Bedtime Eyes

by Amy Yamada

  Tina Turner was on the radio. I thought about those amazing thick lips of hers, and seeing my reflection in the dressing table mirror, I took out my red lipstick, outlined my lips with a brush to make them look twice as large as normal, and carefully filled them in. Then, over and over again, I applied kiss marks to pieces of tissue paper, and then painted on another layer of lipstick to keep the color from coming off.

  When I had finished, my lips looked more like chunks of ripe, red nec-tarine than cute little cherries, but I was satisfied with my work and lit a cigarette.

  Looking in the mirror again, I decided that my T-shirt and the Levi s I was wearing didn't go well with my new lips at all, so I dragged my black silk nightgown out from under the bed and changed into it. There were claw marks in the silk, and loose threads hung from the places where Osbourne had been scratching. The whole effect made me feel like a dramatic heroine, and I let the cigarette droop from my fingers like some movie star.

  The door opened. It was Spoon.

  "Hi, honey!"

  He stared at me in confusion, then burst out laughing.

  "You look terrible! Is it Halloween or something? You look like a canned tomato!"

  At first his laughter annoyed me, but then I got his joke: lips often remind people of food.

  "You can eat me if you like."

  He kissed me and his lips were instantly dyed red. Then he crouched down, gazing up at me intensely, and began kissing my thigh. He got some lipstick there, too. I could feel its stickiness on my leg, and as I stroked the curly hair on his head with my hand, I was almost in tears.

  A M Y Y A M A D A

  "Spoon. .

  He opened his mouth as if to say something, but I never knew what The phone rang. It wasn't the police. It was a guy from some em.

  bassy. I was so confused that I didn't really catch the details, but it was a country with an unusual name. He asked if he could speak to Joseph Johnson. This was the first time I had ever heard Spoon's real name, and it came as a shock.

  Spoon grabbed the phone. He spoke to the guy on the other end of the line for a moment, then said to him, "Everything's all right."

  He replaced the receiver and turned to me with the happiest of smiles on his face.

  "Baby, we've been very lucky."

  But something made me feel uneasy and I couldn't return his smile. I just stood and stared at his beaming face like it was some kind of object.

  I couldn't even blink.

  The doorbell rang and my heart missed a beat. Anxiously, I looked over at Spoon. He motioned with his eyes for me to open the door. I really didn't want anyone else to see me dressed like that, looking like a prostitute. I was almost in tears, but pulling the front of my gown to- |

  gether, I reluctantly opened the door.

  Five people in suits stood outside. One was a dark-skinned foreign 3

  woman, two were older Japanese men, and the other two were young Americans.

  One of the Japanese men spoke.

  "Do you know this man?"

  He showed me a photograph of Spoon. It was a terrible shot and made him look really ugly, so I didn't answer.

  "I asked, do you know him? We know he's here."

  He spoke quietly, but his tone was menacing enough to make it difficult for me to avoid his question.

  B E D T I M E E Y E S 5 5

  "What do you want?"

  He opened a small black case holding his ID card. It was attached to his jacket by a piece of cord, and as he pulled it out I could see a gun under his jacket. I was terrified. I just stood there, too frightened to speak, and they all charged past me into the apartment without even taking their shoes off.

  Spoon must have known that something was wrong. He was hiding silently in the back room. But the suits were determined, and they kept searching until they found him.

  I heard them struggling and then Spoon shouting angrily, "She's got nothing to do with this! Shut the door!!"

  Dazed, I stood riveted in the doorway, completely dumbfounded.

  When I came to my senses I caught sight of myself in the mirror. My face was deathly white and the lipstick I had painted on so thickly was now double-crossing me. It made me look like I was smiling.

  After a few moments the five people came out of the back room. One of the Japanese men said, "He wants to talk to you. You've got fifteen minutes. You can go in now."

  I was grateful for his kindness, but I was so nervous my legs were trembling.

  "Spoon..."

