Fancy Pants (15 page)
* * *
The walleyed cat followed Francesca back to the motel. It had dull grayfur with bald patches around its bony shoulders from some long-ago
fight. Its face had been squashed to the side, and one eye was
misshapen, the iris rolled back into the cat's head so that only the
milky white showed. To add to his unsavory appearance, he had lost the
tip of one ear. She wished the animal had chosen someone else to follow
along the highway, and she quickened her steps as she turned into the
parking lot. The cat's unrelenting ugliness disturbed her. She had this
illogical feeling that she didn't want to be around anything so ugly,
that some of that ugliness might rub off on her, that people are judged
by the company they keep.
"Go away!" she commanded.
The animal gave her a faintly malevolent look, but didn't alter its
path. She sighed. With the way her luck had gone lately, what did she
expect?
She had slept through her first afternoon and night in Lake Charles,
only dimly aware of Dallie coming into the room and
making a racket, then making another racket when he left the next
morning. By the time she had come fully awake, he'd been gone for
several hours. Nearly faint with hunger, she had rushed through her
bath, afterward making free use of Dallie's toiletries. Then she had
picked up the five dollars he had left her for food and, staring down
at the bill, made one of the most difficult decisions of her life.
In her hand she now carried a small paper sack containing two pairs of
cheap nylon underpants, a tube of inexpensive mascara, the smallest
bottle of nail polish remover she could find, and a package of emery
boards. With the few cents that remained, she had purchased the only
food she could afford, a Milky Way candy bar. Thick and heavy, she
could feel its satisfying weight at the bottom of the paper sack. She
had wanted real food—capon, wild rice, a mound of salad with blue
cheese dressing, a wedge of truffle cake—but she had needed underpants,
mascara, salvation for her disgraceful fingernails. As she had walked
the mile back along the highway, she thought of all the money she had
thrown away over the years. Hundred-dollar shoes, thousand-dollar
gowns, money flying from her hands like cards from a magician's
fingertips. For the price of a simple silk scarf, she could have eaten
like a queen.
Since Francesca didn't have the price of a scarf, she had decided to
make the most of her culinary moment, humble though it might be. A
shady tree grew beside the motel, complete with a rusted lawn chair.
She was going to sit in the chair, enjoy the warmth of the afternoon,
and consume the chocolate bar morsel by morsel, savoring each bite to
make it last. But first she had to get rid of the cat.
"Shoo!" she hissed, stomping her foot on the asphalt.The cat tilted its
lopsided head at her and stood its ground. "Go away, you bloody beast,
and find someone else to bother." When the animal wouldn't move, she
expelled her breath in disgust and stomped toward the lawn chair. The
cat followed. She ignored it, refusing to let this ugly animal ruin her
pleasure in the first food she'd eaten since Saturday evening.
Kicking off her sandals as she sat down, she cooled the bottoms of her
feet in the grass while she dug into the bag for her
candy bar. It felt as precious as a bar of gold bullion in her hand.
Carefully unwrapping it, she dampened her finger to pick up a few
errant chocolate slivers that fell out of the wrapper onto her jeans.
Ambrosia . . . She slid the corner of the bar into her mouth, sank her
teeth through the chocolate shell and into the nougat, and bit through.
As she chewed, she knew she had never tasted anything so wonderful in
her life. She had to force herself to take another slow bite instead of
stuffing it all into her mouth.
The cat emitted a deep, gravelly sound, which Francesca guessed was
some perverted form of a meow.
She glared at it, standing near the tree trunk watching her with its
one good eye. "Forget it, beast. I need this more than you do." She
took another bite. "I'm not an animal person, so you don't have to
stare at me like that. I've no affection for anything that has paws and
doesn't know how to flush."
The animal didn't move. She noticed its protruding ribs, the dullness
of its fur. Was it her imagination or did she sense a certain sad
resignation in that ugly, walleyed face? She took another small bite.
The chocolate no longer tasted nearly as good. If only she didn't know
how terrible hunger pangs felt.
"Dammit to bloody hell!" She jerked a chunk off the end of the bar,
broke it into small pieces, and laid them on top of the wrapper. As she
placed it all on the ground, she glared at the animal. "I hope you're
satisfied, you miserable cat."
