The Girl in the Flaming Dress

by Michael J Vaughn

  Gerry is all mission, pleased to see that the roadsides are sparsely populated. They pass the turnout with the minicamp. Gerry tracks his odometer.

  “…point three and… here.” He slaps a yooey and parks on the shoulder. “This is the spot.”

  They get out and adjourn to the rear hatch. Gerry opens his eclipse case and shows Karen a satellite photo. A white line cuts a diagonal over murky contours. He points to a spot where it intersects a long gray line.

  “That’s us. The white line is the exact center of the path of totality. We are on it. In fact…”

  He crosses the road and uses his foot to scrape a diagonal in the gravel.

  “That’s it. That’s the path.”

  Karen laughs. “Goofball.”

  “I prefer ‘dedicated astronomophotographer.’”

  “Same difference.”

  Gerry uses masking tape to attach his smartphone to a tripod. Karen tries out her eclipse glasses.

  “Omigod! There’s a piece already gone.”

  He glances at his phone. “Awesome! Seventy minutes till totality.”

  He pulls out his favorite, the candy red Nikon, fools around with the settings but the frame keeps flaming out. “Damn! Hey, hand me those glasses.”

  “Sure.”

  He holds the plastic lens over his camera and clicks. “I’ll be damned.”

  Gerry shows her the image, a circle of burnt orange with a perfect little bite taken from the top.

  He laughs. “There’s your high-tech solution.”

  “So why aren’t you using a tripod like everyone else?”

  “Goddamn amateurs. Even in eclipse, it’s the sun, for God’s sake. I doubt if my shutter speed will get under 60. All you need are steady hands and a hundred shots.”

  The next hour is a frozen slice of anticipation. Between occasional shots of the partials, Gerry prowls the festive yellow wildflowers at the fenceline, stalking honeybees. Karen digs out a small American flag and slips it into the barbed wire.

  “I thought it would be a nice touch.”

  When the crucial minutes arrive, Gerry begins his narration.

  “Okay, you can take off your glasses. We should be able to see a track of darkness rolling in from the northwest, between those hills. See anything?”

  “Yes! Like a stormfront.”

  “Awesome! I’m turning on the video. Anything you say, court of law, yada yada.”

  “Oh Gerald!” Karen emotes. “I love you I love you. I want to marry you and have little photographers.”

  “Smartass.”

  He raises the Nikon and snaps as the moon takes over: the final thin crescent, the wedding ring, and then the total. Quick glances at the screen reveal a pure black circle, waves of white firing out like a bad haircut. He snaps every few seconds, zooming hard so he can fill the frame.

  The land around them darkens to a midday twilight. He lowers the camera and watches.

  “Check out the horizons. It’s like a 360-degree dawn.”

  “Wow. And feel the air. It’s so cold!”

  Karen is too exhilarated to stand still. She spins in the gravel till she’s dizzy then looks back to the eclipse, the light dancing around its rim.

  “Kiss me,” she says. “Kiss me in the totality.”

  Gerry does as he’s told. When he raises up, the wedding ring is back.

  After an eclipse-related traffic jam near Ontario, they are back on 84, on the farmlands, approaching Twin Falls. The sun settles over the horizon.

  “Good night, Sol,” says Karen. “Thanks for the show.”

  “Thanks for wearing that moon like a bitch.”

  “Ignore him,” she Streisands. “That moon looked adorable on you.”

  “So the temperature drop,” says Gerry. “What would you say? Twenty degrees?”

  “Maybe more. Hey, Ger?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I know we pushed it a little. This weekend. Are we gonna be okay?”

  He waits a second before answering. “We’ll always be okay.”

  She squeezes his hand. “You have a way of saying things.”

  He thinks of several smartass replies and swallows them all.

  Forty Six

  They arrive home late, so Gerry decides to give Sophie an extra night at Hotel Kerry. He manages to rouse himself at ten and make the walk to the golf course. The morning is already warming up, but he’s surprised at how good he feels, still energized by the dance of sun and moon and the images that await on his camera.

