Five winters ago Emma O’Malley was living on her sister’s couch in Laguna Beach, unemployed, and learning chords on a nylon-stringed guitar she bought at a garage sale. At the time the guitar was an antidote to a string of good lovers with no job skills. It involved her with learning patience, and the middle child of patience, devotion. She developed callous on her fingers and fought the cramping in her left hand. She logged hours and hours of practice and she cooked and kept the house clean and became an adopted house cat of her baby sister and her husband, Enrique.
Her sister Kelly was darling. That’s what everyone said when they’d meet her for the first time. Darling, a doll. And shrewd too. She launched a living doll line of cards and sold the business and went to work for Hallmark as a consultant. Her build was slighter than Emma’s, her eyes bluer, her love for her older sister boundless and blind and Emma tried not to tamper with that scale of love, which was difficult. Enrique made it difficult. He was too accommodating, too empathetic, a host that placed no timeline or boundaries on her stay in his house. This is your season of siesta, he told Emma. Enjoy it. And he said it in his Antonio Banderas way that lulled Emma into thinking that she could sabbatical without guilt or stress, be part of a family that warmed to her new passion, the guitarra, her baby, her reason for reason.
One afternoon she had a breakthrough. She was sitting outside, upstairs on a deck, strumming E and A, when a phrase came to her. Little Lil went to church Sunday, Wearing a dress that make Jesus, say, Hey. She meshed the lines with the chords and damn if it didn’t sound like a song. She didn’t write the words or chords down. She just played and sang till grids of light blinked on in the south county basin. A dry breeze brought the smells of jasmine and honeysuckle. The bottle of wine she opened at three was gone and so was the jar of peanuts. Emma didn’t try to understand what was happening or push for more words and another chord. She felt out of sorts in a good way. The doorbell rang again and Emma oriented herself. Kelly had mentioned dinner with a client and Enrique had a softball game. She heard the gate open and saw a squat dark man walk into the backyard. He looked right up at Emma. “Hello there…”
Emma’s muddled mind placed the face. “Carlos,” she said. He held up a pair of sunglasses. “They’re Enrique’s. He left them at the gym. I thought he couldn’t be cool without them but I guess I was wrong.” He smiled and Emma remembered their introduction and Carlos kissing her hand and saying, “I hope some day we’ll be friends.”
“Emma,” he called out. “You okay?”
“He’s not here.”
Carlos placed the sunglasses on the brick barbecue. “Okay, I guess I’ll see you around.” He paused. “I didn’t know you played.”
“Oh,” she waved at him. “I’m just learning.”
“Good. It’s good.”
“You play?”
“Flamenco, about 15 years.”
“You’re kidding.”
“It’s not a thing I do in public.” His smile blazed. “You don’t believe me?”
“Wait there,” she said, and made her way downstairs with the guitar. His admission irked her because she sensed he was lying and in some way the lie tarnished the glow she had created that afternoon.
He looked trollish and opportunistic when she invited him. His hands were meaty and his fingers were stubby like candles. He leaned against the counter and pulled the guitar closer. “I’m a little rusty,” he said. He played a snappy run in the middle of the fret board and ended with rapid down strokes of the chords she’d been playing for hours. He handed back the guitar.” Needs strings and pegs but okay for your first one.”
Emma gaped. “You’re fantastic.”
“I’m fair.”
“Some fair.”
He pointed to the guitar. “Play.”
“No, really, I’m embarrassed and impressed and I’m sorry for doubting you.”
“Come on, one little strum and I’ll go, I swear.”
“Not today,” she said, escorting him to the door.
“When?”
“Soon.”
“Promise?”
“Bye.”
“Emma,” he said. “I give lessons.”
“I’m sure you do. Bye.”
