“So in a way you wanted what they had but felt it wasn’t totally yours?”
Addie nodded. “I never looked at it that way. I just wanted to fit in.”
To one side another scene began, and she was now the mother at the end of the dining table, a relatively new bride for the second time, and The Deuce, Artie Bittman, the husband at the other end. Lissa sat on one side.
“I saw this woman today in the office,” said Artie, “And she had this short haircut, very chic, and I was thinking you could get something like that. All that hair is so much work.”
“Cut my long hair,” protested Addie, “No I don’t think so. It looks very elegant when I pile it up on top of my head.”
“No, sort of makes you look gawky, Olive Oil-ish.”
“It does not!”
“Well, then, get some colors put in, be a little glam, this ain’t the sticks you know. Take the gray out.”
“Are you nuts? I’m thirty years old. I don’t have gray. We’re not all forty-nine years old. Why don’t you take out your gray—at least you have some!”
“I’m going to cut my hair, Mommy,” said Lissa.
“No you are not!” insisted Addie.
Artie winked at Lissa. “Don’t worry, dollface, I’ll sneak you into a salon when Mom is off traveling.”
Addie scowled at Artie, furious at him. “Don’t you dare. I’m warning you.”
The winds blew and time passed and she and Artie were in bed. She lay quietly, flat on her back, her eyes closed. She was enraged once again at her new husband, who seemed always to say and do things she despised. Had she made a colossal mistake? Shouldn’t she just leave him now, before it got worse? It was a thought that inexplicably produced apprehension rather than exhilaration, so her mind quickly replaced the idea with a list of everything she had to do the next day, and she began to review each task, one by one. Suddenly Artie was on top of her, sliding up, his genitals pressed tightly against her face. Addie squirmed and twisted her neck but Artie wriggled down more tightly. She reached up and pushed against him, trying to dislodge him.
“Lick it, baby,” he said, oblivious.
Addie raised her chin ferociously, hurting him enough to make him rise slightly, then said, “Get off me! You asshole!”
“That’s the idea,” he said, massaging himself, but moving enough so that she could slide under him and out.
“What the hell is the matter with you? How many times have I asked you not to shove your balls in my face? I hate that!”
“Yeah well you’re the only woman who does.”
“You bring me a signed affidavit and pictures of all those women who like it. Hell go find them and do it to them. I don’t care.”
“You’re just frigid.”
“No, you can’t fuck.”
Artie flung himself ontop of Addie and roughly reached down with his fingers, crudely opening her, dislodging her diaphragm, then pressing himself inside her. She thought about twisting with all her strength, flinging him off onto the floor, but it happened too quickly, as usual, and anyway, it was more fun to heckle him. “Is it in? Is it all the way in?” she said in a breathy, insincere voice, then, “Well I can’t feel it! Why don’t you use your pinky—maybe that would be big enough to feel.”
Artie bounced up and down on top of her, slamming himself against her, and in seconds he was finished.
“Another memorable fuckfest,” she said sneering at him.
“I hope so,” he said, reaching a finger inside her, yanking out her diaphragm, and she knew somehow his plan had worked. She would be trapped with him now.
She blushed, watching the scene with her guides, then looked more closely as Artie’s face morphed into that of the grizzled man who’d paid her mother the gold coins in that other life.
“Oh,” she gasped, “Oh my.”
“I was always so nervous at the beginning of one of my seminars,” said Addie to her guides, watching herself walk up the steps on a large stage, a packed audience assembled before her. Because of her ongoing marital chaos, she was frequently distracted, able now to conduct the seminar with only part of her consciousness, the remainder focused on her disastrous second marriage to a man she despised. His good traits in other areas of life had long ago been obliterated for Addie by the horrible way he treated her in bed. She had only two men to compare, but often she thought of taking a lover, trying on a new partner, just to see if other men were like Uno, or, God forbid, The Deuce. She had consulted an attorney, under strictest confidence, and was contemplating a hasty exit from the marriage.
In the audience a woman was speaking, and the group was merciless. They shouted “Bullshit,” again and again as she expressed her feelings about being a victim of the pathetic events in her life. She’d been abused. Married too young. Trapped at home with small children who ran all over her. Loveless marriage. And she’d seemed so tender hearted, so earnest, that Addie found herself being drawn into her comments. In a rare response, her heart caught and she felt a sense of simpatico for the woman. The audience was being too harsh, and she had to do something.
