Boy Minus Girl

by Richard Uhlig

  The doorbell chimes. Mom, Dad, and I look at one another in “who in the world could that be?” surprise. If it’s Cookie, how am I going to handle this?

  “I’ve got it!” I run and open the front door, and there stands Charity sporting a pair of those cat-eye sunglasses. The wind whips her red and blue bandana and flowing green skirt.

  She bows and says, “Oh, Great Linguini, your devoted assistant is here to learn the divine secrets of your mysterious art.”

  “Oh. Sorry. I can’t rehearse tonight.”

  “Why not?”

  “Les,” Mom calls out from the kitchen, “who’s there?”

  “Someone from school!” I yell back.

  “For heaven’s sake, let Howard in,” Mom says. “He can join us for some strawberry shortcake.”

  “You, uh, wanna come in?”

  “Sure you want just ‘someone from school’ in your house?” she asks with a smirk.

  I unlatch the storm door, pushing it open for her, and she steps inside. Removing her sunglasses, she looks around. “Wow. I feel like I’ve walked into Beaver Cleaver’s house.”

  I lead her into the kitchen, where Mom and Dad turn and stare in disbelief. Up till now I’ve never brought a girl home.

  Charity breaks the stunned silence with: “Hi there.”

  “Well, hello,” Dad says, sounding very, very delighted.

  “Mom, Dad, this is Charity. Charity, meet my folks.”

  “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Eckhardt.” Then she turns to Dad and says, “We’ve met before, Dr. Eckhardt.”

  “Oh?”

  “You delivered me in an April blizzard in 1971. My parents are Dale and Elaine Conners.”

  Dad thinks for a moment, then nods vigorously. “Yes. Of course. I had to deliver you cesarean, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “Roger,” admonishes Mom.

  “Well, looks like I did all right.” Dad beams. “How’re your folks?”

  “Divorced.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Thanks. They’re fine.”

  Every time I steal a look at Charity, my heart still splinters painfully. If only.

  “Have a seat, have a seat,” Mom says as she steps around the island with the plates of strawberry-topped sponge cake.

  Charity sits between Dad and me.

  “You moved from St. Louis recently, didn’t you?” Mom says as she distributes the dessert. “I just received your health records from your former school. I didn’t realize you and Les were . . . friends.”

  “Les has been so nice. I’m going to be part of his talent-show act.”

  “He’s never given us a lick of trouble, our Lester,” Dad says, reaching over and mussing my hair.

  Will it be worse if I crawl under the table and die?

  As we dig into our strawberry shortcake, I allow myself to fantasize that Charity is my steady girlfriend, whom my parents adore. It’s so refreshing to see a pretty girl at our table. It’s like our beige kitchen suddenly became colorful.

  Charity says, “You know, I think I’d like to go into medicine.”

  “I can’t recommend Kansas State’s nursing program enough,” Mom says. “I’m secretary of the alumni committee, you know.”

  “That’s nice,” Charity says. “But I’m interested in becoming a physician.”

  “Oh my,” Mom says primly.

  “Are you good at math and science?” Dad asks.

  “She’s the best,” I say. “She ruins the curve in all our classes.”

  “I always tell Les he better keep his science and math grades up if he wants to get into medical school,” Dad says.

  “Hmm. I think Les is more of the artistic type,” Charity counters.

  Dad stares at Charity, and the painful, loaded silence stretches, and stretches, and stretches.

  “Uh, delicious strawberry shortcake, Mom.”

  Out the corner of my eye I can see Dad staring at me.

  “We’ve got water! Anyone want some water?” I say, just to say something.

  Brring-ring! Thank God. I leap to answer the phone: the hospital for Dad.

  “All right,” Dad says into the receiver, “I’ll be right up.” He wipes his mouth with his napkin and stands. “They’re bringing Lowell McIntyre in by ambulance. Sounds like a heart attack.”

  And he is out the door.

  Mom glances at her watch. “Oh my, I’m going to be late for the school board meeting.”

  “Don’t worry, Mom, we’ll finish cleaning up.”

  “Hope I didn’t get you in trouble over the doctor thing,” Charity says as she dries a plate beside me.

