Driving Me Wild

by Maria Benson

  “You think you’re too good for me,” he said two days later as he rammed himself into me. I was up against the wall, atop his dresser, suddenly aware that a supposed romantic encounter was evolving into an attack. His thrusts escalated and he nearly twisted my legs into a pretzel, causing a pain that was clearly intentional. Fearing momentarily for my life, I endured the next twenty minutes with an eye on the door.

  The days of escalating humiliation, which also included Chad’s decreasingly convincing apologies and verbal assaults clearly meant to keep me in line, hung heavily on me that day on the Kenwood football field. Whenever Chad’s car was in the shop, we would walk to his house by cutting across the field. When he mocked my expressed plans to apply to a summer program in journalism at Northwestern, I unloaded on him verbally and stood my ground as he came at me.

  As was often the case, our argument took many loops and turns–we argued, kissed, and argued some more before Chad decided to claim victory. The last thing I remember saying to him was “You don’t want what’s best for me, because you don’t even give a damn about yourself.” Chad heard that and reared back, ready to punch me somewhere below the neck. “I ain’t stupid enough to bang up that pretty face,” he had said the first time I crouched at the sight of his fists. I never figured out if he was more concerned with preserving my beauty or concealing his abuse.

  My eyes had been closed, awaiting Chad’s blow, when a loud but shaky male voice interrupted us. “What the hell is going on?”

  I opened my eyes, pivoting in concert with Chad, to see a stunned Michael chuck his book bag to the ground. A few steps behind, Tisha ran toward the three of us.

  A block away from the restaurant, I willed myself to hit “Stop” on the playback of the memory. I couldn’t deal with any more, not when I was about to sit before Mom. With her, I needed to maintain a good front. While she can come off like the shy, retiring type, my mother is Judge Judy where I’m concerned. I could put on a front worthy of James Bond, and she’d be on me like white on rice before the menus came.

  My mom stood outside the main entrance of Pierogi Heaven, her back to me as she spoke earnestly into her cell phone. Ever the multi-tasker, she was simultaneously flouting the fringes of Chicago’s Anti-Smoking Ordinance by lighting up a cigarette. Once she had taken a puff and won an apparent argument with a parent of one of her students, she dropped the phone to her side and embraced me.

  “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think they switched you out with my baby at birth,” she said before kissing my cheek. She pulled out of the hug, then waved her hands at me as if I was a statue. “Your father was always handsome, but even that doesn’t explain . . . this.”

  I shook my head at Mom’s customary references to my supposed beauty as compared to hers. She acted like I hadn’t seen pics of her when she was a radical graduate student in anthropology, a defiant and mesmerizing woman who had grabbed my already-married father’s attention. “Whatever I am,” I said, “it’s on you.”

  “Not sure how you mean that,” she said, wiggling her narrow little nose playfully, “but I’m taking it as a compliment.” Ever the cheerleader, my mother has always drilled my intelligence and my beauty into my head, repeating her observations like they’re indisputable facts. This used to annoy me, until I met girls in grade school whose mothers spent most of their time criticizing them. I might not have hit the lottery in the paternal sweepstakes of life, but I had made out pretty well drawing Lynda Chase.

  Once seated, we got acquainted with our waitress, a college-age young woman who looked and sounded like she might have immigrated from the Polish restaurant founder’s homeland. Mom, a teacher whose life for decades has revolved around filling disadvantaged children’s heads with knowledge, homed in on the girl’s anxious spirit. As I endured Mom’s informal counseling session–and her habitual story of loving Pierogi Heaven in part because of her half-Polish ethnicity–my eyes traveled to the unraveling sleeves on her purple tunic. That sight reminded me of the scuffed, worn beige loafers she had on today, and began to fill me with sadness.

  My mother was pumping up the young waitress’s self-esteem, clearly sensing a diamond in the rough. “You are such a pretty girl, and I know pretty girls.” She swept a hand toward me. “Can you believe this is my daughter?”

  The young woman glanced between us, smiling nervously. “Good looks run in the family, yes?”

