The Wonder Bread Summer (10 page)

“Something like this would have happened with you eventually,” Kathy said. “I mean, look at your rock-’n’-roll-druggie mom.”

Allie hung up. The jaggedness in Kathy’s words stunned her.
Another time
, she said in her head. She would think about Kathy some other day. For now, she’d follow the advice Kathy had given her weeks ago for getting over Marc:
Imagine putting teeny, tiny Marc on a leaf, setting him in a stream, and letting him float away.
In her head Allie saw miniature business-skirt-bound Kathy, clinging to a spiky oak leaf like a drowning pinhead beetle, rushing down a white-water stream over craggy, giant rocks.

After several seconds with this fantasy, Allie felt better. She picked up the phone and called Kathy back.

“What?” Kathy said.

“Can you just tell me the name of the place where we ate so I can go get my car?”

“Manuel’s Taqueria,” Kathy said.

“Okay. Well, thank you for being my friend in high school. I needed you then.”

“Everyone’s got to move on, Allie,” Kathy said impatiently.

“The moving on’s already happened,” Allie said, and she hung up.

C
onsuela was drinking a cup of coffee and reading the paper at the kitchen table. She said something in Spanish to the paper as Allie entered, then looked up at Allie. “You okay? You want to go to the hospital now?”

“Do you mind if we go later?” Allie asked. “I’ve got to drive up to Santa Barbara to see someone.”

“Sure. But if you drive all the way to Santa Barbara, we can’t go to the hospital today. At three I have to pick up my kids from their fancy camp that Roger pays for, and I don’t want to take them to the hospital.”

“Roger pays for the camp?”

“Oh yeah,” Consuela said. “He pays for all the kids in the neighborhood to go to a fancy camp in Beverly Hills. He’s a good man. Even if he does that nasty porno.”

“What are your kids’ names?” Allie asked. She had a feeling that Consuela was probably the best mother in the world.

“Jesus and Maria.” Consuela pronounced them Hay-soos and Ma-ree-ah.

“Jesus and Maria,” Allie said, mimicking her.

“Yeah. Or Jesus and Mary!” Consuela laughed.

“I want to have kids and name them Jesus and Maria,” Allie said, using the Spanish pronunciation again. She was serious. She wanted to
be
Consuela and be married to Jorge and make tamales and talk to the radio and talk to the newspaper and take in stray, smashed girls, and let them sleep in the kids’ beds, and laugh at nothing or everything.

“You could! No qualifications needed, you just have the kids and name them!” Consuela laughed again.

“Hey, do you think you could drive me to my car?” Allie hated to ask another favor of Consuela, but calling a cab seemed like one more place where trouble could occur.

“Where is it?” Consuela asked.

“Manuel’s Taqueria.”

“That’s at the end of this street!” Consuela said. “But I’ll drive you if you don’t want to walk.”

A
llie had her purse on her shoulder, the bread bag in one hand and a grocery bag with tamales, a warm can of Tab, and a baggie of homemade tortilla chips in the other. Consuela had wanted to pack homemade salsa for Allie, too, but she couldn’t find a container that wouldn’t leak.

There were many cars in the parking lot of Manuel’s. The lunch crowd, Allie supposed. She opened the door of the Prelude, dropped the bread bag and grocery bag on the floor, put her purse on the seat beside her, and started the engine. As she was backing out, three women in jewel-colored suits walked across the parking lot into the restaurant. Allie wished that if she weren’t Consuela, she were one of them. They clearly had jobs. Apartments for which they’d paid the rent. No best friends who dumped them. No boyfriends who stole student loans. No coke in a bread bag. No fathers with changing phone numbers and closed-down restaurants. No missing mothers. When those three women entered Manuel’s Taqueria, they knew exactly how long they’d stay and where they’d go next—everything in perfect order. Allie, on the other hand, felt her life made as much sense as a raven at a writing desk.

Chapter 6

A
fter having rolled down her window three times at traffic lights to get directions from neighboring cars, Allie finally made it onto 101 North, headed toward Santa Barbara. About sixty miles away from Santa Barbara, she picked up KTYD, a radio station that seemed to be playing only songs she knew by heart. So the last hour flew by: Allie ate tamales, drank Tab, and belted out Eagles, Police, Jackson Browne, Eurythmics, Stevie Nicks, Rolling Stones, and Little Feat.

