“What’s wrong?” Iffy asks when I stop in the middle of the walkway.
“Don’t you have decency laws here?”
“What are you talking about?”
Trying not to be obvious, I nod toward a man and woman walking in our direction. The only difference in what they’re wearing is the skimpy brassiere-like top the woman has on. The bright gold covering between their legs is barely big enough to hide anything.
Iffy snickers and says, “Don’t stare.”
I force myself to pull my gaze away.
“Thongs,” she says.
“What’s a thong?”
“Just wait.”
As soon as the couple passes our position, Iffy turns to watch them walk away, so I do, too. The cloth in the front is only connected to a string in the back traveling up the crack of their butts. Their cheeks are out for all to see.
“That’s legal?” I ask.
She shrugs. “In most states.”
Once we continue walking again, Iffy nods toward a woman sitting at a portable table, a deck of tarot cards spread in front of her. “Want your future told?”
“No, thanks,” I reply. I’m trying to forget the future for the moment.
“When it gets busier, street performers come out. Comedians, singers, contor—”
She stops mid-sentence and runs inside one of the stores. When I get there, she’s purchasing a T-shirt from the clerk. When they’re done with the transaction, Iffy shoves the shirt into my hands and says with barely controlled glee, “Put it on.”
I start to unfold it so I can get a better look, but she stops me.
“No, no. Just put it on.”
So I do. The shirt is dark gray, and when I look down at the front, I see a white cartoon dog wearing black glasses and a red bowtie.
“It’s perfect,” she says.
“Is it supposed to mean something?”
Her smile is a mile wide. “It’s Mr. Peabody!”
“Okay, and?”
“And it’s perfect.” She grabs my hand. “Let’s go.”
At one point, Iffy wants to rent rollerblades and show me how to use them, but this is one idea I veto. As we’re walking back to the car, we pass two men holding hands, heading in the other direction. I turn and watch them for a moment.
“Don’t tell me you’ve never seen a gay guy before?” Iffy says.
“Gay?”
“Homosexual.”
The word represents a taboo subject in my world. “You mean they’re together?”
She shrugs. “Together for the moment, anyway.”
“And they’re allowed to walk around like that?”
“Not everywhere, but out here in L.A. it’s fine and it’s getting better elsewhere. The world’s becoming more accepting. Why? Does it bother you?”
“It’s not that it bothers me, it’s just, well, I’ve never even met a homosexual before. No one I know has, either.”
“I doubt that’s true, and besides, you met one earlier today. Reece? Back at the house?”
“He’s…a gay?”
“Just gay, not a gay. And yes.”
“So his partner”—I try to recall his name—“Stephen. He’s not a business partner.”
Iffy laughs. “No. His boyfriend.”
“And you’re okay with that?”
“Who am I to tell someone who they can love?”
It’s a good question. I’ve just never been in a position to consider it before.
Iffy loops her arm through mine. “Don’t worry. You’d be fine with it if you were around it long enough.”
Our afternoon is spent driving through neighborhoods and business districts. She doesn’t tell me why, but I know she’s doing this to show me how people live. After the sun goes down, she parks along a deserted beach and we lie against the windshield of Marilyn’s vehicle, looking at the night sky.
“Satellite,” she says, pointing at a dot of light traveling steadily across the sky. “You have those, right?”
“Of course we do.”
She nods to herself. “Then you’ve put a man on the moon, right? We did it in ’69. What year did you do it?”
“Nineteen sixty-nine? You’re joking with me.”
“Not at all,” she says. “Neil Armstrong and Buzz…crap, I can’t remember his last name.” She thinks for a moment. “‘One small step for man, one…giant…leap for mankind.’ That’s what he said when he put his foot on the surface. When did you all do it?”
I suddenly feel like I’m in a competition, and I haven’t only lost but been humiliated. “We tried in ’98. There was an accident so we didn’t go again. I think the Russians gave it a shot a few years ago, but as far as I know they didn’t make it, either.”
“Huh. Okay. Weird.”
Not so weird, I’m coming to realize. More a product of the society I’m from. In a corrupt world, all hands need their payoff. Even the Upjohn Institute, which I at first thought was above this, is driven by greed (was driven/might or might not be driven again).
We take a room at a place named Motel 6. According to Iffy, we are in the city of Santa Ana in the county of Orange, which is a surprise to me. As far as I can tell, we have yet to leave Los Angeles.
“What do you think?” Iffy asks.
The room has two beds but we’re lying next to each other, neither of us wanting to be apart. “About what?”
“Everything we’ve seen today. Life.”
“Your world’s complex.”
“And yours isn’t?”
“It is. It’s just…different.”
“Is that good or bad?”
That’s the big question, isn’t it?
“It just is,” I tell her.
The quiet that follows lasts for some time, and I begin to suspect she has fallen asleep until she whispers, “I don’t want you to leave me.”
It takes all of my will not to say, “I don’t want to leave you.”
I hope she thinks my silence means I’ve drifted off.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The next morning, Iffy takes me to an amusement park called Disneyland.
I can say without hesitation it’s the most fun I’ve had on any single day of my life.
All I know are Iffy’s laughter and smile. All I feel are her hand in mine and her lips on my lips. All I want is to be a part of…
…her life.
That thought again, sneaking out of its box. I’m in no mood to shove it back, and instead let it run wild while we race down mountains and splash down waterfalls.
WE SPEND THE night in the same Motel 6, falling asleep beside each other, still beaming from the day.
When we wake, only about twenty-four hours are left until Lidia’s deadline, and the euphoria of the day before has been replaced by tension.
“You don’t have to come with me any longer,” Iffy says as we head to the car.
“I thought you want to show me things.”
“I have shown you things.”
“Where are you going?”
“Home,” she says. “San Diego. I…want to see my family.”
I slip my hand into hers and squeeze. “Take me with you.”
On the drive down the coast, I ask her about her family. She tells me her father left when she was young and her mother remarried a few years later.
“It worked out all right,” she says. “My stepfather’s not a bad guy.” She thinks a moment. “Actually, he’s a good guy. I’m lucky I had him.
“And your mom?”
“Mom is Mom. A little clueless, but harmless. I could’ve been better to her. You know, moms and daughters, constantly fighting with each other. I guess it’s not always true, but it was in our case.”
“Any reason why?”
She shakes her head. “It’s just what we always did.”
The closer to San Diego we get, the less she says, and when we pass the city-limits sign, her lips seal tight.