  He finds Kerry out in the pro shop. She’s wearing a yellow pantsuit that mixes with her hair in a remarkable way. He’s a little captivated.

  “Oh! Hi.” She comes over to give him a brief kiss (while at work, she makes it a policy to keep it tame). “Are you here to collect your doggie?”

  “Yes. I’m sure she’s driving you nuts by now.”

  “No! She’s a doll. Walk this way.”

  He follows her down the hall to her apartment, where he is greeted by a madly jumping puffball. He picks her up and nuzzles her cheek.

  “Daddy missed you! Yes he did.”

  Kerry cracks up at the baby talk, but quickly returns to an odd seriousness.

  “How was the trip?”

  “Oh, it was fantastic. The campground was beautiful, and the eclipse…”

  “So how was it with Karen?”

  “She had a great time, too. Her friend Augie…”

  Kerry puts a hand on Gerry’s mouth.

  “I want to know what happened with you and Karen.”

  Gerry is getting that old male feeling, the sense that he’s on the witness stand. He sets Sophie at his feet.

  “We had fun. I think she’s starting to recover from Harry’s death.”

  “Did you fuck her?”

  “No! Why would you ask me that?”

  She thinks for a second. “There was no corporate golf party. I made it up. I wanted you and Karen to go away together and figure it out. Then maybe you could stop tormenting me. I’m not big on second-place trophies, Gerry, and I’m tired of being your third wheel. So I think you need to tell me. Are you in love with Karen?”

  He flashes on the night before the eclipse, in the swimming hole. He realizes he’s taking too long to answer.

  “I love Karen.”

  “No no. Are you in love with Karen? There’s no wrong answer, Ger, but you owe it to me to tell me the truth.”

  More visuals: the arabesque, the wood nymph, the flaming dress. Holding her on a dirt dance floor as she cries over Harry. She looks at him with glassy eyes, crescent moons, a sad smile.

  He drops his head, as all condemned men do.

  “Yes.”

  Kerry waits, takes a strained breath, and waits.

  “Please go.”

  “Sure.”

  He picks up Sophie and backs into the hall. She closes the door. He wanders away, then he hears the door open.

  “Gerry? No golf for a while, okay?”

  “Sure.”

  He puts Sophie on her leash and takes the long way home, hoping he might figure out what just happened.

  Kerry goes to the bathroom and turns on the shower. Now she can cry as loudly as she wants.

  Forty Seven

  Gerry needs distraction, and what he has is the best distraction imaginable. He plugs the red Nikon into his computer and pulls up one marvel after another. The orange sun disappearing by lunar nibbles. The skinny crescent, like the tip of a fingernail. The wedding ring, a bubble of pure light set on the dark disc. And the totalities, that astounding black circle with its wig of astral snowfall.

  Even the peripherals are good: the strange dawn light over the blonde hills, a particularly good catch of a honeybee harvesting the fuzzy yellow flowers. And a dark-haired woman spinning on the gravel, her arms like helicopters blades, her face a blur of joy.

  He has placed one hell of a bet. Kerry was so determined to give him up. He wonders if what he said would have made any difference. But if
he knew it was coming, at least he would have had a game plan. He might have talked her out of it. And who the hell was he to be swapping one gorgeous woman for another? But there she is, spinning in the gravel, and there’s no denying how he feels.

  He pulls up another image, this one in his head. They walk the dusty road, making a mess of their flip-flops. The light switches on and off through the trees. She says, “For the rest of the trip, let’s just kiss.” She takes his hand, sending a buzz along his arm. At the time, he thought it was just the illicit nature of her proposal. A bachelor freebie. Getting kisses from a woman not your girlfriend.

  Maybe it was her.

  He’s had enough trauma for a while, and his eyes are telling him to shut it down. He curls up on the couch. Sophie takes her usual post in the crook of his legs. He reaches for his phone, pulls up the totality video and hits play, just to hear it once more.

  Oh Gerald! I love you I love you. I want to marry you and have little photographers.