  “Oh, bless you.” Mom beamed at me, playing at primping her head of wavy dark blonde curls. “Who knew I was still cute enough to be accused of resembling you?”

  “I always have,” I said, hoping my loving glare said it all. Sometimes it felt like Mom spent all her time filling others with self-confidence that had proven elusive for her.

  Once we had ordered twin stuffed cabbage specials, she grabbed my hand. “So, how was your trip to New York? Was Todd happy with the results?”

  I told Mom about my day at the league offices, touching on nearly all of my preparatory meetings with the impressive young executives that Todd would be interviewing for his book. I said nothing about my meeting with Ian; as far as Mom knew, he and I were on a purely arm’s length, business-only basis. Admitting to the “on again” nature of my relationship with him was not an option. My mother was not a terribly judgmental person, but after the state he left me in when he got engaged to Nadine, Mom had forever decreed Ian to be a “demon seed.”

  Mom smiled as she took a sip of iced tea. “I am so proud of you. When you first quit ESPN to move back here and work for Todd, I have to be honest, I was scared. I didn’t see how it was a wise move, Aimee.” She reached for one of my hands, patting it slowly. “It’s so great to see your spirit of adventure being rewarded.”

  Just when I was feeling sheepish about her praise, she went down a new track. “Now that your professional life is such a success, when are you going to get serious about finding a good guy, you know, someone who can stand with you and build a balanced life?”

  After thanking the waitress profusely for our well-appointed cabbage platters, I tried to drown out my emotions for a second by savoring a bite from my plate, then replied. “Well, that’s a little easier said than done. I guess when it comes to picking men, the apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree, does it Mother.”

  I didn’t need anyone, not even Mom, passing judgment on my taste in men, so I injected the unpleasant subject of my father to get her off track. Parenthood is a funny thing: when you make a baby with an asshole, can you ever make amends for it? My mother’s decision to lie down with a married man looking for everything but love cursed me with something a girl least needs: an emotionally remote, rarely present father. Given his standing in the literary world, Dustin Fineman’s status as my father was a source of both novelty and shame in my life. I’ll always love my mother more than anyone on the face of this planet, but sometimes I doubt I’ll ever stop wondering, what the hell was she thinking?

  My mother’s eyes were on the tablecloth. “Aimee, she wasn’t perfect, but my mother guided me past many dangers and toils by insisting I show respect for my elders. I thought I had passed that value down to you.” Her gaze leapt off the table and back into my view. The message was clear: No matter how big you get or how much money you make, you will always be my child. “Now, a more pleasant subject. Your father, speak of the devil, reached out to me last week.”

  My mouth twisted in confusion. As far as I knew, my parents hadn’t spoken directly since the day I graduated from college and they’d settled up on his agreement to pay off my student loans.

  Mom smiled, primping at her hair again. “Well, Dustin didn’t call me of course. It was Phillip.” Phillip was my father’s attorney, a well-mannered gentleman in his sixties who was inappropriately sweet on Mom. It seemed that after years of coordinating correspondence between her and Dustin, Philip had become a little smitten.

  “Apparently some major news is about to break,” Mom explained. “Something concerning that lawsuit they’ve been press
ing against that filmmaker.” I didn’t recall all the details, but I knew that several years earlier my father had accused the screenwriter of a high-grossing film of plagiarizing the plot of his second novel.

  “So,” I said, “there’s a favorable judgment coming down the pike?”

  “Phillip is predicting a settlement, actually. Apparently the case is going over well enough in court that he has been contacted by the studio about putting one together.”

  I made no attempt to animate my expression. “Okay. I don’t really care.”

  My mother waved a hand dismissively. “Phillip is so sweet, I’d have to call him naïve. This settlement will be for over a million dollars, and it’s found money at a time when Dustin has no pressing needs. He’s already got Sylvia and Claire married off”–those were my two older half-sisters, who had omitted my name from their wedding guest lists–“and at this point all of his homes are paid off as well. Though he’s certainly not obligated, Phillip believes Dustin will be in a mood to throw some money our way.” Dustin had an unpredictable, idiosyncratic habit of acknowledging Mom and me financially.

