I think of Tina T at Carolina Psychic Sidekicks. “None worth mentioning.” Alix slips her blouse off and folds it neatly on a chair, sets the cell phone on top, dead center. Her hands reach for her belt.
Still standing in the doorway, I say, “Hey. I heard that they’re shooting downtown. The Creature from Behind Tomorrow. Is that one of yours?”
She studies my face, trying to decide why I’m asking what I already know. “Beyond,” she says. “And yeah, I’m in it. Another damsel in distress. They’ve got no interest in backing strong female roles.” She hasn’t mentioned the bump crowning my forehead or the bruise on my chin. Clearly, she knows I was the one who tried to save her dummy self. Maybe she just doesn’t want to embarrass me.
“Look, Coop, I’ve got a long list today. Can we get to it or what?”
I step closer to her, crossing the threshold into my own bedroom. “Sure, Al,” I say. “Of course. I was thinking before we did, we just might talk for a minute.”
Alix’s belt is undone, but not out. The two ends hang between her thighs. “What exactly do we need to talk about?”
I want to tell her about Quinn’s offer. I want to ask her what she thinks I should do. I want to tell her that last night I met myself in our home and I don’t know what it means. “Brook,” I say. “We should talk about Brook.”
Alix backs away and lowers down onto the edge of my bed, bends over and starts loosening the laces of her long black boots. “Brook is fine. You had last Saturday and you know she’s fine. Are you saying she’s not fine?”
“No no,” I say. I’m standing at the foot of the bed.
“Because she is,” Alix says. “Brook is great.”
I remember a tidbit from our last T.G.I. Friday’s. “She told me there’s some new instructor at dance, some guy you’re not crazy about.”
Alix shakes her head. “Jhondu’s a New Age nutjob. Has them meditate before practice. Brook told me last night she’s reading a book he gave her about being a vegan.”
“A who?”
“Vegan,” Alix says. “According to Trevor, it’s all the rage in L.A. It’s like being vegetarian but worse.”
“What’s eating meat got to do with dance?” I ask.
“That’s my position. I don’t trust anyone who won’t eat a hamburger. And Brook seems kind of charmed by this whacko. But don’t sweat it. I’ve got everything under control.”
“So do I need a ticket for this thing tonight?”
From the bed, she looks at me. “You can buy one there. I didn’t know you were planning on making an appearance.”
“Sure. You know, for Brook. Are you going?”
“I always go, Coop. Remember?”
“Right,” I say. But then I can’t think of a line to keep the conversation going, so we stare at each other for a few seconds in silence. Alix tilts her wrist, eyes up her watch. Then she scoots along the mattress, reaches out and starts working my belt. She says, “C’mon, Coop.”
I’m picturing the Thursday list she wrote up this morning. Beneath Get gas and Buy broccoli, did she actually write it down? Hump Buddy.
“I have an opportunity,” I say. “With work.”
Her fingers freeze. She doesn’t look up. “That’s great, Cooper. In what city?”
I wonder what answer she wants.
“Here,” I tell her. “Right here. Quinn wants me to be champion. Can you believe it?”
Alix looks up at me and is smiling. Smiling at me for me. I had completely forgotten. “See what a little ambition and initiative will get you?”
We look at each other. Between our eyes hang lifetimes, entire planets of could-have-beens, wasn’ts, and almosts. She says, “Really, this is great news. Just terrific.”
Ten seconds in the future, one of us will begin a sentence with “Do you ever wonder if,” and we’ll both regret it. Alix will tell me how bad Trevor really is and why she comes here some Thursdays and she’ll say how much she thinks of all the good times we had together. I’m waiting for her tender words and she looks at me and says, “Let’s celebrate” and yanks down my fly.
“Wait,” I say. My hand touches her hand to still it. This is the first flesh-to-flesh contact between us.
“Fine,” Alix says, head still down.
She releases my zipper. “Fine. Fine. Fine.”
She hops down the mattress, jams her feet into her boots, then stands and snaps her white shirt from the chair. The cell phone clatters to the floor. “Just fine.”
“Al. I’m sorry,” I say. “I just wanted to talk to you about—”
“You want to talk?” She punches her arms into her shirt and bends for the green cell. “You got my number.”
