I hung my head and wept, just wept.
Afterwards I felt better, as though I’d woken up from a horrible dream. I headed straight back to the bedroom and stood there in the doorway:
“Ronnie, I am so sorry. I am so ashamed. Please forgive me, honey? Can you?”
She didn’t say anything.
“Honey, please? Don’t make me beg.”
Still no response.
I stepped over to the bed.
“Oh dear God,” I whispered.
She had turned old and wrinkled. I checked the sole of her left foot: the cap on the valve was still secure. I must have punctured her somewhere during our struggle. I watched her growing older and older, her mouth now open in horror at what was happening to her.
“Goodbye, my love,” I told her. “Please try to understand: I couldn’t let you talk to me like that. How could I let you get away with talking to me like that?”
She was finally altogether flat, those big lovely breasts having collapsed in on themselves. I rolled her up, took her to the kitchen, wedged her into the garbage can, and closed the lid.
That, I have to say, felt pretty good. Pretty wonderful, in fact.
Now: I’m going to call Barbara Larson one more time. I’m going to give her one more chance. And if she says no again? I’m going to tell her what happened to Ronnie. I’m going to explain to her: that’s what happens to all inflated women I come across, where they all end up.
See if maybe that gets her interested in bowling.
NESSIE
There was a song on the radio that fall called “Puff the Magic Dragon,” which Joan could hardly stand listening to, it was so heartbreaking. Her older sister Sandra had a pink radio on the shelf above her bed, near Joan’s, and whenever “Puff” came on, if Sandra wasn’t there, Joan would lie gazing up at the ceiling, and at the part where Jackie Paper came no more and Puff’s green scales fell like rain, Joan’s tears would fall like rain.
Then one morning in her seventh grade geography class Mrs. Costello told them about her trip last summer to Scotland, showing them on the globe: across the Atlantic Ocean, right up there on top of England. They learned a little of its history, that the city of Edinburgh is its capital, about the country’s natural resources, and other not very interesting things. But then Mrs. Costello told them about visiting a lake called Loch Ness, “loch” being Scottish for “lake,” and about a huge creature that many people believed was living in the lake, called the Loch Ness Monster. Mrs. Costello said, “Yes, Thomas?”
“How could a whole monster live in a lake and people not even be sure?”
“That’s a very good question, and I wonder if anyone can answer it—Peter? Is that your hand up?”
“Just scratching, Mrs. Costello.”
“Brian? Are you just scratching, too?”
“Because the lake is very big?”
“Exactly. The lake is very, very big. Francine?”
“What does it look like?”
“The monster? Well, based on a photograph, which may or may not be authentic, here is what the creature might look like,” and with remarkable speed she drew something on the board that looked almost exactly the way Joan pictured Puff.
“Yes, Joan?”
“Does he have scales?”
“Very possibly,” said Mrs. Costello, and drew some Vs along the body. “People in the area, by the way, call the creature ‘Nessie,’” she said, and wrote that on the board above her drawing.
Joan liked that name for him better than “Loch Ness Monster.” Much friendlier sounding.
In English class, which followed geography, Mrs. Costello said that since she had described her trip to Scotland for them, perhaps they should describe for her, in their most legible handwriting, something interesting they did over summer break.
They had forty-two minutes.
Joan described for Mrs. Costello her family’s trip to—of all places—Scotland, visiting the lake where the Loch Ness Monster lived, and about her falling out of their sailboat and sinking down, down, down, but being rescued by, of all things, the Loch Ness Monster, who took her to his underwater cave where she was finally able to breathe after holding her breath for so long she thought she would burst, and they talked—he could talk, she was so surprised—and he told her how sad he was because people called him a monster but he wasn’t a monster, he was just big, that’s all, and then he started crying, but she hugged his neck and called him “Nessie,” and now he was crying because of how happy he was. But then it was time to head back, her parents would be starting to worry, and she rode toward the shore on his back, which he kept just below the water so you could only see her, with her arms out, like she was motorized, and dropped her off near the shallow water, then swam away, back to his cave, while Joan swam the rest of the way to shore. Then everyone gathered around. “What happened?” they all said. But she wouldn’t tell them. She knew they would never believe her. And that was by far the most interesting thing that happened all summer, the rest of the summer being mostly boring.
“Sandra?” she said.
“What.”
“Have you ever heard of Nessie?” Joan was sitting on the dresser watching her sister get out of her school clothes.
Sandra thought Joan meant the candy company.
“No, Nessie,” said Joan.
Sandra shook her head no.
“Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of the Loch Ness Monster,” Joan said.
“I’ve heard the name. What is it?”
“It’s this monster that lives in a lake in Scotland. It’s not mean or anything, that’s just what they call it, the Loch Ness Monster, ‘Loch’ meaning ‘lake.’ But they call him ‘Nessie’ for short.”
“Joan, dear, where did you hear all this?”
“In class, from Mrs. Costello. Quit calling me ‘dear.’”
“Your teacher told you there’s a monster living in a lake in Scotland?”
“She was there last summer.”
“She should be reported.”
“She was there, Sandra, okay? She went there.”
“And saw a monster in a lake.”
