by C. D. Payne
9:50 p.m. As our motel is now even more clogged with stranded travelers and partying Ole Miss students, no amount of pleading was able to free up another room. Yes, diary, it appears that we are about to experience a Wedding Night for Three.
SATURDAY, March 6 — Carlotta’s friends refused even to consider her offer to sleep in the bathroom or out in the hallway. Reflecting the altered circumstances, we negotiated a slight shuffling in the bed order. Carlotta was moved to an outside position, and Apurva slept in the middle next to her husband. Lots of breezy banter as we settled in, but one could sense their lack of privacy chafed on the newlyweds. Carlotta thoughtfully pretended to fall immediately to sleep, but I don’t think things progressed very far on the other side of the mattress beyond a mild snuggle and possible furtive grope. Oh well, it’s not like anyone had come to that crowded bed a dewy-eyed expectant virgin.
As I lay there in the dark wondering if Carlotta was the only person in the room with a spectacular T.E., I tried to distract myself by imagining what Sheeni would say if she knew I was honeymooning with her former boyfriend. I pray she never finds out. I wondered how Fuzzy back in Ukiah was getting along on his first date with Lana Baldwin. Why, I asked myself, do people go to such bizarre lengths to couple with others when that fairly peculiar physical act is all over in a few minutes? Of course, you can blame the crazed single-mindedness of our genes. My genes, I knew, had been alerted that alluring, fecund Apurva lay just an arm’s length away. And why, they clamored to know, wasn’t I doing anything about it? If my genes were in an uproar, one can only imagine the consternation among Trent’s. His biological destiny had been sanctioned by the state, he had golden genes to die for, his goal was within reach, yet somehow someone had called a time-out on the field.
3:05 p.m. Memphis airport. Boarding for my flight to San Francisco is supposed to commence in 20 minutes (I’ve heard that before). Snowplows have cleared the runway and crews are de-icing the plane. Anxious to escape further honeymoon chaperone duties, I managed to bribe the motel manager’s son into braving a trip to the airport in his four-wheel-drive SUV.
Carlotta hopped out of bed pretty early this morning—announcing to her groggy companions that she would be back with breakfast in exactly one hour—no more, no less. While I slogged through the snow in search of an open donut shop, I hoped and presumed that marriage consummation was underway back at the motel. It is true that I detected a certain slackening of tensions upon my return. Too bad our culture doesn’t believe in throwing open the window and hanging out the bloody sheet.
Apurva wanted to call her parents, but Carlotta advised them both to wait until they return on Wednesday (Trent has a vital swim meet with Willits on Friday).
“You only get one honeymoon,” I pointed out. “Don’t spoil it by involving a bunch of hysterical parents.”
Leave-taking with the newlyweds was quite wrenching, as you’d expect. Not a dry eye in the house, but sharing someone’s wedding night can be such an emotionally bonding experience—especially if you’re paying for the entire affair.
• • •
SUNDAY, March 7 — It was sometime in the middle of the night when Carlotta finally dragged her weary carcass through my front door. She dropped her bags and shuffled into the bedroom. There, lounging impatiently under Granny DeFalco’s quilt, was My Love—naked as a clam and primed for conversation.
“Nickie! Where have you been?” she demanded, switching on the lamp.
“Oh, hi, darling. Boy, am I exhausted. Do you mind if I skip the flossing tonight?”
“Nickie, you’ve been gone for three days! You left darling Albert unattended!”
“Well I left a note for Mrs. Ferguson,” I replied, collapsing fully clothed on the bed. “Maybe I’ll skip brushing too.”
“Nickie, don’t lie to me. I know you were with Trent and Apurva. I heard all about it from Vijay. Where are they?”
I fished through Carlotta’s purse and handed My Love a Polaroid photograph. She stared at it in disbelief.
“What the fuck is this?”
“They’re married, Sheeni. I tried to talk them out of it, but they wouldn’t listen.”
All the color drained from my darling’s face. “But they’re too young to get married!”
“Not in Mississippi.”
“Mississippi! How did they get to Mississippi?”
“Same way I did. By airplane.”
