“Or your therapist.”
Now that wasn’t such a bad idea. “I’m not going to spar with you anymore, Joan.”
“Good. Do you love me at all? I’d like to know the answer to that.”
“You already know the answer to that. Please drive me to the train.”
“Sexually?”
“Joan, I love you…completely. I put that in my letter.”
“What do you love? Be more specific.”
Annette put her head in her hands. She was not good on her feet anymore. Everything was easier in writing. She needed to go home, do a rewrite. “I’m so much better at this kind of thing in writing.”
“Bull.”
“It’s not b—”
“It is.”
It is, and now she could see it was pouring rain outside. Sheets of it whipped past the window. And the wind was rattling the windowpanes. She should have left right away, Annette thought. She would have beat the storm, if only by a few minutes. It was a gale out there now and there was no telling how long the crummy weather would last.
“Sounds pretty nasty, Annette. I’m not going out in that.”
Annette went to the window. There was a small stream flowing along the curb of the sidewalk. Tiny boats of debris were bobbing in it on their brief journey to the storm drain. It looked liked it might be sleeting, as well. She wasn’t sure. Was it that cold? Cold enough to sleet? She glanced over her shoulder at Joan sitting naked on her barstool and a shudder went through her. Pretty, naked, belligerent Joan, graying at the temples, counting the grapes as she ate them.
“Aren’t you cold like that?” she asked, returning to the table.
“Hot I’d say, judging from the look on your face—why didn’t you bring me flowers?”
She’d forgotten to bring her flowers this time. “I’m sorry, Joan. I truly am.” She had swooped into town empty handed yesterday and the minute she’d seen Joan’s downcast expression she remembered the flowers. But it was too late by then. “Do you want my coat?”
“No.”
Annette sat again. “Joan, I’m really—I really don’t think of you as a bag of bones, I hope you know. You have magnificent bones.”
“Well, that’s a bona fide comfort to me. What’s magnificent about them?”
“I don’t know. They’re just wonderful, that’s all.”
“And wonderful, too. What do you love about my wonderful bones, Annette?”
“Joan…I have to get the hell out of here.”
“Annette is a coward. She’s terrified.”
“Joan is, too. She’s afraid to grow up.”
“Afraid of Dear Joan letters, mostly.”
“Oh, please,” Annette said. “I’ll bet you’ve seen tons of them.”
“I’ll bet you’ve written tons of them.”
“You’re wrong. First time.”
Joan shrugged. “Bet I can guess which bone in my body is Annette’s all time favorite.”
Joan was Joan’s all time favorite, the default setting when everything else failed. “You think you can, huh?” Annette asked, debating whether or not to indulge her.
Ratta-tat-tat, ratta-tat-tat, tapped the sleet against the window.
Ratta-tat-tat, Joan tapped with her fingers, a smile showing at the corner of her lips. Rat-a-tat-tat.
Those were her all time favorites, the two of them knew. Those musical appendages. Those talented hands.
Joan waited expectantly for Annette to admit it.
“Well, for your information, Ms. Majors, that would be your wishbone,” Annette said, sidestepping it altogether. “Because your wishbone’s connected to your id bone.”
“Uh-huh. I see. That’s credible, I suppose. And my id bone’s connected to…?”
“And your id bone’s connected to your funny bone, and your funny bone’s connected to your head bone, and your head bone to your heart bone, and your heart bone to…I love your bones, Joan. I adore them. Or does that sound like bull to you, as well?”
“No,” she replied. “I’m hearing your heart in it. What else?”
Her heart was in it, all right. She was walking on glass, Annette feared. Missing a train. “Is this a truce or a lull?”
“A truce, I think. Go on.”
It was a butterfly on her arm. Not a moth.
“You know, I told you before we…I remember saying to get it all out of your system first. Do you remember my saying that to you?”
“We’ve got a truce here, Annette.”
“I know, but it isn’t physiognomy I’m so concerned with right now. It’s monogamy. Have you ever heard of monogamy, I wonder?”