  He was sitting quietly on the bed. That bed had been everything to us. He'd made me laugh and cry there. I wondered if we would ever have the chance to use it again.

  It was already night. I had planned to cook ribs for him and I had already put them on the bottom shelf of the fridge to defrost. I liked to roast them in the little oven with tomatoes and red peppers to make them spicy, and add some bay leaves to bring out the flavor. Oh, and plenty of ground black pepper, of course. Spoon had never got around to buying me the garlic press I had been after, so I crushed it with a knife I 6 AMY YAMADA

  blade instead. Last of all I would add ginger, nutmeg, paprika, and any.

  thing else I could find in the cupboard.

  As it cooked, the sticky, bloody smell of the meat would gradually change to something much more appetizing as the meat started to brown. And when the bones went a reddish-brown color and glistened with fat, I would turn off the oven and drain the fat. Then I would open a bottle of red wine, put it on the table with a pile of napkins, and call Spoon. There would usually still be a lot of grease left in the bottom of the roasting pan, fat that oozed from the ribs as they cooked, and it smelled so good, I liked to spread it on slices of toast and throw them in a basket to eat with the meat.

  Spoon liked to scrape the meat off the bones with his sharp teeth.

  Drops of grease would fall from his lips into his wine and float on the surface in Iitde round globules. And sometimes a few of those globules would merge together to form one large one. It was cheap, sparkling, red wine from America, and the grease and tiny bubbles mixed together in the glass made it look like it was moving.

  Spoon never bothered using napkins when he ate, so his greasy fingernails shined like ripe chestnuts. By the time I was finishing my first rib, he was usually finishing the very last one on the plate, so I never got full.

  "I'm still hungry," I'd say. "Let me lick your fingers."

  Then, gazing into his eyes, I would suck the grease from his fingers, one by one. I would know he wanted me then. It was written all over his face. And the look in my eyes would say, What do you want to do now, Spoon?

  Those dinners of debauchery were our greatest luxury.

  "What should I do about the spareribs?"

  There were tears in my eyes as I said it.

  "I suppose I'd better just throw them away, huh? But it's such a waste!"

  I flopped down on the floor and began sobbing my heart out.

  B E D T I M E E Y E S

  5 5

  "And I really wanted ribs tonight, too."

  My mind was suddenly flooded with memories of everything we had eaten together. It was soul food, hot and spicy and full of flavor, not mild like Japanese food. Things like ham hocks, a stew made with white beans and a smoked h a m shank, and okra gumbo, a spicy stew with meat so tender it just fell off the bones. Then when you sucked those bones, they were full of thick, tasty jelly. And Spoon just loved Tabasco—whenever we had fried chicken he would pour tons of it all over the dark meat. And of course chitlins—stewed pig giblets. It was the kind of food that most Japanese would never think about eating, but I was happy to eat anything with Spoon. I just thought about how the food would become part of his body, and it made me feel like I was eating part of Spoon himself.

  "I shouldn't really be talking about food at a time like this, should I?"

  Spoon didn't say a word. He just looked at me. His eyes were sad but there was a smile on his lips.

  "You haven
't said it today, Spoon."

  "Haven't said what?"

  "Your favorite four-letter word."

  "Huh? Oh, that."

  "It's not like you."

  "Hmm?"

  "Say it for me."

  "Fuck!"

  "Now do it to me."

  He held my face in the palms of his hands. I caressed his fingers and his wrists. When he spread his fingers wide, one hand was big enough to cover my whole face. There were only three thick lines on his palms, and that made them look deceptively simple, but they were actually very sensitive and they knew every inch of my body.

  "Can't we? Can't we make love anymore?"

  6 0 A M Y Y A M A D A

  He finally stood up, dropping something down between the bed and the wall as he did so. Then he turned back, and after looking at me for a few brief moments, he closed one eye and winked at me. It reminded me of that night we first met. After we had made love so hurriedly, the passion had remained and solidified inside me like some kind of cap-sule. Then his wink had been the catalyst for it to dissolve and take control of my heart.

