The Girl in the Flaming Dress

by Michael J Vaughn

  The Girl in the Flaming Dress

  a novel by

  Michael J. Vaughn

  Copyright 2018 by Michael J. Vaughn

  THIS LITERARY WORK WAS CREATED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA, AND IS COPYRIGHT 2018 BY MICHAEL J. VAUGHN. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. COVER ART CREATED BY MICHAEL J. VAUGHN, COPYRIGHT 2018.

  THIS LITERARY WORK IS ENTIRELY FICTIONAL. NO SIMILARITY TO ACTUAL PERSONS, LIVING OR DEAD, IS INTENDED OR SHOULD BE INFERRED, UNLESS SUCH PERSON(S) IS/ARE EXPRESSLY IDENTIFIED BY NAME. NO ONE IS INTENTIONALLY DEFAMED OR EXPLOITED IN THIS WORK IN VIOLATION OF ANY RIGHT OF PUBLICITY LAW. LIKEWISE, NO INTELLECTUAL PROPERTY RIGHT OF ANY PARTY WAS INTENTIONALLY VIOLATED IN THIS WORK. THE AUTHOR AND PUBLISHER ARE WILLING TO CONSIDER AMENDING THIS TEXT TO ERADICATE ANY UNLAWFUL LANGUAGE, DESCRIPTION OR CONTENT.

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. NO PART OF THIS LITERARY WORK (AND/OR ACCOMPANYING ARTWORK) MAY BE REPRODUCED IN ANY MANNER WITHOUT THE EXPRESS WRITTEN CONSENT OF THE AUTHOR (EXCEPT IN THE CASE OF BRIEF QUOTATIONS EMBODIED IN CRITICAL ARTICLES AND REVIEWS). FOR IINFORMATION OR CONSENT, PLEASE CONTACT MICHAEL J. VAUGHN AT michaeljvaughn@hotmail.com.

  For Kendra and Stephen Cornelius on their wedding day

  September 8, 2018

  with special thanks to Larry Coulter

  Cover Image: The Girl in the Flaming Dress, Michael J. Vaughn, acrylic, oil and ink on stretched canvas, 30”x40”. From the collection of Shelby and Todd Thompson.

  One

  The clouds are perfect. Rising monsters of cumulus in a tropical stew. He calls Hari and they prowl Indian Rock, photographing its finger-like columns as the sky phases gold, beige, pumpkin, rose.

  “You know where these come from?” says Hari. “We are directly atop the San Andreas Fault. The two plates dredged up this bedrock and spat it out the top.”

  Hari’s sleepy eyes glimmer as he ponders the image. He is a physics professor, equipped with the keys to the universe, but never too jaded to show his satisfaction when one of the keys fits.

  Gerry is replaying this thought as he wrestles with a one-lane road. After years of automatics, he inherited a standard-shift Corolla from a friend, and is still re-learning how to drive in the mountains. He stays in second, hoping for an easy cruise but wary of the locals, who drive like maniacs.

  A flash of brown. He stomps clutch and brake and pulls to the right. He misses it, but hits a large bump on the shoulder.

  Gerry sets the parking brake and kills the engine. A buck with foot-high antlers scampers away to his left. His head swims with adrenaline and silence. Then a song of keening bent notes. He re-checks his brake, gets out and finds a large white dog, twenty feet away in the twilight. He’s whimpering, and scared. Beside him, a pink leash trails along the ground.

  Two

  A wild dark breath courses the night air. Karen sits by the window, waiting to catch it. If you could flux from point to infinite point along the interstate highway system, you might cease to exist.

  A silver loop of keys perches on the nightstand. Karen sits on the bed, waiting to take them. A single suitcase, a final walk down the hall, across the living room. She locks the door.

  Karen reaches behind the shrubs, feels for the cord and unplugs the Christmas lights. The darkness is so lovely.

  Two in the morning, the flat shadow farmlands of 505 out of Vacaville. She sees a dirt road speckled with lights, leading to a farmhouse. Driving fast, shooting star of brake lights, she squeezes the shutter, stealing three of their seconds, hubbub motions in the charcoal splash of TV light. She runs north toward Chico, pulls over for a truckstop coffee. A sign says Redding 50 miles.

