They both frowned, confused by the plain English. “Sorry?”
I mentioned some vintage killers with whom they might identify. “Freddy Kruger? Jason? Michael Meyers?” I said, making a knife-slashing gesture reminiscent of the Psycho shower scene.
They were horrified. “Mees Spector, are you in the dangers?” said Clyde. They looked at each other. “Bill and I, we know the kung fu. We protect you like the Karate Kid!” They proceeded with some one-step sparring, and a wax-on, wax-off sequence that was so funny it rivaled the time Lisa Jenkins got her finger stuck in the tampon dispensing machine.
These henchmen were growing on me. “You guys are horrible hit men,” I laughed. “You know that, right?”
“We dancing maniacs! We no hit, babe! No way!” Clyde said.
“Yes way!” Mono answered with enthusiasm, completely obliterating the way the phrase was supposed to be used. “We, how you say, lub it here, ees like ebrything we lub in one place. Super cool, dude.” They tried to high-five each other, but missed.
Of course they loved it here. The whole event dripped with excess, just like their favorite decade, from the “Just Say No to Drugs” party favor buttons to the “Axel Rose for President” banners. They looked like they belonged here. They looked happy.
Clyde lost his Ted voice for a moment and sounded like his old self. “Ees nice here. We travel long way, but this feels like—”
“Home,” I said, trying to keep my shit together. But then it happened. I was fighting tears in the bathroom. “Damn it, I’m too old for this!”
They both came close to comfort me. “Eees okay, Mees Spector. No be sad,” said Clyde. “Are you sick for the home? Sometimes we get sick for the home. Don’t we, Mono?”
I concentrated on not crying. “Where are you from?”
“Well, we lib with Mees Abigail in dee California, but our home ees in Bologna.”
Their Bologna, Italy roots brightened my mood. I thought of both of them dressed like Oscar Meyer wieners, and smiled.
Clyde was proud. “Bologna ees the home of great tinkers—Mr. Petrarch, Mr. Dante.”
I thought of my current quandary, and mumbled my version of an Italian accent. “Eees not Divine, but eees definitely a Comedy.”
Clyde was impressed. “Ah, you know the Mr. Dante?”
I went to college. I remember reading about the journey to the other-world, the Inferno, and the sinners encountered there. I thought about how some of the sufferers were well-known historical figures. As Mono and Clyde stood before me posing as Bill and Ted, they struck me as a modern day Dante and Virgil tandem, hunting down offenders.
“Hey, I forget. When Dante and Virgil finally reach the Throne of God, what did He say was the truth of life, the meaning of the universe?” I asked, just in case I never got there.
Clyde was unsure, but tried to hide it. “Uh, yes, Dante go to God for how to live the life, and God, he sit in his big chair and he say, ‘Don’t worry, be happy.’”
“That’s a Bobby McFerrin lyric, Clyde,” I said.
He shrugged. “Eees berry good, though. Meester God … he should say that.”
I looked at Mono, who was digging in his back pocket. “What are you going to throw in my face this time?” I asked.
Mono shook his head and said, “Purificacione phase no more. Now Phase Three.” He handed me another card.
The English language was an enigma to Mono, who nodded and said, “Resuscitation.”
“Am I dead already?” I said, smiling. “That’s a CPR term, Mono. I think you mean—never mind. What are you going to recite?”
Clyde jumped in. “This phase ees for delibering the results of the observacione … What you did wrong according to the Clyde and Mono. Rules you break. Like, how you say, commandments?”
“Jesus,” I said. “Why is everyone suddenly so obsessed with Moses?”
Mono and Clyde apparently had practiced their routine—more than once. They lifted their heads high and cleared their throats, as they unfolded the list of tenets that, according to them, I’d violated.
Clyde began with a loud stage voice. “One: Thou no drop house on sister of the Abigail.”
Mono’s turn. “Two: Thou no flee scenery of accidente.”
They continued to alternate the scolding, which ended up sounding like This Is Your Life: Criminal Edition, delivered by foreigners.
“Three: Thou no lock George the Bush out hees own home. In dee nakedness. And dee lipstick.”