The cat walked over to the chair, bent his battered head to the
chocolate, and consumed every morsel as if he were doing her a favor.
Dallie got back from the course after seven that evening. By that time
she had repaired her fingernails, counted the cinder blocks on the
walls of the room, and read Genesis. When he came through the door, she
was so desperate for human company that she jumped up from her chair,
only restraining herself at the last moment from running over to him.
"There's the ugliest cat I've ever seen in my life out there," he said,
throwing his keys down on the dresser.
"Damn, I hate cats. Only animal in the world that I can't stand is a
cat." Since at that particular moment, Francesca wasn't too fond of the
species herself, she didn't offer any argument. "Here," he said,
tossing
a sack at her. "I brought you some dinner."
She let out a small cry as she grabbed the sack and tore it open. "A
hamburger! Oh, God . . . chips,
lovely chips! I adore you." She pulled
out the french fries and immediately shoved two into her mouth.
"Jeez, Francie, you don't have to act as if you're starving to death. I
left you money for lunch."
He pulled a change of clothes from his suitcase and disappeared into
the bathroom for a shower. By the time he returned in his customary
uniform of jeans and T-shirt, she had appeased her hunger but not her
desire for company. However, she saw with alarm that he was getting
ready to go out again.
"Are you leaving already?"
He sat down on the end of the bed and pulled on his boots. "Skeet and
me have an appointment with a man named Pearl."
"At this time of night?"
He chuckled. "Mr. Pearl keeps real flexible hours."
She had the feeling that she had missed something, but she couldn't
imagine what. Pushing aside the food rubble, she jumped to her feet.
"Could I go with you, Dallie? I can sit in the car while you have your
appointment."
"I don't think so, Francie. This kind of meeting can sometimes go on
till the wee hours."
"I don't mind. Really I don't." She hated herself for pressing on, but
she didn't think she could stand
being shut up in the room much longer
without anyone to talk to.
"Sorry, Fancy Pants." He shoved his wallet into his back pocket.
"Don't call me that! I hate it!" He lifted one eyebrow in her
direction, and she quickly changed the subject. "Tell me about the golf
tournament. How did you do?"
"Today was just a practice round. The Pro-Am's on Wednesday, but the
actual tournament doesn't get going until Thursday. Did you make any
progress getting hold of Nicky?"
She shook her head, not anxious to pursue that particular topic. "How
much could you earn if you win this tournament?"
He picked up his cap and set it on his head, where the American flag
over the bill stared back at her. "Only about ten thousand. This isn't
much of a tournament, but the club pro's a friend of mine, so I play
every year."
An amount she would have considered paltry a year before suddenly
seemed like a fortune. "But that's wonderful. Ten thousand dollars! You
simply have to win, Dallie."
He looked at her with a curiously blank face. "Why's that?"
"Why, so you can have the money, of course."
He shrugged. "As long as the Riviera's running smooth, I don't care too
much about money, Francie."
"That's ridiculous. Everybody cares about money."
"I don't." He went out the door and then almost immediately reappeared.
"Why's there a hamburger wrapper out here, Francie? You haven't been
feeding that ugly cat, have you?"
"Don't be ridiculous. I detest cats."
"Now, that's the first sensible thing you've said since I met you." He
gave her a small, approving nod and shut the door. She kicked the desk
chair with the toe of her sandal and once again began counting the
cinder blocks.
"Pearl is a
beer!
" she
screamed five nights later when Dallie returned
near dusk from playing in the semifinal round of the tournament. She
waved the shiny magazine advertisement in his face. "All these nights
when you've left me alone in this godforsaken room with nothing but
television to keep me company, you've been out drinking beer in some
sleazy bar."
Skeet set Dallie's clubs in the corner. "You've got to get up pretty
early in the morning to put one over on Miss Fran-chess-ka. You
shouldn't have left your old magazines lying around, Dallie."
Dallie shrugged and rubbed a sore muscle in his left arm. "Who figured
she could read?"
Skeet chuckled and left the room. A stab of hurt shot through her at
Dallie's comment. Uncomfortable memories of some of the unkind remarks
she'd made returned to nag at her,
remarks that had seemed clever at the time, but now seemed merely
cruel. "You think I'm awfully funny, don't you?" she said quietly. "You
enjoy telling jokes I don't understand and making references that go
right past me. You don't even have the courtesy to mock me behind my
back; you make fun of me right to my face."
