The Shimmering State
Page 31
As soon as she steps outside, she sees Ray Delaney seated just beyond his regular table. She appreciates the blow that must have been to his ego. She only hopes it was intentional. She turns her head and hurries toward the bar, expecting to see Jonathan. Instead another handsome bartender with long hair in a low bun waves a cocktail shaker over his head and winks when he catches her staring.
“Is Jonathan here?” she asks.
“Jonathan?”
Jon did it, then. He left. She smiles without realizing until the new bartender smiles back.
“Get you something?”
“No, no I’m fine.”
“Long time,” says Eva, putting her tray down on the bar. “We thought you moved. Welcome back!”
“I didn’t,” says Sophie. “Move, I mean. But I’m not working tonight. I just forgot—or I remembered something I’d forgotten.”
“All right, whatever. Good to see you. Take care of yourself!”
Eva sets off toward another table. Like that, their interactions are over. None of it had mattered, what Eva thought or didn’t think of her. Not then, not now. How liberating. To feel so lucky simply to exist. To feel. A burst of laughter escapes Ray Delaney’s table, and Sophie remembers why she’s here.
“Actually,” she says to the bartender, “I will take a drink.”
She looks around at the familiar courtyard, at the hopeful glamour in its history, its charm. It looks smaller than she remembers.
When the bartender sets down an old-fashioned, Sophie pulls out the Stevia packet folded in her pocket, which she assembled at home. A handful of pills, just to be sure. She pretends to tear the top, then shakes it—iridescent in the candlelight—down along the square ice cube.
“Aw, come on now,” he says. “You didn’t even taste it first!”
“I like it sweet,” she says, crumpling the empty packet. “Sickeningly.”
She grabs a skinny black straw and stirs, shrugging for the bartender over her poor taste, then puts down a twenty. Sophie licks the plastic straw, feeling it just as she hoped—an anxious, familiar wash of her—then tosses the straw into a standing champagne bucket as she nears Ray Delaney’s table. He sits with two men his own age, for once, and an array of papers fanned across the table. He’s the only one drinking.
“Sophie! You look ravishing, have you done something different?”
“Same old me!”
The other two men sip their water and hardly look at Sophie. She appreciates that.
“A refresh,” she says, holding out the old-fashioned with both hands, cupping it from below like a precious gift. She places it in front of him, ice still swirling from her second stir.
“Not so fast,” Ray Delaney says, grabbing her by the wrist. Then he slips his hand into hers. It’s sweaty, or is that hers? “I’m drinking Manhattans tonight.”
He shakes his empty glass and lets out a chuckle. The other two men smile dismissively.
“Just kidding, princess, thanks for this. Glad we’re all good.”
He raises her drink—liquid empathy, punishment, just desserts—and takes a sip. He rubs the stubble on his neck as he sets it down, purses his lips, and then raises it again.
“Damn, this new bartender is on fire!”
“Enjoy every drop,” she says. “You deserve it.”
Sophie taps him on the shoulder, then takes the empty glass and walks back out toward the lobby, passing Ariel. She hands him the glass and wipes her hands on her jeans.
She feels, finally, free.
“Dude, Willow is going to flip,” says Ariel. “Where have you been? We thought you were, like, dead. What happened at your eyebrow? It looks cool.”
Sophie hears a thump, then turns to see Ray Delaney lying flat on the ground. Through the swarm of bodies, the two men bent over him, she notices his feet point then turn out, in an almost elegant display. Then she hears him cry.
Chapter 31 TODAY
Sophie spins and spins. Her hair is not smoothed up in a bun, but loose, cut blunt and curling just above her collarbone. Sometimes the strands cover her eyes entirely as she moves; sometimes pieces stay stuck across her face from sweat and sway. It’s a reminder that she’s there. She’s no longer trying to disappear behind the perfection of the choreography, but rather feels herself a vessel capable of conjuring and conveying emotion through the lines of her body, the working muscle, the scars.
The effort is the beauty. And the catharsis when it comes together, hers.
She lets her torso fall as she twists, her ribs and nipples visible through the sheer nude leotard she and the other dancers wear, hunching her back and then rising to her toes, letting her arms hang loose and then snap erect overhead. When at last she finally stomps herself still and faces the audience under the soaring ceiling at Temple Israel of Hollywood, she recognizes a familiar face, though it takes her a moment to remember why.
There had been talk backstage of a famous director and another actress in the intimate crowd that night, but she has a sense this one is more personal.
In the garden patio during the wine reception afterward, with a store-bought cheese platter or two, the young man approaches her. He holds a camera in one hand and brushes his hair back with the other as he gets close.
“I think we’ve met before,” he says. “You’re Liv’s friend, right? Sophie?”
“Wow, good memory.”
“Full disclosure, I saw your name in the program. But I knew I recognized you.”
He holds out his hand and she takes it.
“Lucien.”
“Are you working the event?”
He looks at his camera.
“Oh, no, I’ve been getting into playing with movement. In dance, I mean. I find this style so compelling. Honestly I’ve been all over town to every studio I can get into and this was the performance everyone seemed to recommend.”
