Lady Churchill's Rosebud Wristlet No. 14 Read online

  The beginning of her stories is the war. In the beginning was the war. It was when wars were fought by the poor, in large numbers, with bullets. On a busride from an indoctrination center to a training camp, Mr. Stone met my father. They were both poor then, but it's hard for anyone—Mrs. Stone, me, Mom—to imagine Mr. Stone as poor. My father, he carried his possessions in a shoebox tied with twine. No one can remember what Mr. Stone carried his possessions in. Mr. Stone doesn't really come into focus until much later, until after the war. Before that, he's just this vague blur who meets my father on a bus, who trains with my father at Fort Benning.

  He's the vague blur my father grabs and pulls down behind an armored personnel carrier during an ambush, an ambush where the lieutenant in command of their platoon is killed. Mrs. Stone carefully relates this as my father saving Mr. Stone's life. I never once heard my father use that phrase, “saved his life,” to describe the event, though.

  It's only years after the war that Mr. Stone comes into focus, wearing his affected ascot ties, driving monstrous gasoline-powered cars that could hold both our families. Supervising construction on all of the houses—his houses, our house, all the houses in between.

  Those were Mrs. Stone's good old days, and she winds through them, reminding me of riding horses with her daughters, of swimming and playing tennis with them. I was always a lousy tennis player, though. The Stones had given me a really nice titanium racquet for my birthday when I turned eleven. The only place I could play tennis was at their house, so I was doomed to be perpetually worse than Angela. It was Angela, not me, who finally tired of tennis. She was tired of trouncing me every time we played. It just wasn't a challenge anymore. So once we turned twelve we only rode horses and swam. No more tennis.

  Earl doesn't have to help with any of these stories: the time that I was riding Ronald and he went haywire and charged off up to the highway, the time that Angela dyed the dog (and most of the carpet) pink, the time that Mr. Stone took my father golfing with an astronaut. Mrs. Stone knows these stories by heart.

  There's still a grounds crew keeping the foliage tidy, the pool clean, the tennis courts free of debris. Does Mrs. Stone still hire a cleaning service, too, or does Earl handle that? What does he do all day?

  * * * *

  I let myself in the basement door at Mom's house. When I was a teenager I took over the basement as my own domain, an incursion quickly erased once I moved out. I still like coming in that way and imagining, for just a second, that all my belongings and furniture will be there.

  Today when I walk in, Pete's changing a lightbulb in the ceiling fixture. He's clambered to the top of a blue plastic stepladder, but since the stepladder's only three feet tall, and he's just over four feet tall, he can still barely reach the fixture on tip-toe with arms outstretched. He looks less well than the last time I visited, pale and skinny.

  He teeters, grappling with the circular fixture which I always thought looked like a weird nipple up there in the ceiling, trying to hold it up with one hand while unscrewing the lightbulb with the other. The blue ladder starts tilting sideways, but he doesn't notice. Finally it dumps him off onto the hard tile floor. The ladder falls on top of Pete, while the light fixture dangles in the air, suspended only by the thick black and red wires.

  Pete looks up at me, his face completely blank. Then he pushes the ladder off, stands up, turns, and walks up the stairs.

  I right the ladder, pick up the new lightbulb in its corrugated cocoon, and change the bulb easily. As I screw in the new one it comes to life in my hands, warm and blinding.

  Upstairs, Mom is sitting at the kitchen table. There's a red mug next to her, steam coming up out of it. I ask her what she's drinking. “Hmmpf,” she says. “Hey!"

  Pete comes ambling into the kitchen. “Yes, ma'am, what can I dooo for yooooooooo?” Pete has started bursting into song a lot lately.

  "What am I drinking?"

  "Pete says green tea. It's full of health for yoooooo—"

  "Thank you, Pete."

  "Sure thing,” he says, a little downcast that Mom cut him off mid-warble.

  I look over into Mom's mug. It just looks like boiled water to me, no teabag or leaves or color at all. Pete's already trying to sidle back from the kitchen to the dining room. There's nothing much in the dining room—Mom sold all the nice furniture after Dad died—but Pete hangs out there.