  I turn off the faucet. “It took guts.”

  “Well, anyway, your parents seem really nice. Do you always have dinner together?”

  “Every night at six-thirty,” I moan, and wring out the dishrag. “Come hell or high water.”

  “Well, I think that’s great.”

  “You do?”

  “My family hardly ever ate together,” she says. “Mom always worked late, and Dad would pick up drive-through. On the rare occasions we did eat together, it was always in front of the TV. You’re really lucky.”

  Is this true? Am I lucky?

  “So why aren’t we rehearsing tonight?” Charity asks.

  “I have to go see someone.”

  “ ‘Someone’ wouldn’t be a mysterious woman named Cookie, by any chance?”

  “Maybe.”

  “C’mon, what’d you find out about her?”

  And so I tell her everything.

  “Wow. Your uncle sounds like a grade-A asshole.”

  “Well, not really.” I don’t sound convincing to myself. “He’s just . . . he’s always been great to me.”

  “Yeah, ’cause you’re not a woman.”

  “Les!” Uncle Ray calls from upstairs. “You got anything for me to eat?”

  “In a sec!” I yell back.

  “I have an idea,” Charity whispers with a dangerous smile. “Let me take his plate to him.”

  “Why?”

  “ ’Cause I have to meet this guy,” she says. “Besides, it’ll be fun to see his face when I walk in.”

  I microwave the leftovers from dinner. When I hand the plate to Charity, I say, “I’ll be outside.”

  ***

  I wait on the front-porch steps. Despite the wind it’s a muggy evening; the sun’s an egg yolk on the western horizon. A good five minutes pass before Charity breezes out the front door.

  “I thought he was going to fall out of bed when I walked through that door,” she says. “He perked right up and became very flirtatious. I have to admit, he’s a very charming guy. I see why some women fall for him.”

  “And this from a confirmed lesbian,” I say as I stand.

  “But I still feel sorry for the women who do fall for him. I mean, the man is clearly a misogynist.”

  “English, please. I’ve spent my whole life in Harker City, remember?”

  “Means he hates women,” she says as she throws her left leg over her bike seat. “See, I’m sure he claims to love women. But it’s all a game for guys like him. It’s about winning a woman over, then dumping her. It’s all about feeding his ego.”

  Can’t argue with that.

  “Oh,” she says, “he wants me to remind you to pick up his ‘request.’ ”

  Soon we’re riding side by side down the street.

  “So, tell me about this Cookie,” she says. “Is she really a fortune-teller? Think she’d read mine?”

  “You don’t believe in that hocus-pocus, do you?”

  “I’m not sure.” She shrugs. “But I am curious. Maybe she’ll tell me what to do about Kristy Lynn.”

  “Has anything happened between you two?”

  “Last night we studied for finals in her room. We flirted a little, but I’m nervous about pushing it. I’m afraid I’ll scare her off. . . . Race you!” And she tears off. I’m right behind her.

  Charity beats me to the mote
l, and as we roll into the parking lot, I see Cookie sitting and talking on her motel stoop with Shelleby. Gawdalmighty—when’d they hook up?

  “I see your uncle’s fan club is forming,” quips Charity.

  Cookie waves us over. “Hey, Les!”

  “Mind if I say hello?” Charity asks me.

  “Might as well,” I say as I climb off my bike.

  “Seems Shelleby and me have a lot in common,” Cookie says as we approach.

  “I can’t believe that bastard knocked her up and ran off,” Shelleby says, shaking her head. “Y’know what? He gave me the damn clap! Why, we oughta castrate that tomcat.”

  “Asshole,” Cookie says.

  “Jerk,” says Shelleby.

  “Bastard,” chimes in Charity.

  “Good Lord,” Cookie says to Charity, “what’d he do to you?”

  “Nothing,” I laugh. “Ladies, this is my friend Charity.”

  “So?” Cookie asks me. “What’d he say?”

  “He just kinda blew up.”

  “Yeah, well, he’s really gonna blow up when I sue him for child support.”

  Shelleby heaves herself up. “I better be getting back to work.”

  “We’ll talk more later, honey,” Cookie says.

