Everyone's Pretty

by Lydia Millet

  6:41

  Alice left Barbara on the telephone with her sister and stepped outside for a smoke. The news crew was trouping back up the driveway in an exhausted cluster, dragging their feet, casual but disappointed. Myocardial infarction would not make the headlines.

  It was her fault, the fire. The fire had been her fault. But no one hurt, not a single one hurt.

  It was the first time she had ever been lucky.

  Maybe this was it. The new beginning.

  Bucella’s drunken brother stepped off the sidewalk onto the lawn. He was wearing a cowboy hat with half the brim missing.

  —You! he called in the direction of the news crew, and deposited his dirty knapsack on the porch beside Alice, ignoring her.

  A cameraman approached.

  —Yeah?

  —I have an announcement to make. Assemble the reporters.

  —Yeah what’s that.

  —I am guilty of homicide.

  —Yeah right, scoffed a cameraman.

  —The John Doe in Beverly Hills, in the Dumpster in the alley. They found him wrapped up like a mummy.

  The cameraman hoisted his camera slowly onto his shoulder. Behind him a brunette in pancake makeup and a red suit took a microphone out of her bag. Alice moved back into the shade of the roof’s overhang, stubbing out her cigarette against the doorjamb. Carefully this time! Carefully.

  —Could you repeat that please?

  —His name is Alan H. He was the editor of an erotic magazine. I was his employee. He fired me, so I strangled him and dropped him in a Dumpster.

  He spoke in a monotone. Lack of affect, remembered Alice from a textbook, characterized the sociopath. She stared at his profile. Unreadable. He appeared to be sober, for once.

  —Hey—! called a cop, walking up swiftly with a radio in hand. —What’s this?

  —This guy’s confessing to a murder. We covered it earlier today, that man in the Dumpster off Beverly Drive?

  —I will not speak to the police until this taping is complete, said Bucella’s brother stiffly.

  —Roll the tape, said the brunette, and stepped up with her microphone.

  Alice was trapped in the corner, between door and rail. Something scratched at the side of her face. It was a wreath. Pilgrim dolls and acorns, spray-painted gold.

  —My name is Dean Decetes. I killed my employer.

  7:06

  All the cops and everyone had left the backyard in a rush and her dad already went inside again because her mother came to the back door crying. The little man was covered in a sheet but they just left him lying there.

  At the gifted school she would have to share a room with someone else. Had to have something to keep out the geek squad.

  She grabbed the end of the yellow tape and pulled it off the tree. This was a real POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS, not the fake kind she got at the store. Real and a souvenir.

  7:09

  Bucella was putting pastel-colored ceramic figurines into cartons in her bedroom and humming to herself. Alice cleared her throat. Bucella stopped humming and glanced up, preoccupied.

  —Alice! Could you finish packing these Love Is . . . statuettes and Precious Moments for me? I have to do the bed linens.

  —I have bad news so you may want to prepare yourself for a shock. Okay? Your brother’s in the front yard with the news crew and he just confessed to murder on TV.

  —Typical. Dean has always been a liar.

  Alice watched her fold pillowcases into a laundry basket.

  —But—

  —Next to falling down drunk it’s the thing he does best.

  —Bucella he knows the details of the murder. He described the rope the guy was strangled with. They’re going to arrest him as soon as he finishes making his statement. Don’t you want to go down there? See for yourself?

  —My brother is a drunkard but he couldn’t murder a fly. It’s bravado. He just wants the attention.

  Alice watched her peel sheets off the bed.

  —Well he’s getting it. He described the murder weapon and the cops are already looking for it where he told them to. Thin white cord. He said he thought it was nylon. He told them it was on the floor beside the victim’s bed.

  —Believe me Alice, whatever he says he never murdered anyone. He won’t even hit people back when they hit him. And they do all the time because he asks for it. He gets beaten up practically every day but he never lifts a finger.

  —Really.

