by Lois Walden
Peter chimes in, ‘How many times have I told you this is serious business!?’ He asks, ‘What are your goals when you teach?’
I notice Maggie Malone looking my way. ‘Let me see …’ Drift. Return. ‘I’m here to help open a door.’ I think she’s looking at me. ‘Once in a while the door is locked. I can’t do a damn thing. But, what I can do is … I can help the young adult find some way, some access into … the creative self. I don’t have goals … never know what’s going to happen.’ I hope, I hope, I hope … ‘I had some remarkable teachers. They inspired me. I’d like to do the same for others.’ Can’t wait to be alone with her.
In our dialogue, we agree that life and art do not lead or follow one another, but are in fact the soul of one another.
Why aren’t folks in big cities friendly like these folks? Alienation, survival tactics, too busy keeping up … Simone. Isn’t she sick and tired of working with rich, arrogant, assholes? To be so gifted, so committed … We haven’t spoken for nearly three weeks. I should call. No. She should call. She has no idea where I am. I’ll call.
The gathering ends on a jolly note. Peter has the gang gather around an old acrosonic upright piano. There it is again. The past memory of those black and white keys, only my mother is not playing them … They sing ‘One’ from A Chorus Line. After which, Peter performs the entire score. His rendition of ‘Music in the Mirror’ is of show-stopping quality. He has got the desperate chorus girl thing down pat. The kids run after the dog, and do that kid thing; grab tail, pull ears, pretend dog’s a horse, ride, hit each other, just because they are kids.
Maggie and Bill saunter over my way. Maggie asks Bill to join us at Enzo’s (the local Italian joint). I am deeply disappointed.
Enzo’s is swinging, not an empty table in the joint. To my delight, Enzo has good taste in music. Frank Sinatra sings … as only Ol’ Blue Eyes can …
‘Fly me to the moon
And let me play among the stars
Let me know what spring is like
On Jupiter and Mars.’
Drink down a perfectly mixed martini, take in the beauty of brother and sister, listen to the lyrics of the song. Look at those open faces. He so male, chiseled face, strong hands; she so female, soft skin, smiling eyes. I would like to paint their faces and hang that work of art inside my belly. That is where it belongs. Then I too would be complete.
Though I am fond of Bill, I am thrilled when he leaves us ladies to dine alone. He, like many men in the United States, has a standing poker game on Tuesday night. I have only three more days in my mother’s town, then I head east, after which I head west, after which I head east again; home to New York, my final destination. As I contemplate my travel plans, Maggie swings her hair in that Rita Hayworth heaven-sent Hollywood way.
Wonder how Pop’s doing? Maybe I do care. As Dina says, ‘He’s your father. You only get one.’ How does it happen? Do we pick them? Do we give our parents the idea to have us. And then they do … have us.
Maggie leans forward. She whispers. ‘My husband’s sitting in the front booth.’ I turn around. ‘No, don’t turn around.’ I turn back. ‘Molly’s with him.’ She spills her drink on the table. ‘Oh dear. Here he comes.’ She wipes. He walks. She looks up, forces a smile.
He takes her napkin and cleans up the mess. ‘Hi, ladies. Hi, honey. I hear you’ve been giving Ms Greene the Beatrice royal treatment?’ He smirks.
‘Loli, meet Molly’s father Mike Malone.’
‘My daughter has been telling me all about that exercise. Heard she talked to my old man.’
I do not like him one bit. ‘She’s a very creative young lady.’
‘I bet the old bastard said some nasty things about his son.’
‘Mike!’ Maggie is clearly agitated.
‘Excuse me, Ms Greene. Maggie doesn’t like that kind of talk.’
‘That’s enough, Mike. Molly’s waiting. Aren’t you being rude to your daughter?’
‘What do you expect from me, hon?’ Hon. There’s that word again.
‘Mike!’
‘I’m so sorry, Ms Greene. Maggie is convinced that I don’t know how to behave. Right, Maggie?’