He left and Emma set the guitar down. She flopped onto the couch and recalled the scar under his right eye that zagged across his cheek, his chubby face and droopy eyes. He was a handsome fat man with a talent and in a few seconds he had diminished her accomplishments unintentionally. Carlos didn’t get to his plateau over night but he was there and being there gave him the confidence to come on to her like he was Otmar fucking Leibert. How many years would pass before she would fire off a solo that said: Stand back, I’m hot. Did she start too late? Would arthritis get her fingers before she learned to Travis pick? Was his showing up and showing off a sign for her to return to what—loneliness and the mud of middle age? No, she couldn’t, wouldn’t diminish what she had done. She’d made music and it wasn’t flashy. Like Dylan said, two chords and the truth, and, well, in a few years, if she stayed on track, maybe four chords and a tale about an aging Irish wench taking on the aging ideals of California. She laughed. Right, and…she thought, why not? I mean, I’m not planning to be Segovia. Strum and sing. That’s attainable and yeah, why not, upgrade now, go with a sound I’ll probably make, flinty and pissed. I know, better instrument doesn’t mean a better musician but why not have what I want. I’m committed. For life. And…
The object of her desire was called the Desert Rose, an orange-stained pretty with a thin body and Florentine cutaway. The salesman was a big knuckled boy with veiny hands and dry skin. Bored and probably stoned, he sensed Emma’s reluctance to play it so he thrashed some chords and bents some strings and said, “It’s Nashville on a sunny day. Pricey.”
“How much?” Emma asked.
“About Five G.” Emma flushed and took the guitar from him. She had a debt of 10 thousand, mostly deposits for places she moved into and vacated the past couple years. She chorded a C and rolled the fleshy part of her thumb across the strings. The tone was clear. The price, ridiculous, but in her head and heart and soul, she heard, bring me home and love me and I’ll love you.
Emma rationalized the purchase as environmental dementia. Everyone in Southern California owned something flashy, whether it was their body or a car or a house, the stain of taste was a mark of this madness and Emma could feel it singeing her every thought, again. And now, with her two-chord song, her two lines, her feeling she had reached a plateau, she felt ready to talk to her sister.
Five thousand wouldn’t drain Kelly’s considerable account but it might cut into some of Enrique’s fun money. He spent their disposable income at the sauna with wraps and dips and de-toxes. She doubted the expenditure would hurt Enrique’s lifestyle but the outlay might alter his opinion about her. Money always seemed to re-align the DNA of in-laws. When he showed up unexpectedly at noon the next day, smelling of avocadoes and cucumbers, looking tan and rested, Emma, out of respect for the Latin code, decided to run the proposal by him. She put away a box of crackers, washed her hands and offered to fix something for Enrique.
“No,” he said, “I’m fasting today.”
She didn’t ask why. His world of diet and self-discipline was business to Enrique and he was always willing to share the secrets of his look but today his tone was strange, like he had abandoned a baby in a stroller and wandered home to make another. He wore Sperry’s, Khaki’s and a black cashmere T-shirt and Emma felt pasty in his presence. She hadn’t even put on underwear or washed her face. Her freshest hours started around two when she showered and dolled up for another evening of pampered stray cat.
Enrique meandered into the kitchen. “Kelly had to fly to San Francisco, he said, poking at the Orange County Register. “She’ll be back tonight, late.”
Emma avoided his eyes and peered out the window. A ray of sun had pierced through the marine layer and saturated the backyard grove of lemons, limes and oranges. She thought, what he’s going to try? She turned, smiling. “Warm outside, Enrique?”
“About eighty, and muggy. There’s a storm down in Baja.”
“We could use some rain.”
He touched her bare shoulder. “I like you, Emma.”
“I like you to, Enrique.”
“I know and…” He paused like a dark frustrated ambassador. “She won’t know…”
“She will, and I can’t and please don’t look at me like that…”
“I can’t help it… You’re…”
“Enrique, please…”
“I think about you when I’m with her…”
The lie smelled like lilacs and laundry and Emma pressed her nose into it and said, “Don’t.”
He was touching her face. “I have to,” he said.
Emma blurted out. “I need money.”
His eyes widened. “Money.” The word deflated him. “You’re going to leave, aren’t you?”
She shook her head and walked out of the kitchen and upstairs to her room, her emotions cleansing and corrupting her. She could hear him coming up the stairs. It was going to happen and she couldn’t stop it. She’d seen in his eyes that look: I’m with the wrong woman and I don’t know how to tell her. Emma turned on him when he entered her room. “I need money for a guitar.” He blinked.
“You mean, you’re not leaving?”
“Not today.”
Enrique steadied himself. This was his office she’d been using and she hadn’t tampered with any of his stuff. She liked the maleness in the room. She often read in the barber’s chair and always refrained from watering the tall potted saguaro in the corner.
“Do you know anything about guitars?”
“A little,” he said, moving toward the guitar case with the Grateful Dead sticker. He removed the guitar. “It’s light.”
“It’s cheap,” Emma said.
“Is that why you don’t play loud?”
