“Veronica,” said Lydia. “All we’re asking you to do is think of your daughter.’
“Think of Tracy,” said Robert.
“I am thinking of Tracy!” shouted Veronica. “What you want me to do is repeat your mistakes, instead of learn from them.”
“You think it was a mistake for me to stay with your father until you kids were grown up?”
“That wasn’t a mistake,” said Robert. “That’s the way things should be done.”
Veronica growled.
“Who’s going to pay the legal fees?” Robert asked calmly.
“What?” said Veronica.
“Tim knows about you and…” He trailed off, seemingly incapable of saying Desiree’s name. “Tim has evidence of adultery, Veronica. He’ll bring that to court. He’ll use it to win custody.”
“He doesn’t love her,” said Veronica. “He doesn’t want her.”
“He does love her!” shouted Robert. And then, after a breath, he said, in a more measured tone, “And even if he doesn’t, he’ll take her just to spite you.”
“To spite me?” said Veronica. “And that’s the kind of man—”
“That’s the kind of man you’ll turn him into,” said Lydia. “Believe me, Veronica. I know what the scorn of a woman can do to a man.” She squeezed Robert’s hand. “You’re going to break the poor boy to pieces. He does love you.”
“But I don’t love him!” said Veronica. “I’ve said it again and again.”
“Then who do you love?” asked Robert.
“I don’t…” stuttered Veronica. “You know you don’t want me to say her—”
“That’s not allowed!” he shouted as he stood, knocking over his stool. “You can’t… You…” His face was turning red as he struggled to find the words. “Not the both of you,” he said. “Your brother, I can’t do anything about him anymore. But you… No, not the both of you.”
“I’ll find the money myself,” said Veronica. “If the Runt wants to make this a war, then Desiree and I will—”
“Stop!” he said.
“Stop what?”
“Don’t say her name in front of me,” said Robert.
“Robert,” said Lydia, wrapping her hands around one of his forearms. “You should calm down.”
“I’m bringing her to Michael’s wedding,” said Veronica. “She and I are—”
“You and her are nothing!” he screamed. “And you’ll never be anything. This world won’t let you be. And I—”
“This world, Dad? It’s the year 2000.”
“I won’t let you be!” he shouted. “I want better for you, Veronica. I demand better of you.”
“Can’t you just accept—”
“The day I accept that is the day that I…” He trailed off. “You won’t just be breaking Tim’s heart,” he said. “You’ll be breaking mine, too.”
“That’s not fair,” said Veronica. “That’s not what I want to—”
“Love is never fair, Veronica. You should know that by now.”
And with that, he walked away, sliding open the glass door behind him and stepping out onto the deck. Lydia, still in her bathrobe, still in her bare feet, stepped outside to join him.
Veronica watched her mother wrap an arm around her father’s waist. She watched him return the favor. And then she felt sick to her stomach.
“The house,” she said finally, because that was the whole reason for the visit, for the show she’d tried to put on. The performance she’d obviously bombed. “The house down the Cape,” she repeated, clarifying.
“You moved in a month ago,” he said, still not looking at her.
“Uncle Albert gave us the key,” she said. “And yes, we’ve been living there. But I guess, I guess I wanted your blessing.”
He grunted, then said, “What am I supposed to say?”
She stared at his back and imagined he was the Salesman instead, the version of him that she’d dreamed up a year ago. The Salesman might not have given her a blessing, but he would’ve found some roundabout way to let her know that he at least wasn’t saying no.
“Are you going to try and kick us out?” she asked him. “I guess that’s what I want to know.”
“It’s a long drive,” he said, but did he mean that it was too long for him to drive to evict them? Or did he simply mean that she had a long drive ahead of her, and that it was time for her to go?
Veronica didn’t ask. She turned and headed for her room, itching to pack, dying to get out of there.
11
What An Artist Dies in Me
There were five naked blondes on his living room floor, all of them clustered around a solitary brunette, fully clothed, with a missing tooth.
