The Girl in the Flaming Dress

by Michael J Vaughn

  The end of the day is exactly when skiers make stupid decisions, trying the hardest runs just when their bodies are giving out. Magic Mile extends past the tree line, and although the runs look manageable, it’s just raw mountain up there, exposed to the winds and dalmatianed with ice. Lucinda used to call them oomph traps, because just when you’re edging into a crust, you hit a pile of powder and go straight over, thudding into the white with an oomph! As if to add to her dread, an ominous cloud peeks over the peak with a mafioso leer and says,

  “C’mon, you gotta try it.”

  The voice belongs to Renoir, a pair of polarized goggles hiding his eyes, his thick dark hair enjoying a rare holiday from the baseball cap.

  “Sure, it’s a little treacherous up there, but the view is incredible. C’mon, I’ll go with you. If you have an accident, I’ll tell them where the body is.”

  She lets out a hybrid laugh/giggle. A liggle. “You’re so reassuring.”

  “Have you wiped out today?”

  “No,” she says proudly.

  “Well then you’re doing it wrong. I have wiped out twice. The last one was glorious.”

  “I can tell.” She reaches behind his ear to knock loose a chunk of snow.

  “I wondered what that was. Going now. Are you with me?”

  He slides away to the lift line. She catches up just in time to push to the loading stripe and board the quad. Somewhat annoyingly, Renoir has his phone out, is checking his messages.

  “Got this monster wedding next Saturday on the river. On a boat on the river. I will point out the bride’s mother to you, and you will make her drinks extra strong. That bitch needs to be tranquilized.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Old guy told me an awesome thing last night. He said he loved the smell of Sterno food warmers, because it reminded him of all the great parties he’s been to.”

  “Nice.”

  Renoir pockets the phone and sets the goggles on his forehead so she can see his eyes.

  “Hey, Karen. I wanted to say how grateful I am to have you on the team. It’s funny, I got so used to Sardi’s quirks that I didn’t notice what a lazy ass he’d become.”

  “Thanks.”

  “And I want you to be better.”

  That’s not the follow-up she expected.

  “I’ve ordered you some books on mixology. And I’m going to drill you on them. You’ve got the charm and the ability to think on your feet. I think with some more technical knowledge you could be great.”

  Better, she thinks. “Okay,” she says.

  They pass the treeline into the whitest place she’s ever seen. Far above the snowfield, igneous spires rise from the crest in a frozen tiara. They exit the lift ramp and stand at the launch area, looking over an eternity of evergreen folds.

  “What’s that?” Karen points out a white cap to the north.

  “Mt. Adams. One of the more underrated peaks. Very stately. That little stump over there is Mt. St. Helens.”

  “Wow.”

  Karen has felt lonely for so long that standing with Renoir before all of this everything seems… alarming. The phrase “I’m going to drill you” is playing on a loop in her head, the wind is blowing ice crystals across the hill and she wants desperately for Renoir to say something momentous.

  “Seeya.”

  He’s off, straight down the hill like an ace. Karen sighs, shakes each leg to loosen the joints and clears the brink, savoring the rush of wind and gravity. The snow is crusty, chattering beneath her skis. She pivots right and digs in, trying to hold down her speed. She hits a patch of powder and goes over, slamming the ground in a fountain of white.

  Oomph!

  She laughs. And laughs. Slaps the snow and pushes to her feet, one half of a mime, a woman dipped in flour, a human beignet. She hears clapping and sees Renoir, fifty yards down the hill.

  “Brava! Brava! Now that’s what I’m talkin’ ‘bout!”

  Karen gives a formal bow and thinks, momentous.

  Six

  Gerry stands on the eighth tee, scanning the white, trying to remember where the fairway is. The wind blows in from the desert, sending a flock of ice crystals across his path. He sets a pink Titleist on a tee, plants his feet, then steps an inch closer. He waggles the club to loosen his wrists, lifts it past his shoulder and cuts through the impact point.

  It’s a push, a little to the right, but the arc is high and long. Gerry doesn’t really care where a ball ends up, anyway. It’s all about aesthetics, about look and feel, and maybe that’s a photographer’s curse. The ball etches a dot-dot-dash into the snow and disappears.

