Trying the Knot

by Todd Erickson

  Alexa inspected the focus of his attention and muttered, “How grotesque.”

  “What’s the deal?”

  “The Skoal Squaws probably threw one last memorial shindig for Jules, since she was supposed to graduate this past June,” Alexa explained. “Those were her class colors.”

  “Nice, black and blue, like a battered wife,” Thad said sarcastically. “Isn’t it nice they remembered their friend?”

  “Oh, spare me. It’s crazy,” Alexa shouted. She thought the decorated tombstone was as inane as the yellow ribbons tied around the trees lining Main Street to honor the town’s Gulf War soldiers. “I’m not going to any Labor Day cookouts. It’ll probably be a bunch of idiots standing around a keg crying over Jules as they get sloshed.”

  “Kind of harsh, don’t you think?”

  “Hell no, after my senior year, I never want to see any of these stupid assholes ever again,” Alexa said bitterly. “Imagine this, once we were on a band trip to Canada, and the hicks freaked out and shouted out the windows because we were in a foreign country!”

  “No way.”

  “Waay. If that wasn’t bad enough, the winners of last year’s Halloween costume contest were dressed up as Ku Klux Klansmen,” she added. “But they were the Czerwinski boys, and so they got away with it.”

  “Well, in 9 months you’ll graduate and will be gone for good.”

  “Not if I don’t pass home economics,” Alexa snapped. “Oh my God, I swear Nyda-the-Living-Dead is out to get me.”

  “She’s not.”

  “She is! That compulsive filmstrip showing bitch, she said to us, I’ll bet none of you girls is even a virgin.”

  “She didn’t.”

  “She did! I was so pissed. I stood up and yelled – We’re no longer virgins thanks to your date-raping, Neo-Nazi twins.” Alexa spat for emphasis. “I got four freaking days detention for defaming our Gulf War Veterans.”

  In the sterile hospital room, Kate sat watching the elevated television set. Across her lap lay the package Nyda delivered earlier in the afternoon. Kate thought it strange she walked in to find Nyda’s husband, Deputy Czerwinski, hovering over Vange’s bedside. “See the light?” he asked blankly. It was only later she realized it was not a rhetorical question. “Don’t you see?” he asked before leaving. “Don’t you see it, it’s like she’s wearing a halo?”

  Kate nodded uncomfortably and smiled, but she did not see any light, or halo for that matter. Before leaving her alone with Vange, Deputy Czerwinski said, “She’s one of a thousand points of light,” and he mumbled his goodbyes. Kate assured him she would watch for the light as he exited, and then she looked over at Vange, half expecting to find her glowing. But she lay as still and seemingly lifeless as she had since earlier in the day.

  On the television set, Rhett and Scarlett were squabbling, and Kate could not help but smile. Her introduction to Gone with the Wind had been from Evangelica back in junior high school. At Vange’s insistence, Kate invited her to a sleepover so they could watch the movie in its uninterrupted entirety. Unintentionally, Kate fell asleep halfway through the film and awoke to the sound of Evangelica’s sobs.

  Kate believed Vange was a modern day Scarlett O’Hara fighting to recapture her misplaced birthright. Her meager Portnorth existence was a cruel accident, and she was meant to discover her fortune elsewhere. Even her name, Evangelica, sounded vaguely Southern and sophisticated and aristocratic. Kate always thought if anyone would come out on top, it would be Vange.

  It bothered Kate that they had not been especially close in recent years. But it also amazed her their friendship endured as long as it had, culminating in senior year of high school when their competition for Nick obtained cutthroat seriousness as if he embodied the Holy Grail itself. She never found it within herself to forgive Vange for nonchalantly seducing Nick at a senior year Christmas party. Even though Nick was dating Chelsea at the time, Kate understood his motives. He wanted to be the bad guy and take the rap for their relationship not working out. Such a sacrificial move only served to make him more appealing in her eyes, and Vange’s shameless transgression ultimately drove a deeper wedge between them.

  The hustle and bustle of the hospital refrained from seeping into Evangelica’s quiet, secluded room, and it was barren except for Kate’s gift of a tiny African violet plant. She positioned it where she thought Evangelica would find it while waking. Kate doubted her father or stepmother had bothered to visit Vange all afternoon.

