Allie wrote the number to the Biltmore on her hand. She wasn’t going to mess with a Magic Marker on a bread bag again. And then she punched in the long-distance code and dialed the hotel. It seemed impossible that her mother would stay anywhere else—Penny seemed to identify herself by the things to which she was loyal: she always drove a convertible (only Cadillacs since she’d been with Jet); she always smelled like Giorgio Beverly Hills perfume; and she always wore her black hair as long as, or longer than, Cher’s.
When the front-desk clerk picked up, Allie asked for Penny Klein’s room. As a young girl, she had been embarrassed that she was the only kid in the class (no matter which class or school it was) whose parents didn’t have the same last name. Even Rachel LeBlanc’s parents, who were divorced, had the same last name.
“There’s no one here registered by that name.”
Of course. Penny always shared a room with Jet Blaster. “Can I have Jet Blaster’s room.”
“I’m sorry, there’s no one here with that name either.”
Jet always thought he was so famous that he had to register under fake names. The guy was about sixty years old now, showing up in People magazine’s “What Ever Happened To . . .” issue. Allie’s mother had been in love with him since she was a young girl. And when she got pulled out of the audience by bodyguards and asked to meet Jet backstage after a Hollywood Bowl concert twelve years ago, six weeks after Penny’s mother, Wai Po, died, she decided to leave Allie and Frank and go on the road with Jet as his tambourine girl. The night before she left, Penny sat on the edge of Allie’s bed, leaned over Allie, and tucked her in so tightly that the blanket felt like a belt.
“I got a better job,” she had said.
“I didn’t know you had a job.” Allie was wearing a fake Lanz nightgown with lace around the bib and hem. She had found a real Lanz nightgown in the JC Penney catalog and shown it to Wai Po, who bought the exact pink floral flannel and sewed the nightgown for Allie within a week. It was Allie’s favorite possession, and, while wearing it, she always imagined herself as a character in her favorite movies: Chitty Chitty Bang Bang (she’d be Jemima), The Sound of Music (Louisa), Bedknobs and Broomsticks (Carrie).
“I’m a housewife, a mother, and a wife. Those are jobs.” Penny’s voice was like a prong. “But they’re not the job I’ve always dreamed of having. My dream job is to be the tambourine girl in a band. And now someone’s offering me that job, so—” Penny smiled with her lips pursed, then pushed a coil of red hair behind Allie’s ear and kissed her on the forehead. Penny was twenty-six years old and still looked like a teenager with her straight, shiny hair and her smooth, velvety skin. On the rare times she took Allie shopping, the clerks often asked Penny if she were Allie’s babysitter. These were the moments when Allie felt proud of Penny. But when her teenage-looking mother told her she was leaving to be a tambourine girl, Allie felt a wave of embarrassment. Maybe her mother was too pretty to be a mother. Or too sexy. Penny wore tiny shorts that showed the spot where her thighs met her butt, she had tank tops that exposed the outline of her small breasts. She was rounded like a woman, but the size of a girl, not even an inch over five feet. Allie’s third-grade friend Donna’s father always called Penny “Sexy Pretty Penny,” as in, “How’s that Sexy Pretty Penny? Does she pack you a good lunch every day?” This made Allie and Donna fall into each other with laughter—Allie’s giggles always infused with the discomforting tanginess of shame.
“It’s no big deal. I’ll be home between gigs,” Penny had said. Allie had never heard the word gigs before and she said it over and over again in her head as if it were a bell she was ringing.
“Okay,” Allie said.
“Okay?” Penny asked.
“Okay,” Allie said. It didn’t occur to her that she might have some influence in this decision, that she could actually ask her mother to stay home.
When Penny had left the room, Allie retreated to Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, imagining the scene with beautiful Truly as she came in and tended to the children with a lacey long dress and a delicious British accent.
After that conversation, Penny was continually on the road with reunion tours, fund-raisers, and opening for bands that Penny claimed wouldn’t exist today if it hadn’t been for Mighty Zamboni (according to the occasional postcards that arrived). Allie and her father played along with the idea that Penny would be home any day now, any minute. But other than three drop-in appearances on three different Christmas days, the gigs went on through elementary school, junior high, and then high school.
