“Both!” I fired back, which totally baffled her because she was still standing in the doorway when I pressed the garage door closed.
Arthurine came to live with us for a few months after she’d been in a fender bender that freaked her out but did not cause any immediate or residual harm. She had barely unpacked when she became plagued by one new ailment after another. She swore up and down she now suffered from night blindness whenever she drove, so her son made her stop. Enter Marilyn the Limo Driver. And during the day, she started losing her eyesight (except she had no difficulties whatsoever reading the price tags at every half-yearly and holiday sale at Macy’s and Nordstrom’s), but refused to go to an optometrist. Her self-diagnosis: it feels like its cataracts. Next, her hearing was going in and out except during the highlights of American Idol’s auditions when she had no problem memorizing and singing the lyrics to “She Bangs” right along with William Hung. And whoops! She was losing her balance but it turned out she just had bunions and needed to give up high heels.
This was a little more than a year ago and she’s still here. In fact, she’s everywhere. Sometimes I think there’s more than one of her. On special occasions Arthurine is struck by the onset of what I refer to as “voluntary amnesia,” since it mostly flares up on weekends when she claims she’s too disoriented to help me do much of anything around the house. She never, ever, however, forgets to eat. And she is nosey as hell. I know she rambles in my closets and drawers because sometimes I deliberately put things in disarray only to find them neatly folded and in their proper place. I brought this to her attention but she just got defensive and looked so insulted I asked her to tell the ghost who was doing this to cease and desist and stay out of our bedroom. She took the hint. Poor thing. She’s just lonesome. Her husband died six years ago, so I’m trying not to hold all the irritating things she does against her.
Even after she was given a clean bill of health, Leon still falls for her medical outbreaks. Arthurine has made it clear she doesn’t want to move into one of those independent living complexes for seniors and what better way to guarantee it than by laying a guilt trip on her son, who believes everything she tells him?
As I’m heading down our street, I see a car I don’t recognize, but in the front seat is Arthurine’s famous black hat moving like it’s attached to a marionette. She is running her mouth a mile a minute, which is why she doesn’t see me. And for this, I thank the Lord.
“You know,” I yell out, staring so hard at one of Bunny’s mirrored walls that it feels like I can see right through to the plaster. “Sometimes I wish Leon would just go ahead and cheat on me so I’d finally have a good excuse to divorce him.” Bunny and Paulette are in Bunny’s miniature kitchen crushing ice as they try to make a blended drink called “Sex on the Beach” from a recipe book. Don’t I wish.
“Oh shut up, Marilyn,” Paulette says to my feet, which are propped up on the back of Bunny’s beige corduroy sofa. “Did she not say this very same thing at my house four months ago, Bunny?”
“Yes, she did.”
“And what term do they use to describe this behavior in your psych class?”
“We haven’t covered this yet. I’ll let you know when she says something that does. In fact, let me run and get my notes.”
“No, don’t!” Paulette says, but it’s too late. Bunny’s off to her bedroom. The thing I love most about Paulette and Bunny is that neither of them takes insults from the other personally nor do they give a shit what other people think about them. Take Bunny’s party look. Just about everything she wears has sheen regardless of the time of day. Right now she’s in silver satin pencil slacks. They’re tight. And she’s wearing three-inch silver mules. She’s back before we know it. Her hands are empty.
“I thought I brought my backpack home from work. Anyway…”
“Wait a minute,” I say, holding my hand up. “Are your cats incarcerated for the evening or what?”
“They are. Now shut up and let me finish. Your complaints about Leon are getting a little tiresome, if you don’t mind my saying so. He’s a good brother, so you ought to stop with the whining. And get your feet off the back of my couch.”
I don’t move them. “I think I might actually be starting to hate him. No. ‘Hate’ is too strong. I don’t like him anymore.”
“Okay, Cruella, take a chill pill for a minute. We’ll be right out.”
“You’re welcome. I’ll have my ‘Sex on the Beach’ now. I’m serious. I’m bored to death with Leon.”
“What makes you think you landed on ‘I’m So Interesting Avenue,’ Miss Thang, huh?” Paulette asks. “Give us one good reason Leon couldn’t say the same about you, even though we know you’re not as dull as you can be on any given day…”
“Sugar, there’s a whole lot of single women out there that would love to get next to a brother who’s head honcho at an engineering firm, still looks somewhat presentable, can still get it up, his kids are grown and out of the house, which means no child support or alimony payments. Leon is a dream come true.”
“Who said he could still get it up?”
“You did. Remember the engine and engineer jokes?” Paulette says.
“I lied. The engine needs to be at least eight cylinders and have four-wheel drive and cruise control and the engineer should know not to rev the engine and not get his rpm’s so high that he burns up his engine just because he likes to accelerate to prove that his engine can go from zero to sixty in six seconds but if he were to look up or down at the passenger from time to time he might realize that he is not in a race so there’s no need to slam on the brakes when he comes to an unexpected curve or when trying to get up a steep hill. After twenty-two years, he should know when to put it in low, when to downshift, when to put it in fourth gear, cruise control, or neutral, and how to steer smoothly. He should also know when it’s time to pull over and put it in park…This isn’t part of my time, is it?”
