The War Council

by Ann Shepphird

  One day when I visited the house, I just stood and stared at that room. Everything was so pretty—so very very pretty but also so… dead.

  I started looking at Biff’s mother differently. When I first met her, I thought she was the prettiest woman I had ever seen. And so classy with her Chanel suits and perfect hair and perfect nails and perfect shoes. And so smart. She knew about everything: how to dress, what fork to use, how to walk so you don’t fall over in high heels. I was always kind of afraid of her, though. I mean, she was so perfect. She never cracked, never really smiled. Her smooth skin was always so perfect, and I was always afraid of what she thought about me. I mean, I wasn’t anything like her.

  But now, now I saw her as kind of sad. That in a way, she was as lifeless as the furniture in her living room. I had this vision of her secretly going in and sitting in that living room by herself and enjoying all the things that her life had brought her. But they were just things. And they were dead things.

  She was kind of lifeless, too. I remembered asking her once what she thought about an issue, like who she was going to vote for or something, and she said that she didn’t really think about those things. And she didn’t. She thought about the country club and the parties and the house but other than that… nada.

  Bunny said she sounded like a Stepford Wife. I didn’t know what she was talking about, so we found the original movie one weekend, and I swear it was all about Biff’s family. I started having nightmares about Biff trying to remove my eyes and put them in a robot that looked like me and, I mean, I knew Biff wouldn’t really do that. He loved me, didn’t he?

  I was so confused. I started wandering around campus. School had just started back up, and it was weird to see everybody going to classes when I wasn’t. It was like they had a life there, but I didn’t anymore. I really needed to talk to somebody. I felt weird going to the War Council because, after all, they’d helped me get Biff, so how could I tell them I wasn’t sure I wanted him anymore?

  I wandered over to Café Strada. Maybe there would be somebody to talk to there. There was: Kevin. Perfect. He’d understand. So, I sat with him at a table and spilled my guts. He didn’t say a word, just looked at me with these big saucer eyes, and grinned like a lovesick puppy. I wondered if he was in love with some girl who wasn’t giving him the time of day so I asked him, but he said he wasn’t—just grinned at me. Well, he wasn’t any help at all.

  So, I went over to the I-House hoping I could catch Connor. I really needed a guy’s perspective. He was in his room, so I told him what was bothering me. He gave me some speech about how life was like a rugby match, and you gotta play it through to the end. I didn’t know what the fuck he was talking about. Then he tried to kiss me. He wasn’t any help at all, so I left.

  As I was leaving the I-House, I ran into Professor DeVillier and Coach Banks—I still called them that even though they kept telling me to call them Monique and Mike since I guess we were buds and all, but it still felt weird. Anyway, they said I looked troubled and did I want to join them for a drink. They said they were still interested in how I was doing even though I wasn’t a War Council client anymore. Actually, they told me they’d left the War Council—weren’t into it anymore. So, I took a chance that they would understand and sat with them at the I-House café.

  I told them how I was confused. That here I was finally getting what I thought I wanted, but now I wasn’t sure it was what I wanted because I didn’t want Biff stealing my eyes and putting them in a robot that looked like me, but what else would I do because I couldn’t work forever at the Edible Complex, and I couldn’t go home to Santa Rosa because there was nothing for me there, so what was I going to do if I didn’t marry Biff?

  And Biff. I mean, what did I feel about Biff? He was still cute, even though he wasn’t really as cute as he used to be, you know, since he, like, lost his ego. But he was still cute. Only he wasn’t a big man on campus anymore; he was just an entry-level business dude who wore a suit and rode BART like every other entry-level business dude. His father had gotten him a job at some big finance firm, but they were one of those firms that had gotten in a lot of trouble because of insider trading and stuff so they weren’t doing real well and couldn’t pay him a lot. That was okay because Biff had a trust fund and everything, but still, he wasn’t the same as he was in college. I kept trying to figure out if I really loved Biff or if I just loved the way he made me feel, you know?

  Only now I kind of felt okay about myself without Biff, which is maybe why I was having dreams about faceless guys, you know?

  Professor DeVillier and Coach Banks just kind of looked at me and nodded every once in a while. Then I noticed that they were holding hands. And they were looking at each other kinda funny and blushing every once in a while. Connor had kind of hinted something was going on between them. He’d say “Go Cal” and laugh hysterically. Like most of the things that came out of Connor’s mouth, it made absolutely no sense to me, and I ignored him but then, then I noticed they were wearing wedding rings. What was this?

  “Oh, well, we just got married.”

  “You what?”

  “Yeah, it was a surprise to us, too. But it just seemed right.”

  “Yeah, we didn’t even think about it.”

  “Yeah, we just did it.”

  “In Tahoe.”

  “Yeah, in Tahoe.”

  Then they giggled. Professor Hard Ass and the Coach giggled—I mean, like teenagers, you know? They smiled and looked into each other’s eyes and I saw it. Oooo, gross. I mean, they were like, old, you know? Like way over 30 or maybe even 40. Shit, I didn’t think people still thought about sex at that age, you know? But there it was: total lust.

