This Vacant Paradise

by Victoria Patterson

  She heard the jingle of a customer entering through the door, and when she lifted herself to a standing position, she was lightheaded, steadying her hands on the counter, her right hand still clutching the twenties.

  She saw that it was grim-faced Debbie; behind her was the nautical woman. The door jingled again, and in walked a stern policeman, his weighted belt saddled with a gun and handcuffs, and with him, an undercover security guard she knew as Ray, a man she was able to flirt with guilt-free because he was happily married with kids. Sickness whirled up inside her, her body liquid with disbelief, as though what was happening was an extension of what had happened to Eric.

  As they moved toward her, the twenties slipped from her fingers and fell near the waste basket. Her legs went jittery, and she steadied herself against the ledge of the countertop.

  Debbie came behind the register, brushed up against her, and opened it; she extracted the money tray with a loud clang.

  “That’s it,” she said, handing the tray over the counter to the policeman. She leaned over, noticing the twenties on the carpet.

  The nautical woman’s face was resigned: “We’ve got you on videotape.”

  “I’m sorry,” Debbie said unapologetically, kneeling to retrieve the money. Her words came from underneath the register in a dutifully burdened tone: “I knew something was going on. I had to do something.”

  Esther’s heart beat in an angry panic. She wanted to tell the others that this had nothing to do with her. This was about Debbie’s being divorced and having to work long hours; this had to do with Debbie’s wanting someone to give her flowers, day after day; this had to do with Debbie’s ungrateful teenagers, with Debbie’s having to dress and talk and act like Lauren Bacall for perverted old men at business conventions.

  “Did you know that in most states, including California,” Debbie said, standing, the twenties between her fingers for everyone to see, “an employee who steals can be charged with shoplifting and embezzlement?”

  Humiliation swept over Esther—it seemed to spread and expand inside her. She wanted—needed—to lie down.

  Ray stepped forward—“Excuse me”—removing her purse from underneath the register counter, genuinely sad.

  “Ray,” she said, but she couldn’t finish the sentence, not knowing what to say.

  He gazed gloomily at her, but then he looked away. “Is that really necessary?” he said in a beleaguered tone, and she followed his gaze and saw that he was referring to the policeman, whose palm was at the ready, placed on his handcuffs.

  HANDCUFFS WEREN’T NECESSARY, but Esther did have to walk between the policeman and Ray, each with a hand on her elbow. Debbie and the nautical woman followed close behind, Debbie diligently holding the register’s money tray. Esther kept her head down, her hair swept over her face, but she knew that she would be recognized. Her insides were hollow, a postponement of shame.

  All was bright around her, the sun hot on her scalp, and she knew that the sky was cloudless and clear. She thought of Charlie kissing her goodbye that morning, his lips dry—the kiss had felt chaste, as if he were a child—and it bothered her all at once, made her indignant, although she didn’t know why.

  They passed Shark Island, and she heard a shriek of laughter rise above the music. She glanced through her hair to her right and saw distinctly, in the small crowd of people that had formed, Paul and his fat-lipped fiancée paused at the entrance to the restaurant, watching with a look of disbelief.

  She redirected her gaze downward, and for the first time, she acknowledged her similarity in physical appearance to Paul’s fiancée’s: He’d upgraded to a younger version of her. It occurred to her that all women were disposable, and all at once, searing grief coursed through her, caused her to suck in the air with a strange wheeze-suck noise, in a sudden, certain recognition of her own fate.

  Ray’s grip at her elbow tightened, not in reprimand but in concern; she felt him staring at her, willing her to hold it together, pulling her to a full stand, so that she understood her knees had buckled a little. Then he leaned in and whispered, “C’mon, baby. Not much farther. Almost there.”

  They passed by the fountain, and she heard the water splashing and the children playing. She kept her head down, watching her feet move over the tiles. She imagined the children watching her, despite their parents trying to distract them. “What’d she do?” she heard a child ask. “Mommy, is she bad?”

