Everyone's Pretty

by Lydia Millet

  —But they scoop out your entrails Ernie. They put them in jars.

  —Ooh I wouldn’t like that.

  —Embalmers do it too. Not the jars. But the scooping.

  —Death is so tacky. But listen hon I need a little favor. I forgot my nylons and I’m going straight to Jerome’s after work. Do you think you could bring them when you come in?

  —Just tell me where they are.

  —In the closet there’s a chest of drawers. Top drawer. They’re still in the package. Navy blue with white diamonds, my Kelly Girl Special. Have to go sweetie, my other line.

  The walk-in closet was dedicated to Lola: long spangled dresses, fake-fur stoles, new Christian Dior costume earrings on plastic backings, wigs on styrofoam heads, corsets, eyeliner, eyelash curlers and lipstick. Brassieres in white mesh baskets. There was gold lamé and chenille, silk skirts and satin blouses. In the top drawer of the chest she found packages of nylons neatly stacked. Control-Top X-Large.

  In a cluster of lavender potpourri hearts and yellowed silk flowers was an enamel box. She opened it and the porcelain ballerina began to turn on her dais: Brahms’s lullaby. There were no words, but Alice heard them with the notes, a ghost behind the melody. Rock-a-bye baby, in the treetops.

  Alice sat down on the floor in a pile of silky gloves and twisted scarves and waited to cry.

  CHAPTER THE NINTH

  A Rubber Ducky saves the day; the Black Plague is narrowly averted; a Conquest goes awry; and the Prince loses a loyal footsoldier

  FRIDAY AFTERNOON

  12:04

  In Sleeping Beauty everyone in the castle fell asleep for a century. The castle was overgrown with vines, the dogs were sleeping on the hearth, old men slept on their chairs with white beards growing out along the floor and children breathed deeply, with closed eyes, beside their dusty fallen toys. No one grew old, they just slept. All so that once upon a time the Prince could hack with his sword through the thorns and morning glories that covered the walls and find the Princess young and golden-haired and beautiful, asleep in a position that certainly emphasized her good looks, for example not drooling on the pillow or snoring.

  In Sleeping Beauty they never thought of the fact that all the servants and probably everyone else except the Princess had obligations and relatives outside the castle, and when they woke up after one hundred years all their friends and families would be dead. So it was only a Happy Ending for Sleeping Beauty and the Prince. For everyone else it was a nightmare. A lot of them probably had payments to make on their cottages or whatever, their mortgages were probably foreclosed by the bank while they were sleeping. Their pets all died of starvation, their kids were orphaned and became Problem Adolescents, and neighbors ransacked their houses for the silverware.

  But she Bucella could not be Sleeping Beauty because she did not have a castle, just her bungalow in Culver City that was rented. Instead of a castle, scenic mountains or a Sunrise all she had to look at while she waited for Ernest to come and sweep her up was Chichén Itzá Historic Site of Ancient Mayan Temple, the grainy plastic arms of her swivel chair, the vertical files and the c-prompt on her screen. Plus Garfield the fat stupid cat.

  Okay she was throwing that out. It was old. She ripped it off the bulletin board and stuffed it in her trashcan.

  Now all there was on the board was Chichén Itzá Historic Site of Ancient Mayan Temple, Employee Dress Code, and her favorite quotation from Revelations of Divine Love. It behoved that there should be sin; but all shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well. If Joan of Arc worked here she would be fired for not adhering to the Employee Dress Code.

  The fluorescent tubes on the ceiling were giving her a migraine. Who could be noble with fluorescent tubes? It was the wrong Atmosphere. The history of Now was not heroic because it had no Atmosphere. Dean didn’t know anything about history. All he knew about was Fornication, although he was fond of using many big words that he apparently learned at the University of Southern California before he was kicked out for a number of egregious Honor Code violations, including cheating, plagiarism, and the commission of criminal misdemeanors as it said in the letter, which she still remembered because she had to open it herself. By that time she was the Legal Guardian, being older.

