Shockproof Sydney Skate

by Marijane Meaker

  “But how come she still lets you date Raoul?”

  “She said the whole thing was my fault. I wrote in my diary how I said we should all take our clothes off to swim, and she said I was the prime instigator.”

  “So she still likes Raoul.”

  “Sure. She loves Raoul. He’s Harvard and he’s going to be a doctor.”

  “Oh.”

  “She says I’ll wreck Raoul’s life.”

  “She really doesn’t like you very much.”

  “It’s mutual.”

  “I wouldn’t know what that would be like,” he said.

  “Because your mother’s neat.”

  “We get along.”

  “She doesn’t have all these gross hang-ups.”

  “Not those particular ones.”

  “How’d we get on this subject? Now I’m down.”

  He reached for her.

  “No,” she said. “I’m coming down. I just want to be alone and go to bed.”

  “I’m going home anyway,” Shockproof shrugged, “Promenading” it.

  “Do me a favor?”

  “What?”

  “My car’s parked on Irving Place in front of Pete’s,” she said. “It’s a black Triumph convertible. Will you lock it for me, and then slip the key in my mailbox before you go home?”

  He dressed and purposely didn’t wash his hands when he splashed water across his face. He came out of the bathroom and found her sitting in the living room on the velvet love seat in a long pink cotton nightie, with the notebook labeled ORGANIC CHEMISTRYon her lap. She was holding a Pentel, vaguely listening to Brahms over WQXR.

  “I just thought of something,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Are you on the pill?”

  “No.”

  “You’re not on the pill?”

  “I have an IUD.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Oh no.”

  “Never mind.”

  “It stands for intra-uterine device. It’s a little plastic spring they stick in your womb.”

  “How does it work?”

  Alison rolled her eyes to the ceiling. “Do you think you’re going to like girls?”

  “The hell with it then!”

  “I just thought everyone knew about IUDs.”

  “Everyone doesn’t go to Harvard and come down for flying fucks on weekends.”

  “Sydney, you sounded exactly like my mother just then. Your whole tone of voice. Your whole attitude. Moralistic. Disapproving.”

  “I don’t care what you did over the weekend.”

  “Everyone’s so super-possessive. It’s incredible.”

  “I’m not,” he said. “I’m not.” Now it was all wrong, and not the way he wanted to leave things. This was an Estelle Kelly ending, the kind with bad feelings which would induce a giant attack of rejection diarrhea.

  Alison said, “The way an IUD works is that it irritates the womb so badly that in trying to get rid of it, everything inside happens super-fast. The monthly egg passes through your system in a couple of hours, instead of a couple of days.… I’m sorry, Sydney. I’m in a bad mood.”

  “Skip it,” he said.

  “Hey. The evening was neat.”

  “Right,” sticking to his policy of understatement. Then: “Listen. Alison. Remember.” M. E. Shepley Skate style. “What you do with Raoul on weekends is your business. I’m not super-possessive.”

  “I don’t see Raoul all that many weekends in the ninth place,” she said. “His new schedule’s a real grind.”

  Shockproof went down Irving Place spaced out from their goodnight.

  When he came to the black Triumph, he opened the door on the passenger side, got in, and leaned back against the leather to collect himself. On the seat was a flimsy square of violet chiffon scarf. He put it to his nose, smelled Y, then his fingers, and felt everything they had done on the living room floor zap back full force. He was going to have to lift something heavy when he got out of the Triumph.

  Then he opened the glove compartment to see what more of her he could find. There was another square of chiffon inside, yellow, with a few things nestled in its center. He looked at them. Two were matchbooks. One from Elaine’s Restaurant. One from Stay. In the ashtray was a cigarette butt. A Gauloise with a lipstick stain.

  Seven

  ONLY THE LOVING FIND LOVE

  SCENE:

  Fancy restaurant. Woman instructing waiter.

  VOICE OVER:

  Why is Celeste Skinner McRee sending her salad back to the kitchen?

  CLOSE-UP, MISS MCREE:

  Because the lettuce wasn’t crisp. You see, I’m choosy.