  No matter how many hours she invested, Kate could not figure out her “step monster.” Shayla was so overly friendly to Kate it seemed as if she was trying to make up for her failings with her own daughter. Maybe Shayla felt so dwarfed by the memory of Kate’s dead mother she overcompensated in order to measure up to Kate’s expectations of what a mother should be. Kate was too tired to sort it all out. Her father and stepmother aside, all she wanted was her wedding to take place without a hitch, but the biggest hitch lay alongside her hanging onto life by a thread.

  “Hey,” Kate whispered to Evangelica, “your favorite movie is on. I’ve been watching it, and this time I haven’t fallen asleep once.” She sighed and set the package down next to the hospital bed. Kate cautiously touched her comatose stepsister’s arm. She had no idea whether or not Vange could hear her, but a few things needed to be said.

  “I—I’m sorry,” Kate began. “I’m sorry for not being a better friend to you.”

  Last night, Vange acted especially hostile toward her, and it was obvious to anyone paying attention. “You’re not exactly subtle when you decide to give someone the cold shoulder.” Kate stood beside the bed, and struggled to find the right words, but she soon discovered it was easier to talk to Evangelica as she lay comatose than it had been when she walked around healthy.

  “I—I used to think you were jealous of me because I had a real family, and now that you’re part of my family, I bet it doesn’t seem so real anymore, does it? At least not up close.” Kate paused, and she looked over to the little plant she purchased from the hospital gift store. She wondered if all the plants inevitably ended up back in the store, resold once their semi-conscious keepers departed. She couldn’t bring herself to say the word dead as it would be like issuing it an invitation. Kate wished she had bought a huge floral bouquet from the flower shop like the ones Nick sent her, and she wondered when was the last time anyone bought Vange flowers.

  Remembering how they used to turn green with envy because Chelsea always got whatever she wanted since her parents were divorced. Kate shook her head, looked away, and said, “There was never any reason to be jealous, Vangie.”

  The thought of watching any more of the movie alone distressed her and she blurted with overwhelming emotion, “I was never strong like you, and I was never smart like Chelsea.” They were her two best friends all through grade school and high school, and she always felt as if she could not measure up. She always overcompensated in different ways. To Chelsea, who had every material thing in the world, she always placed special emphasis on the fact she had Nick, and to Vange, who had nothing really, Kate used to stress all the material things she possessed that Vange did not.

  “It always comes down to things, doesn’t it? Once I marry Nick, I’ll never want for anything, but that’s about all it amounts to, material objects. Stuff and more stuff,” Kate said. She smiled down at Vange and wiped away her tears. “I never really liked you, and you always knew it. You were just someone to make me feel better about myself when I came home from Chelsea’s house.”

  Kate laughed to herself, satisfied at last that she finally admitted it out loud. “And you always saw through me, but you never held it against me.” It was too bad Vange was not awake, thought Kate, because she always counted on her for real honest feelings. Vange’s brand of honesty and integrity made Kate uneasy; it still did.

  What would Vange say to her if she could sit up at this moment? No doubt it would be, Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.

 
The movie droned on in the background, and Kate reached for the package she set aside earlier. She once again unwrapped the tasteful off-white dress her mother had intended to wear to her wedding. When had she ordered this dress? It must have been before she got sick and went to the hospital for the last time. It would have been a little over a year ago. She must have known somewhere within herself she would never wear it, this dress Kate held in front of her. Staring into the mirror, the color warmed Kate’s olive complexion and darkened her nearly black hair. Kate felt transformed into a younger version of her mother, and it was not an altogether uncomfortable feeling.

  At that moment, the hospital door swung open and Nick’s father, Dr. Paull briskly entered. He looked tired, but he registered pleasant surprise when he saw his future daughter in-law. He generously offered her a hug and asked if she was keeping dutiful watch over his star patient. Kate watched as the doctor administered her stepsister a brief but thorough checkup. Kate studied his facial expressions intently for an indication of how Vange might be fairing.

  “How is she, Doc?” Kate finally asked.

