by Delia Ephron
He sticks his long legs out straight and drinks his beer slowly while he waits for wipeout, a feeling of exhaustion so deep that he can return to the Tulip Tree and pass out before his head hits the pillow.
Marcel’s nose wiggles. He yawns. He rolls onto his stomach, lifts a paw to bat an ear, pulls his legs under him, and lumbers up to stand.
“Hello,” says Tim.
Again Marcel yawns; this time his jaw drops open wide enough to fit in a small car. His long, bright pink tongue hangs out between his fearsome incisors.
Tim yawns and sticks his tongue out at Marcel.
Marcel cocks his head and emits something that sounds like a bark.
Tim cocks his head and barks.
Marcel tilts his head up and lets loose a thundering call of the wild. Tim does the same. The loud, shapeless noise commences from his diaphragm, gains strength in his lungs, and blasts forth, fueling Tim with energy.
Marcel’s legs bend under him, he sinks down on his haunches, rolls back onto his side, snorts a few times, and falls back to sleep, but Tim misses this because he is running out the door.
Tim speeds back to the Tulip Tree, drives to a spot directly across from number nineteen, parks, and gets out. The entire building is dark, every single window. It’s nearly four a.m. The only sound is the relentless tinny rattle of cicadas.
He takes a few steps backward until he has Tracee’s second-floor window fully in his sights, throws back his head, and roars.
Lana fumbles for a light switch. Tracee pops up. Rita wonders for a second if she’s awake or dreaming of Marcel.
Another roar and then another.
The women stumble to the window. Lana yanks the cord, jamming the blinds to the top in a bunch, and they all crowd in to see what’s happening.
A few cars looking like large boulders sit here and there in an otherwise deserted landscape, and in the near distance a tall, lanky, awkward young man is silhouetted black against a streak of pale and misty moonlight. With his arms wide, willing Tracee to him, he sends out his mating roar, unearthly bellows of lovesick yearning.
Tracee swoons.
“It’s a lion’s serenade,” says Rita.
Lana pulls Tracee away. “Don’t watch. Don’t fan his flames. It’s not fair.”
Tim sees the light in the window extinguish, his hopes snuffed out. His arms drop to his sides; his chest aches, whether from exertion or heartache, who can tell. He trudges up the stairs, lets himself into his room, and kicks the door closed behind him. The teddy bear is waiting, its white button eyes shining in the dark. Tim forgot about winning that stuffed bear for Tracee. She’d carried it clutched to her breast, rubbing her cheek against the fur while she told Tim how amazing he was, how she never thought he could throw a baseball like that. He knocks the bear out of the chair, sinks down on the bed, flops down flat, and stares into the bleak. He has no idea how long he’s there. His mind is blank.
He hears a light knock.
The knock comes again.
Tim takes his grabber pole and uses it to turn the knob and open the door.
There is Tracee in her wedding dress.
For a second he thinks he is having a hallucination.
“Will you take my dress off me?” says Tracee.
Tim clamps her skirt and tugs her over.
When Tracee is right next to him, he props the pole upright and simply lies there looking at her. “Undress me,” she pleads, extending a hand to help him up.
Tim runs his hands over the satin, beading, and lace, and over her body. He kisses the nape of her neck and nibbles along her collarbone. He cradles her face in his hands and kisses her eyes. He turns her around. It takes him a while to locate the zipper, artfully concealed under a lace pleat, but then he undoes it and the dress collapses in billows around her. She’s naked beneath.
Tim lays the dress carefully on the chair and then picks Tracee up and lays her carefully on the bed. She takes his hand, kisses the tips of his fingers, and then places his hand between her legs. She instantly shudders.
Tim joins her on the bed and they begin again.
50
The next morning Tim wakes up alone and sits up with a start.
Tracee, wrapped in a blanket, is sitting on the chair. “The reason I can’t be with you is because I stole a diamond necklace and they might come for me and by accident it got flushed down the toilet so I can’t even give it back.”
“Holy cow,” says Tim.
