Page 29

Palm Springs

December 15, 2022

When I’d first moved to Madison from Chicago, everyone talked about “downtown,” and I didn’t know what they meant. I figured there was an area somewhere I hadn’t yet been to with tall office buildings and busy streets, a metropolis like the one in the Superman movies. It didn’t take long for me to figure out that what everyone considered the heart of the city was the square around the state capitol building on the narrowest part of the isthmus. Palm Springs was a bit like that, too, but I resisted thinking of it as a small town; Mounds was a small town. This was California. Celebrities vacationed here; it was a place that was known.

It was yet another blue-sky, sunny day, and we were walking along Palm Canyon Drive, the main street that ran through Palm Springs. Grant’s thick sunglasses were secured with an elastic band that kept them from sliding down his nose. It divided the back of his head into two clumps of wild hair, top and bottom.

Until we spent time here, I hadn’t realized that weather was such a big and defining part of our lives, even our identities. We tracked it, planned around it, talked about it, anticipated it, united over it. It was the source of our small talk.

I couldn’t believe how much I missed having a dramatic front come through. Without the Christmas decorations strung along the light posts, it could be any time of year. Even the holidays felt strangely performative in a place where so few people lived full-time. Jeanie and Gene rented a storage unit where they kept their seasonal d e cor. When we got here, their front door already had a fall wreath and a floor mat that said HAPPY THANKSGIVING. The minute Thanksgiving was over, they’d set up an artificial tree covered with their cherished ornaments. They were like refugees celebrating an old tradition in a new land. It was their last Christmas in Palm Springs—perhaps their last Christmas ever.

Grant and I walked from the more touristy area to the design district on the north end of Palm Canyon Drive. We held hands—I couldn’t remember the last time we’d held hands in public. The sidewalks were mostly empty, and the street had plenty of parking.

We were looking for a place to eat dinner before meeting Coco, Cassie, Gene, and Jeanie for show-tunes bingo, but after perusing the menus posted next to a few restaurants, Grant was still unsatisfied. “In Madison we have Nepalese. We have Taiwanese street food. This is the land of Cobb salad.”

“I like Cobb salad.”

“They still have bananas Foster on the menu. What is this, 1987?”

We took a detour closer to the mountains in a neighborhood called Old Las Palmas. I’d read that Elvis and Priscilla had honeymooned in the House of Tomorrow, and I wanted to find it. This was the slick, groomed version of Palm Springs that I’d originally imagined. Any home we passed could grace the cover of Architectural Digest. A few were of the same vintage as Le Desert, but most (at least those that weren’t tucked behind gates and bushes) were more modern. The houses had brightly painted doors, big windows, butterfly roofs, decorative cinder-block brick to provide both privacy and light, and angles that made room for sneaky little clerestory windows. Cool vintage cars were parked by the entrances.

“It’s cool here,” I said. “Very Mad Men. ”

Grant wasn’t so sure. “When you make a whole city all about one aesthetic the design just replicates itself.”

“At least it has an aesthetic. It’s what makes Palm Springs Palm Springs.”

“When Baudrillard came to America, he felt we were presented with a synthetic version of reality. He’s the one who coined the phrase ‘the desert of the real.’ He meant—”

“Honey, I’m not one of your students.”

“But what am I supposed to do with all my knowledge? I’ve spent years and years pouring books into my brain, for what?”

“For the enjoyment? Aren’t you glad you learned what you did? Do you regret it?”

He paused, as though I were a student offering a right answer, but not the answer he was thinking of. “I guess that’s one way of thinking about it.”

We walked another block or so, and I raised the question that had been nagging at me for days: “Why didn’t you tell me you went hiking with Cassie?”

“Didn’t I?” His reaction was swift, and sincere.

“Not a word.”

“Cass wanted to come along.”

He called her Cass now?

“You don’t mind, do you?”

“I just thought it was strange you didn’t mention it.”

“Honestly, I was probably just beat from trying to keep up with her. She’s a good hiker, and she has all kinds of relationship advice for us. She said she learned some couples techniques in an ecstasy workshop.”

“If you have to take a workshop on ecstasy, maybe you’re doing it wrong?”

Grant grew serious. “I told her about how I short out. About my dad, my mom. My issues.”

“You did? Even the girls don’t know about that. You hardly talk about it with me.” For years, it had been something we’d lived with.

“She’s dealt with some pretty heavy stuff herself. She said she came here as a runaway ten years ago. Coco found her squatting in one of the empty units. Instead of calling the cops, she took her in. Now she’s got her own place. The people at Le Desert are the only family she’s ever really known.”

“And here I thought we had the corner on family dysfunction.”