  She looked at her hand on the mouse pad and it was shaking. What if he came in now, right this minute? Glory glory when she wasn’t even ready? Check in the mirror. She swivelled her chair and there he Was! Lordy Lord. He stood there with his hands clasped, bowed over and humble like always. So modest. Glory!

  —I’m sorry to bother you Bucella. I was just hoping you might be able to help me.

  —Oh! Yes . . .

  —It’s a personal matter Bucella, and I could use some good advice.

  He sat down on her guest chair and placed his hands on his knees. Palpitations. Heart murmurs ran in her family. She had to act calm and serene. She picked up her desk calendar. Columbus Day October 14.

  —Let me tell you what happened. When I got into my office this morning, there was an envelope under the door—

  —Yes!—

  —which contained a letter. It seemed to be from an anonymous admirer, and I was deeply touched—

  —Oh!—

  —I was certainly . . . moved . . . but what I need your help with, Bucella, is—

  —You—

  —See I have to find a way—and maybe you can help me with this—to let the person know that I was deeply touched, but I can’t engage in a—how should I put this—an intimate relationship with her. Of a physical nature.

  —Oh . . .

  —It’s impossible for me, and it will always be impossible. I’m sure you know what I’m talking about, but I don’t want to trouble you Bucella.

  —No . . .

  —So I was wondering if you could keep an ear to the ground, and if you find out anything, you know, about my anonymous friend, maybe you could let me know, so that I could contact her. And explain. Because obviously I can’t go around asking staff if they’ve sent me anonymous letters. But I know you’re on good terms with everyone. I wouldn’t want to upset whoever it is; it’s just that I—you understand—I don’t have those kinds of relationships anymore.

  —No of course . . .

  —Physical relationships. With members of the fairer sex. I know you understand, Bucella, and I can rely on your discretion.

  —Yes . . .

  —Thank you Bucella. I appreciate it. I’m so sorry for the interruption. But it means so much to have your help.

  After he retired she sat staring at the space where he had sat. Then she swivelled her chair and reached up and unpinned Chichén Itzá Historic Site of Ancient Mayan Temple and looked at it.

  It was Resplendent Nature.

  12:19

  —Ken please control yourself. Put her down, there is business at hand. And a word of advice my boy, it will chafe unless you use a lubricant.

  —Vat are you doink here?

  In the doorway was the German nationalist from Personnel, the Wagnerian rhino. She had her square hands on her hips.

  —Answer me plees. You are not authorized.

  —My good woman, I forgive you, for you are lost in a dream. Your folk has run amok. First genocide, now tyranny at the workplace. Let me reassure you, I am not a Semite. But if I were I would be proud. I would hold my head high and fight you to a man.

  —I’m goink to call security.

  —It will do you no good, for this is my rightful throne. Alan H. is indisposed and has left me in charge of editorial matters. Needless to say, those matters are not your concern. Ask the editorial assistant, she will know. I believe he left a message on her machine. Now please go tend to your routine duties, and leave me to man the helm of this great ship. You, madame, closely resemble the Lorelei. I am referring to the rock, of course, not the seductive maidens singing to sailors. Away with you, Lohengrin! Take your collective guilt and begone.

  —Zat’s it. I’m callink.r />
  12:44

  While the bathtub was filling she knelt down and examined its clawfeet. The blind dog had followed her into the bathroom and was lying on the mat with its chin on its paws. She compared. The feet of the bathtub were hairless and smooth, an arched exaggeration of feet. Not dog feet but lion feet, the feet of wild predators not domestic pets. Lions without claws: the feet of a declawed lion. There were clawfoot chairs and couches. Bankers, lawyers, doctors sat, bathed and lounged on the disembodied feet of beasts. She stroked a cold foot and then stopped.

  Poor beasts.

  —Is furniture just furniture? she asked the dog, but his ears did not move.

  When the bathtub was full she turned off the water, peeled off Ernie’s shirt and stepped in. She had always loved water, contained or boundless as it could seem. She laid her head back carefully, carefully placed her arms beside her, slowly let them sink beneath the surface. Then her head, very slowly, until the water was over her nose, eyebrows, hair.

