“You bad boy!” says Karen. “Haven’t I warned you about climbing trees?”
“Karen,” says Kerry. “Can we do the jokes later? We really need to get him out of here. How are you feeling, Gerry?”
“Highly embarrassed.”
“Don’t be. It’s a golf course, which means stupid men drinking booze without their wives. This isn’t even close to the weirdest thing I’ve seen here. We’re going to load you up and take you to the clinic, okay?”
“All right.”
“What’s the capitol of Nevada?”
“Carson City.”
“Who’s the President?”
“I’d rather not say.”
“Good enough.”
The women join forces to lift him onto one leg. He pulls himself to the edge of a flatbed (the groundskeeper’s cart) and slides along until he’s flat on his back. Karen places a folded blanket under his leg and covers his south forty with another. Kerry drives slowly, avoiding the bumps. Karen settles Gerry’s head into her lap and strokes his hair. From his horizontal vantage, he sees streaks of sunlight threading their way through the clouds. Rods and cones.
They check into the community health center, contained in an overlarge mobile home. A young Latina X-rays him, finds a minor fracture of his left fibula and fits him with a walking boot. Afterwards, they rest for a minute in the small waiting room.
“All right, Mister,” says Karen. “Was this part of your disgusting sextual adventure?”
“Why don’t you ask her?” He waves toward Kerry.
Kerry and Karen look at each other and start laughing.
“Oh!” he complains. “Laugh at the cripple.”
“Gerry, you don’t… That… wasn’t Kerry.”
He’s too flummoxed to do anything but stare.
Kerry smiles, wipes it away, tries to speak, fails. Tries again. “That was Julie. Our bartender. She just went through a really bad divorce, and I think she really enjoyed giving orders to a man.”
Karen giggles.
“So what, exactly, was the purpose of this?” Gerry asks.
Karen takes his hand. “Gerry? When was the last time you talked to Angela?”
The dull pain of his leg is overwhelmed by a star-crossed wonder. How little we know our own minds.
“I can’t… remember.”
Karen gives him the winsome calendar-girl smile. “That was the purpose of this.”
Thirty
Everything comes to a stop. He releases the clutch, killing the engine. A face appears at his window. It’s a blonde girl, maybe sixteen.
“Whew!” she says. “Are you all right?”
“I think so. What the hell was that?”
Her blue eyes get wide. “Big ol’ buck! Must have been spooked by something. Just came flying down the hill.”
“Well, I’m glad he got away. But he nearly gave me a heart attack!”
She laughs. “I better get poor Sophie home. She’s a sensitive doggie. Take care!”
“Thanks.” He re-starts the engine, backs off of the shoulder and continues slowly along the mountain. He glances in the rear-view to see her dog, a white short-hair on a pink leash.
“Yip!”
This dog is much smaller and darker. Sophie II is ready for her morning walk, and she’s not going to take no for an answer. Gerry’s about to accommodate her when he realizes there’s a large plastic object on his left leg.
“Damn.”
The dream with the alternate ending is a regular visitor, and it’s no surprise that it would make a reappearance just now. As soon as Karen mentioned the absence of Angela in his life, she was bound to show up.
And still, the expectant Pomeranian fuzzface, the full canine bladder. He lowers his boot to the hardwood and shuffles to the door. Outside, the sun isn’t even high enough to land a ray on his lawn. Sophie gives him the quizzical head-tilt. He holds up her favorite toy, a pink mini tennis ball, and says, “Change of plans, princess. This morning, we run you all over the front yard. Feel free to piss and shit wherever.”
He makes a toss. Sophie looks at him, unsure about this change in her routine, then performs a full-body shake, the doggie equivalent of “Okay, whatever,” and goes for the fetch.
After the morning feed, Gerry wraps his boot in a small garbage bag and takes an awkward shower. Afterwards, he finds himself at a standstill. He has no appointments, and would usually go for a workout, but getting to Pete’s is a conundrum. A boot-walk would be painfully slow. Using his new crutches would wear out the very muscles he needs for lifting weights. He finds an old sitcom on the TV and settles into the couch. Sophie, happy to see her man staying home for once, jumps onto his lap for a thorough massage.
