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The Santa Barbara Police Department ran a credit check, which revealed the Visa card to be stolen. “I never would have sold Holly. She’s unbreedable,” said Ameson.
After winning a blue ribbon at this year’s Santa Barbara Dog Show, the puppy was diagnosed with Clay Pigeon Disease, a rare disorder affecting a dog’s nervous system. The five-month-old bitch can live a normal life, but requires regular medication. “Without it,” said Dr. Van der Water of Riviera Veterinary, “she has little chance of surviving the next several months.”
If you have any information about this missing bitch call the Send Holly Home Hotline at 555-5658.
Figures they’d quote Anna Van der Water. Little chance of surviving the next few months—what does she call that, bedside manner? At least there wasn’t a picture of her with those stupid barrettes.
I enjoy fifteen minutes of revenge fantasies, deciding how Anna should be punished for having found a lucrative and reputable career, then force myself to read the classifieds.
There’s a new ad, for a “unique living opportunity in Mission Canyon.” And it is—get this!—only $500 a month. Unique? If $650 pays for a garage in Goleta, what can $500 possibly get you in Mission Canyon? I’m thinking a carport. With housemates.
I draw a dark blue X through it with my pen, and browse on. But it keeps nagging at me. Maybe what’s unique is that it’s a stunning one-bedroom apartment, for only $500. Doesn’t get more unique than that. I decide to chance it.
Mission Canyon lies just beyond the Santa Barbara Mission, towards the foothills. At sunset, the Mission’s peach walls glisten with falling light and the sky blushes a pink glow behind it. Across the street is the public rose garden. As I drive past, the scent of roses is thick in the air, and all is right in the world—if you ignore, for a moment, your little list.
I park in front of the house on Puesto Del Sol, next to the iron gate the woman on the phone mentioned. There’s a kid who looks like Eddie Munster—but without the formal attire and widow’s peak—tossing pebbles at a tree trunk across the street.
“You parked on my stick,” he says.
I look. There are any number of sticks on the ground. It’s true that I parked on some of them. “Sorry.”
“You broke it.”
“Oh. Which one is yours?”
He points to a stick exactly like every other stick, except broken. “See?”
It occurs to me that this is some new juvenile prank, the current equivalent of asking someone to page Mike Hunt. I smile weakly, and take a step toward the gate, and wave away a bug that whizzes by my ear. Take another step, and a second bug stings me on the shoulder-blade. Another step, another bug—on my butt.
I spin, and Eddie Munster is still tossing pebbles toward the tree trunk. Not the slightest sign of a smirk on his face. Little fucker.
I take five quick steps and close the gate behind me. Think I’m safe until a half-dozen pebbles sail though the bars and pelt my back. Briefly consider cracking Eddie Munster’s head like an egg on the rim of a bowl, but the New Elle rises above. Plus, I don’t have the firepower.
I step out of the line of fire and am hit with two bullets of fur. Much yapping ensues, and between barks one of the little black pugs tries to nibble my toes. After I realize this is not part of Eddie Munster’s evil plan, I pat the dogs, setting their pig-tails wagging delightedly.
“Penny! Pippin!” a woman’s voice scolds, and the beasts retreat. The woman is a schoolmarm, with withered cheeks, a sticklike body and white hair pulled into a bun. She wears a tailored cotton blouse and a full pleated skirt. And is that a cameo at her neck? I move in for a greeting and get a closer look. No, just an ugly piece of agate.
“Hi,” I say. “I’m Elle. We spoke on the phone?”
“It’s this way. I’m Mrs. Petrie.” And before I have a chance to worry about what I’ll find, she’s off at a canter, the dogs and me trotting behind.
The walk is through a well-loved, well-tended California-English-style garden. Roses, hydrangeas, lavender and Mexican sage are all in full bloom. “Unique” is looking better and better—and I start thinking the guest house will be a delicious little truffle of a cottage. Tiny, considering the price. But the garden! And it’s in Mission Canyon. There’s nothing shameful about telling people you live in Mission Canyon.
There is, however, something shameful about telling people you live in a trolley. Not a carport, a trolley. It squats, sans wheels, just beyond the garden.
“That’s a trolley,” I say.
“Water and trash are included,” she answers. She climbs the stairs and unlocks the door.
I enter behind her, and the trolley teeters a bit from our combined weight.
“Light switches, bathroom. Bed. Kitchen. I will return in five minutes for your answer.” She opens the door to leave, but pauses on the steps. “There is dirt on the back of your blouse. And your skirt.”
