A Father's Kisses

by Bruce Jay Friedman

  Chapter Two

  It was Ed who set the wheels in motion for us to meet officially, although his gesture did not immediately have the intended effect.

  One morning I arrived at the diner a bit earlier than was my usual custom and found that my place setting had been moved to the stool beside the one that was normally reserved for Peabody. Why this generous behavior on the part of Ed? Though he said nothing of it, I can only guess that Ed was aware that I had lost my job in poultry distribution, that my life was a lonely one—and that my daughter Lettie bristled when I showed the slightest interest in a female, even for the sake of companionship. No matter how hard I tried to disguise it, Ed, or so I felt, had seen the pain behind my eyes and responded accordingly.

  Then, too, there is the nature of our town. Demographically we are at a crossroads, drawing some of our residents from the rambunctious western section of the state and others from our more sophisticated eastern corridor. There are hard-scrubbers among us from our barren northern tier along with easy-moving delta types from the alluvial south.

  During the Civil War, we went this way and that way.

  All of this might have resulted in a contentious brew—as it had in many of our great cities—but it has had the opposite effect on us.

  Not long ago, we were voted “America’s Third Friendliest City” by a spinoff of Forbes.

  There is a man named Lowell Ginty in our town who has a head that is three times the normal size and a body that is not too appetizing to look at either. Let’s just call him a human shipwreck. In some other community, he would probably be hidden away in an attic. Yet if you took the time to get to know him, you would find Lowell Ginty to be the most convivial of fellows and not in the least bit scary. In addition, he is something of an expert on the Harding administration.

  Each day, Lowell Ginty takes his coffee and toasted English muffin at the Wal-Mart cafeteria where he is greeted warmly by early bird shoppers and left to his own devices.

  Children who gawk at him are admonished.

  I offer this as an example of our local style.

  The amicable nature of our town notwithstanding, I could not resist asking Ed why he had arranged to seat me beside the quirky Valentine Peabody.

  “I have always felt,” Ed said cryptically, “that you should have a Continental friend.”

  With that, he joined Betty at the griddle, leaving me to puzzle over the meaning of his comment.

  Peabody’s reaction to the new seating arrangement was not what either of us expected.

  He arrived a bit later, took a quick look at me and said: “This won’t do. It won’t do at all.

  “What do you expect of me,” he said, his face flushed and angry, “to just proceed and have my breakfast in this manner? Well, I won’t, I can tell you that.

  “And besides,” he continued, running a hand through his luxuriant hair, “whose idea was it?”

  “Certainly not mine,” I said, gathering up my place setting and utensils and moving to the far end of the counter, hoping to indicate by my behavior that it would be fine with me if I never laid eyes on the man again. Though I could not think of any at the moment, I felt confident there were plenty of people who would enjoy my company.

  “That’s a bit more like it,” said Peabody, taking his usual seat at the counter.

  But his outburst seemed to have upset him as much as it did me.

  “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings, Ed,” he said, backing up a bit. “But it was a bit unusual, you have to admit that.”

  “You didn’t hurt my feelings,” said Ed, with a nod in my direction.

  “Whatever,” said Peabody, waving off Ed’s response and somehow insulting me once again in the process.

  “I mean here I’d been all prepared to have my breakfast in the usual manner,” he said, “and then I come in and find this.”

  “Calm down,” said Ed firmly. “What’ll you have?”

  “A white Western,” said Peabody, in yet another concession.

  I was feeling smaller and smaller, as if I’d been caught stealing from the cash register. And I was angry, too, so much so that it was all I could do not to bash Peabody. Which is what I probably would have done had I been a younger man. Ed took on an aloof attitude—since Peabody’s outburst was as much a criticism of him as it was of me—and the atmosphere in the diner became chilly.

  “I had an awful night,” said Peabody, hunched over his food now—and giving more ground. “I generally have one martini before dinner and last night I must have had four.

  “But I plan to work out this morning,” he said, as if to reassure Ed of his excellent habits.

  Ed’s response was understandably muted and Peabody finished his omelet in a surprisingly sloppy manner, dabbing at the residue on his lips with a napkin.

  “Now look here,” he said to Ed, taking a bill from his pocket, examining it this time and then laying it on the counter. “I would like you to have a hundred dollars.”

  “Why is that?” asked Ed.

  “I made a bet that Betty would come to work wearing the pink bedroom mules that I adore. Obviously she hasn’t.”

  He gestured toward Ed’s wife in the kitchen. She was wearing her standard flowered housecoat, but instead of the usual pink mules, she was trotting around in unlaced Nike sneakers and white sweatsocks.

  “Ergo,” said Peabody, “You win a hundred dollars.”

  Though I had never heard the word “ergo” pronounced aloud, I felt I had a good sense of its meaning. It had a nice ring to it, and I made a mental note to try to shoehorn it into one of my future conversations.

  “But I didn’t make any bet,” said Ed, with some logic. “Therefore I cannot take the money.”

  “My dear fellow,” said Peabody, trying to suppress his frustration. “I made a bet and lost.”

  “But I didn’t know about the bet,” said Ed, emphatically. “Therefore I did not win.”

