The Girl in the Flaming Dress

by Michael J Vaughn

  “Look at the bio.”

  “Oh, uh… ‘Lives in San Rafael, California with his wife Karen.’”

  “Yeah. That.”

  “Karen? Lots of Karens in the world. Gerry, watch it, okay? Let’s not scare off the homecoming queen. She’s getting more valuable by the minute.”

  “Sure.”

  “Now get started on March, you lucky dog. Hey, and sometime or other work in the Falls, okay? Kind of a draw in these parts.”

  “Got it.”

  He slips a check into the book and hands it back.

  “See you at Yoakam, Maestro.”

  “Sure.”

  That evening, he’s out on the porch, exercising the Sophster, when a wood nymph comes by in a white parka. He hands her the book.

  “You forgot this.”

  “Oh! Thanks.”

  “Unlikely reading material.”

  “A little bit of a fixation.”

  “You want to tell me about it? Karen?”

  She sits on the lower step and, of all things, lights a cigarette.

  “My husband. Harry’s dying of ALS. I was losing him, limb by limb. I had no life of my own. My only job was to watch him die, and what’s more, he was being a real prick about it. His writing was getting gross. It’s like if he was going to lose his body, he was gonna share it first, with every female he could imagine, in every way he could imagine. Except me, of course. He blamed me for the disease, as if marrying me was the cause of his illness. I tried to be patient, I tried to reason with him, but I could not get back that romantic, brilliant man that I had fallen in love with. Finally, I had to save myself. I made sure that someone would be around to check up on him, and then I just left. I just couldn’t…”

  Her breath catches. She tries to take a drag from the cigarette, but she can’t even inhale. She drops her head.

  “I was the girl in the flaming dress.”

  She folds into his arms. She’s quaking. He strokes her hair.

  “I’ll find out for you… You should know.”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “It’s all right, Karen. A person can only do so much.”

  “Mmm.”

  He takes her cigarette before it burns her jacket, then for some weird reason he takes a puff. “He’s a hell of a writer.”

  Sophie drops her ball at their feet and crawls into the forest created by their legs. Gerry looks over at Barton’s 93, then up at Orion’s Belt, and wonders how he would capture it.

  Sometime in the dark darks, he feels a yank in an unexpected place and finds himself next to Karen. Angie hovers over the bed in a brilliant yellow cape. She tugs again on his dick and giggles.

  “I always wanted to… I never got to…”

  “Yes,” he says.

  “You see now? It’s okay to feel.”

  “And now I’m feeling on her behalf, as well. And her husband. I don’t know if I can handle this much feeling.”

  “Good boy. I’ll see you at breakfast sometime.”

  “Sure thing. Goodnight.”

  The girl he killed yanks on his dick and tells him she loves him. Nothing weird about that. She fades down the hallway. He presses his nose to Karen’s flannelled back and shuts his eyes.

  Twenty Four

  And now they’re sleeping together. Anyone would assume they’re also having sex, but no. Whatever they’re doing, she needs it like air. Every minute since her confession is a consumption by guilt. Over the years, Gerry’s body has manufactured a serum that drives off a guilt larger than any she has known. Each night, she settles into the curve of that body and drinks in the antitoxins.

  “What size did you want?”

  The lady at the driving range is emitting a vibe of irritation. She delivers information in short, bothered bursts.

  “It’s five for the large, three for medium.”

  “Okay. Large, please.”

  “Take the medium.”

  “Oh? Why?”

  “You’re a newbie. You’ll hurt yourself.”

  “Well I’ll just leave the ext…”

  “No. You’ll end up hitting them all and you’ll hurt yourself and you’ll blame us.”

  She sets her hands on the counter, like a lineman ready to rush. Karen studies the fierce green eyes and decides she has no energy for arguing.

  “Sure. Okay.”

  Greeneyes finishes the transaction in silence. Karen loops her golf bag over her shoulder and flees the toxic cloud. The big driver clanks amiably next to her left ear. The driver that belongs to the man that she loves.

