Miriam Menken’s journalistic muse must have arrived slowly, because the next entry was dated weeks later.
December 2
Dear Journal,
Tom Jarret is a pimple head. Today at lunch, he made a disgusting noise at me.
The hormone-ridden Tom Jarret continued to make Miriam’s fecal roster for several weeks, until a school dance improved his rating with the young journalist:
December 16
Tonight at last was the Christmas Cotillion. Tom Jarret asked me to dance and he’s a great dancer! Why do I like him when we dance together, but when I see him at school I think he’s disgusting?
There was a question for the ages. As Miriam’s school year continued to mire in the valleys of scholastic routine and glory atop the poignant peaks of sweaty-palmed socialization, Tom Jarret’s reported character continued to fall and rise. With the close of school and the coming of summer, Tom lost out to Hal, and after Hal came Jakey. They appeared to have certain traits in common, foremost among them social ineptitude and acne, but all were compared unfavorably to Tom Jarret when it came to dancing. That Tom must have been something when the rug was rolled up.
I got to skimming, searching for the first mention of Josiah Carberry Menken. I found it in the second volume, halfway through Miriam’s first term at college, dated October fifth:
That Joe Menken just won’t take a hint. I wish he would quit asking me out.
I flopped back against the pillows with a sigh of exasperation: with this entry, my curiosity was at last confronted by the full ethical prudishness of my puritan soul. Should I read on and have a good laugh at my former employer’s expense, or behave myself and leave the social stumblings of the young J. C. Menken to obscurity? I hadn’t expected to find this candid a view of dear old J. C., and it jarred me into the awareness that, in spite of the sour and derisive attitude I held toward such things as bosses, I still liked the man and wanted to respect him. Rationalizing that Miriam’s opinion of him must have improved somewhat if she’d married him, I read on.
October 10
At the Harvest Dance tonight I met a really great guy everyone calls Chandler. He’s blond and has this big handsome face like a lion. He’s tall and built, and a terrific dancer. He taught me the Texas two-step. He’s such a strong lead it was easy to follow him. I hope he asks me out, not that Joe Menken.
October 15
Chandler asked me to go walking with him tonight. I guess that’s a date, right? Anyway, we walked around the quadrangle. He wanted to go down by the athletic fields, but I said no, so we turned around. I hope he doesn’t think I’m too slow. I really, really like him.
October 16
That dork Joe Menken asked me out again. As always, I turned him down. I don’t know, he’s okay looking and all, but he’s so cheerful all the time, like a camp counselor or something. Julia says he looks like he’s trying to hold a stack of quarters up his butt. Pretty gross, huh? But true.
October 17
Thinking about Chandler all day today. Does this mean I want him?
October 18
Thinking about Chandler.
October 19
Thinking about Chandler. When will he call?
October 22
Saw Chandler in the bookstore. It was great! He asked what I like to read, and I showed him some books, and he showed me some he liked. He said I should read his books and he’ll read mine and then we can meet and talk about them! I’m glad I showed him the stuff for my lit class and not the dreck I read in my dorm room.
October 25
Saw Chandler at the Student Union. He was drinking coffee with his friends. They’re all older, like he is. They all took years off to go to Europe like he did or they’re Vets going to college after the service. Chandler’s dreamy, really tall and so good looking. I just love to look into his eyes. They’re hypnotic. I said I was reading one of his books and he smiled and said he’d get to one of mine soon. I hope so!
October 27
I close my eyes and think about what it would be like to be with Chandler. It’s not like I’m a virgin, not after that night with Tim Hodges up at the lake, but there’s got to be more to it than that. With Chandler, I just know it would be much, much better. I keep thinking about how it could be, with him taking me to romantic places, and we fall deeply in love, and then one day, in a secluded place, it just happens … .
His book is pretty strange, all about this guy Jack Kerouac and the guys he hangs out with, but I guess it doesn’t hurt me to read some long hair stuff now and then.
November 1
I’m going to kill Joe Menken! I was talking to him by the library—or should I say he was talking to me,—just when Chandler walked by. He’ll think I’m dating Joe!
November 3
I’m going to live! I saw Chandler and he said we should get together soon! He said how about Sunday afternoon! I said yes!
November 4
Just one more day until Chandler! I have to get together with Julia and find just the thing to wear!
November 5
Today’s the day! I couldn’t eat breakfast. Now it’s noon and I’m waiting. I wonder just when “afternoon” means.
Cindey had been right: this was drivel. The only thing that kept me reading was base curiosity over whether the marvelous Chandler really had been better than Tim Hodges up at the lake. And a lingering bit of self-delusion that knowing all this, I could somehow help Cecelia. Cecilia, who had leaned her troubled head on my shoulder.
But the next few pages had been taped shut.
