Such a Pretty Face (22 page)

But Herbert knew what was best! He stood for morals and values. He slapped a hand into his palm. He had the Bible to back him up. “This is about keeping marriage honorable, a union between one man and one woman. Not two men, not two women, not a woman and her dog. This is not about discrimination,” he said, sanctimony dripping from his lips. “This is about upholding our moral values. This is about not sanctifying what is wrong, morally wrong. “This is about keeping marriage the blessed event that it is. My wife and I have been married for forty years. We have two children and one adopted child my wife and I took in out of the goodness of our hearts. We’re a family, a traditional American family. Let’s keep it that way.”

I thought about “our family,” our “traditional American family.” I thought about the anniversary party.

Vomitous, all.

If Jake found out that Herbert was my uncle, would he run for the hills?

I planted blueberry bushes for Lance and three camellias for Polly. The blooms were pinkish reddish heaven. I cut back a bedraggled trumpet vine that I had faith would grow again, and I planted marigolds and a pink clematis near the picket fence. I planted sunflower seeds in a sunny spot and hoped for the best.

I also had sod delivered. So I cheated and didn’t plant grass seed. I found the sod by chance. A neighbor’s son’s friend was planting it on the property of a shoe company, and they had extra and needed to get rid of it. They hauled it over, all stacked up, and dumped it off. I was so excited I nearly did a jig.

Now, it was a terrible amount of work over many long days. I had to rent a rototiller, get all the weeds out, flatten up the property, blah blah blah, but when I laid it down, exactly as instructed, voilà.

Instant pretty.

The best part? Jake saw me with the rototiller and said, “You are a woman after my heart, aren’t you?” He helped me with the rototilling and I got to watch his muscles flex, and ladies, if I could have swooned away, I would have. He helped for hours while wearing a black tank top, which made me feel faint. And afterward we sat out on my deck and ate chicken sandwiches, and he was still sort of sweaty, and messy, and I’m surprised I didn’t pass out, my sexual emotions getting the best of me.

When he left that night he said, “There’s nothing sexier than a woman with a rototiller,” and I said, “Your rototilling could make me roar.” He laughed, winked at me, confirmed our date, and went home while I blushed so hot I thought I had internally combusted.

I stared at the Starlight Starbright ceiling for a long time that night, visions of muscles and a sweaty man tickling my mind.

When I walked into work with one of my new outfits on, Cherie stopped in her tracks, a bunch of stressed-out, slobbering newbies around her, and said, awed, “Would you look at Stevie? Wow!
Wow!
”

And the stressed-out newbies took a minute away from their stress and grinned at me, and so did other people, who came out to see what the commotion was about and told me I looked great, and then Zena sauntered up and said, “Hey, Sex Goddess! Seeexxxxx Goooddddesss!”

I giggled and felt myself blush, and people clapped and cheered, which made me feel as if they liked me, so I blushed more.

I loved my job but I needed a second one, so I sent out more résumés and applications that night.

The economy is terrible here in Oregon. Twelve percent unemployment. But still. There had to be something out there.

I looked at my budget again. Anemic. Frightening.

I have mentioned that, haven’t I?

Okay. I took a deep breath.

Maybe I could be a chicken.

I typed out another letter.

Cluck cluck.

I stripped and sanded a rocking chair with a broad headrest.

I asked it questions: If you had to compare your life to a garden, what would you see in it? Dead trees and bushes, stuck in the middle of winter? Weedy? Swamped with too much water? Drought filled? Blooming with a pink dogwood tree, tulips, daffodils, and gladiolas? What do you need to cut out of your garden to make it better? What do you need to add?

What is your name, chair?

My name is Hope.

Flowering purple vines, huge pink blossoms with red centers, yellow daisies, bees, butterflies, a tiny turtle, a blue birdhouse and birds.

Hope. I painted it as such.

On Monday I dressed up in my new clothes and was buried in paperwork on the Atherton case.

On Tuesday and Wednesday I dressed up in my new clothes and was buried in paperwork on the Atherton case.

