by Chamber Four
* * * *
The next evening, I told Harry I was going out for a walk. I put on my coat and boots and then retrieved the bag of notebooks from underneath the stairs.
Behind Eric’s door, swing music played. My heartbeat was louder and more insistent than my knock. The music went quiet, and a minute later, Eric appeared, in stocking feet. His face looked bloated with sleep. I could not place him in the same universe with his urgent lips and tongue two weeks earlier or the Glenn Miller he had just shut off. One of his toes poked out from a hole in his sock. I could smell the spirits on his breath.
He said, “What can I do for you after you’ve done so much for me?”
I recognized but did not traffic easily in irony. “Rebecca left some journals under the stairs. I just found them. I thought you’d want to know.” I held out the bag. My voice was as fast and nervous as a child’s.
Eric took the bag, and everything else fell away, all his cleverness and courage and rage, everything except the sorrow that was always present in him, like the bass line in a song.
“I looked all over the apartment for these. She wrote in them feverishly, you might say obsessively. After she left, I looked everywhere for them and when I couldn’t find them, I assumed she burned them. It seems like something she’d do, doesn’t it?”
“I don’t know.”
“No, of course not. Why would you?”
I began worrying the skin around my fingernails. “Anyway, I thought you’d want them. I knew they were hers because she wrote her name in the front.”
Eric didn’t register this evasion. He was muzzy with inebriation. “She was only eighteen when we met. Yearning and intense. The kind of student professors wait for and dread a little. The material was difficult, but she thrived on the difficulty.”
“I wish I’d had the chance to know her better.”
His laugh was a strangled yelp. “You can reach her at the poste restante.”
I smiled, baffled by the foreign words. I still wanted him to think highly of me; I wanted to be able to think highly of myself. “Come over for supper sometime. You and Vera.”
He rubbed his eyes. “Marvelous idea. Thank you. We will.”
* * * *
Not long afterwards, Eric and Vera moved out. The same uniformed movers arrived, but this time they made the trip in reverse. They whisked the furniture down the stairs to the van double-parked outside.
I told myself I had done the right thing, giving him the journals. While many of the passages had to have caused him pain, the pain would be resolved with time, whereas his not-knowing would never be resolved, and he and Vera would be stuck in a perpetual state of waiting.
One thing was clear: Rebecca loved Vera as best she could. Didn’t they have the right to know?
* * * *
That spring, a young woman began taking Vera to the park. We couldn’t help staring: this new woman was tall and full-bodied. She glowed with sunny good health. She helped Vera climb to the top of the slide and cheered her on when she slid down. She looked like a Swedish film star, a completely different species from us.
Vera had a pail and shovel for digging in the sand. She now played as children do, ferociously and without any trace of self-consciousness, until the blonde, whom we’d secretly named the Big Swede, called her home.
One afternoon, Eric Redl appeared in the park. His hair was trim again. His eyes caught mine, but he maintained the smooth, impersonal look of a man whose desires were being satisfied. I stood with the other mothers when Vera ran over to hug him. We watched him swing her around and we watched him kiss The Big Swede on the lips.
He didn’t let the grass grow, we said to one another.
* * * *
Over time, many of us, the old guard, the Collective Unconscious, have spoken of our children’s earliest years. We have spoken of our fatigue and boredom and the aspect of performance, which is one of motherhood’s dirty little secrets, and of the loneliness we felt even in one another’s company. We entered a more confessional age, and so we confessed: our rage and despair and lust and envy, our abortions and affairs. From time to time I thought of Rebecca and her courage to write the unspeakable, and I thought of Eric and the secrets we never should have shared. Although I always thought of her with regret and good wishes, I never spoke of finding my dark double in those pages until now.
Many of us live in the suburbs where we swore we’d never set foot and also have condos in Florida. Many of us are dead. Harry died last year, and although people say the pain does ease, I am still waiting for this to be true.
I continue to live in the old building. After a period of decline, the place is full again with children. The mothers, and a few stay-at-home fathers, use the same park as we once did, near the Cathedral. On warm days, I like to walk over there, although I’m nearly invisible now, a woman of eighty, sitting alone on the bench with my cup of deli coffee. I watch the children playing—the wild ones, the preternaturally kind ones, and the silent observers—and their parents watching over them: all of them beautiful, preening, fragile.
The Naturalists
by B.J. Hollars
from storySouth
My mother left my father for the point guard from the San Antonio Spurs, and not knowing what else to do, Dad and I packed duffels, headed south to the nudist colony a hundred miles outside of Houston.
“The important thing,” Dad reminded me as we drove along the armadillo-lined highway, “is that your mother still loves you very, very much. She just...loves the Spurs a little bit more.”
For months, Dad had been looking for any excuse to partake in a midlife crisis, and since neither the Corvette nor the nipple ring had proved satisfactory, the nudist colony seemed a logical next step.
“So...we’ll be nudists then?” I asked.
“Naturalists,” he clarified, adjusting his glasses, “we’ll be naturalists, Frankie.”
I nodded as if the distinction was clear.
“You know,” he said, sensing my ignorance, “sort of like nudists, only...closer to nature.”