I start to explain Eddie Munster, but she interrupts with a glacial nod and leaves.
I sigh and look around, and it is still a trolley. It’s carnival red, except where the paint has chipped off to reveal a coat of mustard yellow. Half the floor is covered in green carpet, the other half, brick linoleum. In the “kitchen” is an all-in-one stove/sink/refrigerator unit. It’s 1950s—futuristic, and kinda cute.
The toilet, however, is less than cute, and sits directly next to the stove/sink/fridge. I’m talking ten inches away. A showerhead protrudes from the wall three feet above the toilet tank, and a drain is planted in the floor under it. There are brown curtains over the windows, and the roof is maybe two feet above my head. I’ve seen SUVs with more living space.
I need money. Not millions. I’m not asking for millions. I just don’t want to have to choose between ZZ’s garage and a converted trolley. My real apartment, I mean the apartment Louis and I lived in, has two bedrooms and…and it hits me. Louis is living in my apartment with his new wife. His wife. He married her. In a week. After six years with me, he married a stranger. He’s married. He’s somebody’s husband. He has a wife. What if he hears I’m living in a garage or a trolley?
I am suddenly thrilled with the drain in the floor, because I’m gonna throw up. I make a noise like a sick cat and bend over the toilet, and Schoolmarm Petrie knocks and enters.
Apparently she thinks I’m inspecting the toilet, because she says something about the plumbing and the pipes, and sternly warns against flushing “feminine napkins.”
“Well?” she finally says.
I straighten in a dignified manner. “I’ll take it.”
Leave messages for Maya and PB regarding my rental triumph. Do not offer specifics, due to theory that once I’m there, it will look less like a trolley and more like a gatehouse cottage à la the Cotswolds.
Have a private ceremony to officially erase “apartment” from my list. Wake up two hours later suffering from a sugar-crash and surrounded by the crumbs of a celebratory Anderson’s Butter-Ring—butter pastry, marzipan and white icing baked into sugary goodness. But the New Elle does not stop while on a roll. The New Elle continues rolling. The New Elle will apply for three jobs today, three tomorrow and three more each day until she is gainfully employed.
I look through my job folder—actually a stack of clippings stuffed in my mildewed, hateful tote. Over the last week, I’ve cut out every job that mentions “development” or “boutique” or “team leader” but not “director” (grand total: seven). I pick one at random, and in a burst of efficiency write a cover letter, stuff it in an envelope with a résumé, and place it on the kitchen table so Maya will remember to stamp and mail it.
Despite being exhausted from use of fiction-writing muscles atrophied since college, I have two more cover letters to write. I write “To Whom It May Concern” and am debating merits of following it with a colon or a comma when it hits me: I’ve no furniture, I’ve no silverware, I’ve no bedding, I’ve no gorgeous objet; in short, I’ve nothing at all for the new cottage.
This isn’t optional, this is housewares. Thing is, I started with $5,100, right? Then gave $1,500 to Schoolmarm Petrie for first, last, security. Spent $300 on assorted shopping. Well, $400. Let’s call it $500 on assorted shopping, to be safe. I do a little long-division and discover that $5,100 minus $2,000 is $3,100.
I count my money: $1,773.59. Must have it wrong. Even I cannot misplace $1,300 in cash.
I count it again: $1,612.59.
Again: $1,598.59. This rate of shrinkage, I’ll have nothing left by midnight, except the fifty-nine cents I’m so sure about.
I panic. I call Louis, and hang up on the second ring. I call back, and hang up on the first. I take a deep breath, and call a third time. I get a message. In a woman’s voice. I hear: Hi, you’ve reached the Ferrises. We’re not in right now—
I slam the phone down. The Ferrises? That is my fucking answering machine and my fucking fiancé. I call Maya at work and get the machine. I dial my mother and hang up before the call goes through.
Twenty minutes, and all the Butter-Ring crumbs later, I’m thinking more clearly: what I need is money, not comfort. I call my dad.
“Dad, it’s Elle,” I say when he answers.
“Hi, sweetheart.” He sounds pleased to hear from me. “Guess what?”
“I don’t want to guess. You got my message that I moved? I’m in Santa Barbara now. The flight was fine. I just rented an apartment.”
“I got married.”
That isn’t my favorite sentence. I feel the throb of an impending migraine. “You already are married.”
