Social Blunders g-3

by Tim Sandlin

  I was sitting on the bed, lacing up my Adidas, when Shannon walked in without knocking. She was dressed as a Tahitian belly dancer—grass skirt and breasts covered by plumeria leis.

  “I hope you have something on under the flowers,” I said.

  “Oh, Daddy, where’s your Halloween spirit?” She moved across the room and sat in my desk chair, facing me. “You got a hot date tonight?”

  “It’s business, a CEO from Nebraska wants to see the sights of Greensboro.”

  Shannon shot me the female don’t-jive-me look and said, “Have your little secrets if you want, I don’t care.” She picked up Maurey’s picture that I like to keep behind the typewriter. Maurey is sitting astride her horse Frostbite on a ridge above the TM ranch. Her hair is in braids and she looks like God’s own sweetheart. That photo has caused much resentment among my girlfriends. So much resentment that I had to hide it from Wanda.

  Shannon studied the picture of her mother and said, “Dad, I need to explain options to you.”

  “Options?”

  “What I’m going to do and what your choices are next.”

  This didn’t sound good. “What are you going to do?”

  She touched Maurey’s face. Maurey was twenty-six in the picture, so Shannon could have been looking at an age-enhanced picture of herself.

  “I’m going to live with Eugene,” she said.

  All my liberal upbringing flew right out the window. I said, “You’re grounded, little lady.”

  Shannon lifted her eyes and laughed. “Daddy, you can’t ground me.”

  “I can’t?”

  “I’m a grown-up now. You haven’t tried grounding me since high school.”

  “That was two years ago.”

  “You haven’t grounded me and gotten away with it since junior high.”

  “You’re just like your mother.” Shannon could take that about six different ways, but unlike me, she wasn’t into endless nuances.

  She looked from Maurey to me. “Okay, here are your choices.”

  “Is breaking Eugene’s nose a choice?”

  “No. You can fly off the handle, scream and yell and throw me out of the house, and estrange your daughter for life.”

  “Eugene taught you that, didn’t he? To say estrange when you mean piss off.”

  “Choice two: I live with Eugene in his apartment with the three male roommates.”

  “I don’t like that one.”

  “Choice three is Eugene moves in here and you treat him like the son you never had.”

  It didn’t take much thought. “I choose number three.”

  Shannon’s face sparkled, making the crap of living around Eugene the child molester worth the trouble. She crossed the gap between us and hugged me. “I knew you’d come through.”

  “I don’t want him downstairs in his underwear.”

  “Neither do I.”

  I looked up into her brown eyes. “Shannon, you’ve been the only consistent, unqualified love in my life. I know you have to leave someday—that’s the curse of being a parent—but I’m just not ready to lose you yet.”

  She smiled and said, “Daddy, you’re sweet.”

  “Promise you won’t leave until I’m ready.”

  “Forget it. You’ll never be ready.”

  ***

  Shannon left to find her lover and light pumpkins and I sat in my room with the lights off, looking out at the rain. The steady drizzle matched my mood perfectly. Nothing was absolute anymore. Right, wrong, desirable, and undesirable had all turned on their heads. Amid the uncertainties, the one thing I knew for sure was I had to talk to Maurey.

  Her lifesaving voice floated in from Wyoming. “Hello?”

  I said, “The deal is falling apart out here.”

  There was a short pause. “The deal isn’t so hot here either.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  She sounded flat. Maurey is normally upbeat, or at least interested. I worry when she’s down. “I can’t talk about it yet,” she said. “I’d rather hear your problems.”

  “Actually, it affects both of us.”

  “Shannon broke the news.”

  “She told you first?”

  “She asked if I thought you’d boot her out of the house. I said not in a hundred years.”

  “I raised her but she confides in you.”

  “Kids never confide in the parent they live with. Are you going to let the boy move in?”

  “He’s no boy,” I said, “and of course he’s moving in.”

  “You did something right for a change.”

