As La Vista Turns

by Kris Ripper

  “Atheist to the bone. No idea why anyone wants to spend time thinking about all that when I barely have the energy to get through the day I’m actually living. We’re at the ‘request your fillings’ stage, if one of you wants to get them.”

  Dred shoved away. “I will.”

  I watched her leave the room, wondering if I’d be able to finagle lingering for a while after breakfast.

  Emerson cleared his throat. “Don’t hurt her, okay? Or I’ll take my cane to you.”

  Since the defensive big brother act was pretty foreign to Emerson—he didn’t even sound right saying it, as if his own vocal cords weren’t certain he was actually delivering that line—I raised my eyebrows at him. “Is this the cane with or without the blade?”

  “Don’t need it. I can do some pretty fucked-up things with a cane.” Uncertainty bled away to a smirk. “Just ask Obie.”

  “TMI. And it’s not like I’d try to hurt her. Obviously I would try not to do that.”

  “Well, it’s all cute right now, but I remember pregnancy, and if you wake up and decide you’re not into it, you’ll really mess her up. So don’t.”

  “I’m not pregnant.”

  “Yet.” He started on the first omelet. “You want everything?”

  “Yeah. Thanks.”

  Dred, Obie, and Aunt Florence came back into the kitchen. We didn’t say anything else.

  The time for quilting was upon us. Sort of.

  Dred’s sewing machine was in her sewing room.

  “I’m going to kill him!” But even as she said it, she caressed the machine, like maybe she was happy to see it there.

  I decided to take that as a sign, and proffered the couple of squares I’d pinned together. “Before you kill him, though, will you show me what I’m supposed to be doing?”

  She took them, already shaking her head. “Don’t pin longways. I know that makes sense, but when you’re machine-sewing, you want to be able to slide the pins out easily, so it’s better if they’re actually stuck in like this.” She pulled out and repinned so the plastic bit on the end went up to the edge of the fabric. “And you’ll be able to use the presser foot on the machine to keep your seams consistent, so don’t put too much time into pinning. The real question is design. Did you lay it all out?”

  I pulled out my phone. “I laid it out and took pictures so I’d remember where everything went.”

  It was set to be a twin-sized quilt. I’d arranged the squares in vaguely rainbow-ish stripes from left to right, though each square had a different pattern. The colors were, I thought, strong enough to pull off the rainbow.

  Dred blew up the zoom and went down each row. “This isn’t bad. Do you have them all here?”

  “In the car.” Packed at the last minute, just in case. And because I thought I’d basically exhausted my sewing-machine-less ability to progress further.

  “Okay, go get it. We’re gonna lay everything out and see what it looks like. Bring it upstairs.”

  “Okay.”

  Upstairs, meaning her bedroom. Of course. Right.

  As in: place where kissing happens. And tumbling off the bed.

  And quilting.

  Dred’s grabby hands were no match for my control issues. I shooed her away and laid out the whole quilt from my carefully put-together stacks, row by row, taking the pins out of the column I’d pinned so as to better lay them out. I’d studied it, and taken the picture, and studied the picture, but even as I was putting it all on display, I saw things I hadn’t seen before, places where I could rearrange.

  The second I stepped back, she stepped up.

  “Swap these two. And these two. And I don’t know about this green, babe. Swap this one with that one. Yeah, let’s see what that looks like.”

  I finished her revisions and stood beside her, feeling the word babe weasel under my skin. She used it with Obie, with James. With Jaq. I couldn’t decide if I liked the effect of it for me. “I see what you’re saying. All the rest have the same level of brightness, but the green has an almost gray tone.”

  “It’s not gray, I don’t think. You’ve got a nice progression, where a few of these incorporate some grays and low tones. The green is muddled. That’s why it’s not working. Hold up.” She disappeared into her closet, made some noise of irritation, and left the room.

  I wandered the three sides of the bed, looking at it from all angles. It could be a good quilt. Something I’d be happy to have, to have made.

