Our Town (23 page)

And he sat back down. And applause.

He took out a red bandana from his bag and wiped at his eyes. Clover found this routine off-putting and decided, for the time being, not to share. Red Ricky put on this performance if he noticed new men at the meeting. He liked sympathy to spin-cycle around him. The podium, at the front of the room, stood square and vacant. She didn’t like the silences. It’d been too long since she’d seen her mother. They’d have dinner later, she thought. And she’d look at her mother, and reluctantly she’d see herself. And then she’d look back down at her plate of food.

*
  
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Turbulence made Dorothy nervous. Not intellectually, in that she didn’t think this meant that the plane was actually malfunctioning, but in terms of her equilibrium—unsound footing made her uneasy. Turbulence, like seasickness, made her miss where she was from. Turbulence, like seasickness, made her miss the pavement. She didn’t like the warning from the loudspeaker, and she didn’t like when the stewards rushed by her to get to their seats. She didn’t like that her seat
was next to the emergency door. And she didn’t like that the doors had instructions on how to open them. Twist the middle lever, then pull. Dorothy gripped her armrests as tight as she could as the plane began to wobble and dip. She closed her eyes. She tried to think of being somewhere else. Somewhere that made her happy. She was at a beach, and there was a boy there. And she was young, and he was young, and muscly. Beefy. And they were together. Just them two. She’d just begun to forget when her seatmate dropped her slippery hand on top of a few of her fingers. She’d fallen asleep even through the turbulence, of course. Dorothy didn’t want to share the armrest. She pulled her hand out and watched her seatmate’s fall like a dead flounder between her fat thighs.

*
  
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About a week before, Clover’s husband Jack did a celebrity autograph signing appearance at a car show at Lincoln Center. To avoid state taxes, he requested that he be paid in cash. In fact, he said that if it wasn’t cash, then he wouldn’t be attending. So five thousand dollars was arranged. This money still sat in a canvas overnight bag in the kitchen. Also, about a year ago, Jack did a commercial for a local car dealership. In exchange for his talent they offered him two small sedans—a Chrysler and a Plymouth. Instead, he requested a limousine. As a lark. Half-serious. But his request was granted. And so a boxy stretch Lincoln sat untouched in the far-off dank garage. Keep this in mind. This’ll come up later.

*
  
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“Because somebody like me—somebody as fucked as me—well I could do anything, and I did. Because, for what they call normal people, there’s a line—an equilibrium—that they’re at all the time. But for people like us, or people like me, anyway—they tell me to talk in the I—I’m either too high above—way too high above—or too low below,
because’a what I been through or whatever, and I spent years trying to get there. Just trying to even out. Trying way too hard to feel normal. Because I quit drinkin’, and quit cocaine, and meth. I quit smokin’ weed and takin’ pills. I quit everythang. And I are all. Now I just gotta quit smokin’ smokes, but I guess nobody’s perfect. Anyway, thanks for lettin’ me share,” and he got down from the podium, to fervent but scattered applause, and cowboy’d his way back to his folding chair.

Clover raised her hand. She would share next, she finally decided. She’d talk about her mom. And then about her dad. And then about the Mamas and the Papas.

*
  
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*

Unable to relax—pharmaceutically or otherwise—Do pulled open the Lego-gray window cover halfway to see the shade of the sky. It was clear, now. The shaking had finally quit. The light broke through the plastic, wedged between cramped necks and knees. It smacked Dorothy’s face and stung her eyes. She squinted, and then closed the shade halfway so it split her seatmate in two so just her dimpled legs were glowing. Like a black-and-white cookie—top-heavy, but still in the shade—her head fell forward against her bosom. Dorothy opened the window cover all the way in hopes of waking her to subside her snoring. But it didn’t—she hammered and hammered away—and Dorothy sighed. At least she wasn’t scared anymore. She looked back out the window. An American flag was printed on the white wing. It had faded, a little. Sun-dyed—pale and peeling. It stung more, this time, to look out at the incandescent sky. But it was a good hurt, so, again, she opened her eyelids wider. And the red sting made her forget that she was nervous, like when she’d pinch her belly when she used to take shots at the doctor’s. And Tinky would finally stop yipping from her carrier. For the first time the entire flight, she was quiet. The drugs were working. She’d cried herself to sleep.

