He was on the verge of becoming a little unstarched, but he didn’t care; if worse came to worst, Cassie would drive. She hated it when he drank, but he needed a little something to take the edge off, and what else was there to do while he waited? He couldn’t go in and ooh and ahh over toasters and pot-scrubbers.
A few more songs played, another couple of beers went down. It seemed like those girls were going to take forever. He got out and stretched, walked into the shadows and peed behind a tree, then decided to sneak a look in the window and see how close to being done they were. He walked, a little wobbly, toward the window, his cowboy boots squeaking in the snow, took a few deep breaths to clear his head, then looked into the restaurant. Cassie was sitting in the middle of a circle of girls, opening presents. A big pile of paper was mounded up beside her, and on her head was a crown of bright-colored ribbons, rescued from the wrappings and braided together by one of her friends. She pulled a black lace nightgown out of a box, and everyone squealed as she stood up and held it in front of herself, wiggling her hips in a lewd vampy dance. They all roared with laughter. She was so happy. He had never seen the look she had on her face now as she pranced around with the black lace nightgown and the hat of ribbons. To his surprise, it made him feel sad. Maybe he just didn’t know how to put that look on her face. She didn’t laugh a lot around him. It was like she was always looking out of the corner of her eye to see how he would react before she said or did anything, waiting to see if he would approve of her or not. He guessed he did criticize her more than he ought to, but she should know it was for her own good; if she would just lose some weight she would be the beautiful girl she was when they first started going out in the tenth grade. In the last few years she had packed on a lot of pounds. Try as he did to get her to lay off the fries and milk shakes and go on a diet, she didn’t seem to lose an ounce, and in fact she had gained quite a bit more in just the last month. She would be as big as a house before this baby was born. It seemed like she ate just to spite him. He didn’t like to admit it, even to himself, but he had gotten a little ashamed of Cassie. When the two of them walked into places, people stared at them like they were wondering why someone as good-looking as him would be with a fat girl. When they were alone, though, she was sweet, and it was so good and easy to be with someone who adored you no matter what you did, who you could relax around and didn’t have to put on any show for. And in the dark, Cassie was soft and warm and smelled like rich loamy earth, like bread fresh out of the oven; her skin felt like the smoothest creamy deerskin, buttery and lush. A man could fall into a woman like that and never make his way out, and it seemed like that was just what had happened to him.
Still, the one thing you can’t make yourself do is fall in love, and Lale just didn’t love Cassie. The old line “You deserve someone better than me” in this case was not just an old line. She did. She deserved somebody who would love her and take care of her and he knew he never would. He was cheating on her now, every chance he got, and he knew that wasn’t likely to change after the wedding. Maybe he was one of those guys who just couldn’t be true to one woman and would never fall in love at all. He hadn’t up to now.
His stomach lurched and he felt a little sick. He thought of all his young years stretching before him, walking into places with Cassie, them getting older, her getting fatter and fatter. In his mind she was blowing up to the size of a circus freak, and he was smothering in her flesh, getting sucked into the quicksand of her swamps. He imagined them in their tiny apartment, packed together like chickens in a crate, surrounded by a dozen kids, all screaming and calling him Daddy. Cassie would never use birth control. She was too Catholic. He rubbed his eyes to clear the image. He had to get out of there. He’d drive around for a while, sober up, and maybe they’d be done with the presents when he came back.
Just as he got back into his car, a pickup pulled into the yard of Flyin’ Jack’s garage next to the café. Lale turned to see Snuffy Simmons park, get out, and head toward his eighteen-wheeler. He opened the back to check on the cargo, which looked to be a load of boxes of something or other, and then Bernadette appeared out the back door of the café, carrying a sack and a thermos. Lale couldn’t hear what they were saying, but they stood close together and then kissed. Snuffy cupped her butt in his hand, and she snuggled up to him. Then he pulled her by the hand and they went into the garage, dark now after everyone had gone home. Bernadette’s laugh rang out silver in the cold night air.
