Still Life Las Vegas

by James Sie

  Emily picked up the magazine. An imitation Liberace on the cover of a Las Vegas weekly didn’t have the same revelatory impact as an enormous head smiling down from the heavens, but at least it gave her directions. She tucked it under her arm and paid for a large cup of coffee and five dollars’ worth of gas. It would get her to Vegas, with enough left over for admission to the museum, a postcard for Walt, and a stamp, plus a soda to wash down the pills.

  Emily flipped through the magazine as she waited for her tank to fill up. Mr. Sherbé was playing selections “in the style of the great Liberace” at the museum, one and three P.M. The location of the museum: East Tropicana off Spencer, JUST MINUTES FROM THE STRIP! She could be there within the hour, and it would all be over.

  Finish the task. Finish the task.

  It was fitting that Liberace be the last person she saw. As a child, he was the nearest thing to a relative she had. Well, there was Vee, of course. But she had had enough of Vee. During the last two weeks, during this entire ordeal, Vee remained exactly who she had always been, and this enraged Emily more than was reasonable. What was it that Vee had said when Emily and her family first arrived on her doorstep two weeks ago? Shaking her head, staring at the ground by her feet? “It’s a shame. Such a shame.” It seemed to Emily that it was Vee herself who was shamed, by Emily, who had allowed this tragedy to happen. Except for one dismissive glance she barely looked at Owen; all of her pursed lips and furrowed brows were reserved for Emily alone. To others her demeanor might seem like sorrow, but Emily could tease out the accusations from the silence. Every movement contained a message, even the efficient, capable manner in which she hoisted the suitcases out of the trunk and hauled them into the house single-handed was a rebuke to her adopted daughter: I saved my two-year-old girl. Mine lived.

  Her eyes were burning again. The gas nozzle handle clanked loudly. Emily noticed the Volvo’s front bumper was curling off the frame and there was a large dent by the passenger-side door. She had no idea how they got that way, but she was glad nonetheless. Emily gave the bumper one vicious kick and it fell off entirely. It lay twisting in the dirt as she sped west.

  * * *

  She’d be there soon. Through the morning haze she could already spot the spire of the Stratosphere tower rising from the dust. “Hold on, Little Peach, I’m coming,” she said quietly. It was a statement of fact.

  The miles to Las Vegas were in the single digits now.

  Sketch #2: I called this one Deus ex Liberace. It’s so much easier to blame the gods.

  OWEN

  INSIDE VENICE

  EARLIER

  Good morning, cooed the voice on the phone.

  Owen knew it was Emily. It had the same cool timbre, the slightly mocking upward inflection he had often heard whispering in his ear as he slumbered late on Sundays, back before the kids, right before she got up to grab the newspaper and switch on the coffee. His heart galloped forward, gaining momentum (You’ve found me!) but before he could stammer out her name the voice continued, upbeat and strangely artificial: This is your wake-up call!

  It certainly is, Owen thought, as he thanked the operator, or machine, who had already clicked off. He had forgotten all about placing the wake-up call, and in fact hadn’t even needed it, since he had spent most of the night turning his head toward the nightstand clock, afraid he was going to miss the start of day.

  Despite that, Owen felt remarkably focused. He had already showered before the phone rang, had been able to dress and organize his thoughts at more or less a normal pace, was feeling—how should he put it?—mentally agile this morning, whereas for the past few weeks he had lumbered about in a semi-sentient state, Neanderthal. It had to be his medication, or rather, his lack thereof. Perhaps he had been better all along, and now that the clouds of pharmacology had lifted he found himself healed underneath. Or, maybe, this unexpected adventure had given his brain just the jolt it needed to right itself. What did they say about the restorative powers of travel? New sights, new vistas, new air to breathe. The poisonous vapors dispelled and so on. Either way, Emily had been instrumental in kicking him back into gear. He had to remember to thank her for it when he found her. Thanks for taking my pills. Thanks for leaving me. They might be able to even laugh about it, later. How things came together. How they came together. Later.

  Emily and the pills.

