The Lion is In

by Delia Ephron

  She dug the box out of the closet and began reading poetry again, romantic poets like Keats, Shelley, Alfred Noyes because he wrote “The Highwayman,” a fairy tale of passion and longing like nothing she would ever experience. There were others she loved: Tennyson, Yeats for his chaos and density, but especially Auden for his wisdom and pain. She loved one poem in particular that began, “‘O where are you going,’ said reader to rider, / ‘That valley is fatal where furnaces burn.’” It was about fear, which she was trying to confront, or, put another way, about being brave, which seemed so out of reach.

  She read the poetry secretly when Harry was out.

  She started bolting. The urge would come upon her—almost trancelike, a subconscious command over which she had no control. She’d take off her ring, place it on the mantel, leave the house, and start walking. Wishing that the world were flat and she might reach an edge to drop off.

  Eventually Harry would find her. She’d hear a car rolling slowly by her side. A tap of the horn. “Get in,” he’d say. And she would.

  33

  The next Sunday, when Tim is all alone at The Lion, after he’s cleaned and hosed the cage, Tracee strolls in. She’s pretty much figured out where Tim is and when, and she arrived during his final mop-up.

  “Hi,” says Tim.

  “Do you want to do it?”

  Tim drops the mop. He grabs Tracee and starts kissing her while at the same time trying to take off his shirt and hers.

  “Tim, wait.” Tracee pushes him away, stunned by his ardor and amazed at their chemistry. She feels like mush.

  “What?” says Tim.

  “I like a bed.”

  Tim grabs her hand and pulls Tracee through the parking lot to his car. He opens the door, she gets in, he slams it closed, tears around to the driver’s side, jumps in, and guns it, lickety-split, out of the parking lot.

  Tim drives like a maniac. He runs a red light, passes on the left, passes on the right, takes a shortcut through a gas station, blows through a stop sign. He is kissing Tracee while he drives and tries to keep an eye on the road. This involves attempting to see sideways and taking quick breaks from the kiss every few seconds or so.

  When they hear a siren, at first they think their passion has set off alarms.

  Then Tim realizes something is up and checks the rearview mirror. Behind them a patrol car flashes its lights.

  He pulls over.

  Tracee doesn’t quite realize what’s happening until the cop is at the window, peering in at them.

  “Hi, Tim,” says the cop, an older man with a tired voice.

  “Hi, Rudy.”

  Rudy leans down and takes in the view, front seat and back. “Who’s this?” he says of Tracee.

  “Sheila,” says Tracee.

  Tim is surprised by that but says nothing.

  “What’s going on?” says Rudy, although he’s got an idea, because they are both rumpled and flushed. Tracee’s cheeks are as pink as poppies. Tim’s face is practically on fire. “You ran a red light, you did not come to a full stop at a stop sign, you were going fifteen miles over the speed limit, you passed on the right. Plus I’d say you were driving recklessly. That’s five violations.”

  Tim can’t think of anything to say. Truth is, he can barely focus.

  “That’s your license,” says Rudy. “And your job. You teach driving. What kind of an example are you setting for young folks? How about your students? They look up to you.”

  Tim thinks about Debi, how she’s going for her driving test next week. Suppose she hears about this? Maybe she won’t pass. He feels like shit.

  “Get out of the car,” says Rudy. He leans down and says to Tracee, “Excuse us, Sheila.”

  Tim follows Rudy back to the patrol car. Rudy takes out a book and starts writing. “I don’t want to wreck your life, Tim. Or upset your mom. I’m just giving you one. For running a stop sign.”

  “Thanks, Rudy. Thanks.”

  Tim gets back in the car, sticks the ticket in the drink holder, and drives responsibly to the motel. The mood has changed. They ride in silence.

  “Do you still want to?” says Tim as he pulls into a space.

  “Do you?” says Tracee.

  “I’ve still got a hard-on. I had a hard-on the whole time I was talking to Rudy. Who has a hard-on when they’re about to get five moving violations?”

  Tracee starts giggling.

  They bolt from the car, race up the stairs, and tear off their shirts as they kiss their way into Tim’s room and fall on the bed.