  “If I did, it’s the first right move I’ve made all week.”

  “Shannon tells me you’re on a strange roll.”

  “Bizarre is more the word.” I told Maurey about finding the fathers and what I’d done to Atalanta Williams and Clark Gaines and how I felt about Gilia. That part took a while. Maurey listened and gave the appropriate comments, but her mind seemed to wander.

  “What’s the girl’s father blackmailing you for doing?” she asked.

  “Nothing. Well, something. A detective researched my past.”

  “And?”

  “He found stuff.”

  “Why do I feel like I’m only hearing part of the story?”

  In listing the elements making me crazy, I’d left out Katrina and I’d left out Wanda. Ten days ago Wanda had been this thunderhead cloud smothering every thought and action, and now she didn’t matter. Eugene might be a pedophilic psych major, but his plan had worked. My mind was off Wanda.

  “What’s the problem you can’t talk about?” I asked.

  “I can’t talk about it.”

  “Okay.”

  “Pete has leukemia.”

  The rain made falling-star streaks on the window. Beyond the glass, the Georgia hackberries dripped circles of water onto the lawn and the swimming pool speckled like a pond during a mayfly hatch. I tried to remember if leukemia is always fatal or nearly always fatal.

  “He’s had it two years without telling me,” Maurey said. “It’s in remission now, but for some reason, he doesn’t expect it to stay that way. He and Chet argue positive attitude versus acceptance.”

  Chet would be the boyfriend Lydia liked. “Is there anything I can do?”

  Maurey was silent a few moments. “If he gets worse, I may need you to come home.”

  I almost cried. Being needed is what I live for. “I’ll be there.”

  “He has no insurance and he’s run up thirty-five thousand in tests and treatments—so far.”

  “Don’t worry about the bills.”

  “Thank you.” Maurey’s voice broke. “I’m sick of family dying. If I lose Pete, everyone I grew up with will be gone and I’ll be the last, which is a first-degree screw job. I don’t like it, Sam.”

  “You still have me and Shannon.”

  Now, she was fierce. “You better not abandon me too.”

  24

  Bonaparte’s Retreat was a fish and French place way the heck out Randleman Road, nice enough to qualify as special, but not so trendy as to make running into Skip’s golf buddies likely. Sea nets hung from the corners of the room with starfish and dried cod or something hanging from the nets. Lighting came from candles that must have been cheap because mine strobed. The place reeked of hand-holding and eye contact by candlelight.

  Cool fingers touched the back of my neck. “I can’t get enough of your amativeness nodes,” Katrina said.

  I tipped my head way back to look up at her. “Do you like Blue Nun?”

  “Your hair is nice too.”

  “Many people say my hair is my best trait.”

  Katrina moved around the table to her chair. “Anyone who says that hasn’t felt your amativeness nodes.” She was wearing a dark green jacket over a white knit dress. I guess you’d call it a dress; when she sat down it covered her crotch and maybe an inch and a half of thigh. If Shannon wore that dress I would send her to her room.

  “What’s this?” Ka
trina asked.

  “Blue Nun. I thought you might like some wine.”

  “I’d like some martinis.” She pulled off her jacket, revealing her shoulders and a quarter-moon slice of upper chest. Katrina was actually quite pretty, in a miniature sort of way. Her legs would have looked good on an aging movie star.

  “Eat fast,” she said. “The orgy starts at eight.”

  “We have to talk about this orgy,” I said.

  Katrina smiled. “Later. Right now, I’m starved.” She ordered mussels and I had the Surf ‘N’ Swamp—lobster claws and frog legs. The waiter called me “sir” four times.

  Katrina was in a good mood. She made fun of my jacket and told me about a fat girl in her aerobics class who’d blown a knee during the stretch-out.

  She said, “I love it when women younger than me fall apart.”

  I took a deep breath and prepared to take the plunge. When it’s time for the kiss-off, I’m much more comfortable with women dumping me than me dumping women. I’m real good at the former—never resorting to angry words or accusations, never making the woman feel guilty. Dumping me is easy. But when it comes to the other way around, I’m a coward.

