The Girl in the Flaming Dress

by Michael J Vaughn

  Gerry is lucky enough to have a free day, but Kerry has a corporate group coming to the golf course. He kisses her at the door and retreats to their posh couch for an hour-long snooze. He luxuriates in a walk of shame through the casino, resisting the urge to grab some stranger and say, “You wouldn’t believe the sex I’ve been having!” He walks home in the warm afternoon, feeling bruised, hung over and regal.

  He’s standing on the porch, fumbling for his keys, when the door opens. It’s Karen, looking like hell. Her eyes are bloodshot; her hair is all over the place. She takes his hand and pulls him inside. Sophie watches them cautiously, aware that something is up. Karen takes Gerry to the couch and motions for him to sit. She hands him some papers, then lies down and rests her head in his lap. He strokes her hair and locates page one.

  But finally, a minute after too late, he rises from the narcotic fog and finds a letter on his desk. She’s gone. She’s given up. He pulls on his clothes, runs to the car and speeds to the airport. Parking and security slow him down. He reaches the gate only to find her plane has begun its charge down the runway.

  He slams through the door, setting off alarms, and dodges a baggage handler. It’s stupid, useless, the plane already lifting into the sky, but still he runs. The jet climbs toward the sun. A bullet hits his right knee. Another hits his left knee. Another hits his right thigh. His spine, his neck, his wrist, his shoulder. They’re taking away his body, piece by piece. He falls, face to the gravel, the sun beating down as he bleeds out.

  Why would they bother shooting an unarmed man? And who would be that good? He sees the man in the yellow jacket, hustling toward him, hands on knees, breathing hard.

  “Sorry, Optic. Had to be done.”

  He wakes in a small room with glass walls. Outside is the ocean: a leopard shark, a sunfish with its huge mainsail fin, a school of sardines, cycling like a hundred silver bowties. In the distance, he sees a scuba diver emerge from a forest of kelp. The diver swims to the cube and enters through a compression chamber. She removes the mask, revealing the dark hair, the hazel eyes. She unzips the suit, revealing flashes of red, orange, tangerine. It’s the girl in the flaming dress. She comes over to kiss him on the cheek.

  “You’re almost there.”

  “But you have to see!” he says. “It wasn’t me. It was the sickness. All those other women… it was just a way to look the other direction. If I looked at you, I would see everything that I was losing. But I lost you anyway, didn’t I?”

  She smiles at him, that smile that has occupied so many of his happiest thoughts. A tear escapes her eye. “You’re almost there, darling. I’m sorry I couldn’t stay. It was killing me. Now get ready, all right?”

  She kisses him, then gets back into the scuba suit. The flames disappear. She waves to him and presses a button. The glass walls slide away. He is consumed by the rushing water. As the ocean calms around him, he sees the sun on the surface and feels a glimmer of hope. But it’s too far. He’s not going to make it.

  Gerry slides the last page onto the coffee table. Karen’s asleep. If he moves, he’ll wake her, so he slips a cushion under his head and falls asleep right there.

  A few hours later, he walks Karen to her door, promises to check in on her later, and takes Sophie for a walk. They end up at the driving range, where the sexiest woman in Jackpot is rocketing spheroids into the twilight. She sees Gerry and runs over to give him a hug. He kisses her thoroughly, then squeezes her waist and pulls back.

  “Hi. How are you?”

  She laughs. “Tired. Wired. Some photographer screwed me silly last night.”

  “Hey. You did all the work. Gymnast.”

  She smiles wickedly. “You haven’t seen a hundredth of my tricks.”

  He runs a finger along her upper lip.

  “You know, I didn’t want to look a gift goddess in the mouth last night, but… why did you forgive me?”

  She kisses him, then pauses in thought. “I took Karen out for lunch. She told me about all that she’s been through. The grief just pours from that girl. And I realized that this crazy request of hers was one that you could not possibly turn down. Because she desperately needed your help, and because you have compassion. Still and all, considering the driving thing, what you did was pretty remarkable. Not only did all of this strengthen your case against my petty accusations, it made me want to jump your bones. As Soon As Possible. And then…”

  She gives him something he would not have thought her capable of: a look of embarrassment.