  Karen is in the back room, loading the dishwasher, when she hears the jangle of bells along the front door. She races to the front, but it’s only Quiet Carl, leaving for the night. Carl is a registration clerk for Barton’s 93, and comes each night to read next to Harry’s portrait. They have exchanged maybe twenty non-coffee words, but how could she not like him?

  The Explorer pulls into the lot. She loses her breath, so excited to share the news. But then she sees the laptop and gets even more excited. The photos! Of course. She coaches herself to let him enjoy his show-and-tell before getting to the bombshell.

  Gerry’s barely through the door when she pounces, wrapping him in a hug and kissing his jawline.

  “Wow! Every man should have such a greeting. Are we in a good mood?”

  “Just happy to be done with work. And excited to see your photos?”

  “You should be. Walk this way.”

  They adjourn, as always, to the red couch. Gerry sets his laptop on the low table and boots it up. The first thing that comes up is the wedding ring, which is now serving as his wallpaper.

  “OMG! Wow, are they all like this?”

  He smiles. “You know, it’s times like this when I feel like I might be a decent photographer.”

  “Oh pshaw! Cut the modesty.”

  “He pulls up the eclipse folder and shows her one pyrotechnic after another. The laptop features a hi-def screen, and the detail is breathtaking. Each click brings an ooh! or ah! from Karen. She runs a hand along his arm, and by the time he reaches the totalities she’s squirming. The spinning shot makes her jump in her seat. In view of recent events, this is turning Gerry on something awful, so he jokes his way out.

  “Honey! What have I told you about chewing the espresso beans?”

  She kisses him on the lips, which is not helping. “Is that all of the photos?”

  “Yes.”

  She sits cross-legged atop the cushions so she can face him. “I’ve got news.”

  Oh God. Would Kerry have told her?

  “Well… what?”

  “Lonnie’s coming.”

  “Lonnie?”

  “Dwight Yoakam’s Lonnie. Guitarist? Immensely good-lookin’?”

  “Oh!”

  “He’s coming this weekend. The band’s playing in Portland. He rented a car just so he can take the long way and drop by here. Isn’t that sweet?”

  “Um, yeah!”

  “I mean, you know, that first time was just a fling, but I don’t know, I guess I’m ready to date with a little intention, to make my grand return as a single woman.”

  Gerry uh-huhs and that’s-greats his way through the rest, then breaks out the mop bucket and waves to Karen as she trots to the parking lot. Swapping one gorgeous woman for another. Yeah, right.

  Forty Eight

  The closest that Gerry gets to the golf course is on one of his regular routes with Sophie, a trail past the storage building adjacent to the seventh fairway. The seventh is a particular favorite. The green is set against a kind of mini butte – craggy, tan rocks that shoot from the earth like the crown of a long-dead Titan. After that, you climb a trail onto a pocket in the cliff, where a surprising patch of green awaits your tee shot. The twenty-foot height adds nicely to his drives, and the view is gorgeous.

  He is in hell. The woman who gave him such lovely pretend kisses in Oregon has converted him into a hag fag. She spends their red couch sessions detailing her excitement over Lonnie’s visit. Tonight’s the night, and Gerry’s been running a day-long film of the many positions that Fabio Rockabilly will orchestrate with his Jackpot groupie. It’s hell to have a photographer’s eyes. Sophie blesses a fencepost with Pomeranian pee, then seems distracted by something to the west. Gerry turns to see a Hollywood Bowl of cloudage shooting from the ridge, painted with veins of sienna and scarlet. It’s heaven to have a photographer’s eyes.

  The knock on Karen’s door makes her jump. She opens it to find a cowboy/rocker hybrid, taller than she remembers, wearing a Harley Davidson T-shirt. He gives her an off-kilter smile. She jumps into his big arms.

  “Lonnie! God, it’s good to see you.”

  “Hi darlin’.”

  “Come on in. Have a seat.”

  He settles onto the couch and rubs his face. “Man. I am wore out. I guess I didn’t know how spoiled I was, always havin’ someone else do the drivin’.”

  “Can I get you anything?”

  “Maybe a Coke?”

  “Sure.”

