My head swivelled to and fro, trying to get the songs out, get Martin Luther King out, Bobby, Annie, Johnny. I wished I had Johnny. I wished I had someone dangerous on my side. “What are you doing?” I said out loud, to me and anyone else who could answer the question.
“Forty-five seconds,” Frank said. “Baby, it’s no big deal. I taped it when we fucked a few times and I put it on another site. It’s under the helmet so you wouldn’t be self-conscious. Don’t worry, no one can tell who we are. I figured you knew. How do you think I keep giving you all that cash?” He leaned in and straightened my mask.
“I don’t care,” I said to my bare knees. They looked like russet potatoes now. My mother smiled in the garden. My mother onstage smiling, tumbling, brunette to blonde, to me and her and Frank said, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1.
“We’re back, you bad boys,” Sienna drawled at the webcam.
I stared at the helmet’s visor. Spy cams. Nanny cams. Instant messages gunned down the computer screen. Sienna glanced at me with a sort of bemused look and giggled. I realized I’d been humming. The motion in my head stopped dead and I sang, “And it’s five, six, seven, open up the Pearly Gates, there ain’t no time to wonder why, whoopee, we’re all gonna die.” And then I laughed. And Sienna laughed. “Why don’t you ask me what I’m singing?” I suggested.
“Okay.” She tried to bring my hand to her breast.
SugarDaddy typed “Feels Like I’m Fixin’ to Die.”
“Not you,” I reprimanded the webcam. I pulled off the mask and the room tilted, slammed into focus, a straight concise grid. The crows were gone. Other bodies in the room looked as though they were in stark relief, hyper 3D. Hurt fizzled across Sienna’s face. Frank’s pupil-filled eyes loomed and pleaded.
“Frank, why don’t you ask me why I keep watching old news videos? Why I’m reading about Kennedys and mobsters and Judy Campbell?”
Instant messages battered down the screen. Who’s Frank?; Lick please; Eat her pussy; yes yes yes; fuck 4 me!
“Don’t you want to know what’s in her trunk?”
“Frank?” Sienna chirped nervously, her Sabrina self had scampered under the bed.
“Vi—Lucinda!” Frank stuttered.
“My name is Vivian,” I said calmly to the video. “I’m Vivian Callwood and my mother used to be a stripper called Celia Dare. My boyfriend, Frank, doesn’t know any of this, because he’s been too busy secretly videotaping us fucking.” A deep wide sea chuckled out of me and I felt bright and airy. “Come on, Sienna, confess! It’s fun, it’s better than being with a priest!”
“For chrissake!” Frank howled as he tapped at the keyboard. These Models Are Currently on Break, the screen read again. “You drank too much. You’re tripping. You, you—shit … we’re losing, like, fifty, sixty bucks a … I gotta call Brian.”
“No,” I said. I felt serene. Like the eye of a big fleshy vibrating storm. “You should go home. Call Brian from home. You too, Sienna. You can head home.”
Ecstasy can cause a person to take things to heart and tears dribbled down Sienna’s soft dewy cheeks now as I pulled on my robe. I sat down beside her again and wiped her face with the sheet. “Don’t feel bad, I’m just having an epiphany,” I explained gently. “How old are you anyway.”
“Eighteen,” she whispered. I handed her her blouse.
Frank paced, hands rubbing up and down his folded arms, shoulders huddled. “Your mum’s name was Josie and she was a militant feminist … teacher … bitch,” he said. He curled into himself and grabbed his shirt off the floor as his teeth ground. “Fuckin’ X is too speedy, man.”
“I hid her mink coat in the closet,” I announced. “I believe she got it from a gangster.”
His face red and contorted now, he looked like a throbbing blister. “You knew I was taping us,” he gasped as he fumbled with buttons. “You just like pretending so you don’t have to take responsibility.” He pulled on his jeans. “I thought you’d feel self-conscious and you did too so you just let me and pretended like nothing was happening.”
