Our Town (24 page)

THE NEXT MORNING
, after Clover searched everywhere all night—everywhere she could possibly think of—she found Mama at the Sunoco mini-mart, leaning against the outdoor bathroom and holding the bathroom key. She was standing outside, her eyes were open. Her hands were shaking and she looked older than her years. She held her wig in her right hand and a brown paper bag in her left, crumpled in her fingers. She wore bare feet, and they were dirty black. Chipped nails and clackling teeth. Chipped nails and click-clackling teeth. A patchy bald head and holes in her leggings. And, again, wide eyes, like a marmoset.

“Oh my God, Mom. What the fuck is going on? What are you doing here?”

The bag was gone, and, again, the Lincoln.

“What do you mean, baby?”

“What the fuck are you doing here and where have you been?” Clover screamed.

“Don’t yell at me. Your house is stuffy and I wanted to get out for a little. So I got a motel room. What’s your problem?”

Clover shook her head and closed her eyes.

“This is so fucking nuts.”

“Oh, please. I’m a grown woman and I can do what I want.”

The bottle in her paper bag was capless.

“Well, where’s the car?”

“What car?”

“The limousine!”

“I don’t know anything about a limousine.”

“Oh Jesus Christ.” Clover stopped. She collected herself. “Let’s just go home, okay?”

“In a little, baby. Let me finish.”

“Whatever.” She sighed and dropped her head and winced. But then she sprang up, curious. “But if you don’t know where the car is what are you doing at a gas station?”

“Two-for-one cigarettes,” Dorothy winked. “Sunoco’s the only place for that.”

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*

When Clover revisited her mother in rehab—this wasn’t the first time—she was shocked how far it was away. All the way in Malibu. She was paying for rehab all the way in Malibu? Malibu rehabs don’t even count. Clover didn’t much like to drive. She’d flown to LA, and she’d got a hotel room, and the hour drive to Malibu was, at the very least, quite taxing. Driving didn’t come natural, so the focus it took tired her out. When she called Dorothy, before she got on the road, Dorothy insisted they meet at the green grocers—instead of the hospital—so that way they’d get to eat well before she came up. Dorothy was sick of the food on the hill. Everything was fried, or buttered, or both, and Dorothy was suddenly vegetarian. They met at PC Greens—a local healthfoodery—and had carrot-apple juices before they sat down to their vegetarian Chinese chicken salad. Chicken tofu. Looked the part. They split it. They were both worried about being judged. Also about the calories.

“How you doing, Mom?” Clover asked between round bites of fried garlic and sliced mandarin.

“I’m good, baby,” she said, still slightly slurring. The antipsychotics, for her nerves. Those didn’t count. Those were prescription.

“You swear?” Clover asked.

“I do, honey. I really do. They took me off mood stabilizers today, so I’m feelin’ a little wonky. A little tired. Wish I felt better but I know I will be soon. But other than that I’m good, you know? I’m gettin’ better.”

Some time passed. They both ate their half-salads slow. But then Dorothy succinctly said, as though she were prompted, “Hey, you wanna see something funny?”

And Clover nodded sure.

Dorothy pulled up her sleeve and revealed a white taped-down bandage on the outward-facing side of her wrist. She peeled it off
and revealed a deep cut, sutured and healing but still with the black stitching sewed through.

“See,” she said and she pointed. “See, I broke a needle off here. And they went in and tried to find it but they couldn’t find it.”

Clover stopped eating and waited.

“What’s funny about that?”

“Well, what they told me is, believe it or not, is that now it’s in me. Forever, I guess. And there’s nothin’ they can really do about that. So, now, they said, at the airport I’m gonna beep when I go through the metal detectors. And they said there’s nothin’ I can do about it. I just gotta explain everything every time.”

“That’s it?”

“Yeah, I mean, I thought it was pretty funny when I thought about it earlier.”

“I don’t know, Mom,” Clover replied, but started eating again. “I’m not sure that’s very funny at all. In fact it’s pretty disgusting.”

“Well, I guess we’re gonna have to agree to disagree on that one. Do I have any arugula in my teeth?” And Dorothy smiled wide open with some greens stuck between her fangs.

