Our Town (21 page)

“It’s time to rise, now. You see?”

He looked at her, and winked, and then turned around and left her. She put her wig on and then her glasses.

*
  
*
  
*

She only wanted her driver at her bachelorette party. She liked her driver. He was fat, but he listened. She didn’t invite Gary and she didn’t want him to come. But he showed up, anyway. He had picked the invitees, so that figured. Sometimes, some mornings, she thought about the loud noise that woke her the last time she slept at her apartment in Santa Monica. It was the last thing she remembered from when she lived alone. She never figured out what caused it. She wished she’d checked. Maybe then things could have changed. Maybe then things would be different.

STABAT MATER DOLOROSA, JUXTA CRUCEM LACRIMOSA

G
ary had booked their honeymoon stay at the Mountain Home Christian Retreat in Acton, California.

Mountain Home is nestled in the foothills of the Sierra Pelona Mountains, near the southern upslope of 5,517-foot Houser Mountain. Mountain Home is at 3,500 feet elevation, about 55 miles north of Los Angeles, and some 15 miles south of Palmdale and the Antelope Valley.

Mountain Home is open year-round to provide a peaceful place for individuals and groups. This is the right place to be “Alone” with God.

They got married in August 1981. Gary liked the heat—he said it was cleansing—and he wanted to wear a powder-blue linen suit, a fairytale he’d always imagined. They held the ceremony at a church in the hills. Gary said only the congregation—only just believers!—could be invited. Dorothy, then, was forced to keep it a secret from her children. Clover was considering college now. Dylan was in and out of a few different high schools. She rationalized this by telling herself that they might not be able to understand Gary. That they couldn’t,
yet. They might find him off-putting, and then they might try to talk her out of it. Talk her out of everything. There’s no way they’d get it. They couldn’t possibly understand. She needed help. She needed to fix everything. Fix herself. And then down the road she’d explain. Down the road she’d say why. She’d tell them once she got better. Dorothy had spent too many years living in blackness. And Gary, hairy toes and all, just might live closer to the light.

“It’s a four-hour drive,” Gary said the night before they were to leave. “I’ve already called and written out the directions. I figure we’ll wake up at the crack tomorrow and get there by early afternoon. If you need to rest you can sleep in the car. I don’t mind drivin’.”

“Okay, Gary,” Dorothy replied. “That sounds good, I guess.”

She sat in his Barcalounger and watched one of her stories. She didn’t care for the show but she liked the break. She liked not talking. Or listening. But now Gary stood before the TV discussing their itinerary. He wore red Christmas pajamas—footie pajamas—with a white snowflake print. It was a quarter past six. Three quarters before seven. They’d already eaten dinner. Gary liked supper ready by four. Eating in this light is better for the soul. Plus then we can get to bed early. That hour—four to five—was his favorite hour. He referred to it as “the magic hour.”

“Well,
I’ve
already packed,” Gary said emphatically, implicating.

“Okay, Gary, whatever. That’s fine.” She motioned with her right hand for Gary to pick a side to stand at.

“Have you packed?”

“No,” Dorothy replied, still trying to get him to move. Now flailing, “You make a better door than a window!” And then she finally stared him in the face. “Of course I haven’t packed. I have hours. Now would you get out of the way, already? I’m watching television.”

“No. No, you don’t have hours. We’re leaving early so we’ve got to go to bed early.”

And then she got angry.

“You don’t have to worry about when I go to bed, okay? I’ll be ready by tomorrow. I’ll be ready before we leave. Now move. Jesus, just fucking move!”

“Oh, please, Dorothy-ody. Would you just listen—”

“No, I won’t listen. I’ll do it after this, okay? I promise. Now move, already, or else it’ll take twice as long!”

Gary left with his hands in his pajama pockets shaking his head. Dorothy heard him enter the bathroom and then close and lock the door. Gary had irritable bowel syndrome, and Dorothy cooked her chicken with a lot of butter. She refused to change that. In fact, she liked the clout. The amount she used gave her the break she deserved. A stick gave her about a half hour. Often she used two.

