Still Life Las Vegas Read online

  Emily’s biological mother was presumed dead. No other information was forthcoming. There was no use in asking Vee because she had already stated flatly that she knew nothing about the woman, and why do you keep asking? Emily couldn’t consult her own memory, either; she was less than two when the large lady from Milwaukee, United States, scooped her up from the orphanage in Saigon.

  In those early days, when language was still liquid to Emily (English not yet formed and her memory of Vietnamese receding daily, its few remaining syllables and intonations remembered more for comfort than meaning), she would sometimes cry out Ma! Ma! in the middle of the night, terrified, and Vee would stride in immediately, as if on cue, ready to pat Emily’s back, shush away the fears, and murmur in her growl of a whisper, “I’m not Ma. I’m Vee. Call me Vee.” This continued until the word Ma, in English or Vietnamese, no longer had any meaning to Emily at all.

  As for Emily’s biological father, it wasn’t that he was missed, exactly. Raised by female caretakers and then Vee, Emily had little interaction with men who were not doctors, immigration officials, or principals. And if those stern, frowning officials were any indication of the gender, the less interaction she had with it, the better. Young Emily had no need for a male figure in her home, and neither, apparently, did Vee.

  Still, by the time she finished kindergarten she began realizing that not every child’s household was like hers. Many, most, had homes that were much more populated. There was a Mommy, a Daddy, frequently other children, and sometimes animals. Emily could easily point to Vee as the Mommy, in function if not name, but shouldn’t there be the Daddy?

  By eight, these impressions had solidified into Fact: one or more children equaled two parents. The Farmer took a Wife; the King lived with his Queen; even Bears had a Momma and Papa. Sometimes Daddies or Mommies died (or, in one case, were banished to the shadowy netherworlds of Divorce), but they still existed at some point. Who was the phantom mate of Vee? While Emily couldn’t imagine a farmer ever grabbing Vee and pulling her into his circle (not without being given a good what-for) she could envision Vee taking a Farmer. She would take him by the shoulders and give him a good yank in; Vee was very good at yanking. But what had happened to this yanked-in man?

  Asking Vee directly resulted in a swift, equally direct rebuttal, followed by a stern admonishment to get her fanny into school clothes, and quickly, too. Emily, not so easily dissuaded, had to resort to more circuitous methods of discovery to get her question answered.

  One Saturday well into October, when the Wisconsin air was just cold enough for Vee to consider pulling the big comforters out (the furnace wasn’t even an option until the day after Thanksgiving, or the first snowfall, whichever came earlier), a call came from one of the neighbors. The widowed Mrs. Steiff had broken her leg cleaning out the gutters, and she asked Vee to perform a mission of mercy for her. She was in need of some necessities: Kitty Chow, Campbell’s cream of tomato soup, and a carton of Parliament 100s.

  Sighing heavily, Vee grabbed her plaid quilted jacket from the hook by the kitchen door. Switching on Saturday-morning cartoons, she pointed to the couch and told Emily to stay put. A jingle of the car keys, and Vee was gone.

  Emily, who had overheard the entire phone conversation, realized a golden opportunity when it presented itself. The roads were twisty, the A&P was fifteen minutes away, and Mrs. Steiff was a talker. Emily had plenty of time. Time to explore.

  She remained obedient, perched on the couch, exactly the length of one cartoon. During the commercial she quietly made her way down the hall, ready to dive immediately into her own bedroom should Vee return unexpectedly. And then, with the cheery patter of cartoon characters providing backup, Emily slowly pushed open the door to Vee’s bedroom. The soft whoosh of the wood moving over the carpeting was more felt than heard. She stood for a moment, frozen, peering into the silent room with equal parts fear and excitement. Vee’s room was off-limits; Emily understood this without ever having been told. It was not a room for visiting, it was not a room for playing in—it was a room for sleeping, and only for Vee.

  Two steps, and she was in.

