by Marta Acosta
We brought out the food and opened bottles of pinot noir. It was like those evenings we’d had often when Sam and his family lived here, when Oswald and I stayed in the Love Shack, before Edna began going away for weeks at a time with Thomas.
After dinner, Thomas went back to the Love Shack to study a script. The actor had his own misunderstood genetic disorder and wasn’t interested in what he saw as our boring perversion.
The rest of us walked to the large brown barn.
Since Oswald had been spending more time working, his dogs usually stayed with Ernesto, the ranch hand, at his one bedroom apartment at the front of the barn. The dogs heard us approaching and ran out to greet us.
I pushed back an ache of sadness and entered the dark, shadowy barn. One of the cats glided behind bales of alfalfa, hunting for mice. The barn had a rich, wonderful smell, and I could hear the animals moving about in the stalls.
Light came from under the closed door of a stall on the right. Oswald opened the door and said, “Evening, Ernie.”
We followed him into the stall, which had been converted to a cozy den. Leather club chairs were set on a worn Persian carpet, and copper-and-mica sconces cast a warm golden light.
“Hey, Oz,” Ernesto said. The compact muscled man had set everything up for our evening tasting. A bottle of dark liquid was on the sideboard as well as bottles of mineral water and wineglasses. “I got something different today. Emu.”
“Emu?” Sam said.
“Tastes like chicken,” Ernie responded and laughed. He poured a few tablespoons of purple-red blood into each glass and topped them off with mineral water. “I just got this sample. But if you like it, there’s two birds for sale cheap.”
I dropped into a chair and took a sip from the glass Ernie passed to me. After a moment of swishing it around in my mouth, I said, “It’s not bad. A little too…uhm…”
“Floral,” Edna provided.
“Yeah, well, the reason they’re for sale is they got loose and ate someone’s flower garden,” Ernie said.
I was only half listening. The blood bloomed inside me, warm and invigorating. I gazed at Oswald and wondered how quickly I could get him into the bedroom. He caught my glance and gave me a crooked smile that cheered my heart.
Sam asked, “Young Lady, what are you going to do on the free day of your trip?”
“My friend from college, Toodles, is going to give me the insider’s tour,” I said excitedly. “She’s been asking me to visit for ages.”
“Toodles,” Edna sniffed. “Who is this person, and do I want to know how she acquired such an unfortunate sobriquet?”
“I’m so glad you asked,” I said. “Toodles lived next door to me sophomore year and we took ‘Po-Mo Lit: Angst, Anguish, and Alienation’ together.” My education at a Fancy University (F.U.) had offered me many intellectually stimulating courses.
“I’m already captivated,” Edna said.
“Of course you are. Toodles’s real name is Kathleen Meriwether Hippensteele, but she smuggled her teacup poodles into the dorm and this nasty R.A. ratted her out. The headline in the campus paper was Toodles, Poodles. She has a tendency to use words with ‘oo’ sounds, and that cemented her nickname.”
Edna said, “I shall never get those thirty seconds back.”
“Just for that, I’m not bringing you back a snow globe diorama.”
Edna rolled her eyes dramatically. She had a large and impressive repertoire of expressions, but she always returned to the classics. She said, “By the way, your future mother-in-law sent me her suggestions for your wedding registry.”
Surprised, Oswald said, “Why did Mom send it to you?”
“She seemed to think I might exert some influence over the Young Lady.” Edna slid her eyes toward me conspiratorially.
“Grandmama, you know Mom just wants to help.”
“I don’t think we’ll need her suggestions,” I said to Edna.
“Are you sure?” she answered. “No doubt her suggestions reflect the very pinnacle of suburban country club chic-mallard motifs and ‘deluxe’ bed-in-a-bag sets.”
“Grandmama!” Oswald said. Then he smiled. “Okay, she did have a family tartan and crest designed for the den.”
Gabriel said, “Big deal. My mom made me dress to coordinate with the wallpaper. And she wonders why I’m gay.”
“You’re only gay so you don’t have to deal with women,” Oswald said. “Coward.”
