“Down on Me Days” could sneak up on you. They started normal enough, a bowl of granola, English muffins with organic peanut butter, a couple of well-stashed Pop-Tarts, and then into the living room to watch cartoons. On her way to the tube, Sarah would stop at the thermostat and fire it way up, ninety degrees, so she could sit on the air vent and get hothouse warm while her nightgown ballooned around her with each dusty blast of the furnace. Central heating. It was almost as good as one of Mom’s hugs, except it turned the ferns brown in their macramé holders and really brought out that dirty shag carpeting smell. In between breakfast, cartoons, and the air vent, there was a jigsaw puzzle: 2,000 interlocking pieces of boats in Venice. She liked the boats, but hated doing the sky. Around 8:30, the narcotic glow of TV and search for edge would be interrupted. Whoever it was that had spent the night with Mom would be sneaking out, zipping up his pants. Sarah thought they all looked like John Davidson. Whenever they saw her, they felt obligated to take a seat on the sofa and watch about five minutes of “Banana Splits.”
“When I was your age, we didn’t have all these cartoons and health foods,” they would say, inevitably. “I used to watch Howdy Doody and eat Cream of Wheat.”
“What’s your point?” Sarah would ask, looking for an elusive piece of the docks.
“Nothing major,” they responded. “Things have changed since I was a kid.”
“Not men,” Sarah would say, finding the piece. “Not their attitude toward women. Not their macho bullshit.”
“Easy does it, huh?” J.D. would say. “How old are you anyway?”
“Old enough to know you’re a butthole,” Sarah would reply. “And fucking my mother.”
That would end the whole getting-to-know-Greta’s-kid thing. Even if this week’s John Davidson could have rattled off a few advancements in man’s recent evolution, they never did. Sarah thought they were too afraid she might cite them and their relationship with Mom as example number one in a lecture on “How Men Are Still Pricks.” There would be silence those next minutes, except for Hanna-Barbera’s sound effects, which seemed appropriate for both the cartoons and the punch she had landed to John Davidson’s pride.
During an advertisement for the Baby Thataway doll Sarah had wanted last year for her birthday, but never got, John Boy would rise from the sofa, saying, “Take care of your mama for me, until I get back.”
“Why don’t you just not leave?” she would ask.
That stopped them in their Dingos.
For a moment, she almost expected an answer. Maybe they did too. At least a poster catchphrase, “Hang in there, baby,” or “Life’s a bummer!” But then the door hinge squeaked, the screen door rattled, and John Davidson climbed into a sports car that never started on the first try.
“Butthole,” Sarah would say, not watching them leave.
She didn’t need anyone telling her to take care of her mother. She knew she would have to do it, maybe for the rest of her life. But she got a break every other weekend, which included this one, because those were Dad’s days. Sarah would be gathered up by her father, and for two days Dad became her responsibility. Which was fine, except it was a common catalyst for a “Down on Me Day.”
Dad liked to come at nine because he knew Mom would be asleep. Anything after ten was pushing it. Nine was best. That way they could avoid a scene until Dad dropped her off on Sunday, but a scene on Sunday was inevitable. Mom and her friends would be waiting, drinking carafes of Chablis, listening to Janis Joplin, and working themselves into a frenzy like high school boys in a Friday night parking lot.
“If they’re so liberated,” Dad would mumble, pulling into the driveway, “why do they travel in packs?”
The weekends with Dad should have been great, Slurpees and museums. If Sarah could have vanished and materialized, used the transport system they had on “Star Trek,” said, “Beam me home, Dad,” then everything would have been all right. Of course, she knew life didn’t work that way. As a result, her stress level was high in the a.m. hours of the weekend, the pre-stereophonic prelude to a “Down on Me Day.” More often than not, Dad was late, oversleeping with girlfriends, picking up dry-cleaning, forgetting it was his weekend. Lame excuses. The exchange was rarely made without unpleasantries, crying jags, or tossed knickknacks. And Dad would ruin Sunday by doing a play-by-play of his inevitable fight with Mom. Like Sarah needed to go through the whole thing twice.
“You crazy bitch!” Dad would scream.
