The Stager: A Novel (30 page)

“‘The pig is gone! The African tribal figure is missing! The expensive yellow painting, nowhere to be seen! It’s so disturbing that he can’t even step inside!’”

“Too many exclamation points, but good. The detail is good. Now might be the time to loop back and pick up a thread of something that will provide a hint as to how we got to where we are.”

“You’re really throwing me off here. I’m not a very complicated guy, you know. Just give me a loving family, some food and shelter, a tennis racquet, and a ball, that’s all I ever needed in life. I never asked for all this drama.”

“Well, that’s kind of a cop-out and you know it. You made your choices. I mean, they were bad choices, obviously, but no one made you stay.”

“But my…”

“Please. Don’t get started about your knee…”

“Look, I didn’t sign up for psychoanalysis here. And anyway, what I was going to say was not about my knee. I was going to say, ‘but
my daughter…’
”

“Ah … well, that’s completely different, then. That’s a good sign.”

“My daughter is my life. I can’t walk away from her. Whether I’m her real father, or whether she’s the spawn of the rapid breeder, or whether she’s yours, for that matter.”

“One thing I can assure you is that I am not the father. She’s older than I am, for one thing. Plus, I don’t think it’s biologically possible. To be honest, we were even surprised about the hedgehog thing working.”

“I was just speaking metaphorically. Although I suppose she does have your coloring. On a different subject, and this is a little embarrassing to ask, but I really need to use a bathroom. Do you think there’s one around here? Maybe in that house?”

“Well, it’s late. It’s four a.m., so maybe I should say it’s early. I don’t want to wake Marta up, but actually, if you’re willing, I know a way in. It involves a little tunneling. And you’re a big guy, so it could be tricky, but…”

“Yeah, well, do what you’ve got to do, but I really need to pee.”

“You only need to pee? Lars, may I just point out that we’re in an open field and you’re the only human who’s awake in the radius of about a mile.”

“I know, but, still, that’s kind of who I am.”

“That’s ridiculous, but it’s also good, since we need another telling detail about you for your reconstruction. The light thing is distinctive, but it’s also part of the whole insanity thing that we really need to lose. So this is a much better start: Lars is a man who does not like to pee outdoors.”

“I wish it could be a little more romantic, somehow, like that I can bench-press a hundred and seventy pounds, or that I play a mean bass guitar.”

“Can you? Do you? You don’t need to answer that, since I think I know. We want this to be a truthful reconstruction. Okay, listen, mate, scrape yourself off the ground and follow me. We’re gonna do a little hop over to the grow house…”

“But…”

“But nothing. No worries. Just do it, as they say in Nikeland. I’ve got your spleen right here.”

ELSA

We have just finished filling in the color on the rabbit’s tail when the Stager crumples. First she sinks into a squatting position, then she leans forward, and even though it looks like she’s going to collapse onto her stomach, her body contorts as she falls, and she winds up sprawled on her back. Her eyes are wide open, but when I ask her if we should mix some white paint in with the beige to brighten the color, her answer comes out as gibberish. Then her eyes roll back, the lids close, and she begins to snore. I have to shout her name and then kick her a couple of times until she stands up so I can help her onto my bed, which we somehow managed to move to the center of the room before we started painting.

The bed now covers up the worst part of the carpet stain, but it looks awkward in this spot, and we haven’t entirely solved the problem, since you can still see small red footprints leading to the bathroom. We agreed we’d clean those up after we finished our mural, but nothing is going quite as planned. The bed is big and heavy, and as we pushed it, a couple of the boards under the mattress collapsed, and now it’s sloping down on the right, like a boat in the process of capsizing. I get the Stager onto the mattress but wonder how long she’ll be able to stay where she is before she’ll start to slide off.

