The Last Girls (32 page)

Trips are good, though. Russell likes to get Catherine away from home, her friends, her work. Russell sees each of their days together as pearls on a string, shiny and round and precious, though he has never told her this. Maybe he will. Maybe he'll buy her some pearls in New Orleans and tell her then.

“Fill 'er up?” the bartender asks.

“Sure.” Russell glances over at Mr. Stone who has fallen asleep on the bar now, face turned toward him, cheek smashed flat, mouth open with a little drool and a little ratty snore coming out occasionally. Russell shudders. It won't be long. Russell's got a place on his forehead that he forgot to show the dermatologist, and it's almost time for another colonoscopy. You can't be too careful with this stuff.

“Here you go, sir.” Actually the bartender reminds Russell of his son, Russ, an uncomplicated hustling kind of a boy now getting his
M.B.A. at Duke. Plans to go into Internet sales. Has got lots of plans, in fact, big plans. Russ has rebelled against Russell by becoming a salesman and a Republican, two things Russell hates above all others, except for maybe computers and corporations. Russell prides himself on being a throwback, a Luddite, a Don Quixote. Over the years he has become known for taking on the impossible cases, the cases nobody else wants: the death penalty cases, the civil rights cases, the sexual harassment cases, the little guy against the big company cases. Helping people set up charitable nonprofit corporations is his sideline specialty, pro bono. Russell believes in what he has done, yet he is not proud of himself. He has changed nothing. The harder you work, the more things go to hell, the farther the culture slips down the tubes. And deep inside himself Russell fears that maybe Russ was right in their last “discussion”—
fight
is more like it—when Russ told him he'd never have done any of this stuff if he had really had to make a living. That pissed Russell off royally, but it may be true.

Russell read in the paper the other day that the most useful phrase in the English language is “You may be right.” Which is not a total capitulation, actually, when you think about it. So maybe he'll start saying it all the time, and kick back some, and quit pissing everybody off so much. He needs to act better and quit embarrassing Catherine. Other guys get old and calm down, don't they? Attain a sense of equilibrium? Retire. Grow roses. But
not golf
. Russell will never play golf, which symbolizes most of what is worst about America in his opinion, despite Tiger Woods; just look at how they're fucking up the deserts in Arizona right now so they can grow grass on them, so they can make more golf courses, so people can play more golf. Jesus Fucking H. Christ!

Russell takes some deep slow deliberate breaths. He turns his attention back up to the TV where—
damn!
—he sees Susi Sergi, his favorite weather girl of all time, with her black cascading curls and the little dimples at the corners of her full red mouth and the big breasts
which she doesn't try to hide though she doesn't try to display them either, as would not be seemly in a meteorologist, and Susi's the best. She's a professional, specializing in thunderstorms. Russell hated it when Susi took that maternity leave a couple of years ago, it lasted so long, hell, she should have come back to work and let the husband take care of the kid. Damn! Susi Sergi looks hot today. Dynamite red dress with a matching red jacket, an expensive-looking gold necklace. Maybe Catherine would like a gold necklace like Susi Sergi's. Russell is
sure
Susi Sergi grows out her armpits, it's an ethnic thing. He loves the way she holds her pointer, like a majorette with a baton, pointing at the concentric circles of a low pressure system.

“Yes, we're having a wet time today in the Southeast,” she announces cheerily, “with severe thunderstorms bringing three-quarter-inch hail in some cases. Central Texas, it's heavy rain for
you,
with an accumulation of three to five inches, ending your drought watch. And Montgomery, you've seen less than a quarter inch of rainfall this summer, so it's good news for you. You're still working on a two-year rainfall deficit—and you're also enjoying some wet weather today. Las Vegas, you'd love that, wouldn't you? You're presently at 103; Phoenix, you're at 101 and rising …” Russell admires the bossy, familiar way Susi Sergi addresses the cities and regions of the whole United States directly. He wishes he could fuck her, to feel, even for an instant, that assurance. But right then an underling hands her a piece of paper, breaking news. “Take cover immediately, everybody in
Charles County, Maryland!
” Susi announces dramatically. “Two funnel clouds have been reported in your area. A tornado warning has been issued until 3
P.M
. Everybody in Charles County, Maryland, take cover
immediately
.”