Yes, thinks Gerry. This is how the long decline begins.
In the space between Spin City and The Simpsons, he hears a humming noise and then a firecracker burst of raps on his door. He doesn’t answer.
“It’s Karen!”
“Come in!”
She enters, radiating energy. “I have got such a thing for you!”
“I’m so excited,” he monotones.
She removes Sophie from his lap and pulls on his hands.
“Hey, hey! Careful. Broken leg here.”
“Yes, I know. I was there. Now come on.”
She drags him to the door and opens it, revealing a covering of snow.
“What the hell! I was just out there.”
“Yeah. That storm just kinda swooped in. But that’s not the thing.” She waves toward the parking lot, which is occupied by a rather unremarkable golf cart.
“You came here in a golf cart?”
“I came here in your golf cart. Kerry retires a couple of old carts every year, and she’s retiring this one to you.”
“But… I don’t drive.”
Karen pivots in front of him and takes his hands, ensuring that he can look nowhere but at her.
“Listen, Gerry. I am the one person in the world who is fully capable of understanding your driving thing, and believe me, I get it. But it’s time. A golf cart is a perfect way for you to dip your toe back into the water. And I think you need to know, I am going to pursue this thing like your dog pursues that tennis ball.”
Gerry feels the remaining energy drain from his body. He is fairly certain he could take liquid form and turn into a puddle at Karen’s feet.
“I’ll make you a deal,” he says. “Drive me to Pete’s and leave me there. I promise I will drive it back.”
She studies his eyes, no doubt deciding if she can trust him. He doesn’t blame her. He doesn’t know if he believes it himself.
“Okay.”
The cart’s operation is pretty basic: accelerator, brake, a switch for reverse. Karen demonstrates how to press the brake all the way down for parking. She leaves him at the casino, getting all the way to the crosswalk before she takes a look back. Gerry enters the casino and begins a long limp down the hallway.
The workout is a blessing. The activity makes him forget the pain in his leg, and he’s reassured by the possibility of keeping the gains he achieved during his career as a mad sexter. An hour later, however, he realizes that he’s overdoing it, that he’s forestalling the horror that awaits him in the parking lot. He takes a last grunting shoulder press and he’s done. But first he stops by Dr. Al’s office. Al sits at his desk in a burgundy jacket and a black silk shirt.
“Hi, Al.”
“The answer is no.”
“I’m sorry?”
“I can’t drive you home. Karen told me to be a real prick about it, and I would truly enjoy that so don’t ask.”
Gerry isn’t even sure if he was going to ask for a ride, but now he’s stuck in an infinite vacillation.
Al folds his hands together. “Here’s how you’re going to do this, Ger. You’re going to hump your way out to my casino exit, and once you’re through that door you are not to break stride until your butt is upon the seat of that golf cart. The rest of this will occur
at the rate of one action per second, as follows: one, place your boot on the floor; two, turn the ignition; three, release the parking brake; four, make sure you’re clear and five, fucking go. Rehearse this in your head as you walk down the hall, but once you see that cart, do not think. Now march, soldier!”
Gerry’s about to ask a question when Al says, “Go!”
And he’s off. The heavy foot and the light foot make an interesting percussion as he proceeds. He passes the buffet, the blackjack tables, the slots, then hits the exit and doesn’t stop. Butt on seat, boot on ground, ignition, brake, look both ways and he’s off.
He’s terrified. Indian Rock flashbacks push at his rods and cones, but he’s too busy to give them his time. His head is on a swivel, furiously seeking out obstacles. When he gets to the edge of the lot, he waits a long time before turning onto Casino Way. But then he turns left onto Keno Drive, a quiet road next to a field still frosted with white. Stripes of melt cross his path; the cart’s tires run over them with a lapping sound. He turns right onto Ace Drive, left into his complex, and soon, through some marvel of muscle memory, finds himself rolling into the little-used spot in front of his home. He turns off the ignition, presses the brake and eases himself out.
