When my father turned James O’Hara away at the door, I ran upstairs and wept. I cried, convulsing sobs, knowing I would never be normal, and my father’s grip would never fade. Ellie came upstairs and heard me. She lay next to me and pressed her body along mine, her arms around my waist.
If she had lived, she would have called me. For sixteen years, I had waited. Sometimes, I knew she was dead with a certainty that felt like truth. But sometimes, I stood at the window, willing her to turn the corner, to knock on my door.
My mother phoned when I got home. She told me all about the Randalls’ party, the roast beef, the baked brie. “I had a bit too much vino,” she said, “but what the hey, it’s Christmas.”
“Well, not anymore, technically,” I said.
“Don’t be a sourpuss,” she said.
“Who, um….”
“Yes?”
“Who was the bartender? Was he from the Liquor Barn?” I asked.
“No, it was some Randall cousin. But I’m going over there today. Can I give a message to Anthony?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Mom!” Her coy tone infuriated me. “Actually,” I said, “there is something I’d like you to tell him. Would you tell him I have a boyfriend?”
“You do?” said my mother.
“No,” I admitted, “but I don’t want Anthony to get the wrong idea, you know?”
“The wrong idea? Are you crazy? He’s a fine boy, Anthony. Honestly, Caroline, what’s the matter with you?” I was silent. “OK, whatever you say,” said my mother. “I’ll tell him to give up on you.”
“Thanks.”
“Honestly!” said my mother.
“Well, have a good New Year’s,” I said. She jabbered on about the new outfit she had bought at Saks to wear to the party at the golf club—a dress with feathers—and then she got off the phone, telling me to buck up.
SEVENTEEN
from the desk of
AGNES FOWLER
Dear Johan,
I should probably begin by saying that I have never done this before. I mean, I have written letters before—many of them—but not to a man. Well, that’s not truly accurate. I had a pen pal in the Ukraine whose name was Vladimir. My father read in Home School Your Precious Child that pen pals were advantageous to home-schooled kids, so he contacted Positively Pen Pals from their advertisement in the back of Highlights. They hooked me up with a student at Kharkiv High School. Unfortunately, Vladimir could not read English very well (they have a different alphabet, which was news to me!) and so I only got a few, dull letters back, most of them reporting on the status of Vladimir’s many pets. I kept writing anyway. Well, and the point is, I hope I get a letter back from you. And Vladimir wasn’t a man, anyway, just a boy.
I found your name (and saw your picture) on AlaskaHunks.com. I hope you don’t think I go around surfing the web for available men. I’m not really very talented at finding things on the web the way Sally Beesley, the Reference Librarian, is. You can ask Sally any question and she will find you the answer on the web. Just yesterday, Frances (my supervisor) asked Sally what on earth she could cook with zucchini and Sally printed out three recipes lickety-split and one of them was even a dessert! (Chocolate Zucchini Cake.)
I found out about AlaskaHunks.com from Frances, actually, the one with the zucchini. She came in Monday morning and walked right over to my cubby and said, “Agnes, we’re going to find you a boyfriend and we’re going to do it right now.” I didn’t know what to say. It is certainly not that I am desperate. In fact I very much like my life the way it is. I have a cozy home on Daly Avenue. I can eat pancakes for dinner if I want, and I can eat pizza for breakfast. But I digress.
Frances (the one with the zucchini) saw the Sixty Minutes all about AlaskaHunks.com. She told me there were many smart, handsome men in Alaska and not very many women. She told me about the Love Match Vacation Packages, and the three women from Wisconsin who had married “hot honeys.” (These were Frances’ words, Johan—I don’t say things like “hot honeys,” and certainly not in the officeplace.)
“You like the cold, and you can be a librarian anywhere,” said Frances. “Log on and let’s go,” she said. I felt a bit uncomfortable, especially as many of the other librarians had surrounded my cubby. “Shove over, Grover,” said Frances, and she pulled up a chair, pushed my stack of OCLC search cards aside, and logged on to the web. She typed in: AlaskaHunks.com, and she began to read.