“You selfish bastard!” Mom would yell.
The argument wouldn’t go anywhere. How could it? They were debating two separate points. It was becoming clear to Sarah that both of them were right too, Mom was a “crazy bitch” and Dad was a “selfish bastard.” But it didn’t make the weekends any easier. The worst part of the fiasco was that it revolved around her. Sunday night at the fights began when Sarah tried to answer the unanswerable question Mom asked when Dad dropped her off. It was the bell that sounded the start of the main event: Pops the Punisher vs. the Maternal Masher. Fifteen rounds, no holds barred.
“Sarah, did you have a good time with your father?”
Ding ding.
If Sarah said yes, Mom freaked out. In her eyes, Sarah had sided with Dad. After everything Mom had sacrificed for her, Sarah had sold out. It was more important to have fun with her father than to remain vigilantly depressed on Mom’s behalf. Right in front of her friends too.
“Why don’t you go live with the son of a bitch then? I’ll sweep in every blue moon to have fun. That’s easy, anybody can do that. It’s the rest of the job that’s hard!”
And if Sarah said no, Mom would throw a shit fit. You had sided with her, giving her a license to lay into Dad on your behalf.
“I know you’re a bastard, but I can’t believe you can’t show your own daughter a good time twice a month. All I’ve been hearing is ‘Dad and me are gonna do this. Dad and me are gonna do that.’ I didn’t have the heart to tell her everything you’ve ever said was a lie. I kept it inside. I’ve been hurting inside. But I’m not letting you hurt my baby, you bastard! Not anymore! Not my baby!”
“We’re behind you, Greta,” one of Mom’s friends would say. “You’re beautiful, woman. Let that silver-tongued devil know!”
Now Mom would let Dad have it for Sarah and herself, for her friends and all divorcees. For all women. And for the Movement.
That scene would happen soon enough, Sarah could wait. There would be another one occurring in a few minutes if Dad didn’t arrive soon. She could hear Mom’s waterbed sloshing. The clock shaped like a half-eaten cheeseburger sitting on the television said 11:15. Defcon four. Sarah could smell the melt-down, the husky-musky scent of Charlie and Tab cola. Mom appeared in the living room wearing only an Angela Davis-inspired Afro matted down on one side and puffed out on the other. Vagina proud. She held a pink can of soda in her hand with a cigarette between her fingers. The sight of Mom’s breasts made Sarah uncomfortable. Before the liberation, she always wore a robe.
“So, that sonofabitch hasn’t got around to picking you up yet?” Mom would ask.
The answer seemed obvious; Sarah was still there watching cartoons. If Dad had collected her, they would be at the Zoo eating pink popcorn or looking at the buffalo in Golden Gate Park. Sarah didn’t say anything. She didn’t think Mom wanted an answer. Lately, Mom asked a lot of questions she wasn’t expected to answer.
“You gonna wait all day for that irresponsible bastard?” Mom said.
There was another one.
“Hon, let me tell you something,” she’d say, after taking a drag of her cigarette and depositing the butt in her Tab can. “Your father’s never been there for you and he never will be. Let’s face it, he divorced both of us. Look around, do you see him?”
That made three.
“He thinks he can send us a shitty check once a month and that’s enough? Who buys your clothes? Who takes you to the emergency room when your ankle is broken? Who pays the bills? Cooks dinner? Cleans?
Sweats blood and shows up to your school’s open house when she’s having a monster period and could have gone to the premiere of Claudine with a personal friend of Billy Graham’s? Who? Huh?”
They were coming pretty fast.
“Not that good-for-nothing, womanizing, shit-fuck, lousy-lay of a man. Did I ever tell you I went two years without oral sex because I had a recurring yeast infection and he refused to go down on me. Like it was my fault! That bastard!”
On cue, Dad. His presence preceded him. Sarah didn’t need to look through the window, hearing the sound of his car, motor purring like a cat stalking a bird and then fluttering as if that same bird were flying away. Sarah knew instinctively, working a strong sixth sense. But Mom did too.
“Here comes that rat-fuck now,” Mom would say, like that was the answer that filled in the blanks to all her previous questions.
