“I am the mother of the smartest dolphin.”
“Where’d you get it?”
“Mrs. Wicker gave it to me.” Ava slides Henry’s glasses off his face and gently rubs the faint red marks they’ve left on each side of his nose. “Oh, and I saw an armadillo digging a burrow. Do they lay eggs?”
“Mom, it’s so cool. They lay one egg, with four babies in it.”
“Quadruplets.”
“What’s that?”
“Quadruplets, means four babies born at once.”
“Your job is good, isn’t it.”
“Yes, sweetie. It’s pretty good.” Ava hugs her son for a long moment, pressing her face against his cool silky cheek. He smells faintly orange from the bath gel.
Ava counts her money. Forget new shoes, she’ll need it all to tide her over while she finds a new job. Maybe a classrooms of fours. Fours use their words, love silly jokes. She can teach them letters, how to use scissors, the difference between right and wrong.
She lies down on her bed, feeling wiped out. She thinks about Terry’s face when he’d overheard her call Clara such a terrible name. Did he already know about Eric? Had he seen the truck parked outside his house all those afternoons? Did he know everything?
She allows herself a brief pang of sadness at having to leave the boys. Goodbye, little friends. Hang tough.
The Fitting Room
GOOD MORNING! WELCOME to Bridal Boutique. You ignored our discreet sign: by appointment only? You are six bored women with nothing better to do. Why me, oh lord?
I’m Julie, and I’ll be your consultant today. Which of you is the blushing bride? Why are they looking at each other, don’t they know? Oh no, that one, I was afraid it would be her. Clutching her Happy Meal.
Well, this is an exciting day, isn’t it! The day you find the perfect dress. And your name is . . . ? Dayton. I’m terrible with names. Think of Daytona Beach, where I wasted many a weekend working on my tan and am now paying the wrinkly price.
Dayton, when’s the big date? Better be soon, you are showing already. Four months along, I’d guess. You shorter girls poke out early.
Oh my, that doesn’t give you much time. Well, we better get busy then, hadn’t we? You have got to be kidding. What kind of girl walks in here needing a dress in two weeks?
Who did you bring along today? I just love a cheering section! Yeah, right, makes my job absolutely impossible. I have to please a seventeen-year-old pregnant bride, her mother, her future mother-in-law, her sister, and two girlfriends. My eyeballs are throbbing.
Come along and we’ll get settled into a fitting room. Can I get anyone something to drink? Please say no, please say no. I hate drinks in the fitting room. They are always getting spilled.
So that’s three diet Cokes, a root beer, and two Cheerwines? Be right back. While I’m gone, would you fill in this questionnaire? You can read and write, can’t you, Dayton?
Here you go. There are drink holders in the chairs. Yes, it’s just like the movies. Sit back and enjoy the show.
Oh my, that’s a bright flash! No cameras please. Text and tweet all you want. Just no pictures of Dayton in her underwear on Instagram. If I gritted my teeth any harder they’d fracture.
Looking at your answers, Dayton, I see that you are a size eight? Maybe two years ago, before puberty hit you like a freight train.
Our dresses run quite small, so we may have to go up a size or two. But you’ll get a perfect fit, not to worry. Oh, you brought pictures? Very helpful. Except these are Vera Wang. You’re in the wrong salon, honey.
And strapless? No strapless dress was ever made that could cantilever those double-D girls.
A long, full skirt? Shantung taffeta, beautiful choice. You’ll look like a giant marshmallow, child.
I’m thinking an empire waist would suit you well. Since you no longer have a real waist.
And I’ll try to stay in your price range, hmmm? You’ve got to be kidding. Only our garters are in that price range.
Be back in a minute. And while you wait, here are some style books. No, I don’t have six style books, you’ll have to share.
(Mutters to self as she searches through the dresses. Empire waist, strapless, cheap, taffeta. Zilch. Okay, Plan B.)
Well, Dayton, I found a dozen dresses and one is bound to be absolutely right. Half of these are trampy and half are classy. Let’s see, which will you like?
Here comes the exciting part. Try this one on! Oops, let me hold the Coke. It’s very difficult to get Coke out of silk.
Hmmm. What do you think? I think it makes you look like a manatee in a ball gown.