On Thursday I dressed up in my new clothes and was buried in paperwork on the Atherton case.

And on Friday evening, dressed up in my new clothes and working late for a case for Cherie, I took a few minutes to sort through the boxes and I found it.

Hello, Dr. Dornshire. Good to see your letter.

It was a miracle.

It was case-shattering. It was harsh and blunt, and it was damning against the hospital because they were clearly at fault.

It was damning against Crystal, because a copy had been sent to her.

She had never disclosed the letter, which she is required,
by law,
to do.

What else could I find?

I pulled my keyboard toward me and got on the Internet.

How funny that the hospital had been “unable” to locate Dr. Dornshire.

He was right there. I was staring at a photo of his face, surrounded by a whole bunch of African children outside a medical clinic. He was smiling in his green scrubs. They were smiling.

I was not smiling.

I spent a lot of time staring at my Starlight Starbright ceiling that night. Interestingly enough, my hands were not shaking.

On a Tuesday night, Portland’s most loved TV anchorwoman passed out, on camera, live, her head hitting, then bouncing off of, the desk in front of her, her auburn curls spilling about.

The cameramen and producers were so shocked they initially didn’t do anything. It was Grant Joshi who immediately helped her, ordered an ambulance, and cradled her in his arms.

Some viewers later thought the tears falling from Grant’s eyes indicated he was madly, passionately in love with Polly. See? Those rumors about them being lovers were true! He was heartbroken! He loved her! They were incorrect. Grant and Polly were simply, truly wonderful friends.

Polly took time off immediately from the station, and me and Lance drove her from the hospital to the clinic four days later. I drove The Mobster. Lance couldn’t drive, because he couldn’t stop crying and actually had to lie down on the backseat because he was hyperventilating. “Honey, pass that bag back,” he called to Polly. Polly did so, pale and weak. He breathed in and out of it, passed it back. She breathed in and out, then Lance took it back. She patted her heart. “We’re going to get help, heart. We’ll be okay.”

Her boss, Leroy Mussen, was an asshole and started threatening her. If Polly didn’t come back to work by the following Sunday there would be an “or else” she would have to deal with.

But even Polly knew that she was done.

Simply put, she would die if she didn’t get help.

Me and Polly held hands as I drove. We didn’t say much.

We had been through this before. What else was there to say?

Jake and I had talked by phone many times, and he was waiting outside my house when I drove up after returning from the clinic, as we’d discussed. He took me right into his arms as I cried for Polly. When I was done crying on his shoulder and his shirt was a wet rag, he brought me inside and made me chili and cornbread. We ate together, he lit a candle, he cleaned up, and I cried some more. Honestly, I wasn’t even sure Polly was going to live. She was so thin, so frail, that I worried she’d have a heart attack.

That man got me into bed by myself. “Sweetie, you have to sleep now. I’ll lock up and I’ll call you tomorrow.”

At midnight he left and I curled up into my pillows and thought of Polly and felt sick, and then I thought of Jake and I felt warm and cuddly…then I felt guilty for feeling warm and cuddly and fought with my insomnia, and then I dreamed about Sunshine not eating until she fell into her own shadow and died.

Portland, Oregon

T
he response to Polly’s collapse was immediate and loud. The station was besieged with calls about her health, and gifts and cards arrived by the box load. At the end of two weeks, Leroy Mussen was raving and told her that if she didn’t come in,
that night,
to do the news, and all future nights, he would fire her.

I begged her not to leave the clinic, and so did Aunt Janet and Lance. Herbert wasn’t there because Polly had told him not to come. I’d heard the phone conversation. “Dad, you’re a leper. I can’t stand you. Thinking about you makes me want to blow in a bag. If I envision your face, I want to hide. If I think of how you smell like a pipe I want to puke. If I think of that mausoleum-slash-prison that you live in I want to swallow Drano. Don’t come.”

But Polly was resolute about going back to work. “I’m going.”