  Shelleby nods and starts for the restaurant.

  Cookie looks at me. “Much as I don’t want to, it’s lookin’ like I’m gonna have to be a single mom.”

  “You don’t have any family who can help out?” Charity asks as she puts down her kickstand.

  Cookie shakes her head. “If Ray don’t come through, I’m gonna have to do it all on my own. Bambi, this girl I dance with, wasn’t hired back after she gave birth ’cause management claimed she had stretch marks.

  “I’ve saved up enough cash to see me through three months, but that’s it. I don’t have no job security or health insurance. They can fire me for anything, at any time. Your ass starts to sag, a few customers complain, and ya gotta hang up your G-string.”

  “There has to be something else you can do,” I say as I sit beside her.

  “There’s always topless bars,” she says. “But that’s not really an option when you’re lactating.”

  I suddenly have a flash vision of me in ten years as the rich and world-famous Great Linguini, a David Copperfield–like illusionist, with Cookie as my beautiful and sequined stage assistant. The whole rapt world will watch us on The Tonight Show as I place her inside a box and slice her into sections, then reassemble each luscious piece. Afterward, on my private jet, she and I will sip champagne and laugh about her struggling years as a stripper in li’l ol’ Kansas.

  “Oh, hell, maybe I should get out of the strippin’ business anyway,” Cookie says. “I mean, it’s real hard work, dancing. My legs ache all the time. Those four-inch stilettos are murder on my tootsies. I work all night and sleep all day. But where else can a high school dropout make three hundred a night?”

  “Les tells me you read fortunes,” Charity says. “Maybe you can do that for a living. How much you charge?”

  “You want your reading done, honey? Tell ya what, a friend of Les’s doesn’t have to pay. C’mon inside.”

  We follow Cookie inside, where she switches on the bedside lamp and places a chair beside the bed. “Go on and have a seat.”

  Charity sits and Cookie situates herself on the edge of the bed, their knees touching, and asks, “Ya ever had this done before?”

  Charity shakes her head.

  “Les, I’ll need you to keep Mr. Mister quiet so I can concentrate.”

  I scoop up the little guy and stand in the corner by the TV, scratching him under the chin.

  “Now, remember to relax and breathe slowly,” Cookie says as she takes Charity’s hands in hers. “I’ll need complete silence for this.”

  Cookie closes her eyes and leans forward. After about thirty seconds she says in a somber tone, “Right away I see that you’re different. You have needs that others don’t. Needs that often cause you great pain. You hide these needs from most people and that troubles you a great deal.”

  Charity shoots me a “did you tell her about me?” look. I vigorously shake my head.

  “I see there’s been a major disruption in your life lately. A painful disruption. You have come a great distance.” How does she know all this?

  Cookie’s voice intensifies, the words spilling out: “You are smart, a hard worker, and you care deeply about those close to you. But you’re given to fits of depression. Sometimes you ruminate and feel sorry for yourself. Be careful not to dwell on the past. The past will only bring you down. . . . I see there’s someone you’ve met recently. Someone you are attracted to. This person is attracted to you, too.”

  I see a grin stretch across Charity’s face.

  “But this person is nervous, very nervous, and frightened of what this might mean, and she’ll—”

  Cookie screams—startling me—and doubles over, gripping her belly.

  “She’ll—she’ll what?” Charity asks, panicked.

  I step over as Cookie falls back on the bed, curling into a fetal position.

  “Can we get you something?” Charity asks.

  Cookie shakes her head as she winces. “I just need to lie down.”

  “You want me to go get my dad?”

  “No. I’ll be fine. Just some water, please.”

  Before we leave, I slip into the bathroom, where I see two eyes—Howard’s eyes—peering in the shower window. I shut the door and go to the window, whispering, “Show’s over, Howard.”

  Before he can respond, I slam the pane down and lock it.

  “You sure you didn’t tell her anything about me?” Charity asks as we coast into town.

  “Swear to God,” I say.

  “Then she is psychic. I mean, she totally nailed me.”

  “She pretty much did.”

  “Which makes me realize that I should move forward with Kristy Lynn. She only confirmed what I suspected.”

