Social Blunders

by Tim Sandlin

  “She asked for a raise and Skip had her deported. I never told you about Phadron, how did you know her name?”

  I shrugged and faked innocence. “Heard it somewhere, I guess.”

  The waiter cleared our plates. I said no to dessert and yes to an after-dinner Grand Marnier. Katrina had another martini. Her foot grew increasingly aggressive.

  “I’ll do it,” I said, “only at the Ramada. One last time, but this is absolutely it.”

  She smiled. “You’ll do it at my house.”

  “I think that’s a bad idea.”

  She jabbed her toe. “I don’t care what you think. Can’t you understand that? I no longer care about you.”

  “You have a warped attitude toward sex,” I said.

  Now, she was mad. It always frightens me how quickly a woman can go from a perfectly pleasant mood to all-out fury.

  “I have a warped attitude? What about you, Mr. Pussy Eater? You afraid of honest copulation? Afraid to get our little pee-pee dirty?”

  Two tables over, a busboy dropped a glass.

  “I need romanticism.”

  Strong words for a man with a foot in his fly.

  Katrina laughed—a harsh sound, not tinkle-like at all. “I’ll bet it doesn’t work. You lead with your tongue because your pee-pee can’t cut the mustard.”

  “That’s right, Katrina. You hit the nail on the head.”

  “Not yet, buster.”

  ***

  “Skip won’t do it with me any way but him on top banging like a rabbit,” Katrina said as she drove through the slick streets. My car was back at Bonaparte’s because I’d drawn the line at parking in front of her house.

  “He plays all kinds of games with his girlfriends and whores, but with me it’s old, boring squash-the-boobs.” Her voice was sad.

  “How do you know he plays games with his girlfriends?”

  “They tell me. That slut Tiffany Jane in the shoe department says Skip likes to spread-eagle her on a copier and Xerox the whole thing. I tried getting on top once and Skip called me a ‘feminist.’”

  Although she couldn’t be too athletic and drive at the same time, Katrina still managed to keep my attention with her right hand. Manually speaking, most women go at it like the guy is fourteen years old, holed up in the bathroom with a Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue while his sister bangs on the door, shouting, “Hurry up.” Katrina was considerably more subtle.

  She went on. “He’s probably got Tiffany Jane in Atlanta right now. Hell, he takes the entire shoe department. I’m taping his dumb football so he doesn’t have to pull out his cock long enough to turn on the TV.”

  In her driveway, Katrina decided we’d had enough foreplay. She kissed me long and hard while I fumbled with my seat belt. During French kissing, the average girl expects the boy to extend his tongue instead of her extending hers, but Katrina wasn’t the average girl.

  I backed quickly toward my door. “It’s almost eight, we better go inside.”

  “I can’t believe you are so anal retentive. If I’d known you were this conventional I’d have chosen somebody else.”

  “I’m real conventional, Katrina.”

  “Not according to your phrenological chart.”

  I got the door open and myself out of the car without falling on the driveway. Katrina followed me out the passenger side, Frenching all the way.

  She said, “Let’s do it in the yard.”

  “It’s raining.”

  “I swear, you have no spontaneity.”

  “I don’t believe in spontaneity when it’s raining.”

  As I started across the lawn toward the door Katrina tackled me from behind and rolled us more or less under a shrubby bush. She sat astraddle me with her knees on my shoulders.

  I said, “You’re not wearing panties.”

  “Take me now,” she said.

  “Do I have to?”

  No use fighting fate. It actually wasn’t that bad by the bush. The ground under my head was nearly dry, and, except for twigs in my back, it was comfortable—not comfortable enough for a nap or reading a book, but passable for nature sex.

  Katrina twisted around, yanked off my shoes and socks, and threw them across the yard. She slid onto the grass and began pulling at my jeans and boxers. I arched my back to make it easier on her. When they finally came off, she whirled them around her head like a lasso and let go. Then, she tore off my shirt. This wasn’t my first choice for fun, but I could live with it. Both the Prescott and Saunders houses were dark except for a dim security light over by the Saunders’ driveway. A larger hedge blocked the first-floor view from the house on the other side. I wondered if Gilia had gone to the movie without me. Maybe she was with a boy her own age.

