This Vacant Paradise

by Victoria Patterson

  She got up and sat at Charlie’s desk, scribbling him a note. It didn’t take long. She finished and moved to collect her clothes from his closet, placing them in paper bags. She thought of his measured stare, his sweet and musty body odor, his pouting mouth.

  She was hastening the process, trying to take away some of the sting. In the bathroom, before collecting her toothbrush and things, she sat for a moment on the toilet, and then she let her head fall between her knees. Her breasts pinched together; she smelled the stink of her armpits. Swing for the fences, she heard Eric say. Swing for the fences, Esther. Keep your eye on the ball. Head up, chin up.

  Blood rushed to her face and she stood quickly, all at once, and screamed. Everything around her was enveloped in light, floating over the surface of things, so that she couldn’t see. She waited for the mental fireworks to evaporate. And when they did, she was so hopeless, so sad, that she had to lean against the wall to keep from falling.

  6

  CHARLIE BEGAN TO suspect that Frank’s meeting him at the driving range had another purpose, beyond that of brotherly bonding, and his suspicion was confirmed three Coronas each later, at the clubhouse, when Frank admitted, “We’re worried, Charlie. Dad, Mom, Karen, Double-T, Sheila, me. We’re all worried.”

  “Jesus,” Charlie said, “you called a family meeting without me?”

  Frank grimaced.

  “They appointed you talking head?”

  “Can you blame us?” Frank asked, palming cocktail peanuts.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “We’re hearing things all over town, Charlie.”

  “What things?”

  “Just last week, Mrs. Logan—you know, Mom’s doubles partner from way back—told her that Esther had been with Jim Dunnels. Jim Dunnels, Charlie! That guy owns Fashion Island! Why else do you think she’d go after him?”

  “I don’t believe it,” Charlie said, gut sinking. He shook his head, his eyes concentrating for a moment on the hairs at his wrist. When he looked up again, he was dizzy, as if he’d stood up too quickly in bright sunlight.

  A long pause followed. Frank chewed his peanuts, swallowed. They both drank from their Corona bottles in an uncanny unison, watching each other warily.

  “And Sheila,” Frank said, wiping the side of his mouth with a cocktail napkin. “Marlene told her about a month ago that Esther had something going on with Sean. Sean Caldwell, Charlie. I didn’t want to tell you, but Sheila says I have to.”

  “Not true.”

  “Marlene’s daughter works at Newport Floral, and she said that Sean sent Esther tulips, two, three, four times a week!”

  When Charlie didn’t respond, he added, “She has the receipts, Charlie.”

  “Not true,” Charlie said, more angrily than he had meant to.

  “Okay, okay. Easy there now, compadre. I’m on your side, remember?”

  “No. Not Sean.”

  “Okay. Maybe. Maybe not. But Jim Dunnels?”

  “Wrong,” Charlie said.

  “How’d she get off those theft charges?” Frank asked.

  “Nope,” Charlie said.

  “Her brother’s out of jail, Charlie. How’d he get out of jail?”

  “No,” Charlie said, shaking his head, “nope, nope, nope, nope, nope.”

  “C’mon, man.”

  “Nope, nope, nope.”

  “Look, we’re worried. That’s all. Does she know? Did you tell her about the money?”

  “You don’t even know her.”

  “Look, Charlie, you gotta be careful now. Women will go after you for money—you know that. It happens all the time. And she’s gone after these other guys, Charlie, and something tells me it’s not because of their good looks. We’re just trying to protect your interests.”

  “You don’t know her.”

  Frank was silent for a moment, staring at the tabletop. His head came up. “I know Dad cut you a check for two hundred thou,” he said. He shook his head in disgust, and for a moment, Charlie saw that he was jealous of The Family Weirdo!

  But any triumph was short-lived.

  “He’s equal with us, always,” Frank said. “But this time he gave you more. Don’t you see it? Don’t you get it? Don’t you feel any obligation? Don’t you feel any responsibility to your family? To Dad? How can you act like it doesn’t mean anything?”

  “I love Dad,” Charlie said, his voice quavering. He let his gaze go back to the hair on his forearm. He was aware that Frank was watching him, but he kept his eyes downward, firm and indignant in his love for his parents.

  “We’re worried, that’s all,” Frank said. “Mom’s ulcer,” he said, “it started acting up again.” He paused. “She’s been chewing through packets of Tums, Charlie.”

  “Mom said it was indigestion.”

  “And you should’ve seen Dad,” Frank said. “Awful. He didn’t even sleep for two nights. He said he hasn’t had insomnia like that since World War II.”

  Charlie looked up then. His eyes burned and he had the sudden urge to reach across the table and strangle his brother; at the same time, an overwhelming grief sank into him, and he fought back tears.

  In wary observation, Frank’s voice took on a gentle, apologetic tone: “Maybe we’re wrong, Charlie; maybe we’re wrong.”

  They were silent. A television in the corner of the bar showed images from the O. J. Simpson trial—detective Mark Fuhrman being cross-examined. The day before, Charlie had watched the trial, Fuhrman denying using the word “nigger” in the previous ten years.