“Four: Thou no speed in the orange car of the death.”
“Five: Thou no break and enter into the house of the knight. And take naked picture.”
“Six: Thou no inhalation of the no legal substance. And get naked in the public.”
I had to correct them. “That was a private resort.”
“Shhhh,” Clyde said, continuing, “Seven: Thou no inhalation. Again. This time, the petrol.”
“Eight: Thou no dig on private property of the rainbow.”
“Nine: Thou no kidnap the littlest lion.”
“I adopted him!” I yelled.
“Shhhh,” Mono said, rolling his eyes at Clyde as he announced the final infraction. “Ten: Thou no make tease of the Boy George?” He paused. “I no could think of the number ten,” Mono explained.
I didn’t think they’d heard me laugh at “Karma Chameleon,” but according to the list, I clearly had a problem with inhaling bad things and getting myself and others naked. I tried to defend my actions. “Well, it all sounds really bad, when you say everything all at once.”
Their work was finished, and I was almost disappointed to see them go. “Come, Mono, we fly,” Clyde said, heading toward the door. It was just in time, too. Blondie and Pat Benatar showed up to comfort a crying Sheena Easton.
As he left, Clyde stopped and gave me a warm smile. Talking in Ted’s surf-speak and in almost-perfect English, he said, “I remember what God say now. He say, ‘Be excellent to each other.’”
Amen.
TWENTY-SIX
When I returned to our table, Will whisked me away to the dance floor. “Where you been? They’re playing our song.”
I was surprised to hear Marvin Gaye’s “Sexual Healing” at a school dance, but none of the adults seemed to be bothered. They fell under Marvin’s spell, just as I had when I first heard him in 1983 at the bowling alley. My introduction to Marvin was not with his mega-hit “I Heard It Through the Grapevine” or the environmentally conscious “What’s Going On,” but with the sensual masterpiece I heard on the dance floor that night with Will.
When I first heard it, I was wearing bowling shoes, waiting for my ball to come out of the chute, my hips moving without my permission. Even at twelve, something in the music beyond the lyrics resonated with the woman hiding inside me. That song defined sexy before I knew what sexy was. Before my brain could get a hold of it, classify it, or chastise it, my body interacted with it. Marvin Gaye made me believe I had a soul even when I had my doubts.
Twenty years later, I still couldn’t say no to that song. It was like the corner piece of the sheet cake, the one exploding with frosting flowers—sweet and naughty at the same time.
I draped my arms around Will’s neck and he grabbed my waist. Our bodies rocked back and forth in sync, my swing the answer to his sway. Everyone around us moved to the same beat in a sort of school-wide tribal dance, and as I looked at the unbridled lust on every boy’s face, I was actually relieved I’d never have a daughter.
Anything Marvin Gaye sang ended up sounding sexy. Thank God he never made a Christmas album. Listeners would’ve fantasized about doing unmentionable things to Santa, or maybe the reindeer.
He sang about the analogy I favored—sex equals medicine.
And boy was I sick.
According to Marvin, sex was indeed healing. It was something our bodies needed and, like broccoli, it was best when served hot and steaming. I’d never been so excited to eat my vegetables.
Will and I lasted as lon
g as we could, but we’d reached the end of the song, and the end of our ability to exhibit restraint. “Let’s go,” he said in the middle of an intense stare. I envisioned a sexual encounter that, unlike the last one, we’d actually remember—Will throwing me down on the hotel bed and ripping my stupid dress at every cheap and cheesy seam. But that’s not where we ended up.
After a short walk packed with innuendos and flirting, we found ourselves in the middle of Grand Rapids High’s drama stage, three corridors away from everyone else, making out like sixteen year olds. Will had turned on just enough of the lights so we could see each other, but the rest of the auditorium was pitch dark. We were actors in the spotlight.
The set was made up like someone’s living room, with two end tables, an entertainment center, and a couch. Piles of prop-filled boxes sprouted up throughout the stage. Guiding us around them, I started toward the set’s living room couch.