Sarah had never thought of her father as a “rat-fuck,” although everything from shrink bills to broken refrigerator doors were routinely blamed on him and his absence. Dad was more a compilation of smells, Old Spice, the San Francisco Bay, sweaty jogging shoes. Charisma. The fast food they ate together not because they liked it, but because it wasn’t allowed with Mom.
When Dad rang the doorbell, Mom fired the first blast. Sarah could hear Dad curse on the other side of the door before being drowned out by the voice of the liberated American woman, the one who overdosed, choked to death on her own bile.
“Down on meeeeeee!”
Sarah didn’t get it. Something was missing. What had gone wrong between Mom and Dad? How did the recognition of familiar suffering bring happiness? Where was the power in identifying yourself with being left behind, screwed again. What was so great about the B-side of “Pearl”? Someday she would understand, Mom promised. But Sarah hoped it was far into the future before she could sing “I’d trade all my tomorrows for one single yesterday” and mean it.
Janis was playing the day they headed north to Mendoland, Mom gunning her convertible Karmann Ghia up 101, a silver streak against sunburned hills. The divorce was final, alimony and child support checks in her pocketbook. According to Mom, they were escaping from the lost souls living the lies of capitalism at the mercy of men.
“The Movement died,” she said. “There’s no use sticking around for the funeral.”
The torn convertible top flapped in the wind. Sarah imagined Dad behind the car on a stallion, getting ready to leap into the Ghia, take the wheel and steal her back. But he didn’t jump because his good pair of bell-bottoms were caught in the stirrups and he didn’t want to risk ripping them. Meanwhile, Janis sang “Bye Bye Baby” on the eight-track, the system Sarah had received a week ago from Mom as a birthday present.
“Hon, lookit, now you can listen to music when we’re on the road,” Mom had said.
It was her eleventh birthday. The party was the pits.
“You’re not still upset about the party, are you?” Mom asked. “I told you my friends were there because we don’t have a traditional sexist mother/daughter relationship. My friends are your friends. Besides, I went through with the pregnancy. Don’t I deserve something for that? And you got more presents. I didn’t get any presents.”
To mark the day, Mom’s friends had given Sarah a string of love beads, a bottle of root beer lip gloss, two eight-tracks of Carole King’s “Tapestry” album, a subscription to Ms., a copy of I’m O.K., You’re O.K., and a diaphragm. All of which Mom had borrowed the following week. Dad was a no-show, contracting business in Tahoe. “Contracting herpes, I hope,” Mom said. He sent a dress from Macy’s, which was Sarah’s only decent gift, aside from the eight track, which she did enjoy, when she was in the car.
“You’re not on a bummer because we’re moving to this commune with Marty, are you?” Mom said, like Sarah had objected to cashing in a winning lottery ticket. “We’re finally getting out from underneath your father. We’re going back to the earth. I just wish I could have you all over again so you could start off pure, without all this imperialistic male materialism polluting you. We’re going to become spiritually aware, hon. We don’t know ourselves anymore. We’ve drifted from our centers. We’ve forgotten how to love.”
Sarah wasn’t listening, learning to tune Mom out. She wished life could be as easy as singing backup for Janis, being a member of Big Brother and the Holding Company, coming in with a few “take its” and “break its.” But Sarah was certain her life would be more complicated than a four-bar blues. Judge Steinberg’s idea of a nurturing environment wasn’t going to be realized, “equity of responsibility” was just a phrase written on a court document. Sarah had custody of herself.
“Besides, it’s time for me to do something for myself for a change,” Mom said. “And it’s nice for your mother to have someone who’s there for her. And, hon, Marty’s not like your father, he’s there for me.”
“I’m there for you too,” Sarah felt compelled to say.
“I know, hon, and that’s beautiful,” Mom said. “I got you Babe. It’s special. But sometimes Mommy needs someone who is there for her with a penis.”
