Pigs in Heaven (15 page)

Alice holds on to her hand.

At a table nearby, a wife and husband are having a fight. They have on matching outfits, jeans and fringed shirts that cowboys might wear, or people in a cowboy-related industry. The woman has colorless flippy hair molded together with hairspray so that it all comes along when she turns her head. The man looks very old. “Five hundred dollars,” he keeps saying, again and again, like the talking change machines out in the casino that will turn your paper cash into silver dollars. The woman says different things each time, including “Like hell” and “You don’t know your butthole from the road to China.” Suddenly she stands up and starts hitting him on the
side of the head with her purse. Her stiff hair wags excitedly. The man bends his head down and accepts the blows as if he has known all this time they were coming, like pie for dessert. Taylor is relieved that Turtle has her back to this event.

“I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t said you’d drop everything and come,” she tells Alice. “I swear I was at the end of my tree.”

“Well, it was good timing,” Alice says. “I’d run out of marriage and I needed a project. Have you heard any more about,” she moves her eyes slowly toward Turtle and back.

“It’s okay to talk about it, Mama. Turtle knows. I called Jax last night and he said there was nothing new.”

They both look at Turtle, who has put the menu very close to her face and is quietly reciting the names of different foods.

The woman who was hitting her husband sits down for a breather. She drags heavily on her cigarette, as if her only possible oxygen must come through that less than ideal source.

“This is the twilight zone of humanity,” Taylor announces. “That’s what Jax would say right now: ‘We have arrived at the twilight zone of humanity. Let us bow our heads in a moment of silent prayer.’”

“I believe he’s making you turn cynical,” Alice says. She adds, “That waitress over there has been staring at us like a stuck pig.”

“I know. I hope she’s getting her eyes full.”

Turtle twists in her seat to look at the staring waitress.

“How’s that Jax treating you, anyway?” Alice asks.

“Oh, he treats me good. Too good. I don’t deserve him.”

“You hush. You know better than that.”

Taylor smiles. With her left hand, the one that isn’t holding Alice’s, she puts down the menu and rubs the bone behind her left ear. “Yeah, I know better.”

“I picture him as looking exactly like that.” Alice points to the photo of Rhett Butler.

Taylor laughs out loud. “Oh, that’s Jax to perfection. If you leave out the hair, the face, the body and the mustache.”

“Well, that’s how he talks, anyway. Like a southern gentleman.
Except for some of the wild things he comes up with. He’s real entertaining over the phone.”

“I’m glad you think so. He keeps asking me if I’m truly in love with our garbage man. He’s a lot more insecure than Rhett Butler.”

“If you’re having trouble sticking with him, that’s my fault. I didn’t bring you up with men as a consideration. I think single runs in our family.”

“It’s nothing you did wrong, Mama, I never missed having a dad. Plus I don’t think your theory holds water. My friend Lou Ann grew up without her dad, and she feels like if she doesn’t have a man in the house she’s not worth taking up shelf space.”

“Well, you’re solid gold, honey, don’t let that slip your mind. You deserve the King of France.”

“Maybe that’s my problem then. Jax is definitely not the King of France.”

The staring waitress walks toward them. When she gets to the table she stands staring while three glasses of ice water sweat it out in her hands. She is tanned and blonde, her hair in a tight ponytail, almost aggressively pretty; the jawbones and cheekbones push up hard under her skin as if something in her might burst. Finally she says, “Oprah Winfrey, right?”

Alice makes a surprised smile with raised eyebrows and her tongue against her lips. Taylor waits a second before saying, “Is that the whole question?”

“I saw you on Oprah Winfrey, right? The show where the Barbie Dream Convertible was used to save a young girl’s life? I have it on tape. It’s you, right?”

“Kind of.”

She thunks down the glasses of water with conviction. “I knew it! When you came in I saw you sit down over here in my station and I’m like, ‘It’s them, it’s them!’ and the other girls go, ‘You’re nuts,’ but it is. I knew it was.”

