Mary Jane

by Jessica Anya Blau

  Nothing seemed unusual during dinner. If anything, Jimmy was happier and more upbeat than most nights, and Dr. Cone was more engaged. Everyone loved the pot roast and Izzy was thrilled with her centerpiece. Each time someone passed something across the table, she stood on her chair to make sure no shell from the centerpiece was disturbed.

  After dessert, Jimmy pushed back his chair and said he’d clean up. Mrs. Cone stood and said she’d help him. Like Sheba, she was wearing a long sundress, but hers wasn’t batik and looked a little pilled and old. She was barefoot too. Every time someone walked across the kitchen, I said a quick thanks that no glasses or dishes had been broken and there were no unseen shards waiting for a soft, tender foot.

  I pushed my chair back and looked at Izzy. “Bath time.”

  “But wait.” Izzy stood on her chair. “We need a polar bear photo of my centerplace!”

  “Excellent idea.” Dr. Cone went off to find the Polaroid camera as Sheba and I took dishes to the sink. Jimmy and Mrs. Cone had already started washing.

  Dr. Cone returned within minutes. Izzy sat on the table near the shells and lifted her hands in a wide V. Dr. Cone clicked a picture and the flash exploded with a brilliant white light that made me see stars for a minute.

  “Now everyone with my centerplace!” Izzy said.

  “Another excellent idea.” Dr. Cone leaned over Izzy and kissed her head. “BONNIE!”

  I was surprised Dr. Cone had shouted the way he and Mrs. Cone did at home. The dining room was open to the kitchen. We were looking right at Mrs. Cone and Jimmy, side by side at the sink, chatting and laughing.

  “WHAT?” Mrs. Cone turned and looked at her husband.

  “GROUP PICTURE.”

  “Oh, we have to take a group photo.” Sheba was carrying the pot roast platter into the kitchen. She came back with Jimmy and Mrs. Cone.

  “I’ll do it. Long arms.” Jimmy took the camera from Dr. Cone and we all gathered around behind him, Izzy’s centerpiece somewhere behind us.

  “Say sober!” Jimmy pushed the button, the flash exploded again, and stars swam before me. Jimmy pulled out the photo and lay it on the table next to the one Dr. Cone had taken.

  “We’ll look at them after your bath,” I said to Izzy. I could smell the gluey odor of the fixing agent Dr. Cone was applying to the Polaroids as I picked up Izzy and carried her to our bathroom.

  In the tub Izzy sang the Beanie Jones song again.

  “Let’s sing the rainbow song instead.” I’d taught Izzy “The Beautiful Land” from The Roar of the Greasepaint—The Smell of the Crowd soundtrack.

  We started together, “Red is the color of a lot of lollipops. . . .”

  When Izzy was in her pajamas, her hair combed, her skin smelling like line-dried cotton sheets, I carried her into the dining room to look at the Polaroids. The grown-ups were in the living room. The smoky eraser smell that accompanied them at night filtered into the dining room.

  Izzy stared down at the photos. “We look pretty.”

  “Yeah, we do.” Disaster was looming and yet we did look beautiful. Everyone was smiling. We all seemed relaxed, like we’d just fallen into place. And each body was connected to another body, closely. An unbreakable chain of love. It was the opposite of the staged family photo my mother sent out every Christmas. In Mom’s picture, our decorated tree—put up on the first of December—was in the background. My mother and I wore dresses and shoes the same color. Always red or green, with beige stockings on our legs. My father put on the same tie each year: red with a pattern of green Christmas trees. I stood a couple of inches in front of my parents, whose bodies didn’t touch. My mother placed her right hand on my left shoulder and my father placed his left hand on my right shoulder. Usually the photo was taken by our next-door neighbor, Mr. Riley. Once, on a family trip to San Francisco, we visited the Ripley’s Believe It or Not! museum at Fisherman’s Wharf. When I saw the wax people there, I thought of our Christmas photos. I’d always thought that waxy strangers-in-an-elevator look was just because no one in my family was comfortable in front of a camera. But now I wondered if it was because no one in my family was comfortable with any other person in my family.

  “I love Mom, I love Dad, I love Mary Jane, I love Sheba, I love Jimmy.” Izzy leaned off my hip and put her finger on the photo. On Jimmy’s heart.

