by Julie Smith
Shit. Last night had been an unmitigated fiasco. Skip had left with Alex. The new blonde had been a bimbo, probably never dated anyone over thirty. And Missy had been with Mr. Beautiful-but-Dumb. He was starting to think they were two of a kind. He’d gone prowling after leaving Di’s, had actually gone into the Quarter, that was how desperate he was. But all the women there were cheap and country. Probably had AIDS and herpes both.
Why did it have to be this way? Why did he have to be in this goddamn hellhole? He knew for a fact that two people in the firm had had parties last night, and he hadn’t been invited to either. That was the way New Orleans was. Closed.
Tighter than a strongbox unless you’d been born here or at least gone to Tulane.
Or weren’t Jewish. That was probably a big part of it. They hated him here because he was Jewish. Not that he was really Jewish, gave a damn about it or anything, but nobody’d asked him, had they? They just assumed he was and that was that.
Mary Ann had been like that. His first girlfriend. He could still remember her from seventh grade. A beautiful little blonde with blue eyes, the most popular girl in the class. She called him every night for two weeks, and then they went to the movies, his mother driving. And after that, she didn’t call anymore. His mother said it was because her mother had recognized her when she picked Mary Ann up, and knew she was Jewish, knew Abe was. So that was the end of it.
After that he’d given up girls for a while, and when he finally emerged as a dater, he chose only Jewish girls—dark-haired, which he didn’t like, brown-eyed when he preferred blue. But he didn’t mind the colors so much as the fact that their hair was not only dark but usually curly. He was uncomfortably reminded of black people’s hair. He liked straight, silky hair, to this day couldn’t understand why women got perms.
He’d noticed something right away about the Jewish girls in high school. Those who’d already had their noses done wouldn’t go out with him, invariably chose guys on the football team or class officers. That was the way they were—snotty bitches. The others were bad enough, but these were ball-breakers. There was no other word for it. They always had to choose the movie, always had to pick the place to go afterward. One of them had done him at the drive-in, though. But the bitch wouldn’t fuck, that was as far as she went. He’d gotten her a really great birthday present too—a single pearl on a chain.
When he looked back on it, it was ironic. Half the grown-up ones wouldn’t go down on you, or expected you to do it to them every time. He didn’t mind on a first date or something, just to get things rolling, but it was too much work. He certainly wasn’t going to keep doing it over and over again, as if it was his idea of a million laughs. It was a disgusting practice, gooey and smothery. Jesus, you could end up with hairs caught in your teeth. While a penis was perfectly smooth and sanitary. Hell, he’d suck his own if he could reach it. (But no one else’s, of course—talk about revolting.)
Who needed Jewish princesses? He’d graduated to the blondes and redheads when he got to Princeton. They liked his Southern accent.
After college he thought it was time to get serious. First there was Inge, the nurse he would have married if the cunt hadn’t been so fucking interested in ending up with a doctor.
Then there was Amy, the secretary with the perky ass. Amy had dumped him for a senior partner in the firm. That wouldn’t have been so bad except that the guy was sixty-five and married. What was wrong with chicks, anyhow?
It never got any better. Finally, he’d married Cynthia, mostly because she wasn’t Jewish and therefore didn’t judge him on the basis of income and status in the firm. She looked good. She wanted children. She could cook. She liked to fuck. What could go wrong?
She was a bitch, was what could go wrong. He should do half the cooking, he should help with the children, he should mow the lawn; shit, she even wanted him to help her paint the bathroom, go shopping for furniture—there was no end to the crap she could dream up. And all to control him. She wasn’t happy unless she was controlling some man. That was what she really loved in life.
He’d gotten so he couldn’t stand to fuck her. Just didn’t want to at all. She’d take off her clothes and he’d remember what she looked like giving birth. (He’d had to watch, it was fashionable.) She’d put on perfume and he’d get little whiffs of baby shit.
