by Denise Dietz
At the bottom of the staircase, Bobby Hoffman appeared, and Anissa was instantly transported back to childhood. “What d-do you w-want, Bobby?”
“I want to dance with you, Nissa.”
“But everything’s tur-turned off now.”
“You danced with Joe. I’m as good as that Jew-boy.”
“You’re dr-drunk!”
“I’m shit-faced. I’ve been drinkin’ all night, didn’t you notice? Or were you too busy dancin’ with him. Dance with me, Nissa.”
Bobby grabbed her about the waist, grinding his body against hers. He maneuvered her toward the hall closet, guided her roughly inside, kicked the door shut, and yanked the string on a hanging light bulb. “Are you cherry, Nissa? Shit, ’course you are. Never had me no virgin before.” He unzipped his fly. “I got a special Christmas present for you. You can name it Dick.” With a swift motion, he ripped her blouse down the front and lifted her breasts from her strapless bra. “In’creble tits,” he said, and reached out with his thumb and first finger.
The familiar pinching gesture broke Anissa’s paralysis. Stepping back, she felt wire hangers press against her bare shoulders. “Leave m-me alone, Bobby, or I’ll scream.”
“Go ahead and scream. Do you think Jacob gives a shit? All he wants is a grandson and we’re gonna give him one. He don’t care nothin’ ’bout you, Nissa.”
“You’re wr-wrong,” she said, but even to her own ears her voice sounded uncertain.
Bobby pushed her to the floor, covering her mouth when she let out an instinctive scream. Impeded by her long skirt, pantyhose and boots, he tried to control her flailing arms and remove her clothes at the same time. So he didn’t see the closet door opening and he didn’t see the tall figure whose head was on a level with the light bulb. He did, however, feel the hand that grabbed his long hair and yanked him upright. He felt the slap on the side of his face and he tasted the blood that spilled from the corner of his split lip.
“Get out of here, Jew-boy,” he snarled. “This is none of your business.”
“You maniac!” Furious, Joe slapped Bobby’s face back and forth. “If you hurt that sweet kid . . .”
“Stop it,” Anissa whimpered. “Bobby’ll tell my mother and she’ll tell Papa and you’ll get in trouble. You might even lose your scholarship.”
“I don’t care,” said Joe. Pulling Bobby from the closet, he added, “If I catch you near her again, this Jew-boy will slice off your puny Christian prick.”
Bobby fled while Joe helped Anissa to her feet. “Are you all right, honey? I could have sworn I heard you scream. Did Bobby do anything, um, bad?”
“I fought him off. For the first time in my life I fought back.” She tried to maintain her new-found maturity, but suddenly felt six years old. “Bobby ripped my new blouse. Papa will be so m-mad.”
“Aw, don’t cry. I’ll invade the store tomorrow and get you another blouse. Jacob will never know the difference.”
“You c-can’t. Tomorrow’s Christmas and the store is cl-closed.”
“Then the day after. Your blouse will probably be on sale.”
At that, she managed a small smile, even took a few steps forward. “Joe, I feel funny . . . dizzy.”
Easing Anissa to the floor, he bent her head between her legs. “Take a deep breath. Good. That’s my girl.”
Looking up, she saw his worried blue eyes probing her face. His thick hair, the same color as hers, fell across his forehead. Bare-chested, he wore beige pajama bottoms, tied at the waist with a drawstring. “Thanks,” she said. “I’m feeling much better now, almost human. Oh, I forgot. I’m an angel, a human angel. But I don’t have any wings so I can’t fly and . . .” She swallowed the rest of her words, aware that she was babbling.
“Can you make it to your bedroom, Anissa? You don’t weigh all that much, but you’re so tall I don’t know if I can carry you up the stairs.”
“I’m okay, Joe.” Rising, she enjoyed the gentle touch of his arm about her waist as they climbed the staircase and entered her bedroom. “Can you stay a while? I think you scared Bobby, but I’d feel so much safer if you stayed.”
“What would your father say if he found me in your bedroom?”
“Please? I’ll set the alarm for very early.”
“I’ll stay until you fall asleep.” Joe stretched his long body on top of the canopy bed.