“Leanne? We divorced months ago. I met Nancy in Panama in October. We tied the knot last week in Hawaii.”
I want to ask why he didn’t invite me, but I know the answer: He’s still upset because last time he got married I said I couldn’t come this time, but would be sure to catch the next one. “Is she Panamanian?” At least that would be something new.
“She’s a school teacher from Vermont. She quit her job and moved in last month.”
“She quit her job and moved across country to be with you,” I say. “Does she know there’s no chance the marriage will last more than two years?”
“Eleanor, c’mon. That’s a little hard on your father. Your mother and I were together seven years.”
“Longer than me and Louis,” I say bitterly.
My father perks up. “Oh! That reminds me. You’re not going to believe this, but while Nance and I were on our honeymoon, we ran into Louis.”
“In Hawaii?” He never took me to Hawaii.
“No, no. That’s just where we got married. We honeymooned in Venice.”
“Venice?” He never took me to Venice.
“Most romantic city in the world. Me and Louis were trying to hire the same gondolier. Small world, huh? Anyway, he’s doing great. Got a huge bonus for some deal in Iowa. Gave him a corner office, too. He and his new wife were celebrating. Lovely girl. Have you met her?”
I can’t respond, due to the red-hot poker that has been shoved into my left temple.
“Charming girl. Pretty. Reminded me of you. Except not so…you know.”
“No, I don’t know. Not so what?”
He laughs weakly. “Oh, nothing.”
I take a deep breath. “Dad, I need money.”
Silence.
“Dad?”
“Louis said you took three thousand out of the household account. He thought that was very fair.”
“Three thousand?” I thought it was four. So I didn’t misplace $1,300. Only $300. I’m oddly relieved: misplacing $300 is easy.
“That’s what he said. Oh, and he asked about his stamp collection. Apparently got mixed in with your things.”
“I don’t want to talk about Louis. I want to talk about me. I’m running out of money. I don’t have a job. I just rented an apartment and I need a car.”
“Honey, I’d love to help. But you know how strapped I am.”
“You managed to scrape up the cash for Hawaii and Venice,” I shrill. “And to pay four alimony checks a month.”
“And that,” he says, “is why I’m strapped.”
Chapter 10
The next morning, in what she undoubtedly intends to be retail therapy, Maya and I go shopping. Housewares, remember? Our first stop is Indigo, a shop on State Street, past the Arlington Theater. It has gorgeous, gorgeous, just delicious Asian and Asian-esque couches, tables, fabrics, lamps, chairs, rugs. Maya checks price tags and drags me outside.
We try Living, Ambience, Home and Garden, and Eddie Bauer, and I am dragged from each. Maya finally snaps and grabs the car keys. An hour-and-a-half later, in Burbank of all places, I see the light.
Love Maya. Love IKEA.
I used to think it was the Wal-Mart of home furnishing stores. But there are endless rows of lovely things I always knew could be made at a reasonable price. And everything has these lovely foreign names like Hemnes and Beddinge. Four hours, and Maya had to bribe me away with Swedish meatballs at the cafeteria.
Best part: Their computers were down, so it was a snap to get an IKEA card with a fifteen-hundred-dollar limit, using my other (useless) credit cards to secure it. I was slightly over though, and had to put back assorted lamps, an IKEA teddy bear and one of the welcome mats. And the Persian-rug mouse-pad. Maya reminded me that I don’t even own a computer. Well, I’ll never own one at this rate, will I? Still, I returned the mouse-pad.
“The toilet is in the kitchen,” Maya mentions helpfully, as if I hadn’t noticed. I couldn’t convince her not to come in. So I’m putting away purchases, and she’s giggling at the trolley. “That takes ‘efficiency unit’ to a whole new level!”
I scowl and tell her to go away (but remember to pick me up tomorrow before she goes to work, so I can have the car, and to change her message to mention my new phone number, and to tell Perfect Brad that I’ll need help carrying the new IKEA chair inside when they deliver it).
I can’t tell if she’s listening, because she’s busy being fascinated by my three-utility stove/fridge/kitchen sink unit.
“Does it work?” she asks.
“Of course,” I say, though I’ve never actually turned it on. I open the refrigerator door. Feels cold. Turn on the tap—water runs out. Click on a burner. Smoke issues forth.
“Well,” she says. “That should keep the mosquitoes away.”
“A fourth utility to the thing,” I say. “It’s like magic.”