At least once a year, Allie and her father would learn that Penny was coming to town, thanks to the pair of laminated passes that appeared in their mailbox a week before the show. The only concert Allie’s father ever attended was the one in Santa Barbara. The two of them ate catered food with the band in a dining room near the dressing rooms. Allie’s mother dragged Allie around by the elbow, introduced her to everyone, and asked if they looked like sisters. Her father was treated like an old friend with whom Penny had lost touch. When her parents sat on either side of her, eating pasta and talking about the California drought, Allie felt as though they were three strangers seated together on an airplane.
After that, Allie only went to the shows in Los Angeles, always bringing along a friend. Frank would drop them off and pick them up, never asking how the concert, or Penny, was.
“Can I have Gomer Pyle’s room?” Allie asked the Biltmore operator. That was a name Penny once told her Jet used.
“Miss, who are you looking for?” The operator sounded impatient.
“My mother is the tambourine girl in Mighty Zamboni,” Allie said, “and I assume the band is staying there, but I don’t know the name they’re using.”
“I’m sorry. I can’t connect you unless you know the registered name of the guest you’re trying to reach.”
“Okay. What about Alvin Bridgewater?” That was Jet’s given name. It sounded as ridiculous to Allie as Jet Blaster.
“There’s no one under that name either,” the woman said.
Allie heaved in a big breath, then pulled the phone from her ear and hung up. She looked down at the coke and thought about what big trouble one little bread bag had brought. Allie picked up the phone again and called Kathy, who answered on the first ring.
The enthusiasm in Kathy’s voice faded when she heard Allie on the line. Allie felt the rejection stinging in her eyes. “It was great seeing you last night,” she said.
“That was a crazy night,” Kathy said. “I’m not sure things are going to work out for me and Bud.”
“I’m sorry,” Allie said.
“Thanks,” Kathy said, and then there was nothing but silence.
Allie let the silence stretch as long as she could before bursting out with, “So, I just wanted to let you know that Roger had a heart attack in the van last night.”
“What do you mean he had a heart attack? Are you still drunk?” Kathy sounded angry, as if she already knew that Allie was responsible for the heart attack.
“What? What do you mean am I still drunk?” Allie felt confused. What did her being drunk have to do with the fact that Roger was in the hospital?
“You were trashed. It was embarrassing.” Kathy sounded twenty years older than she was, making Allie feel thicker and more ashamed than ever.
“Okay, well, I didn’t drive. I got in the van with Roger, who proceeded to have what seemed like a pretty violent heart attack. It was one of the scariest things I’ve ever seen.” Allie looked up at the cross looming over her head. She knew that in not telling Kathy about the coke she had given Roger, she was presenting an alternate story to the truth of what had happened, another lie in the long series of lies that had been accumulating ever since she stepped into the fitting room with Jonas. But right now she couldn’t take any more criticism.
“Am I supposed to tell Bud? ’Cause I really don’t want to talk to him again.”
“No,” Allie said. “I’m sure someone will tell
him eventually.”
“I gotta go,” Kathy said. “My friends are waiting.”
A rush of tears moved forward in Allie’s eyes. Was that really it? Last night Allie had felt relieved to let Kathy go, but now when she couldn’t even find her mother in the hotel she knew she was staying in, Kathy’s rejection felt like sandpaper against her cheeks.
“I’m sorry I disappointed you,” Allie said, and she sniffed up the snot that seemed to be plummeting from her nose.
“Something like this would have happened with you eventually,” Kathy said. “I mean, look at your rock-’n’-roll-druggie mom.”
Allie hung up. The jaggedness in Kathy’s words stunned her. Another time, she said in her head. She would think about Kathy some other day. For now, she’d follow the advice Kathy had given her weeks ago for getting over Marc: Imagine putting teeny, tiny Marc on a leaf, setting him in a stream, and letting him float away. In her head Allie saw miniature business-skirt-bound Kathy, clinging to a spiky oak leaf like a drowning pinhead beetle, rushing down a white-water stream over craggy, giant rocks.
