She shrugged it off. “What? I had a Catholic boyfriend once.”
Will noticed that the television in the room had a built-in VCR. “Hey, speaking of virgins and original sin, let’s watch the video, Susan, and find out why complete strangers feel the need to baptize you.”
“It’s in the car,” I said. “Forget about it.”
“No, it’s right here. I brought it in.” Will smiled, put it in the VCR, and pushed play.
We all sat at the foot of the bed, legs dangling over the edge, waiting to find out who wanted my head on a platter. I could tell Clyde and Mono had recorded the footage because I heard angry Italian whispering even before any picture appeared.
“Move camera, Mono. We no see her face!”
At first, the camera was focused on her lower half. She wore a long gauzy broomstick skirt, and on her feet were striped black-and-white socks, a compliment to her black-and-white yin-yang watch that matched Mono and Clyde’s, and sneakers that announced she could chase you down if need be. As the camera panned upward, I saw she looked like Stevie Nicks, but prettier—like if Stevie Nicks won beauty pageants. But her eyes were cold and angry.
I recognized her from the Vegas strip as Abigail Westergaard, but she looked different. Scarier. Perched in a chair, she stared straight into the camera with a determined, unfaltering gaze. Around her neck, she wore an oversized pendant in the shape of a peace sign with the words “Guilt Destroys, Release Yourself” screaming across its center. Her hair was long and dark, and the ends were tossed upward in a stylish flip.
When she spoke, the contrast of her sweet voice and sinister words made the dichotomy even more glaring. “Do you remember me, Ms. Spector? You destroyed my sister’s dream, not to mention half of someone’s living room, then drove away, leaving everyone else to clean up the mess.”
“I said I was sorry,” I said to the screen.
She continued scolding me in a sugary-sweet, passive-aggressive tone. “But I know this unresolved business is weighing heavily on you, and I am here to force you to confront your guilt.”
Just then, I heard Clyde whisper, “Zoom, Mono. Remember she say, ‘Zoom in when you hear word ‘guilt.’”
The camera zoomed in too far, and all we could see was her plump, lip-lined mouth delivering harsh news. “And guilt, my dear, will kill you.”
Silly me! I thought cancer was killing me.
The camera pulled back, her whole face visible again. “Guilt destroys, but I’ve devoted my life to aiding those polluted by their conscience. I help to restore balance.
“We achieve peace through balance, and balance requires owning your mistakes, accepting the basic principles of karma: cause and effect.” She pointed to her watch, apparently the ultimate symbol for living a balanced life.
I glanced at Will and Calliope, hoping they would be mocking her, but instead they were rapt.
“Karma?” Calliope said. “This sounds bad, Suze.”
As if she knew we’d need more information, Abigail Westergaard offered an analogy. “Take a pebble. Throw it into a pool. Ripples stretch out over the water. Cause and effect. You’ve caused a ripple in the water, Susan Spector, and you need to bring calm back to the tempestuous wake you’ve created if you want to live an enlightened life.”
Living any life, I thought, would be a step in the right direction. But how was I supposed to undo the damage?
She repeated my silent question in a creepy rebuttal: “How do you undo the damage, you ask? We’ve begun by cleansing you of what I call your ‘surface sins,’ and soon you will come face to face with the full breadth of your transgressions. Until then—”
Static appeared on the screen. “Until then, what?” I yelled. “Why did they stop recording in the middle—”
“A Charles in Charge rerun must have come on,” Will said.
Calliope shook her head. “She’s a nut,” she said. “We’ll protect you, Suze.” She poked Will. “Won’t we, Will?”
“You’re on your own, kid.”
I glared at him.
“Kidding,” he said. Will tried to keep a smirk on his face, but I could tell he was a little nervous for me, and was ready to kick Abigail Westergaard’s ass if necessary. “Dream-killer, huh? Didn’t know you had it in you. What was her sister’s dream, anyway?”
If I belittled Gabby’s dream of being the best poker player in the world, I would sound unsympathetic, so I tried to be fair.
“She wanted to be a champion.”
