Cookie Lily

By Mary Troy

Cookie Lily is a gathering of nine stories and one novella, mostly set in Hawaii, in which women confront yearnings and ambitions, a material culture and their own looks, and the disparity between what should be and what is.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dzanc Books
• Release date: Apr 16, 2013
• ISBN: 9781938103513

Book preview

LUAU

Syd Yasuda’s new boyfriend, Fuzzy, did luaus. He worked the hotels mostly, planning and executing the expensive ones advertised as authentic, but was also available for private parties. Fuzzy was Syd’s way of slumming, of living a degenerate life, of coming face to face with sloth and maybe a few of the other seven deadlies. She had met Fuzzy through her after-school job, waitressing in the Royal Hawaiian’s Surf Room, and he laughed at her for studying chemistry. Such a good little Japanese, he said. Nose almost worn away from grindstone. She knew he was right. Her relatives, especially her great grandparents and grandparents, who had worked the sugar plantations, thought it was good to work at waitressing just to pay for the privilege of working on a degree, just to get a good job—more work—later on. She thought so too, really, but at twenty-two wanted more than one further step toward the goal, and Fuzzy Kuuleihele was what her family called, just from the mention of his name, an oversexed, lazy Hawaiian. She did not have to tell them he drank his tequila straight from the bottle, that he sometimes made himself stupid with Maui Wowee as he waited for the imu stones to heat up, or that he called in sick more than any other Royal Hawaiian employee. Her parents could not say his name without turning purple, and that technicolor display was followed by her grandparents’ cold stare, which both chilled and pleased her. She knew they were her destiny, but she dreamed of the large black rose tattooed on Fuzzy’s right forearm. And though he did not want to hear about electrons and neutrons—just the thought of tiny things spinning around made him want to barf—he could give her chicken skin by parting her thick, waist-length hair from behind and kissing her neck.

What she thought of as her other vice was Millie. Millie was Syd’s regular customer, a rich widow who lived in a suite three stories above the Surf Room and who said that, in spite of her plump freckled face and limp blond hair, her goal was to snag as many men as she could before what looks she had were just a memory. She was forty-one, and time was against her. Though Syd was uncomfortable with Millie’s loudness, repulsed by the makeup line at her jaw and under her chin, she wanted to be friends with a haole, wanted to go beyond the hatred she heard at home, the constant talk of the camps and how the prisoners were called yellow and slant-eyes, were forbidden to speak Japanese. Her parents, grandparents, aunts, and uncles relived all that as if it had happened a day or two earlier rather than before either of her parents were born, so she was delighted when Millie treated her as a friend, teased her about working so hard, teased her about her big Hawaiian hunk.

When after a few months of Syd’s hinting and begging, Fuzzy agreed to let Syd help with a luau, a wedding one on a North Shore beach, she immediately asked Millie to go along. Millie shrugged, said it was probably better than doing nothing. Then she showed up that night wearing a black sequined halter top and crotch-strangling jeans, her hair pulled back and up in a high-riding ponytail, and Syd remembered the time at the Aloha Grill when Millie had ad-libbed a hula and the locals had said the haole lady was funny, not what Syd had thought, embarrassingly silly.

Fuzzy picked them up in front of the Surf Room at 1 a.m. and told Millie she would be cold in her outfit. There were no hotels up there, he said, to block the December breeze.

I’m tougher than I look, Millie said. "No hu hu." And Syd laughed at the pidgin, knowing what Fuzzy would make of it.

What kine talk is that? he said. Where’s your friend from, the Don Ho show?

Her friend’s from Missouri, Millie said. Springfield. But it’s no place for a widow, so I got out. Nothing going on in Springfield.

Yeah, Fuzzy, Syd said. Springfield sounds real junk.

Anyway, Fuzzy said. Maybe you’ll warm up when you work. We got plenty to do.

I’m only an observer, Millie said from where she sat on the floor of the van, and when he turned around, she waved her black and gold fingernails at him. I just had a manicure.

Millie’s manicurist is on call, Syd said, stating one of her favorite facts of Millie’s existence. But Fuzzy did not smile, so she placed a hand on his knee and rubbed her thumb gently over the thinning denim.