  —He used to go around saving baby birds when they fell out of nests. He tried to stop me putting mothballs in the closet, that’s how weird he is Alice. He’s a pervert and a drunkard but he wouldn’t hurt a fly. All he does is talk mean, he never hit anyone in his life. Could you unplug that cupid lamp?

  —In that case Bucella shouldn’t you tell that to the cops? Because if they find that rope where he said it was I think he’ll go to jail.

  —Dean does what he wants. And jail is where he belongs anyway. He’s a thief and a public menace. Plus which maybe it’d sober him up. On top of that he’ll be homeless by the end of the month. My rent is only paid till then. He doesn’t make any money.

  Alice stared at her.

  —You’re going to just let them take him away? You don’t want to, uh, say goodbye?

  —I’ll be downstairs cleaning out the closet while you finish with the Love Is . . . and the Precious Moments.

  —Um . . .

  —You don’t have to keep them separate. Just bring the boxes down when you’re done. And thanks for your help Alice. Thank you so much. It means a great deal to me.

  She exited carrying her folded pile of sheets and blankets.

  7:18

  Ginny sat on the grass a few feet away from the dead little man, listening to Puffy on the Discman. She stared at him, waiting for him to get up and walk away. Or maybe that only worked if you wrapped them like a mummy.

  Sometimes she almost forgot it was all a bad trip.

  Then two cops came back from the front with a stretcher and lifted him by the feet and head with the black sheet over him and put him on it. She watched them take him away. Smaller and smaller to the end of the drive, through the crowd. He was small to begin with and even smaller at the end.

  And no one looked as they carried him past.

  7:20

  Suitcase in hand, laptop case over his shoulder, wearing two London Fog raincoats and a pair of large mirrored sunglasses purchased at a chain drugstore, Phillip paced back and forth along the Amtrak platform. The weight of the suitcase began to strain his right forearm. He put it down beside him and stood with his arms crossed on his chest, turning to look down the tunnel. He glanced at his watch. Twelve minutes remaining until arrival, eighteen until departure. With a forefinger he stroked the skin above his upper lip.

  When he had stopped at the domicile to gather his few necessary appointments he had caught a glimpse of his picture, in the metal frame beside his bed, and hurriedly shaved off his mustache.

  For Barbara carried a miniature of the same photographic portrait in her pocketbook. He had presented it to her for her birthday—one of a set of twenty-four in three different sizes, for which he had posed at the Westside Pavilion, seated in front of a sky-blue curtain. The image must, by now, be in the hands of the authorities. His appearance had formerly been quite distinctive; but now, without the mustache, he was almost impossible to recognize. Bare-faced, he was markedly less Prussian in aspect. Less regal. The eagles were mere ghostly, translucent figures. Of course, he would let it grow back when he was home free.

  Lord God. There was a uniformed policeman approaching him with a swift gait. Retain control. This was the critical juncture. Deny all charges? Or claim self-defense? No. That could be fatal. Simply deny. Deny. Wife cannot be prevailed upon to testify against husband. No other witnesses. Steadfast denial. He clasped his hands in front of him, palms perspiring, then removed the ticket from his breast pocket and pretended to consult it.

  —Sir you want to be
careful with your portable computer there. Always keep a grip on it. Those things are snatched all the time.

  —Thank you Officer. I always try to be cautious.

  —Don’t know why they make those laptop carrying bags so obvious. Got the logo right there clear as day. You can spot it a mile away. Worst thing they could do. Just advertisement to thieves.

  —I have wondered that myself.

  —Worth what, two thousand bucks? And highly portable. What do they weigh, like three pounds?

  —It’s very lightweight.

  —Not as bad here as on commuter trains though. That’s where they mostly get grabbed.

  —Thank you for your concern, Officer. I will certainly be on the lookout.

  The long whine of the train. Thank goodness. They were still running on time.

  7:28

  —I will grant more interviews, said Decetes into the mic,— at a later date. But as to motive, I can give it to you in one word, and than word is oppression. The way I saw it, by killing my unjust employer I was defending the dignity of the exploited everywhere.

