The Lion is In

by Delia Ephron

  “This is weird but I was wondering… I know we don’t ask questions like this—I mean, I know this is not the way AA works, but I’m not that experienced as a sober person. Could I ask something?” Everyone waits for more. Lana takes this as permission and unloads. “I’ve been feeling strange—not high like high, maybe high. Bender high. I’m sober, but… how is that possible?”

  “I can get that way from a treadmill,” says a woman.

  Lana shakes her head.

  “You could be bi,” says the man with the piercings.

  “Bi?”

  “Polar.”

  “Have you taken any mood-altering substances?” asks the leader.

  “Not really. If you don’t count sugar. We’ve been on the road, in a hurry. I’ve been taking care of my friend, barely any sleep for two days.” That is the most she’ll say about their bolt out of Maryland. “And it’s been like…” She sits there struggling, trying to sort it. “Okay, it’s been like if I’m happy, I’m like great happy, it’s a total turn-on, but if I’m anything else… anything else, like the opposite, bugged, pissed, that feels fantastic too. It’s all”—she slices the air—“buzzed. Could I be on a bender but sober?”

  “What about medications?” asks the leader, jolting the entire membership into participation. Celebrex, Xanax, Ambien, Paxil, Ritalin. Everyone offers a troublemaker.

  “No meds,” says Lana.

  “If you’re clean, you’re not on a bender,” says the leader.

  Lana nods as if she accepts this, but she is not so sure.

  Later a paper bag is passed for donations. Lana pretends to put money in, but instead takes out several bills, concealing them in her fist.

  When she leaves, the guy with the piercings is having a smoke, hanging out on the sidewalk. “I’m loitering,” he says with a smile, revealing what she did not see in the meeting, a gold tooth.

  “Do you have a phone I can borrow?”

  He pulls one from his back pocket and hands it over. “Addiction morphs,” he says.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Addiction morphs.”

  “I’m not sure what you mean. It sounds depressing.”

  “It kind of is.”

  “‘Addiction morphs’? Does that have something to do with what I asked in the meeting?”

  He tilts his head. “Could be.”

  “I’ll have to think about that. This call I want to make isn’t local. Does your plan include long distance?”

  “No problem.”

  Lana dials. She moves away for privacy and closes her eyes as she hears the ring. Once, twice. Her stomach is churning. Is he home? Yes, she hears the pickup and her father’s voice. “Hello?”

  “Dad? Dad, please.” Don’t hang up, she’s going to beg, but before she can, she hears another click. He’s gone.

  Lana hands the phone back.

  “Are you okay?” the guy with the piercings asks.

  “I’m fine.” She pretends to scan the street for where she needs to go, although she already knows, and heads to the café.

  10

  Clayton surprises Tracee and Rita when they are investigating the kitchen, hunting for something more substantial than a bar snack. “Hands up,” he says. Tracee screams, which makes him laugh. “What are you doing here?” he asks.

  “Who are you?” says Rita.

  “I own the place. My name’s Clayton. That’s my refrigerator you’re snooping in.”

  “Our car broke down. We needed shelter,” says Rita. “I hope you don’t mind.”

  By way of an answer Clayton blows his nose. He fights an endless battle with allergies, which are much worse in spring and the beginning of summer. His pale blue eyes water.

  He’s in the neighborhood of fifty, although he could be a lot older and he could be younger. Hard to tell, because he lost interest in maintenance years ago. His appearance suggests that he fell out of bed and dressed in the dark in his usual sweatpants and a sweatshirt. His gray hair, unkempt, sticks up in points. He frequently runs his hands through it backward and forward. He needs a shave.

  The fact that he’s a slob relaxes Tracee. She couldn’t articulate that, doesn’t exactly know why he doesn’t seem like a threat—someone who might care about who she is and why she’s here—but the reason is that he’s too much of a mess.

  “Your lion destroyed my veil.” She leads him to the cage and shows him. Bits are now strewn from one end of the cage to the other. Scraps are caught in the lion’s mane. Crystals from the crown lie scattered, looking like nothing more than drops of water.

  “How did that happen?” says Clayton.

  “He was wearing it.”