  There wasn’t much to explore. Vee kept her room as spare as a nun’s. Nightstand, dresser, bed, chair. All of it made of rough pine, stained dark, and all of it almost exactly like the furniture in Emily’s room. Emily knelt by the bed, as if saying her bedtime prayers, except that instead of her hands clasped in front of her she had them jammed under the mattress up to her elbows. She was sawing her thin arms back and forth, trawling for anything hidden between box spring and mattress. Nothing. She ducked her head beneath the bed, found only a gloomy darkness residing there. The bed yielded no secrets.

  Emily moved her little fingers quickly and efficiently along the bottom of each drawer and in between folded layers of clothes without disturbing a crease; she knew instinctively to observe how many fractions of an inch each dresser drawer was open to begin with and to close it by just that much. All her skill, however, yielded her nothing. No secret packet of love letters, no incriminating wedding photo. Not even the underwear was alluring.

  Then she opened the closet door.

  It was all the way in the back, below the flannels and denims and poly/cotton blends, behind the three pairs of sensible shoes that Vee owned: a bruised cardboard box big enough to fit Emily, were she able to contort herself in the way the little Siamese girls did on those circus shows. It was too dim to read all the faded letters on the side of the box, but she could make out the faint red outline of a smiling chicken holding up an egg with the fingertips of its wings. RANDALL FAMILY FARMS.

  Emily marched Vee’s shoes out and lined them up in their respective places away from the closet. Holding her breath, she dove back in, hunched over, sidling along the wall to the back of the closet. In the darkness she could see that the box was unsealed, its top flaps crisscrossed shut. The gap in the center invited disclosure; it wanted to be opened. Emily inched the box forward, then got behind it to shove with all of her weight. Hanging pants and jackets batted at her face, warning her, but they flapped unheeded. Not even the smell of Vee, so rich inside the closet, could deter her. The weight of the box was too promising. She unmoored it from the confines of the closet and propelled the box into the bedroom. It floated adrift on the powder-blue carpeting, a treasure chest recovered from the deep, ready to be plundered.

  Opening the flaps, the first thing to catch her eye was a bundle in white tissue paper. Emily picked it up carefully; the bundle was light but insistent, each soft crinkle of the paper a whisper: Open me, open me. She meant to unwrap it carefully, but at the first provocation the paper gave way and green fabric slipped free, cascading onto Emily’s lap like water.

  It was a dress. Silky and soft, and Coke-bottle-green. It was so delicate it looked like it might float away, but instead slid from her hands onto the floor, where it shimmered. A faint pattern of magnolia flowers blossomed in an even paler shade of green over the blouse of the dress, with tiny jade buttons serving as stepping stones down to the skirt, which rustled with pleats. Emily had never seen anything more beautiful.

  She might have stayed with the dress longer, fingering each button and stroking the shiny material, but a pair of eyes inside the cardboard box would not be ignored. They stared at her from within a gilt-edged frame, which jutted upward, half buried in folders and photo albums. The eyes followed her as she lifted the frame out. Emily gasped.

  The man in the black-and-white photograph was no farmer. He was dressed in a black tuxedo, every bit the match of a Coke-bottle-green dress. His hair was full and wavy and dark as his eyes. He had a gaze that was intense but welcoming, tempered by the full, soft lips and round cheeks. His hands were poised over an ebony grand piano with a gleaming candelabra stationed on top. And scrawled to the side, in a bold, looping signature, the words “All My Love, Liberace.”

  All My Love. Emily clasped the frame to her chest. This was the man she had been looking for. She had found Mr. Vee.<
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  OWEN

  THE VENETIAN

  EARLIER

  It would seem improbable, standing in the grand opulence of the Venetian Resort Hotel Casino, with its marble columns and Italian frescoes on domed ceilings, shimmering golden chandeliers and Puccini arias wafting down from hidden speakers like sweet perfume, that Owen would be contemplating Polish sausages, but there he was, clinging onto the smooth white marble banister at the top of the second floor, thinking of nothing else.

