We Could Be Happy

by Heather Ellis

Christopher took a long drag from his cigarette and followed the smoke as he exhaled, watching it blend with the fog already hanging over the screen light in the darkened theater. He rubbed his aching eyes as the black and white movie flickered into view. Names he’d seen many times of people he never knew drifted like the smoke as incongruous Oompah music played over the opening credits. Chris sat in the second row. Most of the other theater goers were toward the back. That was good. He had things he needed to tell her.

In the opening scene, a cowboy strolled casually toward the saloon. He wore a black hat, so you knew he wasn’t a good man. His black shirt was trimmed with a white fringe that jostled with each step of the over-pronounced swagger he’d adopted for the role. In typical 1950s western style, everything was too clean. Even the dirt of the street seemed manufactured. The swinging wood of the saloon doors was painted in shades of gray and pale. Chris wondered what they looked like in color. Had they been freshly painted or were they leftovers from some other movie? He’d sat inside this theater many times. He knew every line of the movie. This familiarity left his mind time to roam.

As the cowboy pushed through the saloon doors, Chris’ eyes were already trained downstage left. There were several half-dressed saloon hall girls milling around the artificial bar scene, but he knew exactly where she stood. He knew she would be so certain she was precisely on her mark as the director said ‘action.’ That’s how she was, everything just so. You had to be perfect if you wanted to be a star.

“Hi, Mom,” Chris whispered to the blond in the tight corset. That quick greeting was all he had time for now. This was her dance number. She was busy, focused. The ladies lined up for the cowboy and began a lurid dance. Chris didn’t know much about dance. He just knew that his mom was the best one. Her steps were flawless, choreography precise.

The cowboy took his pick of the women, a brunette with big breasts, barely covered by the satin chemise she wore. As she pulled the man upstairs, the brunette looked back at Mother and smirked as though she’d won some secret competition. His mother seethed melodramatically at the camera. Her deeply outlined eyes burning with rage.

“I met someone new,” he whispered as her angry face filled the screen. “I know I’ve said that before, but this one’s different.”

He knew what happened next. He didn’t need to see it. Just knowing his mother had been present, that her ghost was connected to this film, that was what he needed, to feel her presence. The other men in the theater were here for what happened next. Chris kept his eyes focused on the bottom of the screen as the unmistakable sounds of lovemaking filled his ears. ‘No,’ Chris thought to himself, ‘this wasn’t making love; this was sex—gross, dirty, garish sex to satisfy gross, dirty men.’

“So anyway, Mom,” Chris continued, “I think this girl really likes me. She’s not like the others. She’s been really sweet to me. She looks a lot like you.” His eyes glanced upward as though hearing some reply. Shaking his head, he said, “no, she’s nowhere near as pretty as you.”

Christopher’s mother had been a vain woman. She’d worked hard to keep herself looking her best for the cameras. She dieted religiously, smoking cigarettes incessantly because she said they kept her from eating and made sure she got just enough sun to keep roses on her cheeks but not so much she’d wrinkle like some leathered sun-bather. Mother had wanted to be in movies since she was a little girl. She was driven. She knew from a young age she’d do whatever it took to make her dream come true.

She told him many times that the best day of her life had been the day she walked into a liquor store, and someone recognized her for the first time. The man behind the counter had done a double take when he saw her face. A nervous blush had rushed from his neck to the top of his balding head. He knew her. It had made her feel beautiful, famous, powerful. Chris imagined her smiling knowingly at the man, asking in her playful husky voice how much she owed him. She loved how the man had stumbled over his words, telling her it was on him. She had flashed a little cleavage as she stuck her money into her bra. He nearly fainted. She would always laugh darkly when she came to that part.

Back on the screen, his mother was confronting the brunette. They were rivals and for some reason, though these movies never quite made the reasons clear, his mother had been slighted by the cowboy’s choice. There was a fight. Clothing was torn. Breasts were uncovered. The brunette’s skirt was completely ripped from her waist. She wore nothing underneath. Proving how cheap she was, the woman only laughed and pranced around the room, shaking her ass in the men’s faces, smacking their hands and telling them they had to pay to play.

His mother’s big scene was next. Chris watched as the cowboy opened the window of his mother’s saloon-hall bedroom. The frilly lace curtains blew wistfully as he crept inside while she sat at her vanity refreshing her make-up. Mother fought violently as he snatched her from her chair and threw her onto the bed, but soon, the cowboy’s skills won her heart. Chris watched his mother’s naked body and thought of how soft her skin was.

“My girlfriend’s skin is perfect,” he said softly as his mother smiled on the big screen. “We haven’t made love yet, but I’m thinking it might happen soon. I’m sure I can make her happy.”