When Calliope got up to use the bathroom, Will scooted next to me. “What’s your dream, Susan?” he asked.
The prospect of answering honestly made me want to cry. “What do I really want?” I stared into his eyes. “Oh, the usual things, I guess. To channel Janis Joplin, get drunk on the moon, become a vampire, and experience everlasting life.”
“You and me both,” he said, laughing softly.
EIGHTEEN
“What the hell is a continental breakfast anyway?” Calliope asked, jamming her mouth with a blueberry muffin courtesy of the Holiday Inn.
Will filled a small Styrofoam cup with coffee, led us out to the car, and answered her question. “A continental breakfast usually consists of self-serve coffee and cold pastries. It’s standard in most countries of ‘continental’ Europe, and its simplicity is in stark contrast to the traditional full English breakfast, which is hearty and hot—stuff like fried eggs and meat.”
“Oh,” Calliope said, placing two more bagels in a bag.
“It’s a European thing,” he said. “It’s really just basic European history.”
“What are you, a walking dictionary?” Calliope asked Will while her mouth was still packed with her continental breakfast-to-go.
Will got in the driver’s seat and we left Omaha heading east toward Iowa. “My dad’s a history teacher. He thrives on the stories behind everyday things. ‘Everything and everybody has a story,’ he always says.” He paused. “Everything I know, I learned from him.” Then he smiled. “And action movies.”
But when he mentioned his father’s name, he became a different person. He sat up taller than usual, chest out, nose slightly raised, as if his father was right there next to him, telling him to hold his head high. In-between slow blinks, he looked up and to the right, as if he was conjuring up the image of the man who raised him. I saw something in Will’s eyes that was distinct and real. It was the look of respect.
I spied Will’s video camera lying on the backseat and suddenly understood his obsession with documenting the stories that unfolded around him. Such stories—our stories—are history in the making.
“If those Italian bastards pop up again, I’m gonna run ’em off the road,” Will said, waiting until I looked at him again, at which point he changed the subject. “So, are you gonna tell us where we’re going, Spector, or should I just drive until I hit the Atlantic?”
“It’s your movie, Will. Remember the rules? We have to ask the radio,” I said.
He delivered a satisfied, “Perfect,” and turned on the radio.
I recognized the song right away because it was the song I’d played every night at 10 p.m. for the last eight years—the final song of my shift. Everybody has a voice that, when heard, speeds up their heart, forces blood through their veins with an extra kick, and reminds them they are, in fact, alive. For Lonny, it was Bruce Springsteen. For my neighbor Jane, it was Jane’s Addiction (she was really vain). And strangely, for our station manager Greg, it was Dionne Warwick. For me, nobody does it like Elvis Costello. I don’t know if it’s his warped sense of humanity or his inflated self-image, but damn it, he makes me want to kick someone in the balls and make out with them at the same time. By “them,” I don’t mean their balls. Well, maybe I do. I guess it would depend.
Elvis’ song, “Everyday I Write the Book,” is the best example of an extended metaphor in any song lyric ever written. And it actually works. It isn’t a saccharin, predictable testament to love. It’s realistic, in that it’s h
esitant about the notion of falling in love. The narrator’s givin’ his love interest a “longing look,” but he’s not sure if she’s the one. And every day, every day, every day (you only get better if you practice), he “writes the book” on whether or not she’ll make the cut.
I didn’t expect Will to know any words to this song, but then he busted out, “Chapter One: We didn’t really get along,” followed by a laugh and, “that sounds familiar.” I knew the next line was “Chapter Two: I think I fell in love with you,” and not wanting either one of us to have to sing that, I deliberately cleared my throat when it came along.
When we got to the chorus, I said, “See! He’s writing his own destiny.” I licked my index finger and marked a winning point on an invisible chalkboard. “Free will: one. Destiny: zero!”
Destiny was taking a beating. “Okay, Calliope,” I said, “let’s help Will out here. What’s this song trying to tell us? What do we do next?”
Calliope took out her imaginary crystal ball again, but she couldn’t shake her natural tendency to be literal. “Um, let’s see. It’s telling us we should … go to a bookstore?” She sighed. “I could go for a latté, actually.”
