Social Blunders

by Tim Sandlin

  ***

  What I needed was advice from someone simple. Complex people get so distracted by looking four moves ahead that they’re frozen when it comes to what to do next. Slow thinkers make faster decisions.

  So I headed for the hospital. Not that Babs and Lynette were slow, as in stupid; they just knew the worth of intellect, which doesn’t rate too high compared to other functions.

  First stop was the viewing window by the nurses’ station. Sam and Sammi lay next to each other in clear, Plexiglas bassinets with crib safety instructions on the side. They both wore white knit hats and had rose-petal eyelids. I could tell which was which by the rubber bulb thing the nurses use to clear gunk from babies’ noses. Sam’s was blue, Sammi’s pink. I pretended they were forty-three and called me Dad. I would be seventy-six.

  Two doors down the hall, Babs and Lynette sat propped up in bed, wearing billowy purple nightgowns, sucking Coca-Cola through hospital straws and watching The Bold and the Beautiful on the wall-mounted TV. When they saw me they both squealed and broke into labor and birth stories.

  “Dr. Hayse told me I was the bravest girl he’d ever seen,” Lynette said.

  Babs flounced on her pillow. “He said the very same thing to me too. I bet he says that to ever’one.”

  “Be just like a man.”

  I talked. I hadn’t meant to when I walked into the room, and I’m not certain how I got started, all I know is the whole story poured out—from Christmas 1949 to Cameron calling his daughter “Leverage.” The first few minutes Lynette split her attention between me and the soap, but by the end I had both girls rapt. It was the longest uninterrupted speech I’ve ever made to a woman.

  When I was done, I sighed once and waited for their verdict.

  Hearing it aloud made me realize how tawdry I was. The girls could condemn or shun me; they still had time to change Sam’s and Sammi’s names. Whatever they did, I deserved it.

  Lynette sucked air off the bottom of her Coke can. “Shoot,” she said. “That happens all the time on TV.”

  “All the time?” I hate it when my problems aren’t unique.

  “Not all the time,” Babs said. “Not exactly like you told it. But nobody knows who their folks are and someone’s all the time threatening to expose someone else.”

  “So what do people on TV do?”

  Babs giggled. “The dumbest thing they can think up.”

  Lynette nodded. “People on TV are stupid.”

  “Any geek knows what you should do,” Babs said.

  I didn’t get it. If any geek knew the answer, why didn’t I? Novelists are supposed to understand the human plight.

  Lynette said, “Dump the woman you don’t like and beg forgiveness from the one you do.”

  Babs added, “Only you better confess before her daddy spills the beans. If he tells, you’re in deep doo-doo.”

  I considered the advice. It had to be good; no one who says doo-doo has hidden motives. Besides, nothing I’d tried had worked.

  “If you were Gilia and I confessed and begged your forgiveness, would you forgive me?”

  Lynette looked at Babs, who thought a moment, then said, “Fat chance.”

  23

  Catharsis comes from the ancient Greek word καζαιρω, which literally translated means “to pass a hard stool.” That evening as I stood in my room dressing for the appointment with Katrina, I passed a hard stool. It was inspired by what Lynette said about soap opera characters always doing the stupidest thing possible.

  As a kid, I lived for books. I inhaled every book I could lay my hands on, from Nancy Drew to Hemingway and beyond. Books were real; social reality was a bother. Tom Swift and Peter Pan were stronger, faster, smarter, and morally superior to anyone I saw in person; therefore whenever I faced a situation I learned to take the course my heroes would have taken.

  Here comes the catharsis: Fictional people don’t make logical choices, they go with whatever is most interesting for the story. And stupid mistakes are much more interesting than wise conduct. Which means that when it comes time to decide the future, I—deliberately—am stupid.

  Marrying Wanda to save her was interesting, but stupid. Searching for five fathers, eating Katrina, adopting strangers’ babies—all interesting but stupid. I’d found a motto. Or better yet, the inscription for my tombstone: Sam Callahan was interesting, but stupid.

  ***

  Realizing a fatal flaw in your character and fixing that flaw are separate matters. My first choice under the boring-but-right system would be what to wear tonight. Going as a slob would show disrespect for Katrina and her birthday, but dressing upscale might be taken as a sign we’re dating. Didn’t want to send the wrong message. I finally decided on fairly new Levi’s, a button-up, tuck-in Banana Republic shirt, and a sports coat Shannon bought at the Burlington Factory Outlet store. I considered cowboy boots, but that felt like too much. After all, this was a breakup.

  I was sitting on the bed, lacing up my Adidas, when Shannon walked in without knocking. She was dressed as a Tahitian belly dancer—grass skirt and breasts covered by plumeria leis.

  “I hope you have something on under the flowers,” I said.

  “Oh, Daddy, where’s your Halloween spirit?” She moved across the room and sat in my desk chair, facing me. “You got a hot date tonight?”

  “It’s business, a CEO from Nebraska wants to see the sights of Greensboro.”

