The Jewel Box

by C Michelle McCarty

  “You cannot possibly be leaving.” I was taken aback.

  “I’d love to stay the night.” He pulled his Polo shirt over his head while leaving my bedroom. “But I have to leave early tomorrow morning for West Texas.”

  He had always stayed overnight with me. “I don’t believe this.” My face flushed with anger. “All gracious Southern ladies know that if a man doesn’t spend the night cuddling and caressing you after he’s fucked you, he’s not a true gentleman.”

  “Ah, such language from a Southern lady.”

  “I’m hardly a debutante school graduate, and picked up most of my language from a particular blond asshole carpenter.”

  “Either way, your mother would be real proud.” He slid a Marlboro into his mouth.

  “Oh, I think a few snapshots from 1969 would be enough to fill my mother with pride.”

  Giving me an “enough said” look, Gabriel slowly moved toward my front door. My fury subsided and I turned sentimental. “God, I miss your sawdust scent.”

  “Yeaaah? I’m sure you’re accustomed to men wearing expensive suits and exotic after shave.”

  “Oh, pleeease.” I straightened his shirt collar. “You still don’t know me like I know you.”

  “That’s probably a fact and not a fiction. You know me better than anyone does, but you’re still an elusive butterfly.”

  I wanted to pull him tightly against me and never let him leave my side. I did know him. But I wouldn’t let him see my weak side. “You should marry that girl.” I brushed his blond hair from his forehead with my fingertips. “Since she’s willing to deal with your arrogant attitude and your traipsing about the country.”

  “Well, you should marry that guy. Grab onto anyone willing to put up with you walking around on tiptoes and living in dreamland.” He quickly kissed my forehead.

  “So.” I stepped back. “This really was our ‘one last time’ for old times’ sake.”

  “What do you think, Blondie?”

  “That’s between me and my shrink.”

  He distorted his face, like “shrink” a worse term than any of his four letter words. Then he broke into song. “ Yester-me. . .”

  “Yester-you,” I said in whiney voice.

  “Yesterday,” he concluded, inching closer.

  “Still using lyrics to say what you can’t.” I took a significant breath.

  He pulled me tightly to him. His lips were warm and his kiss was slow, as though he were memorizing it for the long trip ahead. Then he walked out my door seemingly moving in slow motion, walking backwards down the stairs, and blowing kisses until he was out of sight. Honking his horn twice, he knew and I knew. No matter how much time or space came between us, it wouldn’t alter our feelings for each other. The time for us wasn’t now and it seemed marriage to righteous others might wipe out all guilt, absolve all former sins.

  “You win some, you lose some.” Beau called to say The Grapevine was failing.

  “I’m sorry to hear it.”

  “Don’t worry, baby. I’ll open another club once things improve on the home-front.”

  “Yikes. What’s wrong?”

  “No real problem. Celeste just needs me,” he said with a laugh. “She can’t keep a maid, and I’m a decent floor sweep and expert dishwasher with time on my hands.”

  “As long as you’re doing okay, I’m happy. Now, I’ve gotta dash. This new guy is determined we go see the movie, The Way We Were.”

  “I know you’re not crazy about Phil, but going out’ll keep your mind off Gabriel.”

  “The movie’s premise sounds as enticing as a bone marrow transplant, but Mr. Burt Reynolds lookalike bribed me with the promise of Milk Duds.”

  “Then savor those chocolates. And come see me at The Grapevine soon, baby.”

  Phil glanced at his reflection in the theatre window as he escorted me inside, where he bought me a huge box of Milk Duds, then foolishly selected back row seats as though romance was in his near future. My only emotions were tears due to Redford’s resemblance to Gabriel and the movie’s depressing ending.

  “You gotta get over that carpenter guy.” Phil attempted to comfort me (or maybe cop a lubricious feel) as we left the theatre. “So it’s about time we get married.”

  He went into overdrive for what seemed hours, trying to convince me marriage to him would eradicate memories of Gabriel. Oh, how I wanted to believe him, but this was like telling me blow jobs were the solution to global hunger. A revelation that could make major changes in the world as we know it—if only it were plausible.

  “No sense in dragging things out. I’m ready to make you my wife, immediately.”