  “Okay,” Katrina said. “Let’s rock.”

  She climbed on board and went at her thing; I lay back and looked up at the bush. Sex is a lot more relaxing with the woman on top. You can admire the light reflecting on her body and pretend she’s a movie star having the time of her life. You can think about baseball. Woman-on-top combines the best of involvement with the best of spectating; missionary style takes too much concentration.

  Whispers came from the street. I clamped my hand over Katrina’s mouth and we listened to a conversation between a boy with two heads, a human fly, and Prince.

  “Too dark, ain’t nobody home.”

  “We could try.”

  “Nobody home and they might have a dog. I’m not going in there.”

  “Chicken lips.”

  “Worm breath, you’re so brave, you go knock.”

  “I’m not if you’re not.”

  “We’re wasting time, I told you rich neighborhoods suck.”

  “Colored houses give the best candy.”

  “Hand me an egg. This’ll teach ’em to stay home Halloween.”

  The boy with two heads cocked his arm and let fly. I didn’t see the egg, but a thok hit the second story of the house. Beneath my hand, Katrina struggled to shout. I clamped her harder as the three trick-or-treaters disappeared down the street.

  I moved my hand from Katrina’s mouth. “If those kids had come to your door they’d have seen us. Hell, they’d have tripped over us.”

  “But they didn’t.” She closed her eyes and resumed hopping up and down.

  I grabbed her hips and squeezed to get her attention. “Others will, Katrina. The next batch might come across the yard.”

  She exhaled an exasperated “So?”

  “So we have to go inside.”

  “I’m happy here.”

  “I won’t have sex in front of children. Get up, we’re going indoors.”

  Katrina considered the alternatives for a few moments. Every now and then she gave an experimental jiggle. That’s when I realized she was doing Kegels in there.

  “Katrina.”

  “We’ll go in the house, but only on one condition.”

  “I don’t do conditions.”

  “You can’t come out of me.”

  “What?”

  “I won’t allow a man to pull out just as it’s getting interesting.”

  “I have to pull out to walk.”

  “In Five Easy Pieces Jack Nicholson gets inside Sally Struthers and runs all over the room, bumping into furniture and walls and everything.”

  “I remember Sally Struthers’ tit.”

  “And now she’s on TV collecting money for Feed the Children, so it must be okay. Sally Struthers is normal.”

  Why not? The standing position always looked fun in the movies. I sat, then raised up on the soles of my feet. Katrina wrapped her arms around my neck, and, with a grunt—several grunts—I made it upright.

  All right. Slight wobble but I’m okay. Felt somewhat like a backpack on backward—all the weight on the hips and the rest was
balance. I got my hands on her lower back and we were mobile. More or less. It’s not as romantic or wild as it looks in the movies, but then what is? Given a light woman, it can be done.

  “Keys,” I said.

  “My jacket pocket.” She pulled her keys out and stuck them between my teeth. Acrobatic details taken care of, she went back to the general purpose of sex—side-to-side, up-and-down, in-and-out. I stumble-shuffled across the wet lawn, for once glad to be barefoot. The porch steps took a one-leg-at-a-time motion with frequent rests. At the top, I sort of fell forward and propped Katrina against the wall. She, of course, did nothing to help. In fact, from the “God don’t stop” and “Oh baby” sounds, she seemed on the edge of something big.

  I got the keys from my mouth and fumbled at the lock for some time before the door swung open. Like a groom carrying his bride across the threshold, I stepped into the Prescott house, amazed that we’d made it across the yard and inside without being seen. Katrina kicked the door closed behind me, plunging us into blackness.

  What next, I thought, then an instant later blinding light slammed my eyes and a bunch of voices shouted “Surprise!”