One reason Russell feels so close to Susi Sergi is that she's the one who announced the severe weather warning for Alabama when he and Catherine had just moved out into the country, soon after their marriage. Russell had never paid too much attention to houses
before, but he loved the huge old trees out there, hickories and pecans and oaks and pines, and Catherine needed more space for her work.

“Now, exactly what are you looking for?” the real estate lady had asked them pertly.

“An old farmhouse,” Catherine said. “With a big barn.”

“I want a house I can die in,” added Russell, helpfully he thought, though the real estate lady had swiveled her pixie head on her skinny neck to stare at him. Later, in the garden of that very house, Catherine was “oohing” and “ahhing” about the big swooping limb of some tree. “We could put a swing here for the grandchildren,” she cooed.

“Or I could hang myself,” Russell said, offending the upbeat real estate lady so much that she went to sit in her car, while Catherine collapsed on a garden bench in laughter.

They hadn't been in the house two months when Susi Sergi came on with her dire news. “A supercell thunderstorm warning has just been issued for Tuscaloosa, Alabama.”

“Catherine!” Russell yelled, “Catherine!” still hanging on Susi's every word. In some crazy way, it even made sense to him, that once he was finally living in a house he owned with a woman he loved, the weather would do this to him. No matter how much you watch it, it doesn't care. Okay, you sorry bastard, it's thinking. You got complacent, didn't you? Well, how do you like this? And this? Thunder rolled as the sunshine dimmed. “Catherine!”

“Honey, what are you yelling about now?” Catherine had stretched luxuriously, looking up from the crossword puzzle on her lap. Because she is a woman, she views the Weather Channel as mere background noise.

“We've got a severe thunderstorm warning in effect right now, that's what! With the possibility of tornadoes—,” which punch out from the top of the anvil-shaped thundercloud, Russell knew this cold.

“I repeat, Tuscaloosa, Northport, and the surrounding area, take cover immediately. Make sure all pets are inside. Go to the safest part of the house, often a bathroom floor or a stairwell, and stay there until the thunderstorm has passed. Do not, under any circumstances, go outside. If you are in your car on a highway, pull over to the side of the road. Do not leave your vehicle.” Susi Sergi was dead serious. It was her shining moment, her big chance to prove herself more than a pretty face, more than a bimbo. Russell rushed over and threw open the French doors. “High winds and flash flooding will be associated—,” Susi continued before dissolving into an electronic crackle on the screen. The TV went dead. The lights went out.

“Oh, honey!” Catherine dropped her puzzle on the floor and came over to Russell.

“Oh my God, this is it, baby, this is the big one,” he said as the sky darkened and the wind picked up and rain came slashing down in sheets across their yard. The umbrella and two folding chairs from the patio sailed off in the air.

“Maybe I'd better …” Catherine made a move as if to go outside, but Russell held her back. “No,” he said. “Stay here. Just stay.” He closed the French doors and locked them and stood with his arms around her as the wind increased until the rain stopped falling down and drove into the panes of glass with a rat-a-tat noise like BBs shot from a pellet gun. The whole sky turned black. Then, was it a siren? Or was it the wind which began to wail with an awful screeching noise, followed by all those explosions, cracks as loud as bombs going off, and then more thunder, and a sudden close flash of lightning that had lit up Catherine's face.

“Oh, Russell, what is it? It sounds like a war.”

He kissed her. “It's a tornado, honey. I always knew we'd get one sooner or later.”

“But Tuscaloosa
just had
a tornado, not even three years ago,” Catherine cried. “It isn't fair.”

“No, baby, nothing is fair,” Russell said. Even the old saying that lightning never strikes the same place twice is not true; it strikes the top of the Empire State Building about five hundred times a year. Even if you've got terminal cancer, you can still die in a wreck. “We don't get any guarantees,” he told Catherine just as something heavy hit the roof.