The sun is out. He’s still breathing fast. Karen is on the porch, playing fetch with Sophie. He stumbles up the walk like a soldier returning from war. He comes to a stop halfway there, tries to think of some witty victory bon mot, but nothing comes out because he is sobbing, uncontrollably. Some time later, he feels Karen’s familiar arms holding him up.
Thirty One
You, young man, have had a tough week. Let me take you out to dinner. Wear some decent clothes. I’ll be by at six.
Nothing would be better. Even with the cart – which he’s driving with gradually less terror – getting around is a chore, and a bit of Karen’s sunshine would be just the thing. He dons a gray shirt with grids of black (a particular favorite) and a red sportcoat. The problem, of course, is the lower forty. The best he can manage is a pair of black sweats with a slit up the left leg. Karen arrives with the jeans he was wearing on the night of his downfall.
“Try ‘em out,” she says. “All those years of costuming at the local theater have given me mad skills.”
Her solution is genius. A zipper runs along the side of the left leg, from mid-thigh to cuff. Gerry pulls them on, then zips it downward to the top of the boot, letting the last section flap freely.
“You’re amazing. Can I get a half dozen of these?”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
Knowing he’s still not entirely comfortable with the cart, Karen drives them to Pete’s in her car. A front of clouds draws a curtain over the full moon, leaving Gerry wishing he had brought his camera. Probably for the best, he thinks. Karen is oddly silent. He sometimes attributes these quiet times to thoughts of her husband, or perhaps Donnie. They park in the handicapped spot; Karen walks him through the casino, arm in arm. He enjoys having his injury covered up. He’s tired of feeling like he has to explain himself. They arrive at the door to 36, and he’s a little surprised.
“Wow. Did you get a promotion?”
Karen’s fighting a smile. “No. But you did. I’ll be handing you off to a much richer woman.”
She opens the door like a game show hostess. His prize is Kerry, her hair in an updo, the rest of her wrapped in a remarkable red dress. A stream of black beads climbs the left side to burst into a rose across her midriff. She follows his eyes and gives him a wide smile.
“Thanks Karen,” she says. “I’ll take it from here.”
Karen kisses him on the cheek and says, “Have fun.”
He is a football, handed from one goddess to another. Perhaps breaking a leg was worth it.
He follows her to their table, but he finds it almost unbearable to be in her presence. The combination of strawberry hair, scarlet dress and green eyes is causing his rods and cones to levitate. He is grateful when the waitress arrives to recite the specials, although he doesn’t hear a word she says. They ask for a few minutes to decide. Kerry orders an Australian wine, a shiraz. It’s delicious and warm, with an aftertaste that rides his tongue. He feels her hand on his.
“Gerry. I know we surprised you, and we sort of caused your accident, so let me treat you. In return, I ask two things: that you order the most expensive entrée you want, and that you let me order all the sides and appetizers.”
“Okay. Sure.”
It’s a pretty easy pick. There’s a sixteen-ounce ribeye for forty bucks. Kerry smiles, happy that he has agreed to her deal. Then she revs up.
“We’ll have the baked brie, the oysters, the five onion soup, the spinach salad. And for sides, how about the crispy Brussels sprouts and the white cheddar au gratin potatoes. I’ll have the salmon and… Gerry?”
“The ribeye.”
“Excellent,” Kerry says, exactly like a waiter. “Is that enough food?”
“For me and every one of my ancestors, yes.”
The waitress leaves, and they fall into a silence. From what he recalls of dating, Gerry suspects he should do something to spur the conversation.
“So how did you end up in Jackpot?”
She gives him a sweet smile. “I was a jock in high school – volleyball, basketball, softball – but what I really loved was golf. It’s such a unique combination of sport and natural beauty. I went to Stanford on a golf scholarship, but I realized I wasn’t good or obsessed enough to go pro. So I got a bachelor’s in landscape design and an MBA in facilities management. I got a fantastic job managing a course in Mariposa, a little town outside of Yosemite. And I fell in love with a park ranger, of all things, and got married.
