Liberating Paris

by Linda Bloodworth Thomason

  Now she knew what she had always suspected was true. Jeter had not told her himself, but his poem had done it for him. He had been a virgin when he was injured. She’d asked Wood this question many times and he always told her he didn’t know for sure, and she had never believed him. She knew a few of the girls Jeter dated in high school. There had probably been the quick brush of a thigh or the made-to-look-accidental caress of a breast, but there it was. He had never and would never know the joy of holding a woman against his own heart after making love to her. Milan could hardly bear the thought of it. Of all their friends, Jeter was the one she loved without thinking about it. She couldn’t say why really. He had told her once that poverty is a kind of paralysis, too. And how maybe that was the bond they shared. But that wasn’t talk that interested Milan. She couldn’t have cared less why things are the way they are. Which is why the very next morning she got in her Mercedes and drove sixty miles to the town of Gunther, where she proceeded to hire a thirty-eight-year-old hooker named Cherry Smoke, who was thereafter to be paid a hundred dollars for every visit made to a Mr. Carl Jeter.

  Wood worried about Jeter’s health and Mavis cooked for him and Brundidge gave him his old clothes, which Sidney Garfinkel discreetly altered without ever saying a word about his shrinkage. But it was Milan who always knew, without being told, what he really needed. Even during their graduation night party, when his colostomy bag had started to leak, and everyone else had tried to cover their horror with frantic words, and Duff had held his hand while regaling everyone with the day she got her period all over her white, cashmere wool pants, it was Milan who was on her knees cleaning up the mess and acting as though he had just spilled a little champagne on her skirt.

  Over the years, she had taken good care of Jeter. Much to Wood’s dismay, she found a special homeopathic cream for his bedsores that worked. She got him the reading stand and a stick for turning pages that he could hold in his mouth. She kept a jar in his room filled with his favorite hard candy. She bought him lamps and painted all his lightbulbs a soft beige to diffuse the harsh lighting around his bed. And best of all, she had used her childhood sewing skills to make him a beautiful quilt of brightly colored, velvet squares. Jeter liked the way the lush fabric felt next to his face. Nothing in recent years had soothed him more than Milan’s hand-stitched comforter. Well, at least nothing had until Cherry Smoke came along. Jeter could hardly believe it when she just appeared one day in his doorway, like an adolescent fantasy sprung to life. In spite of being fifteen years older than him, she was splendid and leggy with huge bosoms and not an ounce of silicone. Not that he was picky or an expert, but anyone could tell, once she got her clothes off, that she was as fine as any girl in his and Wood and Brundidge’s old tree-house Playboys. Leave it to Milan to even be good at picking whores.

  Cherry, who was given the official title of “massage therapist,” came to see him twice a month. If the old people at the nursing home suspected her real purpose, no one ever said so. Once Judith Nutter had stopped Cherry in the hall and asked to see her credentials. Cherry had politely told her in a voice toasted by cigarettes, “If you want to see my pussy, you’ll have to pay for it.”

  Over the years, Cherry gave Jeter the physical pleasures he had never known. In return, he put her in mind of some long-ago romantic feeling she had almost forgotten. After retiring at forty-five, Cherry kept Jeter as her only client. She said she was afraid no one else would know how to treat him. But it might have also been that he recited long passages of poetry to her and each time she left kissed her good-bye like a young boy going off to war. Jeter’s face was his sole erogenous zone. And there wasn’t an inch of Cherry that hadn’t been pressed up against it. He had smelled and tasted and licked all of her. And when she dangled her big ol’ bosoms over his eyes and nose and forehead, well, it was like getting lost in a silky pink ether. Then one night after a visit with Jeter, Cherry’s car skidded on some ice and crashed into a light pole. It happened on Main Street, not more than thirty yards from the picture window where Jeter had sat for years, collecting dust along with his mother’s porcelain knickknacks.

  It was Milan who came and held him in her arms all night while hot silent tears drifted down their cheeks. He thought when the sun came up, he might feel more hopeful, but that hadn’t been the case. Just like Wood and Brundidge thought they could patch things up when only a week later they hired a younger and more beautiful “therapist” to service him. When the girl showed up in Jeter’s room, he went crazy, screeching at her to get the hell out. By the time Wood and Brundidge stopped by to collect their friend’s gratitude, the whole nursing home was in an uproar and Jeter was lying in bed facing the wall. His voice was a raw whisper.