“You paid for their tickets!”
“No way, honey. They were already there when they called me. They were destitute. So I went there to see if I could talk them into coming home.”
“Why didn’t you call me!?”
“They made me promise not to tell anyone.”
Sheeni stared in horror at the photo. “What’s she wearing? She couldn’t possibly have gotten married looking like that! My God, what’s that on her feet?”
“It was cold there, honey. They were having the Blizzard of the Century.”
“But, why!” she cried. “Why did they get married?”
“Beats me. Don’t tell anyone, but I think Apurva may be, you know, in a family way.”
Sheeni pulled away as I tried to embrace her. She tossed the photo back at me and curled up in a ball, facing the wall.
“When did they do it?” she asked, burying herself in the quilt.
“Friday.”
“Mississippi, huh? Then it’s not a real marriage. It doesn’t count in California. It’s not valid in civilized regions.”
“They are legally married, Sheeni. And I am very, very tired.”
No answer. I stood up and started removing my clothes. I could hear muffled sobbing from under the quilt.
I switched out the light and got into bed. I stared up at the ceiling and listened to My Love cry bitter tears for another man. I no longer felt like sleeping. Eventually, she rolled over and faced me.
“I’ve been in love with Trent since I was five years old. Do you know why I broke up with him?”
“I assume because I came along.”
“Don’t flatter yourself. It’s because you can’t spend your whole life with someone you met when you were in kindergarten. It’s just not done.”
“Oh.”
First time I heard that rule.
“Is that all you can say?”
“Sheeni, I love you. I will always love you. And I don’t give a damn that we met in junior high school.”
She slid her arms around me and pressed her soft warm body against mine.
“Oh, Nickie, I want you to make love to me … now … without a condom.”
Thrilled, François kissed her. “Isn’t that rather reckless, darling?” I asked.
“It’s reckless and it’s necessary.”
And so, diary, I joined at last with My Love as nature intended—secretions undammed, flesh against flesh, being to being. After a gloriously unfettered sensory implosion, we fell asleep in each other’s arms—as entwined as two people could ever be.
Hours later I awoke with an arm pinned painfully under 112 pounds of exquisite girl. Extracting the mangled limb, I lay awake in the dark and thought about what Sheeni had said. Some of it was pretty awful, but at least she finally confessed to loving someone. Too bad it had to be Trent. Still, her heart clearly does embrace the concept of love. That means she is theoretically capable of loving other people (me, for example). And she did have unprotected sex with me. Pretty shocking, but I’m not exactly sure what it all means, except that my genes are thrilled. Here’s another question: Does some of it stay in there or does it all dribble out on the sheet?
10:45 a.m. Sorry, God, church was just not on our agenda today. I microwaved some frozen tamales, and we breakfasted in bed with the Sunday paper. My dad, I’m semi-happy to report, has been sprung from jail. Authorities now believe the virus was planted on his computer by “technologically sophisticated eco-terrorists.” The page-one article noted that former suspect George W. Twisp has divulged to police that “a large sum of money
and many valuable items” had disappeared recently from his home. What a liar!
While Sheeni took a leisurely hot bath, I made a call to keep my half of the bargain.
“Hello, Vijay,” I said, “let me speak to your father.”
“Who is this?”
“None of your fucking business.”
Mr. Joshi came on the line. I gave it to him short and sweet.
“Your daughter is honeymooning with Trent in the South. She’ll be home on Wednesday.” Click.
Bet I made their day.
2:35 p.m. Sheeni just left in a huff because I refused to divulge Trent’s exact location in Mississippi. My Love expressed a desire to phone the twit. As if a guy needs to interrupt his romantic honeymoon to take a call from a former girlfriend, even if all she claimed she wanted to do was “wish them both hearty congratulations.” I suggested she send them a card. I know etiquette is on my side on this issue, and I was making that exact point when Sheeni slammed the door.