“I’m being considerate.”
“Kelly thinks you found you’re thing.”
“My thing,” Emma said.
He put the guitar back in the case. “The thing that will make you happy again and she will do anything to see that it happens.”
“I know that. But I won’t ask her for the money.”
Emma folded up the studio couch. “Why, she’s your sister and she adores you.”
“That’s why,” Emma said, patting the cushions into place and sitting down as Enrique mulled with gritted teeth. “How much?”
“Five thousand.” She’d never noticed his eyebrows but she noticed them now, arched and unbelieving. Emma laughed. “You can breathe, Enrique.”
“I am.”
“I know,” she said. “It’s ridiculous. It’s unnecessary. It’s what I want and you can say, no.” Her eyes met his and they were murky. Talk of money had cooled him off and Emma felt an air of negotiation drifting her way.
“Are we talking about a gift or a loan?” He sat down beside her, his business voice annoying Emma. It wasn’t like she was asking for a house or car. “I’d love it as a gift but I can’t say when or how I would pay it back.”
“This guitar,” he started and she cut him off. “The Desert Rose,” she said.
“Ah, it has a name and I like it.” He squeezed her leg and stood. “Your sister will know if I take out that much money and…”
“Yes,” Emma interrupted, “we don’t want her to know…”
“But if she sees the Rose…”
“Then we lie.” He warmed a few degrees. “A lie…”
“Your friend, Carlos, he plays, right?” Emma took her time. “We can say he’s letting me borrow it.” Enrique nudged her foot with his shoe. He took out his cell and called someone. He said, turning his back on Emma, “Primo, how you doing? Good. I have a situation.” Delight and disgust filled Emma as she listened, wondering who was on the other end. She liked Enrique calling her a friend and a musician but she tensed when his Spanish quickened.
He turned, his eyes chameleon. “Money’s yours if…”
“If,” Emma said, “if what?”
It happened so quickly, so sleazy that Emma’s temper flared. “Yeah,” she said, go ahead. Arrange it.” Enrique didn’t come home that night and Emma couldn’t reach him on his cell. She knew what he was doing and it was working. She was afraid. She’d had lovers with specific needs and scripted lines but they were there in the morning with their coffee and flickering shame. This was different and didn’t have to be. It could have worked. They could have lied to Kelly, hid money from her, and kisses and pointless passion. It could have played out fine. Emma could have put her conscience on hold and convince Enrique that she’s only doing it for a guitar. It had all the ingredients of a dirty family secret. And that was the wall that Emma couldn’t get over. Fucking over family.
Now she was left with a stranger, a friend of Enrique’s, probably like Enrique, handsome, proud, someone who’s seen her dressed up, flirty, the unmarried, unafraid sister of the darling Kelly, someone like herself, ready for a change.
Emma drank wine and thought back to the parties at the house, the faces at the clubs, all the men she talked to since arriving in Laguna and none stood out like Enrique but that didn’t mean someone wasn’t there, watching, aging in a patient, perverted delight. The wine was shading these thoughts and by the time the bottle was gone Emma considered Enrique’s state of mind. How hurt was he? He did say he thought of Emma while he was with Kelly. That was an omission that didn’t need to be said. But he did, and Emma called his cell again, to explain why they couldn’t be a dirty secret, but he wouldn’t answer and his not answering left her to her own imagination and these blurred thoughts considered Enrique’s state of hurt, his bruised pride and his politics of retaliation. She imagined him alone somewhere with a view of city lights, his frown and tequila conspiring to teach her a lesson. It’s too late. You said you would and now you have to. It’s done. You can’t back out. She heard him say those words in her sleep, say them clearly, sinisterly, like a child relishing his first sin.
She woke with his name on her dry lips. She’d fallen asleep on the couch and her neck was sore. She didn’t remember the phone ringing but there was a blinking message on the answering machine. She played it and erased it. It wasn’t her sister. Hearing her voice would have tampered with Emma’s resolve. The message was clear. Be ready. Be nice. Be seeing you soon. It was Enrique’s voice but she knew he wasn’t the one who was coming. It was too early to go over again who the stranger might be and what he might do, too early to rouse her fear. She fixed coffee and after the second cup she added Kahula. A little drunk was one way, she figured, to face this stranger and think of the Desert Rose in the same light. Be ready. Be nice. Be seeing you soon. It was almost like a song the way the words ran in her head, a song she might write and sing and she gave Enrique, after her second Kahula, extra credit for stringing those particular words together. Be ready. Be nice. Be seeing you soon.