“Honey, please!” Lance said. “I’ve got enough money for all of us. Quit the job. I’ll give you $1 million! Two million!” He wrung his hands. He was serious. He regularly offered to give us money. We always, always declined. “I can barely knit anymore I’m so worried about you—I can barely knit! See my hands, they’re exhausted! Blistered!”

Polly got dressed up and put on her makeup, even as a barrage of doctors, nurses, and counselors urged her not to.

“Don’t worry,” she told all of us worried people. “I believe in vengeance, and I’m going to go out and get it.”

We had no idea what she was talking about, and she wouldn’t give us any more clues. I drove her to the station and stayed with her.

Polly was treated as the well-loved celebrity she is at the station, mobbed by people hugging her, telling her they hoped she was better. Grant didn’t bother to hide his rampaging feelings. He hugged her, cried, asked how she was—could he do anything for her?

She thanked him and Kel for the flowers, two bouquets. The candy. Two boxes. The books, crosswords, and other things they thought might relax her, which filled two boxes.

Leroy Mussen came around, with his small, thin, beaked nose and balding head, and said, “Get ready, Polly.”

She did the news with a smile, but at the end of the newscast she had a surprise for all the viewers. (This would be the vengeance part.)

“And now for a bit of personal information, folks.” She smiled, but her eyes were sad. “You may have heard a few rumors about my abrupt departure and my head-banging incident recently. You may have heard that I’ve had a nervous breakdown or I’m on drugs. Neither is true. What is true is that I suffer from anorexia nervosa. I’ve been fighting this terrible disease since I was thirteen years old. I remember looking at myself in the mirror at the age of ten and believing I was fat. My father told me that I was and I believed him. (More vengeance.) My body issues have been long lasting and, frankly, now and then, they seem to take over my life and I can’t control them. This is one of those times. I have been in a clinic since leaving the station, getting treatment and counseling.”

She paused for a moment, smiled through sad eyes, and said, “Unfortunately, though, our station manager, Leroy Mussen, has told me that if I don’t leave the clinic and come back to work full-time tomorrow I will lose my job.”

I heard a collective gasp in the control room.

Ahhh. I sat back, crossed my arms, and laughed. Here came the vengeance on hyper-speed.

Leroy hissed, “Goddammit. Shit.”

“Although I love my job and I love working with Grant, and all my coworkers here at the station besides Leroy, I love staying alive more, and as much as I will miss all of you, I am going to have to quit work here. I hope that after my six-week stay at the clinic I will be better, and with the support of my family and friends and a good counselor, I hope to conquer this disease once and for all.”

Leroy Mussen screamed, “Take her out! Close off! Go to commercial!”

Oh, but people there must have hated Leroy Mussen. Perhaps this was their vengeance? It was obvious they loved Polly. No one moved. They didn’t go off the air, they didn’t go to commercial. The cameras stayed steady.

“And,” Polly said, with a cheeky smile, “it would be nice to have a job. In six weeks, if you know of anyone who is hiring, please let me know!” She smiled again. “For KRNZ News, this is Polly Barrett. Good night and thank you, Portland. Thank you for the kindness you have shown me these last two weeks.” She turned to Grant, waiting for him to say good night to the viewers.

Grant did not say good night. Instead he got all choked up and wobbled out, “Polly, you are the bravest, kindest, most beautiful woman I have ever known. And”—he turned back to the camera—“if Leroy Mussen, our station manager, fires Polly because she’s going to a clinic to get better, then I’ll quit.”

Leroy Mussen was almost purple. “I said to get the fuck off camera!”

Gee. No one must have heard that order, either.

The weatherman was not to be outdone. He stepped into the frame and said, “Me, too. I support you, Polly. We should
all
support you, including Leroy Mussen.”

The sports announcer swiveled in her chair. “Polly, I’m with you, too. Good luck. I know you can do this.” She reached out a hand and squeezed Polly’s hand. Polly got all teary and had to wipe her eyes, her chin shaking.

I put my hand over my mouth so I didn’t cry. I’m such a wuss.

