Barefoot, she whirled around the stage. The music switched to Portishead—low, slow notes. The bar seemed entranced. Ellie slipped her robe from her shoulders and let it fall down her arms. It was cheap polyester, but Ellie made it look like the finest silk as it slid over her skin. She caught it between two fingers and it trailed from her, rippling in the smoky air. The room was very hot: protection against the brittle chill outside. This whole place was about fortification, I realized, something to get you through the bare, cold nights. New Orleans had plenty of strip clubs, don’t get me wrong, but the sheer desperation in Mulligan’s made me scared. Men watched Ellie as if they wanted to devour her. They watched with agony, with anger.
Ellie let go of the robe. She was barefoot now, in the red nightie. She brought her arms up again, and again I saw her at four, standing onstage in a pink tutu, a sequined tiara in her hair.
“Take it off, Charlene!” yelled a bearded man.
“Yeah, girl!” chimed in another voice.
She did not appear to hear them. She spun slowly, then with greater speed. She spun until it was hard to see any specific part of her. Her hair melted into her jawbone, the red dress leapt into flame, her ankles were nothing more than a blur. Finally, she stopped. Her face was flushed, and a few strands were stuck to her cheek. Her eyes were closed, and she slowly let one arm fall forward, her white palm opening, as if waiting for someone’s hand to slip inside. She was still, her ribcage rising and falling. The song ended, and she stood in silence.
“Charlene!” yelled the bushy man. “Come on, honey.”
The music had ended, and the faint ping of the Keno machine was the only accompaniment. She reached to her shoulder and untied the ribbon that held up the nightgown. No one lifted a drink, or made a sound. Ellie touched the other shoulder. She pulled the ribbon, and the nightgown fell.
I could not turn away. Ellie’s body was revealed; small-boned, the color of milk. Her stomach was soft. She had shaved her pubic hair, which made her look disturbingly childlike. She opened her eyes, came out of whatever dream had held her. She paused, blinking, naked. Her look was blank, faintly confused. After a few seconds, she bent, collected her clothes, and walked off the stage.
ZZ Top came blaring over the speakers, and another girl took the spotlight, a feisty brunette with a feather boa. I had seen enough.
I drew the red curtain aside, and the halogen lights of the diner made me wince. I zipped my ridiculous parka and pulled my hat over my ears. Cold smacked me in the face when I opened the door, pushing tears from my eyes and burning my lungs.
The sky was empty. I felt raw inside. I suddenly wanted to play piano, to let my sadness flow from my fingertips. A melancholy tune began to well up in my chest.
It had been years since I had heard music playing in my body. Throughout my childhood, I had been trotted out to play for guests, zipped into velvet dresses for my twice-yearly recitals. But when Ellie disappeared, the shining notes went with her. There had been a time when I had fallen asleep listening to my own music. Though I labored through my music major at University of New Orleans, playing steady, uninspired sonatas, dutifully practicing, the joy of composing fled me little by little, and I was left with only technical talent. I could play whatever you put in front of me. If I sat at the piano without sheet music, however, my fingers were clumsy. After college, I stopped playing entirely.
But in the middle of the street, the Oxford Diner sign on one side of me and the mountains on the other, I felt the saddest song fill me. I stood under the fading stars, trying to convince myself that the tears frozen in my eyelashes were from the wind.
FIVE
SARAH HAD BEEN gone for a long time before she finally packed her things and left Bernard. She didn’t write a note, or say goodbye. It didn’t matter by then. Like his wife told him, Bernard died when five-year-old Agnes sank into the waves. He had not gone near the ocean since, fishing only in the river, where it was safe.
He was a walking cadaver, Sarah said accusingly, and wasn’t worth a damn to anyone. It was, she said, as if he didn’t even want to get better. He held onto his grief, spent every night alone in the attic reading fishing catalogs and tying flies. He didn’t have anything left for her…couldn’t even say her name, could he? Go on, dammit, say my name! Say it! Sarah!
He couldn’t say it.
Bernard stood at the upstairs window and watched Sarah pack the car. She took the lamp they had brought home from Bermuda, and the telephone table that had been her grandmother’s. She went in and out of the house, fitting into the car the objects she imagined a new life around, and Bernard felt nothing.
