Love Stories in This Town (8 page)

“I bet you could tell some stories, Cal,” said Lola.

Cal took a toothpick from a box underneath the counter and put it in his mouth. “No,” he said.

“Can of Bud,” said a man on Lola's left, leaning his elbow on the counter. His cracked leather jacket smelled like sweat. The man had very small feet in pointy boots. Cal cracked the can open with a sharp sound and set it on the counter. The man pulled out some dirty bills, and then twisted the tab back and forth, waiting for his change. He finally broke the tab off and left it on the bar, taking a swig of his can on the way back to his table.

“Come on, Cal,” said Lola. “What about love stories?”

Cal sighed, and out of the corner of Lola's eye, she saw the white wine woman reach out. Her lips curled up—a flash of smile, and then it was gone—as she took the beer tab in her fingers, and stuck it behind her bra strap.

“There are no love stories in this town,” said Cal.

Nan and Claude

When her daughter, Lola, called to say she had eloped to Las Vegas, Nan Wilkerson drove straight to her hairdresser's house. Her appointment was not until the following Tuesday, but this was an emergency.

“Nan!” said Claude, opening the door. “What can I do for you?”

“I know it's Saturday,” said Nan, “but will you look at these bangs?”

“Hm,” said Claude, evaluating. He wore a white button-down shirt, untucked. Claude had his shirts made in his native Paris; the fit was so perfect that he returned each summer for a whole new set.

“I've got a big party tonight at the club,” said Nan. “Claude, you've got to help me.”

Claude nodded. “Come in,” he said.

Years ago, when Nan and Fred had just moved to Rye from the city, Claude had worked at Secrets Salon on Purchase Street. Nan could still remember her first visit to Secrets, the smell of expensive shampoo and ammonia. The salon was filled with young wives Nan wanted to befriend. She had always worn her dark hair in a low ponytail, but that wasn't going to cut it in Westchester.

As Claude had clipped Nan's hair into the style she would wear for the rest of her life, a mid-length bob with bangs, he'd peppered Nan with questions. Where did she live? (The Bruces' old house, on Dogwood Lane.) What did her husband do in the city? (Investment banking.) Golf or beach club? (Golf first—Apawamis, of course—and a beach club later, or even a place for a boat.) How many children did she hope for? (Three, maybe four.) And lastly, whirling her around to face the mirror, what did she think of the
new Nan Wilkerson
?

Nan put her hand over her mouth. It had taken over an hour, but Claude had transformed her into a different person. The sort of person she guessed she was now, a rich man's wife.

“Now get rid of the tennis tan,” said Claude, lifting the sleeve of her T-shirt and exposing the pale skin underneath. “Get a bikini, and some brighter lipstick,
cheri.”

Nan was a bit miffed, but knew he meant well. In fact, after buying groceries and gin, she stopped in Village Pharmacy and picked out a slim Revlon tube: Hot Coral.

“Whoa,” said Fred, when he arrived home that evening. “Who the hell are you, and what did you do with my wife?”

Nan smiled weakly. “Do you like it?”

“I don't know,” said Fred, “and that's the honest truth.”

“Well, let me know when you decide,” said Nan, in a playful tone.

“Sure will,” said Fred, making his way to the bar. “You get more gin?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Nan.

“There she is!” said Fred, as Lola, then a wild toddler with strawberry blond curls, came running toward him. But he continued fixing his drink, not bending to pick her up, though she stood with her arms extended, waiting.

It took the Wilkersons two years to get into the Apawamis Club, five more to become Golf Members. Nan worked her way up the Tennis Ladder, and made friends. She became accustomed to days of tennis and poolside lunches, then evenings in the Clubhouse. They moved from Dogwood Lane to a bigger house on Manursing Way. Fred, who had seemed so thrillingly complex and confusing when they were dating— he'd first kissed her in a darkened movie theater during a French film festival, Jacques Demy's
Lola
on the screen— grew fat and angry. He spent weekends drinking wine from a coffee mug and piloting his expensive sit-on-top lawn mower that maybe reminded him of his farm boy past, who knew.

