The Jewel Box

by C Michelle McCarty

  “I’m going to miss you both,” Patrice said, but hugged Nikki tighter than she did me as we left to move into our own home.

  Unfortunately I saw Phil’s mug every day at the hospital. After working at Methodist for five years, the time to look for a new job had commenced.

  15

  “Guess you’re thirty-something, now,” Dad said via phone lines. He called once a year with birthday wishes—never on my actual b’day, and sometimes not even the month, but at least he called. Hearing his happy voice always made me smile, even when he rolled into “world expert” mode. After thirty minutes of listening to his solutions for the recent oil spill polluting the Gulf of Mexico and his prediction of serious problems for the US as a result of Iran voting to become an Islamic Republic, I tried to interject news about me. As usual, his listening abilities were hampered by something in his bloodstream. Ice clinked in his glass and when he turned his radio to window-shattering level, I gave up hope for a personal conversation. As luck would have it, Patrice rang the doorbell, offering an excuse to end the call.

  An only child whose parents were long deceased, Patrice asked me to attend her distant cousin’s funeral, wanting my companionship and saying I would appreciate the experience.

  “I’d better clue you in, before we head out.” Patrice looked inside my fridge. “Black funerals are like huge family reunions.” She curled into my overstuffed chair with a huge box of leftover Valentine chocolates she found. “Relatives from every state in the union will show up ready to party like its New Year’s Eve.”

  “Party?”

  “You know, grilling, eating, drinking, dancing, and singing before and after services.”

  “White people do similar things, Patrice.”

  “I’ve attended several white funerals, and never once set eyes on a coffin mourner.” Patrice munched on her second dark Bordeaux. I loved how she embraced her body, eating sweets whenever she pleased, not just on special occasion—and especially not out of stress, like me.

  “Death is painful for the living.” I reached over, snagged a raspberry truffle, and popped it into my mouth. “All nationalities mourn, Patrice. Some just do so quieter than others.” Guilt crept in, filling my head with god-awful visions of truffle induced ass dimples.

  “Showing grief for the deceased is Old World—and I can assure you my kin hired professional mourners to attend and do their thing. But upbeat, spiritual music somewhat counteracts the whooping, hollering, passing out, and flinging of bodies over and occasionally into the coffin.”

  “Sounds like fun.” I grabbed my purse.

  “Just don’t feel obligated to buy if anyone claiming to be my dearest relative tries to hawk their latest album. Well-heeled blondes are perceived as easy marks by con artists.”

  Patrice displayed reverent grief during the service, but I found myself in awe of people unabashedly showing sorrow for the passing of a loved one. And I partied with everyone else.

  On the drive home, my kindred spirit and I chatted about my fear of transitioning from Methodist to the Ray and McCreight law firm.

  “Why not try a female psychologist for a change?”

  Apparently I wasn’t the feminist I thought, seeing as how this idea never crossed my mind. Lady Freudina, here comes your next head case.

  I actually liked my new therapist. She promptly advised me against intimate relationships with men, especially attorneys. She didn’t deem me emotionally ready to play with big boys, and said lawyers she knew rarely played in honorable fashion. I liked her, but I wasn’t a Stepford Wives patient. Before you could say strobe lights and disco fever, I was doing the hustle with Randall, a friend of an attorney. Close, but no counsel. Investment banker Randall was a tall yet chunky, fair haired Texan who lived up to his introductory line, “What I don’t have in looks I make up for in personality.” He owned a couple of deep dimples that grooved his cheeks, but I was a bit leery of charismatic men after watching news accounts of Reverend Jim Jones persuading nine hundred cult members to join him in Guyana for poison punch. Still, after Phil’s incessant insults Randall’s compliments had me spellbound.

  Randall wore Stetson hats similar to those worn by the cast of Dallas, and never went anywhere without his boot-size cellular phone. He introduced me to Eggs Benedict, Cartier jewelry, Bob Mackie clothing, and sad but true, New York discos. I learned to shake my groove thing a bit better than I had on that tiny Jewel Box stage, but Tina Turner’s shimmy queen title wasn’t in jeopardy. Randall always arrived for dates with gifts ranging from Fauchon chocolates to Rolex watches. Occasionally he included Nikki in our evenings of elegant dining and lavish shopping sprees, insisting she should become accustomed to the finer things in life. I didn’t want him spoiling her, but I was busy getting accustomed to those things myself.