“Nope. I didn’t,” I said cheerily and went out of the room and down the hall. “I thought something was peculiar but I didn’t know what,” I called back. In the closet, I shoved clothes aside, the blanket I’d thrown on top, and opened the trunk. Kneeling, I pushed my face down, ran my cheek along the fur before I pulled it out and draped its stiff bulk around me.
Back in the bedroom, fat luminous tears rolled off Sienna’s face onto her thighs as she bent forward and pulled on her shoes. Frank cuddled in beside her, offering a comforting arm and soft murmurs. “Frank,” I said, standing at the foot of the bed, mink over bathrobe. “You would fuck my mother but you’d never date her. Can you see how that’s fucked up?”
“I see you’re fucked up!” he blurted, helping Sienna to her feet and past me to the door. Letting her go a moment, he stomped back, picked up the helmet and ripped the squat camera off the shelf.
“Weird,” I observed. “Where does the tape go?”
1968: Tiny Tim; Eartha Kitt; Doctor Spock; Refuse Induction!; Jackie Kennedy & Aristotle Onassis; Julie Nixon & Dwight David Eisenhower II; secret military research; We shall overcome, We shall not be moved; Black Power; Yippies; Abbie Hoffman; demonstration; nightsticks and tear gas; Columbia University; Up against the wall, Motherfucker!; Welcome to Chicago; Tet Offensive; King—Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord; Gunned down in Memphis; Bobby Kennedy—I had a member of my family killed but he was killed by a white man; Year of the Monkey; Eugene McCarthy; Let us begin again; LBJ—I will not accept the nomination of my party for another term as president; the Ambassador Hotel; Some men see things as they are and say why, I dream of things as they never were and say why not; Senator Kennedy has been shot.
Annie walks out on a dinner date with red eyes and shaking hands. Coming home to the apartment, she finds Celia on the couch eating Cheezies. She stands between Celia and the television. “Micky D.”
“Huh? From The 92 Micky D?”
“He’s dead. They found him …” her voice strangles “… at the bottom of Lake Erie with his feet stuck in two buckets of cement and scuba gear on his back.”
The telephone rings and they both jump. “It’s never good when that damn thing rings,” Annie says and begins to cry again.
“I know,” Celia agrees. “It’s like playing Russian roulette lately.” She goes to the kitchen and Annie follows. “Hello? … Oh, it’s you,” she says softly. “How are you?”
“Not so great,” Bobby answers. “Martin Luther King was shot tonight. In Memphis. I thought you’d want to know.”
“Oh god. When is this going to end?”
“I said the same thing. I’ve got to speak in a few minutes. In a ghetto.”
She gasps. “There’ll be riots. This should come from, from …”
“From whom? I should go. I just needed to hear your voice.”
“Bobby! They’ll kill you.”
He sighs, resigned. “If it’s not them, it’ll be someone else.”
“Don’t say that. Just, just let—”
“Talk to you soon.”
Celia puts the phone down. “Martin Luther King was shot.”
“Fuck!” Annie hurls her purse on the floor.
The receiver isn’t in its cradle ten seconds before the ringing resumes.
“Don’t answer it,” Annie says. She grabs for the cord, threatening to yank. “No more.”
“Okay.” She raises her hands in surrender.
For days to follow, black America riots, a collective wail burning through the country. Nearly a hundred thousand federal troops and National Guardsmen are dispatched to contain the uprising.
Annie and Celia stay inside, ordering food when they can stomach it. Over the airwaves, King’s last speech rings out: … And I’ve seen the promised land. I may not get there with you. But I want you to know tonight that we, as a people, will get to the promised land. And I’m happy, tonight. I’m not worried abo
ut anything. I’m not fearing any man. Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord. Bobby’s speech in Indianapolis weaves through: For those of you who are black and are tempted to be filled with hatred and distrust at the injustice of such an act, against all white people, I can only say that I feel in my own heart the same kind of feeling. I had a member of my family killed, but he was killed by a white man. But we have to make an effort in the United States, we have to make an effort to understand, to go beyond these rather difficult times …
After King’s funeral, the mourners hike six miles to Morehouse College, King’s alma mater. News cameras close in on Bobby, his jacket slung over his shoulder, as he marches alongside Sammy Davis Jr. Crowds cheer at the sight of them.