The back of the big truck was still open, and Lale went over to take a look. The boxes marked with Freyaldenheimer’s wine labels were stacked high, but there was quite a bit of room left. Enough for a man to lie down fairly comfortably. He stood staring for a minute, his heart pounding. An idea was catching hold of him. He went back to his car, rummaged around, and found an old gas receipt and a stub of a pencil in the glove compartment. He was nervous and excited—his fingers felt thick as he wrote and the beer had his brain working in slow motion—but he didn’t have any reason to lie to her at this point.
Dear Cassie,
I am leaving out tonight. You deserve someone much better than me. You are a good girl and I would only cause you a lot of misery. That’s a fact. I know that you will be mad at me, because I am mad at myself, but in the long run you will thank me for this. You can have my car. Tell my daddy to give you the title, and tell him I’ll be in touch when I find out where I will be. Think about what I said about taking care of the “problem.” Bernadette will know what to do. If you decide to do it, I’ll try to send some money for it when I get a job, or you can sell the car if you need to. It’s not too late for either one of us now, but it will be soon. Take care of yourself, and have a good life. Try not to hate me too much. I would say I love you, but it doesn’t much seem like I do, does it?
Lale
He laid the note on the seat, underneath the keys. The girls were still giggling and eating chocolate cake as he passed by the window. All he had on him was twenty-two dollars in his billfold, another six-pack, and the clothes on his back, but he couldn’t go home. His daddy would know something was up if he came in and tried to pack, and by then Snuffy would be long gone. His mother would be crazy with worry, and he hated that, but he would think what to do about them later. He knew he should feel guilty, but the only thing he felt was exhilaration and a sense of relief, like a bird looking at an open cage door.
He hoisted himself into the back of the semi and settled down near the front of the cargo, where he’d be less likely to be seen, on an old piece of padding he found between the stacks of wine cases. It was cold, but not too bad in out of the wind. He didn’t know where Snuffy was going, but he figured he would sneak out whenever he stopped, and hitch a ride with somebody else before Snuffy could see him and tell Bernadette and Cassie what had happened. Maybe he could make it to California. He always thought he might like to try his hand at being a surfer. Or a movie star.
It was a long way to the end of the road, but finally Lale was going to see what was there.
8
* * *
THE FIRST TEST
Ron had said for me to bring a lot of different outfits and accessories, so I just packed a big bag with whatever came to hand, not having the foggiest idea what he was going to do. I had scarves, hats, sunglasses, a long granny dress made out of white gauze that looked kind of like a nightgown, and several miniskirts and matching tights. The bag was so heavy I couldn’t carry it on the subway, so I took the metaphorical rubber band off my shrinking wad and hailed a taxi. I was still a little amazed that I could stand on the street, hold out my hand, and, like magic, a taxi would pull over and stop. I remembered what Snuffy Simmons had said back at Flyin’ Jack’s, about all New York cabdrivers being crazy, and I always compared them to their pictures and took careful note of their names and cab numbers on the piece of paper in the window in case one of them did something weird. I had been warned about hitchhiking all my life, and to get in a car with a stranger went against my in
stincts, but if they had a picture of themselves right there on a license, it probably was all right. They did drive pretty fast, though, most of them, and sometimes I had to hang on to the strap to keep from falling on the floor when they went around a corner.
The studio was different from the way it was that first day—well, obviously, there were no naked men, but also Ron had hung a big piece of seamless paper from the ceiling and set lights up all around it. Over to the side was a table with a bottle of wine and glasses, a bowl of fruit, and a platter of cheese and crackers. I wondered if it was for us to eat, or leftovers from some Good Housekeeping picture.
“This is going to be tremendous,” Ron said, coming out of the back room. “Now let me tell you what we’re doing. There’s a new magazine called Rouge and the art director likes me. I think I can work for them. It’s a sexy magazine for women, a little tuned toward the avant-garde artsy stuff, no nudity, well, not much; maybe they’ll have a nude guy as a centerfold—just kidding, don’t get nervous—but serious political articles while still being fashion-oriented. Somewhere between Vogue and Cosmo. I want to put together a presentation for them, and I want you to be it. Okay?”