  So sweet to find Mt. Shasta at your starboard window like a bright-eyed salesman. When she gets out, her car alarm goes off. It’s six thirty in the morning. The steady honking is waking everybody up, but she has no idea how to turn it off. Five minutes later, she turns the key in her ignition and achieves the most beautiful silence of her life (Why are you banging your head against the wall? It feels so good when I stop). She hears a metallic percussion, and finds a gang of blackbirds picking crumbs off the payphone shelf.

  Karen splits the narrow sea of I-5, wondering if her hand will slip from the wheel. But now she’s into the mountains, the horizons drawn up like curtains. The morning sun blows through her vents like powdered sugar. The only thing better than being here is being three miles from here, three minutes from now.

  She wonders if she’s chasing the unattainable. She pictures a woman dressed all in blue, standing on a sidewalk in Cheyenne, Wyoming. Her name is Improvisia, and she hands Karen a book of songs that will dissolve the brambles in her blood.

  Karen runs a long ribbon of disconnect, each horizon the death of twenty miles, killing the rear-view to save the windshield. When the sun splits the mountains, I will sleep and try not to wake, perhaps just to ask for the time, a drink of water, a word of comfort. And when I lie back down, the pillow will hide half my smile.

  She stops at a diner in Grants Pass, Oregon. Her waitress’s name is Jolene. This pleases her. She orders three-minute eggs, and wonders if she will ever be happy again.

  Three

  Driving through Salem, Oregon, Karen spots a triangle of white, rising from the eastern horizon like a giant incisor. The overcast clears and the enamel shines. Whatever that is, I need to go there.

  She finds herself on the southern edge of the Columbia River Gorge, a rich green cut that offers waterfalls at every other mile. She comes upon a town called Hood River, and a sign that says Mt. Hood. A road leads through winterbarren orchards toward the mountain, which is now a white diamond.

  As she climbs, snowflakes pepper the windshield, but they skitter across the road, leaving a clear path. When she thinks she’s halfway to heaven, she pulls into a vast parking lot edged in sharply cut snowbanks. The lot is filled with cars, and their gathered destination is an enormous lodge, its windows spilling with light. Karen climbs the broad front steps to an entryway of carved boulders, and discovers an interior glowing with beer-colored timbers. She hears music and follows it.

  Outside a banquet room, she finds a huge fireplace fashioned from blocks of stone. A man paces a tight oval around a trio of armchairs. Dressed in chef’s whites, a backward Red Sox cap and Buddy Holly spectacles, he crackles with energy, and seems to be having a religious experience.

  “Oh Jesus. Oh God. Oh Christ Almighty.”

  Karen lets out a hiccup of a laugh. The man’s attention latches on to her.

  “Oh! You find my distress amusing.”

  “I’m sorry,” she says. “I couldn’t help it.”

  “Okay. Are you with the real estate people?”

  “I’m pretty sure I’m not.”

  “Well screw you, sister. I’ve got a hundred home-sellers in there, it’s New Year’s freakin’ Eve…”

  It is?

  “…and my bartender is stuck in Hood River with a busted car. So unless you’ve got an inflatable bartender in your pocket, just leave me to conduct my little meltdown.”

  This is how Karen knows she has already changed, because she says,

  “Can I help?”

  He looks at her as if she is made of pink Jell-O. “How?”

  “What’ve you got? Red wine, white wine? Bottled beer? Easy enough.”

  “Also cocktails.”

  “For those I will bat my lashes and say, Why, I haven’t made one of those in years. What do you like in yours?”

  His eyes stop blinking.

  “Hey,” she says. “Better a lousy bartender than no bartender.”

  “You’re on. I’m Renoir.”

  “I’m Karen. I’ll be right back.”

  “You’re leaving me already?!”


  She’s halfway across the lobby. “Three minutes!”

  “If you don’t come back I will slit my wrists!”

  Karen exits through the arch, trots to her car and digs into her suitcase for a low-cut sequin peach top that she has never worn. She changes right there in the parking lot, then races back inside, dodging patches of ice.

  Renoir grins. “That takes care of the straight men and the lesbians. What will you do with the rest?”

