“David wanted us to stencil,” I said.
“It’s a brothel,” said Lou Ann. “Every brothel should have a chandelier.” I couldn’t argue with that, and her wrists flashed again, a brush coated with dark gray, highlights traced the black lines, and now the chandelier appeared made from iron, and with a few quick dashes, a loop of chain to an imaginary ceiling.
“What year is this?”
“2018,” I said. Jesus. Maybe she had squirreled pills just like Kaitlynn, learned nothing from her overdose.
“The play,” she said.
“1911,” I said.
“Thank god I asked,” she said. “I was going to paint lightbulbs.” With a flick of her wrist, and an ochre-colored paint, candles sprouted from each arm.
I tried to space the fleur-de-lis evenly, but it took an entire hour to cover the first king-size sheet. In that time, Lou Ann had painted a mahogany side table, topped with a red vase stuffed with forget-me-nots. A skinny bureau, also mahogany, but furnished with elaborate iron fixtures. On the bureau, a series of tiny paintings in silver frames, each containing the outline of a woman.
“They are called cameos,” she said. “David will appreciate the historical accuracy.”
I resumed stenciling, patterning the empty expanse beneath the first window, claiming that space before Lou Ann could conjure a spittoon.
“I’d like to paint a fern,” she said, but her voice was shrill. I think it was time for her to take her medications. Babbling, a paint-splattered menace, she stood and yanked at the tail of her giant white T-shirt, emblazoned with stains of her art, layers bursting through like fireworks.
“Whatever,” I said, and adjusted the index card, began another fleur, the tube of paint halfway gone.
Before I knew it, she stood at the top of my sheet, just as I had slid the index card into the corner, the final fleur-de-lis.
“I loved him.” Her hands flew up to her mouth, as if she could push the words back in.
I couldn’t look at her. I slapped the index card down, rattled, and I squeezed the rest of the paint directly into the cutout. I didn’t know how I would fix this, how I could put all the paint back in the tube. A pile of blue.
“He loved me,” she said. “We loved each other.” I refused to look up, but I could hear her shuddering breath, an exhalation, jagged with crying.
“Fuck you,” I said. I stood to face her. Tough Tiff, full height.
Eye to eye. “I’m not sorry,” she said, and that was her mistake. I lunged for her, but she darted to the left, skidded across the enormous glob of paint on my sheet, and tracked cerulean all the way out the door. She ran, but I didn’t chase her. I don’t know why. The linoleum was marked with only one shoe, and the tracks she left were strange but seemed right. Just the left shoe, bright blue, probably all the way to her house.
Cleaning the Laundromat was her job. Lou Ann would have to clean up her own crime scene.
I didn’t chase her. Instead, I raided her box for another blue. I didn’t care if the wallpaper was two different shades.
I placed the index card on the last of the sheets, and I began. I had an entire blank space to cover, and I moved the index card, and I moved it again and kept going until I was done.
This was something I could control.
* * *
* * *
“FOURTEEN BODIES IN TWENTY-FOUR HOURS,” said David. “That sounds like a play you would write, Tiffany.”
The Rocky Mountain Roller had filled with corpses, and then filled again.
Four cheerleaders and I circled David’s bed, where he was stretched out on his immaculately white comforter. He called us for a meeting, and I guess it was a testament to his power that nobody dared sit.
“Tiffany, there’s something else you need to know.”
I sighed. “Okay.”
“I got these girls to go to the library again. That’s twice now.”
“Ugh,” said Becky. That’s when I noticed her hair, the color of a traffic cone.
“They checked out every book on witchcraft and Satan worship,” he said.
“What?” I was pissed. “We aren’t even allowed to have The Catcher in the Rye. We have books on Satan worship?”
He reclined against his pillows, staring up at the ceiling, purposefully ignoring me. “I sent them to Shopko, and they bought nine boxes of kosher salt.”
“And blonde in a box on clearance,” said Kaitlynn. She pointed at Becky’s hair.
