It seemed almost too easy, he thinks.
It’s destiny. It has to be.
FIVE
Dignon moves quickly down the front steps of his building, the wrapped present under one arm and Bree Harper’s book beneath the other. A chilly breeze blows in off the ocean. The weather reports called for the possibility of more snow this evening. The last batch of late-night flurries left no accumulation, but meteorologists believe this next front will be more substantial. He gazes out at the giant stacks coughing smoke along the horizon. They never stop, day or night, continually blanketing the skyline like everlasting storm clouds. Someone should do something about that, he thinks.
As he crosses toward the street, Dignon notices a small bloodstain along the sidewalk near the curb, a slashing smear of it where Nikki fell earlier. He looks back at her apartment as if expecting to find her there in her big boots offering an “I’m OK” wave. Instead, in the front window of his own building, Mrs. Rogo’s Christmas tree suddenly comes to life, distracting him. It’s still a bit early for lights, it won’t be dark for another hour, but Mrs. Rogo more than likely has another elaborate meal planned and will be tied up in her kitchen preparing it until long after nightfall.
After a brisk walk of perhaps fifteen minutes, Dignon reaches Wilma’s neighborhood. Predominantly commercially-zoned, it is a four-block area literally on the outskirts of town, the last section of city before forest, and eventually, state highway takes over. This has not happened by accident, but is rather a carefully calculated and long executed move by the powers that be to keep the kinds of things offered in this area in a single, segregated district. There is a change that occurs when one crosses from other neighborhoods to this one, a shifting of sight and sound and even smell. The buildings and streets are not quite as well-kept or well-lit, yet things are considerably more vivid here than in the rest of this otherwise bland and unimaginative little city. Still, many people avoid this section of town, some even fear it. Dignon, however, doesn’t feel uneasy here at all. Not because he frequents any of the clubs or shops, but because Wilma has lived here for eons and is known in the neighborhood. By extension, most regulars of these streets know who Dignon is as well, or at a minimum knows his connection to Wilma.
Her apartment is above a pool hall in a building sandwiched between a strip club and a small art-house movie theater. The drag bar where Wilma works as a waitress and part-time performer is a few blocks down, near the end of an alley. There are usually a lot more people on the street, but it’s still early and the cold is probably keeping many away or indoors. Most of the neon lights and flamboyant signage has not yet been activated, which gives the neighborhood a peculiar look reminiscent of a carnival sleeping in daylight.
The smell of pizza from a parlor across the street drifts through the air.
His stomach rumbles, he hasn’t eaten in some time, but music thumping from inside the strip club draws his attention from the aroma. A young white guy with dreadlocks hangs near the door, arms folded across his chest. He smiles at Dignon conspiratorially. “It’s cold outside but it’s nice and warm inside. Can you dig it?”
“No,” he says without slowing his stride. Where do they find these fucking people? He ducks into the doorway leading to Wilma’s second-floor apartment, and quickly climbs the long staircase. The space is cramped and dark, like a tomb. It’s always made him uncomfortable, the walls and ceiling so close, battered with nicks and abrasions scarring the dark wood. It reminds him of a motorcycle show his father took him and Willie to when they were children. One of the attractions was a giant wooden barrel-like contraption with open steel stairs that led to a matching balcony surrounding the top lip of the structure. Beyond the railing, patrons could look down inside the barrel and see three motorcycle stunt riders literally riding around inside the walls, defying gravity with speed and often coming within inches of one another during their performance. Mesmerized, Dignon watched with mouth agape. At seven, it was to that point in his life the most amazing thing he’d ever witnessed. When the show was over, the main rider, a scruffy man decked out in leathers like his partners, held his helmet up and explained that much of their income was derived through donations. He asked those who had just seen the show to toss money down into the barrel, and as part of his appeal, asked everyone to notice the countless scrapes and nicks in the wood all around him. As he pointed out many of them, he explained each of those notches signified a false move by riders over the years. Each gash was a reminder of a maimed or even killed rider. That’s how dangerous this work was, he told them, and much of the donated monies would go to those fallen “heroic” riders and their families. Dignon remembers staring down at the marred wood and wondering who these people were who had died or been horribly crippled inside this contraption. He and Willie both threw a quarter down, aiming for the man’s helmet. His last memory was of that man catching coins in his helmet and thanking everyone while reminding them the next show would take place just ten minutes from then.