  “Wearing it? You mean on his head?”

  “Like he was a bride. Wait till Lana gets here.”

  “What’s going to happen then?”

  “She’ll discuss it with you.”

  “Discuss what?”

  “Excuse me,” says Rita. “I was wondering how the veil got on the lion’s head in the first place. Before he mangled it.”

  “That I couldn’t say, ma’am, because I don’t believe it was on his head. How the hell could that happen? I didn’t see it. Sounds wonky.”

  Lana turns up at that moment, having hitchhiked back in a truck full of eggs. She approaches suspiciously—noting the front doors ajar and, in the lot, a spiffy white Chevrolet Bel Air convertible with the top down (vintage, chrome polished to the max). Something Elvis might have driven.

  She hovers at the door, but Clayton spies her and waves her in.

  The Lion is huge—something she hadn’t realized in the anxiety of the night before and early morning. It seats a ton of people, perhaps as many as two hundred, at small mismatched round tables with mismatched chairs. The lion is front and center. His cage, as large as a two-car garage, extends nearly to the back wall. The whole place is hung with old movie posters. Some films Lana knows, like Easy Rider, and some she doesn’t, like Blood Sisters. Neon signs also decorate the room, mostly bar motifs—cocktail glasses or advertisements for various beer brands—although mixed in is an occasional misfit, like a palm tree.

  “Finally,” says Tracee.

  Lana hands her a paper bag. “Grilled cheese sandwiches.”

  Tracee digs in the bag and hands one to Rita. She rips off the foil and takes a big bite. “God, I’m starved. This is Clayton. He owns the place.”

  “How do you do? I’m Lana.” She puts out a hand. They shake.

  “How’s the car?” says Rita.

  “We’re going to need at least nine hundred dollars to fix it. Maybe more.”

  Tracee jabs her.

  “What?”

  She leans in and whispers, “He owes me.”

  “The veil,” says Clayton, in case Lana isn’t following.

  “It cost at least a hundred dollars,” says Tracee. “Tell him.”

  “You should reimburse Tracee for her loss.”

  “Here’s a little thing to remember,” says Clayton. “Don’t leave something you care about in the same room as a lion.”

  “The veil and the lion weren’t in the same room,” says Lana. “Technically a cage is a separate room.”

  “Not where I come from.”

  “Excuse me, but where did the lion come from?” says Rita.

  “The circus was done with him. So I got him cheap. I figured it would pep things up.”

  Rita looks at the lion. “What’s his name?”

  “Marcel,” says Clayton. “Not my idea. He came that way.”

  “Marcel,” says Rita sweetly.

  “Don’t go thinking he’s a kitty.” Clayton pushes up his sleeve and shows them his meaty arm. On the inside a gigantic scar runs from his biceps to his elbow. “I’m not giving you a penny for that wedding veil,” he tells Tracee. “And you’re wearing one of my employee’s shirts. It’s worth, if you include the special monogram, at least twenty bucks. Plus you spent the night here. So we’re even.”

  “Do you need any he
lp?” says Lana. “Can we waitress?”

  “What?” says Tracee.

  “Excuse me.” Lana drags her by the arm far enough away that they can speak privately. “We’ve got to get the car back. If we waitress, we’ll make enough. We’ll be out of here in three weeks.”

  Tracee considers doubtfully. “Suppose someone finds me?”

  “Like Rita said, it’s nowhere. Course, nowhere long enough eventually becomes somewhere.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Ignore that,” says Lana. “Being sober makes me think more than I used to. Three weeks, Tracee, tops, I promise, and we’ll be gone.”

  They return to the table where Clayton has been sitting, rocking backward in his chair, his arms folded across his chest, not saying a word to Rita.

  “So?” says Lana.

  He points at them. “I’ll take one of you.”

  “Can’t you use us both?” says Lana.

  “Nope.”

  “How about if we split the job?” says Lana. “We’ll both work but pay us one salary.”

  “Lana,” protests Tracee.

  “We’ll make it up in tips. Especially if you wear the wedding dress to waitress.”

  “To waitress? I have to wear my wedding dress to waitress?”