Anissa walked into her bathroom. Discarding her clothes, she slipped a flannel nightgown over her head, braided her hair, and brushed her teeth. When she returned, Joe was asleep. An hour later, she blinked open her eyes. She had mistakenly set the alarm for twelve-thirty rather than six, and a local station played “It Never Rains In Southern California.”
Her head rested on Joe’s chest. He felt warm, safe, so different from Bobby. Bobby was abrasive. Joe was persuasive. Bobby’s voice mocked. Joe’s voice rocked—like a cradle.
She would never let Bobby Hoffman frighten her again.
Anissa turned off the radio. Then she untied the drawstring to Joe’s pajamas.
“Scoot over,” he whispered. “Stay on your side of the bed.”
What would Jane Fonda say? “I want to make love.” That’s not what Jane would say, you dumbbell. “Don’t you want me, Joe?” Better!
“You’re still upset over Bobby, right?”
“Bobby has nothing to do with this. I’m a nineteen year old virgin, almost twenty. I’m the only almost-twenty-virgin left in Wisconsin, possibly the whole world.”
“That’s no reason to have sex. Wait until you find someone you love.”
Mrs. Joseph Weiss. “I love you, Joe.”
“You’re confusing love with gratitude.”
“Gratitude doesn’t make a person feel all wet and thumpy. I want to be a part of you. I want you inside me.” Much better!
“You’ve been watching your mother’s soap operas.”
She giggled. “They don’t use words like wet and thumpy on Mama’s soaps. I know you feel something for me, Joey. I couldn’t be wrong. I love you. I love—”
“I’m leaving! Even if we made love, I have nothing to keep you from getting pregnant.”
“You can’t get pregnant the first time.”
“Sure you can.”
She pushed her nightie down so that her breasts were revealed. Good move, Jane would approve. Wriggling free from her gown, she instinctively nuzzled his chest, following the trail of emphatic body hair.
Joe stifled a moan. Her long lashes fluttered like the wings of a butterfly. The wispy strands of her braids tickled. Her lashes tickled. Her soft, moist lips tickled. Slowly, he guided her face toward the open slit in his pajamas.
What would Jane do now? Anissa’s mind went blank. “I think I’m scared,” she murmured, as Joe kicked his pajama bottoms free.
“We can stop. We should stop. We—”
“No. I trust you. I love you. I want to learn.”
His hands reached out and pulled her up the length of his body until her gray eyes were on a level with his blue. “I’ll teach you,” he said. “We’ll start with kisses.”
Anissa shivered, intrigued by the wetness that accumulated, unbidden, between her thighs. Wet and thumpy, hell! She was soaked and throbbing. “ ‘The anatomical juxtaposition of two orbicularis oris muscles in a state of contraction,’ ” she chanted nervously, thinking how even Jane would have stuttered over that particular quote. “Dr. Henry Gibbons. ‘Definition of a Kiss.’ ”
Joe kneeled above her prone body and spread her legs wide. He ached to bury his face and taste the protruding bud that lay hidden within the triangle of her golden mound. She was a virgin. He must stimulate moisture enough to ease the inevitable stab of pain that would occur when he severed her gauzy membranes. But he didn’t want to frighten her.
If he could only control his own body. Desperate, he tried to remember the score of the last Wisconsin-Purdue football game. Twenty-eight to twelve? Wisconsin-Michigan-State: thirty-five to six . . . no, thirty-five to nine
. Damn! It wasn’t working. Definitions . . . he had a brilliant legal mind . . . everybody said so, his friends, his professors.
“The anatomical juxtaposition of my fleshy muscular organ, attached to the bottom of my mouth,” he managed.
“Your tongue,” she said with a smile.
“The main organ of taste, used to facilitate an easy entrance leading to the vulva in the female angel.”
“Kissing’s fun,” she gasped, plowing the mattress with her heels, propelling herself closer to the maddening thrust of his flickering tongue.
“Soon we’ll try my other muscular organ. But first I want you to come painlessly.”
“Come where?”
“You may not have wings, angel, but I can teach you how to fly. There’s a wonderful galaxy called Orgasm.”