“What was that?” she cried out in the darkness. And, “Russell, what do you think you're
doing?
” though she knew perfectly well. And why not? What better thing to do while rain washes down your road in a river and trees fall all over your dream house? And afterward he must have fallen asleep because it was late afternoon by the time he opened his eyes again to see Catherine sleeping beside him spread-eagled in her bra and panties on the Persian rug.

“Shoot,” she said, sitting up suddenly. “I can't believe it. I've got rug burns.” She was rubbing her elbow. “Oh my.” Miraculously, the French doors were not broken, though all you could see was leaves. Green light filled the room. Russell pointed the clicker at the television, but nothing happened. He picked up the phone. Dead. He stood up and pulled on his pants, then zipped them. Sirens started someplace. Horns sounded. It was over, though it would be five more days before the power came back on. A long time without Susi Sergi. A helluva long time without air-conditioning. Finally Russell and Catherine fled to the new Phoenix Hotel in town for the last two days, what the hell.

Here Catherine was soon fully occupied, calling roofers, calling tree surgeons, calling yard service crews, calling God knows who. Lying on the king-sized bed in the Phoenix Hotel watching her (watching Susi, too), Russell was knocked out by Catherine's secret organizational capacity. If she weren't so domestic, so artistic, she could be running Microsoft. Their house wasn't hurt much, actually, once they got the trees off it. Some damage to the roof, the gutters, the porches. Russell didn't care about the house. But the yard broke his heart. They lost
fourteen trees, including the biggest, the most beautiful one of all, the giant hickory right in front, the one Russell had always identified with: old but upright, still here. The hickory had fallen to the right, splitting the largest maple tree where it remained lodged at a forty-five-degree angle, half its root ball exposed.

“What do you think about pulling it back up?” he asked the tree guys when they finally arrived.

“Can't be done, sir.” The man took off his hat to scratch his sweaty head. “Won't work. It's a goner. But I'll cut it up and get it out of here. A thousand bucks, that'll run you. Let's say around seven grand for the whole property.” For a Southerner, he was dismayingly definite, even terse.

“I'll tell you what. You go ahead and deal with the other trees. I'm going to see if I can't find somebody to jack this fellow back up for me. I believe it'll grow.” Suddenly Russell, too, was decisive; and he stuck to his guns though Catherine wept and begged him to let them cut it up and get it out of there, it was such an eyesore. “Catherine,” he said, imitating John Wayne, “I'll deal with it.”

Eventually he found a fly-by-night crew from South Carolina, young boys, who swore they could do it with a couple of tractors, and cable to fashion a “come-along.” Russell had thought the job would require a crane. But the boys said they had stood lots of trees back up before. “Trees this big?” asked Russell. Oh, sure, they said. No problem. “We can handle it if we can rent the tractors,” the blond boy, their leader, told Russell. “No sweat.” He wore a red bandanna around his head like a pirate. Russell believed them because he wanted to. He didn't realize how unusual it was to stand a tree back up until the boys set to work and soon the road was lined with spectators. Some of them brought their lunch. Catherine was distraught. “I was just down at the post office,” she reported to Russell, “and everybody in there was talking about us.”

“What do you mean, talking about us?”

“About you trying to save this tree. They didn't know it was me, I mean, they didn't know I was a person who lives here. They think we're fools, honey.
Fools
.”

The boys attached cable from the fallen tree to two other trees, then to an iron spike they planted in the yard, forming a rough triangle. “This way,” the blond boy explained to Russell, “it'll fall
away
from the house if it falls.”

Russell was out in the yard with them, drinking heavily. “What do you mean, if it falls?” His question was drowned out by the arrival of the two big tractors and a dump truck, which they hooked up to the tree as well. The crowd grew. The boys from South Carolina posed for group shots of themselves beside the tree, beside the tractors, and in front of the house. The minute the cameras came out, Russell realized they had lied. They had never done this before. A reporter from the newspaper arrived. The boys ostentatiously retied the laces on their boots and drank a lot of bottled water. Two of them got onto the tractors, backing them into position until the cables went taut. The man who owned the dump truck drove it out onto the lawn and got in position, too.