  Shannon shot me the female don’t-jive-me look and said, “Have your little secrets if you want, I don’t care.” She picked up Maurey’s picture that I like to keep behind the typewriter. Maurey is sitting astride her horse Frostbite on a ridge above the TM ranch. Her hair is in braids and she looks like God’s own sweetheart. That photo has caused much resentment among my girlfriends. So much resentment that I had to hide it from Wanda.

  Shannon studied the picture of her mother and said, “Dad, I need to explain options to you.”

  “Options?”

  “What I’m going to do and what your choices are next.”

  This didn’t sound good. “What are you going to do?”

  She touched Maurey’s face. Maurey was twenty-six in the picture, so Shannon could have been looking at an age-enhanced picture of herself.

  “I’m going to live with Eugene,” she said.

  All my liberal upbringing flew right out the window. I said, “You’re grounded, little lady.”

  Shannon lifted her eyes and laughed. “Daddy, you can’t ground me.”

  “I can’t?”

  “I’m a grown-up now. You haven’t tried grounding me since high school.”

  “That was two years ago.”

  “You haven’t grounded me and gotten away with it since junior high.”

  “You’re just like your mother.” Shannon could take that about six different ways, but unlike me, she wasn’t into endless nuances.

  She looked from Maurey to me. “Okay, here are your choices.”

  “Is breaking Eugene’s nose a choice?”

  “No. You can fly off the handle, scream and yell and throw me out of the house, and estrange your daughter for life.”

  “Eugene taught you that, didn’t he? To say estrange when you mean piss off.”

  “Choice two: I live with Eugene in his apartment with the three male roommates.”

  “I don’t like that one.”

  “Choice three is Eugene moves in here and you treat him like the son you never had.”

  It didn’t take much thought. “I choose number three.”

  Shannon’s face sparkled, making the crap of living around Eugene the child molester worth the trouble. She crossed the gap between us and hugged me. “I knew you’d come through.”

  “I don’t want him downstairs in his underwear.”

  “Neither do I.”

  I looked u
p into her brown eyes. “Shannon, you’ve been the only consistent, unqualified love in my life. I know you have to leave someday—that’s the curse of being a parent—but I’m just not ready to lose you yet.”

  She smiled and said, “Daddy, you’re sweet.”

  “Promise you won’t leave until I’m ready.”

  “Forget it. You’ll never be ready.”

  ***

  Shannon left to find her lover and light pumpkins and I sat in my room with the lights off, looking out at the rain. The steady drizzle matched my mood perfectly. Nothing was absolute anymore. Right, wrong, desirable, and undesirable had all turned on their heads. Amid the uncertainties, the one thing I knew for sure was I had to talk to Maurey.

  Her lifesaving voice floated in from Wyoming. “Hello?”

  I said, “The deal is falling apart out here.”

  There was a short pause. “The deal isn’t so hot here either.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  She sounded flat. Maurey is normally upbeat, or at least interested. I worry when she’s down. “I can’t talk about it yet,” she said. “I’d rather hear your problems.”

  “Actually, it affects both of us.”

  “Shannon broke the news.”

  “She told you first?”

  “She asked if I thought you’d boot her out of the house. I said not in a hundred years.”

  “I raised her but she confides in you.”

  “Kids never confide in the parent they live with. Are you going to let the boy move in?”

  “He’s no boy,” I said, “and of course he’s moving in.”

  “You did something right for a change.”

  “If I did, it’s the first right move I’ve made all week.”

  “Shannon tells me you’re on a strange roll.”

  “Bizarre is more the word.” I told Maurey about finding the fathers and what I’d done to Atalanta Williams and Clark Gaines and how I felt about Gilia. That part took a while. Maurey listened and gave the appropriate comments, but her mind seemed to wander.

  “What’s the girl’s father blackmailing you for doing?” she asked.

  “Nothing. Well, something. A detective researched my past.”

  “And?”

  “He found stuff.”

  “Why do I feel like I’m only hearing part of the story?”

  In listing the elements making me crazy, I’d left out Katrina and I’d left out Wanda. Ten days ago Wanda had been this thunderhead cloud smothering every thought and action, and now she didn’t matter. Eugene might be a pedophilic psych major, but his plan had worked. My mind was off Wanda.

  “What’s the problem you can’t talk about?” I asked.

  “I can’t talk about it.”

  “Okay.”

  “Pete has leukemia.”

  The rain made falling-star streaks on the window. Beyond the glass, the Georgia hackberries dripped circles of water onto the lawn and the swimming pool speckled like a pond during a mayfly hatch. I tried to remember if leukemia is always fatal or nearly always fatal.

  “He’s had it two years without telling me,” Maurey said. “It’s in remission now, but for some reason, he doesn’t expect it to stay that way. He and Chet argue positive attitude versus acceptance.”

  Chet would be the boyfriend Lydia liked. “Is there anything I can do?”

  Maurey was silent a few moments. “If he gets worse, I may need you to come home.”

  I almost cried. Being needed is what I live for. “I’ll be there.”

  “He has no insurance and he’s run up thirty-five thousand in tests and treatments—so far.”

  “Don’t worry about the bills.”

  “Thank you.” Maurey’s voice broke. “I’m sick of family dying. If I lose Pete, everyone I grew up with will be gone and I’ll be the last, which is a first-degree screw job. I don’t like it, Sam.”

