builders over to try to start work on the place, they were seen off by worshippers. A couple of times a scuffle broke out. Every day a bit more of the figure would appear in the paintwork—the long, serene, modest face with its gently closed eyelids and dark, wavy hair falling over a pale, bony sternum. And over a firm pair of breasts.
It quickly became apparent that it was not Jesus at all. That it wasn’t even a man. Who it was—as any music fan could have told you; the likeness was astounding—was Karen Carpenter.
Since she had chosen to make her first known apparition in my scuzzy little neighborhood, it was only polite to write something about it. “Karen starved for us,” my piece concluded, “so it is right and fitting that she should choose this kabobbery, this shrine to fat, as her temple. Like the lamb on the spit, she turned in the flames of celebrity, becoming in the process thinner and thinner as her fans grabbed their pound of flesh.”
“Karen did not die for you, you sad, dysfunctional bitch,” read the e-mail. “Karen would not have even SHAT ON YOUR SHOES. Richard has maintained a DIGNIFIED SILENCE and it would be a BETTER THING FOR THE WORLD if you did too.” The return address was [email protected]. I guess I must have upset someone.
A day or two later it must have been, I was walking past the old take-away and I noticed there were people inside. There were blankets hung up over the cracked windows, but through the gap you could see mattresses and sleeping bags on the floor. Squatters. After a week or so, when it became clear that no one was going to bother to evict them, they would leave the front door open while they tried to clean the place up. “We’ve only just begun,” a honey voice glided out of the portable CD player, “to live.” They weren’t the usual squatters you got around here. All of them were women, most of them mumsy, several middle-aged, dressed in prim smart-casuals and with a nice smile for anyone who passed. At some point the broken glass was replaced and I could see that they’d done a remarkable job. They’d even restored the old tiled food counter and found a replacement for the curved, translucent Perspex lid that covered the entire length of the refrigerated section where the chef used to keep the trimmings. Then they put up some flouncy floral curtains, so I couldn’t see in anymore. But occasionally, when the noise of the traffic was not too loud, you could hear a pure sad voice keening about rainy days and Mondays getting her down.
First I’d figured they were planning to open some kind of café—but with the state of the building, it would have had to have been an unofficial one, and these women looked too respectable for anything like that. Maybe they were setting up a soup kitchen for the homele
ss. Then one day a sign appeared on the curtained front door. It read, “The Karen Club.” I knocked on the door—tentatively; I hadn’t forgotten that e-mail—and someone peered around the curtains. They didn’t let me in.
In the weeks that followed, there was an outbreak of Karen sightings across the globe: in Berlin, on a small remaining section of the Wall; in a Tokyo shopping mall (initially claimed by some young fans as an apparition of Edward Van Halen); on the Greek island of Lesbos (although most people suspected this one was a put-up job); and in Tampa, Florida—the biggest Karen so far, the entire flank of a multistory bank building. Each of them became a magnet to the kind of women who don’t tend to gather in communal situations, unless it’s church socials or Barry Manilow concerts. And they all adopted the same name: “The Karen Club.”
Too Weird for Ziggy Page 5