“Does Sheba’s missing celebrity feel threatening to you?” Dr. Cone tapped his fingertips together, his two hands making the shape of a tent.
“Yeah, it feels threatening. Doc, you more than anyone understand that half the reason I love shooting junk is to get away from feeling like a show pony. I do it to get away from the screaming masses and the greedy fucking producers. When I’m high, celebrity doesn’t exist. It’s just me. Me and my music, numbing out on a level that doesn’t take into account the world and what everyone else wants or needs. When I’ve used, I can hear my thoughts. I can feel my heartbeat. I’m content in just sitting with myself. There’s no self-consciousness. None! It’s fucking soulful, man.”
“No!” Sheba said.
“Jimmy,” Dr. Cone said. “Your soul was there before the drugs. Your soul has peeked out since you’ve been sober, has it not?”
“But junk is a direct line to my soul.” Jimmy thumped his heart with his thumb again.
“That’s not your fucking soul, Jimmy!” Sheba sat up straighter. “That’s fake soul. That’s powder soul. That’s no more soulful than Captain and Tennille singing at that damn piano! It’s an illusion!”
“Celebrity’s a fucking illusion, Sheba! We’re all just humans: we’re born, we eat, we shit, we fuck, and then we die. The fact that random strangers think you and I are better than them is the biggest illusion of all!”
“That’s not true,” Sheba said. “You have more talent than others. You are better than them.”
“I might be better at playing guitar,” Jimmy said. “But there are millions of things that other people are better at. Shit, Mary Jane’s a better cook than everyone here, and she fucking sings better than most people in the studio.”
Goose bumps covered my skin like a sheet that had just been thrown over me. Did Jimmy really think I sang better than some people in recording studios?
Mrs. Cone was vigorously nodding. Then she said, “If Sheba loves celebrity and you hate it, isn’t that hard on your marriage?”
“No,” Sheba and Jimmy said at once.
Sheba said, “If we both wanted it, we’d be competing.”
“Like I said, she guards me from it.” Jimmy leaned over and rubbed Sheba’s leg. “She’s my smack.”
“I’d love to be a star,” Mrs. Cone said. “I mean, come on. It’s like being the most popular person in school but school is the world.” Mrs. Cone hiccuped again. “If I were Sheba, I would pose in Playboy too. Hell, I’d pose in Oui.”
We all looked at Mrs. Cone curiously. Dr. Cone said, “Is being seen like that something you feel you need, Bonnie?”
Mrs. Cone kept talking as if he hadn’t asked a question. “Who wouldn’t be addicted to stardom? I mean, c’mon. Seriously.”
“Well, we’re all addicts of some sort,” Sheba said. “Part of being alive is figuring out the balance between what you want, what you need, and what you have with what you don’t want, don’t need, and don’t have. I mean, Jimmy, man, you are so not alone here. This whole family, each of us, we’re all addicts in one way or another.”
“I’ve grown addicted to pot since you two moved in,” Mrs. Cone said.
“You’re not addicted to pot.” Sheba said it in a way that made it feel irrefutable. “But I am addicted to fame.” I wondered, if Mrs. Cone or Sheba had a sex addiction like me, would they openly admit it? Then again, Sheba did talk about sex with Jimmy, so maybe she would.
Jimmy said, “Richard’s addicted to work. Shit, Richard, you’ve now spent more hours talking to me than my mother has over my entire life.”
Dr. Cone said, “I may be addicted to work, but you’re in high need now, and I want to see you through to the successful end. I want us all to finish this summer successfully.”
“High need!” Sheba laughed, and held up the joint.
“Mary Jane’s already a success,” Jimmy said. “She’s perfect as she is.”
“Is that how you feel, Mary Jane?” Dr. Cone asked, and everyone turned their heads toward me.
“Well.” I took a deep breath. It felt like my lungs were crated in a metal box that wouldn’t let them expand properly. “I think I have problems too.”
“You do?!” Mrs. Cone laughed. “I can’t imagine one thing that’s out of whack for you. Except maybe your parents.”
“You’re safe here, Mary Jane. We’re here to listen. There’s no judgment.” Dr. Cone ran his fingers down his goaty sideburns, like he was combing them.
“Um . . .” My heart was beating so hard, I thought I might pass out. But if there ever was a chance for me to be cured of my problem, this seemed like the best place.
