Everyone's Pretty

by Lydia Millet

  —Dean, my God. Are you lying?

  —Bucella! I’m making of myself a new man. Acknowledging my Higher Power. I have accepted Jesus Christ as my personal savior. It came to me in a flash of blinding light Bucella. I thought I heard the archangel Gabriel singing to me from a bourbon on the rocks. “Dean Decetes,” he said to me, “The road is clear before you. Throw down your soiled clothes Dean Decetes and join the ranks of the pure.” He wanted to baptize me Bucella in the silver stream of faith, but I said I was unworthy. “I will try to be worthy,” I said to the archangel Gabriel. “I will try.” You may laugh Bucella, go ahead and laugh but this is the first day of the rest of my life.

  She hedged closer and looked at him sharply.

  —Dean, really? Really Dean?

  —It’s the right decision Bucella, I found the strength at last. Yes Bucella, I can face you and say it out loud: my name is Dean Decetes. I am an alcoholic.

  —Really Dean?

  —If you’ve never believed me before, believe me now Bucella.

  —Dean—how do you feel?

  —I feel good, I feel good. The scales are lifted from my eyes. But this guy, he’s a tragic story Bucella. He served in the Vietnam conflict, covert actions. Small size was an asset to the Army, he could wiggle through foxholes and the like, but afterward they abandoned him. When the war was over he came home and lived on the streets. Led to liquor, drugs Bucella, his childhood sweetheart rejected him. A circus midget she was Bucella, from Tallahassee.

  —You better not be making this up Dean.

  —Making it up? A man’s life we’re talking about here. I would never lie about war Bucella. War’s no joke to me.

  —It was a joke at the time Dean, if I recall you were incarcerated for dodging the draft.

  —My youth Bucella, Canada is a beautiful country. But this guy Bucella, he’s tried everything to get better, tries to get work but people discriminate Bucella. An ugly dwarf does not have it easy in America. He’s my sponsor Bucella, been in AA ten years, and let me tell you he’s a good Christian Bucella, family’s Catholic, he loves Jesus and the Virgin, you can ask him yourself. All I’m requesting, I’m begging a little hospitality for this man Bucella, a bed for the night.

  —Dean if he has such a loving family why doesn’t he have somewhere to sleep?

  —Lives in Orange County now. Comes in once a week for the meetings, been with this same AA chapter for years. He usually goes home but I kept him here talking, shooting the breeze Bucella, about Jesus Christ, and now he’s a little tired.

  —Just this once okay Dean? He gives me the creeps. When he was in here before all he did was stare at my endowments.

  —I spoke to him about that Bucella, not his fault. It’s an eye-level problem. You have a heart of gold Bucella. He’ll be grateful.

  Outside, around at the side of the house, Ken was drinking from the hose, slurping at the stream like a mutt.

  —You’re in AA with me all right Ken? You’re a Christian, you were in the Army in Vietnam and did covert actions, okay Ken?

  —Army?

  —Yes Ken. Remember to say you love the Virgin Mary, family’s Catholic okay Ken?

  —Family?

  —Just play along Ken. You clean? Come on in.

  Ken shuffled in behind him, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

  —I love a virgin, said Ken to Bucella.

  —The Virgin, right Ken? He’s aphasic Bucella.

  —I sure love a Catholic virgin in the family, said Ken, nodding.

  —Pardon me?

  —The aphasia, you know like George Bush Senior Bucella? A side effect of Agent Orange. It’s the military-industrial complex Bucella, see what it can do to a good honest citizen?

  10:38

  There was a telephone in an alcove next to the men’s bathroom. Alice’s ears were ringing but she knew what she had to do. She grappled with her wallet and finally extracted the card. Distracted momentarily by its rude silver sheen, in which her eyes shone soft and large and her nose was a snout, she read the blurred directions on the back and typed some digits into the keypad.

  —U.S. Sprint how can I help you?

  —I have to call my mother, said Alice.

  10:53

  Ken was safely ensconced in an afghan on the living room couch, sleeping like a baby, and Bucella was washing pots in the kitchen. Decetes would have to strategize alone, in his boudoir. First, however, he would fortify himself in the backyard, one man alone with his sustenance, the crystal liquid sparkling under moonlight, surrounded by bounteous nature in the form of geraniums, tiger lilies and Spanish moss.