  “What?”

  She hides her mouth with a hand. “I asked Julie for those photos you sent her. If you would have taken another day to get home, I might have exploded.”

  As Kerry says this, she slips a hand down his pants and gives him a yank.

  “Our darkest fairway is the twelfth.”

  “Well then,” says Gerry. “Let’s go.”

  She kisses him. “You are a most agreeable playmate.”

  Thirty Six

  Gerry can’t remember being this nervous before a boudoir. He sips at a latte, freshly obtained from Karen’s Espresso, and paces the studio, checking lights that don’t need checking. A knock arrives on the door.

  “Mrs. Kenders! Come on in.”

  “Please. Call me Elizabeth. Considering what we’re up to, a bit of cutting to the chase.”

  “Sure.”

  She wanders the room, touching the accessories arranged along the back wall. Gerry takes the opportunity to analyze the raw materials. Mrs. Kenders wears a powder blue business suit with a white blouse. She has short black hair with straight-across bangs, giving her a rather severe look. Her smoky eyeshadow is severe as well, but there are hints of an underlying softness: a roundish face, plump lips. Gerry finds these sort of contrasts useful, providing a rich tension once the naughty poses are struck. Body-wise, the no-nonsense suit does little to hide the presence of generous curves, both upper and lower. It would seem he has plenty to work with.

  Mrs. Kenders seems fascinated with what Gerry calls his “pimp coat,” a floor-length number streaked with gold, orange and blue. She runs a finger over the fabric and turns to face him. Her eyes are a witchy green.

  “I need some reassurances, Mr. Vincent.”

  “Gerry.”

  “Gerald. I was informed of your services by a friend who is the most deeply closeted homosexual in Twin Falls. He tells me that you treated him with the utmost care and confidentiality. What I want is the same, five times over. Understood?”

  “Of course.”

  She gives him the briefest glimpse of a smile.

  “Good man. I am the wife of a Democratic mayor in a Republican state. I have to be ridiculously cautious. Even something so innocent as spousal cheesecake can be Photoshopped into Vegas porn.”

  “I’m a lifelong Democrat. If that… helps.”

  She places a hand along his cheek and stares into his eyes. “Let’s get this straight, Gerald. My name will not be formed by your lips outside of this studio, not even to whatever fortunate lady you are currently fucking. You will destroy every image from this session as soon as you deliver the prints and I give the okay. Understood?”

  “Of course.”

  There’s something unsettling in that look – and in her choice of the f-word over so many other options. He tries to shake it off and maintain his professional demeanor.

  Liz backs away and brushes down her jacket.

  “Should I change into one of your… costumes?”

  “No. I think a business suit can be very alluring. Why don’t you sit in the desk chair? Now cross your legs. Yes. You have lovely legs. We need to take advantage. Now. Undo the top two buttons of your blouse and sort of shrug off your jacket, very slowly.”

  Gerry thinks of his process as a confidence soup: reassurance, polite commands, low-level flirts, designed to give his subjects permission to exhibit, courage to melt away the glaciers of self-consciousness. Even the severe Mrs. Kenders begins to wax schoolgirl, peering ou
t from those bangs. Soon he has her down to underthings, a set of black panties and a push-up bra. She begins to employ an unexpectedly bright smile.

  “Elizabeth.”

  “Liz.”

  “Liz. Would you mind very much handling your breasts? Sort of… offer them up to me. Yes. Perfect.”He takes a few shots. “Now, let’s get you on the settee. You have a glorious rear-end, and I think we need to show it off a little.”

  Her smile grows. She boards the settee on all fours and aims her very round ass in his direction. Then she begins to cry.

  “Mrs…? Liz? Are you okay?”

  She stands, dabs at her eyes and comes over to face Gerry. She takes the camera from around his neck, places it on a table and wraps her arms around him, crying into his sweater. Gerry fights the urge to laugh by composing a Shakespearean aside. Will I ever be a sponge for the tears of the female race? His professional demeanor is melting under the pressure of Liz’s breasts. After a long while she resurfaces, places a hand on Gerry’s chest and looks around.

