The Jewel Box

by C Michelle McCarty

  Delilah fell for a bass player and spent way too much time in clubs waiting for last call or hanging out wherever musicians hang at three in the morning to have jam sessions and fry their brains. Flip had a wild look in his eyes, and was the first guy I’d met who could go from attentive to withdrawn, happy to depressed, angry to ecstatic, calm to hysterical, all in the same hour. Delilah’s temperament made it difficult to tell if she was popping pills with him, but when I became assistant purchasing agent, I noticed the pharmacy was going through Quaaludes like they were blue light specials at Kmart.

  In December, Gabriel’s middle brother, Ben, came home on leave from the Air Force. Several inches taller and more muscular than Gabriel, Ben walked with a mammoth air of confidence, spewed more curse words than Lenny Bruce, constantly voiced wicked thoughts, and always wound up the center of attention. Gloria made him curb his language in Nikki’s presence, which prompted him to spell obscenities faster than most people could say them. He was crude Christmas entertainment.

  Houston’s holiday weather was warm and humid as usual, but Gloria’s house was like the winter wonderland one reads about or sees on television specials. A festive blue spruce tree centered the living room windows and overflowed with a quaint mix of old and new ornaments, some hand crafted, some store bought. The myriad of colorful twinkling lights flickered through swirling angel’s hair, conjuring visions of an enchanting childhood where sugarplum fairies happily danced. A pleasant change from Yule seasons of my youth in which a disheveled yet spirited Santa (with amazing resemblance to our dad) bulldozed gifts while stumbling around Mother as she argued his sobriety. At Gloria’s, Christmas music filtered through laughter, chatter, and Ben’s endless innuendo and spelled-out obscenities, as everyone exchanged gifts. Gabriel made sure Nikki had a gajillion presents to unwrap. He gave me fabulous gold jewelry, but my favorite gift was a music box that played Raindrops Keep Falling on my Head, from our first movie, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. It was a post-card perfect Christmas, just like those the Saturday Evening Post always promised.

  Our family of three joined other siblings to bring in another year over a huge breakfast at Gloria’s. She always made sure grace was said before the boys took over, and albeit she attempted to keep an air of decorum during all meals, she never succeeded. “Happy New Year.” we said in unison, clinking coffee cups and other juice glasses in the air. Nikki excused herself for a bathroom break, which Ben took as invitation to mouth off.

  “Gloria,” he boomed, getting everyone’s attention. “You should know that yesterday I saw your youngest son out front jerking off behind that big oak tree.”

  Gloria blushed.

  Conn screamed, “I was not!”

  “Hell, it’s okay and you don’t need to deny it,” Ben said dryly. “I do it myself from time to time, but you don’t need to be embarrassing the family by pulling on your dick in the front yard.”

  Gabriel shook his head slowly, a mischievous grin surfacing.

  “I wasn’t jerking off!” Conn slammed his fist on the table.

  “Ben, be quiet,” Gloria said.

  “Boy, don’t you know you can masturbate yourself into a coma?” Ben scolded.

  “You cannot . . . and I wasn’t jerking off,” Conn protested.

  “Look, I saw you doing it.” Ben casually leaned back in his chair. “And I’m gonna tell you right now, I know a guy who got cancer from constantly yanking on his dick.”

  “Ben.” Gloria sternly interrupted as Nikki walked back into the room to take her place at the table. “Please stop so we can enjoy breakfast.”

  “Okay, I’ll stop.” He cocked his head to the side, slowly looking around the table. “But I wanna warn everyone before they spoon up any of that white gravy, to think about what might be in it. And don’t even think about passing it my way.” He put his hand up in Stop signal fashion. “I mean it, I don’t trust the boy. He’s a M-A-S-T-U-R-B-A-T-I-N-G machine.”

  Following Ben’s lead, Gabriel looked at the gravy with disgust, and pushed the bowl away from our end of the table. Hope became furious. “This isn’t funny and there’s a five-year-old child present.”

  “I’ll be six in June.” Nikki blotted her milk moustache with a napkin.