  “Wait.” Tracee pushes him away.

  She jumps up and unzips her jeans. She pulls them off and stands there as cute as can be in her bra and thong.

  “Wow,” says Tim. He’s dizzy from the heat and the excitement and the sight of Tracee nearly naked. “Why’d you say your name was Sheila?”

  Tracee bursts into tears.

  “Oh, man, darn, shucks. I blew it. Why’d I say that? Why?” He slams his fist into the mattress. Slams it again and again and again while Tracee sinks down in a heap.

  “Is your name Sheila?” he asks.

  “No,” says Tracee, crying. “It’s Tracee.”

  He puts his arm around her and she weeps into his shoulder. He gazes with wonder at the little freckles on her pale and trembling shoulders. Her breasts press against him as her chest heaves. He wants to be comforting, that’s his noble intention, he takes his role seriously, but his penis, hard as a rock, is getting harder.

  Not wanting to let go, even a little, he reaches out with his unoccupied hand, grabs his pole, and uses it to clamp a ten-pack of tissues off the bureau and flip it his way. “Whatever it is, you’d better get it off your chest,” he says, and ends up opening one pack after another. Recounting her unhappiness unleashes nonstop tears, sniffling, and blowing.

  “The Orioles were ahead,” she says. “Which seemed like a sign. It was the seventh-inning stretch and we had really good seats in the all-you-can-eat picnic perch. J.C. could really pack it away.”

  “J.C.?” says Tim.

  “J.C. is this guy—he was my boyfriend, steady, nobody else for ages, like, five years. Sometimes he kind of strayed, not his fault because women were so hot for him, but anyway, we were at the game and I was keeping my eyes glued to Diamond Vision, thinking that any minute it was going to light up for the whole world to see, ‘Tracee, will you marry me? J.C.’ when J.C. went to get a hot dog. He sent a text: ‘It’s over.’ There I was, looking for my future on Diamond Vision, and instead it came as a puny text message. He never came back.”

  She hiccups a few times and Tim thinks he has never seen anyone look so cute hiccuping. He opens another mini tissue pack for her.

  “I had my wedding dress all picked out, because I was sure J.C. was going to propose. I said to Lana that I had to try on that dress anyway. It was like it had my name on it, you know? So a few days later we went to the store and I tried it on. And I don’t know what came over me, I just ran out of the store and jumped in the car. Lana tore out after me and said, ‘What in the world are you doing, Tracee?’ and I said, ‘Hand me the car keys, Lana,’ and she did. She handed over the keys and I drove. We took off the hell out of Fosberg and ended up here.”

  “Fosberg?” says Tim.

  “Maryland. It’s near Baltimore. I kind of have kleptomaniac tendencies. There’s probably an all-points bulletin out for me.”

  “For stealing a wedding dress?”

  Tracee picks at some crumpled cellophane ripped off the tissue packs while she thinks about the stolen diamond necklace now stashed under stuff in the bureau drawer.

  “A wedding dress?” Tim continues to mull it over. “I don’t know. I don’t think so. Although it sure is beautiful.”

  “It was a designer dress. The most expensive in the store. By far.”

  “Like how much?”

  “One thousand and ninety-five dollars.”

  Tim makes a sound like he’s choking.

  “A lot, huh?
” She leans over and her mostly bare butt pops up, nearly in Tim’s face. His breath shortens. She yanks her purse up and onto the bed, reaches in, and pulls out sunglasses with the sales tag still dangling. “I scarfed these at the P ’n S. I never wore them. I felt too guilty.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it.”

  “See how bad I am.” She opens her purse wide and shows him all her lipsticks, glosses, and mascara wands, enough to open a drugstore. “These aren’t from here.”

  “You’re not bad,” says Tim. “No way.” He speaks so emphatically that she believes him. He stops her tears.

  Of course, believing that won’t last long. How can it? She’s been ignored and neglected since forever, and what is she good at? Shoplifting. Still, it’s the loveliest, lightest feeling while it’s there. I’m not bad. No way.

  “How’d they know your name? I mean, at the store. You walked in, tried on a wedding dress, escaped with it.”

  “Everyone knows everyone in Fosberg.”