“Speaking of women, I’ve got to get home to mine,” Sam said, referring to his wife and daughter. “It’s a long drive.”
We all walked to the house. The stars had come out and shone in the blue-black sky. Sam said good-bye to us at the car park and wished me luck with the Council.
Edna went back to her addled paramour in the Love Shack and Gabriel adjourned to the family room to watch television.
Oswald and I walked through the large house, holding hands. He’d had a designer decorate it, and other than the kitchen and a small parlor, it was done in neutral colors and earth tones. We went up the staircase with its black wrought iron railing.
The master bedroom hadn’t changed much since I’d moved in. It had hardwood floors, beamed ceilings, ivory walls, and Mission-style furniture. However, my necessities (books, makeup, baubles) cluttered surfaces. I spotted my yellow diamond engagement ring sparkling on the dresser. It was beautiful, but I felt odd wearing something so expensive in my daily life.
“Are you all packed?” Oswald asked.
“Almost everything. I wish you were coming.”
He pulled me close to him. “Me, too. I’ll take you somewhere wonderful when I can spare a few days.”
I nuzzled his neck. “Good. At least we’ll have tomorrow together.”
He was unbuttoning my blouse when his cell phone rang. Glancing at the incoming number, he said, “It’s my service. Sorry.” They called only for urgent situations, so he had to take the call. When he hung up, he said, “It doesn’t sound serious, but I’m going to check in with a patient. I’ll just be a minute.” He was still on the phone by the time I crawled in bed and fell asleep.
two
nice to gnome you
W e got up early the next morning. Oswald went to the barn to talk to Ernie about ranch business, and I pulled on jeans and a T-shirt and went outside. The morning fog draped gracefully across the mountains, and the pale blue sky would shade to clear beryl by noon.
I cut a bouquet of pink-tinged, creamy heirloom roses, rosemary, and tulips and put them into a jar of water. Then I walked along the path that had been cut through the field, passing the compound that enclosed the swimming pool and walking beside the rippling creek all the way to the pond.
My dog, Daisy, had loved to swim in this pond and chase the frogs and birds. When I first came to the ranch, sick and angry and scared, the fluffy mutt had attached herself to me.
My mother Regina had never let me have pets, so having a dog was a new and wonderful experience. Loving her was so easy. When I found the lump on Daisy’s shoulder, cancer had already spread through her body.
Oswald and Ernie had buried her here and placed a boulder to mark her final resting place. Since she had died, I felt a hardness in the center of my chest, as if my feelings had collapsed into one small, dense place, a black hole of grief.
I replaced the wilted flowers on her grave with the new bouquet. “I miss you, Daisy. I miss you all the time.” I blinked away my tears and returned to the house.
After showering, I dressed in a snug 1960s camel knit suit with suede panels. Vintage pointy black patent heels and topaz rhinestone earrings and a broach completed my look. I was slipping on my engagement ring when Oswald came in the room.
“Have I seen that outfit before?” he asked. He was wearing a dark blue suit and a pale blue shirt.
“No, it’s new. New to me, I mean.” I posed in front of him, stretching my arms to show the wonderful three-quarter-length sleeves. “I found it at the thrift store for only ten dol
lars and it fits perfectly.”
“I’ll say. It’s hugging your curves as tight as a long-lost friend.”
“I’m glad you like it.”
“Is your bag packed?”
“Right here.” I zipped the green zebra-print rolling case.
Oswald looked at it for a moment and then said, “You won’t have any problem spotting that on the luggage carousel.”
“That’s why I bought it!” I said.
As he was taking our cases to the car, I packed my makeup and toiletries in a shoulder bag. At the last minute I went downstairs to a small parlor that served as my reading room. Hidden in the closet were presents from Ian Ducharme. I shouldn’t have kept them, but he had such wonderful taste and I didn’t know how to return them.
I pulled out a box with an unusual and beautiful ring, a red stone set in a gold band inscribed with symbols. I put the ring in my makeup case and went outside to Oswald’s luxury sedan, which was parked beside my little green pickup.