Leroy Mussen was having a purple fit. “I said go to commercial, dammit! You stupid people, move, move, move!”

No one moved. There was definitely vengeance in the air that night.

Then Grant smiled at the camera, as did Polly through her tears, and the weatherman and sportscaster all smiled too and said, “Good night, Portland!”

Leroy Mussen was flaming red-hot and out of control. Raving. “I will sue you, Polly, do you hear me? I will sue you for breach of contract. Get a lawyer, because you’re outta here! Did you hear me? You’re the fuck out of here.”

He did not get any further. Grant grabbed him and shoved him up against a wall. “You. Will. Shut. Up. Now.”

Leroy started to struggle and curse, but he is a short, thin man and his face was turning red-purple. He did not appreciate Grant, manly and strong, showing all his employees who was physically dominant. He swore something vile.

“When you stop swearing, I’ll let you down,” Grant said, voice reasonable, “but you must promise not to verbally abuse Polly.”

Leroy swore again. Grant lifted him up higher, his little feet dangling. Leroy had no choice—everyone was staring, giggling, smirking as he was hung up on the wall like a prisoner in medieval times. Leroy closed his pinched mouth.

Grant waited ten seconds, then lowered Leroy’s feet.

“Both of you,” Leroy blustered. “Both of you will lose your jobs, Grant and Polly. And you, too!” he screamed at the weatherman, news staff, and sportscaster. “Did you see that? Did you see that?”

Some people sure had the giggles.

“I didn’t see nothin’,” Bertie, the camerawoman, who was one of Polly’s best friends, said. “All I saw was a short man screaming hysterically at Portland’s most popular anchors.”

“Nope. Me neither,” Jules, an associate producer, said. He had five kids and a stay-at-home wife. It was very brave of him to take a stand and risk being fired. “I didn’t see anything except you destroying staff morale.”

“I didn’t see a thing,” Jenny, a reporter, said. “Nothing except you throwing another fit and using the F word and harassing Polly because she has anorexia. Why would you harass a woman who has anorexia?”

Leroy glared, his beady eyes swiveling from one person to the next. He realized he was cornered. Perhaps at that second he understood how deeply well hated he was at the station. Not a person stood for him, especially not Grant, was steaming mad three feet away and said, “You’re a moldy piece of crap.”

“You’re all gonna be outta here,” Leroy warned, his bottom wiggling in indignation. “All of you. All of you!” He came up on his toes, finger pointing, swaying back and forth.

“I don’t want to work for a station that puts the health of their people behind ratings,” Grant said. “I don’t want to work for a man who is so obnoxious and uncaring that he’d have someone who clearly has an eating disorder working here instead of being in a clinic.”

“Me, neither,” I heard, all around.

Leroy glared, his eyes beady, then threw his fists in the air and said, “You’ll regret this. All of you. Start scanning the want ads for jobs as trash collectors.” He stomped out, butt wagging.

But that was untrue.

There was only one person who lost his job that night, and that was Leroy Mussen.

The second Polly and Grant went off the air, the phones lit up as if a spaceship had landed on the Willamette and the e-mails came pouring in, the complaints loud and clear. The newscast hit YouTube, the national air waves picked it up, and the howl of protest at a newswoman getting fired because she had committed herself to a clinic to conquer her anorexia was deafening and furious. Advertisers threatened to pull their money quicker than you could say, “Leroy is moldy crap.”

The owners were so backed into a corner that they fired Leroy immediately, and by the next night the lead story was…themselves. Shi Makowski, the owner, apologized for the “misunderstanding.” Polly Barrett was not going to be fired! Not at all! They loved Polly! In fact, Polly was to take all the time she needed and they would still pay her full salary and pay for her stay at the clinic! The station couldn’t wait for Polly to come back, when she wanted to, when she was well and healthy and happy. Her job was still there for her. The door was always open. She still had her job, people, do you hear that? They wished her the best. Please. Please! Keep watching our station. By the way, Mr. Mussen has decided he wants to spend more time with his family so he will not be working for the station anymore. Not one more day. Go, Polly! Up with Polly, down with Leroy!

