Clara at the Edge

by Maryl Jo Fox

  “Oh my god,” she exclaims. It’s “Lady in Red” on an easy-listening station. Memories cascade from the ’80s. She was on a Greenpeace kick back then after Darrell died, went to local meetings, almost went with Greenpeace to save whales in the Antarctic but couldn’t bring herself to do it. Even now, she blushes to remember Charley Fender, a wild-eyed man at those meetings. She hasn’t thought of him in years, made herself not. Madly male and sexy, he was an adventurer—clean-limbed, roguish, maybe a little dangerous (a hired mercenary in a couple of third-world conflicts, it was rumored). He served in Korea, traveled the world, saw enough bad behavior to make him favor the animal world. “Animals kill because they have to, not out of meanness,” he said.

  Sitting in her rocker at night, she used to imagine raw-boned adventures with Charley—traveling the Middle East, Asia, Africa, everywhere—with only their backpacks, a change of clothes, and lots of cheap local food. But he was married. Clara wasn’t going to fool with that. Once at a New Year’s Eve party at his house, Charley sidled up to her, held his arms out to dance to “Lady in Red.” When the music ended, he held her close and said, “I’d like to see you really happy, Clara.” Startled, she just looked at him. He walked away, his wife calling from the kitchen.

  Her bottled water in the holder shimmers from the motor’s hum. She takes a swig; its coolness pools in her stomach. She nods at herself in the rearview mirror. Though she hardly knew Charley, she liked his style—nothing fancy. His living room had handmade furniture. He was like Darrell that way.

  The lightness in her chest makes her feel like flying.

  She’ll catch that Paul woman, get her pictures back. She can rent an apartment and live near Frank and Stella. She’s tired to death of worrying about blackened siding and messed-up young people. She’ll tune it all out, tune in something better.

  Does she have time? There’s the familiar pain in her heart again—off-on, off-on. She’s been having these spells enough to concern her lately, but she’s trying to ignore them. And why aren’t those two wasp stings on her forehead healing, for Pete’s sake? Maybe she’s just addled by all that’s happened, especially the lovely moments with her son. Whatever the case, all her regrets, grief, and lonely years are in some transformative yeast within her, changing to a lighter element that frees her from care.

  The purple wasp must not like her taste in music. She’s hiding under the passenger seat.

  Well, all right, she’ll turn the darn thing off.

  Silence.

  The engine’s purr/whine.

  Idly she taps on the steering wheel as she holds the Mustang at sixty-five.

  Out of nowhere, an image of light blue panties lays crumpled on the floor.

  “No!” She slams on the brakes, tries to steady the fishtailing car. It rocks dangerously. She will die right here, on Highway 93 between Jackpot and Wells. No one will find her after the car rolls over and over on the blank dirt and sagebrush. The smoking wreck will be mistaken for a wildfire. Fire trucks will arrive too late.

  Finally, the car steadies. She pulls over, kills the motor, cradles her head on the steering wheel, and weeps. Almost in a swoon, she pushes her hair back from her face in soothing strokes.

  Got to take it easy, just take it easy. The purple wasp is worming herself into my brain, going to tear it wide open. I can feel it.

  Grimly she wipes her eyes and resumes driving. Elevator music on the radio is suddenly a balm out here in the dry, unbearable country, the landscape of hell. For a while she drives without incident.

  From the corner of her eye, she senses a disturbance in the air, feels sudden pressure in her chest, worse than before. Is this an actual heart attack? Too jittery to take her eyes off the road, she does anyway. “My stars, what have we here!” she blurts as the car swerves.

  A small person maybe four inches tall bobs and weaves on the dashboard, mumbling about plots to silence her, people wishing her ill for what she knows. She pales, pulls over again.

  This impossible vision is decked out in jeans, boots, and a cowgirl shirt with sequins around the yoke. Her hair is a casual updo; her eyes are brown and friendly. Actually, her eyes are hypnotic. A person could stare into those eyes and tell the creature anything in the world and the creature would just stay calm. Clara looks more closely. The tip of a lavender wing hangs from the creature’s shirt cuff. In wonder, she stares at this shimmering membrane. A death and rebirth has occurred right here, right now.