  It's not like we ever used the dining room, anyway. When the Stones built our house they built it with a dining room, a living room, a den, a playroom. They insisted on all of these rooms. We just used the den. It was the one room that had a television.

  "Let me get you a fresh cup, Mom.” I take the mug to the counter and start rummaging in the cabinets for more tea. There is no tea, and when I taste what's in Mom's mug it confirms that she was just drinking hot water. There are cans of mixed nuts, there are containers of yogurt, which should be in the refrigerator but aren't, and there are boxes of sugary breakfast cereal. There's Mom's ancient spice rack, still populated with labeled glass bottles containing flavorless dust from decades ago.

  "Mom, you can't live on nuts and cereal. I gave Pete a shopping list the last time I was here."

  "I'm just not hungry,” she says. Then, “Hey, Pete!"

  Pete peeps in from the doorway to the dining room.

  "Yeah, she's not hungry,” he says, knowing that she's probably already forgotten why she blurted his name in the first place. “Hun-gar-eeeeee!” he adds with an ascending operatic flourish.

  Some special friend you are, I think. But instead of sneaking back into the dining room, Pete wanders into the kitchen. He pulls himself up onto the bar and sits there, spindly legs dangling in front of the cabinets.

  "You have been taking your medicine, though, Mom?"

  "Yes,” they answer simultaneously, Mom and Pete. Then he adds, “She wouldn't be here if she didn't, now would she?"

  Mom just smiles, showing her chipped teeth. Pete smiles right along with her. Their expressions remind me of Earl. I've been dropped into a universe full of smiling people.

  "See, I'm just fine. It's you I'm worried about. How is Bert, Bernie, Ben—"

  "Bill,” Pete interjects.

  "Bill and I broke up,” I reply. Bill and I broke up a year ago, and if Mom doesn't remember, well, Pete should. What do they talk about, when I'm not here?

  "I'm sorry to hear that, dear. Don't you worry, another man will come along."

  "There's more fishes in the sea,” Pete adds.

  "Shut up, Pete,” I say.

  "Remember Lucille Canaday?” Pete prompts Mom.

  "Oh, yes. Did you hear about this? Lucille Canaday, from church? Her first husband left her . . ."

  "Last fall,” says Pete.

  "Last fall! Well, now she's found herself a trial lawyer. A lady trial lawyer. Which is fine by me, in case you were gonna ask. Trial lawyers make good money. Good money."

  I try to keep the conversation steered away from myself. Mom's short-term memory seems to work best when she can focus on something to worry about. She's not good with names, but she remembers that I need a man (or a rich woman) in my life. That I haven't had a promotion or even a raise in years. That, until she dies and passes it along to me, I'll never be able to afford a house like hers, the one the Stones built.

  We do manage to talk about Mom's favorite soap opera for a while. It's Pete's favorite soap opera too. He reminds her of all of the character's names when she fumbles for them, but she can remember all of the events—the pregnancies, betrayals, affairs, lost loves—pretty well. As if they're all interchangeable. At least, Pete never corrects her when it comes to the events. I wouldn't know the first thing about what happens on soap operas, even though I should be an expert after listening to hours of enthusiastic commentary from Mom and Pete.

  "How's that Bill fellow doing these days?” Mom asks, just before I leave.

  * * * *

  For her sixteenth birthday, Angela got a little Japanese converti
ble with a V-6 under the hood.

  When I turned sixteen, a few weeks later, I got a speech from my father about the economy, and about “staying out of trouble.” Which meant boys. The Stones and their three daughters, the tennis court and the swimming pool and the horses, they weren't considered trouble.

  So everyone was surprised when Angela slid off the road in her powerful Japanese car and plowed into a big pine tree. Me most of all, because I was in the passenger seat. I got minor bruises and lacerations. Angela got dead.

  I never told anyone that it was me egging her on to see how fast the little car could go on those twisty backroads, pushing the speedometer needle up and up. As always, living vicariously through Angela. I never told anyone.