“Mrs. Robinson, you’re trying to seduce me. Aren’t you?” he said, and when it occurred to him that he wasn’t in charge, he pressed into me and said, “Hey, I’m directing this little production.”
Trying to imitate his penchant for semantics, I sighed and said, “‘Little’ is definitely not the right word. More like—”
He put his finger over my mouth and pulled me down on top of him. And there I was, once again lying atop Will in a living room filled with boxes. Except this time he was awake—very awake. With bent knees, I straddled him and let my dress fall off my shoulders.
Nuzzled between my breasts, he mumbled, “It is heaven.”
After I helped him out of his second-hand pants and shirt, I secretly challenged myself to kiss every inch of his body. I started with a playful peck on his forehead, and traveled to his ear lobe, down to his neck and chest, and finally to his stomach. Thank God I was conscious this time.
When I went lower, his whole body fluttered and his feet flexed. I continued my performance as he directed me through the use of periodic groans, and then, somewhere in the second act, I was upstaged when he switched places with me. He flipped me on my back and, using one arm to stabilize himself, hovered above me, helping me shimmy out of my dress and introduce it to the floor.
What can I say about the third act? Let’s just say there was no intermission, and one hell of an encore.
If someone had told me in high school that Drama Club was this fantastic, I wouldn’t have made fun of it.
We sat up together and slowly put on our clothes. When I looked into his eyes, I imagined how blue they were and without thinking, I started humming Marvin Gaye’s “What’s Going On.” I’d put on one shoe, but just as I was about to reach down to put on the other one, Will stopped me.
“What kind of knight lets a princess put on her own shoe?” he said, kneeling down in front of me. When he slipped it on my foot, he smiled and said, “If the shoe fits …”
It was a perfect fit.
He sat down next to me and kissed my cheek. “Mrs. Hudson, you get a big fat A.” He tried to run his fingers through my hair, but it was rough and ratty, and they became entangled. “But it’s a good thing you teach music instead of cosmetology. Your hair is ridiculous.”
My whole body was still tingling. I wanted to say something clever and funny, but what came out was more revealing: “Well, Mr. Hudson, sex ed is a perfect teaching assignment for you.” My sexy voice turned serious. “You’re a dream.” When I said it, for just a moment, I didn’t feel like a grown-up, cynical and world-weary. I felt like a young girl full of life. And love.
He touched my face with his warm hands. “Are you blushing, Mrs. Hudson?”
So it had happened. I’d fallen in love with the leading man, but I’d done so in my final act, just as the curtain was about to close. I was wrong about my dilemma being a comedy. It was an obvious tragedy. Euripides would’ve been ecstatic to get his hands on my sad saga. Exceptional but flawed, I was the tragic hero, minus the hero.
Falling in love when you know it won’t work, when it can’t work, brings heartbreaking realness to the word “bittersweet.” As I watched the two of us finish up the scene on our personal stage, I thought about the famous street scene from the end of The Way We Were. I felt like telling Will to cross the street without me, before our love affair met its doom.
There’s nothing more sobering than the moment you realize the good ol’ days are the present.
“Mrs. Hudson?” Will examined my stare, wondering where I’d gone.
He laughed at the sight of me, a post-coital mess of taffeta, hairspray, and sweat, and, by returning the laugh, I sealed the moment as happy and hopeful, thus avoiding a rewrite.
TWENTY-SEVEN
“That’s weird,” said Calliope as we walked out of the gymnasium into the parking lot. “I don’t remember the front of your dress looking like that, Susan.”
The starry Minnesota night sky shed just enough light for Calliope to notice … and to stare. “Your bows are backwards. Your whole dress is …” She looked at Will, who was sporting a sinful smile, and then at me. “Oh. My. God!”
There was no sense lying about it, so I said, “Guess it was darker in there than I thought.”
Leo looked confused, so Calliope explained, in her usual direct way, “Will and Susan just had sex.”
“Oh,” Leo said, walking toward the car. A few paces later, he said, “With each other?”
