JUST MARRIED by Kim Lozano
The gerbil was dying in the backseat. Dean had spent ten minutes trying to convince his wife that taking a dying rodent in for treatment was unreasonable, not to mention the embarrassment of walking into the clinic with one, but at midnight he headed out for the emergency vet hospital. A late shipment of recliners had kept him at the store all evening so he was still wearing his tie and too-small Dockers.
Candy ran after him as he was pulling out of the driveway. “Dean!”
He braked and rolled down the window, answering her like he was insisting upon his innocence. “Yeah?”
“I was talking to Karla and she said we should try to negotiate the bill. She did it when they took Caesar in and it saved them twenty dollars.”
Candy was good with finances and he usually let her handle these things without interference. It was easier that way. But that meant moments like last Christmas when she’d asked a department store cashier to give them a discount on some white dress shirts, partly, she told the clerk, because they all had a gray tinge about them, and partly to make right the fact that they had to walk by mannequins in the lingerie section that were shockingly dressed for a store that served parents escorting young children. The manager knocked off ten percent. Their teenage daughter vowed never to shop with her mother again.
“I don’t think it’s a big deal, hon. I’ll just pay what they ask. It’s not worth stressing over,” Dean said.
“Just tell them we’re planning on getting a dog this year and we’d like to give them more of our business.”
“Alright.”
“Write a check. And take off your shoes before you come in the kitchen. I just did the floors.”
Dean always took off his shoes in the garage.
Dean rolled down the window and stuck out his hand, sifting the wind through his fingers. The twenty-four-hour clinic was in the next town over and he drove leisurely down the rural highway. He turned on the radio and began singing to Prince’s “U Got the Look” but it embarrassed him that he still remembered the routine the high school cheerleaders used to perform to it, so he switched to a country station. Two miles out of town he passed The Idle Hour. The parking lot was full of motorcycles and pickup trucks and a dog was tied to the gas meter. The building had only two small, high-placed windows – one filled with a neon beer sign and the other with an air conditioner that bled a trail of rust down the yellow siding. Candy didn’t want Dean keeping beer in the house because of the kids and she certainly wouldn’t approve of him having a drink at The Idle Hour. ‘”It’s like a dirty college bar,” she’d said. Dean had good memories from their nights in dirty college bars, but she’d gone weird about alcohol and he’d long ago quit arguing about it. They hadn’t mentioned in years the night they got engaged and finished two bottles of wine at the lake.
Dean gripped the top of the steering wheel and leaned over it, stretching his back. Maybe he’d call in sick tomorrow and go fishing, maybe test-drive some cars or get in a movie before Candy’d be expecting him home. He’d offer to grill steaks for supper.
When he was sixteen he’d flipped a car on this road. His dog and girlfriend, a pretty Swede who could drive a combine, had been with him. The dog died, he broke an arm, and she was fine except that the whites of her eyes looked bloody for three weeks. God, he didn’t want to walk into the clinic with this almost-dead gerbil. He pulled over, stopping with the left tires still on the road, and turned to look at it. The thing lay on its side by a partially-chewed Dixie cup. He stuck his finger through the cage and poked it. Maybe an ear twitched, but he wasn’t sure. Close enough to dead, he thought, and turned the car around.
Dean braked a little as he approached The Idle Hour from the other direction. Two men leaned against the bed of a pickup like it was backyard fence – arms crossed, talking, gazing out the way people do when conversation doesn’t require eye contact. He tried to get a look inside the open door. The view was partially blocked by what Dean guessed was the side of a cigarette machine and he could just make out one table full of empty beer bottles with a small woman sitting on the edge of it, her feet on a barstool. There must’ve been a TV in the room from the way the haze shifted colors. It made him nervous, for all kinds of reasons, the thought of going in there. But really, why not? He was a grown man. He pulled in and parked by a muddy Silverado.
Dean looked at himself in the rearview mirror. A hint of an unburdened twenty-year-old quarterback was still recognizable in the round face, but he looked tired, and his skin had the glisten of a man who needed to lose forty pounds. Other men stop for a beer on the way home, it’s no big deal, he thought. He got out of the car and locked the door before giving his pants a quick hike. He touched a palm to each pocket, checking for his wallet, and headed toward the front steps.
