Mt. Moriah's Wake

by Melissa Norton Carro

  Know why we call her Blue Sky?

  He moved the pad back in front of him, scrawling some gibberish at the top, as if taking notes. Then he drew an arrow pointing to Candace.

  I subtly shook my head. Tom smiled and wrote.

  Just wait.

  They were discussing the new Park Hotel in Nashville. S&H was to have a marketing proposal in one week. The meeting was to plot a strategy for introducing the hotel to the marketplace and defeating the other agencies vying for the account.

  “Okay, people, let’s get down to work,” said Adam Vining, the account executive. “We have seven days to draft a plan. Let’s focus on our target audience and message. Then we’ll brainstorm on media vehicles to reach our constituency.

  “I have some data to get us started; this is from the Nashville Chamber of Commerce.” A thin file containing every conceivable local travel statistic wafted to the table. “And here is some demographic data from other Park Hotels around the country.”

  Another Manila folder made its graceful landing next to the first file. Straightening his tie, Adam leaned his knuckles on the table until they were translucent, the cartilage straining with the pressure.

  “And now I’ll tell you to disregard this research, because all marketing is inherently local. I don’t give a rat’s ass why San Diego tourists choose the suite concept; I need to know about Nashville tourists. And I need you to tell me.” He turned to the salmon suit beside him. “Candace, who is the biggest ‘buyer’ of suite services?”

  Clearing her throat, Candace leaned forward so that her ecru blouse, already plunging, dove further.

  “Adam, that is the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question. If we can pinpoint that answer—if we can define our audience, we will have Park Hotel eating out of our hands.”

  One could picture someone eating out of her hands. Grapes, perhaps. Strawberries dipped in cream.

  “The sixty-four-thousand-dollar question, people.”

  Candace whipped around in her chair, trailing salmon particles in the air.

  “George, what is your perception of the average Nashville tourist?” George Winkel, a balding Northern transplant whose belly bumped the table, cleared his throat but Candace’s manicured index finger across her lips shushed him before he had a chance to respond. “Let me see the tourist! Let me close my eyes and see them!”

  And her eyes did actually close, as we all sat riveted by the raw sexuality she exuded.

  George began to paint the picture. Candace swayed in her chair, closing her eyes to imagine. Kim chimed in next, completing the portrait. Mostly country music fans. Moderate disposable income.

  Adam took the reins back. “Okay people, we’ve painted quite a picture of our tourist industry here, thanks to Candace’s input …”

  It struck me, then, and I glanced at Tom Rivers who winked. Candace had not contributed one iota to the composite tourist portrait. All she had done was price the question at over sixty thousand dollars, yet she seemed a catalyst for the brainstorming. From trivial gestures and idioms flowing from her glossy lips, Candace almost made us believe she was a contributor.

  “What will draw them in? What is most important?” Adam turned his flip chart paper over and wrote the heading “Message” along the top in neat, precise, OCD handwriting. Again, he turned first to Candace.

  “Blue sky, Adam, blue sky …”

  Adam Vining ate shredded wheat for breakfast, perched at his kitchen counter, one Armani shoe crossed over the other. He lunched on cantaloupe, berries, tofu, and hearts of palm on spinach leaves, while reading The Wall Street Journal. He drank mint tea, and usually dined on Thai carryout. Few fat grams passed his lips, his cholesterol was phenomenally low, and he would die of a heart attack before he turned forty-eight.

  For him, advertising was not about the money, or the fame of seeing your tag line on billboards that truckers roared by. It was not about the cocktail receptions, or the free Chicago Cubs tickets. It was about the power of thought: the power of thinking first and thinking best. Surely, above Adam’s bed were notches not of women he bedded, but of ideas that were his first.

  For Candace Herford, advertising was a venue for her trite idioms, a job she could flirt her way through—a place where she could speak and make people actually think she was saying something.

  “Tom, how much and how soon?”

  I turned to watch Tom discuss the relative merits of stock photos versus a camera shoot.