  Panicked, she rubs her eyes. “Where’s my wasp, my purple wasp?” She looks under the seat and in the glove compartment. No purple wasp. “She’s disappeared! What did you do with her?”

  “I can take you further,” the creature whispers seductively. “Much further than the purple wasp can.”

  “What?”

  “You’re a tough case, Clara. Sealed tight. It’s clear we need stronger measures if you really want to break open your cocoon and join the world. You’re doing better with Frank, but Samantha is still trapped in your moldy Brain Room. You’ve put this whole undertaking in serious jeopardy with all your stalling. I only have seventeen days left out of a hundred and twenty. My job is to give you clarity. And joy. We all vowed to help you that night in your father’s barn, never knowing how hard it would be. I may not look like a wasp, but in my heart I’m certainly half wasp and half human. You’ve got maximum intervention right here.” The creature taps herself on her chest.

  Clara’s hyperventilating. “What if I don’t want to go further?” She tries to catch her breath. “I just want my wasp back—the one I already know.”

  “You’re going to stonewall yourself to death if you aren’t careful, kid. Either you’ll continue with Frank and open up about Samantha’s death, or you’re going to die miserable and alone. So what will it be?”

  Clara considers. With Frank, an easy yes; with Samantha, not possible.

  She concludes that this hallucination waltzing on her dashboard is what people see right before they die—a cowgirl angel of death. That’s it—she’s got minutes left on this earth.

  Or her mind has collapsed on this empty highway and she will crash and die.

  Or she just has a tumor on her retina.

  So now this sudden new person goes into a soft-shoe routine on the dashboard—pratfalls, leaps, distorted postures so rag-doll and exaggerated that Clara can’t help but laugh. At first, she thought the creature was sent to scare her about dying. But now it looks like she’s an entertainer. She’s even got a pair of dimesized castanets clacking away.

  What in God’s name is happening? Thank heavens she pulled over, or she might be in a wreck by now. She looks longingly out the window. That sea of sagebrush out there isn’t trying to take her any further. It’s just sitting there, minding its own business. A couple of escaped sagebrush balls blow calmly across the highway. She waves at them.

  Come to think of it, she could sure use some entertainment right now. If this is a hallucination, she’ll take it. At least she’s not alone anymore—she’s been alone for thirty years. That’s quite enough. She snatches another look at the writhing person-ette two-stepping above the glove compartment now. Clara is glad this hybrid midget has appeared. She wishes the other wasps were here too. They could help calm her down. (Is this all happening because I stole Scotty’s car?)

  Why didn’t I trap all the wasps in the jars again and bring them with me? Where are they, anyway? Vanished in the sky? Hanging around the cinders? If they all turned into human-looking thingies like this one, I’d have a regular battalion to entertain me. Fanfares from the glove compartment. Spirited marches across the dashboard. Chorus lines circling the drink holders. She laughs, her mind whirling in a panic of invention.

  But she can’t have fantastical beings prancing around in Scotty’s Mustang. She’ll have an accident for sure—she hasn’t lost all her marbles. She massages her temples, fiercely ignoring the apparition circling the dashboard.

  Until she sneaks another look at this cowgirl invader
.

  The creature pierces Clara with a powerful look that scares the bejesus out of her. As if her little eyes shot out electricity. Burned her face. Were Samantha’s eyes.

  She shuts her own fevered eyes, keeps massaging her temples. The creature’s not some sweet thing—she just pretends to be. This creature’s going to push her further on the Samantha issue than the purple wasp ever could. Just like she said.

  This creature is real, powerful, and she’s going to hound Clara to death.

  Oh my.

  Luckily the cell phone is turned off, charging from the cigarette lighter. She can’t handle any frantic calls from Frank or Scotty just now.

  Has she toppled into insanity?

  But the small person is right here. Clara sees her leap onto the camel-colored leather passenger seat and reach down to wipe invisible dust off her comfy-looking boots with a perfect white handkerchief the size of Clara’s thumbnail.

  Clara takes a deep breath, tries to relax the small of her back. A nice cold beer is what she’d like right now. But it’s only eleven thirty. She’s got to free her mind, just focus on the road. In a few minutes, she’ll see if the creature is still there.