  Individual tiles had been drawn and colored by children—sunsets and clowns and puppies, with their names and ages beneath: Susan, age five; Mathew, age seven; Leslie, age eleven— and as she stepped on their names, she imagined what the kids might look like, hunched over, painting their pictures.

  Everywhere—in the fingers at her elbows, in the stores surrounding them, in the people watching, in the palm trees and tiles, in the cloudless sky—shame waited to overtake her.

  Ray hadn’t lied—it wasn’t much farther. Soon they took a service elevator down to the basement, the only sound coming from the policeman’s handheld radio, a scratchy noise and a sharp female voice, until he silenced it with a thumb; and then they were walking through the dark bowels beneath a parking structure, away from all the watching eyes.

  Several long hallways later, they reached a metal door. Ray opened the lock with a key and swung the door open to reveal a room that she hadn’t known existed, even though she’d suspected it did. Ray led her to a swivel chair in front of a wide oak desk, empty except for a stack of official-looking papers and a phone.

  She sat and he moved away, seeming to understand that his kindness might make her cry. If she cried, she might not be able to stop, and she didn’t want Debbie and the others to feel gratified. But, surprisingly, she was able to contain her emotions, because lurking beneath her shame and grief was an unexpected relief. Nothing more could happen to her; she’d collapsed inside—there was nothing left of her, and nothing left to hide. It was almost as if she were dead.

  Debbie was making a phone call. Ray, the policeman, and the nautical woman were in a low-voiced discussion, now and then casting glances at her, confirming that she was the subject of their discourse. She saw that the screens of the televisions on the side of the room were set to different sections of Fashion Island, in fuzzy black and white, people moving in delayed stretches.

  She watched the slow-motion jerking of a woman fingering a long scarf, letting it go, and then walking from one sales counter—zoom—to the next, and she was incredulous that she’d been so stupid as to steal without an expectation of getting caught.

  PART THREE

  1

  MORE THAN ONCE, Charlie had told Esther that in the worst kind of environments, where women were kept supplicant and subordinate to men, where their worth was dependent on men, they sometimes preyed on each other as a misguided revenge and out of sheer desperation and fear: destroying reputations, ambushing opportunities, stealing husbands and male admirers—all to procure or retain status and financial security. And the greatest paradox was that women were often condemned for their mercenary, relentlessly ruthless, and narcissistic values, while at the very same time, society encouraged and nourished women in these directions.

  “So essentially,” she said, “what you’re saying is that everyone thinks I’m a failure because I’m not exploiting people well enough. Because I’m not vapid enough. Not selfish enough.”

  “Not exactly,” he said. “It’s not that simple. But yes, I would agree that what is most beautiful and moral about you, these are the things that are holding you back. For instance, how many times have you been proposed to? Two, three times? Well, it doesn’t matter. I don’t really want to know. The thing is, you haven’t married, because of love—you want love. Normally, this would be considered a good character trait.”

  These grave and deep thoughts, and how they applied directly to her, as well as those of lesser significance (My fingernail polish is chipped, but I can’t really afford a manicure, and really, what’s the point�
�it’ll just chip again), preoccupied Esther as she sat in a dark corner booth of The Quiet Woman, waiting for Brenda’s presence.

  Brenda had called her and, in a neutral tone, had requested the meeting. Esther had agreed, with the specific goal of calling a truce, raising the white flag, before Brenda dragged her over the coals any further. Her cachet had been reduced to such devastating proportions that she felt the slight promise of Brenda’s relenting in pity. Not only was Esther broke, unemployable, shunned by Grandma Eileen, and therefore on the verge of homelessness, but she had also acquired the reputation that went along with being arrested for stealing. And the malicious spreading of rumors, heralded by Brenda and Debbie (and anyone who had witnessed her walk of shame through Fashion Island), had helped to saddle her with the heavy and burdensome “slut,” “easy,” “cheap,” “thief” labels, which she knew (on account of her father’s history) to be nearly impossible to erase.

