by Leslie Wells
After they left, I started dumping the ashtrays, the fug of pot making me a little woozy.
“Just leave all that,” Jack said.
“I don’t want Muddy to get hold of it.” I gathered the bottles and took them to the kitchen counter, the puppy at my heels. “So how was Cincinnati Patty?”
“Oh, that was our last tour, two years ago. Those backstage types aren’t really my speed.” Jack came up behind me and nuzzled my neck. “Not like my Pikesville Coupe-de-Ville. She goes from zero to eighty in under three minutes.”
“Don’t those Cadillacs have huge rear bumpers? That doesn’t sound too attractive.” I turned around and pressed my body into his.
“You’re a Rolls, baby. Now let’s roll on back to bed.”
“What does that feel like?” Jack moved up beside me and propped his head in his hand. “I’ve always wondered what it’s like for a woman. You make so much noise; I love watching you writhe around.”
My face flushed. “I don’t know. My body sort of lifts out of itself. It’s like I’m floating high above the bed.”
“That sounds kind of trippy. It looks so intense.” He traced an infinity symbol around my nipples.
“Oh, it is,” I said. “It’s like wave after wave of the most intense pleasure I’ve ever had.”
“I picture a flower opening up.” Jack spread his fingers wide. “And I’m a honey bee, drowning in pollen.”
“How about you?” I asked, curious about what he’d say.
“I see colors; yellows and reds. Bursting all over. Sometimes I hear snatches of music.” His warm brown eyes regarded me. “Lately I’ve been picturing what could happen if we let those little swimmers up there. Give ’em a chance.”
“But I’ve just started a new job. That would be like asking you to get pregnant right before you go on tour.”
“I wouldn’t mind that.” Jack rolled off the bed and pulled on a tee-shirt. He stuffed a pillow under it, grabbed a guitar and strummed it over the bulge. “See? Piece of cake.”
I laughed, relieved he was making a joke of it. Barking, Muddy leaped up and tugged the pillow out from under his shirt. Jack switched off the light and got into bed. After a moment, he turned toward me.
“Hey. Mary Jo’s found a private detective to try to locate your dad. All right with you if I give her the go-ahead?”
God, I’m really not ready for this. But he isn’t going to drop it, I realized. “Okay. But if he finds him, it’s up to me whether or not I want to contact him. Right?”
“That’s right. For now, it’s just to see where he is.”
“I guess it’ll be good to know for a fact that he’s still alive. Even if I decide not to get in touch.” I was pretty sure I wouldn’t want to take that step.
“I’ll tell her to hire him, then.” Jack reached over and turned off the lamp.
As I listened to his breathing even out, I thought about what it would be like to see my father again. Would he have a good excuse for not writing or coming to visit? Had he been injured or incapacitated in some way, so he couldn’t even call? But I knew that wasn’t very likely. As I pulled the covers up to my chin, a memory hit me of my father tucking me in at night when Dot was working late. The faint scent of his aftershave as he leaned in to kiss my forehead. The way he’d pause in the doorway and say, “Goodnight, sweetheart.” That always made me feel so safe, as if nothing in the world could hurt me.
I punched my pillow and turned to face the wall. The last birthday of mine that he was there for was the summer I turned fourteen. I always felt so unattractive with my thick glasses, but he’d tried to build me up. “You’re my beautiful girl. Someday you’ll wake up and see how pretty you are.” “You’re so smart, Julia. I know you’re gonna go places.” For my present that year he’d made me a bookshelf, smoothly sanded and lacquered, sturdy enough to hold encyclopedias. After he left and we had to move to a much smaller rental, Dot made me leave it behind.
Chapter Fourteen
Let It Bleed
“Hello? Oh, hi, Mom,” I said, stretching the cord so I could sit on the couch. “No-no, Muddy.” I removed the coil from his mouth. Our teething puppy had gnawed everything from table legs to armchair corners. Jack now had to be careful where he laid his guitars.
“So you still have that dog?” Dot asked. “What does it do while you’re gone all day?”