“No, but Marilyn I hope you know you’ve lost a few ounces of estrogen somewhere.”
“Yeah, are you PMSing, too? Is that what made you bring this ugly attitude in here with you this evening?”
“No. For your information, I didn’t have a period last month and am hoping I skip the next hundred.”
“Did you go to the doctor and get that blood test like I suggested?” Paulette asks.
“I did. I see the doctor on Monday. However…”
“What?”
“There are a lot of things your blood can tell about you, but there are a lot of things it can’t even begin to detect.”
“We know you’re going to explain what you mean by this, so just wait a minute while we get situated. I’ve gotta go to the bathroom first.”
“And I need to call Aretha to make sure she fed the dogs,” Paulette says. “Give us four minutes. And for the record: you still PMS after your periods stop.”
I do not remember reading that in any of the books, but then again, I haven’t gotten past “Symptoms.”
We started this, what we ordained as our Private Pity Party four years ago. It’s not a woe-is-me whining party, but because we never seemed to have an hour when we didn’t feel like we should be doing something else, or had to be somewhere else, or were already thinking about what we had to do as soon as we cut out, we decided that one evening out of every month we would get together—even if it just meant venting, bitching, or lamenting—but mostly to help each other see ourselves more clearly. Where we can even ’fess up to our mistakes and misjudgments. Or admit stupid or embarrassing things we’ve done, should’ve done differently, or not at all.
You don’t want to get labeled a “repeater”: complaining about the same thing over and over and never making a genuine attempt to do anything to fix it, resolve it, or improve your situation, or playing the blame game in that whatever our problems are it’s always someone else’s fault. We want to rise above that, but sometimes it’s just difficult to do and this is where friends come in: to call you on your
b.s. We don’t claim to be shrinks and we certainly don’t think we have all the answers to each other’s problems. But what we do have is empathy and we listen and try to be lighthearted when it seems appropriate and also recognize when our hearts are cold and lacking in compassion. Over the years, what has happened among the three of us is an amazing freedom that comes with being able to say out loud what you think and feel without having to apologize for it.
Because Bunny has never been married (not by choice) or had any children (this is by choice) we have come to believe that her taste in men is a lot like her taste in furniture. Temporary is long enough. She’s unhappy pretending to be happy. When she’s ready to face that fact, we’ll be the first to applaud her. Paulette loves her second husband and it appears that the feeling is mutual. She and Roscoe have been together for years and he is the reason she has her boutique. Paulette’s biggest problems are her grown kids. The older one changes jobs every season. The younger one is a criminal. And her daughter Aretha tries to act like she’s searching for the right career, while she jacks up half the neighborhood kids’ hair with those tacky braids, charging $30 to $90, just enough to buy an outfit from Ross or Marshall’s for the weekend and get herself a small bag of something to smoke. Everybody knows my biggest problem is my mother-in-law, my husband, and my daughter, Sabrina, who, as smart as she is, acts like she’s a slave of love. She’s been living with Nevil, a nice British Jamaican, for two years but I think she does everything except breathe for him.
Of the three of us, Bunny is the one in good physical shape but it’s because she teaches two body-sculpting classes and an occasional spin class. Plus she jogs. She also oversees the exercise program at her spiffy health club where most of the men are either gay, high school athletes, or much older and obviously on steroids. Bunny says because they’re in love with their own chiseled bodies, she rarely gets a date.
They finally both come back and sit down.
“Okay, the clock is ticking as of this very minute so make your feelings known, but keep them brief,” Bunny says and looks at her watch which is really a heart-rate monitor.
“Okay. And no interruptions.”
“Start!” Paulette yells.
“Okay. I’ve been thinking about this for weeks, so here goes: sometimes I can’t remember what I ever saw in Leon. I mean when I try to think back to what attracted me to him, I honestly can’t remember. I mean, he wasn’t always dull and neither was I. But we never go anywhere or do anything except what we’ve always done, which is pretty much nothing aside from holidays, and those have always revolved around family members who are now either dead or living with us.
“We never have any fun. There’s no excitement in our life. Unless I count taking Arthurine to the doctor or driving her back and forth to Bible study twice a week where I sit out in the car reading with a flashlight until she’s through. Thrill thrill. Or maybe I should count standing in the long line at Blockbuster’s on a Saturday night or praying there’s a movie on satellite that I haven’t seen. All this excitement is enough to give me a heart attack. Stop laughing!”
“We’re not,” Bunny says with her hand in front of her mouth.
“But it was sad-funny, Marilyn. I laughed. But now I’m not.”
“Okay. Even on my birthday I wanted to do something fun, upbeat. I suggested we drive to Carmel and spend the night at a hotel by the ocean or go to the wine country and have dinner on the wine train around the vineyards, maybe take a mud bath or go to the one drive-in that’s left or park at the beach or on a dark street and do it…whatever. You know what he wanted to do? Take me to dinner. He thinks going to dinner is the only way to celebrate anything.
