Blood Secrets

by Jones, Craig

  He took down the dishes and was fishing for the silverware when Regina’s voice shot in from the living room.

  “Daddy, a piece of my puzzle is gone. Come find it for me.”

  “Coming, pumpkin.” He squeezed my shoulder and said, “Be back in a minute.”

  I finished the salad and set the table and called them both when everything was ready.

  He forgot about the candles.

  The end of the school year was punctuated with the assassination of Bobby Kennedy and a massive anti-Vietnam rally at the university. Frank took part in the rally and got the expected reprimand from the university president’s office. Accompanying the reprimand was a clear-cut threat that any further activity of this sort would jeopardize his position on the faculty. He was undaunted, but I was frightened and told him so. I agreed that the protest was honorable, but I didn’t want him to lose his job because of it. There was a great deal of freedom in the university newspaper, but unsponsored rallies and spontaneous gatherings were prohibited on university property. Until there was a softer policy, I wanted Frank to adhere to the present one.

  The day of Kennedy’s funeral, Frank used our living room for a kind of wake. Bernie Golden and another professor were present, along with a dozen students. I was on tenterhooks the whole evening because I thought somehow this meeting was going to violate a university rule. And if that didn’t happen, I figured a neighbor might call the police. And frankly, I was intimidated. Everyone in the group had taken up the badge of long hair—and there I was with my pageboy and bangs. One girl with hip-length friz and jungle-loop earrings looked me over suspiciously when I came down from putting Regina to bed. She eyed me several times while I sat silently at the edge of the group, and once she stared outright until I stared back. A few minutes later, she reached into her shoulder bag and pulled out three joints and held them up triumphantly.

  “Can we, Frank?”

  “Just let me turn up the air conditioner,” he said.

  “Frank,” I said, “will you help me in the kitchen a minute?” It was the most clichéd trick in the world, but it was all I could manage on the spot. The girl with the joints looked at me and smirked.

  “We’ll wait till you get back,” she said to Frank.

  As soon as we closed the door, I said to him, “I don’t want that stuff in the house.”

  “Irene, it’s harmless. It’s like taking a drink.”

  “Except that you can go to jail for it.”

  “We’re in our own home. Do you think the police are out setting up dragnets for a little grass?”

  “The neighbors have eyes. When they see a few carloads of people with long hair pull up to our house, they’re going to start wondering—”

  “I’ve had long hair ever since you met me.”

  “I like long hair, and as for them, I don’t care if their hair is green and pink. That’s not the point. The point is we don’t live on a desert island. We have neighbors with big eyes and bigger mouths.”

  “You’re being paranoid.”

  “Stop accusing me! What about that presumptuous bitch in there bringing that stuff into our house?”

  His eyes narrowed. “That presumptuous bitch, as you call her, spent half an hour in my office today, crying. And do you know why? Not because her parents forgot to send her her allowance or because some sorority rejected her. She was crying because she loved a man she never met, a man she thought was vital to her country. And even though our opinions differ, I have to respect that kind of conscience.”

  “Good for her. I hope her conscience keeps her company when she’s sitting in a jail cell.”

  “Irene, this country’s in big trouble. If there’s going to be any change, a lot of people are going to have to take chances with their lives.”

  “We’re off the issue. We’re talking about a chance that’s so foolish—”

  “You like liquor, they like grass. Your preference is sanctioned, theirs isn’t. That’s what’s bothering you.”

  “It’s my house. That’s what’s bothering me.”

  He nodded. “Your house.”

  “I don’t mean it that way.”

  “I think you do.”

  “All right,” I said. “Do what you want.”

  His face lit up like a child’s. “You come have some too.”

  “No; I’m going upstairs to read.”

  He cupped my face in his hands. “I want you to try it. With me. I want you sitting right next to me.”

  “Really, I don’t want to.”

  “Please. In another hour, we’ll toss them all out and go to bed.”

  I loved the idea of tossing them out, and I was reassured by the fact that he had suggested it.

  “Fraaaank?” the girl called from the living room.

  “In a minute,” he answered.

  “Let’s get in there,” I said. “The natives are restless.”

  “The natives can wait.” He kissed my eyes, my cheeks, my forehead, then filled my mouth with his tongue. “I know I ask to be indulged sometimes, but I indulge you too, don’t I?”

  Back in the living room, Frank adjusted the lighting, a ritual which I had heard usually preceded grass-smoking. He lit the kerosene hurricane lamp on the mantelpiece and brought in the two candles from the dining room. It was apparent he had smoked before; aside from wondering how often, I wondered where and with whom. I sat on one side of Frank and the friz girl, Sylvia, sat on the other. When the joint had been smoked down to a stub, he held it for her. I didn’t like the way her lips pressed his fingers as she sucked in the smoke.

  For twenty minutes or so, I didn’t feel a thing. But when I stood up to get the jug of wine, a flush of cold blood ran from my head to my legs, and I had to stand still before moving.

  “She’s stoned,” said Sylvia, as if I had won some kind of victory.

