When Angels Cry

by Jennifer Edwards

  I became a proficient liar as well when I met my future husband, because I was sleeping with my English teacher, Danielle. Brad was a law student, two years ahead of me. We met at a party given by a mutual friend. I almost didn’t go, because I had a date with Danielle that night. She cancelled due to a severe head cold. Understanding that the last place she would want her stuffy nose was between my legs, I opted to be a brave girl and party. I dressed up in my favorite bohemian skirt and a paisley off-the-shoulder top. I laced up my moccasin boots and wore all things patchouli. Every part of me smelled of it. Patchouli oil was without a doubt the best invention for hiding the smell of marijuana. Before long, parents and local authorities figured that one out. But I truly loved the smell of it. The musty, earthy, sexiness of it.

  Stephanie’s apartment also smelled of patchouli. Good sign, I thought. The lights were low, and candles burned inside various wine bottles. A lava lamp bubbled in one corner, and a giant bong had center stage in the middle of the living room floor. I knew a couple of the people worshipping the bong God, but as I looked around, I realized I barely knew a soul.

  Brad was on a couch in the corner of the room. He was hard to miss. His jet-black curls framed his round baby face. His eyes were whitish blue, and his eyelashes were three layers deep. I instinctively took my hair off its resting place on top of my head and let it fall in its wave of curls down to my waist. My hair was definitely one of my best features. I felt more than womanly when it was down. It worked, as I knew it would. I got Brad’s attention. I felt the blood rush to my face, and I feared I looked like a cat in heat. He flashed a huge grin my way.

  We spent several hours in our own little bubble. People occasionally spoke to us, but the only voices we seemed to hear were our own. He was smart and funny and he told me he wanted to be a lawyer. I would learn in the latter stages of our marriage how talented a lawyer he was. I could never win an argument no matter how absolutely right I was. Even if I had proof of something, Brad could turn the whole thing around somehow and convince me that I had been wrong or had misinterpreted the facts. Inevitably I would feel guilty and not know why. The very decent living he made as a lawman only confirmed my suspicions that he was brilliant.

  That first night, Brad made me laugh till my sides hurt. When he asked me back to his apartment, I went. We walked about two blocks from the school with our arms hooked together. We turned down a tree-lined street that was known as the better part of town and slipped into a quaint two story building. His apartment was not at all typical of a twenty-one-year-old student. It was immaculate with very beautiful furniture for a fellow student to have. I was used to bean bags and pillows on the floor. This guy actually had a dining table with chairs which I later learned had been imported from France. He offered me a drink from his well-stocked bar.

  “Scotch?” he asked.

  “Sure, why not?” I hated scotch, but I was liking the guy.

  Once we made it to the bedroom, it was a tornado of clothing. Things flew around the room and ended up behind things, under things, hanging from things. We had a very difficult time finding a sock the next day.

  Then and there, sitting on top of that man’s cock, I had the orgasm of a lifetime. Maybe that was all my problem was . . . I needed to be on top for more than a few seconds. Years later, we girls would hear about the “G” spot. Obviously, I had found it! Gee!

  I became a research scientist and a juggler at the same time. I had to juggle Danielle and Brad, but even more importantly, I had to make sure that my newfound orgasmic ability wasn’t a fluke. I decided I should try to fuck as many guys as I could to make up for lost time. My ultimate goals were to stop falling in love with Brad and to put an end to my love affair with my teacher. I did want to have babies one day. Our age difference was a factor. I was eighteen, and she was thirty-five, a definite strike against us. She was so deep in the closet, our relationship had no future.

  I went about fucking and sucking my way through junior year, all the while excusing my behavior as an experiment. I had to find out the truth about the big O. The holy grail. Okay, just my hole-e-grail. I could justify my behavior. I wasn’t the only person conducting these sorts of experiments. It was college, after all! As long as the sex was safe we felt we could justify our behavior. Bottom line was I wanted to know exactly how my body worked and how I could be sufficiently satisfied. What’s wrong with that? The question became, did I need to be filled with a penis? Or could I live with the occasional tongue or hand job on my privates without penetration? It was becoming clearer to me that I could not. Danielle began to notice I wasn’t spending as much time with her. She realized I must be seeing someone else. I’m sure it didn’t occur to her that I was seeing the entire local Air Force base.