  After my initial revulsion at the image of them having sex washed away, I realized that they were really in love. That I was looking at what love was supposed to look like. I saw how you were supposed to look when you were ready to get married. I mean, Professor Hard Ass and Coach Banks? Can you think of anything so ludicrous? I couldn’t, and yet it worked. They worked. They looked like they were meant to be together. I always thought I was meant to be with Biff, but I didn’t look at him like that—like the way Prof was looking at Coach—anymore. Lately, Biff was kind of getting on my nerves if you want to know the truth.

  And they said they didn’t even think about it. They just did it. But I was thinking about it. I was thinking about it a lot. Maybe I shouldn’t marry Biff, but then what was I supposed to do?

  I was still confused when I got back to the apartment. Bunny was packing her stuff. She was supposed to be leaving to start law school at UCLA in a couple weeks—for some reason they always started like a month later than we did at Cal. We found a bottle of champagne in the refrigerator that was left over from a party and split it. Then we started making Kahlua milkshakes in the blender. We figured we didn’t have a lot of gal time left and wanted to make it count.

  After a while I noticed that Bunny seemed a little weird, so I asked her what was up.

  “Oh, my parents.”

  “What about them?” Buster and Helen Merriman were these two very jolly rich types from San Marino, which is in Southern California near Pasadena, but I guess somehow more exclusive from the way they talked about it. I thought they were the coolest parents anyone could have.

  “They said they think I should take a year off before law school and see the world.”

  “Wow.” Shit, my parents didn’t know the world extended past Santa Rosa.

  “Yeah, they’ve offered me a European vacation if I defer law school a year.”

  “Bunny, I’ve never heard of parents telling—paying even—you not to go to school.”

  “Yeah, weird, huh? They’re afraid I won’t enjoy my youth, or that I’m rushing into law school before deciding it’s what I really want and just want me to make sure.”

  “I swear, Bunny, your parents are the best.”
>
  “Naw.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Yeah? Well then why did they pull this on me now, three weeks before school starts? And who would I go with even if I did decide to go? I broke up with Barry last week, and you’re getting married and…”

  “You mean, you would take me to Europe?”

  “Sure, Buster and Helen said they’d pay for me to take a friend. But like I said…”

  “Well, maybe I can defer getting married for a year like you’re deferring law school.”

  “You’d do that for me?”

  “For my best friend in the whole world?”

  “Best friend in the whole world!”

  “Absolutamente.”

  “Let’s do it!”

  “Yeeeeee!”

  We danced around the room. Actually, the room was beginning to dance around me. My head was spinning, and all I could think of was—yowza! Italian boys!!! I was going to see Italian boys! And maybe French boys! And Spanish boys! And I didn’t have to marry Biff! I mean, I could figure out how I felt when I got back. If I came back. Maybe I’d move to L.A. and live with Bunny while she went to law school. Then I’d get to meet surfer boys! Whatever. I could think about it later. I wasn’t going to be furniture. I wasn’t going to be a Stepford Wife. This was so cool.

  It just felt so great. Like a huge burden was lifted off my shoulders. I thought about how happy I was as I upchucked the Kahlua milkshake all over the bathroom floor.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  MONIQUE

  All right, I suppose people will make an issue out of the whole thing so I might as well address it now. Yes, we did it. Michael and I participated in that most bourgeois of all conventions: marriage. I did not take his name, but I am wearing a ring, and yes, we did get married. And it all came about because of one of Michael’s—how should I say this—expressions of release.

  Michael’s exuberant “Go Cals” had been getting us into trouble for some time. Although we both fervently agreed that what we had between us was just physical and would burn out at some point, we couldn’t seem to get enough of each other. And as we seemed to have a proclivity for enjoying each other’s company in, well, unusual locations, the “Go Cal” vocalizations were heard by more than one confused passerby.

  The problem was that, although we both recognized implicitly that our sexual voraciousness would burn out—I mean, we agreed it was just physical, and purely physical sex always burns out, correct?—it just wasn’t burning out. If anything, it kept heating up. It was late in the summer when we hit upon a plan.

  “A week away.”

  “A vacation.”

  “Wonderful idea.”

  “Sure fire.”

  We both astutely recognized that a week away, together, 24 hours a day, for seven days, would solve our dilemma. We were sure to make each other crazy. It was a brilliant plan.

  Michael and I set off for Lake Tahoe in early August. It was one of the weeks between the end of summer school and the beginning of the fall semester and we both had time off. Michael had a friend who had a cabin by the lake that was available and would be the perfect setting for our brilliant plan.

  The trip to Tahoe was relatively uneventful. The conversation was stimulating. As usual, Michael’s comments either made me laugh or caused me great consternation. The man had a mind that I was unable to fathom, but I have to admit, I found it intriguing to try. At one point, Michael touched my thigh and the electricity forced us to pull off the road for a quick “Go Cal,” but otherwise, as I mentioned, the trip was uneventful.