“Oh, Mary Jane. Nothing you say could shock us or make us love you any less.” Sheba crawled over Jimmy so that she was beside me. She picked up my hand and held it between her two hands. “You can say it.”
I took a deep breath and then blurted it out before I could think it through any longer. “I think I might be a sex addict.”
There was silence. Sheba put her head closer to mine and stared into my eyes, blinking. I looked toward Dr. Cone. His eyebrows were drawn together. I’d never seen him look so serious.
“Have you been having reckless and indiscriminate sex?” Dr. Cone asked.
“No!” I was surprised he would imagine I had. “I’ve never had sex.”
“Have you been fooling around with someone?” Mrs. Cone stared at Jimmy as she asked this, as if she expected me to be fooling around with him.
“No! No. I’ve never even kissed a boy.”
Dr. Cone said, “Are you looking at pornographic magazines?”
“No, of course not. I’m taking care of Izzy all day.”
“Compulsively masturbating?” Dr. Cone asked, and my face burned hard and deep.
“No, I’ve never done that. But I think about sex all the time. Or at the wrong time. Like, I see penises when I’m making dinner. Or, if I’m grocery shopping, I can’t get the word sex out of my brain or maybe I’ll think sex addict sex addict sex addict just because I’m thinking about sex. Or I’ll see something that is totally not related to sex and it will remind me of sex.” I felt a rush of lightness after having poured all this out. It was like my head was filled with helium.
“Like a zucchini?” Sheba asked.
I paused. “Well, I never thought of that. But I will now. That’s what I mean. From today on, I’ll think of sex, or a penis, I guess, every time I look at a zucchini.” I searched their faces in the shadowy moonlight to see if they were repulsed by me. Or disappointed in me. But everyone was smiling.
“Oh, sweetie.” Sheba put her arms around me and pulled me against her. She kissed my head like I was Izzy. “You’re fine. Those are just normal human girl thoughts.”
“Are they?” I couldn’t imagine my mother ever thinking of penises while shopping for zucchinis. And the twins probably wouldn’t even think of penises if they were standing in a boys’ locker room with abundant visible penises. Would girls who wanted to be president ever think about sex?
“Those thoughts are fully within the range of normal,” Dr. Cone said. “And if you were masturbating or looking at pornography, that would still be normal, as long as it wasn’t to the exclusion of your daily needs and responsibilities.”
“Dr. Cone, are you sure about this?” At the beginning of the summer I would have thought this conversation would be impossible. I’d thought I was going to die an old woman with my secret sex addiction. But now, what surprised me more than the conversation itself, was the enormous unburdening I felt. It was like a great wind was suddenly blowing through my hollowed-out body.
“I am certain. You aren’t even verging on an addiction.”
“Mary Jane! Baby!” Jimmy leaned forward toward me. “I’m the one who’s fucking half addicted to sex. You saw what happened! It’s not you, baby.”
“You’re SO fine!” Sheba hugged me. Then she pulled away from me and said, “What did she see? What are you talking about?”
&nb
sp; Dr. Cone said, “Jimmy, maybe you should save Mary Jane the discomfort of having to say what happened.”
“WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED?” Sheba stared hard at Jimmy.
Mrs. Cone leaned forward. “What? Wait? What happened? Richard, do you know what happened?”
“Let’s let Jimmy talk. And please, everyone, try to reserve judgment and keep your emotions in check until he’s had his say.” Dr. Cone looked at Sheba as he said this.
“I was walking down the beach today,” Jimmy said. “And I ran into that Beanie woman—”
“No!” Sheba said. “That blond-bob housewife can’t stay the fuck away from us!”
“I didn’t know how to say no.” Jimmy sounded pained by this. Like saying no caused him physical distress. “I didn’t know how to stop it. I really didn’t want to do it, but I also didn’t want to hurt her feelings, and my dick wanted it, for sure, and then Mary Jane and Izzy saw us—”
“YOU MADE LOVE TO BEANIE JONES!” Mrs. Cone stood. She had the wine bottle in her hand and for a second I thought she was going to hit Jimmy with it. I was surprised she wasn’t upset about Izzy having seen Jimmy on top of Beanie Jones.
Sheba said, “What the fuck, Jimmy?!”
