World Gone Missing

by Doyle, Laurie Ann;

  “Oh, I saw it somewhere. On a book, I think. But it was almost something else. United, or Like, or Scab.”

  “What was your name before?” Lowell asked, signaling for another mimosa. They’d only started talking, and here was the word scab. He didn’t know what to make of it. A word that could mean a lot of things—hurt, healing, betrayal. And he didn’t know what to make of the tiny holes working their way around Flagg’s earlobe and up the delicate rim of her ear. They were filled, randomly it appeared, here and there with green studs. Emeralds, he decided. But faux or real, he wasn’t sure. One flashed in the sun.

  “Before? You mean what was I born with?”

  He nodded.

  “Jane.”

  “You are definitely not a Jane.”

  “Thank you for noticing.” She leaned across the table and kissed him gently, drawing his tongue towards hers. “Not everyone does. What about you?”

  He fumbled for his glass and when he finally got his hand around it, took a good long drink. He held the champagne in his mouth until he felt it fizz against the back of his skull. He took another swallow. He looked not at Flagg’s head now, but her breasts. They were high and round, a nipple outlined in a soft strip of sun. The skin over her collarbones glowed.

  He made himself look away. “Nope,” he finally said. “No Jane here.”

  Flagg laughed. “Come on. How did you get the name Lowell?”

  “I grew up in Kentucky,” he said as if this were the explanation. “My father’s people were preachers. Lots of Lowells before me.”

  In college, he’d stayed away from girls like this. Flickering smiles, skin so shiny it looked combustible. Now he felt an attraction he couldn’t—and wouldn’t—ignore.

  “Could I ask you a question?” he said, motioning to her head. “Why do you do it?”

  “Shave?” Flagg waited for him to nod before going on. “One day I thought why not? The worst, I figured, was I’d have to let my hair grow back. That was four years ago. I like it, I do. How I feel every breeze and raindrop. How people look.” She turned to show him the back of her head. At the base of her neck was a pink patch of skin—birthmark maybe—that, as Lowell stared, took on the shape of people dancing. Two or three, maybe.

  “How do you think it looks?” she wanted to know.

  “I think it’s nice.” He emptied the glass. Nice. God, that was original.

  “So it’s my turn to ask you a question.”

  “Didn’t you just ask me one?”

  She smiled like it wasn’t funny. “Why did you break up with your wife?”

  That he hadn’t been expecting. At work when people asked, he told them they just needed time apart. Nobody was talking divorce. When Bradley in the office next door pressed, Lowell said things hadn’t been good for years. He doubted Flagg would let him get away with anything so vague.

  Still he stumbled. “Hard to say exactly. Both of us got busy elsewhere I guess.” That wasn’t true. He’d never been busy, his decades-long job at the San Francisco Public Library a clock-in-clock-out affair. It was Sarah’s life that was the whirl. Dinner meetings, the Y, girls’ night out. Or so she said. If their marriage wasn’t working now, she’d told him, then when would it? He thought what they had was okay. “My wife was the one who called it quits.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be.” He sighed. “Probably for the best.”

  “Still. No fun.”

  She leaned forward as if she were going to kiss him again. When she didn’t, he sank in the chair, looking down at the wrinkles in his white T-shirt. The loneliness was the hardest, whole weekends when Grande, extra foam and Have a wonderful day, was it when it came to conversation.

  “No,” he admitted. “Not fun.”

  “Hey—it’s not over yet, right?” Flagg said. “Right?”

  When he didn’t say anything, he felt her looking at him, a look he couldn’t quite read when he raised his eyes. Sympathy, maybe, or a sort of curiosity.

  “You’re sweet, you know. And nice looking. Really.”

  “Thanks,” he said. “You, too.”

  “Say,” she said, raising one eyebrow. “You wouldn’t want to go someplace, would you?”

  He sat up. “Aren’t we someplace?” It wasn’t completely a joke. He hadn’t been in Union Square in years, the for-once fogless sky a vivid blue. The palm trees ticked in the wind and people surged, smiling and carrying shopping bags. A woman stopped, pointing up at the goddess on Dewy Monument. Here was pretty good. Hell, here was great.