  Tim thinks about it all. “So that’s the whole story, why you’re here, as far as you and Lana are concerned?”

  Tracee tells the truth, simply not the whole truth. “As far as me and Lana.” She’s careful to emphasize the “and” to ease her conscience. “Do you still want to go to bed with me?”

  He jumps her, and in a second they are rolling around skin-to-skin.

  Their lovemaking is great. Tim adores every inch of her and spends time exploring—stroking her breasts, sucking her nipples, kissing the curve of her hip, her belly, as well as a sweet spot at the nape of her neck before moving on to more exciting territory. He is considerate, insatiable, and kind of crazy. They invent a few positions, and he refuses to shut his eyes because he can’t believe his good fortune. Whenever Tracee opens hers, there is Tim gazing at her with the most obvious appreciation. It’s a turn-on.

  She is happily snuggled in postcoital bliss when Tim disentangles. “I got Debi at four.” He mimics steering a car. “Stay here as long as you want. Hell, stay here forever.”

  He pulls on his jeans and shirt and goes into the bathroom, where he throws some water on his face, towels off, and returns to the room.

  Tracee is dozing, hugging her pillow. She opens her eyes, lazily stretches, and wiggles her fingers at him.

  “I just want to say,” says Tim, “that I love you and I’ll marry you right now if you want.” He walks out, leaving Tracee startled and deeply moved.

  34

  A couple of weeks later Tucker gets his badge back.

  “I hope I’m not making a mistake,” says the chief. He hands him his badge, his gun, and his car keys. They stand there squinting into the sun as if they’re outside a saloon in Dodge City. “I don’t need to remind you of your responsibilities.”

  “No, sir,” says Tucker. “Thank you for giving me another chance. I’ll make you happy you did.”

  First thing Tucker does is drive to the gas station to get his patrol car filled up. There he sees Lana’s car. No coincidence, he knows it’s there and that it’s her car—everyone in town knows that the car at Bill’s station belongs to the waitress at The Lion. That’s why Tucker drove to this station instead of the Texaco, which is closer. He strikes up a conversation with Bill, who tells him he’s replaced the door on Lana’s Mustang and is waiting for parts to replace the fender.

  “Very nice lady,” says Bill. “Got a drinking problem—well, had one—but she showed up a couple of weeks ago and put down three hundred of what she owes so I could start the repair, and she picked up the check when my wife and me went to see the circus act.”

  Tucker scopes out the license plate. Maryland. He jots the number down. “Do you know her last name?”

  “Don’t you?” says Bill. “She ran off with your patrol car, so I figured…”

  “I was toasted.”

  “She goes to AA. Maybe you ought to think about joining up.”

  “Just give me her last name, okay?”

  “Just a suggestion. I’ll get the receipt.”

  As they walk to the office, Tucker changes the subject, asking about the difference between real oil and synthetic oil. He doesn’t want any more personal advice from Bill.

  “Here’s her name. Lana Byrne.” Bill shows Tucker the receipt. “Don’t know why you’re investigating her. What about the other?”

  “Tracee?” says Tucker.

  “No. The lady with the lion. That’s a wonder.”

  35

  The next morning, on their daily walk, Rita and Marcel leave The Lion, turn right instead of left, and visit the tree. Marcel sprints up the trunk. Rita, shocked, nearly drops the rope. He settles with his haunches anchored against a large knot in the limb, his paws drop to the branch below and rest there for balance. When they planted the tree Rita forgot to consider the view. Marcel’s “savanna” is the parking lot and the two-lane highway beyond. She didn’t consider how to get him down from the tree either. She hasn’t read a thing about how lions leave trees. Will he leap? And what might that mean? Will he refuse to leave? She worries that she has gotten him into a pickle of some sort, or gotten herself into one.

  After sitting for a while, Marcel stretches out along the long limb and hangs his head over, looking down at her. It seems to Rita that he is smiling.

  She waits until, in her judgment, he is extremely mellow, and gives the rope a tug. Marcel jumps down, landing surprisingly lightly.

  “You are remarkable,” she tells him.

  36

  I want to hold you close under the rain. I wanna kiss your smile and feel your pain.”

