by Sonia Taitz
Instead, he pops the cork and drinks the bubbly straight from the bottle. He drinks it all, then stumbles outside to his car.
You Can Touch This
Face on a beer mat, Collum sits at a bar, not far from where Jude S. Ewington still lives, safe and sound with her husband. Eating her cake of domesticity.
Ada sidles over again. She is there most nights.
“Aw, get lost, won’t you, darling?” He carelessly smacks her face backhand, his fingers smearing with red lipstick. It looks like blood but smells like perfume. That’s what love is, he thinks.
A part of Collum remembers this pub slag, how she’d wanted him before. The leotard, the heels, that whiny accent. Aw keh. She still finds him OK, even with the offhand blow she’s just received. Come as you are, and he is coming drunk and angry. This time, though, he’ll let her take him wherever she wants. This time, he has no particular plans, other than to kill himself slowly with drink and cigarettes. Which never seem to kill him, anyway.
“I live so close, now you will see,” she says, efficiently spinning her steering wheel to and fro. Collum sits next to her in the tiny car, heavy as a package. Close or far, I’m coming with you, he thinks. And you—my bar-bag, my marzipan pig head—you’ll be the first one I fuck after HER. Let’s rub her out all night long.
Ada’s lips are a deep, pinky red. He must have mentioned them, because she is explaining that the color is called “cherries in the snow.” Movie stars wear this shade, she tells him with a wink of her spider mascara. Good luck to them, he thinks. I was a movie star myself. And then they arrive at her one-room flat.
How on earth did he get here, he wonders. For now he is sitting on a little stained sofa, and Ada is sitting at a baby grand that dominates the small space. Her hands are hoisted in the air, ready to go. She smiles confidingly.
“I will play theme from ‘Mo Croi’—most wonderful movie you ever make, even with the subtitles for the Gaelic; I enjoyed it so much. Genius.”
Ada plays with impressive hand motions, twisting her wrists to give karate chops to the piano, ending with both arms again held aloft, fingers curled like claws. The vibrations die out in the air, into blessed silence.
“Stand up; I will open sofa bed now,” she says. Once she unfurls the flat surface he dives downward. Then, using similar Asian-combat hand motions, Ada gives Collum a massage, meant as foreplay. Annoyingly, he falls asleep, still murmuring about the last cherry blossom, now fallen in the dirt.
“You have your red cherry right here, stupit!” she spits out, her evening almost ruined. Her lips still hurt from the smack he’d given her.
Early the next morning, while Collum sleeps deeply, Ada calls the town caterer from the kitchen-wall phone.
“You’ll never believe who I’ve got in my home, Heidi-Deidi.”
Ada saves up to order Heidi-food on Sunday mornings, when she’s often entertained a male guest or two. Despite the expense, she usually orders goat-butter scone-cakes and freshly squeezed “clumpies” (better than smoothies) with frothed and filtered ice.
“Think movie star. Big.”
“Tom Hanks?”
“Eww.”
“Tom Cruise.”
“Don’t insult me.”
“Mel Gibson.”
“Are you completely deranged?”
“Well, I was once obsessed with him. Probably still am. Who, then?”
“Colm Eriksen! The Viking Marauder!”
“Can I come and meet him? I’ll give you three free mini jam-jars and my morning potage in a ramekin!”
“Yeah, OK. But don’t flirt. You are married, remember.”
“If you say so.”
Heidi comes over as soon as she can, making sure that each part of the order is perfect. She clambers up the stairs of the condo development, so excited she nearly breaks an ankle. She is wearing four-inch platforms so that Colm Eriksen will know that she gladly suffers for beauty (and its sometime payoff, love). It takes guts to run in four-inch platforms.
As soon as the door opens, she sees him, rising up from Ada’s open sofa bed. And he sees her, laden with food that smells wonderful.
“Breakfast,” says Heidi, sailing in. “All fresh and homemade.”
Ignoring Ada, she sits down next to the superstar and opens her bags. “See?” she says, flourishing a huge and savory muffin.
