Point Dume

by Katie Arnoldi

  Frank stopped and kicked a dead frog with the toe of his boot. He’d been finding a lot of these lately. Lizards too. Maybe they needed to back off on something. Sulfites? Pesticides? He made a note to find out and continued on his tour.

  The thing was, Ellis brought something out in Frank that he couldn’t access by himself. When he was with her, his past disappeared. His parents, the family business, money, it all went away. The kids, the wife, middle age evaporated. And somehow the damage in Ellis spoke to the broken parts of his life. It was as if she were the missing piece that could make him complete, the secret ingredient.

  But Ellis was making the whole thing impossible. And she was a fucking liar. The stories she told were in a constant state of flux. Incidents from her past would unfold in the present with different outcomes, sometimes entirely different cast of characters. It was like she was constantly shuffling the deck and presenting whatever hand suited her needs at the moment. Frank would sometimes stop her and say, “Wait, I thought you said that happened to you and Pablo.” She would look at him, blank and unreachable, and say, “I’ve never told you this story before.” There was no logic, no structure. Her world was governed by a whole different set of rules or no rules. Sometimes Frank wondered if everything he thought he knew about her was his own invention.

  He turned and headed towards the one of his wells. The county had cut back water rations just after he’d taken ownership of the vineyard and he’d been forced to dig two wells in order to continue growing on all fifteen acres. He liked the idea of his own well, the self-sufficiency of it. Maybe he should get someone in to plant a vegetable garden. Yeah. Janice would like that. Hire an organic gardener. He took out his pad and made another note. Homegrown arugula. Broccoli. They could take gift baskets of zucchini and corn when they visited their friends. Maybe Janice would start making her own tomato sauce. He checked and saw that the water levels of both wells were good. He didn’t really know what he’d do if the water dried up—cross that bridge when and if the time came. He picked up a gum wrapper that one of the workers must have dropped, tucked it in his pocket, and headed back towards the house.

  It was the way Ellis looked, her perfect skin and shiny hair, brown with golden streaks. It was wild hair, untamed, usually un-brushed, and it hung down to the middle of her back. She had a liar’s gap and it gave her smile a dangerous edge. And she smoked constantly, terrible hand-rolled cigarettes. Normally Frank hated smokers but on Ellis he found the smell and taste to be extremely exotic. He loved to watch her prepare the paper, tug and separate the tobacco from the pouch, spread and roll it in one movement. She barely seemed to notice what she was doing yet each of those horrid cigarettes was immaculately formed.

  He walked up to his patio behind the house and sat on a lounge chair to pull off his boots. He could see Janice through the kitchen window arranging a big bouquet of lilies. Now see, Ellis wouldn’t know the first thing about arranging flowers. Ellis could never live in this life. Janice knew how to run a household. She was good with the help. And she was a wonderful mother. Frank couldn’t imagine Ellis with a baby. Truth was, Ellis was more childlike than any woman he’d ever met.

  Janice waved to him and motioned for him to come inside. He waved back, knocked the dirt from his boots and placed them neatly by the back steps.

  Was Ellis unstable? Probably. No, definitely. Would she turn on him? Cause problems with Janice? The kids? Maybe. It wasn’t worth it.

  No. That was it. He wouldn’t call her ever again. As of this moment, it was over. He’d start surfing down south, avoid her at all costs. He was done. Finished. Frank took a deep breath and realized he felt relieved. He slipped on his Ugg boots and went inside to his family.

  THE TRUTH ABOUT ELLIS

  ELLIS’ FATHER EUGENE GARDNER HAD BEEN MENTALLY ILL and she realized, much later, after he was dead, that it wasn’t her fault. All those years she’d tried to match her mood and behavior to whatever personality he inhabited, but her efforts nearly always proved futile. Ellis didn’t know if the illness was a lifelong condition or if her birth, and the death of her mother, had somehow triggered a collapse of his emotional foundation and shattered his spirit. Would it have made a difference if she’d realized how truly damaged he was while she was growing up? Probably. She spent her young life in a desperate scramble, trying to become whoever he wanted her to be. She could never get it right. His moods were erratic, even his voice would change depending upon the mysterious chemical imbalance in his brain.