  I felt lightheaded. And not in a giddy way. “Immediately?”

  “Three, maybe four months. No longer. I’ve got you and don’t intend to lose you.”

  He didn’t have me, but was damn sure wearing me down as he yammered on. I’m not sure if it was my emotional instability, my need to get Gabriel out of my bloodstream, filibustering by Phil that would have made our state legislatures envious, or the bulge in his wallet, but at that chaotic moment, I agreed to marry him. “Okay, fine.”

  Phil hugged me. “This calls for a drink.”

  I clinched my jaw tightly to keep from recanting my eloquent, “Okay, fine.” acceptance speech. Being drug free doesn’t always assure prudent decision making. Here I was sober as hell and agreeing to marry a man who found mathematical equations erotic.

  For weeks The Grapevine phone rang without answer. Eventually I drove by to see Beau. The workmen inside said they were remodeling for Mr. Tabor and knew nothing of a man named Beau Duvalé. I cussed myself for procrastinating. He was under Celeste’s thumb now.

  Feeling more lost every day without Beau to talk to, in a few weeks during a discombobulated state of mind I frantically coordinated arrangements to marry Phil at his family’s Piney Point hacienda. Another non-mensa moment. My quickly planned event yielded four hundred guests who showed up to celebrate and witness me getting beyond swirling drunk. Luckily intoxication got me a two day pass on consummating our vows.

  Within weeks I learned from Gloria that Gabriel had married during the same week. My heart plunged when I heard that news. Didn’t matter that I had wed; my reason for rushing down the aisle was to get over him, get over us, get on with living. I equated marriage to Phil with financial security, while he equated it to having sex on a regular basis. Phil had his definition of regular and I had mine. Viewing Pioneer II’s pictures of Jupiter with its large moon Callisto was twice as stimulating, and a gajil-lion times more memorable than coitus non-gratis with Phil. Once again sex was nothing more than perfunctory, servile motion. Phil was the fourth man with whom I had swapped body fluids, yet the first who seemed to enjoy arguing during the act.

  “What’s on the menu for breakfast,” Phil asked when he walked into the kitchen where I was watching my blender whirl.

  “Check with McDonald’s.” I slapped my home blended cucumber mask onto my face. Two weeks of marriage and Phil had the opposite effect of Gabriel, who never asked, yet kindled some Julia Child instinct that had me happily cracking eggs and browning bacon.

  “You don’t cook and you hate sex,” he shouted.

  “Hey, you were the one making fairy tale predictions, not me.”

  I never volunteered sex, and when Phil insisted, I closed my eyes and tried to imagine he was Gabriel. Even pretending left me grinding enamel off my back molars. Sexual treats were exclusive for you-know-who, so when the topic of oral sex infiltrated our bedroom, I informed Phil there were folks on the seedy side of Westheimer who would happily accommodate.

  “Well, another bass player bit the dust,” Delilah informed via phone.

  “What happened to Flip?” I grabbed yogurt from my fridge.

  “His shock therapy didn’t go as planned. I’m divorcing him.”

  “Oh, that’s sad news for your children.”

  “Not as sad as living with a man who’s pooping his pants
more often than our toddler.”

  I threw my half eaten yogurt into the trash.

  “So,” Delilah paused for a drag on her cigarette. “I might drop by later with the kids.”

  “Uh, okay,” I said. “Just let me check with Phil to make sure we don’t have plans.”

  Delilah never called, but showed up with kids only minutes later, ate a week’s worth of groceries, and spent an hour irritating the hell out of Phil. “I took a toxic dump in Burt’s bathroom and didn’t flush,” she said on her way out. Occasionally I appreciated her antics.

  The only inkling of marital bliss with Phil came when he pulled strings to assure my best friend a job with his cousin’s IT company near Methodist. Said best friend just happened to be Gabriel’s sister. Hope and I spent lunch hours dining, shopping and talking about everything but Gabriel. “I’m not going to mention my brother unless you ask,” she assured.

  “Thank you. That’s truly considerate.”

  “But. . .” she took a sip of tea. “I think you’d like Gabe’s new wife, Victoria.”