“That’s very nice to hear,” she says. “It’s my first show with them. I was a bit nervous.”
“You wouldn’t know it,” he says.
His green eyes pierce her in a way that feels familiar. She hardly spoke to him, those few times with Liv. And yet.
“How’s Liv?” she reminds herself. “I haven’t seen her in a while.”
“Doing well, I hope. Things didn’t really work out with us.”
“That’s too bad.”
“It’s okay.”
Had Sophie even been sure they were really dating? Maybe they just slept together and it never went anywhere? He hardly seems Liv’s type. But then, what does Sophie know? She hasn’t seen Liv, or any of those friends, since being back. She can’t imagine that she will.
“Would you mind if I took some photos of you sometime?” Lucien says. “Super informally, just rehearsing even.”
Sophie puts the back of her hand to her face to hide her blushing. She hopes it looks casual, pensive. Now she misses the heavy ballet makeup that nothing shows through.
“I mean, sure, I don’t know. You might be disappointed.”
“I don’t think so.”
Lucien turns his camera to show her one of the images in its preview.
“Even this—you look otherworldly.”
Sophie cringes, though she loves the image.
She pulls the camera closer, her hand touching his. A current.
“I look at this and see my posture is, uck, problematic. I’m out of practice.”
“Disagree,” he says, smiling. “You’re in the ballet, right? Impressed you can do both.”
“Not so much anymore. I was injured and I’m not sure I’ll make it back there. Time marches on, you know?”
“Sorry to hear that, what happened?”
“I couldn’t tell you,” she says, hoping he’ll leave it there. “But dancers worry about injuring themselves every day. In practice, at a show, walking home. It can be the end of your career if you land wrong or, worse, break something. And here I—well, I hurt myself quite badly, and yet somehow it’s all okay. My feet. My l
egs. My back. Minus this little thing.”
She tilts her head and points to the sliver of a scar passing through her eyebrow. If anything, it adds something—a hiccup to her otherwise symmetrical face. She sees him notice the smaller scars flickering the inside of her forearm, which she quickly wraps her hand around.
“For what it’s worth, I like this,” says Lucien. “This style I mean.”
“Me too,” she says. “There’s more room for me in it.”
“Here, let me get your number or email, or whatever you feel is least invasive. If you’re really up for it, that is, no problem if not. I don’t want to be that guy.”
“No, it’s okay, I’ll just put my number in.”
“Sure! Cool.”
A chill rolls into the garden under the lightbulbs strung overhead, and they let the comfortable silence sit between them, almost warm, as she types her number.
There are holes in Sophie still. Spaces she cannot fill, whether removed or there all along. She doesn’t know his, not yet. She doesn’t know the things or people he has lost, but she senses them there. Maybe he holds similar voids that propel him forward and backward all at once.
Sophie has prepared herself to be alone. To fill herself, without waiting for anyone else to do it for her. And yet with enough holes, she thinks, maybe they could fit together.
“It’s so nice to see you again,” he says.
Chapter 32 TODAY
Lucien gets a text from Sophie. A friend of hers is putting together a pop-up dance performance in Joshua Tree and though it’s short notice, she thought Lucien might want to come along and shoot, given the landscape and his preference for the otherworldly. He cringes—had he really used that word? And yet, she remembered it. She adds, At least then it’s not all on me.
They meet at Trader Joe’s in Silver Lake, ostensibly to leave with food supplies, but they’re halfway to the desert before they realize they forgot to go inside. By the time they pass the windmills off the highway to Palm Springs, Coachella, and Joshua Tree, signs for date shakes start popping up on billboards and Lucien’s stomach churns.
It’s almost three p.m.
“Hey, so were you planning to spend the night?” asks Lucien.
“I don’t know, I thought we could see. I guess it’s kinda treacherous to drive back at night. The other dancers are all staying in some house, I’m sure we could—or you don’t have to, I can always find another ride back.”
“No, I’m down,” Lucien says. “What time is the performance?”
“I think around six or seven.”
“Good stuff,” he says. “Are you hungry?”
“Starving,” says Sophie. “I guess we should’ve brought some food.”
They both laugh.
“Sorry, I’m sure this is my fault,” says Sophie. “Being spontaneous isn’t exactly my thing, in case you can’t tell. But I’m trying it out.”
“How’s it going so far?”
“Decidedly well.”
The landscape turns moonlike as they get closer to Joshua Tree. The ground stretches flat and dusty to the horizon, save the namesake stubby plants reaching up like outstretched arms interspersed among boulder formations so enormous and abrupt they look as though the gods left an unfinished game of Jenga.
Lucien is so hungry he wonders what they taste like. The trees, not the rocks.
Sophie’s phone turns up two food establishments in Joshua Tree, both of which appear to be closed for the day, before she loses reception entirely. A tumbleweed rolls across the road. Lucien takes the next exit through the park back toward Palm Springs.
Ten miles in, Sophie squeals.