We finish unpacking, and Maya, who hasn’t quite stopped giggling, has to go to work. I stop her on the way out. “Tell me the truth. Do you think it’s like living in a trailer?”
“No, not at all.” She closes the door behind her, and calls out: “A trailer would be nicer!”
I think of something to yell back two minutes later, but by then I’m alone. I bustle around the trolley, making it mine and trying to ignore the growing sense of isolation and the encroaching dusk. I assemble my new bureau, and then disassemble the bits that don’t fit, then reassemble it and it’s perfect! I glow with satisfaction at being so handy and self-sufficient, and I look up and it’s pitch-black outside.
I meekly open the door, and the lovely tea-garden has been transformed into a horrible, brackish swamp. I lock the door. Close the curtains. Grab one of my IKEA knives, just in case. And curl up in my new comforter, pretending to leaf through Marie Claire.
The wind scratches tree limbs against the trolley, and I manage not to shriek. I often feel I’m in a movie; tonight, it’s Texas Chainsaw Massacre: The Santa Barbara Years. I turn on all the lights, then realize this just makes the trolley a beacon in the darkness. Moths and rapists will be swarming around shortly. I turn the lights off. It’s worse.
I watch a rerun of Bewitched on the little TV Maya loaned me. Turn the sound up all the way. Not loud enough, as a gust of wind sends the branches into a terrifying crescendo, and something slams against the trolley.
I think it was a slam. It definitely wasn’t a tree branch. It could have been a knock. Schoolmarm Petrie seems the sort who’d make one sharp rap on the door, like the smack of a ruler down on an errant pupil’s knuckles.
I crack the door and peek out. Nothing but menacing swampland. And something brown at the bottom of the steps.
It’s a dead squirrel.
I clutch my throat in horror, like some prim Victorian lady who accidentally wandered into the Vagina Monologues, and debate the various merits of fainting and screaming.
A motion sensor light illuminates the Schoolmarm’s gate, and I see the shadowy form of a pudgy boy recede into the darkness. Eddie Munster.
“Hey!” I yell. “You little creep!”
I’d track him down and kill him, but that would mean leaving the relative safety of my trailer. Trolley. My trolley.
“Squirrelly, aren’t you?” he yells.
I respond with a well-reasoned string of curses, and slam the door. On TV, Samantha has black lines painted on her face. I wonder what happened to her. I wonder what’s happened to me.
Chapter 11
The telephone rings at 9:12, waking me from a Swamp Thing nightmare.
It’s Bob from the VW dealership. And when you think about it, being a car salesman isn’t so bad. Plus, he’s actually seen my credit report, and still he calls.
“Bob,” I say. Bob. Bobbing for apples. “Robert. Robbie. Rob. That’s a lot of possible nicknames.”
Silence on the phone.
I think of saying Bobby?
“Well, I just go by Bob,” he finally says. “I’ve been thinking about you since last week.”
“Oh, have you?” The New Elle plays hard-to-get.
“Yeah, I got this…borderline trade-in. My boss doesn’t want me to put it on the lot. And I know you’re looking for something affordable.”
“Borderline?”
“It’s a BMW, though. A Beemer. 1974. It’s virtually a classic luxury automobile. Plus, it’s not worth sending it down to L.A. for auction.”
“So you’ve got a car you can’t sell, and thought of me?”
“Yeah, you interested?”
This is insulting. “How much?”
“I’ll let it go cheap. Fifteen-hundred.”
Fifteen-hundred! That’s a huge chunk out of my monster stack. But I do need a car. “Can I come see it this morning?”
“This morning isn’t good. I’ve got real clients coming in. How about two this afternoon?”
Real clients. “Two is fine.”
“Actually, three would be better.”
I sigh. “Three, then.”
I hang up, and immediately check my voice mail to see if anyone called while I was on the phone…and I have a message! It’s not even Maya. It’s a smooth, masculine voice.
“Eleanor Medina,” the smooth, masculine says. “You’re a hard one to find. This is Carlos Neruda. We haven’t met…yet. But I’ve heard all about you, and I really want to talk. My number is—” he pauses, and I realize he has Antonio Banderas’s voice and I’ll coolly wait ten or eleven seconds before returning his call “—no, on second thought, I’ll call you back. Take care, Eleanor Medina.”
Ha! Take that, Bobby! You’re not the only car on the lot.
IKEA furniture delivered precisely on time. Perfect Brad, too, precisely on time. Perhaps Brad is Swedish. Perhaps he is Bräd.
