Desert Gothic

Little Sins

1 2 0 Little Sins Jessie and her big plans. Jessie and her big brain, her big job. As always, Jessie’s suggestion wins out: Dennis is a Black Pearl. At the drugstore, he argues for Rich Maple, maybe Tawny Bronze. But Jessie insists on the black. The others, she explains , are too close to his natural tones. And what he needs, she goes on, is dramatic change. At home, his wife applies the last gobs of dye, parting his hair, yanking it. Dennis sits on the toilet while ammonia clouds begin to assault his throat. Finally, when Jessie snaps a shower cap over his head, he panics. Dennis envisions Medusa. Wispy snakelike fumes slithering into his nose, mouth, and eyes, crawl- L i t t l e S i n s 1 2 1 ing toward the center of his skull. In their poisonous wash of his brainpan, they puncture cells, rip apart wiring. Over time, he’s turned mad. Dennis says, “I feel sick.” “Stop complaining,” Jessie says. She unfurls her plastic gloves, pops them into the trash. “Christ,” Dennis says. “This kills. My whole head itches.” “Don’t touch for another thirty minutes,” Jessie says. He reaches for his wife’s bony hip. He lays a hand there. She is a beautiful woman—blue eyes set in a round face, framed by strawberry blonde hair. For beautiful women, the world changes for them. As if quietly acknowledging this, Jessie slaps his hand away, flicks off the light, and leaves him in the dark. Dennis wonders when his wife will return. He wonders when she’ll put the light back on. He wonders when she’ll ever say, “Sorry.” After some time, it becomes clear. Jessie isn’t coming back. A mistress would balance things out, Dennis thinks. From the hall, a glint of light filters in, and Dennis opens a topic he’s given sizable consideration. That young receptionist at the nursing home smiles when he walks by. She’s cute. Of course, he’s the Manager of Operations. She’s paid to smile at him. What feels like fleabites begin needling his scalp. Dennis drops onto the tiles. Already he hates his wife’s idea. He riffles through the trash and scans the box of dye. It offers no relief. When he flips the box over, he’s stunned. He sees her now clearly, and for the first time: the model on the box. She’s pale, rib-cage thin, with hair soon to be his. Her caughtin -surprise look devours him. Her naked, shiny shoulder beckons . Through teeth as white and straight as piano keys, she says, “Hello.” Dennis has learned to draw pleasure from these small, stolen moments—second-long daydreams that break loose from his world and find another orbit. They’re counterbalances against the pieces of Jessie he already knows float free. 1 2 2 L i t t l e S i n s In the darkness of the bathroom, another piece loosens, and a name pops into his head. Staring into the young model’s hazel eyes, he anoints her with a purpose. Alexis—that’s a good name, an exciting name. And all at once, he tries not to choke. In the kitchen, Jessie is making lasagna, layering fat noodles into a casserole dish. Condensation has wet the window. Tears skate down the glass. Dennis sets the table in the nook. In his back pocket, torn from the box, rests the glossy picture of Alexis. The model bolsters him with a thin beam of confidence, which elongates into an incredible need for argument. Lately, he’s been carrying around this urge, looking for openings. “The lasagna,” Dennis says. “I hope it’s my mom’s recipe.” Jessie turns, spatula in hand. “Why do you do that?” Dennis says, “What?” “As stupid as it is,” Jessie says, “you know how it makes me feel.” Dennis’s face melts into mock innocence. “I’m just talking. I like hers. That’s all.” “Oh, the man in the shower cap is just talking,” Jessie says. “Bullshit. You know how irritating that is.” Now Dennis is provoked. It’s the barb in his wife’s voice. “So you think I’m irritating?” “We’re talking about me, not you,” she says. So it goes, a fight. Dennis slams the back door in a mild rage. The fight does not work out how he hopes. Over the past few months, he’s advanced from...