As Dignon climbs the stairs he takes in the various gashes in the wood around him, curious as to what they might be reminders of.
After three locks disengage, Wilma swings open the door and lets Dignon in. “Hey, love. Don’t you look dapper?” She puts a hand to her face as he passes. “And someone smells positively scrumptious.”
Since the other day, Wilma has put up a tall Christmas tree in the corner. It is not yet decorated, but a few boxes of previously stored decorations are stacked neatly near the base.
Dressed in an imitation silk robe and furry slippers with three-inch heels, Willie closes the door and saunters in after him. Her makeup is only partially done, but her wig for the evening, a short red model, has already been fitted and styled. “Just got the tree this morning, isn’t it fabulous? Dominic over at the pizza place helped me pick it out before he opened. He carried it up here all by himself, poor baby. Thank God for chiseled Italians. Of course when the girls heard I was going tree shopping with Dominic they all rolled their sloppy asses out of bed and joined the festivities. You should’ve seen it, a bunch of bleary-eyed queens gathered around sipping coffee and drooling while poor Dominic hustled that tree up the stairs. Barry was supposed to come with us but he was called away on business. What else is new, right?” She looks to the tree and smiles. “Isn’t it gorgeous? Kind of nice after all those years of Charlie Brown trees I’ve had, no? A bunch of the girls are coming over tonight after work, we’re going to get hideously drunk and decorate it. You should come.”
“I will if I can.” Dignon holds out the package. “I can’t stay long, just wanted to drop this off for you.”
Momentarily speechless, she takes the box from his hands. “You didn’t have to worry about getting me a Christmas present, Dig. I know things are hard right now.”
He shrugs. “It’s just a little something I thought you’d like.”
“Of course I’ll like it. I’ll love it. What is it? Can I open it now?”
“No.”
“Do you honestly expect me to wait until Christmas morning?”
“Yes.”
“How unspeakably cruel, I hate you.”
Dignon laughs, goes to a chair near her dressing table and sits down.
She follows him, leans in and kisses the top of his head. “Thank you, Dig.”
“Merry Christmas.”
Wilma carries the present to a table by the tree and sets it down. “So are you going to tell me why you’re all dressed up and wearing cologne?”
“I’m not dressed up.”
“Honey, I haven’t seen you in anything but jeans, sweatshirts and sneakers in more than a year. For you, this is opera gear, OK?”
Dignon looks self-consciously at the khaki pants, loafers, pullover sweater and pea coat he’s wearing. “I have to meet somebody later and I wanted to look—I don’t know—I guess I wanted to look…you know…nice.”
She stops and cocks her head. “Oh my God, do you—say it isn’t so—Dignon, do y
ou have a date?”
He shakes his head. “Don’t start, OK? It’s not a date, exactly.”
“Well what exactly is it then?”
“I have to return a book to someone.” He holds it up as evidence.
Wilma licks her lips. “Who is she? Tell me all about it.”
“Nothing, it’s—”
“Details, damn it, I need details.” She scampers into the chair at her dressing table, crosses her legs and drops her hands into her lap. “Tell me everything.”
“Willie, there’s nothing to tell.”
She frowns. “Never leave your sister twisting in the wind, love.”
“It’s just a woman I met,” he says, trying to find some version of things that will satisfy her and allow them to talk about something else. “I have this book and it belongs to her and I’m meeting her at a coffee shop downtown so I can return it. That’s all.”
