The Jewel Box

by C Michelle McCarty

  “Not again. That’s as bad as you throwing firecrackers into his lap on New Year’s Eve when he doesn’t stay awake until midnight with you.”

  She snickered. “Yeah, not too many men like roasted weenies.”

  Delilah behaved sensibly in business dealings, but otherwise didn’t attempt to curb her immature behavior.

  “I hope your kids aren’t awake when Eric rises to go pee this morning.”

  “My teenagers spend every Saturday night with their goofy friends.”

  “Speaking of such, Nikki recently informed me that on her fourth birthday you told her Pluto and Goofy were homosexual.”

  “No, I said they were queer.” She took a drag on her cigarette. “Well, gotta go. Eric’s taking me to early mass this morning as soon as he wakes up and shaves his leg.”

  “I’ll pray for your family and all your neighbors in Cypress, Delilah.”

  With Patrice living in London, Beau was my primary strength builder. His health kept him fairly homebound, and being with him helped keep my mind off Gabriel. One evening after dinner, he insisted I sit on his sofa while he searched for something. His hunt went long as I patiently waited for him. “Sorry to keep you so late, but I recorded something and want you to have it.”

  “Better not be an episode of Step By Step,” I warned. Beau once mentioned he watched the sitcom because Suzanne Somers reminded him of me. Wasn’t the first time I’d been compared to a blonde airhead.

  “No, it’s a recording of me reading a quote that I came across recently. It’s right on target with my sentiment about taking risks.”

  “Oh sweet Beau,” I yelled out. “Always trying to guide me through life.”

  “Baby, I just want you to become more confident. More gutsy.”

  “Oh.” I relaxed on his sofa. Beau knew my weaknesses.

  “Here, I found it,” he said in muffled tone as he sauntered back into the living room.

  I insisted he sit beside me, and made idle comments while patting his hand to let him catch his breath. “Now play it every day until you regain that self-confidence and spirit for life you once had.” His voice was weak, but his tone was firm. He punched PLAY and we listened to his recorded voice: “Cherie, I read this quote on ‘Risk’ in some nondescript publication and recorded it for you because I consider you a dear, dear friend.” Several coughs escaped between Beau’s personal explanation and the actual quote:

  “To laugh is to risk appearing the fool.

  To weep is to risk being called sentimental.

  To reach out to another is to risk involvement.

  To expose feelings is to risk showing your true self.

  To place your ideas and your dreams before them is to risk being called naive.

  To love is to risk not being loved in return.

  To live is to risk dying.

  To hope is to risk despair,

  and to try is to risk failure.

  But risks must be taken, because the greatest hazard in life is to risk nothing.

  The person who risks nothing, does nothing, has nothing, is nothing and becomes nothing. He [or she] may avoid suffering and sorrow, but simply cannot learn and feel and change and grow and love and live.

  Chained by their certitudes, they are slaves who forfeit their freedom.

  Only the person who risks is truly free.”

  I understood why the risk sentiment hit home with Beau, and wanted it to saturate my skull. Maybe the time for me to take risks and become truly free had commenced.

  24

  A setting sun ended my Saturday gardening as I finished a light watering of my English roses and Autumn Amethyst azaleas. I stood enjoying a small sense of well-being when Scott flew down the block in his Mercedes, driving and honking like he was the fire marshal and my place was ablaze. He’d been riding the silver bullet again.

  “We’ve got to celebrate the Fall of the Berlin Wall—I brought my own Coors,” he shouted while opening his car door. “Hey, you’ll never believe who I had dinner with tonight.”

  He had that right.

  “Dan and Marilyn. She’s much more attractive in person, and Dan isn’t as dumb as everyone thinks.”

  “Scott, I’m really tired. You need to leave.”

  “I’ll only stay five minutes. Please, Cher. Please, please. . .”

  “Dammit.” I threw down the garden hose and removed my gloves.

  “So, what you been up to all day?” He set his car alarm before stumbling up the walk.

  “Sitting at Jungman Library, reading up on stalker laws in Texas.”

  “Got anything to eat? I’m starving.”

  “Were you too busy talking politics with the Qualyes at Ho Jo’s, to eat?” I asked.

