“Yes. Sit. Relax. You work too hard.”
“Sit!” Sheba said.
“Okay!” I went to the kitchen, put down my bag, and then returned to the couch. Sheba patted the cushion again. I sat and tucked my feet under my bottom, mimicking her posture.
“I love Mr. Haney,” Jimmy said.
“Me too.”
Izzy came into the living room and snuggled into me the way Sheba was snuggled into Jimmy. “Why is there a pig in the house?”
“That’s Arnold Ziffel,” Jimmy said. “He’s like their son.”
“Why does that lady talk like that?”
“She’s a Gabor,” I said. “She and her twin sister are very beautiful and they’re from another country. Maybe Hungary.”
“She’s a bitch,” Sheba said. “In real life.”
“You know her?”
“Yeah. Snobby and mean. Huge boobs. Fake nails.”
“But Eddie Albert”—Jimmy pointed to the screen—“damn nice guy. Can drink a fuck of a lot.”
“Do you know everyone on TV?” I asked.
Jimmy and Sheba looked at each other as if they were thinking about it. A commercial for Trix cereal came on. The manic white rabbit ran around screaming, “Trix are for kids! Trix are for kids!”
“You know,” Sheba said at last, “I’ve been in the business for so long, I do know just about everyone. And Jimmy’s toured for so many years that he’s met everyone too.”
“Yeah. People want to come backstage, they join the tour, they come to the hotel to party. . . .” Jimmy shrugged.
“No more parties,” Sheba said. A commercial for Control Data Institute, a technical school, came on. We all watched as if we were ready to enroll.
That first-day fight between Jimmy and Sheba was like a fire hose that cleared away all the debris. From Green Acres on, everyone in the house seemed happier and more relaxed than usual. Jimmy and Dr. Cone did therapy on the beach, but it was intermittent and brief. They had a spot between two sand dunes that they called “the Office.” They’d laid down a bedsheet there that was quickly half covered with sand.
Sheba and Mrs. Cone and Izzy and I set up chairs and towels and a cooler on the first stretch of dry sand in front of the water, directly in line with the Office. When I turned around, I could see Jimmy eating Screaming Yellow Zonkers, nodding as Dr. Cone talked, or sometimes talking as Dr. Cone nodded. Every now and then he put down the snacks and lay on the sheet, curled up on his side. I got nervous when he did that, but he didn’t look like he was in pain, or crying.
Sheba and Mrs. Cone abandoned all wigs, as the beach really was private. We could see anyone coming from way down it, and whenever we did, Sheba would slip on a pair of sunglasses that covered her face from her eyebrows to her lips. She’d put on a hat, too, to hide all that long, thick black hair. Mrs. Cone often put on shades and a hat when Sheba did. “In case it’s someone I know,” she said to me once.
Izzy and I dug holes, built sandcastles, and went in and out of the water. Sheba and Mrs. Cone also took Izzy in the water, which gave me time to sit and read my book. I’d found the book Jaws on a shelf in the living room of the house. It was about a shark attack on a beach on Long Island, but it didn’t make me afraid to go in the water.
Whenever Jimmy and Dr. Cone weren’t in the Office, they were on the beach too. Jimmy liked taking Izzy in the water. He’d throw her up in the air and catch her again. Dr. Cone read his book and often napped with a baseball cap pulled down low over his eyes.
Every day, Jimmy went for a walk alone, to clear his head. Before he took off, he pulled out his shorts pockets—when he was wearing shorts instead of a suit—and presented his behind to Dr. Cone to pat. After the pat down, Izzy and I would go up to the house and make dinner. I liked our time in the kitchen. After a day in the sun and water, there was a peacefulness to the warm kitchen, the quiet of the house, the stillness of the air.
I gave Izzy a bath every night following dinner and then put her to bed in our room. Once she was asleep, I joined the adults in the living room, or on the screened porch. They listened to music, or Jimmy strummed his guitar. Jimmy and Dr. Cone each had a cup of tea, Mrs. Cone and Sheba drank wine, and a joint circulated. Dr. Cone, like me, didn’t smoke, though once I saw him take a single puff just before he went to bed. And another night, I cleared the teacups and smelled something funny in Dr. Cone’s cup. I suspected he was pretending not to drink, so Jimmy wouldn’t be the only adult without alcohol.
