Twilight Manors in Palm Springs: The Strange Case of Donna Reed’s Missing Wig: Twilight Manors in Palm Springs, #2

1

BLEACH

Stéphane Dobson and Brian McCartney had relocated from Chicago to Palm Springs a few months earlier. They moved into 49100 Las Pensamiento Rosados in a gated community for seniors called Puesta De Sol—known locally as Twilight Manors. Moving from fast-paced Chicago with its drive-by shootings and ball-freezing winters and then adjusting to the laidback California lifestyle had been fraught with problems. Stéphane and Brian were not the laidback types. In fact, they were the opposite. They were the storm in a teacup type. They were the big fuss about nothing type. In fact, they couldn’t attend an ice cream social without it turning into a food fight—or a bloodbath. Brian had once slapped the mayor’s wife in the face with a hymnal in Our Lady of Guadalupe Church. Stéphane fed bananas through a glory hole to their lascivious neighbor. And then there was the murdered nun they found in a thrift store.

Palm Springs is heaven on Earth. It’s a great place to live, but an even better place to die. On warm summer evenings, when there’s a cool breeze, all that can be heard is the flapping of rainbow flags, the clinking of cocktail glasses, and the squeaking of knees waiting to be replaced. Even the straight people in Palm Springs are a shade of lavender: the men, bearded, tattooed, and a tad limp-wristed; the women, sporting lesbian hair and golf shoes. Palm Springs airport is like a black hole in space; every plane that lands there enters a vortex of gay serenity. When a plane lands at Palm Springs airport, life itself shudders to a halt, and passengers disembark into a paradise of peace and quiet, sunshine, and a sea of seniors thumbing-through beaten-up copies of People magazine in God’s Waiting Room. Chicago is so cold it can freeze your heart. Palm Springs can thaw it out and make an appointment for coronary artery bypass surgery in the blink of an eye.

Brian tightened the tie around his neck. He wasn’t a tie person, more the Hawaiian shirt kind of person. In fact, he collected them, much to Stéphane’s chagrin—Stéphane hated them. Even when Brian was teaching history at the University of Chicago, he never wore a tie. He only had two ties in his closet, both black and worn only for funerals and weddings. Of course, there are a lot of funerals in Palm Springs where death is as common as outbreaks of syphilis. They had already lost Larry, a nonagenarian neighbor with an abundance of genitals, who was buried in his favorite knock-off Oscar de la Renta green polka-dot bikini. But Stéphane and Brian were particularly saddened by the latest friend to pass away; and by the method of his passing. Yet again, death had cast a shadow over Twilight Manors, the gated community that Stéphane and Brian now called home.

I still can’t believe it. Stéphane plucked a white hair from the sleeve of his jacket. It was a terrible way to go. And such a surprise.

Grahame Cartwright had been their neighbor since the couple moved to Palm Springs. He lived next door, and every morning, Brian and Stéphane had fed him bananas through a glory hole in the fence that separated their two houses. It’s a long story. Don’t ask!

A massive heart attack brought on by— Brian couldn’t bring himself to finish the sentence. He felt a lump in his throat. It was too terrible to think about. I mean, what did Grahame think he was doing?

Oh, he knew what he was doing or trying to do. He just never thought it through.

Brian shrugged. Well, his vanity is what killed him. We all wish we could be young and pretty again, but there are limits. There’s a lesson here for all of us to learn from. Cosmetic procedures—if that’s what you call them—should only be performed by experts, not carried out in the kitchen by yourself. The sad thing is that Grahame could have used a cream. I’m told that Freshara No 2 comes highly recommended. Only $46.99 a tube, and you can buy it over the counter. Instead of that, he tried to do it himself on the cheap. You know how much he liked a bargain. I once saw him buy two boxes of tampons—they were Buy One Get One Free. What he did with the tampons is anyone’s guess. No, it was his vanity that killed him. Obviously, home-style anal bleaching is not for everyone.

"I don’t think he died from bleaching his anus, but by how he bleached his anus. There’s nothing wrong with wanting your anus to be white and pretty … as fresh as a daisy. It was the DIY method he used that doomed him."

You’re right. Nothing good comes from parking your bare ass in a bowl of bleach. They say he jumped up so high that the ceiling fan knocked him in the head. That’s enough to give anyone a heart attack. Brian struggled with his cuff links. Damn these things.

Even after all that, Grahame landed back in the bowl of bleach. His cleaning lady found him three days later. I remember her knocking on our door and screaming. She was in a terrible state.

Stéphane brushed his hair and examined himself in the bathroom mirror. I remember. She was as white as a ghost. Probably whiter even than Grahame’s anus.

