Ecstatic

by Victor La Valle

  She wore tan capri pants to exhibit her calves. Her cotton long-sleeved jersey was vacuum-wrapped around her torso; this made her look sporty. Forget heels or even shoes, she wore plain green sneakers that reduced her feet to snow peas.

  – You really won’t say, will you? He had one of those deep voices that make men who have them always need to be talking.

  She said, – If I told you I was a bank robber you might turn me in.

  – But first I’d let you tie me up at your hideout. He smiled, it wasn’t even lecherous.

  Maybe the plastic bags had the dog figurines; why would she need them if not for me? To decorate a new home? They shut the trunk together; a move that looked cute no matter who the couple was. I stepped back to hide, but if Mom was indeed having another episode she wouldn’t recognize us even if I climbed right in their car.

  – Doonay, she said to him. Doonay. I like your name, but it’s not the one your parents gave you, is it?

  – Doonay is what everyone here calls me. It’s a nickname.

  What if he was a serial killer; this is how that kind of things happens, yes? The scene could have come from Murder Makes Me Writhe or a thousand others. The overtly sexual woman in need of riding. Driven off by a stranger who dismembers. They were always doing that, the young women; being punished I mean.

  – Hey, you can’t be angry at me, Doonay said lightly. We met two hours ago and you haven’t said your name at all.

  – Mine? It’s like yours. Too hard to pronounce, she said. You just call me Yummy.

  They made into the car. My fingers smelled like dirt; I’d put my hands to my face.

  He drove a black Monte Carlo, a very fast attraction. He might have had the nitrous oxide cannister attachment in the trunk; it makes the car go even faster for short bursts.

  Mom laughed with him; the window was down. Grandma and I had been very close to them, but I walked us even closer. Casually Mom looked out at us.

  As we stared she showed surprise, but no recognition. Frightened by this ambling creature to her right, Mom rolled her window up halfway. She stopped when we didn’t attack her. Also Doonay was pulling out. After her shock passed she only gawked at us and started to laugh in an uncomfortable way, turning her whole body in the seat.

  She looked back at us again. Doonay looked, too. Mom’s life before this moment had been erased. Unaware that she would ever or had ever done anyone wrong, my mother was like a newborn. My mother was innocent.

  – I could go stop her, Grandma.

  – You could not.

  20

  The Blue Ridge Theatre was splendid from all sides. Windows scrubbed and its lights on. With skinny young Marines on duty as ushers; they were nervous boys but the uniforms composed them. And toward the back of a large crowd of parents, siblings and friends was a couple; one standing, one sitting; they promenaded.

  The man on his feet, washed and oiled, was me; the woman was Grandma in a wheelchair borrowed from the Hampton Inn. I thought the hotel would charge me extra, but as long as I was registered, apparently, I was trustworthy. Pushing my grandmother instead of carrying her on my back made me respectable. Normal. Which is all I hoped to be. Three different people held doors for us.

  I wasn’t rancid anymore. Grandma wore a lumber-colored dress with a black cloche that was loose on her small head. Backstage Nabisase was wearing an orange gown and three brass bracelets on her left wrist. I had seen the outfit in the car trunk, but not on her. There were enough black girls in the contest that at least one of the backstage-beauticians would know how to do my sister’s hair.

  We were happy. Grandma, Nabisase and even me.

  Of course she would come back, maybe even get to Queens before us. Until that time there was relief. An unfortunate word to use when talking about the loss of a family member, but Mom wasn’t deceased, only departed.

  Will you feel this way about me? I wondered. I wanted to ask Grandma, but what could she say that wouldn’t sound patronizing. I wouldn’t have wanted her to be honest.

  The Blue Ridge Theatre had two grand auditoriums and seven smaller ones on the second floor. It was a strapping building. On the walkway outside there were these fire-hydrant-size lampposts every five feet. The white lights normally in them had been replaced so that there was a multi-colored gumball procession of bulbs.

  Who felt better than me? I belonged like an alligator in the Everglades.