During the forty minute drive, Millie talked nonstop, saying the Surf Room’s bartender sold more than liquor; the new waitress would not last long because she wouldn’t share all her tips with the busers; and the manager had somehow fallen into disfavor and would soon be transferred to Indianapolis. Syd had heard all these stories and more, had, in fact, helped pass along the one about the waitress, but she thought the fast, breathless speech Millie used for gossip exciting, so she nodded, asked the few questions that were needed to keep the talk going.

Meanwhile at each break in the monologue, Fuzzy grumbled to himself about how a luau was not an outing and how everyone had to pitch in. He was still complaining when he pulled off Kamehameha Highway onto a gravel drive and parked alongside a small brown shingle house. When he got out and slammed the door behind him, Syd ran around quickly and joined him at the back of the van. Take this, he said, handing her a piece of thick plastic, folded into a square. And be quiet. If we wake the bride’s family, we can kiss our tip good-bye.

Yes, Boss, she said, hoping to make him smile, but when he didn’t, she whispered, Don’t be such a grouch about Millie. Try to enjoy her. She’ll surprise you.

He shone his flashlight down toward the beach. Follow me, he said. Bring the so-enjoyable rich lady, too.

Hot dog, Millie said, climbing out of the van. A second chance. And don’t worry, Fuzzy, she said to his back as he walked on ahead. I grow on people.

Fuzzy had dug the imu in the sand a few feet beyond the grassy area of the backyard. It was about five feet across and three feet deep and contained a pyramid of kiawe wood, the bottom three-quarters of which was overlaid with brick-sized lava rocks that had been smoothed and rounded over the years by the sea. Syd held the flashlight while Fuzzy lit the wood at the base of the pyramid and fanned the fire. He explained that he had laid out the fire just before picking the two of them up, but it had taken him three or four days to collect the stones. They’re the most important part, he said.

Syd wondered if Millie was impressed by his expertise. Syd knew real luaus were hard work, and though she nagged Fuzzy every now and then, saying he should do more private ones, advertise more, get the word out, make lots of money, she understood his reluctance. Still, she also knew he could go far in the business, maybe hire a few extra workers to take some load off. Fuzzy resisted her pushing, but she believed he only pretended to ignore her ideas. She was good for him, and she knew he knew it. On nights like this when he worked hard, he didn’t even act Hawaiian.

Millie stood at the edge of the pit, as close to the fire as possible, hugging herself and not saying a word.

The pig’s in the shower, Fuzzy said as soon as the fire was burning without his help. Let’s go get him. The shower had an outside as well as an inside entrance, and Fuzzy said he had heard a scream earlier that evening, shortly after he had hung the pig up. One surprised bather.

Millie laughed at that, throwing her head back so her ponytail bounced. I can’t wait to see Porky, she said, but pulled Syd aside and spoke quietly. He likes to play expert, doesn’t he?

I don’t think it’s play, Syd said.

The dressed and headless pig hung by a rope wound around its chest and tied to the overhead spigots. The back legs dangled about a foot above the drain, and Syd and Millie supported the pig’s body by embracing it around the middle as Fuzzy untied the rope. Then the three of them carried the hundred-pound piece of meat to the plastic sheet, spread out now beside the pit, and dropped it. Syd noticed a black sequin stuck to the right flank. Fuzzy began cutting the pig into portions suitable for cooking, and Syd pushed the sleeves of her sweatshirt up above her elbows and helped by holding the pig steady.

I get nauseated just cutting up a chicken, Millie said and moved to the opposite side of the pit.

If you can eat it, you can touch it, Fuzzy said. Meat’s meat.

Then I’ll become a vegetarian, Millie said, patting her expanse of white stomach. I have a little excess anyway.

OK. No more T-bones for you, Syd said. Even if you order them.

Fair enough, Millie said. I think meat represses my libido anyway.

Syd giggled.

Laugh away, Millie said, and Syd noticed the halter sparkle in the firelight. But of the three of us, I’m the only one at her sexual peak. Syd can look forward to hers, but Fuzzy’s is long gone.

Shit, Fuzzy said. I’ll let you know when I worry about it.

A piece of kiawe snapped and the pyramid shifted, shooting sparks into the darkness. Fuzzy said once the fire finally caved in on itself, the pit would be covered with hot rocks.