“What about you, Susan?” Will said. “This is open to interpretation.”
My secret agenda of getting to Minnesota meant I had to play smart—I couldn’t make the mistake of leading us in the wrong direction. I’d been looking at the atlas, mapping out our route through Iowa, and I knew we needed to make it to Des Moines, then turn north toward Minnesota.
“Well,” I said, turning the radio off so they could hear me, “Elvis Costello is a singer, but his real talent is songwriting, telling stories. And the song is about writing a book, telling a story, so …” I lifted up the atlas so they both could see, and slid my finger to a town twenty miles north of Des Moines. “It’s obvious. We’re being beckoned to Story City, Iowa.”
Will smiled in response to my astute assessment. “Sounds like a plan.”
Will might have participated in the whole destiny schtick for entertainment’s sake, but I could tell he was serious about filmmaking. He was quiet, staring at the road in front of him, and I bet he was silently formulating clever camera angles and witty narration for our destined trip to Story City.
Without thinking, I reached over and touched Will’s shoulder, then quickly removed my hand. He gave me a look that could’ve meant, “Do that again—it felt nice.” But it also could’ve meant, “You poor thing. Don’t be so desperate. I’m not reciprocating.”
Getting a hold of myself, I said, “Okay, Scorcese, now that we have a physical destination, what was your interpretation? Why did we hear that song at that moment?”
“I think the universe was prompting us to tell our own stories. You can tell a lot about people by the way they tell a story.”
Uh-oh.
He directed me to get the camcorder and film Calliope. “You first, Cal.”
“What kind of story?” Calliope asked.
“It’s your story. It can be about anything you want,” Will said.
Calliope, afraid of nothing, not even being forced out of her comfort zone, dove in with the zest of a professional storyteller. In a quiet voice, she began, “Okay, once upon a time …” like we were all fireside, waiting to hear a ghost story at camp. “There was a beautiful goddess who was envied by all in the land. All the men wanted to bed her, all the women wanted to be her. They all knew she possessed great beauty, but what they didn’t know, what they wouldn’t let themselves believe, is that she possessed great knowledge. While she surrounded herself with books of ancient wisdom, those who worshiped her dismissed her thirst for knowledge and continued to bring her jewels, garments, and perfume.
“One day, she warned them that a great danger was imminent and urged them to take shelter to save themselves, but few believed her. So one fateful day”—when she said “fateful,” she winked—“when the sun came up, it came out with such fury that it scorched all who were in its direct path, saving only those who had heeded her warning.”
Calliope just stopped. Story over. No happily ever after. Will said, “All good stories end in death. Hemingway would be proud, Cal.”
“Your turn, Will,” Calliope said. “Suze, zoom in. This should be good.”
I focused on his strong profile. “Okay,” Will said. “Once upon a time, there was this kid named Harry, right? This kid was fuckin’ cool, too. He could skateboard, eat a hoagie, and flip people off, all at the same time.”
I started laughing and accidentally let out an unattractive snort. Calliope smiled and said, “You’re getting this, right?”
I nodded the camera lens as Will continued. “But for some weird, un-fucking-warranted reason, people perceived Harry to be a real mean jerk, right? ‘Heartless Harry’ they’d holler at him as he minded his own business. Then one day, seven of Harry’s enemies decided they were gonna hypnotize Harry—some evil Svengali shit—and find out, once and for all, if he had a heart.
“So they stared into his eyes, worked their wicked magic, and when he turned cold and stiff, they flayed open his chest and searched for ticking. But soon they became deafened by an overwhelming sound, like thousands of ticking clocks muffled in a bag. They sliced open a strange bloody sac sewn shut with yarn, and found not only one heart, but seven others.
“Upon further investigation, they each found a heart with their names on it. One by one, each of them dug a greedy hand into his chest to grab their heart. Steve. Jay. Clint. Brent. Michael. Aaron. David. They kept their hearts, stitched Harry up, went back to their regular lives, and made a silent pact to stop tormenting Harry. Upon awakening, Harry, feeling a little emptier but nevertheless grateful, walked home.”
