by Ellen, Tracy
Mac laughed softly while repeating in an undertone, “Merely massive sexual infatuation? Trust me, I have been single a long time and met many men. There is no such thing as merely massive sexual infatuation.”
“Oh, yes there is!” I shot back on a laugh, thinking she should see me limping along today.
“Not for me. Not with someone that I want to wake up and see every day. It’s a faith thing,” Mac began, and I groaned at those words while she talked louder, “No, listen a minute, you freak. Not a religious faith, but a faith on a more visceral level, in your gut. I guess in your heart and your brain, too. It’s true, I cannot get enough of Diego in bed, but the idea of him leaving or dying,” she added in a lower voice and I ached in sympathy at the memory, “makes me want to curl up and die.”
“And you actually like that feeling? It made you want to marry him?” I asked on a disbelieving huff. “After Freddie, wouldn’t it be smarter to run as far as you can the other way rather than go through that agony again?”
Mac’s comment about wanting to wake up to Diego reminded me that I have been waking up to Luke a few times this past week. It wasn’t all bad. I loved the sex and I could tolerate the cuddling Luke seemed to thrive on, but I’m sure it’s not the lovey-dovey stuff that my sister is describing. The thought of never seeing Luke again, or him dying, was pretty terrible, but curling up and dying myself? It is scary how my gut, my heart, and my brain clenched at the thought of a world without Luke’s vitality there to light me up. Then I released a long breath of relief. There is no way I’ll curl up and die, not with having to open Bel’s Book most days.
“No!” Mac laughed on a groan. “It wouldn’t be smarter to run away. Look, I’m not explaining this well. I was telling you the worst case scenario. The best case scenario for me and Diego is that the massive sexual infatuation lasts for years and years.” She chuckled. “In the meantime, you come home to each other every day and you build a life. You smugly smile at each other over the dinner table because you both consider yourselves the luckiest people in the world to love each other so wholly. He’s the light in my life, Junior, when I didn’t even know it was dark. It just turned on when I saw him for the first time and I’m absolutely sure it will never go off.”
“Huh.” It was a little weird she used almost the exact same words that I had in my thoughts about Luke. I shook it off. Her similar reaction to Diego isn’t that unusual. After all, we are sisters. It only makes sense we may have similar thought patterns when processing data in our brains since we share the same genetic make-up. I felt even more reassured we were different when I thought about the staring smugly over their dinner part. I don’t even eat dinner most nights.
After a second, I added in a teasing voice, “I wish you luck that your light bulb never burns out with your boy-toy.”
“Thanks, Sis,” Mac chuckled. Her voice is offhand when she asked, “Were you asking these questions for a reason?”
“Nope, just been curious for a while why you went off the deep end like a lunatic,” I assured her bluntly.
“Sanity is highly overrated,” Mac retorted and I laughed. She changed the subject this time. “Speaking of cute guys, what did you think of Eric George the other night at dinner?”
“You know, he seemed really cool. I immediately liked him. I really liked the way he looked at Stell.”
Mac laughed a little. “Did you? Yeah, I liked him, too.” She paused, and I expected more scoop about Stella’s new man but she only asked, “Are you coming over at three to paint the letter signs for the airport with Jazy and Tre? I’ve got the music ready to go,” she added, worriedly, “but I think we need to practice our dance routine a few more times.”
We always try to embarrass Layla or play a joke on her to get the weekend off to the right start. She is mature for her age and can be a little on the serious side. We all understand this stems from being the lone girl and taking care of a houseful of demanding men. So, our messing with her is kind of like the Polar Plunge concept. We douse her in crazy, Axelrod womanhood immediately upon arrival and loosen the girl up.
“I’m going to try to be there right at three, but do the signs without me if I’m late. Don’t fret, it’ll be cool.” My restless wandering had brought me into the laundry room.
Mac snorted, “Not if we are depending on Kenna to be a dancing letter.” Mac and my second sister Kenna did not get along. Mac is dependable and responsible, and Kenna is everything but. It drives Mac crazy to work with Kenna on anything, even a simple dance routine. She fretted, “I hope she doesn’t ruin this somehow, or show up too late.”