  `She hops out to the kitchen and takes the time to pour it into an ice-filled glass. When she gets back, Lonnie is stretched out, fast asleep. She sits and sips, watching his chest rise and fall.

  Gerry buys off Sophie with a rawhide chew and splits the premises. He sees a shiny new compact next to Karen’s car. That would be Lonnie’s rental. He does not want to be around when animal noises start seeping through the walls.

  He heads to the Desert Room and orders a chicken parm. He tries to eat slowly, but there’s only so much time you can kill with one meal. He’s on to coffee and a warm brownie sundae when a familiar figure arrives at the hostess desk, dressed in a dazzling tie-dye sportcoat. Gerry walks over.

  “Dr. Al!”

  “Professor Gerry!”

  “You are an angel, sent to save me from my own brain.”

  “I am?”

  “You got a few minutes?”

  Al checks his smartphone. “Hey Doris. Could you get me a lemon zinger?”

  “Sure.”

  They slide into the booth. Gerry doesn’t know how to start.

  “Helluva jacket, Al.”

  “Thanks. A leftover from my Deadhead days. So what brand of torment are you suffering?”

  “Kerry broke up with me.”

  “Aw, man! That’s too bad. I like that lady. What’d you do, beat her at golf?”

  “Oh! Like that would ever happen. No. She thinks I’m in love with Karen.”

  “Well, sure. Everyone in town knows that.”

  “Really?”

  “Yep. But I know the situation. Widowed, in mourning. I get it.”

  “Wow.” He takes a bite of the brownie. “Well, as it turns out, I am in love with Karen. But before I have a chance to tell Karen that, she tells me an old boyfriend’s coming to town.”

  “Lonnie? The guitarist?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Good-lookin’ dude.”

  Gerry gives him a complaining look.

  “Hey! Just stating the obvious.”

  “Well. What can I do? They’re together tonight, right next door, so Mr. Gerry is painting the town.”

  “Which should take about five minutes,” says Al. “However, you’re in luck. I just happen to be privy to a certain entertainment that could kill a few of your hours.”

  “Oh! That would be awesome.”

  Al’s drink arrives, a milky yellow concoction with brown sugar on the rim.

  “What the hell is that?”

  Al winks. “If I toldja, I’d have to killya.”<
br />
  He gets out of the shower, a towel tied at his waist. Karen stifles a gasp. But Lonnie, in his charming obliviousness, simply strolls to the bedroom. He returns two minutes later in jeans and a bowling shirt. The pocket patch reads Sergio.

  “Sergio?”

  “Oh! A little hobby of mine. Each new town, I hit a thrift store and look for clothing with people’s names on it. It’s great having all these alter egos. Let’s see. Sergio is a sommelier from Madrid who likes to slum it with his American friends on bowling night.”

  “Wait a minute. So you give them backstories?”

  “Sure! You should try it. In fact, I’ve got a sweet jacket for you.”

  “Excellent.”

  “You want to get some food? I’m starved.”

  “In fact, we are going to the finest buffet west of the Mississippi.”

  “Ooh, I don’t know. I had sort of a buffet incident in Vegas.”

  “Ah, but this is different. This is Dr. Al’s buffet.”

  “I am in your hands. After all, you’re the girl in the flaming dress.”

  “Damn straight I am.”

  He smiles, and she melts, just a little.

  Julie Lesser waves to her happy hour mongrels and leaves the bar to find an orange sun, half-eaten by the western ridge. She hears a powerful swock! and knows that her boss is on the driving range. She finds Kerry launching balls toward Boise at an alarming rate.

  “You’re a machine!” she teases.

  Kerry tees up and swings. She sees a figure. It appears to be Julie.

  “My god, honey, you’re all sweaty. How long have you been out here?”

  “Don’t know,” she mumbles. “Couple hours.”

  “Couple hours? Jesus! Have you not noticed it’s hot? Okay, that’s enough. Off to the showers, and then you and I are going out drinking.”

  “One more.” She tees up, imprints the ball with Gerry’s face and socks it to kingdom come.