Love Stories in This Town

by Amanda Eyre Ward

  The baby shower was at four. Corazon made Lola sit down, then rubbed blush into Lola's cheeks. At the Humane Society, Andrei used to sing whenever Lola walked past his office: “Her name was Lola, she was a showgirl!” Life was simpler then, before Lola knew she should be ashamed of her bare legs, her car, and her country. She couldn't help it: Lola started to cry.

  “I don't understand you, madame,” said Corazon.

  “My mom wants me to come home,” said Lola. “I don't know what to do. Maybe she's right.”

  “How about this nice headband?” said Corazon, taking the plastic band from her own head.

  “No, no,” said Lola, but Corazon did not listen, sweeping Lola's red hair back, jamming the band in place.

  “Maybe everyone should stay home,” said Corazon. “Maybe everyone should stay at their own home and never leave.” Lola looked at Corazon, whose home was the Philippines. “Wear the nice headband,” Corazon said, staring at Lola and speaking in a cold hiss.

  Emmett was excelling at his job—he was addicted to the frenzy, to his own growing importance—and his desire for a baby seemed to grow with every successful well. “Don't you want children?” he'd say over dinner.

  “Someday!” cried Lola. “I'm busy,” she said, pointing to the second bedroom, which they called her office. She sat in her office for hours every morning, drinking coffee and surfing the Internet on her new computer. Emmett had made a sign that said, “QUIET PLEASE, NOVELIST AT WORK,” and taped it to the door. But Lola was sick of trying to write. She didn't want to report the news, and she didn't want to make things up. She had thought of blogging about her expat experience, but after one entry, “Desert Dessert,” about the sweets she'd eaten (saffron tapioca and Arabian orange ice were her favorites, so far), she had run out of steam.

  “My mom always said the compounds were a great place for kids,” said Emmett.

  “That was a different time,” said Lola. “It was safe here then.”

  “And she was a different person,” said Emmett.

  “What's that supposed to mean?”

  “I don't know what to do to make you happy,” said Emmett.

  “How about kissing me?”

  He swept her up and carried her into their palace of a bedroom. He kissed her, and then she went into the bathroom and inserted her diaphragm.

  Jody, who was throwing the baby shower, had a month-old infant named Rebecca. Karen and Jody had tried to get pregnant at the same time, Karen had told Lola, but “Andy's swimmers were a little slow.” Lola laughed uncomfortably, hoping she would not be expected to talk about her husband's sperm.

  Karen knocked on Jody's door, and Jody pulled it open forcefully. “Karen's here!” she screamed. Lola followed Karen, resplendent in a pink maternity dress, down Jody's long front hallway to the living room, where twenty or so suntanned women sat on leather couches. In the adjoining playroom, kids of all ages and their Filipino nannies watched Shrek.

  “Hooray!” said Suzi, who had changed from her tennis whites into a dress printed with fuchsia crabs. Suzi and Lola were among the few Haven wives who were not from Texas. Suzi had decided to pretend Saudi was Nantucket.

  “Do you want a drink?” asked Karen. Lola shook her head.

  “Oh, come on,” said Jody, “it's my bathtub special.” Lola shrugged, and Jody ladled her an icy glass.

  “Sit back now, make yourself at home,” said Jody, leading Lola to a La-Z-Boy. Jody had returned to her trim size two in a matter of weeks, it seemed. Lola watched the hubbub, sipping her drink and eating whatever hors d'oeuvres Jody's maids brought by: deviled eggs, shrimp, nachos. She listened to the women talk about the stupidity of having to wear an abaya outside the compound. “For the Arabs,” said Suzi, “your hair is like your boobs.”

  “At the mall yesterday, I saw someone with a few curls sticking out,” noted Jody.

  “That's like wearing a skimpy bikini,” said Beth gravely.

  “That's like wearing a thong!” said Suzi.

  “You went to the mall yesterday?” said Lola. As soon as she said it, she wished she had not.

  “Sorry?” Jody looked at Lola, narrowing her eyes.

  “I mean, should we be leaving the compound?” Since the massacre, Lola's stomach hurt from the time Emmett left the house until the moment she heard his car returning at the end of the day.