Jaws was always on my lap at these living room hangouts, but usually the conversation was so engaging that I didn’t read. Sheba talked the most. She once named every famous person she’d had sex with and also told us how big each man’s penis was and what it looked like. She said one looked like it had knuckles under the skin, one was the size of her pinkie, one smelled like ham and was the color of ham, and one was angled to the right like it was pointing out directions. I had no idea that penises were that variegated. One movie star, an action guy, had a penis so big, Sheba couldn’t put it in her vagina. I hadn’t known who some of the stars were, but now I’d never be able to watch any of their movies or TV shows without pulling up the image of their penis.
Of the star with the enormous penis, Jimmy said, “I’m bigger than him, but then she had a little surgery to let me in and now it’s all good.” Everyone laughed at that, so I knew it was a joke.
Mrs. Cone asked Jimmy if he’d made love to as many stars as Sheba. Jimmy took a hit off the joint, furrowed his brow, and looked like he was thinking. Then he said, “You know, Bonnie, I just don’t fucking remember. No idea. Drug brain. Before I was with Sheba, the way I’d know I’d fucked someone was that she’d be in my bedroom or the hotel bed or on the tour bus in the morning. Sometimes I’d sense I’d been with someone, so I’d check my back in the mirror. If I didn’t see scratch marks, then I’d sniff my fingers.”
Everyone laughed, but I didn’t get it.
“You remember the girl you lost your virginity to,” Sheba said. “And you remember sleeping with Margaret Trudeau.”
“Well, yeah, there are people who stand out—”
“You slept with Margaret Trudeau!” Mrs. Cone leaned forward in her chair.
“You didn’t forget Streisand,” Sheba said.
“No one forgets Streisand.” Jimmy winked at Sheba and she laughed. I was surprised she didn’t get jealous. But maybe when you were Sheba, and every man in the world wanted to make love to you, you didn’t get jealous.
“Miss March,” Sheba said, and she put her hands in front of her chest to indicate breasts that jutted out about three feet.
“I think you’re thinking of Miss June.”
“Miss May.”
“There was a run of four Playmates,” Jimmy conceded. “I believe it was June, July, August, and September.”
“Did you save the issues?” Dr. Cone asked. I thought he was kidding, but I couldn’t be sure.
“The only issue he has is the one I was in.” Sheba moved from her chair to the ground in front of Jimmy’s legs. She wrapped her arms around his calves.
“That’s the only issue I cherish,” Jimmy said.
I wanted to know what it was like to pose for Playboy. If I could summon the nerve, I’d ask Sheba later. And maybe I’d also asked her why Jimmy would look at his back or smell his fingers to see if he’d made love to someone.
On the fifth day at the beach, Jimmy turned his pockets inside out and presented his behind to Dr. Cone, who looked up from his book and waved him away. Jimmy then presented his behind to Mrs. Cone, who giggled and gave a little slap on each of his back pockets. He went to Sheba next. Sheba was wearing a bikini that looked small enough to fit Izzy. Her skin was smooth and creamy, like she’d been sanded down.
“I need to do a thorough exam.” Sheba kneeled at Jimmy’s back and felt his pockets. Then she leaned in and bit him. Jimmy yowled and Izzy laughed so hard, her curls shook.
“Your turn.” Jimmy presented his bottom to
Izzy. Izzy slapped his pockets over and over again like she was playing the bongos.
“Mary Jane has to check too!” Izzy stood and pushed Jimmy toward me.
I slapped his pockets once each. He had swum in his jean shorts and they were damp and sandy. “All clear!”
“Then I’m off!” Jimmy lifted his leg, cartoon-style, like he was winding up to run. And then he did. Run. Away from us and down the beach wearing only those damp, gritty shorts and the leather rope with feathers around his neck.
“What’s for dinner tonight?” Mrs. Cone reached out and squeezed Izzy’s fleshy leg. Izzy was wearing a red polka-dot one-piece and looked like a cute little ladybug.
“Pizza!” Izzy said.
Mrs. Cone looked over at me. “You’re making pizza?”
“No, Dr. Cone said this morning that he wanted to order pizza from some place in Rehoboth, so we shouldn’t cook tonight.” I hadn’t grown tired of cooking, but it did seem nice to have the night off.