  Possibly he could catch a glimpse of the teenage strumpet, disrobing before bed. The yellow rectangle of her window was often a beacon in the wilderness.

  He quietly removed his spare fifth from its hiding place behind Bucella’s ancient World Book Encyclopedia set and tiptoed out the front door.

  Unfortunately, the window of grace was unlit. Decetes stationed himself in a butterfly chair and toasted the Big Dipper.

  The parrot, the poor parrot. A perky chap with a twinkle in his beady eye. Damn their eyes! Decetes had always had a fondness for birds. In the new kingdom, that poor martyred creature would perch on his wrist, its wings and beak tinged with gold.

  —Nice night! How’s it going man, said the businessman from next door, stepping out his sliding back door and lifting his glass.

  —Things are looking up buddy, said Decetes across the hedge.

  —Glad to hear it, said the businessman, and belched. —My wife’s back, my daughter’s back, we’re one big happy fucking family.

  —American dream, said Decetes, and took a generous swig. He had come to the woods to live deliberately, but the Rolex-sporting Cro Magnon was disturbing his peace.

  Still, there might be Chivas Regal in it for him.

  —Tell me something man, said the suit. —What do you think of my wife?

  —Ho there, said Decetes, and raised a deferential palm to signify abstention. His daily quota for beatings had already been exceeded. —I make it a point of honor never to think about other men’s wives.

  —No seriously, said the suit, and tipped back his tumbler. —I mean would you say she’s looking good for her age? Just between you and me, I feel like she’s let herself go.

  —I myself, mused Decetes, —am a firm believer in extramarital intercourse. I was married once, and faithful as the day is long. Sure I was tempted. Administrative assistants and Ivy League account managers with blond hair and big hooters throwing themselves in my face over sushi and saké, you know how it is, but I restrained myself. Then she left me for a petrochemical mogul. Since then it’s every man for himself. Fidelity, my friend, is for pets and mutual funds.

  —Ha ha, said the suit. —Administrative assistants, ha.

  11:15

  —Alice honey are you coming to the service?

  —I no, no I can’t, see it would be—

  —Please Alice honey—

  A dark graceful hand touched hers on the receiver and climbed up her arm. The chest against her back was muscled and smooth.

  —Jerome’s here.

  —Because Alice he really loved you sweetie he just didn’t know how to show it.

  —See that’s where you’re wrong mother he showed it, he really did, she said.

  —Alice honey we have to forgive and forget!

  Her skirt was sliding up over her hips and there were lips on her neck. She closed her eyes and was dizzy.

  —Sorry mother but I can’t do that, she said. —I’ve been trying to forget all my life but forgiving is out of the question.

  —But Alice forgiveness is—

  She covered the receiver and turned in the circle of the arms, but her legs were weak and he was holding her up. —Isn’t Ernie going to be upset?

  —Ernie knows, he’s not the jealous kind.

  —Lord giveth sweetiepie—

  —Relax, whispered Jerome.

  Jerome was s
oft and hard. Her feet came off the floor and she closed her eyes. The quick faces of passersby were moons in the shadows, almost invisible. She was drifting without landmarks, drunk enough to feel airborne but not motion sickness. She remembered carnivals, the pier. You entrusted yourself to the arc of a ferris wheel, the swing of old machinery in cool air, with organ-grinding music far away on the ground. The wall was gritty and warm, years of hands, arms, clothing rubbing into her skin. Leavings of strangers, invisible remnants. Somewhere a sea of them, joined by the coincidence of space. She stretched one arm out along the surface, spreading her fingers. The receiver bobbed softly on her shoulder.

  —If you could be here and sit in the pew with me Alice—

  —I can’t, she sighed.

  —But honey I’m all alone, came from years distant like a low wind through the grass, and Alice thought she felt the wall curve behind her.

  11:32

  —My name is Dean and I’m an alcoholic, he practiced as he staggered toward bed. All the lights were out. Blundering his way through the dark, He stubbed his toe on the door to his room and swore in a whisper.

  Inside, he discarded clothing onto the floor. Light must be forfeited: Bucella had eyes in the back of her head. She saw through wallboard and plaster and picked out drunkenness in the infrared scopes of her cornea like a sniper on the grassy knoll.