I didn’t know how much “closer to nature” I wanted to be, especially if the rattlesnake rumors were true.
I stared out the window at the sun-dripped desert.
And then, I buried my hands in my pockets, knowing soon, I’d no longer have the luxury.
* * * *
Without question, my mother’s job as head trainer for the San Antonio Spurs put an unnecessary strain on my parents’ already less-than-blissful marriage. Imagine a surplus of multimillion-dollar star-studded athletes continually hitting on the one woman allowed on the court. Thankfully, my father’s job as the assistant manager for a post-it note company offered far less marital liability. His decisions rarely involved which blonde bombshell executive to sleep with, and instead, seemed to focus more on what flavored adhesive would appeal most to middle school teachers.
The answer was kiwi-strawberry.
On the surface, we all appeared content with our life’s tidy arrangement of post-its and icepacks, adhesives and Ace bandages, though one night at dinner we just stopped being content.
“Well, what would you have done if Damien Markus asked for your hand in marriage?” Mom asked, salting her meatloaf.
Dad claimed he’d have said no, that he wasn’t “into all that muscle.”
“Frankie?” she asked, turning to me.
I dragged a French fry across my plate, told her I guess I’d have to think about it.
“What’s to think about?” Mom laughed. “He’s in the NBA! You thought we had great seats before, wait till you see where you’re sitting next season.”
Thanks to my father, the next season I’d most likely be sitting buck-naked on a metal foldout chair, watching the game on a rabbit-eared television, a few saggy-balled senior citizens commentating on either side.
But that first day, when Dad and I pulled into Nature’s Bounty, “Southern Texas’s #1 Naturalist Community
” my sights were not set on the future. Instead, I was fully immersed in the present, waiting—and dreading—the moment when I would be kindly informed it was time to take off my pants.
* * * *
The first rule of nudist colonies: Erections are frowned upon.
At least in Nature’s Bounty.
“We find it makes the other citizens...squeamish,” explained Mayor White. He leaned back, his feet propped up on the desk, proudly displaying his own flaccidness.
“Take me for example,” he said, motioning to himself, “exhibit A. And you’d be hard-pressed to find somebody who can remember the last time I made anyone squeamish.”
Mayor White winked, then placed his feet on the floor. He leaned forward, hands clasped, asked, “Any questions?”
Dad raised his hand.
“You there in the front row,” the mayor chuckled. “I kid. Yes, Ted. What can I do for you?”
“Yes,” Dad began, clearing his throat. “Well, I was curious...I mean, I am curious... if there are any policies related to...co-mingling...with fellow citizens.”
“Are we talking fornication, Ted?” the mayor asked, leaning in close.
Please don’t be talking fornication, Dad.
“Well, yes,” my father chuckled, “I suppose that’s the word for it.”
“Well, it’s a great question, really is,” Mayor White agreed, tapping his desk twice before leaning back in his swivel chair. “And I suppose the short answer is no, there are no rules. As long as you’re a consenting adult and abide by state law, you’re welcome to any partner you can land.”
Dad’s eyes widened and he nudged my ribs.
“Hear that, pal?” he asked, raising his eyebrows. “Any partner you can land.”
“But easy, cowboy, let’s not count our chickens before they’ve hatched,” White chuckled, standing, his balls plopping to the desk like twin paperweights. “First things first, let’s get you two out of those nasty old clothes, huh? We’ll see where that leads us.”
* * * *
It was a bit like tearing off a band-aid: The longer you ho-hummed around the more painful it became. Dad had the right idea, removing his pants in a single, fluid motion. He had the grace of a matador.
At 14, I’d had far fewer opportunities to publicly remove my pants and was slightly more hesitant. Not that anyone around us seemed particularly interested in what I had to offer. We’d stepped outside, which gave me full view of a beach volleyball game that had developed a hundred feet away, and closer still, a pair of middle-aged, hairy-reared men flying a kite. Neither group seemed the least bit concerned with me.
“Whenever you feel comfortable, son,” the mayor said, bending down to clear the sand from his flip-flop, exposing a dark cavern of butt hair.
Upon realizing that I probably wasn’t going to feel any more “comfortable” in the next half an hour or so, I reached slowly for my shoe and began the long process of undressing.
With each piece of strewn clothing, I flashbacked to one locker room horror or another—wedgies, purple nurples, testy tickles. I remembered there being something slightly barbaric about the whole situation: Being some kid’s lab partner one period and having to share a bar of soap with him the next.
But Nature’s Bounty felt different, safer, and while I considered asking Mayor White what percentage of residents suffered from purple nurples, I decided to withhold my question.
I removed my shirt, my pants, and, after taking a deep breath, pulled my plaid boxers down around my ankles, stepped out of them and balled them up in my hand.
“Well? Not so bad, is it?” Dad chuckled, running to introduce himself to the kite-flyers. “Oh, and, Frankie,” he called, running backward, balls flopping like a couple of basset hound ears, “let’s rendezvous at dinner, huh? I heard it’s bratwurst night!”
* * * *
That night, I wrote Mom a letter:
Dear Mom,
Hey! How are you? How are the Spurs?