Let’s try another one. This ivory is beautiful with your skin. I’d kill for your skin, not a pore to be seen.
Too low cut? Possibly. No one will be able to focus on the ceremony for fear of the reveal.
Maybe one with a slightly narrower skirt? To give you a more vertical look? Did I actually say that? Hope she doesn’t realize that vertical is the opposite of wi-i-i-i-ide.
Very nice. Oh, mom doesn’t like the pearl beading. Mom, shut up.
What do you think of this—no beads, sweet neckline, an A-line skirt? Ignore your sister. She’s not on your side.
Well, it will be your very special day and you are worth every penny. Of course it’s too expensive.
If you want my opinion, I think a bit of sleeve would be very flattering. If ever anyone needed straps. Wide and sturdy.
Mom agrees? And Mumsie? Great! So let me get a few more. I’ll be right back. I am starting to sweat.
Here we are. I just know THE DRESS is one of these. Oh lord, there goes the root beer. Fortunately it’s only saturating our pink plush carpet, not the pleated charmeuse.
Don’t worry about that. Here, I’ll just get a towel. I’m going away now, for ten minutes, to sullenly smoke a cigarette and wonder when and where my life took this turn, and if it’s too late to go back there.
I’m back! How’s it going? Any luck? She looks happy but no one else does. Does that mean . . . YES!
Your son will think it’s too plain? We could appliqué sequined red roses all over it, Mumsie, if that would make you happy. Oops, I forgot, we don’t care what you think.
I’m so glad I was able to help. Leave it for a week to be shortened. And don’t gain more than five pounds.
Thank you, Dayton, it was a great pleasure. I can’t believe she hugged me. Doesn’t anyone respect boundaries anymore?
Oh! I didn’t realize all of you needed dresses. Okay, ladies, fill out these questionnaires. Remarkable how the promise of a big commission check does wonders for a headache.
Can I get anyone another soda?
Bullet Proof
HER BROTHER, A gang outreach worker in Durham, told Lisa about the job. He said a drug interdiction unit was looking for women to work with the police to entrap drug dealers, street sellers. It sounded easy—drive around on the weekends and buy drugs—and Lisa could sure use the paycheck. Plus, she hated drug dealers. Her dead husband had been an addict and never could stay clean what with the dealers crawling over him.
She worked the drug stings in Durham for a few months, then began to get calls from drug cops in small towns all over the state. From the start, the stings felt like God’s work for her, and she was good at it. Every weekend, a new neighborhood, eight-nine junky sellers nailed. Like picking ticks off a dog. Though the next day there’d be new ticks, it was satisfying to temporarily clean up the dog, get the little buggers and flush them. The work was a welcome change from the nursing home. Not to mention, she was off her feet.
She felt uneasy leaving her children for the long weekend day, though neither Adam nor Emily seemed to care. Adam had his video games, his friends on the block, his bike for getting around. Eighteen-year-old Emily slept until noon, and then spent two hours talking on the phone, drying her hair, getting ready to go out. If Lisa asked where, Emily would shrug and smile patiently, flashing her dimples at her pathetic mom with no sex life. Someone
would pick her up, and she’d be gone until three or four in the morning. If Lisa had behaved that way, her father would have slapped her in the face and locked her in her room for a month. But Emily had no father, just a mother who loved her, would never hit her, knew she was smart and wanted something better for her. Lisa had watched in confused despair as her daughter took up with a Marine Corps private, a waiter, and, one right after another, three players on the local college’s soccer team. The soccer players were perpetually hungry, devouring scrambled egg-and-cheese burritos before thanking Lisa politely and disappearing with her daughter for the rest of the night.
When Emily’s tastes in men changed to older, married ones, Lisa didn’t know whether to feel better or not. At least a married man might have someone to turn to when Emily tired of him. The waiter had stalked her daughter for months, peering in their windows and calling so often that Lisa had to change their cell carrier, a two-hundred dollar penalty for canceling the contract.
Then Lisa heard rumors about an insurance salesman. When his wife found out he’d been sleeping with Emily, she left him, took their four kids to Florida and filed for divorce. Lisa didn’t understand how Emily could be so unaffected by the damage she caused. “What was so irresistible?” Lisa asked. “Were you in love with him?”