Now, Stéphane, let’s see if we can get through this funeral without incident. The last one, your sister, Sr. Bridget, the nun, was a disaster. You made a complete fool of yourself at the graveside, screaming about crucifying mallards. That poor priest was reported and called back to the Vatican over that. He’s probably cleaning toilets there now. Either that, or bleaching a cardinal’s rectum. Even though it wasn’t his fault. It was you who became unhinged and threw a hissy fit.

Stéphane fell silent. He didn’t see the point in dragging up the past. Not his past, anyway. Of course, everybody else’s past was fair game.

Grahame Cartwright’s funeral at St. Theresa’s church went off without a hitch. Afterward, his close friends arranged an intimate gathering at Twilight Manors’ community hall. Stéphane sipped from a glass of Chardonnay. I think this might be Chateau de Urinoir. I detect—yes, a hint of toilet bowl, and—I can’t place it. Oh yes, I know, definitely turds. This wine is made from grapes and turds.

Brian ignored him. He was busy talking to a tall skeletal figure in a black suit. Stéphane! Come and meet Mr. Olson.

Stéphane gently shook Olson’s crackling metacarpals. He feared the man’s hand might crumble into breadcrumbs. I’m very pleased to meet you.

Brian smiled. Mr. Olson is a mortuary beautician. He lives here in Twilight Manors. He made up Grahame for the funeral.

Stéphane’s ears perked up. Oh, that must be an interesting job. Grahame looked quite perky for a corpse. In fact, he looked more alive dead than he ever did alive. Stéphane cringed at his own comment. He had no idea how to properly compliment a mortuary beautician. It’s not something they teach you at school. Not in Fort Wayne, Indiana, anyway.

Thank you. Olson sipped his blood-red Merlot. I did put a little color into his cheeks. And, of course, I had to do extensive work on the area that was bleached.

Brian was puzzled. You mean his down-below area?

Yes, the bleach did major damage to his genitals and rear end. His testicles were in tatters. He was sat in that bowl of bleach for two days. However, on the bright side, he did succeed in bleaching his anus.

Brian and Stéphane tried not to laugh. Was this a mortician’s joke? Olson remained deadpan.

I’m surprised you touched up his genitals because nobody would see that part of his body. He was wearing a suit in the coffin. Nobody could see his lower regions.

Olson stiffened with pride. Ah, but I’m a perfectionist. I feel the deceased should always look their best. Aside from his face and genitals, I also re-browned his anus. I used Apricot Nectar lipstick by Maybelline.

Brian looked at his feet. Stéphane stared out the window.

Olson continued. I don’t believe anyone wants to meet their maker with an overly-white anus. What if Grahame turned up at the pearly gates, only to be turned away because of the color of his anus. That may sound like God is being petty but think about it—if God had wanted us to have glistening white anuses, he would have given us glistening white anuses. Olson dabbed his eyes with a handkerchief. I’m sorry, I get very emotional talking about these things. We are all made in God’s image, and if a brown anus is good enough for the Almighty, it should be good enough for the rest of us. Don’t get me started on breast implants. I call them the Fun Bags of Satan.

Brian coughed and smiled demurely. I hear that anal bleaching is very popular with celebrities. Dolly Parton, Jane Fonda, Daniel Radcliffe—

Stéphane gasped. —Harry Potter has a bleached anus! I’m shocked.

Harry Potter’s anus is as white as snow. Brian smiled. If he bent over naked in a blizzard, he’d disappear. Harry Potter has the anus of a snowman. Sean Connery, Billy Connolly, a lot of Scots bleach their anus. Don’t know why; it could be a cultural thing. Julia Roberts bleached her anus—Diana Ross—

The conversation ended there. Exactly where it needed to end.

The following day, the doorbell rang. Stéphane answered it to find a timid, mousy-looking woman in her mid-60s standing on the doorstep. She had a tight perm and wore a duster depicting an array of wildflowers and plump swallows. She wore a pair of frayed blue suede Hush Puppies on her feet. Her pinched face resembled that of a bird. Hello, I thought I’d better introduce myself. My name is Rosemary. I’m Grahame’s sister—Grahame next door. I saw you at the funeral but didn’t have time to speak to you. I’m the executor to Grahame’s will, and I’ll be here for a while selling the house. I didn’t want you to think I was an intruder. I will be continuing to work while I’m here. I’m a first-light therapist. I practice music therapy. I worship the sunrise. I help people overcome their fears by singing to them at dawn and drawing down the energy of the three witches who live in the nearby Santa Rosa Mountains.

Witches? Brian was rapt. He’d seen Hocus Pocus.