  Owen hurried down the hotel corridor. He was able to locate the elevator, pass through the casino, ascend an escalator, and find St. Mark’s Square on the second floor, all without so much as a map. Maybe it was the lack of crowds, but Owen found the Grand Canal and its environs much more manageable this morning. Not that the time of day mattered much; here, under the dome of illusory skies, it was always day. That felt oddly comforting to Owen; the same ominous clouds he had watched the night before were benevolent now, shading him from the harsher rays, lazily wheeling above but never actually moving. The sky might darken, but only to a degree. This city was protected, encased. No plague would ever dare enter. No rats would swarm its docks. It was safe.

  He had given himself plenty of time. He read the signs carefully and repeatedly, because he knew Emily would have. The gondola rides did not begin until ten A.M., but the ticket office opened fifteen minutes earlier. He was there a full hour before then, to get a fix on his surroundings before the boats started making their rounds. Nothing would be left to chance.

  The shops were mostly closed this early (with the exception of the small food kiosks, from which he had gratefully purchased his croissant and coffee), and that was immensely helpful. Owen started at the farthest end of the canal and walked the loop from one end to the other three times so there would be none of the aimless wandering of last night. From leather shoes to evening gowns to art gallery with framed sunsets, from magic shop to Murano glass, Owen touched on each landmark (this must be how blind people feel walking about their homes), and managed all three times to find his way to the same bridge leading to the welcoming sight of the gelato stand in the middle of the Square. He had become a denizen of these cobblestone streets and arches. When nine forty-five arrived and the gondoliers, singing lustily in Italian, marched through the labyrinthine mall up to the boarding dock, he felt like they were singing for him.

  People were beginning to accumulate up and down the canals. There was only one place to board the gondolas, and Owen could watch the cordoned line from his marble banquette. By ten the queue was full. Emily was not in it.

  Owen took a sip of coffee, tore off a piece of croissant, and stuffed it in his mouth. An odd breakfast choice, here at the Venetian. Weren’t croissants French? Of course they were, the pronunciation, cwa-ssawn, was unmistakably Gallic, with that nasal intonation that the Italians always laughed at, and yet here he was, tearing into one such cwa-ssawn, crumbs floating down as he sat on a marble bench in St. Mark’s Square, watching the people queue up for their rides. Where was Emily? I’m here, by the Indian statue, where are you? I’m here with Johnny. Johnny, yes, that was it; it was Johnny’s Devil Dog cart, name emblazoned on the yellow-and-blue umbrella. Owen remembered feeling it improbable that Johnny was going to be selling any kind of dog on this particular corner, not during Taste of Chicago, where just a scant half block away there were tables and tents filled to groaning with the best delicacies the Windy City had to offer, yet there was Owen, unable to abandon his post (she might arrive at any moment), fishing in his pocket for change, because he had been hungry ever since boarding the El at noon, and it was almost two, he let Johnny ladle on the spicy mustard and sautéed onions and then crammed the whole thing in his mouth (what if she were to suddenly appear, ready to begin their culinary promenade, and him with crumbs in his beard and nitrates on his breath?) while continuing to scan the streams of people going to and from the festival’s entrance, not a one of them Emily. It all could have been averted with a cell phone. Not that either of them had one. Oh, they had seemed such a luxury, a frivolity, especially with such a regimented schedule as theirs. H
e remembered a colleague recounting his trip to the West Coast and laughing at all the people walking about with large rectangles of plastic plastered to their ears, but they were making inroads into the Midwest. Emmie wasn’t convinced. It would be a waste of money, she announced in that clear, concise way of hers. You’d never remember to turn it on. Still, for emergencies. That’s how the ambulance came. Someone had a cell phone. What would we have done without one? Someone would have gone inside a building, to a pay phone, probably, fished about for change—though weren’t 911 calls free? Regardless, that would have taken longer. Not that it would have mattered, but still. It was his student, that girl, Maggie, who had the phone. That was her name. Maggie. She made the call. Very smart girl, good in an emergency. Now that he recalled it, it was she who took the keys from his hands—was that right?—yes, they were shaking too much—and opened the car door.