  25

  Thirty or so people stood in a rough semicircle around the Prescott living room, blinking in the sudden light and the less sudden knowledge of what they were looking at. A few launched into “Happy Birthday,” but the song petered out before the second line. My first impulse, which I followed, was to dump Katrina on the floor. She may have been the last person present to realize we had a major social blunder on our hands.

  The party-goers stared at my hard-on aimed at the ceiling: Cameron was already in an I-told-you-so mode; Billy Gaines had yet to understand the anatomy of the situation; for some bizarre reason, Mimi Saunders broke into hysterical laughter; Sonny showed humiliation; Ryan, rage. Skip Prescott, the bantam rooster himself, appeared deep in denial.

  I searched the crowd quickly until I found Gilia, the only one staring at my face instead of my penis. Her eyes reflected immeasurable sadness, a disappointment so total as to annihilate hope. If the goal of my life had been to hurt Gilia, I could never have hurt her more. I wanted to scream, to beg, to sacrifice everything for the right to start over. I wanted to give birth to her. I wanted to marry her.

  I said, “Gilia.”

  At her name, she blinked, then the mask of withdrawal slipped over her face and she became the same uninvolved, untouchable girl I’d seen the day we met in her mother’s family room.

  Skip screeched. “Kill the bastard!”

  Sonny made a yelp sound, like a run-over dog, and came at me, followed by the bulk of Ryan.

  I ran.

  ***

  The smart move would have been to stand and take my medicine, on the theory Sonny and Ryan wouldn’t kill me in a house full of witnesses. Running off into the dark only upped the chances of manslaughter, but when Skip shouted “Kill,” my fight-or-flight instinct kicked in, and I defy you to find a man who will stand and fight when he’s butt naked and everyone else in the room isn’t.

  I snagged my boxers off the lawn; there was no time to search for jeans or shoes. I stopped for a moment at Katrina’s car, with the thought of stealing it, but the keys were back in the lock, where Sonny and Ryan were falling over Katrina’s body as they came through the doorway. I couldn’t see well, but she seemed to be grabbing at their legs. I think Sonny kicked her.

  Nothing to do but jump in my shorts and run. What I had done to Gilia had to change me—what I did next and how I looked at details. I could not allow less. In the meantime, however, survival mattered. I ran toward the Saunders’ front yard, thinking maybe to circle the house and get on the golf course, where at least running barefoot would be bearable. I’m not one of those guys with tough feet. I put on slippers to use the bathroom at night.

  Near the property line, a volleyball net sprang from the dark and I nearly decapitated myself. You know how in an intense physical crisis, time accordions so you can think twenty separate thoughts in the blink of an eye? Falling under the net brought on the eeriest déjà vu deal, which before I even hit the ground I identified as the day in the seventh grade when, chasing a foul ball, I hung myself on a volleyball net and lay on the ground, looking up at Maurey Pierce backlit by the sun. These were her first words to me: “Smooth move, Ex-Lax.”

  The perfect comment for my current situation.

  This time, no teenage girl waited to insult me, then become my lover and friend. This time, I pulled the collapsed net off, bounced up, and was running again, without missing much more than a stride. The volleyball net reminded me of something else I’d seen last weekend during my visit to the Saunders’ home—Bobby’s Sting-ray bicycle leaning against the porch.

  Short frame, fat tires, three speeds, not exactly built for the fast lane, but my entire life—at least since Wanda left—I’d been training for an escape by bicycle. Ryan hurdled the fallen net and ran across the yard. For a giant, he had tremendous quickness, but he’d never catch me when I got up to speed. Linemen can move like bulls on lightning five or ten yards, but a quarter mile kills them.

  Right off, I learned a big difference between stationary bike riding and real bike riding—curbs. Street burn. I yanked up the bike, remounted on the run, and took off down a cart path that passed through a fence and onto Starmount Golf Course. If I had to, I could hide in a sand trap or water hazard. Me and the snakes.

  Behind me, the fall of footsteps slowed and stopped. I figured Ryan and Sonny had doubled back to the house for instructions. Skip would be out of denial by now and well into vengeance. What could he do? Have me killed? Castrated? I hadn’t broken any laws, that I knew of, so he could hardly swear out a warrant. Something would happen though. Skip Prescott came from the strain of men you couldn’t steal from without consequences. And stolen possessions is the term that strain uses to describe another man stuck in their wives.