I bought a white linen chair. Am very pleased with the mature, adult decision to choose white. I was worried it would be like a white T-shirt: a magnet for chocolate ice cream, tomato sauce, coffee, mystery stains. I’d stared at it drooling, like a dog at a barbecue, until Maya found me. To prove her wrong, I decided the New Elle was adult enough to take care of white linen. Am pleased with the decision—it’s pretty against the chipped carnival-red of the trolley walls.
“You’re sure that’s where you want it?” Brad says, after relocating it several times. If he weren’t perfect, he’d be exasperated. But he is, so I don’t worry.
“I’m sure. Thanks, Brad—you’re a prince.”
He stammers endearingly, and spots the bureau I assembled last night. He fixes the bits that were uneven, and puts the drawer-pulls on. He knocks together the sides and adjusts the two drawers that had refused to close.
I consider being insulted by the implication that I’m not capable of doing it myself. But honestly, men enjoy this sort of thing. Why ruin their fun? It’s like shopping. Men think it’s a chore, and can’t understand why we like it. He can fiddle, I can shop, and we’ll both be happy. Maybe I’ll repay Brad by buying him a new pair of shoes.
Then I realize I have a bigger treat for him. I am forced to wheedle and whine slightly, as he wants to get back to his office. But it only takes Perfect Brad fifty minutes, and I own the Beemer for one thousand, flat. Including taxes and registration and all that. Apparently fifteen hundred was far too much.
Don’t tell Andrea Dworkin, but it’s good to have a man around. I consider getting weepy about Louis, and how much I miss him. But frankly, PB is better at the manly stuff than Louis ever was. And I do have PB around, even if he’s just a loaner. So it works out fine.
I swing by to take Maya for a Beemer joyride and ask if she’s interested in a time-share agreement.
“There’s plenty of Brad to go around. Plus, I’ll cancel out all the non-Jewish parts.”
She laughs. “Don’t get any Big Chill ideas. I draw the line at furniture assembly and car shopping.”
“That is so bourgeois,” I say. “If you were young and hip, you’d share.”
“And if you were young and hip, Elle, you’d get a bunch of your tender places pierced, and sleep with girls. But, if you’re still interested in men…”
“What?” I say, thinking: Carlos? Is he a friend of Brad’s? I bet he’s a coder, too—exactly like Brad, but Latino. “What man?”
“You know the guy at the bar the other night?”
Redhead! I pretend to have no idea. “Neil? Monty?”
“The one who kept going on about Chicagos? He asked about you.”
“What did he ask, if I was taking my meds?”
“General stuff. He’s an architect. Wondered if I’d ever consider remodeling.”
I know she wants me to beg for info, so I play it cool. “Yeah, I saw him looking around.”
“I told him I couldn’t afford it. And Dad would pop a vessel if I even repainted. It’s the only reason I haven’t taken down the shtetl gallery. I’m thinking of having the lights removed, though. The ones blocking the skylights. And—”
“Okay, okay! What did you tell him?” I shift roughly, going up Carrillo Hill. “I mean about me!”
“Hmm?”
I glare.
She smiles. “Guess what his name is.”
“Theodore Bundy.”
“Here, he gave me his card.” She pulls it from her purse and hands it over.
I glance down. It’s a classy card. White linen, and embossed black sans-serif font, with his name, the word “Architect,” and a phone number.
His name is Merrick. Louis Merrick.
“Watch the road!” Maya yells, as car wheels shriek.
It’s a good thing Beemers are the ultimate driving machines.
After I convince the nice old man that we don’t need to exchange insurance information, Maya remembers an important appointment with her living room. I drive, very cautiously, to her house.
“So?” I ask when we get there, and her color looks normal again. “What do you think? Of the car?”
“It’s…really a BMW,” she says.
“1974 was the first year they made square taillights,” I say proudly. Bobby told me.
“Great,” she says, unimpressed.
Can’t she be a tiny bit excited? This is the first car I’ve ever bought for myself. It may not be a Passat, or even a Jetta, but it’s mine and I’m determined to love it.
“It’s great,” she repeats, with a little more enthusiasm. “It’s zippy, it’s fun and Beemers are suppose to run forever.”
“Thank you.”
“And the color doesn’t bother you?”
Okay. It’s bright orange—almost a perfect match for the architect’s hair—with a black interior that gives it the appearance of a low-budget float in a Halloween parade.
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