Call Me Ishtar

by Rhoda Lerman

  “Mmmm. Who cleans the car? Your goddamn pig is carsick.”

  Claire reaches behind Mack and rubs the bristles between the pig’s ears. “Forgive Mack, piggy. Poor experimental pigs. You have charts too, don’t you? What did you do, baby? Eat the lining of my cape and get sick? Poor baby. And there, sitting in your own … oh, look what a good piggy! She ate it all up!” Mack opens his window and rain pours in on him. Claire feels vindicated. She has forgotten to be gentle.

  The forest I chose is primeval. A silver mist surrounds it now. The rain is light and as they stare into the rows of trees, the forest grows blacker. Claire takes the pig and climbs from the car. Both Mack and I appreciate the way she looks against the forest. She sees his face soften. “Come on. Forests are groovy in the rain.”

  “Nah, I’ll wait … shit, I’ll come. Give the car a chance to air out.”

  “Hey, Mack.” Claire stops him as he rounds the car. “You ever get Ishtar in the sack?”

  His face flushes. “What the hell does that have to do …?”

  I am astonished also.

  “I just thought I’d give you something valid to get sore about. It wasn’t my fault the pig tossed up her cookies, for God sakes.” She smiles at him. “Still sore?”

  “You win. Okay. You sore at me?”

  Nice children. In another age I would have them lost in the forest and eating nuts and berries for the rest of their crazed lives. However, I need these two.

  “Nope.” Claire tucks the pig again under her arm and stalks off into the spruces. The floor is spongy. Horsetails spring like minarets at the roots of the trees. “I’m disgusted with you.”

  Mack takes her arm. “I wouldn’t go to bed with her. Christ, she’d turn me into a frog if I didn’t satisfy her. You want me to carry the pig for a while?” What can I say to all this? I shall not comment any longer.

  “I’ll carry the pig.” Claire walks faster. They can hear the rush of water ahead of them. “You’re not in any danger of becoming a frog. You have to be a prince first.” I laugh in spite of myself. Mack laughs also.

  “Thanks a lot. Hey, Claire, you still want to fuck?”

  “Are you kidding? I’m holding out for a prince.” Neither of them is sincere. Excuse me, I said I wouldn’t comment.

  From subterranean clefts under the beds of slate water pours into the ravine. Claire picks her way over the slate teeth tartared with lichen and club moss as far as she dares, then a little farther because Mack is watching, steadies her legs against the rocks, lifts the piglet high over her head with one hand and with the other hand takes the notebook from her pocket. Mack is shivering on the brink of the ravine above her.

  “C’mon, Claire. Throw it.”

  “The rain smeared the words,” she calls up to him. “I forgot what she told me to say.”

  “Say anything. I’m freezing.”

  “Do you think it matters?” she yells.

  He spreads his hands. “Don’t know.”

  “Well. Uh … well, good luck, pig.” The small body bounces against the slate teeth and then falls, screaming, into the wild waters, unblessed. Blood fans out behind it and it is gone. Claire and Mack stand still, shuddering slightly and then remember each other. Mack holds out his hand to help her up the side. They walk quietly together. He keeps her hand as if he had forgotten he held it. The rain has changed to mist. I do and I do not wish to watch the next part.

  “Don’t watch,” Claire tells Mack. They have found the puffball clearing, the water faucet stuck into concrete, the circle of old trees. Claire is going to urinate behind a tree. I do not know if her embarrassment is genuine or not. “I did it once in the woods and wet my sneakers.”

  “Go on. Stand downhill.”

  “Let’s just find a gas station.”

  “Unh, unh, we promised to get the mushrooms for her.” That loyalty is not his motive, I can assure you now.

  Claire runs, her face bright with excitement and shame in the dark tree paths. She trips on a thick root and catches herself. When she returns, still bright-faced, Mack’s arms are above him against a tree, crossed and he grins at her.

  “I miss a joke or something, Mack?”

  “You never told me you had such a nice ass.” She doesn’t. It is too bony.

  Claire swings and punches him in the stomach. “Bastard.” But as she wishes, he grabs her and slides his hands down to the flaring of her thighs. “Bastard,” she repeats venomously, moving against him. I join her in her imprecations.

