Love Stories in This Town

by Amanda Eyre Ward

  “He's a jerk,” said Lola. The man looked at her sympathetically. “He's marrying Miss Montana,” said Lola. She raised her eyebrows.

  “Miss Montana?” said the man who resembled Paulson. “Come around here.” He led Lola to the employee bathroom. Above the sink was a poster of Jenni Hansen, Miss Montana, in a red-white-and-blue-spangled bikini waving a lasso. “She signed it for me,” said the man. He couldn't take his eyes off Jenni, and her winged-out hair. And there it was, in curlicue script: TO GEORGE.

  For Iain's wedding, Lola decided on a flowered skirt and an oatmeal-colored sweater. She poured food in a bowl for her cat, Sue, locked her room, and rang for the dorm elevator. After a minute, the door next to the elevator banged open. A guy in a backwards baseball cap and boxer shorts stood in the hall for a moment, smelling of beer. His name was Willy. “Whazzup?” said Willy. The elevator arrived, and Lola stepped inside.

  “Oh hey, Lola,” said Bea, a vivacious cheerleader for the Grizzlies. In the elevator, next to Bea, was an enormous basket of laundry.

  “Hey,” said Lola.

  “What's shaking?” said Bea.

  “You don't want to know,” said Lola. She pressed LOBBY, though the button already glowed.

  “Sure I do,” said Bea.

  “Remember my boyfriend?” Lola said. “The tall guy, with the beard and the glasses?”

  Bea nodded, examining her fingernails. “The old guy?” she said.

  “He's getting married,” said Lola. “Not to me,” she added.

  “I need Lee Press-On Nails,” said Bea, holding out her hand. The elevator stopped with a jolt and Bea picked up her basket and exited the sliding doors. “You know who else is getting married today?” said Bea, over her shoulder, “is Miss Montana.”

  In Pat's Hiway Café, Lola ordered coffee and toast. She was surrounded by men drinking. Pat's was connected to a bar, and patrons passed back and forth between the two. What the hell? Lola ordered a beer.

  Her toast dripped with butter. She spread jam over it, chewing slowly. Except for the wedding, she had absolutely nothing to do until Monday, when she would return to work, sitting at a desk that belonged to Michelle Lowry, an Arts reporter on maternity leave. Michelle had left a cable-knit cardigan on the back of the chair, two pictures of her husband (fly-fishing and wearing a cheap tux) on the desk, and three Slim-Fast bars in her drawer.

  The snow turned to rain, and Lola considered it blearily. She would have to walk to Iain's wedding, ten blocks or so away. Her coffee was weak, and she was happy when the waitress brought a glass of Alaskan Amber. But even the beer made her think of Iain. He loved beer.

  The church was completely full. Lola wedged her way between two girls with cameras, and found a seat next to Juli Lewis, the martini-drinking piano player from the Holiday Inn Lounge.

  “Oh, honey,” Juli said to Lola, patting her knee. Juli wore a red muumuu.

  “Oh, well,” said Lola. Television cameras were set up along the aisle, and people held cardboard signs: WE LOVE YOU JENNI! MONTANA FOREVER! MARRY ME INSTEAD!

  Iain and Lola had attended Easter Mass at this same church the year before. They were still a bit drunk from the previous night, and had fought so hard for so long that they couldn't remember what was wrong anymore. The fight had started with Lola's assertion that Clinton was a disappointment. Iain agreed, but thought Lola let her emotions get the best of her—feeling betrayed by a philandering President was absurd, he said. Lola didn't like his tone—it was condescending—and on it went. While the choir sang like angels, Iain took Lola's hand, held it tenderly. “We are going to make it,” he had said.

  Lola saw Iain's mother and father, whom she recognized from photographs. In the back of the church, reporters crouched next to the life-size figure of Mary. Pale shadows from the stained-glass windows made the chaos into a kaleidoscope, and in the middle was Iain. He was freshly showered (Lola could not help but think of his wet nipples, the feel of him, his strong hands on her body) and wore a gray suit. Lola had never seen him dressed up; he had always worn frayed shirts and jeans.

  There was a hush, and the music began. Lola looked around the church, trying not to make eye contact with any of Iain's friends. There was a palpable sense of excitement in the air. Although Jenni could be seen around Missoula a few days a week, at ribbon-cutting ceremonies or auto shows, attending her wedding was something people would talk about for years to come. The paper had been analyzing her dress and profiling honeymoon possibilities (Jenni and Iain had opted for a Caribbean cruise and to hell with Montana, but people still loved her).