  “Oh damn,” Obie said from the doorway. “Is that yours, Zane?”

  I wasn’t so sure I was ready for the whole critique process, but Obie would probably be kinder than Dred anyway. “I guess so. It’s my first attempt.”

  “It’s fantastic for a first attempt. You’re just winging this, right? Or did you find a pattern?”

  “No. No pattern. I looked at a lot of pictures and knew I wanted to play with the idea of a rainbow, so I kind of made it up.”

  He nodded, also touring around the bed. “Hot. I can’t wait until it’s done. Who’s it for?”

  I didn’t know what to say.

  Dred’s voice, from the hallway, saved me the trouble. “It’s for Future Kid, obviously. Obe, pull that green square.”

  He went directly to the one she’d pointed out before. “Oh good. I wasn’t sure if I should say anything or not. That’s a perfect swap.”

  The fabric Dred had brought up from her own stash was perfect. Green swirls and whorls, different shades of grass and leaf, almost exactly transitioning between the square above and the square below. It wasn’t the right size, but she tucked it under the pieces around it so we could see the effect.

  “Wow.” I stepped back again. “That made the entire quilt better.”

  “Quilt top,” she corrected. “It’s not a quilt until you’ve got the whole thing put together with batting and backing.”

  I didn’t care about the terminology. I cared that I could picture it on a twin bed, with a kid fast asleep beneath it.

  Obie put his arm around my shoulders. “Art is fucking hard-core sometimes, Zane. This looks really good. You should definitely start piecing it together.”

  “I’m afraid to sew. Dred seems to spend most of her time ripping stitches out.”

  “Yeah, well, she’s trying to force fabric she doesn’t love to become a quilt she does. Never works. Don’t force your fabric.” He squeezed me once and let go. “I gotta nap before work. This is ready. Be brave.”

  I smiled to show I got the joke. Except he didn’t give me a jokey smile. He gave me a real one.

  Oh. Okay.

  “You’re a passive-aggressive jerk sometimes,” Dred mumbled to him.

  “I love you, too.” He kissed her cheek. “Aunt Florence made me move your machine. She took one look around and demanded I bring it to her. Sorry.”

  “My forgiveness ain’t cheap.”

  “I’ll bring you a burrito on my way home.”

  “You’re forgiven.”

  He kissed her other cheek and waved on his way out.

  I glanced over. “How did you know it was for the kid?”

  “Because you talk about it differently when you get a BFN. You talk about the quilt like it’s an obligation. Not like today.”

  “No. It doesn’t feel like an obligation today. I, uh, talked to Carlos and Tom. I think I’m gonna do it.”

  “Good.”

  I laughed. “You really want me to have the perfect Aryan kid, don’t you?”

  She pressed her hand flat on the center of the squares, a green patch a few rows up from the one she’d swapped out. “Moving forward is good. Get these picked up and I’ll show you how to start piecing them together on the machine. Don’t worry about the pins.”

  “When are we gonna do this for your quilt?” I asked as I stacked.

  “My quilt’s a fucking lost cause. But I’ll show you what I’ve been working on later.”

  That was good. I hoped.

  “Let’s get you sewing. In the s
ewing room.” She sighed. “I love my Aunt Florence, but she’s a meddling bitch sometimes.”

  “How’s daycare going?”

  “Honestly? It’s great. It’s only been two days, but I’ve gotten more done in those two days than I got done in the week before that. I cleaned the refrigerator. I invoiced everyone who owes us money, sent out some ‘final warning’ letters we can’t actually back up, and got bored enough to do Obie’s books, too. But I feel shitty because I don’t feel guilty enough. Emerson checks the nanny cam every chance he gets.” She looked at me, eyes dark, wary. “I don’t even look. I’m probably a horrible mother, but I drop James off at daycare and I drive home and I—I think about him, obviously, all day long. But I don’t long for him. I don’t wish he was here.”

  “You think that makes you a horrible mother?”

  “Yeah. The only way you win at motherhood is by feeling worse about yourself than everyone else does. You should find a way to circumvent that, by the way.”