  Sex with Danielle had become calculated and aggressive, on my part anyway. My sexual escapades resembled being thrown around a room like a football waiting for the proverbial “touchdown” at the end. And sex with women didn’t offer that. I slowly pulled back and felt badly about it. She had been a huge influence on me. I discovered that all the things I loved about her, at the beginning, the way her hair smelled of Herbal Essence shampoo, the way she didn’t wear make-up, the way she breathed while she slept, started to bother me. I wanted her to remain my mirror. Instead the person looking back at me now was me.

  I began seeing Brad more often. Since I thought about him all the time, it made sense. He made me laugh when we talked and cry when we made love. No one else had been able to do that. So I fell in love. I also recorded data from my “experiments.” I documented so much of my life, then unaware that within three years out of college, I would publish my first novel titled Love and Lust at Midnight.

  Eighteen-year-old Gwendolyn, a beautiful equestrian, has a summer fling with a twenty-five-year-old polo player, who likes to fuck standing up with his riding boots on.

  The sun caused tiny beads of sweat to form across his collarbone. All I wanted to do was taste the saltiness of it on my tongue. Being the good girl everyone thought I was, I concentrated on cleaning the horse’s hooves. The pick in my hand dug out the dirt that had accumulated that day from rain-drenched Charleston soil. I had difficulty concentrating as I couldn’t help looking at Christopher’s shoulders flexing as he brushed the bay mare’s coat.

  “How’s it coming, Bridgit?” he called over to me.

  “It’s fine except the mud is really caked in this hoof,” I answered.

  “Here, let me take a look.” Christopher gently took the horse’s hoof and set it on top of his own thigh. He touched my hand and took the pick from it. I felt an electric charge between us. “See, it’s not that hard,” he said, looking up at me while peeling the mud from the horseshoe.

  “No, I guess it isn’t,” I agreed.

  Chris stood, in his white polo pants and boots, shirtless and sweating. He took my seventeen-year-old hand and placed it firmly on his crotch.

  “But this is hard,” he said, grinning.

  I could feel the strength and the hardness of his manliness ready to burst free from the constraints of those riding pants.

  Without another word, I slowly unzipped him and allowed his cock to spring free. He hoisted me up onto his hips and bent me down onto the haystack. He threw back my skirt and ripped my panties off in one sweeping motion. Placing himself above me, he positioned the tip of his cock at my awaiting, hungry orifice.

  “This is my first time,” I said, looking in his steely blue eyes.

  “I’ll be gentle,” he said slowly gliding himself into my womanhood.

  Marie got married, in the fall, just a year after graduating. Of course, I was her maid of honor. It was mind-blowing to me that my best friend would even consider marriage. David, her groom, was a billionaire’s son, and he wasn’t half bad looking. I guess I couldn’t blame her.

  The night before the wedding, it became apparent to the two of us that we would be locked forever in a secret world that only she and I knew about. To everyone on the outside
looking in, there was nothing abnormal about two best friends spending the night together in the bride’s hotel room. They would never know that we slept in the same bed, made love as if there was no tomorrow, and wept in each other’s arms afterward. Little did I know that not only would this “big day” be life altering for Marie, but that my life would also change in an instant.

  The morning of the wedding I awoke in the crook of Marie’s arm with a horrible, nagging nausea in the pit of my stomach. I was sure it was all in my head. I mean I was really emotional. I launched myself toward the toilet bowl and began retching. Marie stood in the doorway and asked, “Are you pregnant?”

  My whole world spun out of control.

  Chapter Four

  Fasten Your Seat Belts. It’s Gonna Be A Bumpy Ride

  “Are you alright?” Terry had been discussing my mother and the house. How we could possibly keep the house, how we should consider selling the house, how I should maybe put my mother in assisted living.

  I noticed that my spaghetti had been in a continual twirl, never reaching my mouth. I probably could knit mittens by the time this meal ended. It was just so difficult to take him seriously. Here was little Terry, Marie’s ten-years-younger brother looking like a ripe peach waiting for me to take a bite. I had to remind myself that he was just too young and that it would more than complicate things. He was only a few years older than my waiter. It felt wrong to be thinking these nasty things. Terry finished the rest of his meal. I didn’t eat a thing but managed to sip my wine.