“Ummm…that’s some sort of exotic disease?”
Definitely exotic, Annette thought, trying not to laugh. “Don’t worry, Joan. If it is, then it’s obviously not contagious.”
Joan batted her eyes. “You, with the black coat and the white flag. You were saying?”
You with no clothes and an attitude. What’s it all mean, those tattoos? “I’m saying I have a bone to pick with you, I guess.”
Joan smiled. “Sweet. And what else do you love about me?”
“Why do you need to hear this stuff?”
“I need to hear it so I don’t end up traumatized.”
Annette took a deep breath. She would never date another Scorpio again. “I love your eyes. Especially when they’re closed. And I love that you don’t snore. You don’t even talk in your sleep, you’ll be glad to know.”
“A relief. You do, though.”
“I do? Oh, my god, what do I say?”
“Joan, Joooan, Jooooooan.”
“Very funny.”
“Your eyes are so blue this morning, Annette, so sultry. I love that look.”
Annette ignored the compliment. “I love your inner adult, Peter Pan.”
“Why thank you, Tinkerbell.”
“Did you screw her, Peter?”
“Oh, Annette,” Joan murmured, rubbing at the goosebumps forming on her arms. “I’m getting cold now. It feels cold in here.”
Annette took off her coat and passed it over the table. “Did you?”
Joan draped it around her shoulders. “Just marry me and make me miserable for the rest of my life. Please say you will.”
Annette said nothing.
“Ahh…you’ve got your knickers in a twist again. Why don’t you give me a break with this? All the time you’re away from me, playing hard-to-get, you want me to believe you’re not off being easy with someone else? Your stupid ex, for instance? Maybe your neighbor?”
“That’s pathetic, Joan.”
“Oh, yeah, Annette.”
“You are what you are and it has nothing to do with me.”
“I are what I are.”
“And all you’re doing here is projecting yourself on me, because I’m not the one who cheats.”
Joan pulled the coat up over her head and groaned.
“Prick up your ears, Joan Majors. Nothing on your skin or under it will ever change who you are and you know it. So stop blaming me.”
“I don’t know what I know, Annette, but I’m not giving you back your key. Your coat, either. So what do you have to say to that?”
Fine, then I’ll marry you. “Fine, then I’ll just have the locks changed.”
“You would do that, change your locks? You want to be rid of me that bad?”
“We’ve made a mistake. It’s nobody’s fault really, we’re just not right for ea—”
“Oh, crap, crap, crap, I’m not hearing this.”
She wasn’t. Annette glanced at the time. Three AM.
“I’ve got a hard-on, Annette. I thought we had a truce here?”
“We did. But, evidently, it’s too hard a peace to keep.”
Joan wrinkled her nose and grinned. “Want to feel my peace?”
The apartment was chilly without a coat; Annette shivered.
“You wanna?”
“No…but thanks for thinking of me.”
&
nbsp; Joan stood up. “Okay. Suit yourself then.”
“Where are you going?”
“To bed.”
“Joan—with my coat?”
“It’ll do until its owner gets lonesome again.” She grasped it by the collar and let it droop to the floor. “Or must I wait for her in vain?” she asked, no smirk at all.
Annette looked away. Joan Majors could be so insolent. It stole her breath at times. God, though, she loved that insolence. She loved that cover-girl mouth, too, even when it was sneering or pouting. And those long, smooth legs.
“I said, must I, Annette?”
How big the creature’s hair was this morning. Her hair always got big under certain circumstances. Under certain circumstances, Annette just loved big hair. “Must you what?”
“Wait in vain?”
Wade in rain.
Her toenails were painted cherry red this time. Red was Annette’s favorite color. She loved that she would paint her toenails but not her fingernails. She loved that she would taunt her barefoot and nude, nothing covering her beautiful bones but a bunch of old tattoos. One solitary butterfly. “Joan, I really have to—”
She loved that chase-me look she just flashed in her eyes as she turned up her nose and walked away, dragging a vanquished overcoat behind her.
