Sex and Death in the American Novel

by Martinez, Sarah

  “What can I tell you? All the stuff you love was the stuff that made it insufferable.”

  “No accounting for a person's interpretation of art,” my mother said.

  “I read the first page three times trying to figure out what was going on. After I got used to all the effects, the colors, I gave up trying to enjoy it, and just pushed through so I could say I read it. For you. Give me some credit. I tried in a big way. At least your precious Vollmann handles topics I can get excited about. He gets it; this guy is just too…too, perfect.” My brother tried to interrupt and I said, “Those are hours I will never get back. A Brazilian wax job performed by a newly released sex offender would have been less painful.”

  I thought I heard my mother giggle, but when I turned to her she wore a serious expression with an arched eyebrow. “He's very talented, that must have been obvious to you Vivianna. I raised you to at least—”

  I jumped in, “Oh, I do see that. Imagery like that, of course it takes time to think up. Figuring out what words will fit and make the right chimes or notes or whatever. Sure. It probably took him as long to write that opening paragraph as it took me to write my last short story, shop it around and see it published. That kind of makes the whole thing even more depressing, doesn't it?”

  “So tell us, Vivianna, how come you need to write smut for the vaginally challenged?” Tristan asked.

  “No need to get defensive, I'm just being honest. Sorry if I offended the honor of your true love.”

  “That is a good question. I had hoped that you would grow out of this and turn your attention to something more meaningful, more fulfilling,” my mother said.

  “Who says I am not fulfilled? I have people who write to me on my blog, who come to see me when I sign books—”

  “At the dirty bookstore,” Tristan piped in.

  “Anyway, does it matter? I am doing what I want. I have fun. I would rather have that than a stuck-up Book Award or precious Fellowship any day.”

  Both of them were looking at me like they didn't believe me. They still thought the only reason I wrote what I did was to piss my father off. Neither one got why I still did it after he died. Never mind the contract. Never mind getting paid. Never mind what I wanted.

  “Look, I don't just write gay erotica anymore. What can I say, I made a name for myself. And why does it matter if the characters are gay, or straight or whatever. Even Dad would agree that writing about love and all that shit is just as important as anything else. There are no authors out there, except for a very few, like Marco Vassi, that even come close to addressing the way people can be together without making the subject of sex sound like a dirty secret.” I gave Tristan an exaggerated look of triumph. “You gave me The Stoned Apocalypse. This is your fault.”

  My mother passed looks across the table to Tristan. Once again I ignored them and made my case, it gave us something to do. A familiar routine.

  My mother spoke up, “You've been writing for a while now, Vivianna. Don't you think it is time to move past this need to write so explicitly about something most people don't really want to read about?”

  I gave her my most crooked stare. “Most people? Really? How come my last e-book sold five hundred copies in the first month?” Her face registered no understanding. I was going to give up, keep quiet, be good, but the familiar frustration with my mother's unrelenting disapproval got the better of me as always. “How can I move past something that makes me happy, that I do well?”

  “I'm proud of you,” Tristan said, with a too chipper sound in his voice. He had sent stories to hundreds of magazines, taken two years out of his life to study writing and taught for several years after that, and had only published four or five pieces in all that time. I knew he probably hated me for doing something in so little a time that he'd been laboring to do for years.

  My mother leaned behind me to Tristan and said, “There's a big difference between the sort of people who publish experimental fiction and those that publish,” she paused, “other things.”

  My mother took a long drink of her wine. “Vivi, you're going to be the end of me. What do you think the people who knew your father think? I keep hoping this will be something you give up, and you continue to push it; I imagine you persist just to get under my skin. You have no concept of what it's like in my world, how people talk.”

  I smiled, enjoying the image of those discussions. I had actually seen a fair amount of them in my time. I knew exactly what they said about me. The way they said the words commercial or mainstream with contempt—and underneath, an envy they tried and always failed to mask entirely.