  It was a specific Polish sausage, one that came out of a steam table on a corner by the bridge at Jackson Boulevard and Michigan Avenue, one sweaty day in Chicago. The aroma wafted out from under the yellow-and-blue umbrella, enveloping Owen like a steamy, meaty mist as he scanned the crowds for Emmie on the advent of what was going to be their first official getting-together without the protective safety net of friends. Owen was waiting, had been waiting, for her on this particular corner, it was the agreed-upon corner, he was certain, but she was three-quarters of an hour late already and another fifty minutes would go by before he finally gave up and headed for home. The corner by the Indian statue, she told him later that day, when they met up at Anna Maria’s. Don’t you remember I said the Indian statue? He did not. She had left two messages on his machine. I’m here, by the Indian statue. Where are you?

  I’m in Venice. It’s magnificent. I’m about to throw up.

  Finding her would be impossible. He couldn’t even find the lobby anymore. As far as he knew, he was inside (which looked like outside) and upstairs, which was on the ground floor. He had wandered up and down two levels, over bridges, through passageways, onto carpeting leading to cobblestones leading to marble tiles back to the carpeting, gondolas appearing and disappearing from out of nowhere. The only place he could find with any regularity was the casino, which seemed to appear, blazing and buzzing (ching! ching! ching! chunk-a-chunk! Wheel! Of! Fortune!) around every corner. This wouldn’t be like meeting someone in the lobby of the Best Western. This hotel was a municipality unto itself, and the second floor was another place altogether, one of canals and strolling minstrels and lampposts lit against the perpetual twilight painted on the ceiling. Walking toward St. Mark’s Square (he hoped), he was acutely aware of passing through a city within a city within a city; it was like being in one of those little Russian dolls that disgorge the smaller dolls inside of it. And with any luck, in the center, tiny but intact, he’d discover Emmie.

  Unless he was, once again, on the wrong corner.

  Let’s stop for a moment, shall we? Let the dizziness pass. He was sure he had it right. He had listened. She had always wanted to go to Vegas, and if she were in Vegas, she would be at the Venetian, because Venice was also on the list. They had actually planned a trip to Venice for their belated honeymoon (well, Emmie had planned it, she had the stacks of books and brochures, had circled hotels and ristorantes, pinned down the right airline and the best fare) before an unexpected bump under the proverbial cabbage leaf knocked that idea out of the canal. The pregnancy, several years early according to Emily’s timetable, put life into a crisis zone. She would leave her job (her choice) for at least a few years, and that would mean implementing the most draconian of measures: there could be no honeymoon, no trip of any kind; a bigger apartment and a safe car were the priorities. Still, the travel guides and brochures stayed on the bookshelf and made the cut of several rummage sales. And, AND, less than a year ago, he remembered her pointing to a story she was reading in the Tribune travel section; she had made him remember it by opening the spread in front of his face while he was grading papers and eating breakfast. There it was, a full-color, half-page photo of sparkling aquamarine water and ebony gondolas, and she said, We should go there, and he said, Venice? and she said, No, no, it’s in Vegas, it just opened, and when he said nothing she said, We could kill two birds with one stone, and he said, Okay, when? and she said nothing, only sighing and snapping the newspaper away, no doubt for future clipping and filing in some color-coded folder.

  Get to St. Mark’s. That’s where she’d be. Owen hurried on, trying to follow the canal but thwarted by meandering streets, which inevitably veered off into another alley of high-priced souvenir shops and blown-glass galleries. He had the feeling that if he stayed in one spot too long everything would change. All the landmarks were shifting; even the painted sky above seemed to continually darken, warning of impending night—what time was it anyway? Always darkening, never dark; there was no rest to be had in this underground (second-floor) kingdom. He was Orpheus, wandering through the Stygian realm, searching for his lost love, Eurydice, among the damned souls. Here was the River Styx, bright aquamarine, passing under marble bridges. There, floating past Owen, went Charon the ferryman, in a red bandanna and straw hat, crooning “O Solo Mio” to two enraptured passengers with coins on their eyes. The only thing missing was Orpheus’s song. Owen couldn’t sing a note to save his life, let alone his wife’s.

