fiction by Jason Edwards
There I was, sitting in the kitchen reading the December, 1958 edition of The Economist (yellowed pages, ads for blenders) when Lana called me from the other room. “Steve,” she said. So I got up, fetched my pipe, and walked into the den good naturedly.
“Steve,” she said. “I want to go buy a pair of boots.” Her gaze was pointed more or less towards the television, although not quite focused on it. One of the ESPNs, what looked like some kind monster truck thing. Didn’t matter, since who knows what Lana actually saw, inside her head.
“Macy’s?” I said, pretending to take a puff on the pipe.
“Woolworth’s, Steve,” she said. It used to sort of creep me out, how much she said my name. Well, not my name, really. My name is Douglas. I have no idea who Steve is.
“Okay,” I said, fighting back a sigh. They say yawns are contagious. I’ve never seen Lana yawn. But if you sigh in her presence, she’ll sigh back, and long, deep-chested sigh, the kind that can dim the lights in a room and put pictures in your mind of sloppy nooses, small caliber hands guns, discrete poisons.
I stood there for a second, looking at her, frozen, which I knew pleased her. She liked it when we looked like a photograph taken by an old Brownie 127, which is why she wore orange capris with a mustard and brown horizontal striped knit sweater. Her head seemed to gently bobble on her long, almost ungainly neck. Her cream-colored lipstick and bee-stung lips, her pointed noise, enormous thick black eyelashes, lazy eyelids, hair swept up high, big bangs sweeping back over her head and cascading down her back, in desperate need of Lustre Crème.
I usually came to the house dressed in blue jeans and a ratty old black concert t-shirt, but somehow, throughout the day, I found myself in slacks, a button up shirt, a sweater, my own hair brill-cremed. And I was always carrying this damn pipe. But, a job’s a job. And no time like the present, so I picked Lana up and slung her over my shoulder, carried her out of the den and into the garage.
Car port. When I came to the house every day I parked my 2008 Kia Spectra in the garage, but whenever Lana wanted me to take her someplace, it was a 1960 Ford Thunderbird, parked in a car port. You’d think this would be cool, a sweet ride. No. The car was filthy, not well maintained, ran poorly. I mean, it was no worse than my Kia, but certainly no better. But I had gotten used to it. I opened the door, set Lana in the back seat, adjusted her body so she didn’t seem to loll so much, then got behind the wheel, brushing aside fast food wrappers and empty coffee cups. I had no idea where they came from—we never ate in the car, I was the only one who ever drove it, and I cleaned the damn thing out two or three times a week.
Anyway. Whatever. I backed out and we drove to Macy’s. Of course, Woolworth’s went out of business in 1997. Didn’t matter. I could’ve taken Lana to Hot Topic—in fact, I had once, and that’s where she’d gotten the orange capris. Lately, though, whenever she wanted me to take somewhere, I chose Macy’s. I liked the mall because I could park far away in the huge lot. You see, sometimes when we came back to the car, it was a different car. Not often, but sometimes. And being able to park in a specific spot, away from everyone else, made it easier get past the cognitive dissonance.
And the mall was a short drive. The first time we went out, I actually thought I should try and take her to an actual Woolworth’s, so we went to the old one on Maple, which rotated between temporary usages—election campaign headquarters, raves, Halloween costume stores—but still had the old Woolworth’s sign. That day there wasn’t anything in the store itself, but I hadn’t known any better. Carried Lana to the front door, and just stood there like an idiot. Back then I was still carrying her in front of me instead of over my shoulder. Some hipster prat (wool stocking cap, horn-rims, pierced lips, ear lobe plugs, full beard, blue short sleeve chambray worksheet buttoned to the neck, both arms tattooed from biceps to knuckles, Levi 511s rolled up to reveal naked ankles above busted Vans) was taking pictures of us with his iPhone, and Lana started singing “Blue Velvet” in the deep voice which means she’s feeling uneasy, so we left.
So now I know better. Like I said, I’ve amused myself, now that I’m a little more comfortable around her, since it sort of doesn’t matter where we go. “Steve. Gelato, Steve,” and I’ll take her to Arby’s (she doesn’t eat anything—I’ve never seen her eat). Or “I want to buy you a beer, you big strapping man,” and we’ll go to Starbucks so I can get a mocha. But after a while, amusing myself sort of got boring, so now I just take her to the same few convenient locations.
