Читать книгу Tales Of A Drama Queen - Lee Nichols - Страница 13

Perfect Brad comes home at ten. He helps with my résumé. We finish at 10:07.

The next morning, memorizing sections A through D of the newspaper and putting off the classifieds as long as possible, I find this headline: Prize-Winning Bitch Missing.

I ponder the gratuitous use of the word bitch. You hear it on Friends and Will & Grace now, where calling any woman a bitch provokes screams of laughter. I don’t get it. Why aren’t they calling men assholes? Now that’s funny.

But no. The article’s actually about a female dog.

Prize-Winning Bitch Missing

A prize-winning golden retriever puppy was stolen from local breeder, Sally Ameson, last Wednesday. Ameson believes that a man claiming to be interested in purchasing one of her older dogs was responsible.

“I went into the back room to run the guy’s credit card,” Ameson said. “But he was gone when I returned, and Holly-Go-Lightly was nowhere to be found.”

The Santa Barbara Police Department ran a credit check, which revealed the Visa card to be stolen. “I never would have sold Holly. She’s unbreedable,” said Ameson.

After winning a blue ribbon at this year’s Santa Barbara Dog Show, the puppy was diagnosed with Clay Pigeon Disease, a rare disorder affecting a dog’s nervous system. The five-month-old bitch can live a normal life, but requires regular medication. “Without it,” said Dr. Van der Water of Riviera Veterinary, “she has little chance of surviving the next several months.”

If you have any information about this missing bitch call the Send Holly Home Hotline at 555-5658.

Figures they’d quote Anna Van der Water. Little chance of surviving the next few months—what does she call that, bedside manner? At least there wasn’t a picture of her with those stupid barrettes.

I enjoy fifteen minutes of revenge fantasies, deciding how Anna should be punished for having found a lucrative and reputable career, then force myself to read the classifieds.

There’s a new ad, for a “unique living opportunity in Mission Canyon.” And it is—get this!—only $500 a month. Unique? If $650 pays for a garage in Goleta, what can $500 possibly get you in Mission Canyon? I’m thinking a carport. With housemates.

I draw a dark blue X through it with my pen, and browse on. But it keeps nagging at me. Maybe what’s unique is that it’s a stunning one-bedroom apartment, for only $500. Doesn’t get more unique than that. I decide to chance it.

Mission Canyon lies just beyond the Santa Barbara Mission, towards the foothills. At sunset, the Mission’s peach walls glisten with falling light and the sky blushes a pink glow behind it. Across the street is the public rose garden. As I drive past, the scent of roses is thick in the air, and all is right in the world—if you ignore, for a moment, your little list.

I park in front of the house on Puesto Del Sol, next to the iron gate the woman on the phone mentioned. There’s a kid who looks like Eddie Munster—but without the formal attire and widow’s peak—tossing pebbles at a tree trunk across the street.

“You parked on my stick,” he says.

I look. There are any number of sticks on the ground. It’s true that I parked on some of them. “Sorry.”

“You broke it.”

“Oh. Which one is yours?”

He points to a stick exactly like every other stick, except broken. “See?”

It occurs to me that this is some new juvenile prank, the current equivalent of asking someone to page Mike Hunt. I smile weakly, and take a step toward the gate, and wave away a bug that whizzes by my ear. Take another step, and a second bug stings me on the shoulder-blade. Another step, another bug—on my butt.

I spin, and Eddie Munster is still tossing pebbles toward the tree trunk. Not the slightest sign of a smirk on his face. Little fucker.

I take five quick steps and close the gate behind me. Think I’m safe until a half-dozen pebbles sail though the bars and pelt my back. Briefly consider cracking Eddie Munster’s head like an egg on the rim of a bowl, but the New Elle rises above. Plus, I don’t have the firepower.

I step out of the line of fire and am hit with two bullets of fur. Much yapping ensues, and between barks one of the little black pugs tries to nibble my toes. After I realize this is not part of Eddie Munster’s evil plan, I pat the dogs, setting their pig-tails wagging delightedly.