  “Mother,” Hope continued, “I’m sick of hearing this kind of talk every time my brothers get together.”

  “Your guilty conscience bothering you, Hope?” Ben shot Gabriel a smug look.

  Hope took offense at anyone teasing Conner, but trying to control her brothers was futile. Ben and Gabriel had moved onto other lightly veiled, vulgar conversation. Gloria and I weren’t doing well at holding back grins. When Gloria broke into laughter, Hope angrily jumped from the table, carried away her and Nikki’s plates, and then stormed back for Nikki. They finished their meals in her bedroom.

  Before the end of the year I switched to Methodist’s day shift, making my time with Nikki along the same hours as most families. Besides, leaving work at four thirty in the afternoon left only limited time for dealing with Delilah’s antics.

  Houston’s unemployment rate soared in’73, creating a shortage of homebuilding and affecting Gabriel’s booming business. While he pondered his future, I threw myself into my job while shooting for a normal life. So to speak. Attempting to bond with my own family, I made personal pilgrimages to Mother’s.

  “Spray starch in a can doesn’t work nearly as well as the boiling method.” Lynn straightened her single strand of pearls.

  “Really,” I replied to my persnickety mother. I hadn’t starched one article of clothing since leaving home.

  “I pride myself on getting George’s cuffs and collars crisp as can be.”

  I curled my lips to keep a grin from surfacing. Dad may have left our home in shipshape starched white shirts, but often returned looking like he’d jumped overboard.

  “Oh, I just got a recipe for lemon-almond cake. It takes a couple hours to make, but it’s delicious. Let me write it out for you.”

  “Face it, Mother. I’m your home economics failure.”

  “You are not,” she said with sincere conviction.

  I watched as she jotted instructions. Two hours? Flouring almonds? Gently folding eggs? I would never attempt such a recipe. I quietly stared at Mother’s beautifully buffed hardwood floors as she painstakingly wrote ingredients. Further attempts at conversation proved untenable, and my inability to connect with my loving mother discomforted me.

  Back in Houston, I scheduled an appointment with my mental hygienist, but didn’t tell Gabriel who had the same aversion to psychiatrists as he did IRS audits. A few sessions of my shrink nodding when I questioned my need to bolt from uncomfortable situations, motivated me to sign my final check. No sense in wasting good money when a compassionate, competent counselor was just a stone’s throw away.

  “Good to hear your voice, baby.” Beau greeted into the phone. “When are you stopping by The Grapevine again?”

  “Soon. I need to return All My Friends Are Going to Be Strangers. It was a quick read and I liked it.”

  “Short or long, I love reading McMurtry’s memorable Texas characters.”

  “Well, you’re my most memorable character. Maybe he’ll write about you someday.”

  “Baby, you really need to get out more often.” Beau chuckled.

  “Indeed I do. What day are you free next week?”

  “Come by The Grapevine anytime. I’d love to see you and can tell by your voice you need to talk. This place isn’t thriving, so we’ll have plenty time to sit and visit.”

  “Thank you, Beau.” I felt instant relief by his offer.

  “Good news is I sold my part of the business and dissolved my partnership with Al,” Gabriel said via Ma Bell. “Bad news is I’ll be building houses outside Houston to survive.”

  “What area around Houston isn’t affected by this recession?”

  “None. I should’ve said outside Texas. First offer I got was from the East Coast.”

 
“Say it isn’t so,” I whined into the phone.

  “Fraid so, Blondie.”

  Gabriel began working out of state, yet made time to visit Lauren and Skylar in Phoenix as often as possible. They lived near Astrid’s parents, which he feared meant getting his daughter’s young minds pumped full of toxin toward him.

  With Gabriel travelling so often, I moved into an apartment closer to the rapidly expanding Texas Medical Center, and put Nikki into a school with after care. Gabriel and I went from speaking daily to sporadic phone calls, and rare moments together. I truly believed we would always be together, but couldn’t deny the obvious. We were drifting apart.