Who’d he think we’d had sex with? An acne-faced Eddie Van Halen and a prepubescent Belinda Carlisle? Leo “the Lion” was a strange bird. He was nervous around everyone and everything. And I had no idea where the unfaltering fear came from.
“Leo, you wanna sleep with Eternity tonight?” I said with a smile, as the two of us got into the backseat.
“Very funny,” he laughed. Then the smile left his face. “He has a cage, right? I mean, he can’t be allowed to roam around. What if he—”
“He’s dying, Leo,” I said as Will drove us away from Grand Rapids High.
Leo folded his hands. “Oh.” I could tell he felt a tiny bit guilty, because he followed with another question. It wasn’t what I’d expected, like “What’s he dying from?” or “How long does he have?” Instead, his inquiry was rooted in sincerity.
“Is he afraid?” he asked, looking to me for an answer.
Was Eternity afraid of eternity? It was hard to say. I guess I should have had some insight, since I too was dying, but the truth is, I wasn’t even sure if I was afraid of dying. I was experiencing a mixture of emotions, each so overwhelming it was hard to differentiate one from the other. But death was just one more thing for Leo to be fearful of, so I tried to keep my answer light.
“He told me this morning he’s been accepted into doggy heaven. He seems pretty peaceful about the whole thing.”
Leo didn’t smile as he was supposed to, but said, “How did he find out? Did somebody notify him?”
We all waited to see if he was serious, and when we concluded he was, we started laughing.
He frowned. “What’s so funny?”
I put my hand on his knee, and decided not to sugarcoat. “What happened to you, Leo?”
Leo, much to my surprise, reciprocated the honesty. It was late, everyone was tired, and Leo’s guard was down. He sighed and looked up at me. “Troubles,” he said.
Calliope, who was riding in the passenger’s seat, turned around to the backseat and said, “We know that, Leo. What kind of troubles?”
He chuckled. “What kind? He was a white bull terrier with a black patch around his right eye and an overall bad attitude.”
I couldn’t see Leo’s face because it was dark, but I heard terror in his voice as he recalled his first and last encounter with Troubles.
“Troubles belonged to our neighbor, Mr. Langley. I was afraid of his growl long before I ever saw him. He barked at anyone who dared to walk past his kennel. He didn’t need the rest of the pack. He was a loner. Even Mr. Langley was afraid him. One day he got loose, and I was retrieving a ball from the street
, and …”
Leo sighed, and I doubted we’d ever get the details of Troubles’s assault. As we sat in the back seat in the dark, I felt his hands fidgeting, and with another sigh, he continued.
“From that day on, my mom protected me from dogs, making sure I didn’t have to interact with any. Then somehow it all escalated. Name a phobia, I had it. There’s a German proverb says, ‘Fear makes the wolf bigger than it is.’ Cynophobia—fear of dogs—evolved into zoophobia—fear of animals. Then doraphobia—fear of skins, furs. I hyperventilated at a natural history museum once looking at a stuffed elk and, as usual, Mom whisked me away.”
As Will drove us down Grand Rapids’s main street, toward the hotel, Leo revealed his long inventory of fears as if he were reading a grocery list.
“Arithmophobia—fear of numbers. Chronophobia—fear of clocks. Anglophobia—fear of the English culture. Eleatherophobia—fear of freedom …”
He seemed to be benefiting from the confessional, so all of us remained quiet and let him finish.
“I tried counter-conditioning, desensitization, and exposure treatment, but I eventually learned to fear fear itself. People kept protecting me. Larry even removed Toto—” Then, interrupting his own story, Leo began to laugh. “Jesus, that’s crazy.”
Within a few minutes, we were back to the hotel, and as we all got ready for bed, Leo did something he hadn’t done for twenty-five years: approach a dog. We all watched in anticipation as Eternity brought his nose up to sniff Leo’s stubby index finger.
Then Leo, with the palpable resolve of a much bigger person, crouched down to Eternity’s level and looked him square in the eye.
The confrontation, triumphant and cathartic, ended when a confident Leo looked up at us and said, “What?”
He paused to smile and savor the moment. “Look at him. He wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
Black Eyed Susan Page 17