  “Hey, why don’t you wear your hair like Marilyn’s?”

  “Why don’t you head home?”

  “You’d look great in that pretty flip style she wears.”

  “Not as great as I’ll look after eight hours sleep. Please go home, Scott. Your nights of crashing here are over. I apologize, but I need time alone.”

  He looked stunned. I didn’t care. Heeding Beau’s advice, I turned away, walked inside, locked my door and prayed Scott would arrive safely wherever he was going.

  Lakeside Drive was becoming a busy street. After work on Monday as I drove down the block, I saw Gabriel leaning against his van in front of my house. I panicked, knowing he saw me see him. I pulled into the garage, then got out and walked over to him. Beau said there’s a big difference between compassion and passion and once you’ve had both, friendship is impossible without wanting the passion. Still, I wanted to try. Beau was a marvelous mentor, but let me extrapolate backwards for those who may have forgotten: I am not Mensa material.

  “Just wanted to watch this sunset with you,” Gabriel said softly. “If you don’t mind.”

  How could I deny him a sunset? I loved him. And knew he still loved me. Our being together meant disrupting his relationship with every biological woman in his life. It was that simple and that complex. I could settle for just friends.

  “Anytime, amigo.” I looked across at him. Damn. He was once again wearing his melt-in-my-mouth moustache.

  “Thank you.” He nodded with a smile, but as he looked away from me and toward the sunset his expression seemed one of perpetual grimness. The calmness he always exuded was gone, and after reaching for a smoke, his hand trembled when he lit it.

  We watched the setting sun in silence, and when his pale blue eyes turned to rest on my face, I noticed a perceptible twitch in his cheek muscle. The sky was shifting into nightfall.

  “I’d better get inside. Got lots to do before bedtime tonight.” I rushed into my house, waving as I went. Beau would’ve been proud of me.

  It took me a few days longer than usual to complete Texasville, maybe because I was dialing Beau about every third chapter or so to leave messages on his answering machine. It had been well over a week since we spoke and I was getting worried about him. I attempted to catch him live to discuss McMurtry’s novel, but wound up telling it to his machine again. My phone rang immediately after I hung up the receiver. “Please, please be Beau,” I said aloud before answering and tapping my speaker key to better hear his weak voice.

  “Hey Blondie, whatcha up to?” Gabriel’s voice amplified into my world.

  “Checking out rehab centers.” I hit the speaker key back to its off position.

  “Yeaaah? You are one crazy lady.”

  “Just two fittings shy of a custom straightjacket. What’s up, Gabriel?”

  “Same old shit,” he responded in dismal tone.

  “You’re still so eloquent. Maybe you should team with Delilah for T-shirt slogans.”

  “Don’t make me puke.” He wasn’t a fan of Delilah.“That women is almost as bad as the one I live with.”

  “Speaking of Fran.” I almost choked on her name. “She may have your phone tapped. You better get straight to the point.”

  “No point. Just needed to he
ar your sweet voice.”

  Despite him sounding horribly depressed, he could easily weaken me. I wanted to be his friend, but wasn’t sure how healthy it was for me. Hanging up was my only option. “I think I’m having a grand mal seizure. Better dash.”

  “You don’t have that affliction.”

  “Right. But I do have to end this call. Au revoir.” I hung up.

  He might’ve been in a miserable marriage, but our Seventies adultery had caused pain for all involved, and his girls were now part of Gabriel’s life as were Gloria and Hope. None of these women would ever accept me and we both knew this. But like in our therapy sessions, he wouldn’t address it. And as long as I allowed communication, we were still rhythmically committing sin while concomitantly adding guilt.

  I was magnetized by Gabriel and didn’t know how to demagnetize. Desensitize. Beau was still MIA, Patrice almost impossible to reach, so I dialed Delilah.

  “I’m worried about Beau. He hasn’t returned my calls.”

  “He’s probably in Vegas. Didn’t he say he was going there?”

  “Yes, but he usually tells me his whereabouts. It’s been two months.”

  “Is his answering machine still working?”

  “Yes.” I opened my fridge and inspected expired foodstuff on semi-empty shelves.