  “Hey, Irene, how d’ya feel?” Bernie asked, laughing. The others tittered; their voices sounded hollow and metallic. Since I was the only one standing, I was the center of attention and I didn’t want to be. I didn’t want to walk and I wasn’t sure I could sit down gracefully, so I just stood where I was, in line with the blast of the air conditioner. I felt Frank’s hand grip my wrist, his other hand grip my waist, and in one blurred movement I was sitting next to him again. We were all sitting in a circle and for the longest time nobody said anything. Half of them had their eyes closed, their chins lifted in the attitude of receiving a vision. I caught Bernie Golden staring at me with a bold expression I had never seen before. I stared back, dumbly, wondering if I was imagining it. When his mouth formed a crooked half smile, I quickly turned away. What I turned to was no better. Sylvia was leaning against Frank, whispering in his ear, leaning back to giggle, leaning forward to whisper again. She had on one of those muslin Indian tops and no brassiere. When she whispered to Frank, her breasts nuzzled his arm. I made another attempt to get up, but Frank caught my shoulder.

  “What do you want, honey? I’ll get it.”

  “The wine,” I lied. I wanted to go upstairs.

  “And some music, Frank,” said Sylvia. “We need some music.”

  “What kind?” he asked.

  Don’t ask her what kind! That bitch doesn’t run this house!

  “Got any Jefferson Airplane?”

  “No.”

  “Rolling Stones?”

  “Uh uh. We’ve got Mamas and Papas.”

  “That’s good. They’re mellow.”

  Frank got up. Sylvia lit a cigarette, then turned to me and said, “How do you feel?”

  “I feel fine.”

  “Good, good.”

  Good, good. Who do you think you are? The goddam hostess?

  “Look at Tim!” she laughed. “He’s spaced out!”

 
; Everyone looked at Tim and tittered. The boy’s eyes were closed, his mouth open. When he sensed everyone looking at him, he shook his hair off his shoulders onto his back and said, “Wow, am I stoned!”

  The Mamas and the Papas came on with “Monday, Monday.” I thought: Good, the music will shut them up.

  Frank refilled wineglasses and sat down again. Sylvia shifted her weight onto one hip, the one closest to Frank, and leaned on an arm, which touched his leg. I pretended to stare at the rug, but I had an adequate view of Sylvia. Suddenly, I thought of that girl, years ago, who had got out of Frank’s car with the bag of groceries. Sylvia resembled her in that she was equally plain, almost homely. But Sylvia was not meek and retiring. Far from it. As I looked at her and at Bernie Golden, who still had that crooked smile, I wished I had Gloria next to me, someone who would see the same things I was seeing.

  “All right, gang, ready for the zinger?” she said, holding up a joint the size of a small cigar.

  Everyone said, “Oh, wow,” “Far out” and “Too much.”

  When it got to me, I passed it up. I was thinking of what Frank had said about tossing them out.

  “Hey!” Sylvia clapped her hands and began singing “Chicago, Chi-cago.” The others joined in.

  “Man, we’re really gonna open their eyes,” said Tim, who was not about to open his.

  “Whose eyes?” I said.

  “The hawks and the pigs,” said the boy next to Tim. “Those capitalist killers and political money grubbers.”

  I turned to Frank. “The Democratic convention, honey,” he said. “It’s going to be one hell of a demonstration.”

  “What about it?”

  “Well, we’re all going in a kind of caravan—”

  “You’re going?”

  Lightly, he put his hand on the back of my neck and nodded.

  “When was all this decided?”

  “Let’s not go into it now,” he whispered.

  Part of me wanted to get up and out of the room immediately, but another part didn’t want any of them, especially Sylvia, to see my anger. I closed my eyes, pretended to be absorbed in the music, and waited until the record ended before making my exit upstairs. My whole body felt weighted as I climbed the steps. I looked in on Regina, then went to our room, where I tried to stay awake so I could talk to Frank. It was no use. The combination of grass and wine and standing up made me want to sleep forever. And I wanted to shake the picture I had of Sylvia holding a bag of groceries.

  I woke up to the sound of giggling, muffled and sporadic. It took me a few seconds to realize that it was coming from downstairs and a minute more to recognize two voices, Regina’s and a woman’s. Frank was lying next to me, his arm slung over his eyes and his mouth wide open, snoring. I got up and into my robe. My head was throbbing, my eyes felt puffed and raw. I wanted to get downstairs quickly, but my body wouldn’t keep up with my mind.

  In the living room, I found Sylvia on her elbows and knees, bent forward and shaking her head so furiously that her hair ballooned into a huge globe of fuzz. Regina, giggling, sat with her arms extended and almost lost in Sylvia’s hair.

  “What’s going on?”

  Sylvia stopped and fell back on her elbows, panting. The four buttons on her Indian top were unfastened and I could see the side of each breast. “We’re playing,” she said breathlessly. “I didn’t think we were being that loud.”

  “How . . . did you get here?” For some reason, I couldn’t broach the obvious.

  “I passed out on the floor and woke up on the couch. Frank must have put me there.” Very matter-of-fact, not a trace of apology in her voice.

  “What time is it?”

  “I don’t know.” And obviously didn’t care.

  “Mommy, Sylvia said you could grow your hair long if you wanted to. Will you?”

