These Women Page 6

  “When was the last time you saw her?”

  What’s that? Whatchu sayin’?

  “Jujubee—when did she work last?”

  I’m telling you, no Jujubee here.

  “How about Julianna?”

  No Julianna. No Jujubee.

  “Now or ever?” Dorian asks.

  Come down and search the place.

  Dorian hangs up. Maybe it’s her night off. Maybe she quit. Maybe she never worked there at all.

  After work on Tuesday she drives Western from the 10 down to Seventy-Seventh and back. She makes the loop four times.

  Wednesday crawls. Only four lunch orders. She keeps checking the clock to see if it’s time to start closing up.

  On Thursday, still no sign of Julianna, not that Dorian knows where to look.

  Just before closing, Kathy appears at the back door. She accepts a plate of fried shrimp and some fish trim.

  “How come you care about fucking Julianna all of a sudden?” Kathy’s wearing a plastic raincoat over a dress that looks like a long tank top. No bra. She’s rebleached her hair so it’s the color of corn silk. “Bitch thinks she’s too good for us. I knew her back when.”

  “Me too,” Dorian says.

  “Oh yeah? You knew her?”

  “She used to eat here when she was little.”

  “Fucking small world,” Kathy says. “So, what, she owes you money or something?”

  “Not exactly.”

  Kathy reaches for the cup of iced tea Dorian’s poured her. “Shit,” she says, “that’s motherfucking sweet.”

  Dorian senses Kathy’s eyes on her.

  “You think something messed up happened to Jujubee.”

  Messed up. Funny how Kathy can’t say the words, make them real. Invite the danger closer.

  “I don’t know what I think,” Dorian says.

  “Tell you what,” Kathy says. “Julianna probably found some dude, holed up with him. Bet she found a rich one. Taking a few days for herself. Let me tell you, sometimes you need that. You motherfucking need that. New place, new guy. Time out of mind, you know what I mean?” She shakes her head. “And more power to her. Doing a thing like that. Matter of fact, that’s what I need to do. Find some dude with a big old house out of the city, in Upland or San Pedro. Get out of town for a few. Make some cash. Get some sleep. Take care of myself instead of the rest of them.” She tosses the empty cup. “Bet you anything a few days from now you’ll find her at the Rabbit, pockets full, well slept.” She reaches for the empty cup again. “Actually, lemme get a refill.”

  Dorian fills the cup from the four-gallon tub, then watches as Kathy takes a half pint of SoCo out of her purse and tips it into the tea. “One for the road,” she says. She takes a sip. “You start worrying about what can happen out there, it’s a one-way ticket.”

  “Julianna’s different.”

  Kathy snorts, blowing bubbles through the straw. “Every girl thinks she’s different.”

  Outside someone’s honking a horn.

  Kathy squints through the kitchen out the front window. “I’m gonna miss my shift.”

  “I’ll walk you out,” Dorian says.

  They go out the front. Dorian locks the gate behind them. They head south on Western.

  Kathy’s like a snake shedding a skin or perhaps growing a thicker one the farther they get from the fish shack. Her voice changes, grows harder, colder as she arms herself against the night. She stares down a woman who’s standing on the wrong corner, taunts a driver for looking too long. She stomps the sidewalk, side-eyeing the civilians.

  At Thirty-Seventh she turns to Dorian. “You gonna walk with me forever?”

  “I’m just headed this way.”

  “You think I need watching over like some fucking Julianna.”

  “Kathy, I’m just walking.”

  “You think because we eat your food you’re some kinda saint. Bitch, please.”

  “Kathy—” Dorian begins.

  “Just let me do my fucking job. This shit isn’t your business. None of it.” She whirls around and presses a hand into Dorian’s chest, holding her back, as she storms off.

  Dorian watches her cross the street, trying her luck southbound.

  The sky is ribboned with a few strips of pink. The palms are waving. The wind nags.

  Two northbound buses pass. Dorian doesn’t get on. She keeps heading south, not admitting where she’s going until she’s standing in front of the Fast Rabbit.