  “Really nice ass.” Mine is far superior.

  “What’s Robert going to say? You’re not supposed to be seen with me.”

  “Shh.”

  “I’m not even pretty.”

  “Shh, Claire.”

  “We have to get the puffballs for the old lady.”

  You were right. I shouldn’t be watching.

  Mack closes his eyes and kisses her forehead. “Let’s just talk a little. Let’s just talk a little.”

  “I’m bad for your image.” She is challenging him.

  “No one’s watching, Claire. They all left. You’re okay, Claire. You’re okay, no kidding.” Mack kisses her on the cheeks, on the chin, on the nose but not on the lips. He has a method. Never kiss on the lips until they start stretching out for you. He kisses her face again, teasing, letting her move toward him. Damn, I wish it were me. She moves toward him on the grass, on the moss. I know what is in his head.

  When their tongues come out, you can get a hand on the tit. When you get the nipple going, you should stop and whisper, “Let’s talk. Let’s talk a little and then let’s get together.” He whispers it now. It doesn’t sound right to him. Claire is watching him warily. He closes his eyes and pulls at her clothing. He tries the words again. “Let’s talk, Claire, and then let’s get together.” Her body is oven warm against his.

  “Wait, Mack.” And she pulls away. “The mushrooms.” The what?

  And then she is back, sliding off her underwear with abandon and sitting cross-legged. Mack assures himself. Kinky, kinky turns you on. “If they’re good enough for her, they’re good enough for me,” he hears her say.

  Chutzpah. Hubris. What shall I say?

  “Jesus, Claire.” He will not look.

  “You mind?” She smiles my smile. Bitch.

  “No, it’s … it’s great.” She breaks the puffballs with a thumbnail, spraying the dusky centers into the palms of her hands and powdering herself in preparation. It is meant to be a secret act.

  Mack watches her tongue move across her lips. He thinks she might be exciting herself for him as she works. He isn’t certain. Championships, he remembers from the signs in the Liverpool High School Gymnasium, are conquests, not bequests. The best way to win is to get out in front and stay there. The only way to swim faster is to swim faster. Some psychiatrists see in their impotent patients fears of incest, men who associate all women with a mother image, with teeth in their maw, smoking dragons, spider ladies. He watches her tongue. Every punker has a good excuse.

  “Where’d you learn that?”

  “Ishtar.” A lie.

  “Jesus, Claire.” The normally aggressive male withstands this challenge but the more passive male eventually becomes impotent because of his fear and hostility toward woman. He drops his eyes to watch as Claire touches herself, easily parting the dark hair between her legs. He’d never seen a chick touching herself. Although he’s seen a lot of things. He’s only got two arms and two legs same as you. You can’t climb the ladder of success with cold feet. The only way to swim faster is to get in there and swim faster. Every punker has a good excuse.

  “You’ll like me, Mack,” Claire tells him.

  “Oh, yeah, I’m sure. Hurry, huh?”

  “I’m good.”

  Dr. David Jonas says about 75 percent of patients coming to his Institute of Sexual Maladjustment are under age thirty. If you can’t win, make the guy who beats you break the record. I never feel good, like a man, until I’m in a chick.
And then, when I’m in, I feel sure of myself. But I don’t want to hear a chick say I love you or anything like that so I put my hand over their mouths. You see, he is afraid to know women as people.

  Claire is finished. “I have a good body,” Mack hears her say. “I really come quick.” She lies on the ground next to him. Her nipples are magenta in the cold, full and succulent. One is smaller than the other. Her body is too hard and angular. Dr. Otto, Chairman of the National Center for the Exploration of Human Potential, says men are beginning to perceive women as sexually demanding and possibly insatiable. No man is a failure until he gives up. Never let a punker beat you. “I never wanted anyone else like I want you, Mack,” he hears her whisper.

  “Good. Great.” Her tongue explores his mouth. He touches her breasts. On time.