“I don’t know anything anymore, Kim. What’s crazy at home doesn’t seem so crazy here. Cassie is kooky, but I’m trying to keep an open mind. Even Carl Jung was into shamanism. He could drop into a deep state of meditation and exist in a fairy world with other creatures.”

“Well, if it’s good enough for Carl Jung.”

“On our second hike, Cassie said something that really blew my mind. She said that a spirit came to her and said that I have always been safe. I’ve always been protected. I can’t really express how important it was for me to hear that.”

“That’s great,” I said, halfheartedly. “You aren’t interested in Cassie, are you?” Where did this insecurity come from? I had worked hard for years to keep jealousy at bay, seeing it as another form of neediness.

He stopped, held my hands, and gave me a kiss. “The only woman I’m interested in is you.”

“An emotional affair is still an affair, you know.”

“She’s just a friend, like Sasha. Kim, we promised each other we’d always be honest. Remember when I was at that conference in Philadelphia and the grad student from Rutgers got drunk and tried to kiss me in the elevator? I was so sick about it I almost threw up, and I called you at two in the morning to tell you. Do you really think I could be untrue to you right under your nose?”

“I don’t know. Because you’re changing.”

“I thought you wanted me to change.”

We started walking back to the main drag. I said, “Since we’re being honest with each other, I feel I should tell you something. Hobie hit on me. He said I can sleep with him anytime I want.”

Grant froze. “He said what ?”

“I’m sorry. I know you think he’s your friend. But since we’re being honest.”

I watched him turn the idea over in his mind. I waited for him to get upset, waited for him to even turn around, run off, and leave me feeling that familiar abandonment and dread.

“Did you think about it?”

I didn’t answer right away in hopes of provoking a reaction, testing his boundaries, seeing if he really was better. But then a grin emerged on his face.

“What are you smiling for?”

“That’s actually pretty funny.”

I gave him a playful nudge. “You’re supposed to be jealous.”

“Hobie? He’s not your type. He’s, like, everyone’s type but yours. I’ll bet you laughed in his face.”

I gently punched him in the arm. “How did you know?”

“I know you.” It felt good to be known. “Besides, he’s no match for me. Just look.” He made a fist and pounded his biceps. “Someone called me ‘hot dad’ the other day.”

“You’re insufferable.”

The smaller streets led us back to the swankier end of Palm Canyon Drive. “Let’s go look in this store,” I said, even though I didn’t love shopping. When I was growing up, Polly used to hustle me past the boutiques on Michigan Avenue as though she were shielding me from a gruesome scene. She’d scold me if she caught me gawking at the mannequins or staring in awe at the women in fur coats emerging from Neiman Marcus with bags on their arms. She’d remind me not to give in to the seductive power of objects. “Don’t want, Kim,” she would say. Those words became my mantra, and they applied to my feelings about more than just the things you can buy.

That’s why it felt like an act of rebellion to push open the spotless glass door into Trina Turk’s Albert Frey–designed clothing boutique. It was the embodiment of the joyful Palm Springs aesthetic called optimistic style. I definitely felt optimistic as I fingered the silky caftans with bold block prints and gazed longingly at the aggressively bright clothing.

I normally dress in whatever came my way during my clothing swaps with friends—we called it hokey couture . I suddenly saw myself the way Melody did; how schlubby I looked in my pilled T-shirt and baggy shorts with an elastic waistband. When was the last time I’d owned something new? Shouldn’t I try to dress up while I still had a figure for it? I suddenly wanted what Trina Turk had to offer—not just the clothing, but the promise of a sophisticated, sunny, carefree lifestyle. Was that a thing to be bought?

A salesperson saw me staring at a red silk dress with turquoise trim and pink fringe on a mannequin. “That’s our bestseller for the holidays,” he said. “It’ll look fabulous with your auburn hair.”

I’d almost forgotten that my hair had a natural red hue. Melody took me to her salon, where Geylen went wild with scissors and colored over the gray. I emerged a new woman in an angled bob and short bangs. Melody said the cut was très chic, and I saw myself as funky and artistic and grown-up. I sent a photo to Octavia and the girls.

Dort: Mom, you look like Edna from The Incredibles .

I moved on to finger the baubles on a bright bracelet with pink, green, and yellow plastic beads. It was the kind of jewelry I would have loved when I was a little girl.

Grant stood next to me and said, “This place is a bit much, don’t you think? Like a screaming bird.”

“I don’t know, I think it’s fun.”

He disappeared into the men’s side of the store called Mr. Turk and returned holding a tiny pair of men’s lemon-colored knit shorts embroidered with palm trees. “Honestly, could you see me in these? Grant of the jungle.”