I scratched Muddy’s belly as he stretched out next to me. He really had grown in the past two weeks; Jack thought he might hit sixty pounds eventually. “Oh, he chews stuff, mostly. Sleeps in his bed. He’s so cute, though. He gets super excited when one of us comes in the door.”
“I don’t know why you wanted a pet. Who’s going to take care of it when you’re on tour with Jack?”
“I’ll have to put him in a kennel for that week. Mary Jo is looking into it.”
“That’s the manager you don’t care for,” she said.
“Yes, but she’s indispensable to Jack. She takes care of all the details he’s too busy to deal with,” I said.
“I’d keep my eye on her. Do you think he’ll be good while he’s away?” Dot asked.
That very thought had been plaguing me lately, aggravated by the run-in with his tutor. “He’d better be, if he wants me to stick around.”
But how would I know? I asked myself. He’ll be on the road for almost four weeks before I show up, and then several more after I leave. The Floor would be hitting every major arena in the country—with all the enticements of women, drugs, non-stop adoration and partying. From the little he’d told me, it sounded like a three-ringed circus.
“What have you been up to lately?” I interrupted my uneasy line of thought.
“Darrell and I broke up.”
I heard the quaver in her voice. “I’m sorry, Mom. But I have to tell you, I don’t think he treated you very well. To be honest, he seemed really obnoxious.”
Dot sighed. “I know. But it’s hard when you’re older, Julia. You’ll see. Men aren’t exactly knocking down my door.”
“Well, they should be. Hold out for the right guy.”
“That’s easier said than done. Anyway, I’m heading over to Buck’s for a while. Say hi to Jack for me. When do they leave?” she asked.
“Tomorrow night. I’m going to miss him so much.”
“Tell him I said good luck. And to behave himself.”
The next day was insanely busy; I hardly had a moment to think about Jack’s impending departure. I returned about thirty calls from agents, sat in two interminable meetings, and had a long chat with my friendly Omaha author, who always signed off the same way:
“Remember, Julia, little things…” He paused, waiting for me to fill in the blank.
“Can be big!” I smiled to myself, recalling Sammy’s interpretation.
The topper was that just as I was ready to leave the office, I started my period. I felt like crying; this would definitely put a crimp in my plans to give Jack a great sexual sendoff. I got a tampon out of the machine and then raced down to the subway. Despite Jack’s urging, I rarely used cabs for my commute, instead taking the dirty, dangerous, but much faster train.
When the local roared into the station, I wedged myself between a clump of straphangers. A woman with a huge unwieldy belly pushed her way inside. Looking like she could give birth at any minute, she stared hopefully at three seated businessmen in suits, who only raised their newspapers higher.
Watchda closindaws, came a voice over the crackly speaker. Nex’ stop, the deuce. The train lurched forward, and she almost lost her balance.
“Want to grab hold?” I asked.
“Thanks.” The woman squeezed in next to me and gripped the pole as more passengers shoved on and off. “Mayor Crotch” was scrawled on one half of the sliding door; when it closed, it met up with “Sucks”. Turty-turd an’ Lex, came the disembodied voice.
The woman fanned herself and rapidly unbuttoned her coat. “Only one more month to go. I’ve already gained forty-s
ix pounds. I used to be a size eight, but now I just can’t seem to stop eating.”
I nodded politely. “And none of these assholes ever give me a seat,” she added.
“I guess chivalry is dead.”
“You can say that again.” We swayed through several stops, the car becoming less crowded as we progressed downtown. She grimaced as the train juddered over a rough patch of track and came to a screeching halt.
I let go of the pole. “Well, this is my stop. Good luck with—with everything,” I said as she finally claimed a seat.
I chatted with the doorman until the elevator came. Riding up, I was hit with a pang of disappointment that I was on the rag. Why couldn’t it have waited ’til tomorrow?
