Our Town (12 page)

“Now,” he spoke succinctly at the kids. He’d teach them a lesson. Something his father had taught him. The way he learned how to be. “Rats don’t drown immediately. They swim, like polliwogs, but they can’t make it from the water onto the land. Their legs ain’t long enough. So they will drown, eventually, but it’ll take a while.” He stopped and picked up a piece of long grass from the ground. He put it in his mouth, and he chewed it. Real old-fashioned-like. Maybe like something he’d seen in a film. Like a cowboy. John Wayne’y, almost. Randolph Scott. “And don’t try and go get ’em. Don’t even think about going out there and trying to get ’em,” he said and cocked his head and fixed his corduroy jacket collar. It was half up from all the swinging. “Don’t think you can save ’em,” he laughed. “’Cause I’ll just go and sink ’em again,” he sniffed. And he sniffed again. “There isn’t any way they’re gonna get saved,” he said, and he continued chewing on his long grass. Then he tilted his head back, peacocking. “So leave your mother alone,” he said finally, and then he lit a cigarette, orgasmically, and he walked back up the hill to the house.

The kids went on crying awhile but eventually they stopped.

EVERYTHING IS PURPLE

T
he white paint on the door to the office of Paul Jaunt, Esquire, was peeling as Dorothy waited to get buzzed in. Her feet click-clacked and her legs were wobbly. Bowlegged. She had a hard time standing up straight. The white lettering printed on the glass door had faded. The
P
in Paul was missing, and the
J
slithered down like a garter snake. But you could still make out
Legal Practitioner
. That, it seemed, had been touched up. All he could afford, presumably. Pretty chintzy. Only what was needed was done. The buzzer sounded. She stumbled in. A receptionist looked up from behind a wood-paneled desk. She pointed a pursed smile at Dorothy through winged, purple reading glasses and bucked teeth with a gap. Snaggle teeth and a bob. A mustard-yellow pantsuit. Just awful, really. Disgusting.

“Hello, miss. How can I help you?”

“Hey there,” she said, then righted herself and straightened. “I’m Dorothy. I have an appointment. With Paul.”

She held the
l
in Paul as she shook her shoulders even straighter, attempting upright.

“It’s you,” the woman replied, suddenly interested. “I think we’ve only spoken on the phone before. I’m Sue,” she said, waving her pen like a wand.

Dorothy nodded.

“Is he in?” Dorothy asked.

“Yup. Yup. You bet he is. He’s waiting.”

The door to his office door was big and light and flimsy. She fleeced in.

“Dorothy. It is very good to see you. It really is. It really is,” the lawyer said as he stood up and buttoned the top button of his three-button jacket. Then he put his hand out, which Dorothy shook. Then he unbuttoned the top button of his three-button suit before sitting back down with dignity.

Paul Jaunt was Dorothy’s divorce attorney. Like her latest agent, he wasn’t the first. She went through them. They ripened, then over-ripened, then she tossed them. His gold watch, with a red watch face, looked past his white shirt’s cuffs and cufflinks. Greased-over hair and tortoiseshell reading glasses. When he looked up from his papers, those were removed. Like a government agent, he might be, on the weekends, in a diner, reading the paper—maybe the Metro section—eating a club sandwich—extra mayo, yuck—wearing a plaid button-down tucked into dungarees. No belt, though. Sunglasses on as he ate. Saving his pickle for last, most likely. And his coleslaw probably, too.

“Mr. Jaunt. I . . .”

“Paul, Dorothy. Let’s use the
tu
form in here, honey.
Usted
’s entirely unnecessary.”

“Okay, Paul. I hope all’s well, Paul. Anyway, I . . .”

“They’re okay. Things, that is. I raised my golf average. Finally broke a hundred. Just kidding, I’ve been breaking the century mark about a year now. I did beat John the Weatherman, though. That was a good day.”

She stared at his eyes. He put his glasses back on.

“Well, enough small talk, I guess. I know what you’re here about, Dorothy. Don’t worry, I know. I spoke to him.”

“I knew that, already, Mr. Jaunt. You told me on the phone.”