  Dwight sashayed over with the check.

  “You know, maybe you should meet with my father as well,” Terry suggested. “Even though he’s semi-retired. Since he is familiar with this issue I’m sure, he could help you come up with a solution.”

  We had a momentary struggle over the bill. I grabbed it first, but Terry insisted on paying. I wasn’t going to argue.

  Dwight returned to the table. As he picked up the bill, he also helped me out of my chair. With his hand on the small of my back, a little lower than what would be a casual motion, he said how great it was to see me again so soon and that he hoped to see me more often. An involuntary giggle escaped my throat, and I saw Terry’s eyes flash with the knowledge that something intimate had passed between this waiter and me. In true pissing contest fashion, Terry replaced Dwight’s hand with his own and guided me gently out into the parking lot. For the first time in a long time, I was beginning to feel beautiful. Maybe mid-forties isn’t the end of the world!

  I really hadn’t anticipated an awkward moment before we said goodbye. Having known Terry his whole life, I felt that a good, warm bear hug would be appropriate. As I moved in, arms outstretched, he placed his hand behind my neck and pulled me to him. We were now nose to nose. “I have wanted to be inside you since I was fifteen,” he whispered.

  “I was married,” I whispered back.

  “Not now!”

  My knees started to wobble and all I could say was, “Too old.”

  “I am not!” He teased. We both smiled. Then we kissed. Slow soft, sweet. And way too long! I pulled away. I stared into his face and saw the sadness in his eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have assumed.”

  “Well, I shouldn’t have taken advantage,” I replied. The whole situation started to feel a bit creepy. I replayed what had just happened and found myself comparing Terry’s kiss with Marie’s. They were related after all. What’s wrong with this picture? “I gotta go.” I said, backing away. “Please . . . I mean . . . thank you. For dinner and all. And the advice . . .” I continued backing up trying all the while to avoid any unseen obstacles. “I had fun! Really. And we’ll talk again . . . soon.”

  When I reached my car I fumbled for my keys which I promptly dropped. Looking back, I could see Terry smiling sweetly. I wished he didn’t look so good. Retrieving my keys, I pushed the button to unlock my door. Once inside, I took the deepest breath I had since giving birth. As I drove down the long drive, I watched Terry in my rear view mirror, standing alone, watching me leave.

  “You idiot.” I said out loud as I drove like a mad woman back to my mother’s house. What was I thinking? Kissing Terry? It had to be the wine . . . that was it . . . two glasses of wine and I’ll dance on a tabletop . . . or a face! I tried to calm myself. Maybe this was normal. Being middle-aged, single, and horny . . . or maybe I was craving attention I’d been lacking for the last ten years. But my best friend’s brother?

  I remember how I felt when Henry and Marie . . . Oh my god! I had totally forgotten!

  My little brother and my best friend!

  During Marie’s first three years of marriage, she developed a polyp on one of her bronchi. Henry was doing his residency, and it made sense that she would seek his professional opinion. They began a secret affair. Both denied having sex, of course.

  Marie told me, “It was spiritual.” Yeah right! It almost ruined our friendship forever.

  As I let myself into my mother’s house, I found Manuel and my mother curled up on the couch, watching a movie. Manuel turned upon hearing me and smiled. He gestured that my mother was asleep. I don’t ever remember seeing my mother and father cuddle, let alone hug one another. After Rachel’s death, I’m not sure I even remember mother being affectionate with her remaining children. My mother must have felt very secure in order to fall asleep in a man’s arms. Or maybe she had really lost her mind.

