The Jewel Box

by C Michelle McCarty

  “I’m happy Gabriel,” I lied. “I’m dating again.” Okay. Another lie. An air of mendacity filled the room as I transformed Scott into my pretend boyfriend. “He’s your complete opposite.”

  “I’m glad you’re happy.” Gabriel fired up a smoke. “Blondie why do you think we chose opposites instead of working things out?”

  We both knew damn well why we couldn’t work things out. I wanted to shout “Family Ties,” but kept my comment in check. “Well, the opposite you chose has blonde hair, like me.”

  “Yeah, but hers is cheesy looking crap that she plasters down with a can of hair spray.”

  Oh, I had noticed her truly impressive hairstyle. “How’d you end up with Francine?”

  “I was confused and determined to get you out of my mind, and Gloria was trying to fix me up with every woman over the age of sixteen. Christ, Fran’s boldness actually attracted me, can you believe that?”

  “Sure. Victoria was outgoing and I’m not exactly shy.”

  “Yeaaah, but you’re subtly sarcastic—like me.” He paused, taking a drag on his cigarette. “Anyway, I was drinking during that time and one of the architects arranged a date between us. I didn’t know about her Halcion use until much later.”

  “Oh pleeease, Gabriel. How’d you miss that?”

  “Like I said, I was drinking too much and didn’t snap that her passing out and falling off bar stools was anything other than booze. Besides, she has a couple of kids younger than Luke.”

  “And in steps Gabriel the caretaker. Even so, her bold persona surprises me. You were always in charge.”

  “Yeah . . .” he said.

  “I’m sorry you’re so down in the dumps, Gabriel.”

  “Well, selling the house on Windmill Lane has a lot to do with it, I suppose.”

  A lump formed in my throat. I couldn’t speak. That house held special memories.

  “I got cash for it,” he informed. “And sunk it into a big farm house near Friendswood.”

  Last thing I needed to hear was some “Green Acres is the place to be” mantra, since I was no longer Farmer Brown’s wife. I ended the call.

  Scott was asleep when I returned to the living room, but woke long enough to ask about the call, and half-listened to my explanation. “Cher, you’re a good friend to listen to him,” he grunted. “Could you turn off that light and toss a blanket over me?” I’d asked him a zillion times not to call me Cher, but before I could complain, his eyelids slammed shut and snoring resumed.

  Didn’t take long for me to realize Scott spewed more fiction than fact. Yes, he knew influential folks, but hanging with them didn’t happen often. If at all. Scott claimed he was pals with Ken Hoffman, a new columnist for The Houston Post, whom Nikki and Gabriel adored. And Scott never introduced me to his beloved Morgan Fairchild. Said she insisted their affair be clandestine to maintain her sex-symbol image. Hey, I understood. Johnny Depp asked me not to flaunt our sizzling tryst because his hectic 21 Jump Street schedule left little time for him to answer questions about our age difference.

  Nikki began hanging out in West U with law student Tad. The duo mostly hung out at preppy dive, Kay’s Lounge, but frequented Houston clubs like Volcano, Numbers, Therapy, and Club No Minor, to name a few. Some were wild places, but my sequined pasties background didn’t exactly sustain objections I voiced.

  Gabriel called occasionally and somehow our conversations inevitably rolled into comparing Fran and my phony lover’s remarkable resemblances. Both were proficient in hyperbole and decent enough when sober, but after throwing back booze they slipped from any moral high ground into a gutter, and blamed alcohol for their actions.

  “Fran seemed domineering, but pleasant enough when I met you with divorce papers.”

  “That was one of her better days,” he said dryly. “Hell, she fell off the wagon right after that night. And not only is she a drunken mess, she’s gained about forty pounds since then.”

  “Really?” I gloated inwardly, envisioning her ass looking like a keg of cottage cheese. “Well, Scott’s gained weight himself. Still, he’s brilliant and amusing with a redeeming quality of dazzling everyone with phenomenal vocabulary. He loves being the center of attention and can turn a simple occurrence into a mini drama or hilarious sitcom.” No need to mention my faux boyfriend’s propensity to prevaricate. Or Scott’s drunk ass crashing at my house every time he left a bar in my neighborhood that he’d been supporting ever since he stumbled into it one day.