  “It’s all over, Katrina.”

  She glanced up from her salad. “I know.”

  “This is the last time we can see each other.”

  “I said I know.” Her voice was a bit wistful, but far from heartbreak. “Cameron paid me a visit.”

  I’d been braced for tears in a public place. I wasn’t prepared for Katrina being a good sport.

  “What did you think of the pictures?” I asked.

  “Did you see the cheerleading shot? My thighs were positively grotesque.”

  “But what about Cameron?”

  “Cameron is a pig.”

  When the waiter brought our main courses my legs and claws were arranged in an artsy, nouvelle-type design on the plate. He went into that routine where they hover over your food with what looks like a walnut fence post.

  “Fresh ground pepper, sir?”

  A bare foot plopped in my lap. “No, thank you.” Katrina had amazing toe dexterity. Midway through the salad, I felt my Levi’s zipper slip.

  “If you’ve seen the pictures, why are you so chipper?” I asked.

  “I’m turned on just thinking about my birthday orgy.”

  “There’s not going to be a birthday orgy. This is it. Right now.”

  Her toes grazed up and down. “Don’t be silly. The last diddle before you lose a lover is always so poignant. I love it, better than the first time.”

  “We’ve already had our last diddle.”

  “Au contraire, chéri. Eat up, the party kicks off at eight, with or without you.”

  My first thought was this: Starting tomorrow, I was to begin a God-knows-how-long celibate period while I convinced Gilia I wasn’t a promiscuous male. That left tonight.

  “Why is the orgy on a time schedule?”

  “It’s that jerk, Skip.” Katrina did strange, probing motions in my boxer shorts. “His Highness ordered me home by eight to tape Monday Night Football.”

  “Why not program the VCR to turn itself on?”

  “You ever meet anybody knows how to work those machines? The directions say it can be done, but it’s a dirty, Japanese lie.”

  She accepted another martini from the waiter. I suspected he knew about the footsie game under the tablecloth, but he was too cloying to comment. Whenever I see a waiter I think about the poor single mother somewhere who’s out of a job because this guy is too lazy to work construction.

  “Skip said he’ll confiscate my car if I don’t get his precious ball game—every second—so I have to be there to change the tape after three hours. Football games last longer than videotapes.” She gave me the most Southern smile you can imagine. “And you know what we’re going to do for those three hours?”

  “The Ramada Inn?”

  The toe popped through. “Nope. We’re going to do it right in old Skippy-pooh’s king-size bed. This is the last time and I demand it all. Bondage. Fantasy. S and M. Anal. I’ll bet you know stuff I haven’t even heard of.”

  Probably true. “How many times have I explained, sex should be affectionate, not revenge.”

  “Revenge gives a better orgasm.”

  Katrina eyed me while I looked down at my empty claw and thought of Gilia. Gilia was wholesome, Katrina was sick. Where did that leave me?

  “What about the Saunders?” I asked.

  “Mimi can get her own gigolo.”

  “What if they see the lights?”

  “So what if they see the lights?”

  “How about Phadron?”

  “She asked for a raise and Skip had her deported. I never told you about Phadron, how did you know her name?”

  I shrugged and faked innocence. “Heard it somewhere, I guess.”

  The waiter cleared our plates. I said no to dessert and yes to an after-dinner Grand Marnier. Katrina had another martini. Her foot grew increasingly aggressive.

  “I’ll do it,” I said, “only at the Ramada. One last time, but this is absolutely it.”

  She smiled. “You’ll do it at my house.”

  “I think that’s a bad idea.”

  She jabbed her toe. “I don’t care what you think. Can’t you understand that? I no longer care about you.”

  “You have a warped attitude toward sex,” I said.

  Now, she was mad. It always frightens me how quickly a woman can go from a perfectly pleasant mood to all-out fury.