  “Hello, Francine.” Robert Conner stood before us, sporting the bushiest sideburns I'd ever seen. “How are you all this evening?”

  My mother extended her hand and he sat in an empty chair next to her. “We are lovely. Just lovely. How are you? How is the guest of honor over there?”

  “Not a big talker…that one,” Robert said, looking toward the table where he had just been sitting with Jasper. He turned back to us. “Glad everyone could make it out for this. We're very excited to have him here.”

  We all nodded and smiled. Robert pulled up a chair next to my mother. I turned back to Tristan. “You should go over and talk to him. He's right there, not doing anything.”

  Tristan acted as if I'd suggested he go over there and take a dump right on the table. “Oh, no. I bet he's trying to prepare…or something…” He started working his hands into fists and shook his head.

  “Yes, dear.” My mother leaned past me. “Now might be a good time to approach him at that.”

  My brother's only response was to shake his head, look down at his book and frown.

  His reaction was intense and out of character. My brother was generally the most self-assured person I knew, or had been when he was in a band. Too many years alone with his books and his laptop must have fried any sense of connection to the real world.

  My mother gave me a confused look, and I shrugged. Robert frowned as well and we all three sat there a moment while Tristan no doubt hoped we'd move off the topic.

  For some way to get the conversation going again, I said to Robert, “Don't you still teach at the U of M?”

  “Yes, a poetry course and a study in the work of some of my favorite authors: George Bataille, Celine, Andre Breton, ee Cummings, Kafka… Burroughs. I'm sure I'm missing a few here.”

  “What about Henry Miller?” I asked.

  “Of course, of course. I knew I left out someone important.” Robert smiled.

  I smiled back, glad to be part of the conversation. “I'm so glad to hear that. I think he's gotten a bad rap.”

  “Indeed.” Robert gave me an approving look. “For some reason the survey isn't as popular as I would like.”

  Nods around the table, and an apologetic smile was all I could offer.

  “Glad to see you aren't limiting the study to the French.” My mother sipped her wine. “My son is working on something experimental,” she said, addressing Robert and smiling at Tristan.

  I said, “I thought we were going to come up with a category that sounded less important, more cool. Like Mind-bending Speculative or Hipster Linguism, or some other ism…”

  He rolled his eyes. “Still the only description that sounds right.”

  “What's this now, the great author's son is following in his footsteps?” Robert asked Tristan.

  My brother placed his elbows on the table. “Yes, I've got about fifteen hundred pages written for this thing I'm working on.” He spoke about his mountainous work with reverence and shyness. Mother called it a trilogy when he wasn't around; he never seemed able to articulate what it was he was even doing. Unlike my father, he didn't let her help him—he typed it all up himself.

  “That's impressive,” Robert said.

  Tristan made his familiar, don't-be-impressed-with-me-that's-not-the-point face. “Some parts are still pretty rough,” he said, shaking his head like he was clearing his mind, preparing fo
r a serious discussion.

  “Still, you've got to be making progress,” Robert said.

  Tristan made the face again, twisted his head around on his neck. He always began serious conversations this way—like a boxer shedding his robe, he was about to hit the center of the ring. “Progress…it's hard to say.”

  Robert looked to my mother, then leaned forward and pushed an empty plate aside. “Do you outline? Do you know where you're going and how you're going to get there?”

  Tristan gave a scary smile where he showed all of his teeth but there was no humor in it. If I didn't know what came after this it would have been comical—like Eric's cat who was forever coughing up fur balls, opening his mouth really wide and wheezing, then giving us all an apologetic look before finishing the display with a low growl—only with Tristan, it was like he was getting ready to really talk, exchange ideas, and engage.

  “I have internalized all that stuff already. I've been writing seriously for the last ten years. Not to mention teaching.” He grimaced and took a breath. “Outline, yes…” Tristan trailed off, frustrated, making his hands into fists and flattening them again.