  “I don’t want my hair long.”

  “Well, I’m gonna grow mine.”

  “It’ll get in your eyes.”

  “I like it in my eyes. I can look through it.”

  “You’ve got pretty eyes,” said Sylvia. “Just like your father.”

  I walked past them into the kitchen. I set up the coffeepot. While it perked, I made myself a cup of instant. Their giggling started up again. I sat at the table, seething and preparing what I was going to say to Frank. I wanted a clear head, I wanted to be alone with Frank for the whole day, and more than anything I wanted the night before to be completely erased. I wanted Sylvia out of my house and I wanted to forget that bold, suggestive look on Bernie Golden’s face.

  The giggling stopped. Everything was too quiet. When I got to the living room, they weren’t there. I knew they couldn’t be outside, because Regina was still in her nightie. I didn’t want to suspect what I was suspecting, but the shrill laugh—Sylvia’s laugh—that shot down the stairs was a clear invitation to battle.

  I found the two of them on the bed, tickling Frank. He was squirming around, wrapped up in the sheet, and he had the pillow over his head. No one noticed me, so I stood and watched. Until Sylvia’s hand went under the sheet.

  “Since everyone’s awake,” I said, “I think we’d better have breakfast.” The announcement was for the three of them, but my eyes were on Sylvia. She looked back dumbly. All right, bitch, let’s see you start hopping. “Sylvia, would you take Regina downstairs? Frank and I have to get dressed.” She took Regina by the hand and left. Frank sat up against the pillows and smiled until he read the look on my face.

  “Honey, what’s wrong?”

  “You haven’t got the slightest idea?” He shook his head. “Well, that’s what’s wrong.”

  “Tell me. What is it?”

  “It’s so obvious! What is she doing here?”

  “She passed out last night and slept on the couch.”

  “Yes, she told me that much.”

  “You don’t think . . . You know better than that.”

  “Do I?”

  “Stop it. She passed out and slept on the couch. Why make something out of that?”

  “Why? Because this isn’t a flophouse! Because she thinks she can do as she damn pleases here. She pulls out the grass as if she’s running the place, she decides what music everyone is going to hear, she doesn’t leave your side the whole night, she feels perfectly free to pass out on our floor, and then she has the gall to come into our room while you’re still in bed and to run her hand under the sheet. Now ask me what’s wrong!”

  “Come sit next to me for a minute.”

  “No, thanks, I’ll stand. I want her out of here. She has plenty of brass and you polish it for her. Don’t think she didn’t enjoy the fact that you said nothing to me about going to that convention.”

  “I was going to tell you about it today.”

  “Tell me? Obviously, then, we’re not going to discuss it. It’s all been decided.”

  “I have to go, Irene. The bigger the number, the louder the voice. This is a chance for the people to show they won’t have policy pushed onto them.”

  “Let’s start determining a little policy around here. First of all, this is not a place for self-appointed rebels to flop. If she wants to try moving in on you, let her do it at your office, not here.”

  “She’s not moving in on me. She’s got a slight case of hero-worship, that’s all. She’s a little mixed up right now and she doesn’t quite know how to handle her emotions.”

  “It’s not her emotions she wants to handle.”

  “Will you stop being so hard on people? I told you last night what she’s going through—”

  “I don’t want to hear any more about her ‘political conscience.’ She’s aggressive, presumptuous and ill-mannered. And I’ll tell you right now I don’t like the idea of your going off to that convention with her.”

&nb
sp; “And I don’t like the idea of your not trusting me. Besides, eleven of us are going. Come on now, let’s not fight anymore.” He rolled to the edge of the bed and put his feet on the floor. “If you don’t like her, I’ll make sure she doesn’t come here anymore. I don’t want to fight with you.”

  “I don’t want you to give in just because you don’t want to fight. I want you to understand what I’m saying about her.”

  “I understand; I just feel differently about it. If she makes you that uncomfortable, we won’t have her here.”

  Over breakfast, Sylvia reversed her tactics. She directed all her attention to me, asked questions about teaching, about Regina’s long illness and how I coped with it, then complimented me on my taste in fixing up the house. Frank listened to it all without a trace of “I told you so,” something I both admired and resented. Relief came when he and Regina left to take Sylvia home. I needed the house to myself and I worked quickly to set it straight. I emptied ashtrays, vacuumed the rug, washed the wineglasses, and removed the candle stubs from their holders. It was the clean-up after the invasion, a grand sweep to wipe out every trace of the enemy’s occupation. I sprayed Lysol until the air was thick with it.

  When Frank and Regina returned, I was washing up the breakfast dishes and humming as I envisioned the three of us spending this lazy day working in the yard. Frank gave Regina a Popsicle, then went up to change into his yard clothes. She sat down at the table behind me.

  “Regina, don’t slurp like that.”

  She continued to slurp, but more quietly. “What’s repressed?” she asked.

  “Repressed?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Where did you hear that?”

  “Sylvia. She told Daddy you were repressed. What’s it mean?”

  “It means ‘quiet.’ ” And I told myself to keep quiet but asked her anyway: “And what did Daddy say?”