Sarah came out carrying something in her arms: the bedspread. She had made it when Agnes was an infant, stitching his old T-shirts next to scraps of her own dresses and shirts. She’d fitted in a square of Agnes’ baby blanket and a sliver of Bernard’s flannel pajamas when they fell to shreds. Bernard watched Sarah place the blanket carefully in the backseat. The afternoon light filtered through the stained-glass window, casting colored shapes onto his bare feet. It was probably a weekday, and he should probably go to work.
SIX
I BEGAN THE night with a Cole Porter medley. It was a Friday, and Cee Cee’s had a bigger crowd than usual: a mixture of drunks and divorcées out on the town. One spiffed-up couple twirled around the floor, showing off their Lindy lessons. My fingers flew over the keys, and my singing voice got better as the night went on.
At some point, I looked toward a dim corner and saw Ellie and Daven watching me. Daven held her hand on the tabletop.
After “Let’s Do It (Let’s Fall in Love),” I took a break. My tip jar was jammed with small bills. I went into the restroom. When I stepped out of my stall, there was Ellie, leaning against the mirror. “Hi,” she said.
“Hi.”
“Caroline?”
“Yes?”
“Can I talk to you about something?” she said, putting her hand on my arm. I could see her behind me in the mirror: we had the same eyes, same mouth. I remembered eating blueberry pancakes with Ellie at the kitchen table, the way she would lick the syrup off her lips.
I pulled my lipstick from my purse. In the mirror, I looked drunk. However, my hair looked good, all piled on my head and curled with the curling iron I had found at the Salvation Army. “OK,” I said.
“Um, I’m a little short on rent this month.”
I swallowed hard. “Yeah?” I said.
“I was just wondering,” said Ellie, “if I could borrow, like a hundred dollars? I’ll pay you back. I promise.”
“Don’t you make enough at Mulligan’s?” I asked.
“Well,” she said, looking down. “Not this month.” She was a bad liar. “You’re a beautiful piano player, Caroline. Daven really liked it, too.”
“Thanks, El,” I said.
Her eyes narrowed. “What did you call me?”
“Nothing,” I said.
“Oh,” she said.
“Let me get my purse,” I said.
Back in the apartment building, I was brushing my teeth when someone tried to turn the knob on the bathroom door.
“Um, one minute,” I said.
“Sorry,” called a voice. It was Ellie. I rinsed my mouth out and opened the door, but no one was in the hallway. I clenched my fists, and went to Ellie’s apartment. I knocked.
“Who is it?”
“Charlene? It’s me, Caroline.”
She opened the door a crack. I could see only her feverish eyes. “What?” she said. “What is it?”
“Let me in,” I said.
“No.” She shut the door firmly. I stood in the hallway for a minute, frustrated and confused. “It’s me,” I said finally. “It’s Caroline.” There was no answer.
In all my dreams of Ellie, I never imagined she might turn into someone I didn’t want to know. It didn’t occur to me that having her in my life could make it worse. I imagined a grown-up version of the baby sister I had known. I didn’t dream past the soft lips on my ch
eek, the head in my lap, the silky feel of her skin, the cocktails we would share on my New Orleans balcony.
SEVEN
A FEW NIGHTS later, I heard Daven yelling at Ellie. I couldn’t hear the words, just the anger. It was excruciating. She needed me, and I didn’t know how to help her. I envisioned Ellie falling into my arms. She would tell me how much she had yearned for me—how she, too, had felt as if she were missing a part of herself. I wondered what it would feel like to know where she had been for so many years.
Finally, I heard Daven stomp down the hallway and into the elevator. When I was sure he was gone, I went to her room. I banged on the door. “Let me in,” I said, with more strength than I felt.
“Leave me alone,” said Ellie.
“It’s me,” I said. “Ellie, it’s me!”
The door opened slowly. I could see the mountains beyond her windows, silhouetted against the sky. She stood in a bathrobe. Her face was sunken in around the bones. “What?” she said, and then she began to cry and lurched toward me.