  There were days, especially when she was very young, when he was the perfect daddy, loving and warm. That daddy hugged her and took a real interest in every aspect of her life. When he was present, he played with her and took her climbing in the hills, taught her how to scramble up boulders and find finger-holds in the cracks of the rocks so she could get to the top of the highest peaks. From the mountains, he pointed out the Channel Islands in the distance and helped her learn all their names. He taught her about the tarantula migration in the spring and fall and caught California king snakes and horny toad lizards then gave her lessons about their scales, eating habits and cold-blooded restrictions. A couple times he took her hunting for arrowheads and showed her where the ancient Indian petroglyphs were hidden in the back of a cave. It was that daddy who showed her everything about the ocean, helped her learn to surf.

  If she were lucky, that daddy would hang around for up to a week, maybe two, just long enough for her to relax and believe that it was permanent, that their lives were finally on track. But that nice, healthy guy never stayed. He didn’t have the strength or cunning. His visits were like imperfectly plotted jailbreaks, thrilling but destined to fail. He could hide out with Ellis, enjoying his daughter for the wonderful person that she was and hope to avoid detection. But sooner or later the custodians of gloom would find him, throw a burlap hood over his head, and drag him back down to the dungeon where Ellis could not follow. There were no visiting hours; she was not allowed to write.

  The man that replaced him was usually remote and withdrawn or sometimes, especially towards the end of his life, abusive and angry. All those years she thought that if she could just be a little better, the good father would come to stay. But the behavior that would please the remote father often irritated the angry one or vis versa. She couldn’t get it right and it was her fault. She took all the blame and held it close to her heart.

  It was the indifferent father that lived in the house most of the time from elementary school through junior high. He bought food, paid the utilities and kept shoes on her feet but Ellis sensed that this man was capable only of performing the most basic functions of a parent. He would sit in the dark living room after work, staring into space, alone. He wouldn’t let her turn on the lights for him. He never wanted company, never felt inclined to talk. She would sometimes bring him food, macaroni and cheese or a sandwich, but he wasn’t hungry. He would sign her field trip permission slips for school, but never asked where the class was going. He would give her money for lunch without making eye contact. If she needed a new bike or a surfboard he would pay for it with a sigh of resignation. Ellis hated to bother this father. He was so sad and fragile that her very presence in the house seemed like an intrusion. So she spent as much time as possible outside, running wild on the beach, sometimes sleeping in the sand. He never seemed to notice when she didn’t come home, didn’t seem to care.

  Sometimes he would snap out of the depression and go out to bars. It was a dramatic shift, not aimed at Ellis. He’d come home with women, laughing and joking. Even though he ignored her, Ellis welcomed the change. At least there was laughter. At least he was seeing people and having fun. That drinking, partying father fascinated her. She wanted to get close to him but couldn’t figure out how.

  By the time Ellis got to junior high, the good father was only showing up a few times a year and could only sustain a visit of a day, maybe two. Ellis was still glad to see him, but she no longer trusted him. He must have sensed her shift be
cause he came less and less often.

  Things got worse when Ellis started to develop. She had seen pictures of her mother, saw that there was a vague resemblance. But as she started to change into a woman her father seemed to be increasingly irritable. He would stare at her for long, uncomfortable moments without saying a word.

  “What?” Ellis pleaded. “What’s wrong?”

  He would shake his head in disgust then grab his jacket and storm out of the house. Ellis searched the mirror for clues of what she’d done. Why was it such a crime to look like her mother?

  He spent more and more of his nights at the bar or sometimes brought a bottle into the dark living room and drank until it was empty. This was the father she avoided.