  She picks the center of seven stalls and scans the range, which is free of snow but ragged as a punk rocker’s haircut. She chooses a victim from the bucket and places it on the rubber tee. She pulls out the Love Driver, copper-colored, a small dent on top indicating a possible shit-fit. She can’t imagine Gerry doing that, but then, it is golf and he is a guy.

  She has no real knowledge of the golf swing, so she draws on high school softball. Visualize the softball swing tipped vertical, like she’s digging out a low-and-away. And keep your eye on the ball. She sways back, raises the weapon and sets it loose. She’s delighted to hear something between a swack and a ping. She has put the ball into play. A grounder, to be exact, hard, up the middle. She’s thrilled. The next one is a fly ball to second. On the third, she clanks the clubhead against the turf and bounces it right over the ball. Strike one.

  And then she’s flying, propelled by some blunt object over the turf and onto the wet grass beyond. She makes an accounting of her limbs, finds four, and scoots around on her butt to inquire, “What the fuck!”

  What she sees is a familiar figure, a woman in white pants, sky blue T and strawberry blonde hair (strong on the honey). Her expression is defiance, but suddenly it melts and she scampers away. Karen bounces to her feet and runs to the counter.

  “What the hell do you…?”

  She stands at the counter and extends a phone. She seems strangely calm, but speaks with an edgy quaver.

  “Here.”

  “What?”

  “Call the police. It’s okay. It was worth it.”

  Karen declines to accept it, so the woman sets it on the counter. Karen stands there for a long time, and begins to develop an idea.

  “You’re the one who has the hots for Gerry.”

  The woman looks down, looks sideways. The evasion answers the question.

  “Maybe.” She backs up a step and crosses her arms beneath generous breasts. Lucky boy. She pictures the green-eyed monster breaking Gerry like a bronc buster. Karen tries to gin up a stern tone.

  “I’ll tell you what you’re gonna do. You’re gonna teach me how to hit a fucking golf ball, and then you’re gonna buy me a beer.”

  The eyes blink rapidly, a hummingbird flutter. Then they stop. Her plush lips produce an almost imperceptible smile. Lucky boy.

  “Really?”

  Julie Lesser is a crafty bartender with crafty eyes, smoky blue, flashing green. She looks like she could stop a bar fight with a well-placed adjective. Julie gives Karen an appraising look.

  “So Kerry knocked you on your kiester and your idea of punishment is for her to buy you a beer?”

  Karen’s in a power position, so she takes a long time to answer. She scans the long window behind the bar, and realizes it’s the fairway where once she was a wood nymph.

  “Apparently, I done stole her man.”

  Kerry is ashamed and silent, occupied with her Budweiser. She gathers the courage to speak.

  “One might assume the two of you are an item. I’ve seen you leave his house at sunrise. I’ve even seen the two of you naked on the golf course.”

  Julie’s crafty-ometer goes off. “Nothing says lovin’ like a round of starkers.”

  “And yet somehow,” Karen volleys, “Gerry and I are partners in neither sex nor romance. But I do love him, and he is in the process of saving me from my own stupid self. I also know many of his thoughts. A big one is that he has a thing f
or Kerry, but fears that he does not deserve the happiness that Kerry might bring him. And here is why…”

  She delivers the drama as best she can, the tragedy in three acts. The tale tears Kerry up. Julie just gets pissed.

  “God damn that’s awful!”

  “And isn’t that the very bitch of it. A terrible, unthinkable accident that is nobody’s fault, and yet guilt rains from the sky.”

  Julie laughs.”I would sue that fucking deer.”

  Kerry rises from her sullenness to laugh, but doesn’t quite reach the surface. However, one ray manages to strike her pondwater: Gerry was not rejecting her, just the idea of happiness.

  “How do we get past this?” she asks.

  Karen’s phone rings. It’s a text from Gerry. He likes to send snaps to let her know where he’s working. This one’s a pontoon party at Salmon Falls Reservoir. The sun glints off the water in potato chip slices. She traces the screen with a fingernail, trying to pull a thought through the screen.

  “I’ve got an idea.”