Dallie unbuttoned his shirt. "Jeez, Francie, don't make such a big deal
out of it."
She slumped down on the edge of the bed. He hadn't looked at her—not
once since he'd walked into the room had he looked at her, not even
when he was talking to her. She'd become invisible to him—sexless and
invisible. Her fears that he would expect her to sleep with him in
return for sharing the room now seemed ridiculous. He wasn't attracted
to her at all. He didn't even like her. As he stripped off his shirt,
she stared at his chest, lightly covered with hair and well muscled.
The cloud of depression that had been following her for days settled
lower.
He pulled off his shirt and tossed it on the bed. "Listen, Francie, you
wouldn't like the kind of place Skeet and I patronize. There aren't any
tablecloths, and all the food is deep-fried."
She thought of the Blue Choctaw and knew he was probably right. Then
she looked toward the lighted television screen where something called
"I Dream of Jeannie" was coming on for the second time that day. "I
don't care, Dallie. I love fried food, and tablecloths are passe
anyway. Just last year Mother gave a party for Nureyev and she used
placemats."
"I'll bet they didn't have a map of Louisiana printed on them."
"I don't think Porthault does maps."
He sighed and scratched his chest. Why wouldn't he look at her? She
stood. "That was a joke, Dallie. I can make jokes, too."
"No offense, Francie, but your jokes aren't too funny."
"They are to me. They are to my friends."
"Yeah? Well, that's another thing. We have different taste in friends,
and I know you wouldn't like my drinking buddies. A few of them are
golfers, some of them are locals, most of them say things like
'I seen' a lot. They're not your kind of
people."
"To be totally honest," she said, glancing toward the television
screen, "anyone who doesn't sleep in a bottle is my kind of person."
Dallie smiled at that and disappeared into the bathroom to take his
shower. Ten minutes later, the door flew open and he exploded into the
bedroom with a towel knotted around his hips and his face red beneath
his tan. "Why is my toothbrush wet?" he roared, shaking the offending
object in her face.
Her wish had come true. He was looking at her now, staring right
through her—and she didn't like it one bit. She took a step back and
tucked her bottom lip between her teeth in an expression she hoped
looked charmingly guilty. "I'm afraid I had to borrow it."
"Borrow it! That's the most disgusting thing I've ever heard."
"Yes, well you see I seemed to have lost mine, and I—"
"Borrow it!" She backed farther away as she saw that he was building up
steam. "We're not talking about a cup of sugar here, sister! We're
talking about a frigging toothbrush, the most personal possession a
person can own!"
"I've been sanitizing it," she explained.
"You've been sanitizing it," he repeated ominously. "'Been' implies
that this wasn't a one-shot occurrence. 'Been' implies that we have a
whole history of extended use."
"Not extended, actually. I mean, we've only known each other a few
days."
He threw the toothbrush at her, hitting her in the arm. "Take it! Take
the fucking thing! I've ignored the fact that you've gotten into my
clothes, that you've screwed up my razor, that you haven't put the cap
back on my deodorant! I've ignored the mess you make around this place,
but I goddamn well am not going to ignore this."
She realized then that he was truly angry with her, and that,
unwittingly, she had stepped over some invisible line. For a reason she
couldn't comprehend, this business about the toothbrush was important
enough that he'd decided to make an issue of it. She felt a wave of
undiluted panic sweep through her. She had pushed him too far, and he
was going to kick her
out. In the next few seconds, he would lift his hand, point his finger
toward that door, and tell her to get out of his life forever and ever.
She hurried across the room. "Dallie, I'm sorry. Really I am." He gave
her a stony glare. She lifted her hands and pressed them lightly to his
chest, her fingers splayed, the short, unpolished nails slightly
yellowed from years of being hidden by carmine varnish. Tilting her
head up, she gazed directly into his eyes. "Don't be angry with me."
She shifted her weight closer so that her legs were pressing against
his, and then she tucked her head into his chest and rested her cheek
against his bare skin. No man could resist her. Not really. Not when
she put her mind to it. She just hadn't put her mind to it, that was
all. Hadn't Chloe raised her from birth to enchant men?
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