  CARTOON CHORUS OF GUM PACKAGES:

  Be Chew-zee, Chew-zee, Chew-zee. Be very, very Chew-zee: Chew-zee gum with flavor.

  CANNON EXPLODING:

  Gun Gum!

  CLOSE-UP, MISS MCREE:

  You be choosy, too. Choose Gun Gum.

  Shockproof had intended to watch David Brinkley before he left to meet his father and stepmother, but the Gun Gum commercial hung him up, and he turned off the set and began brooding all over again.

  When he had finally arrived home the night before, after walking around for hours, M. E. Shepley Skate had gone to bed. Shockproof had spent some time in the den looking through the record albums to see if there were any new purchases. At the start of things, it was M. E. Shepley Skate’s habit to buy albums: a new Sinatra one, a new Peggy Lee or Lana Cantrell or Liza Minnelli or Jack Jones.

  There were no new albums.

  Shockproof had wandered back to his room. He had sat in the dark on the window seat listening to Borodin’s Polovtsian Dances wafting up from the garden. Albert was back from New Hampshire, stretched out in the hammock, while a plump brunette with wild, tangled, hippy hair did needlework beside him in a director’s chair.

  Everything Alison’s mother had said about Alison being the disease in the family, the prime instigator, and wrecking Raoul’s life was being used to rationalize what Shockproof had learned from the contents of the yellow chiffon scarf. Long after Albert and Hippy Hair had left the garden, Shockproof was still going over it, following devious routes which led him to believe M. E. Shepley Skate could not conceivably be involved: that the souvenir from Stay had been lifted by Alison during dinner at Elaine’s. M.E. had not taken her to Stay; M.E. never took straights to Stay. Shockproof considered the fact that Dr. Teregram probably had no idea, either, that Alison was carrying on about her, naming a snake after her and drying it off, wanting to dance with it, and letting it crawl around her naked body. On and on. Bent.

  Super-bent.

  Sometime after Long John Nebel had concluded his all-night radio discussion of the 1965 World Bridge Championship Tournament in which U.S. players were accused of cheating, Shockproof had drifted off to sleep.

  M. E. Shepley Skate still had the benefit of the doubt by the time Shockproof had awakened, but Shockproof had not had breakfast with her. He had slept through, pretending to sleep more than sleeping, entertaining half-waking dreams in which Alison was beating him at bridge by cheating, and Lorna Dune was dancing away with Erik Satie and Bela Bartok.

  That evening a telegram arrived for M.E. She was working late, so Shockproof called the agency. “Well, open it and read it to me,” she said. “I’ve got problems here Job wouldn’t believe, and about two hours to solve them!”

  He tore open the envelope and read the following: “Into the crowned knot of fire. And the fire and the rose are one. Found.”

  “What?”

  “That’s what it says.”

  “Run through that again, would you, Sydney? Slowly.”

  He read it again.

  M. E. Shepley Skate sighed. “All right. Okay.”

  “What do you want me to do with it?” he said.

  “Do with it? Leave it on the table.”

  “Why is it signed ‘Found,’” he said. “Who did you find?”

  “Why do owls hoot, Sydne
y? I haven’t the foggiest, and I’m due downstairs twenty minutes ago. What time are you meeting your father?”

  “Eight o’clock in front of the theater.”

  “Have fun,” she said. “See that nobody rolls him or rapes her on their one night in the Big Apple.”

  After he had hung up, he had tried to call Estelle Kelly to make a date for the end of the evening, but her line was busy. He supposed he had lost her too, and he had thought of joining VISTA or the Peace Corps, channeling his energies into projects which would earn him self-respect. Now was the time to grow his hair, too, change his image, move out and find a crash pad in the East Village. Mainline. Beat his meat like Portnoy, find some maid to bugger like Mailer’s hero, Stephen Rojack, pull a Henry Miller on Alison, hike over to Gramercy Park, tie her to the bedstead, gag her, and go for the razor strop. On the way to the bathroom, he grabs a bottle of mustard from the kitchen. He comes back with the razor strop and belts the piss out of her. Holding the bottle of mustard, or putting it down on the floor first? So the fantasy was arrested by a technicality, and Shockproof could not go back to it and rub the mustard into the raw welts. He was without a fantasy or any plan of action, which was his reasoning in turning on David Brinkley. He hoped for a plane crash killing hundreds or the unexpected death of someone famous, preferably by suicide with murder second.… Then the Chew-zee commercial. Now.