  Instead of laughing, she ran a finger up his arm. “I don’t know. It’s crazy, I know. But crazy can be good. What do you say?”

  “Sure.” Lowell’s heart flung itself across his chest. “I mean, that would be fine—” He paused. “Another time. I’ve got to go pick up my kid. Saturday afternoons he’s mine.”

  He felt more embarrassed than scared driving back. Well, scared, too. The yard was one thing—wild maybe if you were feeling generous—but inside the house was a complete disaster. After Sarah had left, he’d felt the rooms separating, floating apart as if nothing held them together. He’d unfolded the futon, left it permanently taking up half the living room, and pushed the coffee table alongside it. He’d gotten so he wanted everything close, pressing in. The books he was reading—or trying to read—lay scattered across the dining room table and chairs. Books, he’d always loved. Not those digital things, but real books with their cinnamon-smelling pages, books you feel the weight of. Six months ago, he couldn’t get a book thick enough, not just Dickens, but Bolaño, Tolstoy. Now all he did was flip pages, reread the same sentence he’d just reread. After work, he punched on the TV. Around the screen sat grease-stained pizza boxes, tortilla chip crumbs, and a stack of Tecate cans still indented where his fingers had pressed in.

  Flagg parked the Taurus in front of the house, and switched off the engine. “That was nice,” she said, giving him a big smile. “Thanks.”

  Lowell opened the door and pressed his foot on the curb, but didn’t get out. He was still feeling a little drunk. “I’d invite you in, but—”

  “I know, you’ve got your kid.”

  “We’ll see each soon, right? The last payment and everything?”

  “Right.” She looked at him. “Lowell, please don’t take this the wrong way—but you don’t actually have a son, do you?”

  “I don’t?” He went to shut the door, hit his foot, and winced. “I mean, how did you know?”

  “If you had a kid, I’d see a bike, a football, something on your steps, and in the car. Children have a ton of stuff. They leave it everywhere.”

  Lowell tilted his head back on the seat. “You’re right. We never had children. It’s just— This is all so new. Meeting people. You.”

  He wanted to tell her he didn’t always lie. No. Not at all. He had just wanted the car to sound good. Not perfect, but fine. That was how he hoped she’d see him, too. Not someone old and messy and unable to have children. But okay. No, more than okay. Great.

  Fat chance now.

  “It’s actually way less complicated without kids, don’t you think?” Flagg said. “For everyone concerned.”

  “I guess.” But he found something hopeful in her words. Like she was one of the concerned. He eased himself out of the car and stood alongside it, waiting for Flagg to appear on the other side.

  She walked around and handed him the keys. “I’ll just get my bike.” But instead, she stood and looked up at the white trail of a jet spreading across the sky. “Where’s that headed you think?”

  The cloudy tip was already blurring. “I don’t know. West. Japan?”

  “Now there’s a place I’ve always wanted to go.” She kissed him, but one of those get-in-and-get-out kisses now, her lips firm. She ran her hands over her head as if she were smoothing back hair. “I’ll call you
, okay. Soon.”

  “Okay.” Even that much kiss had his breath coming faster. She didn’t smell like jasmine at all, but clean, wet dirt.

  

  Ten days later, he called her cell. The outgoing message immediately switched on: Hey you. I’m out there having fun. Where are you? Tell me.

  “Flagg,” he said so loudly it surprised him. “I think you know who this is, Flagg, but in case you don’t, it’s Lowell. I can’t wait forever, you know. Other people have shown interest, you know.” He was about to say he’d put the ad back up online and was going to keep her thousand dollars, but at the last minute hung up. After he’d said Flagg the second time, he’d gotten hard. He thought about jerking off. Instead he stood at the window and watched a bird light and shit on the car.

  “Right,” he said. “Join the crowd.”