  “You’re all grown up.” I shook Gilles hand. He was tending bar for his dad at Beau’s Place on weekends. Beau claimed “pre-college experience,” but old wise one was utilizing his strapping, handsome son to bring in female fans.

  “Nice to see you,” Gilles said, obviously not remembering me from his youth.

  “You too.” I had to catch my breath. What a gorgeous man he’d grown into.

  “Be sure to bring Nikki tomorrow.” Beau handed me directions to his new digs.

  “She wouldn’t miss it. She’s a sappy Vinny Barbarino, JohnTravolta fan.

  “Well, I hope she’s lucky enough to see and talk to him.”

  “I’ll let you guys get back to work.” I leaned across the bar, gave Beau a peck on the cheek, and waved at Gilles who was busy entertaining a troop of young ladies.

  A couple weeks later, Nikki and I visited Beau at 2016 Main, a swanky high-rise in downtown Houston, hoping to see stars while they shot scenes for Urban Cowboy. We failed to see, much less interface with any celebrities, but being with Beau was delightful. And bittersweet. Distance and conflicting schedules would take a chunk out of our time together.

  Patrice accepted an in-house counsel position with a law firm in Manhattan—without consulting moi. In her desire to see the world, she only applied to large firms offering travel. I dreaded her May departure. My summer of ’79 would definitely lack close female friendships. Unlike some chicks who won’t leave home without an entourage of girlfriends, I never easily bonded with those of the feminine persuasion. Go figure.

  a

  On my tenth date with Randall as I nibbled pâté de foie Strasbourg truffle at La Colombe d’Or, he mentioned his upcoming trip to the Orient (where he traveled often), before reaching across the table, taking my hand, looking into my eyes, and murmuring through perfectly capped teeth, “You look like a Bottecilli Angel. Not only are you gorgeous, you’re something I think could be my everything, so no place but in the middle of that is where I want to be.”

  A well rehearsed line if I ever heard one, but I gave him an A for timing and delivery.

  “I’ll miss you while I’m in Japan.” He slowly stirred ice in his whiskey on the rocks. “Ay ishete imasu.”

  “Pardon?”

  “That’s Japanese for I love you,” he whispered across the table.

  I was surprised he hadn’t murmured the Japanese translation of Love to Love You Baby since Donna Summer’s song was ritual background music he played to enhance lovemaking. I didn’t know Japanese for “You’re interesting and wealthy, but you’re not Gabriel,” so I flirtatiously shook my long hair and said we should get home before Nikki violated the building code by cramming too many friends inside our place.

  Time spent with Randall meant less time with Beau or even Hope, who was in marriage counseling after several squabbles with Troy. Conn claimed the newlywed problems were mother-in-law influenced—something Hope wouldn’t dare admit. Instead, Troy’s happy ass would get dragged to therapy until he learned to live with in-law issues. Comply or say bye-bye. Gabriel once claimed Gloria was as conniving as she was charming, and I was beginning to believe his statement might be indeed a fact and not a fictio
n.

  After insistence from Gloria, Nikki and I went with her for a visit to see Gabriel and Victoria’s young son at their new home. We arrived just as Gabriel drove up. “Look at his new blue van.” Gloria cocked her penciled black eyebrow. “His and Ben’s construction business is booming.” Gabriel smiled and grabbed Nikki’s hand, rushing her inside to show off Luke. I walked behind, sucking up sawdust fumes. Gabriel seemed enthralled with fatherhood. Victoria seemed disenchanted and irritated. Lost sleep and added pounds will do that. Much to Gloria’s dismay, I cut our visit short. And all the way home my mind stayed cluttered with his scent, blue eyes, blond hair, mannerisms, mere existence. It was time to step up therapy sessions or consider a lobotomy.

  Other than Nikki’s melodramatic, smart mouth pre-teen behavior exasperating the heck out of me, things were running relatively smooth in my life. New relationship, new therapist, new job. So why wasn’t I happy? Maybe it was Gloria’s relentless calls, insisting Gabriel was unhappy in his marriage. I regaled her about life with Randall being grand, until she told me to stop my charade because she knew I was still in love with her son. Two days later, said son called. “Hey girl, I saw Chevy Chase impersonating you on Saturday Night Live.”

