Our Town (16 page)

When they got there, though, they had to climb over a chain-link, rusted-over fence behind their apartment—thankfully no barbed wire. Thank God, right? They couldn’t go in through the lobby. Photographers flanked the front.
White Out: Dorothy, Cooked
. By this time, Dorothy had become less known for her work—her “fame”—which had, obviously, long since dissipated—than for her infamy, in that her exploits as the ex-wife of silver-screen star Dale Kelly, and for her mothering, or lack thereof, of their children. Her arrests—which ones? It’s hard to remember—provided her more fame than her acting ever could. Her indiscretions as Dale Kelly’s once-other allowed her, in her own way, the recognition she’d always hoped for. Being in the glossies afforded her rediscovery. And, no matter the reason, she could never be embarrassed about that. Press is press. The paper’s the paper. She learned that early on. Clover let Mama go first, because she was worried
Mama might fall. And, also, because Mama’d a long night, and she was nervous, and she was scared—about her future—and that’s why she had to take all her drugs. She pushed her right leg off Clo’s clasped fingers and then shoved her left leg over the top. She fell, a little, as she landed. But she was okay. And then Clover climbed over, and the hole in the knee of her jeans stuck to the rusted rigid wiring of the pointed fence weave. But she was okay, too. She’d be okay. Clover grabbed her hand and she walked her through the courtyard. They reached their first-floor neighbor’s window. Clover knocked on the pane glass. It rattled. Clover knocked again. Soon someone troddled over.

“I’m so sorry, Linda,” Clover said, as a woman with curlers in her hair took a break from cooking herself a vegetarian meal—probably something “progressive.” Probably lentils. Maybe tempeh. Yuck—and pulled open the muntin frame. “But is there any way we could run through your apartment real quick to get to the elevator? I’m so sorry to bother you, but I didn’t know what else to do.”

Linda stared at Clover then at Dorothy. Longer at Dorothy.

“I’m so sorry to bother you again, Linda. Especially this late.” Clover paused. “But my mom’s had a really tough night. And we can’t go through the front. Please?” She let go of her mother’s hand—just for a moment—and placed it flat, palm to palm, to her other hand like she was praying. “Please?”

The woman waited a while longer before she ushered them forward with a limp wrist. Unpainted nails. Curlers. Dirty feet, no slippers. They crawled in through the window. And they were inside. Linda stared, again, but Do stared back. She sloppily smiled. She asked Linda, with her eyes,
I’m okay, right? You don’t know anything, right? I look okay, right? I’ll be okay, right? Right?
But then she looked down at the floor.

“I’m so sorry, again, Linda,” Clover said and grabbed her mother’s arm and pulled her home.

When they got there Clover drew Mama a bath. Mama was really tired. And Clover went to her room—Dorothy still kept her a room, even though it had gotten rather dusty—and got in bed. Clover had school the next day. But Clover had trouble sleeping.

*
  
*
  
*

It was a week later and Dorothy was tired. She was tired so she went and sat at a bar to read a book she’d bought from a street vendor. The book was a collection of conversations between film directors. Dorothy liked the look of Peter’s ascot on the cover, so she carried it hardcover out.

The bar was dark and empty. Wood floors, white colonnade, which split the room in two—again—and a polished-copper bar top. On their house cocktail menu, they had a specialty Old Fashioned. So she sat alone—just her and her book—and drank an Old Fashioned. Because she was old-fashioned. Wasn’t keen on change.

A piano man named Reverend Vince was playing that night, and he played well—like a low, blue flame—and that felt nice, and warming. Reverend Vince wore horn-rimmed glasses and a paisley shirt. The shirt was too tight, but that was okay. It didn’t affect his playing.

SCRUPLES

A
t some point, some summer—I’d say, but there were too many times like this, a microcosmic example of a far greater issue—Clover was sent off to sleepaway camp. Art camp, because that’s where Paul Newman’s kids went, and Dale was competitive. I think I’ve already said that. That’s where Paul Newman sent them. Expensive art camp, too. Dale thought this was genius. He’d send Clo to camp and Dylan back to Dorothy. Give Dorothy a break. She’d been doing okay—“okay”—a minute, now. Dylan would come back in time for school, and he’d be fine out there. And for Dale—oh, for Dale—finally some time to himself. Jesus Christ, finally, you know? Finally! And Clover didn’t hate the idea either. She liked to be alone, too.

So Clover got excited. The night before, she perused the camp’s list of things she needed to bring. It read:

         
CLOTHING

         
FOR YOUNG WOMEN
:

             
•
  
Bras.

         
FOR YOUNG MEN
:

             
•
  
Athletic Supporters.

         
FOOTWEAR

             
•
  
Sandals / Flip-flops.

             
•
  
Sneakers.

             
•
  
Cleats.

             
•
  
Socks.

             
•
  
Sleeping Bag.

         
Now let’s go have some fun!

So she packed all that. And she would have fun. But no need for cleats. She wasn’t interested in jocks or anything. Tough guys. She didn’t like tough guys. She pushed her black duffle bag out by the door and went to bed and waited for the morning when Daddy would drop her off.