  He felt his way to the sofabed. Wide arms came up to clasp his own and pull him down. She was as loamy as the earth, as warm and thick as mud. She was a barrel, a cauldron of flesh.

  —You came back! he said. —Earth mother. Angel! Messenger of my glory.

  Forthwith he blessed the angel with his staff.

  CHAPTER THE EIGHTH

  Hymns are sung; a coup d’état is attempted; and a mummy is found in Beverly Hills

  FRIDAY MORNING

  8:48

  —You may rest assured, said Phillip smartly in taking leave of his erstwhile jailer, —I am planning to enlist the services of an attorney. Your apologies come far too late. The treatment I have received is indefensible. An outrage! And a violation of this nation’s Constitution.

  —Go man go, chortled his cellmate, waving and doubling over in pain.

  8:56

  They were throwing rocks at her Beloved. Thin children on the bare hill ran at the back of the crowd, and Bucella at the front, but she was pressing against the throng, throwing herself at their mercy in a frenzy of Begging. —Don’t hurt him! she cried, her cheeks stained with tears. —Don’t you know who he is? But they were strong and mean-faced and threw her aside and trampled her underfoot. Ahead stood Ernest in white rags, his legs torn, in a field of thistles. His arms were thrown Wide, his face was to the Heavens. —Why hast thou forsaken me?

  She lay on the ground where she fell, in a heap with the sand washing over her, blowing across the dunes. It covered her legs and her stomach until the rain began to fall. Warm rain, heavy drops, and then she saw one of the stone-throwers standing over her, smiling. An ugly man, a small ugly man. Behind him not thunderclouds but the ceiling, writhing with plaster Worms. Beneath it, her open bedroom door.

  —My God! and she sat up shrieking, pulling the covers over herself. The warm rain on her stomach stuck the sheet against her skin, and the Midget zipped up his Fly and scurried out.

  9:04

  Alice woke, temples throbbing, facing a pale lavender wall striped white where the sun glanced over the curved backs of slats. She was on a wide sofa with a flannel sheet spread over the peaks of her knees and tucked under her chin. Her neck and shoulders were sore, but it was a mild ache. It was almost soothing. She stayed immobile in the calm, gazing ahead. In an oval mirror she could see the ceiling reflected, a pool of light. Then there was the ticking of claws over hardwood, a rush of weight, and the milky opaque eyes of a dog.

  His paws laid on her chest, he stretched his body over her and panted in her face. She stared at the eyes. Blue-white. No pupils only irises.

  —Down boy, said Ernie.

  Alice looked up: he was standing at the living-room door in a brown silk dressing gown. The dog laid his chin on his paws and blinked.

  —Disobedient cur. Feeling better darling?

  —I could feel worse, said Alice. —A headache. Should I be apologizing for something?

  —No apologies. Everything’s fine. Tea or coffee? Let me get you some pills and a glass of water first. You’re dehydrated. Down boy.

  —What happened to his eyes?

  —Who knows, he was a stray. He was blind when I found him. You stay right there.

  The dog lay warm and heavy on her.

  —Here you go, said Ernie, bustling back in, tipping two round pills onto her palm. —Sleep in, come into the office after lunch. Take the other half of your sick day. I’ll slice a grapefruit for you before I go, espresso’s in the pot, and the door locks when you close it. There are extra toothbrushes in the vanity. Brand new never used. I said down.

  The dog raised itself lazily and slumped to the floor beside her.

  —Sugar bowl’s on the silver tray on the counter.

  —Ernie didn’t I—?

  —Wouldn’t anyone Alice? Don’t worry he’s safe. Actually he’s even prudish. Usually. Wait, I have some new shoes to show you.

  She trailed a hand over the dog’s long back and stared at the plants on the sill till he came back.

  —I grew the rosemary from seed. Here, do you like them?

  He swiveled an ankle right and left, from the toe.

  —I like them.

  —Kenneth Cole for women. Twelve wide.

  —Beautiful. But are you sure—

  —Alice dear, I live vicariously always. I really should change and get going. Make sure you finish that grapefruit. You don’t eat enough. There’s a sesame loaf in the breadbox and honey in the cabinet. Toast wouldn’t do you any harm either.

  He rounded the corner and she was alone again. The blind dog sighed and closed his eyes. Warm light, considering it was morning.

