Pigs in Heaven
Page 56
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“Vegas ain’t what it used to be,” Alice tells Turtle as they wait outside to cross the street. “I was here before, I drove out here one time with your mama’s wild daddy. But it’s all different with these video games. People dragging downstairs in house slippers and sitting at a machine all day. Back then it was pigs in clover.”
“What’s pigs in clover?”
“Rich people that don’t know how to behave. Ladies in high heels smoking, and gentlemen drinking too much and pinching their bottoms.” The pedestrian light blinks WALK, a woman in leather shorts on a motorcycle runs the red light, and then they cross. Turtle is holding Alice’s hand in a way that reminds her of an arthritis flare-up.
In truth, Alice thinks Las Vegas was far more interesting the last time. She remembers people crowded around a green felt table, each one bringing a different story and a different need to that smoky room, joined together in a moment of risk and hope. In a way it was like church, with more interesting clothes.
Now there is hardly a green felt table to be seen; Las Vegas is just a giant video arcade. Blackjack, poker, whatever you want, you play it on a machine. Last night they went down to Caesar’s Palace just for fun, and in the giant casino five hundred people sat expressionless and completely alone, slumped at their machines, dropping in tokens. From what Alice can see, Americans now prefer to lose their money in private.
The Queen Bee’s House of Pancakes is sunny and clean, at least, and puts her in a better mood. Each table has three different kinds of honey in a cloverleaf-shaped container, and the busy-bee waitresses wear antennae headbands with bobbling yellow balls on long springs. Alice and Turtle sit at a booth by the window, where Turtle’s head is crowned with light. Alice writes words on her napkin for Turtle to read, discovering that she is confident with three-letter words, and likes rhymes. Turtle ducks her head and giggles at the sentence, “I let my pet get wet.” Her skin is brown velvet against her white T-shirt, and her soft bangs divide on her forehead when she shakes her head, making long upside-down Vs.
“What a con job,” Taylor declares, out of breath, suddenly sliding into the booth beside Turtle. “I had to set off the fire alarm to get out the back door. That guy’s going to put our picture up in the lobby.” Taylor sits back, closes her eyes and tilts her head against the high seatback. Her long hair slides behind her shoulders like a curtain drawn open. She exhales loudly, sounding happy. “Mama, it’s hot as fire out there already. We’re going to roast, driving out of here.” She’s wearing a pale pink T-shirt, Alice notes—a color Taylor used to make a point of hating. She always had to wear outspoken things, red, purple, orange, sometimes all at once. Alice realizes something important about her daughter at this moment: that she’s genuinely a mother. She has changed in this way that motherhood changes you, so that you forget you ever had time for small things like despising the color pink.
Alice is filled with satisfaction, sitting with her daughter and granddaughter in a booth where three varieties of honey glow in the sun. Taylor’s skin is much lighter than Turtle’s but her hair is nearly as dark, and they share something physical, a beautiful way of holding still when they’re not moving. Alice reminds herself that it’s not in the blood, they’ve learned this from each other.
“Oh, my God!” Taylor almost shouts suddenly, staring, but Alice can’t see what she’s seeing.
“What?”
“America’s number-one teenage fashion doll.”
It’s the waitress from last night, sitting on a stool at the counter. Her red uniform looks slept-in, and her makeup looks as if she’s given birth to a child since it was applied.
“Good Lord,” Alice whispers. Turtle is trying to see too.
Taylor waves, with limited enthusiasm.
“We ought to invite her to join us, don’t you think?” Alice asks. Clearly the child is in some kind of fix.
Taylor rolls her eyes. “And hear more about the one point two million pairs of shoes that have been sold for Barbie’s personal use?”
Alice hesitates, but is overcome by mothering drives. “But look at her.”
“Okay, sure.” Taylor motions her over, and she appears instantly, with bright eyes and a smile sunk into her desperate face.
“Set down, hon,” Alice says. “No offense, but you look like you’ve been drug through a knothole.”