  12

  Nikki liked her new school, but missed Rachel whose temporary babysitting job lasted three years. Despite Rachel’s serene guidance, as Nikki grew I witnessed familiar characteristics from my family tree springing to life. Short on years, but long on attitude, Nikki was daring, defiant, and a nonstop talker who loudly voiced her opinions. Neither of us would have been welcomed at Quaker gatherings. I worked extra hours just to keep her in private school and ballet lessons (hopeful prerequisites for keeping her out of sequined pasties and white go-go boots later in life), and she showed appreciation by whining about my absence. My childhood dreams of a luxurious life in the big city seemed an elusive fairy tale.

  Gabriel occasionally called from whatever state he was working. Maybe time apart would help us forget negatives that soured our relationship. Somewhere along the way, I began blaming him for my abortion and even Sean’s death. And I was fairly certain he blamed me for Astrid taking his girls away.

  Gloria’s calls became as rare as Gabriel’s, which didn’t surprise me much. I learned firsthand how Gloria meddled in her children’s affairs when she trashed a letter Ben wrote to Mei, a girl he met in China, instead of mailing it. When Hope dated a boy Gloria disliked, said suitor soon vanished. But, we all have faults, eh? Mother drummed said sentiment into our heads by quoting Shakespeare: Condemn the fault and not the actor of it while reminding us to love the sinner, not the sin.

  And I rarely spoke with Beau while he coped with marital and business problems. “You should go out with that hospital administrator, baby.”

  “Did I mention he looks like Burt Reynolds and acts obnoxious like Don Rickles?”

  “Rickles may be sarcastic, but he is kinda funny, and women adore Burt.”

  “Some women. Did I mention Phil is well known for his inexcusable pedantry?”

  “No.” Beau chuckled. “But Gabe’s not calling, and I think you need to get out and enjoy life.”

  Phil Parnell flirted with me for weeks before I eventually accepted his invite to a hospital function. I needed a change of pace, even if he wasn’t vaguely appealing to me. I endured the date, but when he walked me to my door and kissed me goodnight I turned my head to miss a mouth-to-mouth. Phil didn’t push the issue.

  No calls from Gabriel, so before you could say “forget that carpenter” I was dating a suit wearing, briefcase carrying Aggie. And by dating, I mean watching television. I urged him to try water sports. He urged me to watch football. Our only common interest was ice cream.

  “That no good Marvin Zindler.” Phil stood in front of the TV, his face reddening.

  “I think it’s hilarious.” I looked at ABC’s evening coverage of our local white-haired Channel 13 reporter getting national air play for his efforts to close LaGrange’s Chicken Ranch.

  “He needs to stick with dirty restaurant reports and leave this Texas shrine alone.”

  “Sounds like you have a sentimental attachment, Phil.”

  “Bullshit.” He turned away from the tube. “I’m just mad at this idiot.”

  “My gosh, man, don’t come unglued. Grab some Kleenex and let those tears flow.”

  “Ha ha.” He sat rigidly beside me. “The Chicken Ranch is a legend in this state.”

  “Yeah. A house of ill repute frequented by UT Longhorns and you Texas Aggies.”

  “Reportedly,” he shot back with the precise amount of venom to kill our conversation.

  As obscenities were being bleeped on TV, we looked over just as the tenacious news reporter got a fist in the face from La Grange’s Sheriff Jim. Wowza. Finally some fun news.

  In late summer of ’73, Marvin Zindler succeeded in closing the infamous whorehouse, and every time ZZ Top’s hit song, La Grange played, I turned the radio full blast to irritate Phil. He busied himself distributing “I’m a Friend of Sheriff Jim” bumper stickers as “a joke.” Yeah, right. He was a frugal Aggie, the Chicken Ranch’s eight dollar Monday night special was gone. You be the judge.

  Phil was a narcissist with a penchant for arguing, but oddly enough he rarely debated my comments about being hopelessly in love with Gabriel. And even odder, when Hope and Gloria told me Gabriel was dating some bank secretary, I surrendered to Phil’s libidinous mating call. But only to a point. Kissing on the lips was just too personal. I always turned my head so all kisses went off sides. No intimacy, just one-two-three we’re done. Minor arguments ensued, but Gabriel’s lips were the only ones I wanted pressed against mine.