THEY PULLED UP
to the security checkpoint before the parking lot the next day around 2:30
P.M.
A wooden gate stood before them and a guard booth was to their left. A brown-leather-skinned guard poked his head through the window. He wore a white, short-sleeved button-up—tight on his biceps—tucked into his khakis with a red tie and black suspenders. He had a thick sandy moustache, crusted with what appeared to be dried minestrone soup, and an oiled, bald, freckled head. Too much sun. Too too much sun.

“Good afternoon, all. What can I do for ya?”

“Well, how are you?” Gary replied, rolling down his window. He stuck out his hand and shook the guard’s, his face even redder than usual from the heat. This car had air-conditioning, but he didn’t believe in air-conditioning. Embrace the heat. Bake a little. Bask. “My name is Gary Gascoigne. I have a three-night reservation in one of the cottage suites.”

“Okay, then. Let me check to see if we have your name here.” He picked up a wood clipboard and stared over his gold-framed readers at a sheet of sun-baked, once-white paper. “Ah, there you are,” he said and reached toward his desk. “Mr. and Mrs. Gary Gascoigne. And there she is. The Mrs.”

As the security officer repeated their names, Gary looked at his new wife and smiled. Dorothy, instead, pursed her lips and leaned her face against the glass window. The glass felt good against her freckled face. It was slightly cooler than the air temperature.

The guard leaned over the driver-side window and handed them a stack of papers, as he pushed a button to open the gate. Gary handed the papers to Dorothy and then drove on. Dorothy read the one atop the stack.

       
1. All guests must make reservations. No “Drop-ins” are allowed!

       
2. Remember, people come to Mountain Home for rest, for prayer, for meditation, and for quiet spiritual refreshment.

       
3. Let us all help to maintain this retreat for that purpose. Water is very precious! We are on a very limited water well supply. Please conserve in every way possible. Like He’d want us to!

       
4. Please report any leaky faucet or toilet to the manager. 5. NO smoking or alcohol is allowed anywhere on Mountain Home property.

       
6. Solicitation of funds or distribution of literature is not permitted anywhere on Mountain Home property, unless approved by the manager.

       
7. For your convenience, there is a pop machine, public telephone, and drinking fountain located on the patio next to the main dining room.

       
8. ALL GUESTS MUST BE QUIET and in your room or chapel between 10:00
P.M.
& 7:00
A.M.

       
9. When night meetings extend past this time, curfew starts when the meeting is over. Preachers and/or Leaders MUST RESPECT THE QUIET HOURS. NO EXCEPTIONS!

They arrived at their room, and Gary removed his sweat-soaked clothes. Rather than see his wilted, naked skin—yuck—Dorothy went to the bathroom and closed the door behind her. She grabbed the sink and leaned forward and breathed. She dropped her head against her chest but then picked it up and saw herself in the mirror. She watched the clouds of perspiration grow and then disappear and then grow again. She turned on the faucet and splashed some water on her face. She took a washcloth off a rack and wet it under the cool water—let
it run—then patted the damp cloth against her forehead. Then under her armpits, and then in between her thighs. She reached into her purse and took out her reddest lipstick—a primrose. She applied it to her lips, from left to right, then smacked and pressed them against a piece of toilet paper. She crumpled the kiss-stained sheet and threw it in a corner. As she was about to put the cap back on, then, instead, she twisted the silver swivel-up tube all the way out, exposing two rose-colored inches. She took it and, in the center of the mirror, penned
you cunty bitch
in her most precise cursive. She looked at her work and smiled, but when Gary knocked she grabbed the tissues and rubbed it out. Then she opened the door and entered the bedroom.

“Well, you were in there a while,” Gary said, zipping his pants.

“Sorry. I had to wash my face.”

Gary walked over to his bag and grabbed his wristwatch and strapped it on. He wore a tan safari shirt, with matching safari shorts and a white hat and white tennis shoes. Around his waist was buckled a brown leather fanny pack—gum, ten dollars in quarters, and a pocket New Testament—and his red cheeks hadn’t gotten any less rosy.

