Our Town (7 page)

Dale changed in the other room. Today—these days—he wore his sideburns longer and his hair longer and his shirts more open, with a gold cross medallion against his hairy, manly chest. It hung askew, above his heart. The stone in the jewel’s center was rock crystal—his moonstone—surrounded by a white-gold crucifixion. He leaned forward at the edge of the bed and pulled on his brown suede moccasins with a shoehorn, his necklace now dangling between his chin and ribs. His green dinner jacket lay folded in half beside him and beneath that were a white-dusted razor and straw and mirror. He’d just finished what he had left over from yesterday. He didn’t yet need more. Not for an hour or so, anyway. Once his shoes were on, he stood up, rolled up the white sleeves of his shirt three folds, and walked to the bedside table where a rocks glass was filled halfway with Scotch whiskey. His ice had melted. His drink was watered down. Dorothy entered, still swathed in towels, and the light from the bathroom behind her provided a rather lovely silhouette.

“How long’s it gonna be ’til you’re ready?” Dale asked, swishing the contents of his glass back and forth before him.

“Fast, ’cause I already did my makeup,” she replied looking for her hairbrush. “Can’t you tell?” she said as she smiled and turned toward him, looking up at the ceiling and clasping her hands and blinking and fluttering, like a bug.

“Yeah. Yeah, yeah. You look great. You know you look great. But you have to get ready. You gotta be ready soon. I don’t wanna be
late.” He paused. “Seriously, Do. I don’t wanna be late again.” He sat back down on the bed and looked down at his shoes’ ornate brown tassels.

Dorothy stood in front of her bureau and stared at her drawers. She stared awhile longer before, newly energized, she reached into her purse beside the bed and took out a Lucky Brand cigarette from a crumbling soft pack. She didn’t, yet, smoke menthol 100s. Next they’d be Mistys. And then eventually Virginia Slims.

“What are you doing now?” Dale asked at Dorothy.

“I’m thinking of an outfit.”

“How long is that going to take?”

“I don’t know.”

“What do you mean you don’t know?”

“I don’t know, okay? Once I figure something out I’ll give you a fucking update.” Black eyes. No pupils. “And anyway you badgering me is only making me take longer.”

Dale put his fingers to his closed eyelids. “Oh my God,” he said, dropping his head and shaking it and sucking on the inside of his cheeks.

“Oh yeah?”

Dorothy got angry and hot and her voice showed it. Good hot, though. Her skin was crawling with euphoria. She seemed to have gotten today’s pharmacological cocktail just right. So right. But she didn’t know how or why. Too bad. It wasn’t always this easy. She spoke again. This time louder.

“Don’t fuckin’ bug me right now, okay?” Her eyes were wide, even blacker. Parrot-like, she squawked, “I’m getting ready. I’m figuring out my fuckin’ outfit. And you asking me these dumb questions is only getting in my fuckin’ way.”

Dale looked up at her and then back down at his drink. His glass was empty. “I need another drink then,” he said, and he got up and left for the kitchen. His dinner jacket remained on the bed, still atop the mirror. Fuck an hour, he wanted another bag. He’d have to stop at his guy’s house before the party. He thought he’d stay out late tonight. Have some fun. Enjoy his youth. I’ll sleep all day
tomorrow, he thought. Sleep’s for pussies, anyway. I’ll sleep when I’ve got nothing to do.

“
GOODNIGHT, MY DARLINGS
,”
Dorothy whispered to Clover and Dylan. She’d gotten a nanny—Roberta—to watch the kids for the evening. Dale’s success to this point—he’d already made a few films and just recently booked his first lead!—had allowed for certain conveniences that they were once unable to afford. Roberta rocked in a white-framed rocking chair in the corner. She’d kicked off her shoes. She read a cookbook—Tex-Mex,
True Tooth: San Antonio
—and flipped the pages slow.

“Where you goin’?” Clover asked. She was blonde, just like Mama. Pretty eyes and all smiles, too. She shared a room with her brother Dylan, who still slept in a crib with a spinning mobile. Clover slept on a springy twin.

“We’re going out, baby.”

“Why?”