“I have to turn myself in.”
51
There’s no answer at the office door. Lana raps again. “Marlene?” she calls. She tries the rusty knob. It turns. She sticks her head in. The TV, on but mute, immediately sucks her in as a man demonstrates the many attributes of a salad spinner while an 800 number flashes beneath.
Marlene is not on the Barcalounger or anywhere else.
Lana looks around.
An unwashed coffee mug on the counter contains some milky dregs. Recent, Lana figures. She fiddles with a pen, which is attached to a string that is nailed to the counter, punching the point in and out. Does it work? She scribbles in a margin of the Fairville Times. It does.
She needs some blank paper, something, some way to leave a note. Pressing her palms onto the countertop, she hefts herself up and leans over to see if there might be a drawer or shelves on the other side. Crouched behind is Marlene.
“Oh, hi,” says Lana.
Marlene’s frightened beady eyes stare up at her.
“Are you hiding from me? Oh, shit, shoot—I’m trying not to swear—are you? I came to apologize. For the way I treated you. God, you’re so scared you’re hiding from me. I come in peace. I owe you big-time. Thank you for not throwing me out, even though I deserved it. Even though you need the money and probably couldn’t, it was still nice. I was cruel. Being frightened to go outside is no joke.”
Marlene blows some air into her cheeks, inflating them. She straightens only enough to thump backward onto her bottom.
“I’m not going to do anything crazy,” says Lana. “I’m leaving today. Tracee and I. Rita’s staying. I know Rita told you. I’m sorry. I’m truly sorry for the pain I caused you.” Lana pushes back and off the counter, leaving Marlene her privacy. “I’m going to close the door and leave the place the way I found it.” She backs out of the office. “I’m not taking anything. I’m out now,” she says as she pulls the door shut.
Because the entire town square is blocked off in preparation for a parade of soapbox derby cars later in the day, Tim is forced to park behind O. Henry’s, the used-book store. It hasn’t been open for months but still he leaves a note of apology on the windshield before leading Tracee on a shortcut through the alley. They hurry to the police station and collide with Tucker rushing out.
“We’re here to see you,” says Tim, holding Tracee’s hand tight.
Tucker walks backward away from them. “Can it wait?”
“Huh?” says Tracee.
“Is it an emergency?”
He takes their silent astonishment as a no. “I’m due somewhere, and if I don’t show up the chief will fire my ass. You know my dad. I’ll be back.” He spins around and sprints, leaving Tim and Tracee alone in the doorway under the American flag, which droops low enough to graze Tim’s head.
“His dad?” says Tracee.
“The chief.”
“The chief’s his dad?”
“Nearly everyone on the force is kin. Come on, maybe someone else is here.” He pulls Tracee inside.
“Morning, Ginny,” he says to the dispatcher, noting that, in the corral behind her, the six police desks, which face one another two by two, are empty.
“Everyone’s out,” she tells him, “as if you can’t see for yourself.” She douses a tissue with nail polish remover and rubs the pink off her nails. “Don’t report me for this.” She laughs. “Smell that, sugar.” She offers the open bottle to Tracee for a sniff. “That’s a real sinus clearer, isn’t it?”
A
fter chitchat about her kids, Ginny opens the swinging gate and invites them to pull chairs from other desks over to Tucker’s desk and wait.
They sit there, Tracee shifting back and forth from her toes to her heels, rolling the chair forward and back. The office is quiet except for some static coming over Ginny’s two-way radio. Tracee leans in close to Tim. “Do you think I’ll have to go to jail?” she whispers.
“If you do, I promise I’ll visit every weekend.”
She plays with Tucker’s stapler, pounding it. “Orange jumpsuits, that’s what prisoners wear. And cuff links.”
“You mean handcuffs?”
“Sorry, I’m sorry. I’m…” She can’t think of the word, any word. She lets the thought go. She imagines Tim and her on visitors’ day, a glass wall between them, talking on the phone. “How long would I have to go to prison for?”