  Twenty Five

  It’s a custom-ordered mid-March day, the snow almost gone, the sun bright in the crisp air. The two of them hike the desert past the golf course. Gerry is hunting wildflowers; every few yards he kneels before a subject, sticks his lens up to a blossom and works the angles. Karen feels irrationally jealous. That lens should be on me.

  “Isn’t that kind of odd, getting the camera so close?”

  Gerry presses the shutter and looks up. His subject is a cap of pink stars called a dwarf sand verbena.

  “No. I’ve got my macro setting on. You can pick out individual grains of pollen. Of course, now I have to switch to a regular setting so I can shoot that snake over there.”

  Karen’s head almost spins off her neck. “Snake? Where?”

  “Snake there. About five feet behind you.”

  Karen flashes over to duck behind Gerry’s back. The gravel bites into her shin.

  “Shit! Is it poisonous?”

  “I don’t think so.” He aims, shoots, and shows Karen the image.

  “It’s a ring-neck. Non-venomous. He’ll bite you, of course, but that’s why God gave us zoom lenses. Ain’t he purty?”

  Karen tries to calm her pulse and give a look. The snake is the color of coffee with cream, with a brilliant yellow ring around its neck. His tail curls over, revealing a bright orange underbelly.

  “He’s beautiful. As long as he’s… distant.”

  “Just stay behind me, baby. If he attacks, I will ring his neck.” He holds down the shutter, releasing a crackle of shots, then speaks to the snake as if he’s a model. “Just a few more, you sexy bitch. Come on, pretend I’m from National Geographic.”

  “My goodness,” says Karen. She pulls her sweater over her head, revealing a daisy yellow halter top.

  “I wish you’d warn me before you do that. Nearly gave me a heart attack.”

  He continues down the trail, scanning for colors other than brown.

  “Sorry,” she says. “Didn’t mean to inflict my hotness on you. Hey, speaking of stripping, I ran into Kerry the other day. Well. She ran into me.”

  “Kerry?”

  “Golf course Kerry.”

  “Oh, right. How is she?”

  “She wants you to send her dirty pictures.”

  “Ha! I think she’s confusing ‘pornographer’ with…”

  “Of you.”

  “Umm… huh?”

  “She wants dirty photos of you. That’s her price.”

  He stops. “For what?”

  “For you being an awful tease.”

  He thinks for a moment. “Well who says I’m even interested?”

  Karen smiles. “It doesn’t matter. You’re doing this for me. Because I know what’s good for you. And I love you.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  He turns and leaves.

  “Hey, don’t you walk away from me.” She laughs, because this is a line from a hundred sitcoms. When she catches up to him, he’s kneeling before a bundle of yellow balls, a flower called a rayless goldenhead.

  “Well?”

  He snaps a shot and squints at her. The sun is directly behind her head, a fountain of light shooting from her hair. Sometimes he’d like to turn off the rods and cones, but he’s afraid they might not come back.

  “Well?”

  “All right! Okay.” He stands and slaps the dirt from his hands. “So how does this work?”

  “You will use only your smartphone camera. I will give you a number to send the photos to. If you should see Kerry in public, she will act as if nothing is going on, and you should act accordingly. She will send you ideas, suggestions, feedback – occasional commands. Your first assignment is to take a photo in a public bathroom, one that offers a tiny, tantalizing bit of flesh.”

  “Jesus. I’m a sexter.”

  “Come on! It’ll be fun.”

  Gerry breaks into an embarrassed smile. “Yes, my wood nymph. But first I need to get a shot of that rattlesnake.”

  He points at a spot behind her, which causes Karen to rush forward into his arms. He lifts her off the ground and laughs his head off.

  “Man! You are an easy mark!”

  She swats him on the chest. “Bastard!”

  “Never believe a sexter, baby. We’re bad news.”

  Twenty Six

  The restrooms at Cactus Pete’s are enormous. They’re also crowded, this being the day of the visiting prince. The presence of so many eyeballs makes Gerry a little jumpy, but he reasons himself through. It’s a bathroom stall, people perform disgusting bodily functions in there. A saucy photo, in comparison, is Disney-level stuff. He picks the handicapped stall for space and looks around. He finds an even surface at crotch level – the top of the toilet paper dispenser – and props the phone against the wall. He switches it to selfie setting, sets the timer for ten seconds and hits the button.

