A minute later, they’re on the beach with the picnic basket between them, jeaned legs arched, looking out on the water as blue as Neptune, the sky above it faded like denim and furred with white clouds. Terra is in one of those self-consciously philosophical moods he’s already come to recognize, and he isn’t listening too closely; already he knows it’s okay not to listen closely, she never gets annoyed like Evelyn. ‘When I see a place so ancient as this, I’m totally humbled. To think: how many thousands of years those rocks have been here, and all those ancient tribes who’ve sat in places like this and, y’know, the pyramids of Egypt …’ Sheer faces of rock point skyward out of the lake, and Lenny remembers that Ancient History class he took freshman year, all that stuff about Egyptians, sky worlds and underworlds, underworld skies of chaos and death and rebirth. He runs his fingers through the sand and discovers it isn’t sand at all, but tiny white shells like snail shells, and this makes him inexplicably happy. He lies back, watching the wind blast Terra’s sandy hair to one side, hearing her voice as a disembodied drone. ‘… We’re ancient in our souls, same as the Indians and Egyptians. Same as the earth, the water, the sky … Hey, what’s funny?’
‘Nothing.’ Lenny laughs and sits up. ‘This sand is weird, that’s all.’
Terra laughs, too. A sweet, open laugh, and she’s sifting the sand through her fingers like a mermaid, hair blasting in his face. ‘Yeah, it’s weird,’ she agrees, brushing her hands off on her jeans. Then she turns to face him with a tight smile, her blue eyes expectant, and Lenny feels once again nauseous with suspicion, that sweetness so readily offered up. This girl, after all, is a stranger. This girl isn’t his wife. He thinks of Mexico, rocks in the ocean.
‘Hey, where are you going?’ Terra cries out as he rises from the sand, shedding his gray pea-coat, pulling off his shoes and socks. ‘Lenny … what? You’re gonna swim?’
He nods and throws a grin her way, already walking backward to the bank as he fumbles with his belt and buttons. He’s conscious of the meagerness of his body in the harsh winter sun, radioactive white and goosey with cold, a colony of pimples on his back and uneven swatch of hair on his front. Not godly. Not even manly.
‘Well. That’s just crazy,’ Terra grumbles.
The water is sledgehammer cold. At his knees, groin, chest, shrinking every pore, splintering his lungs. Lenny takes it in one numbing hit, plunging his head and shutting his eyes to the stinging blue. When he surfaces, it’s only for a draft of air. Then he goes back under.
By the time he breaks from his strenuous frogstroke, the beach is much further away but the pyramid-shaped rock no closer. He searches the shore for Terra and spies her, a pocket-sized figure in her shearling coat, curves like a Coke bottle. He treads water and squints west at the dusty mountain ranges, up at the blinding sun.
Lenny would’ve liked to see Terra waiting with his clothes ready, holding the thermos of hot chocolate, yet even though she isn’t, he’s happy to see her. Standing with her hands deep in her pockets, trembling despite her coat’s cozy sheepskin lining, the fleecy collar into which she’s tucked her fluffy hair. He guesses she’s trembling in sympathy with him. He smiles gratefully as he approaches in his soaked underwear, skin aglow, hair dropping icy beads. ‘The water was righteous—’ he begins, but something about her face stops him: the quivering lips, the nostrils pinched, the pupils pinpricks.
‘I saw a man with the head of a dog,’ Terra whispers.
What the hell? Lenny is about to laugh when he sees her eyes are welling with actual tears, her body is actually shaking. He swallows instead.
‘I saw a man with the head of a dog,’ she repeats. ‘When you went under, he rose up.’
Lenny looks back at the lake.
‘He’s not there anymore!’ Terra cries. ‘He only appeared when you … went under.’
‘Hey, it’s okay. Don’t cry.’ Lenny rubs her shoulder quizzically, fingers grazing the softness at her collar. It occurs to him that Terra has done more drugs than he ever has, that all that acid has maybe permanently fried her brain. ‘What kind of dog?’
‘Just a regular big dog. A dog with a big black head.’