  Delilah married the fry-brain bass player, gave birth to a darling baby girl, got knocked up a second time (her words), and absolutely despised Phil. When I told her about Gabriel’s fling, she drove to his apartment one evening, interrupted their dinner, checked out the secretary, took a pungent poop in his toilet, didn’t bother flushing, and left. Now that’s what friends are for.

  Nikki stuck like glue to Cousin Jimmy and I got marginally closer to my sister and her hubby. Ellen and I even discussed our differing relationships with Mother. She felt our priggish mother was simply sheltering us from our often inebriated dad. Logical conclusion, but my easy-going, high-spirited dad remained my favorite parent.

  I spoke to Gabriel occasionally. Pleasant, but strained talks. He was still surviving the recession by working far from Houston, and I was still trying to get over him.

  Threw me for a loop when Phil started dropping matrimony hints. The man was faster than a rabbit in more ways than just sex. “I think it’s time we discuss marriage.” He scratched his bushy, dark moustache.

  “It’s a social union or binding contract between people in love.”

  “I know the general definition.” Phil raked fingers through his course hair, continuing his irritating addiction to personal grooming. “And it’s time for us to make this legal.”

  “Legal?” I reached over in primate gesture, pretending to pick a flea from his neck. “Like I keep telling you, I’m in love with someone else.”

  “Well, my love for you can overcome anything. And marrying me is a sure-fire way to stop your foolish sentimentality for Gabriel.”

  I almost laughed out loud. Even if his plan included attaching a slow drip methaqualone IV to my wedding ring finger, marriage to him could never make me forget my true love. Phil was brilliantly book smart, but stupendously street stupid.

  “Hey Blondie, got any Cokes at your place?”

  “How about Tab?” I asked casually, my heart beating wildly.

  “I need the real thing. Handed to me by the most beautiful woman alive.”

  “Phony flattery might sway floozies at truck stops, but I’m not letting you come over.”

  “It’s not phony flattery. And I really need to see you.”

  “And I really need to say au revoir.”

  “Yeaaah? Well you can speak French in person, I’m coming over.”

  “You can’t do that! I’m involved with someone.”

  “So am I, but I’d love to see you again. For old times’ sake.”

  “Old times’ sake my ass, Gabriel.”

  “See ya in a few.”

  Nikki got hustled through her bath and put to bed in record time.

  I opened the door and Gabriel stood back, slowly shaking his head. “Maybe my standards are low, but I like what I see.”

  “No kidding you have low standards, but I’m living nicely without your
insolent mouth,” I flat-out lied. I wanted his mouth and all other marvelous body parts he possessed.

  “My insolent mouth,” he drawled. “You should talk.”

  “Rumor has it I talk too much.” I touched the hairy growth on his cheek. “What are you doing hiding your sweet face with a beard?”

  “Grew it for winter. . . but talk about sweet faces.” He grabbed the front of my blouse, bringing us nose to nose.

  “Whoa.” I got a whiff of barley and hops. “You’ve been drinking. How ‘bout some coffee?”

  “Coke is fine.” He moved over to my sofa and lit a smoke. “I only had two Budweisers.”

  Goosebumps raced up and down my legs as I walked to the fridge to retrieve a Coke I’d kept just for him. Pathetic, I know. Exhaustion laced his voice as he told me about his travels, happenings with his family, and other innocuous subjects. Somehow I got the nerve to ask about the woman in his life. He awkwardly offered vague details about Victoria. Just hearing him say her name made me feel like thumb tacks were trickling down my left ventricle. I interrupted in wobbly voice, volunteering details about Phil as though Gabriel wanted to know. Somewhere mid-sentence, he reached over to shut me up with a kiss. That was all she wrote. For about three hours. I’d forgotten how fabulous five star love making felt. But after his usual smoke and a few kisses, he rolled out of bed and put on his faded jeans.