  She starts the engine, grateful the car still runs.

  The landscape is surprisingly beautiful, a sagebrush plain with lavender mountains that seem suspended in air.

  Will Arianna have her pictures?

  The question drums in her head. Now that she’s closer to Elko, she’s getting nervous.

  Maybe she just imagined the creature gave her a dirty look about Samantha a minute ago. That’s it—she’s just imagining things. She tries to smile. She welcomes the idea of someone else in the car. A companion is exactly what she needs: She must stay sane in order to get her photos back. The creature doesn’t seem threatening. Maybe she should withhold judgment—after all, the thing’s just been born. (Unless it’s really a hallucination, and Clara’s going to die right now from a brain aneurysm.)

  Then there’s the forbidden issue—the creature popped up right after those light blue panties escaped from her quarantined Brain Room. Or was it from her Dream Jar? Or did the blue panties just fly in the window? Flying blue panties? She fixates on the double yellow line bisecting the highway. She won’t think about it. Or talk about it.

  The person-ette isn’t talking either. She’s moving around, lifting her legs and arms up and down, adjusting to her new shape. Willing away her sudden dark mood, Clara tries to sound cheerful. “As long as you’re my roadie, young lady, I might as well know your name. Or am I your roadie?”

  “Who can say?” the creature says, winking at Clara. “I’m Lenore Cooper, your guide.” She pauses. “We don’t have much time, you know. You’ve been fooling around for a long time.”

  Clara extends her hand in wary greeting. “Pleased to meet you, Lenore. Clara Breckenridge here,” she murmurs, wanting to keep the peace on this necessary journey in this shanghaied car.

  “Oh, I know who you are,” Lenore smiles. “I’ve known who you are for a very long time.”

  Flying without visible wings, she leaps up to meet Clara’s hand.

  On her open palm, Clara feels the delicate brush of a wasp’s wing.

  chapter 18

  The big Rancher’s Hotel is an old Western hotel at least seventy years old, Scotty once told her. An enormous “RANCHER’S” marquee on the roof is lit by hundreds of small bulbs. She pulls into the parking lot and pours sugar water from a jam jar into a Gatorade lid for Lenore.

  “Don’t worry, I can eat human food,” the creature says gently.

  Clara is relieved. “That will simplify things.” With her cuticle scissors, she cuts air holes in the cloth bag she brought for Arianna’s photos. Needing no explanation, Lenore climbs right into the bag. Clara is amazed how easy it is to adjust to this creature.

  In the cool blast of the hotel, she lines up with the noon crush—clamp-jawed men, plump women, bored kids shredding paper napkins, families in stupor or quiet talk. On every available wall, murals of horses, cowboys, a cattle roundup, and stylized bull faces etched on glass booth enclosures.

  But no Arianna, no uncle. It’s twelve twenty. Arianna said noon. Finally, a waitress seats her at a corner table with water, iced tea, and menus. The cold water tastes like heaven.

  The fabric bag jiggles in her lap. “Quiet!” she whispers, nervously stashing the bag on the floor. It’s twelve forty-five. If they don’t show up, she’ll camp out in front of the cousin’s house until they do.

  Grimly she orders a hamburger, tells the waitress to hold a chef’s salad. When the hamburger comes, she cuts up half of it, wraps the two halves in separate napkins and stuffs it all in the shoulder bag.

  “Don’t smack,” she murmurs to Lenore.

  “You think I don’t have manners?”

  “Just shush.” Stomach growling, Clara irritably works on her crossword puzzle. Thirty-five across: “extreme discouragement.”

  Finally, Arianna slumps onto the adjacent chair. “So sorry, Clara. We had a flat tire.” Winded and contrite, she shoves her horn-rimmed glasses higher on her nose and flicks hair away from her eyes. “Thanks for waiting. Haskell’s washing up.” She places a large leather bag against her chair leg and signals the waitress for two waters and two iced teas.

  Clara regards her tardy companion. “Do you have the pictures?”

  Lenore echoes in falsetto: “Do you have the pictures?” She’s apparently thinks Clara is jumping the gun. Clara nudges the bag. She is in charge of this meeting, not some freaky midget, thank you very much.