Though Annie still refuses, Celia begins picking up the phone.
When he calls again, back on the campaign trail, he sounds tired and a little remote.
“I keep thinking about you,” she tells him.
“Do you?”
“Of course.” The long silences from him make her want to reach through the phone and grab him by the throat. “Do you think about me?”
His voice is soft and low. “I’ll bet you look like a million bucks right now.” He drifts off and when she doesn’t fill in the silence he finally says, “My day is better when I talk to you.”
She picks up a pen and doodles on a newspaper. “I think the worst of it is reading your wife’s name. They write about her hair every other day.”
“She’s rarely with me—I bring along that wig she wears and everybody’s happy.”
Pops of suppressed laughter from the two of them give her a little relief but she wishes he’d say something substantial. “I feel like an elastic band is tightening.”
“I know what you mean. If a sniper doesn’t get me before this is through, I’d like to—”
“I hate it when you talk like that.”
“What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.”
“Cut it out.”
Another long silence then suddenly he blurts, “Meet me.”
“What if someone sees us? …”
The next evening, Celia drives from the Indianapolis airport in a rented car and checks into the small-town motel under an alias: Nancy West. She wears a dark wig. The last room in the place—all the rest are taken up by campaign workers and press.
“The Plaza it ain’t,” she says, dropping her bag. She takes out the bottle of wine she brought and sets it on the dresser, smoothes her skirt and looks around the sparse room.
She takes off her coat and sits on the bed. Standing up, she goes back to the wine and wonders if she should let it breathe. No corkscrew. She turns in circles and roots through her purse, picks up the phone and calls the front desk. It’s about eleven-thirty when the Merlot finally gets some air.
She arranges the glasses and the bottle just so and sits back on the bed. Finding her compact she reapplies lipstick, checks her eyeliner, powders the shine from her forehead. Remembering her wig, she pulls it off and runs to the bathroom to fix her hair.
It’s nearly midnight when several cars pull in to the parking lot, doors opening and slamming, feet on the balcony, laughter.
Eventually, a knock at her door. She opens to Bobby’s grin.
She pulls him inside. “What took you?”
“I had to change out of my shirt, it was filthy. And wash my hands before touching you. And wait till the press—Jesus, you’re here.” He clutches her face and inhales deeply as he kisses her. Turning the lock behind him, he steers her to the bed until the two of them fall on the spread, his hand pulling up her skirt.
“No, just—Bobby.”
He freezes. “What’s wrong?”
“Well—can you talk to me a little? Or something.”
His head drops into her shoulder. “I’m sorry. I’ve made love to you in my head so many times, I …” He sets his lips gently against her temple now. She pushes the hair off his forehead and smiles as it falls back.
“You know I’m crazy about you, don’t you?” he asks.
“What am I going to do?”
He wraps his arms around her.
She kicks her shoes off.
“That’s a good sign,” he says.
She digs her toes into one of his heels and pries at his shoe until it’s half off. He shakes it loose. Bit by bit they remove each other’s clothing and cling and slide and slip, slow then fast, and slow again.
They doze in the night. A dart of light from the window illuminates his fingers, the scratches and scrapes. “What happened?”
“Shaking all those hands. They really dig in sometimes.” Slipping an arm around her stomach, he pulls her closer, curves his body to the back of hers and slips inside.
In the morning, she holds his hips to her until she moans and gasps and falls back again, letting the ebb and flow of him wash over her. There is a light rap at the door.
Her eyes bug.
“Don’t be so worried,” he whispers.
“Bob, are you com—” A voice from outside the door. “Are you up—awake?”
“Uh, yeah, I’ll be right there.” He bites her chin.
“Who was that?”
“Kenny, I think. One of my guys.”
She watches him dress, his slight frame disappearing under his baggy suit. “Where will you go today?”
“Columbus, Edinburg, Franklin … all the way back up to Indianapolis. Why don’t you meet me there tonight. We’ll be at the Marriott.”