  He walked outside, picked up a mildewed cardboard box, and put it in the garage. He hosed down the car and drove it further back in the yard. He tossed Sarah’s dead flowers in the compost, threw away a rusty trowel he found stuck in the dirt. He knew exactly where the lawnmower was but made no move to use it. Now he liked the look of the wild grass, the white-headed dandelions spreading across the lawn, the hairy nettle leaves, the pointy anise he used to clip down. He walked to the pine trees and grabbed handfuls of dead needles and brought them inside.

  The afternoon was cool and fog coming in. He threw bunch after bunch of brown needles in the fireplace and lit them. Flames shot up and sweet sap-smelling smoke filled the room. He tossed one match in after the other, and felt good. A fire in August! Something he’d always wanted to do. Something Sarah would have hated. Lowell looked around the room with satisfaction.

  That’s when he noticed the answering machine light was on and blinking red.

  

  Flagg appeared in the doorway of the bathroom wearing nothing but a white T-shirt. Lowell sat on the kitchen floor naked. His hands had been everywhere under that T-shirt, on the nipples pointing at him now like sweet hard buds, in her softness below. He looked down fondly at his penis.

  “Come over here, you,” he said.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to? A lot of women find it sexy.”

  Lowell shook his head. He’d always been proud of his full head of hair. Besides, what would they say at work? “I don’t think I can.”

  Flagg took his fingers gently and touched them to her scalp. She had a stiff blonde growth now, shadowed a honey color in back. He remembered it brushing against his chest, the edge of his ear.

  “It’ll look cool.”

  His neck felt loose. What had she said? It’d grow back. What else? It’s not over yet. No, not by a long shot. Maybe it would look cool. Anyway, she’d like it.

  “What the hell,” he said, a smile spreading across his face. “But first things first.”

  “You mean, second things.” Flagg slipped off the T-shirt and lay on top of him, circling her arms around his head. He licked her armpit. It smelled flowery, not deodorant flowery, but like the bitter smell of real flowers. She sucked his earlobe and the skin of his chest. He lifted his head. She had the most amazing breasts, pale and full, with surprising dark nipples.

  Afterward, Lowell rolled out from under her and across the linoleum floor. He kept rolling over and over on its cool hard white surface. When had he last made love twice in the afternoon? He’d been worried he wouldn’t even be able to get it up.

  “You,” he said, “are wonderful and strange. I can’t get enough of you.” He nuzzled his body up against hers.

  “You’re pretty nice yourself, guy.” Flagg stood and walked into the bathroom, still naked. He heard drawers open and close, a latch click open. Knowing she’d be coming over this afternoon, he’d vacuumed the entire house, even scrubbed the bathroom tile. But he hadn’t cleaned the inside of the rusty medicine cabinet, hadn’t cleaned the inside of anything.

  The rummaging noises continued. “We’ll need a sharp razor,” she called. “Don’t you have one?”

  Now he stood in the bathroom, nude too. Flagg held up something bronze-colored, something he faintly remembered from years back. A graduation present, maybe, something way before Sarah, for sure.

  “Let’s use this,” she smiled. “Nice new blade.” The razor gleamed under the florescent light.

  “This isn’t going to hurt, is it?” Before the words were out he knew they sounded wimpy. Suddenly he felt old.

  “Shouldn’t,” Flagg said matter-of-factly. “Not if we take it slow.” She turned on the bathwater and spread a towel across the floor.

  “Sit here,” she said, pointing to the edge of the tub. “And don’t move.”

  Using the scissors she’d found somewhere, Flag clipped Lowell’s hair close to his head. She tilted his head right, and left. He tried to suck his stomach in, then gave up, letting his flesh take its usual folds. Her arms moved around him, softly, efficiently. Hair fell into small piles, white strands floated in a breeze he didn’t feel.

  “Okay.” She shut off the water, stepped into the porcelain tub, and sat down. “You can lean back on me if you want.”

  Lowell eased himself against her. Her breasts felt smooth and damp, the air steamy. She splashed warm water on his head and lathered what was left of his hair. Then in smooth, firm strokes, he felt Flagg taking it down to skin. Bits of hair landed on his shoulders and slid down his neck. He pressed himself closer. Without thinking, he reached back to itch and felt the razor catch.

  “What happened?” he said.

  “You moved.”