She extracts a pencil and pad from the pocket of her low-cut uniform, a short, red showboat outfit with frills. She stands gazing at them some more. Up close, Taylor decides, she looks slightly apart
from the mainstream of the human race; she has hair of an unnatural color, pure yellow, and little curled bangs, and blue eye makeup that exceeds the size of her actual eyes. Her figure is the kind you notice even if you’re not all that interested in women’s great figures.

“I think we’re ready to order now,” Taylor says.

“Okay.”

“A glass of milk, two Cokes, three grilled cheeses.”

The waitress doesn’t write anything.

Taylor asks, “You have that Oprah Winfrey show on
tape?
That’s amazing.”

“I have probably the largest personal collection of Barbie-related items in the entire world. There’s this Barbie Hall of Fame Museum down in Palo Alto, California, right? And I’ve been there ten times so I know everything they have, all the original ones that cost, like, one thousand dollars to buy, in the original box. I don’t have those. But I’ve got videotapes and stuff they don’t have in Palo Alto. I’m like, why not? You know? Didn’t they even think of it? I have autographs, even. That kid that hit the dog with the Dream Convertible and saved a young girl’s life, is she a friend of yours?”

“No,” Taylor says.

“After I saw that show I got the idea of an ensemble called the Barbie Rescue Team, with an ambulance, where she’s dressed up as a paramedic, you know? A little white skirt with a tiny slit, and an emergency bag with those blood-pressure things? It could come with a teeny bulldog to inflict the wounds. I wrote Mattel about it, I’m like, ‘Guys, this would be so cute,’ but I haven’t seen them come out with it yet.”

Taylor and Alice look at each other. Turtle rubs her nose. The waitress blinks, exactly twice. “So a milk, two Cokes, three grilled cheese, anything else?”

“No, I changed my order,” says Alice. “I want the turkey open-face special. I’ve gotten hungrier while we were setting here waiting to order.”

“Sorry!” the waitress says, and heads for the kitchen fast on her red wedgie heels.

“Well, shut my mouth,” Alice says. “I had no idea I belonged to such a world-famous family.”

“Mama, that’s not normal. Nobody ever recognizes us from that show. Do they, Turtle?”

Turtle shakes her head.

“The waiters here are just weird. The one this morning was a comedian; he kept telling us knock-knock jokes about the Manson family.”

“Well,” Alice says, “why else would somebody live here? They’re looking for a career as nightclub acts, and hashing tables till they get the big break.”

“Yeah, but this one takes the prize. She’s accepted Barbie as her personal savior.”

Alice spits out her ice water on her lap, and Taylor feels like something special again. She still can make Alice laugh.

C
HECKOUT TIME AT THE
D
ELTA
Q
UEEN
C
ASINO
is eleven o’clock; at 11:17, Alice is having a difference of opinion with the manager. “All we want is to grab a bite of lunch and we’ll be out of your hair in a jiffy,” she explains. Huck Finn and Tom Sawyer, pictured from some old movie, grin from the wall behind the desk.

The manager has fat, pale hands decorated with long black hairs, and a gold watch that looks painful on his wrist. “You’re welcome to stay in your room another hour, ladies, but I’m going to have to charge you the full day’s rate.”

“For seventeen minutes. Because people are banging down your door to get in here and you’re turning them away,” Alice says, staring him down. The place looks deserted, maybe even shut down on account of hygienic difficulties. The brown edges of coffee stains on the manager’s desk blotter remind Alice of a map of the world that Columbus might have used. The front door has cardboard taped where some panes of glass should be, causing the sign to read oddly:
“
A QUEEN SINO HOTEL
.” The casino shows no sign of life at this hour. Apparently the Las Vegas lifestyle involves gambling till dawn, then remaining passed out through the heat of the day. Only a few lone hangers-on sit stubbornly at their video poker machines.