She storms through the living room and I trail her into the kitchen. She doesn’t look back as she closes the door, which I expected her to slam. I stand there with my fly undone listening to my wife’s boot steps clacking down my stairs, a sound that quickly gets swallowed in the chunk-a-chunk of the Maytag.
-----
In Which Our Hero Watches from the Shadows
Before Taking Action. One of the Problems with Words.
Facts They Leave out of Textbooks. Symbolic Implications.
Insights from Lewis and Clark.
The moment I step into the basement auditorium of the Cape Fear Community Arts Center, a sense of déjà vu settles over me. Heads turn at the light that comes in through the door, so I close it quickly, slide into the darkness along the back wall. Onstage, twin girls with flowing black hair leap and spin to Aretha Franklin and Annie Lennox singing “Sisters Are Doin’ It for Themselves.” It’s like they’re swimming up there, the way they sway and slide in unison, alive and in sync. Behind them hangs a white bedsheet with a painted message: UNITED DANCERS OF WILMINGTON R-ALL-4 BATTERED WOMEN! Fifty rows of dance moms spread between me and the stage, every one with a head crowded with dreams of success for her daughter. Prom queen. Miss Wilmington. Miss America. Miss Intergalactica.
I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve been here before.
Next to me in the shadows, standing in the back of the center aisle, is a guy bent into a video camera on a tripod. Under his breath he’s singing backup for Aretha and Annie, “So we’re comin’ out of the kitchen, ’cause there’s something we forgot to say to you!” I figure him for an assistant coach.
Somewhere in the audience are Alix and probably Trevor—I came across the Towner while I was frantically circling the parking lot looking for a spot. Almost an hour ago I showed up right on time, but at the wrong community center. Across town—at the Wilmington Arts Center—a cancer-survivor group is putting on a production of something called Return to Oz.
As Aretha and Annie finish up, the dancers spin off stage and everyone claps politely. Five rows down a skinny mother stands up screaming and waving her hands like she just opened the door and Ed McMahon had a mattress-sized check with her name on it. Sooner or later everybody wins. That’s what these people believe. Here’s one thing I’m sure of: Trust what the fine print says—making a purchase does not increase your odds of winning.
There’s some trouble getting the next song cued up and in the interim I scan the crowd. I’m not really looking for Alix. And I’m also not searching for clues as to why I’m here. The Phantom Buddy that my drug-soaked mind concocted told me to attend, but that doesn’t mean anything. My déjà vu won’t scatter, and I’m deciding we may have brought some of the Tae-Kwon-Do for Tots kids down here to a tournament. Or maybe Alix competed here. Something.
Not everyone in the audience is a dance mom. One group off to the side seems different. Their heads aren’t turning like everyone else, their bodies are perfectly still. Their faces angle down. These are residents of the domestic abuse shelter, sitting just across the aisle from the dreaming mothers.
A cymbal crashes through the speakers and the audience jumps. While the opening of “Walk Like an Egyptian” pumps out, a tribe of veiled, bare-bellied girls bounce on stage with gold anklets rattl
ing above their naked feet. Their eye makeup is Cleopatra-black. Some have bright plastic jewels shining from their belly buttons. I can’t tell if the tall one in the back is Brook or not, but from the way she’s gyrating her hips I’m sure I don’t want it to be.
Midway through the second verse a boy comes out, some kid dressed in a turban. He’s pretending to round the women up. He seems familiar.
The tall one spins toward the front of the stage and I catch Brook’s smile, confirming my fears. Her auburn hair is bundled on top of her head. I don’t know when her legs got so long. She’s beautiful up there, and happy it seems, twirling and grinning ear to ear surrounded by the other dancers. They’re in a bubble all their own, separate from all the crap in the world, and that’s worth more than I can say. I just wish they’d wear more clothes.