“Let me drive,” I said to Oswald and held out my hand for the keys.
“You drive yours and I’ll drive mine. Besides, you speed.”
It was difficult not to speed, since the limit seemed so slow to me. I got in the passenger seat.
Daffodils bloomed under the grand old English walnut trees that lined the drive. The electronic gate at the edge of the property swung open as we left Casa Dracula. Soon we were on the highway heading over the mountain. The winding road was shadowed by a thick growth of live oaks, pines, and manzanita. In places, the sheared red wall of earth seemed to lean over the road, and in others, the land dropped off into darkness.
Then the road opened up to the breathtaking view on the other side of the mountain. Below were green vineyards, stretching for miles, and a few of the original vintners’ houses, white Victorians with mature palms out front.
I tensed as we entered the extremely expensive little town where Oswald had his offices, hoping that he wouldn’t want to stop. But he drove right through to our favorite cafй-deli, where we bought lattes and cranberry scones for breakfast. Oswald also picked up some thick, old-fashioned red licorice ropes.
We reached the City an hour later. When I saw the skyscrapers, the hills, and the green-gray bay, I felt a thrill. We drove to Hotel Croft, and Oswald left his car with the valet. The concierge assured us that our bags would be taken to our suite as soon as it was ready.
Then we walked down the street to the Grant family’s favorite department store. The doorman was just unlocking the front door and the gift registry coordinator was waiting for us. She smiled and called Oswald “Dr. Grant” and me “Miss De Los Santos” as she guided us through the store. The store smelled the way expensive places do, like new, freshly cut grass, clean laundry, and inherited money.
Everything had the drenched color of a Polaroid photo, which increased my sense of unreality. Here I was in the City’s oldest, most exclusive department store. The fabulous man beside me was my fiancй. When I glanced at myself in one of the walls of beveled mirrors, I saw a voluptuous and splendidly attired young woman who looked as if she’d stepped (in her pointy heels) out of a classic Luis Buсuel film.
I’d been here only once before, on one of the many occasions when I was broke and job hunting. I was sent into the basement to meet with a manager. There, among the crates and cardboard boxes, I’d been given a test on the care of silver. I was used to scoring well on tests. But the questions had baffled me. What was the correct temperature of water to rinse the dust from silver? Should silver be stored in linen, cotton, or flannel? The manager had said he was sorry, but there was no place for me at their establishment. What future was there for a girl who didn’t know how to polish a soup ladle?
Now I had an off-balance, giddy sensation that I was about to break something very expensive. The rack of glittering crystal looked too precariously balanced, and I imagined skittering on the marble tiles, a shimmering shower of glass, and a gorgeous cacophony as everything crashed. Many decorative objects brought to mind fun words like “knickknacks,” “bric-a-brac,” “tchotchkes,” and “doodads.” Other items were tragically plain.
I dubbed the gift registry coordinator Mrs. Nice because she said “nice” incessantly. She now led us by a case with tiny little chairs made of gold and jewels.
“Furniture for posh elves,” I said. All the price tags were turned discreetly away, and I flipped over the tag for a miniature ottoman. “Que rico.”
Oswald turned and focused his clear gray eyes on mine. “What?” I asked.
“You’ve got that crazy expression. What are you thinking?” His brown hair was brushed back from his brainy brow.
I was thinking that I wanted to haul him to the linen section and have my way with him on the six-hundred-thread-count sheets exquisitely hand embroidered by Belgian nuns and orphans. “You shall learn later in tantalizing detail.”
Mrs. Nice may have been listening, because I thought I saw her move her head just a smidgen, like a cat pretending it doesn’t recognize its name. She had rimless glasses on a silver chain and looked like the librarian in my dream of heaven, where all books were shelved properly and there were no late fines.
She turned right at the narrow escalators and stopped at a display of china. “Would Miss De Los Santos like to select an everyday pattern?” The eyes behind her silver-rimmed glasses held a look of panic. Perhaps she was new at her job.