  “You still have me and Shannon.”

  Now, she was fierce. “You better not abandon me too.”

  24

  Bonaparte’s Retreat was a fish and French place way the heck out Randleman Road, nice enough to qualify as special, but not so trendy as to make running into Skip’s golf buddies likely. Sea nets hung from the corners of the room with starfish and dried cod or something hanging from the nets. Lighting came from candles that must have been cheap because mine strobed. The place reeked of hand-holding and eye contact by candlelight.

  Cool fingers touched the back of my neck. “I can’t get enough of your amativeness nodes,” Katrina said.

  I tipped my head way back to look up at her. “Do you like Blue Nun?”

  “Your hair is nice too.”

  “Many people say my hair is my best trait.”

  Katrina moved around the table to her chair. “Anyone who says that hasn’t felt your amativeness nodes.” She was wearing a dark green jacket over a white knit dress. I guess you’d call it a dress; when she sat down it covered her crotch and maybe an inch and a half of thigh. If Shannon wore that dress I would send her to her room.

  “What’s this?” Katrina asked.

  “Blue Nun. I thought you might like some wine.”

  “I’d like some martinis.” She pulled off her jacket, revealing her shoulders and a quarter-moon slice of upper chest. Katrina was actually quite pretty, in a miniature sort of way. Her legs would have looked good on an aging movie star.

  “Eat fast,” she said. “The orgy starts at eight.”

  “We have to talk about this orgy,” I said.

  Katrina smiled. “Later. Right now, I’m starved.” She ordered mussels and I had the Surf ‘N’ Swamp—lobster claws and frog legs. The waiter called me “sir” four times.

  Katrina was in a good mood. She made fun of my jacket and told me about a fat girl in her aerobics class who’d blown a knee during the stretch-out.

  She said, “I love it when women younger than me fall apart.”

  I took a deep breath and prepared to take the plunge. When it’s time for the kiss-off, I’m much more comfortable with women dumping me than me dumping women. I’m real good at the former—never resorting to angry words or accusations, never making the woman feel guilty. Dumping me is easy. But when it comes to the other way around, I’m a coward.

  “It’s all over, Katrina.”

  She glanced up from her salad. “I know.”

  “This is the last time we can see each other.”

  “I said I know.” Her voice was a bit wistful, but far from heartbreak. “Cameron paid me a visit.”

  I’d been braced for tears in a public place. I wasn’t prepared for Katrina being a good sport.

  “What did you think of the pictures?” I asked.

  “Did you see the cheerleading shot? My thighs were positively grotesque.”

  “But what about Cameron?”

  “Cameron is a pig.”

  When the waiter brought our main courses my legs and claws were arranged in an artsy, nouvelle-type design on the plate. He went into that routine where they hover over your food with what looks like a walnut fence post.

  “Fresh ground pepper, sir?”

  A bare foot plopped in my lap. “No, thank you.” Katrina had amazing toe dexterity. Midway through the salad, I felt my Levi’s zipper slip.

  “If you’ve seen the pictures, why are you so chipper?” I asked.

  “I’m turned on just thinking about my birthday orgy.”

  “There’s not going to be a birthday orgy. This is it. Right now.”

  Her toes grazed up and down. “Don’t be silly. The last diddle before you lose a lover is always so poignant. I love it, better than the first time.”

  “We’ve already had our last diddle.”

  “Au contraire, chéri. Eat up, the party kicks off at eight, with or without y
ou.”

  My first thought was this: Starting tomorrow, I was to begin a God-knows-how-long celibate period while I convinced Gilia I wasn’t a promiscuous male. That left tonight.

  “Why is the orgy on a time schedule?”

  “It’s that jerk, Skip.” Katrina did strange, probing motions in my boxer shorts. “His Highness ordered me home by eight to tape Monday Night Football.”

  “Why not program the VCR to turn itself on?”

  “You ever meet anybody knows how to work those machines? The directions say it can be done, but it’s a dirty, Japanese lie.”

  She accepted another martini from the waiter. I suspected he knew about the footsie game under the tablecloth, but he was too cloying to comment. Whenever I see a waiter I think about the poor single mother somewhere who’s out of a job because this guy is too lazy to work construction.

  “Skip said he’ll confiscate my car if I don’t get his precious ball game—every second—so I have to be there to change the tape after three hours. Football games last longer than videotapes.” She gave me the most Southern smile you can imagine. “And you know what we’re going to do for those three hours?”

  “The Ramada Inn?”

  The toe popped through. “Nope. We’re going to do it right in old Skippy-pooh’s king-size bed. This is the last time and I demand it all. Bondage. Fantasy. S and M. Anal. I’ll bet you know stuff I haven’t even heard of.”

  Probably true. “How many times have I explained, sex should be affectionate, not revenge.”

  “Revenge gives a better orgasm.”

  Katrina eyed me while I looked down at my empty claw and thought of Gilia. Gilia was wholesome, Katrina was sick. Where did that leave me?

  “What about the Saunders?” I asked.

  “Mimi can get her own gigolo.”

  “What if they see the lights?”

  “So what if they see the lights?”

  “How about Phadron?”