About noon she found the mood she wanted. She stopped looking into mirrors, stopped thinking there was a patron saint of whores she could pray to. The tequila helped steer her to what was important—not making a big deal about this. And it was a deal. Her body for money was flattering, not degrading, was useful, not used up. She closed out any thoughts that would try to claim the rights she had to her body. She shut out all the light in the house and turned on the air conditioner. As clearly as she could, she pictured the stranger, a Mexican and she dressed appropriately: a black see-through one-piece with a skirt, high heels, and the reddest lipstick her sister had. She sat back on the sofa, strummed her guitar and sang, Little Lil went to church Sunday, wearing a dress that make Jesus say, hey. She played with her legs crossed, and frowned. What if this was a joke? What if Enrique and Kelly walked in with her dressed like a bloated porn star? What would she say? How hard would they laugh? The message didn’t say what time or who was coming. It said…
The knock at the door startled her. She stood up unsteadily, knowing she’d gone beyond her tequila limit, beyond fear and turning back. She opened the door and peered down at Carlos, a dressed up donkey salesman holding a gift. “Hi,” he said, handing the package to her. “It’s Robert Johnson’s anthology.”
The room tilted a bit and ordinariness filled it with a cloying air. Emma worked her tongue through a piece of Cinnamon burst. He touched the back of his balding head with his fat fingers and she noted the thickness in his neck and shoulders. “You did say you liked the blues, didn’t you?”
Emma’s embarrassment twisted her tongue. “Uh, yes, thank you, Carlos, this is…nice and I’m expecting someone…”
He pushed against her, uttering, “Yes, me.” He backed her into the entry way, apologizing, “I’m sorry, I’m early, but I thought we could, excuse me.” His hands clasped on the back of her thighs and he nuzzled her breasts with his face. “You’re so…”He groaned, lifted her skirt and slapped her ass rapidly. “Puta madre.” Spanish rolled out of his mouth like a prayer that wasn’t being heard. He ground against her thigh. “I’m sorry,” he repeated, “forgive me.” He stood back and emptied bills from his wallet.
“I don’t believe this,” Emma said.
“Neither do I,” he said. “We should talk. But not now.”
“Okay, but can we close the door.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“It doesn’t matter who sees or hears what we’re going to do.”
“Excuse me, but yes, to me, it does.”
Carlos kicked the door closed. “Take off your skirt.” Emma slid off the skirt and kicked it away. She wanted to pick up the money but he was enflamed, perspiring.
“Now what?”
“Walk.”
She moved toward the stairs and he followed, his ranting drowning out the click of her heels. “I would have bought you a thousand guitars…”
“I didn’t know.”
“How can you not know when a man talks about you all the time? It changes the weather, the world, the lives we lead. Everyday I asked Enrique, how can she not know what is happening?”
“I didn’t know,” she said at the top of the stairs and he grabbed her. “I don’t believe you.”
From behind he slipped his hand between her thighs and worked the strings only he could feel. “I want to,” he said. “I want to believe we could have had dinner first but I know what I am and what you are…” Emma’s breathy defense made him laugh. “It doesn’t matter anymore,” he said, pulling his hand away. “In the end, I’m where I want to be…” He pressed on her back, his voice hoarse. “Bend over and keep your legs straight.” “Yeah, like that. I like my congas fleshy.”
He stuck his nose in the crease of her ass and made wet, wallowing sounds while ripping the seat of her body stocking with his teeth. Sensation shorted out all connections but one in Emma’s head. The Desert Rose.
“Carlos,” she said. “No, not there…”
He rose up. His pants dropped to the floor. The back of her legs ached.
“Yes, Emma, yes.”
A cap bounced on the linoleum, and cold oily squirts touched her flesh. A plastic bottle clattered. He smeared the oil with his forearms, wrists and hands, his fingers dipping into her holes, him knowing, her knowing, that what was going to happen was going to happen again and again and again and again until the Desert Rose was hers.
TONI MORRISON - Beloved
JON KRAKAUER - Under the Banner of Heaven: A Story of Violent Faith
GABRIEL GARCIA MARQUEZ
JAMES ELLROY - L.A. Confidential
HENRY MILLER - The Rosy Crucifixion (Sexus, Nexus, Plexus)