  It’s seven thirty. Probably too early for the real action. She stands back and waits. The door opens more frequently than she’d expected. Single men. Pairs and groups. Some walk in proud. Others slink through the door.

  Dorian circles the block. She buys a few tacos from a street vendor. Then heads for the door of the Fast Rabbit.

  The bouncer looks more fat than strong. But you still wouldn’t want to tangle with him. “Have a good evening,” he says, holding the door open.

  The interior is dark, lit by pink and blue strobe lights and a smudged disco ball. There’s a small dance floor and a black lacquered bar. Dorian waits for her eyes to adjust to the light before taking a seat on a vinyl stool.

  The bartender gives her a look like he’s never seen a middle-aged woman before. Like after thirty, women cease to exist. “You want a drink?”

  “I’m looking for someone.”

  “Does he know that?”

  “She.”

  The bartender raises his eyebrows.

  “I’ll have a Seven and Seven,” Dorian says.

  The drink comes in a cup just like the ones at Lupillo’s. Dorian sips it through the straw and watches as a door at the far end of the dance floor opens. A man strides out, takes a look around, then heads for the exit. A few moments later, a woman about Julianna’s age emerges. She’s got a wild, leonine mane of hair and a heart-shaped face. Her eyebrows look as if they’re drawn with Magic Marker.

  She takes a seat at the bar. She has a tiger claw tattoo ripping the skin of each breast. “Fuck. We’re banging and it’s hardly nighttime. Gonna wear out my damn thighs by midnight.”

  The bartender pours her a green drink the color of a science experiment. “You complaining about getting work?”

  “I’m just working the work,” the woman says. Then she glances at Dorian. “You new here?”

  “She’s looking for someone,” the bartender says.

  “She’s not here.” The woman winks at Dorian. “You buying?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Most people who sit there buy me a drink.”

  “That’s okay,” Dorian says.

  “You nervous? This your first time?” The woman slides her stool closer. Dorian can smell her perfume and something else—maybe someone else, a musky, murky odor. “Come on, baby, buy me a drink.”

  “You have a drink,” Dorian says.

  “Damn, lady, you don’t know how the game is played.”

  Dorian sips her cocktail. “I’m not playing.”

  The woman runs her hand down Dorian’s thigh. “Then get the fuck off that stool.” The bartender snaps his fingers, directs the woman’s attention to the other end of the bar, where two young guys are appraising her like she’s a test car at an auto show. She slides off her stool and heads their way. Dorian watches her slip between them, somehow commanding the attention of both at once.

  “A woman’s got to work,” the bartender says.

  The back door becomes a turnstile. Women and men in together. Men out first. Then the women. Dorian keeps her eyes on it in case Julianna appears.

  “Hey, lady, you still taking up space?”

  The woman with claw tattoos is back. “I’m having a good night,” she says, “and it’s barely night. So I could give you one on the house. Ramon will let it slide.” She winks at the bartender. “Come on,” she says, slipping an arm around Dorian’s waist, “when was the last time you got a little something-something?”

  Years and years. Decades. Time beyond ima
gining.

  “Bet it’s all cobwebs up in there,” the woman says. “Bet you need someone to shake you loose.” She pulls Dorian tighter. “Come on, what do you say? What are you waiting for?”

  Dorian feels her body tense in the woman’s half embrace, as if by stiffening she can increase the distance between them. “I’m not waiting for anything.”

  “Don’t tell me that. Everyone is waiting for something.” She’s breathing into Dorian’s ear. “Come on, you can tell me. You can tell me anything.”

  “I’m not—” Dorian begins. But then she realizes the woman’s right. She has been waiting. Waiting for something, anything, to release her.

  The woman puts a hand on Dorian’s chin and pivots it so they are face-to-face. “I’m right,” the woman says. Her voice is baby soft, deceptive and slippery like black ice. “I know I’m right. I know what you want better than you do.”

  And then her mouth is on Dorian’s. Her lips are a wet crush, her tongue—all muscle.

  It takes a moment for Dorian to realize what’s happening. Then she springs back, jumps off her stool, crashes to the ground.

  “Get the fuck out,” the woman says. “You ain’t interested in shit.”

  8.

