New Jersey Me

by Ferguson, Rich;

  Then she shot back: “Name a band whose name is a palindrome.”

  That was a no-brainer. “ABBA,” I said. Then I added the cherry, told her that the band’s self-titled album released in ’75 also featured another palindrome. Track four: “SOS.”

  We paused so Callie could take a breather, and readjust the waist belt that attached her fake leg to her body. Then she said: “Jerry Lee Lewis married his cousin in 1957. What was her name?”

  Another no-brainer. “Myra Gale Brown. She was only thirteen, and was the daughter of the bass player in his band.” Then I soared us into the heavens. “In what constellation can you find the brightest star in the night sky?”

  Far faster than my Vega could ever rev up to twenty miles an hour, Callie said: “Canis Major. Sirius, the brightest star in the night sky is only eight light-years away.” Then she shot back: “What’s so interesting about the songwriter David Rose?”

  That one stumped me.

  Callie explained that he’d not only scored a Billboard #1 hit with a 1962 instrumental called “The Stripper,” but he’d also written the theme for Little House On The Prairie.

  With all our quizzing, we’d hardly noticed that we’d ended up on a remote little sand dune, the Funtown Pier far in the distance. That evening breeze made a patch of dead dune grass around us come alive with a dry rustle of music.

  I spread out the blanket, then eased Callie down onto it. She kept her fake leg straight, while her good one, she twisted under her for support. She observed the dark stretch of beach and ocean that bloomed out from us in all directions. Callie picked up a stick, etched a heart in the sand. For a few moments, she admired that heart, eyes beaming. Then she tossed the stick aside, glanced out at the dark waters. Her eyes were slightly more maudlin than moonglow.

  I asked what was up.

  At first she didn’t say anything, just played with the zipper of her sweat jacket. Finally, not so much out of pity as simple observation, she offered, “I used to come here with my family. Running along the beach.” She glanced down at her fake leg, then back up at the vast stretch of ocean. “Wow. That seems so long ago.”

  She kept staring at the ocean. Had her head turned in a way so I couldn’t see the scar on her face. That flawless side of Callie was the side I’d imagined she’d always wanted in life. The Callie of Purity and Promise. The Callie of Unblemished Porcelain Skin. Then she turned back to me, and I, once again, witnessed the Callie I so admired: The Callie of Damage and Dignity. The Callie of the Huge Heart, Wobbly Walk, and Off-Kilter Smile.

  As for the way I’d always viewed myself: just some flesh-and-bones version of Muzak—some drippy person that trickled into the environment without anyone really noticing at first. And when they did, all they saw and heard was some paltry, watered-down version of something they may or may not have enjoyed in the first place. Which would pretty much leave everyone, including myself, pissed off and disappointed—plugging their ears, and running for the exits. But that wasn’t how Callie viewed me. In fact, it was right at that moment she turned to me, and said: “I think I love you, Mark.”

  “I think I love you, too,” I said. I gathered her close.

  She took my hand, slipped it beneath her skirt. Took me to that place where fake flesh met real. And while I’d traveled to that place many times before, that evening her real flesh was almost hot to the touch.

  I worked my fingers beneath her panties.

  That’s when Callie said all warm and breathy against my neck: “Let’s go all the way.”

  “You sure?”

  She nodded. “Just be careful.”

  All the R-rated movies I’d snuck into back in those days—Catch-22, M*A*S*H, Performance, and more—had me stupidly believing going all the way was easy. That practically all I had to do was snap my fingers, and there I’d be—awash in a sea of bare flesh, with moves smoother than Adonis. The reality of the situation, though, was much different.

  I was in such a hurry to strip that I ripped my Love tee while pulling it off. My Levis got bunched up around my ankles; I flopped around like a fish washed ashore. Between Callie’s peals of laughter, and all my huffing and puffing, I finally tore myself out of my pants. Those once unripped jeans: shredded in the knees.