  Arianna looks around, bewildered. “Let’s eat first, do you mind? I’m ravenous. How about you?”

  “I’ve already ordered and . . .”

  Shambling toward them with a crooked smile is a lean, loose-limbed, golden-skinned man with a slight limp. He startles Clara from her absorption in Arianna’s disheveled state. As he lowers himself into the chair, he trips on the table leg and rapidly sneezes twice.

  “Allergies?” she blurts with a frown, thinking of Dawson.

  “No allergies,” the man says with a surprised smile, quickly downing some water.

  Reluctantly, she takes in his weathered state—his flushed face, newly dampened golden-gray hair curling around his ears, wilted tan shirt, a wicked scar cutting into his left eyebrow. In her focus on the photos, she hadn’t given Arianna’s uncle a second thought. Now his hazel eyes unsettle her. This is supposed to be a business transaction. That’s the focus here.

  “Clara Breckenridge, Haskell Roberts,” Arianna says, smiling.

  “Hi, Clara.”

  Avoiding his eyes, she glances at the sweat rings around his underarms. Embarrassed, she examines her silverware before looking up again. “Nice meeting you,” she says.

  “Likewise,” comes from the floor. Clara nudges the cloth bag again.

  Momentarily puzzled, Haskell takes in her fluster, her small, toned form. “You and your house have made quite an impression on my niece, Clara.” His voice snags across sandpaper as it sails out of his throat. “The owner of that house would have to be as reliable as daybreak. No folderol of any kind.” He sees her irritation. “We had to get a new tire. Sorry we’re late.”

  She nods, examines her fingernails. His steady gaze disturbs her. What’s this man doing here? He’s disruptive.

  “Shall we order?” Arianna is back to the menu.

  “Let’s,” he says.

  They exchange pleasantries about the atmospheric hotel, how nice it is to come off the long desert highway into occasional towns. Clara struggles to keep her mind on the conversation instead of his world-weary eyes with their fleeting sadness. His age is hard to pin down, maybe sixties? His eyes glint with humor as she nervously runs her fingers through her hair, restrained with barrettes near her ears. He surveys the large room, gives her a questioning look. Again she looks away.

  The food is tasty and conversation is easy. Arianna and Haskell just got back from Burns, Oregon, wher
e she finished a commission. Next they’re off to San Francisco. He hasn’t been there for five years, and a gallery wants to see her work. Then on to Santa Monica, where she soon has an opening at Bergamot Station.

  Smiling, he looks around the room. “My niece is a hot ticket. Commissions and invitations for shows are coming in right and left these days.” Arianna smiles and looks down at her plate.

  Haskell’s a photographer too. He’s on a cross-country trip in an RV. “Never could have told me I would do such a thing.” His face dissolves in self-mockery. “In New York, no one drives, as I’m sure you know. I had to take lessons.” He leans back, looking at her. His leathery voice rises from winey depths. Bedroom-sounding. She frowns, studies her hands. Emphysema more likely, she thinks tartly. Lenore tries to climb her leg, but Clara swats her away. Why is Lenore being such a brat? I can handle my own business.

  He leans back in his chair. “And what a country I’ve discovered. Should’ve done this years ago. Did the trick too. Got my mind off myself.” Sadness brushes his face like a fast-moving cloud. He glances at Arianna, who gives him an encouraging nod.

  He has absorbed Clara’s reluctant smile, her flushed cheeks, brown eyes warm as molasses, her snug jeans and simple blouse. She looks at least ten years younger than she is, seems pert as sunlight, and has barely said a word. Drawn by her reticence and understated appearance, he thinks, She doesn’t need to impress anyone.

  She fumbles for words. “You’re traveling by yourself?”

  He smiles. “Friends from all over the country are hitching rides with me. I had to get out of New York awhile.” Abruptly, he says, “Enough about me. What about you, Clara? What brought you and your house to Jackpot?”

  They’ve finished eating, and his direct question unnerves her. “That’s a long story. But I can tell you why I came to Elko.” She turns to Arianna. “I’d like to have the photos. I need them. Especially now.” Her throat constricts with anxiety. She eyes Arianna’s leather bag on the floor. Lenore rubs against Clara’s ankle, trying to get her to relax.