“I didn’t order no sea-salt muffins and I’m not paying for no salty muffins,” Ada grumbles, hand on hip.
“No, I’m throwing this one in for a treat. Here’s your scone-cake,” she adds, practically throwing it at Ada.
Collum chews his muffin gratefully. “You made this?” he says, looking up as he eats. “It tastes so familiar.”
“It’s got Marmite, kind of like your Vegemite,” she says. She’d googled him and learned the famous story of how he’d met his wife, Gingerean. It had taken nearly an hour to find a place that sold the yeasty spread. She knew it would taste like home to him, not just Gingerean but the land down under.
“You’re actually a goddess,” he says, chewing. Heidi notices that he is fully dressed under the sheets, and smiles.
“It’s nothing,” she says. “I do this every single day.”
“And now you can go,” says Ada, rattled by the scene Heidi is creating.
“Not just yet—I want him to try my kiwi clumpy. It’s got an incredible mouth feel,” she adds, to Collum. She takes a tall flask out of the bag and brings it up to his lips. He tastes it.
“Good?”
“Mmm,” he says, drinking as though at her breast.
“Now is time!” screams Ada, grabbing Heidi by the hand and pulling her off her opened sofa bed. “Really, this is not your boudoir!”
“Well, you are certainly off my client list,” says Heidi, stomping to the door, then clambering down the staircase to the driveway. Collum, still clutching his muffin and his flask of clumpy, leaps out of bed and follows.
“No, you stay, my darling! I have better treats for you!” Ada shouts.
“I don’t think you do,” he says, racing down the stairs.
Heidi stands in the driveway, utterly shaken. Her light hair flutters in the breeze. Her manicured fingers grip the handle of her car. “I can’t—I can’t even open it.”
“You just need the key, my pet.”
“Oh yes, that’s it. My hands are shaking. My legs are shaking. And they never shake. I’d like you to know that I’m a competent, confident woman.”
“I can see you’re very sensitive, too. May I?” he adds, reaching into her neat white leather purse. He finds the key and plunges it into the door.
“I ran after you, you know?” he says, swinging it open it for Heidi. “Your food is—is so full of love. It satiates me.”
She knows the significance of those words. Nothing ever fills her. But perhaps she can fill him.
“I can fill you up, too,” he adds, getting in on the passenger side. It is as though he’s read her mind. His generous words carry no trace of lewdness. “I can fill you like you’ve never been filled before. It’s a question of your wanting to take me in all the way, with nary a flinch. Can you manage?”
Heidi stares at the road, her hands sweating more than they usually do.
“Drive away a few blocks and let’s park somewhere. I don’t want that loon to come after us,” he says, turning around to see if Ada is chasing him. Fans sometimes did, particularly when he’d gotten too close to them for an hour or so.
“There’s a little sports field near the tennis courts, is that OK?” she asks.
He nods. “And—the penny’s dropped—you’re the one who must have baked the magical oatcakes, too.”
“You ate the—but did you know that they were horse food?”
“Of course I knew. And Clemmy and I often shared one.”
“Clemmy?”
“Only the best gelding in the world. Seventeen hands high and a heart as big as a planet. Never been so close to the spirit of God. I held it in
my mouth and he bit off the other end. Never seen a tamer beast.”
Heidi is pensive.
“So you were Shy? The one my daughter thought was an oddball?”
“Oh,” he says, laughing out loud for the first time in a long time. He is proud of his talent for changing from one persona to the next, all of them strange and new.
“Yes, I am quite an oddball, in and out of disguises.”
“You were after Jude Ewington?”
“Operative word being ‘was,’” he says, stiffening. “Glad to be quit of all that. Dead end, you could say.”
“My daughter figured it all out. Wrangler and rabbi—impressive.”
“She’ll be all right, that one.”
“Who? Jude?”
“No. Don’t want her to be all right. Want her to suffer, want her to die suffering and begging for relief that never comes.”
“Hmmmm. We’re dear friends, but I never liked her all that much either. So who do you mean—Ada?”