  Over the heads of his people he caught a glimpse of two sturdy figures walking down the street to a parked car. Their backs were to him and their heads were down; the taller figure had her arm around the shoulders of the shorter. But then they turned and one of them looked back at him as she opened the car door. It was the woman who had worn the skirt patterned with ducks. That same night all had first been revealed to him, a banner in the vast night sky. All that would soothe him, all that he required, was immortality.

  Was it so much to ask?

  The ducks were a message: I am your mother still, from beyond the grave. I will always be your mother. Her faint and glowing presence was a gentle kiss on the forehead, the ones she used to give when she tucked him in.

  And the little prince lived happily ever after.

  —Get him outta there, what a fucking pathetic display, said a cop in plainclothes, —you better not run a single fucking frame of this Marty, and the law surged forward in waves, rudely pushing the press corps out of its path.

  Decetes leaned forward into the microphone as it wavered and fell away.

  —I have never been a violent man.

  7:34

  Alice came out the door in time to see three cops hustling Bucella’s brother into a squad car, hands pushing down on the top of his head to clear the door. He offered no resistance, and a TV cameraman squatted down to film through the back-door window. All along the street, people were staring from their lawns.

  A little boy raced his Big Wheel along the sidewalk.

  —I told you he was a child molester, said a voice to her right.

  She looked over and saw Riva Frenter on the next porch, next to the man with the cellular phone. She had a Kleenex bunched in her hand. Her blue mascara was smeared.

  —Bullshit Riva, apples and oranges.

  —Riva?

  —Alice? Alice!

  Awkward pause. The man stared at her. Riva rushed down her steps and across the driveway.

  —What are you doing here?

  —I work with Bucella.

  —What a coincidence! Can you believe this? That poor woman. Her brother’s a murderer? I mean how would you deal with that?

  —As it turns out she’s joining a convent.

  —Well! That’s a little extreme! Oh. That’s Jerry. My husband.

  —Pleased to meet you, called Alice.

  —Yeah. You too.

  —So Alice—he murdered his boss?

  —I guess so. Bucella says he wouldn’t hurt a fly.

  —Well she would, wouldn’t she. He’s a psycho. Take my word for it. A total Peeping Tom. And he drinks.

  For a second all Alice could think of was the tone of jubilation. It’s a little black girl! She’d actually never heard as much joy in a voice. All her life and that was the most joy she ever heard. It’s a little black girl! Relief should be comprehensible, and it was, but still. If she’d just said It’s not my daughter! Alice could have kept liking her. And now the little black girl was all she ever remembered: the girl dead and asking for life.

  But she saw that Riva’s eyes were red. And how the husband stood stiffly away, making sure they were separate.

  —Is your daughter okay?

  —She’s fine. She’s going to go to a special school for gifteds.

  —Do you want to come over? Pack Bucella’s stuff with me? It would be a big help.

  —Oh, I—okay but I think she’s a little, uh, ticked off at me . . .

  —You know what? I bet it’ll be fine. She could really use a couple more hands.

  The businessman was staring at Alice like he’d never seen a blonde before. She took Riva’s arm, turned and led her into the house again, the orange sky behind them. The last police car was pulling away from the curb. And called up the stairs as they went in.

  —Bucella? I have another volunteer for you.

  —Oh—Riva? Well! That’s very nice of you. As you can see we have our work cut out.

  Bucella put Riva to work on linens and Alice retreated again to catch her breath, wanting a moment of silence. She sat down on the sofa in Bucella’s den, where it was quiet. Open boxes of Reader’s Digests. A framed print on the wall. Triptych of the Annunciation, Robert Campin, Flemish, d.1444. A tired carpenter, a desperate woman and a smug-looking angel.

  What was it she hated about people? What they were, and loved what they could be. Herself included.

  Far away in space, where there was no gravity, there was a stubborn outrageous molecule of hope, unseen, untouched, spinning. A long, empty range beyond it, making discovery almost impossible.