“I’m sorry.” Jimmy shook his head, like even he was sick of himself.
“How could you do that to us?! Beanie Jones??” Mrs. Cone shouted.
Everyone was silent. Dr. Cone stared at Mrs. Cone. Sheba stared at Mrs. Cone too. Jimmy looked nervous, or confused; his eyes roamed from his wife to Mrs. Cone, back and forth.
Mrs. Cone looked like she was trying not to cry. “It’s just, I mean, Beanie Jones?! COME ON! Beanie Jones?!” And then, in a quick semi-collapse, she sat back down. The bottle remained in her hand.
Sheba turned away from Mrs. Cone like she’d had enough of her. “Seriously, Jimmy. Beanie fucking Jones? What the fuck? Every fucking housewife in the neighborhood is going to be lined up at the door to fuck you now.”
In my head I saw all the mothers from Roland Park holding cakes and cookies, lined up at the Cones’ front door, waiting to make love to Jimmy. Would Mrs. Cone get in line too? Seemed like she’d want to be first.
I thought about how my body felt electric when Jimmy locked his eyes onto mine. His furry chest was warm against my cheek when he hugged me. I’d seen his penis and despite my best attempts, I couldn’t get that image out of my head. But when I stopped and asked myself if I wanted to kiss Jimmy, the answer was no. He was handsome, and he had sexiness pulsating out of him like sound waves. But he was . . . well. He was old.
Jimmy was stuttering, blubbering, “. . . I couldn’t find my way out of it—the words wouldn’t come to me. And once it started, I didn’t know how to stop it.”
Dr. Cone said, “Jimmy, it’s your body. You’re in charge of it. You can choose not to make love to every beautiful woman who offers herself to you.”
“You think Beanie Jones is beautiful?!” Mrs. Cone said. She seemed more upset than Sheba. I had expected Sheba to run into the house and start throwing dishes, Jimmy-style. Her husband had had sex with another woman! But Sheba seemed relatively calm.
“Bonnie, please.” Dr. Cone lifted his hands and dropped them, palms down, as if he were dribbling two basketballs.
“We agreed, no fooling around while you’re getting sober,” Sheba said. I thought about this. Was Jimmy allowed to fool around with other women when he wasn’t getting sober?
“And no fooling around with gossipy social climbers like Beanie Jones!” Mrs. Cone said.
“Bonnie!” Sheba said. “He is my husband. He has an open marriage with me, not you! I agree with you about Beanie Fuckface Jones, but I don’t understand what your fucking stake is in this. Are you two making love? Have you been sleeping with my husband?”
The words open marriage echoed in my head. What exactly did that mean? Did Sheba have sex with other people? Did they discuss it beforehand? Did they report to each other what had happened afterward? I could barely admit my sex addiction in group therapy and Sheba had just blurted out “open marriage” as if it were no big deal!
“Of course Bonnie and I aren’t making love! That’s fucking absurd!” Jimmy said, and Mrs. Cone’s eyes flashed like she’d been slapped.
“Bonnie?” Dr. Cone looked at his wife. “What is your stake in this?”
Mrs. Cone dropped her head for a second, like she needed to gather air or courage or maybe just the strength to lift her head. When she finally did, she said, “It’s just, God, I don’t know. Jimmy and Sheba are ours, they belong to us! And . . . and . . . I don’t know, I sort of feel like Jimmy betrayed us, too.”
“You need to detach,” Dr. Cone said. “It’s not your marriage.”
“And you need to not fuck Beanie Fuckface Jones,” Sheba said to Jimmy.
“I don’t want to be with anyone but you, baby.” Jimmy stared at Sheba. “I don’t even want to have an open marriage. I only agreed because you wanted it.” The idea that Sheba had pushed for the open marriage more than Jimmy knocked around in my brain. I’d always thought men wanted sex more than women. But maybe that was as wrong as the ideas that Jewish people were untrustworthy or Black people should “know their place.”
“Oh, baby, I love you so much!” Sheba was tearing up. And then she and Jimmy leaned in toward each other and started kissing. With tongues. Dr. Cone, Mrs. Cone, and I all watched.
Dr. Cone caught my eye and he said, “Mary Jane, are you okay with everything that’s come out here tonight? Do you have any questions about any of this?”