Syd and Fuzzy rubbed salt into the pork and wrapped the pieces in ti leaves. He showed her how to tie the leaves together at the tips, and she followed his instructions precisely, knowing the luau was an experience she would remember always. Then Millie took the flashlight up to the van, and Syd noticed Fuzzy watch the beam of light move over the grass. She smiled at him.

He’s fun, she had told her mother during one of their many fights about him. Shouldn’t life be a bit fun?

Ha! her mother said. The fun is in doing a good job, being what you were meant to be. You and that guy don’t even match. Like one horse and one chicken. Not meant to fit. And Fuzzy! Fuzzy! What kine name is that for a man? Not a man’s name.

I won’t become like him, she had said, had known it was true. After all, Fuzzy wore his plain black T-shirt, the one with nothing written on it, to dress up. Don’t worry. I’m an ant, not a grasshopper. But I’m different from you. Better was what she meant. I am better than you; my world is not so narrow.

Her father seldom talked about Fuzzy or about much else. When he wasn’t sitting behind the information desk in the downtown branch of the First Hawaiian Bank, he was tending his small patch of land, the terraced and neatly tiered and organized twenty-foot square behind the house. He trimmed the stephanotis, mixed soil for the orchids, pulled weeds, grew straight lines of cabbages and turnips, had ti plants at each corner. He sweated and grew calluses, working long after dark and before first light. Sit down, she said to him sometimes. Put your feet up. For what? he’d ask. To look like bug on its back? To grow stupid like a grapefruit?

Weird, Fuzzy said now, still looking in the direction Millie had gone.

No, fun, Syd said. She took a piece of pig fat from the plastic and smeared it on his rose.

He jerked his arm away. Hey, you are, too. We’ll play later.

Millie returned with a quilt wrapped around her, Indian-style, and walked to the surf line. Like being on the edge of the earth, she said.

Miss Drama, Fuzzy said and rolled his eyes.

Then Millie knelt next to them on the plastic as they wrapped the pork bundles in squares of chicken wire. Not drama, she said. It is like that, Fuzzy.

Uh huh, Syd said. It is.

Soon the flames and sparks were gone, and the three of them took banana leaves that had been soaking in a galvanized washtub and spread them across the bottom of the pit. The stones hissed. They layered wet ti leaves on top of the banana leaves, placed meat bundles on top of that, added more banana leaves, and shoveled sand into the pit.

I’m going to shower before bed, Fuzzy said when they finished. I smell like the pig. Syd, too, he said as he hugged her from behind, then gave her a small bite on an earlobe. We’ll share the shower.

Why should anyone shower, Millie said, when the sea is more fun? And without waiting for an answer, she walked toward the water, dropping her halter on the sand as she went.

Syd and Fuzzy followed, and though the night was much darker now with the fire out, as they undressed, Syd could see parts of bodies. A thigh or breast would flash white in the darkness, seemingly unconnected to anything. The water was warmer than the air, and they entered and treaded it silently, only occasionally splashing one another, diving toward the bottom, or grabbing at a moving leg. The stillness, the blackness, the nudity affected Syd, made her understand that she loved Fuzzy and Millie and that, as they glided through the water, letting it caress their bodies evenly, equally, they loved her, too. She floated on her back and thought of her long hair streaming out on all sides, becoming one with the ocean, with Fuzzy’s rose and Millie’s freckles. And the knowledge that pieces of a pig were turning brown and juicy just a few feet away, that while she slept, fat she had rubbed and touched would become liquid and be soaked up by muscle, heightened her awareness of their own bodies. It made their love natural.

Reluctantly, she got out of the water when the others did and dressed quickly, wringing water from her hair by pulling and twisting it. Fuzzy went to the shower for towels, but he was too late; her jeans and sweatshirt had soaked up most of the water, and she moved back toward the imu for warmth, standing over it until the bottoms of her feet were nearly scalded. Millie wrapped herself in the quilt, Fuzzy wrapped a towel around his wet head, and they all stood on the hot sand.

You know what’s so cute? Millie asked. Fuzzy’s butt cheeks are round. You seldom see that on a man. When we got out of the water and the moon hit them, I thought I was staring at two hubcaps.

Hey, Fuzzy said, but he laughed along with Syd and Millie.

Syd joined in the teasing. Why are you called Fuzzy? You aren’t, you know. Not anywhere.