  The phone was ringing.

  Ann MacReynolds. Of the late great Ellie and Ann.

  “How are you, Sydney?”

  “Fine. How are you, Annie?”

  “Oh, I’m fine. Did you have a good year at school?”

  “Ummm hmmm.”

  “You’re all graduated now, aren’t you?”

  As he answered her he pictured her: she looked somewhat like Sandy Dennis. Years ago when The Fox was the movie M. E. Shepley Skate & Company were all in a tizzy over—as Roger Wolfe might put it, “all in a tizzy over and twittering about”—they were all telling Annie, “My God, it was you up there on the big screen.” Shockproof, the Fox, with his duffel bag swung over his shoulder, set down his duffel bag inside the barn, became Stephen Rojack who had just murdered his wife and now had Annie on her back.

  “I have nothing in me,” she said. “Do we go ahead?”

  “Who knows?” I said. “Keep quiet.”

  And I could feel her beginning to come.

  Ann MacReynolds said, “Sydney, the reason I’m calling is: Ellie isn’t there by any chance?”

  “No, she isn’t.”

  “I see.”

  “My mother’s working late.”

  “I see.… You wouldn’t know where Ellie’s staying?”

  He weighed his answer. Rules which had always been clear before were clouding over in those few seconds.

  “Sydney?”

  “I’m sorry. I just dropped something. I was picking it up.”

  “Would you know where she’s staying?” Ann MacReynolds, too, was breaking the rules now.

  He followed. “I’d get hell.”

  “Sydney, this is important. I won’t ever say you said anything. I promise. We’ll forget this whole conversation.”

  “I drove her to the Algonquin with her suitcases.”

  “Sydney, you’re an angel.”

  “I know it must be important.”

  “Oh yes, dear, it is. You see she had to have some privacy to work on a special project, and she forgot to tell me where she was. I have an important letter for her.” Back on code.

  “But don’t say I said anything,” he said.

  “We didn’t even talk, Sydney.”

  Shockproof decided to take his car, failing to remember until he was halfway to Times Square, that there was really only room for two. The thought of his stepmother stuffed into the trunk was his only gratification, until he saw a Western Union office on the same block where he parked the T-bird.

  Shockproof knew what he was going to do, not how he was going to explain it.

  He paid for the telegram and asked the Western Union girl to read back the message he was sending to Alison.

  “‘Only the loving find love,’” she said. “And it’s unsigned.”

  Instead of stuffing Rosemary Skate into the trunk, they stuffed her into the front seat, atop Shockproof’s father, as they drove to the Orient Room up on East End Avenue in the Nineties.

  “Are you sure they serve this late?” said Harold Skate.

  “I’m sure,” said Shockproof.

  “Are you sure they serve both Chinese food and American?” said Rosemary Skate. “I don’t eat Chinese food because of the monosodium glutamate.”

  “There’s monosodium glutamate in everything,” said Harold Skate.

  “The Chinese are famous for it, though, Harold, and you know it. What about Chinese Restaurant Syndrome—headaches, dizziness, numbness and burning sensations?”

  “Don’t spoil it for Sydney and me,” said Harold Skate. “If you don’t want to eat Chinese food, you don’t have to, but Sydney and I feel like some spareribs and some egg rolls and some egg foo young without hearing about Chinese Restaurant Syndrome, don’t we, Sydney?”

  “I eat Chinese food a lot,” said Shockproof, “and it never bothers me.”

  “Is it nice American food?” said Rosemary Skate.

  “It’s very good,” said Shockproof, “and there’s a great view of the East River. It’s the only Chinese restaurant in New York with a good view.”

  “I hope we’re paying for the food and not the view,” said Harold Skate.

  “We’ll be paying for both,” said Rosemary Skate.

