by Ann Hood
“What city?”
“I don’t know,” Mackenzie said.
“Well, ma’am, neither do I.”
Jason would blame the operator’s attitude on divestiture, Mackenzie thought as she hung up the phone. He argued constantly with the telephone company, refused to pay for calling 411. “Why should I pay thirty cents to get the phone number of someone who’s just moved to town? Or for a new restaurant? There’s no other way to get those numbers.” Every month he subtracted directory assistance charges from his bill. The totals, ninety cents, $2.10, kept growing.
Mackenzie leaned against her pillow. What was she supposed to do now? Comb the city’s streets? Go to a detective? Her trip here seemed futile and for a moment she found herself wondering if her mother wanted to vanish. Mackenzie imagined a life in which her mother was just a faraway woman sending postcards.
“No,” she said out loud.
She pushed the thoughts away. Everything would work out and they would all be home together again. Her mind drifted back to Jason. Lately he had been talking about buying a co-op together in the East Village. He knew the exact one he wanted. It had white walls and hardwood floors, a fireplace that didn’t work, and a staircase that looked like it was straight from a Doris Day movie, curved and white, leading upward to a sleeping loft. “In the morning,” he had told her, “you’ll descend it like an angel.”
He had wanted her to look at it before she’d left for California.
“After this is all settled,” she’d said. “When everyone’s back home again.”
“You sound like a bad John Denver song,” he’d told her.
He’d strummed his stomach like guitar strings.
Mackenzie picked up the telephone again.
Jason’s phone rang, sounding distant and lost to her, New York seeming like another planet from here. She thought of leaving a message about that apartment. “It sounds,” she wanted to say, “like the stairway to heaven.” But she stopped herself. She couldn’t really imagine doing it yet. The thought of marrying Jason now, the two of them in that apartment hanging his Avalon Ballroom posters and setting up her darkroom, seemed wrong. A betrayal, somehow, to her family. To herself.
His recording clicked off. The tone sounded.
“Well,” she said, “we’re here.”
She tried to sound cheerful, but her voice came out hollow and sad, and she couldn’t think of anything else to say.
Outside, the moon shone white and flat against the inky blue sky. It looked, Mackenzie thought, like the round pieces left over after paper has had holes punched in it. It was as if someone had pasted one of those circles in the sky.
Jason’s answering machine buzzed once, then turned off.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“WHY ARE YOU SO jumpy about this party?” Willie said.
He lay in bed, smoking a cigarette and watching as Daisy dressed. She had put on three different outfits already, and discarded them all. She turned to him.
“I’m not jumpy,” she said.
Willie focused on the wineglass on the bureau. It had a hot pink lipstick smear on the rim. Daisy kept refilling the glass, before it even got empty.
Willie smiled and stretched. She drinks too much, dresses like she should be working 14th Street in D.C., and I’m crazy about her. His wife, Zoe, had been wild too, but in a different way. She was a painter, and she used soft pale ripples of watercolor. Zoe drank like a sailor. Gin. She’d go on binges, days of drinking and crying, acting crazy. Once she’d cut off all of her hair on one of her binges. Her hair used to be so black that it seemed like it had a bluish tint to it, like a midnight sky. Another time, she’d cut his paintings to pieces with a putty knife, giant angry slashes across the canvases.
“What are you smiling about?” Daisy said. She had on parts of different outfits. White spandex pants. An electric blue dress. A feathered headband.
“I like crazy women,” he said.
She pulled off the dress and put on a lime green tube top that shimmered like metal.
“Nice,” he said.
“I’m not crazy,” Daisy said. “I just don’t want to go to this party.”
“I thought Allison was your friend.”
“It’s going to be all these IBM types.” She rolled her eyes. “Boring.”
Willie smiled again.
He found her completely enchanting. She was strangely innocent, despite the bright pink rouge and lipstick. Zoe had had the same vulnerability streaked with toughness.
