“Excuse me,” the woman repeated sweetly.
Casey came back to earth, belatedly scooching her chair and draining her wineglass. “Ready to go?”
* * *
On our way to the car we passed a bar called Wally’s. I calculated. One more drink in Casey’s tiny body and she wouldn’t be able to drive for hours. “I can’t drive your car, Case. I never learned stick.”
“We’ll go for coffee after.” She tugged me inside.
The bar offered something called Wally’s Wall O’ Daqs. Twenty feet of daiquiri machines lined up behind the bar like the Slurpee dispensers in 7-Eleven. All colors of the rainbow. Melon Madness and Peach Pleasure and Blue Lagoon and Call-a-Cab.
Call a cab was what we’d have to do if Casey kept this up. Her mood had changed so suddenly, from light to serious and back again. But then mine had, too, all weekend. One minute I felt giddy as a teenager and the next, thinking of the time that had passed, how much we’d lost, it hurt so much I couldn’t breathe. If Casey was in a Wall O’ Daqs mood she was entitled.
She ordered Banana Bliss and I ordered Peach Pleasure and we toasted. I ran through possibilities in my head. Something serious, something sincere. To friendship. To Ariel and Pocahontas. To being older and wiser.
“To...Doctor Mona,” she said.
9:00 p.m.
Casey ordered Wally’s twenty-dollar signature drink, The Yardstick. A narrow, three-foot-long plastic cup like a giant test tube with a built-in straw. You could get a dozen daq flavors in there.
I wanted to have a private word with the bartender, ask him to secretly virginize it, but couldn’t catch his eye.
10:00 p.m.
The Klondike Kate Casino
Casey was parked in front of a slot machine called Mythic Mermaid, sipping a free 7&7.
“Ten more minutes, Case. Then coffee.”
“I just got the Splish-Splash bonus.”
“What’s that?”
“No idea but I think it’s good.”
A woman came by selling ninety-nine-cent white gloves to protect against slot machine blisters. Casey bought one for each of us and settled in.
Maybe we could crash in a hotel.
10:30 p.m.
Casey decided Mythic Mermaid wasn’t good luck after all. “Too obvious,” she said.
We switched to the machines called Cougar-licious. Symbols spun around: the hourglass shape of an older blonde woman—the cougar, presumably. Gold car keys, cougar paws, credit cards, a boy with slick black hair like a young Kyle MacLachlan. I tried to make the game last. I’d already blown forty dollars. But Casey looked like a pro, pulling the arm incessantly with her white-gloved hand.
“There’s a button, Case.”
“It’s better luck to do it this way. I deserve some good luck, don’t I?”
“Of course you do.”
She lifted her left hand and exercised it, splaying her fingers and clenching her fist, but maintaining her steady action with the right hand.
“Is your carpal tunnel really bad? Maybe we should take a break.”
“Carpal tunnel’s such a weird name. It sounds like carpool tunnel.” She laughed. “They should call it accidental loss of strength. I have accidental strength of loss in my left hand. I mean loss of strength. Luckily it’s not my slot-machine hand.” When she stopped laughing she tilted her head, studying me. “Can I try something?”
“I don’t know. You’re being a little weird.”
She reached behind my head with her ungloved hand, tugging at the pins securing my hair in its updo.
“Ouch, what are you—”
“I’ve been wanting to do that since Thursday. And take off that priss cape, too.”
“Priss cape?”
She yanked at the sweater draped over my shoulders.
I tied my sweater around my waist and smoothed my hair, smiling at Casey’s efforts to loosen up my style. I was contemplating feeding my last twenty dollars into the machine when bells started dinging on Casey’s. I leaned over her shoulder: a horizontal line of four cougar paws and a red bra. A $282 payout.
Then we were both jumping. Jumping and laughing as the little siren on top blared and ding ding ding and quarters poured out so fast we couldn’t keep up.
* * *
While Casey spent some of her winnings in a twenty-four-hour gift shop I called J.B. from within a rack of crinkly stretch dresses. I punched the numbers from his business card, fingers clumsy after two cocktails.
“Hello?” His voice was thick with sleep.
“It’s Laura,” I whispered. “Sorry, were you sleeping?”
“Not at all.” Throat clearing, mattress bounces, the unmistakable swish of someone propping pillows behind his back. “Why are you whispering?”
“We’re in Reno and I can’t drive Casey’s car because it’s a stick, and she’s pretty drunk. I hate to ask but—”
“I’ll get there as fast as I can. Where are you?”
Midnight
When J.B. walked into the Klondike Kate Casino he found us wearing single white gloves, Michael Jackson–style, and giant new T-shirts over our clothes. Casey’s said, What Happens in Area 51 Stays in Area 51 and mine said, I Was Addicted to the Hokey Pokey Then I Turned Myself Around.
We guided Casey out to his truck, settling her onto the bench seat in the back and clipping her seat belt. She conked out almost immediately, curled across the seats.
“Is she okay?” I whispered. “I’ve never seen her drink like that.”
“She just needed to blow off some steam.”
* * *
J.B. carried Casey to her bed and I tucked her in.