  “I’ll add it to my list.” Last week I couldn’t have done anything but tell her I didn’t think she was a horrible mother. Not that it would have helped.

  I put down my stacks, so carefully, and turned to her.

  “I don’t need you to—” she started to say.

  I kissed her, letting my hands drift down her arms, gently intertwining our fingers.

  She didn’t sigh, not with her mouth, her lips. Her lips were busy. But it was almost like a full-body sigh. I could feel it where our breasts pressed against each other, where our bellies touched. Her body released something into that kiss, something that was more than breath.

  I wanted to say all the things. But I didn’t.

  “I’m gonna teach your sorry ass to sew now.” Her lips brushed my ear. “Okay?”

  “It’s a pretty sorry ass.”

  “I’d tell you I like it, but I don’t want that to go to your head. Come on.”

  We went. Dred whistled “I Want to Hold Your Hand” as we walked down the stairs.

  I shoe-horned wake planning in with pool the following week. I considered the pool team a solid part of my promotional plan.

  What blew me away was how emotional a few people got.

  “This is so necessary.” Alisha was winding her braids into a knot at the back of her head. “For real, Zane, I’ll tell everyone. We gotta do something to shake off the heebie-jeebies.”

  A woman named Sally raised her hand, like I was a teacher. “Can we— Is there some way we can honor the people who died?”

  “Sure.” I paused. “Within reason. I was thinking about maybe having a table set up with pictures and note cards people could write on.” I didn’t mention burning them in a ceremonial fire, but I hadn’t ruled it out yet.

  “I’d like that,” she said.

  Mario and Anthony, a couple who’d just joined the team together and seemed to spend about half their time fighting and half making up, were standing uncharacteristically close to each other, so I figured they were on the upswing tonight. Mario looked around, as if waiting for someone else to speak. When no one did, he said, “Has anyone heard what’s going on with the case?”

  “They’re still building it.” Alisha sucked down what looked like a mai tai. “But from all reports I’ve heard, it sounds like it’s pretty solid.”

  “If it’s so solid, why couldn’t they find this guy before he killed six people?”

  She shot him a look. “Because he hadn’t screwed up enough yet. Can we play pool now?”

  Two hours later Alisha and I retired to the bar and toasted each other with our winnings. Or rather, with a pocketbook advance on our winnings.

  “Where’s your boy?” I poked her.

  “He’s around somewhere. Tell me everything about this wake, Zane. I’m so with you.”

  I was halfway through telling her “everything” when Ed showed up and wanted me to start over again.

  “This could be really good,” he said when I’d finished. “I definitely think you’re onto something where healing comes into it. It feels like we’re waiting for that wound to reopen, because for a while that’s all it did. We’d get a few weeks out and it would happen again.” He slid his arm into Alisha’s. “It’s still my first thought when my phone rings in the middle of the night: who’s dead this time?”

  My stomach clenched. “That’s awful.”

  “I guess it’s a good reminder that we don’t have to worry about it. Until . . . you know. Until someone else decides to start killing people.”

  Alisha banged his arm. “Oh my god, stop.”

  “Sorry. But it’s someone. It’s always someone. The next victim, the next crime, the next killer.”

  “Morbid, boyfriend. Very morbid. Should we dance?”

  Ed shook his head. “I gotta process more death for a minute.”

  “Okay. You’ll come find me in a bit?”

  “Definitely.”

  They kissed, and Alisha was already starting to dance as she made her way through the crowd.

  “So the wake will be a party?”

  I focused back on Ed. “Right. A big party, as big as I can make it staying inside fire codes.”

  “You don’t think it’ll have more impact if it’s smaller?”

  “It depends on the impact. I want to go wide, you know? There are people who won’t feel welcome if it’s too small. But ideally it can be both. I—” I paused to put my thoughts in order. “I want to create a space for the people who lost friends, who feared for their lives. And I also want to create a space for the people who barely knew what was happening, who maybe don’t even know how much they’re missing out because Club Fred’s has changed now. And I want both of those spaces to be the same space. So to speak.”