  He hadn’t told that part to Emmie. There was no reason not to tell her, but he hadn’t, all the same. It was one of the things he had forgotten, omitted, during the interrogation sessions, in those days after the funeral and before the inquest. The endless hearings before the actual hearing, after Walter had gone to bed, with Emily acting as Prosecutor, Defense, Judge, and Jury, all for the supposedly benign purpose of her understanding, of her wanting to make sense of things. She would preface her nightly disembowelment with the softly spoken I just want to understand, a statement meant to explain why she would be clawing into his liver yet again with her unending list of inconsequential questions about that fateful day. She would be sitting upright next to him, fully clothed, so tensed she barely made an impression on the bed, while he just sank deeper and deeper into the mattress. How low was the gas gauge registering? How long was the line at the bank? What size coffee did you get? For God’s sake. And while extracting her talons from his side, she would always bookend her I just want to understand with I just want to make sense of things. As if any of this could be understood. Could make sense. He should have been the one to open the car door. Shaking hands or no. Emmie, he was fairly certain, would see it that way. She would have opened it. She would have wrenched it from the frame. She would have gotten there in time.

  An hour had somehow passed. Owen swiveled his head back and forth, from loading dock to St. Mark’s Square to loading dock to St. Mark’s Square. He would be vigilant and she would appear, Bright-Eyed Emily of the Long Hair. His diligence would be rewarded. I’m on time this time, he thought, slowly shaking his head no.

  WALTER

  FREMONT STREET

  LATER

  Back on the bus. All I need is a destination.

  There’s an official-looking envelope in the backpack at my feet. University of Las Vegas letterhead. We are pleased to inform you, la la la … I’ve been accepted. Being one of probably ten people who’ll actually graduate from high school around here, my chances were pretty good. It’s my first college acceptance, and since I haven’t applied anywhere else, it means I’ve got a 100 percent success rate.

  I guess I should celebrate.

  Will I go? Probably not. Everyone around here knows the only continuing education worth having is to be found at the casinos. I could get some training and become a dealer. Then I’d be set for life. Or graduate from busboy to food-runner to waiter. There are a lot of opportunities just a bus ride away, which is an important thing for me since there’s no way in hell I can get anywhere else without knowing how to drive.

  The wheels on the bus go round and round.

  We pull into the station, right outside the Plaza Hotel. The Fremont Strip is gearing up for its nightly excursion into FUN! and ENTERTAINMENT! known as the Fremont Street Experience! That might sound fun and entertaining, but this is Old Las Vegas, so it mostly means more smoking and less ventilation. No roller coasters, no dancing fountains. Stickier floors. This old Downtown Strip is what the real Strip would look like after she’s gone home at the end of a long night, wiped off her makeup, thrown down her wig, and slipped out of her support hose. And she’s sitting around in her underwear, scratching herself in front of the TV. That’s Fremont Street.

  It’s as good a place to get off the bus as any. Of course, this is also where I work, but there aren’t many good options on the 202. At least you can walk around Fremont Street for free. It’s Freee-mont.

  The street’s filling up. It’s five o’clock, and the tourists who couldn’t afford rooms on the Strip have begun packing into Fremont’s hotels. It’s a flood of people. Usually I can navigate the crowds. I can slip invisibly between the tourists and get to where I need to go. But trying to be one of them is harder. Four steps, and I’m tangled in the Mardi Gras nuns in halter tops passing out beads. Then I run smack into a crowd watching a graffiti artist speed spray paint landscapes and naked ladies on canvas. I spend ten minutes staring at the the Lucky Horseshit, which beckons with its promises of fried delicacies. Deep-fried Oreo? Deep-fried Twinkie? What about a molten Fudgsicle? Too many decisions.

  Half a block later I get caught up in another crowd, this one watching the twice-nightly humiliation ritual known as Vegas Popstar! It’s a karaoke competition sponsored by Bunions, where lucky tourists get a chance to sing to prerecorded tracks and get voted off one at a time by the audience until a winner is announced. Instead of a recording contract the lucky schmo receives fifty dollars’ worth of chips and two free drinks.