  FRIDAY NIGHT—NO WOMEN SHOW AT DORIAN’S BACK DOOR. Saturday the same. It’s as if someone warned them off.

  Even two days after her experience at the Rabbit, Dorian can still taste the woman’s mouth. Still smell her. The taste lingers—salty, liquor-sweet. But something else too. Her words.

  What are you waiting for?

  Dorian takes another swallow of tea to erase this woman and her question. But it won’t go.

  The fish shack is slow.

  When the clock hits five, Willie ducks into the kitchen.

  “I know,” Dorian says, “time to get the big one going.”

  She’s pulling down twenty Styrofoam containers when the front door opens.

  She hears Willie’s voice. “Anneke, right? You here to pick up for Roger?”

  “No.” The reply is curt.

  Dorian looks through the kitchen window and sees Roger’s wife. “I want to talk to Dorian.”

  Dorian pokes her head out. Anneke’s standing in the doorway, as if she can’t bear to enter the restaurant.

  “Can I help you?”

  “Not anymore,” Anneke says. “I’m here to cancel Roger’s order. We won’t be needing your food at his game.”

  Dorian sighs and takes off her apron. “You could have called,” she said.

  “I just want to be clear.” The corner of Anneke’s eye is twitching. “I’m canceling it permanently.”

  “I always said fried food doesn’t travel,” Dorian says. “But it didn’t seem to bother you for more than a decade.”

  “Tastes change.” She has an accent Dorian can’t place. Clipped and pinched.

  Dorian dips into the kitchen and switches off the fryer. When she returns, Anneke is still there.

  “Anything else?” Dorian says.

  Anneke is craning her neck, staring into the kitchen and through the back door. “It’s a health hazard. Those women. The ones who eat back there. Everyone knows.”

  “Do they?” Dorian asks.

  “If they don’t, they will. People are trying to clean up this neighborhood.”

  “I bet they are.” Dorian holds Anneke’s stare, watching her eyelid flutter like an incensed butterfly. Finally, Anneke turns. “Nothing for the road?” Dorian asks.

  The door shuts without a reply.

  She puts her hands on the counter. “Bitch.”

  “Go on,” Willie says. “Get out of here. I’ll clean up.”

  She doesn’t argue. There’s no sense in waiting for the girls. If she passes any of them, she’ll reassure them that they’re always welcome at her back door.

  The wind has picked up again, sending more desiccated palm fronds down to the street with a loud rip and rustle. Empty cans and bottles are rolling down Western. They’re in for another wind event—a dangerous, dry howling gale that will send sparks into the arid hills and ignite a wildfire if folks aren’t careful.

  Dorian figures there’s still about half an hour of light left, which gives her just enough time to walk to the Rosedale Cemetery up on Normandie and Washington if she hurries.

  Western is slow. Light on traffic, low on girls. Maybe it’s the incessant wind from the desert or maybe it’s the threat of cold that’s keeping the girls away. But the street is empty. Only Dorian is on foot. At Twenty-Eighth she catches the bus that takes her to Washington. From there it’s a ten-minute walk east.

  It’s a shame about the streets surrounding the cemetery—dirty, trash strewn, smeared with pepper tree buds and dog shit, and more often than not now home to a scattershot collection of homeless.

  But the cemetery is pleasant. Fifteen years on and Dorian’s still surprised each time she walks up the slight hill from Washington to find her daughter’s spot. The place is carpeted with a well-maintained lawn even in the dry summer months. Towering palms line several of the wide, circular drives ringing the main lawn, offering shade and secrecy—a refuge from the city.

  There are uniform rows dedicated to soldiers from the Spanish-American War with life-size angels bowed over ornate headstones or standing atop looming columns. There are two family mausoleums in the shape of pyramids as well as obelisks and a jumble of neoclassical structures. Look closely and you can find the names of Los Angeles’s vanguard families—Slauson, Glassell, Burbank, and Banning. Dorian used to linger there but now she makes straight for Lecia’s grave, closer to Venice than Dorian had wanted, but still sheltered from the street noise.