Lenny stops himself from swiveling around and searching for the dog-man again. ‘It’s okay … This place is really old, like you said.’ He keeps rubbing her shoulder as he looks beyond her at the station wagon, still parked among the sagebrush, its yellow reassuringly bright in the desert sun. ‘Want to go home?’
Terra gives a jerky gesture, maybe a shrug or maybe a head shake, he can’t tell. Only that she looks small and afraid.
She looks small and afraid, so he does what seems like the kindest thing: he kisses her.
He kisses her, and he doesn’t know if they’re freezing or burning, standing on sacred ground or floating in dead space.
The afternoon is already gloomy outside the phone booth, neon signs flickering on one-by-one. He huddles behind Terra, the animal tang and thickness of her blond hair. She is nodding and making solemn noises into the receiver, her free hand blindly finding his and twining around it. Her face still has a dewy, flushed look that makes him feel vaguely dissolute. ‘Yes Father,’ she mumbles piously. ‘Thank you, Father.’
She passes the receiver on to him.
‘When I awoke this morning, Lenny, I sensed a great shadow looming over you. It has been a trial, extending my psychic mantle to cover you from this distance. Yet I see I wasn’t wrong sending Sister Terra to you. I see that you’ve found protection in one another.’
Lenny bows his head against the foggy glass. He doesn’t feel strong; a fuzziness in his mind like fleece and a boneless trembling that’s maybe from the lake or maybe from the back seat with Terra after the lake. Or maybe it’s listening to Jim Jones, expecting to be chastised at any moment. But Jim remains uncritical.
‘I know, Lenny, you will honor this young woman, as no man has before. I know you will cherish her charitable heart.’
‘Yes, Father.’ He hears himself make those same solemn noises. I will. Thank you, Father.
She is still clinging to his hand when they squeeze out of the phone booth, not talking much for once. They drift toward the blue neon of a movie house, and her hands are all over him as they line up for tickets, as they stare at the posters of cowboys and spacemen, under his coat, under his shirt, sizzling against his cold-hot skin. Not letting go even when she slides the money on the counter and tells the ticket guy, ‘Two for Romeo and Juliet,’ though she must know how they look, two young people so stupidly in love the world can’t wait to see them kill themselves.
But Lenny is glad, sitting in the dark, that it’s a story he doesn’t have to think about: fair Verona, star-crossed lovers, poison you can taste while they’re still talking about roses. The actress who plays Juliet has hair like Evelyn’s, but it’s Terra’s hair in his face, Terra’s hand tucked into his, Terra warm and breathing beside him. It’s Terra sniffing over the sad parts, drying her eyes on his shirt, Terra who’d be just as sweet by any other name. Terra, yeah, Terra, Terra …
9.
Dear Mom and Dad:
Thank you for the candy and the skirt suit and the very unique wall hanging. I hope your Christmas celebrations went as beautifully as ours. We had many new faces as well as old and spectacular performances from our children’s choir and talented Temple band. After there was a heavenly banquet of turkey with all the usual fixings, just like at home only we fed close to 500. ‘Father Jim’ personally handed out gifts to all the children, including a large group from the county orphanage. It is truly moving to see so many little ones with smiles on their faces and many from desperate poverty having the time of their little lives. Jim loves every child as if they were his own …
Evelyn places her pen down and drains her mug, casting a wary eye out at the morning frost. She shouldn’t be creeping around the cabin so early, first day back to work and a long day at th
at: double P.E., and staff meetings, and a personal appointment with the superintendent, who no doubt wishes to discuss the rumors regarding her marital status. She looks at her bare finger and wonders if it is too soon.
The hallway is still velvety with shadows, the door to the bedroom shut. She does her best to silence the swish of her black slacks as she tiptoes to the telephone. Six-fifteen in Evergreen Valley is also six-fifteen in Reno. Six-fifteen is not too early to make a necessary call.
Still, navigating the byzantine system of area codes, teaspoon-voiced operators, the righteous indignation of his landlady, Evelyn several times considers hanging up.
‘I know you think your boyfriend’s the moon and stars,’ the old lady gripes as a dog yaps in the background. ‘But would it kill you to wait for sunup?’
‘Excuse me, no, this is his—’
She realizes she can’t say ‘wife’ anymore.