“Hey Tracy,” said Veronica, as she stepped into her ex-husband’s apartment, “why are they all—”
“Slumber party,” said Tracy, cutting her mother off.
“A naked slumber party?” asked Veronica.
“Why not?” said Tracy. “You and Desiree have been having naked slumber parties for years. At least that’s what Daddy says.”
Veronica looked over her shoulder, back at Desiree, who was still standing in the hall. Des shrugged. Vern gave her a frown.
“You almost ready to go?” asked Veronica.
Tracy nodded, reached for her backpack, and then began to pack the dolls away.
As Veronica moved to collect Tracy’s dirty clothes from the arm of the couch, her sleeping bag from the floor, and her books from the coffee table, she looked around for signs of her ex. “Where is he?” Veronica asked.
“Hiding,” said Tracy.
From the doorway, Desiree asked, “He get you anything cool for Christmas?”
“Yeah,” said Tracy. “A new doll. A really big one.”
“How big is big?” asked Veronica. “We don’t have a lot of room in the car.”
“Oh, she’s not coming with us,” said Tracy. “She was a present for both me and Daddy.”
“You’re sharing a doll with him?” asked Desiree.
Tracy nodded. zipped up her backpack, and slung it over her shoulder. “I’m ready to go,” she said.
Veronica looked at Desiree. Desiree arched an eyebrow as she looked back.
“Do you mind,” said Veronica, “if we see the doll before we go?”
Tracy shrugged. “Sure,” she said. “She’s in my old room.”
Veronica and Desiree followed Tracy down the hallway, whispering to each other as they went.
“Why is it her ‘old’ room now?” asked Desiree. “Why was she sleeping on the living room floor?”
“Why do you think?” said Veronica. “The Runt doesn’t want her here. He never did. He only moved her things here in the first place to inconvenience me.”
In front of them, Tracy pushed the bedroom door open, then stepped aside to let them in.
When Veronica saw what was inside, she had no words.
Desiree had three: “What the hell?”
“Isn’t she pretty?” said Tracy.
The doll was not just big; it was life-size. It reclined on the bed that had once been Tracy’s, head resting against the wall, a cowboy hat angled down over its face. It was a blonde, the doll, just like Tracy’s toys. But, mercifully, it was not nude. It wore cowboy boots, a denim mini-skirt and a light blue tank-top pulled taut over a pair of enormous tits. Its skin was smooth and tanned and—Veronica couldn’t resist—soft to the touch.
Desiree had knelt down beside the bed, was holding one of the doll’s hands in her own. “It has a French manicure, Vern. I mean, a real French manicure. These look like real...” She trailed off, stared at the thing’s chest. “And look at those things!” she said.
Veronica stepped around Desiree, toward the thing’s head. She lifted the brim of the hat up, gasped, and took a step back.
“Ow!” yelped Desiree. “You stepped on my—”
“Did you see her face?” asked Veronica
“It,” said Desiree. “It’s an i
t, not a her.”
“Can you take Tracy outside?” asked Veronica.
“Absolutely,” said Desiree. “This is creeping me the hell out.”
“What’s so creepy about her?” said Tracy, as they disappeared down the hall.
Veronica peeked out after them, made sure they were gone, then lifted the hat off of the doll’s face once more.
It was so real, so eerily real, except for that docile face. That was the sort of look that only happened in fantasies, the sort of look that said, ‘Do with me what you will.’ Veronica shuddered to think of what the Runt had done.
She ran her hand over the doll’s blushed cheeks, through her blonde hair, across her pink lips. Then she stopped. She pushed gently on the lower lip, just to see, and the doll’s jaw moved; her mouth opened. Veronica slid a finger over the tongue. It was wet.
“Christ,” said Veronica.
She looked back at the door, then at the doll.
“Fuck it,” she said, closing the door.