Jack was in a hurricane of packing, shirts and belts and rolling papers strewed everywhere, open suitcases on the bed. He grabbed me, and in a minute we were both breathing hard and tearing off each other’s clothes. Jack shoved the suitcases to the floor and started kissing my breasts.
“Ohh,” I said, feeling a little tender. “I have bad news. I started my period today. Let me do something nice for you, though.” I started to sit up, but Jack pushed me back on the pillow.
“I don’t care, baby. I’m gettin’ in there.” His lips tantalized my nipples, tongue swirling sensuously.
“But I just started a few minutes ago. Of all the rotten timing.”
“Don’t care.” He inched his way down my belly.
“Let me at least get some towels,” I said.
“I’ve got plenty more sheets.”
He ran his tongue up my inner thigh, wrapped the tampon string around his finger and pulled it out. Then a butterfly landed on me lightly and sought my nectar, becoming more and more insistent until I was filled to the brink with sweetness. Again and again my cup almost overflowed. It began to trickle over the lip as the drops became a stream and the waves started crashing. I was rocked in the sway of a huge swell that took me far, far away. Just as I was starting to make my way back, he entered me and rode the tide until he filled me with his salty spume and collapsed with a long, lingering moan.
We breathed in syncopation for a while, recovering. Jack opened his eyes and smiled at me, his face smeared scarlet.
“You look like you’ve starred in a horror movie,” I said. “Want to get in the shower? I’ll strip the bed.”
“In a minute. That feel good?” he asked.
I found a clean spot on his nose and kissed it. “Better than good. Astounding. Stupendous. Earth-moving. Galaxy-shattering. Thank you.”
“Any time, baby. I ain’t afraid of a little red.”
“I should say not; you just took a bath in it. Let’s get in the shower before I get stuck to the sheets,” I said.
He started the shower as I put the sheets in the sink to soak. Jack came toward me, walking Frankensteinish with arms outstretched.
“Heeere’s Johnny!” he cackled in a schizo voice. “Redruuum…”
I laughed. “I was so afraid after I read The Shining, I never saw the movie.” He opened the shower door and we got in under the spray. Jack lifted his face to the water as a pinkish stream ran down his chest.
“I went to a screening with Mark and Suzanne. Mark and I were about to pee our britches, we were so scared.” Jack wiped his neck with a washcloth. “We kept going out to get snacks, to avoid the terrifying scenes. On the other hand, Suzanne, that cold bitch, sat there calmly taking it all in, not the least bit perturbed. Man, this stuff really sticks to you,” he added, scrubbing at his hands.
After we dried off, I put on his “Things Go Better with Coke” tee-shirt, and Jack wound a towel around his waist. We remade the bed, ordered pizza, and ate listening to “Rebecca” by Big Joe Turner and Bull Moose Jackson’s “No Mercy.” We kept the conversation light, but his departure weighed heavily on my mind. After our meal we started fooling around again. His towel was propped up by a tentpole; I undid it and began smooching his abdomen.
“Let me give you something to remember me by,” I murmured as Jack shut his eyes and groaned.
I lay there memorizing his face as he slept; his thick dark eyelashes and eyebrows, expressive even in slumber; the creases at the sides of his sensual mouth; the fine lines at the corners of his eyes. Jack stirred and peered at me.
“I could go for thirds. Not that the first two times weren’t brilliant.” He got up and rifled through a drawer. “Want to put this on?” He held up one of the scraps of lingerie he’d given me for Christmas.
“You want to do it again already?”
“What can I say? I’m a sex machine, baby.” He did a James Brown hip-shimmy.
“God, you really are. Just give me a minute to catch my breath.”
I didn’t say what I was thinking: with his insatiable drive, how was he going to be chaste for three and a half weeks? Especially with all those gorgeous women throwing themselves at him. I knew he wasn’t into the groupies, but he’d dated plenty of models, movie stars, and other fancy hangers-on.
“What if you get stoned on tour and some woman comes along?” I blurted out.
Jack drew the garters up my leg. “Weed doesn’t affect me that much anymore.”
