vehicles of every kind-SUVs, motorcycles, trucks, mini-vans.
They were cruising through a residential area now, the gridlike streets stretching for miles past identical-looking
bungalows painted pink or persimmon or peppermint. Everything seemed
so promising here, so full of hope and opportunity.
"Hey, do you like pie?"
he asked out of the blue.
"Re?" Daisy blinked.
"Um… sure. I guess."
"Well, okay, then. You've got
to try the Pied Piper down on La Brea. They make fifty different kinds of
pies, I kid you not. You won't find anything like that back East, I'll
bet."
He dropped her off at a small, ugly
motel in the middle of West Los Angeles. A low-grade fear was making her
ill. The sky was deep cobalt, and the closer you looked, the more stars
you could see. She paid the driver, who tipped his hat and sped off. Then
she dragged her luggage across the asphalt toward die manager's office.
The middle-aged manager had a face
like a tight ball. His mouth was slightly open, and he stared at the color
TV on his desk. A ball game was playing.
"Daisy Hubbard," she said.
"I made a reservation."
The motel promised low rates,
air-conditioning, free parking and a swimming pool. AAA members received
a 10 percent discount.
Inside the privacy of her own cabin,
Daisy stretched out on the double bed and tried to find her inner self.
The air conditioner hummed noisily, and the room reeked of Lysol. She
thought she understood what might have drawn her sister to the West Coast.
Out here, you could reinvent yourself. You could slip on a whole new
personality, and nobody would care or even notice.
She went to the bathroom and
splashed cold water on her face, then tugged at her hair with wet fingers,
all her motions anxious and hard. The paleness of her skin alarmed her.
She had a bad hangover and pinched her cheeks, trying to feel something.
Even pain was preferable to this present torpor. She smiled at her reflection,
revealing a set of perfectly proportioned teeth. Back in the sixth grade,
she'd forgotten to brush them on a regular basis, and when the orthodontist
finally took her braces off, there were cavities in her front teeth
as random as bullet holes. These days, her porcelain fillings were faintly
stained because of all the coffee she drank. But she liked her smile. It
was wide and friendly, unafraid to show off its defects.
Daisy collapsed on the motel bed
and squeezed her eyes shut, trying to block out the luminous neon glow leaking
in through the cracks in the miniblinds . She tossed
and turned, while outside her window, fragments of light whizzed past.
After a while, she fell into an exhausted sleep, her dreams shallow
and disturbing as mild stomachaches. She had a dim memory of Anna back
home in Vermont, shuffling downstairs like a zombie and squinting into
the noontime sun as she entered the kitchen with a cigarette dangling
between her lips. Her long red hair was caught up in an elastic band at
the base of her neck, her eye makeup was smudged and her face was puffy
from too much sleep. Or maybe it was the meds. "Hey, you," she said,
trudging over for a lethargic hug and kiss on the cheek. "Finally made
your way home, huh?" She smelled of sleep, of the desire for oblivion.
Daisy stirred and opened her eyes.
The clock said 1:00 a.m. She sat up and turned on the TV, and some kind of
plucky banjo music assaulted her ears. A man in a cheap suit was standing
on his head. "You won't find a better deal, I guarantee!" he hollered
at the camera. He reminded her of Truett, same lanky sex appeal and
hard-sell sensibility. In the next shot, he was doing cartwheels.
She wondered how there could possibly
be fifty different kinds of pie and tried adding them up in her head. Apple, pumpkin, lemon meringue, Boston
cream … She counted all the way up to fourteen and figured there couldn't
be any more than mat. Then she remembered. Pecan. Of course. And peach .
"Sixteen," she said out
loud, the unexpected smallness of her voice sending
They were cruising through a residential area now, the gridlike streets stretching for miles past identical-looking
bungalows painted pink or persimmon or peppermint. Everything seemed
so promising here, so full of hope and opportunity.
"Hey, do you like pie?"
he asked out of the blue.
"Re?" Daisy blinked.
"Um… sure. I guess."
"Well, okay, then. You've got
to try the Pied Piper down on La Brea. They make fifty different kinds of
pies, I kid you not. You won't find anything like that back East, I'll
bet."
He dropped her off at a small, ugly
motel in the middle of West Los Angeles. A low-grade fear was making her
ill. The sky was deep cobalt, and the closer you looked, the more stars
you could see. She paid the driver, who tipped his hat and sped off. Then
she dragged her luggage across the asphalt toward die manager's office.
The middle-aged manager had a face
like a tight ball. His mouth was slightly open, and he stared at the color
TV on his desk. A ball game was playing.
"Daisy Hubbard," she said.
"I made a reservation."
The motel promised low rates,
air-conditioning, free parking and a swimming pool. AAA members received
a 10 percent discount.
Inside the privacy of her own cabin,
Daisy stretched out on the double bed and tried to find her inner self.
The air conditioner hummed noisily, and the room reeked of Lysol. She
thought she understood what might have drawn her sister to the West Coast.
Out here, you could reinvent yourself. You could slip on a whole new
personality, and nobody would care or even notice.
She went to the bathroom and
splashed cold water on her face, then tugged at her hair with wet fingers,
all her motions anxious and hard. The paleness of her skin alarmed her.
She had a bad hangover and pinched her cheeks, trying to feel something.
Even pain was preferable to this present torpor. She smiled at her reflection,
revealing a set of perfectly proportioned teeth. Back in the sixth grade,
she'd forgotten to brush them on a regular basis, and when the orthodontist
finally took her braces off, there were cavities in her front teeth
as random as bullet holes. These days, her porcelain fillings were faintly
stained because of all the coffee she drank. But she liked her smile. It
was wide and friendly, unafraid to show off its defects.
Daisy collapsed on the motel bed
and squeezed her eyes shut, trying to block out the luminous neon glow leaking
in through the cracks in the miniblinds . She tossed
and turned, while outside her window, fragments of light whizzed past.
After a while, she fell into an exhausted sleep, her dreams shallow
and disturbing as mild stomachaches. She had a dim memory of Anna back
home in Vermont, shuffling downstairs like a zombie and squinting into
the noontime sun as she entered the kitchen with a cigarette dangling
between her lips. Her long red hair was caught up in an elastic band at
the base of her neck, her eye makeup was smudged and her face was puffy
from too much sleep. Or maybe it was the meds. "Hey, you," she said,
trudging over for a lethargic hug and kiss on the cheek. "Finally made
your way home, huh?" She smelled of sleep, of the desire for oblivion.
Daisy stirred and opened her eyes.
The clock said 1:00 a.m. She sat up and turned on the TV, and some kind of
plucky banjo music assaulted her ears. A man in a cheap suit was standing
on his head. "You won't find a better deal, I guarantee!" he hollered
at the camera. He reminded her of Truett, same lanky sex appeal and
hard-sell sensibility. In the next shot, he was doing cartwheels.
She wondered how there could possibly
be fifty different kinds of pie and tried adding them up in her head. Apple, pumpkin, lemon meringue, Boston
cream … She counted all the way up to fourteen and figured there couldn't
be any more than mat. Then she remembered. Pecan. Of course. And peach .
"Sixteen," she said out
loud, the unexpected smallness of her voice sending
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