Of course I told them I was absolutely NOT interested! Honestly. I have plenty of dates here in Missoula. Just last week, I had coffee with Bruce Upchurch. He was installing my laminated flooring at the time, but we had coffee, and Entenmann’s Raspberry Twist coffee cake.
It was later, when everyone went into the Break Room to celebrate Jon Davies’ birthday, that I took a peek at the AlaskaHunks.com web site. I could hear them all singing “How old are you now…” which is entirely inappropriate, as Jon Davies is not a spring chicken. The poor man has been in charge of the Montana History Room for as long as anyone can remember. He sits amongst his dusty basement shelves, and nobody ever comes down to say hey-ho. Most students just don’t care about Montana history. They are all about the present, ordering articles about the Human Genome Project and Leonardo DiCaprio. But again, I digress.
There was a place on the web page to put your name and address, so I did. Nothing wrong with getting a catalog in the mail, is what I thought, even if it was a catalog of MEN. (I don’t know why I capitalized that—MEN. I have had two and a half glasses of Chardonnay, so perhaps I should take a break. Or have some milk.)
Things went on as usual.
On Friday, I came home after work to find a crisp brown envelope in my mailbox. (I have a snazzy mailbox, Johan. It’s a regular, metal box, but then I’ve added a fish tail and a fish head, made out of wood. I conceived of the whole project one night after four glasses of Chardonnay. Quel succès! I speak French.)
The catalog from AlaskaHunks.com is pretty thick. This is not to say that you are not a friendly looking and I must even say handsome man. But jeez, there are many hunks in Alaska, was what I thought as I flipped through the catalog. I looked briefly at the Love Match Vacation Package section, and though the cruise ship looks very glamorous and the 24-hour buffet especially appealing, I don’t think I could take ten days off from work and I like to write letters anyway.
Be right back—must go to Orange Street Food Farm for more Chardonnay and coffee cake.
It’s a beautiful night here in Missoula. Whispery and cold and white. Sometimes winter can be depressing, what with the smell from the paper mill, but tonight is beautiful. I left footprints in the snow as I walked to the Orange Street Food Farm, and I followed them home. Where was I?
So, my Love Jumpstart Activation Fee entitled me to two Alaskan hunks’ addresses. I want you to know that I only asked for one.
I suppose I should tell you a bit about myself. I work in InterLibrary Loan at the University of Montana Mansfield Library. (I don’t know why they capitalize that “L” in “InterLibrary Loan.” It looks wrong to me, but I don’t make the rules.) My job entails searching for books and articles that library patrons have requested. Some days, this is dull. Other days, it’s fascinating, such as when I found a rare book about spinal meningitis at a library in Perth, Australia, and got to call them and hear their accents. I have not traveled far and wide, though I have been to Spokane and also to Coeur D’Alene, Idaho, on the Dinner Theater Bus. (The show was Cats. Have you seen it? The songs are morose but the cat dancing is really inspired. I bought the tape and would be happy to lend it to you, or maybe you can just buy it there. I assume they have music stores in Skagway! I also got a T-shirt signed by three of the cat actors.)
My favorite food is pancakes. I love candy, especially Gummi bears. I prefer Chardonnay and martinis on special occasions, though olives are not my favorite. I read an article in Bon Appétit about a bar in New York City where you can get a mar
tini with a little hot pepper in it, instead of an olive or one of those pickled onions. How about a huckleberry? That’s what I’d like to know.
My favorite place is in front of my fireplace reading a magazine. In the summer, my favorite place is in my hammock reading a magazine.
My pen is running out of ink! I hope you can read my handwriting—I know it slants a bit to the side, hope you’re not a handwriting analyst. Who knows what the loops in my W’s say.
I’m feeling shy now, as I come to the end of this letter. I’m not really even sure what I want to happen—or if I want you to write me back. Of course I want you to write me back, but I also like my life the way it is. I’m not sure why I’m doing this, is what I’m saying. Like I said, I’ve never done anything like this before.
You might want to know why I chose you out of all the other hunks. Well, write back and I will tell you.