  “There’s no comparison, guys. You can smell a stock photo; they reek of nothingness. For only fifty percent more, we can do our own shoot. Get some nice lighting to make it dramatic!”

  “But can it be dramatic in, let’s say, five days?” Adam pulled a monogrammed money clip out of his pocket and fingered the twenties and fifties tucked neatly inside. He liked to feel the money: It gave him a sense of security. His credit cards were maxed out, but those bills made him feel potent. He liked us seeing them too.

  “Sure, if you want me to ditch the hospital shoot this Thursday. That’s going to occupy two days, on top of the head shots you need printed by tomorrow. It’s not doable this week. Let’s just show the Park people our portfolio, let them see the quality we do, and figure a custom shoot into the budget.”

  “Or we could show them a completed concept, with stock photos, and wow them with our ability to get it turned around in such a short time.” Adam threw his money clip on top of the calendar in front of him.

  “Well, it depends on if you want it done or done right,” Tom said.

  Adam turned again to the bared bosom beside him. “Comments? Opinions?”

  The pink salmon arms stretched behind her head, daring the pearl buttons on Candace’s blouse to pop strategically. “Tom makes a good point. But we need to make sure we aren’t confusing apples and oranges.” Candace’s hands came in front of her now, each cuddling a pretend piece of fruit. “Apples?” The right hand went forward. “Or oranges.” Left hand.

  “We’re trying to sell a hotel, Candace, not a fruit basket,” Tom said, looking at his watch. “I’ve got to run to a conference call.” Then, looking at Adam: “Sorry. I had this call with my realtor scheduled before this meeting.”

  Standing and gathering the negative sheets before him, Tom made a last remark. “My opinion stands. I think stock photos will be a tacky entre to a client that wants class. But that’s just my opinion.”

  And with that, he was out of the room. Following him was a searing look from Candace, her labia-colored lids squinting sharply at his departure.

  At that first creative team meeting, I was torn between watching Candace’s suit swish as her bare leg swung and my fascination with Tom Rivers.

  After lunch on my way to the postage meter, I passed Tom’s office. His chairback to me, he was shouting into the phone.

  “Yes, another one week does matter. My lease is up, remember?” He nervously clicked a ballpoint. “Okay, talk to her. I don’t see why I should have to pay for a hotel. Yeah. I know. It’s not your fault. Just talk to her, okay?”

  Tom slammed the phone in its cradle, and I dropped the forty-two letters I was carrying to the meter.

  I dropped to my knees to begin retrieving them and he watched, never offering assistance.

  “Let’s see, you were standing in my doorway, trying to think of a cute conversation starter, but your hands let you down!” His tone was sarcastic, but his face was smiling.

  “No, I was just staring at the mess in here and wondering how you find your desk.” Was I flirting?

  He grinned. “I don’t need a desk—just a tripod.”

  My turn for conversation. Why was I speechless? He was not even handsome. And yet, those dimples, that thick luscious hair.

  “I agreed with you in the creative meeting.”

  “On what?”

  “On whether to use stock or custom photos.” Tucking a loose twig of hair behind my ear, I made a mental note to find a hair salon.

  “Oh. Well, they’re idiots
. And they’ll do whatever they want anyway. Adam’s creativity extends to his tie collection, and Candace’s rests in finding lingerie to match her suits.”

  He noticed my obvious blush.

  “Oh don’t tell me you didn’t notice that little peach number. She showed us from every angle, and I know there’s a little matching thong.”

  I was embarrassed by this line of conversation, but determined not to let it show.

  “You know, do you?”

  Tom arose and moved closer, so that we were whispering in his doorway.

  “No, I haven’t had the dubious honor of sleeping with the bitch, but enough around here have. The bras and panties always match.

  “I have a friend at Arnold Associates, where our queen creative director was before here. I found out that not only did she do nothing but glorified telemarketing and poster making, but she slept around. And, yes, her lingerie closet is fabulous!”

  I had not heard of Arnold Associates but the information begged the question:

  “I thought she had a good deal of experience. From my interview …”

  We headed toward the elevator. Tom reached and pushed the up button.