“Okay,” Alice declares, looking him in the eye, “we’re gone. Our room’s empty. We left the key up there in the ashtray and walked out at ten fifty-nine.” She crosses her arms, daring him to jog upstairs and see if she’s telling the truth. His craggy eyebrows are collecting sweat under her gaze. He belongs to that species of men who are so spherical in the trunk you have to wonder what holds their pants up. There’s no chance in this world Alice is going to lose her gamble. After they pay, Taylor can run up, pack their things, and come down by the fire exit.

“I’ll meet you at the pancake house across the street,” Alice whispers to Taylor as she takes Turtle and heads for the front door. Taylor reads her mind perfectly. They are Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn.

“Vegas ain’t what it used to be,” Alice tells Turtle as they wait outside to cross the street. “I was here before, I drove out here one time with your mama’s wild daddy. But it’s all different with these video games. People dragging downstairs in house slippers and sitting at a machine all day. Back then it was pigs in clover.”

“What’s pigs in clover?”

“Rich people that don’t know how to behave. Ladies in high heels smoking, and gentlemen drinking too much and pinching their bottoms.” The pedestrian light blinks
WALK
, a woman in leather shorts on a motorcycle runs the red light, and then they cross. Turtle is holding Alice’s hand in a way that reminds her of an arthritis flare-up.

In truth, Alice thinks Las Vegas was far more interesting the last time. She remembers people crowded around a green felt table, each one bringing a different story and a different need to that smoky room, joined together in a moment of risk and hope. In a way it was like church, with more interesting clothes.

Now there is hardly a green felt table to be seen; Las Vegas is just a giant video arcade. Blackjack, poker, whatever you want, you play it on a machine. Last night they went down to Caesar’s Palace
just for fun, and in the giant casino five hundred people sat expressionless and completely alone, slumped at their machines, dropping in tokens. From what Alice can see, Americans now prefer to lose their money in private.

The Queen Bee’s House of Pancakes is sunny and clean, at least, and puts her in a better mood. Each table has three different kinds of honey in a cloverleaf-shaped container, and the busy-bee waitresses wear antennae headbands with bobbling yellow balls on long springs. Alice and Turtle sit at a booth by the window, where Turtle’s head is crowned with light. Alice writes words on her napkin for Turtle to read, discovering that she is confident with three-letter words, and likes rhymes. Turtle ducks her head and giggles at the sentence, “I let my pet get wet.” Her skin is brown velvet against her white T-shirt, and her soft bangs divide on her forehead when she shakes her head, making long upside-down Vs.

“What a con job,” Taylor declares, out of breath, suddenly sliding into the booth beside Turtle. “I had to set off the fire alarm to get out the back door. That guy’s going to put our picture up in the lobby.” Taylor sits back, closes her eyes and tilts her head against the high seatback. Her long hair slides behind her shoulders like a curtain drawn open. She exhales loudly, sounding happy. “Mama, it’s hot as fire out there already. We’re going to roast, driving out of here.” She’s wearing a pale pink T-shirt, Alice notes—a color Taylor used to make a point of hating. She always had to wear outspoken things, red, purple, orange, sometimes all at once. Alice realizes something important about her daughter at this moment: that she’s genuinely a mother. She has changed in this way that motherhood changes you, so that you forget you ever had time for small things like despising the color pink.

Alice is filled with satisfaction, sitting with her daughter and granddaughter in a booth where three varieties of honey glow in the sun. Taylor’s skin is much lighter than Turtle’s but her hair is nearly as dark, and they share something physical, a beautiful way of holding still when they’re not moving. Alice reminds herself that it’s not in the blood, they’ve learned this from each other.

“Oh, my God!” Taylor almost shouts suddenly, staring, but Alice can’t see what she’s seeing.

“What?”

“America’s number-one teenage fashion doll.”