“A little.”

“Excuse me, honey?” Dorothy called for the waitress. “Do you think you could get me a toothpick? Thank you, honey. You’re the sweetest girl alive. Did anyone ever tell you you look like Kristy McNichol? Well, if they haven’t, they should’ve, ’cause boy is it ever true.”

DOROTHY EVENTUALLY ORDERED
an avocado and sprout sandwich on flax-wheat toast—wasn’t satisfied by the near meat—but couldn’t eat the whole thing and wrapped up the second half. They went shopping afterward—PC Greens was also a healthy grocers—and Dorothy bought a bag of vegan popcorn and some instant vegetable soup. When they got back to the facility, Clover parked and then carried Dorothy’s bag and purse up the hill to the main entranceway. They walked inside and were greeted by three orderlies.

“Say hello,” Dorothy told Clover.

“Hi,” she said, and they all commented on how tall she was. She was two inches taller than Mom.

“You mind leaving your bags here and we’ll bring them out to you in a minute?” one asked. “Thanks.”

“Sure,” Dorothy replied. But she preferred to wait while they inspected.

And they dug into the grocery bag, which was okay, but then her purse, and pulled out a sleeve of Tylenol.

“More Tylenol?”

“I had a headache.”

“You have enough Tylenol.”

“Yeah, but I had a headache when I was out.”

“And what are these?” She pulled out three loose orange and white capsules.

“How should I know?”

“Because they were in your purse?” Calfskin, by the way.

Dorothy squinted and looked up, remembering.

“Oh, I know what those are!”

The orderly waited. And waited. “And?”

“They’re antidepressants.”

“I know that. I recognize them. Why do you have them, is what I’m asking? They’re not from us, nor are they on your charts.”

“Oh?” and Dorothy snapped the elastic scrunchie on her wrist. And then did so again. “Well, that’s ’cause I got ’em from another patient.”

“Excuse me?” the orderly stood straight.

“Yeah, well,” she put her head down and looked at her pink sandals. Real cute sandals. She’d shopped for the trip. Rehab fashion. “And you know I’ve been a little down in the mouth. So I just figured, I guess . . .”

The orderly looked at another orderly and he held Dorothy’s elbow and escorted her to her room while Clover stood in there in silence. Then Clo walked back solemn to her car while the orderly shook her head and went back to digging.

THIS IS A DOG RUN, NOT A PLAYGROUND

T
his is later.

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With a Dodgers hat turned halfway backward and dready blond hair, a boy with blood in his eyes mashed open the first gate into the North Fork Hills Community Park Dog Run and then closed the silver latch behind him. He then propped open the second. Before he walked in, he stopped to read the rules, which were written beneath a plastic sheath.

Monitor your dog at all times. If your reading material keeps you from doing this, please do not use them here.

He undid the knotting and then pulled the list from the fence.

He dropped it to the ground. It fell when he walked and he stepped on it. It stuck for a moment to the gum sole of his tan, used Timberland boots. He kicked it away. He saw his friends around an American elm tree in the back, near the street. Near a dirty, red Kia Sorento, and shouted, blindly, “Pup-a-doodle-doo,” before he laughed sideways. He
knocked the ash from his cigarette, pulled at it again, and then flicked it into a pile of dead leaves and acorns. The acorns came from an oak tree, of which there were four. The elm, though, was the only elm. Near them was a larger, albino-looking gentleman with a goatee that hung long and colorless from his chin and a clerical hat bent up at the front. His denim vest was covered with patches—
USA!
,
Romeo Void
—and his chain wallet sometimes got stuck between the slats of the seat built in around the tree’s base. Around him, two girls—maritime-tattooed, one’s a consistently tropical theme—palm trees, mermaids—and the other’s mostly, entirely etched on skulls—seemed just along for the ride. One of the two ate cinnamon Life cereal from a family-sized box and dropped a few pieces behind her. And so behind her three dogs followed her in step—a pug, a Pekingese, and a Pomeranian. They ate what she didn’t. Later they threw it up. She didn’t have a dog of her own, though. None of them did. The other girl looked up at the sky and noticed there were no clouds. She fiddled with her nose ring. All four walked around awhile. Soiled wood chips crunched beneath their feet. The girls wiped the sweat from their foreheads with the ends of their unwashed hair. Then they sat around the elm tree with crossed legs and opened cans of malt liquor beer that they’d kept hidden in a rucksack made by L.L. Bean. It was nice out and they passed the Becks and tipped their heads back with each foamy sip. They didn’t seem like they slept, really. Maybe here or there in the park. Maybe locked in the bathroom of a coffee shop. Maybe that’s why they liked the dog run. Vagrants, maybe, or wanderers. Drifters, or grifters. Mole people, but who didn’t sleep in the subway. They weren’t allowed, anymore, to sleep in the subway.