Allie turned down the radio as she pulled into town and followed signs to State Street. It was perfectly clear and sunny, as if everything she saw before her had been sliced out with a razor blade. Allie opened the moon roof and pushed the buttons to bring down all four windows.

At the first stoplight, Allie asked a brown-haired surfer in the crosswalk how to get to the Biltmore Hotel.

“Huh?” he asked, and leaned his long, dark body into her window.

“Do you know where the Biltmore Hotel is?” Allie asked. She pulled her head back so their faces weren’t so close. There was something about his lanky limbs and thin neck that reminded her of Mowgli from
The Jungle Book
. He didn’t resemble Mike in Los Angeles, but the fact that he looked like a surfer, like Mike, made Allie feel slightly edgy and suspicious.

“Turn around, drive until you hit the beach, take a left and keep following the shoreline past the cemetery, up the hill.” The surfer jogged away from the window as the light changed.

It wasn’t hard to find the Biltmore. The hotel looked like a massive estate—a home for Thurston Howell III. It sat on a rolling green lawn that led straight to the ocean across the street. Like most of the buildings and homes in Santa Barbara, it was Spanish-style: stucco, red tile roof, arches, no sharp angles. Allie parked the car along the beach road. She pulled up the emergency brake and looked alternately at the hotel on her left and the beach on her right. A group of surfers in wetsuits were in the water, bobbing on their boards, resembling a flock of idling black ducks. Each time a wave came in, they all leaned forward and paddled toward it, trying to place themselves for the best ride. There was almost a politeness about the way they entered the waves, never running into each other, rarely cutting each other off. Mike was probably one of the few bad-spirited surfers in the world, Allie thought. But, still, she couldn’t look at this crowd without thinking of him.

Allie opened her purse and clawed through the rubbish for lipstick. She found the one Beth had given her. The lid was off and there were tobacco bits stuck to the tip from when she had carried a friend’s cigarettes in her purse. Allie dug around some more, found an old receipt, wiped off the tobacco, smoothed out the tip of the lipstick and put it on. Penny always seemed to take note of how Allie looked.

There were tobacco bits in her comb, too, but Allie ignored them as she picked through her red curls. She turned the rearview toward herself and examined her face. Maybe mascara would help, but the one she had was like rubbery, black bread crumbs. She licked her first finger and smoothed each of her brows into a gentle arc. Allie’s eyebrows were light brown, as was her body hair. The first time Marc saw her naked he asked if she was a natural redhead. She was. It was the only thing she had, besides her almond eyes, that she thought made her look interesting. Maybe the freckles helped, too.

“Go in,” Allie told herself, aloud. She looked at the hotel again, then picked up her purse and the grocery bag that now held trash. The bread bag she left behind on the floor of the car under the seat.

The Biltmore lobby had a thick, glossy, red-tile floor and tapestry couches. Allie walked past the front desk, stuffed her plastic trash bag into the open hole of a copper ashtray stand, then dropped down onto the end of a couch. She sunk in deep, as if she were made of heavy stone, and slouched against the big, padded armrest. She would sit there and wait until her mother walked in or out.

Allie flopped her head onto the armrest—she was woozy with tiredness. She dropped her Candie’s mules on the floor and tucked her bare feet under her bottom like a nesting flamingo. And then she was asleep.

T
here was murmuring near her. Allie opened her eyes. A couple was on the couch beside her, whispering. Allie was nearly certain that they had said something about Jet Blaster. She sat up and looked at them.

The woman had gray hair down to her waist and was wearing a dress that looked like a Navajo blanket. The man had hair like a fur cap. Their faces were pointed toward the center of the lobby as they talked to each other. The woman said it again, this time more clearly:
Jet Blaster
.

Allie looked to where their eyes were directed and saw a small circle of people, but no Jet. And then someone shifted to the right and Allie could see Jet signing autographs for a group of middle-aged women who were mostly taller than he. Allie always wondered if one of the reasons he chose Penny that night at the concert was because she was small, three inches shorter than Jet (and fifteen inches shorter than Allie’s dad).