“Ada the loon? There’s a gang bang. Every night a different—”
“Then who?”
“Your daughter, Delaney. She’ll be totally all right, you mark my words.”
“I wonder,” says Heidi, putting her car into park and exhaling the weight of the world. Marriage and motherhood in particular.
“She’s so, so difficult,” she says, an air of defeat in her voice. “So complicated. Lots of edges. She hurts me all the time.”
“I’ve raised a pack of kids, seen the ups and downs. I know your girl. She’s trouble right now, but she’s a good’un. She’s in love with that kid of Judy’s—you know, David? And anyone who gets that boy’s a lucky one. I’m thinking they should run away together. Wish I’d done that as a lad, but the fates were against me, I guess. But they fit very well, and it’s a blessing when that actually happens.”
“What can you possibly mean? That kid is a sophomore and my daughter’s a junior! She’s got SAT practice, for God’s sake!”
“With him, things’ll always go slow. He’s a gentle lad with a solid heart. I had a strong young heart myself once, but crikey, it feels bruised now.”
“Mine does, too,” Heidi admits. “We grow old, we grow scared, we make compromises. We grow long hair—if we’re aging men, I mean.”
“Not sure I follow, darling.”
“Well, I didn’t either, but you don’t need to follow. I’ll—I’ll follow you.” He seems strong to her, and maybe, with her, he is.
“You will? Bless your foolish heart, the only kind worth having.”
“Where are you headed now? Malibu?” Heidi thinks of herself in a convertible Bentley, windblown by the sea. Periwinkle blue with cream interior?
“No, been thinking I’d leave all that dross behind and live out in the South Seas. Once bought an island in Tahiti, you know; never used it. Wasn’t as expensive as you’d think. Everyone would do it if they could afford the access and the upkeep. You know who I am, right? By now, you must see it all.”
“Well naturally, I can see that you’re Colm Eriksen, the movie star.”
“Full marks to you! But I’m done with that now. Done with all the waiting and the compromises. On all fronts. Time to raise anchor.”
“But what happened with you and Jude? You found her, right? And then it didn’t work out?”
“Finders keepers, losers weepers. She’s changed, what else can I say?”
“I know, quelle hag. Cellulite alert. And you should see her kitchen—salmonella central.”
“Yeah, well, on that score, my Gingerean was a good one for cooking and cleaning. But wouldn’t you know she turned on me as well.”
“My husband changed, too. I hate people flipping on you. Where do they get the nerve? Life’s hard enough with its awful tragedies, crashes and earthquakes and barrenness, cancer . . .”
“Who’s Baroness Cancer? One of your posh gourmet clients?” he teases.
“No, I mean when someone says they’ll take care of you and be your best friend forever, they should mean it. Right?”
“Yes! My point exactly! I mean I was an actor, it was legit to change. I was playing parts. But my real heart’s still in here, and I never gave it away to anyone. Not even my wife, not all of it. I saved that for Judy. Just her, if you can believe it. But she really didn’t take it. Ever. There’s still a hole in it, you see, and no one to fill it.”
“As you may see,” Heidi retorts, “I have the exact same problem.”
“Judy betrayed you?”
“The hole in the heart, silly.”
Heidi realizes that Collum is trying to amuse her. It is rare that she laughs, and Heidi feels freed by the very movement of her chest and the funny bursts of her breath.
“I think you’ve got the sadness, too, luv,” says Collum.
“No one else can tell.”
“Yeah, we hide it well. But there is such pain—”
“And when someone turns on you—just, you know, breaks their promise to take care of you—”
“I won’t do that to you. I’m not like Judy or the man who hurt you. I’m fair dinkum conscientious.”
“Conscientious is my middle name. I mean, it’s actually Dorcas, but—”
“Oh, darling girl,” he says, laughing softly at her first attempt at humor. Collum feels warm with new hope; he wants only to take this woman in his arms.
“Shall we try?” he says tenderly. “All one can do is try, I always say. Just kindly show up for the main events, you know? Just climb onboard and take the journey, is all I’m asking.”