  I sniffed. “You know I don’t want any.”

  “Well, I just wanted you to have a confidential heads-up in case I can tell you soon to stop writing those checks.” I had been writing a thousand-dollar monthly check to the hospital where Mom endured successful heart surgery a year ago. At that rate, I would be writing checks for another thirty-three months before her debt was expunged.

  Hoping it counted as a requested gesture of respect, I cast a frustrated gaze at my plate of food as I spoke. “I wish I could believe that asshole had it in him to remove that burden off of both of us.” My mother agreed I could stop pretending to have a clean mouth the night she caught me riding Chad bareback in the shower. I still remember her booming, frantic lecture, which was followed by a midnight run to Planned Parenthood. No more secrets!

  “Sweetie, I’m just relaying what Phillip told me. He thinks Dustin wants to treat this as back payment for the years he was tardy about paying child support. And he knows I’m on the fast path to bankruptcy without some major help.”

  As we finished our meals, I flirted with the idea of hiring a hit man to strike some sense into my father. The main shows of responsibility Dustin Fineman had ever made toward me were the unpredictable envelopes of cash he would drop by the house when we least expected them. Aside from that, he had been a source of pain and confusion. My half-siblings–the ones he had with Kim, his wife of forty years, and actually raised–were never any better. Sylvia and Claire had first greeted me by punching and kicking me into a bloody, sniffling bag of eight-year old bones. As adults we were marginally more civil toward each other, but that’s not saying much. I still run into Fineman cousins, aunts, and uncles who have forgotten I exist.

  Sitting there, again surveying Mom’s classy but fraying clothing and well aware of his role in my present-day issues with men, I hated myself for hoping against hope that Dustin might actually make good on Phillip’s promise. God knows he wasn’t legally obligated, but Mom could use the help. Her house on the far south side was in decent shape, but her block was starting to have problems with drug trafficking. I had offered to have her move in with me, but she refused so she could stay closer to the neighborhood where she worked.

  In hopes she could at least move into a well-secured apartment building, I had paid for her to remodel her kitchen to make the house more saleable, but then the hospital began harassing her about her bills so I swung my financial help in that direction. The thousand a month was about the best I could do; Old Town rent, a wardrobe that lived up to running in Todd J. Terry’s circles, and paying off my college loans left me with only so much of a cushion in the first place. I had helped keep Mom from losing her house, at least, but I didn’t have the resources of a man awaiting a million-dollar payday.

  I must have been wearing my anxiety on my face, because Mom held me for an extra beat as we exchanged a good-bye embrace outside of the restaurant. “Be honest, honey,” she said, keeping me close. “What is it that you’re not telling me?”

  I pulled back so we could look into one another’s eyes. As I touched my mother’s cheek and said “nothing,” I wondered if this was what “damaged” people did: Look into the eyes of those they love and spout bold-faced lies. As I accepted her assurances that I should call anytime I wanted to talk further, I reminded myself of the merciful nature of my actions. By withholding my latest relationship with Ian from her, along with my conflicted feelings about my friends’ belief that I needed to take Michael and Todd’s accusations to heart, I was protecting my mother.

  That was me: Daughter of the Year.

  CHAPTER 12

  Michael

  I had agreed to meet Scott and Bobby, the instructors of my personal “Man Up” course, at United Center for my first class. Though the Pacers were in town that Sunday afternoon to confront the Bulls, Scott had predicted we would pretty much have a luxury box to ourselves. He was too smart with his money to splurge on a box, but a billionaire member of his company’s board had granted him ongoing access to his, and the gentlemen and his family were out of town for a long weekend in Aspen. There was enough extra space that Scott had agreed to come up with two extra tickets so that I could bring José and his buddy Victor.

  After making sure José and Victor were appropriately situated with front-row seats and custom-ordered boxes of popcorn and a stack of hot dogs, I stepped over to the complimentary buffet. I was filling a plate with sautéed shrimp when a stinging slap to the back nearly made me drop my plate.