  He smiled. “So . . . simple, right?”

  “Yeah. Simple. Easy as pie. Seriously, though. Do you think that’s possible?”

  “For most people? Hell no. But you’ll probably pull it off. I can’t wait to see.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

  “Anytime. And you should get in touch with Star Everett. She’s the social media director for the Times-Record. She’s got a ton of contacts, and while I think she’ll actually be happy enough to send a couple of tweets or something to support the event, I don’t think that’s the kind of range you want. You might see who she thinks would hit the Club Fred’s demographic, and talk to those people.”

  “I’m kind of shocked the Times-Record even has a social media director, to be honest.”

  “I think they forget they hired her, judging by how she sits in her office with her headphones on for eight hours a day and I’m the only one who works with her. But she’s really nice, and I know she’d love to do more community-based stuff.” He downed the rest of his beer. “And get Obie to promote. Have him post the flyers to his Instagram and Twitter accounts. That’s your demo, right there.”

  “Keith promised to help with flyers and posters.”

  “Perfect. He’s great. And I’d also suggest something subtle for Cam to put up at the Rhein, or for anyone else who wants to post one. You don’t want to get everyone to come to this thing. But if you word it cleverly, you can attract only the eyes of people who should actually pay attention.”

  “Thanks, Ed.”

  “And seriously, tell me if you need anything.”

  “I will.”

  “I’m gonna go dance with my lady now.”

  “Have a good one.” We kissed good-bye.

  This was the moment when at the old Club Fred’s I would have tried to find a table, a group, or a handful of people to entertain me. I didn’t really feel like hitting the dance floor, and no one I wanted to hang out with was sitting at the bar.

  There was, however, someone at Fred’s who I’d been thinking about talking to. He was, in a way, even more scary than Fredi herself.

  Donald. I had no idea what his last name was. He was this . . . guy. Old guy. Old Asian guy, skin weathered by years and scarred by old
battles. He’d been in the White Night riots back in the seventies after the guy who assassinated Harvey Milk got off with a bullshit charge. There were rumors that Donald had been at Stonewall, though I thought that was probably a myth. He wasn’t that old.

  Or maybe he was.

  Looking at him, you could see the old warrior in his face. But you could also see the gentleman, and sometime arbitrator of conflicts. He was at his usual table, with a man and woman I recognized as his friends (if by “friends” you meant “bodyguards”), and—my luck was good—Carlos.

  Not a lot of people felt comfortable walking up and sitting down at Donald’s table, but Carlos didn’t think rules like that applied to him. During the two months between his twenty-first and Jaq’s—when he was allowed in Club Fred’s, but we weren’t—he somehow made friends with Donald. And they’d been close ever since.

  Even in the old days I wouldn’t have invited myself to sit down at Donald’s table.

  “Hey there.” I leaned down to kiss Carlos’s cheek and nodded hello to Donald and his bodyguards.

  “I was just telling Donald about the event you’re planning. Sit, Zane.”

  I dragged over a chair and met Donald’s eye. “Have you seen a lot of wakes at Club Fred’s?”

  “Some, over the years. None quite like what Carlos described. I assume you already asked her permission?” He smiled. “I’m sure she responded with all due grace and encouragement.”

  “She said yes—eventually.”

  I’d given her my exactly-one-page pitch, which she’d glanced at before shoving it in Tom’s direction and saying: “Make it a Saturday, Jaffe. And I’ve been persuaded to comp it.” Then she’d grunted and walked away. That had been the sum total of her involvement.

  “I think it’s about time we intentionally took stock of where we stand.” Donald gestured to the room. “It’s not something we’ve ever done well. Gay people. Or queer people. I love that word. It’s like spitting in the faces of the people who used to fire it at me. We tend toward black and white, all or none. We are either running to outpace the devil, or we’re whistling through the woods, pretending he’s not at our back. I like the idea of being still for a moment to look at where we stand.”