  “Then he’s fine. Otherwise his phone would be disconnected.”

  “You’re probably right,” I said hopefully. “I’m just concerned, and could sure use his wisdom.”

  “More Gabriel problems?” she pried.

  “Not problems. He’s just so ingrained in my heart it’s tough to keep him in the friend zone.”

  “Because you two love each other. If it weren’t for his family’s interference you’d still be together.”

  “Maybe, maybe not. Still, the family situation happened and the damage is irreparable.”

  “It’s sadly complicated,” she said pensively. “But I’ll always think of y’all as a great couple.”

  “Like Jane Eyre and Edward, once he lost his crazy wife.” I trash canned some grey-green carrots and matching tofu. “Unfortunately, we lean toward Zhivago and Lara.”

  “I was thinking more along the lines of The Captain and Tennille. Hey, hold on a sec. I can’t talk without a cigarette.”

  I heard Eric’s voice and thought what a salt-of-the-Earth good guy her husband was, and how Delilah had become more responsible over the years. Still slightly warped, though.

  “Cherie, you need to stop wallowing in the past.” She paused to take a drag. “Go on a date—it’ll help.”

  “Dating doesn’t help. Every time I try to detach, he calls. Gabriel feels the same as me.”

  “Well, he won’t do anything about it.” Delilah all but yelled. “Gloria and Hope are happy he’s not with you, and maybe he thinks being miserable with Fran is his penance for what he did to Astrid and his girls.”

  “You’re probably right.” I found some grapefruit juice and poured myself a glass.

  “Just feel lucky you two shared something great once. Really Cherie, put a lid on your memories, toss ’em on a shelf, and start dating again.”

  “There’s gotta be more to life than smiling at lousy jokes during dinner, dodging lips after that, and ending the date by saying I’m not interested so take your penis elsewhere.”

  “Stop using Gabriel as a gauge for men, and maybe you could fall in love again.”

  “In the immortal words of Dionne Warwick: I’ll never fall in love again.”

  “Cherie, if things are meant to be you two will be cashing your social security checks together and sitting your butts in rocking chairs when you’re eighty, but until then, have some fun and enjoy life. Gabriel obviously hasn’t put his life on hold for you.”

  Heaven help me. Delilah was right.

  M.C. Hammer was belting U Can’t Touch This, and I was longing for some favorite Motown music when the phone rang. It was Beau! The best music my ears could ever hear. He had been hospitalized for weeks with a bout of emphysema, and then recuperated at his first wife Celeste’s home. She insisted he stay at her house so their son Gilles could check on him when she wasn’t around. Beau was happy to be back in his unadorned apartment, but talked about plans to head to Vegas the minute he was well again. Nothing could nip the joy that came from hearing his voice, but his frail utterance worried me.

  A week later Beau called to say he was feeling better and had found an old side table and a ladder lamp table he was sure I could refurbish. I was so excited about our Friday date, I spent the week cooking and freezing casseroles to take him. I’d listened to KLOL’s traffic updates in transit, but still wound up getting a ticket in my rush to see Beau. I would’ve risk jail time to hear him say “Baby” while wrapping me in one of his hugs—an embrace that evoked tears from me.

  His wonderful smile lit my heart, but Beau looked pitiful. Pale, bone thin, and struggling to catch his breath between words, still he noticed my tears and immediately attempted to soothe my concern. “I feel better than I look, baby.” And he rolled into story telling mode, easing my worry as he took me along on his favorite sentimental journeys. I would’ve been there all night had his lungs cooperated. Before he secured his oxygen for the evening, I hugged him extra long, making him promise to call anytime he wanted my company and especially if he felt ill. “Baby, if I get really sick I’ll put your unlisted phone number in my wallet. My memory isn’t what it used to be. It irritates me no end that this seasoned Black Jack player can’t recall numbers.”

  “There’s bound to be a tattoo parlor somewhere around here. Let’s ink it on your arm.”

  “I’ve had too many needles poked in my arms the past few months.” He was too tired for tattoo jokes. “But I’ll be okay and will try to let you know if I’m not.”

  “Try?” I asked, in way-too-whiny voice.