  Mother interjected, turned to Tristan, gave him an adoring smile and said, “My son used to write for hours in his room, and let me review what he'd written. I was the one that encouraged the graduate degree.” She addressed Robert while still looking at Tristan: “He gave up a very promising career as a musician to follow his dream.”

  Tristan shook his head. “Mom, we played covers of Metallica and Iron Maiden. We were hardly on our way up.”

  “I will never believe that. You had all those people calling for guitar lessons at one point,” she said.

  Tristan ran his hand over his face. My mother could make even his smallest accomplishments seem like he'd achieved world peace. Tristan sat waiting for her to finish with a faint smile on his lips. Robert looked confused.

  Tristan scratched his chin, then he nodded to her. “Thanks for that.” He seemed both annoyed and appreciative and turned back to Robert. “It's not about the story anymore, it's about word choice, it's about not using any ideas or concepts my readers will associate with exactly what I want them to, it's about the right metaphors, making someone feel disturbed at the right time, and in the right context.”

  I made a low snoring sound so only he could hear me, deep in the back of my throat. I spooned the last of the mousse from my dish, hoping Jasper Caldwell would start yammering so I could sneak out for a smoke.

  My mother leaned in and said low in my ear, “Better take it easy on those desserts dear. A moment on the lips and all that…” Her hand rested on my thigh for a split second.

  My stomach dropped, and what was first a sticky sweet pleasure on my tongue turned to a greasy bitter mess. A flash of anger and I said, “Don't worry Mom, there are plenty of guys here who could help me work it off.”

  “Oh, for God's sake, Vivi,” my mother said.

  Robert's eyes got wide; Tristan shifted in his seat. I was angry and sorry for breaking up the nice conversational mood.

  “Well, it sounds like you've got it covered then,” Robert said, pushing his chair back.

  There was an uncomfortable silence as Robert waved goodbye and walked back to the table where Jasper sat. I grabbed my purse and stood up. “Let me know what I miss. I'm going out for a smoke.”

  My mother groaned. Tristan snorted under his breath and said, “Wait up. I'm coming too.”

  We went through the hallways to the warm night air, the sounds of crickets and the breezes in the grass. My hands shook as I pulled out my pack of cigarettes.

  Tristan closed the heavy glass door behind us and said, “Don't listen to her Viv, okay? She doesn't know anything. She is trying in her own way, a twisted deranged way I admit, but that's Mom. What are you gonna do?”

  I lit up, my shaking fingers gripping the lighter, flicking my thumb three times over the rough flint wheel before a flame shot out of the metal and grabbed at the dry tip of the cigarette. I sucked in a searing breath and blew it out, satisfied by the stream of gray smoke that came from my lips and made me lightheaded, and the way my tongue now tasted of smoke, acrid, blasting away the memory of the mousse.

  “I know. I really do. I usually just block that stuff out but since I haven't seen her in a while, I forgot how evil she can be.” I swallowed, choking down the emotion that rose in my throat. “I'm not used to it anymore.” I looked up and caught his gaze: neutral, a blank look, his wide eyes trying to help, but not equipped with the right tools. How would he know how hard it was not to obsess about my weight when I grew up with Mom constantly hanging over me, hammering the fear into me in a million little ways? How would he know unless he had college roommates who took up smoking, barfed up their food, or lived on caffeine just to avoid gaining the dreaded pounds that would render them unlovable, ugly, and worthless? “I know I'm not fat. It didn't seem like a big deal until I told her I quit dancing every day and now that's all Mom seems to care about. Not how are you sleeping, not how is work. It has been years since I danced competitively, can't I move on? She can't take her eyes off me now; I knew she was just dying to say something. I'm starting to think the only reason she cared about my dancing was because it kept me thin and pretty so I could meet some perfect guy who would make her look good.”

  “You know that's not true.”

  I stared at him, challenging that.