  The rest is pretty easy. He turns around and lifts his coat, revealing the heart-shaped hole that he has cut into his old jeans. Also, he’s going commando. The timer beeps accelerate, the shutter goes off. He checks the phone and sees a perfect shot. The cheek in question is even cocked a little, like the ass of a rock star. Gerry sends the photo to his audience, pockets the phone and leaves, thinking, I am a born Chippendale. He’s headed to the general store when Kerry’s response chimes in.

  Very creative! You are a promising student. Now take a shirtless photo in an unusual location.

  Easy enough. He loiters in the cereal aisle, sets his coat on the floor and leans his phone against a box of Quaker Oats. He sets the timer for five seconds, hits the button, takes off his golf shirt and pretends to be fascinated by a box of Cap’n Crunch. The beeps accelerate, the shutter releases. He pockets the phone and is putting on his shirt when the store manager, Gus, enters the aisle. Gerry performs a fake laugh.

  “Gus! Would you believe I put my shirt on backward?”

  “You’re losing it, man.”

  “I know.”

  Gerry grabs his coat and a box of Life cereal. He’s headed for the produce aisle when Gus taps him on the shoulder.

  “Hey Ger, I think you’ve got a hole in your jeans.”

  Gerry reaches around and finds the spot.

  “Crap! It was just a little tear this morning. Guess I better keep my coat on.”

  Gus laughs. “Funny thing, it’s kinda shaped like a heart. Certain places, you could get good money for jeans like that.”

  Gerry laughs and heads out. It’s a good thing he thought of his lies ahead of time. But he feels a little weird.

  Nice work! writes Kerry. And such a nice chest. Give me a little time to think of your next assignment.

  As the chatter in the showroom reaches a peak, all eyes turn to a woman crossing the stage in an orange dress. But not entirely orange.

  It’s the flaming dress! Standing in the wings, Gerry sets to work, wanting to make sure this moment is preserved.

  Kar
en steps to the mic and says, “Hi!”

  The crowd hi’s back.

  “Welcome to Cactus Pete’s! My name is Karen Roosevelt. I’m taking some time out from dealing blackjack to come out here and thank a few people. Like our radio sponsor, country music KEZJ out of Twin Falls!”

  She runs down the list, reading from an index card, then stops to take a breath.

  “This is my first time doing this, so be gentle with me.”

  She gets a laugh. A guy in the second row shouts, “Git ‘er done!” Karen flashes the girl-next-door smile and inhales.

  “Are you ready for some psychobilly music?!”

  The crowd roars.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, cowboys and cowgirls, would you please welcome Mister Dwight Yoakam!”

  The musicians come out to take their stations and plug in. They play the first bluesy measures of Fast As You and Dwight saunters onstage. He is dressed in white denim, white hat and black-and-white checkered boots. He throws a hipcheck at his guitarist, snarls a line into the mic and swivels his scarecrow legs.

  Camera equipment, thinks Gerry, is a license to kill. He wanders backstage, snapping photos of the roadies loading up, then joins the musicians in their green-room chill. He eventually finds his way to a corner armchair, adjacent to the lead guitarist, Donnie. Donnie is a fucking supermodel: dark, horse-thick hair, piercing blue eyes, a pleasantly long face with a proud nose. He speaks in a low baritone anchored in a Kentucky rumble. But the best thing about Donnie is that he seems to not give a rat’s ass about any of this. He’d rather talk about his boss.

  “So much music today is rootless. That’s why it was so easy for Taylor Swift to switch from country music to dance music. Change the beat, take out the twang and it’s done. But Dwight, he’s got this powerful connection to Buck Owens Bakersfield psychobilly, which is basically rockabilly played with a surf guitar. I grew up in a country music home, but I loved surf music. It amazed me how many sounds these dudes could produce, and it was then that I decided I wanted to be one of those dudes, too. Dwight’s music allows me to do both, which I never even imagined was a possibility. When I got the call for this tour, I mean seriously, I almost wet my pants!”