Hot Springs (5 page)

“We’re going to turn you auburn. It’s a great color. I had nothing but fun when I was auburn.” She looked up and down the aisle, but they were alone.

“I think I like my hair the way it is,” said Emily.

“I know you do.” Bernice touched her hair, enjoying how thick it was. She imagined Tessa Harding doing this same thing. She couldn’t believe she’d allowed herself to miss so much of Emily’s life, but while she could not unmake the past, or ever really alleviate her guilt, she could still maintain some purchase on the future. She straightened the visor, which was falling down over the child’s eyes. “We need to make you look different.”

“Why?”

“Because people are going to be trying to find you.”

Emily coughed, a tiny, abrupt sound.

“I mean, maybe. Don’t worry about it. OK, let’s get out of this ice-house.” Bernice took her hand and they made their way to the front, where
only two registers out of ten were open. They stood behind a woman who was buying three cases of store-brand cola and four bags of cat litter.

“Well, hello,” said the woman, looking down at Emily and ignoring Bernice entirely. “Aren’t you a lovely child? Would you like a soda?” She was pear-shaped, in a violet tracksuit, and had a nose that seemed too small for the rest of her face. Her sandals were gold, and her nails were painted a vivid shade of red. Tough Tucson toenails. Bernice imagined those toenails plowing their way through thick pile carpet in a hideous house with a private pool and a TV in every room.

“No,” said Emily. “I wouldn’t.”

“You tell her,” said Bernice.

“I guess politeness is no longer something that gets taught to children,” said the woman, looking at Bernice like her head was smoking.

“I guess some people don’t know when to mind their own business,” said Bernice. “What makes you think she’d want a cheap, warm soda? We have drinks at home.”

“I’m sure you do,” the woman said, eyeing the bottle in Bernice’s basket. She turned away and began lugging her colas up onto the belt.

“I don’t want my hair dyed,” said Emily. “I like it how it is.”

Oh, Christ, Bernice thought, here it comes. Sure enough, the woman turned around again. “You’re not dyeing that child’s hair, are you?”

“Not this minute.”

“But you are later?”

“Maybe.”

“Then what? Will you get her a tattoo?”

“If she wants one, she can have one. She can have two.”

“That’s criminal,” said the woman. “Putting chemicals on a little girl’s head.”

“Hey, how’d you like one of those cans shoved up your ass?” asked Bernice, stepping forward. She knew the switch had been thrown—she
could feel herself losing control. She wished Landis were there.

The two security guards were beside her before she even understood that the woman had complained, or perhaps she hadn’t and the checker had summoned them with some secret button. They were polite, but insistent. “We’re going to have to ask you to leave,” said the larger of the two. He had acne-pitted cheeks, a moustache, and looked like a character from a Western movie.

“Not without my ice cream,” she said.

“She threatened me,” said the woman with the sandals. “Keep her away from me.”

And then they had her, each with a firm grasp on one of her arms. Emily dutifully tagged alongside. The ice cream and hair dye and the margaritas had been taken from her. She felt the hot air of the parking lot, saw in the distance a horizon of low mountains and craggy rocks pointing up like broken teeth. “Hey,” she said. “This isn’t right. You can’t do this. I’m a mother.”

“We’re sorry,” said the one with the moustache. The other was shorter, darker, possibly Native American. He hadn’t said anything, and he didn’t seem very interested in any of this. “I’m going to have to ask you not to come back.”

Bernice shook herself loose from him. “You get your kicks doing that?” she asked. “Pushing women around? What if I told them inside that you touched my breast just now?”

He shrugged. “I didn’t. Anyway, you’re not going back inside. That’s the whole point.”

“You don’t understand,” said Bernice. “My daughter wants pistachio ice cream. That rhinoceros in there insulted me.”

“I’m sorry, Ma’am.” He looked down at Emily, who was standing in the sun with her hands folded in front of her. He smiled. “What’s your name?” he said.