  “Get it girl!”

  Sophie takes off like a bullet, a circle of black fur against the white field. Gerry swings his bag onto his shoulder, feeling ecstatic. The hook is gone. Yesterday, at the driving range, he found himself standing too close to the ball. He swung anyway. The result was a beautiful, straight arc. Thinking it a fluke, he tried again. Another perfection, and another. It felt so uncomfortable, like he couldn’t fully extend his arms, but somehow this tiny change brought his body parts into perfect alignment.

  He laughs at himself. This is what passes for excitement in his dull, dull life. He arrives at his ball. Sophie stands two feet away, still as a pointer, her breath making little cottonballs in the air.

  He studies the surroundings – a cluster of trees to the right, a small pond across the fairway – and recalls a bit of local legend. The eighth is notorious for a family of hawks who have settled nearby and seem to see the golfers as intruders. Three years ago, one of them made a dive at Sophie. Spurred by visions of flying Pomeranians, Gerry lofted his seven-iron in the hawk’s general direction and diverted his attack.

  Gerry gives Sophie an appreciative head-pat, digs his Titleist from the snow and sets it on the surface. He plants his feet, scooches forward that single unbearable inch and lofts his ball into the sky. It hangs in the air like a tiny pink star and drops, drilling into a snowbank twenty feet from the pin.

  “Get it, Sophie!”

  She is a black streak, shot from a cannon. Gerry wishes he had one tenth of that energy.

  The clubhouse is a rambling two-story affair that feels like someone’s freshly built yellow farmhouse. Gerry climbs to the porch and is about to slip a twenty into the mail slot when the door pushes open. Kerry McPherson pops her head out.

  “Gerry! I told you, you don’t have to pay in the winter.”

  “I know I don’t have to. I want to.”

  “Gerry. The people who run this golf course do not expect to make money in January. That’s why it’s closed.”

  He holds up the bill. “Kerry. I received at least twenty dollars of recreational value today, and I am not leaving with this particular Andrew Jackson in my pocket. The only solution is for you to take it.”

  Kerry’s expression is sometimes severe, but when she smiles, everything blossoms.

  She takes the twenty and folds it into the pocket of her blouse. “Thanks, Gerry. I will contribute it to the local economy. But tell me something. How the hell do you putt?”

  “Seven iron. If I get within a foot of the hole, I consider it made.”

  “Nice.”

  Gerry has run out of things to say, but he doesn’t really want to leave. He notices how nice Kerry looks – even when the course is closed to the public – and how her strawberry blonde hair frames her face.

  “Well, I’d better get my poor dog some dinner.”

  “I should say so. Bye, Gerry. I admire your devotion.”

  He waves and pulls out a pink leash. Kerry closes the door and listens to the clinking of Gerry’s clubs. Devotion? she thinks. What kind of idiot uses a word like devotion?

  Three hours later, Gerry sits on his couch, watching a rerun of Frasier. He tosses a fluffy yellow ball down the hallway. Sophie dashes off to fetch it. They will do this for hours. She has to be the most physically fit Pomeranian in the world.

  The door opens. Angela waltzes in. She w
ears a purple parka; her pink hair is tucked into a short-brimmed black fedora. She plops down on the couch.

  “That Kerry McPherson is a fine-looking woman.”

  “That’s a pretty random comment.”

  “Your golf clubs are out.”

  “Okay. Sherlock.”

  “Also, Kerry’s got a thing for you.”

  “Oh, bull. You women just want all the free men to settle down so you don’t have to worry about them.”

  Angela feigns sadness. “I would be heartbroken if you were snatched up by some other chick. But in the case of Kerry McPherson, I’d be willing to make the sacrifice.”

  “So very noble.”

  “Shit, Gerry! I’m not talking about marriage. Just take her to dinner. And stop using your dog as an excuse to get away from her.”

  Sophie drops the ball at Gerry’s feet. He tosses it down the hallway.

  “Do I really do that?”

  “You did it today.”

  “But you weren’t there.”