“I hope you won’t do a lot of coke.” I knew he used it on the road to keep his energy up—and because he liked it.
“It’s good you’re coming midway through. Keep me on the straight and narrow.”
I hope he bears that in mind when he’s at Party Central, two thousand miles away.
Jack kissed me, creating a ripple from my breasts to my toes. As we made love one last time, I took in every lush sensation, storing it up for the coming drought.
I had told Ted I’d be in late the next morning. I helped Jack with last-minute packing, cramming a few more packages of guitar picks into his carry-on since he always lost them. Rick came up to collect the luggage, and we all rode down together. As Rick loaded the car, Jack and I kissed and kissed out on the sidewalk with pedestrians gawking and cabs honking and messengers pedaling and hungover punks walking their dogs. Finally we pulled apart. Jack gave me one last look, and darted into the backseat.
At least I had something to distract me that day. A literary agent had sent me a late-night talk show host’s humor book, which I planned to bring up in the editorial meeting. When my turn came, I quickly described the project and its potential, given that the show had millions of viewers.
“Isn’t his audience kind of young?” Erica cut in before I’d finished my pitch. “I wouldn’t think a bunch of college sophomores would spend their allowance on recycled jokes.”
My hackles rose. “A lot of adults watch it too; I have the statistics. And over half of the book will be brand new stuff from his writing staff.”
“I’m just not seeing it.” Erica folded her arms with a snarky smile as several others shook their heads.
“I think it would be huge,” Cathy chimed in. “I know tons of people who love his show.”
“I agree. See me after the meeting and we’ll cook up an offer,” Ted concluded. “The show’s headquarters are down the block. We’ll get together with them once we own it.”
Just as we were leaving, the managing editor stuck her head in. “It’s tip sheet time again!” she sang out as everyone groaned. “I need one for each of your titles by end of the week. The marketing director wants them well in advance of sales conference.”
I was familiar with the dreaded tip sheets from my previous job. For every one of our books, we had to fill in a zillion pre-publication facts, and wing it on whatever was still TBD. Supposedly the sales force used them to get bookstore orders, and those numbers determined the first print run. It would be nice not having to do Harvey’s this time around.
Erica caught up with me on the way out. “I would think you’d be too busy with your new prize author to acquire anything right now. Dermot Chase is quite a handful.”
“I’m sure I can manage,” I said coolly. I felt like adding, Mind your own business, as I continued d
own the hall to Ted’s office.
“Try to pre-empt this late-night book for a hundred thou,” he said, polishing his glasses on his shirtsleeve. “Perry will complain, but this is just the kind of commercial stuff we need. Come see me if the agent wants more.”
I could hardly believe my ears. “Great! Oh, and I’m getting together with Dermot after work. He’s handing over the first batch of chapters.”
“Very good; keep me posted. One bit of advice about this TV guy: I’d keep a distance from these celebrity types. Be friendly, but don’t ever believe they’re your friends. There’s a big difference.”
He has no idea how close I am to a real celebrity, I thought. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“When’s your family reunion again?” Ted asked.
I didn’t correct him. “Middle of March.”
“Congrats on your big acquisition!” Cathy exclaimed. “I heard you got it for a hundred-fifty.”
“Thanks. I’m still in a daze. We’re meeting with the show’s head writer next week. I guess I have to do a tip sheet for it, since we’re pushing it out in the fall.” I stared at the stack of forms on my desk. “What should I do for a description of Dermot’s novel? He hasn’t even finished the first draft.”
“Just make it up. The reps never read those things anyway.”
Cathy had told me that Perry Stroud hardly ever came down to our floor—unless he was visiting Erica, since she did all the “important” books. But after lunch, our publisher stepped into my office holding a paper cup. I was just winding up a call with the head writer of the TV show, who was excited about the deal. It turned out Stuart wrote all the host’s jokes and would be the real author of the book, which suited me fine. Even on the phone, he was hilarious. I hung up and quickly slid my copy of the Post under the New York Times, knowing Perry would look down on such light reading.