She kneeled down at the side of the bed and pushed the skirt up the doll’s hips, revealing a pair of plain cotton panties to match the tank top. Then she pulled them to one side and found herself gasping again. There was a small triangle of pubic hair and beneath it a pair of perfectly sculpted labia.
“No way,” she said to herself as she ran her fingers over them. “No way,” she said again as she parted them. “Oh my God,” she said as she slid two fingers inside.
Behind her, the door opened.
“I assure you,” said her ex-husband. “She’s not your type.”
Veronica stood and shook a slick finger at him. “This is nuts.”
“Which part? The part where I’ve replaced you with ‘the world’s finest love doll’ or the part where your daughter had a tea party with her this morning.”
Veronica plowed past him into the hall.
“Yeah, go ahead and run away,” he said. “Don’t finish it.”
“Finish what?” she asked, searching the living room to make sure that Tracy had not forgotten anything.
“This,” he said.
“It is finished,” she said. “We’re finished.”
“Oh no, we’re not. There’s still one thing left you have to say to me. And if you’ve never had an excuse before now, now you do.”
“What, Tim? What am I supposed to say?”
The Runt laughed. “Tell me I’m not allowed to see her anymore.”
“I don’t get to decide that,” said Veronica, heading for the door. “The judge—”
“Fuck the judge!” he said, getting in her way. “You know what the judge will say when you bring this to him, when you tell him I let our daughter play house with a sex doll. You know what he’s going to say. So, say it yourself. Stop letting other people do the talking for you.”
“Get out of my way,” she said, balling up a fist, just in case.
“Say it,” he said.
She swung at him, fist connecting with ear, and he went down, runt that he was.
“It’s not just the judge’s decision,” she told him, as he lay prone, whimpering. “It’s Tracy’s. I can’t make that decision for her. I won’t.”
She stepped over him and headed for the stairs.
* * *
That night, in bed, Desiree turned to Veronica, shaking a book in her general direction, and asked, “Have you read this?”
Veronica gave the book’s dust jacket a once-over, then nodded. “I grew up with an uncle who was obsessed with that band, then I lived in their old apartment for eight years. So, yeah, I’ve read it.”
“Listen to this,” said Desiree. “This is gross. And I quote, ‘The album title worked on two levels. The first was the old biker ritual where a guy had to go down on his menstruating old lady before he could get his wings.’”
Veronica smiled. “It’s pretty obscene, I’ll give you that.”
Desiree feigned a shiver, then closed the book. “I mean, how did they even prove it to the guys? Did they have to come out of the back room with a red mustache? And who was to say that they didn’t use fake blood? Was there some sort of arbiter who checked the woman beforehand just to make sure?”
“I think you’re overthinking this,” said Veronica.
“All I’m saying,” said Desiree, “is that you better not come near me when I’ve got mine.”
“I know,” said Veronica, with a chuckle. “Besides, we’re all synced up now anyway. When I’ve got mine, I’m not even thinking about sex. Can’t even stomach the thought of it.”
“Good,” said Desiree.
“You have to admit,” said Veronica. “It’s not nearly as gross as fucking a souped-up mannequin, though, is it?”
They chortled, collapsing against each other. Veronica pressed her face against Desiree’s chest, felt her lover’s laughter pound through her tired brain like a balm. She closed her eyes.
“Why didn’t you tell him it was over, Veronica? That he wasn’t allowed to see her anymore?”
“It’s not my call,” said Veronica.
“But he’s dangerous, Vern. He shouldn’t be around her.”
“He’s disgusting,” said Veronica. “But he’s not dangerous.”
“He doesn’t even want to be her father,” said Desiree. “You said so yourself.”
“But she wants him,” said Veronica. “And as long as he’s still Daddy to her, that’s all that matters.”
* * *
They were headed north on Route 3 and driving past Plymouth when, from the back seat, Tracy asked, “Why didn’t Desiree come with us today?”
“Well,” said Veronica, “because we’ll need the extra room for the ride home.”
“For what?” asked Tracy.
“Your doll,” said Veronica.