“It’s a first offense,” says Tim. “Don’t go there yet.”
Her leg jiggles. She yanks and twists her hair. Tim raps his knuckles impatiently on Tucker’s desk. He smiles encouragingly at Tracee, whose face is spotted red with anxiety. The minutes drag on.
“I’m feeling like we should just take matters into our own hands,” says Tim.
“I blame everyone. Everyone else. For things I do. Trouble I cause.” Lana’s voice quavers. She didn’t expect when she asked the leader if she could address the AA meeting that doing so would unmoor her. “Thank you for letting me speak, by the way, I mean speak but not be ‘the speaker.’” She uses her fingers to put quotes around the word. “To let me say something to everyone. I know it’s not normal.”
She’s prepared. She’s been over this territory already with Marcel. She’s nicely dressed. She bought new jeans and a pink blouse that she found at Goodwill. Not normally her thing to wear pink, but it’s flattering. Her hair is clean, and because she borrowed some of Rita’s cream rinse, it’s shiny too. Tracee has trimmed it, eliminating its most egregiously chopped parts. Although it’s still several different lengths, it no longer appears to have been mutilated. Even so, even well dressed and mentally prepared, confronting a whole roomful of people she mistreated is proving difficult. The police chief is sitting on her far left. She forces herself to look at him, to apologize straight to his face for barging into AA to scream that Tucker’s getting suspended was all his fault. And to suggest that AA should kick him out. However, the chief appears not remotely interested. He’s preoccupied, watching the door, which opens.
Tucker takes a step in. And stops.
Lana feels dizzy. He has come to arrest her. He has probably already nabbed Tracee. Lana feels so guilty for all her bad behavior that she almost extends her wrists to be cuffed.
“Is there a problem, Officer?” says the leader.
Tucker’s voice is a mumble but everyone gets the drift. He’s here for the meeting.
Lana’s legs go weak with relief. She wants to fly across the room and hug him. She wants to shout, “I love you,” even though she doesn’t and the thought has never before crossed her mind.
“Welcome,” says the leader. “Why don’t you introduce yourself?”
“Why?” says Tucker. “I know everyone.”
“That’s just how it’s done,” says Lana. “Like, ‘I’m Lana and I’m an alcoholic.’”
Tucker screws his face into a knot. He buys time scratching his forehead. He knows he has to come out with it. His dad gave him no choice: AA or quit the force. Besides, his dad is fixing him with a stone-cold stare that would make a killer confess. “I’m Tucker,” he says. “I have a problem with beer.”
The leader indicates a stack of literature on a manicure table. “Help yourself after the meeting. Take a seat anywhere you like.”
Lana waits until he is settled. “I… Let’s see…” She tries to remember what she’s already said. The pierced guy gives her an encouraging thumbs-up and Lana pushes on. “I owe everyone here an apology. I stole from the donation hat, and when you called me on it, I hated you. I hated every single one of you. Well, not you, I didn’t hate you,” she says to the pierced guy. “What’s your name? I know I’ve heard it.”
“Ben.”
“Right, Ben. I didn’t hate you but I hated everyone else. And Tucker, I almost wrecked your life. I’m sincerely sorry for that. I was… No excuses. No more excuses. I’m trying to be less impulsive, less destructive, more respectful.”
Several members nod. All of them have their most supportive and positive faces on. The feeling in the room is inspiring, uplifting. Lana has never experienced anything like it before. They’re rooting for me, she realizes. Even Tucker.
“I’m leaving today. Tracee and I are driving back to Baltimore this afternoon. I’ll go to meetings and hopefully…” She stops herself. She knows not to make predictions. “Rita tamed a lion. All I have to do is keep a little monkey off my back. How hard can that be?”
“Thank you. This is mighty kind,” says Tim.
“Just press this button and when you hear a dial tone, dial out. The chief will be gone another half hour at least.” Ginny closes the door to the chief’s office, giving them privacy.
Tim phones Information. “They’re listed,” he tells Tracee. He presses in the numbers and hands her the receiver.