  Angela’s eyes get big with amusement. “I know. I was just guessing. Well! I’m off.”

  “Where to?”

  “I’m having an affair with a slot machine at the Four Jacks. He gets mad when I’m late.”

  “He?”

  “I have a vivid imagination. Ta!”

  She leaves. The door eases shut. Sophie returns with her fuzzy ball. Gerry tosses it. It’s good to have a purpose in life.

  Seven

  A riverboat wedding is a fantastical idea, and almost certain to run onto the sandbars of reality. The cake is late. The flowers are wilting. The groom is late. The cruise line, accustomed to its in-house kitchen crew, assigns a manager to oversee Renoir’s use of their facilities, but he seems much more interested in meddling and irritation. When the boat finally launches, an hour off schedule, the pleasant drizzle turns into an icy rainstorm. This forces all the guests to squeeze into the dining room for the ceremony.

  Karen is prepping the bar when Renoir pays her a visit.

  “Oh God oh God. Everything’s dry. The medallions are dry. The chicken is dry. Except for the vegetables, which are soggy. And will they blame the fucking groom? Of course not! They will blame me.”

  He grabs Karen by the shoulders and fixes her with a look that verges on maniacal.

  “It all hinges on this crazy bitch of a bride’s mother. If you see a chance to win her over, take it. I got stiffed on a check once, and I tell you it’s horrible!”

  He kisses her on the cheek. “Gotta go!” And quick-steps to the kitchen.

  Karen spends a minute trying to 1) forget about the kiss and 2) get inside of Mrs. Chiang’s head.

  I have spent my life doing the right things. I married a successful man. I worked hard to build a family. I taught my daughter to be wise in selecting a mate; despite the unspeakable rudeness of his tardy arrival, I believe that she has done that. Today was to be my reward for all those years, all that work, and everything is falling apart. These people just don’t care. They keep making excuses. I don’t want excuses! I want things to be fixed.

  The funny thing is, everyone else seems to be having a good time. The couple and their friends are professionals from Portland, a city that seems to breed mellowness. They’re taking the rainstorm as an adventure, a story that will find an understanding audience with their Northwestern friends. They’re patient with the line at the bar, and Karen’s tip jar begins to pile up with bills.

  The DJ plays the first dance, performed on a comically tiny dance floor. The parents join in and Karen gets her first peek at Aurora Chiang. She’s a beautiful woman, blessed with a trim figure and that Asian complexion that seems impervious to aging. Her businessman husband, on the other hand, looks a bit doughy and dumpy. Karen also notices Aurora’s dress, a fitted mint green affair with floral white stitching that spreads like a vine across the front.

  Ten minutes later, she spots Mrs. Chiang in her line and deploys step one: acknowledgement.

  “I’m sorry,” she announces. “Could I serve the bride’s mother first? She’s probably very busy.”

  The young Indian man at the head of the line looks around. “Oh! Certainly.”

  Mrs. Chiang gives a forced smile and approaches the bar. Her lips are pursed with anxiety.

  “White wine.”

  “Certainly.”

  Karen was hoping for a cocktail, which she could make stronger. With wine, she can only fill the glass fuller and hope she drinks it.

  “Thank you,” she says, and turns to go.

  “Mrs. Chiang?”

  She turns around, as if she has been addressed by a phantom.

  “That dress is brilliant. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  Mrs. Chiang looks her up and down.

  “Thank you.”

  Step two: set the hook. The woman-to-woman fashion compliment is a powerful force.

  They eat dinner. Things are going all right. Mrs. Chiang nibbles and pouts. And drinks. Outside, the rain is relentless, the sky is dark. After a half hour, Mrs. Chiang returns to the bar.

  “Nancy Lee,” she says.

  “Pardon?”

  “My dressmaker. In Gresham. The woman is a genius.”

  “Oh! Thank you. So how’s the day going for you?”

  “Awful! Almost everything, a disaster. Are you with the caterer?”

  “No. I work for the cruise line.”