  “Okay, maybe only partly,” he said, glancing at his watch, then back to me. “I'll tell you right now Viv, if you weren't my sister, well, fuck it even that you are—I'd do you.”

  “Lovely,” I said, not meeting his eyes, appreciating that he was trying to make me feel better, but he missed the entire point. “You know, this might come as a shock to you and Mom, but the entire focus of my life does not revolve around meeting a guy…or finding one who thinks I am cute enough to fuck. I should gain fifty pounds to prove it.”

  “We would be visiting her in the padded room at the hospital if you did that,” he laughed. We were quiet for a minute, watching the sky. The sky, the trees, the mountains…there were more important things going on than the stupidity that made up my life.

  “I'll tell you this, most guys don't care as much as you women think we do about that shit. I knew this girl once, smoking hot she was,” he made an hourglass outline with his hands in the air, then held his hands in front of his chest like he was holding two globes. “Right?” He waited for me to say something.

  “Fine. I acknowledge the smoking hotness of the babe.” I twirled my hand in the air signaling that he should get on with it.

  “Okay, so after she started going on and on about the size of this almost imperceptible roll of skin you know…here,” he motioned to the area below his bellybutton, above his groin. “I didn't even know there was anything wrong there. She had this small pooch. That's all. A total turn off. I lost all interest.”

  “Didn't you like her before that?”

  “Totally,” he said, affecting a cretin's tone, “but the thing was, all that insecurity dumped on you—not cool. So you have nothing to worry about Viv, if there is ever anything you are not lacking it's confidence.”

  “Really?” I said. Tonight after a good dose of my mother's bullshit and having to explain once again my career choices, I felt unsure.

  He nodded, and then started bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Smoke up, don't make me miss Jasper okay?”

  I dragged on my cigarette. “Go back in then.”

  He leaned against the wall with me, so close that I could smell the malty beer and the buttery pasta on his breath. His arm just barely brushed against mine.

  “Mom says you miss me,” I said.

  He turned to me, gave me this serious look before he pushed on the side of my head with his big hand and said, “You know what I think about sometimes?”

  When I didn't say anything, he held his arm straight out—smoldering cigarette held between his middle and forefingers, a small red tip
glowing in the air—he pointed to the dark craggy shapes against an inky sky. “Sometimes I want to just walk out into those mountains and never look back.”

  There was gravity to his tone, not the usual testing when he said things like that, and my limbs went cold, my body responding to his words before my brain could articulate what bothered me about them.

  The podium was still empty when we came back to the table. I avoided my mother's eyes as I sat. A plump, brightly dressed woman stepped behind the podium. She wore too much jewelry and tittered something I didn't listen to, and stretched her arm out while everyone started clapping.

  Finally the applause died down and Jasper Caldwell took the podium. He was taller than I imagined, at least two heads taller than the woman who'd introduced him. The podium barely made it to his chest.

  “My goodness,” my mother said, and Tristan made a sound in agreement. Jasper wore a gray shirt under a dusty brown jacket with brown pants. I wondered if it was just the lights or if he was actually sick, his skin was so pale I could make out fine blue veins on the backs of his hands, and under his eyes was a purplish tint.

  “String Bean walks on to stage,” I said as if I were about to lead into a joke.

  Tristan shushed me and picked up his pen.

  What did my brother see in this guy? From the hazel, milky eyes contrasting with dark, fluffy hair cut horribly in a thick man-bob to the drab clothing—he radiated boredom. He tucked his hair behind his ear. I stifled a laugh when I pictured the insanely boring sex I would find in one of his books. Three lines were what Tristan was so impressed with. Three lines to lay out what my brother said was an honestly described sex act in Forests. A lifetime of experience summed up no doubt.

  I turned my attention back to my brother, who, for the first time since they picked me up at my apartment, looked really happy. He clapped with everyone else, two days’ worth of stubble at least on his chin and this goofy grin on his face. If he weren't so big he would look like a really ugly girl.