When the cries of bullshit subsided, Addie took the mike. “Now just a moment,” she said. “Sometimes we can be supportive. Not everything is bullshit. This woman has been through a lot. So let’s give her a little support. Sorry you’re hurting,” she said sincerely to the woman, who blushed and continued her tale of abuse and misery. After each anecdote the audience, parroted Addie’s ‘Sorry you’re hurting,’ response.”
The next morning, Addie was seated in a coffee shop with her publicist, a television blaring in the background. Suddenly Addie stopped, seeing her own face on the TV. “Look,” she said. The anchor introduced a reporter, the woman from last night’s session.
“This is Carol Caraway, investigative reporter. You’ve read about it, thousands of people have signed up for this latest excursion into pop psychology, and here at channel two, we wanted the real scoop about what’s going on. We can’t say the full name on television, but you know what I mean when I say last night I attended the much touted Bull-blank-blank-blank-blank Program and here is some footage from my hidden camera.”
Addie watched with pleasure as Carol repeated her story, the audience responded and so did she. “This is great,” she said, “But I would happily have given them an interview.”
The voice of the anchorman was superimposed at the end of the footage, “Now wait a minute Carol, I’ve known you for years and you are very happily married. Was anything you said true?”
“Not a word, Hal. I wanted to see what would happen. Apparently there’s very little psychology at work in the Bull-blank-blank-blank-blank Program. The audience mouths whatever responses Dr. Schlumberger indicates and no real healing is done.”
“Therapists are trained to spot rampant lies, aren’t they, Carol?”
“Yes, Hal they are, but in this case the audience had a better idea I was faking than the doctor did.”
Addie’s publicist left the table in search of a pay phone. “Damage control,” she mouthed to Addie, who sat there despondently. How would she know someone was lying in a seminar like this? It wasn’t like private practice. She would need Artie to call the station, to threaten a lawsuit, if that were possible.
But what if that weren’t enough? What if her career was over? Perhaps she was a fraud. Addie cringed and sank down in her seat. She was a thirty year old has-been. What would become of her, alone with a small child, and a baby on the way. She needed someone to take care of her, someone she could always rely upon. What had she been thinking? Of course she couldn’t leave her husband. He was smart and powerful, and no matter how bad in bed he was, he would always protect her. In a worst case scenario, she could stay home, be a mother. There was value in that, and nobody attacked you in the media.
“But people needed me, and the bad press was only local, not national, not like it would be today, and it blew over quickly,” said Addie more to herself than to her guides. “So I nev
er really got to be a full time mother, never really had the chance.”
It was as though a split screen had opened up, and Addie watched moments from her childhood at the Bonnet house alongside scenes from her second marriage.
She awoke screaming, as she often did in the first year after she moved into Joanie’s room. “Daddy! Daddy!” she yelped, tears pouring down her cheeks. Joanie leapt from her own bed and into Addie’s and wrapped her arms tightly around the younger girl. Momsy ran into the room, and sat holding both girls and rocking them.
“It’s all right, don’t you worry,” said Momsy reassuringly. “We know you miss your dad. He was a wonderful person. So you go ahead and cry all you need to.”
“No,” said Addie, sobbing, “No,” and she buried her head against Momsy’s breast.
Lissa woke often, calling out loud, “Daddy! Daddy!” Addie listened with one eye open, and signaled to Artie to wait, that the child would no doubt quiet, but he always rose and went into the little girl’s room as Addie turned over and resumed sleeping.
Artie sat gently on the end of Lissa’s bed, holding her hand in his. “What’s amatter, dollface?”
“I need my daddy,” said Lissa.
“Ahh, come here little duck.” Artie wrapped Lissa in his arms and held her tenderly.
Lissa’s tiny hand patted Artie on the cheek. “I know you’re my daddy too, but I need my other daddy,” she said plaintively.
“Of course you do,” said Artie calmly, “And tomorrow we will take you over to see him. And you can see him any time you want, okay little sweetie?”
Lissa hugged Artie tightly, “Oh yes, thank you. Daddy needs me.”
“You’re such a special little girl, any daddy would need you, and miss you every day he didn’t see you. What would I do without you? I just couldn’t stand it.”
Time morphed rapidly and a number of scenes played, and Lissa grew older in each subsequent flash. Artie escorted her to the Schlumberger house, and Addie watched as Lissa played with Ted, with Esther, as Artie sat talking with the couple, all of them laughing and having a good time, becoming friends. Addie had known of course that Artie was allowing Lissa to see her dad on an occasional basis, but she hadn’t known how often or that he and Ted had become friends.