  “Mikey, what up, Boy-eee!” My wannabe friend Bobby took me in an enthusiastic headlock, causing the two members of the wait staff to exchange knowing looks. Bobby’s failure to respect social cues often earned such reactions.

  I shrugged him off me before slapping him on the back in response. “What’s happening, big man.”

  Dressed head to toe in Bulls gear, Bobby leapt around me and grabbed two plates before shoveling them full of pasta salad, shrimp, finger sandwiches and meatballs. “Sorry I’m late, bro,” he said. As he made light work of the buffet, bouncing his rangy, six foot body up and down the line, the younger of the two server girls stepped back a full two feet in horror. “I had to make an extra stop on the way, deliver a beat-down to this fool who dissed my Ma.”

  Scott walked up to us, mouth turned up in amusement at the sight of Bobby. It struck me that although I had been friends with each man for over a decade, there were very few cases in which I had hung out with the two of them at the same time.

  Scott put an arm around my shoulder as I set down my buffet plate. “Watch this man as an example of lesson one,” he said.

  “How so?”

  Scott popped fists with Bobby before answering. “Succeeding with women requires a complete lack of shame. I’m not necessarily endorsing every man’s choices, but look at dudes like Charlie Sheen, John Mayer or even an old head like Schwarzenegger. Most didn’t need fame to successfully pursue the women of their choice. They just needed nerve.”

  Scott paused as we cheered Derrick Rose’s first basket of the day. “Michael, women fall for a subset of the men who pursue them, it’s that simple. They may not pay you any mind every time, hell, they may hurt your feelings for a long, long time. But I’m living proof, a meaningful percentage break eventually. Sooner or later, their amusement at your effort turns to flattery. They feel special, seeing a man make such an ass out of himself.”

  I placed a hand on Bobby’s shoulder, glad that we were far removed from José’s earshot. “And here we have a Grade-A ass.”

  Bobby took a step to his left. “You scaring me now, Mikey.”

  Scott’s smile widened. “Bob, I could never roll like you, but I admire your lack of false pride; you don’t give a damn what anyone thinks. You could be cracking hearts like your old man if you wanted.” Scott’s reference to Bobby’s father, a lauded heart surgeon, revealed his habit of Googling ne
w acquaintances. “You could have followed your family’s expectations, but no, here you are, and you are killin’ it.”

  Bobby spread his arms wide. “Hey, I earn an honest living and I spend my time away from work living how I please.” A college dropout, these days he was driving a forklift in a distribution plant and living in his mother’s guest house. His mother appreciated the company; a few years back Dr. Rashidi had divorced Bobby’s mother. These days the Doc was often sighted around town in the company of younger, attentive men.

  Scott nodded. “You do live as you please, and I admire that.” He turned to me. “Look at that scraggly beard, the ghetto gear. You and I are too busy trying to look respectable to ever get caught with that look. But Bobby’s doing what works for him.”

  Bobby smiled widely. “If it works for the honies, it works for me.”

  Scott looked at me and pointed a finger at Bobby. “See, a complete lack of regard for what others think of him. Don’t take it too far, mind you, but you can learn a lot from this man.”

  Finishing off most of his two plates’ worth of food, Bobby smoothed his bushy beard with his fingertips and took a long chug of ice water. “This is real talk, Mikey. I ain’t no expert on women or nothing, but I know what makes them respond physically. And man, I gotta tell you, at the end of even the worst day, there’s nothing like knowing you got some good vajooj waiting for you.”

  The absurdity of my experiment was clear to me by now, but I was in too deep to get out. “I’m touched, Bobby. But given your record of making babies, I think I’ll pass on the birth control portion of your lessons.”

  “So, now that you’ve accepted us as your instructors,” Scott said dismissively as we took a seat around a table, “we turn to your credentials, young Mr. Blake. Let’s get your sexual history on the record.” He handed me his iPad, which had a spreadsheet up with pre-populated questions and answer fields. “Bobby and I can enjoy the game while you complete this, then we’ll talk.”