“I was really into the environmental aspects of golf courses. If they’re not designed properly, they can be terrible water hogs. I kept up on all the advances, and I used my little course as a laboratory. Eventually I was featured in an article in Sierra magazine, and it caught the attention of the folks in Jackpot. The challenge of operating a championship course in the middle of the desert was very enticing, and also they offered me a ridiculous amount of money.”
She’s interrupted by the arrival of the oysters and baked brie. The oysters are served on the half shell with a sour apple sauce. Kerry takes one down with a slurp.
“God that’s good.”
Gerry spreads brie on a fig.
“So, um,” says Kerry. “The sad part. Conor didn’t want to come with me. For a ranger, working at Yosemite is the ultimate assignment, and he was beginning to move up the ranks. Since I was pursuing something pretty similar, I couldn’t blame him. So we got the friendliest divorce in the history of marriage and went our ways. Still… it’s sad.”
“I’m sorry,” says Gerry.
“Sweet of you to say. Have an oyster!”
Oysters are another thing he hasn’t done for ages. He forks the slimy innards, dips it in the apple sauce and draws it to his mouth. The oceanic taste takes him by surprise, but it gets better as he chews.
“It’s sort of disgusting,” he says. “And awesome.”
Kerry laughs. Her cheeks rise toward the ceiling lights, revealing a smattering of freckles.
The ribeye feels like an entire cow. Gerry is content to work his way through without saying much.
“Why is this so good?”
“It’s from a local ranch,” says Kerry. “Grass-fed. It’s an entirely different taste. Hey, um, Gerry? I wanted you to know, Karen told me your story, and I’m sorry you had to go through all that.”
“Thanks.”
“It also makes it easier to forgive you for grossly ignoring me.”
“Oh I didn’t ignore you,” says Gerry. “I just didn’t see you as a possibility. I didn’t think I deserved something so… someone so… like you.”
She smiles. “I’m going to yank a compliment out of that if it kills me.”
“Please do.”
Dessert is crème brulée for her, key lime pie for mon
sieur, followed by the kind of coffee that Karen has been so desperately seeking. Kerry sends the bill away with her credit card.
“You sure I can’t…?”
She stops his question with a look, then laughs. “I have money to spend and no one to spend it on. Deal with it. Now. We still have hours to fill. Anything you’d like to do? Do you gamble?”
“Occasional keno.”
“Piker. I am predictably in love with the sports book.”
Gerry takes a sip and lets his thoughts drift. “There is a certain thing I’d love to do in the dark.”
Which is how they end up at the driving range, knocking balls into the moonlight. Anchored by his boot, Gerry has a hard time finding his rhythm, but manages a couple of decent swats.
“Not too bad, Ahab.” She tees one up and sends it to Boise.
“You’re pretty good for a girl in a prom dress.”
“I could do eighteen right now, honey.”
He lies back on a bench and sets his boot on an upside-down ball bucket. Kerry’s swing is two-thirds of a waltz, a balletic coil and release under a clockwork swing. Every ion of power meets at clubhead and ball, and the latter disappears. Kerry is built beautifully thick. The motion of her hips beneath the red material is poetry.
“May I say something rude?”
“I wish you would,” she says, then drives another.
“Your ass is magnificent.”
She stops and turns, holding the driver against her shoulder like a rifle.
It could be that the shiraz has done him in. “Did I say that out loud?”
Kerry steps toward him, takes him by the hand, pulls him up and leads him away, no doubt for some well-constructed punishment. They round the edge of the clubhouse, pass a long bunker and end up on the eighteenth green. The moon is a silver dollar over Cactus Pete’s. She takes the flag out of the hole, lets it fall, and kisses him for a good long while. It’s been forever since he’s done this. He loses himself in the swirl of it, in the carnival of tongues and lips and breath. He resurfaces and sees a moonlit smile.
The Girl in the Flaming Dress Page 8