  “I like that,” says Clayton. “It might add a little romance. I’m sorry, ma’am,” he tells Rita. “The Lion needs sprucing up and you don’t fit the bill. You’re too old.”

  “That’s mean,” says Lana. “I don’t even think it’s legal. You could be discriminating.”

  “I’m surely discriminating. Why not file a lawsuit?”

  “I might.”

  “She was prelaw,” says Tracee.

  “Then what? You flunked out?”

  From the silence Clayton realizes he’s nailed it.

  Rita gets up and moves her chair into the table, as if to erase evidence of her presence. “He’s not saying anything I don’t know. I am old. I never was young, I mean in years, yes, but not really. Besides, I’m heading somewhere.” She looks at the lion. “Good-bye to you, Marcel.”

  “We’ll split the job three ways,” says Lana. “One job, three ways.”

  “Okay,” says Clayton.

  “That is, if you want to,” says Lana. “If you’re not due wherever you’re going right away.”

  “I could stay,” says Rita.

  “But you do the busing,” Clayton tells Rita. “Busing only.”

  “Would you mind if we slept here?” says Lana. “Until we can afford a room somewhere.”

  “Little Tim will put you up.”

  “We don’t know little Tim.”

  “He’s right behind you. Tim, this is Lana and Tracee, and what’d you say your name was?”

  “Rita,” says Rita.

  They all turn to see, standing in the doorway, a beanstalk of a young man of voting age and then some with a face fresh and wholesome enough to advertise breakfast cereal. His long neck cranes toward them, because he’s a bit nearsighted (undiagnosed) and more fascinated by them than they are by him. The women are struck primarily by his hair, which is that dusty pale orange known as strawberry blond. Trimmed short on the sides, it springs on top into unruly locks that flop every which way. His plaid shirt with snaps for buttons is neatly tucked into jeans that he hitches up when he wants to impress. He does that now.

  “I suggested you might put these ladies up,” says Clayton.

  Tim smiles with such amazement and something else—possibly gratitude—that he might be a farmer who, after a drought, feels the first splash of rain.

  As Lana, Tracee, and Rita gather their thoughts and their purses, Clayton hits speed dial on his phone. “Marybeth, you’re fired. I’ve got two babes and an old lady doing your job and you can go rip off some other sucker.”

  11

  Tim leads the way to his car, a compact two-door with a sign on the roof: WILSON’S DRIVING SCHOOL. He unlocks the trunk and spreads out a blanket for Tracee to lay her dress on, not realizing until that moment that the pile of silky white she is carrying is a wedding dress. He mistook it for a fancy curtain. Now he makes sense of her outfit. Her red shirt with The Lion on the pocket he recognized—he has one too. Her skirt—nearly transparent, in ruffles down to her ankles—must be underwear. A crinoline. He’s heard of crinolines although not actually seen one.

  He opens the passenger door, pulls a lever to flip the seat forward, allowing Rita and Lana to get into the backseat, releases the lever to flip the front seat back into place, and waits while Tracee gets in front. He makes certain that her organdy underskirt is completely inside the car before closing the door and hurrying around to the driver’s side.

  They drive along a country road, past verdant rolling hills dotted with clusters of very tall firs and an occasional field planted with rows of low leafy green plants. “Soybeans,” Tim tells them. “You comfortable back there?” he asks Lana and Rita.

  “We’re fine,” says Lana. “Do you teach driving?”

  Tim nods. “Wilson’s Driving School. Wilson’s me. Tim Wilson.” He steals a look at Tracee, who smiles. “I take care of Mr. M too.”

  “You mean the sexist pig?” says Lana.

  “Excuse me, ma’am?”

  “Clayton,” says Lana.

  “Oh, I do cleanup there and anything extra. But I mean Marcel. I call him Mr. M. Feed him. Also I work at the Pick ’n Save.”

  “That lion ate my veil,” says Tracee.

  “Your veil?”

  “He owes me money.”

  “Who?”

  “Clayton. It’s his lion.”

  “Do you have any idea how the veil got on Marcel’s head?” says Rita.

  “Huh?” says Tim.

  “The veil was on his head,” says Tracee.

