The Lion is In

by Delia Ephron

  “Spend the day with me,” says Rita as Lana stubbornly stares out the window.

  “It’s too hot,” says Lana.

  “I know. I’m going to sprinkle some water on Marcel. See if he likes it. I know I would. We’re practicing a dance.”

  Lana shakes her head. She’s sick of the bar. Detests the smell of the liquor. Has run out of improvement projects. Sees visions of her former self nightly. That hideous Candy, whom Lana waylaid and tried to save her first night on the job, following her into the ladies’ room, drinks herself into a stupor twice a week. Lana takes it personally. Tracee got her into this mess and now Tracee’s gone wiggy over a guy who thinks visiting furniture stores is a fun way to spend a Sunday. She could ask Clayton for a ride to the pond, but she knows if she relaxes next to the water in that calm, beautiful wood, her mind will veer right to her dad and how he doesn’t want anything to do with her.

  After Tim and Tracee drive off, taking Rita with them to drop her at The Lion, Lana finds herself walking into the motel office.

  Marlene is reclining on the Barcalounger, looking like an inflatable raft on which one could set out to sea. Dressed in her usual outfit, shorts and a shrunken tank, with the black knit cap pulled down to her brows, she’s watching the Food Network, Paula Dean. The room, lit by a dim ceiling fixture, smells of sardines, which Marlene is eating from the can, swiping her mouth with a paper napkin after every swallow. All the yellowing blackout shades are lowered over the windows. The air conditioner, which whirs and rattles loudly, keeping the place icy, works a million times better than the contraption in Lana’s room.

  Lana hoists herself onto the counter, swings her legs over to Marlene’s side, and stares at the TV.

  “Who said you could watch?” says Marlene.

  “You’ve got cable. Our TV sucks. There’s zero reception, in case you forgot.”

  Marlene raises a tubby arm, points the remote at the TV, and hits mute. She seems to consider saying something but doesn’t. She hits mute again and Paula’s voice, laced with “y’all,” “hon,” and “shug,” resumes mid-sentence.

  “Paula Dean’s a fake,” says Lana. “A big fat phony.”

  “Mind your business.”

  “She’s on television. She’s everyone’s business.”

  “Paula is a hero,” says Marlene.

  “Excuse me?”

  On the TV Paula unwraps a hunk of cream cheese, drops it in a bowl, dumps in a scoop of sugar, and talks over the hum of the mixer about cheesecake.

  “How is she a hero?”

  “Take a hike,” says Marlene.

  “Come on, I want to know.”

  “She used to be like me. Now she’s a conglomerate.”

  Lana laughs. “How is she like you?”

  “Agoraphobic, smarty-pants. That’s someone who never wants to go out.”

  Agoraphobic. It doesn’t register for a moment; then Lana takes in the cavelike atmosphere, a room that hasn’t seen sun since God knows when. She jumps down from the counter, tugs on the shade, and it retracts with a snap.

  “Hey,” says Marlene.

  The drive to Clarkson’s Furniture Land, normally an hour and a half, takes two because of some county fair traffic. Tracee and Tim take the scenic route, all back roads, past neatly planted fields of soybeans and tobacco, sunflower farms, split-rail fences, and mini-forests of firs. They stop for tangy barbecue, pulled-pork sandwiches, and get sidetracked having sex in a not entirely hidden duck blind that Tim knows about. As they come around a curve, the gigantic three-story building surprises them. Tim laughs out loud at Tracee’s shock, because built right into the facade, spanning from the second story to the third, is a fancy wood-and-glass cabinet tall enough for a giant’s house.

  Tracee poses in front of the building. Tim crouches down and snaps a photo, aiming the lens up to get the freakily large armoire in the background. “Smile,” he says, which is unnecessary, because Tracee is always smiling at Tim.

  Lana yanks a second shade. It spins up. Sunlight pours in. Marlene flails, trying to bounce to a sitting position. She is helplessly horizontal unless she pushes the correct buttons, one to lower the footrest and the other to raise the back, but in her panic has forgotten to do it. Lana snatches her knit hat, pulls it right off her head, grabs Marlene’s purse, a large bubblegum-pink plastic number. She smacks the door and, leaving it ajar, strolls into the empty parking lot, a flat, open space perfectly designed to send an agoraphobe into the stratosphere of anxiety.