Calliope stared at Will. “I thought Hemingway said all good stories ended in death.”
“Right.” Will thought for a moment. “And then Harry hunted each of them down and bludgeoned them to death with a tire iron.”
They both looked at me. My chest tightened because it was my turn. When Calliope grabbed the camera from me, I knew I wasn’t getting out of it. I took a deep breath and looked into the lens, where I saw a hint of my reflection.
“Once upon a time, there was a little girl. But she wasn’t just any ordinary girl. She was extraordinary because she was different from everybody else. Really different. She was so different that she felt out of place around everyone. But then one night, when the little girl thought her loneliness would swallow her up into the dark black sky, she got a visitor. At first, the little girl thought the visitor was a ghost, but after several visits, she discovered she was an angel, because she felt normal in her presence. She felt like … home. When the little girl looked into the angel’s eyes, she saw herself, and she learned to like what she saw.
“For three years, the angel continued to visit the little girl, but then one day, she just stopped coming. She vanished. So the little girl frantically tried to recreate moments that might bring the angel back. She prayed and prayed for her return, but to no avail. Soon thereafter, the little girl developed an emptiness in her chest, and began to wander aimlessly, looking for someone to make her feel like the angel made her feel, but she became so weak she could no longer dream or hope, and so with the last strength she could muster, she let herself be swallowed up by the dark black sky.”
When I looked up, Calliope had put the camera down and was wiping a tear from her cheek.
“Cal, it’s just a story!” I said, placing my hand on her leg.
She sniffed. “Sorry. It was really sad.”
Will looked at both of us. “Whoa. Time for something new. We’ll need to stop somewhere before we get to Story City.” He pointed to the radio. “Cal, where we gonna take our pit stop?”
Calliope turned the radio back on, and we all waited for our next adventure to announce itself via radio waves. As soon as we heard it, Will yelled, “Too weird—two Elvises in a row!”
Elvis Presley sang “Hound Dog,” and by the third ve
rse, Will had decided on his personal interpretation of what it represented for our journey. Without asking anyone else for theirs, he took the next exit. “I’m feelin’ this one strong, ladies. Minor detour.”
What could he have up his sleeve? Were we going to buy Elvis outfits and run around this little town as Elvis impersonators? Would he spray-paint the Oak Street sign to read “Graceland Ave.” and get us all arrested?
Before I could think of any more possibilities, we crossed the state line and were at a convenience store in Atlantic, Iowa. Will asked the clerk, “Any pet stores in town?”
There weren’t, but there was an animal shelter, and it was only two blocks away. Will sensed my apprehension. “Come on, Susan. ‘Hound Dog’? This one’s pretty straightforward. We have to answer the call.” He tilted his head back and started howling like a hound dog.
Calliope was thrilled. “Oh, I’ve always wanted a puppy!”
“See?” Will said, poking me in the arm. “Calliope’s always wanted a puppy. We can’t say no to Cal and Elvis.”
I needed another commitment like I needed another lung tumor, but I was tired of Will and Calliope calling me lame, so I tried to look excited. When we walked into the shelter, we were greeted by the kind of man I expected to see in small-town Iowa. He was a no-nonsense, middle-aged guy who looked like Santa Claus (minus the jolliness), despite wearing jeans and an Iowa State Cyclones sweatshirt. “Can I help you folks?”
Will stepped forward. “We’d like to adopt an animal.” The man stared at him with a cautious gaze, so Will tried politeness. “We’d like an animal, sir.”
The man warmed up. “That’s great. We have several wonderful animals that need a good home. Are you all a … family? It’s always good for animals to be in a full house—”
Will was eager to answer. “Yep, we’re a family. A damn happy one. We frickin’ love each other.”
The man chuckled. “That’ll be enough, son. Let’s go get you the newest member of your family.”
He took us to a room full of family-less animals, and the sadness was overwhelming, like visiting an orphanage full of children all longing to go home with you. He led us to a cage holding a hermit crab. “This here’s Roddy. He’s real quiet. He wouldn’t be any trouble.”
Black Eyed Susan Page 10