“Penny! Pippin!” a woman’s voice scolds, and the beasts retreat. The woman is a schoolmarm, with withered cheeks, a sticklike body and white hair pulled into a bun. She wears a tailored cotton blouse and a full pleated skirt. And is that a cameo at her neck? I move in for a greeting and get a closer look. No, just an ugly piece of agate.

“Hi,” I say. “I’m Elle. We spoke on the phone?”

“It’s this way. I’m Mrs. Petrie.” And before I have a chance to worry about what I’ll find, she’s off at a canter, the dogs and me trotting behind.

The walk is through a well-loved, well-tended California-English-style garden. Roses, hydrangeas, lavender and Mexican sage are all in full bloom. “Unique” is looking better and better—and I start thinking the guest house will be a delicious little truffle of a cottage. Tiny, considering the price. But the garden! And it’s in Mission Canyon. There’s nothing shameful about telling people you live in Mission Canyon.

There is, however, something shameful about telling people you live in a trolley. Not a carport, a trolley. It squats, sans wheels, just beyond the garden.

“That’s a trolley,” I say.

“Water and trash are included,” she answers. She climbs the stairs and unlocks the door.

I enter behind her, and the trolley teeters a bit from our combined weight.

“Light switches, bathroom. Bed. Kitchen. I will return in five minutes for your answer.” She opens the door to leave, but pauses on the steps. “There is dirt on the back of your blouse. And your skirt.”

I start to explain Eddie Munster, but she interrupts with a glacial nod and leaves.

I sigh and look around, and it is still a trolley. It’s carnival red, except where the paint has chipped off to reveal a coat of mustard yellow. Half the floor is covered in green carpet, the other half, brick linoleum. In the “kitchen” is an all-in-one stove/sink/refrigerator unit. It’s 1950s—futuristic, and kinda cute.

The toilet, however, is less than cute, and sits directly next to the stove/sink/fridge. I’m talking ten inches away. A showerhead protrudes from the wall three feet above the toilet tank, and a drain is planted in the floor under it. There are brown curtains over the windows, and the roof is maybe two feet above my head. I’ve seen SUVs with more living space.

I need money. Not millions. I’m not asking for millions. I just don’t want to have to choose between ZZ’s garage and a converted trolley. My real apartment, I mean the apartment Louis and I lived in, has two bedrooms and…and it hits me. Louis is living in my apartment with his new wife. His wife. He married her. In a week. After six years with me, he married a stranger. He’s married. He’s somebody’s husband. He has a wife. What if he hears I’m living in a garage or a trolley?

I am suddenly thrilled with the drain in the floor, because I’m gonna throw up. I make a noise like a sick cat and bend over the toilet, and Schoolmarm Petrie knocks and enters.

Apparently she thinks I’m inspecting the toilet, because she says something about the plumbing and the pipes, and sternly warns against flushing “feminine napkins.”

“Well?” she finally says.

I straighten in a dignified manner. “I’ll take it.”

Leave messages for Maya and PB regarding my rental triumph. Do not offer specifics, due to theory that once I’m there, it will look less like a trolley and more like a gatehouse cottage à la the Cotswolds.

Have a private ceremony to officially erase “apartment” from my list. Wake up two hours later suffering from a sugar-crash and surrounded by the crumbs of a celebratory Anderson’s Butter-Ring—butter pastry, marzipan and white icing baked into sugary goodness. But the New Elle does not stop while on a roll. The New Elle continues rolling. The New Elle will apply for three jobs today, three tomorrow and three more each day until she is gainfully employed.

I look through my job folder—actually a stack of clippings stuffed in my mildewed, hateful tote. Over the last week, I’ve cut out every job that mentions “development” or “boutique” or “team leader” but not “director” (grand total: seven). I pick one at random, and in a burst of efficiency write a cover letter, stuff it in an envelope with a résumé, and place it on the kitchen table so Maya will remember to stamp and mail it.