“Don’t start,” said Bernice, taking Emily’s hand and hauling her off toward the car. “Let’s go find a store that isn’t run by fascists.”

They drove over to Oracle, the next big intersection, where there was another shopping center, but they didn’t have pistachio ice cream in the smaller, crummier market there, so Bernice chose chocolate, which was what she’d rather have had anyway. They sold premixed margaritas, too, for a dollar more, but she bought a bottle anyway, figuring it was worth it, considering the way her day had gone so far. She decided maybe the lady had been right about the hair dyeing, and she didn’t even look for another box. Perhaps they should have thought up something clever to put the Hardings off track, like smashing the TV or writing odes to Satan on the bathroom mirror. Instead, they had taken clothes and even Emily’s toothbrush. And they hadn’t left a ransom note. Kidnappers always wanted a ransom. Changing Emily’s hair color wasn’t likely to solve much.

She found her way back to the Linda Vista apartments, turning in just after the bouquet of colorful balloons tied to the sign that advertised First Month Free!, negotiated the speed bumps in the asphalt and circled around to the back, past the recycling station, to 13F. It was like being a bee and knowing which square of the honeycomb was yours. Each building was exactly the same light-colored fake adobe, with metal stairs outside that thunked as you climbed them. Sprinklers embedded in the ground came on and off unpredictably in a weak attempt at keeping the lawn areas between the sidewalks green.

“You want to watch some TV, or go back out by the pool?” she asked Emily, once they were back inside. She had been surprised by how characterless Gillian’s apartment was, like a hotel room. If this was life as a professional person, Gillian could have it. She worked for
some data company these days, and on weekends she golfed. There were clubs in the hall closet, along with a mostly deflated silvery heart-shaped balloon that said Be My Valentine! on it, with a blue ribbon tied to the end. Gillian’s boyfriend, Kirk, was a systems consultant, whatever that meant. Bernice suspected it meant he ironed his jeans.

Emily stiffened slightly, as if considering a complicated question she’d been asked, then threw up on the white living-room carpet.

“Damnit,” said Bernice. She hesitated between the urgency of getting to the child and that of getting to the paper-towel dispenser in the kitchen, then decided on the dispenser. She tore about fifteen sheets off and hurried over, handing a big hunk to Emily and pressing the rest onto the soft pile in front of her. It stunk and was hot under her hand, but there wasn’t much substance to it—Emily’s diet had consisted almost entirely of pasta with butter on it, peanut butter on Saltines, water, and an occasional slice of American cheese. “She likes the beige foods,” Landis had commented.

Bernice turned her attention to Emily, whose face was hot and devoid of color. “Do you want to lie down, sweetie?” she asked. “What happened?”

“I don’t feel good,” she said.

“Well, I guess that’s pretty clear. Couldn’t you at least have tried for the toilet? This isn’t our house. We’re guests here, and we need to be the kind of guests that people are happy to have around, because we don’t know how long we might need to stay.”

“I don’t want to stay here,” said Emily.

“Not permanently. Permanently we’ll be someplace really nice, where you can have your own room just like you’re used to, and Mommy can have a nice work space to do art.” As she was saying it, it occurred to her that the vision she’d had all along for them was
basically the Hardings’ house, only without the Hardings in it. A modern house with all the amenities and high ceilings and a mountain view, with a garage big enough for a workbench and fireplaces on both floors. It was pathetic. They’d never live even remotely that way. Instead, it was going to be more trailer parks, almost certainly. She hated Landis for letting her count on him and then running. She hated herself for being so incompetent that she couldn’t even manage to buy her own daughter a pint of ice cream without getting hauled out of the store.

“Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego,” said Emily.

“What. What is it?”

“Went into the fiery furnace. But they praised the Lord and they didn’t get burned up.”

“You’re not in the fiery furnace, so you don’t have to praise anyone. Don’t make me have to hire one of those deprogrammers.”