“Damn you,” Daisy said, and threw a white bodysuit spotted with makeup at him. “Quit your smiling.”
“I can’t help it,” he said. “I just realized something.”
Her back was to him now. He watched her shoulder blades rotate, slide up and around as she lifted her arms to rub mousse in her hair. The mousse, he knew, was called Pizzazz, and left gold highlights in her hair.
“What?” she said. “Did a light bulb come on over your head or something?”
“More like a bolt of lightning,” he said.
Her back twitched.
“What did that bolt of lightning tell you?” Her voice was lazy from the wine.
“It said, ‘Willie Forrester, you are in love with Daisy Bloom, the Princess of Pink.’”
Her back stiffened and she let her arms drop to her sides, leaving a mist of Stiff Stuff hairspray. Why hadn’t she told him about Sam and Alexander? she thought.
“That’s okay,” he said. “You don’t have to say ‘I love you too.’ I’ll give you twenty-four hours and then begin my persuasion tactics.”
She didn’t answer.
“I’m joking,” he said. “About the tactics.”
The muscles on her back twitched again.
“Daisy,” he said.
“I’ve tried telling you that I’m a terrible person, Willie. I tried to make you go away.”
“And I told you that you’re not a terrible person. I’ve slept around a lot myself. And I don’t sit home at night and read Great Books. Big deal.”
Her shoulder blades made half a revolution as she lifted her arms to her hair again.
“You’ll see,” she said.
“The Brie,” Brad said when they arrived at the party, “is chilled. I’m so sorry.”
His voice sounded bored. His face was pink and bland, except for his nose, which had large flaring nostrils like the openings to a cave.
“It’s my fault,” Allison said. “I thought cheese should be cold. You know.”
“Yes,” Brad said, staring down at her. “Like Kraft’s Singles.”
Willie and Daisy smiled nervously.
“That’s a good one,” Willie said.
Allison laughed, too late and too loud.
She wore a black and white plaid dress with huge shoulder pads that shifted independently of the rest of her skinny body.
“Where did you get that dress?” Daisy whispered as they followed Brad into the dining room where a bar had been set up.
“It’s a Norma Kamali,” Allison said.
Daisy stumbled slightly, grabbed Allison’s shoulder to steady herself. It felt, she thought, like a bag of marshmallows.
“Daisy, are you drunk?” Allison’s eyes opened wide under her slate gray eye makeup.
“I’m in trouble,” Daisy mumbled.
“What?”
But they were at the table now. It was lined with every type of liquor and mixer. Crystal bowls held twists of lemon, green olives, wedges of limes, cherries.
Two men drinking martinis stood in front of the bar. One of them had curly blonde hair, the color of Alexander’s. He whistled as Daisy walked past him. She smiled, a slow deliberate smile that a man had once called delicious.
“I’ll have whatever you’re drinking,” she said to him.
The other man was small and round, like a Weebel. He kept reaching into the bowl of olives and popping them into his mouth.
“We’re having martinis,” the round man said.
Daisy watched as Willie went back into the living room with Brad. She thought of the way he’d looked, his reflection in the mirror when he’d told her he loved her. Well, Daisy said to herself, you’ve really screwed this one up royally.
To the blonde man who was holding a martini out to her she said, “Haven’t I seen you around IBM?”
“You’re with them too?” he said. “I can’t believe I’ve never seen you.”
The round man frowned. “Are you a secretary?”
“No, darling,” Daisy said. “I’m in sales.”
“Name’s Warren Metz,” the blonde man said.
“Daisy.” She gulped at her drink.
“Whoa, there,” Warren said, laughing.
Daisy felt right then as if she were back at the Country Western Playhouse, having a stranger buy her a drink and Allison working on someone else at the bar. She could almost smell the beer and tobacco there. Those men used to make her feel better for a night, make her forget. With them, she’d felt like maybe she wasn’t such a bad person after all. A chill came over her. She thought of all those mornings, or late nights, when those men left her alone in bed. She remembered how she’d felt then. Sometimes she’d hear Sam in the hall, and though she never went to see, she always imagined he was standing, sleepy and silent, watching the men leave.