  “Just please be careful with that.”

  “Leave it to me, Booger. Now, c’mon, the Great Linguini and his beautiful assistant need to rehearse.”

  ***

  “It’s about goddamn time you showed up.” Uncle Ray’s voice quivers in the darkness of my bedroom as I close the door behind me. “Now where’s my J.D.?”

  Seeing him lying on the bottom bunk, I remove the crumpled twenty dollar bill from my front jeans pocket and toss it at him. “Sorry. You shouldn’t be drinking when you’re on medication, anyway.”

  He grabs my wrist and pulls himself up a bit, desperation flashing in his eyes. “I need that whiskey right now, Les. I mean it. . . .”

  I rip my arm free, surprised by how weak his grip is. “Don’t ever grab me like that again, Uncle Ray.”

  “Now look, Les,” Uncle Ray says in a conciliatory voice, shaking his head and smiling. “You and me, we’ve always had a special connection. We get each other. I ask you, who is going to take you out of this crummy town someday soon and show you the world? Your folks? I don’t think so. No, Les, I am. I’m going to introduce you to chicks you couldn’t imagine in your wettest dreams. You and me, we’re gonna scuba dive the Great Barrier Reef. But for now, all I’m asking of you is to go get me a fifth of whiskey.”

  I nod. “You’re so right, Uncle Ray. You’ve done a lot for me.”

  He winks and hands me back the twenty. “Thatta boy.”

  It’s not until I’m almost to the door that I remember what Cookie said about Uncle Ray leading her to believe she was the love of his life. I stop, turn back to Uncle Ray, ball up the twenty, and hurl it at him. “Screw you!”

  I spin on my heels and stamp out of the room before he gets out a word.

  An hour later I’m at the kitchen table reading The Great Gatsby, and the book has finally taken off for me. The characters and their weird decadent world are suddenly fascinating. Whenever I read about the beautiful but fickle Daisy Buchanan, I picture Charity. Could I end up like the d
oomed Jay Gatsby, dedicating my life to impressing my Daisy?

  Hearing a thumping sound in the hallway, I turn and see Uncle Ray, fully clothed, including a neck brace, stiffly shuffling through the doorway. He refuses to look my way as he passes me, muttering something about me being an ungrateful little shit. I watch him totter out the back door and into the night.

  After a few minutes I pick up the phone and dial up Cookie at the motel. She answers on the third ring.

  “Hello?” She sounds pained.

  “Did I wake you?”

  “Uh-uh.” She groans a little.

  “You okay?”

  “Just this same damn pain.”

  “Listen, if you want to talk to Uncle Ray, I think you’ll find him at the Dutch Lunch downtown.”

  “Thanks,” she says. “But I’m not up to it tonight.”

  “I’ll stop by tomorrow after school,” I say.

  Gatsby is telling Nick all about his early days dating Daisy, and Nick realizes that Gatsby’s love for Daisy has a lot to do with the fact that she’s rich. Suddenly we’re all startled by a voice: “Some friend.”

  I turn and see Howard glaring at me through the screen of the kitchen window.

  “Why’d you shut her window?” he asks.

  “She’s pregnant, Howard.”

  “So?”

  “So, she’s off-limits. We can’t watch her like that anymore.” I turn back to the book.

  “Who are you? Her mother?”

  “She happens to be a real nice lady,” I say. “And she’s going through a lot right now.”

  “Oh, don’t even pretend you’re above it,” he scoffs. “I know what you’re trying to do. You’re trying to dump me.”

  “What?”

  “Ever since that freak, Charity, came to town, I see less and less of you,” he says, his voice thickening. “We haven’t played Atari in two whole weeks.”

  “I’m not avoiding you, Howard.”

  “And next year, when we get to high school, you won’t want to hang around me at all,” he says. “I mean, why would a good-looking guy like you want to hang out with a porker like me? I’m social suicide. . . .”

  The thing is, he’s probably right. Suddenly I feel awful.

  “It’s just like Charity says,” he continues, “it’s only a matter of time before you land a girlfriend. And then I’ll be stuck at home on Saturday nights watching Twilight Zone marathons by myself while you’re out getting lucky.”