That was marriage and the hell with it. He wasn’t doing it again. He was finding some hot little number who loved kids and getting her to move in with him. How hard could that be? He was a prominent lawyer.
But he wasn’t and he never would be. Not in New Orleans. And it was all that bitch Cynthia’s fault. In Atlanta he was hot shit.
And in Atlanta the women were prettier. Softer. More like flowers. There had to be some women like that here, but where? Not in these damn twelve-step programs. Certainly not in that stupid teddy-bear group. He was fed up with all that ritual crap anyway. It was too Christian. Who needed it? He’d thought the girls who went there might be disease-free, that was all. They didn’t smoke, didn’t drink, hardly ate anything, they could probably stay out of the wrong beds. And there was also a bottom line: He didn’t know where else to go.
Nobody was introducing him to anybody or inviting him anywhere. What the hell was he supposed to do?
Something. Not that crap anymore. Maybe he could volunteer, get on some committees. But the women would be too old, probably married. Maybe he could take a class. There had to be something. He was through with teddy bears.
His phone rang and who should it be but the Bitch of the Bayou, otherwise known as Cynthia.
“Abe, how are you? I’ve been worried about you.”
Sure she had. “Great, Cynthia. What can I do for you?”
“Listen, Jocelyn’s really having trouble with her math homework and I can’t help her with it. You’re good at that sort of thing. I thought maybe you could work with her.”
“I have been.”
“I meant this week.”
“They’re with you this week, Cynthia. Surely you don’t expect me to come over there.”
“I could bring them over tomorrow night…”
“No.”
“What do you mean no? You’re the one who followed me here from Atlanta, ‘just to be near the girls.’ Frankly, I’m starting to doubt your motives.”
“What other motive could I possibly have had? It’s not like I like being here, you know.”
“Torturing me.”
“Cynthia, if you have a point, would you get to it, please?”
“I have a date tomorrow night.”
“Hip, hip, hooray.”
“Listen, Mr. Prominent Attorney, do you have any idea how hard it is for women in this town? While you’re going out every night with a different blond tramp, I’m sitting home watching TV without even the girls half the time because they’re at your fucking house. For once I have a date, okay? And it happens to coincide with Jocelyn having terrible trouble with her math. So if your precious daughters mean so goddamn much to you, you can just goddamn take them for one night.”
“Cynthia, do you happen to recall telling me I should see a shrink? Do you happen to recall about a million suggestions you have made in the last few years about how I can improve myself? It may interest you to know that I’m deeply involved with a group that meets every Thursday night and is devoted to spirituality and self-improvement.”
She spat out a grim snicker. “Oh, sure you are. Honest Abe strikes again.”
“I really don’t care what you do and don’t believe. I can’t be at your beck and call every time you don’t care to take care of your own children. I suggest you get a baby-sitter.”
“I’ve tried. Don’t you think I’ve tried?” Her voice got shriller on each word.
“It’s really not my problem.”
And then the first sob came over the phone and he knew that once again it was easier to do what she wanted than put up with her crap. It was starting already: “It’s the first time! The first
goddamn time since I’ve been here! Do you want me to be a dried-up old crone?”
“Okay, okay. Take it easy.”
Shit. Now he’d have to get a baby-sitter. Because there was no question he was going to the meeting. She’d ask the girls if he’d gone out, and if he hadn’t, she’d say he’d been lying and throw it back in his face. This way, he’d have taken the girls at a huge sacrifice to himself. There should be some leverage in that.
The monitor showed the flat line of asystole, cardiac standstill. The guy had a nasty gunshot wound, probably wouldn’t make it.
The defibrillator sounded its little alarm; it was charged.
“Everybody clear; I’m going to shock him.” Sonny moved away from the table.
Two hundred joules. Nothing.
Three hundred. Still flat.
Three-sixty. Sonny’s pulse was going crazy. The uneven peaks and valleys of normal sinus rhythm appeared on the screen.