I pulled her in. “Ellie,” I said, into her dirty hair. “It’s OK, little one. I’m here.”
Her body relaxed. She smelled sour, and she sobbed into my shoulder. “I don’t know what to do,” she said.
Here it was at last: the moment I had waited for. We could live together in New Orleans, as I had promised so long ago. “Come home, El,” I said.
When she pulled away, her eyes were pleading. “Why are you calling me that?” she said. “Stop calling me that,” she said.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “But don’t you know who I am?” She looked down. The roots of her hair were light.
“I just need a drink,” she said. Her head snapped back. “Let’s go get a drink.”
“OK,” I said.
I had a bad feeling in my stomach as I brushed my hair and put my wallet in my bag. I met Ellie by the elevator. She still looked terrible, but had pulled on a tiny denim miniskirt and her red coat. Her legs were bare.
“You’re going to freeze,” I said.
“Whatever,” said Ellie.
On the street in front of the Wilma, she took my hand. Her fingernails scratched my palm. “You have a car, right?” she said.
“Yeah.”
“Get it,” said Ellie.
I was afraid to leave her, afraid she would not be in front of the building when I returned. “Come with me,” I said, but she shook her head.
“I’ll be right here,” she said.
My car was parked by the Higgins Street Bridge. As I walked down the metal staircase to the lot, my boots slipped on the ice. It was freezing, and I could barely see my way. I was apprehensive, but also filled with a strange excitement. I wanted a drink, too. I wanted many drinks. I was tired of being alone. Didn’t I deserve a thrilling life?
It took two tries to start the car, but the engine turned over and I breathed on my fingers as I waited for the heat to kick in. I turned on the radio, and moved the dial until I found a Led Zeppelin song that suited my mood. I put the car in gear and drove up to Higgins. As promised, Ellie was waiting.
She climbed in the car and her skirt rode up her thighs. She rolled her head, rubbing her own shoulders. “I’m ready for some fun,” she said. “Fuck Daven, you know?”
I nodded, though I did not know.
She directed me to take a right on Broadway. As we headed out of town, the lights were few and far between. Finally, she told me to turn into a bar called the Trail’s End. There were a few beat-up trucks in the parking lot. I pulled the Wagoneer up to a snow bank and turned off the engine.
“Here we are,” said Ellie.
“The Trail’s End,” I said, attempting to sound cheery.
Ellie kicked her door open and whirled her legs into the cold. She led the way into the bar.
It was a dim place, with a jukebox and Keno machines on the right and a long bar on the left. A few men sat at the bar. One had oiled hair and a wet-looking gash in his cheek. Ellie smiled at the bartender. He nodded warily. “Charlene,” he said.
“Ken,” she said, “this is my friend Caroline.” I nodded. “She’s buying,” added Ellie.
“Hi,” I said. I held up my purse.
“What’ll it be?” said Ken, a short man with a bristly moustache.
“Whiskey,” said Ellie.
“On the rocks,” I said. He took the bottle from underneath the counter, filled two glasses halfway. Ellie and I sat on barstools and sipped.
“How about cigarettes?” said Ellie. I gave her the money, and she walked to the machine, choosing a pack and bending over a little too far to retrieve it. The man with the wound looked at her appraisingly.
Ellie and I lit up. The whiskey warmed my cheeks and stomach; we ordered more. “Daven’s such an asshole,” began Ellie.
I nodded.
“He won’t let me go anywhere, or have my own money,” she said.
“Is he…,” I said. “Does he hurt you?”
She shrugged. “Nah,” she said, half-heartedly. “I just want my own money, you know?”
“Hm,” I said.
“The problem,” said Ellie, “is that I love him. I really do. And if you love someone, what can you do?”
Here was a question I could not answer. I took a big sip of whiskey. The truth was that I had never loved anyone, other than my own family. This seemed so pathetic, all of a sudden. I wished I had taken more chances, and I began to look around the bar, hoping wildly for a chance to take.
“If you go get Cokes,” said Ellie, “we can just buy the whiskey and make our own drinks.”
Ken nodded. “Saves you some,” he said.