  Lola twirled on a dance floor in her crinoline, kind, kind, faultlessly kind but ignoring the world. Little girl in the morgue. Happy mother. Mummy in a Dumpster.

  At Ray’s burial there would be fake flowers and her mother standing beside Linda Tulip Johnson, a/k/a LTJ: friend, hairstylist and Seventh Day Adventist. Afterward they would take off their shoes to let their nylon-covered feet breathe for once. They would put their feet up and watch the TV preachers. Around them unnoticed the lakes and the forests were turning into fields and the fields turning to minimalls, parking lots, and highways.

  And she had watched the vendor go. Probably all he wanted was what she did, not to be alone. But she had not answered him. No one had helped. All she ever did was dream of the self she could not be, dream she was swimming, dream she was running, dream. She loved the dream. But it was only a lullaby.

  When what it should be was the fire of waking life.

  She had been wrong in all of it, the rope without anchor. Under the water she felt frozen and held, a warming amber enclosing her. She was malleable.

  I should have done it all differently. In apology things melted, merciful. Could you apologize forever? Only by going away.

  Her head was hurting, her lungs burned from holding her breath. Is anyone there? Just one! Just one!

  Then there was an answer. A touch of her knee. Someone had come! A sand dollar, hundreds of miles from the sea. She burst above the surface, choking, sputtering and coughing, hopeful and grateful.

  It was a rubber duckling.

  1:03

  —You gotta leave now. And the little guy too.

  There were two of them, ham-eating layabouts with nothing in their futures but minimum wage and then a gangsta rap album that went platinum in six weeks.

  —You do not understand, my musclebound brothers. Alan H. left me in charge.

  —Stop with the bullshit, said the jailbait editorial assistant, poking her brunette head around the doorjamb. —Jesus! What happened to you? Get beat up? You look like shit. You know you’ve got a bald spot on the side of your head. And get those bloody fingers off the desk.

  —He left a message on your machine, did he not? queried Decetes staunchly. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Ken deflating the love doll surreptitiously, kneeling on her legs to press out the air.

  —Do you think I’m an idiot? That was you.

  —Then where is Alan, my likely lass?

  —Sick I guess, hung over, whatever, but don’t you worry about it because it’s none of your goddamn business. Just get out. If he finds you in his office he’ll hit the roof.

  —Ah but that will not occur, quoth Decetes most sagely, and laid his finger alongside his nose, Santa Claus style. —I tell you what. You have my number in your fine Rolodex. If Alan fails to show, you certainly know who to call. For I will save the day. As indeed I save all days, for I am the redeemer.

  —Cut the crap, you loser. Lew, move ’em out.

  1:10

  In the bathroom, whose floor was wet from water rippling over the rim of the clawfoot basin, Alice sat holding the rubber duck and laughed until she could finally cry.

  1:11

  After he called Animal Control Phillip sat down on the sofa to await their arrival. He was very late for work: these were indeed the times that tried men’s souls. But his moral responsibility was to the welfare of the citizenry first and foremost. Averting the Bubonic Plague surely came under that heading.

  It was a welcome delay in any case, for the situation at the office could only be delicate in the extreme. Phillip made himself a cup of organic herbal tea, Peppermint. Would the painted harlot dare to show her face at Statistical Diagnostics? Would she taunt him silently in the knowledge that his kidnapped soon-to-be-former wife was held hostage in her own domicile? He must determine the precise form of all negotiations leading to her surrender. Still, this might be difficult to engineer, beneath the watchful prying eyes of office personnel.

  More crucial still, which face would she show him today? It might be the cold and casual aspect with which he was all too familiar. Or it could be—there was only a small probability of this, but significant all the same—it could be the face of the shy virgin, peeking from behind the other mask.

  The doorbell. His tea was already cold. He opened it. A short pale man with frizzy hair.

  —Animal Control sir. We saw the animal on our way up and we’re disposing of it for you.