  My green suit would be a shamrock-shame in tasteful places, but hardly anyone was dressed well. The fine designers at Bugle Boy outfitted most fathers and brothers. The best of them wore boat shoes. Those flat plastic slippers you get with a tuxedo rental would have stood out as much too worldly here.

  One man, carrying his baby to his stomach, wore a denim shirt with the masonic symbol stitched on the back. Prince Hall it was huge: the compass, that capital letter G. This was a man in a secret society and he wanted everyone to know it.

  Grandma’s wheelchair bestowed influence. Wherever I pushed her the crowd cleared away. I made it a game, seeing how many times people would move, but Grandma stopped me because she wanted to get inside.

  The lobby’s walls were yellow. The floor was gray with occasional large maroon painted squares; young kids stood in those boxes playing games of endurance— who could stay inside the lines the longest.

  One boy was winning over everyone; a few adults even cheered him on. He had red hair and black jeans tucked into his white boots. His father walked over, ignored the game, touched his son on the back of the head and said, – I’m missing you.

  Then led his son away.

  There were a pair of potted rubber plants in the lobby eight foot high. Two young Marines stood next to them asking people to walk inside. One was lucky, but his partner wasn’t.

  – Ma’am, would you please continue to walk, the unlucky one told an obstinate woman with hairy forearms. She was determined not to move until she’d examined everything in her purse.

  – Ma’am, I’ve asked you three times.

  – Well then stop, she said.

  Grandma gave our tickets to yet another Marine inside the auditorium. They were everywhere. They were dignified.

  When the boy who’d taken tickets from Grandma noticed that I wasn’t following, just looking around, he came back and took my arm.

  – Hello sir. My name is Ahab. Please let me help you to your seat.

  I tried to pull free, but he had an intimidating grip.

  Grandma laughed at me when the kid went away. – He was going to strike you, she said.

  – I wouldn’t have wanted that.

  Grandma agreed. She pressed one thin finger on the very top of my round head. – I don’t think you would.

  When Grandma started coughing I went and bought water; when she was ready to move I pulled her soles from the heel loops of the wheelchair then flipped the footrests up. Helped her out of the aisle into the auditorium seat.

  There were so many women! I don’t mean that in a horny way. It just seemed like people had stopped having sons.

  In the aisle in front of ours five women sat together in different dresses, but the same strange smiles. A few generations of lop-sided grins. The youngest, on the aisle, chewed gum loudly and swallowed it even louder. Making a satisfied, –huhhh-, each time. Then went back into her small handbag, unwrapped another stick from its foil, and smacked again. I only hoped she wouldn’t do it during the show or I wouldn’t be able to hear.

  In twenty minutes every row had filled except ours. Grandma was in the aisle seat with her wheelchair folded beside her. Then me next to her.

  White masking tape had been pulled across the ten chairs next to me. ‘Reserved’ was written on plain white sheets of paper and left on each place.

  It was Grandma, me, ten open seats, and free access to these double doors. An emergency exit. The only one not decorated with servicemen.

  I stood up. I went over. I touched the doors expecting to hear an alarm, but none came. They’d open easi
ly. I pressed my hand to one.

  – Not yet, a voice whispered from the other side.

  It was a big auditorium. This stage wasn’t like the one in the testifying tent. It had red curtains that made a heavy thump when they were pulled together. I heard the noise from my seat and I was seventy-five feet away. A stage crew practiced opening and closing them a few times.

  The stage had two sets of red curtains, one in the rear as a backdrop and one to the fore that would part during the show. When both sets were open we could see far back into the lungs of the theater.

  Where a band of four boys with longish hair down over their shoulders wore dungarees with black jackets. Kids who’d rather play Bark at the Moon than Some Enchanted Evening.

  Perfume floated up from the audience. The air above our heads was a pinkish-purple mist.

  The lights went out and I wasn’t prepared. I thought they’d make an announcement. But the show just began without warning. I wondered how Uncle Arms was going to get in touch with my sister. Send her a sceptor in the mail?