*
  
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Clover waited and waited, perched on the brown wood steps of the porch. Mama said don’t pick me up. Mama said. Everything will be fine.
I’ll find a cab, baby. I’ve flown a million times. It’s easy as pie, baby. I promise.
But Clover was nervous. She should’ve gotten her, she thought. She should’ve driven to the airport and picked her up. But Mama was insistent that she’d be fine. That you don’t have to worry about Mama.
That I’ve always been fine, and I always will be.
But now she’s late. Oh no, now she’s late.

Finally, a green taxi—an airport taxi, Newark Cab and Town Car—pulled onto the seashelled driveway. And, after a moment, the door swung open from its green rusted hinge.

“Baby. Baby, baby. Do you have twenty bucks? I spent all my cash on magazines.”

Clover reached into the back pocket of her corduroys. She had sixty dollars folded up. She walked to the car and gave it to her and Mama snatched it quick.

“See if he needs a tip,” Clover said.

“K. Thanks, baby.”

Clover watched Dorothy pay the driver. She looked at her mother and her mouth smiled. Her eyes looked sad, though. Dorothy gave him two twenties and put the other in her shirt. She hopped out of the car. Her head fell toward her shoulder.

“Hi, Clover. My girl. My little baby,” Dorothy said, and dropped her purse by her feet.

“Hi, Mama,” Clover replied and ran into her. She took her hands from her pockets and ran as fast as she could.

They eventually made it inside. Dorothy wore too much perfume. And Clover squeezed her tight tight tight. Until she smelled like Dorothy. Until she made sure she smelled like Mom. Clover dropped Mama’s bag by the screen door and it fell down heavy. She’d over-packed. She was just staying the weekend. Dorothy unleashed Tinkerbell and Tinkerbell ran free. They walked through the kitchen. Then sat in the den. In the middle of a gray leather couch. They sat close. Together. Their knees just barely touched. Tink ran in, eventually, and
jumped in Clover’s lap. Clover pet Tink awhile with an immense focus and intensity—she surprised herself—until she realized she was just forcing her mother to speak first.

“Where’s the baby?” Dorothy finally shouted. She was excited. She was there.

“He’s napping, Mom. I’ll bring you up real soon.”

Really, though, Clover had to make sure her mother was right before she let her meet the baby. Jack Jr. was still sacred. Jack Jr. was still pure. He didn’t have any LA in him. Well he did, but only in his blood. They’d refused to have him baptized. They didn’t know any better. But they thought, understandably, that good parents might be enough to keep him straight. Idealism is just another way of saying naiveté.

“Come on, honey. Can’t we go wake him?”

“Soon, Mama. Real soon.”

Dorothy huffed. Clo continued petting Tink. Dorothy sat with her legs crossed. She wore a tweed pantsuit. A white purse. Big hair. Big, blonde hair. And a pearl necklace tight around her neck. Her lips were dyed Bloody Mary red and were crusty at the corners. Clover leaned in. Mama stunk like horseradish, Tabasco, and tomato juice. Celery salt, Worcestershire, and lemon. Oh, and vodka, of course. Everyone knows plane Bloody Marys are the best Bloody Marys. It has to do with the air pressure. The air pressure makes you crave salt.

“Fine. Jesus. Where’s Jack, anyway?”

Dorothy had only met Jack once. At the wedding. That didn’t go so smooth.

“He’s at practice, Mama. He won’t be home for a few hours.”