He’d never looked more out of place than he did in that store. From hiking he had a farmer’s tan on his legs and arms. I swore he was the only person in Palm Springs who’d ever worn the color brown. And yet, I admired him. He was entirely comfortable with how he presented himself to the outside world. He didn’t compare himself to other people.

“Put that down.” I laughed.

“Three hundred dollars for a glorified banana hammock!”

“I actually love this,” I said, fingering the bracelet, feeling that I needed it. Grant didn’t dare buy jewelry for me because he knew I’d think it was wasteful.

“I don’t know, that doesn’t say ‘Kim’ to me.”

“What does say ‘Kim’ to you?”

He seemed confused by this question. He disarmed me with his sweetness when he said, with complete sincerity, “What you’re wearing right now. Gosh, I think you look beautiful in anything.”

I smiled and held the bracelet up to the light.

“Let me buy that for you,” Grant said, seeing the longing on my face.

“No, it’s silly.”

“So was the Jeep, but I can’t tell you how much I love it. I know you’re committed to your buy-nothing group, but that’s in Madison.”

Just then, the salesman approached with a bright cocktail dress that he said would “pair perfectly” with my new bracelet. Before I could protest, he led me to the fitting room. “Come on, let’s see if I’m right that this is a great style for you.”

Grant smiled. “Go for it. What’s the harm?”

The harm wasn’t in the dress—the harm was in wanting it. But I did. It fit like a dream. The silky lining was sensual against my skin, and the red brought out the bit of color in my cheeks from the sun. The pink fringe around the sleeves reminded me of Thomas’s umbrellas. The salesman set a pair of gold wedge sandals at my feet. “Try these.”

“Oh, I can’t wear sandals, not with my—” Then I remembered, I didn’t have a bunion anymore, and wedges were pretty safe. I slipped my feet into them, feeling like Cinderella. They fit perfectly. No pain. I walked into the showroom and stood in front of the mirror. “What do you think?” I turned, flounced the skirt, kicked up my foot. I hardly recognized myself.

Grant smiled appreciatively. “I love it.”

The salesman put a pair of huge, vintage Chanel sunglasses on my face. “Voilà!”

I saw a woman about my age in the corner turn to look at us. Her husband was sitting in a chair, distracted by his phone, while Grant was focused entirely on me.

I went to change and looked for the salesperson to help me with the zipper, but he was busy charming a new customer. “Grant, can you come in here?”

He followed me into the dressing room, still holding the palm-tree bathing suit and a silky men’s caftan. “Should I try?”

He slipped off his shorts and pulled the caftan on. He looked hilarious with his hairy, bare legs and his black socks and hiking boots. The caftan was so wrong for him that I started laughing uncontrollably. I had to wipe the tears from my eyes with the back of my hands. I’d almost forgotten how hard I could laugh with Grant. When we first got together, he’d always crack me up before we went to sleep, and I’d drift off with a smile on my face.

“What’s going on in there, you two? Plenty of places in this town to get a room. You can head over to the swinger resorts in Warm Sands.”

“We’ll behave,” I said.

“Oh, please don’t! Nobody comes to Palm Springs to behave .”

I took a photo of us in the mirror—what a pair we were. Grant said, “We still look like we come from a place where they salt the roads with cheese brine.”

Grant held me from behind and nuzzled my neck. I could feel the beat of his heart on my back. He slowly eased the zipper down, kissing every knob of my spine as the dress fell to the floor. I stepped out of it, and he picked it up and threw it over his arm. “Let’s go home, Kimmy,” he said before exiting the changing room.

I walked into the showroom and saw Grant at the wrap stand. The salesman was chatting amiably and wrapping the dress in tissue paper. I whispered, “It’s too expensive.”

“I want you to have something nice, and besides, I’m buying myself a slick shirt, too. Didn’t you say Melody is taking us out for Christmas dinner?”

Then, as if in slow motion, I watched the horror spread over the salesperson’s face when Grant reached into his pocket and pulled out his makeshift wallet—a plastic Ziploc bag.

A few minutes later, I was the woman in a resort town emerging from a store with a bag filled with new purchases. Suddenly, the city that had seemed so empty before was filled with people. The restaurants were bustling with diners sitting outdoors. A bachelorette party of indistinguishable blond women in short dresses and cowboy boots walked by. The one in the middle sported a tiara and a pink sash across her chest with an image of a giant penis and the words TO HAVE AND TO HOLD. They were so young and lovely in the same way March is young and lovely. They giggled and chatted and swung their hips. They radiated hope and confidence, an assured optimism that their lives were only going to get better from here. Marriage meant something different at their age than it did at ours—or did it?