“She didn’t use toner,” said David. “Believe me, she’s been warned before.” At this, Becky dropped her head in shame, which made her hair even more visible, as well as a rash on the back of her neck from the peroxide. “How hard is it to read a goddamn box of hair dye, Becky?”
She didn’t respond. Kaitlynn rolled her eyes and grabbed my arm. “The Geo is full of dead pack rats and kosher salt,” she said. “You have to carry the pack rats.”
“Becky should be punished,” I said, in hopes that David would see the justice in that. I looked at him, waiting for him to agree.
“Team spirit,” said David. “You need some. Do what they say.” He wasn’t even wearing socks or shoes, while his cheerleaders wore camouflage, and Becky’s hair was a flame against the greens and browns of her shirt. “I can’t leave my house tonight,” explained David. “My mother is going to attempt astral projection, and I promised that I would keep an eye on her. The last thing we need around here is another disappearing parent.”
* * *
* * *
AS WE DROVE UP THE forest service road, I occasionally glanced behind me, studying the lumpy burlap bag crammed into the trunk of the Geo. I watched for any movement, concerned about survivors. It would be a big mistake to open a burlap bag with an angry pack rat inside.
We left the Geo in a drainage ditch. Stepping out into the darkness, I thought that Kaitlynn might help lift the bag of rats, as she was the strongest. Instead, she carried a plastic bag from Shopko, and disappeared into the woods immediately. Her flashlight was just a wink in the trees by the time I hoisted the bag onto the ground. Victoria and Caitlyn followed their captain, leaving me with Becky and the weak beam of her flashlight.
“I hope you brought extra batteries,” I said. I thought about really getting lost, wandering around until morning. A helicopter from Search and Rescue would be able to spot Becky’s hair from at least a mile away.
I wasn’t going to hoist it over my shoulder, so I kind of dragged it along beside me, and the burlap snagged on the underbrush. I swore it was hot to the touch. It definitely had a particular smell.
It took twenty minutes for Becky and me to reach the clearing, but the cheerleaders had nearly finished. I could see the Meatloaf’s tent, thirty yards away, but his snoring echoed along the tree line.
Kaitlynn and Victoria stood back and admired their work, empty boxes crumpled in Shopko bags, plastic handles tied in knots. Becky’s flashlight, nearly spent, still revealed the pentagrams that dotted the meadow, circles nearly ten feet in diameter. The angles were sloppy, but I was relieved that the girls had indeed done their homework. I had worried they would make the same rookie move from every horror movie, but Kaitlynn and Victoria had not poured out a Star of David inside the rings. I doubt Ronnie would have expected Jews in the night. The salt glittered in the low beam, the five points of fire, earth, metal, water, and wood.
I stepped carefully over their work and crept closer to Ronnie’s tent. I nearly gagged when I yanked the bow of twine that cinched the burlap bag and tried to be as quiet as possible as I dumped the pile of rats at the base of a tree. A sickening noise as they landed.
Ronnie’s tent was set among the roots of the National Christmas Tree. Even in Becky’s low beam, the tree didn’t seem that impressive, really. I had heard about its perfect symmetry, but it looked like every other part of the forest. Not worth a o
ne-man war. I followed Becky’s flashlight as it trained all the way to the top; I guess I expected there to be a star or an angel or something.
As we walked back through the clearing, I saw Caitlyn, pouring a ring of salt around Ronnie’s ATV. The girls might have looked up pentagrams, but obviously they read no further. I knew from Janelle that a ring of salt was a Wiccan spell for protection.
At least nobody would steal Ronnie’s ATV.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
“WE’VE GOT LESS THAN A month before opening night,” said David. “I’m not liking our chances.”
“Your mathematics are terrible,” responded Irene Vanek. “We have thirty-seven days left. I’m sure you have mastered addition and subtraction. You are sixteen years old.” I knew that David would like to subtract Irene, permanently.
“I apologize,” said David. “I keep forgetting who I’m dealing with. I’m sure you keep a close eye on the calendar. I would, too. You only have so many days left.”
“Jesus Christ,” said Irene. “I will probably outlive you.”