“She’ll be fine.” I soothed automatically, always the mediator between these two since I could first walk and talk. At Mac’s scoffing noise, I added with a smile, “Or she won’t, but we’ll be fine, right?”
“Right, I guess. She’d better show, though.”
“I’m warmed up with the dancing. I can always be two of the letters and perform the fan dance,” I offered to cheer her up.
This got a snigger. “Okay, Gypsy Rose Lee.”
“Hey, did you watch that old movie on Monday night, too?” I exclaimed.
“I did. I love that movie.”
“Me, too.” On auto pilot, I threw in a load of towels, started the washer, and then wandered out back towards the kitchen. “Wait a cotton pickin’ minute! Weren’t you the one giving me a hard time about having a TV in the bedroom? You told me, and very proudly if I recall, that you and Diego never watch TV in bed because it’s bad for a marriage. I never did understand the crazy reason why it’s bad, but that movie was on at two in the morning, Sister. That’s way past your old married butt’s bedtime.”
Mac retorted in disgust, “Duh, it’s bad because the television distracts you from being romantic in bed, and I got up to watch the movie since I couldn’t sleep.”
“Wow, if you can’t sleep because you’re not getting enough sex after being married for only a few months, I don’t blame you for getting up to watch a stripper movie on TV.” I added helpfully, “Have you thought of porn movies to help with the insomnia?”
“You are such a bitch!” Mac swore on a loud laugh.
We were both still giggling when Mac suddenly said, “Okay, you’ve twisted my arm, Bel. I have to tell you something, there’s no way I can wait.”
I perked up. “I did twist it, so tell me.”
Mac’s voice is furtive and excited; a sure sign something juicy is coming down the pike. “Yes, you did, but you have to swear to God be totally surprised because nobody can know I told you ahead of time…”
“I swear to God.” I started jumping up and down on the Persian rug in the living room. “Oh my GOD, Mac! Oh my GOD! Promise me that I get to name this one since you got to pick out Stella’s name! That was so not fair!”
Mac laughing, said, “Wait, that’s …”
“Oh, don’t worry. I only get to name this baby if it’s a worthless girl-child. I won’t let a boy’s name pass my lips if your Latin lover sprouts a little Princeling heir from the seed of his loin…”
“Listen you freakish woman, it is not…”
Aches forgotten, I was dancing through the room. I sang out, “I think A.K.A. the third is an appropriate name, since these loins will never be sprouting. We’ll call her Alias…”
“I AM NOT THE ONE PREGNANT!” Mac yelled into my ear.
I sat down hard on the couch “Oh, okay then. Sorry. I mean, that’s great, isn’t it?”
Icy fingers of dread climbing up my spine, I am babbling in panic. I know someone is pregnant in this conversation. Feeling colder, my brain flickered because I am willing myself to pass out. If it isn’t Mac, and it sure as hell isn’t me, then that would only leave…
“It’s Stella! She’s going to have a baby!” Mac crowed, as if this is the best news since we’d heard some Hostess brands have been saved from the scrap heap and will be sold on the shelves again. Not that I can eat that crap anymore, but still.
Feel
ing a nostalgic craving for a cherry pie, I asked in a faint whisper, “Who’s the father? It’s not Jack Banner, is it?”
Chapter VIII
“Sweet Child O’Mine” by Guns N’ Roses
Wednesday 11/21/12
8:45 AM
Before ending our call, Mac forgave me the father question. I didn’t tell her I wasn’t totally kidding. The baby’s father is that smiling, bashful, despicable little Eric George Jasnik. Stella may have considered him more than a friend and yet not quite a boyfriend, but that didn’t stop my niece from enjoying very friendly relations.
“But why no birth control!” I wailed out loud, beating my fists on the hapless couch pillows. I didn’t bemoan the sexual activity part, as that’s a given. Stella comes from a long line of women hormonally engineered to be passionate. It could also be argued idiotic women, at least from Mac’s splice of the double helix of familial DNA pie, but all very passionate.