  “This is ridiculous,” Robert, an NYU School of Journalism grad, had complained. Robert later got the front page for his exclusive interview with Jenni, in which she described her “summer fairy” wedding dress.

  “On the most important and loving day of my life,” said Jenni, in the interview, “I want to look like a summer fairy, to show my beloved that we will have days of summer always. In our hearts, I mean.” When Lola read the piece, she laughed, but then felt tears sting at the corners of her eyes. After a few minutes, she sighed and began typing her latest article, “Bonner Meth Lab Busted!”

  (At the lab, housed in a trailer, Lola had found a black cat among the methamphetamine ingredients. It purred as soon as she picked it up, and she took it back to her room and named it Sue, short for Sudafed.)

  The bridesmaids entered slowly, in powder blue dresses with hoop skirts. They held bouquets of blue-colored carnations. Carnations were Jenni's favorite flower, she had said in the exclusive interview, because they “could be dyed any color of the rainbow.”

  Iain made his way to the front of the church. His loping gait was the same, and he looked down at the petal-strewn aisle. Lola felt a scream inside her, and as if on cue, trumpets blared. In came Miss Montana.

  How she had gotten permission to bring a horse into the church Lola did not know. But there it was: a white steed, its saddle trimmed with carnations. Atop the horse, sidesaddle, was Jenni. Her dress was a marshmallow confection, swirls of taffeta and tulle like a Dairy Queen soft serve. Jenni's skin, in January, was a triumphant orange. Her teeth glowed, and she wore eye shadow the color of antifreeze coolant. A fountain of filmy veil was attached to her curls. In one hand she held a bouquet of multicolored carnations, in the other a lasso. As the band struck up the University of Montana Grizzlies fight song, she spun the lasso high above her head and aimed. The crowd grew silent.

  And what do you know, the toast of Montana lassoed herself a man. Lola's man: Iain. Lola put her hands to her face, feeling his shame. Iain, his melancholy voice. His hair falling in front of his eyes as he graded papers. She remembered the night they had stayed up until dawn, reading Antony and Cleopatra aloud, making funny voices for all the characters but growing serious during the dramatic scenes. She turned to look at him, her love.

  In a lasso of gold, he was beaming. His chin was lifted high, and his eyes, usually heavy-lidded, were wide open. He looked at Jenni with all the joy Lola had never thought was in him.

  • • •

  Cal shrugged and poured the whiskey. “What?” said Lola.

  “Isn't dark yet,” said Cal.

  “It's dark in here, that's for sure,” said Lola. Cal shrugged again. The neon beer signs made his face shine, and he ran a palm over his forehead. On either side of Lola, men with sunken faces drank and stared ahead, at the dusty bottles, at nothing. There was one woman with a glass of white wine. She wore a violet-colored blouse with white buttons. At night, the bar was filled with students playing pool, but for the afternoon crowd, there was only the hum of the heater and the scent of peanuts and wet wool.

  “He did it,” Lola said. “He tied the knot, all right.” Cal nodded. He knew everyone's secrets. In fact, he had probably been there the night that Iain went home with Miss Montana instead of Lola.

  “Do you watch people, Cal?”

  “What's that?”

  “Do you watch people, I said. What they d
o, how much they drink, et cetera.” A man with a large, wet gash in his cheek glanced at Lola sideways, and moved over a stool. The white wine woman looked up.

  “What choice do I have?” said Cal.

  Lola felt the same way. She didn't think it was right to ignore the sadness around her—alcoholics like her father, lonely women like her mother, who told Lola, “Maybe he would have stayed if I had done my sit-ups. Then again, maybe it was just a mistake from the start.”

  Lola thought there was something to be proud of in this—in seeing the painful truth—but Iain had jumped on the first cruise ship that passed by, leaving Lola stuck on Misery Island. She had to admit the essential difference between Iain and herself: he believed in the possibility of a carnation-strewn, uncomplicated life, and Lola did not. Perhaps Iain had thought he could convince her, but grew weary of the endeavor.

  “I bet you could tell some stories, Cal,” said Lola.

  Cal took a toothpick from a box underneath the counter and put it in his mouth. “No,” he said.