  Upon arrival at the cabin, Michael and I were feeling the electricity once again—our normally voracious appetite perhaps galvanized by the realization that this trip meant we didn’t have a lot of time left together. Michael kissed me and, as usual, I felt the surge associated with his touch. Why did this man bring about these feelings? What was it about this fireplug of a creature that excited and stimulated me like no one had before? The analytical impulses in my brain remained as perplexed as they were that first night in the War Council offices after our Kingfish escapade.

  As usual, our connection was magnificent. Absolutely magnificent. I awaited the usual “Go Cal”—an event I’d grown quite fond of, I have to say—but this time, I was surprised to discover that it was not “Go Cal” that greeted my ears but a huge booming “Oh, Kiki, I love you so much I can’t stand it.”

  MIKE

  There, I’d said it. I had to say it. It had been in my noodle for weeks, rustling around in the ole brainola every painful moment that I wished to express my feelings to Kiki but didn’t out of fear. Out of fear that she didn’t feel the same. Out of fear that I’d spoil what we had. We had always said that it was just physical, and I was so damn afraid that that’s all it was for her. But it came out. I had to say it. I had to go for it—head for the try line, as they say in rugby—and I did.

  I closed my eyes after my outburst, unable to look to see what reaction Kiki would give my admission. I mean, I’m not a weenie, but this was scarier than facing down a 200-pound tackler when you’re carrying the ball.

  “I love you, too, Michael.”

  What? Had I heard correctly?

  “What?”

  “I love you, too, Michael.”

  “Really?”

  I opened my eyes. She was smiling and her face was so soft and her eyes so luminous and I was filled with such happiness I thought I was gonna burst.

  Instead, I jumped up and started shouting:

  “Oh my god! Oh my god! You love me? She loves me! Oh my god! I love you so much, Kiki. I never thought it would happen and it did and I love you and you love me and oh my god!”

  I looked down and she was smiling but her eyes were all welled up and a tear came rolling down her cheek.

  “Oh, Kiki, what’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. I’m just happy.”

  “Oh, Kiki.”

  I started kissing her all over her face and held her in my arms as tight as I could. It all just felt so damn good.

  Kiki and I had a truly terrificola week together. We went hiking and swimming and spent long hours just lying in each other’s arms in the cabin. God, I loved this woman, every inch of her. I felt that, with her beside me, anything was possible. And then the realization hit me that I wanted this woman in my life… forever.

  That night out at dinner I told her the story of Granny Banks. I knew where it would lead, but by then there was no stopping me.

  Kiki sat across a table illuminated by candles and sipping her wine as I began my story.

  “Granny Banks was my favorite person in the world. She was really there for me when my dad was acting like such a fart and cheating on mom. She thought he was acting like a fart, too, and he was her son. It kind of bonded us that this total freak was so closely related to us.

  “I loved the house where Granny Banks lived. She lived only a few blocks away from us in Connecticut in this big old barn of a house. Granny Banks always felt that a house should be fun, and it was. There were tons of games and an outdoor jungle gym, and you could roughhouse inside without worrying about breaking anything. Heck, Granny was a top roughhouser herself and was actually the one who taught me how to play rugby.

  “My grandpa had died before I was born, so as long as I could remember Granny was alone—but she was one of those people who was never lonely. She had loved my grandpa, but more importantly, Granny Banks loved life. Loved everything about it. She was always into something, some new hobby or project—painting, theater, tennis, pickleball—she got a master’s degree in her late 50’s and ran a marathon at 65. She also always had tons of friends, most of them half her age. I remember going to her house for a dinner when I was in high school and here was this 70-something-year-old woman throwing a party for her friends who were all in their 30s and 40s. They loved her and so did I.r />
  “Six years ago, Granny almost died. She was 85 and came down with pneumonia, and they didn’t think she would make it. But she did. She fooled them all and pulled through. And then she did the impossible—she fell in love. She was 85 years old when she met Sam. Sam was a hospital volunteer, and they met while she was recuperating. Sam was a younger man—he was 82.”

  Kiki smiled and I continued.

  “I remember the first time I saw Granny flirting with Sam. That’s what it was, too—unabashed flirting. Granny just glowed and giggled and twisted her hair around her finger while she talked to him. Sam, being a dude, was showing off by doing tricks with the magazine cart.

  “After Granny left the hospital, they started ‘courting’ as she called it. I would visit and she would be wearing her fanciest dress and blushed when he rang the bell. Sam would call on her with flowers and dressed in his best suit. They looked like a couple leaving for the prom. Five weeks later, they were married.

  “I stood up for them at the service. If you can believe it, my dad—the fart—kept saying he thought they’d rushed into it. Can you believe that shit? I wanted to punch his lights out. ‘Rushed into marriage.’ Six months earlier, she’d been close to death, and he thinks they’re rushing things.

  “Anyway, Granny Banks and Sam had five really top-notch years together. Through them, I finally saw what love could be. They were thoughtful and considerate with one another. They would hold hands and make each other laugh and looked at each other with such admiration. Then, last year, a month from her 90th birthday, Granny Banks had a stroke and died.”