  Lana waves the purse. “Come and get it.”

  Marlene peeks out. Usually when she leaves the motel, her son pulls up right to the door, thereby allowing her to scoot into his car. She hasn’t actually walked into the parking lot in years. She hasn’t walked anywhere.

  Lana twirls Marlene’s hat on her finger, holding it high, teasing her. “Come on, take a few baby steps.” Marlene lowers her head and charges.

  Lana turns tail and runs. She’s faster than Marlene, who suddenly swerves away and up the motel steps, grunting and swearing. She gets to Lana’s room, barges in, and reappears carrying the TV. It’s heavy, but hefty Marlene is strong as an ox. “You hate it,” she screams. “Eat it.” She heaves the television over the railing. There’s a stunning split second of silence while the set is in flight. It crashes on the concrete, fantastically loudly, cracking open. Metal and glass fly in every direction.

  At that moment, having forgotten some scribbled notes for her dance with Marcel as well as some paper towel rolls for his karate trick, Rita pulls into the parking lot driving Clayton’s Chevy Bel Air with the top down. She’s small for the car; it almost seems as if a child is driving it. She doesn’t notice the wreckage because she’s concentrating on making the turn—even though there’s power steering, it’s vintage power steering, and that takes a lot more muscle than modern power steering. Besides, driving Clayton’s pride and joy is a responsibility. Since Rita has rejected him, she’d feel especially awful if she wrecked his car too.

  She gets out and within a few steps feels the crunch of glass under her shoes. Looking more widely around, she realizes the lot is strewn with large and small hunks of debris. What she initially takes for a large laundry bag on the balcony is actually Marlene on the floor in a crumple. Lana stands at the far end of the motel holding a purse and hat that Rita recognizes as Marlene’s. It doesn’t take a genius to conclude that Lana is not an innocent bystander.

  Marlene scoots along the balcony on her rump and descends the stairs scooching from step to step.

  Stepping carefully through the rubble, Rita meets her at the bottom, helps her up, and escorts her back to the motel office as Lana shouts at Marlene, “You owe me. Because of me you left the room.” Rita then goes upstairs, collects the stuff she needs, closes the door, which is now askew, and comes back down. “Meet me at the car,” she says to Lana, taking the purse and hat from her. She delivers them to the office, opening the door only enough to slip them inside.

  “It turns out she has red hair,” says Lana as Rita stashes the paper towels in the backseat and slides behind the wheel. “Dyed magenta hair. Didn’t you always wonder what was under that hat?”

  Rita reaches over and squeezes Lana’s shoulder, and Lana realizes that Rita has tears in her eyes.

  They drive the familiar route back to the bar without speaking. When they can see the skeleton tree in the distance, Rita pulls over and stops the car. “It’s not working.”

  “What?” says Lana.

  “You.”

  Rita sits there tapping her fingers together, thinking about it, and then rubs her eyes. “You have to let go of the pain you’re carrying around.”

  “It’s just the bar. I’m stuck here.”

  “You need a better personality, that’s the truth. All this raging and yelling. The mean stuff. It has to stop. You have to give up your anger and your guilt and all your sadness. You have to give it up to Marcel.”

  Lana is struck dumb.

  “I spen
t years of Sundays in church listening to Harry—”

  “Marcel? Hello? Earth to Rita.”

  Rita continues blithely. “Harry would stand up there in that pulpit waving his arms, ranting and raving about sin and redemption, and I would be the proper minister’s wife, watching raptly, wondering why anyone would think there was a God if he had Harry representing him.” She presses her hand against Lana’s cheek. “When I got in the cage with Marcel…” Rita thinks about the first time, the door clanging shut behind her, gazing into the soulful depths of Marcel’s eyes. “When I did that, I discovered what it meant to be at peace. Marcel is a force.”

  “I’m not getting in the cage with Marcel.”

  “Of course. It’s not necessary.”

  “Marcel is going to be my higher power?”

  “Yes.”

  The sheer size and volume at Clarkson’s are astounding. Furniture of every fashion in stylish groupings as far as the eye can see. Living rooms, dining rooms, breakfast nooks, cozy dens. Fancy beds layered with shiny duvets, coverlets, and quilts. Sexy beds with black silk sheets. More throw pillows than Tracee has seen in her life. Tailored, modern, and masculine spaces, others as frilly and feminine as a petticoat. Bunk beds and cribs ready and waiting.