However, in the morning, Dale wasn’t home. He hadn’t come home. When Clover went up to his bedroom—that was a rarity—his bed was made and empty. She had an hour until the bus left from the gas station at the Malibu Country Mart. Near Pepperdine. Off of Webb Way. She walked and sat in the living room unsure of what to do. She could call a cab, she supposed, but she hoped to at least hear from her father before she left. Soon, though, she heard the phone ring from the table beside. She slid over and picked it up.

“Hello?”

“Hi, baby, sorry I couldn’t make it back. I called a few people, but they didn’t answer, so I called your mother and she’s gonna come take you. Okay, baby? You there?”

Clover didn’t respond a while.

“Hello? Are you there?”

And nothing.

“What the fuck,
hello
?”

“Yeah, I’m here. It’s fine.”

“Okay, baby. Terrific. That works, right?”

“I guess so.”

“Cool, baby. I’ve gotta run but I’ll see you in a month, okay? I love ya.”

Clover waited until she heard the dial tone and then she put the phone down. She went and sat on her duffle and waited for the doorbell to ring.

But Dorothy walked in without ringing and knocked Clover—surprised her father had left the door unlocked—from her bag to the floor.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, baby,” she said and reached down to lift her. “I didn’t see you there. I just didn’t see you there at all.”

Clover got up to her knees. And then Mama pulled her up straight.

“What the hell, Mom?” Clover said, sucking on her finger. She’d scraped it on the grout between the tiles. She looked toward the ocean. The waves made her less nervous. She smelled Mama. Mama smelled strong.

“Are you wearing something new, Mom? It’s strong smelling.”

“Yeah, baby. Freetrapper, it’s called. Cedar, bergamot, snakeroot, and black pine. I just bought it yesterday so I remember what they told me at the store. Freetrappers predated cowboys, you know. They conquered the West and were truly independent spirits. That’s what they told me, anyway, baby.” She pulled her up. “I just thought that sounded nice. Anyway, can I have a hug? Hug your mama, would ya?”

“It’s really strong,” Clover said as she turned around. She sighed then hugged her then looked up. Mama wore a lot of makeup. More so than usual. It stained the collar of her jacket. And beneath her makeup she seemed to be pocked and scabbing. She wore a scarf over her neck and chin and royal purple Elizabeth Taylor sunglasses, covering much of her face. And an overlarge platinum blonde wig—a cherry on top—but Clover saw through it. She saw right through it.

“Is your face okay?”

“Yeah, baby. What do you mean?” she said nervously. Dorothy put her naily hands in her mouth to cover it. “Just a little rash is all. I’m so embarrassed. I think it’s from the cat. I was hoping you wouldn’t notice. I was hoping nobody could tell.”

Dorothy stared at her for seconds before she could speak. She stared at her daughter both surprised and excited. She stared at her daughter
a long while and she couldn’t break her stare. Her eyes looked the way they did when she first saw Dale on set. She stared at her daughter with love—in love, true love—piercing through the malaise that usually clouded the glasses of her existence.

IT WAS ONLY
five minutes away but the drive felt longer. Probably the new smell. And her disgusting face. What’s a freetrapper, anyway? I’ve never heard of that. Mama’s so dumb. Always getting sold on stories.

Suddenly, Clover grew very nervous about what the other kids would say about her mother. They haven’t even met me before. This can’t be their first impression. I mean, oh my God, what are they going to think? Dorothy seemed to have scratched right through her face, like a bear covered in sticky honey, and then attacked by bees. Heroin addicts often describe this condition as itchy blood. It results, often, in compulsive scratching or picking, which usually results in deep sores, cuts, and bruises. Dorothy’s face was frightening. So soon would be much of her arms and even ankles. Once Clover walked in on her mother cutting deep into her skin with an X-Acto knife, the blood on her bed puddling squarely beneath her, quadranting her sheets and boxing her in. Dorothy oft complained of bugs in her room, on the walls, in her sheets, and even hair. Eventually, she became sure that these microorganisms had burrowed into her skin—deep into her pores—and so she just had to get it out. It was for her and her loved ones’ safety—and so it was no less than imperative. She was only trying to protect her kin. This condition faded in and out in spells throughout much of this time—masking, clearly, the extent of her usage. A mask amount of makeup, paired with a healthy agoraphobia, allowed her to not notice much of the time. Or, more honestly, too much of the time to not care. Others did, but were afraid to speak up. By this point, the elephant had grown and fattened so much that it filled the room—always the life of the party—and the people, who once inhabited it, were pushed flat to the wall and held there, frozen, fighting for their right to breathe. In other words, she took her sugar with coffee and cream. As they stopped at a red light, a woman turned
casually toward their car and saw Dorothy and then looked back again and then quickly forward. She was scared of Dorothy, it seemed. And Clover’s fears were corroborated.

As they arrived at the gas station, Clover formulated a plan. They stopped beside a gas pump, the bus parked before them in plain sight, and Clover said, “I’ll take it from here, Mama. I love you.” And she reached down and grabbed her mother’s hand and kissed her on her knuckles. She didn’t like the smell, or that her knuckles were clammy, but she kissed it again, anyway, this time harder than the first. “I miss you a lot, Mama. I do. Everything that’s good about me comes from you. I love you. I really do.”