After several seconds with this fantasy, Allie felt better. She picked up the phone and called Kathy back.
“What?” Kathy said.
“Can you just tell me the name of the place where we ate so I can go get my car?”
“Manuel’s Taqueria,” Kathy said.
“Okay. Well, thank you for being my friend in high school. I needed you then.”
“Everyone’s got to move on, Allie,” Kathy said impatiently.
“The moving on’s already happened,” Allie said, and she hung up.
Consuela was drinking a cup of coffee and reading the paper at the kitchen table. She said something in Spanish to the paper as Allie entered, then looked up at Allie. “You okay? You want to go to the hospital now?”
“Do you mind if we go later?” Allie asked. “I’ve got to drive up to Santa Barbara to see someone.”
“Sure. But if you drive all the way to Santa Barbara, we can’t go to the hospital today. At three I have to pick up my kids from their fancy camp that Roger pays for, and I don’t want to take them to the hospital.”
“Roger pays for the camp?”
“Oh yeah,” Consuela said. “He pays for all the kids in the neighborhood to go to a fancy camp in Beverly Hills. He’s a good man. Even if he does that nasty porno.”
“What are your kids’ names?” Allie asked. She had a feeling that Consuela was probably the best mother in the world.
“Jesus and Maria.” Consuela pronounced them Hay-soos and Ma-ree-ah.
“Jesus and Maria,” Allie said, mimicking her.
“Yeah. Or Jesus and Mary!” Consuela laughed.
“I want to have kids and name them Jesus and Maria,” Allie said, using the Spanish pronunciation again. She was serious. She wanted to be Consuela and be married to Jorge and make tamales and talk to the radio and talk to the newspaper and take in stray, smashed girls, and let them sleep in the kids’ beds, and laugh at nothing or everything.
“You could! No qualifications needed, you just have the kids and name them!” Consuela laughed again.
“Hey, do you think you could drive me to my car?” Allie hated to ask another favor of Consuela, but calling a cab seemed like one more place where trouble could occur.
“Where is it?” Consuela asked.
“Manuel’s Taqueria.”
“That’s at the end of this street!” Consuela said. “But I’ll drive you if you don’t want to walk.”
Allie had her purse on her shoulder, the bread bag in one hand and a grocery bag with tamales, a warm can of Tab, and a baggie of homemade tortilla chips in the other. Consuela had wanted to pack homemade salsa for Allie, too, but she couldn’t find a container that wouldn’t leak.
There were many cars in the parking lot of Manuel’s. The lunch crowd, Allie supposed. She opened the door of the Prelude, dropped the bread bag and grocery bag on the floor, put her purse on the seat beside her, and started the engine. As she was backing out, three women in jewel-colored suits walked across the parking lot into the restaurant. Allie wished that if she weren’t Consuela, she were one of them. They clearly had jobs. Apartments for which they’d paid the rent. No best friends who dumped them. No boyfriends who stole student loans. No coke in a bread bag. No fathers with changing phone numbers and closed-down restaurants. No missing mothers. When those three women entered Manuel’s Taqueria, they knew exactly how long they’d stay and where they’d go next—everything in perfect order. Allie, on the other hand, felt her life made as much sense as a raven at a writing desk.
Chapter 6
After having rolled down her window three times at traffic lights to get directions from neighboring cars, Allie finally made it onto 101 North, headed toward Santa Barbara. About sixty miles away from Santa Barbara, she picked up KTYD, a radio station that seemed to be playing only songs she knew by heart. So the last hour flew by: Allie ate tamales, drank Tab, and belted out Eagles, Police, Jackson Browne, Eurythmics, Stevie Nicks, Rolling Stones, and Little Feat.
Allie turned down the radio as she pulled into town and followed signs to State Street. It was perfectly clear and sunny, as if everything she saw before her had been sliced out with a razor blade. Allie opened the moon roof and pushed the buttons to bring down all four windows.