  “That’s what she wants you to think, JoAnna! You see, she flirts with women too!” He flashed a hand to the president, who passed by.

  “But you notice her remarks, and pretty soon you’ll see that every question is answered with either apples and oranges.” Tom turned his fingers down, one by one. “Or blue sky. Or sixty-four-thousand-dollar question.”

  “And I’m to assume she’s slept her way to the top?”

  Tom was in the elevator now. “Well, not all the way, but things take time, you know. She’s a busy girl.” He put a hand between the closing doors. “Are you going up?”

  I suddenly felt the weight of the envelopes in my hand and felt a bit foolish. “No, I needed to take these to the postage room. I guess I forgot where—”

  “You were distracted. I can understand how that happens around me.” He winked and then smiled. “Hey, a guy can wish, can’t he?”

  As the elevator closed, I swallowed hard around my heart that had moved to my throat.

  11

  TRAIN TRACKS

  IN SIXTH GRADE, Billy McGuiness tempted fate by straddling the train tracks until he saw the locomotive round the bend. At the last second he would jump out of the way, diving butt-first onto the shoulder. The girls would shriek and the boys would cheer, and red-faced Billy, with perspiration beading up along his hairline, would bow dramatically.

  On Friday nights during my first year in Chicago, I was my own Billy McGuiness. With no audience.

  I chose Friday’s attire carefully because I knew it would see almost eighteen hours before being discarded on the vinyl chair next to my bed. In the advertising agency, half past four on Friday afternoon heralded a level of excitement like a low drumbeat. The twelfth floor, where most of the junior copywriters, account executives, and designers worked, witnessed a steady flow of traffic into the women’s room. With each sway of the door came a waft of fragrance and face powder. Tired Friday faces melded into weekend faces of opportunity and adventure.

  In those days I drowned my loneliness in superficial conversations with Megans and Tiffanies and Loris. During the week I would follow along down the block to our favorite sandwich shop, to the coffee cart parked in the courtyard, and on Friday afternoons to Tony’s Bar. To be honest, they would call me a good friend. I listened to Megan’s landlord problems, sympathized with Tiffany’s boyfriend’s infidelity, and laughed at Lori’s stories of her clueless mother back in Cleveland, worried only that Lori’s mittens were sufficiently insulated against the Chicago climate.

  I called them good friends. But did I consider them such? How could I? I had known Grace—the kind of friend who could encourage with a squeeze of the hand, comfort with her eyes, who knew me as surely as if she had nursed me from birth. The Megans and Tiffanies and Loris were mere companions. They were noise, ways to forget.

  And forget we did. Tony’s Bar was so stereotypical it might have been a movie set. There were hundreds of regulars like us—yuppies in our twenties from Akron and Galveston and Birmingham and Mt. Moriah. In our knock-off Coach purses was enough cash for a small order of nachos, three Happy Hour drinks, and a cab ride home. And at the back of our wallets was a MasterCard, our first, with a 500 dollar limit and a promise to ourselves that we would use it only for emergencies—which a fourth round too often constituted. After a long week of work, of el rides and heels and pantyhose, the first Friday sips at Tony’s were like stepping into a warm shower. The mismatched chairs rocked on the unsteady brick floor, the cramped bathroom had no air flow, and the initials carved into the tables bespoke the generations of young would-be executives who had haunted the bar before diamonds and babies and 401Ks set in. Tony’s predictability was as intoxicating as its Long Island Teas, served in frosty mason jars which would have both tickled and shocked Doro.

  Shoulder to shoulder with Megan and Lori, I learned to drink. By the time my straw started to make a slurping noise against the bottom of the first jar, I had transformed. I was no longer Jo of the mountain, Jo who was Grace’s best friend. I was Jo of Chicago. Nameless. Faceless. Faithless.

  Fearless—like Billy McGuiness.