Dean made a wide circle around a group of girls in yellow t-shirts who were playing a drinking game in the middle of the room. The bartender had an eagle tattooed across her cleavage and at least fifteen ashtrays were stacked in front of the only empty seat. He was going to smell like smoke. Dean lifted himself onto the barstool and ordered a beer.
“You want something to eat?” asked the bartender. “We got the best goddamn poppers you ever tasted.”
“No thanks.” He actually did want the poppers. He hadn’t eaten anything since dinner. But this was just a quick stop for a beer. Next time he might get the poppers.
It had been a good day. As their small crew arranged the store furniture to accommodate the new chairs, Dean had suggested a complete change in layout. It was unlike him to involve himself in marketing decisions, but he’d recently read an article about green being the most restful color to the human eye. “It’s in the middle of the visible spectrum,” he’d said to his boss, who looked particularly cheerful as he ordered every piece of furniture that was remotely green moved to the front of the store.
Dean’s belt cut into his stomach. As he straightened up, adjusting his buckle with one thumb, the girl sitting on the stool beside him swiveled to face him. She wore a tank top cut from a sweatshirt and her face was as freckled as any he’d ever seen. Her teeth were a little big for her mouth, but she was almost pretty, like a girl in a Wal-Mart ad. “Straight from the office?” she asked.
He knew he shouldn’t have come. No one can stay anonymous in a place like this. “Running errands,” he said.
The girl looked at his tie. “At midnight?” She picked up her full shot glass and peered into it before tilting back her head and emptying the contents into her peach-glossed mouth. She slid the glass across the bar with her index finger. Each nail was painted a different color.
“You know Marty Stazone?” she asked.
“No.”
“We all hate him. Someone’s going to kill that worthless fuck, I swear it.”
He wondered what Marty Stazone might have done to make everyone hate him. Probably something violent, with a name like that. But he didn’t want to talk to this girl who was most likely under age so he didn’t ask.
“I’m waiting for someone,” she said. “Met him here last weekend. He’s a damn good songwriter.” The girl took a piece of paper from her pocket, unfolded it, and slid it in front of him. “Read this,” she said. “It’s not his best, but he’s got tons more.” The red scrawl was barely legible. Dean pretended to dig for something in his pocket.
“I’ll read it,” the girl said, and took it back.
Standing close to you
I catch the smell of your shampoo
and all our hostilities
turn to possibilities
She stopped there and looked to see his reaction.
Dean felt like he was stuck in a dentist’s chair. “That’s poetic,” he said.
“You don’t mean that, I can tell. What do you know about writing songs?”
“Nothing.”
She began chipping at the blue polish on her thumb. “Even better when he sings it.” The girl smiled at her hand. “You ever been to Lyle’s Auto Shop in town?”
“No.”
“He’s got one of my paintings on the wall.” She abandoned the thumb and picked up a napkin she’d fashioned into a flower. It was folded in sections and wound around itself like a rose. “I guess that’s weird, having a painting in a garage.”
“Not really. I’ve got a dead gerbil in my car.”
She lifted the paper creation to her nose and smelled it. “That is weird,” she said.
They were interrupted by a biker with a bloody face who reached for the girl’s stack of napkins. The girl seemed annoyed but unalarmed. “Oh, Hal.” She got up and yelled to the bartender. “Jana, throw me a towel!” Hal sat down and tilted back his head. The girl folded up the towel, like only a girl would do, and helped him position it over his nose. “Hold it like that. I’ll get some wet paper towels and you two chat.” She leaned down to Hal’s ear, pretending to whisper. “This guy writes. Song lyrics and stuff.” She raised a teasing eyebrow at Dean and took her new drink with her.
Hal wore a Castro-style hat and a knife strapped to his belt.
“You okay?” asked Dean.
“Dry air. Had ‘em since I was a kid.” Hal relaxed in his seat, talking from under the bloody rag. “So what do you write?” He didn’t wait for Dean to answer. “I always liked writing in school. I don’t like to read, though. You think it’s funny I like to write but don’t like to read?”