“It’s fine, Dorothy-ody. But let’s get going. This place is very important for us.”

“I know that, Gary,” she sighed, and put on a cardigan.

“It is our honeymoon, you know.”

“I know, Gary,” she sighed. “I can’t wait.”

They walked along a stone desert path and made their way from building to building. They started at the chapel. The chapel was flanked by four square columns at the front. A stone bell tower, with a thin-stone steeple, sat atop four columns. Inside was hotter than outside, and the smell implied the death of at least one wild animal, yet unfound. A jackal, Dorothy guessed. But she didn’t really know much about jackals.

After the chapel they went to the tabernacle, but this time Dorothy didn’t go in. Gary took his time. Dorothy sat on a bench and waited. Then they visited the two prayer towers sitting at the two opposite ends of the property. Gary seemed at peace in the prayer towers. Dorothy could’ve used AC.

They had dinner in the main dining room with the rest of the guests. Dorothy’s lipstick had been used up earlier, so she didn’t bother with much makeup. It didn’t seem appropriate, anyway. This occasion’s importance didn’t quite stack up. They sat at a communal table with a church group visiting from Arizona. Gary ate mutton and green beans and cauliflower mash. He told the group—a table of seven, including the man and wife—about the Message, attempting to expand his brand. Although the tourists seemed interested, Dorothy considered telling Gary that we could get kicked out for that—that the rules are strict here, and solicitation breaks more than one. But she held her tongue. She hoped, in fact, that someone—someone in charge—might hear him preach, and then they could go. But her wishes again went ungranted.

Dorothy looked up at the blood-orange sunset as they walked back to their cottage. The sun set later here, and the pinks and reds and greens were bigger and brighter and true. It was the pollution, she’d heard, that allowed for such beautiful sunsets. It’s the smog that shines the filter. She looked up and smiled for the first time since she’d arrived. Or, wait, the second. The night sky, too. But, as they got to their room, Gary stepped in front of Dorothy before they reached the door.

“Dorothy-ody, if you don’t mind, I was hoping I could take a few minutes to myself in order to get the room ready. I have a few surprises in store for us tonight. It won’t take long at all, I promise. Forty-five minutes, I’d say. Maybe an hour. An hour at the most. Maybe you could take a walk? Or actually, if you’d prefer,” Gary reached into his pocket and handed her the keys to his leased Lincoln Continental. “Why don’t you go for a drive? Just be back in an hour.” Dorothy nodded. “Make sure you’re back in an hour.” And he kissed her. “Pretty please?”

TWO HOURS LATER
, Dorothy arrived back at the gated security checkpoint. She was smoking, and she pulled into the wrong side—the exit side—of the booth. The guard walked over to her driver’s-side window. He noticed an empty bottle of wine. And then he noticed another.

“Are you okay, ma’am?”

She pulled on her cigarette, took a moment, and then exhaled into his face.

“I’m fine, thanks. Would you mind opening the gate for me?”

“You’re on the wrong side, ma’am. You’re gonna have to turn around and go back the other way,” he said, and he stared at her. “You’re also not allowed to smoke.”

“Oh, really?” she answered. “I had no idea,” and she blew in his face, again, before dropping the butt in the remains of the Riesling. “Now, again, and seriously this time. Would ya just open up the fuckin’ gate?”

“Sure, ma’am. Sure. Give me just one sec, would ya? I’ll get right on it.”

The security guard walked back to his booth and made a phone call. He informed his supervisors that a guest was drunk and smoking and driving a car. And so, while Dorothy was taken into the security officer’s custody—they didn’t believe in police—the hotel manager walked to their room and found Gary wearing only a white robe and white socks and white tennis shoes. The hotel manager told Gary that his wife had been detained, and that he’d have to remove her from the premises. Gary had placed, on a chair beside the bed, a matching white robe—in her size—and matching white socks and white tennis shoes. And he had fashioned a crucifix atop their bed sheets in rose petals—Jesus and all, his work in fact quite impressive. But Dorothy-ody—but Dorothy-ody—she never got to see. They left the premises later that night, and their marriage was left unconsummated.