  “I will smile and ask them if they’re having a good time.”

  Renoir leads her into the banquet room. Her station is not much more than a high table the size of an ironing board. The wines stand in tight formation; the beers are buried in tubs of ice. Each item is six bucks, with cocktails at eight, so the moneywork is pretty simple. Karen’s still psyching herself up when the first customer arrives, looking desperately sober. The rest is like diving into a fast river that lasts for five hours.

  Being service professionals, the realtors make ideal customers, eminently patient. The trickier cocktails belong to the older couples, who are more than happy to describe the beverages of their youth. She receives regular flirtations from the men, most of whom return directly to their wives and girlfriends. The women are friendly and sometimes confessional. One points out the associate realtor who she suspects of boffing her husband. Karen has always heard about this confidante/counselor side of bartending, and is fascinated to find it ringing true.

  Ten minutes before midnight, Renoir shanghais her to pass out party hats and bottles of Champagne. The new year arrives with an explosion of music, chatter and makeout sessions, followed by a surprisingly quick denouement. By one o’clock she’s down to a few stragglers. Renoir comes out and beckons her to join him at a table. He hands her a plate of appetizers.

  “Coconut salmon skewers,” he says. “You must be starved.”

  “I am.”

  He extracts a roll of bills and counts them out.

  “That’s three hundred for the evening, and an extra hundred for saving my sorry ass.”

  Karen adds this to the layers of green in her tip jar and feels like she’s about to have a stroke.

  Renoir smiles. “You know, you’re good, especially for someone who has no idea what she’s doing.”

  She laughs. “Thanks.”

  “I’ve got a wedding this weekend in Hood River. I’d like it if you were on my crew.”

  “I… yes!”

  “Awesome. Meanwhile, I also have this.”

  He hands her a plastic card, outlined in blue.

  “I get a credit card?”

  He laughs. “It’s a room key. Part of the deal I get with the lodge. Get a good night’s sleep. I’ll meet you in the dining hall at ten to do the paperwork.”

  “Sure.”

  “Oh, and Happy New Year.”

  “So far, so good.”

  Four

  Gerry waits in the studio, making trivial adjustments to his lights, triple-checking his batteries. The boudoir sessions are a solid contributor to his business. It would seem that the ladies of Idaho prefer to do these kind of things in Nevada. The only drawback is the constant body-image psychologizing.

  Veronica is a bit of an enigma. She arrives in an oversize plaid coat, which hides anything that might give him a clue. He’s guessing a bit of belly fat, maybe some wide hips. She’s got a strong chin, though, so at least he doesn’t have to worry about Photographer’s Enemy #1.

  As Veronica makes her hesitant entrance, all of Gerry’s strategizing goes straight to hell. She wears a gold chemise over a pair of breasts that would seem to be impossible – generous, perfectly round, and looking like they spent their 52 years in a zero-gravity chamber. Gerry shakes off his surprise and goes into his routine.

  “You look lovely. Why don’t we start on the settee?”

  Veronica gives the settee a wary eye. “How do you… want me?”

  “Why don’t you kneel on top of it and look at me over the end? Pretend you’re a panther, and I’m the poor little deer that you’re about to have for lunch.”

  She raises a claw and laughs. “Are all of your sessions like this?”

  He takes a couple more shots. “I like to do what I can to shake off those inhibitions. Okay, now look at me like you’re a little pissed off, because I’m a stoopid man and I’ve done a stoopid thing.”

  A half hour later, he’s got more than enough. Veronica’s a natural, and even when she’s not, those breasts are just there, photo-bombing every shot.

  “Okay. I think we’ve got plenty. Want to call it a day?”

  Veronica blows out a breath. “Would I! I will never make fun of fashion models again.”

  “That’s a common sentiment. Mind if I ask you a question?”

  “Yes, they’re real.”

  Gerry laughs. “Well, that’s close. I was wondering if you make a habit of hiding them, like you did today with the big coat?”

  She purses her lips. “Yes, I do. These puppies are a blessing and a curse. Most of the time, I prefer to be appreciated for other qualities. But every once in a while, I like to bestow them on a special someone, like a gift.”

  “That’s nice.”