  He turns into a gravel driveway at a sign, TULIP TREE MOTEL, a two-story brick building. Two white columns, whose peeling paint is visible from the car, border a yellow door shaped like a tulip. The rest of the building stretches out to the right like a long train. A white wooden staircase leads to a second-floor balcony that extends the entire length of the motel. All rooms are accessible from the outside.

  “We can’t pay for a motel,” says Lana.

  “It’s not a motel,” says Tim.

  Tracee opens the car door to discover that Tim has sped around to her side and is offering a hand to help her out. He also helps out Lana and Rita, then takes the wedding dress out of the trunk and carries it carefully in his arms as if it’s breakable.

  “Are you married?” he asks Tracee.

  Tracee blinks rapidly, batting back tears.

  “I’m sorry,” says Tim. “He died, huh? Your fiancé. He died right before the wedding. I knew you had a tragedy. I could see it in your eyes.”

  Tears stream down Tracee’s face.

  “I’ve got tissues,” says Tim. “Fish ’em out of my pocket.”

  Tracee fetches a mini tissue pack from his back jeans pocket.

  “Keep the whole pack. I get them for next to nothing at the P ’n S.”

  “I’m not wearing my wedding dress to waitress,” Tracee tells Lana.

  They follow Tim up the staircase to the second floor, careful to heed his warning not to touch the railing because they might get splinters. “It used to be a motel but no one came. The owner turned it into… I don’t know exactly what you’d call this. I guess rooms.”

  “How many do you have?” says Lana.

  “One.” He opens the door to number seventeen. “Welcome to my place. Make yourself at home.”

  The three women look in. A double bed with a pine bedstead takes up most of the space; the faded calico wallpaper curls at the seams. There’s a wicker armchair painted red with broken bits on the arms and an old small TV. Various necessities from the Pick ’n Save are lined up on the bureau—a three-pound box of caramel creams, Ritz crackers, an extra-large jar of Excedrin, a giant jar of Peter Pan peanut butter, a four-pack of paper towels, a twelve-
pack of Life Savers.

  “No way,” says Lana, assessing the accommodations.

  “But I won’t get in the way,” says Tim.

  “Do you get headaches?” says Tracee.

  “No.”

  “What’s all the Excedrin for?”

  “Preventative.”

  “How could you not get in our way?” says Lana.

  “May I have one?” asks Tracee.

  “Help yourself. Anything here, help yourself.” He slides open a closet. The door comes off its runner. He puts it back on the tracks and hangs up the wedding dress. “There’s a fridge here with soda if you get thirsty.” He taps it with his foot.

  “It’s just for one night,” says Rita.

  Lana and Tracee are surprised by her cheerful agreeability. “Well,” Rita points out, “we’re sure to make enough in one night to get a room here to ourselves. How much could it be? Tim, would you mind sleeping in the bathtub?”

  “There is no bathtub,” says Tim. “There’s a shower. I’ll sleep there.”

  Lana sets down her purse. “This is very kind of you.”

  12

  Lana has showered and is relaxing in the chair, her wet hair wrapped in a very small hand towel that keeps coming untucked. Tim and Tracee hang out on the bed, sitting up against the rickety backboard. The TV is on, tuned to Family Feud.

  Tracee daydreams about her diamond necklace. She misses it. Her fingers are itching to touch it, but there has not been a moment for secrecy.

  “Look how heavy that man is,” says Lana, disturbing her reverie.

  Tracee focuses. He is pretty darn fat, this man who is head of the Dalton family and is trying to answer the question “What’s the most common thing to lose on a vacation?” Luggage and hotel keys have already been mentioned. He’s racking his brain and coming up empty.

  “Your kid,” says Lana, answering for him.

  “That’s a good one,” says Tim.

  “Remember that guy on our block who went on the space diet?” says Tracee.

  “Jim Bonny,” says Lana.

  “The doctor put him on space bars,” Tracee tells Tim, “these things astronauts eat. A meal would come along and he’d pick a different bar. I don’t know what they were exactly. From eating these things and nothing else you drop, like, a ton of weight in a flash, but it puts your body into some sort of unnatural state. I think it’s called ‘tosis.’”