Allie sat up and slipped on her shoes. Her eyes stayed on Jet as she approached him. The women made room for her but stayed close themselves. It was obvious they were hoping for something more to happen.

“Hey,” Allie said. She tried not to smile, but she couldn’t help it. Smiling was a reflex trained into her mouth by Wai Po
(A SMILE WORTH A THOUSAND OUNCES OF GOLD; A PERSON WITHOUT SMILING FACE MUST NEVER OPEN A SHOP; A SMILE GAIN YOU TEN MORE YEARS OF LIFE; IF YOU HAVE NOTHING ELSE TO OFFER, OFFER YOUR SMILE)
.

“Hey!” Jet had the same wolfish grin for her as he did for the women standing by.

“How’s it going?” Allie stepped back so she could take in his outfit: a black snakeskin coat that only went as far as his waist, a fishnet shirt, black leather pants with laces in place of a zipper.

“Jet Blaster,” he said, and stuck out his dainty, manicured hand.

“It’s me. Allie.” Allie hadn’t seen him in over two years, but she didn’t think she looked that different.

“Allie! Great! Come back to the room with me, we’ll chat.” Jet linked his arm into Allie’s and waved good-bye to the women. He didn’t speak until they were in the elevator.

“Whole place is only two flights, but it’s easier not to run into my fans on the stairs.” Jet winked. He still hadn’t unhooked his arm from Allie’s. She felt heat where their elbows touched. Jet had never been affectionate with her; in fact, he’d barely looked her way each time Allie had visited Penny. Allie had always imagined that he hated the fact that Penny had a kid, was still married, even, and didn’t belong to him alone.

“You look gorgeous,” Jet said. Allie stared at his hair, which was unnaturally black and as glossy as a beetle’s carapace. She wondered how her mother could ever touch that hair. “You were at the Grambier concert, right?”

“What? No. I haven’t seen you since the Hollywood Bowl concert two years ago.” Allie pulled her arm away and stepped ahead as the doors opened.

“No, I’m positive you were at Grambier.” Jet caught up and put his palm on Allie’s lower back. His boots had what looked like a three-inch heel, but he was still only eye-level with her.

Jet unlocked the door to the suite, opened it, and motioned with his arm for Allie to enter. She saw her mother’s yellow satin nightgown draped over the bed. Penny had always worn nightgowns, hemming them by hand in front of the TV at night.

“Well, maybe it wasn’t Grambier, but wherever it was it was a helluva fucking fun time,” Jet said, and he unlaced his pants and laid a delicate, pointed penis in his palm. Allie was so surprised by the sight of this, his pale fingerling of a dick surrounded by chaparral-like pubic hair, that she didn’t quite register what was happening until Jet put his hand on the back of Allie’s head and tried to direct her down.

“HEY!” Allie bucked up. “Jet, it’s me. ALLIE.”

“Allie?” Jet said her name half-smiling, eyes nervously darting around the room as if he expected a whole party of past lovers and girlfriends to pop out and yell
Surprise!

“Allie! Penny’s daughter Allie!” Allie glanced down at the dick. He still hadn’t tucked it away. She found it obscene, slimy-looking. An overgrown slug.

“OH, Jesus Christ! Allie!” Jet laughed, flicked his penis in, and tightened his laces. “Sorry about that! I thought you were this girl I met in Ohio at a concert there.”

“No.” Allie sat in the oversize chair and crossed her legs. Her brain was spinning: her mother had left their family for a small-penised man who took blow jobs from girls at concerts; this same man had just tried to get Allie to give him a blow job; additionally, he was dressed like a middle-schooler on Halloween.

“Wow, sorry. But—” Jet put his palms up and shrugged.

“You’re some boyfriend,” Allie mumbled. She still felt like a kid around Jet and couldn’t summon the nerve to directly confront him.

“Oh please.” Jet waved his hand, then sat on the edge of the bed. “You don’t even know what you’re talking about. Your mother and I have an open relationship. She’s probably off fucking some surfer right now while I’m sitting here babysitting her daughter.”

“You’re hardly babysitting me,” Allie said.

“Well you’re hardly handling this like a grown-up. It was a reasonable mistake.” Jet fell back on the bed and ran his hands through his hair. Allie wanted to leave but she knew the only way to her mother was Jet.