  “Take the goddamned money,” Betty cried out from the kitchen.

  “Now there’s a voice of reason,” said Peabody with a triumphant smile.

  “You stay out of this, Betty,” Ed called out to his wife, a rare instance in which he had stood up to the peppery Nicaraguan.

  In what must have been an act of desperation, Peabody glanced in my direction for support, but he might just as well have appealed to the sink. I certainly wasn’t going to be of any help to him. Additionally, I sided with Ed; had I been in his position, I would have behaved in exactly the same manner. How can you accept money for winning a bet you never knew about and continue to think of yourself as an honorable man.

  But Peabody evidently lived by some other code.

  Seeing that his situation was hopeless, Peabody put the money back in his pocket and took a sip of coffee. Then his eyes went vacant. But he soon recovered and craned his head around, tilting up his chin as if he was listening to music. Then he turned to Ed, leaned across the counter in a conspiratorial manner and said: “Have I ever told you what a lovely place you have here?”

  Chapter Three

  At another time, I might have let the incident slide. But unemployment—and the promise it held of a bleak future—had dealt a sharp blow to my self-esteem. My way of dealing with the Peabody rebuke was to stay away from Ed’s altogether and to take my breakfast at the cottage. It consisted of Special K cereal and 2 percent milk, for weight control—although I generally ended up eating several bowls of it and thereby invalidating the original purpose. More often than not, I would compound the felony by sneaking in a Linzer cookie. I would eat this breakfast on the porch and stare out at Liar’s Pond where a distraught socialite had once met her end. Jamming on the brakes of her Jaguar XKE, she had leapt into the mire and gone to a watery grave. (It was never determined what was eating her.)

  There were times when I wondered how much adversity it would take for me to join her down there.

  “She certainly was brave,” Lettie had said on the day Ed Bivens and his First Re
sponse Team went looking for her.

  I immediately countered with the conventional litany about how it’s much braver to soldier on through troubled times—since I did not want to give her any ideas for the future. But I knew what she meant.

  Afternoons, I put in a few hours at the tanning salon where I had been placed in charge of registration and the timer. It is a much more responsible job than it would appear, my predecessor having been a hippie-type girl who got caught up in the music on her Walkman and fried a banker. (There had also been some talk that Megan was delivering more than suntans in the popular and oversubscribed cubicle four.)

  The meager pay was not about to change my life, but there were excellent health-oriented magazines to be enjoyed in the reception area and other perks as well, such as reduced prices on sunblock creams. Free suntans were also available to the help, a privilege I rarely took advantage of, since I had no interest in walking around with some kind of slick Hollywood-style glow.

  Later in the day, and with my heart in my throat, I would send off résumés to other poultry distributors. I had had them made up by an expert, and though each one was a typographical work of art, I did not feel that they captured the real me. To do that, you would have to spend some time in my company and gradually draw me out—which the resume people were not inclined to do. But I had paid for the résumés, so I sent them out anyway.

  After I had finished up at the salon, I would pick up Lettie at the middle school and bring her home. Upon arriving at the cottage, she would drink a glass of chocolate milk and then take up a position at the window, twisting her hands behind her and staring out at the pond.

  “I have such an awful yearning,” she would say with a sigh. “I want something, but I don’t know what it is.”

  I recognized the dramatic tableau from a Disney made-for-TV movie, but I did not let on. Then, despite her not knowing what she wanted, she would present me with a wish list, a sample of which is as follows:

  New bedroom furniture

  The biggest trampoline they make

  A third cat

  A trip to Brentwood, California, Home of the Stars

  A Caboodle makeup kit

  Apart from the Caboodle makeup kit, which I could manage, each item was like an arrow in my chest, since it was all I could do to hold on to the cottage. Lettie, who could detect the slightest dip in my spirits, would attempt to console me by saying, “They’re just wishes”—but I took my responsibilities seriously, and had, ever since Lettie’s mother had passed on.

  Though my situation at the moment was grim, I did what little I could to bolster my morale—dressing neatly, taking a daily shave and sponge bath, and even treating myself to such items as an ornate belt buckle. Sometimes I sent my clothing to the dry cleaners, despite the exorbitant cost. What exactly would I prove by giving up every last pleasure?

  In this spirit, and taking advantage of one of Lettie’s sleepovers, I drove out to Frolique one night. It is our only topless bar, and it is situated on a dark and deserted street in the farthest reaches of our town—as if everyone is ashamed of it. Though I still mourned the loss of Glo, I did not feel unfaithful by merely showing up there. Knowing her cheery nature, she might even have approved.

  “You go right ahead, Binns,” I could imagine her saying, “if that’s what pleases you. But don’t you dare sample the merchandise.”

  She would say this with a twinkle in her eye, one that she maintained throughout her darkest days. It’s a wonder I have been able to push on without her—to the extent that I have.

  We are a Bible Belt county, which explains why Frolique is the only establishment of its kind permitted in the region. And it was no walk in the park to get it through the legislature. Little Irwin had joined the Grimble brothers and several other party animals in standing outside the statehouse holding placards that said the bill better pass—or else!