In the next scene, Chris’ mother is with a different man in a different room when the cowboy enters and angrily jerks her from the bed. Like a trophy, he carries her out of the saloon, tossing her naked body across the back of his horse, riding off into a colorless sunset together. Admittedly, Chris never thought that seemed very comfortable, but the satisfied, victorious look on Mother’s face told him it was exactly what she had wanted. She was happy.

‘The lights in these theaters never seemed to be very illuminating,’ Chris thought, as he pulled his Dodgers cap down to cover his eyes, and popped the collar on his jean jacket. It was easy to slip out unnoticed. No one here wanted to be recognized. He walked outside into the night air and stood briefly, caught up in the smile on his mother’s face, surrounded by lights of the movie poster display. “Hot Steamy Western Action!” the poster advertised, “Brandy Styles stars in Rough Ridin!” There had been many other movies, but this one was his favorite. The local grindhouse played Brandy Styles films regularly. They were always a big draw. His mother was a star. A pioneer in early adult film. The name on her driver’s license had been Brenda, but to the world, to the men who adored her, to the holy rollers who abhorred her and everything she stood for, and in her own mind and heart, she was Brandy Styles, Actress, Star.

At two in the morning, the LA streets were still crowded, but the atmosphere changed. During the day, there were tourists packing their cameras and standing around checking their maps, taking up half the sidewalk. Buses announcing what big-time star was discovered at this deli or that café trundled up and down every street. At night, the announcements were replaced by the distant screams of sirens. He could breathe at night. The city sidewalks retained the heat of the day, but with no sun beating down, it was a comforting warmth. He strolled past scantily-clad ladies on each corner, calling out to him. No, he was not looking for a good time. He had a girl waiting at home. Not that he looked down on these women. His mother had always referred to them as ladies, never hookers or prostitutes. She was quick to point out that the work they did was just as difficult, and just as necessary, as anyone else’s. Chris walked on, lost in a dream, wishing his girl would look as longingly at him as his mother had looked at her cowboy.

His heart was light as he approached home. The neighborhood had once been an up-and-coming area, but now, the middle class had left the city for the suburbs. He liked the quiet desolation of the neighborhood now. He liked to be alone. There were very few houses still occupied on the street, and that suited him.

Chris had always been more of a night owl, so yard work was neglected. The bicycle he’d ridden as a kid lay rusting in the front yard among the weeds and brambles. The tires had gone flat. The seat was shredded from years of weather, its foam long deteriorated. The plastic was rotting away. Even the rusty, metal handlebars were poking out of the worn grips. The house was in no better shape. Several shutters on the old Victorian house hung limp. The steps leading up to the veranda were rotting. Chris knew where to step though—which spots were solid, which would most likely lead to a nasty fall. He told himself he’d get around to fixing things up at some point. Maybe once he settled down with the right girl. He smiled to himself as his key found the lock and the comforting click welcomed him home.

She was asleep when he went downstairs to check on her. He gazed at her breasts as they moved with each breath. Her head lay gently on her arms raised above her head. Angry red welts ringed her wrists. He wondered if she’d been pulling on her bracelets.

Her head jerked up as he reached out to touch her. He smiled hopefully at her, but tears welled in her eyes as she glanced quickly around the space. She seemed confused. Shuffling her legs on the dirt floor, she moaned weakly and tried to shift her body. The ancient dirt of the floor was creeping over her feet and the soft white skin of her legs. Her blue eyes looked everywhere but at him. Her blonde hair, lank with sweat and dust, hung over her face, like a caul.

“Please,” she whispered suddenly, “please, you have to let me loose.” Showing him her wrists, she continued, “The rope, it’s burning me, please.”

“Oh sweetheart,” Chris murmured as he stroked her cheek. “That does look painful, but I can’t let you loose yet. I know you’re not happy and I need you to be happy. Then we can be together.”

He thought he saw a shadow scuttle across her face. That concerned him. He wished he could peek inside her brain. She kept her eyes cast downward and her voice was soft as she replied, “But how can I be happy when I’m hurting?”

Chris stepped back, watching her, unsure how to answer her question. He expected her to start screaming at him. Instead, she let out a resigned sigh and leaned her head on her bare trembling arms again.

Nodding, Chris said, “I think maybe tomorrow.” Then without a word, he turned and walked back up the steps.

“No!” the girl cried. “You can’t do this! Please!”

He made no reply, didn’t turn to look at her, just walked up the old wooden staircase and closed the basement door. He smiled to himself as the lock clicked into place and she began screaming.

“Yes,” he whispered to no one, “maybe tomorrow.”

She screamed until her voice was gone.

Later, he took her water. He didn’t speak as he held the plastic cup to her mouth. She drank greedily. When the cup was empty, she pleaded, “Can I have some more? I’m so thirsty.” He turned without a word and left.