  “I think he was impersonating former President Ford.”

  “Yeaaah? Well, it sure looked like he was mimicking you.”

  “Believe it or not, I don’t stumble or trip around anyone but you, Wiseass.”

  “Hey, if you’re gonna talk crassly, I’ll hang up.”

  “Oh, pleeease. I thought vulgarity was an aphrodisiac to you. I guess you’ve become virtuous with old age.”

  “What do you think?”

  My therapist’s words to let go of him and our past history, and Gloria’s words about the two of us belonging together clashed in my brain. “Actually I think I shouldn’t be talking to you. Take care of yourself, Gabriel.” I hung up the phone, thinking how pleased my therapist would be. Of course, she had also suggested I stay the hell away from his family.

  Gloria and Hope had been so generous to tend Nikki, I naturally reciprocated in the child care arena. Conner O’Quinn had turned drugstore cowboy and taken to wearing pointy toed, roach killer boots, western shirt complete with pearl snaps, tight jeans, and a belt buckle the size of Texas. He irritated preppy Nikki something fierce.

  “Gonna take care of me again this summer?” Conn asked.

  For several years I had watched him while Gloria and Hope traveled to Tahiti for ten days, courtesy of Gloria’s job. She worked for a travel agency and always won the annual competition, thus whisked Hope off to their favorite hideaway.

  “I think I’ve told you ‘yes’ a hundred times, Conn.” Even when Gloria wasn’t traveling, Conn called often, asking me to chauffer him somewhere or other.

  “Darlin’ I’m just making sure. I don’t get to see you often enough.”

  “Ha,” Nikki said as we drove away from the theatre where we’d watched Caddyshack. About twice a month we took Conn to the movies or hauled his butt around Houston, giving Gloria a break.

  “Darlin’ can you please buy me a Coca-Cola? Please?” Conn begged me to stop.

  “You guzzled two at the movies,” Nikki reminded him.

  “I’m gonna die of thirst.” His voice turned adamant.

  I pulled into a convenience store to appease him, all the while knowing Gloria wouldn’t be thrilled about me getting him jacked up on sugar so late.

  Conn stayed inside longer than necessary—likely trying to peek inside a Playboy—and had barely returned to my car when his older brother appeared.

  Gabriel hugged Nikki, my central nervous system went berserk, and Conn pitched a hissy fit when Gabriel asked him to sit in the back seat while he talked with me. Conn’s hissy soon turned into a full throttle tantrum that made Delilah’s kids look docile. Twelve-year-old Nikki temporarily placated the sixteen-year-old prattle mouth while Gabriel and I chatted.

  Gabriel told me about forming O’Quinn Brother’s Construction with Ben (retired from the Air Force), how business was booming, and how he was busy doing the woodwork he loved. He had several crews on multiple sites, but still worked his hands in wood alongside his employees every day.

  “Whooooa.” Conn yelled. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

  Nikki’s bored-but-dealing-with-it attitude went instant irritation when Conn began bellowing like a wounded bulldog. “Time to take the Rhinestone Cowboy back to Gloria’s ranch house,” Nikki raised her voice louder than his.

  I nodded in agreement and turned the ignition key. “You better give up your front seat before teeth start flying from the rear,” I warned Gabriel.

  Just as he leaned into me to say something, Conn opened the car door, practically yanked him out, and bolted back to shotgun position.

  “Thank you,” Nikki said while waving goodbye to Gabriel.

  Chats with Patrice were rare as she traveled with work, and I missed her. From time to time I called Mother, but her homemaking tips and tedious quotes bored me something fierce. And my therapist was getting on my nerves with an undercurrent of advice to avoid the O’Quinn clan. I dropped out of therapy and once again opted to use Beau as my sounding board. We spoke by phone and occasionally shared lunch, which seemed more beneficial than pricey therapy.