“That’s more than enough if you play your cards right, baby.” She laughs, swings back toward the mirror over her dressing table and the huge Marlene Dietrich poster on the wall behind it. After selecting a brush she begins to apply a maroon lipstick. With her free hand she hits the remote for her stereo and fills the apartment with Gloria Gaynor. “So, who is she?” she says over the blasting music. “Where does she come from? Who does she hope to be? When do I get to meet her?”
Dignon gets up, goes to the bathroom and closes the door behind him.
“Dig, I was only playing, for fuck’s sake!”
He leans back against the door and draws a deep breath. The room is small, and the lone window faces the brick side of the building next door and provides a blurred view of an alley through the mottled glass. On the wall is a little framed photograph of his brother from long ago. It is the only evidence in Wilma’s entire apartment that William once existed. In the photograph he is no more than ten or eleven, his hair a mop of full brown locks, his eyes big and bright. He seems so impossibly small and young, such a delicate and handsome boy. Dignon can barely remember this version of Wilma, but the longer he looks into his eyes, the clearer the memories become. Willie holds a plastic kickball, and sitting next to him is Homer, the cat they had as children. Behind them is a glimpse of shrubbery and the house they grew up in. This photograph has been in Wilma’s bathroom for years, it’s been there all along, Dignon has just never taken particular notice of it. Now he cannot stop noticing it. Willie seems unusually happy in the photograph, but Dignon doesn’t remember being present when this picture was taken, and can only assume it was their father who took it, though that seems an unlikely thing for him to have done.
Dignon reaches out, touches the past.
The glass is cool, lifeless as the little boy behind it. This child is long dead. But his was a griefless death in many ways, as he’d really been Dignon’s sister all along. William simply did not survive their childhood. Wilma did. His brother reinvented and reborn as his sister, she has been alive now for so long it’s difficult to remember her any other way. Still, this is who she is, who she always was, really, deep in her soul. No amount of pain was able to destroy that, and the intrinsic beauty of this leaves Dignon weak and reeling. He’s suddenly teetering between all out panic and an odd sort of acceptance that nothing can save him from the overwhelming emotion pinning him down and strangling him, crushing him into oblivion, dust.
Daddy, don’t. Please, Daddy, don’t.
He snatches his hand away and falls against the wall. Screams tear through his head. All those years ago, could the Banshees have been warning him even then, gathered outside that dreary old house?
Dignon goes to the sink, runs the water a moment and splashes a bit on his face. It sobers him, brings him back. He flushes the toilet purely for effect then ventures back out into the apartment.
Wilma is there to greet him in a tight, black, sleeveless dress. “Shirley MacLaine,” she says, striking a seductive pose. “Sweet Charity. What do you think? Did I nail it or did I nail it?”
He nods. “You nailed it. You look good.”
“Good as in…”
“Good as in beautiful.”
She smiles coyly. “I was only teasing before. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“What about me, Willie? How do I look?”
She pads over to him in stocking feet and gives him a pseudo hug so as not to muss her hair, dress or makeup. “Adorable.”
“No, seriously, do I look all right?”
“Yes!” She waves her hands around dramatically. “You look stellar, all right? Honey, you’re a good-looking man, you just don’t realize it. You’ve also got a very sensitive soul. Women love that in a man, trust me.”
A spiteful laugh escapes him. “Yeah, all the chicks dig me. If my balding head and beer gut doesn’t get them I’ve still got my man-tits and fat ass to dazzle them with. And if that doesn’t do it I can always fall back on my sensitivity.”
“Why do you insist on degrading yourself like that?”
“It’s what I know.”
“You’re just afraid.” She moves away, back toward the dressing table. “You’re the same frightened little boy you were when we were children.”
“We were never children.”
“Yes we were.” Snatching up the remote, she silences the stereo. She notices his bandaged finger but looks away. “Once,” she says, quietly now, “for a little while.”
“I don’t remember.”
“Do you know why?”
“Do you?”
She answers by squeezing shut her eyes. “Stop, OK? Just…stop.”