  Clarkson’s aims to satisfy every fantasy and create some Tracee didn’t know she had. One step inside and she balks.

  “What’s wrong?”

  She looks like a terrified calf.

  Tim whispers, “You’re safe with me.”

  She shakes her head.

  “Do you want to leave?”

  “I wish I could live here,” she tells him.

  Tim takes her by the hand and leads her to a glossy mahogany table and matching buffet that Tracee thinks are fancy enough for the White House. He pulls out a chair in matching wood, with curved legs, an arched back, and a needlepoint seat cushion. She sits and he pushes her chair in. No one has ever pulled out a chair for Tracee before. “How many children do you want?” she asks.

  He takes the chair at the other end as if they are mother and father with a brood in between. “I guess, I don’t know, maybe three.”

  “Me too,” says Tracee.

  They move from one arrangement to another. Tracee rests her feet on an ottoman with carved frog feet; she opens every single compartment of an Oriental desk. They play a game: “What if…” “If, say, we were furnishing a house.” Tracee vetoes anything molded in plastic—too outer space. Tim agrees. He likes wicker. Of all the things in Clarkson’s, what Tracee loves the most is a glamorous white leather couch that has a corner in it—on one side it’s longer and on the other shorter. “It’s called a sectional,” the salesman informs them.

  “A woman who owned this,” says Tracee, “would wear a diamond necklace.”

  “You’re way prettier than diamonds,” says Tim.

  He’s not looking at her when he says this. He’s checking to see how the sectional is put together, if the parts are attached. You’re way prettier than diamonds. If Lana were here she would point out that the response doesn’t even track. Tracee’s saying that a woman who owned this white leather sectional would wear diamonds has absolutely nothing to do with Tim’s saying that Tracee is way prettier than diamonds. Thank God Lana isn’t here, because muddleheaded Tracee, not burdened with logic, has a moment of clarity. She must give the diamond necklace back. Is it too late? It can’t be too late. In a life that has been generally devoid of impulse control, she finally understands that she went too far. She really will end up in jail, and now she has something to lose. Something wonderful. Tim.

  “Sit right here,” Rita tells Lana, indicating a chair at the table closest to Marcel’s cage.

  “He’s asleep,” says Lana.

  “Oh, that doesn’t matter. He’ll wake up eventually. Anyway, he doesn’t need to wake up for you to get what you need.”

  “But what am I supposed to do?”

  “I couldn’t say. I’m sure you’ll figure it out. I’ll be back in an hour.” She blows Lana a kiss and leaves.

  Lana feels ridiculous. Solo, ringside, like she’s waiting for a cocktail, only instead she’s at a zoo. “Hey, Marcel,” she calls. He doesn’t react. He’s lying on his side, eyes open, unblinking. He could be dead. Does he even know his name? Can he hear? He’s pretty old for sure, probably he’s deaf. She plops her feet up on another chair. She chews on her thumb. A few minutes pass. She squeezes her biceps, puts her feet back on the floor, and jiggles her legs. Thoughts are bouncing. Marlene’s crazy. Stupid hat. My throat’s dry. Rita’s nuts. She stands up, paces, sits, gets up, walks over behind the bar and stares at Marcel from a distance. She opens the small refrigerator—a solid wall of Budweiser. “Fuck it.” She takes a bottle and looks up. Marcel is awake. Yawning. His yawn is enormous. Between the frightening spikes of his incisors, she can see down his throat. She can see practically to China. He turns his head and looks at her.

  Lana sticks the Bud back in the fridge. She takes a glass, scoops ice into it, shakes some into her mouth, and crunches as she carries the glass back to the table. She sits down.

  Marcel rises and pads closer to Lana. His walk is slow and deliberate. His stomach sways with every step. He settles, lounging on his side, his big bushy head held high. Lana shifts in her chair, crunching more ice, thinking, Fuck you, Marlene, wishing she’d smashed her television. It was all Marlene’s fault. Lana was utterly provoked by that major chubette psycho lady’s refusal to provide decent accommodations. Lana drifts right to default mode, rage, but Marcel keeps interfering. For one thing, today he smells like damp, dirty socks. For another, he breathes loudly, the way people do when their noses are clogged. She keeps being drawn his way.