  About as much as I’d like the new “daylight savings time” America just put into effect. Not good at faking emotions, I gave Hope a cynical half-smile.

  13

  Wheel of Fortune made its television premier in January, Saigon surrendered on April 30th—unofficially marking an end to the Vietnam War, and on July 4th, I attended Willie Nelson’s annual picnic with 90,000 others in Liberty Hill, Texas. Phil didn’t appreciate Willie and stayed home. After I eighty-sixed ice cream from my diet for bikini season, we had zilch in common.

  The summer of ‘75 sizzled while my marriage to Phil fizzled. “Please take me to Marfreless,” he pleaded, refusing to drop the subject.

  “When Jupiter aligns with Mars,” I rejected his pleas for finding the clandestine bar. An unmarked make-out place in Houston’s River Oaks area, Marfreless has a reputation for boundless hedonism supposedly taking place in the upstairs area. Phil was not the person I wanted to walk through the blue door with, much less sit around in pitch black darkness and smooch on the couches. His insistence dulled my occasional good moods.

  “Fine,” I dressed up one Saturday night after a day of his non-stop begging.

  My plan to hopefully shut his pie hole once and for all, found us driving around mid-town Houston for hours. Finally I led him to an infamous joint I’d read about in a local rag, with an ambiance poles apart from Marfreless.

  “You sure this is it?” Dick head asked.

  “Reasonably sure,” I lied while leading him into the biker bar.

  The door greeter was a one-arm, good looking blonde girl.

  “Oh, my god,” Phil whispered and nodded toward her disfigurement.

  “Hey, Clockarm.” Patrons entering behind us sweetly saluted the pretty greeter. I had read about her fan following and her affection for her Clockarm nickname.

  I stepped aside not wanting to be seated, while watching others convivially salute and hug the pretty blonde.

  “It’s not very dark in here,” Phil moaned as though darkness would make me frisky.

  “Guess this is the wrong place. But I’m too tired to look elsewhere.” I turned and said farewell to Clockarm. Phil stormed out the door. The man had absolutely no sense of humor.

  Months passed without hearing from Beau, intensifying my miserable life. Gabriel called occasionally, just to say hello. Even knowing when he was out of town, I still did double takes every time I saw a white Ford Ranger or a blond guy in blue jeans. Nikki was seeing more of Hope and Gloria as they busily planned Hope’s wedding to a handsome stock broker, but when my soon-to-be flower girl returned with news of seeing Gabriel, I changed subjects faster than my mother always had when I tried to talk sex. Hope chose St. Anne’s Catholic Church, but confided that Gloria selected everything else including flowers, cake design, and even the wedding gown. Sweet tempered Hope didn’t seem nearly as upset as me about Gloria usurping her sacred bridal territory. A bright girl being so easily swayed by her mother annoyed me, but I stayed on Hope’s happy bandwagon. Obviously Gabriel would be at his sister’s wedding.

  Nikki and I arrived at the church early to allow her time to get dressed with other members of Hope’s bridal party.

  “Oh, Cherie,” Gloria called out. “This is Gabe’s wife, Victoria.”

  I managed a polite greeting of “Hello.”

  “It’s so nice to finally meet you.” Gabriel’s new wife greeted me with a big beauty contestant smile. “I’ve heard wonderful things about you.” Smile. Smile. Smile.

  She kept rambling in a voice so sugary sweet, I almost puked. Tall, slender, and impeccably dressed right down to her brightly polished dagger-red fingernails, Victoria looked like she was born to model designer fashions: walking confidently while radiating a condescending air. Her shiny chestnut brown hair fell loosely around her shoulders and surrounded a gorgeous porcelain complexion from which honey colored eyes looked out on the world like guardians of a great treasure. Doubtful she’d be shopping at those new Walmarts opening up all over Texas. “Gabriel’s getting here a little late,” she flashed another huge smile, showing off her perfect teeth. “He’s coming back home from Phoenix.” Her eyes actually sparkled. Really! How lucky can one girl be?

  Gabriel’s not being there didn’t seem to faze her. During pre-ceremony activities as everyone busily prepared for the event, you could hear Victoria’s laughter bouncing off ceilings and walls. Vivacious was the only word to describe her. I wanted to shave her head bald.

