by Greg Kearney
Hugh touches her fuzzy head, lets his fingers graze.
“Stop that. It feels like lice.”
“I’m gonna go get him.”
“No, don’t. Okay, do. But he won’t come. Dollar to a donut. He will not come.”
Hugh pats her arm and stands.
“And bring him that marble cake that Mary Beattie brought over the other day,” Teresa commands. “He’ll gobble that right up.”
Hugh leaves, and Teresa lies on her side, studying a nick in the wood of the bookshelf by her bed. She is not a stupid woman; her rationale for forcing Joel to fend for himself was sound at the time, founded in the overwhelming love she feels for him. Now, though, as her body shuts itself down, all she wants is to have Joel with her again, reading aloud from tabloids and women’s magazines, lamenting the poor fashion choices of various has-beens. He’s fine the way he is. Even so, there is a distinct possibility that he’ll eventually get asbestos lung cancer … “Oh, shut the fuck up, Teresa,” she says aloud to herself.
“Did you call for me?” Shary pops her head in. “The baby’s out for the count!”
“Honey, are you giving that baby Valium?”
Shary’s head darts about like a chicken’s. “What? No! My God, no! Nothing like that.”
“No? Then what are you giving her?”
Shary goes quiet. She listens for any sound of Dallas or Hugh. Bites her lip. “Maybe a Benadryl every now and then? I know, I know. I feel so guilty. She is just so, so constantly screamy. Dallas freaked out. She kept waking him up and then he’d have to go to work. I didn’t know what to do. I told my friend Dar, and she said to give her Benadryl. She gives it to both her kids with every meal and they’re fine. It’s supposed to be harmless. I’m so sorry, Mrs. — Teresa. I don’t know what to do.”
“Sit,” says Teresa, nodding at the chair by her makeup table. Shary obeys and dumps herself onto the chair, slump-shouldered, near tears.
“Dallas was exactly that way, as a baby. Scream, scream, scream. It was hell. It’s a miracle I didn’t just throw him in the freezer and walk away. I thought about it, not at length or in detail or anything, but it did cross my mind.”
Shary nods, clearly relieved to commiserate with another mother who isn’t her friend Dar. She nods that grateful nod, just as Teresa did that first time Digger prayed with her in the church foyer. “And what did you do?” she begs, about to tamp at her bangs, then forcing herself to be still. “Did you give him Benadryl?”
“If I’d known about Benadryl, I’m sure I would have. I was lucky — Dallas’s dad was so patient and calm. If he’d been high-strung like me or like Dallas, I don’t know what I would’ve done. But sooner or later you’re going to have to deal with your kid, and her little personality is going to be so unlike what you’d envisioned; she’s only going to become more and more herself, and there’s a good chance you may not like the person she’s meant to be, but you’re stuck with her, so you have to just love her and get used to her. You can’t drug her forever. You can’t really do a hell of a lot, as a mother. They’re going to be who they’re going to be, and you can make sure you don’t give them food poisoning and get them all their shots, make sure they can read, hug them, and that’s about it.”
“I don’t know if I like the sound of that.”
“Yeah, well. Welcome to motherhood. You’ve got to make your own fun, wherever you can.”
“Fun. I don’t have fun.”
“Oh, I don’t believe that.”
“I have no complaints. Apart from the obvious ones, of course.”
“Which obvious ones might those be?”
“It’s hard with Dallas and his crazy schedule. Most of the time I don’t know what he’s thinking or feeling, or if he still likes me or just thinks I’m a — we’re a — burden.”
“I know.”
“Do you think he still likes me?”
“Who knows. He can be a real blockhead. I don’t care how sweet a man is, how understanding: you’re going to be disappointed, again and again. But you know, so what? You can always — supplement.”
Shary is crying now, and Teresa starts to regret the topic. She doesn’t have the energy to prop the girl back up again.
“It’s just … if things are hard now … Sometimes, in the afternoon, I’ll find myself in the basement, or in the hall closet, or even the front lawn, and I don’t know how I got there.
