The Elizas: A Novel(42)

Dot didn’t really want to be here—she hadn’t returned to this part of town since she was sick, but there was no way she was disappointing her aunt, so she said nothing. Instead of going through the front double doors, Dorothy parked in the back and led them around to a side entrance, down a set of stairs, and to a door where she knocked three times. “Like a speakeasy,” she said cheerfully. “This entrance is for the important people.”

A man with a round, smiling face, pig-pink skin, and a Winnie-the-Pooh voice opened the door, welcomed Dorothy with a hug, and led them up a set of indoor stairs lined with framed restaurant reviews. In the dining room, the walls were paneled in warm-colored wood, and the air smelled like meat. The man introduced himself to Dot as Bernie. He sat them in a booth that was so far in the back of the room Dot was pretty sure no one knew they were there. It struck Dot as odd; when she was young, Dorothy used to grouse whenever she wasn’t given an establishment’s best table. When she called this to Dorothy’s attention, her aunt’s eyes sparkled. “Honey, this is the best table. People are going to leave us alone. Now, look at this place. Remember all those stories?”

Dot beamed shyly. Of course she remembered. She was thrilled Dorothy remembered. She hadn’t been sure, over the twelve-year gap, what she’d meant to Dorothy.

Dorothy ordered champagne, then took off her sunglasses and removed the scarf from her head and neck. Dot gasped. In the ten years that had passed, she’d pictured Dorothy aging and growing lumpier, but the woman who stared back at her had smooth, lineless skin. There wasn’t a single gray hair in her black mane. Her eye makeup was dark lines and dramatic sparkles, and when she smiled, her teeth were whiter than Dot’s. Dot could plop her down on her college campus and half the guys would hit on her. Only her hands, with their protruding veins and smattering of freckles and the slightest beginning of gnarl, gave her age away.

Dorothy looked carefully at Dot, too. So long, in fact, that Dot began to feel self-conscious. She ran her hand over her hair and straightened her sweater. She was wearing a black cashmere boatneck sweater she’d found at a consignment store; it smelled slightly of mothballs and smoke. On her head was a small, netted hat. The netting kept getting in her eyes.

“You’ve grown into a remarkable young lady,” Dorothy decreed.

Dot was so overcome she thought she might cry. “Thank you.”

“It’s quite uncanny how much we look alike, isn’t it? We could be twins!” Dorothy pressed her hands to her bosom and sighed. “If only I’d been here to see you transform.”

“Why weren’t you?” Dot asked, before she could stop herself.

Dorothy sighed. “It wasn’t possible.”

The waiter delivered drinks. Dot was surprised she’d been given champagne, too. She stared at the bubbles rising to the top of the flute, feeling uncertain. Through the years, kids thought she was fucked up on seizure drugs and party drugs alike, but she’d taken the doctors’ suggestions to heart. She drank a little from time to time, but only beer. Anything harder frightened her. She feared excess would shepherd the lesions back into her brain like loser teenagers squeezing through a cracked-open back door at a VIP club.

“Are you sure this is okay?” Dot pointed at her drink.

“What, because of your illness?” Dorothy waved her hand. “It’s perfectly fine. Besides, you’re almost twenty-one, aren’t you?” She sighed with pleasure. “My little lady.”

Dot put the drink to her lips. It tasted fruity and sour at the same time. The bubbles exploded on her tongue. She felt surprising heat as the liquid went down her throat, but it warmed her stomach pleasantly. She smiled at her aunt across the table, and Dorothy smiled back.

“Two lovely ladies having a cocktail,” Dorothy proclaimed, giving Dot a wink. Dot beamed and took another sip. They were back together. It felt so right.

Dorothy was staying once again in her same bungalow at the Magnolia. “They held the old suite for me,” she trilled. She’d come back a few days ago.

“Back from where?” Dot asked.

“Oh, so many places,” Dorothy sighed, finishing her drink quickly.

First, she really had been working on a section for her book, she said, one whose research took her to French and Austrian castles, then to Morocco, then even parts of Africa. In Somalia, she met a tribal leader named Otufu, and they’d begun an affair. Dorothy couldn’t quite picture a life with him—the African way of life was so different from anything she was used to—but she thought it would be interesting research for a book, so she remained. Only, then she found out that Otufu was involved with warlords in the area, running guns or some such—“a real baddie,” she explained. “I had to get away from him. I had to get to the U.S. embassy, but it was a risk to leave his compound. The place was rife with armed guards. A maid helped me sneak out in the middle of the night. I ran barefoot to the embassy; some of Otufu’s men were chasing me. They had to helicopter me to Italy for safety, but they suggested I remain in hiding for a while. Otufu knew people everywhere. He thought I was going to talk. There was a price on my head.”

“Holy shit,” Dot gasped.

“I stayed in Rome for a while, in this ramshackle apartment that barely had any heat. I wrote a little, but mostly I just ate, read books, and took lovers.” She gave Dot a saucy look. “It was a heady time, and time passed so quickly—before I realized it, really. After a while, the embassy told me that it was probably safe for me to return to the States. I missed you so much—I wanted to see you. So here I am.”