“Leon’s turning forty-six in April and up to now he behaves more like a senior citizen. I’d swear he’s getting Tourette’s. He’s just been blurting out what he’s thinking and some of it is insulting or stupid or embarrassing and he doesn’t seem to know he’s saying it! He complains about so many things I feel like calling him a bitch! Stop laughing, Bunny! He can’t hear worth anything, so he talks to me like I’m across the room or something. Oh. His glasses have suddenly disappeared and his eyes change colors from one week to the next. I’m about eighty percent sure that he’s been dying his roots black. And on top of all this, he’s grown quite fond of those velour leisure suits that zip and has been wearing them to work on casual Fridays.”
Now we all crack up.
“Go, Leon,” Bunny says.
“With his baaad self,” Paulette chimes in.
“I still love him but there’s just no passion. No fire. No rush. I can just about predict his next move, his next thought. I miss the suspense of where we’re going from here, since the kids are pretty much grown. Nowhere, as it turns out. Because once we got ‘here’ I thought we’d be free to do all kinds of stuff. But nope. We’ve settled like our old-ass house. And I just don’t buy all the testimonials by the experts who claim that mature love is more comforting than romantic and that as time passes it’s childish to think you’ll feel the thrills of romance like you felt in the beginning. A tremor every once in a while would be nice. And it should still be possible. It’s one of the beauties of life. To feel the joy and thrill of love. Isn’t it? If it wasn’t, then why does everybody want it? On many a night I have rolled over and wished he was just half the Leon that he used to be: tender and attentive and sexy and a little wild.
“And sex? Don’t even get me started. We’ve done it the same two, three, or four exciting ways in the same two exciting places—his side or my side of the bed for almost a quarter of a century and even though I’ve sort of gotten used to it, I’m really tired of being used to it. Of having empty orgasms—when I’m lucky enough to have one. I’ve told Leon that the clitoris has eight thousand nerve cells…”
“It does?” Bunny asks.
I just roll my eyes at her.
“Roscoe knows where they all are, baby. Sorry.”
“Anyway, all I want is for him to find one. And remember where it was. He used to ask me what would make me feel good. He used to tell me I was pretty even though it wasn’t true.”
“But you are pretty,” Paulette says.
“I agree,” Bunny says.
“I am not. But hell, lie to me!”
“He might be trying to lower your self-esteem.”
“Shut up, Bunny,” I say.
“Please do,” Paulette says. “And finish the whole textbook before you speak on a topic and embarrass yourself in public, would you?”
Bunny’s eyes are scouring the room—she’s looking for her notes.
“I’m almost finished. Anyway, it’s insulting to me that he’s assumed I’d always respond to the same stimuli when even mice don’t. I’m a woman, not a damn mouse! But Leon doesn’t seem to know it. They say ask for what you want. Well, what happens when you ask and you still don’t get it? I don’t mean to attack him.” I take a sip of my drink and sink a little.
“Finished already?” Paulette says.
“Just one last thing,” I say.
“May I interject?” Bunny asks, like she’s in a courtroom.
“No,” Paulette says. “Carry on, Marilyn.”
“Try to make it snappy because I’ve gotta be up by six,” Bunny says in what must be her personal-training voice.
“I just want a little passion.”
“You already talked about that, Marilyn.”
“Will you relax, Bunny,” Paulette says, and pops her on the head. “You know how we do this and you know it takes as long as it takes. When we’re listening to every detail of your health club dramedy and the emotional difficulties your damn cats are having or whatever…do we rush you?”
“No. Sorry, Marilyn. Go on.”
“Thank you. But I need to say this. I’m not talking about the kind of passion missing in the Department of Love. There are so many other areas in my life where passion should exist. Like I wish I knew what I wanted to do with the rest of my life. But I don’t. I don’t
count the twenty-four hours a week I spend at Heavenly Creations. I work there because it helps to support my hobbies, which I do for fun. Hell, I live for my employee discount and getting first dibs on all the merchandise. But it’s just a job. I want to do something that I get a real charge out of. How do you find what really lifts your skirt or know if you have any talent or marketable skills?”
“I need to think about that one,” Bunny says.
“I’ll put it this way. I’ll be fifty before I know it and then sixty and hopefully seventy. I watch elderly people and some of them are weary and some of them seem to have a look on their faces that says: ‘I’ve lived. I’ve been through a lot. But I not only made it, I’ve come out ahead. It took some doing, but I did it. I paid attention to my heart and my brain once I stopped confusing the two. I finally got it right and here I am sitting on this park bench reading a good book, which I occasionally put down simply to watch all these young fools live as if life is some endless roller coaster when in fact it’s a waltz.’”
“I think you’re just lonely,” Paulette says.
“How in the world could she be lonely with a husband and Arthurine and that dog in the house?” Bunny asks.
“Maybe you’ll read about how that works in future chapters, ya think?” Paulette says to Bunny.
“I think that you and Leon have grown apart because you’ve been too busy being Mom and Dad when you both just need to get your freak on.”
“All I was trying to say was I think I need to make some changes, and I’m scared and it’s not all Leon’s fault and I don’t blame him but I just don’t want to end up old and be full of regrets. I don’t want the list of all the things I meant to do or wanted to do to be longer than the things I did do. That’s all.”
The Interruption of Everything Page 3