Not anywhere? Millie asked. Hard to believe.

Hey, Fuzzy said to Millie. You kill the guy? The one married you on the mainland?

I guess you could say so, Millie said. Killed ‘im with kindness. Let ‘im eat sausages, fried chicken, lots of gravy. His blood couldn’t find a way around all the junk in his veins.

It’s almost five o’clock,’ Fuzzy said. Today will be plenty busy."

He used to call me self-destructive, Millie said. But I think I destructed him instead. Still, he would have liked this pig. She stamped her feet on the hot sand. Too bad he never got to a luau.

After Fuzzy spread a quilt over the back of the van, they all crawled in, but when they covered up with the wet quilt Millie had been wearing, Fuzzy cursed. As they were getting settled, turning around on the bed of the van, seeking comfort, Millie complained that her sequins crackled every time she rolled over, and if there were no objections, she’d like to remove her halter. Syd thought it an odd concern. How could there be objections when they had just been naked together? She turned, faced the side of the van, and closed her eyes. She was almost asleep when she felt Fuzzy’s hand under her sweatshirt and moved back against him. He kissed her neck. She shivered, but whispered, Stop. Think of Millie. She rolled onto her stomach, placing herself a little farther from him, but he moved, too. She’ll hear us, she said, pushing his hands away. Go to sleep. But she could not stay awake long enough to know if he did or not.

She thought she was dreaming at first, perhaps about the pig trying to get out of the imu, but then she thought she was awake and someone was standing outside, pushing the van, shaking it. She opened her eyes and saw it was already full daylight. Fuzzy, she almost called out, until she awoke completely and knew it was the two of them, Millie’s tiny cries and Fuzzy’s thrusts. She closed her eyes, and, with her back to them, tugged at the still wet quilt that was being pulled from her, and tried to remember the swim and how natural it had seemed then. They were disgusting. They were only inches away. She wanted to make a scene, scream, pound on the backside closest to her, whoever it belonged to, but she knew she would not. Instead, she closed her eyes tighter and thought of the hydrogen atoms in the water molecule, how loose they were, how flighty.

When she awoke again at noon, surprised that she had slept, she was alone in the hot van. Fuzzy and Millie were on the beach with the bride’s father, so she joined them but kept quiet, just stared hard at the two, wanting them to feel what humiliation and betrayal and anger and sorrow had turned to—her hatred. Fuzzy seemed not to notice her stink eye and, after the father left, put her to work setting up tables in the yard. He put Millie to work slicing pineapple in the garage. Finally, Syd saw her chance and cornered Fuzzy as he was leaving for the caterers. I know about last night, she said. Do you think I’m stupid?

It’s nothing, he said, holding her by the chin, looking directly into her eyes. She’s a lonely lady, OK? Just forget it.

I was right there, she said. I could have watched.

We didn’t take anything from you.

Animals. Disgusting animals.

After Fuzzy left, Syd watched the bride and her family leave for the church, and then, knowing no one else was around, she entered the garage from its back door next to the shower. Tramp. Slut. Pig, she called from the doorway. Millie looked up abruptly, cutting her finger with the pineapple knife.

Good, Syd said as Millie sucked her bleeding finger and stared. You’re not worth getting even with, but go ahead and bleed. Then Syd went into the bathroom through the shower, found a brush in the medicine cabinet, and brushed her hair vigorously, bending over to get the blood circulating to her scalp. The blond and blue-eyed bride in the crisp white muumuu had made Syd conscious of her own worn and dirty clothes. In her real life, Syd would not look this bad to empty the trash. At home, she even ironed her night-gown. She had never felt more like hiding, but if she was ugly, at least Millie with her fleshy back and big ass looked worse. The damned haole whore. It wasn’t as if they had had many heart-to-hearts since meeting only a few months ago. Nor had they exchanged secrets. It was just that they had done things together, like the trip to the Big Island last month, a place Millie had never been. For some reason, the carpet in the Kona Inn had turned their feet green, and they laughed at that, made up legends and curses, said it came from not throwing gin into the mouth of the volcano. They had laughed together, even though Millie was haole. All that was over now.

Fuzzy returned with the rest of the food, and the wedding party and guests arrived soon after. Syd stood back out of the way, leaning against the side of the house, watching the guests hug one