“Ah, exciting. I haven’t had pizza in ages.” Mrs. Cone patted her stomach. Her bikini was as small as Sheba’s and reminded me of a disassembled net bag. My mother wouldn’t have even considered it a bathing suit.
“What?” Dr. Cone looked up from his book. He’d been completely tuned out.
“Do they deliver or do we pick it up?” Sheba asked. “Maybe we can pick it up and then stop at a boutique and buy a new suit for Mary Jane.”
I was wearing the one-piece I’d been wearing all summer. It had started out orange but had faded to a pale almost-pink color. “I don’t think my mother will let me wear a bikini,” I said.
“Your mother’s not here.” Sheba winked.
“Oh, let’s get a new suit for Mary Jane!” Mrs. Cone said.
“Do I need a new suit?” Izzy asked.
“No, you’re a perfect little ladybug.” I leaned in and kissed Izzy.
“But Mary Jane needs a new suit?”
“I don’t,” I said. “And it’s a waste of money. We only have two more days.”
“It is not a waste of money,” Sheba said. “When you run away from home and move to New York to live with me and Jimmy, you can wear it there.”
“Mary Jane can’t leave me.” Izzy climbed into my lap and I kissed her again. I didn’t want to leave her. And I’d never once thought of leaving my parents before college. But after Sheba had tossed out the idea of running away and living with her and Jimmy, I was momentarily infected with it. Like a fever that lets you see the usual world through the intensity of the unusual.
Dr. Cone called in the pizza and Mrs. Cone, Sheba, Izzy, and I went to pick it up. Jimmy was home by then, so he and Dr. Cone decided to do some work in the Office while we were gone.
Mrs. Cone drove and Sheba sat in the front seat. They were both wearing black pixie wigs and giant sunglasses. Sheba was wearing a terry-cloth shorts jumpsuit that zipped up the front and had a hood. Mrs. Cone was in her jean shorts that showed the white untanned edge of her bottom, and a tank top that revealed the outline of her nipples. Izzy and I wore jean shorts that did not reveal our bottoms and tank tops that did not reveal our nipples.
Mrs. Cone and Izzy went off to pick up the pizzas while Sheba and I went into the Red Crab Boutique. Sheba circled the store, pulling clothes off the racks without even checking the prices. I walked behind her. I didn’t realize she was choosing items for me until she said, “Okay, Mary Jane, in the dressing room.”
I looked at the pile of clothes in Sheba’s arms. On top of the pile was a black crochet bikini that I immediately loved. But I knew I could never wear it in front of my mother, or even at the Elkridge Club when my mother wasn’t there (my mother was always there). Crochet was subversive—it was the domain of hippies and pot smokers, and the Age of Aquarius. I really would have to move in with Jimmy and Sheba if I wanted to wear this suit outside of my bedroom.
I opened a dressing room door, Sheba standing behind me.
“Mary Jane!” I jumped. It was Beanie Jones, coming out of the fitting room next to mine. She was holding a silver jumpsuit that looked like liquid mercury. “I was wondering when I’d run into y’all! And the out-of-town guests!” She winked at Sheba as if she were a Cone family insider, and not a stranger to be lied to.
“Good to see you again.” Sheba put on her socialite voice. I wondered if she could remember the name she had come up with when we’d seen Beanie and her husband at Morgan Millard. I couldn’t.
“How did you know we were here?” I asked. Dr. Cone had told us that the Flemings, from whom we had borrowed the house, had sworn not to tell anyone we were staying there.
“I saw your mother at Elkridge and she told me you were staying somewhere on Indian Dunes.” Beanie Jones waved her hand over the pile of clothes in Sheba’s arms. “Are those for you to try on, Mary Jane? That’s a sexy little suit you got there.” She glanced at me, and then winked at Sheba.
“Here, doll,” Sheba said in her make-believe voice. She handed me the pile and nodded toward the fitting room. I walked inside and Sheba closed the door. “Lovely to see you, Ms. Jones. You take care now.” There were two footstools in the room; I dropped the pile of clothes on one and started taking off my clothes.
“Should we have cocktails on the beach tonight?” Beanie Jones said from the other side of the door.