  —It’s not mine! My neighbor—

  —We don’t usually deal with hamsters unless they’re rabid, which I don’t need to tell you is extremely rare, but we were in the area. Just wanted to let you know it’s been taken care of.

  The man was already turning away.

  —But the bubo. The festering growth on its bottom. Is it contagious? It was just like the rats in medieval Europe.

  —Sir that’s a male hamster. Are you familiar with hamsters?

  —I do not favor rodents, domestic or otherwise.

  —It’s a normal male hamster. It doesn’t have a growth. Probably died of a heart attack.

  —But I saw—!

  —Sir, those were its testicles.

  1:20

  He was an Ascetic and a Saint of Self-Denial. She should have known all the time. He was a Holy Man who walked Humbly, not in poverty but in moderation. He had taken vows of Chastity. Not wishing to draw attention to himself, he was quiet in his calling, which was why, until now, she hadn’t known. He trusted her implicitly he said. He said he could rely on her Discretion.

  Abelard and Heloise lived separately with a Gulf between them, due to the fact that her uncle the Canon emasculated him by cutting off his Parts, but they shared a Great Sacred Tragic Love. They were pure and very very pious and after their secret marriage they lived forever apart only to be reunited in Kingdom Come, plus they were buried together in France. Probably in Kingdom Come he got his Parts back, like for example when she herself was in Kingdom Come she would have flowing shining hair and a flawless complexion, because in Kingdom Come the holy became what they were Inside. For instance she Bucella would be flowing and shining, but Alice, if she even got there in the first place, would be unattractive for Poetic Justice.

  So that was the reason. Ernest was a hermit like Abelard. They said Abelard was a Heretic so then he wrote the story of his Misfortunes. True it was in the twelfth century when there were solitary abbeys and horses galloping at night and wild forests and the earth was the center of Everything and the stars were the eyes of God in their millions, and there were Martyrs and Queens and Pageants, undiscovered seas and mountains, but that didn’t mean it couldn’t happen now.

  They tried to make you think it couldn’t, by their dirty ugly cars on the freeway, talk shows of ladies with spiky eyelashes and pink boots and puffy hair, by the IRS and social security numbers and dry cleaners and gas stations and I FUCKED YER SISTER and CHILD MOLESTER and Garfield the fat stupid cat and Sodomania and prophylactics under the couch and four-eyed Mentals vomiting lasa
gna on the carpet and garden gnomes and Dean poking his Pecker inside the Lost Souls.

  The pamphlet! She opened her desk drawer. The address was a P.O. box in Santa something which was no doubt extremely picturesque. It was in Fields, surrounded by wild-flowers. They made honey there and every year she mail-ordered several containers on her Mastercard. They had many kinds such as clover, strawberry, chive honey and ginger honey, even licorice honey but that was not appealing to her personally. When they were kids Dean once ate nineteen bags of Twizzlers in front of her on a dare from some bully kid and she could never look a Twizzler in the face again.

  It was mysterious how they put the flavors in. Once she asked them on the phone how they did it, whether they fed the bees chives or whatever, and the phone woman said, It’s certainly a mystery!, so it was still a mystery.

  She was an excellent customer, which they would certainly appreciate and it would count in her favor. She rummaged until she found it. There! A telephone number for ordering. Poverty, Chastity, Obedience. She once sent away for information on another one in Latrobe Pennsylvania, and also Servants of the Blessed Sacrament in Waterville Maine, before she met Ernest, but this one was more romantic and had a better climate plus Pennsylvania was far away. She and Ernest had an Understanding and the way was clear, it was a shining road strewn with Roses, she didn’t even know if it was Benedictine, Dominican, Franciscan or Carmelite and hopefully it wasn’t Trappist or Cistercian so she wouldn’t have to be a Vegetarian or wear bare feet but if she had to she would, since that was not the Point.

  Glory! They could write letters, which might even go down in History because they would bespeak a Great Sacred Tragic Love.

  1:34

  —Here are your nylons Ernie.

  —Alice why don’t you close my door and help me choose hair accessories.

  —Ernest?

  Bucella Decetes stood in the doorway, prim and stiff.