Shine of the Ever
Page 19
“Arthur’s meeting me after work,” Ada said. “It’s our anniversary.”
Jamie took the flowers and touched the knot of twine. “You don’t have to worry about me, Ada.”
“That’s not what I meant to say.”
“What do I owe you?” She stroked the blue and gray buds. Who were they for?
Ada shrugged. “No charge.”
Jamie thanked her politely. And then, before Ada could say another word, she was gone. Ada was sure they wouldn’t cross paths again, now that Jamie knew where to find her.
Ada took extra care gathering up the pens and string on the tying bench and wrapping the flowers in plastic. Everything was neatly put away. She tried not to imagine Jamie offering the fragrant bouquet to another girl. After all, she’d moved on, hadn’t she? They were adults now, just acquaintances. Their lives didn’t touch anymore.
Arthur was late picking her up.
“The streetcar was slow,” he said as they walked down 23rd.
Ada smiled her used-up smile at him.
He brushed the short hairs back from her face. “You look perfect. A little serious, though.”
“Just a long day,” she said. She felt a tiny shiver, as though an icy blanket had fallen over her shoulders. “Nothing that can’t be fixed.”
Arthur took her hand. “Then we’ll make you all better again.”
The Ending
Lydia took the flowers. She touched the tiny hyacinth blooms and stroked the pussy willow buds. I couldn’t see her face.
“You like them?”
“They look like little bells.” She inhaled. “Mmm. Smells like spring.”
We were standing on her porch. Soft rain coated the rose bushes, which bore the hard, pale nubs of leaves and budding thorns. A gray tabby with a drooping belly nosed at my pant cuffs.
“You won’t believe where I got those,” I said.
“Take them out of someone’s garden?” Lydia peeked at me over the bouquet and I realized, with an electric jolt, that her eyes were not brown, as I’d assumed, but blue, nearly purple, not quite violet, and speckled with tiny golden sparks. Her lashes were long and very dark, and as she gazed at me my pulse began to pound because I knew, yes, I knew that she could see me, she perceived my tiny, hidden soul, and I was drowning in hyacinths, the magic color of her lovely purple eyes. She smiled.
Alison, this is the woman I hoped you were.
Ada, this is who I wanted you to turn out to be.
She is the you I was falling in love with all over again, and maybe it would last this time, since we had both mellowed and were older and had more experience with disappointment. Maybe there’s a chance. Maybe I could be sober, this time, if I didn’t have to pretend anymore.
“I got them from my ex. We haven’t talked in a year, but she was working at the flower stand. I was surprised to see her.”
Lydia nodded. “Was it a good surprise?”
“I don’t know. She looked happy. But every time,” I trailed off. The words roiled inside of me. She twisted one of the catkins off its twig and traced it down her cheek.
“She’s not who I thought she was,” I finally said.
“People become themselves.”
“No, I mean—I thought I was in love with her, but I was really in love with someone else. I kept finding ways to go back.”
I shoved my hands in my pockets. My fingers were trembling. She laid the flowers on the metal chair. She took a cigarette, lit it, and balanced it on the porch railing. The rain came down a little harder. It tapped its fingers on the roof. It pinged on the gutter, the roses, and the stiff necks of the crocuses that were trying to push their way out of the earth. The cat took refuge under the chair. Lydia was wearing a white dress covered in tiny blue flowers. A pink silk ribbon was tied on her wrist. Her skin was creamy, eggshell-perfect.
She said, “It sounds like you were trying to say goodbye to each other.”
Numb, I nodded and held out my arms. She burrowed her nose against my neck.
“Hello,” she whispered. “Hello.”
The World-Famous Chicken Trick
Last month, I was in my usual bar and I saw a beautiful woman with incredible hair. Her hair was long and red, with curls that looked soft and touchable, like in a shampoo ad. The bar was not a fancy bar, but I could tell by the way she laughed with her friends that she felt an invisible spotlight on her and that she was famous. I couldn’t place her, but I knew I’d seen her somewhere.
“Where do I know you from?” I asked. I leaned over their table and they looked up at me, in my ridiculous suit, still wearing my makeup from work. She smiled, but her expression dimmed. “Did we go to school together?”