“It’s ringing,” she says. She waits, chewing her lip. “Hello,” she says loudly, then lowers her voice, embarrassed. “Mrs. Hofstadder, it’s Tracee. Tracee Lynn Hobbs. Karen’s friend.”
“Hi, Tracee, how are you?”
Tracee makes a face at Tim, like How do I do this? but keeps going. “Fine. Mrs. Hofstadder—”
“Karen’s not here. She got married. She and Greg are living in Dover.”
“I stole from you.”
“I’m sorry, what did you say?”
“I stole from you. That’s why I’m calling.” Now that she’s out with it, she races. “I stole a diamond necklace last May. I’m at the police station in North Carolina. I’m going to turn myself in but I thought you should hear from me directly because I know you and I was chatting right at you when I slipped the necklace into my pocket—”
“Just a second.”
“She said, ‘Just a second.’”
“You’re doing great,” says Tim.
“Should I say anything about flushing it?”
“Keep it simple. Just say you don’t have it.”
“Tracee, this is Randall, Karen’s father.”
“Mr. Hofstadder, I am so, so sorry.”
“Lenore says you’re at the police station?”
“Lenore?”
“My wife.”
“Oh, yes.”
“Did you talk to them?”
“Who?
“The police.”
“Not yet. We’re going to.”
“Don’t.”
“What?”
“Are you sure you haven’t told them anything?”
“I’m getting confused. I think you better speak to my boyfriend.”
Buoyed by all the hugs and good wishes from her new friends at AA, Lana arrives at The Lion honking her horn. She bursts through the doors. “It went great,” she shouts to Rita, who is in the cage tapping a tambourine, dancing with Marcel.
“Wonderful,” Rita calls back. “I knew it would. I’ll be right out. I’m still favoring Julio and so is Marcel,” she tells Clayton, who punches another tune on the jukebox.
“I figured,” says Clayton. “But give me a chance.”
Lana plunks down on a bar stool and spins.
“How do you like your cake?” says Rita as she locks the cage. “Yours and Tracee’s. It’s in that bakery box.”
Lana lifts the top and peeks in at a layer cake with pink frosting, red roses, and green leaves. Come back soon, it says.
“I love it. It’s pink, I’m in pink.” She looks down at her blouse. “What was I thinking? Pink?”
“But the meeting went well, that’s the important thing.” Rita settles on the stool next to her and clips up her hair.
“Oh, I’m a mess. I get all sweaty working with that animal.”
“Everyone was forgiving. I had an amazing experience. ‘Come back soon.’ We will. I hope we will.”
Rita lifts the cake out of the box and sets it on the bar. “Clayton ordered it.”
“No big deal,” says Clayton.
Lana can’t help but notice how easy Rita and Clayton are together. But she doesn’t say that. She wouldn’t dare. She might jinx it.
Clayton folds open the back doors, letting in fresh air and a sunny view across the field. A warm wind whips the grass, bending it toward Marcel, who, in his deliberate way, ambles in that direction, to the far side of the cage. The wind ruffles his mane. His tasseled tail scoops up.
“That whole field is going to be his,” says Rita. “How about that?”
Lana spins again on the stool, feeling young and light and free.
“May I cut you a slice?” says Rita.
“Let’s wait for Tee.”
“I’m here,” Tracee calls, waving both hands, bouncing and bobbing around Tim, who is solemn but busting with something, something big. They’re back together, that much is clear. More even, thinks Lana. “Did you get married?”
A grin breaks across Tracee’s face. “I turned myself in.” Her hands fly up and drop down helplessly. “Well, I tried to. I tried.”
“She did,” says Tim.
“We went to the police station.”
“To get booked,” says Tim.
They are brimming with excitement to recount this tale, and even though they already know it, they are as excited to recount it to each other as to everyone else.
“Tim said I had to face it. Face the music. But the place was empty. We bumped into Tucker, but he was in a rush to get somewhere. He asked if it was an emergency. It really wasn’t. So we sat and waited and then Tim—”