But honestly, what were her options, and dwelling on it certainly didn't help matters. Dancing and cocktailing comforted her during Fred's moods and the three miscarriages. Fred was on a business trip when she lost the last baby, and he responded to her hysterical call by telling her that his meeting was crucial and he would see her at the end of the week. It was hard on him, too, Nan knew—an unhappy only child, Fred had always wanted a house full of children.

One night, when Lola was twelve, Fred didn't return from the city. Six o'clock came and went. Nan had an appointment with Claude that evening. He had recently left Secrets to start his own salon, Claude's. Getting an appointment was nearly impossible; Nan had been waiting for weeks. “Where the heck is your father?” she said, pacing around the new kitchen, peeking out the sliding glass doors for a glimpse of his BMW. Lola glared steadily at her mother.

“You know, honey,” said Nan, “I bet Claude could make your hair a touch less …”

“A touch less
what?”
said Lola, her voice dripping with displaced anger. She had been spraying hydrogen peroxide on her hair as she sunbathed, but instead of turning lighter, her hair had become a discomfiting orange. And the neon-colored nets she tied around her head like that singer, Madonna … It was hard to know where to start.

“Skip it,” said Nan.

“I can stay by myself, Mom,” said Lola. “It's not like I'm going to have a keg party or anything.”

“Well, and your father should be home any minute,” said Nan.

“My
father,”
said Lola, and then she made a dismissive
hah
.

Nan picked up her car keys and slipped them in the pocket of her pedal pushers. “I'll be back in two hours,” she said. “We can have microwave ribs.”

“I'm fine,” said Lola.

Nan looked at her for a moment. Clearly, she was not fine. She was confused, lonesome, and about to become a teenager. Nan's heart ached for her. “I love you,” said Nan.

“I love you, too,” said Lola forlornly, looking up at her mother. Nan went over and hugged Lola, held her close. Their Siamese cat, Bobby, jumped from Lola's lap to the floor. Nan smelled cigarette smoke in her daughter's clothes but said nothing.

“Do you think he's having an
affair?”
said Claude dramatically.

“Right,” said Nan, laughing. Claude pressed foil packets full of dye around chunks of her hair. “He's working on a very important deal,” said Nan, lying. In truth, as Fred's drinking had grown worse, he'd been cut out of the important deals. Late at night, Nan wondered if her husband would lose his job. Perhaps he had already lost it—he was a mystery to her.

“Of course,” said Claude. “He's a very important man, your Fred.”

“How is your lovely wife?” said Nan.

“She is wonderful,” said Claude.

Nan can still remember returning home that night, eating chewy barbecue while she watched
60 Minutes
. Lola came down stairs as Nan was doing the dishes. “He's left us,” said Lola, her eyes puffy from crying.

“What on earth are you talking about?” said Nan.

Lola pointed to their brand-new answering machine. Lola had held her boom box to its speaker the weekend before, painstakingly recording a snippet of song, some druggie woman singing, “If you want me, you can find me left of center, off of the strip.” After the song, Lola said flatly, “Please leave your name and number after the beep.”

Now, Nan pressed the red button. “Hello, Nan,” said Fred's voice. He was carefully enunciating, trying to pretend he was sober. “It's Fred. Look, the time has arrived for me to take a break. This whole lifestyle is killing me … the work, work, work, and you—always asking for more, more, more. It's never enough. I just can't do it. So, good-bye, Nan. I'm sorry. Lola, I love you, honey.”

Three weeks later, Nan used her daughter's Brother word processor to type up a resume. With shaking hands, she placed it on the desk of the Apawamis Club's personnel director, Kit MacMillan. “Is this a joke?” said Kit, taking off his bifocals to look at Nan.

“It's not a joke,” said Nan. “Fred left me.”

“Jesus H. Christ,” said Kit. But he hired her, and she began lessons right away. On the same court where she'd once reigned supreme, Nan taught her friends' children how to volley and use their backhand. Nan and Lola moved to a small house on the other side of Rye, near the YMCA. Nan's golf caddy lived across the street, and enjoyed fixing cars on his front lawn.

