She must have turned and doubled back, ’cause she was stroking my cheek softly. “Darlin’, I won’t lie to you. He could be anywhere. If he loves you like I think he does, he’ll be back, though. Let him know I was here, will you?”
I nodded, not trusting to my voice. Wanting to believe, not daring to, though. Yes, he’d been gone before, but this was the longest period of time he’d ever been absent. And each time he left, I worried that this time would be the time he didn’t come back.
Again with the impatient horn. “See you later, Max, nice to meet you.” She smiled, never losing her cool or getting annoyed with the unseen Angelo. She turned toward me once more as she was leaving, looked me up and down as if she were taking a mental photograph, said softly, “My son has very good taste,” and then was gone, and I was standing there in my living room, wondering what the hell had just hit me.
BLIND dates.
They came in all shapes and sizes and shades; some even bore passing resemblances to my boyfriend. Don’t think that wasn’t disturbing.
And Juliet liked to blindside me at the strangest times. I’d be out with her, doing whatever—shopping, going to a movie, grabbing a cup of coffee, it didn’t matter—then I’d hear, “Oh, hi, fancy running into you here! I’d like you to meet my son, Max!” and I knew I was in for it. And suddenly I’d have a lunch/movie/coffee/whatever companion. They found me in the mall or at the library. Mailing letters at the post office or thumping cantaloupes in the fresh produce section of the supermarket. She sent them to assault me in bars, waiting for just the right moment, such as when Richard went to take a leak. Or they caught me on campus when I met Rachel there for lunch.
What the hell does she think my type is anyway? Some of them were damn scary, to be honest, and most of them had some sort of peculiarity about them. What does that say about me, I ask you? Even if I were straight, which I never have been, I wouldn’t want to date these women, for the most part.
And why does my mother think that just because I am a werewolf I should have a vampire fetish? What, are they supposed to be tandem creatures, like love and marriage, can’t have one without the other? Or is it because Count Dracula is, for the most part, a heterosexual character? “See Max? If he can do it you can do it”? She drags me to see every new Dracula movie that comes out, presenting them to me like some sort of fait accompli. Which meant that in ’92 when Coppola’s version arrived on the scene, I was double-ganged, ’cause then I had Rachel hauling my ass to see it ten or twenty or a hundred times (in case you’re wondering what was Rachel’s interest in the film, think about Rachel and her obsession, then check out the film. You’ll figure it out.) Don’t get me wrong. I have a healthy respect for and interest in things beyond the pale of man’s normal ken. Just not to the extent that my mother seems to think. I am proof that there are lives that are lived outside of what is considered to be normal, whether you like to call it paranormal, supernatural, whatever. And in case you are wondering, yes, there are such people as vampires. And yes, I have reason to know. ’Nuff said. At least for now.
My blind dates, I can see them now, strutting down the runway of my memory, passing in an odd review of Wodehousian dimensions.
Janice, the tall thin brunette who couldn’t stop talking about her previous boyfriend whom she ended up going back to and who dumped her again; Debra, the zaftig blonde who kept asking me to go skinny-dipping with her; Leslie, the bank teller, who was arrested for embezzling funds from work (I still hear from her occasionally. She’ll be out in a few years); Margo, the lovely half-Japanese girl who dreamed of being a famous dancer and who left for Hollywood the day after our first and only date; Winnie, the closet lesbian who used me as a beard so that she could secretly meet with her girlfriend Rose (Richard and I actually double-dated with the two of them a few times); Sandra, the giggling Mickey Mouse fanatic, whose sole mission in life was to get laid and had more hands than an octopus; Gwen, the red-headed waitress who liked to juggle fruit at odd moments; Allison, who liked to imitate Mister Ed; Jennifer, the fitness trainer, who insisted on showing me how to exercise and who tried to take advantage of me in the gym; Rosemary, the shy divorced mother who insisted on trying to fatten me up; Denise, a very lovely girl who owned her own beauty salon and became successful at an early age, and who encouraged me to follow my own heart, no matter what my mother tried to do….