  Now, everything was over the moment his eye closed. I tried to hold back all the emotions welling up inside. "What are you trying to do to me?" I whispered. "You're still making eyes at me like you want to make love."

  Spoon pointed at himself with his finger, then very slowly pointed at me, and nodded his head twice. I tried to tell him, Me, too, Spoon! Me, tool But the words just wouldn't come out.

  With one detective holding each arm, Spoon left the room and left me. I was alone with no idea of what had really happened. I poured myself a glass of gin and glanced at myself in the mirror. My face was covered in lipstick.

  Later that night one of the detectives returned to ask if Spoon had left anything behind in the apartment—he had dropped his ID card down by the side of the bed before they had dragged him off. At first I told the detective I didn't know what he was talking about, because the photograph on that ID card was the only one I had of Spoon, and I didn't want to lose it. But then he threatened to search the apartment, so I thought I'd better give it up. I put the ID card together with a newspaper and Spoon's copy of Jet magazine, and told the detective that was all I had of Spoon's. He was pleased to have found what he was looking for and left.

  I hadn't told the detective, but along with his ID card, he had also left his namesake lucky charm: his spoon. But I couldn't imagine the American government arresting me for stealing a spoon.

  The next day on F E N radio news, they said that Spoon had been arrested for trying to sell confidential military documents. There was probably a big article about it in Stars and Stripes, too. Actually, I was surprised to hear that Spoon had been dealing with something so important—maybe he was more clever than I had given him credit for.

  But all that meant nothing to me anymore.

  I 6 A M Y Y A M A D A

  For the first few days I just sat on the floor in my apartment like idiot, staring at myself in the mirror, my face still covered in lipstick from the night Spoon had left.

  Then, I finally started to come around, and I noticed that the meat in the fridge had gone bad and was beginning to smell. I opened the lid of the wastebasket to throw it away, but I got sick to my stomach and I had to run to the bathroom to throw up. Even after I'd been sick, the pukey feeling wouldn't go away, and it made me so mad that I picked up Spoon's bottle of Brut and threw it at the wall. It was made of cheap plastic, so it didn't smash. Only the top broke, and the sweet fragrance of the aftershave filled the room. As soon as it reached me, I began to cry, wailing like an animal.

  At last I understood. I had lost Spoon. I cried and moaned as if I were at death's door.

  Spoon! Where are you ?"

  I began to search madly around the room, turning the whole apartment upside down, desperate to find something he might have left behind: sperm stains on the sheets, any sign of that bout of Philippine crabs we just couldn't get rid of when we first met. Anything would do.

  Anything at all. I even turned his Panama hat inside out in an effort to find even one solitary, springy hair. I found his toothbrush, and his bottle of aspirin, and when I opened the jar of Vaseline I found the traces he'd left with his fingers—he scooped it out with his big, rough fingers and used it to make me feel horny. I found the wrapping from one of his packs of cigarettes, too—he used to bite them open from the bottom—|

  the stocking cut in half with a knot tied in the end to keep his "springs"

  in order, a half-eaten chocolate chip cookie, and an empty botde of Bacardi—he didn't need a glass, he just drank it straight from the bottle. By the time I had gathered all his junk together, I was completely exhausted.

  I lay down on the floor, grinding my teeth. It was over. But what was B E D T I M E EYE S 5 5

  it that had ended? Was I supposed to be able to convince myself that just because I could no longer see him there in front of me, he had never existed in the first place?

  I started tap-tap-tapping with the spoon. A constant stream of tears fell from my eyes, and I was afraid that my memories of him might flow out with them and be washed away and lost forever. I loved those memories. They were everything to me. I even loved the word "memories"!

  Up until now that d a m n word had never meant anything to me at all. In fact I had always been proud of my fantastic ability to forget. This was the very first time I had ever had anything I wanted to call my own. I wondered if maybe there was still some sperm floating around inside me. I prayed that there was, and that it would seep into every last cell, spreading its sweet smell throughout my whole body.