“Because sometimes parents need to go out. Sometimes your daddy and I need some time together. Alone, that is,” Dorothy said and brushed the bangs from out of her daughter’s eyes. “We haven’t been seeing too much of each other recently,” she said, which was true. “Plus, baby, you’re in bed already, anyway.”

“But,” the little girl said and paused, “I love you.” Clover blinked and blinked. Her eyelids, dewy with sleep, stuck together. But she found the strength to pull them open one last time.

“I love you more, baby,” Dorothy said and kissed her daughter on the forehead. “More than you know.” Then she squeezed her daughter. Almost too tight.

Dale, now, was silhouetted in the doorframe. He stood before a standing lamp.

“We gotta leave.”

“Okay.” But Dorothy didn’t let go of her daughter.

“Now.”

“Okay, okay. Jesus H. Christ.” She let go of Clover and pet her head.
Then she walked to sleeping Dylan and pet his face. Then she found sleeping Butchie, underneath the crib, and pulled on his beard. He purred asleep. She stood up and headed for the door.

“Get Clo back to sleep, okay, Roberta?” Dorothy said.

“Yes, ma’am. Real soon, ma’am.”

“We love you guys,” Dale said, fast. “Don’t wake us in the morning,” he said and closed the door behind them.

Dorothy went to the bathroom another time before the road. When she returned, Dale held the front door open. She walked through and he put on his dinner jacket. Before the door closed, though—

“You’re not wearing any cufflinks?”

Dale stopped and looked down at his loose sleeves and sighed, and then went back upstairs. When he returned, two shined shark’s molars encased in platinum reflected off the paleness of his wrists.

“Finally,” Dorothy said, and smiled. Dale, however, did not.

DOROTHY ARRIVED AT
the party before her husband. After the movie, which was a bore, Dale dropped her off at the Hollywood Hotel and then drove home to pick up a different shirt. The one he’d worn itched him, he said—“You over-starched it, again”—and he said he couldn’t wear it another minute. “Not another minute!” But that most likely was just an excuse to be alone.

Dorothy walked to the bar. The hotel’s décor was earthy but still oddly matte. Green leaves sprouted from potted plants at the corners of the room, and an Indian man wore a tan suit with white bucks with gum soles beside a painting of a red sun rising while a ship, below, sank. The room was filled to the brim with people, but the Indian stood alone. He leaned against the painting and it tilted slightly. He listened to a girl with a strawberry-blonde bob play the guitar. Girls who play guitar don’t have nice fingers. Dorothy never understood those girls at all. Not even a little. The guitarist played “Für Elise” and sat beside a dartboard. In the room’s center burned a gas fire from a black chrome fireplace—a fire that you could turn on and off with a switch that sat on the damper—and along the leather couches were royal-blue and
apple-red feather pillows. Dorothy arrived at the bar. There was a line of people. She waited her turn for a drink. Fatigue had struck her and, as she licked her dry lips and tasted the stink of incense and patchouli, she reached into her purse for her cherry Chap Stick. She applied her cherry Chap Stick, and then licked her lips, and she was better. She put it back.

“I’ll have a white wine, I think,” she said as she reached the front of the line.

The bartender wore a tuxedo and had a moon face with his hair parted neatly to the side. He corkscrewed a bottle and poured full a plastic highball and handed it to her.

Dorothy walked around the party, switching her plastic glass of wine from one hand to the other, from time to time making her way back to the bar. It was crowded, but she’d begun to enjoy herself. She knew some of the guests from when she used to go to her own premieres, years prior. They remembered her, and they missed her. Many asked why she’d stopped. She wanted to be a good mother, she replied. Really, though, there wasn’t room for two successes in her household. Too much personality. One person had to float while the other floundered. One sailed, one sank. Highs and lows. Peaks and valleys. It didn’t matter which one, she thought. It used to be her, but now this had to be. In this world—on this side of the country—there are some people who carry the piano, and some people who play the piano. But Dorothy wanted both. But, again, Dorothy had begun to enjoy herself. Enjoy the party. She was chatting, and being cordial, and then she started laughing—even laughing!—and nobody judged her. She was free, for the time being. It had been a while. Nobody told her what to do. And as the hours passed, people’s ties began to loosen.

