The Elizas: A Novel(43)
Dot blinked at her. “That’s amazing.”
“Oh, well, you know.” Dorothy signaled the bartender for another cocktail. But then her eyes widened at something across the bar. Dot turned to follow her gaze. A woman in a black suit was sitting at a table near the window. Her hair was slightly less blonde than before, and there were crow’s-feet at the corners of her eyes, but Dot recognized her immediately.
“Doctor Koder,” she said, half standing. And then her heart dropped to her stomach. Dr. Koder was in a wheelchair—the motorized kind, bulky and huge. Her twisted fingers fumbled to eat a salad. A strap around her waist held her body upright.
Dot pressed her hand to her mouth. “What happened to her?”
“Stop that.” Dorothy pulled her back down to sit. “It’s rude to stare.”
Her nails dug into Dot’s arm. Dot stared at them; they looked, for a moment, like talons. Her gaze fell to her plate. The steak juices were thick and red, marbling her potatoes.
“That was my only reservation in coming here,” Dorothy said quietly. “I worried we’d run into someone from that time. I mean, I know it was hard for you, too, dear. So hard. But you can’t imagine what I went through, day in and day out, not knowing if you’d live.”
Dot nodded. She glanced back at Dr. Koder, surreptitiously watching as the woman scooped up a bite of creamed spinach. A splotch fell to her shirt, and the man she was with, a kindly fellow in a tweed jacket, leaned across the table to dab it off. Dr. Koder gave him a bright, beautiful smile.
After that, Dot looked away, deciding she wouldn’t give Dr. Koder another thought. Whatever Dorothy wanted, Dorothy would get. Dorothy smiled, seeming to register this.
“So,” she said smoothly, tipping her drink to her lips. “Tell me about you. You’re in college now! I can’t believe it!”
“Well, I’m thinking of majoring in English,” Dot said.
Dorothy clapped her hands in delight. “How lovely! The world needs more literature professors.”
“Actually, I was thinking of becoming a writer,” Dot said quietly.
Dorothy didn’t seem to hear her. “And maybe you’ll read my book for your course!” she crowed. “I’m sure it’ll be on the syllabus once it’s published. I mean, I’m no Henry James, but they have lots of modern fiction on course lists these days, don’t they? I’m much better than those dreadful modernists for sure. And Stephen Crane?” She made a gagging sound. “They could definitely bump him.”
Dot reached for her champagne glass again, trying not to feel overlooked. Dorothy had been out of practice talking to people for a while, that was all. Dot should just let her prattle on. She didn’t want anything to be wrong with this evening. She wanted it to go exactly as her aunt desired.
ELIZA
IT IS A bitch to get to Steadman’s curiosities shop in Venice—so many highways, so many traffic lights, idiots on cruiser bicycles, homeless crackheads lying in the middle of the street. It’s even worse because I still haven’t picked up my car from Palm Springs, which means I have to rely on a cabdriver to take me, and the stopping and starting traffic makes me carsick. When I finally get there to start my shift that Friday, two days after the Cat Show, I feel my usual disappointment with my surroundings; the place always looks a lot better in my mind’s eye. The shop is one notch above a hovel, shoved onto a side street near the canals and lit by a single orange bulb. The single room seems to get smaller and narrower as the hours pass, closing the taxidermied heads and ancient medical equipment and necklaces made of bones over me like a cask. Sometimes, I’m not sure working here is worth the eight dollars and fifty cents an hour Steadman pays, which isn’t even California’s minimum wage.
I sit on a tufted stool behind the antique cash register, jiggling my foot to the classical station on the radio. Though a meditative coach told me that classical music dissolves harmful pathways in the brain, it’s still like nails on a chalkboard. I want to change the station, but Steadman has taped up so many rules about appropriate music for this place. No Pop, No Country, No Rap, No Halloween. I think he wrote that last one just for my benefit. What does he think I’m going to do, listen to “Monster Mash” all day?
Long shadows slope off the animal heads hanging on the walls. Several baby coffins balance atop a tall pile of boxes marked things like Alligator Teeth and Freeze-Dried Turtles and Victorian Human Hair Wreaths. There is a jewelry case bearing things like earrings made out of miniature doll legs, cicada wings, and voodoo chicken feet. Across the room, which is little more than an arm’s length away, is a flyer that reads, Interested in Taxidermy? Come to our class May 12! Guess who’s teaching it? Me.
Because, clearly, that’s all I’m qualified to do. Not write books.
The Dvo?ák piece ends, and the DJ sleepily tells us what we’re to hear next. I refresh my phone screen again and again, thinking I might have missed a call from Lance the detective or the bartender who may or may not be named Richie. This store has spotty service—the high concentration of human bone seems to interfere with a cell signal.
I hear a jingle and nearly drop the phone—it’s ringing. But then I realize it’s the front door, which is almost as unlikely—most of our customers are creeps who order online. A figure stoops to get through the narrow door and stands for a moment next to the life-size, bisque-faced man doll. As his features organize themselves, I cough out a laugh. Today he’s got on a wine-colored hooded cape. “Desmond!”