  She begins to study him. No question, the cat understands that gestures have more power when made rarely. He remains absolutely still, except on occasion his tail swings up or his head turns, and the move seems elegant, understated, majestic. He doesn’t seem as if he wants to eat her. He doesn’t seem remarkably interested in her at all, simply accepting.

  “Ha, ha, I’m inside, you’re out,” says Lana. Then, realizing she got it wrong, “I mean, I’m outside, you’re in.”

  It’s quiet. Lana is now as still as the lion.

  A fat fly that somehow got into the bar is buzzing around Marcel. He seems not to care or notice.

  “I flunked out of school,” says Lana.

  Marcel only coughs. He sounds like a cat attempting to regurgitate a very large hairball. Lana takes it as a sign that more is expected.

  “I get angry too much. I think I like it. I like the feeling.

  “I had a scholarship and I drank all night and slept through all my classes. I lied to my dad about it. Also I did something degrading. I don’t know what it is. I’ll never know. I’ll never, ever know, and every day I imagine something new, something else awful that it might have been. I need to stop. Help me let it go. Help me let it be something that’s over and done.

  “I stole from my dad.”

  She says it louder. “I stole from my dad.”

  Marcel stretches out on his stomach, facing her, and rests his head on his paws. His eyes are kind, she thinks, and understanding.

  37

  It’s a courtesy to loan out officers to other towns in need. On Tucker’s first afternoon back on the force, he was sent to Johnston for several days, then Rutherford to direct traffic at their county fair. At Rutherford, near the western border, he bunks with a local cop. The work is boring but he clocks a lot of overtime. A good week and a half goes by until he can get back to his desk at the Fairville station and do a search on Lana Byrne. One night, when he’s the only one holding the fort in Fairville, he puts her name into the computer with the directive: “Outstanding warrants, Maryland.”

  Nothing turns up.

  Assuming the folks who do the entries are prone to typing errors, he runs her name through every which way he can. After spelling it properly he misspells it—Lynn Burn, Lana Burn, and so forth.
There are two Linda Burnses, one wanted for bank robbery, but he can tell from the descriptions and photos that neither is her.

  He runs her license plate. Nothing there either.

  His brain is getting tired, muddy. What could wake it up? A beer, he thinks. There should be one hidden in his bottom desk drawer, unless someone cleaned (or searched) the desk while he was on suspension. Yes, stashed behind a used book of parking tickets is a bottle of Bud. Warm as hell but who’s complaining? He bangs the top down against the edge of the desk—an art form he’s perfected. It pops right off. He chugs the beer, downing half, and a familiar feeling of calm and confidence washes over him. He begins Googling.

  An hour later the chief walks in. He left his glasses in his office, the ones with the progressive lenses. He’s lost without them. He finds Tucker, his grin as wide as a Halloween pumpkin’s, lit by the computer screen, an empty bottle of Bud on the desk.

  “I’ve found something,” says Tucker.

  The chief considers which to discuss first: drinking on the job or police business. “Found what?” he asks.

  38

  The next Saturday Rita unveils her dance with Marcel. She salsas circles around him. The lion wears a wreath of flowers and Rita has flowers in her hair.

  The dance is Marcel and Rita’s best collaboration yet. Rita takes several bows in the cage, several outside, and then she turns and bows to Marcel. He lowers his head, paying homage in return.

  Lana now goes to the bar in the early morning with Rita, waits in the kitchen with the door closed where it’s safe, while Rita takes Marcel out for his daily constitutional. Afterward, when he’s back in the cage, Lana takes a seat at the table closest and they spend an hour alone together. Sometimes she talks, sometimes she doesn’t, but when she leaves, the edge is off. Her face is noticeably softer. The crease between her eyebrows is gone. So is the permanent scowl. She sleeps better. She doesn’t always need a pill. Some of the kicking and tossing stops. Her tips improve. Not that she’s all smiles and chat like Tracee, who knows what everyone does for a living or how many kids they have or whether their girlfriends cheated, but at least Lana no longer bangs the pitcher down on the table hoping to splash customers with beer.