  For fifty seconds we sank into the gloom. I heard the curtains squeak as they closed in the dark. Hiding musicians and wires. The band, invisible now, dragged into a peppy tune. A doo-wop beat.

  Small spotlights appeared, one then the next, each the circumference of a tea cup. A hundred of them twirled against the red curtain.

  Our MC entered from the left even while the lights kept mulling around the far right. He cleared his throat, then the unseen techie swung his brights over. Once lit, the MC smiled.

  – Family and friends! he said.

  He wore a tuxedo and sang some awkward lyrics.

  Miss Innocence, Eastern United States, 1995

  You darling star

  No mere happenstance or perfect chance

  Have saved you until tonight.

  He was very good, crooning these words so seriously that they seemed to make sense. His talent was like sausage, filling and familiar. A rich, deep voice. Reasonably tall and just barely stocky. Not handsome so much as pleasant.

  The MC said, – We are here tonight because of some very talented and wonderful young ladies, aren’t we? Let’s hear it! He was so excited that he hopped.

  – Yes folks, we’ve brought ladies from Florida to Nantucket to compete for the chance to represent the Eastern seaboard of the United States in the National Miss Innocence America next year.

  He was a motivational speaker with top-shelf bombast. Introduced himself as Maximilian Duvet. –Tonight we’ve got a whole lot going on, don’t we?

  The crowd responded, but without vim.

  So he asked again. – Come on folks. Don’t we?!

  He had no time for passive audiences, so he gave us a certain practiced grin followed by a handful of simple dance moves. He didn’t seem expert, only excited. Giving us license to be happy. When he did that it was as if he’d cracked our atomic bonds. We, and I include myself, whistled, clapped, emitted energy.

  He grinned, punched his hand in the air. – Yes! he yelled.

  The small spotlights hadn’t stopped fluttering across Maximilian’s face since he’d started speaking. More than a distraction they were making him dizzy. – Okay. He waved his hands. Fellas. Guys. Lights!

  The audience laughed.

  –They’re more excited than I am!

  From the ether a dirgy song began, mostly bass and faint guitar.

  – Let’s take a moment to remember, Maximilian said. Never forget, he told us. Never forget.

  Here came my battalion of ghosts from Friday night; the boys who’d been so kind to clean up after me. The Confederates dressed and wooden sabers drawn. Serious little toys. One of them walked out of formation to stand at Maximilian’s side.

  Maximilian asked, – Who might you be?

  – My name is Lewis Tilgham Moore, Colonel of the 31st Virginia Militia of Frederick County.

  Max kneeled because the boy looked foolish standing on his toes, off balance with the heavy scabbard at his right hip. – And where are you going?

  – We are off to Harper’s Ferry, the boy said.

  – And do you think there’s trouble?

  – Some trouble, but nothing that can’t be fixed, I expect!

  The kid was a natural actor; easy with his lines, serious without being a boob. His voice was high-pitched, but he spoke slowly and that made him seem mature. The boy rejoined the others and they marched slowly to the middle of the stage, where they turned from profile to face the crowd straight.

  I wondered about this volunteer militia; not as a force, but the young men who took a rail one October afternoon in 1859 expecting nothing more than a skirmish. I’d read the newsletter their chaperone gave me. The boys went off to Jefferson County then to the federal armory at Harper’s Ferry where John Brown, with a piddling force of eighteen, hoped to spark a slave revolt; within two years there was this Civil War.

  It’s only after a hundred years that crusades seem inevitable; after all that time the unjust are easily named. But in the midst of history who knows his role?

  – You know folks, I’d like to take a minute to be a bit candid with you.

  Maximilian was of the crowd now; he had walked down from the stage. Portable microphone held, he stood at the first row. One big but not bright light rested on his shoulder.

  – Lately, he said, there have been terrible things happening to our industry. Little Pepper Miller accusing her father of wrongdoing on that Current A fair TV show.