“Okay,” said the resident. “Call the lab and tell them he’s going to surgery. Get that blood upstairs.”
The guy had a good chance. Sonny had to shake his head to get the hang of it, had to come out of a kind of trance. He’d been so sure this one was going to go. So sure. He must have fallen into that weird half-trance to protect himself against it.
Great. A fat lot of good it would have done if the guy had died. He’d still have to come out of it and he’d still feel just as bad as he ever did. But never mind, who the hell cared? He felt great now. It really did feel good when you saved them. This was what being a doc was all about. This was why people did it. (People other than the Gerards.)
He’d been such lousy company lately that he hunted up Missy, thinking to tell her … what? Well, just how good he felt. To “share” that, he thought with a smirk.
“Can you take a break?”
She looked at her watch. “Five, ten minutes.”
“Let’s go.”
“Where?”
“The roof.”
But once in the elevator he had a better idea. He knew a room, several of them, in fact, with keys hidden over the doors—the old call rooms.
“Where are we going?”
“In here.” He hustled her into one.
“Why?” She had on a tiny lime-green miniskirt, a crisp white blouse—a madonna in a mini. She was so beautiful. Why didn’t he notice it more often?
He felt so tender, so choked up with love for her, he could barely whisper. “I want to make love to you.” It came out a croak.
“Sonny!” Her voice was a schoolteacher’s, shrill and punishing.
He put his arms around her, kissed her. Her arms didn’t go around him. “Sonny, are you crazy?”
“Yes. Yes. I’m absolutely crazy.” He took her arms and put them around his shoulders, prompting her. He ground his groin into hers.
“What the hell is wrong with you?”
Missy never talked like that. Not Missy McClellan, the woman he loved, who was so afraid of displeasing anyone, he’d never heard her raise her voice. Never even heard her say “hell.”
Oddly, it made her more human, endeared her to him all the more.
“Everything’s tight with me. We just saved a guy and nature’s juices are flowing in my veins.” He was kissing her shoulder, nibbling her ear.
“Sonny Gerard, will you for once act like the grown-up I wish you were?”
Feeling slapped, he stared at her. “What did you say?”
“I have to get back to work.”
“Shit. Well, just shit.”
He sat on the bed, dejected, not believing what was happening.
“For once I feel good, for once I want to share something with you, and this is what I get!”
Instantly, she was sitting beside him, massaging his temple. He’d hardly seen what was happening, she’d moved so fast. “Oh, Sonny, I’m so sorry. It’s just that it’s in the middle of the workday. I’ve got clients to see.”
His beeper went off. Another emergency. Maybe another chance to save someone’s life. Maybe death instead; the patient’s and his own, that little death he always experienced, a draining of his own, along with the slipping-away of the patient on the table. A sick lurch in his belly, a panic that lasted, that wouldn’t go away. He’d have to go in a minute.
“You bitch!”
“What?”
She probably hadn’t even known he knew the word.
“Bitch! Do you know how you made me feel?”
Her mouth twisted, her whole face started to writhe in pain. She was going to cry. It made him furious. He had no idea why, had no notion Missy could rouse such a feeling in him.
“Sonny, don’t!”
Startled, he looked behind him, sure she was warning him of something, some danger to both of them, she sounded so frightened….
But even as he turned his head, he realized that his hand was moving down, that it had been up, at shoulder level, coming at her, ready to hit.
That wasn’t all. He looked at it, not believing. The fingers were curled in a fist.
TWENTY-ONE
“I’M SORRY, ALEX.”
“Shit.” His first publisher had turned down his last book, and now his second one was throwing him out. He had given his agent a fifty-page proposal for the twelve-step debunker, and the assholes weren’t going to buy it. He couldn’t believe it.
His agent said, “You know, I really don’t think there’s a market for this one.”
“That’s what you said about the last one.”
“Well?”
“Jared, you’re such a know-it-all.”