  Those godless Friday nights at Tony’s were invigorating, thrilling. Conversation was bantered about like paper straw wrapper footballs. With each sip the dust-laden flower-petal chandeliers tightened into focus. My friends’ smiles revealed crinkles and lines that I had never noticed before. All my senses were heightened, and as they increased, my fear subsided: buried deep inside me like the God of childhood Vacation Bible School.

  Halfway through the second Long Island Tea, I would take off my sweater. Earlier a buffer against the Michigan River winds, my cable knit was no longer a necessary defense. There was a flush spreading upward that needed no protection.

  The glory of my Friday nights at Tony’s was that the buzz extended until Saturday noon. My headache carried me through until Saturday evening, when a different set of Megans and Tiffanies and Loris would invite me to a movie … and drinks. And those drinks would carry me through until Sunday afternoon, when I would walk to the corner laundromat, passing hours people watching out the grimy window. Back in the hotel, I ironed my dress pants and readied myself for the work week. There was no time for reflection, no time for grief. I was happy, or so I thought.

  At Tony’s, when the music switched to oldies, I’d get up with Megan and Lori and start swaying. We were surrounded by men—boys really—who were also trying to get through until Saturday—but in a completely different way. I would often be kissed, lightly, never more passionately, and my eyes stayed wide open. In a crowd of people, I was in control. My buzz shielded me like a thirty eight in my pocket. At least it felt that way to me.

  Beads of sweat would travel down my cleavage, and the air from the ceiling fan would perk my nipples. I knew they were visible through the silk, and part of me reveled in this knowledge. It was part of my Russian roulette—my game against fate. I was Billy McGuiness, and every man I tempted led me to the railroad tracks. And when the train rounded the corner, when hands grasped my waist a bit too tightly, I would turn on my wobbly heels, the sweetest of smiles on my face, and excuse myself to the bathroom. In the stall I would slide the lock and, back against the door, fold my arms over my chest and know that I was alive—that the train had derailed.

  Until one Friday night in March 1998.

  A random snowstorm had immobilized much of the city, and without as many workers in town, Tony’s had only a small group. Tiffany had gone home for the weekend, and Lori was home with a stomach bug, so only Megan and I perched on wobbly stools at the bar’s end. Two Long Island Teas later, we were approached by two businessmen who were older than the standard Tony’s males. They were whiskey drinkers, not the typical beer crowd.

  “Wanna dance?” Trying to make himself heard over Led Zeppelin, a cord
uroy jacket shouted to Megan and cupped her elbow with his hand. He was in his early thirties, a bourbon in one hand and a look in his eye that said it was his third. His companion leaned in to me, and his eyes—really all of his features—were huge to me, my Long Island Tea eyes skewing reality.

  “I’m Dave, and you and I are gonna be perfect together. I know these things,” said the navy blazer who jiggled his Jack and Coke in his hand. “Let’s try the dance floor.”

  His eyes were captivating: murky brown and impossible to read. Over his head, I saw Megan raise her eyebrows to me. “Hunks!” those brows said.

  We danced, swaying to ’80s ballads, for what seemed like hours. Dave was an investment banker. His hands moved up and down my back, finally resting on my butt. His wry smile revealed teeth that were as bright as his conversation was dull.

  “You work at Sandalwood & Harris? Impressive. My office is just two blocks up, on Wacker. We should have lunch.”

  Sober Jo told drunk Jo that Dave never intended to have lunch. But drunk Jo was tightrope walking those train tracks.

  As Journey began to play, Dave pulled me to him, and I felt his boner against me. With one hand around my waist, the other hand pulled my chin up until I was within range.

  “M. R.,” Lori had said one Wednesday in the lunchroom. “Make out range. You know when his face gets to that point, it’s going to happen. Eighty to one odds.”

  Two STDs behind her, she would know.

  Dave’s lips were not the lips of the usual twenty-something crowd. They were hard and demanding and insistent. Like his eyes.

  I never closed my eyes when I kissed: I needed to see the train coming. I had surveyed numerous eyelids—the translucent lids with veins, the slight ones that seemed nonexistent until they popped closed. But Dave’s were wide open.