Her limbs are splayed all over the place, like she’s fallen down in the middle of dancing. Her shoes are still on her feet, so I take them off and then try to get her into a more organized position. I cross her arms, but that makes her look too stiff, like she’s dead, so I try to make her look more casual, with one arm up and one arm across her chest, but that makes it look like she’s doing the Pledge of Allegiance. It also doesn’t help that the bed has just made a loud creaking noise and the mattress sloped down even farther. I stare at her for a minute, trying to think what I might do to help her improve, and remember the lipstick in her bag. It’s a beautiful color—a bright shade of red called “Lust,” and I apply it to her lips, but it’s harder than it looks to apply lipstick to a person who is asleep, because to put lipstick on properly it’s helpful to open your mouth a bit, and then smack your lips together on a tissue, like my mother does. My attempt to fix it with the lipstick pencil in her bag only makes it worse. I really don’t know what I’m supposed to do at this point, either with the passed-out Stager or my messed-up room or the giant unfinished rabbit on my wall, so I recalibrate, and decide to go outside and do a little dancing in the street. But first I put on my blue ballerina tutu, even though it’s from three years ago and it’s too small.

I take my phone and the speakers and plug it in by the front door, and turn up the volume as loud as it goes. Then I go into the street and begin to twirl. The Stager was right—it really is a beautiful song, almost magical. I close my eyes and think of fairy cakes and of the animals at Unfurlings and of the Stager, how fun and happy she is. I twirl and twirl until I’m dizzy. Then I stop until I feel better, and begin to twirl in the other direction.

I remember how much fun we had in New Orleans, when everyone was tossing beads and dancing and singing and being friendly, like the whole city was having a party and everyone was invited. I wonder why it can’t be like that here at The Flanders.

I’m having fun, but there’s still something a little weird about twirling by myself in the middle of the street. I wonder if people are staring out the windows at me. I wish a marching band would come along, or even a dog or a family with a kid, but no one in my neighborhood ever walks anywhere. Even on the golf course they ride around on little carts. Although there are no people, there are more cars coming down the street than I would have thought, and they all keep honking at me. When I shout to them that they should stop and dance in the street, they just honk again. Someone even leans out the window and gives me the middle finger and tells me to get out of the effing middle of the road.

Then a fancy black car with tinted windows pulls up and stops. The door opens, and out comes a leg with a red high heel. I wonder if a movie star is coming to visit our neighborhood, or maybe even to buy our house. A second later, I find myself staring at my mom, and all I can think to say is “Wow, I love your new shoes!” But then I stop, confused.

“Wait, how could you be here? You were just talking to Nabila on the phone! I thought you were still in London.”

“No, sweetheart. I just landed at Dulles. When I spoke to Nabila it was from the airport.”

“Oh, I see,” I say. But I don’t, really, and I wonder if it would be that difficult for someone, every once in a while, to tell me what’s going on. I hadn’t realized my mom was on her way home, and maybe if I had, I wouldn’t have tucked the delirious Stager into my bed.

“Anyway, the real question is, what are you doing out here in that old tutu, spinning around in the middle of the road? It’s dangerous. And the tutu is too small.”

“I’m dancing in the street. The Stager says the thing that’s wrong with the world is that no one dances anymore. Or at least they don’t dance in the street.”

“But they do Zumba!”

“I know, right? That’s what I said!”

“It’s dangerous to dance in the street. That’s why you don’t see people doing it so much.”

“I know, but I’m looking out for cars, so don’t worry. The Stager says dancing in the street is a way to be joyful.”

A minivan comes speeding down the road and honks at us, and my mom shoots me a look that means “I told you so.” She leans back into the black car and signs a credit-card slip; then the driver gets out of the car and comes around to the trunk to get her suitcase, and we go to the front of our house.

“Wow, the door is very white and …
streaky
.” My mom doesn’t sound happy about this.

“Well, it’s going to be red. The Stager just hasn’t finished yet. That’s primer.”

“Oh. Well, that’s good news, I suppose. But, still, it’s getting a little late to be painting, isn’t it? The open house is tomorrow.”

“Yeah, she’s just super-busy, Mom, but she’ll do it. She’s great. You’ll love her.”

“I thought she was finished.”

“Well, she is, almost, but she just came back to fix the flowers and finish painting the door.”

“I love those geraniums,” my mom says. “I should have thought of putting planters by the door. Funny how people wait until they are selling their houses to fix them up. It’s really a waste, if you think about it.” Then she opens the door and steps into the foyer. “Holy Mother of God, what is that smell?”

“What smell?”

“How can you not smell that smell?”