  Frank noticed Charlie looking at the television and said, “Such a shame. I loved him in those Hertz commercials,” and he put his arm out, mimicking O. J. running through the airport as if striding down a football field.

  When Charlie didn’t respond, he said, “Maybe she’s great; maybe she’s just great. We haven’t even met her yet. Maybe she’s just fine.”

  WHEN CHARLIE ARRIVED back at his apartment, he knew as soon as his hand was on his front doorknob that Esther had left him, because the door was locked. She had saved him the trouble of any confrontations.

  He stood for a moment, listening to the birds squawking in a nearby tree; he heard the sounds of traffic and, closer, someone playing a piano—a beginner: plink plunk plunk.

  The sun was low, but it seemed to be exerting its force one last time, making everything a little brighter, including his arm. He saw the hairs standing like little soldiers, a yellow-blue vein at the inside of his elbow. And then he looked up, to the sky. Strips of peach-colored clouds, long and skinny, were moving quickly. To hell with her, he thought. How could she leave me?

  He found a note on his bedside dresser, propped on his pelican lamp. Her handwriting was small and boxy, in a corner of the paper, as if her words were ashamed and hiding:

  Charlie,

  The only thing I want you to know for sure, no matter what people tell you, is that I did not have sex with Jim Dunnels or anyone else.

  E

  He checked the bathroom: Her makeup, even the box of tampons underneath the sink—it was all gone. In the last month, she’d been bringing clothes, leaving them in his closet. He checked there: His clothes were pushed to the far left, and the other half of the closet was full of empty hangers.

  In shock, he sat on his bed, closed his eyes. He could still smell her. She had a star-shaped freckle underneath the crease of her left buttock. He could not fathom never seeing it again—he felt its loss like a death.

  And then his breath came out, in a long groaning noise. He stretched out on his bed and let himself cry, but even as the tears came, he experienced some relief.

  For a long time, he reflected on his conversation with Frank (“Nope, nope, nope, nope”), and then her note. He believed her: She hadn’t slept with Jim Dunnels or anyone else. No matter what Frank said. He thought of her breath in his mouth, her hands at his back, as he pushed into her. And he knew.

  Yet how had she gotten off those charges? When he’d asked, she ha
dn’t had an answer. And then he’d stopped asking. Why was Eric suddenly out of jail? Why had Sean sent her flowers? That Newport Floral woman had receipts. Marlene’s daughter. Who was Marlene? Was she lying? Why would she lie about something like that?

  Nothing made sense. He was weary of trying to sort out their relationship; he felt like he’d been examining it for years.

  He licked his lips, tasted her mouth. The hard part would be getting her out of his system. Physically, she’d become an extra skin.

  Even with her gone, it was like she was reaching inside him and clutching his soul, demanding that he give her more than he was capable of giving, that he believe more than he was capable of believing, and that he trust more than he was capable of trusting.

  His legs bent inward, as if to protect his bowels. On the whole, their relationship had been an uneasy business.

  Shivering, he pulled the covers over him. He felt around his emotions, like testing his tongue in the region of a sore tooth, but not probing the source directly. Did he want to go after her? Should he try to get her back? He could leave right now. Find her. Demand that she stay. They were in this together. He deserved an explanation. Did he want to hear an explanation? Would it make a difference? He loved her. She loved him.

  But something held him back. He took a deep breath, let it out through his nostrils. Three breaths later, he rolled over to his other side, stretched his legs. He let his hand cup his penis, as if comforting it. He scratched his leg, turned again.

  As a senior in high school, after his third relationship with a woman, he’d been distraught over their breakup and had stalked his ex for a week; he’d watched her at cheerleading tryouts from underneath the football stands, masturbated to her memory every night. He’d drunkenly relieved his bowels near her parents’ rosebushes as a misguided revenge. The porch light had gone on, her mother finding him crouched there. (“Charles Michael Murphy,” she’d said, “what are you doing? You should be ashamed of yourself—no better than a dog.”) He’d promised never to willingly humiliate himself again.

  And yet here he was, cowering in his bed. But the core of him knew that this was different. For a moment, he experienced a desire to find Esther, to catch her in a compromising position with Jim Dunnels. He wanted proof, to expunge his sense of guilt. But it wouldn’t work: She wasn’t sleeping with anyone else. It would be impossible to catch her. He had to accept that the breakup was his doing, even if she was the one who had instigated it.

  He wanted to believe that his motives had a selfless quality, but there was no getting around it: What held him back was not that he had nothing to give. What held him back was the thought of what he might lose.

  TWO DAYS OF suffering later, Charlie sat at his desk, near the triage of photographs documenting the phenomenon of Ben Hogan’s golf swing, and tried to compose a letter to Esther.

  With the pen between his fingertips, his elbow resting on the desk and his cheek in his palm, he directed his eyes to the blank slate of paper. He wouldn’t open a possibility for her to come back. His future would be easier without the turbulence that she guaranteed.

  And besides, she’d left him.

  She’d left him! She’d left him! She was the one who had left!

  How was it possible, then, that he felt he owed her an explanation? Such were her powers.