  As she got older he’d often stay away for a couple of days at a time, leaving her to fend for herself. She began to appreciate the fact that he wasn’t home much. It was easier. She could take care of herself. By the time she was a teenager he was disappearing more frequently. Ellis learned not to question his behavior. At the wrong moment, a question became a challenge and it could throw him into a blind rage. He didn’t hit her; the bottles and plates that he threw always broke on the opposite side of the room. He never physically hurt her. Instead he told her that it was Ellis’ fault her mother died, her fault that his life had turned to shit. She was a spoiled, useless piece of junk. He knew all about her. She was a common slut. A goddamn whore. Why had he wasted his time? If it wasn’t for Ellis, he could have done great things. Traveled. Had a REAL life. She ruined everything. He was a prisoner. She was to blame.

  Gradually the bitterness completely took over and he spent most of his time drunk. It was this angry father that Ellis found in the garage late one summer night when she was twenty. By then they weren’t speaking much, living separate lives. The shotgun blast had taken off the left side of his face but his right eye was intact, open and staring into space. Ellis didn’t cry, felt nothing except disgust at the terrible mess of blood and scattered bone fragments. She didn’t touch him. She left him where she found him and called 911.

  A HISTORY OF HOW JANICE DEVELOPED HER COPING SKILLS

  IT HAD BEEN A PARTICULARLY HECTIC DAY. THE BABY WAS needing way too much of her, the nanny was doing way too little. They’d been forced to stay in the house all morning because the workers were spraying some kind of fungicide on the vines and there was some talk of toxicity—nothing to worry about they said, but don’t go outside for at least two hours. The baby had conjunctivitis again; Frank wanted her to exchange his powder blue sweater for the lavender one, make dinner arrangements with the Millers, call that artist again about designing a new label for the chardonnay, drop off his car to have it serviced, and set up a tee time for next Thursday with Bill Volpert. The pool man had shown up at the door announcing that they needed a new pump, and by the way he was going to retire and a new person would be handling the pool from now on so could she meet him right this minute. Mona, the housekeeper, had once again ruined one of her blouses with her over-enthusiasm for bleach and then announced that it wasn’t her fault because Janice was a sloppy eater and the blouse was ruined anyway and she, Mona, was just trying to help. There was a request from one of the room parents that Janice work in the library at the elementary school every Friday morning from eight to ten and the middle school had called wondering when they might be receiving the gift for annual giving. Janice’s mother was feeling a little out of sorts because she hadn’t seen the kids, her grandchildren, since last Saturday. One of the dog’s skin conditions had returned and Janice needed to pick up another round of antibiotics. Her friend Gigi was going through a divorce and called every forty-five minutes. Her sister Lynn was about to be laid off and worried about the mortgage payment. Beverly thought she might be pregnant again but wasn’t sure it was Damien’s and so really, shouldn’t she abort? Julia found a lump. Lana had acute IBS. Emily couldn’t get her weight down.

  It was one o’clock in the afternoon, the older two kids were still at school, and the baby was sleeping. She told the nanny, the housekeeper, the pool man and the gardener that she was coming down with the flu, needed a nap, and to please not bother her. She locked her bedroom door then found herself standing in the bathroom, looking through Frank’s medicine cabinet. Frank had had a lot of back problems over the years and there was a vast array of pain relieving medication. Muscle relaxers, anti-inflammatories, and several varieties of flat out painkillers. What was the difference between physical and emotional pain in terms of medication, Janice wondered? Both ailments could cause intense agony. Both could render you helpless and immobilized. Anyway, she had a headache and her neck felt unusually sore so it wasn’t completely out of line to take some of Frank’s medicine.

  There was a choice between Vicodin and Percocet, both set to expire in six months. The Percocet was stronger. Now why, if you were in pain, wouldn’t you take the strongest possible medicine? She emptied the bottle in her hand. Eighteen pills. She swallowed one and put the other seventeen, along with the Vicodin, in the back of her sock drawer, hidden inside an old pair of mukluks. Frank would never miss them. She pulled the drapes and lay down on the bed to await relief. It didn’t take long for the soothing waves to wash over her. Her mind unbent and her muscles relaxed. And thus began Janice’s experiment.