Like this Macy’s. I slung her over my shoulder and marched towards the store front. No one gave us a second glance. When I felt weird carrying Lana around, people would stare. Then I stopped caring, and so did they. And it’s interesting to me—Lana doesn’t weigh very much, but it would be a lie to say she weighed less than, say, a sack of wet rice. She was definitely proportional to a slender twenty-six year old five foot seven inch bottle-red head. But you know how it is—the perception was that she was light. Toss me a 50 pound sack of potatoes, and I’ll marvel out how ungainly it is. But Lana was just Lana, and carrying her over my shoulder was really no big deal.
We got inside the Macy’s and I set her down in the evening gown section. She said she wanted boots, but I knew better—she wanted to drift around the dresses, humming to herself and letting her fingers caress the fabrics. It was the only time I ever saw her walk on her own. She wore pants—orange capris, like I said—and I could see her feet move. But on days when she wore dresses, I swear it looked like she was floating. Her head never bounced or bobbed.
I let her go to it and sought out the men’s room for a quick smoke. You can’t smoke in Macy’s. You’re not even allowed to in the restroom. But when I got there, I snapped a Chesterfield out of a pack and had a few quick drags. I don’t smoke, and I have to special order these damn things from a tobacconists in England, since they don’t sell them where I live and shipping cigarettes over state lines requires a special license that I don’t have.
And if you’re wondering, don’t, because there’s no use to it and you won’t get anywhere anyway. I mean I’ve tried. I was looking for work, answered an ad in the paper for a “personal custodian,” and just sort of started showing up at the house where Lana lives. Or, if not lives, is. Nothing is ever consistent, sometimes I recognize things from the late 50s, early 60s, those few months in the 80s when everyone thought they were doing 50s retro but were really doing 60s retro. For a few days it was 90s retro 70s, but Lana didn’t seem to like it much so I don’t know if she controls it or if someone else does or if, somehow, I do. I try not to think about it. I try not to look things up in the internet anymore. I mean, I’m pretty sure The Economist never ran ads for blenders—that was probably Life magazine. The point is… well, there is no point. I show up and do what Lana wants and everything seems to be fine and who am I to judge? I don’t know even know who I am, so who am I to judge?
I finished my cigarette, looked at myself in the mirror, decided I needed a shave. Or a martini. Instead I went back to the gowns to see how Lana was doing. When I got there, she was talking to someone… or at least the Lana version of talking, which was to stand close as if in conversation, but sort of gaze over their shoulder. I’d seen her do that with salespeople, mannequins, the homeless, old ladies at bus stops. Usually they just stood there too, as if content to have a conversation without words—again, as if captured in a photograph.
This time, oddly, Lana was actually saying things, and so was the other person—a thin girl in a purple satin dress, spaghetti straps, wavy brunette hair, maybe too much eye-makeup, cheek bones that didn’t say genetics as much as they said wealthy eating disorder. She seemed vaguely familiar.
I wanted to hear what they were saying, so I moved closer, but slowly, so as not to disturb them. As I did, a burly man dressed in a tight brown Hugo Boss suit entirely well-fitted but entirely wrong for his body stepped in front of me. “Can I help you?”
I knew he didn’t work there, but it clicked almost immediately. “I’m with the lady in the stripes there. Can I help you?”
He smiled. “Personal custodian?” he said.
I smiled back. “Yeah. Mine’s Lana.”
“Allegra,” he said, and took a step to the side so we could both watch them. “I’d always assumed I was the only one.”
“Me too.” I said. I tried not to think about it too much, but found I was somehow comforted.
“How does yours work? Does she take you on jets?”
I shook my head. “No, mostly we just go shopping.”
He nodded. “Yeah, we do that sometimes. Mostly I take her to the airport. We get on privates jets—they don’t go anywhere. I read GQ, she holds a cell phone up to her ear. Never says anything. This is the first time I’ve seen her talk to anyone else.”
“Me too.” We stand there for a while, watching, not quite making out what they’re saying. Eventually, Lana drifted away from the other girl, and the guy turned to me. “Antonio” he said, holding out his hand.
We shake. “Steve,” I said. “Actually, it’s Douglas.”
He smiled again, and then chuckled. “I used to be Dave.” He walked towards his girl.
I went over to Lana. “Ready to go home?”
She turned to me, a sort of smiled, looking over my shoulder. “Take me home, Steve.” So I picked her up, threw her over my shoulder. I turned, and Antonio (Dave) had his girl over his shoulder too, a big grin on his face, almost as big as mine. We left through different doors.
I walked us back to the car (still a 1960 Ford Thunderbird) and settled Lana into the back seat. Got behind the wheel, and glanced at her in the rearview. Somehow, she was holding a shoebox, what looked like a picture of cowboy boots on them. I sighed a sigh of contentment, and Lana picked it up, and sighed too. It wasn’t so bad.