  He takes little bites around her breasts. One has long fine hairs circling the nipple. She trembles. I don’t know if chicks actually ejaculate. When they blow me in the back of the truck, they get on their knees and there’s always a wet spot on the floor where they were kneeling. So maybe they do. Something happens. If the goals have not been achieved, and sometimes when they have, the man may become impotent because the amount of psychological energy and physical energy consumed has been so great there is none left over for romance. “Shh, don’t talk.”

  Claire is good. Everything works. She responds to all the tricks on time. She seems almost ready. Therefore it is time for Mack to remove his pants. He has always been good at timing chicks. He wants to see her face when she comes. He is glad he wore the new blue underwear. His blood jerks in great dark pulses. It is time to whisper, “Touch me, feel me.” “Touch me,” he whispers. “Feel me.” Her big hands envelop him and he shivers. When you’re out in front, stay out in front. The best way is to get out in front and stay there. The lucky swimmer is the guy who makes his own luck. They can’t beat you, if you can’t be beaten. In some cases the effects on the male ego can be severe enough to leave deep emotional.…

  “Mack?”

  “Shhh.”

  He wonders how long she will come for and what her face will look like. He wonders if she will really come. He massages her and kisses parts of her body, working down to the catreek smell and the musky puffball powder. He allows himself to imagine it is I. If you stay in one place on them too long, they stop responding. He stops thinking of me. You got to move around, bite a little, blow a little, lick, squeeze, vary but keep going down. When you’re tired, the other guy is just as tired. Claire is squirming against him. The guys better not find out about this one. He listens for her breathing and moves one leg over hers, pushing her legs apart with his knee. It is a smooth movement. He can’t remember who told him about it. A diamond is a lump of coal that stuck with it. Sometimes girls ask me to do something another way and it messes everything up. I like to do it my way. Thus a young man today often finds himself or thinks he finds himself being judged on his performance. The time to start is now, not tomorrow. The difference between good and great is just a little extra effort. Never let a punker beat you. A diamond is a lump of coal that stuck with it.

  “Mack?”

  “Shhh.”

  “Mack! God, Mack!” Claire howls under him as her body contorts. Wow. He stops, surprised to watch the great force passing over her and see her face. She tears at his shoulders while he watches. “Mack, please!” But he has nothing for her. He tries to enter her uselessly.

  “Nothing?” The question came from deep in her throat.

  “Nothing.”

  He stared into her face. She was weeping. “Too fast, Claire. Too fast, I guess. I’m sorry. I was too excited. I guess.” He rolled away from her warmth and he began to shiver.

  When she took her hands away from her face it was no longer naked. They tried to smile at each other. “Jesus, I’m sorry, Claire.”

  Dr. Herbert Otto of La Jolla, California, agrees that the attempt by men to laugh away or ignore the liberation movement is indicative of the threat to the ego structure posed by this force. Claire wiped her eyes with the backs of her hands. “You look,” she said bravely, “like a priest who just farted.” She tried to be funny. It wasn’t funny.

  “I’m sorry, Claire. I don’t …”

  Her face broke again. “Oh, Mack, Jesus, Mack. I’m sorry.” Then she wrestled his head with her great strength back to her breast and held him while he struggled and beat his fist into her shoulder, dumb with anger.

  “Let go. Let me go, Claire!”

  She cried. He could feel her chest heaving.

  “I gotto go, Claire!” Claire covered herself with her cape and watched him dress and walk away. She hitchhiked home because she didn’t know what else to do.

  Hah hah.

  One does not reach ecstasy with contempt for the origin of the ecstasy. You fly too high, Icarus. You go too deep, Gilgamesh. You lose. Remember me, baby, or I shall not remember your member when you need it most. I will not tolerate this vanity, or this contempt. The words do matter. Not the least of mine loved without first saying, “May Ishtar be satisfied.” Not only that, I whisper to Claire, whose eyes do not meet mine as we plan our baking event, I will have the first fruits of my labor with Mack, not you. I, first, will be satisfied.

  I have worked here with something less than an Arthur and a Guinevere and something more, I hope, than an Adam and an Eve. I use the best materials I have at hand these days. Mack has properties of beauty and sensitivity and knows his origin from woman. Claire has strength and can laugh at large things. They will be put into balance. Neither of course is ready and that is my labor. You will have to understand that holy grails, Excaliburs and singing stones are hard to come by these days, as are princes, kings and rightful heirs. All I had was that steel spigot stuck into the concrete and the mushrooms and the polluted ravine into which Allied Chemical pours its process. It’s no Paradise. But I’m trying.