  As for Callie, while removing her sweat jacket, her right arm got caught in the sleeve. She struggled so much to free herself she elbowed me in the nose. “Oh my God,” she gasped. “I’m so sorry.” When she tried to examine my nose more closely, I told her to forget about it. There’d been no blood. Only a few moments of me seeing my own stars. Her “Live to Tell” T-shirt, however, was much easier. “Here,” she offered. She raised her arms. I clutched the tee at the bottom hem, just below Madonna’s image—all golden hair, blue-eyes gazing toward the heavens—and slipped it up and over Callie’s head and outstretched arms. I tossed it to the side of the blanket. Then I helped remove the sneaker from her right foot; her skirt, she left on. She gathered all those pretty polka dots up around her waist.

  From there, we quickly stripped out of our remaining clothes as if trying to outrun any shyness and fears that might’ve made us think twice about it all.

  Callie pulled her good leg out from under her, then the two of us eased down until we were lying on the blanket, all goose bumps and shivers. I slipped her a kiss so heavy with tongue it made her cough. She hugged me so tight I also coughed. Getting hard wasn’t a problem though. Once she’d said she wanted to do it, I was ready. But finding my way inside her was another story. The first time, I poked her just above the ass. She got a look on her face like she’d seen a beach rat. “Higher.” Then another time: “A little lower.”

  When I finally found the sweet spot, I slid inside her. We avoided eye contact. My hips didn’t pump jackrabbit fast, like I’d seen in so many movie sex scenes. I took it slow.

  “That feels nice,” Callie sighed.

  Still more goose bumps and shivers, but now for reasons other than the cool night air.

  My left leg kept brushing against her fake leg. At first, I’d readjust my body, trying to avoid it. Callie got wise to my moves. A crease or two spread across her forehead. Her eyes appeared sadder, lonelier than Seaside Park in the winter. “Should we stop?” she asked.

  I told her no. Said everything was just so new and all, and to give it another chance.

  So we did.

  I’m not sure how it happened, but right then, all our ineptitude slipped away. Callie’s body: a warm, slow-flowing river. Her hair: radiant as Vesta’s sacred flame. Her scent: sweet and earthy, bonfire smoke laced with freshly spun cotton candy. And every soft something she uttered: holy. A parish of whispers between her lips. Our breathing, which had at first been choppy and out of tune, merged into one shared breathing in and out. When I noticed my shadow slowly cross over her belly, small breasts, and face, I forgot about all the ghosts. And when our glances finally locked, and Callie’s eyes swallowed me whole, I was freefalling through a continuous field of diamonds. The whole world was spinning, far greater than any ride on Funtown Pier. No conception of loss or fear. Only possibility. At that moment we didn’t need French. Didn’t need Ouija boards or Mad Man’s wise words to determine the future. Didn’t even need to fool myself into believing my life was a Springsteen song. Callie and I were that song. That night I could’ve lived and died in her arms. I could’ve stormed the Pearly Gates with a wide grin slapped across my face.

  Chapter 13

  In Blackwater, people wanted out. Out of debt. Out of trouble. Out of marriages and relationships. Sickness and sadness. For a few, it was as easy as packing their cars and heading out. Others died of natural causes.

  That winter during twelfth grade, for example. It was about five months after that summer when Mom and I had first kicked ass with Mary Kay.

  She’d just pulled up to our usual meeting spot. Never mind it was an icy January Saturday morning. We
were all about making the sale. I hopped into her warm car. Right away I knew something was up. There were half moons of darkness beneath Mom’s eyes, like she’d been wiping at the concealer that generally covered them. And instead of greeting me with that music in her voice, she said flatly: “We can’t do this anymore.”

  When I asked what I’d done wrong, all she said was, “You’ve done everything right, honey. I just don’t think I’m cut out for this.” Then she swiped a pill from her purse, popped it.

  Up until that moment I’d managed to stay fairly cool. But forget that. I was pissed. Super pissed. I didn’t know who to be more pissed at—Mom for leaving me again, or me for believing she’d stay. I punched the glove compartment. It sprang open. Mary Kay samples, bunched-up tissues, along with insurance and registration paperwork tumbled to the floor.

  Mom didn’t flinch. Didn’t even bat a mascara’d eyelash when she said, “Please try to understand.”

  I understood all too well. This had been our lifelong game: love tug-of-war. Right then, I recalled a Bible quote. How Jesus had said something like: Yes, I am with you always, until the very end. “Why do you even go to church?” I asked.

  The half moons beneath Mom’s eyes grew a little darker. “Excuse me?”