  “Can of Bud,” said a man on Lola's left, leaning his elbow on the counter. His cracked leather jacket smelled like sweat. The man had very small feet in pointy boots. Cal cracked the can open with a sharp sound and set it on the counter. The man pulled out some dirty bills, and then twisted the tab back and forth, waiting for his change. He finally broke the tab off and left it on the bar, taking a swig of his can on the way back to his table.

  “Come on, Cal,” said Lola. “What about love stories?”

  Cal sighed, and out of the corner of Lola's eye, she saw the white wine woman reach out. Her lips curled up—a flash of smile, and then it was gone—as she took the beer tab in her fingers, and stuck it behind her bra strap.

  “There are no love stories in this town,” said Cal.

  Nan and Claude

  When her daughter, Lola, called to say she had eloped to Las Vegas, Nan Wilkerson drove straight to her hairdresser's house. Her appointment was not until the following Tuesday, but this was an emergency.

  “Nan!” said Claude, opening the door. “What can I do for you?”

  “I know it's Saturday,” said Nan, “but will you look at these bangs?”

  “Hm,” said Claude, evaluating. He wore a white button-down shirt, untucked. Claude had his shirts made in his native Paris; the fit was so perfect that he returned each summer for a whole new set.

  “I've got a big party tonight at the club,” said Nan. “Claude, you've got to help me.”

  Claude nodded. “Come in,” he said.

  Years ago, when Nan and Fred had just moved to Rye from the city, Claude had worked at Secrets Salon on Purchase Street. Nan could still remember her first visit to Secrets, the smell of expensive shampoo and ammonia. The salon was filled with young wives Nan wanted to befriend. She had always worn her dark hair in a low ponytail, but that wasn't going to cut it in Westchester.

  As Claude had clipped Nan's hair into the style she would wear for the rest of her life, a mid-length bob with bangs, he'd peppered Nan with questions. Where did she live? (The Bruces' old house, on Dogwood Lane.) What did her husband do in the city? (Investment banking.) Golf or beach club? (Golf first—Apawamis, of course—and a beach club later, or even a place for a boat.) How many children did she hope for? (Three, maybe four.) And lastly, whirling her around to face the mirror, what did she think of the new Nan Wilkerson?

  Nan put her hand over her mouth. It had taken over an hour, but Claude had transformed her into a different person. The sort of person she guessed she was now, a rich man's wife.

  “Now get rid of the tennis tan,” said Claude, lifting the sleeve of her T-shirt and exposing the pale skin underneath. “Get a bikini, and some brighter lipstick, cheri.”

  Nan was a bit miffed, but knew he meant well. In fact, after buying groceries and gin, she stopped in Village Pharmacy and picked out a slim Revlon tube: Hot Coral.

  “Whoa,” said Fred, when he arrived home that evening. “Who the hell are you, and what did you do with my wife?”

  Nan smiled weakly. “Do you like it?”

  “I don't know,” said Fred, “and that's the honest truth.”

  “Well, let me know when you decide,” said Nan, in a playful tone.

  “Sure will,” said Fred, making his way to the bar. “You get more gin?” he asked.

  “Yes,” said Nan.

  “There she is!” said Fred, as Lola, then a wild toddler with strawberry blond curls, came running toward him. But he continued fixing his drink, not bending to pick her up, though she stood with her arms extended, waiting.

  It took the Wilkersons two years to get into the Apawamis Club, five more to become Golf Members. Nan worked her way up the Tennis Ladder, and made friends. She became accustomed to days of tennis and poolside lunches, then evenings in the Clubhouse. They moved from Dogwood Lane to a bigger house on Manursing Way. Fred, who had seemed so thrillingly complex and confusing when they were dating— he'd first kissed her in a darkened movie theater during a French film festival, Jacques Demy's Lola on the screen— grew fat and angry. He spent weekends drinking wine from a coffee mug and piloting his expensive sit-on-top lawn mower that maybe reminded him of his farm boy past, who knew.

  But honestly, what were her options, and dwelling on it certainly didn't help matters. Dancing and cocktailing comforted her during Fred's moods and the three miscarriages. Fred was on a business trip when she lost the last baby, and he responded to her hysterical call by telling her that his meeting was crucial and he would see her at the end of the week. It was hard on him, too, Nan knew—an unhappy only child, Fred had always wanted a house full of children.