“God, no.” Emily was in a meditative mood, rocking on the porch, smoking a cigarette. She’d kicked off her sandals, her feet rested on the dog. “He was cute, don’t you think? But desperate.” She smiled, and Lisa felt an urge to slap that sly smirk hard, like her father would’ve done.
“Can’t you date someone single? You’re screwing up people’s lives.”
“Single guys are too easy. I like a challenge.”
What did she mean, a challenge? Like that old song, whatever Emily wants, Emily gets. Emily was rudely beautiful, with a tick-tock walk that slowed traffic. She’d wink at a man, saying “I know what you’re thinking” and she was usually right. She ignored her mother’s warnings and cautions. She was bullet proof.
LISA SOON HAD her favorite cop, Sergeant Sterling. He wasn’t good looking, with reddish thinning hair and a weak chin, but more fit than you’d expect of someone who spent all day in a patrol car. He was going to law school at night. Lisa trusted him. She wanted Emily to meet him, because she thought Emily would recognize his fine qualities. He was a man with moral strength who could lead a family, not slap them into obedience. If Emily was so determined that men were her calling, Lisa would show her a better class of man.
So, the next time Sergeant Sterling called her to work a sting he was setting up, Lisa asked him if Emily could be her partner. He asked how old Emily was, and when she told him eighteen, Sergeant Sterling hesitated only a second before saying, sure. A few weeks later, on a hot Saturday morning in May, she and Emily drove to Tyler, an hour from their home in Roanoke Rapids. Emily slept the entire way.
They met Sergeant Sterling at a church, where he would monitor them on the one-way voice link from their car. He was a serious cop, meticulous about protocol and paperwork. He called them Miss and Mrs. Castilla, and his gaze never dropped below their chins, even though anyone could see Emily’s nipples through her white tank top that said “Martini Chick” and showed a good four inches of silky flat tummy down to low-rise jeans. He gave them the plastic bags for storing the product as they received it, and reviewed how to seal and sign the bag, then bring it back to the church where he’d be waiting. He went over procedures, how they should never get out of the car. How, for each buy, one of them would be the designated buyer, and the camera should be aimed at her window, to capture the transaction.
With the policewoman acting as a dealer, they did a trial run in the church parking lot, testing the camera and the voice link. During this rehearsal, Lisa saw Emily was sulking, because no one was entranced by her tank top, and she obviously didn’t think Sergeant Sterling was cute. In Lisa’s opinion, cute and $1.39 would get you a Slurpee. She hoped Emily would change her mind once they’d made a few buys and ID’d the sellers in Sergeant Sterling’s photo albums. See that it was interesting, useful work.
Lisa pulled out of the church parking lot, turned right on Tenth Street, and slowed to a crawl. She scanned the houses as they rolled by, looking for a sign that neglect and decay weren’t the only forces at work inside the concrete block houses with their yards full of weeds and trash. By a yellow-painted door, a child in diapers scratched in the dust. He raised a stick and pointed it at them like a gun.
Although she’d never been on these streets before, Lisa knew this neighborhood—she’d grown up in one exactly like it. She knew plenty of addicts, too, and didn’t fear them. Addicts were after one thing—their next fix. They broke in and stole from your pocketbook and they sold themselves to get money to get high. If you had good strong locks on your doors and windows and didn’t carry a pocketbook they’d look for easier prey. No, she didn’t fear them. As she’d told Emily and Adam, they were a waste of skin.
Inevitable as a roach, here came the first crackhead, a white woman perhaps thirty, almost pretty, with a pixie face and clean brown hair in a ponytail. Lisa rolled down her window and asked the woman for a twenty. The woman leaned down and looked them over. Ignoring the whole business, Emily got out a cigarette.
“Sure. Circle around and come back in ten minutes,” the woman said. Not so pretty after all—some teeth were missing.
Lisa circled, down Twelfth Street, left on King, left on Tenth, slowing down as she turned onto Harrison. The camera ran all the time, aimed at Lisa’s window, filming trees and power lines and the four-way stop sign.
Emily pushed in the car lighter. It didn’t work. “Got a match?”
“No, sorry.”