  After a while I gave up fighting and decided just to take life as it came. Little by little my memories began to settle, sinking to the bottom of my mind, and on the surface I appeared relaxed, as if nothing had ever happened. Like smooth, calm water without a ripple to be seen. No one around me knew. And then, every once in a while, I would secretly reach in and gently scoop up some of the cream that had settled to the bottom of my mind with my fingers, and lick them. It gave me an enormous feeling of satisfaction to finally savor those memories again.

  "Mmm . . . delicious!"

  Let's say, for example, that there was a huge pile of hands, and that they all looked the same. I would still be able to pick out those horny, black hands of Spoon's with no problem at all.

  And let's say there were loads and loads of men's asses all lined up.

  All the same, all with a crack running down the middle. I would still be able to spot the one that could grip my hand and not let go. And in the same ceremonial way you might choose a Filipino hooker, I would shower his butt with champagne to call him over to me.

  1 0 4 A M Y Y A M A D A

  Spoon was part of my own body now.

  Now I drag my poor, weary body off to bed and turn down the blankets. I can't escape the illusion any longer—the illusion of those sharp eyes hiding there, waiting for me.

  t h e p i a n o

  p l a y e r ' S

  F I N G E R S

  There is always a moment when I know: when my boyfriend I | is putting sugar in his coffee, shaking one of those sugar dispensers with the metal spouts to get the sugar out, and then suddenly the whole top comes off and all of the sugar spills into his cup, and he sits there with a stupid grin on his face; or when I see that bottle of musk oil with the faded label—they both might have been endearing at one time, but now they don't seem to matter to me anymore. That's when I realize I've fallen in love with someone else.

  That, and when the only things I want in my mouth are cigarette smoke, hard liquor, and the taste of my new guy's cum.

  At first glance, love looks like some kind of terrible disease, but adults seem to develop a technique for dealing with it, like with that bitter French coffee that has too much milk in it.

  The reason why everything had fallen to pieces on this occasion was because I had had too much confidence in my own technique. People will probably say it was jus
t a love affair, and that's how I want it to be.

  I would rather die than let anyone know how important he was to me: 1 0 4 a m y Y A M A D A

  my feelings for this man made me realize just how worthless all my other memories were, as well as all of the little tricks I had learned along the way.

  All I knew was that I wanted him.

  ^s®2^ pen the window, D.C.!"

  There was no answer.

  Clouds of white steam poured out the bathroom from the half-open door and seemed to make directly for me as I lay there on the bed. I hated waking up with my eyelashes all wet and stuck together because it made me think I had been crying in my sleep. But I never had any reason to cry. Then I would realize it was that jerk D.C.'s fault for letting all the steam out into the bedroom again.

  I was always yelling at him to keep the door closed when he took a shower—he usually spent over an hour in there anyway. At first he would do as I asked and close the door, but after a while the steam made him feel like he was smothering, and, struggling for air, he would open the door a crack.

  Today he hadn't even bothered to ask me if it was okay, because I was asleep. He was such an asshole.

  Irritated, I crawled out of bed and walked across the floorboards to the window, combing my fingers through my hair. I heard a small snq.pl and looked down at my hand—one of my fingernails was broken and a hair had caught in the split in the nail. Dammit, D.C.I It was probably 7 0 a m y y a m a d a

  his fault my nail was broken in the first place. It must have happened in bed the night before. The silver-polished tip was probably still buried in his shoulder. Shit! What a waste of a good nail.

  But maybe I was being too hard on him—my fingernails were really /f too weak for me to grow them long, anyway.

  I opened the window and looked out from the fourth-floor apartment. The sun was already high in the sky, and the May sunshine seemed to be the same temperature as my body. I was still feeling '

  drowsy, like a pregnant cat at the end of spring, and I dropped into a chair by the window. I could feel D.C.'s sperm slowly dripping down out of me, leaving stains on my nightgown.