Yours sincerely,
Agnes Fowler
EIGHTEEN
THE DOORBELL IN my New Orleans apartment was loud. I pulled a T-shirt over my nightgown, and ran down the stairs. I threw the door open, and on my porch, holding a garment bag over his shoulder, was Anthony. “What?” I said.
“Your mother told me to come right away,” he said, “and she sent this dress. It has feathers.” He handed me the bag. I touched my hair. “Can I come in?” he asked.
“Sure,” I said. “Did she really tell you to come?”
“Well, she said you didn’t have a dress for New Year’s, or a date.”
“Christ!”
I was flustered and embarrassed. I gave Anthony the paper to read while I showered, and then sat down at the kitchen table in a sundress, my feet bare, my hair wet. Anthony was still in his coat. It was way too heavy for New Orleans. I could hear the pipes through the walls, and some Hindu music from next door. “You never called me back,” said Anthony.
“Yeah,” I said.
“You don’t want me here, do you?” he said. He sounded as if he was getting angry. I picked up my cup, and then put it down. I lifted my shoulders and tried to speak, but nothing came out. I remembered his lips, his warm hands on my skin. I wanted to reach for him, but something stopped me.
“It’s OK,” said Anthony. “I made a mistake. I thought there was something…but I guess there isn’t.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t….”
“Never mind,” said Anthony. He stood up. “Fuck,” he said. He went to the door, and let himself out. I listened to his footsteps as he walked down the staircase. I did not go to the window to watch him walk away. Now I was alone, which is what I had wanted. But I didn’t feel better: I missed him.
“Do you mean to tell me you could have spent the whole day in bed with an Italian?” said Winnie, applying glitter to her eyelids. I shrugged, and the feathers at my neckline tickled my chin. “You need some sweet loving, girl,” said Winnie, “or some therapy.”
“Did you ever feel like Kit was too good for you? Too much…I don’t know. Like he wanted something from you that you didn’t know if you could give?”
Winnie snorted. “Kit? Too good for me? Are you drunk?”
I was, a bit, but I said, “Forget it.”
“And what’s up with that dress? You some sort of bird, Caroline?”
“It’s from Saks Fifth Avenue,” I said.
“You gonna fly off the top of this building?” said Winnie, cracking up at her joke.
Peggy burst into the bathroom. In her gold lamé dress, she looked fabulous. “Check it out,” she said, lifting the hem to reveal gold, thigh-high boots. “They were having a sale at Naughty Nancy’s.” She looked up, and her brow furrowed. “Are you wearing that?” she said.
“It’s from Saks Fifth Avenue,” I said.
“Yikes,” said Peggy.
Winnie said, “Did it fly here itself?” and they both laughed uproariously.
Jimbo gathered us in front of the bar. “Here’s the deal, my glamour girls,” he said, rubbing his hands together. “Crystal Robbins and her boyfriend will be here at eleven. The boyfriend is the developer. He’s already opened bars in New York, Miami, and L.A. He’s looking to make The Highball a hotspot.”
I looked at Jimbo’s decorations: giant cardboard martinis hanging from the ceiling, fake presents under a scraggly tree, centerpieces of plastic top hats filled with gumballs. Winnie caught my eye and winked. Her purple and pink dress, into which she was squeezed like a holiday sausage, was a sight to behold.
“I’ve hired the best deejay in the city,” Jimbo continued, pointing to a fat man with a pompadour sorting through CDs. “I want the champagne to flow like a river. This is it, ladies, my ticket to Celebration, Florida.” He fingered his bow tie. “Anybody know how to tie this thing?” he asked. Peggy stepped forward, reaching out with golden fingernails.
All night, I was in a funk. I kept forgetting drink orders, forgetting to act glamorous. When I dropped a tray of appletinis, Jimbo grabbed me firmly by the elbow and hauled me into his office.
“Caroline, have I made myself clear?” he said.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“Are you drunk?”
I was, but just a little. “No,” I said.
“Please,” said Jimbo. “Whatever it is that’s bothering you, please put it out of your mind, just for a few hours.”
“I will.” Jimbo stood before me, twisting his hands. He made me so sad suddenly: his thinning hair, his curled fingers. He had been running The Highball for thirty years. Jimbo’s wife had been a jazz singer. She drank herself to death by forty.