  “On the shelf,” he says. “The pink box.”

  Liz finds the Kleenex and dabs at her face. “God, my makeup is destroyed. You see, Mr., um, Gerry, I am undertaking this little project to see if I might reawaken my husband’s interest in the sexual act. I’m sure you’ve heard this story so many times, so I won’t bore you with the details. But the attention you have given me is the most I have received in years and, well, obviously I’m a bit overwhelmed. I’m sorry, this isn’t in your job description, is it?”

  “Well, no,” Gerry answers. “But it happens. There’s a profound vulnerability in taking off our clothes. With women, it’s often a body-image thing. For the record, that should not be one of your problems.”

  She smiles, more broadly than before, but then her eyes drop and her mouth closes.

  “I think it would be best if you stopped talking, Mr. Vincent, or I will feel better than I can bear. Do you have a bathroom?”

  “Sure. Turn right in the hall. It’s two doors down.”

  “Oh, um…”

  “Here. Use this.” He hands her the pimp coat.

  “Thank you.” She wraps herself up and exits.

  Gerry returns to his latte, which is down to room temperature but still made by the hands of Karen. He looks forward to telling her about the lonely wife of the mayor of Twin Falls – but then realizes he can’t, which is terribly disappointing. The door opens. Liz Kenders is back, buttoned up, fresh-faced.

  “Hi. So I believe we were about to show off my derriere?”

  “Yes! Please assume the canine position on my settee.”

  “Said the spider to the fly.”

  Oh it’s going to be like that, thinks Gerry. He checks the settings on his camera.

  Liz assumes the position, but she leaves the coat on. Gerry takes a couple of photos, enjoying the general curvature, then goes into instructional mode.

  “Okay. Why don’t you lift the coat bit by bit? Yes. Let’s see those legs. Now, look back at me, sort of playful. Now give me a pout. Nice. Okay, now lift the coat up, bit by bit. Let’s see that lovely butt.”

  Gerry clicks merrily away, but something’s amiss. He’s expecting black satin but getting nothing but flesh, and then a line, and the line separates. And lips, a wisp of hair, an anus.

  Gerry sets aside the camera and stares at the ass of the mayor’s wife, spread out before him.

  “Is there something the matter, Gerald?” She smiles back at him and shimmies her hips. “You see, it’s my guess that what my husband needs to inspire that useless penis of his is something a little filthy. In fact…”

  She reaches into her coat pocket. He hears a buzzing sound. Something purple appears in the vee of her legs and works its way to her clitoris. She lets out a shriek.

  “Aigh! For God’s sake, Gerry, keep shooting. I’m not going to last long.”

  He picks up the camera and tries his best to take some shots. Liz rubs the purple vibrator along her labia and plunges it inside. Her breathing gets faster. After a minute, she wheels around, opens the coat and plunges the dildo back inside, pumping herself as she fingers a nipple. Her breathing builds and then she freezes, holding the dam for a second before she collapses into a fit of shivers. A full minute later, she opens her eyes and gives him a wicked smile.

  “Gerry… I’ve been thinking. Maybe I’m… doing this wrong. Maybe I shouldn’t worry about fucking my husband. Maybe I should just worry about fucking my photographer. Get your dick out.”

  Gerry ditches the camera, unzips his fly and splits the vee. Inside, Liz is unbearably hot. Several positions later, she squats above him, bouncing her cheeks like a basketball. As she picks up speed, the wig works itself free, revealing a tightly pinned head of strawberry blonde hair, heavy on the honey. She continues to bounce, but begins to laugh, as well. The combination drives Gerry over the edge and he bursts forth. Kerry sinks all the way down to take it in.

  “Oh myyyy Gaaawwwd,” she sings. “That is the best ever.”

  Gerry slaps her magnificent ass and undoes the bobbie pins, letting her hair fall free.

  “You are an amazing actress. I seriously felt like I was cheating on you.”

  She takes his hands and pulls them around to her breasts. “It’s good to be the mayor’s wife.”

  Thirty Seven

  At the end of the Peter Noone concert, they encore with “Henry VIII” and Karen taps Gerry on the shoulder. He lowers his camera and smiles.