“No, I lost my job at the Delta Queen.” She scoots in and reaches for a paper napkin to blow her nose, then delicately works at her eyes. Alice finds a mirror in her purse, which is a mistake. The poor child takes a look and starts bawling.
“What’s pigs in clover?”
“Rich people that don’t know how to behave. Ladies in high heels smoking, and gentlemen drinking too much and pinching their bottoms.” The pedestrian light blinks WALK, a woman in leather shorts on a motorcycle runs the red light, and then they cross. Turtle is holding Alice’s hand in a way that reminds her of an arthritis flare-up.
In truth, Alice thinks Las Vegas was far more interesting the last time. She remembers people crowded around a green felt table, each one bringing a different story and a different need to that smoky room, joined together in a moment of risk and hope. In a way it was like church, with more interesting clothes.
Now there is hardly a green felt table to be seen; Las Vegas is just a giant video arcade. Blackjack, poker, whatever you want, you play it on a machine. Last night they went down to Caesar’s Palace just for fun, and in the giant casino five hundred people sat expressionless and completely alone, slumped at their machines, dropping in tokens. From what Alice can see, Americans now prefer to lose their money in private.
The Queen Bee’s House of Pancakes is sunny and clean, at least, and puts her in a better mood. Each table has three different kinds of honey in a cloverleaf-shaped container, and the busy-bee waitresses wear antennae headbands with bobbling yellow balls on long springs. Alice and Turtle sit at a booth by the window, where Turtle’s head is crowned with light. Alice writes words on her napkin for Turtle to read, discovering that she is confident with three-letter words, and likes rhymes. Turtle ducks her head and giggles at the sentence, “I let my pet get wet.” Her skin is brown velvet against her white T-shirt, and her soft bangs divide on her forehead when she shakes her head, making long upside-down Vs.
“What a con job,” Taylor declares, out of breath, suddenly sliding into the booth beside Turtle. “I had to set off the fire alarm to get out the back door. That guy’s going to put our picture up in the lobby.” Taylor sits back, closes her eyes and tilts her head against the high seatback. Her long hair slides behind her shoulders like a curtain drawn open. She exhales loudly, sounding happy. “Mama, it’s hot as fire out there already. We’re going to roast, driving out of here.” She’s wearing a pale pink T-shirt, Alice notes—a color Taylor used to make a point of hating. She always had to wear outspoken things, red, purple, orange, sometimes all at once. Alice realizes something important about her daughter at this moment: that she’s genuinely a mother. She has changed in this way that motherhood changes you, so that you forget you ever had time for small things like despising the color pink.
Alice is filled with satisfaction, sitting with her daughter and granddaughter in a booth where three varieties of honey glow in the sun. Taylor’s skin is much lighter than Turtle’s but her hair is nearly as dark, and they share something physical, a beautiful way of holding still when they’re not moving. Alice reminds herself that it’s not in the blood, they’ve learned this from each other.
“Oh, my God!” Taylor almost shouts suddenly, staring, but Alice can’t see what she’s seeing.
“What?”
“America’s number-one teenage fashion doll.”
It’s the waitress from last night, sitting on a stool at the counter. Her red uniform looks slept-in, and her makeup looks as if she’s given birth to a child since it was applied.
“Good Lord,” Alice whispers. Turtle is trying to see too.
Taylor waves, with limited enthusiasm.
“We ought to invite her to join us, don’t you think?” Alice asks. Clearly the child is in some kind of fix.
Taylor rolls her eyes. “And hear more about the one point two million pairs of shoes that have been sold for Barbie’s personal use?”
Alice hesitates, but is overcome by mothering drives. “But look at her.”
“Okay, sure.” Taylor motions her over, and she appears instantly, with bright eyes and a smile sunk into her desperate face.
“Set down, hon,” Alice says. “No offense, but you look like you’ve been drug through a knothole.”
“No, I lost my job at the Delta Queen.” She scoots in and reaches for a paper napkin to blow her nose, then delicately works at her eyes. Alice finds a mirror in her purse, which is a mistake. The poor child takes a look and starts bawling.