Still somewhat jet-lagged, Carlotta sat in the sun on the back porch and watched Fuzzy and Lana wash Granny DeFalco’s cherry 1965 Ford Falcon. It will be his to drive in 14 months and 23 days (he’s counting down the hours to his sixteenth birthday, when he can get his license). For now he has to content himself with driving his car in and out of the garage, and revving the engine to impress chicks. From the boisterous way they were squirting each other with the hose, I gathered that things had not gone too badly on my pal’s first date.
8:40 p.m. The Weather Channel reports another big storm is headed toward the South. Looks like I got out just in time. With any luck, the newlyweds may be holed-up in that motel all week with nothing to do but exhaust their supply of defective prophylactics. Surely that elusive G-spot has been located by now.
• • •
MONDAY, March 8 — School today was abuzz with rumors of a Preston-Joshi merger. Half the girls in my classes looked like they were in shock and the other half appeared to be in deep mourning. Heartsick Sonya in clothing technology class was totally out of control.
“If Trent married that girl,” she declared to Carlotta, “I’m going to kill myself. Right after I murder you.”
“What did I do?” I asked, alarmed.
“You introduced me to him. You got my hopes up, girl.”
“Well, meet me in the cafeteria at noon and I’ll introduce you to my neighbor, Bruno Modjaleski. He’s a fabulous kisser.”
“Bruno Modjaleski is a pig,” she retorted. “Besides, everyone knows he’s going with Candy Pringle. And I very much doubt he ever kissed you.”
“Want to bet $50?”
“You’re on, pimple toes.”
Sheeni was pretty frosty toward me in physics class. I wasn’t sure if she was pissed at me, attempting to quell vicious rumors, preoccupied with the hydrogen atom, disturbed by rumors of my bet, or simply anticipating future Carlotta snubbing in gym.
Another traumatic embarrassment in the cafeteria. Of course, with Candy Pringle snacking on a slimming cheerleader’s lunch in the chair beside him, Bruno had to deny everything. Carlotta turned a violent shade of scarlet and was forced to pay off Sonya right on the spot just to shut up her big fat mouth. What a humiliation, especially with you-know-who yucking it up with Vijay at the next table over.
Fuzzy questioned my sanity on the walk home from school.
“Carlotta, why are you spreading it all over school that you made out with Bruno?” he demanded.
“I’m not, Frank. It just seemed like an easy way to make fifty bucks. And why aren’t you walking Lana home?”
“Her brother gives her a ride. They live way back up in the hills somewhere.”
“Perhaps they’re trying to re-create their West Virginia milieu. So how was your date?”
“Great. We had pizza downtown. Then we walked to the Little League park and smoked a joint in the visitors’ dugout.”
“Where’d you get the reefer?”
“From Lana. We smoked one in the Falcon yesterday too. It was awesome. I thought my brain was going to explode.”
“So she has a great body and access to powerful hallucinogenics. I told you I can pick them. What base did you get to?”
“Well, I’m sort of working up to holding her hand.”
“Frank, you’d only known Heather for three hours when you made it to home base.”
“True, but Heather ran a pretty fast offense. Did Lana say anything about me?”
“She said you were tons of fun and really smart.”
“Cool. When did she say that?”
“This afternoon in the locker room. You might call it the naked truth.”
Fuzzy punched Carlotta in the arm.
“Brute! How dare you strike a woman!”
“Yeah, well just keep your filthy eyeballs off my chick.”
5:45 p.m. Carlotta received another unexpected blow when she walked in her front door. The table was set for five. Making themselves at home were my new cook and chauffeur. Bored with being snowed in and worried about their parents, Trent and Apurva had decided to bail on their honeymoon. Already Apurva was in the kitchen showing Mrs. Ferguson how to make vegetarian meatloaf. Trent was petting Albert on the sofa and listening politely to dim Dwayne boast how his dog Kamu could “bite the head off” Apurva’s dog Jean-Paul.
8:05 p.m. Our next shipment of Wart Watches had better sell out in a hurry. Trent eats like he’s at the training table of the Chicago Bears. Marriage in general seems to be good for the appetite. I only pray Apurva was eating for two. All through the meal I could sense Trent was wondering why Carlotta insists on dining with repulsive Dwayne. Hey guy, I don’t like the cretin any more than you do.