  “It stings.” He imagined a bright column of red running down his back, the water turning the awful color of blood.

  “Just a nick. Happens.”

  He felt a thumb pressing firmly into the back of his head.

  “It’s stopped. Really,” she said. “You’re more sensitive now, that’s all. The skin’s exposed. But—” She lifted her hand away. “We can stop anytime. Just say the word.”

  Lowell touched his scalp, sliding his fingers down the greasy-feeling shaved skin and the remaining strips of bristly hair. When he brought his hand back, only a spot of lather was tinged pink. Nothing hurt now. But what if his skull was shaped funny? What if he had all kinds of weird freckles? A mole? Bumps?

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Keep going.” Some sort of strange mohawk would be much worse.

  In a few minutes, Flagg was done. They stood up together and brushed hair off each other’s thighs and feet. It was sticky. She ran her lips lightly over his scalp. “Perfect. Just that one spot.”

  She stepped out of the tub still nude. When Lowell didn’t follow, Flagg flashed a look of irritation. “Don’t you want to see what it looks like?”

  He made himself walk to the mirror, sure he’d hate what looked back. He closed his eyes. When he opened them again, a face he didn’t recognize hung there. His scalp was pale and so shiny it had the look of sun on water. His fingers glided over it.

  “What do you think?”

  “I like it,” he said, surprising himself. It was as if pounds had been lost. Who cared what Bradley at work thought.

  “I knew you would.” She came behind and pressed her body into his. He felt her moist breasts again, the hard knot of one nipple. “Sooner or later.”

  Two naked heads looked out of the mirror. Two heads he thought looked terrific together.

  “Next time I’ll do you. That’d be fun.”

  When she averted her eyes and didn’t answer, Lowell knew he’d done something wrong. “Or not,” he added hastily. “No big thing.”

  She pulled away, went into the kitchen, and slipped on her T-shirt. This time he followed. He opened up the refrigerator and felt a rush of cool air around his head.

  “Would you like me to fix you some eggs? I make a mean mess of eggs.”

  She s
till didn’t answer.

  All he had in the refrigerator was a bottle of vodka, a few eggs, and two pickles in lime green juice. He’d meant to go shopping before she’d arrived—pick up a baguette and some cheese, maybe a bottle of good Chardonnay, but had run out of time cleaning. He’d even changed the bed sheets, never imagining they’d end up on the kitchen floor.

  “How about a nice Smirnoff scramble?” Lowell turned enough to see her smile and look away.

  “Can’t. Got to go.”

  He jiggled the door of the refrigerator, making himself wait this time before he spoke. “Have a rehearsal coming up?”

  “Two in fact. We’re doing new work.” Flagg stepped into her panties and slid them up her legs. “You know, Lowell. I like you. I do. You’re funny. And nice.” Instead of smiling, she frowned. “I just don’t think I’m your kind of girl.”

  When she didn’t continue, he asked slowly, “What kind is that?”

  Her eyes went to the top of the refrigerator where a dusty photo of Sarah and him stood. One that had sat there so long he never saw it anymore. Her hair was poofy and sprayed, his so shiny and black it looked wet. Their shoulders pressed tightly together.

  “I don’t know,” she said, staring at the picture. “That kind, I guess.”

  Stay, he wanted to plead. Just a little bit more. Spend the night. The week. Tomorrow morning.

  “Hey, you still owe me a hundred dollars.” His attempt at a joke sounded lame. Yesterday Flagg had stopped by and given him nine one-hundred-dollar bills. They’d made plans to get together this afternoon. Now Lowell watched her zip up her skirt and strap on beaded sandals. His head began to pound as he closed the refrigerator door.

  “It’s okay,” he said. “Take the car. It’s yours.”

  Flagg walked up close to him. “I’ll mail you a check. Tomorrow. I promise.”

  He looked at her. “No. It’s fine.”

  “How about the bike?” She touched his arm. “I could give you my bike.”

  “A pink cruiser?” He walked down the hall to the closet and put on a blue shirt and shorts. After Sarah left, he’d moved all his clothes in there so he could avoid the bedroom altogether. “No thanks.”