Then, from above, Dorothy saw Dale enter. She was upstairs and could see the front door from her vantage point between the shoulders of two men. She was speaking with two executives who had some ideas about her career, and from below they were all you could see. They said they could help her get back to where she was and even further. That
she
should be in the movies! That
she
should have a name! Her own
name! That she should be on top, like she was supposed to. And she was talented. And she was prettier than she ever was. She liked to hear that. My goodness, she loved it. As Dale walked in, though, the party was at its most full, so he couldn’t see Dorothy’s ear-to-ear. She began to see her name in lights—MARQUEED—and she smiled, and the suits then further beamed. He’d changed into a red shirt, and, paired with his green evening jacket, he looked like a Christmas card. Dorothy wore white. She was over statement pieces. I mean, in terms of what she wore. Dale looked around the front of the room, but he didn’t see her. Then he walked to the back. He looked up, for a moment, toward the second floor, but he couldn’t see her past the men in suits. Dorothy saw him, though, and pushed between their arms. “Dale!” She hung out over the railing. “Dale!” she called. But the music was loud, and he didn’t hear. “Dale,” she called again, but again he didn’t notice. People were dancing near the entrance, and a woman swung around and elbowed him between his shoulder blades. She apologized, but he got angry, because she hurt him, so he left. He slammed the door behind him once he’d walked through. So Dorothy shoved her way along the wall, down the stairs—making herself small—across the makeshift dance floor—and then finally outside. She followed. She saw him walking toward the parking lot. He was nearing their car. In his eyes his car.

“Dale!” she yelled. “Dale,” she yelled again.

He turned around. He finally saw her. But he kept his mouth closed shut.

“Come back, baby. I was just upstairs.” She reached him and reached for his forearm but he pushed her off. “I’m having the best time, baby. Why are you leaving? You just got here. I was only just upstairs.”

Dale stared at her, again. This time longer than before. He grabbed the sides of her head. He pressed his hands around her ears and then held tightly on to her hair.

“I missed you, baby. It’s so good to see your face,” Dorothy said and closed her eyes and opened her mouth and waited for Dale to kiss her. Kiss her to say hello.

But he just looked at her. Then he head-butted her as hard as he could. Her head whipped back as her nose started bleeding and she tried to put her hands to her face but he blocked them. He still held her head by the ears. He took a clump of her hair and wiped at the blood pouring from her nostrils. He watched it pool up at the edge of her lip, and dye her split ends hot red. And then he let go. He left and went back to the party.

Dorothy fell to the ground in a ball. She cried and cried. Her face was ruined, and her hair was ruined. Her tears mixed with her blood as she wiped her face with the back of her hand and soon it was covered in a mucousy, salty pink. The valet, who had looked away when Dale was with Dorothy, walked over to her. A long, black Johnny Chen moustache framed his face—like mouse hair—and his nametag read
Chulo
. He reached down to help Dorothy up.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

She breathed through her mouth, not through her nose.

“I guess I’ll be okay,” she said. She’d stopped crying. But still she bled.

He pulled her up and steadied her. He rubbed her back and she leaned into his arms.

“Do you want me to get security?” asked Chulo.

“No,” she replied, and sighed and pushed off Chulo. Her nose still ran bloody. She breathed through her mouth. “I just need to clean up.”

She made her way to the inside bathroom with her head down. She borrowed Chulo’s grease rag to cover her face. She’d draped it over her forehead and got through without being noticed. With a piece of tissue pushed up her nostril to clot the bleeding, she attempted to make up her face. The swelling would be hard to hide. After she finished with a layer of foundation—only just foundation—she heard a knock at the door.

“I’m in here,” she shouted. She was angry, and had already taken something for the pain. But now she was really hurting.

“I know, ma’am. This is Eddy, from security.” He stopped, then continued. “I have someone with me. Someone who says he knows you. Your husband, actually, he claims. Is it fine if he comes in?”

“No, it isn’t, actually. Tell him I’m busy and I don’t wanna see him or talk.”