Nan decided that she could not live without Claude, though she could ill afford him. At her next appointment, Claude asked, “So give me the gossip,
cheri
. Was Fred planning a romantic surprise or working late? I want all the details.”

Nan contemplated telling the truth for a minute, but when she spoke, her voice was as breezy and sure as ever. “Just as I thought,” she said. “A big investment deal. Lucky for him, he did bring roses.” At the thought of Fred walking in the front door, holding a box from Rockridge Flowers, Nan's eyes welled up, but Claude was concentrating on her layers, and didn't notice.

“Roses?” said Claude. “So cliché.”

“I like roses,” said Nan softly. And then it was done: she took a deep breath and complained, as she always had, about the difficulties of managing a house and schisms at the club. As the weeks became months, Nan made up a boyfriend for Lola, fake promotions for Fred, imagined vacations to Venice and St. Barts.

Claude's life also took a turn for the worse: he was spotted inside an AIDS clinic in Port Chester, and as the visible signs of the disease began to appear, he closed Claude's. Whether there had ever been a lovely wife, no one knew for sure. Claude stopped mentioning her, in any case. But Nan continued to visit him twice a month for a cut-and-color at his home, and he pretended to believe she was planning a thirtieth anniversary bash. Maybe he did believe it. Claude's weight dwindled and spots appeared on his skin, but newer drugs kept him alive, and with him, Nan's dreams and her society wife hairdo.

After settling Nan into the salon chair he'd had installed in his guest bathroom, Claude said, “Now tell me about this party at the club.”

Nan thought about the photo her daughter had sent from Las Vegas: Lola and a boy drinking champagne, wearing rings. For her wedding, Lola had worn her hair in a ratty ponytail. “Well,” said Nan, trying to summon enthusiasm, “it's an engagement party! For Lola, if you can believe it.”

“No!” cried Claude.
“Quel surprise!
Tell me everything.”

“He's this wealthy boy,” said Nan, tipping her head back into Claude's bathroom sink. “Not that it matters, of course. From an oil family in Texas. He wears fancy leather boots with his suits!”

“And where will the wedding be?”

“At Apo, of course,” said Nan, though she knew full well the tennis pro was not allowed to have her daughter's wedding at the club, even if Nan had had the twenty grand it would take to pay for the buffet dinner and open bar. Even if Lola hadn't already eloped in the tackiest manner imaginable.

Claude massaged Nan's hair with love. He was the only man who'd touched her in years. He let the warm water run over her scalp, then wrapped her hair in a towel, not the plush ones he'd once had at the salon, but a yellow one, one he likely used himself. She sat up, and regarded herself in his bathroom mirror. Claude put his hands on her shoulders and squeezed. His eyes met hers. The smell of chemicals mixed with the leftover scent of Claude's dinner, most likely from the freezer, probably fish.

“And they'll live happily ever after,” said Claude.

She Almost Wrote Love

After his third marriage went bust, Lola considered finding a wife for her father. He had issues, there was no doubt: he was a terrible father, and unemployed. But there was a certain sweetness in him, despite the cigars and cheese-only diet he had put himself on, his own disgusting take on the Atkins Plan. (Fred had arrived at the house Lola shared with her brand-new husband, Emmett, and unpacked a Sam's Club block of cheddar from his suitcase.) And as long as he was single, Lola was afraid he would continue to show up unannounced, leaving her feeling unnerved and discombobulated. It was a slow afternoon at the Second Chance Humane Society and Thrift Shop, where Lola volunteered twice a week, so she scanned the classified ads for dates. Unfortunately, all the women seemed to be looking for more. Fred was handsome, it was true, but he certainly wasn't “successful” or even “self-sufficient.” He wasn't “romantic” or “a good listener.” As far as Lola could tell, he had been kicked out of his third wife's house with little more than his fancy leather loafers.

“Some guys are going to get a
therapist
, sit around saying, ‘What can I learn here, what went wrong, blah, blah,’” Fred had informed them the evening before, over a repast of cheese and cheese, “but not Fred Wilkerson!”