  “She was my girl. Didn’t you know? I thought you knew.”

  It was a long time before Milan told him that Cherry hadn’t cashed any of her checks in years. And that finally Milan had quit sending them. She had promised not to tell Jeter this, but now she felt he should know. For weeks after Cherry’s death, this single piece of information became the bedrock of Jeter’s meager optimism. It was knowledge that lifted him from the darkness and backed him away from each new 3 A.M. precipice. Cherry had loved him. His large head, his withered body, the penis that didn’t work. She had embraced his ugliness as tenderly as Sam Gambelluca had caressed all the old worn-out feet on Main Street. And she hadn’t been pretending either. She had done it sincerely. He grieved that she could no longer lie on top of him, but it was glorious that she had once been there. Just glorious. That’s how it all seemed for a while. Then Jeter began to feel utterly desolate and inconsolable. The fact that Cherry loved him meant that he had lost even more than he realized. And even worse, he had loved her, too. All those years of caring for each other and never saying so, because they thought they were a whore and an invalid in a business deal. And now she was gone.

  He had been a good sport about almost everything. Being removed from the game at seventeen. Losing his parents. Losing his home. He hadn’t even said very much about having to lie down for twenty-five years. But this was too much. Too hard. It was time to go back to living inside his head, where he could keep Cherry alive, along with his other great love. The one he would never tell anyone about. The one who didn’t even know herself. Yes, much safer there. A place where your girlfriend does not die on you or marry someone else. And heroes do not get carried off the field. Where beautiful pigskin missiles always arrive safely in your arms, just as you carry each one across the goal line, then step from the arena, head down, as though you have never even heard the roar of the crowd. That’s the place where Jeter wanted to be. Only occasionally now, on nights when he can’t sleep, does he even bother to stare out the window across the long row of darkened rooftops on Main Street, through the black, snow-covered trees, sometimes catching the lights of the football stadium in the distance…and sometimes dreaming of woman, burning in the air.

  CHAPTER 11

  It was Halloween. Mavis was seated at her kitchen table, sorting through a small mountain of papers that contained the names and biographical information of over two hundred and fifty potential sperm daddies. She had arranged them in stacks of “No Way in Hell,” “Possibility, with Reservations,” and “Definite Yes.” The “Definite Yes” stack had only five donors in it and in her heart, she knew that they were really only “Possibilities, with Reservations.” But if she didn’t put somebody in the yes category, that pile would be empty and then she would’ve gotten nowhere, just as she had for the last six years. Besides, the names and backgrounds of these two hundred and fifty men had been culled from the files of the two top sperm-providing companies in America and it had already cost Mavis a pretty penny just to look at them.

  It was after midnight now and pouring rain. There was a loud knock at the back door. Chester jumped up, howling, and Mavis demanded to know who it was.

  Brundidge’s voice came from the other side. “Trick or treat.”

  Mavis opened the door.
Brundidge pushed Jeter, in his wheelchair, into the kitchen. They smelled like beer. Mavis said, “Excuse me, but I believe I filled your children’s bags hours ago.”

  Brundidge said, “Yeah? So? Now we’re trick or treating for ourselves.”

  Brundidge shook the water off, stomping his feet and brushing it off Jeter’s coat, too.

  Mavis said, “Where’s your costumes?”

  Brundidge removed a carton of eggs from inside his jacket. “Here. Scramble these for us. I confiscated them from errant youth.” He headed toward the refrigerator. “You’re lucky they’re not on the side of the house.”

  Mavis followed him. “This is not a damn diner.”

  “Well, that’s good, because if it was, you’d be a damn poor hostess.” Brundidge opened the door. “Whoa! Mexican lasagna! Nobody makes that better than you. That’ll go great with eggs.”

  “Nobody makes that, period. I made it up. That’s how much attention you pay.”