Suddenly the little turban kid unsheathes a scimitar from his belt and that washes my déjà vu. Five, six years ago, at the height of my career as Bull Invinso, I wrestled in this basement auditorium. Back then this place was a Moose Lodge or some Sacred Brotherhood of the Holy Elk deal. My opponent was the Arab Assassin, a guy named Eric Whatever from New Jersey. This was during Desert Storm, of course. Americans were actually patriotic for a couple months. That night we sang “The Star-Spangled Banner” together, me and the crowd, all of us gazing with hope and belief at the flag. And when the Arab Assassin came out, I thought they’d riot. They were shouting “Raghead!” and “Baby-killer!” and by the time he got to me in the ring I was ready to kill him myself. Ten minutes into the match I hit the Assassin with my signature move, the Bull from Heaven, where I climbed the turnbuckle, jumped onto a taut side rope, and sprang high into the air before crashing on my opponent. Long ago, I lost the strength or balance for such a maneuver. But that night I was in the zone, ten, twelve feet high easy. And OK I may have come down a bit hard, making Eric take most of my weight. And yes I could’ve pinned him then—that was the plan—but the fans wanted to see more. So I propped his limp body up on all fours, positioned his head between my knees, lifted his feet up to my shoulders, and drove his skull into the canvas, the Patriot Piledriver. He yelped like a dog and the fans roared. The ref called the match, swung his hands over his head, and stepped in between us. But I pushed him out of the way and grabbed the Assassin, body-slammed his camel-loving ass just on principle. After they carried Eric out on a stretcher, the fans rose and applauded and I stood in the middle of it all and sucked up their adoration like some kind of war hero. Looking back, I guess they may have thought the stretcher was part of the act.
As the Egyptian song comes to a close, the harem shuffles off stage and everyone starts clapping. I push away from the wall I’ve been leaning against and clap too, hoping perhaps that Brook might see me back here in the shadows being a good father. The camera guy in the aisle, still bent and gazing through his viewfinder, says, “Oh yeah, that was a keeper” and suddenly I have the urge to ask for ID. I mean, I’d like to know where the copies of these tapes are going exactly.
A woman in a yellow dress walks out as the lights come up a little; she’s got on a thick silver necklace and her hair was done at a shop. Mrs. Somebody Rich and Important. A member of the board with Trevor. She cold-stares a few persistent clapping mothers into silence, politely thanks the dancers, and says, “For our final number tonight I’d like to introduce a very special guest who has agreed to perform for us. Rhonda came to us at Sanctuary House three months ago. After years of abusive interactions she found the strength to break the cycle of terror. Because of the generous financial support of people like you, she’s proud to be on the road to reclaiming her selfhood. Ladies and gentlemen, Rhonda.”
The stage lights dim and I think, First names only, which was always the deal at AA.
The lights come back up again on a gigantic pile of laundry center stage. A flute—a real one, not a recording—sounds a couple notes somewhere up front, and the heap shimmers. A long thin arm stretches from the clothes. The fingers unfold from the end, reaching into the air and grasping an invisible rope. Rhonda’s head and chest rise from the laundry grave and suddenly she’s unfurling, like a flower or something, and her body twists and she keeps rising, and somehow she’s gone from being curled up on the floor to standing straight up. This Rhonda is tall, six feet and change. Stray pieces of clothing cling to her white leotard—a black sock hangs off her arm, a grimy T-shirt drapes her shoulder. Her hair is hidden, wrapped inside a kerchief as if she were doing housework in the ’60s. The symbolic implications are clear.
The flute puts together a few notes, enough that I recognize “Proud Mary.” But the opening is soft and slow, the way Tina and Ike did it, not CCR. It’s hard not to think of the “abusive interactions” Ike shared with Tina. Sometimes when Alix and me would spar—when we’d trade choke holds and armlocks—she’d make jokes about how she’d kick my ass if we ever really went at it.
Rhonda plucks the laundry from her body and flings pieces into the audience. What could be underwear scatters a small crowd of dance moms, one of whom actually shrieks. They didn’t come here expecting Rhonda.
She sweeps a pointed foot and flips the rest of the laundry off the stage, until the hardwood is bare, and as the flute gets to the faster part where the horns take over, Rhonda flutters across the floor, exploring it for the first time. Her arms trail behind her as she rushes around in circles. Even from the back row I see her smile, and it makes me smile too. Then she skitters up to the corner of the stage and everything shifts. Her legs lock at a sudden stop, and she pretends to see something, somebody. One arm flashes up to protect her face and she’s backing away. But whatever she’s retreating from is gaining on her, so she flips over backward, her long arms stretching out to find the floor just before her head hits. Once, twice, three times she tumbles backward heels over head, crossing the stage diagonally. Tentative applause crackle across the audience. Then Rhonda reaches down and grips the end of one foot. She lifts and eases the leg up until it’s almost straight over her head. There’s more clapping.