  Hearing the name Pepper Miller the whole crowd swayed backward in their seats. One unwelcome wind had come from behind the curtains to blow across us plains.

  – But I want to tell you, he said, all of you. That I’ve been working pageants for thirty-five years. He smiled. That’s right, three-five. I know I don’t look it. At least I hope I don’t. Do I?

  Who could resist? I wanted to applaud. We liked him.

  – Yes!

  – But seriously. I’ve been on this train a very long time and I want you to understand something. Tabloids and television shows come around to film us. They ridicule the efforts these young ladies make. Of the time and expense not just to them, but to the entire family. Some groups even say these young women are being taken advantage of, but let me point out that no privately run organization in the world gives more girls college scholarships than the pageants of this country.

  He paused for five seconds of nodding.

  – Miss Innocence has been criticized for only accepting girls who have kept their chastity. I was there yesterday, on Braddock Street. And so were a lot of you. These ladies are tired from working twice on Saturday!

  Less comfortable now. Even I shifted in my seat.

  He scratched his head, pulled on his bow tie.

  – I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with it. We all go to hundreds of pageants. It’s a good system. I respect that other one. Girls should be applauded for surviving hard times, but what makes Miss Innocence special is that we honor the girls who chose to keep living good lives. Being a virgin is hard. There’s a lot of handsome young men out there. I know, because I used to be one!

  He laughed and I did with him. Most of the audience, too.

  – But even with the pressure in school and advertisements the forty-two girls backstage have decided not to be indulgent. There are so many things in this world that makes us feel powerless. Tonight we celebrate some young women who’ve proven just how powerful they are. That’s right. You should applaud. I will.

  He tucked the black microphone under an armpit and clapped. – Yes! he yelled.

  I took off my glasses because I had an itch in my ear like a riot. It was bad enough that I had to use one of the arms of my glasses to dig in there right at the drum.

  My glasses back on I looked over at Grandma who was interested, but confused. She might have liked this more if she understood the words.

  Maximilian motioned for the first contestant who walked out quickly, lifting her feet. She stood beside
him, he put his arm around her and then let her advertise.

  – Hello and greetings. My name is Karen Tiffany Haynes and I represent the lovely town of Knuckleswipe, Rhode Island.

  I wondered how Ms. Haynes would look sitting next to me. As a couple. Her hand on my thigh. My arm around her shoulders. Later we’d have a lot of sex. I was sure of it.

  – Good evening. My name is Barretta Watkins and I’m here from beautiful East Orange, New Jersey. Come see us!

  For Barretta I imagined a beach. Her in a thong and me wearing a gray sweat suit. Even in a daydream I was embarrassed by my body. I couldn’t even imagine owning a buffer one.

  Barretta coming out of the water, rubbing her eyes and then hugging me. We rolled around together. In my fantasy her little frame could support much weight. When we had sex it was everywhere. In the sand. On a rock. Standing up.

  – Greetings and God bless, my name is Sareen Amber Follows. From myself and all of Tennessee, from the Natchez State Parkway to the Fort Donelson National Battlefield, we’d like to welcome you over for dinner anytime!

  As each girl finished introducing herself she joined those who’d come out before her in a line at the right end of the stage. My fantasies lost focus as more young women appeared. I couldn’t make up new kinds of sex that quickly and started repeating. Demetria Shavers was also sitting next to me in an empty theater. Tiffany Murdock in the sand.

  When nine or ten stood around, smiling, I just started picturing getting them pregnant. The whole row bearing my children. I wasn’t even thinking of the fucking at that point; just that very sexy time, about five months in, when the belly can’t be ignored. A hard hump that precedes her; the skin a pleasure to lick.

  After Uncle Arms’s jubilee, to see the same girls on a finer platform was strange. Sareen Follows wore long gold gloves so that her skinny arms were concealed, but on Saturday afternoon she’d exposed them.

  Whether or not I heard the knock I won’t know, but I thought I did. As Maximilian awaited the next girl, I crept to the double doors.