“It’s true,” said Diana Whipple. “She does yoga every day.”
“I only take a calcium supplement,” said Irene. “I don’t even take multivitamins. Just looking at you, I can predict a lifetime of antidepressants and pills for your blood pressure.”
Enraged, David swiveled away from the stage, addressed me in his terrible whisper. “Are all feminists like that?”
I shrugged. I didn’t bother to whisper. “I don’t know. I’ve never met one.”
David gathered himself and clapped his hands together. “Act two, first scene. I need the frostbite victims to stop stumbling over their lines.”
The actresses assembled in their places. Miss Julie pretended to do paperwork with a quill pen, a giant red ledger spread across her lap. Of course, there was no ink in the quill, it was just an extra-long ostrich feather. At least we had props. Ruby, Beatrice, and Diana Whipple, all in identical blonde wigs, sat together on the fainting couch. We hadn’t done a dress rehearsal yet, so I prayed that their voluminous costumes would fit across such a short space.
“Okay,” said David. “I want the three of you to sit with your ankles crossed. I did research, and that was how a proper lady composed herself.”
Ruby raised her hand. “I’m not supposed to have feeling in my legs.”
“Right,” said David. “Beatrice, I want you to reach down, and cross your sister’s ankles for her. It will show the audience the depth of your shared trauma.”
Beatrice was nearly blind, but she eased forward, and felt around for Ruby’s feet. David was satisfied. To me, the three blonde women seemed to be perching on the upholstery like unfortunate birds that forgot to fly south for the winter.
Miss Neva had the first line. Beatrice squinted and wiggled her nose. “I smell smoke,” she said.
“Sound more alarmed,” said David. “Try it again.”
“I smell smoke!”
“Good,” said David.
As usual, Betty Gabrian was ready. She pointed her quill pen at Miss Neva. “That’s impossible. Your nose was lost to frostbite.”
“Miss Leslie is upstairs with a gentleman caller,” said Ruby, attempting to calm Beatrice. “He smokes a pipe. That must be the odor that you are detecting, my dear sister.”
“Does she have whiskey?” Betty was concerned. “That terrible scullery maid could find none in town. She claims the whole of Gabardine has been evacuated.”
“I’m standing right here,” said Erika Hickey. The character of Judith was in the corner of the stage, pretending to sweep. We still didn’t have an antique broom that David approved of, so Erika did her best to pantomime. Her wig was brown and boring, but I hoped Bitsy could make a fantastic cleft lip. “I never tell a lie, Miss Julie. I would admit to being offended by your accusation, but I treasure my employment.”
“Did you hear that, my gorgeous creatures? Finding a vocation in Gabardine is like finding a man who bathes regularly. It’s rare, and you all need to appreciate what you have, and all I have given you.”
“I have a whiskey stash in the forest,” said Judith. “It was supposed to be a secret. I know how useless Miss Leslie is when she gets the tremors.”
“Nobody likes a whore with tremors,” said Miss Julie. Again, she pointed at the three blondes on the couch. “The three of you should be the most grateful. If Inga hadn’t rescued you from the Indians, you would have died of exposure.”
“She has wicked aim,” said Miss Joanna. “We are forever thankful.” Miss Joanna was supposed to be missing two fingers, and even in rehearsal, she clenched her fist to pretend. David had transformed her into a method actress.
“Uff-da,” said Inga, and shot an imaginary rifle out of an imaginary window.
“I will never understand why those savages always want blondes,” said Miss Julie. “I thought they stopped scalping people many years ago.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
MY MOTHER HAD TAKEN TO her bed, maybe for good.
The week before, I heard a crash in the bathroom. I didn’t bother getting out of bed. My mom didn’t fall down. My mother controlled everything, even things she shouldn’t be able to, like gravity.
But when I heard her drive away, I found the bathroom scale on the kitchen counter, in pieces.
My mother gained four pounds, for no reason at all. She read her food journal to me, to prove it.