“I can do that,” she says. “If you can lead the way.”
Valrhona, Valhalla
Heidi gazes, as though for the last time, at her six-burner stove. Just last night, she had cooked pounds of Slam’s special tube noodles, step number one of a cold pasta salad that would include succotash and mesquite-smoked trout.
“Can I still bake and cook out there?”
“You want to do your catering out in the middle of . . . ?”
“Just for you. Can I cater just to you?” (She likes the pun.)
“Of course you can,” says Collum.
With a stab of sadness, he remembers the early days with Gingerean, when all she’d wanted to do was please him. He remembers her kind, eager expression, and how she’d showed him their first child. And Heidi remembers her husband, Daniel, when they had first met, and for years and years after, how she had been able to count on him for anything.
She finds these thoughts troubling, and shakes them off with a deft overview of her glowing future.
“I mean, do they have all the implements out there in—out in the South Seas? I want to do a good job. I want to heal the pain in your heart.”
“Sweet of you to try. But to be honest, it’s usually drink that does the trick.”
“Nonsense. You don’t need that anymore. Chocolate’s going to be a big part of it. Full of endorphins. I’ll stock up on Valrhona.”
“Who’s she?”
Heidi knows he is joking again and laughs. Her teeth, he notices, are pretty, with the luster of pearls.
“Oh, my girl. My girl,” he murmurs, sinking his head into her halo of blond hair and sliding out the grosgrain band that holds it. It springs free like a Slinky and he noses it and kisses it. And then he kisses her mouth.
For a painful, undefended second, Collum compares Heidi’s lips to Judy’s (Heidi’s are thinner and smell of buttered chives). But he pushes all comparisons out of his mind. He will pine no longer. He will settle now. That is the key to contentment. Settling. The old horses at the riding camp know that gentle surrender. Clemmy could show you all the grace of heaven in one long sigh.
“My girl.” Heidi likes the sound of that. That she is “his,” and that she can still be a girl and start over again. Jude has lost and she has won it all.
Love Is Not a Pogrom
The Kunst home is spinning off its axis. Heidi is gone—her best pots, knives, and spice racks are gone. Ev
en her custom spatula. And Dante has cut his hair short and taken out both his earrings, which is almost as unsettling.
“Our families have gone insane, Delaney,” says Davey, who’d told her about his own mother’s weird rabbi friend.
“Do you know what that means?” says Delaney, as they lie sprawled on the bed in her immaculate room. “It means we are finally free! I wrote about this in a story, but never dreamed how soon it would actually come true.”
“What do you mean, ‘free’?”
“We don’t have to meet anyone’s expectations! We can start living our real, authentic lives!”
“What would that mean in practice?” he says, pulling her shirt up and trying to undo her bra.
“It means I can wear latex! I can get a nose chain! A tattooed ankle bracelet! I can do anything I want to!”
Delaney jumps up and paces her room excitedly. She undoes the curtain ties and throws them across the room. The curtains, released, sway together, obscuring what little light is left of that day. A row of handmade dolls with elaborate ethnic clothes and bisque faces arrayed on her dresser follow her every move, wondering how she dares defy the spirit of this house. It was Heidi who had built this home, selecting even them, her daughter’s dolls, one by one. She had placed them on stands (alphabetical by country), had them dusted every other day.
Delaney now swipes at them with a large arm movement, causing Miss Spain and Miss Sweden to topple over. The rest of the dolls tilt and fall. It is a porcelain war, and petticoats fly.
“Delaney—don’t make a mess out of the situation. Chill out. You must be upset—I mean, no one even knows where your mom went.”
“I bet she went somewhere with Shy. I mean, he’s gone, too, right?”
“I don’t know,” says Davey, who still has questions about that rabbi who knew so much about him. “And what about her catering business? Who’s going to take care of all those clients?”
“Well, here’s the funny thing, Davey. Mom left a bunch of her recipes, so I could just take over like that, if I wanted to. I could use them, I could market them, I could turn them into a real book that sold a million copies.”
“Never saw it in her, I must say.”