Yes, Witch No 1 is Alessandra, a Brazilian sorceress locked in the mountains by her wicked uncle. She can declutter your future. Witch No 2 is Doofus, the spirit of a metaphysical 19 th-century circus clown who can heal the wounds of the past. Doofus is gender non-specific and cradles magic in a multitude of genitals that mirror the testicles of the moon and the vagina of Venus. And Witch No 3 is Trixie, a menstruating virgin who can slap your troubles away with her labia. She will sit on your face and douse you in the mystical blood of womanhood. Did you know my brother well?

Stephane rallied himself. Ugh—ugh—Oh yes, we knew Grahame very well. Very sad to lose him like that.

Yes. Rosemary wiped a tear from her eye. "I’m not entirely surprised he died that way. He was always vain about his appearance. Even as a little boy in Wakonda, South Dakota—population 321—he was the only boy at school who dreamed of being an Avon Lady. ‘Ding Dong,’ he used to say, ‘Can I interest you in buying this eyeshadow?’ He rang every doorbell in the town. Of course, he was sent away to Bible camp after that, but whatever they taught him there, it didn’t stick. Later, at college, he majored in theater and wrote a play about Doris Day from the viewpoint of one of her dogs. A dachshund named Donut. It was called Bitch, Bitch, Bitch She’s Forgotten to Feed Us Again."

Sounds like a lovely talented boy. Stéphane cleared his throat.

Never liked sports. Rosemary continued unabated. Just adored Barbara Streisand—

Brian interrupted. —I think we get the picture.

The following morning, Stéphane and Brian sat outside in the garden enjoying breakfast. The bright sun rose over the palm trees, and ravens croaked in the distance. A hummingbird hovered near a feeder. Brian was reflective. I’m going to miss feeding Grahame bananas through the glory hole.

Maybe we should block it up. Put a tennis ball in it. It’s about the right size. Remember that time we tried feeding him a spoonful of yogurt, and he didn’t like it?

Brian laughed. He would only eat bananas, wouldn’t he? To be honest, we didn’t know him very well at all. We only met him face-to-face a couple of times. Brian was interrupted by a woman’s voice singing, Mama Mia. It was coming from next door. That must be Grahame’s sister, Rosemary.

Suddenly there was a slapping sound and a yelp.

Shh! What was that? Brian’s ears perked up.

Another yelp was followed by three loud slaps.

What’s that noise? Stephane leapt to his feet and peered through the glory hole. His jaw dropped, and the blood drained from his face. Rosemary kept singing, "I’ve been cheated by you since I don’t know when. So, I made up my mind, it must come to an end. Look at me now, will I ever learn, I don’t know how, but I suddenly lose control. There’s a fire within my soul."

Stéphane beckoned to Brian.

Brian knelt and peered through the glory hole. He clapped his hand over his mouth, then whispered, Oh my god! She’s beating his bare ass with a—what is that?

Stephane pushed him aside. ‘She’s beating his ass with an ABBA clog."

An ABBA clog! Brian was confused. What’s an ABBA clog? Is that like a blocked sink in Sweden?

No, clog—the wooden shoe. Rosemary’s beating his bare ass with a wooden ABBA clog. I saw it on Facebook. Someone on the ABBA fan page took a selfie of himself wearing ABBA clogs. Google it if you don’t believe me. Their selling ABBA clogs.

Brian shrugged. I’ll never understand Europeans. Who wears wooden shoes?

Pinocchio for one.

Why not wooden socks? Or wooden underwear. Yikes! Splinters.

The man next door yelped again. Show me some mercy, Mistress Rosemary. The balding man was down on all fours, naked apart from a pair of red stilettos. His rear end was red raw from the beating.

Rosemary, dressed in a leather bustier, fishnet stockings, and teetering on thigh-high boots with spike heels, lifted the ABBA clog again. No, you’ve been a very naughty boy. So, I summon up the magic of Witch No 3, Trixie, the menstruating virgin who can slap your troubles away with her labia. Bring her blessings down from the mountains. Let her wrap herself around us and protect us from all harm. Let Trixie fill your sacred bowl with wisdom and heal your withering cells.

What’s she doing now? Brian was gripped.

Stephane pulled away. It’s complicated. I don’t claim to be an expert on heterosexual sadomasochism. Still, my best guess is that he is being slapped around by the labia of a virgin witch.

Now, there’s a sentence you don’t hear every day. Brian sniggered. "What kind of therapist is this, Rosemary? When it comes to kinky sex, she beats her brother, hands down. Something terrible must have happened to those two in their childhood. They were probably just a couple of normal