  Over the next week Janice found that as long as the room was dark and quiet, she loved the narcotic effect of Frank’s pain pills. She closed her eyes and envisioned herself reclining on silk pillows, floating on a cloud after smoking opium in an elegant den. Her attendant would be young and handsome of course—none of those nasty old men, with yellow teeth who weighed ninety pounds and walked around pulling on their wispy gray beards in her dream. Those old guys worked down the street at that other place, the House of Poppies, and only lowlife drug addicts went there. No, here in her tranquil paradise, it was just young beautiful men tending to her every need. A neck rub would be lovely. Please do my feet. Scalp treatment. Yes, brush my hair. Full body massage with feathers? By all means. Percocet was the warm bath that never grew tepid. She could stay here forever if they would just let her. But then the phone would ring, or one of the kids would come running down the hallway and pound on her door, or the gardener would fire up his damn leaf blower, or Mona would run the vacuum. Something, it was always something, would pull her out and force her to deal with the real world.

  Also, Janice found that Percocet and even Vicodin made her very, very irritable if she was forced to interact with people. She could feel the drug pulling, begging to be alone with her so they could lounge on the bed and dream their dreams together. It made her mad, furious even, when someone got in the way of her serene afternoon holidays up in the master suite. She found herself wanting to spank and punish far too often. And of course she knew that she couldn’t spend all her days locked up in her room. That’s what drug addicts did. She had responsibilities, a family. But there was a part of her that wanted to jump in with both feet. Chase the dragon, or whatever they called it. Janice understood that she could easily cross the line and it kind of scared her. And so it was with great reluctance that she flushed the remaining four Percocets and seven Vicodin down the toilet.

  About a week later, at that dinner with the Millers—the one that Janice set up at Frank’s request—she became reacquainted with marijuana. They were all sitting out by the pool and Matt Miller brought out some pot after dinner. Normally Frank would have protested; he hated drugs even though he’d done a fairly intense investigation during his high school and college years. They didn’t do anything for him now, plus there were kids in the house. In fact, normally Frank probably wouldn’t have allowed anyone to get high on his property, but he wanted to impress Matt Miller who was a mover and shaker in the food and wine circles, and so he pretended all was well when Matt fired up that cigar-sized fatty. Matt passed the joint to Frank. Frank took it and passed it off to Matt’s wife Kathy like it was a burning ember. Kathy took a huge hit then handed it to Janice. Now Janice hadn�
��t smoked much pot since she was about seventeen but she’d had a lot of wine that night and couldn’t think of a single reason why she shouldn’t try some. Of course she choked. The pot today is much more potent than that of her youth, but she was able to keep enough of it in her lungs to give her a rip-roaring high.

  Fifteen minutes after having three hits of marijuana, Janice found that she was no longer upset about living at the vineyard, she no longer found her husband quite so irritating, she found the previously dull Kathy Miller to be a laugh-riot and Matt Miller somehow suddenly got hot. Janice Bane had found her solution.

  PABLO’S FREE TIME

  WHAT DO I DO WITH MY SPARE TIME? FUNNY QUESTION. The whole concept of spare time is interesting. Utilized time vs. extra time. How do you decide which is which? It’s all the same to me. But I understand. You want to know what do I do on days like this one, when the sun isn’t going to come out, the surf is pretty flat and I don’t have any pressing business. Well, frankly, I like to work on puzzles. When I was a kid, we always had a table set up in the living room. The most intricate landscape you could imagine, shattered into 1,000 pieces, and it was our job to put it all back together. My mother, sister and I would work for hours at a time. We never did the same one twice. I remember the first: walruses lounging on icebergs backlit by a fiery sunset at the North Pole. I didn’t think we’d finish it; all that expansive white, and the animals were pretty much the same color with identical tusks. For a while all we could figure out was the blue ocean and the orange sky, and the edges of course—that’s the first thing you do. But we stuck with it for days and slowly the image on the box was reproduced on the table. It felt like quite an accomplishment.