  He crossed another bridge onto a large cobblestone square. It was the exact match of the newspaper photo Owen had seen spread out over his cereal bowl, only more densely populated. Restaurants ran along the perimeter; faux second-story buildings glowed with evening light. A gelateria occupied the center, swarming with customers pointing to various brightly colored bricks of ice cream. Wheeled wooden stands were set up, laden not with tomatoes and sweet basil but with gondola snow globes, Venetian masks, and dice. Was that the faint scent of lilies in the air?

  Finally, after two hours, he had made it. St. Mark’s Square, bereft of actual Italians. And Emily.

  There wasn’t any sign of her. It was then Owen realized she might not have arrived yet. He tried to calculate how long it would take to drive from Milwaukee to Las Vegas, and hadn’t the faintest idea. Would it be tomorrow? The next day? Wasn’t it a drive of several days? Why hadn’t he thought of that before? And what was he going to do, sit by the canals for three days waiting for her to show?

  A sudden susurrus of wings, a collective gasp from those along the canal, and out of nowhere, a flock of pigeons exploded into the sky. Of course, thought Owen, St. Mark’s Square. They thought of everything. The pigeons fanned out across the square, soaring upward. People applauded. There isn’t much sky for you to fly into, thought Owen, but the birds had anticipated that. At the last minute they swerved away from the ceiling in perfect sync, gliding gracefully to the ground.

  Except one. A lone pigeon continued its trajectory upward (Rebellious? Suicidal?) until it became acquainted with the finite and rigid qualities of this particular sky. With much violent flapping of wings it smashed into a wispy cloud. Immediately the bird fell downward, its body compressed into a streamlined missile, picking up speed, heading straight for Owen, who could only gape, frozen, as it dive-bombed in his direction.

  The pigeon landed square on his chest. He was expecting the softness of gray wings, or the sharp point of a beak to bore into him. Instead, the hard nub of the bird’s head slammed into his left clavicle, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to throw him off balance and knock him down. He landed hard on his tailbone, and a second collective gasp sounded from the crowd. The bird lay beside him, dazed, but miraculously not dead.

  He’d been attacked by a pigeon in Venice. It was time to get a room.

  As if on cue, three men in dark blue uniforms and epaulets appeared by his side, helping him up, murmuring soft but urgent apologies in his ear, whisking the bird from sight. And just like that, his wish was granted. Fifteen minutes and a signed release of responsibility form later, he held in his hand a plastic hotel key card, complimentary, emblazoned with the glowing lights of the Doge’s Palace.

  * * *

  This is perfect, he thought, sitting on the luxurious king-size bed with winged lions glowering regally from underneath the nightstand lampshades. He would find her tomorrow, he would stake out the canals all day until she arrived. And when he found her, there’d be a room for her to stay in, to recuperate. It would be their long-delayed honeymoo
n.

  He needed to make a call. His hand hovered over the hotel room phone. Emmie would never approve. She’d say, Phone charges? That’s where they get you. And she’d whip out her long-distance calling card, like it was her talisman against evil. We’ll call from the lobby. Owen didn’t even know where his card was. There was nothing to be done. He pressed the hotel prefix, then, with reckless abandon, dialed the Wisconsin number. I guess they got me.

  Vee picked up on the first ring. Where the hell are you? she demanded when he announced himself. I’m looking for Emily, he said. He half expected her to interrupt him and say, Emily’s here, you idiot! When she did not, he was, foolishly, relieved. He said, I’m in Vegas.

  Where? she asked.

  Vegas, he said, I’m in Las Vegas.

  What on earth would Emily be doing in Vegas?

  I, I have a feeling, he said, instantly sensing Vee’s eyes rolling to the back of her head. He continued, saying hurriedly, Emily said she wanted to go to Las Vegas. Now? Vee asked, getting to the heart of the matter, and Owen said, No, no, but Vee was already tired of talking to him. How long will you be? she asked, and Owen said, Until I find her. And what am I supposed to do with your son? she asked, and Owen stammered, I, I was hoping you could look after him. I won’t be long, and Vee gave a laugh, short and bitter. How do you know?

  He needed to get off the phone. How is Walt? he asked. How’s his fever? She said, It’s there, and when he asked to talk to him she said, He’s sleeping, and from her tone, he could tell that she wasn’t about to go waking him up.