She stomps her right foot, and her pointy heel sinks into the space between the pavers. “How did you know!”
For a moment it’s unclear whether she’s angry or delighted.
“It works, right?” She bends down and extracts her shoe. “It was staring us in the face the whole time. I mean, think about it: Alice, Maude, Rhoda, Phyllis…”
“Betti,” I say. “It’s easy to remember.”
“Right? Pretty catchy. I’m so fucking relieved. I mean, it’s the name of my character, Betti Escobedo,” she clarifies modestly, “and even though it’s an ensemble cast, she’s the heart of the show.”
“Betti,” I repeat, and she lets out a sigh.
I look over: She isn’t kidding. She is genuinely relieved. She is in fact awash in relief: eyes closed, head dropped back in her chair, face turned to the sun. All it took was a name? A meeting with Amy, and a name? This is the closest I’ve ever come to seeing Betti in a state of rest. You could even say she looks at peace, though not in a dead way.
But the relief does do something strange to Betti’s face. For the first time I see a trace of looseness there. Tipped back, at rest, it reminds me of what a circus tent might look like from a distance in the split second after the tent poles have been pulled down by the carnies. The tent hasn’t started to sink yet, but you can see that it’s just about to. That last moment of tension before everything gently ripples, then gives way. Now this is a ridiculous comparison for me to make because I’ve never in my life seen such a thing occur, and I don’t even know if they dismantle the tent poles first, or if carnies are the ones to do it, or if that’s even the correct word for people who work behind the scenes at a circus. But it seems easier to imagine a sight I’ve never seen before than it is to notice the slight heaviness under her jaw, or how her foundation lies dustily on top of her skin. Pouching. Crepey. Horrible words! Criminal to even think them in a sentence.
I sip my hot water and try to visualize my warm, humid interiors. I can’t tell if this is an inane or a marvelous thing to be doing. I guess, like Betti’s face, that its integrity depends on the angle you see it from. Because in some lights my life appears grotesque to me. Here I am sitting in the sun, holding a mug and having a chat as if there isn’t a man on his hands and knees just a few yards away from me, being paid to do something I could very well do myself, something I could be doing instead of half listening to the career plans of an aging character actress as we both gaze absently at the manic, aimless behavior of my traumatized rescue dog. What a ludicrous scene! So absurd and rotten. So disgusting that it makes me want to throw up—yes—right there on the mulch.
But the thought of dog vomit slime mold cheers me up a bit. As Manuel said, it’s alive. It’s part of a much bigger system, all of it growing and decomposing and feeding off one another. And sometimes, if I tilt my thinking a little to one side, I feel like I live a magical life and am part of a huge and beautiful system. I think about the chickens I’m going to raise, and the healthy child I’m going to have one day. I think about the people at night with their headlamps and how I’m supporting a struggling economy just by putting out my recycling every week. I think what a blessing it is to be drinking hot water with Betti Pérez, who seems as wonderful to me now as she did twenty-five years ago, when she was operating the hand-crank elevator at Danceteria.
One of Amy’s favorite phrases to say to me is “Don’t overthink it.” She says it when I get flustered and worked up over something. She said it when we were deciding to buy this house, and when we redid the landscaping, and again when we were standing on the sidewalk, looking at Hank huddled inside a plastic crate. And in most cases, she’s been right. The dog, for instance. He’s crazy and unknowable, but he loves us absolutely. When he’s not acting in an alarming way, he’s a great comfort to be around. It can make me happy simply to watch him, like now. He lopes easily back and forth across the yard—once, twice, three times, ignoring Manuel all the while, then finding a spot that he likes near the fence, he settles back on his haunches, collapses onto his side, stretches out his front legs, and lays his head down on the grass. My good boy.
“Guess what.” Betti’s eyes open; her head pops up. “My little man came back! And this time he actually smiled at me.”
All her old indignation has turned into high spirits. Again, Amy? What an effect. But now I am the one who feels relieved: Betti’s face has come back into focus.
“And you know what? He has a humongous gap between his front teeth. You could drive a truck through there.”
“I thought Manuel—”
At the sound of his name, Manuel glances over at us, alert.
“Oh, he did. He did. The gate’s working again. It’s fine.” Betti waves at him. “Thank you, Manuel!” She says his name not like I do but with a good accent, the a sounding as if it’s been flattened by the warm palm of someone’s hand.
Then, without warning, they begin speaking to each other in Spanish. Energetically, as if they have a lot to express. I didn’t know before now that Betti could speak Spanish, and at some points I’m uncertain if she actually can or if she’s just delivering a few key words with the help of many eloquent hand gestures. I
