Mary Miller - The Last Days of California

“Tell me,” he said.

“Tell you what?”

“Tell me.”

“I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“How you violate yourself,” he whispered.

“What?”

“Do you want to be forgiven?” His voice cracked on the word “forgiven.” “We all want to be forgiven, Jess.” He breathed my name into the phone— Jess, Jess —as I sat there, unable to say anything. We were quiet for a long time, maybe ten seconds, and then he said my name louder, more clearly. I threw the phone across the room; it hit the wall and bounced off. I walked over and picked it up, knowing I hadn’t thrown it hard enough to break it. It made me hate myself. I was always worried about everything, how much a new phone would cost, how much trouble it would be to go to Verizon and get a new one. I wanted to break it and not think twice about breaking it. I wanted to be beautiful enough to demand expensive things and believe I was worthy of them.

I made a half-assed search through Elise’s suitcase for a cigarette, but of course she had them with her. Then I went to the bathroom and sorted through her makeup bag, the inside coated with a thick film of shimmery powder. I put on eyeliner, mascara, and blush. I used the hair dryer and some lotion to try to get my hair to do something it didn’t want to do. Then I put on Elise’s blue silk dress, a dress I’d specifically asked to wear before and she’d said no, and stood in front of the mirror. I didn’t look like a different person, but I didn’t quite look like the same one, either.

The bar was like Applebee’s with its green-glowing beer signs, men hunched over baskets of fried food. Elise was seated at a four-top by the window with a salad in front of her, watching a tennis game on TV. She’d changed into a new outfit, a short black dress and a pair of heels. She might pass for a woman meeting friends for drinks after work.

“Order a Coke,” she said. “I have a flask.”

“Where’d you get a flask?”

“Dan gave it to me for my birthday.” She took it out of her purse and passed it across the table. GET YOUR SHIT TOGETHER, it said. “The whiskey I got at the liquor store. It cost me twenty dollars of your money.”

“Oh yeah?”

“That’s right,” she said. “You won’t need it where you’re going.”

“I wish you’d stop taking my money,” I said.

“That’s the first time I’ve ever taken your money.”

“I wish you’d stop asking for it, then.”

The waitress came and I ordered a Diet Coke. I looked around—it was Friday night and people were celebrating the start of their weekend. Weekends meant nothing to us. We had no reason to keep track of days except for the one our lives had been revolving around for months.

My drink came. I took a few gulps and poured the whiskey in. I stopped myself from checking to see if anyone was watching. If someone saw us, they might say we couldn’t do that, or kick us out. I told myself it didn’t matter—worst-case scenario, we got kicked out and we’d go someplace else, but even though the worst-case scenario wasn’t even bad, I dreaded it. I hated to be told I couldn’t do something. I checked my breasts, adjusted them.

“How are your boobs?” she asked.

“Nice.”

“You look pretty.”

“Thanks.”

We drank for a few minutes and then she said, “I’ve been thinking about something.”

“What’s that?”

“Cinderella’s slipper.”

“Cinderella’s slipper,” I repeated.

“Yeah—how come it didn’t turn into a rat or whatever when the clock struck twelve?”

“Why would you be thinking about that?” I asked.

“Because I was thinking about leaving my clothes outside and it reminded me.” She took out her cigarettes and her LOVE HURTS lighter and placed them on the table, though there were no ashtrays and no one was smoking. “It’s a good question, right?”

I wondered if she’d just light up, like a movie star. “I don’t know. I haven’t seen Cinderella in a long time.”

“But you know the story.”

“Yeah, I know the story.”

“The slipper’s left on the step and the prince takes it around—”

“I know what happens,” I said. “Have you seen the boys?”

“No,” she said. She took her straw out of her glass and drank from it, tiny little sips like she was feeding an injured baby bird.

“I called Brother Jessie,” I said.

“Yeah? What’d he say?”

“He asked me to tell him how I violated myself.”

“He asked you to tell him what ?”

“He said, ‘Tell me how you violate yourself.’”

“Bullshit,” she said.

“No, I’m serious. I could hear his baby crying in the background. Rachel.”

“Stop.”

“And the ice clinking in his glass.” I picked up my Diet Coke and moved it around but there was too much ice, the glass too tall and thick.

“What are you gonna do?”

“What do you mean ‘what am I gonna do?’”

“I mean ‘what are you gonna do?’” she said.

“Nothing.”

“What are you talking about? What if he’s done this to other kids? What if he’s done a lot worse?”

Who cares about other kids? I thought, but then I felt bad. I cared about other kids. “I doubt he’s done anything,” I said. The one and only time he’d touched me, we were at church. I’d been sick and hadn’t seen him in a few weeks and he’d pulled me to him, cradled my head to his chest. The hug had gone on too long—anyone who’d seen the entire thing, gauged its length, would have found it inappropriate.

“We have to tell Dad,” she said.

“Why? We never tell him anything.”

“But this is important,” she said, looking at the door. I turned to watch the guys from the pool walk over. There were four of them, sunburned and wearing their nice clothes.

“Can we sit?” the one who’d held me asked.

“Sure,” I said. His eyes were bloodshot, a swampy green. Two of them went to get chairs and the other two sat, making a lot of noise and taking up as much space as possible. They seemed wrong out of water.

The fattest, loudest one put his hand on the back of my chair and smiled with all of his teeth. The one who’d held me—Jay or Jason—picked a cherry tomato off Elise’s salad and popped it into his mouth. She pushed it across the table to him and took out her flask, poured more whiskey into her glass. I wondered if she was always so standoffish, or if she only acted this way for my benefit. Who was she, really? Was she the person who rode bikes with me and jumped on the trampoline, or a careless drunk who went off with strange men and did God-knows-what? Was she a standoffish bitch, or a good-hearted person who was kind to the most downtrodden of God’s flock?

“What’s your name again?” I asked.

“Jake,” he said.

“Jake,” I said. “I like that name.”

“You guys been here long?” the fat one asked.

One of the others set shots on the table. “Date grapes for everyone,” he said.

“That’s not funny,” I said.

“That’s what they’re called. We all got date grapes, not just you guys. I’ll get you a birthday cake next if you want.”

“I’ll have a birthday cake,” Elise said.

We held up our shots.

“To new friends,” the guy who’d bought them said.

“To the rapture,” said Elise.

We clinked glasses and drank. I drank half and set the other half back down. I could feel my blood start to move again. I couldn’t hear the buzz in my ears, but if I went to the bathroom I might be able to hear it.

“I’m Brad,” the guy who’d bought the shots said.

“Jess.”

“You’re a bad cheerser,” he said, and asked if he could give me a lesson. He picked up my glass of Diet Coke and whiskey and gestured for me to raise my shot. “First you make brief but meaningful eye contact.” We made eye contact that was longer than brief. I smiled, but he looked at me like this was serious business. “Then you raise your glass, clink, and look the person in the eye again. And then you drink. If it’s a shot, you take the entire thing—not half.”