It’s the waitress from last night, sitting on a stool at the counter. Her red uniform looks slept-in, and her makeup looks as if she’s given birth to a child since it was applied. “Good Lord,” Alice whispers. Turtle is trying to see too. Taylor waves, with limited enthusiasm.

“We ought to invite her to join us, don’t you think?” Alice asks. Clearly the child is in some kind of fix.

Taylor rolls her eyes. “And hear more about the one point two million pairs of shoes that have been sold for Barbie’s personal use?”

Alice hesitates, but is overcome by mothering drives. “But look at her.”

“Okay, sure.” Taylor motions her over, and she appears instantly, with bright eyes and a smile sunk into her desperate face.

“Set down, hon,” Alice says. “No offense, but you look like you’ve been drug through a knothole.”

“No, I lost my job at the Delta Queen.” She scoots in and reaches for a paper napkin to blow her nose, then delicately works at her eyes. Alice finds a mirror in her purse, which is a mistake. The poor child takes a look and starts bawling.

The pancake house waitress appears just then with their paper place mats and a pot of coffee. Her antennae bob quietly over her gray curls as she stands for a moment appraising her chances of getting them to place an order. She looks at Alice’s eyes and says, “I’ll come back.”

Turtle stares at their new friend, the disheveled waitress. Taylor looks down, studying her place mat, a line-drawing map of the Southwest noting features of interest and Queen Bee’s Houses of Pancakes in four states. They all seem to radiate out from Salt Lake City, the mother hive.

“I’m Alice,” Alice says finally, pouring everyone coffee. “I’m the mother and grandmother of these two famous girls.”

The waitress rallies quickly. “I’m Barbie. No last name, I had it legally changed. I sign it like this, with the little trademark sign after it.” She picks up Alice’s ballpoint pen and writes a cheerfully looped, upward-slanting “Barbie TM” on Turtle’s napkin, directly beneath “I let my pet get wet.”

“Well, that’s real unique,” says Alice.

“I was born in 1959, exactly the same year that the first Barbie was developed and marketed by Mattel. Don’t you think that’s like too coincidental? The woman that invented her named the doll after her own daughter Barbara, and guess what. My name at birth was Barbara.” She looks wide-eyed around the table and blinks. Her eyelashes have remained amazingly long in spite of the disaster that’s occurred on the rest of her face.

“How’d you get fired?” Taylor inquires, trying for common ground.

“The manager said I spent too much time talking to you guys. He said I was ignoring the other people in my quadrant. That’s what he says,
your quadrant
, okay, like he’s the designer of the space module.”

“Well, that couple near us was having a bad fight,” Alice says helpfully. “I don’t think they wanted to be served.”

“I know.” Barbie makes her mouth into a specific pout. “The poopy old manager says some stupid thing to me every single day. And the other waitrons don’t help, they take his side. They say I tell people too much about my hobby. This is, like, so stressful for me, that choice of words. Barbie is not a hobby, do you understand what I mean?”

Alice, Taylor, and Turtle say nothing, but she has their complete attention.

“This is a
career
for me, okay? I’ve changed my name, and I have worked so hard getting the wardrobe, I have thirteen complete ensembles and a lot of the mix-and-match parts. To fit me, I mean, that I can wear. They have to be made special, or you can put things together from St. Vincent de Paul’s and the Goodwill, but it’s extremely creative. I study the originals very carefully. I think somebody ought to appreciate a person’s career goals, don’t you?”

Alice says, “Were you thinking maybe you could be Barbie in a nightclub act?”

Barbie dips a fresh napkin into her water glass and goes at her eyes again. “I haven’t totally thought out all the details, but something like that. I did the Barbie birthday party at a shopping center in Bakersfield. I was only nineteen at the time and they paid me two hundred dollars. But there’s only so many opportunities in Bakersfield, so I thought being a waitron at, like, a casino in Las Vegas, you know? You’re bound to meet somebody in high places. Life is full of surprises, right?”