I moved a box of mint julep glasses and sat down. Jimbo’s office was filled with relics from the old days: pictures of Sinatra at The Highball, dusty Mardi Gras beads. “I just need a minute,” I told Jimbo.
“OK, OK, but in ten I want you back on the floor.”
“I promise.”
“Don’t let me down, Caroline,” he said.
I took a few deep breaths, then fluffed my feathers and headed out. I couldn’t stop thinking about everyone’s sadnesses: my mother’s forced cheer; my father’s bloody death; Anthony, looking to me for hope. I thought of my mother, bringing us to church when we were small. “Pray for help,” she told us, and we did. We prayed and we prayed, but no help came. Maybe Madeline was right: I was still waiting.
Crystal Robbins arrived late, her boyfriend on her arm. The deejay was well into his Wham! medley, and three drunk podiatrists were jamming to “Wake Me Up Before You Go Go.” Crystal had a group of angular friends with her.
“Supermodels,” whispered Peggy. “Look, there’s Anita!” They stood at the doorway, taking in the scene. “The one with the pasties is Crystal,” said Peggy. Crystal’s boyfriend wore leather pants and a shirt unbuttoned to his navel. His hair was long and greasy-looking, and he was unshaven. He and most of the models wore sunglasses with yellow lenses. As the women headed toward a table in my section, the boyfriend walked around, inspecting the view, the carpet, the giant motor that kept us spinning.
I cleared my throat and marched over to the supermodels. “Welcome to The Highball!” I said, with as much merriment as I could muster.
“What a dump,” one of them said. “Is the DJ actually George Michael?”
“We have lots of wonderful drink specials,” I announced, “and you’ll surely be delighted by our holiday appetizer platter.”
“Huh?” said one of the girls, sliding her sunglasses down her slim nose and peering over them.
“Can we get a bottle of Ketel One?” asked the one named Anita.
“And, like, an ashtray?” another added.
“No problem,” I said. I turned, but one of the girls caught my sleeve.
“Hey,” she said, “is this Ungaro?” I shrugged. “It totally is! Leticia wore this in the Bazaar shoot.”
I smiled, hoping to be included in more supermodel conversation. “Bottle of Ketel One?” Anita reminded me.
“Oh,” I said, “sorry.”
Wi
nnie stood behind the bar. Her rings caught the light and sent sparkling circles to the walls. “I’m ready, Big Bird,” she said. “Lay it on me. What do supermodels drink?”
“Vodka,” I said.
“On the rocks?”
“Nope,” I said, “they just want the bottle.”
“Oh Lord,” said Winnie. She pulled out a bottle of Absolut.
“Ketel One,” I said.
“No.”
“Yeah. They asked for it specifically.”
“Shit. The footsie doctors drank it all.” She pointed to the dance floor, where two women sang along to “I Want Your Sex,” their vodka tonics held high.
“Call Kit,” I said.
“No can do,” she said. “He was drunk at noon.”
“Len?” I suggested. I found Peggy, and explained the situation. She ran to the bar and picked up the phone. She dialed, held it to her ear, and then said, “Hello?” I saw Jimbo watching the models from the door of his office. His hands were clasped, as if in prayer. The boyfriend was still wandering around, fondling fixtures. “This is his fiancée! Who the hell is this?” said Peggy, her voice rising.
Winnie closed her eyes.
“Get an empty Ketel One bottle,” I told Winnie, “and fill it with cold vodka. Hurry.”
“Hey!” called one of the supermodels. “We gonna get some drinks before next year?” They erupted into laughter. I went over with an appetizer platter.
“Hi,” I said. “Our bartender’s just getting your vodka from cold storage. In the meantime, please enjoy these, compliments of the house.”
“Is this a Chee-to?” said Anita, holding up the orange tidbit.
“Why is that stripper crying?” asked Crystal. I turned, and there was Peggy, collapsed against the bar, sobbing.
“Her boyfriend cheated on her,” I said.
“Bastard!” said Crystal, and then she looked up quickly to make sure Mr. Leather Pants was within eyeshot.
How To Be Lost Page 8