‘Hey, Earthgirl. Whaaaa-uhhhh—What?’ Lenny comes on the line several minutes later, and she knows from his yawn that he must be shirtless, tousle-haired, wiping the crust of sleep from his eyes. A boy, just a boy.
‘This isn’t Terra.’ Evelyn waits for him to fill in the blank.
‘Oh … Sorry.’ He yawns again. ‘What … what time is it?’
‘It is very important you’re prepared for court today. They’re going to be asking lots of questions and, since I won’t be there, you need to be clear about what you’re committing to record. I’ve written out some crucial points. Tell me if anything else comes to mind—’
‘Evelyn … My hearing isn’t ’til eleven.’
‘Then you’ll have plenty of time to prepare. Honestly, Lenny. I don’t think it’s asking too much for you to pay attention for five minutes.’ The crystalline, teacherlike quality of her voice sounds harsh, even to her own ears. Hot-faced, she shifts her weight to one foot and eyeballs the bedroom door, lowers her voice. ‘Now, in every court, regardless of who’s present, there’s a “plaintiff” and a “defendant”. In this case, you’re the “plaintiff” and I’m the “defendant”. They may ask you to identify the “defendant” by full legal name, meaning “Evelyn Ruth Lynden”. When they ask you for the “plaintiff’s” legal residence, this is very important: do not tell them Evergreen Valley, tell them—’
‘Reno. Yeah, yeah, I know.’
‘They will also ask when you began residing there. “November 18 1968” is the date on your lease. As far as your intentions for residing in Reno—’
‘“I came with the intention of making it my home indefinitely.”’ The boredom behind his placating tone is evident. ‘Yeah.’
‘More importantly,’ Evelyn gathers her words. ‘They’ll ask you to explain your reasons for seeking a divorce. “Mental cruelty” is simply legalese for “incompatability”, so don’t be unnerved when they use it. However, you’ll need to present some case for “cruelty” on the defendant’s part. For instance: “the defendant was critical”, “the defendant withheld affection”, “the defendant — the defendant …”’
‘It’s okay,’ Lenny reassures her quietly. ‘It’s divorce court, not the draft board. It’ll be okay.’
The memories flare up like draft cards in a crowd: her parents’ house in Davis, huddling over The Handbook for Conscientious Objectors, the hope, the vexation, the touching.
‘Of course. I suppose. Of course,’ Evelyn says mechanically. ‘And, of course, you have your witness.’
‘Yeah.’ His voice comes boyish and breathy. ‘Terra’s cool.’
‘I suppose you’re going to marry her.’ She doesn’t wait for Lenny to elaborate on the squeak he gives in response. ‘It’s none of my concern, but I think you should consider waiting until summer. Jim will be officiating a number of weddings at that time.’
Lenny says nothing, which is somehow worse than if he had said something to contradict her. She purses her lips; unpurses them to strike again.
‘I’m missing a book of poems. Le Creve-Couer by Louis Aragon.’
Lenny stays silent, so she goes on.
‘You may have taken it accidentally. It’s quite important to me.’
‘I don’t have your poems, Evelyn,’ he says with undisguised, even exaggerated weariness.
‘Well. Please check. I may need it for my lessons.’ She allows herself a smug smile. ‘Also, I’m donating your records to the Temple’s White Elephant Sale. It’s wasteful to have such a large collection when you could be raising money for the Cause. Not to mention inconvenient for me.’
‘… Fine.’
‘In fact, it’s probably best if you tell me now if there’s anything you need kept, books or whatever. I can ask the Luces to store them along with Terra’s things.’
‘I have everything I need.’
‘Fine. Good.’
‘Fine.’ Lenny sighs or yawns. ‘Bye, Evelyn.’
Evelyn says nothing, just inhales sharply and waits for the line to go dead. It doesn’t. Self-consciously, she replaces the phone, wincing at the click of the receiver. From the next room, she hears a stirring, a grunt, a cough. Her name brusquely uttered. She lowers her eyes and goes to it.
‘Mornin’, sweetheart.’ He’s sitting up in bed, moistening his lips with his tongue, his hair just as tidy and well-glossed as when he arrived at her door the previous night. Cherokee hair, matinee idol hair, hair that never musses. ‘C’mere.’