  “As New York restaurants go, it’s not expensive,” Shockproof said, “and it’s not crowded because not many people know about it.” Shockproof had first gone there with Corita Carr and M. E. Shepley Skate at the start of things. At the end of things M. E. Shepley Skate was always accusing Corita Carr of sneaking off to the Orient Room to play footsie under the table with some new number, while they watched the river lights and mooned over each other. Once, Shockproof had taken Estelle Kelly there. She had made a face when she saw the room and affected a British accent, saying, “How veddy veddy romantic. I do believe I’ll get good and pissed.” Estelle Kelly lived in the neighborhood, which was the main reason Shockproof had chosen the Orient Room. He had decided to recoup his loss sometime after dinner, put Harold Skate and Rosemary into a taxi, and zap down and “jap” her.

  “Not expensive by whose standards?” Rosemary Skate said. “This car is not cheap.”

  “Rosemary,” said Harold Skate, forcing his patience, “Sydney’s car is Sydney’s business.”

  “This is a secondhand car,” Shockproof said, as they turned onto the drive through Central Park.

  “This is a Thunderbird nevertheless,” said Rosemary Skate, “which in my book is not inexpensive. And not practical, but that’s your business, Sydney.”

  “That’s Sydney’s business,” said Harold Skate.

  “I hear that park is filled with fairy boys,” she said.

  “Fairy boys wouldn’t have the guts to enter this park after dark,” said Harold Skate. “There’s too many of your colored down here mugging people.”

  “There’s both,” Shockproof said.

  “It takes all kinds,” Harold Skate said, good-naturedly, “but I don’t think the fairy boys want to meet up with your Harlem dope addicts.”

  “Why did we have to come this way?” Rosemary Skate said.

  “We’re perfectly safe,” Shockproof said.

  “If I knew you were going to come this way, I would have said something,” she said.

  “Rosemary, Sydney knows his way around this town. He knows what he’s doing, don’t you, son?”

  “All the time,” Shockproof answered.

  Rosemary Skate said, “I don’t think it’s anything to kid about. In an expensive car like this, we’re a target.”

  Harold Skate was a lean, balding redhead who wore rimless spectacles. When they had met out
side the theater, Shockproof had to remind him that he was still wearing his Get Acquainted badge from the East Coast Swimming Pool Manufacturers Convention. It was a white badge with red and blue ribbons attached to it. Across the face of the badge was printed: ECSPMC HELLO THERE, I’M———. Some convention members wrote “Bud” in the blank space, or “Jack,” “Fred,” “Butch.” Shockproof’s father had written: “Harold E. Skate, Doylestown, Pa.”

  Rosemary Skate wore a corsage of red and white roses with blue ribbons, distributed to the wives of the ECSPMC members. She was short and round with good legs and a pretty face, somewhat lost in plump width and blond bangs. She wore Arpège perfume, which Liz Lear had once declared no one but shopgirls wore anymore, and her skirt was longer than any woman’s they had thus far encountered. She had on a charm bracelet attached to which was a miniature diving board, a miniature figure of a diving woman, a miniature figure of a diving man, a miniature circular pool, a miniature duck, a miniature lifesaver, and a miniature float, all in gold.

  After they were seated at a table near the window, Rosemary Skate told Harold Skate to order her a Seven and Seven, then excused herself to go to the Ladies.

  Harold Skate said, “How are you, Sydney?”

  “Fine.”

  “Everything okay?”

  “Yes. Sure.”

  “Your summer’s going along okay?”

  “Yes.”

  Harold Skate frowned. He thought a moment. He said, “Sydney, you respect your mother. Do you, Sydney?”

  “Yes, sure.”

  “Yes, sure. Well, I don’t want to do anything to change that.”

  “What are you getting at?” Shockproof said.

  “Your mother raised you and I think she’s done a good job.”

  “Then what’s the matter?”

  “Winters you were in school and summers you were in camp, or at the beach, but now you’re older and this summer you’re here in New York.”

  “I like it here.”

  “Your mother gives you a lot of freedom, a swanky car, etcetera.”