“Orgasm,” she repeated, her voice a caress. Then, as she felt Joe’s tongue plunge deeper and deeper, she reached for the vault of heaven, beyond her ceiling sky-light. Her vision was filled with exploding stars. And yet, beyond the stars, high above Orgasm, she saw a new constellation: Jane Fonda winking.
Chapter Five
On March 27, 1973, Oscars were presented to Joel Gray and Liza Minnelli.
As Anissa watched the televised Academy Awards, she decided she wanted three children—a couple of Lizas and one Joel. Papa, I’d like you to meet Joseph Stern-Weiss, Jr. We plan to call him Joel for short. If he has my eyes, we’ll call him Joel Gray.
The Godfather won for best picture, and, out of the blue, Anissa remembered her last letter from her pen-pal, Delly Gold. The letter had been written when Anissa was still living in Milwaukee. Delly had said something about making some boy an offer he couldn’t refuse.
The day after the Awards show was unseasonably hot. Joe and Anissa took advantage of the weather by sunning themselves from a bench next to a fountain in the University’s courtyard. Pranksters had poured a box of Tide into the fountain’s machinery and bubbles foamed, looking like Disney-inspired sea monsters. Throughout the yard, art students held an impromptu sale. Joe bought Anissa a miniature, silk-screened angel.
“Do you believe in tutelary saints?” she asked, admiring the exquisite print.
“Earth angel, earth angel, will you be ma-hine?” he sang.
“Okay, Joey, I’m yours.”
“Give me that old time religion, honey. The Bible’s a very sexy book.”
“Don’t let my Aunt Theresa hear you say that. Speaking of old time religion, do you want me to turn Jewish?”
“Nobody turns Jewish, angel. They convert.”
“Like Santa Claus?” Anissa placed her print on the bench, jostling their stack of texts and notebooks. A blue-covered script fell, and Joe bent forward to retrieve his copy of A Streetcar Named Desire.
“I wish you’d audition,” he said.
“Oh, sure. I could stutter with a Southern accent. Blanche DuBois with a speech impediment.”
“You once said you didn’t stammer over memorized passages.”
“Clarence Darrow Weiss, the defense attorney who remembers every—”
“Don’t get defensive. Your stutter has just about disappeared, except when you’re nervous.”
“And auditioning is such a non-nervous event.”
“I’d love to have you play Blanche to my Stanley.”
“You don’t have the part yet.”
“I’ll get it. Hey, if you try out for Blanche, I’ll marry you.”
“You’re going to marry me anyway. After graduation we’ll tell Papa.”
“First there’s law school.”
“Which Papa’s paying for. He’ll be thrilled to support my husband, keep it in the family. After all, you’re supposed to join his store’s legal department.”
“I don’t know, angel. I’ve considered criminal law. It has a lot in common with the stage.”
She winked. “We won’t tell Papa until you pass the Bar. And we’ll give him a grandson, Joey, like lunch ordered through a McDonald’s drive-up window. One double cheeseburger, secret sauce, fries, a grandson, and a Coke.” Anissa kept her hand from straying toward her belly. She hadn’t told Joe yet, wouldn’t confess until she was absolutely certain. She’d never been late with her period before, but that didn’t mean she was pregnant. “Now I’m hungry,” she said.
“Audition with me and I’ll buy you two double cheeseburgers, secret sauce, large fries, and a Coke. Such a deal!”
In the end, just to shut Joe up, Anissa auditioned. She had always been able to memorize things quickly and she learned Blanche’s lines while waiting for her name to be called. Laying aside her script, forgetting her stutter, she illuminated the bare boards with a charismatic radiance. The other Blanche hopefuls immediately clamored to read for the part of Stella.
On opening night Jacob pushed his way through the crowds backstage and entered Anissa’s dressing room. “You’re a chip off the old block, daughter,” he said. “You should have heard me on the Senate floor.”
“I’ve considered switching my major to drama, Papa.”
“That’s fine by me, though I do wish you’d major in finding a husband and starting a family.”
“I’ve been working on that, too,” she said, making a sudden decision. “You see, I’ve—”
“Darling Blanche,” her director interrupted, brushing Jacob aside, “I’d like you to meet Daniel J. Travanti.”