  Before resistance, sympathy.

  Walking slowly around the room she let her fingers drag idly over dusty surfaces until she came to a window. Over the silhouette of a dying palm tree, in a backyard beyond the roofs of other houses, she saw the moon rising, small but almost full, early in dusk. A globe without sharpness, white edges blurred into blue by moisture in the atmosphere. Sphere of resolve. Not full, not sharp and not perfect. But shedding a dim reflected light.

  She smiled to herself. That was it; that was all. People were alone, and not only the elegant, the well-balanced, and the lovable. No matter who they were, you had to keep them company.

  She would go back to the hill country.

  7:44

  Bucella wandered down the driveway. It was getting dark and there was no one left on the street but a little kid driving his Big Wheel and making vroom noises out of his throat. He almost ran into her as she reached the edge of the lawn. But then. Lo and Behold! She could see it approaching.

  A great truck cresting the hill. Glory glory! The Salvation Army.

  7:50

  The cops in the front seat were silent. Decetes closed his eyes and smiled. Now came the three-night miniseries and the docudramas, the sleazebag Hollywood agents vying for his favors. Now came the crowds gathered outside the courthouse and the jury of his peers. They would be sympathetic, no doubt, for despite his lofty educated language and powerful intellect he was a man of the people. His attorney would select a blue-collar jury, mostly male. The temporary insanity of the eternal underdog, the repressed sad victim of trickle-down economics liberated from conscience for a brief kaleidoscopic moment by rage.

  No doubt, with the wealth generated by his notoriety, he would be moved in time to a facility where old robber barons languidly played tennis and shared Stolis with the minions of the SEC. Of course, he would shun them socially: for they were his adversaries, and always would be. Until that time, with the advance on his soon-to-be bestselling true crime autobiography, he could bribe the guards to bring him in Black Label or Glenlivet on the sly. He could laugh now at the smalltime schemes of bygone days, of camcorders and credit cards.

  Yes: at long last, after years of slow surrender, he had taken advantage of serendipity. He had met with adversity, and from it, armed only with his native guile, had crafted an empire of
redemption.

  He lifted his cuffed hands over his head in a clasp of victory and spoke.

  —A patriot, sir, and an American.

  Lydia Millet is the author of three previous novels, My Happy Life (Holt, 2002), which won the 2003 PEN-USA Award for Fiction, the political comedy George Bush, Dark Prince of Love (Scribner, 2000) and Omnivores (Algonquin, 1996). She wrote Everyone’s Pretty after a stint as the copy editor of Hustler magazine in Beverly Hills, California, in the 1990s. She is an essayist and screenwriter as well as a novelist and lives outside Tucson, Arizona, with her husband, conservationist Kieran Suckling, and their daughter Nola.

  Coming July 2005

  OH PURE AND RADIANT HEART by Lydia Millet

  Oh Pure and Radiant Heart picks up the three scientists who were key to the invention of the atom bomb—Robert Oppenheimer, Leo Szilard and Enrico Fermi—as they watch history’s first mushroom cloud rise over the desert on July 16th, 1945, and puts them down in modern-day Santa Fe.

  One by one, Oppenheimer, Szilard and Fermi are discovered by a shy librarian who becomes convinced of their authenticity. Overwhelmed and seduced by the scientists, whose historical celebrity and personal eccentricity captivate her, she devotes herself to them—to the growing dismay of her husband.

  Soon the scientists acquire a sugar daddy, a young pothead millionaire from Tokyo who bankrolls them. Heroes to some, lunatics or con artists to others, and possibly a serious threat to the military-industrial complex, the scientists finally become messianic religious figureheads to fanatics, who believe Oppenheimer to be the Second Coming.

  As the scientists gather a cult following that traverses the country in a fleet of RVs on a pilgrimage to demand global nuclear disarmament, they wrestle with the legacy of their invention and their growing fame while Ann and her husband struggle with the strain on their marriage—a personal journey married to a history of thermonuclear weapons.