“Um . . .” I did, but I wasn’t sure I should ask.
Dr. Cone nodded at me, and then he stared at Jimmy and Sheba until they stopped kissing and looked at me too.
“So. Uh. Does Beanie Jones have an open marriage too?” Was the world full of people whose lives were entirely different than what I had imagined?
“Nah.” Jimmy shook his head.
“It’s just ’cause it’s Jimmy.” Mrs. Cone appeared to be talking to the sand. “Women will do anything for the chance to make love to Jimmy.”
“Bonnie!” Sheba said. “What the fuck? Are you in love with my husband?!”
Mrs. Cone pulled up her head and stared at Sheba. “What did you say?” It seemed like she was stalling for time.
“Are you in love with my husband?” Sheba said each word precisely, like she had to put air around the syllables and give them space.
“Well, who isn’t, Sheba?” Mrs. Cone looked around vaguely, somehow not making eye contact with any of us, and then said, “I mean, I’m not saying I’d fool around with him. But I want your life. I want to spend a month at Cap-Eden-Roc in southern France! I want to go to Muscle Shoals and make a record and drink whiskey in the studio until six in the morning! I want to hang out with Lowell George and Linda Ronstadt and Graham Nash! I want to spend ten thousand dollars on clothes and carry an alligator handbag picked up at the Marché aux Puces in Paris and eat in all the best restaurants . . . and I want—I want—”
“What the fuck do you want, Bonnie?” Sheba’s voice had an sharp, impatient edge.
Mrs. Cone said, “I want to be in a marriage where we want to kiss each other like you two just did. I want to be with someone who’s so passionate he’s bordering on insane. I want to be with someone who will call me baby and cry for me and look at me the way Jimmy looks at you. I don’t want to be a doctor’s wife living in Baltimore. I . . . I just want more than this.” Mrs. Cone dropped her head and started crying.
None of us spoke. I couldn’t bring myself to look at Dr. Cone. Finally he said, “Are you saying you don’t want to be married to me?”
“I think I drank too much.” Mrs. Cone stood, turned, and then started vomiting in the sand. Dr. Cone rushed to her. He held her thick red hair back with one hand and put his other hand on her shoulder so she didn’t nose-dive as she barfed.
Sheba took my hand and pulled me to standing. Jimmy stood too and the three of us quietly walked away.
&nb
sp; I followed Jimmy and Sheba into the kitchen. Jimmy turned on the tap, leaned over it, and took a few dog laps. Sheba sat at the table. She looked at me and patted the chair beside hers.
“Do we have any Zonkers?” Jimmy asked.
“Yeah, in the cupboard,” I said. “I’ll get them.”
“I got ’em.” Jimmy opened the cupboard, and I sat on the chair beside Sheba.
Jimmy brought the Zonkers to the table and sat across from me and Sheba. After he took a handful from the box, he passed it to me. I took a huge handful, the size of a throwing snowball. Sheba reached into the box and did the same.
“Shit.” Jimmy reached for the box. He took another handful.
“I know.” Sheba took the box back from him. She dumped a pile of Zonkers out on the table.
“I mean what the fuck?” Jimmy grabbed the box again.
“What the fuck is right. Poor Richard.”
“Do you think Mrs. Cone is going to leave Dr. Cone?” I took the box from Jimmy and poured out more Zonkers into Sheba’s pile.
“Who knows, man?” Jimmy reached across the table and pulled the box closer to him. “But even if they don’t break up, he’s gonna be hurtin’ over that little one-act show.”
“Can’t un-ring that bell.” Sheba picked up a nutty chunk from the pile and popped it in her mouth.
“Can’t put that toothpaste back in the tube.” Jimmy shook the box, letting the last crumbled bits gather in the corner so he could pull them all out in one handful.
“Where do you want to go to college?” Sheba asked me, as if we’d been talking about school and not the Cones’ imploding marriage.
“I’ve been trying to get my parents to take me to New York City, but they don’t like New York. So I kinda thought the only way I’d ever see it was if I went to college there.”
“I didn’t even finish high school,” Jimmy said. “I’m not made for school.”
“You’re still the smartest man I know,” Sheba said. She looked at me. “He reads constantly, if you haven’t noticed. History, biographies, fiction.”
I had noticed. “Did you go to college?”
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