Despite being exhausted from use of fiction-writing muscles atrophied since college, I have two more cover letters to write. I write “To Whom It May Concern” and am debating merits of following it with a colon or a comma when it hits me: I’ve no furniture, I’ve no silverware, I’ve no bedding, I’ve no gorgeous objet; in short, I’ve nothing at all for the new cottage.

This isn’t optional, this is housewares. Thing is, I started with $5,100, right? Then gave $1,500 to Schoolmarm Petrie for first, last, security. Spent $300 on assorted shopping. Well, $400. Let’s call it $500 on assorted shopping, to be safe. I do a little long-division and discover that $5,100 minus $2,000 is $3,100.

I count my money: $1,773.59. Must have it wrong. Even I cannot misplace $1,300 in cash.

I count it again: $1,612.59.

Again: $1,598.59. This rate of shrinkage, I’ll have nothing left by midnight, except the fifty-nine cents I’m so sure about.

I panic. I call Louis, and hang up on the second ring. I call back, and hang up on the first. I take a deep breath, and call a third time. I get a message. In a woman’s voice. I hear: Hi, you’ve reached the Ferrises. We’re not in right now—

I slam the phone down. The Ferrises? That is my fucking answering machine and my fucking fiancé. I call Maya at work and get the machine. I dial my mother and hang up before the call goes through.

Twenty minutes, and all the Butter-Ring crumbs later, I’m thinking more clearly: what I need is money, not comfort. I call my dad.

“Dad, it’s Elle,” I say when he answers.

“Hi, sweetheart.” He sounds pleased to hear from me. “Guess what?”

“I don’t want to guess. You got my message that I moved? I’m in Santa Barbara now. The flight was fine. I just rented an apartment.”

“I got married.”

That isn’t my favorite sentence. I feel the throb of an impending migraine. “You already are married.”

“Leanne? We divorced months ago. I met Nancy in Panama in October. We tied the knot last week in Hawaii.”

I want to ask why he didn’t invite me, but I know the answer: He’s still upset because last time he got married I said I couldn’t come this time, but would be sure to catch the next one. “Is she Panamanian?” At least that would be something new.

“She’s a school teacher from Vermont. She quit her job and moved in last month.”

“She quit her job and moved across country to be with you,” I say. “Does she know there’s no chance the marriage will last more than two years?”

“Eleanor, c’mon. That’s a little hard on your father. Your mother and I were together seven years.”

“Longer than me and Louis,” I say bitterly.

My father perks up. “Oh! That reminds me. You’re not going to believe this, but while Nance and I were on our honeymoon, we ran into Louis.”

“In Hawaii?” He never took me to Hawaii.

“No, no. That’s just where we got married. We honeymooned in Venice.”

“Venice?” He never took me to Venice.

“Most romantic city in the world. Me and Louis were trying to hire the same gondolier. Small world, huh? Anyway, he’s doing great. Got a huge bonus for some deal in Iowa. Gave him a corner office, too. He and his new wife were celebrating. Lovely girl. Have you met her?”

I can’t respond, due to the red-hot poker that has been shoved into my left temple.

“Charming girl. Pretty. Reminded me of you. Except not so…you know.”

“No, I don’t know. Not so what?”

He laughs weakly. “Oh, nothing.”

I take a deep breath. “Dad, I need money.”

Silence.

“Dad?”

“Louis said you took three thousand out of the household account. He thought that was very fair.”

“Three thousand?” I thought it was four. So I didn’t misplace $1,300. Only $300. I’m oddly relieved: misplacing $300 is easy.

“That’s what he said. Oh, and he asked about his stamp collection. Apparently got mixed in with your things.”

“I don’t want to talk about Louis. I want to talk about me. I’m running out of money. I don’t have a job. I just rented an apartment and I need a car.”

“Honey, I’d love to help. But you know how strapped I am.”

“You managed to scrape up the cash for Hawaii and Venice,” I shrill. “And to pay four alimony checks a month.”

“And that,” he says, “is why I’m strapped.”