  “I have a warped attitude? What about you, Mr. Pussy Eater? You afraid of honest copulation? Afraid to get our little pee-pee dirty?”

  Two tables over, a busboy dropped a glass.

  “I need romanticism.”

  Strong words for a man with a foot in his fly.

  Katrina laughed—a harsh sound, not tinkle-like at all. “I’ll bet it doesn’t work. You lead with your tongue because your pee-pee can’t cut the mustard.”

  “That’s right, Katrina. You hit the nail on the head.”

  “Not yet, buster.”

  ***

  “Skip won’t do it with me any way but him on top banging like a rabbit,” Katrina said as she drove through the slick streets. My car was back at Bonaparte’s because I’d drawn the line at parking in front of her house.

  “He plays all kinds of games with his girlfriends and whores, but with me it’s old, boring squash-the-boobs.” Her voice was sad.

  “How do you know he plays games with his girlfriends?”

  “They tell me. That slut Tiffany Jane in the shoe department says Skip likes to spread-eagle her on a copier and Xerox the whole thing. I tried getting on top once and Skip called me a ‘feminist.’”

  Although she couldn’t be too athletic and drive at the same time, Katrina still managed to keep my attention with her right hand. Manually speaking, most women go at it like the guy is fourteen years old, holed up in the bathroom with a Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue while his sister bangs on the door, shouting, “Hurry up.” Katrina was considerably more subtle.

  She went on. “He’s probably got Tiffany Jane in Atlanta right now. Hell, he takes the entire shoe department. I’m taping his dumb football so he doesn’t have to pull out his cock long enough to turn on the TV.”

  In her driveway, Katrina decided we’d had enough foreplay. She kissed me long and hard while I fumbled with my seat belt. During French kissing, the average girl expects the boy to extend his tongue instead of her extending hers, but Katrina wasn’t the average girl.

  I backed quickly toward my door. “It’s almost eight, we better go inside.”

  “I can’t believe you are so anal retentive. If I’d known you were this conventional I’d have chosen somebody else.”

  “I’m real conventional, Katrina.”

  “Not according to your phrenological chart.”

  I got the door open and myself out of the car without falling on the driveway. Katrina followed me o
ut the passenger side, Frenching all the way.

  She said, “Let’s do it in the yard.”

  “It’s raining.”

  “I swear, you have no spontaneity.”

  “I don’t believe in spontaneity when it’s raining.”

  As I started across the lawn toward the door Katrina tackled me from behind and rolled us more or less under a shrubby bush. She sat astraddle me with her knees on my shoulders.

  I said, “You’re not wearing panties.”

  “Take me now,” she said.

  “Do I have to?”

  No use fighting fate. It actually wasn’t that bad by the bush. The ground under my head was nearly dry, and, except for twigs in my back, it was comfortable—not comfortable enough for a nap or reading a book, but passable for nature sex.

  Katrina twisted around, yanked off my shoes and socks, and threw them across the yard. She slid onto the grass and began pulling at my jeans and boxers. I arched my back to make it easier on her. When they finally came off, she whirled them around her head like a lasso and let go. Then, she tore off my shirt. This wasn’t my first choice for fun, but I could live with it. Both the Prescott and Saunders houses were dark except for a dim security light over by the Saunders’ driveway. A larger hedge blocked the first-floor view from the house on the other side. I wondered if Gilia had gone to the movie without me. Maybe she was with a boy her own age.

  “Okay,” Katrina said. “Let’s rock.”

  She climbed on board and went at her thing; I lay back and looked up at the bush. Sex is a lot more relaxing with the woman on top. You can admire the light reflecting on her body and pretend she’s a movie star having the time of her life. You can think about baseball. Woman-on-top combines the best of involvement with the best of spectating; missionary style takes too much concentration.

  Whispers came from the street. I clamped my hand over Katrina’s mouth and we listened to a conversation between a boy with two heads, a human fly, and Prince.

  “Too dark, ain’t nobody home.”

  “We could try.”