  Karen sighed. “Lola,” she said, “you can either think about the nutters all day long or you can go about your business.”

  “That's true,” said Suzi. She crossed one long leg over the other.

  “Has it been this bad before?” said Lola. There was a silence.

  Beth Landings ladled herself another cup of gin. “No,” she said simply. “I've been here for ten years, and this is the worst. To be completely honest, I'm scared to death.”

  “We might go to Bahrain,” admitted an older woman. “I'm sick of this … this fiasco,” she said. “The Saudis can't control the terrorists anymore. Maybe they don't even want to.”

  “They just shot people,” said Beth quietly. “They just stormed Oasis Compound and shot people in the head.”

  No one spoke, and finally Jody rose and clapped her hands. “Time for the games!” she cried, her face brilliant and brave.

  The first game was the string game. Jody made Karen stand up, and each woman cut a length of string that estimated Karen's girth. Hilarity ensued: every single person thought Karen was wider than she was.

  The I-Spy game was a silver tray filled with baby items. Jody let them look at the tray for a few minutes, and then she covered it with a sheet. Lola chewed her pencil eraser, trying to remember what was on the tray as the kitchen timer ticked. “Diaper,” wrote Lola, “Rattle, Teddy Bear, Bottle.” In truth, she didn't even know what half the items were. Beth won the I-Spy game, remembering seventeen items, including the rectal thermometer.

  As Karen opened each present, the women made comments—“A Godsend,” for example, when she opened the Diaper Genie, or “Alice couldn't get enough of that damn toy,” when she opened the Lazy-Bee Singing Mobile. Lola tried to imagine her own child dressed in the appealing clothes, batting the mobile. Surprisingly, the thought made her happy. Would her future baby have Emmett's green eyes, his slow, sweet smile? Lola hoped so.

  Lola saw a guard through the window. He was looking straight at her, his hand on his gun. What if he was a terrorist? Look at that American, enjoying deviled eggs and nachos! she imagined the man thinking. What does she believe in, I'd like to know. When he saw her looking, the guard nodded and moved on.

  Twice during the party, Lola caught herself running her hand along her neck, pressing at the tendons and the bones.

  Outside Lola's house, Karen put her car in park. “Francis is home with the girls,” said Karen. “Mind if I come in for a few?”

  “Sure,” said Lola, surprised. Corazon seemed happy to have a guest, and brought out a tray of lemonade and cookies. Karen sank into one of Lola's sofas.

  “Well, did you have fun?” asked Karen.

  “I did,” said Lola. “I really did.”

  “You know,” said Karen, “a million years ago, I was in advertising.”

  “Sorry?” said Lola.

  Karen played with her hair. “You think I'm some dumb housewife,” said Karen. “Don't look so shocked. I know.”

  “I don't …,” said Lola.

  “You think you're smarter than everybody else,” said Karen. “You think you can figure out what's going on out there.” She pointed to the window. “I'm here to tell you, sweetie, at some point you have to stop asking questions. This is your life, Lola. This is your house. It's pretty nice, don't you think?”

  “You know,” said Lola, “I've got to get dinner started. …”

  “Let me finish my piece,” said Karen. She leaned toward Lola. “I promise you, what's going on in here,” she pointed to her pregnant belly, “is a hell of a lot more meaningful than what a bunch of Muslim nut jobs might be planning. You mark my wor
ds.”

  “I'm miserable,” said Lola, realizing the truth even as she spoke.

  Karen stopped talking, her mouth open.

  “I don't feel safe here,” said Lola, “and I've almost forgotten who I wanted to be.”

  Karen looked down at her swollen hands, and Lola could practically hear the indignation draining out of her. “Holy guacamole,” said Karen.

  “I don't think I'm smarter,” said Lola. “I'm just sad.”

  “You know, I was drifting until Babs came along,” said Karen, thoughtfully. “Then it all came clear.”

  “That sounds nice,” said Lola.

  “It's real nice,” said Karen. Then she said, kindly, “Honey?”

  “What?”

  “You've got to have faith in something. Think about that before you jump on Lufthansa.”

  “I will,” said Lola.