But the leg she’s standing on is trembling. Even through the leotard I can see the muscle spasm. And her smile has changed. It’s the cheerleader smile, the fake one the little kids wear when they want to cry and run off stage.
We’re almost at the end of the song now, and Rhonda lets her leg down. She’s in the far back corner of the stage, and she takes this deep Mary Lou Retton breath and three stomping steps then launches forward into the air, her hands shooting out to her sides, her legs scissoring over her head. The kerchief brushes the floor halfway through the forward flip, but her legs come down too fast, and one heel kicks the hardwood like a hammer shot. Rhonda crashes to the floor. The flute stops.
Nobody moves and nobody says anything. These moments happen in the ring, when even the fans can tell something’s gone wrong. Off the stage, nobody knows what to do. Rhonda is turned away from the audience and the way her back is moving she’s either breathing heavy or crying softly.
After fifteen seconds of silence, Mrs. Somebody Rich and Important appears at the edge of the stage and raises one finger. “Perhaps a brief intermission—”
But Rhonda’s got other plans. Slowly, she rises and limps—literally limps—back to the far corner, ignoring the flustered master of ceremonies. “Again, Sarah,” the dancer says, nodding toward the flute. This I do not believe. Pockets of women shake their heads. But Rhonda’s got no time for nonbelievers, she’s got a script to follow. Sarah tries a few notes from the flute, but Rhonda’s not waiting. She yanks the kerchief from her head, pouring apple-red hair onto her shoulders, and her voice sounds instantly in my mind: The one true gift flows in my veins. This is my green-eyed prophetess, my Carolina Psychic Sidekick. Before I can process meaning, Rhonda bolts forward, launches again into the air, legs spinning, red hair tumbling. This time she lands squarely on her back. The boom rocks the room like a body slam.
People can’t watch this kind of thing. A lady gets up on the stage and moves towa
rd her, but Rhonda snaps, “Get back, Sarah. I just need a minute.” This woman, she’ll kill herself. But part of me, I know, admires this. I’m probably the only one in here who wants to see her get up and try again.
Everything is quiet except for some stifled weeping and then I hear from next to me, “Geez Louise, lady. Stay down.” It’s the video guy. He’s got one eye shoved up against the viewfinder, probably zooming in.
“Turn that thing off,” I say.
He pretends not to hear me.
I step in and say louder, “Hey, Jackson. Turn that thing off.”
A couple people close by look at us. The cameraman straightens up and looks me over. “I’m staff,” he says, puffing out his chest with a name badge clipped to the pocket of his shirt: CHAS. Chas says, “I’m doing my job.” Then he bends again and sticks his face back up against the machine, recording Rhonda crippled on the floor. And I realize she’s right back where she started, crumbled dead center in the middle of the stage.
I open my right hand and smack Chas in the back of the head, driving his face into the camera and spilling them both down the center aisle. From the ground he looks up at me, shocked that his name badge didn’t protect him. For some reason he grabs one of the legs of the tripod. Chas’s eyes get pretty big when I lift my boot up over his face, but my target shifts and I crash my heel down on the recorder, sending plastic shrapnel exploding everywhere.
I turn to the crowd, give it a hard scan. On the stage Mrs. Somebody Rich and Important holds a hand to her mouth. Rhonda stares over her shoulder, squinting into the darkness I’m on the edge of. The rest of the audience is looking my way, and I can feel the weight of Alix’s eyes. I spin, hoping nobody got a good look at my face, and bolt. My open hands ram the door, my feet hit every third step going up, and the ticket geek stands up when I brush past him. Out in the parking lot I weave through the maze of cars, sliding around fenders and even across one hood, all the while imagining the perfect getaway. But just as I reach the Ford, I hear the sound of the arts center door opening behind me and hop for cover into the bed of my truck. My ass bounces on metal. Risking just my eyes, I peer out at the nine-dollar-an-hour security guard sweeping the lot with a flashlight. He’s between me and the only exit. These guys are worse than the real thing, desperate to prove those police academy entrance exams all wrong by shooting some poor bastard like me in the back of the head. I feel around the bed, hoping for a tarp I can hide beneath. But there’s nothing here except an empty pizza box and the tire iron.
Buddy Cooper Finds a Way Page 7
