“Oh, hi,” she said. “I was just heading to Seltzerville.”
“To see me?”
“No. Ronald McDonald.” It was a nervous response, but it came off a little snide, so she added: “I wanted to tell you how amazing the temple is, Otto. Really. Just stunning. You guys did an amazing job. Seriously. It’s the best one ever.”
He pressed his hands together and touched his fingertips to his red rubber clown nose. She thought for a moment that he was going to say “Namaste,” and was hugely relieved when he didn’t. She could not have suppressed the laugh.
He turned and looked at the flaming Tilt-a-Whirl. “This is unbelievable, right?”
“Truly,” she said. “So primal and . . . elemental.” She scrounged for something else to say. “So how’s Ottawa coming along?”
He shrugged. “I’m still going.”
“Well, that’s good. I mean . . . I know how much you want to.”
He nodded. A long silence followed.
“Do you think we could talk for a bit?” she said finally.
“Sure. What about?”
“Just . . . things. I’d like to get your take on something.”
“You wanna go to Seltzerville? It’s not far.”
“Perfect.”
Otto looked genuinely pleased. “We can kick back. Drink some tea. Ada makes a smokin’ herbal tea. Calls it Moose Juice.”
Shawna blinked at him.
“It’s kind of an Ottawa joke.”
She nodded, taking it in. “Ada is from Ottawa?”
“Oh, sorry . . . thought I mentioned that at Martuni’s.”
“Nope. Nothin’ about anybody being from Ottawa. Nothin’ about her, actually. You mentioned two other exes since me.”
He smiled sheepishly. “Takes a while to get it right.”
“Yep. Sure does. I’m glad, though. That’s cool, Otto.”
“Yeah.” He nodded with a look of surprising tenderness. “It is.”
She had to go to Seltzerville; there was no way around it. And there was no way she could ask Otto for sperm with an adoring Canadian clown-lass hanging on his every word—not to mention his leg. So they sipped that nasty tea and spoke with concern about a sixteen-year-old girl who had reportedly gone missing from her parents’ camp, prompting the rangers to seal off the exits to prevent any attempt at abduction. Shawna wondered out loud who would bring their teenage daughter to BRC in the first place, only to realize how priggish and judgmental she sounded. She hated pretty much everything about herself at that moment.
When she had finished her tea, she bade them farewell and headed off in the direction of Coinkydink. Otto’s new ladylove had been a sign, she decided, the final indicator that anonymity was the only way to go—at least, a form of modified anonymity in which she could actually lay eyes on the sperm donor and get a sense of what sort of person he might be. It wasn’t so much a question of his physicality (though a degree of attractiveness would be nice) as the need to assess his spirit.
Coinkydink took a while to locate. There was no signage at all, just a ragtag circle of tents that she found troubling. She had not expected (nor had she desired) some grandiose Temple of Immaculate Conception, but this place was laidback to the point of disinterest. She had to ask around before she could even identify it.
“You’ve found us,” said a petite brunette with a gleam in her eye.
“Oh, thank God.”
“ ‘There’s no such thing as Coinkydink.’ ”
“What?”
“That’s our camp slogan.”
“Well—I was beginning to think it might be true. I’m looking for someone named Dustpuppy.”
The woman frowned. “Sorry, I don’t think . . . oh, wait . . . that might be Jonah.”
“Might be?”
“I just got here. I don’t know everybody’s playa name yet.”
“Ah.”
“Do you know what he looks like?”
“Sorry, I don’t.” Shawna considered explaining the reason for her visit, then decided against it for fear of compromising the contract. Dustpuppy might not be out to his campmates about the nature of his gifting. After all, it would not be an anonymous act if other people knew about it. Not to mention the fact that the whole damn thing could be a hoax, a wild-goose chase perpetrated by a prankster.
“I’m afraid everyone’s gone right now,” said the woman. “They took off in our art car.”
“And you’re here all by your lonesome?” Shawna had just noticed the perky coral nipples punctuating the woman’s loose fishnet top.
“I don’t mind,” said the woman. “I’m glad for a little peace and quiet.”
“I know what you mean.”
“You’re welcome to wait here for Jonah.”
“Uh . . . well, thanks. I’m not even sure that Jonah is the one I’m looking for. Could you tell me what he looks like?”
The woman shrugged. “Youngish. Blond. Kinda cute.” A kittenish smile flickered across her face before she added: “For a guy.”
Shawna smiled back, letting her know she got the message.
“I know you,” said the woman.
“Oh yeah?”
“Shawna Hanson, right?”
“Hawkins, actually.”
“Right. I saw you on The View.”
“Oh . . . yeah. That was fun. Whoopi was fun, anyway.”
The woman stood there for a moment, bouncing on her heels, hands thrust in the pockets of her loose linen trousers.
“So,” she said at last. “I haven’t read your book.”
“I won’t hold that against you,” said Shawna.
They did it in Juliette’s tent—that was her name, Juliette. Their lovemaking was all meandering mouths and fingers, with no purpose at all beyond pleasure. No bicycle couriers were involved, no artisanal twat cozies. It was way uncomplicated and hot. And there was something about Juliette that smelled alluringly of home.