  “You’re lucky.” Gabriel drew in smoke. “Fran thinks she’s dazzling and taking center stage, but her drunken behavior is hardly a crowd pleaser.”

  “We could cite a litany of wrongs committed by our counterparts, but maybe we should consider our own shortcomings.” Like me starting to lie almost as skillfully as Scott.

  “Hell, that’d take all night, Blondie.”

  “That’s a fact and not a fiction,” I agreed, thinking of my years of analysis. “Even though my dad and I grew a little closer after he stopped drinking, Patrice says I see Scott as a father figure and think if I can fix him, it’ll be like fixing my dad. Repairing my childhood. Rescue him to rescue me.”

  “Yeaaah. Don’t think I’m not familiar with the old white knight syndrome. I’m a caretaker too, especially if children are involved.”

  The young faces of his daughters flooded my thoughts. He had mended their childhood to the best of his ability, considering the damage we had done, and I realized all the pain I felt from leaving him hadn’t been in vain. But we needed to keep our distance so things could remain repaired. “We better say goodnight. I need to get some rest and I know you still get up at some ungodly hour.”

  “And you still stay up watching Letterman. Say goodnight, Blondie.”

  “Goodnight, Gabriel. Take care of yourself.”

  I continued my alternative lifestyle with Scott. We were two troubled souls, fighting very different emotional dragons with little possibility of ever slaying our monsters. Worn out by my unconventional bond with Scott, during a weak moment I foolishly agreed to have lunch with Gabriel when he called. Beau knew something was up the minute he heard my voice. I fessed up about my upcoming tête-à-tête.

  “Reviving a love affair is like warming up cold biscuits,” he staunchly warned. “They never taste as great as they did when they were fresh baked.”

  “Pleeease, Beau. That’s a cute analogy, but Gabriel and I aren’t country cuisine. And we’re not trying to revive our love affair.”

  “Well baby, you sure could’ve fooled me.”

  “Oh,” I mumbled. Beau knew me too well.

  “Did you ever read Texasville?” He changed subjects.

  “I’m almost finished. Thank you again. I just hope the movie version does it justice.”

  “If McMurtry does the screenplay it’ll be super. Just no Lonesome Dove.”

  “Let’s watch it when it comes out on video.” I knew Beau could never sit in a theatre without coughing others out of their seats. “Can I call you back, Beau? Someone’s knocking on my door.”

  “I need to hook up to my oxygen anyway. I’ll call you tomorrow, baby.”

  Scott walked in with a six pack, started in on some narrative about National Security Advisor Colin Powell, then grabbed the remote and plopped his rear in front of the TV. He was rambunctiously gorging himself on a giant bag of pretzels I’d intended to keep in the family at least two weeks, when my phone rang.

  “Cherie,” a loud voice shrieked icily. “This is Fran O’Quinn.”

  “Yes. . .” I responded nervously, attempting to catch my breath.

  “What’s going on between you and my husband?”

  I sat down on my bedroom floor, hoping she might tell me. And focusing on Beau’s advice to keep quiet when a conversation was one of questionable content.

  “I know Gabriel’s been calling you because I found this number on his desk. Now what the hell is going on between you two?”

  “Nothing. He’s called here,
but only to ask about Nikki,” I lied.

  “You sure about that?” she asked, phrasing it both as a question and the answer she wanted to hear.

  “Yes.” I shifted uncomfortably. “Gabriel and I are just friends.” I glanced into the living room at Scott who was too busy putting a lip lock on a bottle of Coors to notice my conversation. “Fran I have company, and can’t talk now.”

  “Okay Cherie. Thanks for answering my questions.”

  Fran seemed relieved by my inaccurate account, but for me it seemed like déjà vu all over again. I had spent too much money on analysis to let this nonsexual involvement with Gabriel get out of control. Besides, I’d parked my deceiving bum right in the middle of my bedroom floor and lied—yet again. These fibs had to stop. Lunch with Gabriel would not happen.