“Listen,” Jet said, staring at the ceiling. He had beady little insect eyes. “Since you are grown-up, and your mother is who-knows-where—” He sat up and slapped his dainty hand against his crotch. “There wouldn’t be anything wrong with us having a little fun together.” He smiled, revealing pointy eyeteeth that were longer than his front teeth.

Allie jerked her head away like a kid who wouldn’t eat what was being handed her. She refused to look at him. Was her mother truly foolish enough to be in love with such a puny-minded egomaniac? Then again, she herself had fallen in love with a guy who absconded with her student loan and scholarship money. Allie hoped that by the time she was Penny’s age, she would outgrow such idiocies.

“Okay, okay, sorry.” Jet exhaled and flopped back onto the bed. “But I seriously have no idea where your mom is.”

“She’s still with the band, isn’t she?” Allie felt a stone rising in her throat like an elevator. She needed her mother now. She needed someone who cared whether Allie lived or died. Someone who wouldn’t dismiss Allie as a complete dumbass for having tried coke and then stolen it.

“Yeah, yeah, she’s still with the band. I just mean, there’s no point in your hanging out here because who knows if she’ll even show up.”

Allie didn’t trust Jet. She figured that now that he knew there was no way he was getting a blow job, he wanted her out of the room. “Well, she’ll have to be here in time to leave for the show. When’s the sound check?” As a young girl, Allie had loved mentioning the sound check to her friends. It made her feel important, an insider:
“Well first I went to my mom’s sound check and then I went to Fleetwood Mac’s sound check, but their sound check didn’t go off too well because Stevie’s mic was feeding back.”

“Four thirty.” Jet flipped onto his belly so he could read the clock on the nightstand. “Fuck!” He rolled onto his back and sat up.

“It’s four thirty now,” Allie said, and she stood. “Do you think I can have a ride to wherever the concert is so I can find my mom?”

“Oh, she wouldn’t go there without me. She’ll be here any second.” And then, like a cue in a stage show, the door opened and Penny popped her head in.

“Jet!” she said. “We’re supposed to be there
now
!”

“Hey Mom!” Allie was surprised by the choking happiness that beat in her throat. She rushed to her mother.

“Allie! What are you doing here?!” Penny stepped in, let the door shut behind her, and hugged Allie, enveloping her in that familiar smell: Giorgio perfume and old blankets. Penny looked smaller than ever. She was dressed like Pocahontas in suede fringe pants and a suede fringe vest. Her hair was lighter than Allie remembered, more dark brown than black, and with a slight wave, as if she had gone to bed with it damp.

“Can I come to the concert with you?” Allie asked.

“We don’t have any backstage passes,” Jet said. He was off the bed now and was finger-combing his hair in the wall mirror.

“They’re really strict about the passes.” Penny gave an exaggerated pout.

“Mom! I’m your daughter! And we haven’t seen each other in two years!” The happiness was curdling in Allie’s throat. She was strangely amnesiac when it came to her mother: always anticipating some great, joyful love, only to be disappointed, every single time.

“I know.” Penny’s pout turned into a clowny fake-frown. “But I didn’t know you were coming. And I gave the two passes we had to the salesgirl at this little clothing store where I got this outfit—”

“Where are the fucking clothes you left the hotel with?” Jet asked.

“She’s sending them over here. I didn’t feel like hauling them around with me all day and I wanted to wear this.” Penny’s pouty voice vanished when she talked to Jet.

“How much is that going to cost me?!”

“You can afford it!” Penny spoke sharply, revealing a hint of a Chinese accent. Wai Po had spoken like Chinese characters in Jerry Lewis movies. But Penny, who didn’t seem to have inherited any features from her white father, sounded as American as she was. Or, as one saleswoman at the I. Magnin department store said when Allie and her mother were shopping years ago, “You sound so normal!”

“Just because I can afford it doesn’t mean you should waste my money on it! Let’s go!” Jet walked toward the door, opened it, and pulled Penny out by the arm.

“I’ll go with you.” Allie tamped down her disappointment and rushed alongside her mother to the elevator.

“But really, sweetie, we don’t have a pass for you!” Penny pushed the L button, then stuck her fingers into Allie’s curls. “Doesn’t she have the prettiest hair?” she asked Jet.