They lay there together, sticky and dusted as fresh pastries.
“Holy shit,” said Juliette.
“I know,” said Shawna.
“Where do you live?”
“I’m staying in the gayborhood.”
“Not Beaverton?”
“No—just with some guys. I mean—gay guys. What’s wrong with Beaverton?”
“Well—those gals are kinda tough.”
“Nothing wrong with tough sometimes.”
“No—I guess not. Anyway, I meant . . . where do you live in the default world?”
“Oh. San Francisco. Valencia Street.”
“Me too. Well . . . Sixteenth, just off Valencia.”
“Uh-oh.”
“Why uh-oh?”
“Well . . . you’re just around the corner. I might come a-callin’.”
“That would be nice,” said Juliette.
“You’re single, then?”
“Yep . . . in the way you mean, at least.”
“I don’t get it.”
Juliette reached down and touched her faintly rounded belly. “Next year there will be two of us.”
Shawna was struck dumb for a moment.
“If that’s too much for you,” said Juliette. “Just say so now. I promise I won’t be offended.”
“No,” said Shawna. “It’s not too much for me at all.”
She moved her hand to Juliette’s belly and let it rest there as she gazed through a patch of tent mesh at the bursting blue moon she’d been promised.
Immaculate conception.
Maybe there was more than one way to do it.
Chapter 25
A HISTORY OF BOYS
They were seated at the common table at the Martin Hotel when Brian realized that Anna was weeping. Wren had noticed it too and caught Brian’s eye with a loo
k of pained concern. Mr. Sudden, however, was completely oblivious as he swabbed up the remains of his lamb gravy with a bread roll. Wren grabbed a paper napkin out of a plastic holder and handed it to Anna without comment.
“I’m so sorry,” said Anna, dabbing at her eyes. “This is tiresome of me.”
“Don’t be silly,” said Wren.
“One should not cry over a piece of tin.”
Brian looked at the wall behind her. It was an archaeological hodgepodge of knotty pine, gloppy paint, and battered pressed tin from an earlier era. “Does that bring back memories or something?”
“Just all my baby fears and dreams. Do you see it?”
Brian moved to her side of the table and studied the tin, finding nothing of particular interest.
“Look at the pattern,” said Anna.
“Okay . . . flowers.”
“No. Look again.”
Brian finally saw it—or them, rather. “Jesus Christ.”
Mr. Sudden glanced up from his plate, suddenly taking an interest. “Our Lord is in the tin?”
“No,” said Brian. “These days he only shows up at Chick-fil-A.”
Wren gave him her don’t-provoke-people look.
“It’s more like—private parts,” he added.
“Pussies and peckers,” said Anna, turning to Mr. Sudden with a nostalgic smile. “That’s what your father called them. He’s the one who showed this to me.”
Now Mr. Sudden was out of his seat, checking out the pattern in the tin. Wren joined him immediately, peering over his shoulder.
“Well, damn if it isn’t,” said Mr. Sudden, widening his eyes at Wren.
They had aroused the curiosity of other customers, who were straining their necks for a closer look. Anna urged her family to take their seats again. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I was being sentimental. I didn’t mean to cause a fuss.”
“Why did he show you this?” asked Mr. Sudden.
“Oh—just something boys do. He used to work in the kitchen here. It was his naughty little secret. We were both sixteen.” She sighed. “So young.”
“And he killed himself.”
“Yes. That summer.”
“And . . . why do you think you had something to do with that?”
“I know I did. I told Lasko’s father he was gay. It must have been the final straw. His father was a terrible, angry man, and . . . the shame was too great, I suppose. He took an overdose of sleeping pills.”
Mr. Sudden hesitated. “So . . . was he gay?”
Anna nodded. “I think so, yes.”
“But he was sleeping with my mother.”
“She was trying to turn him straight. His father had actually paid her to do that. People thought that would work. Back in the days of yore.”
“So his family already . . . suspected he was gay?”
“Yes . . . I think he had a history of boys. But I was the one who confirmed it.”
“And why would you do that?”
“I was jealous. Jealous of them both. So I wrote a letter, pretending it was from my mother, and told his father that Lasko had made a pass at me.”
“I’m sorry, sweetheart. You’re losing me again. How would that make him gay?”
“Because . . . I was a boy back then.”
Mr. Sudden blinked at Anna for a moment, then turned to Brian.
“She was,” said Brian.
He wasn’t sure if Mr. Sudden believed a word of this, but it didn’t matter. What mattered was that Anna had finally unburdened herself.
After dinner, while Wren drove Mr. Sudden home to Sandstone Drive, Brian and Anna waited in rocking chairs on the porch of the restaurant.
“So,” he said, as an Amtrak train thundered past them, “it wasn’t an anagram at all. You named yourself after Lasko Madrigal.”
“Yes.”
“He didn’t treat you very well.”
“No, he didn’t, but . . . I saw his goodness for a while, and taking his name was a way of bringing him back to life. I always thought the name was lovely. It has its own music, doesn’t it? Especially in Spanish.”