  “And thank you for the lemonade,” said Karen Mc-Daniels. She stood, clutching her lower back. “Andy better get his boy this time,” she said, grimacing.

  When Emmett got home from work that night, Lola met him at the door. “Hey,” she said, “let's go out to dinner.”

  “Out to dinner?” said Emmett. He opened the passenger side of his car, gathered his briefcase.

  “I'm sick of this big house,” said Lola. “Remember when we used to go driving at night, just to see where we'd end up?”

  Emmett sighed. He had grown pudgy from eating too much and sitting at his workstation. Even with the leather shoes and the Saab, though, Lola could still see in him the river guide who fly-fished along the Grand Canyon, his arm moving gracefully, a beer stuck in the top pocket of his waders.

  “Okay, okay,” he said, after a moment. “How about the Japanese place?”

  “No,” said Lola. “Out.”

  “The Mexican place?”

  “You know what I mean, Emmett.”

  “Look,” said Emmett, coming toward her. “It's nothing great out there. You've been out. You have to wear the—”

  “The abaya. I know.”

  He set his face in a mask of calm. “Okay,” he said. “All right,” he said, “fine.”

  Emmett changed into clean clothes and Lola put on the long-sleeved black robe and headscarf. As they drove the Saab down the busy streets, Lola watched the men drinking tea outside dim cafes, the boys selling cigarettes. “We could have taken the bus,” she said, “for a little change of pace.” Emmett snorted.

  “They hate us here, don't they?” said Lola.

  “Of course they don't,” said Emmett. Then he added, “Well, some of them do. A few crazy ones.”

  “More than a few,” said Lola.

  “You know,” said Emmett, “I work with people who are very happy we're here. What I do matters to a lot of people.”

  Lola turned back to her husband. The anger she had nursed all day—maybe even for months—faded when she saw that he was biting back tears. “Emmett …,” she said.

  “Can't you be proud of me?” he said, staring at the un-paved road, where a cow was trying to cross the street. “Can't you just try?”

  The restaurant Emmett chose was a steak house, lit up like a Christmas tree. When Lola noted this, Emmett told her to keep her voice down. They were seated at a table set elaborately for six. Next to them, a large Saudi family had already been served their dinner. The women scooped food underneath their headscarves politely. Lola watched them as she squeezed into a chair, but they took no notice of her.

  “Come here,” said Emmett. “You're three seats away. And wearing that damn hood.”

  Lola moved closer, and Emmett put his hand on the fabric covering her knee. “Should we drink from all the glasses?” he said. “Should we eat off all the plates?”

  He was trying to be charming, and Lola smiled tightly. Not that Emmett could see. For all he knew, she was in tears underneath her headscarf.

  They ordered filet mignon and Cokes. They talked about Karen's baby shower, the time they'd gone skydiving, how a well-done steak felt like the tip of your nose when pressed. Finally, Lola put down her knife and fork. “Emmett,” she said, “we need to talk.”

  “Yeah,” said Emmett, “I know.”

  “I just don't—,” Lola began.

  “Hold on,” said Emmett. His eyes were the color of jade, with bursts of white around the irises. He blinked in the fluorescent light of the restaurant. There was something in his forehead, in the lines around his mouth: he was just as scared as she was. “You have to understand,” he said. “I've been in school my whole life up till now. I'm doing complicated, exciting work, and I love it.”

  Lola glanced around at the Saudi families, the glassware, the lights. “I don't want to be here,” she said. Lola thought about her father suddenly, understanding for the first time that he must have been trying to alleviate unbearable pain by abandoning them.

  Emmett looked right at her. “If you need to go home,” he said, “we'll go. I don't know what the hell I'll do for work, but okay. I'll quit. Is that what you want? I'll quit. There: I said it.”

  Lola did not feel joyful, as she had expected. She felt queasy, and excused herself. In the ladies' room, two Saudi women stood at the mirror. Above their dark bodies, their faces were bright, topped with elaborate hairdos. Precious stones glittered in their ears and around their necks. One applied very pink lipstick to her lips.