‘This is not the time or the place to talk about your behavior or … about … whatever you’re talking about. Please get back to Molly.’ Maggie nervously plays with the wet tablecloth. Mike salutes. ‘And Mike, could you try to get Molly home at a reasonable hour. She has an early day tomorrow.’
‘No problem. Night, Ms Greene. Keep up the good work. Night, Maggie. Oh by the way, I have some papers for you to sign. Ms Greene, let me tell you a secret. There was nothing nice about my father.’
‘Mike! If you don’t have …’
‘Anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all.’ How on earth did she ever put up with this creep? ‘A pleasure meeting you. I’m sure you had a swell evening with Peter Pieter at his theater.’
‘Peter Peter…’ Mother’s impeccable timing.
I shut them both up. ‘I did. Beatrice is lucky to have him.’
Maggie clears her throat. ‘Mike, Let’s talk tomorrow. Loli and I have got to set up the reception schedule for the actors. Please get back to your daughter. Be a good father … for a change.’
‘Yes, Mom.’
‘Night Mike.’ Maggie waves him on his way.
‘Ms Greene. Hope to see you at some of the hotspots around town.’
‘Nice meeting you.’ He is one of the most despicable men I have met in quite some serious time: cold, condescending, arrogant asshole … like Pop. A man like that has a stone buried inside his heart. That is a lonely man, just like Pop. He must have broken her heart a gazillion times over; probably abused her, confused her. Undoubtedly a mediocre lay. Wonder if she still loves him?
Maggie whispers, ‘I feel so sorry for him. He has made such a mess of his life; gambling, screwing around. The whole town knows he can’t keep it in his pants. It makes me so sad.’ She asks, ‘Have you ever been married?’
‘No.’
‘Are you involved with anyone?’
‘I am.’ Here it comes.
‘What’s his name?’
‘Simon.’ There it goes.
‘What does he do?’
‘He’s a photographer.’ Again.
‘Do you live together?’
And again and again and … ‘Yes. But, we spend a lot of time apart. I’m on the road. He travels to Europe … We have an open relationship.’ How refreshing, an honest answer.
‘Mike and I were never apart. I loved it. He hated it. Then he started catting around … and –’ Maggie stops mid-sentence.
I feel her immense disappointment. ‘I haven’t heard that expression in such a long time. It was my mother’s favorite; catting around.’
‘Is she still alive?’
‘No. She’s long gone.’ That’s the biggest lie of all. ‘Yours?’
‘They’re both gone. Daddy died during a terrible drought. He died while he was plowing his favorite cornfield. He adored that piece of land. It was the first field he ever plowed … when he was a little boy. It was his parents’ farm. His brother and his brother’s sons run the place now.’
‘Have you lived in Nebraska your whole life?’
‘Born and raised. Went to college in Lincoln. I’d like to go back to school, study political science, foreign affairs.’
‘Why don’t you?’
‘The year after next, God willing, Molly will be gone. Maybe then.’ Maggie begins to cry. ‘I’m so sorry. I don’t know how I’ll get along without her. She’s been my rock … what with the divorce.’ She hiccups. ‘Excuse me.’
I hand her my napkin. ‘I had a wonderful time at the Q and A. Thank you so much for setting it up.’
‘They were thrilled. You’re a big hit in Beatrice. I simply can not get over that your mother’s name was Beatrice. You must feel like she’s here.’
‘… She would love this to
wn, even though the accent is on the wrong syllable.’
Enzo arrives with masses of food. I am unable to eat. Next to Weight Watchers or the Zone, the next best system for weight loss is limerence. Let me explain the phenomenon. During the early, pulsating stages of love falling, the self feels queasy, light-headed. This feeling impacts on the upper and lower GI tracts in the following manner. You could swear that an overly anxious flight squadron has entered your body, frantically diving into the small and large intestines. Eating becomes an impossibility. We, who are afraid to love, lose pounds during the incipient stages of love falling. For some, love brings about a sense of wholeness. For others … starvation. I could not eat a morsel on that Tuesday night at Enzo’s.