So Polly kept her job.

And she kept her place at the clinic.

She would come out only to attend Herbert and Aunt Janet’s nightmare party and then Lance’s Hard Rock Party. She’d get a weekend pass. Then back in she’d go.

Afterward, she said she wouldn’t have missed the anniversary party for the world.

Me, neither, I told her as I drove her back to the clinic afterward.

Oh, that party.

It was a doozer.

If we had only known what was going to go down….

Jake and I were talking by phone, he was joining me for walks, we were e-mailing from work, we were…
dating!
Me, dating Jake!

I told Zena about our dinner date on a boat on the Willamette when we were eating lunch at Pioneer Courthouse Square and watched her eyebrows rise straight up into her bangs. “Good for you, you lusty loon,” she said. “Don’t forget that you can get sparkly colored condoms nowadays.”

“A, I don’t need condoms now and B, please, Zena, let me envision a red-striped condom.”

“Birth control is archaic. The pill makes me nauseated. Diaphragms are a smelly mess. I don’t want anyone giving me a shot in my arm, an IUD freaks me out, I won’t put a ring in my vagina, and condoms are strong tube Baggies. Who wants to wear a Baggie even if there’s stars on it?”

“Let’s take this one up with the president of the United States. Get it on his agenda.” I handed her some cherries. She gave me a yogurt.

“Did you know they’ve also come out with something a man can put over his penis and it vibrates? It’s a vibrating penis. Now, who sits home and thinks up this type of thing? And wouldn’t a guy feel that his unit was going to be vibrated right off with that on?”

“Do you think insurance would cover it if it did fall off?”

“Oh, heck no, the insurance company would say that it was a cosmetic procedure, unnecessary….”

I felt this rush in my body whenever I thought of Jake—although not in a red sparkle condom—which was all the time. I was on fire, even though I was so worried about Polly, sick of my uncle, and despairing about the Atherton case.

Jake was separate from the rest of my life. He was a gift, a break. He was just for me. He was behind another door, that door was yellow and bright, and everything else was behind other doors. He was joy for me.

He was joy.

“Want me to run a check on him?” Zena bit into an apple. “You know how I did on your amour who had a thing for fast planes and Central America?”

I shook my head.

“Don’t be stupid, Stevie. Most men are utter, undeniable creeps.”

I shook my head.

“Don’t get hurt here, Stevie. It’s plain dumb. Don’t let your vagina think for you. A vagina will always get you in trouble when you let it near your brain synapses. Let me check him out.”

It was the “don’t get hurt” part that got to me. I nodded.

I had a job interview Thursday evening at six o’clock to be a chicken.

The manager was a round, chipper, funny sort of nerd who clearly got his identity from working at Aunt Bettadine’s Chicken Dinners.

“We’re a family,” Marty Pingle said during our interview, pushing wire-rimmed glasses up his long, beaklike nose. “Family!”

“A happy family!” I enthused.

We chatted for a bit about my job at Poitras and Associates and how I wanted to pay off my medical debt.

He nodded soberly. “I understand, I do. We chickens have to stick together.” He brightened. “Do you like chicken?”

I assured him I loved chicken. Chicken sandwiches, fried chicken, baked chicken, chicken in my pasta, chicken strips, chicken salad…

“How about a cluck-cluck chicken test run?” he asked me. This involved me getting dressed up in the chicken outfit to see if I was chicken enough.

He grinned and handed me a giant chicken head.

The chicken head went over my head. The chicken head had millions of brown and gold feathers; big, yellow, maniacal eyes; and a gold beak. I put it over my head. I could barely see out of the eyeholes.

Mr. Pingle helped me get into the rest of my full-bodied, multi-feathered chicken outfit, then turned me around and made sure that the back of my chicken head was in line with my chicken body. Over my tennis shoes I wore red chicken feet. I flapped my arms and tilted my head back and forth.