“Oh wait, turn off here!” she says, pointing to a sign for Pioneertown. “Have you been to Pappy and Harriet’s?”
“Pappy and Harriet’s? Do they serve food?”
“Yes.”
“I love that place.”
“Ha. They have live bands and stuff. It’s… okay food.”
“I assure you I’m not picky,” says Lucien. “Ten more miles and I might’ve looked at you differently.”
* * *
By the time they arrive in Pioneertown, the sun is casting harsh shadows across the small desert town consisting of a single road. The horizon is dotted with the same gnarly Joshua trees and silhouettes of boulders in the distance. Two rows of buildings—facades—line the road. The High Noon Saloon. Pioneertown Bank. The post office. Preserved in dust.
“They shot a bunch of old Westerns here,” says Sophie as she opens her car door.
The heat surprises Lucien after being in the car for hours, AC on blast. Everything appears to be covered in a thin layer of desert dust that immediately coats his car. It strikes him as Pompeii with a touch of Disney. The only other people here are posing. One girl wearing a cowboy hat and a long peasant dress shifts and pouts for her boyfriend with her hands on her hips, swaying them back and forth to get the most flattering angle, sticking her butt back, out of the shot. Depressing how a storied old film set now becomes an Instagram destination, he thinks, cringing at this place where they live.
“Oof it’s hot,” says Sophie, lifting her arms in the air. “I love it!”
She twirls, her loose T-shirt billowing where it comes untucked from her shorts, her hair wild and backlit from the sun. She kicks up dust as she spins. For a moment, Lucien thinks the dust shimmers as it falls.
“I’m guessing you don’t want me to dance here. For the photos. It’s a little cheesy, huh?”
She hops from one foot to the other, making it look graceful, making it look like a revelation. Watching her move, he almost feels guilty for having contained her in a car for that long. He lifts his camera. He feels like he knows her just from watching her dance, even that one time; like all the photos he’s been taking in the past weeks have been searching for something, leading him here.
He can’t look away. Click click. Click. He circles her, not the predator, because he feels himself capable of being devoured. For the first time in a long time, there is nowhere he’d rather be. No one he’d rather be nowhere with.
Someone calls out from behind one of the facades. The voice is followed by a creaking, back and forth. Lucien and Sophie exchange skeptical looks, but walk over anyway. As Lucien approaches, the High Noon Saloon’s sign shading some of the sunlight from his eyes, he has the strangest sense that he’s been here before. They push through the swinging door to see a full room built out. There’s a mannequin of a woman, scantily clad and well-endowed, holding a tray with a beer mug full of what must be some sort of resin. Solid, bubbling beer.
“It’s like Westworld, babe!” says the excited man-child to his girlfriend.
Lucien and Sophie turn to go back outside, into the cooler, fresher air, when something catches Lucien’s eye. Above the swinging door is a plaque that reads: “Original Film Set of An American Cowboy, 1953.” Lucien’s body starts humming. Why? For this movie shot here ages ago, and one he doesn’t even like that much? He hopes Sophie can’t tell as his jaw tightens, his entire body trembles. Is this a panic attack? Heatstroke? Could that happen so quickly?
Then Sophie grabs his hand—hers cool against his—and leads him back through the squeaking door. Just the two of them stand outside now. Smoke from the grill at Pappy and Harriet’s rises at the other side of the parking area, but Lucien has forgotten his hunger. He lifts his camera and watches Sophie take off across the abandoned road, twirling blindly but finding her way.
Acknowledgments
First things first. Thank you, reader, for doing just that. There are so many books to read and limited hours in a day. I don’t take for granted that you chose mine. Unless you skipped straight to this page in the bookstore, in which case, hello.
It would be impossible to acknowledge every piece of writing, music, performance, and visual art that has inspired this story. I am beyond grateful to participate in the larger literary community that has sustained and captivated my heart and mind for so long.
To Loan, will there ever be a day when seeing your name in my inbox doesn’t make my heart skip a beat? I feel so lucky that you chose this book and am grateful for your brilliant eye. You saw it as it could be, before it was. Thank you. To Chelsea, for this surreal dream of a cover. To the entire Atria family, for everything.
To my New School community and its faculty, especially Helen, Jonathan, Tiphanie. To my wonderful writing cohort, Kara, Michelle, Elsa, Hilary, and Olga. Your support has been a lifeline. And to dear Olga for your later reads; I cherish you. To Taylor, for your generous feedback and encouragement. To Natalia, for our endless hours of conversation, and to many more.
And to my friends and family, who have been there throughout these many years, especially my parents and the best brother, Chris—thank you for a lifetime of love and for your support along the way. To my forever first reader, my mom. It’s hard to be a writer without that safe place to send something as soon as you finish. To my dad, for your curiosity and compassion, which I hope to channel even a fraction of into my writing. To Teddy’s entire family, I pinch myself to be among you and your warm creative spirit.
To Teddy, my heart. Your love and way of seeing inspire me every day. Thank you for being there at every stage of this book—for being a hand around its flickering flame, shielding it from the wind so that it could grow.
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