Maggie, on the other hand, ate a gargantuan portion of veal parmigiana, one flying-saucer plateful of linguini with white clam sauce, an arugula salad with gorgonzola cheese, a loaf of bread, and a profiterole for dessert. ‘Don’t you like your dinner?’
‘It’s great.’ Eat something. A piece of garlic bread. Shove it in your mouth … Wait! There is the possibility that you might kiss Maggie Malone before the evening’s end. Do not eat the garlic bread!
Maggie smiles. ‘The students have given you a nickname.’
‘Don’t tell me. I’m afraid.’
‘I swore that I wouldn’t … but …’ She giggles. ‘Stoner.’ I have no idea what she means. ‘They thought you were high … standing on top of a desk!’
Haven’t smoked for three weeks. Wonder what’s wrong? ‘When you see Molly tonight, at home, tell her it’s nerves. To get over my nerves, I give a performance. If it works, the kids enjoy themselves.’
‘No!?’
‘At Euripides Follies, I was seconds away from throwing up. It settled down after a few minutes. I took three deep breaths and prayed.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘Performance anxiety is common amongst performers. Teaching is like performing. The students are my audience. I need their attention.’ I see you Maggie Malone. Do you see me?
After dinner Maggie invites me to take a ride out into her father’s favorite cornfield. She parks the car atop a frozen hilltop. We gaze at the zillions of stars in the open, early-spring, night sky. The moon is near full. I hear the moon say, ‘All is well with the night. My stars know your secret.’
I wish that I could bottle the beauty of the night sky; drink it for breakfast every morning, with Maggie’s head on the pillow next to mine.
Maggie reaches over. Turns on the radio. Frank Sinatra sings:
‘Fly me to the moon
And let me play among the stars
Let me know what spring is like
On Jupiter and Mars.’
We laugh. A shooting star falls. She gets so excited, like a little girl, giddy … silly. ‘I just love shooting stars,’ she says. ‘Love the night sky. My father taught me all about the planets. Mostly, he taught me about the moon in relation to farming and planting.’ She turns off the radio. ‘Did you know that you should plant annuals, which bear above-ground crops, in the first or second quarter. Third quarter’s the best time for pruning. Fourth quarter’s the best phase for cultivation and harvesting.’ She can’t stop. ‘Fourth quarter’s the best phase for tilling and destroying weeds. Seems weird that the same quarter is the best for destroying and harvesting. But, when you harvest you’re destroying what you grow, so you can eat it … so you can grow.’ She makes her point by grabbing my hand and squeezing it. ‘That makes sense. Doesn’t it?’ I listen as if I have never heard anyone talk before. She speaks a language that I want to learn. She talks about the rotation of the crops, the difficult life her father had, his disappointment when Molly’s husband, Mike, refused to take over the farm. ‘Mike just wasn’t interested. He knew there was no money in farming. I think he would have been much happier if he had followed in Daddy’s footsteps. But, it’s too late to worry about that now.’
She is more beautiful than any woman has a right to be. ‘It’s never too late.’
Maggie informs me that she is a democrat. Her mother was the head of the Democratic Women’s Committee of Beatrice. I am relieved. She talks about Molly, Bill, the Beatrice Arts Council, everyone but herself. Her world is in relation to those that need her most. Maggie Malone is selfless. Unfortunately, she does not have a clue about how much I need her.
It is at this moment that I resign myself to the recognition that Maggie Malone and I will never touch, never make love. No, I will not feel her tender lips on mine, never touch or be touched, never know her in that greatest of all biblical ways … through the flesh. Her elliptical love will escape my unrequited grip.
Maggie does not see the single salty tear fall from my right eye, on to my cheek, finally to land on my polar fleece jacket collar. I want her to know the truth about me. ‘I’m gay.’ She listens. I tell her about mother, father, sister, and finally Simone. I cry like I haven’t for years; retelling Maggie the story of the day I left my mother, when she needed me most; reminding myself of Simone’s prominent place in my life since my mother’s death. Maggie hugs me. ‘Do you love Simone?’
‘She is the sexiest, most fascinating person I have ever known, but we’re never together. It’s like we’re avoiding something, but we can’t give each other up. She’s my … shadow obsession.’