“Ah, malheureusement, my husband and I are leaving this afternoon. But give my regards to Mr. Jones.” Sheba cracked the fitting room door open. I knew she wanted an escape.
“Goodbye, Mrs. Jones, uh, Beanie.” I backed against the wall, as I was mostly undressed.
“Well, then maybe we can have a drink next time you’re in town?” Beanie Jones said to Sheba.
“Certainly. Bye now!” Sheba said, and then she wedged herself inside the fitting room and pulled the door shut behind herself.
“Bye bye!” Beanie Jones said.
I stood there in my underwear and bra. Sheba and I stared at each other in silence, waiting for Beanie Jones to leave. After a minute or so, Sheba cracked the door open again and peered out. Then she pulled it shut and sat on the empty footstool in the corner. “My god, that woman is haunting us,” she whispered. “Try on the suit first.”
“Okay.” I picked up the suit. Was I just going to take off my bra and be half nude in front of Sheba? If I turned my back, would it be rude? I took a deep breath, pretended nothing was unusual, unhooked my bra, and put on the bikini top. Then I pulled the bottoms on over my underpants.
“Finally something that shows off your gorgeous figure.” Sheba made a paddle of her hand and flicked it, meaning I should turn in a circle. Which I did. “You have to get this suit.”
I looked at the price tag. It was equal to two weeks’ salary. I’d never spent my own money on clothes and couldn’t imagine starting with something as expensive as the suit. “I think I should find something less expensive,” I said.
“No!” Sheba waved both hands up in the air. “Mary Jane! I’m rich. I’m buying you the suit and anything else you like. No arguing.”
“Okay.” I laughed with relief. Once I knew I could get the suit, I allowed myself to admit that I loved it. It felt weirdly powerful to wear something so showy. Though I couldn’t quite imagine being brave enough to wear it in public.
“Now put this on.” Sheba handed me a beautiful yellow sundress. It was sunny. Happy. Something my mother would approve of. I slipped it on over the suit.
“Gorgeous. Next.” Sheba handed me a white terry-cloth romper that was similar to the red one I’d seen her in. I climbed into it through the neckline and then zipped up the front. It clung to me like Saran Wrap.
“Gorgeous again,” Sheba said.
We went on like this for a while. Between Sheba’s assessment of each outfit, she told the story of losing her virginity. She was fifteen and the boy was nineteen. He was the son of a “very famous” actor I’d never heard of. When Sheba’s mother found out—she’d walked in on them in Sheba’s bedroom—she took a pair of scis
sors and cut up every article of cute clothing Sheba owned. “The only things she didn’t destroy,” Sheba said, “were my winter corduroy pants and my thick Fair Isle sweaters.”
“Wow,” I said. The clothes Sheba was buying me were the first ones I’d owned that I could imagine my mother destroying. “I’m worried my mother will take these clothes away from me if she sees them. I don’t think she’d cut them up, but . . .”
“Yeah. Wow.” Sheba sighed.
There was quiet for a moment as we both stared at me in a backless tie-dye dress. I was turned, looking over my shoulder at my backside in the mirror. The dress was too long and baggy; it was definitely going in the reject pile.
“Can I ask you a question?” I whispered.
“Yeah?” Sheba whispered too.
I turned toward Sheba and then leaned in close to her ear so no one outside the dressing room could hear. “Why did Jimmy check his back to see if he made love to girls and why did he sniff his fingers?”
Sheba took a deep inhale. I thought she might be on the verge of laughing. It was like I was Izzy and she was me. Even the question sounded like something Izzy would ask.
“Because women scratch men’s backs when they make love to them. And I don’t think he really sniffed his fingers, but men make jokes about the smell of a woman’s vagina, so he was pretending that he sniffed them to see if they smelled of vagina.”
The words smelled of vagina clanked around in my head. I had wanted to ask her about posing for Playboy, too, but felt too stopped up by what I’d just heard. Did my vagina smell? If it had, I’d never noticed.
The car smelled like pizza. Or was it vagina? There were four of them in the station wagon.
“We saw that Beanie woman again,” Sheba told Mrs. Cone.
“Jesus Christ! I knew we’d bump into someone. Half of Baltimore summers in Dewey or Rehoboth.”
“Beanie Jones?” Izzy asked.
Mary Jane Page 16