“And what do you plan to do?” asked Emmett.

“Forge ahead,” said Fred. “What the hell do you think, Emmett?” Lola's father pronounced her husband's name with an ironic sneer, as if Emmett's name alone was an affront to manhood. When Emmett went into the kitchen, Fred muttered, “Face Man.” Lola knew this was an insult, but she wasn't sure what it meant—that Emmett had a good-looking face? She knew it had something to do with being effeminate, which Emmett was not. Fred thought that anyone in academia—or “that ivory tower,” as he put it—was a pussy.

Emmett was finishing up his PhD in geology. He came back from the field with a cooler of fresh-caught trout. He could make a fire from two sticks, fix appliances, and build furniture. He was taciturn, yes, and sometimes he went to his site and lost track of the time. More interested in rocks than Lola? Perhaps. But he was not a pussy.

“Forge ahead,” said Emmett thoughtfully.

“The world is my oyster,” said Fred. “I don't even have to commute to the Big Apple. Computers, the Web, what have you … you can telecommute from anywhere.” Lola bit her fingernail, and did not mention that Fred had lost his last legitimate job in 1985, when she was thirteen years old.

“He
is
sober,” whispered Lola, huddled close to Emmett in bed. Fred's snores ricocheted through the house.

“Okay,” said Emmett reasonably.

“So that's something,” said Lola. “I mean, I really respect him for that.”

“That's great,” Emmett agreed.

“I know he can't stay here,” said Lola. Emmett was silent. “But I mean, he's lost everything. …”

“What happened?”

“I'm sure it was his fault,” Lola sighed.

“It does seem possible,” said Emmett.

“A few days?” said Lola.

“A week,” said Emmett.

“You're wonderful,” said Lola.

“I really don't think he belongs in Ouray,” said Emmett.

“Do I?” said Lola.

“For a while longer, right?” said Emmett, pulling her close. “Just stay a while longer,” he said.

In the morning, the kitchen was thick with a fug of cigar smoke. Fred was sitting in his bathrobe drinking coffee. Lola was taken aback at the sight of him: this was the same navy blue bathrobe with red piping that he had worn when she was a girl, before he had moved out and drunk himself into a coma.

“Dad,” said Lola, “you know, it might be good if you'd smoke outside.”

Fred shook his head. “Too cold,” he said. “Christ, it's cold.”

At eight thousand feet, it was chilly in the mornings. But Lola and Emmett's neighbor, Louise, was already watering her plants with a hose, her frail frame covered by an old wool coat.

“I mean seriously,” said Emmett, shaving in the bathroom. “Seriously, Lola? I'm going to be sick.”

“You smoke,” said Lola, pointing at him with her toothbrush. She loved the sight of him in his boxer shorts, shaving cream up to his cute ears.

“I have like one Camel Light,” said Emmett, “when I'm drunk. Maybe two.” They kept a pack of cigarettes on a wrought-iron table outside the back door, and had spent warm and even cold evenings during their month together on rusty folding chairs, sipping beer and using an ashtray stolen from the Las Vegas Lounge, where Emmett had spun Lola around the dance floor.

“Seven,” muttered Lola. She finished brushing her teeth and hair and followed him to the bedroom, where he was putting on his miner outfit. One of his part-time jobs while he finished his dissertation was giving historical tours through the old mine shafts. “I'm sorry,” she said, sitting on the unmade bed. Then she stood, and started to pull the sheets up.

“It's just … cigars?” said Emmett.

“I'll talk to him about it,” said Lola.

Emmett nodded. He put on his miner hat and left.

At the Humane Society, two other volunteers, both single women in their forties, wanted to hear all about Lola's father. “He's unemployed,” said Lola. “He's sleeping on the couch. He's not the nicest.” Lola tried to think of something wonderful to say about her father. “He is very smart,” she said, finally.

“What color hair?” said Jayne, leaning against a cage, stirring honey into her teacup. Blueberry Muffin, a small tabby, reached his paw toward Jayne's hand. Jayne turned to Blueberry Muffin and smiled.