  Rosedale is empty. There are never many visitors, and the few who do come freshen up the more modest gravesites with flowers, food offerings, and from time to time, a radio set to a favorite station. Lecia’s headstone is across from this section—an area of old and new graves with a few shiny headstones amid the nondescript markers.

  The sun is gone but there’s still a purple glow in the sky. A gust of wind sweeps through the cemetery. She hears the sound of broken crockery, offerings scattered and strewn.

  Then she hears something else. “Give that back!”

  Dorian sees a man she recognizes as one of the caretakers hurrying toward the custodial house, his arms cradling carnations in a plastic vase, a couple of teddy bears, a balloon.

  “Give that back!”

  Dorian steps to the side just as a wiry black woman about her age pounces on the caretaker from behind.

  “That’s mine. Give it back to me.”

  The caretaker shakes her off. “You’re lucky I’m too close to the end of my shift to bother calling the police.”

  The woman darts in front of the custodian, blocking his path. Her features are sharp, her skin scarred and thin—the signs of past addiction. “Are you telling me it’s a crime now to leave what I need to on my daughter’s grave? That seems more like sacrilege than criminal. I’m just doing what the Lord commands. I’m just honoring the dead.”

  The custodian adjusts the objects in his arms, trying to get a better grip. “If your daughter was buried here, you could leave what you want. But what you’re doing is vandalism. You can’t just dump your stuff on someone else’s plot. You can’t—”

  “Now that too seems sacrilegious. Seems like a sin to tell me I can’t honor the dead. My dead. What’s more, I don’t hear anyone complaining. Do you hear anyone complaining?” The woman tilts her head back, opens her mouth wide. “Should we ask any of these dead souls if they’ve taken issue with me leaving stuff on a grave? I suspect they appreciate it.” The woman wheels around and sees Dorian standing on the path. “Do you have people here?”

  “I do,” Dorian says.

  “Now that’s a blessing. You know what I had to do? I had to cremate my girl. I had to burn her like a dead Christmas tree just because the dirt in this place is saved for folks with deep pockets. Doesn’t matter that I’m God-fearing. Does
n’t matter that I recommitted myself to the Lord, that I love him even though he took my baby away.” She lowers her voice and draws closer to Dorian. “But my girl deserved the best. She deserves to be here with all the stone angels watching over her. So I scattered her ashes all up in that meadow, right up by the grave with a woman on top with her head in a tree. A heavenly lookout.”

  Dorian knows it well. A perfect vantage over the gentle hill. But private, too—its own little sanctuary sheltered by the overhanging oak. Before the woman winds up again, Dorian hurries off to Lecia’s plot.

  The wind comes in waves. You hear it first tangling in the trees above before it descends to the ground. The cemetery is a mess of the day’s offerings rattling through the headstones and rolling down the paths. She finds Lecia’s spot and kneels down. She’s never sure what to say to Lecia, never sure what to do at her grave. In fact, sitting at Lecia’s headstone is when she finds it hardest to think about her daughter at all. Because there’s no real connection between Lecia and this place, no memories. So Dorian’s mind wanders, back to Kathy, to Julianna, to the razor’s-edge life beyond the cemetery walls.

  Across the drive is the large meadow where the woman berating the custodian claims she scattered her daughter’s ashes. The meadow is dominated by a massive grave Dorian remembers belonging to someone named Ruddock—the name engraved on the base of a tiered pedestal that rises up supported by four short Corinthian columns. On top of this is another pedestal with Gothic arches, which rises into a third pedestal. On top of that a statue of a woman holds a garland of flowers, her head partially obscured by the overhanging oak.

  In the last light, Dorian watches Ruddock’s angel presiding over her meadow. There’s movement in the shadow of the grave’s columns.

  Dorian crosses to the meadow and arrives at the Ruddock grave in time to see the angry woman wielding a can of spray paint. Even in the faded light she can make out what is already written on the marble. “JAZMIN FREEMO—”

  Dorian watches the woman finish the name to read Freemont.

  Jazmin’s mother turns and sees Dorian. “You got a problem?” She cocks her head to one side, waiting for Dorian to challenge her. “No one visits any of these damn graves. I claimed my spot. What are you going to do about it?”