  “Baby,” Beau attempted to speak, but began coughing something fierce. We slipped oxygen on him for a few minutes and I monopolized the conversation until a healthier color suffused his face. “That dang Lanny Griffith didn’t help my cause tonight,” I said.

  “Who?”

  “Houston’s Master for Traffic in Bondage. He wears black leather and cracks his whip to keep listeners informed about traffic jams, but failed to keep me from getting a speeding ticket.”

  “Let me pay for that,” he offered.

  “No way. I’ll take it to court, cop won’t show up, and I’ll win.”

  “You sure?” He started coughing again.

  “I’m positive. And you need to rest so please don’t say another word.”

  His neighbor arrived to help me load the old furniture into my Bronco. I waved and blew kisses to a coughing yet smiling Beau as he sat watching from his apartment window. I looked up while driving away, and saw Beau flash a single playing card. I couldn’t read it, but knew his weak hand was holding a Jack of Clubs.

  25

  Beau wasn’t up to many visits and our talks grew rare, so I busied myself elsewhere, determined to forget what’s-his-name. The ‘91 calendar was rapidly rolling toward May ninth when I rolled into the Sculley situation at Griff’s pub where I watched Rockets basketball. Despite my attraction to this Irish advertising man with blond hair, blue eyes, and year round tan, I resisted his date requests. He was Gabriel in a tailored suit—sans moustache.

  His simple “Hi, I’m Aidan Sculley,” introduction back in 1990 was drenched in sensuality and accentuated by the flashing of his pearly whites.

  “Oh, I’ve heard of you. Prone to tantrums, part-time bounty hunter, collector of belly button lint, wannabe priest, single helix DNA, and you were once caught kissing a corpse.”

  “Pretty funny,” he said, uncertainty belying his comment.

  “Well, I used to be pretty funny. But that was a while back.”

  “What happened?” He brushed his hand across the breast pocket of his suit.

  “Let’s just say I fell from grace with a family that was more like my family
than my genetic family, so my only family now is my aboriginal family.” I gazed into the crowd.

  “Sounds interesting.” He shot me a dubious look.

  “What a coincidence, I used to be that too. But my wise personality just fired a warning shot reminding me to get away from the opposite sex.” I turned my attention to a big screen TV.

  “Can I buy you a drink?” Adian offered.

  “I don’t drink much, so thanks and buh bye.”

  “Adios,” he said, yet never budged. The guy was either hearing impaired or hellaciously persistent.

  “Bueños nachos,” I responded. He had definitely derailed my train of thought. Although I suspected he was addicted to Binaca, there was no denying my physical attraction to him. Aidan was a very sexy piece of business. He stood stoically in his usurped post, forcing me to move elsewhere. My mercurial mind already hatching plans to substitute him for you-know-who.

  Every time I saw Aidan he would do something incredibly asinine, like loudly sing the theme song to The Fresh Prince of Bel Air or suddenly break into discourse on Descartes. He was peculiar. My kind of guy. His athletic body verified his statements about being a health food nut, exercising regularly (participating, not just watching sports), and his casual dress consisted of walking shorts and wild print shirt, indicative of the Woodstock era. I learned through others that Aidan owned a small ranch in California, but considered himself a multifaceted rancher. Capable of roping and branding cattle, Aidan left such chores to hired cowboys while he enjoyed the great outdoors. His varied background intrigued me.

  “Wow. Check out the callipygian.” Aidan nodded to a passing girl as we sat at Griff’s watching a Rockets game.

  “Callipygian?” I questioned.

  “Oh, it’s an esoteric and rather useless word that means big-assed. I was an English professor at UCLA, and tend to remember minutia like that.”

  No way. I thought to myself, even more intrigued. “Then you could tell me all about Dorothy Parker.” I attempted to check authenticity. Remember, I’d been involved for two years with Mr. Would I Lie To You Baby?

  “Too easy.” He slid onto the barstool beside me. “The sarcastic American writer of short stories, poems, plays, reviews and magazine articles, who was rarely without booze, attempted suicide several times, wrote ‘Men seldom make passes at girls who wear glasses,’ walked around without her glasses because she liked things blurry, and left her estate to the NAACP.”