She hit 160, and for the first week the number was a mystery to be solved, and she busied herself with the investigation, calling her surgeon, even digging through last week’s garbage, just in case she had devoured an extra Lean Cuisine in the middle of the night, sleepwalking or something. She kept a close count of every frozen entrée, so this was unnecessary.
After that first week, she stopped weighing herself hourly, the needle stuck at 160. She stopped being suspicious and frantic, and became something worse, because I had never seen it before. My mother became depressed. My mother got in her bed, and stayed there. The look in her eyes scared me, the shocked stare of a woman who swallowed her primal scream.
My mother would not surrender the gas station, would not allow another soul to unlock those doors. There would be no gas in Gabardine. She would not surrender the keys, but she surrendered to her bed. I saw it coming, I think. The courtship of Waterbed Fred had made her jittery, and I think the very idea of dating was so alien, so frightening, that her blood pumped faster, and I’m no scientist, but maybe her body tried to protect her, in the only way it had ever known. I think it grew something inside her, a layer, a shield, and it weighed four pounds and even though it was a tiny amount, it was enough to break her completely.
* * *
* * *
ON THE SECOND DAY OF the gas crisis, my mother told me to take the keys to her new car and sent me to the grocery store. She scribbled a list on her forearm with a marker, and I transcribed it dutifully. I didn’t want to screw this up. I wanted to drive the new car, and at the grocery store, I wheeled the cart and piled it full, plucked things from the shelves that only stoned frat boys would eat. During the real fuel crisis, Americans blamed the Middle East. During this fuel crisis, my mother was happy to be the enemy. She would win this war with Doritos and gummy bears.
I was concerned about money. I forged the checks for the grocery store, no problem. I forged checks at the gas station in Fortune, feeling like a traitor as I filled the tank of my mother’s new car. But sooner or later, I was going to get popped for check fraud, and I read the newspaper, I knew that the bad girls in Montana were now being shipped to Texas, and the idea of Texas horrified me, not to mention that I was sixteen now and could be charged as an adult. I didn’t want to forge checks, and I was afraid Mr. Francine would shut off our power just out of spite.
Every morning, I checked in on her. I knew she left the nest at night and pulled food inside her bedr
oom. Wrappers and cellophane stuck into the blankets piled around her, the kind of nest a pack rat would make, if a pack rat only had access to things full of trans fats and high fructose corn syrup. I peeked in, and if she was still sleeping, or even if she was just pretending, I plucked the wrappers and the detritus and piled it in my arms, dumped it in the garbage.
I couldn’t believe this person was my mother, who shook the toaster out every other day, who rinsed out the stupid Lean Cuisine packages before tossing them away.
“The last thing we need is goddamn ants,” she declared.
* * *
* * *
HALLOWEEN WAS TWO WEEKS AWAY, and Mr. Francine’s normally fastidious desk was decorated with a ceramic pumpkin, almost the same color as Becky’s hair mistake. The ceramic pumpkin was pushed as close to the edge of the desk as possible, as if it disgusted him, as if this nod to the holiday had been enforced by supervisors. The pumpkin was filled with the cheapest Halloween candy, so against his will, he must have filled it on his own dime. Tootsie Rolls, and not even the normal kind, but the type that nobody ever wanted: vanilla and fruit.
“Don’t touch,” he said, before I even had a chance to sit down. Apparently, these terrible candies were meant for people only on official business, but nobody ever came to see Mr. Francine under happy circumstances. I doubt that somebody paying a delinquent power bill would think to grab, nor that Mr. Francine would offer. The pumpkin was completely full, and I had no idea how long it had been perched on his desk, but I swear the top layer of candy had dust.
I’m supposed to be working on my self-control. I’m supposed to be conscious when things rise up inside of me, name them, shake their hands. I know the pilot light is always lit, will always be inside me. The second the door closed behind Rufus, the second that it was just me and Mr. Francine, a compulsion burst into my head, and I swear I could feel it, really feel it, right behind my eyes like some kind of migraine. Like anger, it was a need for release, but this time it was a confession. I’ve learned that making things right can be like unleashing a punch, the consequences just as painful.
The Small Crimes of Tiffany Templeton Page 20