Mom began to steer the car with her knees, reaching into her Guatemalan satchel with both hands, searching for something without regard for the road. Sarah became aware of how fast they were traveling. If the Ghia crashed, tossing them from the car, they would be hurtling at that same rate of speed, 70, 80, 90 mph. She saw herself falling out of this already half-open car and imagined the impact, road removing her skin as she rolled to a halt. She replayed the vision until it seemed inevitable, then braced herself in her seat for that future. Mom produced a joint and a lighter from her bag while her hair danced in the wind, a thousand crazed ballerinas.
“C’mon, hon,” she said, taking a toke of the joint. “You looked so stressed. I hate to see you this way. Let’s mellow.”
Sarah pictured the smoke swirling in Mom’s lungs like in the film on cancer she had seen at school. Mom put her knees to the wheel again, snuffed out the joint, reached back into her purse and took out two tiny tears of psychedelic orange paper.
“Better yet,” she said, handing one of the tabs to Sarah, spires of smoke floating from her mouth as she spoke. “Let’s trip.”
Yeah, waking up to Janis was a harsh call.
I don’t need this shit, Sarah told herself, removing the pillow from her head. If Mom wants to drudge up bad memories and bad vibes, she can do it quietly and without involving me.
Stepping out of bed, Sarah grabbed her crumpled Levi’s, pulling them over her hips. She felt bloated and sick. She wondered whether it was the alcohol or if she was getting her period. Morning air goose-bumped her arms.
God, it’s cold, she thought, snagging a sweatshirt and jacket. I better check my patch after I deal with Mom. Maybe with this weather and everyone getting CAMP’ed, I ought to harvest early. The government’s Campaign Against Marijuana Planting seizing her crop would be even more depressing than an early frost.
She stepped into half-laced mountain boots, then, sniffing the air, put a cupped hand to her mouth. Is there something dead in here? Or is that my breath? In the bathroom, she swirled mouthwash, swearing off Jack Daniel’s for the rest of her life. From the main house she heard Janis howling “Cry Baby.” She spit into the sink. “Fuck you, Mom.”
Sarah scooped up her Walkman from a pile of laundry. She had a habit of throwing things down when she came into the cabin, sunglasses, coats, keys, aiming for something soft with the delicate stuff, trying to avoid her art projects and board games. Which reminded her, the NEA application was coming due, Parker Brothers had expressed interest in “Hidden Agenda: The Passive-Aggressive Game,” and the Trojan company liked her idea of barbecue-flavored ribbed condoms. She had to write letters, highlighting the specifics of each project.
But later for that.
Her cassette player was cued to her favorite bootleg Cowboy Junkies song about a woman finding the strength to carry on after a breakup. In the song the woman spent the day l
amenting her loss but invigorated by the power of her new independence, being able to make decisions based solely on her own needs. In the last verse she put it all together, conceding, “Sure I admit there are times when I miss you, especially like now when I could use someone to hold me. But there are some things that can never be forgiven. And I just have to tell you, I kind of like these extra few feet in my bed.”
That was the real freedom, Sarah had decided, being strong enough to sleep alone.
She put the speakers over her ears and let Margot Timmons drown out Janis Joplin as she made her way toward the main house. Seeing a splash of vomit on her boot, she thought of the previous night and wondered how the Squirrel Boy was doing. Mr. Local with his Dockers and Miami smile. He would be lucky if he got anywhere close to vertical today. She hoped he made it home and his car didn’t get too fucked up. He had been a sweetheart, oddly sincere, cute in his awkwardness, not nearly as uptight as he looked, really seeming to listen when she talked. He deserved better than to be left with the Kurtses and Billy Chuck, but he had wanted to keep going and Sarah had grown tired.
I shouldn’t worry, she decided, knowing she would track Squirrel Boy down later. He’s probably doing better than I am.
5
John felt the tip of a steel-toed boot. It rolled him onto his back in the middle of the Lodge’s parking lot. Concrete cut at his elbows. He tried to cover up, curling himself into a ball, arms over face, unable to fight back. Crash position. He squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for impact. He wasn’t even angry, didn’t really know what was happening. One minute he had been walking with Pensive back to their cars, the next he was taking a backwater biology exam. Kidneys? Right there, punch! Cerebral cortex? Back here, whap! Groin? Somewhere down there, smack!
Boonville Page 8