There were about ten different white plates, one hardly distinguishable from the next. But then my eyes were drawn to a cabinet that held a glossy red plate with a leopard-print rim in black and gold. “May I see that pattern?” I asked Mrs. Nice.
“Umm, Milagro, that isn’t really…,” Oswald began, causing Mrs. Nice to hesitate.
“But it’s so fun.” I turned to Mrs. Nice and asked, “Isn’t it fun?”
She glanced at Oswald and then said softly, “Very fun, yes, although a classic pattern might serve better for a variety of occasions.”
“But everyone loves leopard prints,” I said. “And red is a classic, too, like red lipstick.”
“How about this one?” Oswald asked as he pointed to a white plate with a scrolled rim.
“It’s nice, but it’s not very fun,” I observed.
“It’s very nice,” Oswald said.
“Yes, very nice,” I relented. After saying “nice” all morning, the word began to sound strange to my ears. If “mice” was the plural of “mouse,” perhaps “nice” was the plural of “noose.” My old clubbing friends couldn’t afford this store and had already sent me a fascinating catalog from the Womyn’s Sexual Health Collective and Bookstore. I said to Mrs. Nice, “This registry is mostly for the Grant family, so I guess you can list the white pattern.”
She heard the disappointment in my voice and said, “May I make a suggestion? Why not select the, ah, fun pattern as a tea service for special occasions?”
“That is an excellent idea!” I said. I could paint my nails exactly the same shade as the plates and have my friends to tea.
She and Oswald both smiled. Everyone was happy.
I lost interest in the store when I found they didn’t even sell blenders. Thirty minutes later, we were registered for classic linens, classic dishes, classic towels, and other classic house-wares. We said good-bye to Mrs. Nice, and Oswald took my hand.
As we went through the porcelain area, I saw a table with figurines of dogs, and I stopped. There was a minute German shepherd, a corgi, a pug, a collie, and a golden retriever. None of them was as beautiful as Daisy had been.
“Baby, come on,” Oswald said softly and led me outside.
I focused on the specks of mica glinting in the dark pavement. “I’m okay.” I smiled to prove that I was fine.
“Are you really okay?” He tried to comfort me, kissing my temple and rubbing my back, but my grief was my own.
“Oswald, I’m always okay. I’m famous for being okay.”
“After the wedding, we’ll get a d
og for you. Not to replace Daisy, because I know you can’t replace her, but…”
I nodded. “You’ll be late for your consultations.”
He smiled and said, “Good luck with the interview.”
“Thanks. Good luck with the boobs.”
“Today it’s noses and chins. See you soon.” He popped on a pair of sunglasses and walked off.
I watched him until he turned the corner. It was easier for me here than at the ranch, because I didn’t expect to see Daisy here. Besides, I loved city living. Plays, movies, museums, bookstores, and live music were all close by. New bars and clubs had opened, and my friend Mercedes’s club, My Dive, was five minutes away. As I walked down the street, I enjoyed studying the other women, dressed in the casual-eccentric-chic style that was common here. Best of all, there was an ethnic and racial mix that I missed back at the ranch.
Influenced by Mrs. Nice’s refined taste, I walked into a boutique and came out ten minutes later carrying a shopping bag. Inside was a white plastic miniskirt that had been on the clearance rack. When I’d tried it on it had been a little snug over my hips, but white plastic clothing was so mod London in the sixties, so classic. Like my dinnerware, it would go with anything.
I hailed a cab and told the driver to take me to the botanical gardens. During the drive, I contemplated my writing career. While I wanted success, I had to stay true to my artistic vision. Someday people would proudly display my cannibal zombie and monster novels on their bookshelves. In the meantime, I planned to take whatever paying writing assignments I could find. Pedro Nascimento, the man whose advertisement I’d answered, had said he needed someone interested in folklore and horticulture to help him write his memoirs.
A tiny wrinkled man in a white suit, white shirt, black-and-white patterned ascot, and a panama hat was standing at the entrance to the botanical gardens as my cab arrived. An old tooled-leather bag, darkened with wear at the edges, hung from a strap over his shoulder. I paid the cabbie and got out.