“Are you sure?” She looks at the door.
Another knock and a low-voiced “Ah, Bob, everyone’s ready to go.”
He scoops her up in the blankets. “Come on, you can snooze in the back seat.”
“No!” she yips, giggling, and he loosens his grip.
He grabs his coat and whispers, “Who’s Nancy West?”
She shrugs.
“I’ll make a reservation for you,” he says.
As he closes the door, she hears, “How did you know I was in there?”
“The whole place heard you in there.”
She flips on the radio. Tom Jones’s “Delilah” fills the room. She flips it off. Stretching her limbs, she sweeps them across the bed, before reaching for the phone.
Late in the afternoon, she drives into Franklin. There isn’t a soul on the street but she hears bullhorned voices in the distance. Music and cheers. She parks when she spots the crowd a couple blocks up, checks her wig in the mirror, taps the bridge of her sunglasses and gets out.
A few men on a flatbed truck, and four or five hundred people jammed into the small street, pushing and shoving. Bobby is on the truck, arms outstretched, shaking hands. All around him they scream and weep, reaching to touch the hem of his garment. Suddenly he is yanked off and dragged into the crowd.
She starts toward them then stops when Bobby pops up like a grinning scarecrow, hands from every direction yanking and pulling, fingers in his hair, his name chanted and screamed and wailed.
Later that night she opens her door to Bobby’s thin dishevelled self. Hands bleeding from new cuts and old ones reopened, his shirt sleeves are black. She takes him gingerly by the wrists. “Where are your cufflinks?”
“They steal them.” He kicks the door closed. “We have to bring a bagful every day. They stole one of my shoes last week.” He smiles at his dirty arms and sleeves. “I was going to change and shower but when I heard Nancy West was in the building … god, you’re so pretty, I hate to come too close and—” he kisses her mouth “—get you dirty.”
She tugs him toward the bathroom. Turning him around, she sits him down on the toilet seat, turns on the faucet then straddles his lap and undoes his belt as hot water fills the tub.
Alone the next morning, she stares at the ceiling. Ethel will join him today. Ethel and her goddamn hair. “What am I doing?” she bellows into the sheets and calls Annie.
“You’re picking up the phone again?”
“Yeah,” Annie says. “Trum
an came over here the other night and got me sloshed. Then we went to a bar in the Village. Truman says he doesn’t know why these Kennedy boys get laid so much—he’s seen the goods and they got nothin’.” She giggles. When there’s no response, she says, “Marty’s been looking for you. He’s climbing the walls.”
“He said he wouldn’t book me till I came up with a new act.”
“I don’t know. When you coming home?”
“My flight’s at one.”
The moment she comes though the apartment door, Annie passes the phone.
“Where have you been, sweetheart?” Johnny. She hasn’t heard from him in weeks. His voice has a quiet malignance.
“Nowhere. Just hanging around.”
Annie sits up on the kitchen counter.
“Is that right? You sound so relaxed, I thought you might have taken a vacation but then you wouldn’t do that without Annie, would you? Leave her all alone while you scamper off.”
Her jaw pulses. “So, what’s doing with you? You married yet?”
“No. Are you?”
“I heard you were engaged.”
“If I were going to get married you’d have a ring on your finger.”
“Jesus, you’re full of shit.”
A knock comes at the door. Annie hops down and goes to answer.
“You’ll have to come and see me soon. When are you booked in L.A. next?”
“Marty won’t book me until I get a new act together.”
“Be careful, my darling.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Don’t let your career die from distraction.”
Men’s voices in the living room. Annie appears in the kitchen entrance, her eyes round. “We have visitors. Federal Bureau of Investigation,” she enunciates.
Celia’s mouth drops before she whispers, “FBI? What the hell are they doing here?”
“Stay calm,” Johnny says softly. “You have nothing to tell them. They’ll go away.”
She hangs up and follows Annie. Two men in dark suits wander the living room, eyes picking over furniture, knick-knacks, papers left around. They glance up. “Good afternoon, Miss Dare. How are you today?”
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