At the first stoplight, Allie asked a brown-haired surfer in the crosswalk how to get to the Biltmore Hotel.
“Huh?” he asked, and leaned his long, dark body into her window.
“Do you know where the Biltmore Hotel is?” Allie asked. She pulled her head back so their faces weren’t so close. There was something about his lanky limbs and thin neck that reminded her of Mowgli from The Jungle Book. He didn’t resemble Mike in Los Angeles, but the fact that he looked like a surfer, like Mike, made Allie feel slightly edgy and suspicious.
“Turn around, drive until you hit the beach, take a left and keep following the shoreline past the cemetery, up the hill.” The surfer jogged away from the window as the light changed.
It wasn’t hard to find the Biltmore. The hotel looked like a massive estate—a home for Thurston Howell III. It sat on a rolling green lawn that led straight to the ocean across the street. Like most of the buildings and homes in Santa Barbara, it was Spanish-style: stucco, red tile roof, arches, no sharp angles. Allie parked the car along the beach road. She pulled up the emergency brake and looked alternately at the hotel on her left and the beach on her right. A group of surfers in wetsuits were in the water, bobbing on their boards, resembling a flock of idling black ducks. Each time a wave came in, they all leaned forward and paddled toward it, trying to place themselves for the best ride. There was almost a politeness about the way they entered the waves, never running into each other, rarely cutting each other off. Mike was probably one of the few bad-spirited surfers in the world, Allie thought. But, still, she couldn’t look at this crowd without thinking of him.
Allie opened her purse and clawed through the rubbish for lipstick. She found the one Beth had given her. The lid was off and there were tobacco bits stuck to the tip from when she had carried a friend’s cigarettes in her purse. Allie dug around some more, found an old receipt, wiped off the tobacco, smoothed out the tip of the lipstick and put it on. Penny always seemed to take note of how Allie looked.
There were tobacco bits in her comb, too, but Allie ignored them as she picked through her red curls. She turned the rearview toward herself and examined her face. Maybe mascara would help, but the one she had was like rubbery, black bread crumbs. She licked her first finger and smoothed each of her brows into a gentle arc. Allie’s eyebrows were light brown, as was her body hair. The first time Marc saw her naked he asked if she was a natural redhead. She was. It was the only thing she had, besides her almond eyes, that she thought made her look interesting. Maybe the freckles helped, too.
“Go in,” Allie told herself, aloud. She looked at the hotel again, then picked up her purse and the g
rocery bag that now held trash. The bread bag she left behind on the floor of the car under the seat.
The Biltmore lobby had a thick, glossy, red-tile floor and tapestry couches. Allie walked past the front desk, stuffed her plastic trash bag into the open hole of a copper ashtray stand, then dropped down onto the end of a couch. She sunk in deep, as if she were made of heavy stone, and slouched against the big, padded armrest. She would sit there and wait until her mother walked in or out.
Allie flopped her head onto the armrest—she was woozy with tiredness. She dropped her Candie’s mules on the floor and tucked her bare feet under her bottom like a nesting flamingo. And then she was asleep.
There was murmuring near her. Allie opened her eyes. A couple was on the couch beside her, whispering. Allie was nearly certain that they had said something about Jet Blaster. She sat up and looked at them.
The woman had gray hair down to her waist and was wearing a dress that looked like a Navajo blanket. The man had hair like a fur cap. Their faces were pointed toward the center of the lobby as they talked to each other. The woman said it again, this time more clearly: Jet Blaster.
Allie looked to where their eyes were directed and saw a small circle of people, but no Jet. And then someone shifted to the right and Allie could see Jet signing autographs for a group of middle-aged women who were mostly taller than he. Allie always wondered if one of the reasons he chose Penny that night at the concert was because she was small, three inches shorter than Jet (and fifteen inches shorter than Allie’s dad).
Allie sat up and slipped on her shoes. Her eyes stayed on Jet as she approached him. The women made room for her but stayed close themselves. It was obvious they were hoping for something more to happen.
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