“No, but other people have.”
“I see.”
“It looks a lot like Puff.”
“Like who?”
“Puff the magic dragon.”
“Oh God.”
“What.”
“I hate that song.”
“Why?”
“It’s a children’s song.”
“No it’s not, it’s really sad if you listen to it.”
“I don’t even know what it’s doing on WLS.”
“It’s not a children’s song.”
“How would you know, dear?”
“It’s not, Sandra.”
“Okay.”
“It’s really sad.”
“I said okay.”
Joan sat there on the dresser swinging her legs, banging her heels, watching Sandra spray and tease her hair in front of the dresser mirror, building it up into a large helmet framing her thin face.
“Where you going?”
“Deb’s.”
“What’re you gonna do?”
“How should I know?”
“Can I come?”
“Of course not.”
“Please? I’ll be quiet,” she promised.
Sandra suddenly set down the hairbrush, hurried over to the radio, and turned up the volume.
Why does the sun go on shining?
Sandra stood there looking off.
Why does the sea rush to shore?
She sat heavily on the edge of the bed.
Don’t they know it’s the end of the world?
She fell back on the bed and lay there staring up.
’Cause you don’t love me anymore.
She brought her hands up over her eyes.
Still sitting on the dresser kicking her feet, Joan waited for the song to end. When it finally did, Sandra sat up and sniffed and d
abbed at her eyes with the back of her hand.
“Thinking about Troy?”
“Shut up, Joan.”
“Sorry.”
Joan was a little afraid that her sister might actually be seriously mental, the way she carried on over that song, crying over Troy Donahue as if he had stopped loving her, even though he had never started, even though Sandra had never even met Troy Donahue or even seen him except in movies and the photos in the magazines she was always reading.
Sandra was back at the dresser mirror, using a tissue to wipe her runny eyeliner.
“Sandra?”
“What.”
“Can I ask you a personal question?”
“No. Bye.” She left.
Before handing their papers back Mrs. Costello wanted to read a few of them to the class, the ones she thought were particularly special.
Joan was excited.
But the first one Mrs. Costello read was about someone’s cocker spaniel having puppies. Then she handed the paper to its author, Marianne Landis. And the one after that was about someone’s trip to Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, the site of the famous Civil War battle, and handed it back to Michael Dennison. And the one after that was about planting a carrot garden in the backyard, by Denise Webber.
And that was it.
Mrs. Costello passed the rest of the papers back. On Joan’s she had written in spiky red: Entertaining but I asked for a true experience, Joan. C–.
Lying on her bed after reading her paper aloud to Sandra, Joan wanted her sister to be honest: Didn’t she think an essay about the Loch Ness Monster saving someone’s life was more interesting than an essay about growing carrots?
Sandra was lying across her bed in her quilted nightgown, over one of her magazines, her hair in huge rollers, “Sugar Shack” on the radio. “But those were real carrots, Joan dear.”
“So? I don’t even like carrots. They’re boring.”
“Not the point,” Sandra said wearily, turning a page.
“So what is?”
Sandra looked up from her magazine. “The point is,” she said sadly, “you have to grow up, sweetheart. You have to begin living in the actual world.”
“Oh really? What about Troy? He’s not actual.”
“Of course he’s actual.”
“Not really.”
“His actual name is Merle Johnson, he’s got an actual apartment in Malibu, he drives an actual Ferrari, he has a weakness for pizza, his girlfriend’s name is Suzanne and they’re always fighting.” She went back to her magazine. “I don’t know why he even stays with her.”
“Nessie has a weakness for tuna fish.”
“Who?”
“The Loch Ness Monster. That’s his nickname, ‘Nessie.’ I only told you a hundred times.”
Sandra looked up again. “Just so I know: you’re saying the Loch Ness Monster is as real as Troy Donahue. Interesting.” Returning to her magazine she did the theme from The Twilight Zone.
“You’re the one,” said Joan, meaning You’re the one in the Twilight Zone. “Troy Donahue doesn’t even know you, he’s never even heard of you.”
“At least he exists.”
“So does Nessie.”
“Right, and he talks to little girls in his cave and cries because no one understands him.”
“Oh, Troy, you’re so dreamy.”
“The great big sad little monster.”
“You’re so creamy.”
“Poor little Nessie.”
“Why don’t you answer my letters, Troy? I write and tell you how much I love you and you never even—”
“Shut up, shut up, shut up,” cried Sandra. She flung her magazine at Joan, missing her, then buried her face in her arms and wept.
Joan took the magazine from the floor and started reading an article about Paul Anka. “Easier Said Than Done” by the Essex was on the radio now and she hummed along with it.
Sandra finally lifted her wet face. Quietly she told Joan, “I just hope and pray that when you grow up, if you ever do, you never have to go through what I’m going through, that’s all.”
“With Troy you mean?”
“I just hope and pray.”
“Well . . . thanks,” said Joan. She hoped so too. It didn’t look like very much fun being mental. “How ’bout some rummy?” she offered her suffering sister. That was about the only thing they still did together anymore, card games. They used to do a lot of things together, but now it was down to cards, usually rummy. “Wanna play?”