“Paul, Dorothy.”

“I knew that already, Paul.” She sat down with her knees closed tightly and her purse on her thighs. She wore a light, powder-pink blouse and
linen pants—which breathed—but she was still sweating. She was nervous. And her wig made her hot. This one was heavy. At least heavier. But maybe it was just a side effect from her medication. Sweating, that is. Or maybe from not taking it. That makes you sweat, too.

“Well, what did he say?”

“He says he’s angry with you, Dorothy. Well, I guess that goes without saying. That’s the status quo. But he says he’s angry and he just can’t trust you. He heard about you leaving the kids alone with your boyfriend. How he hurt the pets. I mean, yikes, Do. I don’t know about that. Seems crazy,” he said and paused. “He’s understandably irate.”

“He doesn’t know anything. Anything! He thinks he does, but he doesn’t. He really fucking doesn’t.”

“Yeah, I mean, he knows some things. You know, your boyfriend’s a kid, Dorothy. He knows about that. And you left your kids with him.” He leaned in and looked down at her over his glasses, then spun in a circle in his leather desk chair. He did this when he was nervous. An over-obvious poker tell.

“Did Clover say something to him? It was fifteen minutes. Fucking Clover! Ugh.” She put her head in her hands and shook it. Sympathetic like. Please, feel bad for me now, would ya? I’m the victim. Poor me, poor me, pour me a drink. “Oh, God, Paul. Oh, no. What do we have on him? What can we do? He’s got me backed in a corner, Paul. He’s got me in jesses and fetters,” she said, phraseology she picked up recently while shooting an after-school special about falconry. “We’ve gotta come back and get at him!” She stomped her feet on the ground and lost her heeled balance, but then she caught herself and she was okay. “I can’t lose those kids. Really! They’re all I have anymore. You know that, right?”

“Well, Dorothy. He’s been comin’ on strong. And there’s not a whole lot we can do. He’s pretty steady. I mean, we could boil down a lot of these recent problems you’ve had to your excesses. If you think about it—if you really measure it—that really is the root of all these problems, you know? If we could only curtail some of your excesses, just even a little, I’m sure most of these issues would just simply float away.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” She removed her hands from her face. She hadn’t really been crying.

“Um, well, maybe you’re drinking a little too much? Maybe taking things a little too lightly?”

Dorothy looked at him blankly. She put her head back in her hands and now tried to weep naturally. An inch-long pink acrylic nail from her pinky finger fell onto the floor. But she just left it.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph in the stable.”

He spun around one more revolution in his leather desk chair.

“Dorothy . . .”

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph in the stable he’s gonna take ’em. He’s gonna take my kids.”

“There you go again.”

“He’s gonna take ’em.”

“Always acting.”

“Paul, they’re my everything.” Now her mascara really ran. She could act if she had to. She could be good. “And I need that child support, Paul. He’s gonna take away both my babies and there’s nothing I can do!”

“Well, actually, that might be the only good news in all this. If there’s any good news. But yeah, well, I guess this could be considered that.”

She cocked her head, curious. Her fingers were desert-colored from her makeup. Feeling suddenly ugly, though, she took out her compact and looked into its oval mirror face as she spoke.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, right now, as you know, you two share custody of both Clover and Dylan—full split custody, two weeks and two weeks—and that’s how it’s been since I took over your case. But Dale’s never been so keen on that. That’s not to say that he necessarily deserved full custody at the time, or anything like that, either. But he wanted it because, as you know, he’d like to control the situation. He likes control. He wants the ball in his court. He wants to do what he wants to do. So now he’s interested in full custody, and if he wants it he’ll probably get it. Because
you’ve been acting out, as you know—again, your excesses—which he’s decided must be some sort of cry for help. And since then he’s been lobbying for it. But it seems, strangely enough, that he only wants Clover. He wants to continue as is with Dylan, but take full custody of Clover. He wants Clover to go and live with him in Malibu. A unique situation, to say the least.
I’ve
certainly never heard of anything like it.”

“But why? Why does he only want her?”