  * * * *

  Then it's not the first or third Saturday of the month anymore. Then it's just my life. It's payday, so when I get off work at the archives I decide to treat myself to a whiskey in one of the neighborhood bars here in the deserted heart of downtown. Just one, before the sun sets, then I'll catch the bus to my apartment. At the Green Star I get a Jameson's on the rocks and an empty booth. It's dark in my booth, so I can people-watch in peace. There's soccer on the television and a sprinkling of regulars on stools at the bar.

  They don't talk; they just grunt and point at the television or their drinks and exchange glances. This makes it easier to make up the stories of their lives. The tall one with short spiky hair, in his forties but still wiry and athletic, he's a tennis pro, I think. Or was, before a tragic accident. Like, he was on the Davis Cup team by the time he was twenty, but then there was some horrible automobile accident. He survived: outwardly he ended up fine but there was brain damage. He couldn't interact with people any more, could barely speak. But his memories were intact. He knew that he'd been a rising sports star, but there was nothing he could do about it except drink heavily and live out his life on the settlement money.

  I'm halfway through my drink when the doors swing open and Earl walks in. Pete trails behind. They walk up to the bar and Earl carefully lifts Pete into place on a stool before pulling one up for himself.

  One of the regulars, the one who's been chain-smoking, notices them enter. He nudges the tennis pro on the shoulder, cocks his head, and whispers one word. I don't have to be a lip-reader to tell what he said: “Specials."

  The tennis pro turns, squinting his eyes in disgust at Earl and little Pete. He can't do anything, though. Special friends have rights too; the Supreme Court said so.

  Pete gets a shot and a beer. Earl, the designated driver, gets a white wine spritzer. He has to explain to the bartender how to make the spritzer. I lean over and cup a hand to my ear so I can listen in better. Earl and Pete don't notice me.

  "The previous guy,” Pete says, “if I may continue, was a snooty bastard."

  "Let's not speak ill of the retired,” Earl replies, then he takes a dainty sip of his drink.

  "Snooty ooty ooty!” sings Pete, a little too loud. The smokers swivel their heads toward him for a moment, then back to the television.

  "Besides,” Earl adds, “the ‘previous guy’ almost got handed down to your current employer."

  "Says who?” Pete downs his shot and looks sideways at Earl.

  "Said Eugene himself, when he briefed me for the job. Yet another favor from the beneficent Mrs. Stone. Eugene was petrified she'd send him there instead of just letting him retire."

  "Christ, retirement! Don't even bring that up. I sit in this empty white room half the day pretending that I'm retired."

  The bartender asks Pete if he wants another shot. Pete doesn't reply.

  "Yes, he'll have another,” Earl says to the bartender. “On me."

  "You're a stand-up guy, Earl,” Pete says, slapping him on the back. “Not snooty like frigging Eugene."

  "Frigging? What a colorful turn of phrase, Peter. Frankly, I'm surprised Eugene even associated with you. He didn't seem like the slumming type."

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "We're from different worlds, you and I. I'm from the top floor and you're from the ‘as is’ bin in the bargain basement. Surely you've noticed."

  "OK, never mind, you're exactly as snooty as Eugene was."

  Pete turns back to his drinks and downs the second shot. That's when I pick up my drink and walk to the bar and plop down on the other side of Earl.

  "Tell me all about it, Earl."

  "Pauline,” Earl says, “what a pleasant surprise,” mimicking Mrs. Stone's greeting even as his facial expression betrays the sentiment.

  "No, really, what's going on, Earl? Why are you here with Pete?"

  "Because Mrs. Stone asked me to be here, of course. I was going out shopping and she asked me to take Peter—not that she actually remembers him by name—along too. It's so much easier for him that way than the bus."

  "You're too kind, Earl."

  "No, Pauline, it is you who is kind. You visit Mrs. Stone twice a month, after all."

  We all drink in silence for a moment. Then Earl starts giggling to himself.

  "Nuts and cereal,” he whispers, loud enough for us to hear. “Now that's good eating."

  I start to respond but then Pete taps him on the shoulder.

  Earl turns and Pete is standing there, teetering on top of his stool the same way he teetered atop the ladder. This time, though, he does not fall. Instead he whips his arm around, hand clutching his pint glass, until it contacts Earl square in the cheek. There's an explosion of glass and blood. Special-friend blood: it's clear, not red. It pumps out viscously, pooling on the counter.