  There was a couch in the corner, and Lola sat down. She felt calm underneath the robe, with no skin exposed. She could walk out of the restaurant and into the street, joining the groups of people out for an evening stroll. She could take a cab to the airport, and fly to JFK. Nobody would notice her: she was just a blank expanse of cloth in the shape of a woman.

  Without warning, the lights in the bathroom went out. Lola heard her blood in her ears. The women at the mirror fell silent. As Lola's eyes adjusted to the darkness, she saw them putting their headscarves back on. They walked past Lola quickly, and she smelled perfume.

  She was alone. At prayer time, they cut the electricity, she knew that. But she imagined a man in the doorway of the bathroom. She imagined cold metal against her temple, a blade to her throat. The man would take pictures of her, afterward. He would post a video on the Internet.

  It occurred to Lola that if she and Emmett had a baby here, they could tell it the Jacuzzi tub was an indoor pool. A child would think Corazon loved it wholeheartedly, and not just because she was being paid. And when they were forced to evacuate (which they surely would be, sooner or later) the baby would know only that they were together—a family— and safe.

  Though she felt far from home or a hope of home, she made her decision. She was putting her faith in something, and he was sitting at a big table, too upset to eat his buttery baked potato. As she walked back to her husband, Lola thought about lying on her expensive sheets and holding a baby—their baby—to her breast. To the baby, Lola would smell like a mother, and the ridiculous chandelier would look like stars.

  The Blue Flame

  Sissy was allowed to visit when her first grandchild was six weeks old and the new family was falling apart. Emmett “had a big day at work” and nobody trusted Lola behind the wheel, so Sissy gamely took a taxi from the airport.

  “What brings you to Austin?” said the taxi driver, a fat man with a porkpie hat and a biography of Buddha on the dashboard.

  “My son just had a baby,” said Sissy. “A baby named Louis.”

  “Nice name,” said the driver, putting the car in gear and lurching toward the airport exit.

  “I suppose,” said Sissy. In truth, she thought the name was pretentious and strange. Louis? With all the wonderful— and masculine—names in her storied family, it bewildered Sissy that her son had seemingly picked a name out of the ether. (Emmett had been the name of Sissy's beloved father, might he rest in peace.) “He just looks like a Louis,” Emmett's wife, Lola, had said on the phone. “You know what I mean?”

  Sissy did not know. Furthermore, she thought this statement was ridic
ulous. A baby didn't look like anyone, not for at least six months; this was Sissy's belief. But she said, “Mmm!” to her daughter-in-law, and felt that saying “Mmm!” was both supportive and not telling a lie.

  Austin was about as hot as Midland, but much more urban. As they whizzed along the highway, Sissy took in the cranes, busy building the new condominium complexes some of her friends were investigating. She was not the only woman in Midland with grandchildren in Austin. Many University of Texas grads never left, falling awkwardly into some job or another. Sissy was very proud that her son had gone east for college, west for a doctorate, dabbled in the oil patch, and then returned to Texas as a triumphant (if poor) professor. Her son, a professor! (Her second-born, a disaster, but why dwell on the negative?) Sissy had loved mentioning to friends that she was off to see her grandbaby in Austin, which was the best city in Texas, especially if you were a tree-hugger, as Emmett was.

  The taxi deposited Sissy and her suitcase in front of a yellow house with green shutters. It was a real 1920s gingerbread house, Emmett had told her excitedly, on one of the rare occasions he had telephoned. He and Lola had bought a subscription to This Old House, Emmett said, and they were talking about building a white picket fence and adding an outdoor shower.

  Outdoor shower! This was before the baby, of course.

  Sissy hadn't even finished paying the taxi driver when the front door slammed open and there was Lola, who had once been beautiful. Of course, she was still carrying extra weight, even at six weeks, but the poor thing seemed to have misplaced her lipstick and hairbrush as well. “Welcome!” called Lola, with desperate cheer. In her arms (a bit flabby—had the girl never heard of push-ups?), Louis screamed bloody murder.

  “Heavens,” said Sissy, feigning love, which she knew would come with time, “is that my very first grandbaby?”

  Lola made a strangled assent and held the flailing infant toward Sissy, who quickly paid the driver, ran up the walkway, and took Louis in her arms. “Oh,” she said, gazing at the red, angry face.