‘What do you mean?’
Afraid of my feelings, I pull away. Avoid her eyes. Look out my window. Imagine her tits in my mouth. ‘An uncontrollable addiction … a sexual fixation … a collusive partner in crime … crime being pathological incompleteness without each other.’
‘We all have that person.’ I assume she is referring to her husband. ‘Thank you for telling me the truth.’
‘I have ulterior motives.’ Maggie does not respond. I wait. Not a word. I wait. My longing paints a blush on my cheeks. Our eyes connect. A glimmer of possibility is in the air. A shooting star falls from the sky. I gasp. Make a wish, Loli.
I hear my mother say, ‘There is a remedy or there is none.’
‘We’d better go. If I don’t live up to my outrageous reputation tomorrow, I’ll be run out of school.’
‘Beautiful sky.’ Maggie starts the engine.
‘Beautiful. Thank you for showing me your town.’
Maggie opens up her purse, pulls out a winto-green Lifesaver, pops it in her mouth, and sucks. ‘I love this town. It’s my … shadow obsession.’ She hugs me again. We drive down the hill, through the streets of Beatrice, without a word. We have said quite a bit tonight. She drops me off at the Holiday Inn. I do not turn around.
I open the door to my room. The message light flashes on my phone. I’ll deal with that later. For now, I’ll deal with … what I can.
Simone Duvet
Populated Area: Drive With Caution
’84
‘Birds do it
Bees do it
Even educated fleas do it
Let’s do it
Let’s fall in love.’
Let’s talk about Simone. Twenty years is a long time to be uncommitted to the same person.
My unquenchable thirst for learning life’s hidden meanings led me hither, dither and beyond. I read volumes on the ascended masters, the philosophy of yoga, theosophy, the Tarot, breath work, death work, Hinduism, Buddhism, women saints, reincarnation, macrobiotic cookery, Zen meditation, astrology, herbology, psychology, Sanskrit, Edgar Cayce’s writings, shamanic studies, Mayan mysteries, this book on the dead, that book on the living, other books on dying (skimmed those), the I Ching, angels (lovely departure from demons) and wounded women.
My eyes were weary from the fine print of being. Then, one day, on Melrose Avenue, while perusing the shelves at the Bodhi Tree, I came across the title to supersede all titles Sexual Energy And Yoga.
At Dina’s suggestion, I had already begun practicing yoga; Up Dog, Down Dog, Sun Salutation, Paschi, Pachi, Pashi … Oh hell, seated forward fold, back bends, head sta
nds, hand stands, but Sexual Energy!
I went to class and socialized. Met married men, single girls, jocks, babes, gays, straights. Sure, I did some deep breathing. But, mostly I was engaged in my desire mind. The LA Yoga Center became my singles bar.
Guttman, who had returned from Ol’ Cape Cod, was concerned. I didn’t care. After all, he had abandoned me during my August breakdown. Fuck him.
‘I don’t like our five-days-a-week routine. I meditate in the morning, practice yoga, read the Times, try to finish my writing assignments, and then there’s you. It’s impossible. Get here, go home … Who’s got time to work? I have to work! It’s important. Sure, she left me some money, but not very much … That’s not the point. I need to work and …’
He interrupts. ‘Yes …’
I interrupt. ‘The girl on the yoga mat in front of me lost her mother when she was eleven. Suicide. I might as well have lost mine when I was …’
He interrupts. ‘Eleven is …’
I interrupt. ‘Maybe I stopped maturing during that summer at Camp Clydesdale? Certainly was the beginning of the end of life with Mrs Cleaver. You ever watch Leave It to Beaver?’ … I wanted to seduce. Wanted someone screaming for more, panting, legs up in the air, wanted to conquer and abandon. Wasn’t interested in any long-term, for that matter, any shortterm relationship. I just wanted to have sex. Lust was keeping my mind occupied. When I wasn’t practicing yoga, the Kama Sutra, or meditating on my sexual chakra, I was too busy seducing everyone I met to let my mother’s voice interfere with my sex life.