  12

  I STILL DON’T UNDERSTAND WHY WE’RE GOING,” CLAIRE ASKS from the seat next to me. “Why can’t we just bake the Cupcakes ourselves?”

  “It is because, my child, your world understands commercial packaging. And I, after all these mother-fucking years … another Sumerian term … am going commercial.”

  There is rooted knotted anger in my voice and Claire understands at least not to question me further. We drive silently now. The mothers have finished working their rosaries and as we pass the Montezuma Wild Life Sanctuary, they open wicker baskets and remove their crocheting tools. The winding of threads and clicking of the crocheting tools is a friendly sound and I am lonely.

  Grace, Mack’s mother, sits behind us. She is Etruscan, I am certain now. She has honey in her fields and mandrake roots near the rhubarb. She is wary of me and has come with us this night in order to inspect me. She sits with her friend in their pastel coats and soft little mink collars. They are large and comfortable women. Both have been Cook of the Week. When they stepped into my Country Squire this night, they lifted their fur-collared boots carefully over the muddied slush, much like tawny African queens whose feet may not touch the earth and are carried proudly on golden stools. I am pleased to be associated with them. They crochet as we drive, pink lacy mandalas.

  We stop at a Savarin on the Thruway. They warm their hands over steaming coffee and pour heavy spoonfuls of sugar, stirring with wooden sticks. They turn the pie display, which contains foamed coconut cakes and pale clotted cherry pies, and they laugh deep and sonorous over the paucity. “Garbage,” one pronounces. There is no discord.

  The waitress blushes. Claire hides a smile. “Can I get you something else?”

  The mothers ignore her. They untie silk bandanas from beneath their chins, displaying masses of anchovied Dynel. Under the Dynel, their faces are stony, furrowed like old fields. Their eyes are ancient. Yellow diamonds, mother’s rings, bride’s rings, are on their knotted fingers. An occasional stiff gray hair sprouts from spreading velvety moles on their chins and cheeks.

  Claire asks for aspirins. I
do not trust her. She is begging for the sympathy of Mack’s mother. It is well perhaps. I do not want Grace to know my hunger for her son. The power in her pitchblende eyes is degenerate, but still useful.

  “Poor child,” I say. “You have a headache.”

  Ignoring me, Grace waves the blushing waitress over. “Hey, chickie, a cup of tea. Leave out the teabag, okay?” She leans across Claire and stage whispers: “Mal och, huh?” She is testing my knowledge.

  “Of course.” Grace reaches behind Claire and pats firmly the flesh of my thigh.

  “That’s okay,” she says. “How old are you?”

  I smile. She winks at her friend.

  The tea arrives. Grace slips the bag into her pocket, reaches for the cruets of oil and vinegar and blows across the water in the teacup. “Mack says you’re Jewish. I got lots of friends, Jewish.”

  “We talk direct now.” I answer her. She glances at me quizzically. She is a church woman. She shakes the oil.

  “My Mack he misses his father. He says you and Robert are like parents to him.” She passes her hands over the water slowly. “What he needs is to settle down. What he needs, he says, is a girl like you, a nice girl. A good cook. Enough of this running.” She is speaking to me.

  I reach and pinch Claire nastily on her buttock.

  Grace shakes a drop from the stopper of the cruet into the teacup. The oil drops stay together. “He is a nice boy. Hey, chickie, a clean knife.”

  “Have you seen Jesus?” I ask Grace. “Are you waiting for Jesus?”

  “Me? I got no time to wait. Why should he come to me?” She looks at her friend and they pass a secret about me. She cuts the knife into the water of the teacup, drawing a circle around the spots of oil and then cuts the circle into quarters with a cross. “Five, ten minutes, it’ll be gone, your headache,” she promises Claire, and reaches for the check. “Maybe Mack looks at you, chickie. Maybe you should clean up. He likes clean girls.” So shall it be Claire?