Dean thought he should tell him that he wasn’t really a writer, but it seemed important to Hal that he was. He glanced at the knife. “No, I don’t think it’s funny.”
“I don’t tell this to everyone,” Hal said, “but when I go hunting I take along paper and I write my thoughts out. Now that’s strange for a guy like me, isn’t it?” Hal looked at Dean like he expected no bullshit.
“If you have kids, they’ll be glad you did. It’s history,” Dean said.
This seemed to satisfy Hal, who closed his eyes. The bartender wiped the top of the bar, moving carefully around Dean’s bottle. The wings of the eagle on her chest quivered as she worked. Dean checked his watch. He abandoned the half-finished beer and stood to leave when the girl returned. Hal tipped his face toward her and she began wiping him as if he were a grimy toddler. Dean slid a five-dollar bill across the bar and said to them both, “It was nice meeting you.”
“Same,” said the girl. With her free hand she picked up the homemade flower off the bar. “Take this. For your gerbil’s funeral.” She tucked it in the buttonhole of his shirt pocket, adjusting it so that it wouldn’t fall out. “Oops,” she said. “I got blood on your shirt.”
Dean looked down at the smear on his left pocket.
At the door he was called back by a male voice. “Dean Griffey?”
The faintest throbbing began in Dean’s chest and he turned around. The man was wearing jeans and a tuxedo shirt and held two unlit cigarettes. His hair, long and blond, was pulled back into a neat ponytail.
“Well honest to God,” the man said. “It’s been ages. How’s that deck holding up?”
Dean recognized him as the guy they’d hired four years ago to build a small deck off their bedroom. Candy had reduced his pay by $100 for dripping stain on the sidewalk. “Oh hey. It has been awhile.”
“You still in the same place?” asked the guy.
“Twelve years and counting.”
“I’m pouring concrete now. Just until my kid’s out of high school, then I’m headed to Florida to teach scuba diving.” The man brought the cigarettes to his mouth as if he forgot they weren’t lit. He gave an exaggerated look around the room and said, “No Candy, huh?”
“Not tonight.”
“This place is the greatest. Bring her along next time.”
“I’ll do it.”
“And call me if you need any work done.”
“Sure will,” Dean said, and turned to leave.
“Hey, real quick, come meet the new wife.”
Dean had time to lose but he did not want to meet the new wife. He had his own wife to meet and a couple of lies to make up, but he followed him over to the girls in yellow.
“This is Sheila, our maid of honor.” In glossy, ironed-on letters, her tight shirt read, Bridesmaid #1. She crouched at eye level with the table and carefully poured liquids from various shot glasses and bottles into a large stein, as if she were working with a chemistry set. Without looking up, she lifted a hand and nodded. He nodded back and was then introduced to bridesmaids two through seven and a small girl wearing jeans with a garter around her thigh and a baggy white t-shirt that read, Bride. “Baby, this is Dean. I put a deck on his house.”
“Were you at the wedding?” she asked. “I can’t remember who all we invited.”
“No. Congratulations, though.”
“We changed. We wore real clothes to the church.”
“I like the t-shirts.”
The bride grinned. “That’s a real nice thing to say.” She came closer and said quietly, “You got some blood on your shirt. I have a stain stick in my purse. You want it?”
Before Dean could say yes, a groomsman wearing a yellow bow tie and t-shirt yelled from the doorway. “Is there a Dean Griffey in here?”
The throbbing in his chest jumped to his neck and in a fluster his hand shot up. “Yes.” The groomsman shrugged and walked out. Dean wished it was Marty Stazone waiting for him, but he knew it wasn’t. The closed door had a message written in marker that read, Keep Shut. June Bugs. He opened it and stepped into the parking lot, squinting in the bright light. Outside, the stink of grease from the kitchen comingled with the smell of pasture.
Candy stood beside the decorated wedding car. Look relaxed, Dean told himself. He decided the best way to cover the thirty feet between them was to casually trot. He arrived, winded, at his unnaturally-composed wife. Written in shoe polish on the back window was, Gittin’ It On!, and affixed to the trunk was a heart made of red plastic flowers that looked like it had been lifted from a cemetery. The inside of the car was filled with red balloons. “Hey, Candy,” he said in a friendly way, as if he were pleasantly surprised she’d dropped by. Without expression she looked at the blood on his shirt.