“Okay. Wow. Sure. That’s great!”
I was going to be a presentation for a magazine! I had never been photographed in a real studio in my life, and just seeing the blank seamless paper and all the lights made me a little nervous. In fact, I didn’t know the backgrounds for all the pictures, like the ones Avedon did for Vogue, were even paper. I had practiced posing like the models in magazines in the mirror, of course, but never in front of anyone. I hoped I wouldn’t embarrass myself.
“We’re going to do this thing right,” he enthused. “I have a terrific makeup and hair man here. He will make you gorgeous—not that you’re not already gorgeous, but gorgeous-er. Sal, come on out! Cherry’s here!”
A tall, slender man with short-cropped black hair came out from the dressing room. He was dressed all in black, his shirt buttoned right up to the neck, and wore big round glasses with black-and-white-checked frames and pale purple lenses, ones like Elton John, the guy from England who had just come out with a great record called “Your Song,” would wear.
“Salvador de Vega, meet Cherry Marshall.”
“Hi, Salvador. Nice to meet you.”
“Oh, my God! Is this the Cherry you told me so much about! Who walks on water? Look at you! You are incredible! Ron, you didn’t tell me you had something like this fabulous creature coming in! My darling, you are just to die! To die! That hair! Those eyes! Those legs! They go on for miles!” I had a fleeting impression of a flock of flamingos as he spoke, hands fluttering like wings.
“Hold on, Sal. Let the girl catch her breath. Do you want some coffee or tea, Cherry? I have some stuff to eat, so if you get hungry, just let me know.”
“I’m okay, thanks.”
I had never seen anybody remotely like Sal, who was wearing red nail polish and the biggest rhinestone bracelet I had ever seen, and it looked like he had on eyeliner. I couldn’t take my eyes off him. He had a small head and a long slender neck that was a little snakelike, and he moved in a graceful dancer-ish way when he walked. He had perfect big white teeth and a way of throwing his head back and opening his eyes wide that somehow reminded me of Little Richard. And I sure had never been gushed over like that. I couldn’t take it seriously. He probably said that kind of thing to all the models.
“Well, if you get hungry, we can take a break anytime,” Ron said. “I have a couple of great ideas for shots, but let’s see what you brought.”
I opened my bag, and he went through all the stuff, picking out a long red-and-white Indian-print scarf and my gauze dress. In addition, he had a pink baseball cap, another hat with a clear plastic green visor, and a whole box of glittery costume jewelry.
“This is going to be so great. We’ll start with the red-and-white scarf, Sal. Our girl from Arkansas is going to be a smash.”
“Arkansas? Arkansas! That is so amazing!” Sal exclaimed. Sal exclaimed nearly everything. “I have a boyfriend from Arkansas! But I’m sure you wouldn’t know him.”
“Probably not. Arkansas is kind of a big place.” Nobody I knew would be Sal’s boyfriend. Maybe somebody from Little Rock.
“Well, never mind. He’s the kind you don’t bring home to Mother, anyhow. I also had a boyfriend from Nashville, which is cheek by jowl, as they say, to Arkansas, a country singer, but that didn’t work out. I’m sure I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know, but, honey, those southern boys are big trouble—take it from me. Unfortunately, I have always rushed toward trouble, like a moth to the proverbial flame. I just can’t seem to stay away from bad boys. Why, just last week at Max’s Kansas City, you know Max’s Kansas City, I’m sure…”
I shook my head.
“Oh, well, then you’ll have to come out with us one night and play. Max’s is the most groovy fun place in New York! Or maybe we could all go to Maxwell’s Plum, with all those wonderful Tiffany lights—it’s the most beautiful fun place in New York—or to Corso’s up on Eighty-sixth Street and dance! You would love it. Tito Puente plays up there, and it is the most, most fun, all those Latin types, dark and sexy…”
“Okay, gang, let’s get started,” Ron said, cutting him off. I had a feeling I would hear all about what happened last week at Max’s Kansas City anyhow.