  Even as I pedaled my heart out, Skip wasn’t my major concern. No punishment he extracted would be as awful as what I would give myself for hurting Gilia. Shit. She was the first non-screwed-up woman to like me in a long, long time, and I’d sabotaged us. Lydia and Maurey would say I destroyed her affection on purpose. “You couldn’t handle the responsibility of accepting love so you crapped the gig.” Maybe they were right.

  I followed the cart path across the fairway onto the driving range. Golf balls glowed on the wet grass, like a peculiar sort of molecule model. Kids’ bikes are geared so high you have to pump about 120 revolutions a minute to get anywhere, which on a short frame means your knees rush toward your face like pistons. It’s remarkably tiring. Barefoot and in boxer shorts, it would be a long ride home in the rain.

  I crossed behind the dry pool, pro shop, and restaurant and had just entered the main parking lot when a car came flying down the street and whipping into the driveway. Ryan’s beefy arm pointed at me from the passenger side. For an instant I was frozen, a deer in headlights, then I jerked the bike into a U-turn-on-a-dime and pedaled like a maniac.

  The car came forward much quicker than I moved away. I rode close to the restaurant wall, Sonny jumped the curb and kept straight at me, apparently planning to smash me and Bobby’s bike against the building. I zipped around the kitchen onto a short driveway leading down, away from the club. At the end of the driveway, two Dempsey Dumpsters sat side by side with maybe a two-foot clearance between them.

  A two-foot clearance is what a bicycle has that a car hasn’t. Going full pedal, I shot between the Dumpsters and out the other side. From the rear, I heard Sonny’s tires squeal around the corner followed by the spine-tearing sound of stomped brakes and an iron thunderclap when they slammed into the Dumpsters.

  26

  From a block away, the jack-o’-lanterns flickered orange like Japanese paper lanterns outlining the shadow of a fairy castle—the Beast’s castle after Beauty taught him how to love and turned him back han
dsome. It was difficult to convince myself they were real.

  I’d been pedaling for several miles, depressed to the core. What had started out fairly simple—meet my fathers—had spun out of control. A week and a half ago I occupied the moral high ground. The men raped my mother and rapists should be held accountable; but instead of holding evil jerks accountable for their sins, I’d run rampant on the innocent families. The wrong people got screwed. Skip would probably divorce Katrina. Gilia had lost her trust, Clark was disillusioned, and the memory that gave Atalanta Williams the courage to go on had been destroyed. And all for what? So I could call a man “Dad”? Genes come from sperm and knowing where the sperm came from doesn’t change who you are. Searching for the source is selfish.

  Because I was so absorbed with myself, at first I didn’t realize the apparition down the block was the place I lived. I had the sense of an out-of-proportion birthday cake. Eugene and Shannon had lined every rain gutter and balcony. The ledge around the second floor glittered with orange candles. One of every six or seven lanterns had blown out or burned out, but that still left three hundred glowing pumpkins. It was the most beautiful man- and woman-made thing I’d ever seen.

  A knot of people stood in the street, admiring the Manor House. As I rode closer, details became clear on individual pumpkin faces. They’d done the roof in Gilia’s heads with the triangle eyes and diamond noses. Down lower, more visible, Shannon’s surrealistic faces gave an unsettling gargoyle look to the house. I searched for my van Gogh, but couldn’t see him.

  A woman in the crowd said, “What’s he doing?”

  “I think it’s a costume,” a man said. “Part of the show.”

  Up till then I’d been so focused on jack-o’-lanterns I hadn’t noticed the figure on the porch. Dressed in black, he seemed to be filling a bucket with water from a hose. As I watched, he put on a black glove and unscrewed the bulb from the porch light, then he pulled off the glove and put it in his jacket pocket.

  I said, “Clark, you idiot.”

  The woman who’d spoken first said, “You know that boy? Is he part of the show?”