  Determined to distance myself from Gabriel’s family, I kept busy going places, doing things, and attending lifted pinky soirees with Randall when he wasn’t in Japan. Functions where you cheerfully greet haughty people, hug, kiss air, then lie about how marvelous everyone looks while discussing preferences in skiing St. Moritz or Kitzbühel. At Halloween, Randall bought us Batman and Catwoman costumes, and requisitioned a black helicopter to drop us at three different parties. Impressed the hell out of me. Still, it took me a while to get used to his lifestyle and I never got comfortable with it.

  Randall took me to Dallas to meet his family. I’m sure my mouth flew open as we drove through gates and around the winding drive, where Rolls-Royces were being buffed by men in uniforms. Ditto as we walked through ornate double doors, opened by a doorman named Albert. I attempted to shift into blasé, sophisticated mode when I looked up at Lalique chandeliers that seemed to propagate as we walked through the hallways. Then I met his mom and aunt. Both were proper and cordial, but as I spoke with them my small sense of sophistication promptly vanished. I was feeling terribly out of place when a servant arrived with tea. I lifted my pinky and delicately raised an almond crumpet from the silver tray, not daring to breech etiquette by dropping one tiny crumb. Randall’s mother sat upright with hands folded across her lap, and a Greta Garbo smile stretched across her lips. I could almost read the thought bubbles over her head. Her ancestors? Breeding? Social status? Finishing schools? Not for my son!

  Unlike his family, Randall was totally unpretentious and down to earth, with the only exception being his preference for Dom Perignón’s 1939 and 1947 vintages. Highly adaptable, he could comfortably mingle with elite jet setters or those traveling via lesser means, and he enjoyed everything from Willie Nelson’s Crazy to Bach’s fourth Brandenburg Concerto. We did simple things like spending weekends aboard his yacht or watching old movies. But mostly, we attended polo matches (yep, they play polo in Texas, y’all), plays, operas, museum openings, or were whisked away by limo or jet to extravagant parties. For one of mediocre upbringing, opulence was an aphrodisiac—and we all know faking orgasms is a female prerogative indoctrinated way back in Biblical times.

  “I’m taking you to St. Barts,” Randall flashed tickets under my nose.

  “Yes.” I hugged him tightly.

  “And here’s my credit card to buy lots of sexy bikinis, high heels, and whatever else you want.”

  “Can’t I just buy moo-moos when we get there?” I teased. “You’re the best!”

  When I told Nikki about our trip, she whined. Then her whining advanced into dribbling fake tears for several days. To combat her infantile behavior, I brought home one of McDonald�
�s newly introduced “Happy Meals” and put it on the table. “Get jolly, lovey.”

  “I can’t believe you’re going on a great vacation without me.” She sobbed real tears into the decorative little box.

  I ignored her and she reciprocated by refusing to speak to either of us. I found her silence refreshing. Randall couldn’t handle it, and the day of our trip, he gave her five hundred dollars, concert tickets for her and Jim, and countless rock ‘n roll albums. This soon became a pattern, with Nikki making out like a bandit, me opposing his actions, and him dismissing my protests. When he wanted extra time with me, he simply handed Nikki money. I became so entwined in grandiose privilege I only glanced at every other white Ford Ranger or blue Chevy van. Still looked at every blond guy in faded blue jeans though.

  As much as he loved Texas, Randall’s decision to move permanently to Park City, Utah, surprised me. While making a land deal in early 1980, he found his own Rocky Mountain High in a fabulous villa nestled just beneath the peaks of Utah’s Wasatch Mountain Range. Randall began flying me back and forth on weekends, while proposing marriage. My capricious nature allowed me to be elusive without him asking for reasons. Maybe it was my distinct distaste for cold weather. My need to be near a warm body of water. My insecurities. My inability to feel comfortable around the extremely wealthy. Okay. Fine. I didn’t love Rich Boy. And I longed for my blond carpenter.

  Delilah had gone from country to rock, and stopped by after midnight decked out in a skin tight, silver Spandex jumpsuit, drunk on wine and drowsy from downers. “You gotta meet my new Elvis impersonator boyfriend. He’s got a tattoo of Graceland on his penis.”

  “And my boobs get perkier with age. Delilah, you shouldn’t be driving while plastered.”

  “Ugh,” her voice choked as she rushed into my bathroom, stuck her head in the toilet and threw up all kinds of crap through her nose. Door wide open—for my viewing pleasure.