“Brown,” said Lola.

“Dyed, or has he still got all his own?” asked Margie-Ann, who was cleaning the litter boxes.

“All his own,” said Lola.

“I want to meet him,” concluded Margie-Ann, pointing the scooper at Lola.

“He does sound interesting,” agreed Jayne.

That evening, Fred opined that he would like to take a mine tour. “I'd give my right arm to see Emmett here off his golden pedestal,” was how he put it. Emmett chewed slowly, and swallowed. They were eating a vegetable lasagna Lola had made that afternoon, frying eggplant slices in hot oil until her eyes smarted. Her mother had sent
The New Basics Cookbook
, and Lola was attempting to be domestic.

After a sip of his milk, Emmett said, “Well, Fred, the tours are every hour, on the half hour.”

“How about a private tour?” said Fred.

“I don't think so, sir,” said Emmett.

“Cut it with the ‘sir’!” barked Fred.

“Guess what?” said Lola. “I'm planning a potluck with some friends from the Humane Society!”

“Whoop-de-doo,” said Fred. He pulled a cigar from his front pocket.

“Some of the other volunteers are single,” hinted Lola.

“Christ, a bunch of animal lovers,” said Fred, shaking his head. “Who in the hell would want—” He stopped, just in time. Lola had a flash of memory: her father kicking her childhood cat, Bobby, making him squeal.

“I'm an animal lover,” said Emmett. He winked at Lola sweetly.

“My daughter wouldn't be volunteering at a
cat shelter,”
said Fred, “if you hadn't dragged her to godforsaken …” He opened his palm, encompassing the living room, the town of Ouray, the state of Colorado.

“It's just temporary,” said Lola. Last spring, with her newly minted degree in journalism, she had accepted a job at the Cleveland
Plain Dealer
, due to start in the fall. After packing up her house and sending her belongings on a moving van to Ohio, she had left her cat, Sue, with her academic advisor and signed up for a raft trip down the Grand Canyon.

Lola hated sleeping outside. She was a suburban girl, after all. The heat, bugs, and enormous canyon walls made her nervous, and she drank deeply from the bottle of Jim Beam one of their two river guides, Hugh, passed around the camp-fire. It was clear on the first night that he was the gregarious one; the other guide, Emmett, introduced himself, talked a bit about the geology of the canyon, and retired early, heading away from the circle with a smile and a wave. He was an egghead, said Hugh, a brilliant scientist.

Lola woke at dawn. Her tent smelled like a whiskey distillery and her mouth tasted of the Beenie Weenies they'd eaten for dinner. At the edge of the rushing river, Lola saw a figure. She approached: it was Emmett, sipping coffee from a plastic mug with an owl on it and writing in his waterproof field book. “Hey,” said Lola, sitting next to him.

“Coffee?”

“Thank you.” Emmett poured from his thermos into the small metal top, and handed the cup to Lola. She peered at his notebook, and he smiled. “I double-checked the equipment,” he said. “Now I'm just jotting down some”—he closed the book shyly—“some thoughts.”

“I'm nervous,” said Lola. “I'm from New York.”

“I've never been there,” said Emmett. This was amazing to Lola—who had never been to New York? He squinted against the rising sun, but did not say more. Lola leaned back on her elbows and crossed her ankles. Emmett had a spray of freckles across his face, sand-colored hair, and bright green eyes. Lola watched the river, next to Emmett. She wanted him to kiss her.

The trip was by turns deadly dull and terrifying. Hot days of floating were punctuated by shocking rapids, which Hugh and Emmett handled with panache, calling out for the boats to paddle or turn. While Lola's fellow rafters told competing stories by the campfire, Lola watched Emmett, who spent the evenings sipping beer quietly. More often than not, he'd steal off to read by himself, or go for an evening hike.

On the second-to-last day of the trip, Emmett asked Lola if she wanted to try a kayak. They were unstable; Lola declined. “I'll go right next to you,” he said. “You can do it.”

“No,” said Lola, “I don't think I can.”