  “I love you.” I put my finger on top of Izzy’s. Then I picked up the two photos and carried them into the bedroom with Izzy. I dropped Izzy on the bed and then propped the picture of her with the horseshoe crab centerpiece against the lamp base on her bedside table. The other photo I placed on the lamp base of my bedside table. Later I’d ask Dr. Cone if I could keep it.

  I was in the middle of the moment, the picture had been taken less than an hour ago, and already I felt the loss of time, the loss of this summer, the loss of this makeshift family. I supposed it was preemptive nostalgia, inoculating me for what was to come. Would Izzy forget me? Would Dr. and Mrs. Cone remind her of the summer she spent with me? Would Sheba and Jimmy remember this the way I would? Was this summer changing their lives the way it was changing mine?

  Izzy fell asleep as I was reading to her. I slipped out of her bed, shut the door behind me, and followed the smoke to the living room. Though I felt tremulous about family therapy this evening, I also wanted it to happen soon, just so I could stop wondering and worrying about how Sheba might react and how Jimmy would respond to Sheba’s reaction. My heart hurt for Sheba. And it hurt for Jimmy, too, even though I knew this was his fault.

  Dr. Cone clapped his hands when he saw me. “Mary Jane!”

  “Hey.” I awkwardly lifted my hand and waved. I hadn’t been this nervous since the first day I’d met Sheba and Jimmy.

  Dr. Cone stood. “Shall we do this in the Office?”

  “Let’s do it.” Jimmy stood and stretched. His shirt lifted, revealing the downy hair on his belly.

  “The beach? That Office?” I asked, though of course I knew the answer.

  “Yeah, it’s really been a good place to open up, Mary Jane. The sound of the waves, the smell of the sea air—it brings you down to the basics. It reminds us that we’re alive, just another part of the physical world.”

  “Baby!” Sheba hugged me. “Is this your first time in therapy?”

  “Uh. Yeah.” I hadn’t really thought of it in those terms. That I was going to be in therapy.

  “I’m bringing some wine.” Mrs. Cone held a bottle against her chest like a baby.

  “What about Izzy?” I asked.

  “She’s too young for this.” Dr. Cone shook his head. “But soon.”

  “No, I mean, what about leaving her alone in the house? What if she wakes up and no one’s here?”

  “Has she ever woken up since we’ve been here?” Mrs. Cone lifted the bottle and took a sip.

  “No, but what if she does? Won’t she be scared to find no one home?”

  “We’ll leave the doors to the beach open so she knows where to go.” Dr. Cone waved his arm as if to indicate the flow of air, the flow of Izzy.

  “Mary Jane, Mary Jane!” Jimmy sang, and he walked out the door. Mrs. Cone followed him, the bottle of wine dangling from one hand.

  Dr. Cone opened the door to the screened porch and pushed a wicker chair against it so it would stay open. Then he opened the screen door to the beach, and put another wicker chair there. “That should work.” He nodded to the side, meaning I should go out.

  “Okay. But wait.” I wasn’t sure if I was really this nervous about leaving Izzy alone or if I was avoiding the pending family therapy. “Are there any animals that might enter the house and attack Izzy?”

  “Mary Jane.” Sheba spoke firmly. “Take my hand. You’re coming with me.”

  “Izzy will be fine.” Dr. Cone smiled at me. “No beach animals will enter the house and attack her. But I do appreciate your concern. You’ll make an excellent mother one day.”

  Sheba pulled me out of the house. The moon was up and stars were scat
tered across the sky like spilled milk. It was light enough to see our bare feet as we walked through the dunes to the spot where Jimmy and Mrs. Cone waited. They were on the sheet, lying on their sides, facing each other. The bottle of wine leaned against Mrs. Cone’s breasts.

  I sat cross-legged at Mrs. Cone’s feet. Jimmy sat up and crossed his legs and then Mrs. Cone sat up and tucked her legs behind her. Sheba hiked up her dress all the way to her pink underpants and then sat cross-legged next to Jimmy. Mrs. Cone swiveled around and pulled up her dress so that she, too, was sitting cross-legged. Dr. Cone sat between Sheba and Mrs. Cone.

  Mrs. Cone took another sip from the bottle. Dr. Cone shot her a quick look. Usually the drinking of wine was more discreet.