And those are just the ones I actually remember
At one time Richard suggested that I start a scrapbook of my “dates,” but I nixed that idea, and then I punched him in the arm for his suggestion.
None of these girls was or ever could be right for me. Of course not, given my sexual inclinations (Ha! See, I refrained from saying “persuasion” that time!) and the fact that Richard was my forever mate, my one and only. But try explaining that to my mother. And still they came, more and more and more of them. I have to admit I did end up with a few friends from that list, not girlfriends, but friends nonetheless who just happened to be girls. I’m surprised that Juliet never tried to set me up with Rachel, but maybe we became friends at too young an age and she realized when we both hit puberty that it wasn’t going to happen.
Tuesday, March 4, 1986
SPRING was definitely in the air, pouncing on us with all the energy of a rambunctious lion cub. Mild temperatures were shaking off the lethargy attendant on winter’s enforced idleness, encouraging activities of all sorts. And to what does a young man’s fancy turn at such a time, when his blood is rising along with the daffodils?
Why, to spring cleaning!
What, did you think I meant something else? Get your minds out of the gutter!
On the first day that the temperatures rose enough to do so, I threw open the doors and windows to the beckoning spring and set out to scour the cottage from one end to the other. I made up master lists of things to do in each room, which I posted on each door, and I purchased the requisite cleaning materials to do the job well in advance. Lemon-scented cleaning fluids, scrubbing bubbles for the bathroom, glass cleaner and tile cleaner, furniture polish and floor wax, vacuum cleaner, feather duster, scrub brushes, sponges, cloths, mops and brooms—a vast arsenal of weapons to combat the filthy foe.
Now, I was ready to begin. But where was Richard? Conveniently absent, although I had warned him well in advance that this day was coming. But no, he had managed to elude me, with a vague reference to something he had to do, but he swore he’d be back soon, sugar lips, kiss kiss hug hug, as he finagled my own car keys from me and was out of the driveway and heading down the gravel road before I began to come around from the effects of his kisses. Shit! Hoist on my own petard! Nothing to do for it now but to take care of it myself. Naturally.
Which as a result, made me less than agreeable and most definitely out of sorts. I cranked up my stereo to the max; the “1812 Overture” blasted out over my speakers. It was my aggressive music therapy, one I indulged in at times of stress or unhappiness. Whenever Richard would hear it playing, he would know that he needed to coddle me out of my bad temper, which he invariably did. Of course, he was the reason for it at the moment.
So when my phone rang, which my mother swears it did, although I have no proof of it, I didn’t even hear it, what with having the music blasting somewhere in the 120- to 130-decibel range and having my head shoved inside of my refrigerator, taking out all the little bits of unidentifiable material that seemed to crop up on occasion (we both vehemently denied being the cause of any of it) and scrubbing the interior with a vengeance. See, anger has its place. Maybe. God, I hated doing this, ’cause my sensitive nose picked up on each and every obnoxious odor. But if I left it to Richard to do A) it wouldn’t get done, and B) he’d probably throw out something good that I could actually use for something, leaving the little bits of nastiness. Good thing he’s so damn cute. So I threw myself into my work, and I scoured and I scrubbed, and I swished and I swirled with a vengeance.
There! Pristine once more and gleaming to my satisfaction
. That just left the rest of the house.
I stomped into the living room, decided to start my cleansing work there. Cranking up Tchaikovsky again, I set the turntable to repeat so I wouldn’t have to touch it again with soapy wet hands. I try hard to keep my things in good condition, as much as possible. Some people call me anal; I prefer to think of it as being careful. The music hadn’t begun to work its magic on me yet, as I was still uptight and pissed off. (If this had happened today, I’d have just called that boy on his cell phone and read him the riot act. Alas, this was not an option at that time, so I was forced to stew in my own juices and wait for him to return, and in the meantime hopefully work out my aggressions.)