Serving seconds on dessert, Mrs. Ferguson was dumbfounded to discover that Trent and wife somehow had visited Memphis without touring Graceland.
“And what is Graceland?” inquired Apurva.
Mrs. Ferguson staggered back from this blow.
“It’s Elvis Presley’s home,” explained her husband. “It’s now open to the public.”
“You have … heard of Elvis … ain’t ya?” asked my maid.
“Certainly,” replied Apurva. “He’s that heavyset singer who died many years before I was born.”
If Apurva regards Elvis as ancient history, I can only imagine what she thinks of Frank.
After dinner Trent took Carlotta aside and requested a $100 advance on my first month’s car rental. I paid him in cash and told him to park the Acura out of sight in the alley behind the garage. Then Apurva helped me move my stuff out of the bedroom, which Carlotta is graciously giving up (but only temporarily!) to the newlyweds. Believe it or not, I’ll be bedding down tonight on the sofa in the living room.
Oh well, I keep reminding myself that at least Trent is married—just as those aging Vietnam War protesters make the best of things by reminding themselves that at least Richard Nixon is dead.
10:20 p.m. Thank God Sheeni didn’t call or come over. I did have one visitor: Bruno Modjaleski, who knocked on my front door to apologize for being a lying weasel.
“I’m sorry I cost you the fifty, Carly. But I’m going to make it up to you.”
“Good,” replied Carlotta, folding her arms over her nightgown and not letting him in. “I could use the money.”
“Yeah, I decided to pay you back with $50 worth of kisses.”
Before I could slam the door, the brute grabbed me and made his first installment right there on the front stoop. A fate worse than death (especially the ass grope) and I didn’t even get it down on video to show Sonya.
TUESDAY, March 9 — Another unfortunate development, diary. Let me begin by noting that I am a sound sleeper. This is why I did not hear the key turn in the lock sometime around midnight, nor hear the person enter. The room was dark and their view into the living room (where Carlotta was sleeping) was partially screened by the new entertainment center cabinet extending out from the wall to form a de facto entry foyer for my tiny home. I surmise that the
person proceeded quietly down the hallway to the bathroom, where they removed their garments. Ever-useless Albert, locked in the kitchen, raised no alarm. They then tiptoed across the hall to the bedroom, where—while attempting to slip beneath the covers—they encountered the lightly clad voluptuous form of a sleeping female. Waking in surprise, Apurva leaped to what for her might have been a logical conclusion and shouted, “No, Carlotta, this is not right! No!”
Her husband woke up; Carlotta jolted awake and dashed into the bedroom just as angry Trent switched on the light. Everyone gasped. On the other side of the bed was My Love, coming to the traumatic realization that she was standing nude in a room with her former childhood sweetheart and his new wife.
Time slowed way down to drag out the shock and horror as eyes met eyes around the room.
“Sheeni!” Trent expostulated.
Apurva moved her lips, but no sounds emerged.
Carlotta’s mind spun like a slot machine, but nothing came up.
At last My Love broke the impasse. She folded her arms over her nakedness and walked silently from the room. Open-mouthed, Trent and Apurva gazed questioningly at Carlotta.
“Er,” Carlotta mumbled, “she must have, uh, come to the wrong house … by mistake.”
A moment later My Love had tossed on her clothes and fled out the front door. I grabbed Trent’s raincoat off a hook, threw it on over Carlotta’s nightgown, and hurried after her down the darkened sidewalk.
“Sheeni! Wait! Stop!”
My Love turned, hit me in the eye with a small metallic object, and stomped on.
I picked up the discarded key and hurried after her.
“I’m sorry,” I said, catching up with her. “I’m really sorry.”
She did not slow or look at me. “I have never been so humiliated.”
“I know, darling, it’s, it’s … regrettable.”
“Don’t call me ‘darling.’ You are such a scumbag. How can I face them ever again? How can I face anyone in this damn town?”
“Sheeni, could we slow up here?”
Still declining to look at me, My Love quickened her pace. “You say you love me, but you never tell me anything. I’ve had it with your deceptions.”