I agreed that this seemed like a good idea, and went to the gas station down the street and bought a six-pack of Coke. When I returned, a man was sitting next to Ellie at the bar: Daven. He looked me up and down when I approached the table, Coke cans trailing from my hand. I thought he might tell me to go, but he gave me a disturbing smile and said, “Let’s get a table, ladies.”
We moved to a beat-up table in the corner. Daven bought a bottle of Jim Beam and set it in the middle, along with three greasy glasses. Ellie grabbed the Cokes and set to bartending, pouring very strong drinks. As I drank, I began to feel buoyant. I was glad to be in a shadowy bar in Montana. Perhaps this was where I belonged. In truth, it was not so different from Bobby’s Bar.
Ellie started a story about a man she once fucked. (This was the way she put it.) She was pale and bony, but as she talked about seducing a friend’s father, I could see how she might have been tempting once, when her hair was thick and her face round and healthy. Daven listened with his chin in his palm, his mouth curling at the edge. He saw some glow underneath the mess she had made of herself. She was telling the story to hurt him, but he looked as if the story turned him on. I didn’t want to worry about why this was so. It was easy: I stopped worrying. I drank. I lit cigarettes and smoked them.
Then Daven was talking about his childhood dog, Ohio, who was hit by a car. Daven told the story well, and it was clear that the memory of finding Ohio’s body still haunted him. Ellie chimed in with a memory of a dog she had owned. Its name was Snowball, she said, and her father had let it loose in the woods when it tore up the furniture. She was seven years old, and had looked for Snowball for months, wandering in the woods near her house in Maine.
Snowball? Maine? What the fuck was she talking about? I made myself a whiskey straight. I stood, swaying a bit. “Who wants to dance?” I said.
There was laughter, and then Daven had me in his arms. The song was “Sexual Healing” by Barry White. Daven’s body odor was strong. I sank my face into his shirt. Ellie joined us. She gave me a full glass. The whiskey was like water now, and went down easily.
EIGHT
from the desk of
AGNES FOWLER
Dear Johan,
Well, I really don’t know what to say. When I got home from the library, the FedEx delivery slip was hanging on my doorknob. It was a very strange
day (more later), so I was a bit apprehensive about what sort of package I might be receiving. I had not ordered anything. (Though I had almost—very late one night—called for the Amazing Pasta Pot, which enables you to pour hot pasta water right through the holes in the lid. Ingenious! But I refrained.)
I went inside and called FedEx, and they told me that someone would come right over with my package. I made a cup of tea and waited. After two cups of Earl Grey, I poured a glass of Old Crow, my father’s whiskey. It was such a strange day, as I said before, and I opened my purse and took out the flyer.
Let me backtrack.
This morning, a student came into the InterLibrary Loan office. He was tall and blond, and carried a large metal mug, which he rested on the counter while he filled out the Search Card. “Need any help?” I said, from across the room, where I was secretively eating a raspberry Danish.
“Um,” said the student. He looked confused by the ILL card. I sighed, and licked the sugar from my fingers.
“Put the title of the book on the first line,” I said, in what I thought was a patient manner. I saw him begin to write. “And put the author on the second line,” I said. He nodded, took a swig from his mug, and continued. I had reached the counter, and saw that the book he wanted was called Using Fractals for Sedimentary Analysis. Ugh.
“Just put your name, phone number, and e-mail address on the last line,” I said. I smiled, and he looked up at me. His eyes narrowed for a moment. “Right there,” I said, pointing.
“You totally look like the lady on the sign,” said the student.
“Excuse me?”
“The sign at Charley B’s,” said the student.
Charley B’s is a bar downtown. “What are you talking about?” I said.
“Forget it,” he said. He handed me the card, turned, and walked away. The back of his T-shirt said, “You can always re-take the test. You can never re-take the party!”
How odd, I thought. I took the card, and I found the book at the University of Oregon library. The student would have his fractal information by Friday. The day passed slowly, with the boy’s words turning in my head. We had a Teamwork Seminar at three, and it was long and awful. A man with a mustache made us write down adjectives to describe our co-workers. About me, people wrote: “friendly,” “punctual,” and “a real ham.” Sheesh! Does no one sense my inner mystery?
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