“MA—DRI—GAL,” intoned Brian by way of demonstration, drawing out the a’s with basso seductiveness.
She winked at him to prolong the silliness but said nothing further. The two of them sat there in silence, meditating on the red and green lights along the tracks.
“How long did you stay here?” he asked.
“After he killed himself?”
“Yeah.”
“Not long. A few weeks. Long enough for the fuss to die down. His family wanted everything hushed up, and . . . I was a big part of the Everything. There would have been trouble if I had stayed.”
“Even though nothing happened between you and him?”
She nodded wistfully. “Even though.”
“But you were ready to leave, right?”
“Oh yes.” She gave him a crooked smile. “I just needed a little boot in the ass.”
He chuckled. “So your mother never knew where you went until Mona brought her back to Barbary Lane.”
Anna nodded. “I know it sounds cruel, but she would have tried to drag me back, and she would have expected some answers. I couldn’t explain myself to someone who didn’t know me. I couldn’t explain myself to me back then.”
“I’m glad you ran away,” said Brian. “We wouldn’t have had you otherwise. I wouldn’t have had you. I would have totally . . . missed out on you.”
Anna gave him a tender smile. “You are the dearest man, Brian Hawkins.”
Embarrassed, he made light of the moment. “Oh, pshaw!”
“Pshaw?”
“Isn’t that what you used to say?”
“Maybe you did. I’m much too young for pshaw.” She reached across the gap between the rockers and took his hand. Her long, slim fingers were cool and silky. “Do you know what I wish, Brian?”
“What?”
“I wish we were all back at Barbary Lane. Just for an hour or two. The whole family. Sitting in the garden and telling our stories.”
Brian chuckled. “That might be a little disconcerting to the stockbrokers who live there now.”
Anna smiled, still holding his hand. “We would invite them down for a toke.” She looked distracted for a moment. “Oh—I’ve been meaning to ask you.” She pulled an envelope from her blue velvet drawstring bag and handed it to him.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Just a note from Amos. And three tickets to something.”
“Who’s Amos?”
“Jake’s new beau. The one who gave us our bon voyage.”
Brian examined the contents of the envelope. The note read:
Anna,
We would love to have you with us, if you’re feeling up to it. There’s room for an RV in our camp. Brian will be able to explain.
Amos
The tickets were to Burning Man.
Anna’s eyes were on him now. “So explain,” she said.
“It defies description,” he told her.
Nevertheless, he tried.
Back at the RV, he and Wren tucked Anna into bed. “I suppose,” she said, gazing up at them, “it’s not a very practical idea. Going to this Burning thing.”
“Not really,” he said. “We’d have to go hundreds of miles south and then head north again. We’re in the same state, but that’s about it.”
“Ah—I see. Oh well.”
“I’m sure you’ll get a full report from Jake—and Shawna for that matter.”
“She’s going, too?”
“Yep,” said Wren. “With Michael and Ben.”
“Goodness. Everyone.”
Brian was starting to feel like a shit, but someone had to be the grown-up here. “They’ll be back in a week,
” he told her. “We’ll have a dinner somewhere and get a full recap.”
“A week might be too long,” Anna replied vaguely.
He was about to tell her that a week would fly by in no time when Wren rose abruptly and left the room. Great, he thought. My wife is pissed at me now.
He turned back to Anna. “It’s just that it’s a harsh environment. We don’t have enough food or water or anything. It takes serious preparation.”
“I understand, dear. I’ve just had this feeling, that’s all.”
“What sort of feeling?”
“You know . . . spooky old me.”
He brushed a wayward strand of hair from her forehead. “Listen, lady. No premonitions until we get you home.”
“But they’re not about me,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“Pumpkin—” Wren was calling from the front of the RV. “May I have a word with you, please?”
“Go,” said Anna, releasing him from further discussion.
Wren was at the dining table, hunched over her laptop. “Take a look at this,” she said. It was a MapQuest map of the region with a road already highlighted. “We don’t have to head that far south. There’s a direct route between here and Burning Man. You just head out past the Blue Moon and keep driving. It’s a straight shot.”
Brian studied the map for a moment.
“See?” said Wren triumphantly. “Looks like it’s only a hundred miles or so.”
“Yeah, a hundred miles of totally bad-ass road. It’s all dirt, baby. Probably rutted too. That’s Jungo Road. Where those evil gold mines are.”
“So? What’s a few cyanide pits between us and them?”
He shrugged. “Okay—fine. Just make sure our cell phones are charged.”
She turned and gaped at him. “Wow, that was easy.”
“I can’t fight the two of you,” he said.
“She’s up for it, then?”
“She’s having one of her feelings again.”
“Feelings?”
“An intuition, apparently.”
“About what?”
“I’m afraid to ask.”
In the morning they didn’t head directly to Jungo Road. At Anna’s request they went to the twin-towered Catholic church in the heart of town. Anna had been christened at St. Paul’s, she explained, wearing a long white gown that Margaret had made for the occasion. She remembered the church and wanted to see it again.