Ratta-tat-tat, ratta-tat-tat. Sleet tapped unrelenting at the window.
Annette slipped off the stool and followed her into the bedroom.
Another Dear Joan
Her bags were packed. Annette Martineau was fleeing.
And her cell phone was ringing, as it had been all morning. And she just knew without a doubt that this was Joan calling, as she had been for days. And she was never going to speak to Joan again, as the woman should already know. And she was not answering the phone to tell her that, either. In fact, she dug the annoying thing out of her purse and turned it off. She would be sure to ask her ex-husband, the next time that one showed up on her doorstep, how to block somebody’s number. As for today, however, she was leaving the country. Hopefully, by the time she got back, there would be nothing left to discuss with the woman, no reason whatsoever for her to call or come by anymore.
Yes, leaving the country did seem to her a rather cowardly exit from her rocky romance, but she had yet to win a single argument with Joan Majors anyway and, still smarting from last week’s defeat, a one-way ticket to Rome was the only thing Annette could think of to end the discourse between them and finally claim a victory.
Discourse and intercourse—she studied the fine print on her reservation—does not a perfect match make. She had said as much in her letter. It’s just that she hadn’t mailed it yet.
“Someone left a rose on the hood of my car,” Joan had bragged this time, dropping one more piece of straw on her camel’s back.
Annette had attempted to let it pass without remarking, but an hour later:
“I said, Annette, that I found a red rose on my car the other morning…don’t you think that’s kind of scary?”
And then the rose had a specific color, a sexy one, so Annette felt compelled to reply, “a secret admirer, perhaps?”
Joan had greeted that with one of her customary smirks and a loud scoff, sending things whirling off in a bad direction for the rest of the evening. “I doubt it’s quite that simple, Annette.”
Wily, slippery Joan, always outfoxing herself. Annette scoured the room for a robe and tried to keep her mouth shut.
“Where were you Wednesday?” Joan asked. “I was calling all night.”
Where was she Wednesday? “Dinner with friends—I’m going to shower and then I think I might head home.” Where was she, indeed!
“Annette…” Joan parsed her words. “You don’t get me, do you?”
No. Annette took the stairs two at a time. “Valentino was Hungarian,” she cast over her shoulder.
Valentina leaned over the banister and peered down her fine roman nose. “Italian, I keep telling you,” she said, descending the stairs after her. She was seeing an awful lot of Annette’s back lately and it was becoming her least favorite feature. “I’ll join you,” she offered.
Annette paused just before disrobing. “Hungarian,” she said again, as she closed the shower door in Joan’s face. “I’ll just be a minute.”
Joan absconded with the robe and waited impatiently for her in the kitchen. What was worse, she wondered as she sat there alone, a lover who lived faraway or one who was just plain remote?
What was worse, Annette wanted to know, the conquests themselves or always, always, always having to hear about them?
She had steamed in the shower over it, thinking about what she knew she wouldn’t bring herself to say, thinking about what a shame it was to be in love with someone who, for some strange reason, was no different than her last mate, thinking about what it might be saying about her choices.
Shame doesn’t lather very well, Annette noticed then. Or wash down the drain. Why, oh, why did they have to turn out to be so similar? Was it too much to hope for a bizarre coincidence?
She had been married an eternity and after the messy divorce, it had taken every ounce of confidence Annette had to embrace dating again, and she had waited more than two years before doing so. A lunch or a dinner now and then not counting, Joan was Annette’s first serious “thing” and her family and friends were relieved to see her involved once more.
It was the cancer talking, they had assured her when she finally confided in them about Joan’s self-confessed indiscretions. That seemed a plausible enough explanation to her, although she was searching more for a solution to the problem than a good excuse. Surviving cancer, they had successfully argued in Joan’s defense, is an oxymoron to some degree, considering its aftermath and the toll it can take on a person’s psyche. She’s just panicking, they told her, and probably none of what she’s claiming is actually even true.