Emily said she was bored, she couldn’t breathe, and rolled down her window. “Mom, you shouldn’t wear capris, with your legs.”
Long ago, Lisa had developed an immunity to her daughter’s insults. “It’s my disguise today. I’m a fat lady with no fashion sense.”
“No, I mean you look OK in jeans. But not capris.” Emily tapped the cigarette on her leg. “I need a light.”
“Maybe that woman has a lighter. They usually do.”
“How can you do this? Ride around pretending to be an addict?”
“It gets them arrested, off the street.”
“You do it for the money.”
“No, for the adventure.”
“You’re kidding. This is the most boring day of my life.”
Sergeant Sterling was listening and Lisa felt embarrassed. She touched her daughter’s arm and pointed to the camera. “Look, what we say is being recorded. It might get played back in court.” She would make a few more buys and then take Emily home.
Lisa’s phone rang. Adam. She stopped the car to take her son’s call; he wanted to ride his bike to Walmart. Answering that particular call turned out to be a mistake because while she was insisting to Adam that no, he must not under any circumstance go to Walmart, Emily opened the car door and got out. Lisa snapped her phone shut and leaned across the seat. “What are you doing?”
“I need a light.”
“We’ll get you a light. Get back in the car.”
“I can’t do this today. It’s dirty.”
The drugs were dirty, yes. Lisa carried baby-wipes to clean her hands after handling them. But that’s not what Emily meant. “What’s dirty about it?”
“You’re lying to them. It’s like cheating.”
“You’re one to talk about cheating.”
Emily slammed the car door. “OK. I’m done.”
“Get back in the car.” Without a shred of authority. Lisa knew she had lost.
“I’ll be at the church.” Emily walked away, back up Harrison toward Tenth.
Sergeant Sterling would’ve heard this exchange through the voice link, and he’d expect to see Emily in a few minutes. She decided to circle once more, complete the buy, return to the church, pick up Emily, and go home. This day was an experiment that
had failed.
The buy went smoothly, but when Lisa returned to the church, Emily wasn’t there. Sergeant Sterling took the labeled bag, made a note of its weight and the time. “I think you look pretty good in capris,” he said.
Lisa laughed, embarrassed, ashamed of Emily’s back talk, Emily’s behavior.
“Want me to help you find your daughter?” he asked.
“Gosh, no,” Lisa said. “I know where she is. Don’t want to trouble you.” He didn’t seem surprised when she said she was done for the day.
“I’ll give you a call the next time,” he said. She didn’t think he’d ask her again. The sting was ruined, she was undependable.
Lisa drove around fruitlessly for an hour, increasingly alarmed, searching for Emily but seeing only seedy men and skanky women who waved and nodded, encouraging her to stop and buy. Her gut cramped with worry. Emily’s cell phone lay on the car seat, useless.
Finally she parked where she’d last seen Emily. She hunched over her knotted stomach and waited. A young kid approached, already addict-yellow under his tattoos, sixteen going on sixty, smelling sour like vomit. He asked what she wanted and Lisa described her daughter. The kid had seen her. “Yeah, she’s with Moon,” he said.
“Moon?”
He pointed to a gray cinder block house. “I’ll show you.” Lisa got out of the car and followed.
Beer cans and shreds of Styrofoam littered the crabgrass. The two of them climbed concrete steps to a small porch, stepped over a flat of shriveled marigolds. Ignoring the doorbell in a corona of grime, the kid pushed the door open and they entered a room with three plastic chairs and a plasma TV. The carpet was black with dirt, worn away to the subfloor in places, speckled with what looked like lumps of dog shit. The kid pointed to a chair and Lisa perched gingerly on the edge. He walked part-way down a hall and yelled, “Moon! Moon!” A pacifier lay on the floor. What pathetic excuse for a mother would bring a baby here?
If Lisa had been alone, she would’ve hopped around the dried dog turds and skedaddled right out the dirty door, into her car, down the street to King Boulevard, home to Roanoke Rapids. But she couldn’t leave Emily in the company of these dopers. She decided to follow the tattooed kid down the hall. He pushed open a door. Lisa stood on tiptoe and looked over his shoulder.
Restless Dreams Page 10