  “Well, I’ll tell you, the medallions are like poker chips, the chicken is dried out, and the vegetables are like vegetable soup. This caterer, Van Gogh… something, he came highly recommended but I was convinced he was unstable. And this DJ, he talks like he’s trying out for a morning radio show…”

  Step three: ventilation. Karen plays the part of the double agent, nodding as Aurora Chiang lists the many sins committed against her. A few minutes later, she departs for the head table, where the best man is preparing to make his toast.

  They proceed to the cake ceremony. The guests, imprisoned on their wedding boat, huddle into groups to chat and laugh. Outside, the sky grows lighter. When Mrs. Chiang returns, she’s looking a little tipsy, but just as put-upon as ever. She continues venting as if she never stopped.

  “When I tell you all the hours it takes to put together something like this, and my husband, the good-for-nothing. Sure, he signs the checks, but does he ever have the slightest opinion about anything? ‘Whatever you want, dear.’ What I want is a little help making all these decisions!”

  Karen glances outside. She waits for Aurora Chiang to take a drink. Or a breath.

  “Mrs. Chiang? May I show you something?”

  Aurora Chiang looks her up and down like before, and apparently decides that she’s the one person on this boat who’s worthy of her trust.

  “Oh…kay.”

  Karen takes her by the elbow and guides her to the back of the room. They enter a sheltered alcove just before the doors to the deck. The boat is headed toward Portland, approaching a spot where the river widens out. The Oregon side offers corrugated orange cliffs, the Washington side a dramatic rise covered in green. The center of the river is reflecting a brilliant coppery sunset, which silhouettes the bride and groom in a kiss. And, it’s snowing.

  “There, Mrs. Chiang. That is what you have made.”

  Aurora Chiang watches for a long moment. Her son-in-law and daughter separate, then fall into a spinning embrace. Aurora turns to Karen. She’s crying. She gives her a hug and whispers into her shoulder.

  “Thank you.”

  Karen stands in the marina parking lot, watching the last of the guests drive away. A familiar figure walks to the end of the dock, scans the lot and runs her way. Renoir grabs her and lifts her into the air.

  “I saw you! You were hugging the dragon queen! You’re some kind of witch, aren’t you?”

  Karen liggles. (She’s really got to stop that.)

  “Step four: magic.”

  “The old man handed me a check on the way out. A three hundred dol
lar bonus for you, young lady. I love you!”

  Somehow they end up kissing. He pulls back with a nervous laugh.

  “Whoa! Sorry. Sorta went overboard there.”

  Karen grabs the front of his chef’s whites and yanks him back for more. It’s an amazing feeling, but she’s a little sad, because she knows this will be the end.

  Eight

  It’s one of those nights when Gerry reconsiders his carless existence. It’s 16 degrees, snowing, and he’s walking into a strong wind. The cold creeps into every corner of his clothing. By the time he completes the three-block trek to Cactus Pete’s, he is entirely frosted. The long walk through the casino warms him up a little, but apparently does not improve his appearance. The human mountain that is Dr. Albert High stands at the entrance to the cocktail lounge, wearing a double-breasted green suit and a golden paisley tie (who else could pull this off?). He takes one look at Gerry and unleashes that operatic baritone laugh.

  “Ho-lee crap, Ger! Were you run over by a Zamboni?”

  “Feels like it.”

  “Sit down. I had Carmen bring us some antipasto.”

  Dr. Al is a noted gustatorian, and never caught short when it comes to hosting. Gerry wraps a mozzarella ball in prosciutto and gives it a bite. Carmen arrives with twin coffees. Soon, Gerry is warming up and shedding layers of clothing.

  “So where’s our subject?”

  Dr. Al fiddles with his silver beard. “She’s on her way. She doesn’t move too fast. Hey, so we’re all set for this fishing show, right?”

  “I did my best to cram you into my tight schedule.”

  “You so funny. I am sorry that I can’t get you something better than this.”

  “Well come on, Al, I need the work.”

  “No, Gerry, I mean it.” It was a little jarring, the way that Al could shift into sincerity. “You’re an artist, man, and I appreciate you. But I did want to add something. Take a break once in a while and snap some candids around the show. I can use those for P.R. Just add it to the invoice.”