  Two contestants come and go before I even realize I’m watching. The next singer (using the term loosely) staggers up onto the stage, a bulky dude with a greasy ponytail. He tears into the song, screaming half the words and swallowing the other half along with the beer he’s constantly swigging. His free arm pumps the air, and with each pump a little more of his hairy, perfectly round belly protrudes from under his T-shirt: we’re witnessing a man giving birth to an extra head. Then he gets sick (who didn’t see that one coming?), which I take as my cue to pack it in. Once you’ve seen someone throw up into the mic singing “Celebration” you know it’s time to go home. I’ll grab the 202 eastbound, stop by the Food-4-Cheap, get some dinner, and then it’s back to the apartment.

  “There you are.”

  Behind me and to the right: a deep, silken voice that has managed to find the frequency between the screeching of the singer and the thumping of the bass, and slide smoothly, distinct and clear, into my ear alone.

  I turn my head but there’s no one I know behind me, just some young Euro-guy in a turquoise shirt and a woman with short hair holding onto his arm, but it seems the woman is looking at me, expecting something. I turn around a little more, pretending I’m looking way over there, and there is something familiar about the guy, but still no bells go off in my head. Maybe it’s because of context, or the difference in perspective, or his size, or the fact that he’s in color, or that he’s wearing different clothes, or any clothes at all, but it’s not until he cocks his head to one side and the tendons of his throat form a recognizable V pointing down into the shadows of his open-necked shirt that I begin to realize. My eyes widen, travel up to a familiar jaw, lips, and nose, and when I finally reach those unmistakable azure eyes he reveals himself to me in a dazzling smile. It’s Apollo. He’s come down to Earth.

  It’s a visitation.

  * * *

  Apollo is speaking again, but this time I can’t hear a word he says. The noise, which had parted like the Red Sea to allow his voice through, has come crashing down in a roar of sound. Also, a massive wave of adrenaline, not unlike fear, tsunamis up and down my spine, cutting off all bodily functions. I’m inches away from having a convulsion. Also, I’m unable to stop staring at his teeth, one of his few body parts I’ve never seen. They’re strong and white and a little sharp and when he opens his mouth they give his face a wolflike look. I stare at them helplessly, my own mouth halfway between a smile and a gape.

  Diana (of course it’s her, I should have recognized her graceful arms, her profile) pulls Apollo close and speaks into his ear. He smiles, laughing that wolf-laugh, and shake
s his dark, curly hair, which shimmers almost to his shoulders. Where has all that hair been hiding? He’s not nearly as tall as I had imagined (a little shorter than I am), but his body looks coiled and powerful, even under his civilian disguise: a turquoise silk shirt and tight blue jeans. She’s petite, dressed in a simple rose-colored summer dress that hugs her body. They’re both so full of color it hurts my eyes.

  “It is you, yes?” Apollo leans closer and amps up his voice. He’s got an accent, Middle Eastern or Slavic. Apollo mimes sketching in a notebook and staring upward. I nod, thinking, they did notice me. I made an impression.

  Apollo claps his hands together and shakes them in front of his chest, then spreads them wide, like he’s releasing a butterfly. “Fucking crazy, eh?” he asks Diana. She smiles up at me with her eyes crinkled closed. She’s still got her hands on his shoulder but she’s arching away, her arms long and fingers spread. She’s a cat stretching on a scratching post. I notice that she’s older close up than she looks eight feet in the air. Apollo, though, Apollo looks a lot younger; when he smiles he looks like he’s barely out of high school. He could be my age.

  “Where you have been?” Apollo demands, as if I’ve stood him up.

  I finally find my voice. “I, I can’t go back there, to the hotel. They won’t let me, because of the … the—”

  Apollo makes a “Pfff!” sound with his lips and throws his hands in the air. “This is bullshit, yes? This is—” And he can’t find the words his hands are trying to grab.

  Diana releases Apollo and places one languid hand lightly on my chest, as if she’s awarding me a medal. I have the feeling that she would have preferred to touch my face but found it too far up. She looks at me with narrowed eyes. “What you did for me,” she says severely, also with a strong accent. She pats her own chest with her other hand. “This, I will never forget it. Those two men, those choiros”—this word she spits out—“I did not see, but my brother, he has told me all.”