At this, Emily suddenly looked as if she might cry, and Bernice, seized by love for her, held out her arms. She hugged her tight against her, felt as if she might never be able to let go, as if she were holding on to herself as much as another person. Finally, she picked her up and carried her into the small extra bedroom they were sharing, with its futon and the desk with Gillian’s fax machine. She laid her down on the blue comforter and pulled a light blanket over her, gave her a couple of stuffed animals for company.

“I’m going out to work more on that carpet,” she said. “You take a nap, all right?”

Emily nodded. “I think I should have a new name,” she said.

“You do?”

“So they can’t find me.”

“Who?”

“Whoever it is who might come.”

“But you’ll still look the same.”

“But I won’t be. I’ll be Pearl.”

“Your new name is going to be Pearl?”

She nodded again.

“I don’t know if I like it. It’s a little unusual.” But she had to admit, changing names wasn’t a bad idea. She might even want to change her own. “Can we think about it?”

“Uh-huh.”

“We’ll let it sit for a while, and then if it still seems like a good idea, we’ll go with it.” There was a boom box on the desk, and she turned it on to a station that had quiet jazz. “Is that OK?” she asked.

“I like Christian music,” Emily said. She’d said this in the car, too. Bernice remembered the mismatch of the Hardings’ tastes: David blasted loud rock in his SUV, sometimes sitting in the driveway when he returned from work until whatever inane praise song was on finished; Tessa practiced Mozart on the piano in the dining room every evening.

“I’ll bet you do.” She played with the dial until she found a country station, which she figured was a reasonable compromise. She turned the volume way down until it was just a twangy murmur, kissed Emily, then went back out to the living room to see how the carpet was looking.

“I bought more spaghetti. It was all I could think of.” Gillian put the bags she was carrying down in the kitchen. Her eyes were puffy and dark, her shoulder-length hair limp and streaky-blonde. She wore a pale pink suit with a low-cut, white blouse underneath it, which contrasted with her tan skin. Gillian was Bernice’s one
remaining friend from her time in Atlanta. The two had met on karaoke night at Apex, a Virginia Highland neighborhood bar where Bernice had made herself a regular and where they never carded. Gillian had just been laid off by Delta. Thinking she looked sad, Bernice had persuaded the bartender to buy her a free drink, then delivered it to Gillian herself saying brightly, “Who died?” They’d gotten drunk on gin and tonics and sung the Styx song “Sail Away” together, bringing an audience of thirty to its feet cheering when it was over. Despite the fact that Gillian was seven years older, they had become tight as sisters, but then Gillian had left for the Southwest. Bernice understood it was not about her, but she’d still felt abandoned.

Bernice stood and turned off the TV. “Great. Our fave. Something wrong?”

“I’m dumped. By e-mail, no less.” She started putting things away. The bracelets on her wrists jangled as she worked.

“That’s cowardly.”

“Ungrateful bastard.” She examined a can of salmon. “Why did I buy this? I’ll never eat it. Here”—she held it out—“you take it.”

“Take it where?” said Bernice.

“I don’t even like salmon. He likes salmon. I just pretended I did. And I pretended so long that I apparently forgot. I forgot.”

“Throw it out. Donate it to charity. It’s just a can of salmon.”

“No, no, don’t you see? It’s a symbol of how pathetic I am.”

“You’re not pathetic. You have a wonderful life here. I’m impressed.” Bernice looked at the can, which was green with pink writing. “I’m sure he’s not good enough for you. And he’s obviously stupid.”

“He isn’t—he isn’t stupid. He makes seventy thousand dollars a year, and he plays guitar in a band. He’s really talented.” She took
the empty grocery bags and balled them up, then deposited them in the trash.

“Why do boys all think they have to be in bands? Does the world need all these bands? It’s like, just in case you thought they were only Peter Parker, they want you to know they’re really Spiderman.” Bernice sat on the floor. “I nearly got hauled off to the pokey today.”