“Let’s put it this way. I think I know the market. People buy self-help books for a reason. They want help. They feel bad and they want to feel better. They don’t want to be told nothing works.”
“But nothing does.”
“Maybe not for you.”
“Me?” What the hell was Jared talking about? “What have I got to do with it?”
“Alex, you gotta consider therapy.” Just like that.
Like Hollywood’s idea of an agent, not a thing like the real person Alex had worked with for ten years, who’d made him a pile of money and then slogged through rice paddies to sell his last book, which hadn’t made money, and who was wimping out just as Alex was on the verge of a comeback.
“Jared, are you doing coke again?”
“Do you realize I owe my recovery to these programs you’ve got so much contempt for?”
“I bet you never took a teddy bear to a meeting.”
“Alex, I like you, I really do. We’ve been together a long time. But I’ve got to tell you the truth. Something’s wrong with you. You’ve hit some kind of block of hatred in yourself and you can’t get around it.”
What the hell was the man talking about?
“You know what I think, Alex? I think you hate yourself. You need to get in touch with who you really hate.”
He had actually said, “get in touch with.” Next, he would tell Alex he was “stuffing his feelings.”
“You sound like Bradshaw and those other assholes.” Alex couldn’t keep the sadness out of his voice.
That was what the book was about, of course—why it had to be published. Because the world was getting fuller and fuller of assholes who swallowed everything whole, who bought the same old party line, who believed anything any self-help author told them, no matter how big a charlatan he was. Alex should know. He’d been the biggest charlatan in the business.
If you disagreed with somebody, you must hate yourself. If you tried to be honest for once, you needed therapy.
Et tu, Jared? Jesus! Maybe it was time to get another agent.
“Elec, you done those dishes yet?”
“Dad, say ‘Al.’ ”
“Al.”
“Say Alice.”
“Alice.”
“Your former wife is your what?”
“Ex. I see what you’re gittin’ at.”
“So why can’t you just say Alex?”
“No such name. It’s Elec. I oughta know. I named you. Why haven’t you done those dishes?”
“When I came here, nobody’d done the dishes in two weeks. Place smelled like a garbage dump.”
“If that’s the way I want to run my house, how’s that any of your business?”
“You treat me like I’m still ten years old.”
“Well, you act like it.”
“Look, let’s be adults, okay? I came here to help you out.”
“Shee-it. You came here to leech. That’s all you been doin’, just leechin’, leechin’, leechin’! You can’t do a thing needs doin’, just out screwin’ day and night, day and night. What’s the matter with you, boy?”
He picked up the telephone book, held it at waist level, calculating, and drop-kicked it at Alex’s chest.
Shocked, Alex didn’t move, just let the thing hit him. Stood there stunned. What was wrong with the old man? He’d always been crazy, but not violent. This was the second time in a week he’d lost it. Two days ago he’d actually thrown a punch at him, and over something just as trivial. Alex had grabbed his wrist and then watched Lamar get this very puzzled look on his face, as if he couldn’t remember what he was mad about.
“Hey, Dad,” he said now, “what’s going on?”
His dad’s face was purple. “What do you mean, what’s going on?” He was yelling.
Alex spoke softly, for once slightly humbled before his father. “It’s not really that bad, is it? I’ll do the dishes if that’s what you really want.”
“You’ll get out of my house is what you’ll do! You’ll get yourself a decent job; you’ll quit fooling around with this book crap. Lies, is all that is. Lies, lies, lies! You couldn’t write your way out of a whore’s mouth! You ain’t never written a word in your whole miserable, worthless life.”
He picked up one of the aluminum and yellow plastic chairs, seemed about to bring it down on the table.
“Dad, don’t! You’ll hurt yourself!”
Alex stepped forward and took the chair from Lamar. Once again the old man looked confused, as if he couldn’t quite remember how things had taken this turn. “You were a pretty baby,” he said. “You know that?”
