Cal.
“It's dark in here, that's for sure,” said Lola. Cal shrugged again. The neon beer signs made his face shine, and he ran a palm over his forehead. On either side of Lola, men with sunken faces drank and stared ahead, at the dusty bottles, at nothing. There was one woman with a glass of white wine. She wore a violet-colored blouse with white buttons. At night, the bar was filled with students playing pool, but for the afternoon crowd, there was only the hum of the heater and the scent of peanuts and wet wool.
“He did it,” Lola said. “He tied the knot, all right.” Cal nodded. He knew everyone's secrets. In fact, he had probably been there the night that Iain went home with Miss Montana instead of Lola.
“Do you watch people, Cal?”
“What's that?”
“Do you watch people, I said. What they do, how much they drink, et cetera.” A man with a large, wet gash in his cheek glanced at Lola sideways, and moved over a stool. The white wine woman looked up.
“What choice do I have?” said Cal.
Lola felt the same way. She didn't think it was right to ignore the sadness around her—alcoholics like her father, lonely women like her mother, who told Lola, “Maybe he would have stayed if I had done my sit-ups. Then again, maybe it was just a mistake from the start.”
Lola thought there was something to be proud of in this—in seeing the painful truth—but Iain had jumped on the first cruise ship that passed by, leaving Lola stuck on Misery Island. She had to admit the essential difference between Iain and herself: he believed in the possibility of a carnation-strewn, uncomplicated life, and Lola did not. Perhaps Iain had thought he could convince her, but grew weary of the endeavor.
“I bet you could tell some stories, Cal,” said Lola.
Cal took a toothpick from a box underneath the counter and put it in his mouth. “No,” he said.
“Can of Bud,” said a man on Lola's left, leaning his elbow on the counter. His cracked leather jacket smelled like sweat. The man had very small feet in pointy boots. Cal cracked the can open with a sharp sound and set it on the counter. The man pulled out some dirty bills, and then twisted the tab back and forth, waiting for his change. He finally broke the tab off and left it on the bar, taking a swig of his can on the way back to his table.
“Come on, Cal,” said Lola. “What about love stories?”
Cal sighed, and out of the corner of Lola's eye, she saw the white wine woman reach out. Her lips curled up—a flash of smile, and then it was gone—as she took the beer tab in her fingers, and stuck it behind her bra strap.
“There are no love stories in this town,” said Cal.
Nan and Claude
When her daughter, Lola, called to say she had eloped to Las Vegas, Nan Wilkerson drove straight to her hairdresser's house. Her appointment was not until the following Tuesday, but this was an emergency.
“Nan!” said Claude, opening the door. “What can I do for you?”
“I know it's Saturday,” said Nan, “but will you look at these bangs?”
“Hm,” said Claude, evaluating. He wore a white button-down shirt, untucked. Claude had his shirts made in his native Paris; the fit was so perfect that he returned each summer for a whole new set.
“I've got a big party tonight at the club,” said Nan. “Claude, you've got to help me.”
Claude nodded. “Come in,” he said.
Years ago, when Nan and Fred had just moved to Rye from the city, Claude had worked at Secrets Salon on Purchase Street. Nan could still remember her first visit to Secrets, the smell of expensive shampoo and ammonia. The salon was filled with young wives Nan wanted to befriend. She had always worn her dark hair in a low ponytail, but that wasn't going to cut it in Westchester.
As Claude had clipped Nan's hair into the style she would wear for the rest of her life, a mid-length bob with bangs, he'd peppered Nan with questions. Where did she live? (The Bruces' old house, on Dogwood Lane.)
“It's dark in here, that's for sure,” said Lola. Cal shrugged again. The neon beer signs made his face shine, and he ran a palm over his forehead. On either side of Lola, men with sunken faces drank and stared ahead, at the dusty bottles, at nothing. There was one woman with a glass of white wine. She wore a violet-colored blouse with white buttons. At night, the bar was filled with students playing pool, but for the afternoon crowd, there was only the hum of the heater and the scent of peanuts and wet wool.
“He did it,” Lola said. “He tied the knot, all right.” Cal nodded. He knew everyone's secrets. In fact, he had probably been there the night that Iain went home with Miss Montana instead of Lola.
“Do you watch people, Cal?”
“What's that?”
“Do you watch people, I said. What they do, how much they drink, et cetera.” A man with a large, wet gash in his cheek glanced at Lola sideways, and moved over a stool. The white wine woman looked up.
“What choice do I have?” said Cal.
Lola felt the same way. She didn't think it was right to ignore the sadness around her—alcoholics like her father, lonely women like her mother, who told Lola, “Maybe he would have stayed if I had done my sit-ups. Then again, maybe it was just a mistake from the start.”
Lola thought there was something to be proud of in this—in seeing the painful truth—but Iain had jumped on the first cruise ship that passed by, leaving Lola stuck on Misery Island. She had to admit the essential difference between Iain and herself: he believed in the possibility of a carnation-strewn, uncomplicated life, and Lola did not. Perhaps Iain had thought he could convince her, but grew weary of the endeavor.
“I bet you could tell some stories, Cal,” said Lola.
Cal took a toothpick from a box underneath the counter and put it in his mouth. “No,” he said.
“Can of Bud,” said a man on Lola's left, leaning his elbow on the counter. His cracked leather jacket smelled like sweat. The man had very small feet in pointy boots. Cal cracked the can open with a sharp sound and set it on the counter. The man pulled out some dirty bills, and then twisted the tab back and forth, waiting for his change. He finally broke the tab off and left it on the bar, taking a swig of his can on the way back to his table.
“Come on, Cal,” said Lola. “What about love stories?”
Cal sighed, and out of the corner of Lola's eye, she saw the white wine woman reach out. Her lips curled up—a flash of smile, and then it was gone—as she took the beer tab in her fingers, and stuck it behind her bra strap.
“There are no love stories in this town,” said Cal.
Nan and Claude
When her daughter, Lola, called to say she had eloped to Las Vegas, Nan Wilkerson drove straight to her hairdresser's house. Her appointment was not until the following Tuesday, but this was an emergency.
“Nan!” said Claude, opening the door. “What can I do for you?”
“I know it's Saturday,” said Nan, “but will you look at these bangs?”
“Hm,” said Claude, evaluating. He wore a white button-down shirt, untucked. Claude had his shirts made in his native Paris; the fit was so perfect that he returned each summer for a whole new set.
“I've got a big party tonight at the club,” said Nan. “Claude, you've got to help me.”
Claude nodded. “Come in,” he said.
Years ago, when Nan and Fred had just moved to Rye from the city, Claude had worked at Secrets Salon on Purchase Street. Nan could still remember her first visit to Secrets, the smell of expensive shampoo and ammonia. The salon was filled with young wives Nan wanted to befriend. She had always worn her dark hair in a low ponytail, but that wasn't going to cut it in Westchester.
As Claude had clipped Nan's hair into the style she would wear for the rest of her life, a mid-length bob with bangs, he'd peppered Nan with questions. Where did she live? (The Bruces' old house, on Dogwood Lane.)
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