  I felt an annoying lump in my throat as I ascended the staircase. Avoiding the emotional barrage of photos, I reached the top and stood facing the closed door to my parents’ bedroom. In the couple of days I had been home, I hadn’t gone into that room. The room had given me a false sense of safety when I was little. Never a good sleeper, I would creep out of my bedroom in the middle of the night and open the door to their room. Slipping quietly inside, I would sit just inside the door. I didn’t want them to wake up, but I needed to see that they were there. I would watch the rise and fall of the quilt my grandma had made, knowing that they were still breathing underneath. They slept on entirely opposite sides of the bed, as if an invisible wall was keeping them from touching. I realized the last time I was in that room was just before my father died. I wasn’t sure I wanted to open the door. Since it is my nature to be curious, I did. It took a few seconds to acclimate to the sight before me. Where once a four poster bed stood, there was now a sleek bed frame. A large Mexican serape was draped over the bed. The antique lamps that had been passed down from generations of Mancuso’s had been replaced by Mexican pottery converted into magnificent lamps. The room that had been so familiar to me my entire life now reflected my mother’s new life that I knew nothing about.

  I walked over to look at the photos on the side table. There was an old photo of my father standing in front of the college, and one taken of the three of us children at the pony rides a week before Rachel died. I knew these photos. Another caught my eye. One that I had never seen before. I picked it up. It was a photo of my mother as a very young woman, maybe even a teenager. I didn’t recognize the man. Obviously Hispanic, he was very handsome and had his arms around my mother. The photo had been taken somewhere in Mexico. I set it down, wondering why this photo now had center stage in my mother’s bedroom.

  I turned, at the sound of Manuel quietly clearing his throat. He had my sleeping mother in his arms.

  “Sorry, Miss Sarah, I put your mother to her bed?”

  I felt as if I was in another dimension. I nodded to Manuel and watched him gently place my mother on the bed and smooth her hair away from her face. He looked up at me and smiled. “She likes to sleep early now,” he whispered.

  I nodded.

  He slowly walked by me and said good night.

  Something struck me, “Manuel?” I asked. “Is this you?” I picked up the photo of my very young mother with the young man.

  “Si, Miss Sarah. A lifetime ago.” With that, he turned and walked down the stairs.

  I stood in the room, holding
the photo, looking down at my sleeping mother, feeling as though my heart would break. I never thought of my mother having secrets. That had been left to my father and Henry and me. Apparently, she did. I returned the photo and covered my mother with a blanket. Looking down at her, I was thrust back to a day when I was ten years old.

  When I returned from school, I thought I was the only one in the house as my brother had Pop Warner, my father was at work, and my mother always had her hair done on Tuesdays. I was more than a surprised when I bolted up the stairs and found the door to my parents’ room open. My mother was lying prone on the bed. I assumed she wasn’t feeling well, because she never missed going to the salon if for no other reason than to hear the latest gossip. I crept into her room and reached the edge of the bed. Something was wrong. My mother’s mouth was wide open, and she was pasty looking. Her mascara had run down her face making a macabre Rorschach pattern. Then I spotted the empty pill bottles on the bed next to her. My mother’s pill consumption had increased after Rachel’s death, but it was clear to me that what she had done was not by prescription.

  “Mom?” I said loudly. There was no response. “MOM?” I was louder this time, and I threw in a few shakes of her body. Still no response. So I did what any quick thinking ten-year-old would do . . . I slapped her really hard in the face.

  A slight moan escaped from her mouth. Relieved, I hit her again, and this time she stirred even more.

  I ran into the bathroom, grabbed the waste paper basket, and set it beside the bed. Then I jumped on the bed next to her and pulled and pushed my mother as hard as I could over to the edge of the bed.

  “Whhhaaa arrr??” Her eyes flickered open briefly then closed.

  I proceeded to do what I had seen my mother do to Henry after he had eaten too many chewable aspirin. I pried her mouth open and stuck my little fingers down her throat. She began coughing and spewing and thrashing her arms at me. Within seconds, things I never thought possible came up and out of her mouth. She heaved up what looked like her entire insides. When she became unresponsive I grabbed her arms and tried to get her off the bed. She tried to fight me off. “Mom, come to the bathroom,” I said as I struggled to drag her across the floor by her armpits. I finally got her to the toilet where instinctively she dropped to her knees, as if in prayer, facing the bowl. When she began to retch again, I ran to get the phone. We always kept emergency numbers neatly typed next to the phones. I grabbed the list and pulled the phone next to her just in time to see her lose consciousness.