Issue 42 - Columbia: A Journal of Literature and Art

paintings. Hannah offers to do his makeup and we crowd into the
bathroom. Daddy hauls in an ice chest filled with makeup, at least
five of everything. Gloss sticks. Pressed powders. Concealers.
Brushes. On the sink is a head wearing a wig of soft curls past the
shoulders, the color of late August cornhusks. "It's called the
Challay blond," he says, pulling it on. Then he sits on the toilet seat.
I'm frightened. He's almost pretty.
"First, Kiln, we start with the moisturizer." Hannah finds a triangular
sponge and dots his cheeks and chin. There used to be
hair there and when Daddy kissed me goodnight I felt his bristles.
Then she presses the sponge and begins to connect the dots.
"Blend upwards, under the eyebrow, and an inch below the jawline
and chin. That's something not everyone knows. To mature
eye skin we don't apply foundation." She bites her lip because
she's concentrating.
"Looks, what are looks?" Hannah blurts out suddenly, pressing
foundation over Daddy's lips. "Who cares? My father was handsome
but when he died and his hand turned cold, I dropped it." She
picks up the lipstick pencil. "On the lower lip work from the center
to the corners. Now blot."
II II
When a cab stops, Hannah and Daddy sit in back and I take the
seat in front. I stare hard out the window as 10th Avenue flies by,
the Yemenite delis and Chinese takeouts, the Puerto Rican auto
repairs and the boarded-up public library, a worn-out stretch before
the Starbucks of Amsterdam Avenue. At a stoplight, a turbaned
woman kneels before a chain fence pushing a plate under it, and
then pulling the plate out, and then pushing it back. I haven't said
anything to Daddy or Hannah about California, not a word about
the jobs Mommy has applied for or how she goes online every
morning to find out the temperature in San Francisco and input it
into a spreadsheet.
The cab driver keeps looking into the rearview mirror to admire
the two lovelies.
"Left side, near corner," Daddy points to 78th Street.
The building rises from a canyon of dirty brownstone.
Daddy taps my shoulder. "Don't be shy, guys. Remember to
smile."
The lobby floor is polished marble, and on the walls Art Deco
mirrors hang alongside a reproduction of Warhol's Chairman
Mao. "There's your mother, Dalloway."
"He was a pig/' Hannah growls. "When he croaked his people
said God has died. Can you believe that?" She has her new purse
stuffed with business cards. Some say Hot. Extreme. Make-up Artistry
Call Hannah. To See Your Wrinkles Disappear Make Appointment with the
Tchaikovsky of Makeover. Beautiful Brides: Your House or Mine.
Daddy ushers us by the security guard who checks his list for the
name Cadorine. "The penthouse elevator's in back." He gives Daddy
an approving once over, and then his eye slides onto Hannah who
floats past him like a cloud in black jeans and a blouse with seethrough
sleeves. I have on the same outfit but it fits me differently.
The elevator makes me feel I'm inside a jewelry box where the French
perfumes are fighting. The doors slap open, and we step out into a
sunken living room filled with people. "Kim," someone says. I recognize
Dr. Peeler, Daddy's therapist, rushing toward us. It was her
beach house where the fiasco happened.
"That's her," I whisper to Hannah, who is already digging in her
purse. "That's Dr. Peeler."
Daddy gives Dr. Peeler a kiss and squeezes her hand. Her pixie
face shines so that I wonder if she applied floor polish instead of
moisturizer. "Ah, Dalloway, I'm so glad to see you," she greets me,
her nostrils quivering as if she's sniffing the burning bathroom. "Is
this your Russian friend? Why she's lovely." When she turns toward
us, so does her perfume, a bouquet of stale meadow flowers.
Hannah has a card ready. Bridal Parties to Headshots. Futurist Full
Treatment Make-up. Dr. Peeler examines the business card, and then
asks for a handful. I don't know where to put my eyes. "Hannah,
please don't leave me. I don't want to stand alone," I say but I don't
know whether she hears me or not.
Then Dr. Peeler has Hannah by one hand and Daddy by the
other, and is pulling them away. Madonna is singing "Lucky Star"in
a voice like a white trout being gutted. It is an old people party, the
music proves it.
"Nice blouse," says a man shorter than me with a wispy mustache.
He taps his cigarette on his watch, and offers me a Pall Mall. "You
don't have to inhale," he advises. "We can stand next to a window."
"Ish," I tell him. I guess he figures if I'm taller than him I'm old
enough to smoke. He apologizes and then tries to light his cigarette
before he puts it to his lips.
Hannah and Daddy and Dr. Peeler are sitting on the piano bench.
In the middle of the room a red-bearded man with horn-rimmed
glasses is pontificating. He holds a plate piled high with desserts.
liThe bottom line is... women are the philanderers, not men," he