“It’s scary. It’s like I have two or three lives, running all at once, and sometimes I lose myself between them. I need more support. I’ve even started hanging out with the francophone lady next door, who only speaks French and is actually kind of mean, but I don’t know who else to turn to. I don’t … What did you mean by ‘supplement’? I know you’re not talking about vitamins or anything like that.”
Teresa shrugs a shoulder. “You can’t get everything from one person, you know that. So you make new friends: shopping friends, bowling friends, bingo friends …”
“Yes, of course, right. I do need to make more friends.”
“Yeah. And so you’ll have naughty girlfriends who you can go the bar with every now and then, and nice men friends who know how to please a woman, who you can have sex with, nice and discreet. It all works out in the end.”
Shary is wide-eyed, looking left and right. This is the response Teresa anticipated, but it’s way too late in the game to pull punches with the girl your boy’s destroying.
“You’re not suggesting that I — do adultery.”
“Well, not right away. Possibly not ever, if Dallas is able to please you thoroughly in, y’know, bed, although to be honest I really can’t envision that being the case. So yeah, at some point in time you may come across a nice man who really enjoys pleasing a woman, and I don’t see any reason why you shouldn’t proceed. In my case — and I’m talking woman-to-woman here — I like a man with girth. Hugh is nice and long, but it’s not especially thick. Especially after childbirth, a narrow penis is like a breadstick dipped in a bowl of soup. Not the desired sensation. So … anyway, I’ve said enough. Just something to bear in mind.”
Shary stands, backs away. “I would never, ever do that. But thank you so much for your suggestions. I promise I won’t say anything about what you’ve said.”
“Oh, I don’t care about that. Everybody knows I like to supplement. Hugh knows I like to supplement. You’ll find that life is so much easier if you take a relaxed approach to that kind of stuff.”
She’s young. It’s pointless, this line of counsel, if it’s premature. If the girl believes she hates sex, it’s like explaining country music to a table. The best Teresa can wish for young Shary is that she will eventually, even accidentally, find out how to give herself an orgasm. If she knows how to give herself an orgasm, there is hope.
28
JIM’S LEGS REST AROUND EDMUND’S sitting hips, Edmund’s legs around Jim. They are deep-breathing in unison. Edmund’s entire face itches, and he would dearly love to claw at it endlessly with his nails. But he staves off the impulse.
“I send you love,” Jim says, his hand on Edmund’s heart.
“Oh my. Let’s not rush into things,” Edmund says, giggly, twitchy.
“No, you have to say it back. This is the root of Tantra. Are we doing this, or aren’t we?”
“Sorry. Yes, we are doing this. I send you love.”
Edmund thinks of a winged valentine wending its way through Jim’s chest hair. “I feel awash in sensuality. It’s so transcendent.”
Jim pokes Edmund in the chakra. “You are not awash in sensuality. Come on.”
“I am. God. Isn’t it bad form to doubt your Tantric partner’s ecstasy?”
“We’re high. I’ve been up for three days. I used to do Tantric sex all the time with Ross, and right now I feel nothing.”
“Well, I’m sorry that’s your experience thu
s far, but I personally am awash in sensuality.”
“It’s the crystal, honey.”
“Why are you so afraid of intimacy, Jim?”
“I’m not afraid of intimacy. I love intimacy. I’ve lived my life for intimacy. This isn’t intimacy. This is a farce; it is. Sorry. It’s almost … campy.”
“I see. Like it wasn’t campy last time we tried it? I had the DTs. And if memory serves, you were pretty over-the-top, yourself.”
Jim laughs scornfully. He takes his hand away. He has definitely stopped sending love to Edmund.
“Over-the-top? My lover had just died. I was shattered. I assisted in suicide; did you assist in suicide? No, you did not, so shut the fuck up. I had known the ultimate in intimacy, the ultimate, and I couldn’t conceive of life without that intimacy. So I tried to conjure it with you briefly. But now … How stupid was I to attempt to fill that void with … Do you even understand what I’m talking about? I mean, I know you had your thing with Dean and whatnot, but I wonder if it was truly as meaningful as you make it out to be.”
Edmund gets up off the floor, using the fireplace for balance. Punky’s urn. He could hurl it at Jim; that would be a typically druggy thing to do. But he is not a hurler.