  “You know, it’s a terrifying thing, doing something like this, and I really appreciate your approach. A woman wants clear instructions, and you’re so nice about delivering them.”

  “You’re lucky. When I first started, I was a wreck. But I’ve picked up a few things.” He feels like he’s being slightly unprofessional, so he steps back to his routine. “What I’ll do next is winnow these down to a couple dozen, make some small edits, and then I’ll…”

  “Would you like to see them?”

  He’s not sure if he’s heard her correctly. A silence fills the air between them.

  “Stay right there,” she says.

  She reaches for her straps and slowly takes them down. He looks. And looks.

  Gerry sits in the Desert Room at Cactus Pete’s Casino. He digs into a ribeye steak, his carnivore instincts all revved up. The diner is surrounded by the dried skeletons of saguaro cacti, which provides a welcome contrast to the snowfall outside.

  “Hi!”

  Angela makes her usual appearance, bouncing into the booth, her pony tail a long pink tilde.

  “Gerryberry? Why are you eating half a cow?”

  Angela’s a goof, but she can also gun down a lie at a hundred paces. So he gives her the truth.

  “Had a boudoir session today.”

  She lets out a hybrid laugh/giggle. A liggle. “I don’t blame you then. I don’t know how you make such delicious photos out of those frightening old ladies.”

  “You’ll be there someday yourself, girlfriend.”

  She adopts a look of horror.

  “Besides,” he continues, “today’s subject didn’t need much help. She had, um…” He tries to come up with a euphemism, but instead holds out cupped hands.

  Angela grins. “Hooters? Ta-tas? Headlights? Gazongas?”

  “Yes. And then, because I did such a good job, she showed them to me.”

  Angela’s brown eyes get big. “No! Did you fuck her?”

  “Angela!”

  “Answer the question.”

  “No. I did not.”

  “You’re not the pope, you know. You’re allowed to have sex.”

  He looks around the room, hoping his waitress might rescue him from this dreaded subject.

  “Fine,” says Angela. “Consumed by guilt, our hero keeps it in his pants, eternally. Someday you’re going to have to rejoin the human race, buddyboy”

  “Yeah. Someday.”

  “Well! Gotta go.” She jumps from the booth and skitters across the room, sending a finger-wave over her shoulder. The waitress, Patricia, makes her return.

  “Any dessert, Gerry?”

  “Yes! Key lime pie.”

  “Well! Someone brought his appetite.”

  He chews down the last bite of his steak, but the food’s not working. Insi
de, he boils.

  Five

  Skiing is one of the things she had forgotten. But Renoir has his hands in all pots, and it turns out that his Timberline jobs also come with free lift tickets.

  She stands on the white, the morning after a golden anniversary party, feeling the oddness of these long extensions on her feet. Still, they’re much shorter than she remembers, and the ends widen out like paddles. The technology has shot past her. The girl in the rental shop called them parabolics, and then smiled mysteriously.

  Karen cruises the bunny run, trying to get the feeling, trying to remember things. The parabolics are a little sensitive. She’s afraid of running an edge, tumbling to the snow like a doofus. But her legs, hips and spine are telling her things, faxing 20-year-old files to their colleagues. She’s skiing? OMG!

  She comes to a junction, a blue square pointing to the left. She takes a nervous breath and turns down the hill. Immediately, she’s home. She’s at the University of Reno, running Mt. Rose with her bestie Lucinda until they’re dog-tired and ready for drinks. Why did she ever give this up? She picks up speed. The wind curls into her sunglasses and makes her eyes water, a delicious torture.

  Vicky’s Run winds gracefully between groves of fir, cuts beneath the chairs and snakes back to the boarding area. Slowly recalling the courtesies, she slides into the singles line, adds herself to a trio and pushes to the boarding stripe. The quad pulls up and they manage to park their butts without any losses. The trio is a self-contained unit, and is content to ignore Karen as she scans the slopes.

  Considering the hours of standing the night before, she assumes that her quadriceps have an expiration date, so she works her way quickly up the mountain. A short lift called Pucci, a longer one called Mustang Sally. Two hours later, her legs are sending out lactic memoranda. She stands at the bottom of a lift called Magic Mile and frets.