  9:08

  That was it, the last straw. Dean brought perverts and degenerates into her home, but it would never happen again. Bucella tightened the sash of her robe around her waist and took the stairs three at a time. The Midget was nowhere to be seen. He was hiding in the microwave, maybe. She checked the kitchen and the living room and then pushed open Dean’s door without knocking. The room was dark and smelled putrid. Then she saw them and slammed the door rapidly.

  She stood there facing the closed door. Breathe in, breathe out. But finally she had to open it again.

  Dean was curled like a fetus in the embrace of Barbara, who lay naked on her back, splay-legged, on the soiled Couch of his Infamy.

  Bucella picked up her hardcover Concordance and threw it at his face. It only hit him on the shoulder. He raised his head groggily. Barbara stirred and groaned.

  —Get up and get out, said Bucella through gritted teeth. —You disgust me. I have never seen anything worse than this. You have sunk as low as you can this time, Dean. I feel like throwing up. She is mentally challenged. And married!

  —Earth mother, mumbled Dean.

  —Did you even ask her if she wanted to? This woman has been abused, Dean. She is vulnerable. You are the lowest of the low.

  —But she—

  —Shut up and put your clothes on and get out. For good. I really mean it this time Dean.

  Barbara opened her eyes.

  —Now Dean. I mean now. Or I call the police.

  —Bucella you are overreacting, he grumbled, yawning and rooting in his windward ear with a finger. His rude Sausage was shamelessly exposed. —Do I have to remind you Jesus Christ is my personal savior?

  —Wild wayout kinky.

  —Please Barbara, cover yourself. I am embarrassed. Dean, I’m not standing for any more. I want you out in fifteen minutes flat. And take all your things. Get off her now!

  He hoisted himself off, Barbara jiggling inertly as he stepped over her onto the floor and stood scratching
his armpits.

  —Now get dressed and go. Take the midget with you. And don’t touch her again. You have fifteen minutes.

  9:23

  There was a rooster in the henhouse. His beak was nobly arched, his claws sharp, his feathers preened: but the old hen was squawking again, flustered by his virile displays. She pecked like a hen and spat like a camel.

  Food, water, clothing, shelter. Decetes was not a man to overlook the practical necessities. He pulled on two balled dirty socks of old gray argyle and made for the closet where camping gear was stowed. Ah yes. A one-man tent in excellent condition, a sleeping bag, pegs and a groundsheet. He bundled them up under his arms and snuck them out the back door to deposit them with stealth, always vigilant in his senses as was any beast of prey, behind the trees at the far reaches of Bucella’s backyard. She would not think to look for him there; he could sleep soundly at night, until she relented finally, as she always did. He stashed his bundle behind a bougainvillea.

  Then back inside again, to forage what he could, to salvage and retreat, with haste, with cunning, and with guile.

  9:30

  It began and ended in calumny. She was a strumpet, a many-headed beast. He that toucheth pitch shall be defiled therewith. The handwriting was the same!

  She had invaded his home, kidnapped his wife and left a second note for him, of threat and accusation. And on the door a random insult. It must have taken place during his incarceration, retaliation for the episode in the saloon. Evidently there were two Alices: the vicious slut and the hiding virgin. He must not forget who had cried out to him in the wilderness. But wait. Even psychiatrists, in their false medicine that abnegated the mind of Christ, had a name for it. A secular label for a battle of the spirit: multiple personality disorder. Within her Satan warred with the virgin brides, and took disparate forms. He must cleave to those virgin angels, blond heads bowed and demure, salty peaches hidden to every man but him. Their need was coming to a crisis.

  And Barbara, that traitor to his mastery. That rotten vessel. He raised his head and looked up at the plaque on the wall. Spirit is the real and the eternal; matter is the unreal and temporal. He was beginning to see. Spirit was his and raw matter theirs. The vital opposition was not what he had assumed it to be. In his humility he had believed the weakness lay in himself. He had been wrong, he had permitted his natural pity to draw a veil of ignorance over his eyes. It was, in fact, not the case that every man’s spirit must act within him to quench the baser impulses of meat: rather a man such as he embodied spirit. The task of spirit was to rule over flesh. Rule, vanquish, extirpate. He would bring them both to heel.