  Jeter knew Mavis had softened a little, because she was now unwrapping his scarf. Brundidge got out the lasagna. “What’s all that paperwork? What the hell are you doin’ over there?”

  “Picking out a sperm daddy.” Then, motioning toward Jeter, “Because he won’t give me his.” Then she added, almost to herself, “I can feed the two of you for years, but let me ask for a little cup of something…”

  After the dirty dishes had been stacked, they were all gathered around the table. Mavis was speaking, “Okay, now, these are the fact sheets on the donors, with their race, religion, medical history, and a description of their personal appearance. There’s also a little essay—”

  Brundidge found a receipt in the middle of some pages. “Wait a minute. You actually paid for all this stuff with a credit card?”

  “Yes. Is that a problem?”

  “No. But somethin’ about it doesn’t seem right.”

  “Well, discuss it with a close friend or your clergyman, okay?”

  Brundidge got up and crossed to the counter, helping himself to a cookie. “You don’t have to be sarcastic.”

  “Listen, I’m serious. This is very important to me.”

  “You think we’re not serious? Are we serious, Jeet?”

  “Hell yes.”

  Brundidge was getting fired up. “Don’t you worry about me. I’m a parent. I’m the treasurer of the whole damn PTA.”

  He gestured toward the papers. “You just get it all laid out there. We’re not leaving till this job is done!”

  Then, as he returned to the table, he acknowledged Chester by holding out his arms, slowly stomping his feet, and growling.

  Jeter said, “No matter how many times you do that, it never gets old.”

  Brundidge gave a piece of his cookie to the dog, who licked his face. Mavis acted disgusted. “Chester, stop that! You don’t know where his mouth has been.”

  An hour later, they were eating lemon meringue ice cream and still at it. Mavis fed Jeter, then put another page in the reading stand that was attached to his wheelchair. He studied it for a minute, then, “What’s wrong with the landscape architect again?”

  Mavis answered, “Too short.”

  Brundidge had his glasses on now and was immersed in his own stack. Mavis handed him a different page.

  “Who’s that?” he asked.

  She raised her eyebrows, “5158. I kind of like him.”

  Brundidge frowned. “No way.” He tapped one of his own papers, “I’m votin’ for this guy here. He’s a doctor. He has a lot of hair and he speaks several languages.”

  Mavis took the paper in her hand, “Oh, that’s a mistake. He’s not even supposed to be in there.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because he’s a Hindu.”

  “What’s wrong with being a Hindu? Hindus are fine people. What about Gandhi?”

  “What about Gandhi? This is not Gandhi’s sperm. Anyway, I want to immerse the baby in its own heritage and I don’t know anything about Hinduism.”

  “Well, let me tell you. It’s a hell of a lot better than,” he tapped 5158, “having an undescended testicle.”

  Mavis narrowed her eyes at Brundidge as he put 5158’s paper on Jeter’s stand. Jeter began reading it. “My goal is to feel, respond to, and reciprocate beauty in both verbal and nonverbal ways.” Jeter gave Mavis a dubious look.

  She responded, “So?”

  Brundidge answered, “So? That’s not normal. Nobody talks like that.”

  Jeter became more emboldened, “Oh! And here’s the real kicker.” He was reading again. “He does not have freckles, but he does have,” Jeter said it loud, “a strong facial profile!”

  Brundidge picked up his cue, “Whoa! Flag on the field! If you’re admitting on one of these deals that you have a strong facial profile, can you imagine what it really looks like?” Brundidge pounded the table as he and Jeter broke up laughing.

  “I mean, this guy’s in a world of hurt!” They continued their merriment until Mavis abruptly stood up and collected all the papers into one hurried stack, like a teacher who had just caught her whole classroom cheating. Jeter and Brundidge grew quiet.

  Brundidge finally spoke. “What the hell are you doin’?”

  Jeter said, “Come on, we’re just kiddin’ around.”