Daisy closed her eyes for an instant and tried to imagine this blonde man—Winston?—doing the two-step with her, pressing her close.
When she opened her eyes, he was standing there in his gray pinstripe suit, his face as pale and bland as Brad’s. His friend munched olives.
Daisy laughed.
“I bet you’ve never done the two-step in your life,” she said.
“That’s a good one,” the friend said. “Two-step.”
Allison came in the room and grabbed Daisy by the elbow.
“Come on,” she said.
“Hey,” Warren said, “I’ll keep your spot warm.”
Allison brought her into the bathroom and closed the door.
“I’m about to have a nervous breakdown,” she said.
“Cold Brie,” Daisy said. Her mouth felt numb. She leaned her head against the cold porcelain of the sink. “I’m drunk,” she said. “Absolutely.”
“It’s not just the cheese,” Allison said. “It’s everything. I don’t have the right music. I bought paper plates. Cute ones, I thought. With little snowmen. But Brad said they’re tacky. He told me it’s a good thing I’m so kooky. He loves women who can make him laugh.”
“He’s a horse’s ass,” Daisy said.
“No, he’s not. Don’t say that.”
Daisy lifted her head. The shower curtain, a clear plastic one with penguins on it, seemed to jump at her.
“Fine,” she said.
Allison opened the cabinet under the sink and took out the wooden box that used to sit on her coffee table. She lifted the lid and took out a joint.
“I’m about to have a nervous breakdown,” she said again.
She lit the joint and sucked on it, then handed it to Daisy.
“Let’s leave here,” Daisy said. “Let’s go to the Country Western Playhouse and pick up some real men. Everyone here looks like a dead fish.”
“Count me out,” Allison said. “I have struck gold with Brad. I want to be an IBM wife. Move to Maclean or Reston, to a big brick house with pillars in front.” She moved her hands gently, like waves. “Maybe I’ll even be able to get custody of Brandy.”
Daisy inhaled on the joint again. She felt a buzz click on deep inside her head.
“I’ve been there,” she said. “It’s not worth it.”
Someone knocked on the bathroom door.
“Excuse me,” a woman’s voice said, “but I’ve been waiting for quite some time.”
Allison put the last of the joint back in the box, then hid the box in the cabinet again.
The woman waiting had her hair in a perfect French braid, with a red velvet bow. A Christmas tree pin on her blazer lapel blinked on and off.
“It’s battery operated,” she said.
Daisy and Allison laughed. They leaned against the wall and roared.
“Mommy,” Brandy said from her room, “what’s funny?”
“Oops,” Allison said, and went down the hall to her.
Daisy poked her head in the living room.
“Face it,” she heard Willie say, “the Giants’ defense is unbeatable.”
He saw her there and winked.
Daisy felt an ache in her chest. Why hadn’t she just told him from the start? Now she was a liar on top of everything else. “I need a drink,” she said out loud.
“Well, there you are,” Warren said.
The bowl of olives was empty and his friend had started on the cherries.
“You know,” the friend said, “I just can’t place you in sales. You under Sullivan?”
“Sullivan,” she said. “Right.”
“So you’re on the tenth floor.”
Daisy poured herself some vodka. She filled the glass to the top, and when she lifted it, it sloshed everywhere, down her pants and shirt, onto the floor.
“You look drunk,” the fat friend said.
Behind them, the woman with the blinking Christmas tree was talking to Brad.
“It’s the wrong data base,” she said. “Regardless.”
“And you,” Daisy said, trying to keep her hand steady, “look like a Weebel.” But her words slurred so that it sounded like she said, “You look real blue.”
“Well, I’m not,” he said. “Not at all.”
“I need some air,” Daisy said.
She went out the kitchen door and leaned against the building. Her head was spinning. She tried to organize her thoughts. But all she could come up with was that Willie was going to leave her. Across the courtyard, someone was having a party too. She watched as the guests lifted their glasses in a toast.