“You forgot the checkbook.” Her words were drenched in implication, as if what she meant was, so these are your people and this is the sort of life you lead. Candy touched the fake flowers. “I was going to the clinic when I saw your car. I almost didn’t recognize it.”
Dean stood quiet.
The deck man, who, along with the entire wedding party, had followed him out, laughed and yelled at the groomsmen, “Oh you fuckers. That ain’t our car!” He turned serious when he looked at Candy. “I’m sorry. I’ll have them clean it.”
The bride pulled a wad of gum from her mouth. “Oh my God, you guys! You totally wrecked their car!” She put back the gum and fished a disposable camera out of her purse.
“Wait. I want this in the album.”
“Hey,” said the deck man, “let’s get a pic of the two of you in front of it. That’d be funny.”
“That’s okay,” said Dean.
Candy did not respond.
Dean readjusted his belt. “You remember Candy,” he said to the deck man.
“Sure I do,” he said. He wiped his hand on his pants as if he was going to extend it to her, then hesitated and didn’t complete the gesture. “That deck doing okay?”
“We’re enjoying it,” she said politely.
“Groovy.” The deck guy pulled out a cigarette lighter. “Back inside, ladies,” he said. “Come on, Candy and Dean. The least I can do is buy you a beer.”
One of the groomsmen slapped Dean on the back. “Yeah, you can judge the booby contest.”
The bride giggled. “Who said we’re having a booby contest?”
Bridesmaid number seven scowled at them. Her breasts hung like hardboiled eggs in plastic baggies. “That’s just rude,” she said.
“I’m afraid I can’t stay for the booby contest,” said Candy.
Dean looked at the heart drawn around the gas cap door and wondered if it would damage the paint. One of the rearview mirrors was tilted sideways. He knew he should say something to Candy but everything had become complicated and he didn’t know how to make her understand that he was wrongly accused.
She lifted the napkin flower from his pocket, rotated it between her fingertips, and slipped it back in. “Are you ready? Or did you want to stay?”
“I don’t want to stay.”
“If you want to stay, then stay.”
“I don’t want to stay.”
“I think you should. They need a judge for their contest.”
A man in a cowboy hat walked over with a pregnant woman and the dog he’d untied from the meter. He tossed a bottle into the ditch and the three of them climbed into the Silverado. Dean felt a June bug land on his head. He let it be. When the truck was gone, Candy turned back to the car, the gravel crunching under her indoor-outdoor slippers. She opened the door to the back seat and leaned in for an unnecessarily long time, in an effort, he knew, to make him feel like he was responsible for Death itself. She took hold of the cage, brought it to her chest, and carried the dead animal around to the passenger seat. Several balloons escaped when she opened the door.
“I’m going to drive the car,” she said. “I don’t want you to be embarrassed.”
The remaining members of the wedding party had moved to the grass behind the building and were no longer paying attention to them. The parking lot had mostly cleared out, too early for a Saturday, leaving Dean with the feeling that it might be a good amount of time before it filled up again.
“I’m sorry,” Dean said. “Everything just went wrong.”
“I know,” she said.
A groomsman brought over a bucket of water and a rag. Candy told him that she’d take care of it at home but asked if he’d at least remove the balloons. The man transferred the balloons and attached the plastic heart to an old hatchback that looked nothing at all like their car.
Dean followed her home in their van. Somehow he always got himself in a position to lose. He was mad at himself for saying sorry, even though he was, and he wanted to turn the radio up loud, but he didn’t. Whatever was coming, he ought to just hurry it along by stopping off to pick up some beer. He was a grown man for God’s sake. For sure he was going to call in sick tomorrow and go hit some golf balls. He’d at least do that. The shadows of a row of pin oaks had blurred and the moon showed small through their branches. There was a lot of night left. Dean kept his eyes on his wife’s head, which was just visible through the shoe polish, as she drove slowly down the empty road, cans dragging behind her.
“Just Married” is Kim Lozano’s first fiction publication in a national literary magazine.