  I spit that Bible quote in her face, then added: “If you’re so damned God-like, you should’ve at least followed that one.” I stormed from the car.

  Mom stuck her head out the window. Even stuck out an arm, frantically swished it through the frigid, teeth-biting air. Normally, she never raised her voice in public. But that day she just kept waving and hollering: “Get back here right now, young man!”

  I ignored her, kept hunching my way through the chill.

  She called after me a few more times. But when I flipped her off, she peeled out in the opposite direction.

  I continued skulking through the maze of wintry residential streets. Above, the sky was withered, ashen gray. Below, the lawns were sprinkled with a light powdering of snow that sparkled like shattered glass. I continued replaying the blowout with Mom. It was the same endless loop. The same breakdown song with the same old words and melody I’d heard for years.

  After that, things only got worse. A few days later, I visited Grandmother in the Blackwater Medical Center.

  She was hooked up to all these sci-fi looking machines that beeped, whirred, and groaned. A snaky maze of tubes and wires ran from them, went up her nose, connected to her arms and chest. Her flesh, like a bad thrift store dress, hung loose and rumpled from her frame. Milky eyes. Tissue-thin speech. She was light years from the Grandmother I’d known as a child: the hefty, fearless woman with the husky voice, beautiful sky-blues, and perfect hug.

  I pulled up a chair alongside her bed, smoothed the matted white hair from her face. Gave her a kiss on the forehead. In the old days she smelled of menthol and bacon grease. Now: antiseptic and death.

  Her eyelids fluttered open. The creases across her forehead and between her eyebrows deepened. Her lips pursed so much she sprouted a wrinkle mustache. “What are you doing here? You should be in school.”

  Truth was I’d skipped that day. I’d twenty-five mphed my Vega along the frosty Garden State Parkway to reach her. I recalled one of the many medicine bottles I’d spied sitting atop the nurse station desk when I’d first checked in. “It’s a holiday,” I lied. “St. Procardia’s Day.”

  “Oh,” said Grandmother. “I’ve never heard of that one.” She paused, took a few labored breaths, then said: “So you’re doing well in school?”

  “Absolutely. All As.” Another flatline lie. In truth, the As were mostly Bs and in math I’d barely managed to score a C.

  Some sky-blue drifted back into Grandmother’s eyes. “You’re doing better in math. I’m proud of you.” Then, in that fragile voice of hers, she told me her bed was number twenty-seven, and the empty one next to hers, twenty-eight. “Quick,” she said. “Multiply them.”

  Luckily, straight computation had never been too difficult. From her purse sitting atop the bedside table I snatched a pen and her math pad. Flipped to a blank page, got to work. Once done, I said without any hesitation: “Seven hundred fifty-six.”

  A tiny caterpillar of a smile inched across Grandmother’s face. From beneath the sheets, she wriggled a hand free. It was badly wrinkled and covered with splotches of browns, reds, and yellows. It looked like one of the Christmas fruitcakes she used to make. She rested that hand on my own. While I’d expected it to feel cold and clammy, it was warm, reassuring.

  That day, and long afterward, I’d wonder how a woman of such warmth could be dying on account of complications due to her heart. Another thing that would continually confound me: how had such a loving woman given birth to my bastard of an old man?

  I dreaded bringing up that bastard’s name for fear of conversation buzzkill. But I had to. I wasn’t sure how much longer Grandmother would be around. “What was he like when he was my age? You know, Dad?”

  Grandmother shook her head. “A real devil,” she sighed. “Nothing I did could ever please him.” Her eyes clouded slightly, welled up a bit. But not enough to blink down a storm. She gave my hand a pat. “Your father loves you very much.”

  I snorted a laugh.

  “It’s true,” she said. She proceeded to tell me how, as a boy, my old man’s cop father had constantly bullied him to be the best he could be. Sometimes my old man succeeded. More often than not, he’d failed miserably.

  Great, I thought. It was just like that Springsteen lyric from “Adam Raised a Cain.” Something about how you’re born into this life paying for the sins of somebody else’s past. If my relationship with my old man was forever dictated by the word of Bruce I was screwed. That decree was far bigger than anything I could change through sheer will or the right drugs.

  “Don’t worry,” said Grandmother. “Things’ll get better.”