“I owe you,” I said, walking him to his truck.
“Pay me back by wearing that shirt to the rink sometime. We’ll put a spotlight on you and you can do a solo Hokey Pokey.”
“I don’t owe you that much.”
“Well.”
“Well. Good night.” It felt so normal. So simple. J.B., me, porch light, moonlight, the gentle wind off the lake sighing through the pine branches, making them shiver. Making me shiver.
He kissed me on the cheek, tugged my T-shirt sleeve like a pal. “Well,” he repeated.
I started to return his cheek kiss. But one of us moved at the last second—maybe we both did—and our lips met.
Then he was picking me up, and I don’t know how we covered the distance, or who managed to open the door, but instantly we were inside the cab of his truck, and someone found the fancy motorized gadget that reclined the seat. We stopped kissing only long enough so he could remove my Hokey Pokey T-shirt, both of us laughing to find another layer under it.
“You. You,” he said, his lips humming against my neck, his hands running up and down my sides.
There was a second when surprise dawned on his face, that this might be enough for me, me on top of him pressing close, tiny movements and just the right angles, the perfect pressure through the sweetly frustrating obstruction of our clothes. I held my breath, not laughing now. I closed my eyes, it was so perfect, and at the last second, when the warm rush was inevitable, I had one clear, unbidden thought that tipped me over the edge: See what you missed.
* * *
“Well,” he said, one hand playing with my hair, one still clamped on my hip. “That was... You really...”
“Hmm.”
“Multiple layers of clothing, confined space. Quite a feat. I’m proud of us.”
“There’s a word for it,” I said, pushing myself up on his chest. “Two words.”
“What are they? I’m not familiar with them.” He widened his eyes, all innocence.
“Of course you are.”
“Nope.”
“Dry hu—”
“Don’t.” He laughed, clapping a hand over my mouth.
&nb
sp; Playful, on a cloud, still thinking this was the beginning of something.
“Don’t say the ugly words,” he said. “The name does not do it justice. I’m a big fan of what we just did.”
I looked into his eyes, as gentle as they had been in high school, after we first slept together, and I slid off that cloud. This wasn’t high school.
I pushed his hand away from my mouth. “The name’s accurate. And I should get in.” I disentangled our limbs, scrambled off of him to the passenger seat.
“Why are you... I know you’re...”
“You know I’m what? I’m exhausted.”
“I know you’re scared.”
“I’m not. This was fun but it’s been a long day.”
“Fun.”
“Yes. Fun.”
He sighed, staring out the windshield at the dark hulk of the house. “Come to my place. I have an actual bed, and a shower, and a big kitchen.” He faced me, touched my knee. “I’ll make us breakfast. French toast, omelets. The works.”
“Not now.”
“I hope that means not yet.”
“I’d better get in.”
* * *
We stood on the porch, watching a moth batting at the lamp over the front door.
“Careful, little girl,” I said, as the wispy creature floated close to the glowing yellow bulb over and over, making it buzz and tick. “You’ll get zapped.”
“She’s fine. You’ve been in the city too long.”
“I’d better check on Casey and try to get some sleep. We have to drive to the city tomorrow.”
“I could drive you. You two could nap in the truck.”
“No. Thanks, though.”
He leaned close. “It’s all right,” he whispered.
He kissed me on the cheek, tenderly, near the corner of my mouth. Another centimeter to the left and we’d be at it again as if nothing else mattered, pretending it was 1999, drawn back into the cab of his truck by some rip in the space-time continuum.
I pulled away. He brushed my hand with his fingertips, but I wouldn’t look at him.
This was a cheap moment in a truck. This doesn’t mean anything. This doesn’t hurt at all.
34
Rainbow of Glass
Sunday morning
The chirps of a text woke me at nine thirty:
Hey you
Three dots boogied on my screen, then disappeared as J.B. composed another message, deleted it. Finally, he settled on:
When do you need me to drive you to the city?
First I typed, It was a mistake. Please forget it happened. I deleted that, deciding to ignore what we’d done in the truck: Casey sleeping. Don’t worry about it.
Him: I’ll see you in a little bit. No expectations, promise.
Three dots again.
Then: I lied. I’d love to take you on a real date once you recover from your weekend. Just consider it, L.
I closed my eyes.
If only it was as simple as it’d felt in J.B.’s truck. In daylight it was clear; what happened had been a onetime thing—the result of a lethal cocktail of selective déjà vu and lust.
It—J.B., me—was impossible.
You still there?
It angered me that he’d pretend otherwise.
* * *
Casey slept until nine thirty. She padded down the dock in sunglasses, draining a tall glass of water, still in her rumpled Reno ensemble.
“How goes the battle?” I said.
“Remind me never to do that again.”
“You won $282.”
“And you let me blow it on this?” She yanked the hem of her Area 51 shirt. “Do I remember correctly? My car’s parked at some random restaurant in Reno?”
“I have the address,” I said and then paused. “So J.B. offered to drive us to the city for Clue 10. But I’ll take us, I’d rather—”
“He called me and I told him absolutely. Though I’m sure it’ll be a total chore for him to sit in a small confined space with you.”