  “No, it’s okay. I can see how it’s funny. Really, I can.” She put the pages back in their folders. “But you know what’s even funnier?” Mavis crossed to the kitchen window again and looked out. “I don’t want to have a baby with 5158. Or anybody else I’ve never had a conversation with. I want somebody who’s tasted my lasagna…and been to my house…. Somebody who has actually had their arms around me, even if it was only when we were kids.” She picked up a dish towel and dabbed her eyes, embarrassed. “Maybe I don’t have a right to want that. But I do.” Then she looked straight at Jeter. “And if he would just give me that chance, I swear he would never have to come around. He wouldn’t even have to send a birthday card. I could just say that he ran off or…that he’s dead.”

  Brundidge looked at Jeter, whose face remained as unmovable as the rest of him. Then he said to Mavis, “What the hell was that? A sales pitch? Jeez, no wonder your mother had to buy all your school candy.”

  They were on their way back to the nursing home. Brundidge punched in a CD and the mournful strains of “Desperado” drifted out through the speakers. Then, after setting the stage, he looked in the rearview mirror at Jeter.

  “You know, that baby thing…There’s nothin’ like a little girl. They can tell you on a daily basis where you’re makin’ all your errors.”

  Jeter didn’t say anything. Brundidge went on. “Man, I just see all these Jerry Springer people reproducing like rabbits. It’s scary, you know? Who’s gonna replace our parents?”

  “Hey, if you want to save civilization, be my guest. I’m still learning how to make pottery with my tongue.”

  When they pulled up at Pleasant Valley, Rudy was waiting in the rain. Brundidge got out of the van, opened the back, and put out the ramp. Jeter came down it, just as the plaintive wail of the chorus was finishing up. “You better let somebody love you, let somebody love you, before it’s too late.” As his wheelchair whirred past Brundidge, Jeter shook his head, giving his old friend a look of disgust.

  Then Rudy covered Jeter with an umbrella as they went toward the somber, automated entrance.

  Mavis was lying in bed, depressed over the evening’s lackluster results. She was no closer to getting a baby now than she had been when she first started the hormones. Which is why she was going to drown her sorrows, as she so often did, in two of the most abiding comforts for a single woman in a small town—Food and Television. She took another bite of her banana pudding and gave Chester one of the wafers. Then she picked up the remote control and began channel surfing. It was getting more and more difficult to find something she liked to watch these days. Especially since she had sworn off all the programs that were dragging her down, both mentally and spiritually.


  Mavis had finally grown weary of the women on her television who had nothing on their minds but finding a man at all costs. It didn’t matter how well-off or pretty or successful they were—all of it was meaningless without a man. Normally sane types, who became irresponsible and brain-dead the minute a new pair of balls rolled into town and told them to get off the phone, put on a thong, this dinner sucks and if I can’t have you no one will. Women who ignored lying, cheating, drunkenness, and even getting knocked around, with the pathetic universal cry that excuses all sorry male behavior, “But I Love Him.”

  And she had finally decided to lay off all the “But I Love Him” networks and the hundreds of “But I Love Him” made-for-TV movies, too, which she had once compulsively watched with Milan and sometimes Rudy, wasting, she figured, a good portion of her life to date. For years, they had lost themselves in the addictive world of watching women do dog-ass stupid things, marrying men they hardly knew, giving them access to their children and all their money, and then acting stunned upon learning, after a quick middle-of-the-night wallet check, that they are really married to a world-class liar, con man, bigamist, or worse, Jimmy Del Serial Killer.

  At first Mavis and Milan had thought it was all pretty funny. It made them feel good that they were so much smarter than their idiot TV sisters who, if they weren’t desperate to get married, were desperate to get unmarried. They would hoot and holler every time one of these hapless women left her best friend’s apartment to run up the stairs of her old house in high heels alone at night hoping to pack a quick bag before the abusive, insanely jealous soon-to-be-ex husband gets home. “Hey, honey, let it go! Did your Miss Phipps not tell you during fire drills that your parents can always buy a new Crayola box, but not a new you?” They personally didn’t know any women who would act this lame or helpless. Mavis couldn’t even remember a single woman on television who had ever successfully completed a bath, in spite of the fact that she was pretty sure if any man interrupted hers, she would beat him to death with her easy-to-remove metal towel rack. In spite of the fact that she kept a tire iron under her own car seat and a stun gun, courtesy of Serious West, under her bed—none of these television women seemed to own so much as a slingshot.