She was shaking her head, already shrinking. They can do that on command: retract their famousness, like crabs pulling back into their shells. She was ten times more beautiful than her friends. I wanted to touch her hair, take a handful of it, maybe even without my gloves on, and really feel its fineness with my fingers.
“I didn’t go to clown school,” she said.
Her male friend barked like a seal. “She was in—”
He said the name of a very famous movie, which had a very famous TV spinoff series. I looked at the red-haired woman. Yes, she was in both of those things. That’s where I would know her from. Why would I confuse her with a clown? Maybe the hair, and her red, red lipstick. Or maybe it was wishful thinking on my part, because I saw myself as one day deserving what she had.
I don’t understand why people don’t want to be famous. When you’re famous, everyone knows where to find you. Your secrets, real and imagined, are juggled like bright balls for everyone to see. When you are extremely famous, you cease to be interesting because everyone already knows everything about you. That’s my consolation, I guess: Nobody knows who I am, but I am extremely interesting.
Her smile was fading; its filament was losing light. This was my cue to walk away. I folded my hands over my belly and tapped my shoes. “I wish I had something for you to sign,” I said.
Now her lips were closing over her perfect white teeth. She glanced at her female friend.
“Would you like to see my Chicken Trick?” I asked. “It’s a crowd-pleaser.”
“She’s not interested,” said the female friend. “Why don’t you leave us alone, clown?”
“I’m not a clown right now; I’m off duty,” I said, but they didn’t laugh. My makeup felt hard against my skin, and flaky. I pulled my rubber chicken out of its secret hiding place. Their eyes widened. Everybody loved this trick. Even grown-ups clapped when I did this one.
“Bartender,” the male friend called. “This clown is bothering us.”
I started to go through the motions. I waggled the rubber chicken so that it looked alive. Its neck flopped to one side, then the other. My eyes were on the beautiful, famous woman. She was looking down at her lap now, at her folded hands. She was waiting for me to go away. Her friends did not clap when I finished. I made the chicken run back into its hiding place.
“Marjorie, you can’t keep bothering the other customers,” the bartender said when he had led me out onto the sidewalk.
“But she was famous,” I explained. A tear formed by my right eye, and instead of letting it fall I stared down at the toes of my oversized shoes. I went to school for this, I thought. Because I wanted to learn how to make people laugh.
“How would you like it, if you were famous and strangers came up to you all the time?” he asked gently.
“I will never know the answer to that question,” I said.
He sighed.
If I get famous, it will probably be for the wrong reason. That would be a shame. I would like to be famous before I die, if that’s an option. I would like to see if I would enjoy it.
I stood out on the sidewalk for a long time, although it was getting dark
. I could see my reflection in the plate glass window and I watched myself practicing the Chicken Trick for a long time. When I was satisfied I had it right, I waved with both hands and bowed, as though the whole world had watched it and already couldn’t wait to see me do it again.
Acknowledgments
This book would not be possible without the unrelenting love and faith of my community. Many thanks to my friends, who read draft after draft, came to my readings, and encouraged me to keep going. Lizz Ehrenpreis, Katherine Morgan, Bobby Hilliard, Ryan Hampton, Jessie Glenn, Sire Leo Lamar-Becker, Lori Ubell, Sahar Baharloo and Duncan McRoberts, Claire Dennerlein Manson, and Tess and Brittany Velo—thank you.
Many thanks to the editors who supported my writing, especially the gang at Mason Jar Press, Daniel Jones at The New York Times, Michelle Schlinger, and Lilly Dancyger.
Interlude Press brought this quirky collection to fruition through their hard work, dedication, and brilliant insights. Annie Harper, Candysse Miller, C.B. Messer, Zoë Bird, Nicki Harper, Kristin Pape—thank you. I couldn’t have asked for a better team.
Much love to the city of Portland, Oregon, whatever you have been and whoever you will be.
And of course, Ivar Anderson, who shared Portland with me, all those years ago.
About the Author
Claire Rudy Foster is a queer, nonbinary trans single parent in recovery. Their short story collection, I’ve Never Done This Before, was published to warm acclaim in 2016. With four Pushcart Prize nominations, Foster’s writing has appeared in McSweeney’s, The Rumpus, and many other journals. Their nonfiction work has reached millions of readers in The New York Times, The Washington Post, and Narratively, among others. Foster lives and writes in Portland, Oregon.
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