Alice thinks of the sad outfit at the Delta Queen and can’t imagine the depths of this poor girl’s delusion. She is ready to adopt her on the spot. Their waitress sneaks back tentatively on her crepe soles, and looks relieved when they all order the breakfast special.

“There’s a very exciting development coming out this fall,” Barbie says, looking back and forth between Taylor and Turtle. “Mattel is launching its new line of ethnic Barbies. Hispanic and African-American.”

Alice realizes with an indignant shock that Barbie has been scrutinizing their skin color. Taylor is stirring her coffee and seems not to have noticed. “Here, Turtle, you can color your placemat,” Taylor suggests.

“I saw pictures of them,” Barbie continues, leaning forward confessionally. “I have access to some very exclusive advance information on this. They appear to be identical to the original model except I think maybe they used plastic from darker dye lots. Also the hair is very special.”

“Turtle has a Rastafarian Barbie,” Taylor says. “Talk about special hair. She has blond dreadlocks.”

Barbie goes blank. “I thought I knew every model on the market.”

“This one isn’t on the market. It’s been rolling under the bed too long with the dust bunnies.”

Alice turns to Barbie. “Hon, what you need is a cold washcloth and ten minutes in the ladies’ room. Why don’t you take my hankie and put yourself together before the pancakes come.”

“Oh, thank you so much,” Barbie says, taking Alice’s handkerchief and rising as if there’s a book on her head.

Taylor puts up her hand, knowing what’s coming. “Mama, I know I wasn’t nice, but she’s a kook.” She glances at Turtle, who is using Alice’s ballpoint carefully to blacken the entire state of Nevada.

“A kook in need of kindness.”

“She’s thirty years old!”

“Well, you will be too here in a minute. And I guess you’ve never been caught with your head stuck out on a limb.”

Taylor drinks her coffee. “I don’t see what we can do for her.”

“What are we going to do for any of us?” Alice asks. “Get out of here, to start with. This town feels like poison. Everybody’s so busy looking out for number one they’ll run over you in the crosswalk. We ought to head for California or Yellowstone Park. Someplace wholesome.”

“You think we should offer her a ride out of town?”

“I do. If she’s ready to give up on meeting a movie star producer in the Delta Queen.”

“That’s a big If, Mama. We’d have to try to deprogram her like they did those Moonies.”

“If she stops being perky for ten seconds, we’ll know we’re making headway.”

“What’s Moonies?” Turtle asks. “Moon people?”

“No, earth people,” Taylor says. “People that got stuck thinking too much about one thing.”

“Oh,” Turtle responds. “Like Barbie.”

The pancakes arrive, along with Barbie, surprisingly repaired except for the crumpled uniform. They eat in silence. Alice wonders how much makeup this woman carries on her person at any given time. She decides to let Taylor make the move, if she wants to take on an extra passenger. It’s her car, after all, and her life that’s gone to hell in a handbasket.

“Drink your milk, please, Turtle,” Taylor says.

Turtle’s dark eyes go to her grandmother’s, then back to Taylor. She picks up the big white glass like some unwanted child of her own.

After several minutes Taylor asks, “So um, what are your plans now?”

“I could really use a shower,” Barbie says. “Sheesh. But here’s the thing, I live in the Delta Queen, and I’m just like totally not interested in going back in there at this moment in time.”

“I meant, for the longer term.”

“You mean later today? Or tomorrow? Holy smokes, I don’t know. Get another job, I guess.”

“Do you have any other prospects? Because if you ask me, this whole city looks like more of the same.”

Barbie looks out the window and narrows her eyes, momentarily making a face unlike any ever seen on a teenage fashion doll. “Shit,” she says, “I hate this town.”

Taylor cuts Turtle’s pancakes into small triangles, and smiles at her mother.

After breakfast they find the car where Taylor has hidden it, in the alley behind the Delta Queen.