By the hazy glow filtering through the faded curtains, Chris could tell it would be daylight soon. He thought about the girl downstairs. There were no windows in the basement, just a dirt floor and a single pull-chain lightbulb hanging from a wire. He knew how it felt to be down there in the dark. A shudder ran across Chris’ skin, remembering the feeling. When Mother had company, she at least left the light on so he wouldn’t scream. He knew better than screaming, though, because when he was bad, she didn’t turn on the light. The dark covered him like the grave. He’d imagined the scuttling of mice and cockroaches moving along the boxes stacked in the corners.

He drifted off to sleep among these blurry memories, jerking awake occasionally, feeling things slithering across his legs. He heard his mother’s distant laughter from another room.

It had been nearly a month since he first noticed the girl. He’d gone across town to a theater to talk to Mother. Theaters that showed Mother’s pictures were becoming scarce. He usually had to watch the 8mm reels at home. He didn’t have one of those new VCR things. These days, there were too many video stores opening all over town. He’d heard some men at the theater saying the video stores would run them out of business soon. He liked knowing that other people still remembered his mother. Would they put her movies on the video tapes? He’d been lost in thought about the changing world when the girl got on the bus. Her hair feathered around her face, framing her brilliant blue eyes, highlighted by the smokey cobalt eyeshadow she wore. Her shirt was pulled tight around her hips with one of those clips all the girls were wearing. She was stylish and beautiful.

It had just been a week ago that he’d brought her here. He knew he could make her happy. She’d been upset at first. It’s hard letting go of a life you used to know. Chris tried to be understanding. He could be patient with her.

As the day started to fade into twilight, he went back down to look at her. She was awake this time. She smiled brightly when he stepped into her view. She had been waiting for him.

“I’m so happy to see you,” she whispered. “I’ve missed you.”

“Really?” he asked, stunned.

“It’s so lonely here.” Glancing up at him, she continued, “I know this may be awfully forward, but I’m hungry, so I thought, well, I was wondering if we could have dinner together this time?”

Chris’ heart thrummed in his chest. Was she serious? He’d dreamed of this, of finally winning over her heart, but others had tried to fool him. His own mother had tried to fool him. She’d told him she loved him. She’d told him she’d never leave, but she did.

“Would that make you happy?” he asked hesitantly. “To have dinner with me?”

“Oh, yes, I would love that, only...” she stopped, her eyes drifting to her legs and lower body. “I don’t really look nice enough to go on a date,” she mused. “It’d be nice to have a shower.”

Chris took a step back and looked at her. She glowed, nearly incandescent in the dim light, but maybe there was starting to be a bit of a smell in the basement. He excitedly imagined her in one of Mother’s dresses, with some makeup, her hair nicely done.

The girl kept her eyes down, allowing him to make his own decision. He liked that she seemed so willing to let him take charge. He imagined himself throwing her over his shoulder and carrying her off into their own sunset.

Chris squatted down and reached out, caressing her porcelain cheek. She didn’t flinch. The others had flinched or screamed if he tried to touch them. Instead, she leaned into his hand, as though it comforted her.

“I’ll have to keep your hands tied,” he said.

She nodded.

“And you can’t be bad,” he continued. “If you’re bad, I’ll have to punish you.”

“I understand,” she said softly.

He untied the cord holding her graceful arms above her head. She grimaced in pain as they fell like raw meat into her lap. His body quivered at the touch of her soft skin as he helped her stand.

It took her several minutes to climb the stairs. Her coltish legs trembled. With each step, she paused to take a deep breath. Chris was getting impatient. His mind said, ‘push her, take that rope and drag her the last few steps,’ but he needed to be gentle, this time.

When she finally reached the hallway, she leaned weakly against the wall, staring at her feet. Chris took a moment to calm his nerves. Mother’s red dress was in her closet; that would be perfect.

“This way,” he growled, pulling her to the left. Just as he turned, glass and wood slammed into his face. He staggered and nearly fell. His vision doubled. Shaking his head, he closed his eyes and felt hot liquid running over his face.

“Fuck you! You bastard!” the girl screamed in the darkness. He could hear her feet stumbling down the hall, toward the front door. He quickly rubbed the blood from his eyes. A broken frame that once hung on the wall and held a portrait of him and Mother now lay shattered at his feet. A snarl escaped Chris’ throat and he lunged after her. She pushed frantically through the door. A smile lit up his face as she leapt across the veranda and hit the front steps. Her cry of help was broken by a scream of pain as her foot hit a soft spot and fell through the second step. Chris heard the snap of bone as her leg broke. She fell in a lump, cracking her head on the walkway leading up from the sidewalk.

Chris walked slowly down the steps, careful to avoid the splintered hole she’d made and squatted down next to the writhing bloody mess crawling blindly toward his rusty old bicycle.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered as he covered her delicate mouth and nose with his hand. “I really thought you could be the one.”