She comes, but not before filling him a glass of water from the pitcher at the bedside.
‘Trouble sleeping?’ he murmurs, cocking an eyebrow at her, wide lips slurping.
She settles at the foot of the bed, crosses her legs. ‘After a couple of hours my mind starts running a million miles a minute. There’s just so much to do.’
‘I know that feeling.’ Jim sets his glass on the nightstand and she follows the curve of his gesture, sheet slipping down to show the folds of his belly, the breadth of his chest, olive-skinned and surprisingly hairless. She looks at the rifle leaning up against the wall, and maybe it’s wrong — in the same way this man in her bed is wrong — yet, by the new order of her life, it is also overwhelmingly right. ‘Nothing wrong with it. You’re young and strong.’ He rests his hand on her knee. ‘Just don’t think I don’t notice you tiptoeing ’round like a ballerina.’
His caress is circular, chilling, like the whoosh inside a seashell. She can’t hide.
‘I was just tying up some loose ends,’ she admits. ‘I began a letter to my parents.’
She waits for the gentle reproach: You don’t need to justify yourself to them, honey. They’re nice people, but they’re bourgeois. Don’t kid yourself they ain’t bourgeois. But Jim only smiles patiently. Every reproach has already been internalized, every vow in darkness made.
He reaches for her bare hand, spreads it, encircles her third finger with his.
‘You remind me of them schoolteachers who used to beat my ass. All leather strap, no ring. Spinsters at twenty-three.’
Then he leans in and clasps the bun at the back of her head, parts her lips with his tongue, parts her teeth. Opens up the sky in her belly and no sacrifice is too great, she thinks, not when he’s offering her hurtling space and fiery galaxies.
Blood Red Roses
1.
When Rosaline Jones’s husband came to her all those months ago and informed her he was in love with a brilliant and passionate younger woman, she’d felt as if her insides were bleeding, but she wasn’t surprised, not really. For twenty years, she’d lived with the knowledge that she wasn’t enough for this man, this lusty, lionhearted man who could make miracles with his hands. For twenty years, she’d lived with the knowledge that this man would cause her pain.
The young woman comes to the parsonage in a white minidress, dark hair piled up on her head. Like a beautiful white cat slinking up the porch, making everything her own. Eve.
Rosa
line winces away from the window’s floating lace. It was wrong of her to shift her head from the stricture of the orthopedic pillow, wrong to look anywhere but the ceiling, those dancing frills of light. From outside, she can hear the slap of a basketball against the driveway’s concrete, the shouts of her boys, their blood-sports she will never comprehend.
Because even if she had the strength to lift herself out of bed, to throw off her back brace like one of Jim’s miracles, Rosaline has no desire to compete with this other woman.
She comes to the parsonage in that white minidress, doesn’t knock to be let in. She is all hunger and pristine purpose. As if wanting him were a virtue, being wanted by him.
‘Ev-e-lyn.’
Jim’s voice in the hall, his happy crowing voice: it hurts even more than that lace-edged glimpse of her. Eve says something in reply, and her crisp voice is just another thing Rosaline can’t compete with. The voice of a woman taught to raise her hand in class, to value her own opinions, to believe she might change the world. Jim laughs and Rosaline feels a flush of irrelevance.
Wondering: what could this young woman possibly have said to amuse him?
Then their footsteps on the stairs, and for a brief time it seems like a reprieve. But before long the ceiling is squeaking, groaning, and when Rosaline shuts her eyes in protest, the lush red behind her lids only makes it more intimate. As if they’re in the room with her, bucking up against the furniture, fierce and arrogant as fallen angels.
He doesn’t know what he’s doing. But, no: she knows Jim. He knows exactly what he’s doing.
And she knows about Eve, things no wife should have to know. That she plays him records by creaky-voiced folk singers, Bob Dylan, Leonard Cohen; that she recites French poetry, the Song of Solomon. That she believes in past lives; claims to have been his mistress in a former life, when they were revolutionaries in Russia. That she’d rather kill herself than live without him. All these things, Jim has felt the need to tell Rosaline, as if to shock her into silence.
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