“You mean the big one?”
“Yep,” said Veronica.
“But it’s Daddy’s, too.”
“You don’t think he’ll let you borrow it?”
Tracy didn’t answer. Veronica adjusted her rear-view mirror to get a look at the back seat.
“You think he won’t share like he said he would?” asked Veronica.
“I think he likes the doll more than even I do,” said Tracy. “Is that weird?”
“I don’t know,” said Veronica. “Do you think it’s weird?”
Tracy was silent again. Then she said, “Maybe. Just a little.”
“Well, I guess all you can do then is ask and cross your fingers.”
“I hope he says yes,” said Tracy. “Oh, and if he does, do you think Desiree would let me borrow one of her bikinis so I could take the doll to the beach?”
“It’s January, sweetheart. Nobody’s going to be at the beach.”
“Oh, but the kids from the neighborhood, they’ll see. And they’ll come. And it’ll be so cool. We’ll all take pictures with her, us in our snow pants and her in the bikini!” Tracy began to laugh.
And because it was her daughter, and because that girl’s laugh was as infectious as any plague the world had ever known, Veronica laughed with her.
* * *
Before Veronica let Tracy out of the car, she made her promise to ask about the doll first thing.
“Will do,” said Tracy. She pecked Veronica on the cheek and skipped up the steps of the apartment house. “See you in a couple of hours,” said Tracy, waving over her shoulder.
“Bye!” called Veronica, checking the dashboard clock, then sighing. “Let’s hope old habits really do die hard,” she said to herself.
It took ten minutes for Tracy to come running back down the steps, her face pale except for her red eyes. She opened the front door and slipped into the shotgun seat, something she never did, even when Veronica gave her permission.
“Let’s go,” said Tracy.
“What happened?” asked Veronica, as Tracy slammed the door, as The Runt raced out of the building. He was shirtless, his hair disheveled, a pair of plaid boxer shorts all that covered him.
“He wa
s on top of her,” said Tracy. “And he was… He was moving up and down. And…”
The Runt stopped at the foot of the stairs and stared at Veronica. She watched his shoulders tense, his chest rise and fall. He clenched his fists. Come get us, Veronica dared him in her mind. Come and get us.
“I don’t think he was expecting me, Mum. Was he expecting me?”
“I don’t know what he was expecting,” said Veronica. But he got what he deserved, she thought to herself. He got what he deserved.
“I don’t want to see him anymore,” said Tracy.
“Okay, sweetheart,” said Veronica, buckling Tracy in. “If that’s what you want.”
12
In the Mood for a Melody
That year it was Veronica’s job to deliver the flowers to Grammy’s grave. Everyone else was busy with preparations for her cousin’s wedding and she was the one living in the Cape house anyway—the house that had been Grammy and Grampy’s—so it just made sense. But her car was the worst, and there was a snowstorm on the way, so she couldn’t wait for Desiree to arrive that evening with her everlasting Honda, and that was how Veronica and her daughter ended up broken down in the parking lot next to the Congregational Church, God’s steeple casting a shadow over her as she took the Lord’s name in vain.
“Mum,” said Tracy. “Am I going to miss school? How am I going to hand out my valentines?”
Veronica laid her head down on the steering wheel.
“Do we have money for a tow truck?” said Tracy.
Veronica cast a glance over at the dozen red roses sitting on the passenger’s seat. Then, she sighed. “Not anymore,” she said.
“How about breakfast?” said Tracy.
Veronica sat up and searched for change. She dug between the car’s seat cushions, plumbed the depths of the glove box, and fished around the cubby next to the cigarette lighter. “We’ve got enough for Dunk’s,” she said.
In his last months, her grandfather had made a request of the family that he called “simple”: every Valentine’s Day, place a dozen red roses on the grave of his late wife, their grandmother. It was a tradition he had begun early in their courtship, that he had continued on with after her death, and that he didn’t want to imagine ending when he was gone.
Missing Mr. Wingfield Page 8