“You’re skating dangerously close to ‘my relationship was better than your relationship’ territory. We don’t want to play that game. I’m not going to attempt to articulate the depth of my love for Dean. I like you; I liked Ross. I would never diminish your bond. So many people over the years have commented on how showy and insincere you came across as a couple, but I always shut down that kind of talk as soon as it started. I refuse to be snarky.”
Jim jumps up onto his knees, like Ukrainian folk dance. Edmund watches his face dart between rage and doctorial remove. Edmund hates himself for this brand of icy cattiness, but once it’s underway it’s hard to stop.
“Thank you so much for defending us. Similarly, I was quick to defend you when people said that the only reason you and Dean were together was because you paid for everything and Dean was little more than an illiterate parasite and a coke addict.”
“Is that supposed to wound me? We joked about that aspect of our relationship all the time. Levity — we had a lot of levity. And you know what? I would have paid for the pleasure of having a lover as beautiful as Dean. The same cannot be said of Ross. He was a nice man, but even when he was well he looked like a lesbian dressed up as Tom Petty for Halloween. You have to admit.”
Jim’s mouth falls open. “You’re saying that my dead lover was ugly. Wow. What more is there to say?”
Edmund inches toward Jim, making a petting motion with his hand. “Jim, I’m sorry. I got carried away. I’m not myself. Ross wasn’t ugly. Ross was great. Dean was great. We should be dead, and they should be alive. They had purpose. We’re shitty. We’re flotsam. We should be dead.”
Jim walks the length of his living room. He holds his head in a stately way, but his odd, unbroken footfalls make him look like he’s measuring for an area rug. “Speak for yourself,” he says. “I’ll decide if I’m flotsam, please and thank you.”
“I think we’re still grieving. Do you think we’re still grieving?”
“I’m not talking about this with you anymore. I’ve more than had my fill.”
“No, wait. I think — Let’s try the Tantric sex thing again. Please? I have this deep, gut feeling that we are each other’s only hope for —”
“For WHAT? Freshness? Fuck off! You try crying for seven years and get back to me. Then you’ll really want to party. You try not bathing for a month, pissing the bed and not caring. That’s grief. I know intimacy, and I know grief, and I know futility. You are a dilettante. I’m sick of your face. Please leave.”
“I pissed the bed, too, I honestly did. I forgot to do laundry, I was burdened, I’m a zombie. Don’t make me leave.”
“Buh-bye. Now. Out.”
Jim shoos him out of the living room. Where can Edmund go now? The only option is suicide. Or the tubs.
29
DONALD IS READING ALOUD FROM Great Expectations, ham-acting all the characters, having a wonderful time. Joel stares out the bit of window not blocked out by stacks of antique cookie tins.
After half an hour Donald realizes that Joel isn’t listening.
“Reading from Dickens is very much a Tait family tradition at Christmastime. I’m sorry that you find it so stultifying. Joel. Joel? Joel!”
“Hey. Sorry. I was zoned out. We did Great Expectations in grade eleven. I didn’t really like it then, but you really made it come to life.”
Donald inserts the ribbon bookmark and sets the book on the arm of his chair. He creeps over to Joel. Joel notices; he braces for Donald’s brand of affection: fingernails lightly scraped across the back of the neck; his cheek pressed to Joel’s; a gentle pinching of Joel’s upper arm that makes him feel like Donald is calculating his body fat. But this is how Donald loves, and Joel is grateful.
“Would you like to go into the other room and spoon?” Donald asks, hunched over Joel.
“That would be okay. I need closeness.”
“I suppose I can furnish that, as your special friend.”
“I can’t believe I stumbled upon life partnership in my hometown.”
“I don’t know that I care for the term life partnership. Sounds like a fundraising form letter. I’ll need to think on it.”
“If not life partnership, how about — fuck!”
“Now, that’s just base.”
“No, my dad just pulled into your driveway. What does he want? What if he has her with him? Doesn’t look like it. I can’t deal. When he comes to the door tell him I’m — out in the bush — looking for a Christmas tree. ‘Kay?”