We all went into the dressing room, Sal hardly taking time to draw breath, giving me the list of the best places to party in New York. There was a long table surrounded by lights that was laid out with Sal’s makeup box, a lot like a huge fishing-tackle box with tiers of little compartmented drawers full of all kinds of makeup and creams, brushes and combs and curling irons and different-colored wigs and hairpieces stuck to Styrofoam heads lined in a row, and tons of other beauty stuff that I’d never even dreamed of. Sal turned on the radio, blasting out a Sly and the Family Stone song. He tied a ribbon around my head to hold the hair back, then he starting dancing around to the music, at the same time getting out a huge jar of cold cream and rubbing it on my face.
“I want to thank you fallettinme be mice elf agin, uh, huh,” he sang to the music. “Now let’s see what’s under all this goo, Miss Cherry. We have to start with a clean face, you know.”
I had put on makeup before I left the apartment, because that’s what I did every day when I got up, rain or shine, and nobody had told me I shouldn’t. I probably wouldn’t have gone on the subway without makeup even if they had told me not to wear any, though—my naked face looked like a bowl of oatmeal with two green grapes stuck in the middle, and I would never ever go out in public like that.
“Let’s get those eyelashes off, sweetie, and…oh my goodness! Look at this! Are those real?” He had just wiped cream over my eyebrows, which had started to come back in white, but were splotchy, so I still brushed mascara on them.
“Yes, they’re real. So is my hair.”
“It is? That is so amazing. And these brows! You have such great eyebrows! So thick, like a white wolf! Why are they two colors? Have they been dyed?”
“Well, yes, but I’m letting the dark grow out.”
“I’ll take care of that, sweetie. We’ll just take out what’s left of that dark color, and then you’ll have the best brows in New York City. Whatever were you thinking, dying these gorgeous things?”
He carefully brushed some bleach or whatever on my brows and in a few minutes they were pure snowy white.
“Fabulous! Oh my God! This is going to be so great! I’ll just prune them a little, but we still want that wolf look…” Out came the tweezers and it hurt like the dickens, but they were pruned. I was a little shocked when I saw myself in the mirror, but it didn’t look all that bad at all. I couldn’t wait to show them to Suzan, who seemed to have an overly attentive interest in them.
It took him over an hour to get the makeup on, between dancing and posing and sips of wine, and telling me about all his boyfriends and a long list of the big
stars I would meet at Max’s Kansas City, like Andy Warhol and Robert Rauschenberg, Mick Jagger and Dennis Hopper, which I didn’t know whether to believe or not. I did my own makeup in five minutes in the morning, but he did a lot more than I ever did. He mixed liquid makeup in his palm with lotion and rubbed and wiped and mixed and put more, then powdered, blushed my cheeks, powdered some more, outlined my lips with a pencil and then took a small brush and stroked it over several different lipstick tubes, daubing one color here, another there, until he had painted my whole mouth. You’d have thought it was the size of a truck tire, the time it took. Then he brushed on layers of eye shadow, one tiny brushstroke at a time, stood back with pursed lips and did another little stroke, taking so long that my bottom got numb and I nearly went into a coma. At last he noticed I was tilting a little.
“Need a little boost, darling?” he said, taking me by the shoulders and straightening me in the chair. “Want a sip of coffee? You’ll have to be careful if you drink anything. We don’t want to ruin those luscious lips.”
I shook my head, and tried to wake up. I didn’t want to ruin my lipstick and have to have him do it all over again, either. Sal then finished off with false eyelashes, individually placed, a hair at a time, touched up the liner some more, then brushed my hair back into a little ponytail and wrapped the big red-and-white scarf around my head and neck, like a nun’s habit. All you could see was my face. Ron came in.
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