  “I’m hopeful,” Dr. Paull said as he monitored her vital statistics.

  “Could you be more specific? Please, for me?”

  “I won’t burden you with the technicalities involved or the likelihood of recovery,” Dr. Paull said. “Kate, you just concentrate on becoming a member of my family, and leave the medical problems to me.”

  “But—

  “No buts about it, you just keep Evangelica in your prayers, it’s all you can do for her now,” Dr. Paull said, and he wrapped a comforting arm around her shoulder.

  “I—I don’t understand why it had to happen this way,” Kate said confused. She enjoyed his strong show of support, for it was not unfamiliar. Out of all Nick’s relatives, she felt the most comfortable with his father.

  “Life is a messy thing, Katie,” Dr. Paull said softly. He placed both his hands on her shoulders and looked intently into her dark worried eyes. “Let me share a secret. You can’t always count on getting an answer, and in the scheme of things they’re next to meaningless.”

  “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “Faith is a wonderful thing, Kate. It’s not necessarily important in what, or where, you entrust faith just so long as you have it, and you nurture it because sooner or later, there comes a time when you need it. And you will need it.” He hugged her once again as she thanked him repeatedly. She was grateful for his wisdom and accepting nature.

  “Thank you, so much for your words of wisdom.”

  With a lighthearted smile, the doctor asked, “Have I thanked you yet today, or told you how glad I am you’re marrying my son?” The movie credits rolled as the glorious sweeping music played in the background, and he continued, “Nick has a splendid future ahead of him in medicine. He will be a fine doctor, and I’m confident he’ll be served well with you by his side.”

  “Why’s that, dad?” Kate asked. “Flatter me.”

  “Nick has a great heart, and he’s generous to a fault, so he needs someone with your practical frugality and your wealth of reserve, to balance his frivolity.”

  “He can be overly-generous.”

  “A person like him, who can’t set firm limits, can easily burn out in this profession. I’ve seen it time and time again,” Dr. Paull said hastily. He guided Kate out of the hospital room and walked her down the long corridor.

  He advised her to go home and get some rest because she would need a clear head and extra energy in order to partake in the evening’s schedule of events. The church rehearsal and dinner were only a few hours away. Kate thanked him for his concern, and she left the hospital feeling worse than when she had arrived. Rather than experiencing anything resembling a cathartic calmness, she felt empty, exhausted and filled with inexplicable longing.

  chapter nine

  Radiating glowing satisfaction, Ginny Norris reclined while wrapped in the king-sized linen sheets she purchased specifically for their afternoon interludes. She cherished the anonymity of being smuggled on the back of Ben’s motorcycle and whisked to his museum of a house. Ginny enjoyed conducting their romantic liaisons in a time warp, in his parent’s old waterbed surrounded by palm tree wallpaper. The mid-1970s had been a swell time; moreover, she had not minded Jerry Ford, Disco, polyester blends (on other people), soulful singer songwriters, and the whole me-first attitude that replaced heady Sixties social consciousness.

  Ginny’s toes touched the hot lava lamp on the Formica nightstand, and her long fingers ran down Ben’s taut, tan torso. His exotic hairless body aroused her to the core. She reveled in pulling back the fold of skin and revealing the head of his stiff prick, before popping the delicious tropical treat in her mouth. She regarded her boy-toy as a beautiful supernatural deity who quenched her desires like no other mortal man ever had. Although it sounded hyperbolic, she cherished the heavenly way he kissed her with such lust it sent her soaring to galaxies previously unexplored.

  Inside this magical house time forgot, she let him probe and pleasure the very essence of her being. Generally, they seldom spoke until the gentle waves of their slow, relaxed lovemaking subsided. Afterwards, she watched CNN or the Discovery Channel while munching on the over-priced Milano cookies she kept stashed next to the bed; even though she owned a restaurant, Ben never saw her eat a proper meal apart from the cookies. Ginny was always pleasantly surprised whenever he asked how she felt about local or world events; no other man had ever given a damn what she thought.