I pulled back all the curtains, allowing the sunlight to stream into the room and illuminate my work. As well as other things, I noticed. There was a big pile of old newspapers in the corner where Richard had apparently left them after reading them. Shaking my head and muttering imprecations to myself, I grabbed the stack, noticed that some of them were dated as far back as a month ago, and threw them into the large trash bag I had brought in for just that purpose. “Pack rat,” I mumbled to myself. “Lazy sod.” I also picked up some of his socks that had somehow managed to miss ending up in the laundry basket I had placed in our room for convenience. Typical.
I saw that he had left our photo albums out, too, for some reason. A lot of those albums contain photos he has taken over the years. I picked up the top one; it was opened to a photo of me and him. Someone with a camera had caught us unawares: I think it was taken at a party at my mother’s house. I was sitting on Richard’s lap, straddling him, we had our arms wound around one another, our foreheads pressed together, and were simply gazing into each other’s eyes, oblivious to the world around us. A very tender, very sweet moment. Damned if he didn’t do that on purpose, leave that for me to find, knowing I’d be pissed off at him and trying to manipulate my feelings from… from wherever the hell he was that wasn’t here.
Childishly I stuck my tongue out at the picture and closed the album, determined not to give in to him, to retain my ill humor. It was mine, goddammit, I was entitled to it! Oh, what a tongue-lashing he would receive when I caught up with him, and not the good kind either! I gathered all of the books together. I would just put them back in the closet—out of sight, out of mind. I turned to do just that…
… and damn near jumped out of my skin when I collided head-on with a young woman who had been standing right behind me, her mouth open as if she were about to speak, her hand stretched out in front of her. She fell backward, I fell backward, and the albums fell between us, hitting the ground with a soft thud. I saw with dismay that some of the photos were shaken out of the books in the process, strewing across the floor.
I struggled to come to a sitting position, and where normally I would have been Mr. Solicitous, today I was in full bitch mode. “What the hell?” I squawked. “Where the hell did you come from? Don’t you know how to ring the bell?”
The young lady sat up, too, adjusting her glasses upon her nose from where they hung askew. Her lips quivered, and she seemed very much on the verge of tears, which brought me back to myself with a crash and an immense feeling of guilt. I’m a sucker for tears, I am, a regular softy. “I… I… did ring the bell,” she said faintly. If I didn’t have such incredibly heightened hearing I wouldn’t have made her words out, especially with Tchaikovsky blaring around us. “But you… you… couldn’t hear, I guess.”
I scrambled to my feet and hastened to extend my hand to her. It wasn’t fair of me to take out the ill temper Richard had brought about on a complete stranger, even if she did just scare the shit out of me, and I had no idea who she was or why she was here. “Here, let me help you up,” I offered apologetically. Damn, I think I really scared her, she was trembling.
I helped her up, handing her over to the sofa, after which I hastened to pause the stereo, at least for the moment, deciding that it probably wasn’t helping anything. When I turned back to her, she seemed a little calmer; it looked like she was getting a little color back into her cheeks, anyway. I took a seat beside her. “Look, I’m sorry. I’m not usually so rude. You caught me on a bad day.”
“It’s okay,” she said, attempting to smile, “I’m fine, Max, really I am. You are Max, aren’t you?” She began to look worried, as if maybe on top of everything else, she was in the wrong place.
“Yeah, I’m Max,” and suddenly I realized what must be going on here. “My mother sent you, didn’t she?”
“Actually, yes,” she admitted, “she did—”
“Look,” I broke in, not meaning to be rude, but damned if I hadn’t heard it all before, “I’m sure you’re a very lovely person and all that, whatever your name is, but I’m not looking to date anyone, and if I were looking to date anyone it wouldn’t be you. No offense,” I added hastily, “not you personally. You as a female, I mean. What I mean is that I have a boyfriend, and I’m not wanting to date anyone. Well, at least not unless I kill him, which I may very well do when he gets home,” I added, thinking again of his inopportune defection and beginning to steam again.