  “Mary Jane.” Dr. Cone looked at me. The whites of his eyes glinted. “This is a place where everyone is honest and open. There’s nothing to hide and nothing to be ashamed of. We share our feelings, and we don’t judge each other. We accept each other and we accept ourselves.”

  I nodded at Dr. Cone, feeling even more nervous. Did I have to announce what Izzy and I had seen on the dunes?

  “It’s all very frank,” Sheba said. “But you’re smart enough and grown-up enough to handle adult conversation, and to listen without freaking out about issues around sexuality, and childhood traumas we’re all still dealing with, our current relationships and all the complications there, of course.”

  “Okay.” I nodded at Sheba now. Did I have to speak? The idea of talking about any of those things, especially sexuality—in light of the fact that I was a sex addict—was as terrifying a thing as I had ever imagined.

  Dr. Cone said, “Let’s start by going around the circle and just checking in. Saying how we each feel. Where we are emotionally right now.”

  “I’m feeling a little drunk.” Mrs. Cone tilted up the bottle and slugged down the last drops. “And maybe I smoked too much pot?”

  “In light of Jimmy’s struggles, maybe we could all cool it on the weed, whites, and wine.” Dr. Cone looked directly at Mrs. Cone as he said this.

  Sheba started singing, “And if you give meeeeee weed, whites, and . . .”

  I had only recently learned that weed was the same thing as Mary Jane, but I had no idea what whites were. Probably something else Mrs. Cone smoked or drank.

  “I’m feeling a little anxious.” Jimmy looked right at Dr. Cone. “Today was a bit of a fuckup, and I’m not feeling good about it. But I think my emotions have been pent up inside me, and instead of talking it through, I let my urges burst out in inappropriate ways. So. Uh. Yeah. I’m anxious.” Jimmy pulled a joint from one back pocket and a lighter from the other. He lit the joint, took a hit, then passed it to Sheba.

  Sheba took a hit. Smoke puffed out of her mouth when she said, “I’m feeling incredible love for Jimmy. And pride, too. I mean, he’s working so hard. And I feel grateful for all of you. For this beautiful family.” Sheba and Jimmy stared at each other. They were both smiling with their mouths closed. Sheba then passed the joint to Mrs. Cone.

  “Mary Jane?” Dr. Cone said.

  “Uh, um.” I felt like I might throw up. Would Sheba still love Jimmy once she knew about his lovemaking in the dunes with Beanie Jones? Would the Cones fire me if they knew that I was a sex addict? “I feel very worried and nervous.”

  “Why?” Sheba asked.

  “Uh.” I looked from Jimmy to Dr. Cone, to Jimmy again.

  “It’s cool,” Jimmy said. “You can say anything.”

  Dr. Cone said, “Why don’t we let the others speak first since this is Mary Jane’s first time in therapy?”

  “Okay, I’ll talk,” Sheba said. “I guess I’m a little anxious too. Jimmy and I have been incognito for weeks now and I’m finding that rather than feeling liberated by it, I sort of miss the reaction people have to me. I mean, I thought I hated it. I don’t understand why, but I miss waiters falling all over themselves and giving me the best table and I miss girls crying when they see me and I miss the gay men who tell me I’ve saved their lives.”

  I wanted to ask Sheba how she’d saved gay men’s lives, but I knew it was not the right time.

  “You miss your celebrity,” Dr. Cone said.

  “Yeah. Isn’t that weird? I complained about it all the time. But I wonder if I’m sort of addicted to that high of being the person in the room everyone wants to look at or know.”

  We all were looking at Sheba. She was so beautiful that even if she wasn’t a star, I would want to stare at her in a room. I’d want to know her too.

  Dr. Cone said, “Let’s explore this further. What do you think you gain from being seen? Is it emotional? Is there a childhood interaction that is being recapitulated, or an unfufilled need that is being filled through the act of being seen?”

  “Oh, Richard.” Sheba shook her head. She pulled on the tips of her bare toes. “You know my mother showed me no love. And she shamed me for my sexuality.”

  “Your mom’s a bitch.” Jimmy spoke through nearly closed lips that allowed a thin sheet of smoke to slip out.

  “She was. She shamed me for the very things that the public adores about me: my hair, my tits, my ass, my legs. Even my pussy . . .”