And someone had none too carefully peeled back that tape, plundering whatever too-too private entries had been thus protected. I examined the tape closely. Miriam had creased the tape the long way and folded it neatly around the three edges of the pages she wanted to obscure. Whoever had pried it off had tried to do so neatly, peeling it back from just one side of the crease and then neatly tucking the pages back in, but the adhesive had been just strong enough that the paper had come off on the tape. I picked a little at the untampered side, satisfying myself that the adhesive on the nonpeeled side was still strong, not dried to dust, meaning it had been applied fairly recently, and not almost thirty years prior. “Cindey, Cindey, Cindey,” I muttered as I followed her down the rabbit’s hole, pulling the pages apart again to discover what she must now know about Miriam’s torrid past.
November 9
It’s taken me until today to be able to write this. I can’t even tell Julia. Everything started out so good. He picked me up on his motorcycle and took me to his apartment. I know it sounds silly after all I’ve been thinking about, but I didn’t want to go in, not yet, but he said it was okay, we would only have tea, and that besides, he had a surprise for me. He sure did. Flowers all over the place, on the table, on the desk, on the bed. He made tea for me on his hot plate and told me he was looking for a wife, someone like me who was young and innocent but so obviously a woman, and I looked into his eyes and thought how lonely he seemed. Then he read to me for a while and then he was massaging my back and it felt good. I’m so stupid—he said he just wanted to touch me. He’s so big he picked me up like I was a little doll and whirled me about the room, and it was all glorious like dancing, except he put me down on the bed. He said weren’t my clothes in the way, didn’t I want a better massage? I said I wasn’t fast, and he said he understood. Then he had my clothes off and did it. I felt his penis inside me.
It didn’t hurt, not physically, but I started to cry. He stopped, and asked why I was crying. I told him I wanted to know him much better first and later would be so much better. He said okay, but he took me back to the dorm. It was awful riding on the back of his motorcycle holding on to him so I wouldn’t fall off but feeling sick and afraid it would somehow show and I didn’t want anyone to know. I said good night and ran to my room and felt like I was made of ice, and the worst thing is he hasn’t called since.
I put down the journal. Closed it. Pushed it away from
me as if it had covered my hands with something that would eat slowly through my skin. I jammed them into my armpits, tensing as if I was cold. Something inside of me that I did not want to name felt roused. I wanted to believe I could leave the journal closed, let it go. But I did not. After only seconds had passed, I picked it back up and read on.
November 12
Tonight Chandler was at the campus movie with another girl. Her name is Leslie and she’s a real snot from Long Island. I pretended I didn’t see. How could he! Why hasn’t he called? Doesn’t he want to know me better?
I still want to see him. It makes me feel dirty.
November 14
This is so strange I’m just going to write it down and then maybe it will make sense. This afternoon Chandler came by and asked if he could see me in my room for a minute. I said okay but I wasn’t sure. I hoped at least that the other girls would see me with him, but nobody did.
When he got to my room, he had this strange look on his face, kind of wild eyed except he always is only this was stranger and he wasn’t really looking at me. He got me in this bear hug and groaned and took me down onto my bed with all his clothes on, even this long topcoat he was wearing. He lay on top of me and pushed and breathed hard and got all sweaty and I think he came in his pants. Then he left, looking anywhere but at me. I don’t understand. He didn’t even kiss me. Later in the evening I saw Leslie and she gave me a look like she hates me. She doesn’t even know me!
November 17
Today in the Student Union I overheard some of the Leslie snot people talking. They were talking about how Leslie broke up with Hank Arnston to go out with Chandler but that all he gave her was a one-night stand. They laughed and said at least she got a movie out of it. I told Julia about what I’d heard (but not about any of what he did with me!), and she got all scornful and said Chandler is one of those guys who’s just racking up a score.
I never felt sorry for anyone like Leslie before. And worse yet, I still want him. I used to think life was so simple.
Carefully tucking the pages back under the tape, I closed the journal, turned out the light, and tried to go to sleep. I felt cruel and dirty myself, as if I had been swilling from a well of tears that should have been left sealed.
As my eyes adjusted to the dark, my rented room took on the nighttime brightness of urban streets, prying open my eyes. After ten minutes staring at the midnight ceiling, I admitted to myself that I was beyond rationality. I turned the light back on and read the next entry. And I felt in some small way redeemed, as it held the beginning to the answer I had originally sought.
November 19
Today I met Joe Menken by the library again. He asked if I’d go to dinner with him Saturday at the Steak & Flounder, and maybe I’m crazy, but I said yes. Him I can at least predict.
TEN
MERCIFULLY, the next pages of Miriam’s journal held rather boring accounts of ball games and studying, and I was able to calm down enough to get to sleep. I managed to stay that way until nearly ten the next morning, at which time I got up, pulled on a fresh pair of jeans and a turtleneck shirt, and wandered downstairs to see if Betty had any coffee I could mooch. I found my august landlady in the backyard, cussing over the results of a raid by last night’s raccoons. “You thieving mongrels!” she was growling to the long-since-departed animals. “Just because I leave food in my car you think you’ve got to pry your scrabby little way in and leave your scrabby little footprints all over my lovely seats. I’ll fillet you for dinner! That was my chocolate, by God!”