  The smokers at the bar don't move from their stools, but the bartender reaches down behind the beer cooler and pulls out a pistol, leveling it at Pete.

  "Get out, now,” he says. Pete raises his hands reflexively, swaying on the stool.

  "You little shit,” Earl says, ignoring the gun, “you ruined my face!” He dives at Pete's legs, knocking both of them onto the concrete floor. Pete tries to curl up into a ball, while Earl starts punching and grappling.

  "Just shoot them,” I say. “Aim for the tall one."

  The bartender looks puzzled. By this time Earl has Pete's hands pinned down and he's head-butting Pete with his gooey face.

  "No, really, it's OK,” I say. “They're paid for."

  But he doesn't shoot, and the tragically brain-damaged tennis pro doesn't move, and after a few seconds of pathetic squirming on the floor, Earl lets up and Pete slides away. They get to their feet, both of them slick with Earl's special blood.

  "Come on, Earl,” I say, “why don't you drive us all home now?"

  He just stands there, and no longer am I in the universe where everyone smiles. Earl sneers and gnaws at his misshapen lips before removing a white handkerchief from his pocket and squeegeeing most of the fluid off of his skull. He leaves while the rest of us are still frozen in place.

  I put Pete on the bus with as much money as I can afford to give him to make up for groceries that Earl drove away with, then I take a bus home myself.

  * * * *

  The next day I take the bus over to Mrs. Stone's house, to apologize. Or rather, to rectify Earl's account. To set things straight, or at least as straight as they can get.

  Back in the time when Mr. Stone was a vague blur, it's probably true that my father saved his life. And back in the time when Mrs. Stone's daughter Angela and I used to be friends, it's probably true that I helped end Angela's life. How straight can things get? How even?

  It's only the second Saturday of the month, but I go to Mrs. Stone's big white house anyway.

  A pale man with short auburn hair answers the door.

  "Can I help you, Miss?” he says, cracking the door no wider than his slim face.

  "I'm here to see—” I start. He waits carefully, blinking. Neither a smile nor a sneer crosses his face.

  "Never mind,” I say.

  The next bus comes by the stop seventeen minutes later. It's hard to maintain a real sense of urgency when the bus is y
our primary mode of transportation, but the minutes blur by as I make the transfer to Mom's neighborhood and then march up from the stop to her house.

  I run through the basement and up the stairs and find them sitting at the kitchen table. Mom and Earl. Earl, the latest hand-me-down, with his ruined face. Black stitches track across his face like a spider's web. Once again Mrs. Stone and her money has worked quickly, behind the scenes, to rectify a problem. If I didn't know how to even things up, Mrs. Stone surely did.

  I don't know how Earl will treat my mother, if his sneering contempt will be any better or worse for her than Pete's loopy bitterness. But I pity Earl more than I hate him.

  If anyone has won, it's Pete. He finally got what he wanted: retirement. No more sitting in the white room for him. And Mrs. Stone, she got what she always gets: a new special friend, a new toy, a new perfect thing to take the place of all the things she can't have. The things you can't buy with money.

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  A Conspiracy of Dentists

  Jay Lake

  Teeth fall like rain, the old house weeping mouth-ivory, enamel the color of tea, with overripe banana spots. Tongue-and-groove ceilings flip open as if they were Venetian blinds, feeding the downpour, while sink drains gurgle and burp, avenging a century of toothpaste and spit in a fountain of molars, canines, bicuspids.

  Granddaddy was an old man all his life, born wrinkled and never quite smoothed out. There's one picture of him as a child, pudgy and mean, glaring over horn-rimmed glasses that dominate his face and surely draw beatings from the other boys like an outhouse draws flies in the heat-stunned East Texas of his childhood. Nothing more then, no evidence of his existence for years, until he graduates from dental school, that transcendent moment captured in a hand-tinted photograph, him already overlarge with a thin-lipped grin and an expression of determination steely as his jaw-cutters and wrenches. The tints make him look like a badly-prepared corpse, something between Easter pastel and denture-pink, a color no human has ever actually been.