“Casey, please don’t.” My voice came out sharper than I intended. I sighed. “It’s nice of him to drive us. It’s been good to catch up.”
“Think you could date him?”
“No.”
“You’re still crazy about each other,” she said. “That hasn’t changed.”
“It’s complicated.”
“Got it.” Casey’s tone was final, accepting that it was the end of the discussion. But she bit her lip and tilted her head, so I’d know she didn’t accept my vague excuse. “So what’s the clue before the San Francisco one? You said it’s in town?”
“Rainbow of glass.”
“My head’s pounding too much to figure out my mom’s cutesy verses.”
I knew Clue 9 by heart now:
A rainbow of glass and a song
Double creatures trapped in a hall
Here you stayed caged so long
Then, suddenly, climbed over the wall
In your photo you’ll capture it all
“Rainbow of glass is the stained-glass window,” I explained. “Creatures trapped in the hall is the Noah’s ark mural outside the Sunday school room. She must’ve remembered from that Christmas service.”
“Your church.”
“Not my church.”
* * *
We walked toward town along East Shoreline. When we passed my old street Casey paused. “We’re right here, do you feel like—”
I shook my head. “Later.”
Tactfully, Casey didn’t say another word about Clue 7, my bench.
I pulled the clue sheet from my back pocket. Friday it had been white as the fresh powder up at Sugar Bowl. Now it was a raggedy, stained thing. It had been crumpled up, dampened, torn in one corner. Pierced by dog teeth, folded and refolded. “I guess we can take a picture outside the church if late service is still going.”
“It’ll be over. There’s only one now.”
“You know the schedule?”
“I took Elle once.”
“You’re kidding.”
“She’d been begging for months. ‘What do they do there? The stained glass is so pretty.’”
“But you’re an atheist, aren’t you?”
“I didn’t want her to be one of those teenagers who joins a cult because they were deprived of religion as children.”
“So how’d it go?”
“She was bored out of her mind. Hasn’t asked since. But I kind of liked it. I loved the music.”
“That’s how they get you.”
She didn’t say anything.
“Sorry. I sound bitter.”
“A tad.”
The steeply pitched white roof came into view. So elegant, so proud. I could see why Elle would want to peek inside. There were still worshippers chatting in the parking lot, scrubbed and dressed-up and happy. Purified after their hour in the pews.
I was painfully aware of Casey’s rumpled T-shirt and cutoffs, my exposed shoulders in my black racerback dress. It was a packable “travel” dress that rolled down to nothing in my suitcase. Minimalist and classy—but now I felt nude. Sinfully cardiganless.
“Good morning.” A young blond minister on the steps shook our hands, smiling, not giving our outfits a second glance. “Welcome.”
“Mind if we look around?” Casey said.
“Not at all.”
Casey tapped a rainbow sticker on the propped-open door. “That’s how they get you,” she whispered.
We wandered into the sanctuary. Sunlight filtered through the stained-glass window, painting the aisle in yellow and blue and red. Casey positioned herself inside the light, so she was tattooed in shifting diamonds of color. “Better than disco night at the rink,” she said, laughing.
>
I brushed past her quickly and sank into a pew, out of reach of the stained-glass colors.
She sat next to me, craning her neck to look up at the old wood rafters. “Another way they get you?” She squeezed my hand, and I welcomed the soft, reassuring pressure, recognizing it as an apology for teasing me. I had not thought this building could still affect me.
“It smells the same,” I said. “Exactly the same. Perfume. Candles. Paste from Sunday school.” We were in the tenth row from the pulpit. Farther back than where I’d sat with my family for sermons, but the same distance from the front I’d favored in college lectures. (Close enough to see the projector, far enough away to duck out early if I wanted.)
Women’s Studies 201. Sophomore year. Dr. Alice Palmer. A slender, graying professor who wore chunky-knit scarves in all Savannah’s heats and humidities: Modern religion is an institution created by men to police women’s sexuality. Discuss.
Oh, the hands that had shot up that day. Not mine, though. I’d kept my own hands, twisting and fidgeting, in my lap, too overcome by the bell-like simplicity of the professor’s statement, too angry at how long the world had waited to articulate it to me clearly, to speak. By the end of the fifty-minute class my palms were wet.
“You want to take this one?” Casey offered the camera.
“You do it.”
She took a quick shot of our faces.
I flipped through a hymnbook as she shook the picture. The books were new. Black, with modern illustrations. Easier to read than the old red, gilt-edged ones, but not as pretty. “How’d it turn out?”
“I look hungover and you look pissed.” She handed me the picture.
I smiled because she was right. We had the makings of one painfully honest photo album.
Casey started working her left hand again, making it into a starfish, then a fist, over and over.
And I knew. I let myself know.
I touched her thumb. “What is this?” I said softly. “And don’t tell me it’s carpal tunnel.”
“No. It’s not carpal tunnel.”
“Parkinson’s.”
She shook her head, examining her hand as if it didn’t belong to her. “ALS. Amyotrophic lateral sclerosis. What they used to call Lou Gehrig’s.”
The Summer List Page 23