  Beau and I spent an afternoon at Leon’s Lounge and after wine, I told him about Scott’s frequent visits to my “Drunks Drop Inn” motel. About Fran’s call and my dishonesty with her. About my inability to detach from Gabriel. He listened patiently.

  “I always liked Gabe and wish you could be together, but I don’t want you getting hurt.”

  “When it comes to Gabriel, I can’t hurt anymore than I have. And I don’t want anyone else getting hurt. It’s just hard not to talk when he calls.”

  “Toughen up, baby. This bond you’ve got with him isn’t healthy.”

  “But, it’s like he truly was my mythological split-apart and we’re still seeking to return to our original union, Beau. Maybe love taken at the expense of others is destined to end like a Greek tragedy. All I know is that my life seems to be a series of attempts to get over him.”

  “I’m concerned about the animosity of his sister and mother. In-law interference has caused many a marriage to fail, but in this case they just can’t keep you two apart.”

  “I know. So do you have any advice other than cute analogies about cold biscuits?”

  “Not really. Just that you’re in the middle of an emotional downpour of unsalvageable love, so please look out for yourself.”

  “You somewhat instilled ‘look out for number one’ in me years ago with Wesley, thus I’ve always remained emotionally detached with other men. With Gabriel, it’s like he produces a conditioned reflex that accelerates my pulse, heightens my anxiety and sends me into a frenzy. If he weren’t Irish, I’d swear he was related to Pavlov.”

  “That dog feeding, bell ringing, Russian scientist?” Beau coughed.

  “That’s right.”

  “Baby,” Beau took a shallow breath before signaling the bartender for our tab. “Thought I told you years ago that everything you do in life, every friend and every relationship you possess is your choice. There’s a dark side to every soul, but whether you lead or follow, do good or evil, the choice is all yours.”

  “Yes, you were talking dialectics and Nietzsche.”

  “Yep.” Once again, Beau attempted to drag some air into his lungs. “And in my opinion, you should stay away from Gabriel as long as he’s in thrall to wicked Gloria.”

  “You’re right.” I jumped off my barstool to save Beau from expending energy by helping me down. Always the gentleman, he gave me a little frown that I shrugged off with a sweet smile.

  “Every human being has ethical and corrupt tendencies and the merging of those is what makes us into who we are,” Beau completed his observation.

  “I believe in dialectics, but wasn’t Nietzsche the one who hated women, then died of syphilis or some other sexually transmitted disease?”

  “Life has no plot, baby.”

  “Hey.” I thumped his shoulder. “That’s my line.”

  New Year’s Eve was spent quietly with Beau, although we were guests of his friends for a celebration aboard a colossal yacht docked in Corpus Christi. Beau loved to mingle, but when I noticed him tiring, I found an isolated upstairs corner with a great view for observing others. We chatted about determination and free will, the cosmos, and harmonious structure. “Aristotle called metaphysics ‘the first philosophy’ and divided it into three parts,” Beau informed as I sipped champagne. Who knew Beau was hip to metaphysics? My brain absorbed only minor bits of his explanation, but I absorbed his presence like a sponge.

  Nikki and her new love, Tad, went to his family’s beach house to drink champagne and welcome 1989 with his relatives, singing Auld Lang Syne or whatever happy people sing. Tad was a third year law student, following the footsteps of his attorney father. My girl was maturing into a responsible young lady who grew more like Gabriel every year. Besides possessing his mid-laugh snort, she listened to AM radio, made a production of watching sunsets, and often read recipes to me—complete with orgasmic sounds.

  The year officially kicked off with Texan George H. W. Bush becoming the 41st President of the US in January. And in March the Exxon Valdez spilled eleven million gallons of oil in Alaska. Spring came and went with Gabriel calling intermittently, whilst calls from Patrice doubled due to her excitement about moving to London with potential of becoming a senior partner. “My salary is substantial, but so is the cost of living, not to mention taxes for Queenie.”

  “Ah yes, the royal pain in the commoner’s ass.”

  “Speaking of pains, are you still in that symbiotic relationship with Scott?”

  “How’s this symbiotic for me?”

  “He offers male companionship without making physical or emotional demands.”

  “And what benefit does Scott derive?”