“I don’t smell anything. I mean, I did—it was really bad before the Stager came, but she fixed the smell. It turned out Dominique had chewed through the…”

“Yes, I know all about that, but it still smells rancid.”

“Really? Weird. I mean, it still smelled bad after the Stager cleaned out the freezer, but then she opened all the windows and the doors—that was how Dominique ran away—and it got better. I guess it’s true, it did get bad again the next day, but we all figured it was still part of the same smell that was just kind of … well, doing whatever smells do. And then maybe we just all got used to it?”

“I don’t know how you could get used to this!” My mom starts opening windows and she makes a gagging sound. Then she stops and stares for a minute at the green table in the foyer before stating the obvious: “The pig and the yellow painting and the tribal elder from Botswana are gone.”

“Yeah, the Stager said we had to
depersonalize.
”

“I suppose that makes sense. Where is this Stager? I’d like to meet her, and also talk to her about fixing this smell.”

“She had to leave early,” I lie. “Also, even though she can fix smells and stuff, she’s not a cleaning lady, you know. She used to be a journalist! She’ll be back later to finish up. Can we play a game?”

“She used to be a journalist, eh? Listen, sweetheart, I can’t wait to catch up properly, and to hear about your week, and play games. But right now I’d like to get this Stager person out of our lives, plus I’m worried sick about your father. Where’s Nabila? I’ve tried to call her, but she isn’t answering her phone. Is she upstairs? We’ll play a game later.”

I’m not sure what to do. I don’t want to get Nabila in trouble for leaving me alone, even though I wasn’t alone, obviously, but I also don’t want to draw attention to the Stager in my bed, so I lie a second time. “She’s here somewhere. Maybe she’s just taking a nap.”

“Well, she shouldn’t be napping when she’s supposed to be looking for your father and watching you. Let’s rouse her!” My mom speed-dials Nabila, and we hear a sound emanating from the kitchen. My mom and I walk into the room and stare at the phone as it lights up blue and vibrates, skittering along the table.

“See, she’s here somewhere,” I say.

“Okay, well, I think the first thing I want to do, before I set out to find your dad, is change my clothes.”

“No! Don’t change, Mom, you look beautiful!” She does look beautiful, but my real reason for saying this is that I don’t want her to go upstairs.

“Thanks, sweetheart, but I’m really uncomfortable in these heels, and it’s already been a pretty long day for me. I had a meeting at eight a.m., then a quick TV gig, then this flight. My God, what a long day. Really, what a long
week
! I think blue jeans are just the thing.”

“No! You look terrible in blue jeans. You’re not a blue-jeans kind of mom.”

“I’m not sure how to take that,” she says. “But I’ll just take it as a compliment. I’m not sure what I think of all those blue-jean moms you see out on the field-hockey field.”

I’m sure how to take
that
. Some of those moms actually seem pretty nice. She begins to walk toward the staircase. I throw myself at her and hold her tight. “Please, just stay here for a minute. You’ve been gone forever. At least sit down and have a snack.”

She looks annoyed, but then says, “Okay, I’ll sit for a minute and we can catch up. Actually, I’d love a cup of tea. Is there anything in that teapot?”

“No.”

But there is, and she feels it and says, “It’s still warm.” Then she gets out a mug and begins to pour it.

“No, Mom! That’s bad tea. You really don’t want any.”

“What are you talking about?” She takes a sip.

“It’s herbal tea. From Unfurlings. It doesn’t taste very good.”

She spits it out into the sink. “My God! Get that tea out of here! Pour it down that drain! There are rumors that they’re growing and selling opium over there. I seriously hope you haven’t been drinking that stuff!”

“Me, no! I hate tea. Isn’t opium a perfume? Is that why it tastes like flowers?”

“Do you have the tea leaves?”

I hand my mom the baggie with the leaves, and she opens it and dumps the tea leaves—or, rather, the opium leaves—down the drain. Then she pours what’s left in the teapot down the drain, too. “It comes from poppies, which, yes, are flowers. How did you get that stuff, anyway?”

I shrug my shoulders and think of blackmail.

“Okay, look, sweetie, I’m going to run upstairs to change clothes, and then I’m going to look for your dad.”