‘Where had I gone wrong with Stella?’
Everyone knows the women in our family conceive by just looking at a penis. The family folklore is every one of us was born from the one-time passionate mistake of our parents not using birth control. None of us were planned. I’ve always thought this makes some sort of logical connection with our resulting quirky personalities. We’ve always been so odd in comparison to your traditional family unit. If Luke Drake had come inside me the other night when he didn’t wear a condom, I probably would have thrown up on him with morning sickness before he pulled out.
‘I bet that damn Stella has some gripe against latex!’
There had to be organic condoms out there for sale. Hell, even using a wool sock was better than nothing. I’m pretty sure sheepskin was used for condoms at one time, or maybe it was their bladders. My brain wasn’t functioning correctly due to the stress of this news, and I can’t remember my prophylactics history.
I started pacing furiously.
When I thought of that deviant Eric George knocking up my niece, I cursed. Why couldn’t he have worked on a factory farm during the college summer hiatus and drained all his raging sperms by molesting unsuspecting chickens like the other guys his age? He could have screwed a gopher hole in the ground with my good wishes, but not my unprotected niece.
‘This is one lazy boy who needs to die for his bad choices. Slowly.’
Mac said Stella had read the home pregnancy results only a half hour earlier. No firm decisions had been reached and Stella had gone off to think about things. By Mac’s upbeat voice, I could tell she thought a decision had been made. The pregnancy was a one-time mistake, but Mac and Stella were ecstatic with the result.
‘What is wrong with these crazy women who I thought were so sensible up until fifteen minutes ago?’
I continued pacing the length of the apartment. I swore up a blue streak and howled like a she-wolf caught in a mantrap. In my mind, this illogical baby hunger women feel is a curse worse than death. It’s more of that chemical warfare our bodies betray us with to make sure we are chained down for life and happy wearing big shirts, flat shoes, and no make-up. I can’t even bear to think about the short, sensible haircuts.
Having a baby so young changed Stella’s future drastically. I’m aware it happens all the time throughout the whole world and Mac had done it herself, but that didn’t mean it’s a good choice now.
“Holy Moly, Stella, you wouldn’t go jumping off a blasted bridge like a lemming if the whole world and your mother did it, would you?” I shouted to the high ceiling, pulling at my hair.
Mac made me swear to not let on that I knew, until Stella told me herself. I needed to get this out of my system before I’d face Stella in the store in a couple of hours. It was either that, or I’d be on my knees begging her to let me drive her to the nearest abortion clinic.
This sobering thought brought me up short within a mid-twirling turn in my pacing rant. It also caused me to trip over the coffee table and hit the floor with a loud thud. Sprawled on the rug and rubbing my throbbing elbow I wondered, with what has to be tears of pain in my eyes, if this was how NanaBel behaved nineteen years ago when she was alone and first heard the news of Mac’s pregnancy. She probably didn’t fall down, but poured herself a scotch--neat. I could see her throwing it back while sitting calmly at the monster dining room table she has saddled me with for eternity.
I am thankful that I have my grandmother’s example to follow. I quit my ranting and raving and stayed on the living room floor. Lying flat on my back, I brought my boot heels up to rest along my inner thighs. Letting my knees fall open to touch the floor, I spread my arms wide. In this relaxation pose, I concentrated breathing in and out. Slowly, I released the tension from my body. Beginning with visualizing my toes, I worked my way up to my brain--the one in my head. Calming and drifting off, my mind went where it wanted while meditating in a semi-conscious state.
In theory, I am pro-choice. In my heart of hearts and should I be asked, I could never encourage Stella to abort her baby. It was already one of us just by existing. I also wouldn’t encourage her to get married to Raging Sperm Bull. Between all of us in the family, Stella will have the support she needs, emotionally and financially.