“How’d they get in?” I asked.
“Fatherless sons of Satan pried the sunroof open!” she roared. “The nerve. Scratched the paint with their filthy little claws and chewed up the gasket, too! And look here, they left chocolate paw prints on the leather seats. Looks like a bunch of miniature bulimics had a party grabbing the toilet seat or something. Shameless little wretches!”
“Oh. Ah, got any coffee?”
“In the kitchen. And don’t leave any paw prints on the counter, y’hear?”
“No, ma’am. Can I use the phone?”
“Why not?” she muttered. “Everybody else does.”
I crossed the yard to the kitchen door, where I was confronted by the hair-enshrouded mass of Stanley.
“Morning, mutt,” I said, trying to edge past him. He growled, a low, throaty suggestion of where the line was I could not cross. “Betty!” I called.
Still bent to the task of scrubbing at her leather car seats, Betty called, “Stanley! Don’t eat this one!”
Stanley ran a quivering wet nose down my arm and into my crotch. As I shouldered the mountain of fur aside, I hollered, “And where’s the Yellow Pages?”
From the yard, I heard something that sounded like “Silver-haired bore.”
“What?”
“Silverware drawer, goddamn it! And get that carrot out of your ear!”
I shouted back something eloquent—like “I can’t hear you! I have the Washington Monument in my ear!”—as I pulled knobs until I found what I was looking for and helped myself to some scratch paper and a pencil. The dog observed all this from close-enough quarters that when his bead of drool finally snapped free, it hit the toe of my boot.
I poured coffee and held it briefly under my eyes to steam them the rest of the way open. Then, taking a first hard pull at the acrid brew, I flipped the phone book open to P for psychologists and psychotherapists, Ph.D.
The maze of names took all the zing out of that first sip of coffee. I shook my head with disgust, then told myself that finding a new shrink for Cecelia was just a job, a chore like any other. The key to any chore was to keep it simple. I would devise a plan of attack and get it done, and put Cecelia and her peculiar father and all their problems in the past. Simplicity.
First, I discarded all male shrinks and anyone whose office did not lie within striking distance of either Cecelia’s school or Genesee. So far, so good. Thus mentally fortified against anxiety, I worked quickly through the list, rapidly paring the seemingly astronomical list of names down to a less daunting twelve. I called and left voice-mail messages with each. Not one answered her phone in person, a fact that somehow did not comfort me.
When I had thus discharged my obligations, I telephoned Fred Howard’s secretary and bullied her into scheduling a half hour of the man’s time for what was certain to be a world-beating informational interview. She set me up for Tuesday of the following week. So much for connections.
By noon, I had drunk all of Betty’s coffee and had given audience to every little thought that was on her mind that day, which included five pet peeves about her nearest neighbors and some ingenious thoughts concerning how to get even with each, such as showing bulimic raccoons how to access the neighbors’ trash cans.
The phone rang at 11:56; it was for me. “It’s some probe,” Betty purred, handing the thing to me. “Says she’s returning your call. Something you haven’t told me about your mental state, Em?”
I smiled gleefully. “Yeah. I’m a paranoid schizophrenic insomniac with an itchy trigger finger. I can only sleep soundly after a good kill. Did you know your locks can be picked with a credit card?” Into the phone I said, “Hello?”
There was a pause. “Ms. Hansen?” asked a soothing voice.
“Yeah. Um, yeah, this is Em Hansen speaking.”
“This is Geraldine Wharton. You called about making an appointment?”
“Yes. I’m doing a screening for a friend. She’s just a kid, so I’m trying to find someone for her. She’s having a … um, posttraumatic stress reaction,” I stuttered, trying to remember the exact words Melanie Steen, Ph.D., had used.
“Yes, I work with that. Can you tell me a bit more?”
“Ah …” I looked pointedly at Betty, who just smiled. “Well, she’s lost her memory of the event, and her grades have gone into the toilet, and her dad asked me to find someone who could help. The person she’s been seeing for the last six months didn’t pan out. I w
anted to come meet you, and—”
“I’d really have to meet the client,” asserted Geraldine. “I charge eighty dollars an hour. I can set something up for her in two weeks.”
“No thank you,” I replied, then said my good-byes and hung up. Cecelia Menken did not need someone who was bent on cutting her away from what herd she had.
Betty smiled winningly, hopeful that I would talk. I smiled back blandly and asked which way the bathroom was, figuring to return some of the coffee I’d borrowed.
The afternoon ground on. By 7:00 P.M., six psychologists had called back. Their calls always came in a few minutes before the hour, and I quickly became comfortable wandering out of earshot of the phone and helping Betty with yard work between the hour and ten till, when psychologists were apparently busy with their patients. I made appointments to see the ones with nice voices and manners and openings within the next week; others, I discarded.
“How many did you call?” Betty asked.
“A dozen, I think.”
“Pretty good batting average,” she commented, looking over my shoulder at my list. “Want some dinner?”
Only Flesh and Bones Page 5