“He’s too busy for Dylan, he claims. Dylan’s too much of a headache.” He paused and looked down and then spun around another revolution. Then stopped. “He told his lawyer he thinks Dylan’s too much like you.”

Dylan caused trouble, sometimes, but if she gave him a
Playboy
he usually disappeared. He let her be her. He understood her. The part of her that loved Clover loved her more than anything. The love, she felt, she deserved. Clover, though, didn’t want to love her unconditionally, the way she hoped. Clover held her accountable. Clover let her know when she thought she should be a mom. That sometimes it’s important to just be a mom. Sometimes she’d ask her to iron her blouse or boil some water. Can you take my temperature, Mama? Teach me how to sew? But Dorothy wasn’t good at those things. They made her feel old. She got by on charisma. Clover wanted Mom’s hair in curlers, and for her to put on an old apron—would ya?—and slippers, but Dorothy thought that was old-fashioned. She didn’t like slippers. She was a modern woman. She was progressive. Those clothes just don’t fit.

“Okay. I guess that’s okay,” she replied breathy. “I don’t need her anymore anyway. She’s really been dragging.” Dorothy was energized. “I don’t need her. She’s old enough. I taught her enough. And anyway she’s really never needed me. She doesn’t even like my cooking. And she thinks all my health drinks are weird.”

“Well, you’ve still got joint custody of Dylan. And you can have supervised visits with Clover, if you’d like.”

“Did I get a raw deal?”

“No. I mean, he let you keep your money.”

“Exactly. That’s exactly what I’m saying. I’m gonna still see her. I’d never let her all the way go.”

And after she said it she realized she meant it. She’d never let her all the way go.

“Okay, Dorothy. I’ve gotta run. I’ve got a late lunch. I’ll let him know that you’re okay with the new terms, okay? I’ll get this thing settled.”

“He’s still gonna pay my alimony? For keeping Dylan? The same as before? ’Cause Dylan’s not easy, you know?”

“He said if you didn’t argue and just went home, then the original financial arrangement could stand. If you don’t want to fight him on Clover, then you’re all set.”

“Oh, he can have her. For now, anyway, he can have her. She’ll come back once she realizes what kind of man he really is. What kind of man he becomes when it’s dark out. What kind of man he is
all
the time. She’ll come back when she realizes Irish people aren’t meant for the beach. Trust me. She won’t like it there at all.”

She loved Clover, but she couldn’t help herself. She couldn’t help but be excited to regain some of her independence. So she gave up her only daughter, because she loved to do the wrong thing. The wrong thing made her feel vital, and she was addicted to that.

“Okay, Dorothy.”

“Okay, Paul. When’s he gonna come get her?”

“She’s already there.”

“How’d she get all the way there?”

“He picked her up from school, I believe. Caught her before she got on the bus. Surprised her.”

“Oh. Okay,” she breathed. “Okay. I don’t get a chance to say good-bye?”

He shrugged. She stopped pat-patting her face for a moment and looked at him.

“Okay.”

She finished blushing and got up and put her hand out. They shook, and she turned to leave. She opened her purse and looked for a lighter.

She swung open the office door, then waved and closed it behind her. But as she made her way toward the stairwell, she stopped and turned toward the receptionist.

“Tell Paul to remind Dale of my largesse. Tell Paul to tell him he’s lucky I’m so easy. I’m so generous. I’ve always been so generous. Do you hear me?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Am I speaking Chinese?”

“No, ma’am.”

“What do you want me to do? Count to three like they do in the movies?”

“No, ma’am.”

“What’d I say then?”

“Your largesse, ma’am. You want me to tell Paul to tell Mr. Kelly about your largesse.”

“Yeah, exactly. Yeah,” Dorothy said as she picked gum from off the bottom of her slate-gray heel. “Tell him. Tell him about my largesse, and make sure he hears it,” she stomped her foot down. And then she stomped again. “My largesse, ya hear? Make sure he hears it.”

She left. Outside there was a breeze. And the breeze made her think of a tornado. And she thought a tornado might be fun.