  People, family, everyone (Charlie!)—she felt them distancing themselves, afraid that her misfortune might rub off on them. Lonely! Lonely! She found herself confronted for the first time with the fear that the very same man who had awakened her from a long and ignorant slumber might possibly want to shelter himself away and slumber in peace.

  She’d given herself to Charlie so freely, in a fit of wanton expenditure, without thought of benefit, and had found it strangely liberating. She’d discovered that the act of loving was more fertile outside the profit system, and she knew that from here on out, she would seek it not for its material consequences.

  Ironically, she blamed her father, for having loved her and loved her well, and she was angry with him, even more so because he was dead; he’d created a desire in her to experience love, and that was in conflict with fulfilling his goal for her. Marrying a man for wealth and power had been her priority, so important that it had overshadowed everything else, like constantly wearing a girdle that restricted her movements and breathing. But everything had changed. She’d been turned inside out.

  When had she changed? It wasn’t clear, but it was tangled up in Charlie: his back arching over her during sex, the flash of pleasure and awe in his face. How sometimes when she came, she felt something—her essence, her personhood. A confirmation of her intrinsic worth, with or without money. A feeling of belonging—of protection. She imagined it might feel like that to suckle at a mother’s breast.

  “Would you like another cocktail?” her waiter asked. He was handsome, but when he smiled, she saw a gap between his front teeth. She contemplated the price of another apple martini ($3.75, her second), knowing that she could no longer depend on Brenda to pay the bill, but answered, “Yes,” thinking of the alcohol spreading through her veins, quelling her nerves.

  Lately, she felt as if she was going through the motions of living: shaving her underarms, dressing, applying makeup, smiling and talking. In the stress and upheaval that were her life, her physical appearance had suffered. Since her arrest, she had had trouble summoning the enthusiasm to care. It had taken all her effort to shower (the first time in a week) and dress for Brenda. (She’d overheard Charlie on the phone—“The way you can tell a cat is really sick is if that cat’s dirty because it isn’t cleaning itself”—and wondered who he was talking to, knowing that she was the cat he was worried about.)

  The more her circumstances deteriorated, the more she relied on Rick. And she often thought of Nora. Nora had witnessed the exposure of her soul “that night,” and vice versa—they both knew it and were shy and uncomfortable with each other. That measure of intimacy should be reserved for lovers. They had recently settled for mutual avoidance as a convenient solution, but nothing could change the fact that a forging had occurred: She felt a constant closeness, an inbred, ongoing connection of consciousness, even in physical absence.

  Brenda was already over half an hour late, and there was the chance that she might not show, although Esther suspected that she was merely making a statement with her tardiness.

  Near Esther was a small curtained window, and she pulled back the curtain to a dark sky, a yellow moon riding the hump of a palm frond. Small and insignificant, she let herself dissolve, but then she was pulled back into her body, hearing the woman in the next booth say to her male companion, “Fuck you. I’m not going to think about you now. I’m tired of thinking about you. Go away.”

  The man spoke in a hushed, somber tone, his hand stroking her arm, and whatever he said was effective, as the woman calmed down, wiping the tears from her eyes with her cloth napkin.

  Immersed in her thoughts and in the couple’s exchange, Esther was startled when Brenda slid into the booth with a rustle of silk and a gust of perfume (Giorgio Armani?).

  “I heard about everything,” Brenda said, bright-eyed. “About the arrest and Jim and your brother. He’s in rehab? Right?”

  Before she answered, Brenda continued, “Looks like someone needs a hug,” sliding even closer, and, to Esther’s surprise, she was quickly squeezed in a stiff-armed embrace.

  Esther would have been relieved at this instantaneous lack of hostility had her heart not clutched in anxiety at the mention of Jim Dunnels. How had Brenda known? The clutching at her chest transformed into a general nauseous feeling, as if she were in Jim’s Ferrari once again, parked in an alleyway, explaining her dilemma and asking for his assistance, the overhead light casting a yellow-white hue. She dug her fingernails into her palms, just as she had when Jim had reclined his seat, his pants unzipped and pulled down to his thighs, his penis unlocked from his boxers, resting in the layers of his fat in a creamy pink knuckle.