Dignon bows his head, ashamed at having hurt her. Again. “I’m sorry.”
Recharged by his apology, Wilma puts the remote aside and goes to her closet for a pair of shoes. He envies her resiliency, her ability to flip a switch and wrap herself in a protective cloak that at once shuts out the darkness. “OK, this is what I know,” Wilma says. “You never got over Lisa. You haven’t even tried since then, not really, and that was twenty goddamn years ago, which for some, is a lifetime.” She finds a pair of black pumps and turns back to him, the heels dangling from her fingers. “You’ve never loved anyone but her. You’ve never allowed yourself to. You shut down because the first serious relationship you ever had—in your late teens and early twenties no less—didn’t work out. Well, welcome to the dance, Cha Cha, most romances don’t last, especially first ones. Most chew us up, spit us out and rip our hearts apart. They make us old before our time, OK? But what else is there? What is there besides love, instead of love? It’s all we’ve got, sweetheart. It’s all there is.”
“You’re wrong,” Dignon tells her, voice shaking. “I’ve loved a lot of women. I fall in love all the time. Sometimes I feel so much love I don’t know what the hell to do with it. I’ve got nothing but love, Willie. Thing is, somewhere along the line somebody’s got to love you back.”
Wilma watches him, eyes dark.
“Lisa wasn’t the only woman I ever loved,” he says. “She’s the only woman that ever loved me.”
Silence follows as Wilma steps into her pumps and straightens her dress. Finally, after what appears to be much thought she manages a response. “To quote the great Helen Hayes: ‘There is only one terminal dignity—love.’ What else is there to say, Dig?”
“I have to go.”
Returning to her brother’s side, she kisses his cheek. “Have a nice time on your not-exactly-a-date. If she’s any kind of woman she’ll see how wonderful you are and fall madly in love with you instantly. Just be yourself. You know, only more festive.” She licks her finger and wipes the smear of lipstick from his face. “If you’re free later come by and help us deck the halls, OK?”
* * *
I will love you until the day I die.
As Dignon walks toward downtown, he remembers Lisa’s vow, made to him so many years ago, not long after they’d run off to New York together. They’d only been in their studio apartment for a day or two, and spent the afternoon in bed, tangled in blanke
ts, watching frost form along the windows and listening to the sounds of the city pulsing all around them.
He wonders what she looks like now, who she’s become, the forty-two-year-old version. She’s probably married and has a bunch of kids—maybe even grandkids—a house on Long Island and a minivan in the driveway, her dreams of being a famous actress as forgotten and distant as her broken proclamations.
Dignon has often pictured her over the years, rocking a baby in her arms or moving through some spacious, immaculate and meticulously-decorated home, accompanied by a dashing and painfully handsome husband, their life together a Norman Rockwell painting.
I will love you until the day I die.
But I failed you too, didn’t I? I wasn’t what you needed me to be, what I wanted to be for you, for us. The damage was already done, wasn’t it, Lisa? I was already gone, broken beyond repair even then. No amount of hope and love and patience could’ve fixed me. Not then, not now. You did the only thing you could to survive. You swam away from a drowning man rather than allowing him to pull you under with him.
For some reason, a memory of the super who rented them the apartment comes to him. A slovenly man in his mid-fifties who always had a cigar stub jammed in the corner of his mouth, he told horribly offensive jokes at every opportunity until one day Lisa asked him not to use racial slurs in her presence. He’d laughed uncontrollably, like her request was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard. That man would be in his seventies now. He might even be dead. Odd, the passage of time, Dignon thinks. Did that man think about such things? Did he ever wonder where he might be in twenty years? Did he imagine himself an old man or that his life might even be over by then?
Twenty years from now Dignon will be sixty-two. The concept of enduring the same amount of time it’s been since he and Lisa were together seems virtually unfathomable to him. He won’t make it. Not like this.
Blood In Electric Blue Page 6