Things are fine here.
Today Dad and I joined a nudist colony.
The people are nice, and the mayor wears a cowboy hat and leads everyone in calisthenics after dinner.
Tonight, we had bratwursts.
They were pretty good.
This place has it all—a barbershop, a dentist, even a school. There’s this store just down the street from the room Dad and I share where we can pick up Tylenol and rent VHS tapes, though most of them are John Candy movies from the 80s. Remember Summer Rental?
It’s not as good as everyone says. It’s sort of like The Great Outdoors, only with fewer raccoons.
Anyway, if you feel like picking me up, please note the return address. I will keep my duffel packed.
Sincerely yours,
Frankie.
I almost mailed it, I really did, though I doubted it was worth the stamp.
* * * *
Within the first twenty-four hours of the natural life, Dad managed to blatantly violate the “no erection” policy on at least four separate occasions.
“I can’t help it,” he whined his eyes gazing out at the others. “Honestly, I don’t know how you can help it. You must be some kind of Jedi Knight...”
“Dad, I really got to go,” I said, hoping to simultaneously drop the conversation.
“Where to?” he asked, his privates waggling in my direction. “You find a lucky lady?”
“Dad,” I hissed, “this isn’t some kind of...dating service.”
He laughed.
“Who said anything about dating?”
“Well, it’s just that you’ve been sort of...sporting that erection for awhile now.”
“Aww, come on. It’s only natural, son. We’re naturalists.”
Somebody’s large-breasted mother walked past.
As if proving his point, his erection returned to full throttle.
* * * *
The following afternoon, I met a couple girls my age.
“Hey, you’re the new guy,” spouted one of the girls, a brunette (curtains and drapes). “I’m Aimee.”
She held out her naked hand.
“Frankie,” I mumbled, my eyes focused on the sandy ground.
“It’s great to meet you,” she smiled. “Oh, and this is my friend, Vicki.”
“Hi!” Vicki smiled, her braces glinting off the sun. “It’s nice to meet you.”
I nodded, feeling the sweat run down my back, onto my legs.
Under different circumstances, perhaps I might’ve felt some kind of sexual attraction, but at Nature’s Bounty, just saying hello to a girl was kind of like rounding third base.
“So it’s just you and your dad, right?” Aimee asked, placing her arms atop her head, pushing her breasts skyward.
I nodded.
“Which one’s he again?”
What was I to say? The one with the perpetual erection?
“Well, he’s sort of got this receding hairline,” I began. “It’s sort of grayish.”
“Okay,” Aimee agreed. “Yeah, he sounds familiar.”
I smiled, relieved that he wasn’t yet known for any particular appendage.
“So,” Aimee continued, brushing back her hair, “what brings you to Nature’s Bounty?”
“My Dad...he’s sort of having a midlife crisis, I think.”
“Yeah, most of these people are,” she agreed. Vicki nodded beside her, then scratched her stomach.
“Plus my Mom sort of left him for Damien Markus so...”
“Wait. The basketball player?” Vicki asked. I tried desperately to look her in the eyes, in the braces, anywhere but where I seemed to look.
“Yeah...he plays. For the Spurs.”
“Ohmigosh! I love the Spurs!” Vicki cried, bouncing up and down. “Think you can get us tickets?”
“Sure, probably,” I agreed.
And then, an afterthought:
“But we’d have to wear some clothes.”
No one said anything, and, red-fa
ced, I began wondering if I’d violated some unspoken rule:
Thou shall not draw attention to thy nakedness.
Finally, Aimee burst into laughter, pressing her hand to my arm.
“Oh, Frankie, you’re a riot!” she laughed. “You think we’d really waltz around Freeman Coliseum like this?” she asked, running her hand down the length of her body. “Seriously?”
I shrugged, bashful, but figured we probably would.
* * * *
Nature’s Bounty was 300 strong, split nearly 50/50 by gender. Which meant I was gazing upon roughly 300 breasts a day. That’s a lot, even for someone at my age. The downside, of course, was that the other 50% of the population was men, which meant that a sultry day at Nature’s Bounty roasted more wieners than a hotdog stand.
The population was about two-thirds senior citizens, which didn’t leave much eye candy for the rest of us. Still, my father assured me he was “shooting par for the course,” forcing me to meet his rotation of flings every night at dinner.
“Now, Deborah,” my father began, reaching for his creamed corn. “What exactly was your profession back in Austin?”
“Retail,” a busty, middle-aged blonde answered. “But after twenty-years selling blouses and skirts, I realized I didn’t much care for them.”
“Case and point,” my father chuckled, nodding to her chest.
She laughed too, and my dad slugged me on the arm while passing the corn.
“Case and point,” he repeated, nodding first to her breasts and then at what remained hidden between her legs beneath the table. “Good one, huh, Frankie? Who could’ve guessed your old man was a comedian, huh?”
Who could have guessed he was a naturalist?
Yet despite my father’s gallivanting and hobnobbing, it was pretty clear he wasn’t yet over my mother. Some nights after calisthenics with Mayor White, we’d grab the fishing poles and head toward the lake, and while he never brought her up directly, she was always on his mind.