Anissa stared up at a handsome face with soul-filled eyes.
Travanti grasped her hand in his. “I once belonged to the Wisconsin Players. We did Tennessee Williams’ Cat On A Hot Tin Roof.”
“Yes, I know. You played Brick. I hear you were so good they retired your crutch. What are you doing now, Mr. Travanti?”
“Dan. I’m still acting. You were wonderful tonight, Anissa. But,” he added somewhat bitterly, “if you plan to act professionally, you’d better learn how to deal with rejection.”
“I’ve learned.” She flashed him a brilliant smile. “The first three letters of rejection are r-e-j, which are also the first three letters of rejoice.” She turned to her father and said, “Let’s talk tomorrow, okay?”
During the cast party, Joe said, “Why don’t we elope? Right now. Tonight.”
“Are you crazy? Drunk?”
“Neither. It’s just that I love you so much.”
“Me, too, you. But I want a church wedding. I want a white gown and champagne and rice. I want kiss-the-bride and, oh, God, how I want Papa to escort me down the aisle and give me away.”
His gaze probed her face. “Why that fervent last want, Anissa?”
“If Papa gives me away, I’ll finally belong to him. Do you understand?”
“Not really, but we’ll wait.” Forcing anguish into his voice, he said, “Anisssaaa, Anisssaaa.”
“Damn,” said a cast member. “Brando can’t hold a freaking candle to Weiss.”
For some dumb reason, Anissa’s heart fluttered fearfully and she felt like a tiny firefly trapped inside a clenched fist.
Rejoice, not rejection, she reminded herself.
* * * * *
“Did you see the reviews, Papa?”
Anissa shifted from one foot to the other. Why was she so fidgety? Papa would burst his buttons when he heard about Joe and the baby, especially the baby. She’d missed another period.
“I’ve read all the reviews, daughter. ‘Last night a new star rose above Madison’s Capital building. Astrologers have named it Anissa Stern.’ I plan to frame that one and add it to my collection.”
Jacob sat in a padded leather chair behind a huge desk. Above his silver pompadour, the wall of his office held photos autographed by politicians—his “collection.” Eisenhower grinned with all his teeth, as if he’d just clubbed a hole-in-one. Nixon smirked enigmatically. Even the democratic Kennedy brothers shared the cluttered wall space.
“You’ll be so happy when I tell you my news, Papa.” Anissa took a deep breath. “I want to get married. I’m in love, Papa.”
; “Bless you, daughter. Who’s the lucky man?”
“Joseph.”
“Joseph who?”
“Your Joseph, Papa. Joseph Weiss.”
Anissa saw her father puff on his cigar. His eyes were cold, and she recalled childhood vacations when he had expressed displeasure with her stuttering. And the fact that she was, as Bobby Hoffman had so delicately put it, a fucking girl.
“You cannot marry Joseph Weiss,” Jacob finally said.
“Why not?”
“Because I won’t allow it.”
“I don’t think you understand, Papa. I love Joey.”
“And how long have you loved this boy?”
“From the very beginning. Why do you say loved in that horribly sarcastic way? Why do you call him ‘this boy’? We’re talking about Joe, who has lived in your house and—”
“Seduced my daughter.”
“Seduced? That’s a joke. It was me. I seduced him. I d-don’t understand. Is it because he’s Jewish and p-poor? You were p-poor once, Papa. Joey’s planning to become a lawyer, just like you, and probably a sen-senator t-too.”
“Stop stuttering, Anissa. You didn’t last night, although as far as I’m concerned this discussion is finished. Kaput!”
“But I d-d-don’t understand.” She swallowed both her stupefaction and stammer. “Why can’t I marry Joey, Papa?”
“Because I have said no. Did you hear me? No!”
“Papa, I’m over eighteen. I don’t need your permission. Joey and I will get married, with or without your approval. I wanted him to keep your support for law school, but I’ll work and we’ll manage. Would it make any difference if I told you I’m going to have his baby?”
“You’re pregnant?”
“Yes.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“How many months?”
“Eight, maybe ten.”