  Clayton has had the jukebox rigged and the place wired. Julio’s voice can now be heard in the parking lot. He is relieved that Julio turns out to sing in English, and on the jukebox Clayton discovers a song he likes, “When You Tell Me That You Love Me,” Dolly Parton and Julio in a duet. Julio must be okay if he’s singing with Dolly.

  Tim has taken photos of Rita and Marcel. He hangs a bulletin board outside the entrance with the photos blown up and tacked on. For a festive feel he sets out pots of red and pink geraniums.

  Marcel is happy. Anyone can tell. He’s often close to the bars, watching, his ears flicking, his tail scooped up, following the daily activities—setup, cleanup, deliveries, chatter, and especially Rita. She sweeps in front of the cage, not because the floor is dirty but because she got it into her head that a broom whisking back and forth would amuse Marcel, and it seems to. He follows it up and down, keeping his nose to the ground as if the broom is an animal he’s tracking. She slides the broom, which has stiff bristles, through the bars. Marcel twists and turns as she gives his coat a brush and scratch. He’s noisier too—Rita loves listening to his intermittent, unprovoked, and undoubtedly friendly gargle-y grunts.

  “Marcel, your voice is beautiful,” she tells him, and thinks that his chest puffs up. “Although,” she says to Lana and Tracee, “that’s not supposed to be a good sign, puffing up—that might happen just before a lion charges, but not with Marcel.”

  On their morning walk he often gives her a playful bump or rub, and while they lounge in the tall grass he lies very near so their bodies graze.

  Most afternoons Rita simply keeps him company, pulling a chair close to the cage, sipping Lipton tea while Marcel rests, his eyes shuttered in lazy contentment.

  Tracee and Tim. Tim and Tracee. They have quickly become inseparable, wrapping themselves around each other every chance they get, giggling at private jokes. Tracee is delighted to discover that Tim can do accents. His imitation of a French veterinarian examining a duck puts her in stitches.

  Every day Tracee wakes up happy in Tim’s arms.

  She avoids stores, worrying that the urge to steal will come over her, and mostly, between living at the Tulip Tree and working at The Lion, this is not difficult. She pushes the diamond necklace out of her head. It’s as if someone else stole it and she is as innocent as a downy newborn chick.

  She trumpets Tim’s accomplish
ments to Lana and Rita—how industrious he is, how every single one of his students passed the driving test with a grade of ninety or over, how he gives some of his earnings to his mom.

  “He’s a rube,” says Lana, unimpressed.

  “So am I,” says Tracee. She invites Lana to come to Clarkson’s Furniture Land with them. “Tim says North Carolina is the furniture capital of America.”

  It seems to Lana that Tracee quotes him nonstop.

  “He says, ‘No way can you be in North Carolina and not visit a furniture store, because they are awesomely large.’ This one, Clarkson’s, takes up more than a mile and has to be seen to be believed.”

  “Steal me a couch,” says Lana.

  Tracee shuts up like someone slapped her.

  “Does he know?” says Lana.

  “I don’t do it anymore.”

  “It’s that easy?”

  Tracee puts her hands over her ears. She doesn’t want to hear. She wants to believe what she wants to believe, but when Tim bounds up the stairs after buying a six-pack of assorted throat lozenges because she coughed once or twice the night before, she tells him she doesn’t want to go. “Suppose I misbehave?”

  “There’s not one thing in Clarkson’s small enough to fit in your purse,” Tim assures her. “These lemon ones are best. They’re magic on your throat. My mom swears by them.”

  He unwraps one. Tracee opens her mouth. He pops it in and watches while she sucks. “See what I mean?”

  She kisses him, transferring the lozenge from her mouth to his. “I’ll have another,” she says.

  Tim offers to take Lana into town and pick her up on their return. She declines. She doesn’t want to risk bumping into Tucker. Clayton has told her he’s back on the force. She hasn’t told Tracee.

  She doesn’t want to cross paths with any AA members either. She hasn’t been back and has no intention of ever returning. Sometimes when she lies in bed at night, she blasts the police chief all over again and berates each AA member for collaborating.