Warren’s face, blurred, appeared in front of her.
“How about if I take you home?” he said.
Daisy thought about this. She imagined again that she was in a bar. Warren could take her home and they would get in bed and she’d let him release her from herself. She thought of all those times, the men above her, faceless, freeing her.
“Let me convince you,” he said.
She wanted to tell him that wasn’t necessary. Hadn’t he bought her a drink? Hadn’t they danced the two-step?
But he was already kissing her. His kisses were wet like a puppy’s, and sour from gin. She let her mouth open, lazily, drunkenly. The pain was subsiding. The hell with Willie, she thought. The hell with Alexander.
Far away, a door slammed.
“What are you doing?” Willie said.
He grabbed Warren by the shoulders and pushed him away.
“I’m just—” Warren said.
“Not you,” Willie said.
He faced Daisy.
“You,” he said. “What are you doing?”
“Gee,” Warren said, “I’m sorry.”
Willie waved him away.
“Answer me,” he said.
Daisy slid to the ground, felt the cold ground through her pants, the wetness of ice.
“Add liar to the list,” she said.
As soon as she’d heard Willie’s voice she had started to cry. She tried to wipe her face, but the tears fell too fast.
“What list?” he said.
She shrugged. “You know.”
“There is no list.”
He sat on the ground beside her.
“I’ve got a kid,” she said. “I was married and I have a six-year-old son. The works. I screwed that all up too.”
“You’re divorced.”
“I would have been but he went and got himself killed.”
Her crying overtook her now. She had been trying, she realized, to get back at Alexander ever since that day he drove off and left her behind. She had done exactly what he and all the Porters had expected of her all along. And t
hen he had died, and she had been haunted by him, as if the hold he’d had on her was stronger from the grave. It was as if she really expected him to be watching, to know. Suddenly, sitting here on the cold ground, Daisy realized that she’d never see him again. Never. There was no hold on her. She was, despite her loss and sadness, free.
“You know,” she said, “I didn’t screw it up. We were all wrong for each other, Alexander and me. I loved him for all the wrong reasons.”
Willie put his arm around her.
“Is that locked room your son’s?” he said.
She nodded.
“Is he in there?” Willie laughed.
She saw hurt in his eyes and had to look away.
“He’s with his aunt. But he’ll be back soon.”
It took all of her energy to face him again.
“Do you want to leave?” she said.
“No,” he said. “I want to stay.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
THE SUN WAS WARM on her face. Cal opened her eyes and looked around, confused, sad. Her hand reached instinctively for Jams.
“Jams,” she said softly.
She had expected to find herself beside him in their four-poster bed, the posts reaching upward like spires on a minaret. She had expected to look down and see the pale green and salmon pattern of the rug that had sat beside their bed for years. Raised flowers, one small bird in cornflower blue atop one of them.
She touched the unfamiliar wall beside her. Someone had stuck stars on it, metallic green and blue and red ones, the type schoolchildren got on their papers. Cal thought she could pick out Orion’s belt, the arrow in Sagittarius. But that was all.
The windows were curtainless, the room empty except for the twin bed she’d slept on and bookshelves made of bricks and boards. The night before she had read the titles of the few books left behind. Developmental Psychology. Abnormal Behavior. Walden Two. She had studied a photograph that leaned against the books. In it, a young man with a flowing, beard played a guitar while sitting cross-legged on the bed in this very room, the stars behind him.
Cal’s hand trembled slightly as she pushed her hair from her face. She tried to imagine her ride to Point Reyes. She had called ahead and reserved a cabin. Her two days there, she thought, would give her strength. There would be whales in the distance, swimming off the coast. And cranes on the sand with her. She would have picnics on the beach, and collect shells and driftwood, the way she had when she was a child. If she found a sand dollar, she would paint it with colored chalk, the way she and Hope used to. Bright pink and turquoise.