  Seated three pews in front of Phil and me, Victoria kept glancing at the church entrance for a tardy Gabriel. The ceremony was approaching vow exchanges when the church door opened. I took a quick glimpse, and turned just as Gabriel walked up the aisle. In a flash his eyes met mine. My heart pounded wildly. Phil nudged me and asked if this was Gabriel. I indicated yes with a nod. Had he noticed our eye contact or simply recognized him from my descriptions? Gabriel and I linked eyes again after Hope and Troy made their way back down the aisle. This time Phil definitely noticed. Ask me if I cared. Gabriel looked delicious.

  During the reception, with glasses clinking toasts to the bride and groom, Gabriel and I unexpectedly ended up alone in the hallway. Walking in opposite directions, as we passed each other Gabriel moved so near me I could feel his breath. I inhaled his unforgettable scent (sans sawdust), drawing in deeply to savor the moment. Fearing our bodies might touch, I moved slightly to one side, almost tripped, and nervously glanced back toward other guests.

  “You look beautiful,” he whispered as his thumb flew auto-pilot against my cheek.

  Took my breath away.

  Then Hope appeared out of nowhere, grabbed my hand, and led me away. What she said is still a mystery. All I remember was seeing her mouth move and hearing words echo around me as I looked back at Gabriel, who was leaning against the wall.

  Thirty minutes later, we wound up sitting directly across from each other in a room crowded with others. Gabriel stared at me. I attempted to get my pulse under control, as he wordlessly mouthed, “Let’s talk,” and tilted his face toward the hall. Spontaneously nodding in agreement, I slowly stood.

  “Ouch,” I yelped in response to a jab against my waist.

  “You two are asking for trouble,” said groom Troy.

  “And if you and Gabe think you’re going unnoticed, you’re dead wrong,” Hope added. “So, please behave. Phil might be oblivious to your body language, but Victoria won’t be.”

  My butt went back into a chair.

  Gabriel and I attempted to inconspicuously flirt throughout the evening, but every time he came near me, he was whisked away by Victoria or some other annoying individual. Nikki wrapped herself around him on occasion and each time I warned her not to wrinkle his suit, I envied her position. And every time I walked into the same room with him, I clumsily tripped. “Champagne,” I assured. “Yeaaah?” He grinned, knowing damn well it wasn’t the bubbly.

  Phil made a lame excuse to
leave early, and before the engine warmed he leaped into commentary about Gabriel. “He doesn’t look anything like Redford,” he barked, sardonically.

  “Are you saying he’s not handsome?”

  “He’s okay, but he’s certainly not God’s gift to women like you say.” Phil adjusted the rearview mirror to gaze at himself.

  “I never said any such thing.”

  “Well that’s how it comes across when you talk about him.”

  Took every ounce of will power I had to keep from bringing statistics, measurements, and League Standings into this argument. Instead, I held my tongue, trying to enjoy the ride home by recalling some of Gabriel’s impressive stats.

  “And those clothes he was sporting didn’t appear to have designer labels,” Phil continued.

  “He’s secure with himself. Unlike you, he doesn’t need Calvin Klein for validation.”

  Phil groomed his God-awful beard in the mirror for the hundredth time, before leaping into dissertation about why the Catholic Church was no longer relevant in the twentieth century. Pleeease. I tried tuning him out, but he switched subjects and began loudly announcing my miscellaneous shortcomings. After he used the words narcissistic and oedipal together in a sentence one time too many, I interrupted him by saying I was hyper-oxygenating and would vomit all over the car seats if he didn’t shut up. I jacked up the radio volume as Nikki and I sang along with Carl Douglas. Everybody was Kung Fu Fighting. Oh-oh-oh-oh.

  That brief encounter with Gabriel at the wedding got replayed in my head a million times. I was rewinding my mental video when the phone rang on Christmas Eve, smack in the middle of Phil’s family gift exchange. I grabbed a phone in the foyer.

  “Thank goodness you answered,” Gabriel said. “I didn’t wanna have to hang up on Burt.”

  I was speechless.

  “You know I love you, Cherie. And I know you love me. Christ, we’ll always be in love, but I guess there’s nothing we can do about it.”