  On principle, she had not been able to take it in her hand or mouth, as Jim had proposed; and when, despite her best efforts, tears had squirmed from her eyes, dropping and sliding down to her chin, he’d laughed, saying, “C’mon, Esther. It’s not that bad.” And then she’d looked out her window, to a tear-streaked view of a cement wall, trying to ignore the slapping sounds and grunts coming from his direction, until, minutes later, he leaned over her to retrieve a small hand towel from the glove compartment.

  Dropping her off at Grandma Eileen’s, he hadn’t said anything, and neither had she, feeling his eyes hot on her back as she walked to her doorway, her face wet and her nose clogged with snot.

  But then, days later, her shoplifting charges had been miraculously dropped, her court date wiped away (“So, in a way, he owns Fashion Island!”); and then, four days after that, her brother’s trial had been dismissed, the judge sentencing him to a drug diversion program instead; and then, soon after that, Eric had been transferred from Central Men’s Jail in Santa Ana to Seaside Sober Living in Newport Beach (the fee for his unlimited stay at an oceanfront recovery home had been paid by an anonymous benefactor, Esther had been told), where he was drug tested weekly, and where, as proof of his success, she’d recently witnessed him acquire a light blue thirty-day chip. (He’d given her the chip, his eyes sad and sincere. “Don’t worry,” he’d said with his tragic smile, “I have at least ten of them already.”)

  She did her best not to think about Jim’s motivations, to not think about Jim at all, but when her thoughts slid in that direction, she suspected that her humiliation had been an erotic stimulus, and that she had serviced him without touch.

  She unclenched her fists, pink dents at her palms, and for a few seconds, gratitude mixed with her anxiety and shame as she thought of the chip (this time he might stay sober!) tucked in her wallet.

  Brenda was resting her head against the back of the booth and looking at her with a directness that also seemed lazy and indifferent—an expression of superiority.

  Esther tried her best to keep her expression blank and hospitable, though her thoughts were still consumed with the implications of Brenda’s knowing about Jim, mostly because it meant other people knew, which meant even more people knew, which meant Charlie.

  Even though nothing had happened, besides the exposure of Jim’s member and the auditory proof of his pleasuring himself, she had will
ingly sought him out and met with him, in the hopes of soliciting his help, and was guilty. And besides, she knew it wasn’t so much what had happened, but what people said had happened, that mattered.

  She tried anyway: “Nothing happened with Jim.”

  “Uh-huh,” Brenda said, smiling grimly. She still had her head against the cushion of the booth, and she placed both hands on her stomach.

  The waiter came for their order, and Brenda sat up, glanced quickly over the menu, ran her fingernail down it, and stopped on her selection, tapping it, choosing not to speak.

  “French onion soup?” he asked.

  She gave him a noncommittal half nod, and he looked at Esther for help. Esther let him know with her eyes that yes, Brenda wanted the soup, and then she ordered the same thing, since it wasn’t expensive.

  When the waiter left, she fiddled with her cocktail napkin, smoothed its edges against the table. The glow of shame that had settled over her would not leave, and instead of looking at Brenda, she pretended to examine the cuticle of her right forefinger, her chipped polish.

  “Listen,” Brenda said, “let’s let the past go. Pastor Ken says that I need to forgive you.”

  Esther wasn’t sure whether Brenda was serious, because when she met Brenda’s eyes, she saw mischief. She also sensed judgment—not necessarily regarding her character, but about her appearance. In order to buoy her spirits, she decided that she would find a way for Brenda to pay the bill.

  “I mean it,” Brenda said. She coughed into her hand, and Esther thought she saw her smiling, but couldn’t be sure.

  “I’m not kidding,” Brenda said, and this time she smiled openly. Esther reached for her glass of ice water.

  “I’ve been meeting with Pastor Ken,” Brenda said, smoothing the napkin on her lap. “We’re working on a program of healing. We’re on forgiveness.”