The strange girl began to laugh then, a laugh which managed to not sound rude somehow, but lighthearted even, maybe even verging on amused. “Actually, your mother told me that you had a great library of Greek books,” she said. “I’m doing research for a novel I’m writing, and she suggested that you might be willing to let me look at some of them. She was supposed to call you first. I’m sorry.”
Talk about feeling stupid! I did, incredibly stupid. Not to mention vain and egotistical. And self-centered. I realize it was an understandable mistake, given my mother’s history, but still, I could have waited and let her tell me herself without jumping to erroneous conclusions.
“Of course she did mention that you’re cute, and she suggested that I get to know you better,” the girl added with a small smile.
Ah ha! Juliet never gave up, did she? I grinned ruefully at her even as I blushed. “You know how mothers are,” I mumbled. “Um, what’s your name by the way, and where are my manners? Can I get you something to drink? I have some soda in the fridge, or I can make coffee or tea?”
“Tea would be nice, if you really don’t mind,” she said shyly. She had a very pretty smile, I noticed as I began to relax and stop being quite so angsty. “My name is Cat. Cat Dupre.”
“Hi Cat, I’m Max. Duh, guess you knew that already.” Could I never say anything right?
“Yeah,” She smiled back. “I guess I did.”
“Would you like to look over my books while I make that tea?” I offered as a bit of a sop.
“If you aren’t too busy?” She was just too nice for words.
“Tell you what: I’ll make the tea, show you the books, and work around you, if you don’t mind? I just want to get this done, that’s all. I thought I was going to have help, but he skipped out on me.”
“I’d be glad to help you, Max,” Cat offered.
“Oh no, no, that’s not necessary,” I demurred, heading toward the kitchen. Cat was right behind me, her blue eyes glowing in her determination to be of use to me, maybe to make up for inadvertently scaring me. Well, a man can only take so much. I’m only human, after all, how could I resist her generous offer? I didn’t. We spent the rest of the afternoon together spring cleaning, getting along like gangbusters, and by the time Richard showed up, my temper was once more under control and my good nature restored. He liked Cat right away, and the feeling was mutual. At least then it was. Like Rachel, she tends to get upset with him when he disappears. That seems to be the nature of my friendships with women—they like to protect me.
I GLANCE at the caller ID. It’s Juliet. I can’t not answer it; she’s my mother. So I do.
“Hello, Max, darling,” she fairly coos into the phone. Oh, oh, I’m in trouble now. I can feel it. “I want you to come for dinner Friday night.”
“Why, you trying a new recipe?” I joke. Or try to.
“No, there
’s someone I’d like you to meet….”
Oh dear Lord. Save me from well-meaning mothers! Richard will be less than thrilled when I tell him. What, did you think I would turn her down? That would actually entail having a spine!
Dreading Friday to the max and wishing I could get out of it.
Chapter 11
For Mine Eyes Have Seen the Glory…
FUCK. Why did I agree to go again?
“Max, quit whining,” Richard insists as he straightens the knot in my tie after I have fucked it up several times, clawing at it when it won’t cooperate and yelling at it like it can actually understand the words I am cursing it with, him, on the other hand, all calm and cool and Bond-ishly collected. Why I am even wearing a tie in the first place is beyond me, but Richard has talked me into it. We’re both wearing three-piece suits, and I have to admit that seeing him in his is a real turn-on. Now, just add a little opera scarf… oh baby! But I digress.
“That’s easy for you to say. You won’t be there,” I continue to moan.
“Yes, I will,” he promises. “This won’t take all night, love, and I’ll be there in time to rescue you from the clutches of another one of Juliet’s missionaries.” “Juliet’s missionaries”: a phrase we use for the women she throws at me to save me from my depraved life of homosexuality.
“Not soon enough,” I mutter, watching as his fingers easily fix the damage I have done and set me to rights once more.
Satisfied with his handiwork, he smiles and kisses the tip of my nose. “Don’t pout, Max, or you’ll tempt me into making you late.”
“And the problem with that is?”
To the Max Page 15