  But he felt the lingering responsibilities of a boyfriend to comfort Esther, because her grandmother had passed away, finally, that crazy old bitch.

  He saw her staring back at him with the face she made when she was disappointed—an ironic sadness. With Esther, it was one drama after another. There was only so much a man could take. He imagined her fisting her hand and tapping it against her thigh. She leaned her head when she listened, her expression imploring him to slow down, as if she wanted his words to hover over her before they sank inside. She had a soothing voice; she didn’t make it go high and girlie, like so many other women he’d been with did.

  All these other women—there were many—they’d been crowding into his subconscious these last three days, but Esther rose above the swarm. She was the one who had dug into him, who would leave a permanent mark.

  But the pleasures of women would comfort him again; he believed this. He appreciated women. He would find his solace there—it was his guarantee in life.

  But for now, in his bedroom, all he felt was an exhausting sense of agony.

  “Oh, God,” he said, and then he let out a moan.

  Enough, he thought, taking a firmer stance. Courage. I need courage. She might have ruined my life! She might have dragged me down. She’s a thief. Her brother’s a drug addict. She flirts with other men.

  Jim Dunnels. He owns Fashion Island. No wonder she flirted with him. What else did she do with him? Did she let him see her naked? Mental illness probably runs in her family—no one knows who her real parents are. She’s unstable.

  Esther,

  I wish you only the best.

  Esther, Esther, Esther, Esther, Esther

  Esther esther Est her Est her

  Her her her her

  Es es es

  He crumpled the page, tossed it. Did she know about his inheritance? How would she have known?

  Dear Esther,

  You are fearless. You can do anything. Don’t give up.

  I know you’ve had a rough life. I don’t blame you for anything.

  He crumpled the page, tossed it.

  Esther,

  I will never forget you. Believe me. I will always love you.

  Crumple, toss.

  Dear Esther,

  You are the most beautiful woman ever. Forget me! It’s all my fault. Why did I ever know you? How could this have happened? I’m so sorry. Please forget me! The thought of your grief—that I’ve made you suffer even more—I can’t stand it!

  Dear Esther,

  I’m feeling desperate and sad. More sad. And tired. God, I’ve done so many things wrong. I don’t even know where to begin?

  Dear Esther,

  You’ve gone into emotional lockdown mode. You’ve cut me off.

  Dear Esther,

  I understand that in life, circumstances take hold and throw you where they will. I feel like that now. Like no matter what I want or believe, there is a force at work stronger than anything having to do with me.

  He ripped all the papers together, let the pieces fall over his desk, weary of his rationalizations. He felt a longing to be unencumbered by confusion.

  The floor beneath the soles of his feet seemed to rise: I’m here. This is my floor. And my feet are right here. All the forces of existence washed over him, the extraordinary sensation of being alive.

  A feeling of pinpricks was at the back of his head and it moved over his face, to his forehead. He thought again and again and again of his inheritance.

  The consolation of $3 million warmed and settled over his broken, raggedy heart. He took the knowledge all the way in, without guilt, like a gust of godlike fresh air in the midst of a polluted shit pile. His shoulders loosened, he leaned back against the chair, and he let go of the pen.

  7

  ESTHER IMAGINED THAT she was a dog with her tail between her legs. The waitresses avoided her, and she wondered what they were saying about her, since she was outside their circle of rumor and gossip—although, most likely, she was a primary inspiration for it. The disappointment of her life was magnified by the two shots of tequila she’d consumed on the sly, crouched below the bar.

  She would eat tonight. A baked potato on her break, maybe a roll with butter. She had trouble getting food down and often had to force her appetite. The surface of the hostess podium was faintly scarred, and she saw gruesome faces in the grainy patterns of wood, with gaping mouths and eyes. Piano music, clinking cutlery, and the endless chattering and laughter of people—all of it blended into one throbbing, disagreeable noise. The small lamp at the podium cast a sharp ray of light over a corner of the black reservation book, opened: Her 9:30 party of six hadn’
t arrived yet. And the fuckers hadn’t canceled, either.

  Two stout and unsmiling men entered, and as she showed them to their table (brothers?), she felt their attention on her backside. Men still found her worth a second and third look, but they seemed to sense that she had lost the capacity to care whether they looked or not, and they soon lost interest.

  As she passed the men plump menus, she thought that her life had turned out far different than she had ever expected. She wanted to believe that love was everything—and she’d felt that with Charlie. (Rick liked to say, “You have to give everything away in order to keep anything”—or something like that.) But it seemed that with Charlie, the more she gave away, the less of her was left. And she needed to be careful. People were more than willing and ready to take from her—to eat her up without even tasting her.

  She stood at the men’s table, staring out at the green-black bay water, losing herself in the smeary dark gold on the current, a reflection from the dock light, until one of the men said a harsh thank-you, reminding her to leave.

  She had fought against her melancholy tendencies—her trances—for years, but now she willingly lost herself to them. A luxury. There was the intoxicating possibility of slipping clean out of space and time.

  A large part of her had been smashed to pieces, and she had trouble recognizing what remained. Or identifying what she believed, as if she’d been dragged through a tunnel—the Charlie Tunnel—and what was left of her was ragged and confused.