  After that, she fell silent. All we could hear were the hurried voices of nurses out in the hallway, the sounds of a Code Blue and other commands crackling over the intercom, and the song of Grandmother’s life-saving machines.

  “Anything I can do to help you feel better?” I asked.

  Grandmother flashed a weak smile. “Tell me more about your life. Do you have a girlfriend?”

  I shrugged.

  “Come on. You can tell Grandma.”

  “There’s this one girl,” I said. “Callie. She’s a senior like me. She’s got blonde hair and pretty eyes. And a nice voice. She was also in a car crash and has a fake leg. But you wouldn’t know it. She’s not all bitter. Just kind.”

  As Grandmother considered that one, her machines continued singing—beeps here, groans there. When she finally responded, I had to lean in extra close on account of all those machines. “Kindness,” she said, her voice pale and delicate as her flimsy and faded blue hospital gown. “That’s important. But do you trust her?”

  At first I figured it was the near death and drugs making her ask such a strange question. To me, trust and kindness were the same. Yet the more I thought about it, the more I realized she had a point. For example, Mom could be kind. Though once she’d left me that first time, I never truly trusted her again. As for Jimmy, I trusted him with my life, but knew he could be a real pain in the ass. With Callie, I never questioned her kindness. In regards to trust, I recalled our first date, and how she’d tried to bust me out of Blackwater. Never mind that I was stopped by my own fears. “Yeah,” I said. “I trust her.”

  Grandmother studied my eyes, and my hand resting on hers. Maybe she was thinking of what to say next. Or maybe, like my old man would often do, she was searching for any physical or emotional reaction that would contradict or corroborate with my statement. All she did was motion toward her purse.

  I placed it between us.

  She worked her hands through the maze of machine hoses, and fumbled with the purse clasp,
but couldn’t quite manage.

  “Here,” I said. I popped it open for her.

  She fished around inside, dug past lipstick, ballpoint pens, Kleenex, and a mini sewing/repair kit to produce a small velvet drawstring pouch. From inside the pouch she produced a ring. It was a thin white gold band with a sparkling diamond center.

  “It’s beautiful,” I said. “But you shouldn’t keep it in your purse. Someone might steal it.”

  Grandmother said that was nonsense, that she always carried it with her. Then she told me a story she’d repeatedly told me through the years. Never once did I stop her; I just let her, still again, recount that sad and stunning tale about the young man named Reece that had given her the ring when she was eighteen. They’d met on the Asbury Park boardwalk. He’d been my grandmother’s first true love. They had plans to get married. But then he went off to war. After that, she never saw him again. Throughout her story, her lifesaving machines beeped and groaned faster, then slower. Once done speaking, the rhythms of those machines gradually leveled out. Grandmother, however, appeared exhausted. Her rumpled flesh was even paler. Her arms: hanging limply at her sides. It took all her strength to motion with her head toward the plastic Pepto-Bismol-pink water pitcher sitting atop her bedside table.

  I poured her a glass.

  After a few sips and some quiet time, she again displayed the ring. “I want you to have it.”

  In those days, I was practically the definition of Teenage Wasteland. Was always partying. Couldn’t hold down a job. Would lose track of time. Forget about knowing what to do with a fine diamond ring. “It’s too nice,” I said. “Besides, shouldn’t Dad get it?”

  Grandmother’s milky eyes brightened slightly. “You have your whole life ahead of you, sweetie.” She placed the ring in my hand.

  As I marveled at the glittering band, I wondered why she’d never given it to my old man to pass along to Mom. I wanted to ask, but then I recalled all those past Christmases, and other occasions, when Mom and my grandmother had been together. When I was much younger, it had been so confusing to see them arguing. More times than not, I’d bolt to my room, bawl my eyes out. But as I grew older, the situation grew clearer. Grandmother—one of my greatest allies—was just looking out for me. As for Mom, she was simply clueless when it came to expressing her emotions. So she stuffed them into Mary Kay and housecleaning. Once I began understanding things in those terms, I’d no longer run off crying whenever they’d argue. I’d just lock myself in my room and crank my sonic walls. Between all those fights with Mom and having my old man as a son, I figured Grandmother must’ve learned very early on that true affection wasn’t either of my parents’ strong suit.