True or false, Annette could never be sure. She was certain of only two things: it felt true, and she hated it—also in the letter she hadn’t sent.
Her family and friends had coached her to be patient with the situation, that Joan’s crisis of confidence would eventually pass, but Annette’s patience was nearly exhausted and the crisis still persisted, full blown and as out of control as ever. Annette’s team, perceiving this to be the case, had essentially fallen silent on the subject now, resorting to clipping and slipping classified ads for Jack Russell terrier pups under her door whenever they knew she wouldn’t be home.
She did not want a Jack Russell terrier anymore, she wanted Joan, and now her bags were in the parlor and she was going to—oh god—Italy of all places! What could she possibly be thinking?
“Are you really leaving?” Joan had asked her when she had finally emerged from the shower. She was wearing those irresistible puppy-dog eyes and the robe Annette needed.
“Yes, I’m going home, Joan Majors, and I know you’ve heard this before, but this time for real, I am not coming back. It was—it’s been cathartic.”
“Annette, please, it was only a rose.”
“Oh, really? So now it’s only a rose?”
“Yeah…and I’m sorry I mentioned it.”
How dazzling she looked whenever she apologized. “Well, a rose by any other name still stinks to me,” Annette replied. “You’re a wretch, I’m sure you know.”
Joan hung her wretched head and emitted a practiced sigh. “You want the robe?”
Annette eyed her warily. “Yes.”
“Then come and get it.”
Come and get it.
These reservations were nonrefundable, Annette discovered in the fine print. She stuffed them back into the envelope. There were roughly two hours remaining before she had to leave to catch her flight and she felt suddenly depleted by it all, daunted by the idea of jet lag which always hit her so hard. She turned her cell phone back on again.
BEEP! BEEP! (Text message: Joan.) “You have voice mail.” Annette deleted this, like she had done with all the others
before it. BEEP! BEEP! (Voice mail: Joan.) “Why aren’t you answering the phone?” Delete.
She was so…childish…trapped in a child’s mindset…in a child’s lifestyle…in a woman’s body. Cancer had been Joan’s wake up call, her grow up call, she said. She had tried to heed it and failed. Failed both of them in the process. Annette filled a mug with old coffee and dumped the rest down the sink. Poor kid.
Perhaps Joan was her wake up call, she was thinking. Maybe her problem was that she had a penchant for good looking rakes. For cads and scalawags and rapscallions and scoundrels.
And liars and cheats and…?
Maybe.
“Come and get it,” Joan had teased, letting the bathrobe fall from her shoulders.
Annette’s resolve had steadily deteriorated after that, only to be revived later on by one of Ms. Majors’ fabulous tantrums, the cause of which Annette could no longer recall, as there were always so many of them.
“I am right,” Joan had, for whatever the reason, adamantly insisted, “and you are wrong, Annette, just admit it.”
“Okay, Joan.” She was in too delicate a position at that moment to be assertive, they both understood, and it was no skin off her nose to acquiesce since she would, after all, never be coming back. “You are right that you are right and you are right that I am wrong to doubt it. Please concentrate on what you’re doing here.”
Joan chose to gloat instead.
It was then and there, Annette suddenly remembered, that she had first thought of Italy.
The coffee was nothing but warm mud. She threw that down the sink, too, and turned off the cell phone.
Her latest farewell letter to Joan Majors—eight circuitous pages of it—was stamped and ready to go yesterday. She’d practically worn a trench to her mailbox this morning, putting it in and lifting up the little red flag to alert the postman, taking it out and pushing the little red flag back down again. Up, down, up, down, up, down went the little red postal flag today, much to the amusement of the busybody neighbor across the road. At this moment, however, the letter was sitting in limbo on Annette’s desk, right beside her airline ticket.
She glared out the window at the mailbox. It was a beautiful day for flying. Clear and sunny.
“You’ve got your head in the clouds,” she had warned Joan as she left that night. “So you can’t see that a storm’s brewing.”
Girl Trouble: Five Shorts Page 2