Really, though, Jack had gone away for a time. He and Clover had fought, and he was sick of it. Sick of everything. Sick of playing second fiddle. It’s like every day can’t be a bad day, you know? This doesn’t bode well for this couple’s future.

“Well I’d love to see the little one, for cryin’ out loud. Isn’t that the point?”

Dorothy leaned back and sank into the couch.

“You will. I promise.” Clover waited. “How are you, anyway?”

And then again Dorothy fell forward. Nervous. Tough time sittin’ still.

“I’m good, baby. You know I’m good. Why do you ask, baby? You know I’m good. I’m always good. I’ve been good forever. Forever always just the same.”

“Oh, I do, huh?” Clover pruned, putting her hands behind her head. “I know you’re always good?”

“Well, what the hell is that supposed to mean?” with her hands dancing.

“Nothin’, Mama.” She leaned on her knees with her elbows. She didn’t want to push her. She spent too long too far away. “Just that I love you is all. I’m just really happy to see you. Happy to see you doin’ well.”

By this point Clover was well aware how Mama was doin’—not all that great, given that she controlled and supported her finances entirely—but she didn’t care. Right now, she didn’t care. She was just really happy to see her. Well, in any case, is subjective. Mama seemed well enough to love her. So she should just leave it, then, right? Leave well enough alone.

Clover walked Mama up the creaking steps to the second floor. Clover noticed the sound more than she normally did. Perhaps she was uncomfortable. They walked up the dark, wood stairwell. Clover in front of Dorothy. Clover led the way. They gripped the handrail tightly up to the landing. The first door on the left led to Jack Jr. Clover held the doorknob, then shushed Dorothy—her humming could wake the baby. Then Clover turned the doorknob, and then they walked in. It was dark, but they stepped forward. Little Jack Jr. lay sleeping in his crib. Little snores came from little Jack Jr. His head shook—swung back and forth—but he didn’t open his eyes. He stopped squirming and turned on his side. One leg over his blue blanket, one leg under. A Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle onesie. And a Nerf football, just like Daddy, under his arm.

“He’s really a stunner,” Dorothy said too loud.

Jack Jr. turned over on his stomach and opened his eyelids wide but then closed them and started to snore.

“Yeah,” Clover whispered, shaking her head. “Be quiet though, Mom,” and Clover pet her son’s hair, and she smiled. “Let’s come back in a little, though,” Clover whispered. “I don’t wanna wake him, yet.”

“You sure, baby?”

“Yeah, Mom. I’m sure.”

“Okay,” she said and put her hands to her neck and squeezed it. “He really is an angel,” said Dorothy. “I haven’t seen anything so pretty since you were born.”

“Oh, please.”

“I mean it.”

“Yeah, okay.”

As they left, Dorothy’s clunky bracelets and anklets rattled and chirped. But Jack Jr., then, was quite the sound sleeper.

They walked a few doors over. Clover showed Mama her room.

“You can put your stuff in that thing, Mom. K?” pointing to a round armoire. “I’m gonna get some rest. I was up all night with him. I just gotta lay down for a little, okay?”

CLOVER GOT UP
from her nap after about an hour. She outstretched her arms. She felt better. She’d slept over the covers in all her clothes. She was tired. Stressed. She shook off, patted down the bed, and walked to the guest room. But Mama wasn’t in there. She walked to the baby’s room, but he was asleep in his crib in overalls, his football torn in half now, one in each heavy hand. Tink slept in there, too. Tink liked the baby’s breathing. So Clover walked downstairs. Mama wasn’t in the kitchen either. She wasn’t in the bathroom. Or the parlor room. Not in the den or the foyer. She wasn’t in the game room or the guesthouse or the pool house. Oh no, Mama wasn’t anywhere. Mama isn’t anywhere.

Clover went back to the kitchen and poured herself a glass of water. She looked around. The canvas bag was gone. Jack’s overnight bag was missing. And when Clover walked to the garage—the last place she checked for Mom—so, too, was the limo.