She spent the day in a raft, wishing she had been more courageous. Millie, an ophthalmologist from Idaho, proclaimed that kayaking was the most exciting thing she'd ever done. “All the water, churning and broiling … it's like a life force, you know?”

“You mean
roiling?
” asked Lola.

“Roiling, broiling, whatever,” said Millie, adjusting her floppy sun hat. “It's better than sex.”

That night, after everyone was asleep, Lola walked to Emmett's tent. His lamp was on, so she pulled the flap back. “I wanted to thank you for … for the trip,” she said. “And I'm mad at myself. I wanted to try the kayak, but I was too scared.” He closed his book—it was a spy novel. “Come in,” he said.

“Also, I wanted to kiss you,” said Lola.

“Come here,” said Emmett.

The next morning, Lola pulled the neoprene skirt over her thighs and climbed into a kayak. Emmett helped her launch into the water. Navigating the boat at water level was thrilling: the speed awed Lola, and the way the small boat responded to the tiniest calibration of her paddle. Nonetheless, when Millie approached her at lunchtime and said, “See what I'm saying?” Lola shrugged.

“Millie,” she said, the memory of Emmett's warm caress vivid in her mind, “the kayak's great, but I'm going to have to disagree with you.”

After climbing ashore at Lake Mead and taking their first showers in weeks, Emmett and Lola drove to the Las Vegas Lounge to go dancing. Emmett dipped Lola and said, in her ear, “You're gorgeous.”

He pulled her back to her feet, and she laced her arms around him. “You say that to all the rafters,” she said. His chest was broad and slim: in his arms, she felt serene.

“No,” said Emmett.

“Buy me some tequila, will you?” said Lola.

In short: they were married in the middle of the night. The memory is hazy, but happy, in her mind. At Cupid's Chapel, Lola became Mrs. Emmett Chase. When she woke up with a brutal hangover and a cheap band on her finger, Emmett was watching her, propped on one elbow. “Well,” he said, “isn't this an interesting development.”

Lola blinked. “I'm moving to Cleveland in six weeks,” she said.

Emmett nodded. “How about staying in Colorado until then?” he asked.

So Lola put her duffel bag in Emmett's truck. As they drove nine hours to Ouray, a small town in the southwest corner of the state, Lola decided that she'd stay with Emmett for a few weeks, what the hell, then pick up her cat and move to Cleveland. The marriage could always be annulled.

Emmett told her about growing up as the eldest son of a wealthy Texas oil family. Geology, Emmett said, had once been a pursuit of discovering the past—trying to figure out the history of the landscape—but now encompassed everything from the mountaintops to the oil underneath the ground. There was a fringe group of wild geologists, Emmett said, who were arguing that humans had so altered the planet they'd started a new epoch. “There was the Ice Age,” he said, speaking animatedly, “then the Holocene, which is now, and these guys are proposing the new era be called the Anthropocene, from the Greek
anthropos
, which means ‘man,’ and
ceno
, ‘new.’”

“Altered it how?” asked Lola.

“Global warming,” said Emmett. “Disturbing the carbon cycle. Ocean acidification. Changing erosion patterns. Wholesale changes to plant and animal life …”

“Jesus, just stop,” said Lola. “You're depressing me.”

“I think it's exciting,” said Emmett. “I mean, yeah, you can see it as sad, but you can also see it as an opportunity. Patterns can be altered.”

Emmett had applied for jobs everywhere from New Jersey to Saudi Arabia. “I've been all over the western U.S., but I've never lived abroad. There are so many places I want to see,” he said.

His enthusiasm made Lola realize how little excitement she held for her future at
The Plain Dealer
. It occurred to her that she had never studied anything she could hold in her hand.

“Listen, Fred,” said Emmett, “if you want a private tour, I'll give you a private tour. How about it?”

Fred was busy inhaling in quick breaths, trying to light his cigar.

“That sounds great, Emmett,” said Lola. “How about Sunday?”

“You got it,” said Emmett.

“Sunday it is,” said Fred, filling his mouth and the house with smoke. He puffed for a while, Emmett and Lola staring at him, and then he said, “Never been in a mine, I've got to say.”