  This afternoon, her pleasure tender was brooding and uncommunicative. She surmised his uncustomary silence was the result of Evangelica’s coma. Vange was Ginny’s best waitress. She lent the lounge a certain cosmopolitan flare, and the special way she plopped down the patrons’ plates as if doing them the greatest favor in the world always garnished her the most tips. It paid off for Vange to treat the clientele shoddily; however, Ginny was the owner, and so she lived vicariously through Vange for she could not afford to indulge in such high-risk behavior.

  “Hey, honey-buns,” Ginny said to his backside. “Why the silent treatment?”

  Ben groaned affectedly, and she knew it was no use badgering him. She left the bed, fetched her purse and tossed him a sandwich baggie full of marijuana. Every once in a while she liked to reward him with a little token gesture of her affection. He never asked where she got the weed, nor did he question her refusal to smoke it. She had maintained a no smoking policy ever since he was in Kindergarten. He thanked her, but failed to move from a face down position on the bed.

  Ginny lay down on top of him and covered them with the billowing linen sheet. As she molded her body against his, she pecked the back of his neck with maternal kisses and pressed her wetness against his buttocks. Peering over the side of the bed, she inspected what had so enraptured him.

  “Expecting a call?” she asked.

  He cleared his throat and shook his head as if the old rotary phone would never ring again.

  “Don’t worry. Things will work out fine, my beautiful buck,” she said sadly as she ran her fingers down his flawless sinewy back. “Just give it time.”

  “Right,” Ben said. He maneuvered his way out from under her and kissed her full on the mouth.

  Laughingly, she said, “That’s better, but I must shower. I’ve that damned rehearsal dinner to put on tonight, and I’m running late.” Ginny disappeared into the bathroom but tantalizingly left the door ajar. Recalling her moans of pleasure made him smile. He had never excited a woman so much by doing so little work, and it made him appreciative of her languorous, undemanding disposition. He rolled over, stared guiltily at the answering machine, and cradled his stubble splattered chin in his fist. He pressed rewind and then play.

  The recorded voice sent shivers up and down his spine. “Ben, Benny, Benvolio, I know you’re there. Benjamin, sweetie, stop doing the nasty with that airhead matron of honor and pick up the phone. Please, Benji, I have to talk. I need help, I’ve done a
terrible thing. Oh, Benny, what’ve I done?” Then a sigh, two beeps and a final click.

  Sickened with remorse, Ben wondered when exactly Evangelica had made the call. Was it before or after she swallowed the pills? If only he interrupted his one-night stand to answer the phone, then Vange surely would not have landed in a coma.

  He could not count the number of times he rushed to her in the middle of the night to find her huddled in a rocking heap on the floor weeping for no fathomable reason. Evangelica routinely crashed her trembling body against his, expecting him to pilot her from whatever internal storm wreaked havoc on her inner psyche as if he were a lifeline that could reel her back to satisfied complacency.

  July, 1991

  Rinsing glasses behind the bar, Ben watched Evangelica singing on the small platform in the middle of The Lounge. The old piano was only for effect since Alexa had recorded the accompanying music earlier on her keyboard. The lounge act was Ginny’s scheme to draw customers away from the swanky newer restaurant down on the lakeshore. Vange agreed to entertain for a nominal fee, and she clearly enjoyed ditching waiting tables for an evening of adulation, even if all her fans were from her grandparent’s generation. She belted out the songs as if her life depended on it, and her smooth pure voice seemed to fill every darkened nook and cranny of the dining room.

  Vange occasionally tossed Ben a flirtatious grin while winking at the elderly crowd. In a vintage gown, she looked as if she had emerged from a wartime saloon. Evangelica played the role of ‘good’ girl gone ‘broad’ to the hilt. Her Dame act excited all the old men who usually only had eyes for Ginny, and it warmed the hearts of the ladies who recalled the thrill of their own joyous physical peak.

  Approximately a decade older, the humorless waitresses sniggered and cursed at Vange under their breaths. The crew was a dismally unimaginative lot who spent their adolescent years idolizing Marcia Brady, but no amount of lip-gloss or hair teasing could disguise the fact that they were bitter Jans. They called Vange Madonna Wannabe as if that were the worst insult imaginable.