Joel streaks through the house, artfully avoiding the towers and mounds of junk.
“Joel!” Donald says in a breathy shriek. “I can’t lie to your father! I’m incapable. I’ll hyperventilate and crumple to the floor! Get back here!”
Joel listens behind the bedroom door to Donald greeting Hugh. Donald wishes Hugh both a merry Christmas and the very best of the season. He can hear Donald already panting from anxiety.
“Sadly, Mr. Price, you just missed Joel. He is out in the forest, chopping down a tree for the living room.”
“That’s a first for Joel,” Hugh says. “Well, his mother really wants to see him — she sent for him — so could I come in and wait for him?”
Joel hears Donald’s fretful hem and haw; Donald would rather die than have a stranger see his filthy house with its calamitous collections.
“You could come in and wait for him, but unfortunately I have an infestation problem and have just sprayed the house with noxious chemicals. The mist is very carcinogenic.”
“But you’re in there, breathing it in.”
“Yes, I have a gene, that makes me immune to cancer …”
Joel can’t bear to hear Donald’s pained improv. He comes out of hiding.
“Hey, Dad.”
“Hey, mister. Did ya find a nice tree?”
“What? Oh. No.”
Donald sighs melodically and trundles his bulk out of the picture. He gently clangs pots and pans in the kitchen to approximate domestic business.
“Your mother really wants to have you over. She feels just awful about all that’s happened. See, I brung this marble cake she made for you.”
Joel glances at the saran-wrapped cake in its glass tray. “Mom’s marble cake doesn’t have those white flecks in it. She didn’t make that.”
Hugh brings the tray close to his face and studies the cake.
“Oh, yeah. That’s right, too. Well, I don’t know who the hell made the cake, but she wanted you to have it ’cuz she knows how much you like marble cake. She wants you to come over. Dallas and Shary are there with the baby — Minsy? Missy? I can’t remember what
they called her. Cute little thing. They all want to see you.”
“Yeah, right. I’m sure Dallas is really pining to see me.”
“The point is, your mom sure is sorry about all this nonsense and wants to see you for Christmas.”
Joel looks away. Purses his lips. Looks down. Looks up. Looks behind himself. Looks beyond his father and the fraudulent marble cake.
“I am not a pincushion, you know. I’m not a loser. I was really, really, really hurt by Teresa’s recent actions. Devastated, actually.”
Hugh gets his face that says the motor’s running, wrap it up, a face that Joel counts among his earliest memories.
“Is she prepared to apologize sincerely and extensively? Because if she’s not prepared to —”
“Christ, Joel, she can’t hardly hold her head up. I’m sure she’ll say whatever you want her to say.”
“I can’t commit to anything without first checking with my life partner.”
“What is that? You mean — Jeez. Ya, okay, but try and make it quick. The roads are bad.”
Joel goes to the kitchen. Donald isn’t there. He goes to their bedroom. Donald is sitting on the edge of the bed facing away from the door. Joel sits beside him.
“My mother is prepared to apologize profusely for everything. But I’ll only go if you come with me.”
Donald is crying. He holds an egg timer. “I’m sorry,” he says, “I can’t go. I have to visit my own mother.”
Joel nods understandingly. “But your mother is no longer with us.”
“I light a candle at her grave.”
“Right. Of course. But we could do that tomorrow, couldn’t we?”
“I always do it today. I’m sorry. Please don’t ask me to visit with your family. I’m not up to it. I’m not — that kind of — gay — person. Yet. I’m sorry.”
Joel is seized by Donald’s plaintive, brimming eyes. Joel has fantasized about such wrenching exchanges with lovers; were his life simply a procession of one such exchange after another, he would want for nothing more. Donald is not handsome, nor charming, and his love is cautious, not cinematic in the least, and his flesh is dimpled and blinding-white save for the odd, old, silvery stretch mark … Adult relationships involve the banishment of all fantasy, a willingness to work with what is offered. Joel knows this. He is gritty now, a realist; there’s nothing filmic about his life now. He grabs Donald’s hand and hoists their held hands in the air, just like Susan Sarandon and Geena Davis did at the end of Thelma & Louise.