“With you?”
“I said I’m sorry.”
“No you didn’t.”
“All right, I’m sorry, okay? Come on. One game, Sandra.” All of a sudden it seemed very important to Joan. “Please?”
Sandra shrugged. “I don’t care.”
Joan got the cards from the little drawer of the nightstand between their beds. They sat cross-legged on Sandra’s bed. Joan dealt. They were studying their cards when “Puff the Magic Dragon” came on.
Sandra looked at Joan over her cards.
Joan said, “What.”
“Nothing.”
Little Jackie Paper loved that rascal Puff . . .
Sandra drew from the pile, looked at the card, and threw it away.
Joan couldn’t use it, drew a card, the queen of clubs, and tried to concentrate on whether to keep it or throw it back.
Pirate ships would lower their flags when Puff roared out his name . . .
She threw it back.
“Thank you, my dear,” said Sandra, picking it up. She laid it down along with the jack and the king of clubs, humming along with the radio, and discarded the four of hearts.
And frolicked in the autumn mist in a land called Honalee . . .
Joan stared at her cards, one end to the other, then back again.
Sandra said, “Tick-tock, tick-tock . . .”
“I’m trying to think, will ya?”
One gray night it happened, Jackie Paper came no more . . .
It was no use. Joan closed the fan of her cards, hung her head, and listened to the song. Sandra kept quiet. It came to the end: So Puff that mighty dragon sadly slipped into his cave. Joan could picture that so clearly, picture his face at the end of his long, drooping neck, his big, hurt-looking eyes. The singers did the chorus one last time: Puff the magic dragon lived by the sea . . .
The moment the song ended the deejay came back, talking a mile a minute, not even mentioning Puff, going on about an appearance he was making at a shopping center somewhere.
“God,” Sandra said quietly.
Joan wiped her eyes. “What.”
“That is sad.”
Joan nodded and nodded at her sister: “Isn’t it? Isn’t it?”
They both spread open their cards again. Sandra said, “Whose turn?”
Joan sniffed. “I don’t know. I think mine,” she said, and threw down a card, it didn’t matter which. “His head was bent in sorrow,” she sang to her sister.
“I heard the song, dear.”
“Green scales fell like rain . . .”
“That’s enough now,” Sandra told her, and threw down the nine of diamonds.
Joan looked at it, looked at her hand. “Ah,” she realized, and snatched it up, laid out the nine, ten, and jack of diamonds, then sat back.
“Discard please.”
Joan did so.
Sandra lifted a card from the pile. “Damn,” she whispered, and threw it down.
Joan drew, feeling happy now, the game heating up, carrying them along together. She looked at the card and, pretending to be angry, flung it down.
“Temper, temper,” Sandra sang, picking it up.
BIGFOOT TELLS ALL
It’s not so bad now but when I was younger I used to spend entire days just wandering around looking for something to couple with. And I mean anything. I once humped a birch tree. I’m serious. Saying things to it: Aw baby, you’re the one, you’re the one . . .
Sad, I know.
&
nbsp; But there was one who really was the one. I called her Sweet Pea, a lovely young black bear I met back east, with eyes you could drown in. And here’s the kicker: she came on to me. Generally I steer clear of bears, black, white, or brown. I’m a pretty tough hombre but I don’t mess with those folks. So when I stepped into a clearing one fine spring morning and there she was, I froze. Forget about trying to run away: they’re quick as cougars when they want to be.
She comes walking up.
I’ll be honest, I was scared.
She starts checking me out, sniffing me all over like mad—balls, butt hole, everywhere. But then all of a sudden, just like that, she quits. Goes walking away. I felt like saying, What’m I, wolverine shit? Sounds crazy, but I felt kind of hurt, you know? Rejected. But then, get this. She pads on up to a little mossy spot, bends all the way over, and looks back at me, gives me this look over her shoulder like saying, Well? How ’bout it, handsome?
And who am I, right? Who am I to argue with a horny bear?
We spent that entire spring together, me and Sweet Pea. Truly, without a doubt, the happiest three months of my entire miserable fucking life. I even gave up eating meat, just so I wouldn’t have to leave her side. We lived on bugs, berries, honey, nuts, mushrooms, and love. You should have seen me, I was in fantastic shape. And at least three times a day she would turn to me with this look meaning C’mere, ya big lug.
I’m telling you, I was crazy about that bear. And I’ll tell you something else, she was crazy about me. I know she was.
So I don’t get it. To this day I do not understand.
It happened like this:
We’re sitting together under a tree one afternoon near the end of spring, sprawling there, both of us completely exhausted after some incredible high-geared lovemaking. Then all of a sudden she starts looking at me funny, like she’s wondering, Who the hell are you?
I said, “What’s the matter, babe?”
She’s up on her feet now, on her hind legs, making low, dangerous sounds.
I get up, too. “What’s wrong, Sweet Pea? What is it, hon?”
She gives this loud, ugly growl like I never heard from her before and rakes her long, beautiful claws across my chest, nearly ripping out my heart, literally. Then she drops back down on all fours and goes loping away, in and out among the trees.
But You Scared Me the Most Page 2