  “Karen! You look smashing, love.”

  “Uh-oh. You’ve been British Invaded.”

  “This Cockney talk is bloody catchy.”

  He’s right about the smashing part. Having established her fashion cred with the flaming dress, Karen has followed up with black leather pants, a ruffled white blouse and a black cowboy jacket with fringe.

  “I have the most astounding shot of you.”

  “Oh! Did you see it?”

  “No. I just sort of knew it when I took it. Might be calendar-worthy.”

  “Really?”

  “We need to push the concerts anyway, so it would fit in nicely.”

  He lifts the camera and takes a few shots. Peter and the band are doing a Broadway-style curtain call.

  “Are you done for the night?” asks Karen. “I mean, are you going backstage?”

  “No, I’m done. What’s up?”

  “I have something to show you.”

  “Said the spider to the fly.” He laughs entirely too much.

  “Is that an inside joke?”

  “It reminds me of a whole lotta stuff I can’t tell you.”

  “Okay. Let’s go.”

  They sort through the packed parking lot and find Karen’s car. She drives south past the Four Jacks Casino and turns left into a familiar parking lot. The building is low and long, made from light-colored bricks. A concrete path heads uphill toward the highway.

  “Oh!” he says. “The old post office. Why are you showing me the old post office?”

  Karen eyes the place like she’s planning out a garden. “I… I can’t tell you yet.”

  She heads to the entrance at the left end, then pulls out her keys, unlocks the doors and turns on the lights. The interior is pretty standard: a small front counter, an old stamp machine, counters along the wall for addressing envelopes. Around the corner, silver-colored postal boxes run the length of the building in three different bays.

  “Karen? Why do you have keys to the post office?”

  “Because,” she smiles, “I own the post office.”

  “You can’t own the post office.”

  “But you can own a former post office. When they opened up the new one, they decided to sell this one for retail space.”

  “And you bought it.”

  “And I bought it.”

  “With what?”

  Karen flashes the calendar-girl smile. “That’s the best part.” She reaches into her jacket and pulls out an envelope. Gerry opens it and finds a
letter from a lawyer in San Francisco. The second paragraph contains a figure: $452,000.

  “Ho Lee Fuk.”

  “Yes!” says Karen. “My late husband, too tight-fisted to hire a nurse, was socking away his royalties.”

  “And you’re using it to fulfill your lifelong dream of owning a former post office?”

  Her look is that of a teacher whose prize pupil does not know the capital of Ohio.

  “You are standing in the middle of my future coffeehouse!”

  Gerry applies his rods and cones. He sees an espresso machine behind the counter, condiments and flyers on the wall counters, groupings of sofas and tables along the postal boxes.

  “Wow.”

  “Right? So are you in? Will you help me?”

  “Of course!”

  She covers his cheek with kisses. “You realize if you hadn’t gone to that funeral, this might not have happened.”

  “Really?”

  “Amanda tracked down your name, the lawyer hooked up Jackpot with my paper trail and Voila! Karen Roosevelt was uncovered.”

  “Fantastic.”

  Karen takes another long look, then switches off the lights. She locks the doors behind them.

  “So Ger, you know I’m gonna be a celibate widow for a while. Could you tell me some of this stuff you’re not supposed to tell me?”

  He stands at the passenger door, watching the lights from the casinos bouncing off the clouds.

  “Are you familiar with Elizabeth Kenders, the wife of the Twin Falls mayor?”

  Thirty Eight

  She forgot this part: the constant dissection, the unending analysis. The magnification of each word and gesture. It’s probably why she’s playing so well. Her brain is so full of Gerry that her body is on autopilot. This always brings to mind the NCAA regionals, the day she carded a 65 with a raging head cold and sent Stanford to nationals. That day might have been the best day of her life.

  She’s on the right edge of the fairway, a foot from the rough. She sizes up the 18th green, bunker on the right, a long shelf on the upper left. She decides to go long with the wedge. She plants her feet, loosens her wrists and lets it swim – back, turn and through. The blade clips the grass, lifts the ball into the twilight. It hangs like a kite, falls all at once, strikes the front of the green and rolls upward, five feet from the cup. Damn.