If we don’t do flagrantly stupid things, my siblings and I are off to a good, solid start in life money-wise. My parents were only in their early thirties when they died. They had some cash in investments and savings, but it wasn’t a huge amount to split five ways. However, we did receive a sizeable settlement resulting from the airplane accident, plus there was the private life and mortgage insurance my father had carried. We were all minors—Mac, the oldest, was only thirteen at the time and I was just six. NanaBel was our legal guardian. She worked in cahoots with Charles Barkley and quietly invested the money for us. I don’t recall if we ever knew about the money when we were little. If we did, it was forgotten and never once discussed over the following seventeen years, until Mac turned thirty.
Faced with five identically stunned faces at the family meeting NanaBel called to deliver the news of our financial inheritance, she laughingly reassured us we hadn’t been screwed. If any of us kids had shown a propensity to be a brain surgeon or the President, my grandmother swore she would have forked over the big bucks for the prerequisite schooling.
NanaBel believed we should all have a chance to grow up and become responsible adults without knowing we had money we hadn’t earned. She explained she wanted us pursuing our interests and goals through hard work and perseverance. To be reliant on this money and become trust fund babies with no purpose in life was, to NanaBel’s thrifty Scottish mind, a fate worse than death.
I was almost twenty-three at the time of this family meeting. Outraged, I complained bitterly to my grandmother that her notions of old-fashioned American work ethics caused me to miss many a weekend party and pass on many shopping expeditions. Between the Chore Chart and Bel’s, I’d been working my butt off from middle school on up. I had saved every cent I earned towards my future buyout of Bel’s Books.
Along with a pinch to my half-German rosy cheek, my grandmother’s twinkling response was, “Your welcome, Gretchen.”
We all got a good laugh out of this exchange. The Axelrod kids have many faults, but lack of work ethics is not on anybody’s list. NanaBel’s ruthlessly terrorized any potential laziness out of us since we could walk. Our bonnie, canny, tight-fisted Grandmother had set it up so that we each had access to portions of the money after that, based on our ages. I think it was Reg that first ghoulishly dubbed this unexpected windfall our Blood Money.
Mac, at age thirty, received one hundred percent of her share to manage as she liked. In a profession she enjoyed, Nurse Mac paid cash for the yellow Victorian. She moved out of the apartment with Stella and into her own home.
In a move that was surprisingly intelligent, Kenna invested in a local landscape nursery business with a couple of partners. I was happy to see her do something constructive because six years ago, Kenna was twenty-eight and about to get hitch
ed for the third time. While she doesn’t have much luck being married, my second oldest sister does have a horticulture degree and an incredibly green thumb. She’s a very talented landscape designer. Kenna would rival Stella for the reigning title of Earth Mama, if only she didn’t pollute her own body with excessive alcohol consumption and every pharmaceutical drug she can lay her hands on.
Too bad encouraging her to also invest some of her money in a treatment program falls on deaf ears. Minnesota is home to some of the best care facilities and recovery programs for substance abusers in the country. My second sister is a raging alcoholic and a drug addict, but refuses to admit she has a problem, much less enter a program. Not even NanaBel can get through to Kenna.
I invested a small portion of my take of the Blood Money on improvements for the bookstore and the apartment. The majority of my stash is in investments.
Jazy bought her horse farm and stables, while Reggie invested in his construction business with more giant-sized Tonka Toy equipment. He also purchased his fixer-upper lake home last spring.
The apartment doorbell brought me back to reality. It took me a couple of tries, but I finally got up off the floor. Checking the kitchen clock, I saw it was only nine. Jack’s people wouldn’t dare show up early, nor could they get into the locked lobby. I staggered over to the intercom. Smiling, I shook my head when I saw it was Stella staring back up at me with her tongue out.
‘Yeah, she was ready for motherhood, alright.’ Buzzing her in, I was happy my attitude was adjusted and she hadn’t shown up ten minutes earlier.
My phone vibrated on the end table in the living room.
‘Okay, what is going on here?’ It is only nine and according to my rules, I am getting way too much morning traffic.
It was a text from Jazy.
Need to talk. Call me when you have ten.