  One night, when Lola was twelve, Fred didn't return from the city. Six o'clock came and went. Nan had an appointment with Claude that evening. He had recently left Secrets to start his own salon, Claude's. Getting an appointment was nearly impossible; Nan had been waiting for weeks. “Where the heck is your father?” she said, pacing around the new kitchen, peeking out the sliding glass doors for a glimpse of his BMW. Lola glared steadily at her mother.

  “You know, honey,” said Nan, “I bet Claude could make your hair a touch less …”

  “A touch less what?” said Lola, her voice dripping with displaced anger. She had been spraying hydrogen peroxide on her hair as she sunbathed, but instead of turning lighter, her hair had become a discomfiting orange. And the neon-colored nets she tied around her head like that singer, Madonna … It was hard to know where to start.

  “Skip it,” said Nan.

  “I can stay by myself, Mom,” said Lola. “It's not like I'm going to have a keg party or anything.”

  “Well, and your father should be home any minute,” said Nan.

  “My father,” said Lola, and then she made a dismissive hah.

  Nan picked up her car keys and slipped them in the pocket of her pedal pushers. “I'll be back in two hours,” she said. “We can have microwave ribs.”

  “I'm fine,” said Lola.

  Nan looked at her for a moment. Clearly, she was not fine. She was confused, lonesome, and about to become a teenager. Nan's heart ached for her. “I love you,” said Nan.

  “I love you, too,” said Lola forlornly, looking up at her mother. Nan went over and hugged Lola, held her close. Their Siamese cat, Bobby, jumped from Lola's lap to the floor. Nan smelled cigarette smoke in her daughter's clothes but said nothing.

  “Do you think he's having an affair?” said Claude dramatically.

  “Right,” said Nan, laughing. Claude pressed foil packets full of dye around chunks of her hair. “He's working on a very important deal,” said Nan, lying. In truth, as Fred's drinking had grown worse, he'd been cut out of the important deals. Late at night, Nan wondered if her husband would lose his job. Perhaps he had already lost it—he was a mystery to her.

  “Of course,” said Claude. “He's a very important man, your Fred.”

  “How is your lovely wife?” said Nan.

  “She is wonderful
,” said Claude.

  Nan can still remember returning home that night, eating chewy barbecue while she watched 60 Minutes. Lola came down stairs as Nan was doing the dishes. “He's left us,” said Lola, her eyes puffy from crying.

  “What on earth are you talking about?” said Nan.

  Lola pointed to their brand-new answering machine. Lola had held her boom box to its speaker the weekend before, painstakingly recording a snippet of song, some druggie woman singing, “If you want me, you can find me left of center, off of the strip.” After the song, Lola said flatly, “Please leave your name and number after the beep.”

  Now, Nan pressed the red button. “Hello, Nan,” said Fred's voice. He was carefully enunciating, trying to pretend he was sober. “It's Fred. Look, the time has arrived for me to take a break. This whole lifestyle is killing me … the work, work, work, and you—always asking for more, more, more. It's never enough. I just can't do it. So, good-bye, Nan. I'm sorry. Lola, I love you, honey.”

  Three weeks later, Nan used her daughter's Brother word processor to type up a resume. With shaking hands, she placed it on the desk of the Apawamis Club's personnel director, Kit MacMillan. “Is this a joke?” said Kit, taking off his bifocals to look at Nan.

  “It's not a joke,” said Nan. “Fred left me.”

  “Jesus H. Christ,” said Kit. But he hired her, and she began lessons right away. On the same court where she'd once reigned supreme, Nan taught her friends' children how to volley and use their backhand. Nan and Lola moved to a small house on the other side of Rye, near the YMCA. Nan's golf caddy lived across the street, and enjoyed fixing cars on his front lawn.

  Nan decided that she could not live without Claude, though she could ill afford him. At her next appointment, Claude asked, “So give me the gossip, cheri. Was Fred planning a romantic surprise or working late? I want all the details.”

  Nan contemplated telling the truth for a minute, but when she spoke, her voice was as breezy and sure as ever. “Just as I thought,” she said. “A big investment deal. Lucky for him, he did bring roses.” At the thought of Fred walking in the front door, holding a box from Rockridge Flowers, Nan's eyes welled up, but Claude was concentrating on her layers, and didn't notice.