“No wonder,” she said to Cerise, “No wonder he was executor of Ted’s estate. I never understood that. Never knew. More betrayal. Look at how they all laughed together, probably at me! Right there—do you see it—it’s the story of my life—the people who are supposed to be closest to me—they never are—I’m always the outsider, always abandoned, their circle closed against me. I should have done something, should have put an end to the visits. No wonder Artie was so harsh. He was on Ted’s side. I never should have let him near me.”
In the Bonnet kitchen, Pops walked over to Momsy as she stood peeling potatoes, and wrapped his arms around her waist, snuggling against her back. She giggled and leaned back into his embrace, but whispered, “Not now, the kids….” Pops leaned in and whispered something in her ear, which made her blush. Addie came in to offer some help and smiled as Pops casually stepped back into a more innocent posture. Joanie’s parents were so cute—like teenagers, and someday a man would treat her like that—someday.
Addie sat outside in the garden, working on notes for a sequel to her latest book, and the boys ran around chaotically, as usual. Lissa lay on the patio, coloring. Artie appeared, took a quick look around, and clumsily reached inside her shirt, pinching her nipple much too hard. Addie twisted, slapped his hand away, saying, “Cut it out!”
“I’m going to have to wallop some little boy butt,” said Momsy, walking into the backyard, where Joanie’s brothers were busily drowning the tomatoes she had just planted. The boys were covered with mud, and the tomato plants were wobbling dangerously.
“Mom,” they squealed in delight, “Look, surprise!” They held out packets of seeds in grimy hands to show her. “It’s a present for you! To go with your tomatoes!”
Momsy looked at the torn seed packets, and she smiled. “You boys don’t even like zucchini.”
“No,” said the elder, “I hate it.”
“I hate it too,” said the younger, “But it’s for you. You love it.”
Momsy smiled at them and hugged them both. “What wonderful boys I have! What a great job you did in the garden! Thank you so much for the present. I’ll be eating delicious zucchini for weeks and weeks! Now let’s hose you off, shall we?”
Momsy took the hose and began spritzing them and they splashed and she laughed some more.
“But she hated zucchini,” said Addie, shaking her head. “She was a true Southern woman. I don’t think there was a green vegetable other than okra that she ate willingly.”
Addie sat at her desk in the den and the three year old twins came in. Randy began climbing onto the couch, and from there he reached to scale a dangerously high bookcase, which Addie could easily envision toppling and crushing him, and as she ran to pull him down, Barker began destroying the pages which lay stacked on her desk. She grabbed Randy and put him on the ground, saying a stern, “No, Randy, dangerous,” and then she heard the sound of paper ripping. She cringed as she turned, seeing Barker shredding up the pages which she had just finished. Two weeks work! “Barky, have you lost your mind? Stop it!”
Addie grabbed the wrists of the twins and held them still in front of her. “What is wrong with you? Why are you always going crazy? Must you destroy everything you touch?” As she scolded them, the boys wriggled and pulled against her grasp.
Addie watched as time morphed and the boys grew older. She was packed to move to her new home, was at last leaving the marriage that had always been more incarceration than partnership. “And you will have two rooms now, one here, one at my house.”
They shook their heads, only three, but nevertheless adamant. It was obvious that given their own choice, they would remain with their father, making her home a place to visit, at best, not a residence of their own. “But what will you do without Lissa,” Addie pleaded, “Lissa will be living with me, and she will miss you so much.”
“I’m living with Daddy,” insisted Lissa. “Both my Daddies. And my brothers. They need me.”
“No you are not,” declared Addie. “You will live with me.”
“We’ll work it out,” said Artie calmly.
“You pervert,” shouted Addie. “What do you want a young girl around you all the time? She’s my daughter, not yours.”
Artie winked toward the kids and they immediately relaxed. “We’ll work it out,” he said again, refusing to respond to Addie’s comments.
Addie turned away from the scenes, and spoke softly to Cerise. “We just never had the knack. We could never turn it into a real family. We could never be like the Bonnets,” said Addie. “In that family everybody loved each other. They all knew where they stood, and let me tell you there was never a question of loyalty. I just wish….”
Before she could finish the thought, she noticed he’d returned, and was smiling at her from beyond the circle of sparkling light drawn by Qwan Yin. He reached toward her, his ashen face ragged and hollow but he did not breech the border. Addie clenched automatically but took comfort in the fact that he came no closer. The protected area was genuine and he had no power within it. Perhaps she was safe and he might grow tired of harassing her, might just disappear, return to Hell and let her be in peace.
Want to find out what happens to Addie and read the rest of this book? Click here to buy Touring the Afterlife.
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The Sportin' Life Page 28