  It is probably easier to get into the Pentagon than it is to get past the door at Frolique. To be admitted, you must present a dozen different kinds of ID, be subjected to an interview and have your fingerprints put on file. That holds even if you have been there before. With all that hassle, you would think they had something special going on in there, which they don’t. Strictly speaking, it is not even all that topless, the two dancers who work there removing their halter tops only briefly at the conclusion of their act. One is a scrawny blonde with small titties and a sassy style. It is no strain to watch her. But on the night I showed up, Cassie was out of town on an industrial cleaning job. (It is not uncommon in our town for an individual to hold down two—or even three—jobs in order to make ends meet.)

  The dancer on duty, Mary, is a hefty divorced mother of two who works as a receptionist during the day at the mortgage company. She has an excellent personality and never fails to greet customers with a bright smile—and to console them when their applications for a mortgage are turned down. But I have never been comfortable with her as a topless dancer. She has a broad-shouldered and squarish type of body that I have never found particularly appealing. (Which is not to suggest that she is a secret guy.) But maybe it is a failure on my part. Mary does have her fans—the Grimble brothers in particular—but none appeared to have shown up on this particular night. Whatever the case, she has a wonderful attitude and a good sense of rhythm.

  And more important, watching her was something to do.

  After filling out all the forms and establishing that I was not a felon, I ordered a beer at the bar and took a seat at one of the little tables in the lounge area. Then I settled in to watch Mary gamely shimmy and shake her big squarish body to a recording of “Brown Sugar.”

  I had the impression that I was the only member of the audience until the conclusion of Mary’s dance, at which point I heard an individual at a table in the corner begin to stamp his feet, applaud loudly and shout, “Bravo.”

  The enthusiastic member of the audience turned out to be none other than my nemesis, Valentine Peabody.

  To my surprise, he behaved in an unusually cordial manner toward me on this occasion. It was during Mary’s break; no sooner had Peabody recognized me than he invited me over to his table and asked if I would join him in a glass of Mumm Champagne. I declined politely, saying I was aware that Champagne was a great treat, but I did not much care for it and preferred the Russian drink, Stolichnaya vodka.

  He seemed taken aback at first, but after consideration, he asked if it was any good.

  “It gets me by,” I said.

  “Really? Perhaps I’ll try one as well.”

  He signaled to the fellow at the door who did the fingerprinting and also filled in as a waiter.

  “Bring us two Stollies,” said Peabody, pronouncing the name of the drink in an unusual way that frankly made me wince. Not that I would dream of correcting a fellow with an English accent.

  When our drinks arrived, I automatically reached into my wallet to pay my share. Covering my hands with his own, Peabody leaned forward, stared deep into my eyes and said: “No, no, dear boy. I’m the host. You must remember that.”

  He proceeded to take a sip of his vodka, after which he licked his lips, and considered the taste.

  “It’s quite good, isn’t it? I believe I’ll be having some more of it in the future.”

  Then, his eyes shining with delight, he nodded toward Mary who had begun her second set.

  “Isn’t she marvelous. The manner in which she throws herself into her work with such abandon. I do believe she’s quite extraordinary.”

  Suffice it to say that I did not agree with this evaluation of either Mary or her performance. “Serviceable” would have been much closer to it. But there is no accounting for taste, and I decided not to put a damper on my friend’s enthusiasm.

  “She gets the job done,” was my diplomatic response.

  “She does far more than that,” said Peabody.

  “I probably shouldn’t say this,” he continued leaning in close to me, “but Mary quite fancies me. She’
s offered to come back to the hotel with me for $1,700. That’s a bit high, don’t you think?”

  I certainly agreed with him and had no qualms about telling him as much. Then, too, I was surprised that Mary would make an offer of this nature, since I had always thought of her as a decent woman, her unhappy divorce and part-time career as a topless dancer notwithstanding. Still, I was not about to pass judgment on a struggling single parent. And there is no question that $1,700 would take you a long way in our community, particularly in these troubled economic times.

  “It is awfully high,” reflected Peabody, “particularly since I don’t need her to come back to my hotel room. What I’d really like to do is be there when she gets out of the loo and smell her finger. Wouldn’t that be something.”

  At this point, Peabody and I parted company in a serious way. He had entered a territory that was unfamiliar to me and one that I had no wish to explore. Not that it canceled out the possibility of our forging a friendship, but I could see that our tastes were light years apart. The last thing on earth I wanted to do was stand outside the loo and wait for Mary to come out so that I could smell her finger. Nor would I consider waiting outside the Paris Opera House for that purpose. Who would, for that matter, except this peculiar stranger who shared a table with me?

  Yet once again, I saw no reason to throw cold water on the man’s fantasies and muttered something noncommittal about different strokes being the order and strength of our nation.

  “After all,” I said, “isn’t that what made America great?”

  It was a comment that only served to provoke him.

  “That’s all very easy for you to say,” said Peabody, with a wave of his hand. “With all your women.”

  Here again, I found him to be wide of the mark and had to wonder how he had formed the impression that I was a lothario. It was true that I had dated some as a bachelor and had the affair with a stuntwoman to my credit. But once I met Glo at the livestock auction, that was it for me in the romance department.