  “You give him credibility with his associates. It’s likely you’re the only sane woman who’s stuck around for any length of time.”

  “I appreciate you calling me sane, Patrice.”

  “Just be careful. This guy is like one of those unsightly warts you can’t burn off.”

  Nikki stayed wrapped up in Tad all summer, which worried me some. They looked at each other the same way Gabriel and I always had. They weren’t overly affectionate to the point of causing nausea in others, but no one else existed in their world. Leave it to my child to fall in love with a slow walking, calm talking, star gazing, nature loving, guitar strumming Irishman who made her giggle uncontrollably.

  By the end of summer, my affiliation with Scott was making me weary. And as Beau’s health declined, I spent much of my free time with him listening to his plans to return to Vegas.

  “Gosh, baby, you don’t sound well enough to be out visiting,” Beau said when I arrived under the influence of an upper respiratory condition.

  “I’m channeling Marilyn Monroe,” I whispered.

  “I oughta shoot you for driving over here. It’s obvious you don’t feel well.”

  “I’m fine, it’s not contagious, and I just sound awful.” My illness had left me winded and speaking in hushed tones. “My meds kicked in, but I’m still wondering what the heck knocked me in my chest and battered my lungs like this.”

  “It’s couvades.” Beau rested his hand on my arm.

  “You’re cranking your oxygen too high, Beau. That term only applies to men and pregnancy symptoms.”

  “Well, I still think you’re feeling sympathy pains for me.”

  “I am, but doc thinks I picked up some weird parasite, and prescribed antibiotics. ‘Course, I think my parasite is a subspecies named Scott. If he’s not travelling he’s popping up at my place like an inebriated Jack-in-the-Box.”

  “Baby, what kind of powers do you have over men?”

  “Mutual sick minds, I guess.”

  “Seriously,” Beau said softly. “You’ve got to stop allowing others to drain your energy and dampen your spirit. When you totally take care of number one, you’ll blossom into a magnificent flower. It won’t be easy with your kind heart, but it’s vital for survival of your soul.”

  “I still have Emerson’s Twelve Essential Essays that you gave me my second week at the Jewel Box. You highlighted the volumes on Self-Reliance.”

  “You mean I didn’t highlight Intellect?”

  “Ha ha, and no you did not,” I sa
id in breathless undertone. “So it’s your fault I’m a ditz.”

  “You’re no ditz,” he said in a voice fainter than mine.

  Time for me to leave and let him rest.

  The following evening Gabriel called under the pretext of sharing a comment from Ken Hoffman’s latest column. “Hoffman’s hilarious on occasion, but scoring good drive-thru food doesn’t exactly entice me like it does you and Nikki.”

  “Ken only does food reports on Thursday. The other days he covers all kinds of subjects.”

  “Okay, fine. I’ll check him out more often.”

  “First check out this beautiful sunset,” Gabriel said.

  I looked outside with a peaceful heart, remembering the friendship we shared before we became lovers. A friend who still made me feel so comfortable.

  “Oh, yeah. Conn’s wife Kim had a baby girl so you might want to drop by to see them. No need to call, they’re always home and the little puke would love to see you. He always asks about you when Gloria’s not around.”

  “Ah, someone on Walton’s Mountain still cares.” I took another glimpse out my window to see the sun set, and noticed Scott sitting on my sidewalk like a one man Welcome Wagon Committee. “Gotta go, Gabriel.” I ended our call.

  Yes, I allowed Scott’s drunken bum to come inside while swearing to Beau it would be my last time to enable an alcoholic. And I booted him out before midnight, so progress was being made. Beau’s comment about me taking care of number one was ringing in my ear when I fell asleep. Maybe I’d eventually learn to keep my distance from people of dubious integrity and negative karma.

  “You awake?” Delilah boomed into the phone, waking me.

  “Of course,” I said, opening one eye to look at my bedside clock. “I’m up watching Reverend Falwell save sinners. Jeez, Delilah, it’s five in the morning.”

  “I had to tell you what I did to Eric for falling asleep on the couch again.”

  I cleared my throat and rubbed my eyes, hoping she’d keep it brief.

  “While he was sawing logs, I used Super Glue to bond his dick to his hairy leg.”