Do whistled for Tink and they left the run. She followed and Do leashed him. She tied him outside a café and went inside for a hot tea. When she got back out Tinky’s tongue dripped out from his mouth. She kneeled down and pulled on it—not too hard, though. She didn’t want to hurt him—before she walked him home.

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Dylan is twenty-one now. He doesn’t much speak to his mother. He lived there, but he didn’t see her too much. Or his father. Just reiterating. Both points. His parents were celebrities.
Were
celebrities. Well Dale was still known, but not all that well regarded. Dale had turned back toward television when his career began to parch. A weekly crime serial. Mediocre, at best, reviews. But good ratings. And Dorothy. We all know about Dorothy. Dylan thought he’d like to go out tonight. He wanted to get drunk. Maybe meet a girl. Maybe a few. I mean, why not, right? Everyone in the family has, at least, charisma. It was the eighties and he wore holed jeans and a white T-shirt, with a pack of cigarettes rolled into his shirt sleeves—he loved old movies—and his green flannel tied around his waist and a shaved head and still freckles. Still covered in freckles. Worn-out combat boots and white socks. That’s what he wore out, even though he wanted to go to a nightclub. Fuck them if they don’t like it. Fuck you. But girls were at the nightclubs. And he liked girls. But not girlfriends. That wouldn’t make him feel better at all. So he had a friend who also had a shaved head and they got an eight ball and then went out to dinner. They had Israeli food—they thought it’d be fun to scare the management. Chicken liver giblets to start and then steak with hummus then salted chocolate cake and beers and whiskeys and then, eventually, coke in the bathroom after. He ran the faucet and then dipped his house keys in the matchbook-sized plastic bag then breathed in and licked them when he was finished. Metally. Yuck. But the best kind of yuck. He licked his keys again and then licked his fingers and then looked at himself in the mirror. He ran his hands under the water and then turned off the water and then rubbed his nostrils clean.

They went to a few bars and drank more and often had to go to the bathroom, but now they’re at the front of the club line. They are third in line, behind two muscly gentlemen in mesh. Their tank tops gave clear view to the contours of their shaved backs, and their slicked hair was shiny, too. Full body buttered. At this point Dylan had done a lot of drugs. Wide-eyed. Owled. Ready for fun. So he could fuck all night. He was excited, but he wasn’t nervous. He knew the owner of this club. The proprietor was one of Dorothy’s old boyfriends, and while he hadn’t
spoken to his mother in a while—unsure, even, of how and when they’d split—he didn’t think he’d have a problem. Perhaps it was his altered state. He knew the relationship was back when Dorothy was young. Back when she was still pretty. Back when she trusted herself more. When she’d only just started wearing wigs. When they weren’t too big. When they didn’t, yet, get in the way. When the attempt wasn’t to be unrelentingly gregarious. Anyway Dylan was now at the front of the line and the gentlemen before him were ushered to the side. Weren’t cool enough. They didn’t look the part because this club was happening. This club was cool. A real LA who’s who. A real social register. “Hardest door in town,” he’d heard. But not for Dylan, Dylan thought. He knew someone, and that someone was impressive. Because that’s where the girls were. And Dylan liked the girls. The prettiest girls. So they’d tell him he was handsome. And thin. And he’d take them to the bathroom. And impress them. He had the good drugs. And then everything would be okay. So we’re at the front, now. Velvet ropes drooping.