  I swallowed hard. I’d never heard anyone use that word, but I did know what it meant. I tried to let my brain move past the idea that Sheba was discussing this part of her body; I tried to be the adult Sheba expected of me.

  “You’ve been nominated for an Academy Award,” Dr. Cone said. “You’re always asked to sing on talk shows. I think it’s factual that you are also adored for your many talents.”

  “But, Richard, no one on this Earth would pay five cents to see my talents if I didn’t look the way I do.” Sheba threw her hair forward.

  “Do you feel any gratification when you’re rewarded for your talents, or do you only feel gratified when you’re rewarded for your physical attributes?”

  “When I was in Playboy, I got more recognition, more adoration, more praise than I did for anything else I’ve ever done. And you know what?”

  “What?” Mrs. Cone asked, too loudly, and then she hiccuped.

  Sheba and Dr. Cone both looked at her like she’d just shouted during a silent prayer in church.

  Sheba turned her head back to Dr. Cone as if he had asked the question. “It made me feel good. It made me feel like I mattered. Playboy filled the hole my mother carved out of me when she told me I was a whore and a slut and that I’d never be as good as my brothers.”

  “Like I said,” Jimmy grumbled, “lady’s a bitch.”

  “So you’re defying your mother, in a sense.” Dr. Cone was nodding. He paused for a moment and then said, “Does this defiance feed you spiritually?”

  Sheba thought about this, and I thought about it too. Wearing the crochet bikini Sheba bought me did seem like it filled some spiritual need. When I wore it, it was like I was transforming into the freer, less afraid person I wanted to be. But could I really compare my semi-nudeness in a bathing suit on a private beach to Sheba’s total nudeness in a magazine that just about every man in the world looked at?

  “It might. Allowing myself to flaunt what my mother wanted me to hide makes me feel like I exist on my own terms,” Sheba said, and I understood her completely.

  “Let’s look at it from another angle,” Dr. Cone said. “Is there anything that’s worth doing without an audience? Is there any part of you that doesn’t need to be seen?”

  “When Jimmy and I make love, I feel whole. Complete. Like everything that’s missing in me is filled.” Sheba reached her arm out to Jimmy and they held hands. He leaned in and whispered something to her. Mrs. Cone sighed so loudly, I wondered if she wanted to interrupt them. Dr. Cone looked entirely calm, like he had no problem waiting for the two of them to finish whatever it was they were whispering, lip to lip.

  I heard Jimmy say, “Baby, I just love you so much.”

  My stomach rumbled again. Sheba had just admitted that her most complete moments in life were when she
was making love to Jimmy. And mere hours ago, Jimmy was doing exactly that with Beanie Jones.

  When they finally stopped whispering, Sheba said, “I think I need to meditate on how I can feel complete and whole without continuous feedback from exterior sources, including Jimmy. Like, I need to totally chill out and sit with myself, just see what it means to be me without the world telling me who I am, or who I’m not, or who I am to them.”

  “You have given yourself excellent advice,” Dr. Cone said. I thought it was neat that he didn’t feel like he had to be the one to come up with the advice. And then I wondered if I should see what it felt like to sit with myself without taking into account feedback from exterior sources, even though I usually felt comfortably and quietly invisible, except to my mother, who gave me continuous feedback. Maybe part of my joy in being at the Cones was the joy of not getting feedback from my mother. I wanted to think about this more, but then Jimmy started talking and I didn’t want to miss anything he had to stay.

  “But wait. I mean, fuck, man, if Sheba’s not the superstar sucking up all the attention, then everyone’s gonna look more closely at me.” He knocked his thumb against his chest when he said me.

  “So you prefer to be in the background?” Dr. Cone asked. Were all psychiatrists like this? It seemed like Dr. Cone offered very little. Though maybe his questions were designed to help people come to conclusions on their own.

  “Fuck yeah. I was never after fame. All I’ve ever wanted was to make enough money to buy guitar strings and eat. I hate celebrity. If I could do what I do anonymously, I sure as fuck would. I just want to play my damn guitar and sing. I don’t want strangers talking to me or trying to touch me, or even telling me how much they love my music. And I sure as hell don’t give a shit what they think about how I look. In fact, I’d prefer they didn’t look at me at all.”